Summit of Balfiera
“What you say is most definitely true, however full of emotional sentiment it is. How long I have dreamt of a united and powerful High Rock like the days of High King Emeric-”
“No doubt under your rule.” Narcisse interrupted King Ferrand, earning a disapproving shake of the head from Frithjolf.
King Ferrand continued, “But unless my fellow rulers decide that a united High Rock is better than a mere pissing contest of strongest realm, we may never hope to be as powerful as we think we are. I have terms, as you may well expect there to be, but I am willing to offer my help in return for support from the Ruby Throne.”
“Your plays for power are growing more obvious in your old age, King Ferrand.” Beralt looked at Ferrand with a wary gaze, “How am I to know that you don’t aim to strip all power from your fellow rulers and seize High Rock for yourself and your throne?”
“Because it would be foolish. I am a Bellemont, not a Tharn, not a tyrant. I rule my people well and the Lords under me are more than happy under my rule. Your power will be uncontested in your own realm, but these petty border skirmishes, these secret pirate raids,” Ferrand shook his head and clenched his jaw, “The High Rock my family knew is gone because of a few rulers who can not see, their crowns slipping over their eyes.”
“Complete and utter-”
“Enough!” Frithjolf stood and interrupted Narcisse, hard knuckles colliding with hard wood, “Ferrand is the strongest among us, his throne grants him the most power, this is true. But with a strong Kingdom comes a heavier crown. Perhaps your crown has been blocking your eyes for so long that you’ve become blind to your own greed and lust for power. A united High Rock is not what you want, a High Rock that bends knee to High King Ferrand Bellemont is.”
“And a Nord knows of Breton politics?” Narcisse sneered.
“A Reachman is among us, why not a Nord?” Frithjolf gestured to Ambrose, who nodded, “Do you think us all with brains of ice? No space in our head to spare for thoughts, only blood and violence? Great men have been Nords. Tiber Septim- the great Talos Stormcrown, your ancestor! Whatever Northern blood echoes from the past to you should tell you that my words are true.”
“And what would be the golden days under your rule, King Frithjolf? What would be different should you be High King of High Rock instead of King Ferrand? What about the Reachman?” Narcisse stood and threw a gesturing hand at Ambrose, who scowled with gritted teeth, “Why not prop up the Witch-Pirate from the Heathen Reach?”
“Silence!” King Ferrand’s voice boomed throughout the hall, “Let Emperor Gaius speak. At the end of the day, High Rock is part of the Empire and we all lend ear when an Emperor speaks. I hope that all of you as well as he will hear what I have to say.”
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The plains around Wayrest
14th of Midyear
Brother Everard III of Wayrest
Everard stepped over to the messenger boy being held at swordpoint and secured with a knife to his throat by Brothers Mathieu and Vicens. He wore his cocky, jovial smile as he knelt beside the sitting, shivering messenger boy. They’d caught the lad when they’d run into his path on the road or, well, his bodyguards’ paths. The men were easy enough to kill, Brother Daenlen was always quick with his arrows and well enough they were held at a standstill for the Bosmer by Brother Montyard, always the best at becoming other men- and women on a few occasions, but that is an entirely other story.
“Do what you will, boy, I’m a servant to King Ferrand Bellemont.” The messenger boy said.
“’Boy?’,” Everard smiled, looking to the two men with blades trained and held to the boy, respectively, “Why, I wouldn’t think you two summers older than I, and you’re young! Twenty, maybe. I know who you work for, ponce, I could see it on that crest on your saddle, the badge on your fine silk robes and the way I smelled your perfume from a mile off.”
“Are you going to kill me?” The Messenger asked, eyes flitting from Everard to Mathieu and the other men around, particularly the huge orc.
“People don’t usually get paid for ransoming dead bodies, now do they?” Everard stood and rubbed his chin, “Just a servant, boy?”
“Aye, a messenger.” The boy said.
“And what message makes it so you need six armed sergeants to die while playing soldier for a day and having to put up with you, hm?” Everard asked.
“It’s a secret. Royal eyes only.” The Messenger grumbled.
“These eyes here are pretty royal, if you’re to believe it.” Everard smiled, raising an eyebrow, “And you might want to believe it, because letting these royal eyes see it would be much more comfortable for you. Brother Vilhalm is good at making people tell secrets.”
“I would never succumb to torture! You hear me and heed these words,” Everard shrugged, “I will never divulge these secrets to anyone but my great Ki-ach! Urch!”
“It always surprises me how much trauma a neck needs to make sure a person’s dead.” Everard nodded before quickly ripping away a piece of his tunic underneath the leather armor and stopping a stream of crimson before it touched the fine robes of the messenger boy.
“Brother Montyard?” Everard called over his shoulder.
The young man came, still dressed in the trappings of a knight bearing the crest of Daggerfall although it made him walk a bit awkward under the weight, “Brother Everard?”
“How would a trip to Daggerfall sound? Even a place in the King’s castle on behalf of our friend here?” Everard asked, a raised eyebrow.
“I’d like it very much. I needed a vacation from all of this traipsing around in the plains with you lot,” The young man chuckled, eliciting laughs from the rest of the Brothers, even Brother Barzgur, “When do I leave?”
Everard stripped the messenger of his silk robes and cloth traveling cloak and threw the items to Montyard, “Dress the part and you can leave whenever you’d like. Promise me you’ll write.”
“I do.” Montyard went to work stripping off his armor.
Ferrand would receive his message as expected but the messenger would be a little different.
