Sir Jerel Ban
Jerel received his invitation to the ball after a long ride, which hadn’t done much to clear is head, no matter how hard he went. Both horse and human had been studded with sweat, stinking of each other and dust and earth. Never had Jerel made so fast for the baths.
Quite why the captain had chosen him was a mystery that occupied Jerel all the while, one he was not able to unpick: was this a punishment, a reward, or some gesture beyond that, beyond the scope of just him? Thoughts for later, as so many wonderings were; for now he had to make preparations as tardiness would just not do.
Before leaving, uncertain of so much, Jerel had taken up a red rose from its vase and began a prayer to Mayon, watching the sun falling in the sky, knowing she would be near, that it was her time alone in the sky soon. Crushing the flower in his hand, a thorn drawing blood, he dropped the perfumed petals from the balcony and ended his silent prayer. For guidance now that he felt so lost, for strength now that he felt so weak, and for faith above all else in her will.
He did not think of the Horse Gods.
The ball was much as any would expect. Ter could not come, not after last time; he was too smart for his own good, and had a quick dislike of nobles and a good aim.
Yet still Jerel found himself daunted: throngs of highest society peered through the masks that were their own faces. Their eyes gave away nothing. It was what put Jerel most ill at ease; in court nothing was as it seemed, everything had layers and repercussions, as a breeze bent differently a thousand blades of grass.
Which is why Jerel flowed around the outskirts in silks and a rigid jacket, watching, avoiding the wolves and lions, letting his path cross with only minor nobles and lordlings. Ambition glowed in some like hot embers, and these Jerel quickly disengaged, as politely as possible - an empty drink, an old acquaintance over there, hunger, a story of Bloody Aria or another comrade to leave them appeased - for they were just as dangerous as the established names in their own right. Perhaps more so in the risks they took.
Of course, the Grand Game was above Jerel, and what he understood was from smatterings of history he came across by chance. It was a lethal thing.
During his flitting between small circles he came across the flint-edged Indrau, rapping along.
“Ho Ser Indrau,” Jerel banged his chest in salute, even tilted forward, almost a bow, “How are you finding the affair?”
Over the elder man’s shoulder he caught the moment Tyaethe put a hand on Velbrance. His jaw clenched, and he nodded at the happening, “Paladin Radistirin does not look pleased.”
@TheFake
Ti