I've decided on two characters. One is going to be a grizzled old Mage Slayer by the name of Morben Risaac (in his early thirties, so not really that old). He's going to have burns all over his face and a large majority of his upper body...and he is going to fucking hate mages. As a devout of Lady Yildeane's teachings and a rather accomplished killer, he's going to be something of a 'mad old dog' in the Mage Slayer organization. Chances are he's not going to have the tragic backstory you'd expect from a guy that looks like that; no murdered family or childhood injustice. He was driven by faith and barely survived a skirmish with a mage tribe that went beyond the boundaries of the Godwastes and attacked Merrifort about thirteen years before the events of this RP. Thinking he's going to have a ritual (nearly a fetish) of staring into a mage's eyes as they die.
The other is Nyrris Surris, an Untuillan mage that will be traveling in the company of a Death Touched (one of Sicarius' characters). She'll probably be running into the group after some time. You'll get more info on her once I get a CS and stuff up.
As for how magic works, I'll go ahead and shoot you a PM containing some information about it.
- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: ANMC
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
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Username history
- Saber 12 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
7 yrs ago
Current
Fucked my arms up on some barbed wire
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7 yrs ago
Nothing is essential//
8 yrs ago
Reaching out broke my heart. The following silence reminded me of my desires. The shards discarded, I quickly departed.
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9 yrs ago
That's grim.
9 yrs ago
I don't feel like me when I take my medicine.
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Bio
She's back.
Most Recent Posts
Thanks, babbysama. You are certainly welcome to join us! Shoot me a PM if you have any questions.
Your signature cracked me up, by the way.
EDIT: Decided to add this...just because.
Your signature cracked me up, by the way.
EDIT: Decided to add this...just because.
Working on the OOC now. As I said before, it should be done tonight barring any interruptions. If it is not up tonight, I sincerely apologize; there's another series of storms moving through where I live and they may (according to what I saw on the news a short while ago) be worse than the previous set. Regardless of all that, the OOC will be going up in the near future.
I'd like to have another person or two, but the current number is certainly acceptable. I think there's a lot of potential in this thread, in terms of the players that have been gathered. I'm looking forward to writing with all of you.
Thanks for your interest,
Saber.
I'd like to have another person or two, but the current number is certainly acceptable. I think there's a lot of potential in this thread, in terms of the players that have been gathered. I'm looking forward to writing with all of you.
Thanks for your interest,
Saber.
"An' they called him the broken king,
of his wound they would sing!
Broken and beaten, his throne he still kept,
while in the north his stolen sister wept.
What in this world can't be fought for?
Changing the past and taking the north!"
He let loose a booming laugh, swaggering between the tables, the echoes of his surprisingly rich singing voice echoing in what had suddenly become silence. Lorgan Orgreson watched the wave of bewilderment sweep over the supping southerners and noted the wry smiles on the face of his northern brothers. They had a saying, in the village he was from. 'There is no festivity without some controversy.' He couldn't remember who said it, but the massive man had taken the mantra to heart. That is not to say that he purposefully made a scene at whatever feast or wedding he attended, but it would seem to most that trouble followed the drunken ogre. The lass on his shoulder kicked a few times, giggling, feigning a fight. She was nearly as drunk as he, a pretty, blushing lass that smelled of southern flowers and the sweet, subtle acidity of wine. He was fairly certain she wasn't a lady of any sorts, yet this was more than made up for by her supple curves and bright eyes.
"What," he called out to the assemblage, his eyebrows arched in question, "in the bleeding hells are ye all looking at? It's just a song." The query was accompanied by a wide, toothy smile and the rumbling of his chest as he let loose a laugh. Rolling his shoulder, he dropped the girl into his waiting arms. "Come, Lyarili, let us feast in honor of the coming peace!" Lorgan carried the girl to the noble's table and sat, adjusting her that so she would sit upright in his lap. Still, he towered over her and she sat there; blushing and smiling and nuzzling herself against the large man as she got comfortable. Gone was his armor and axe, replaced by a ragged tunic of gray and black trousers. He eyed the food with great interest, observing the strange southern treats with more than a bit of enthusiasm. The girl gathered food onto the plate, seemingly oblivious to the scorning eyes upon her from the other tables and made certain to pile it high.
"Aye, ye'r a good lass. Be sure to get the meat. What is a feast without some meat. I hope these southerners can cook better than they can fight."
of his wound they would sing!
Broken and beaten, his throne he still kept,
while in the north his stolen sister wept.
What in this world can't be fought for?
Changing the past and taking the north!"
He let loose a booming laugh, swaggering between the tables, the echoes of his surprisingly rich singing voice echoing in what had suddenly become silence. Lorgan Orgreson watched the wave of bewilderment sweep over the supping southerners and noted the wry smiles on the face of his northern brothers. They had a saying, in the village he was from. 'There is no festivity without some controversy.' He couldn't remember who said it, but the massive man had taken the mantra to heart. That is not to say that he purposefully made a scene at whatever feast or wedding he attended, but it would seem to most that trouble followed the drunken ogre. The lass on his shoulder kicked a few times, giggling, feigning a fight. She was nearly as drunk as he, a pretty, blushing lass that smelled of southern flowers and the sweet, subtle acidity of wine. He was fairly certain she wasn't a lady of any sorts, yet this was more than made up for by her supple curves and bright eyes.
"What," he called out to the assemblage, his eyebrows arched in question, "in the bleeding hells are ye all looking at? It's just a song." The query was accompanied by a wide, toothy smile and the rumbling of his chest as he let loose a laugh. Rolling his shoulder, he dropped the girl into his waiting arms. "Come, Lyarili, let us feast in honor of the coming peace!" Lorgan carried the girl to the noble's table and sat, adjusting her that so she would sit upright in his lap. Still, he towered over her and she sat there; blushing and smiling and nuzzling herself against the large man as she got comfortable. Gone was his armor and axe, replaced by a ragged tunic of gray and black trousers. He eyed the food with great interest, observing the strange southern treats with more than a bit of enthusiasm. The girl gathered food onto the plate, seemingly oblivious to the scorning eyes upon her from the other tables and made certain to pile it high.
"Aye, ye'r a good lass. Be sure to get the meat. What is a feast without some meat. I hope these southerners can cook better than they can fight."
Seralle Loroughe allowed herself a broad smile, arching an eyebrow at her betrothed; legitimately pleased with his quickness.
"Of all the things I've been told of you, Brogan Arten, no one ever mentioned that you are a clever man. Strong, yes, they've all praised your strength in combat...and your bravery...even how handsome you are, but never once have they mentioned you capable of being witty. I daresay that is the most pleasing thing I've learned about you."
She smiled as he filled her tankard and offered a slight nod in thanks.
"Your mother sounds like a fine woman," Sera took her now full tankard and allowed herself a long sip, "it will be interesting to meet with her...once we head north." She thought for a moment, of what story to tell; whether it should be of her family or her own excursions into Warrhon. The princess took a chunk of chicken from her plate and chewed on it for a bit. "Alright, since it is my turn, I'll tell you a story. Not about my mother or father, or half-brothers or cousins or anyone in the court. I was sent, on my ninth birthday, to study magic in Gryphon's Keep; far to the east of here, near the Sand Eater lands. I had been there for nearly two years, studying the craft under the tutelage of a man known as Illixion the Mad. One morning, just after I had risen from bed, the old man burst into the room; flames wreathed around his hands. In an instant, he let loose a bellow and began throwing fireballs at me; screaming at the top of his lungs about power. The fire struck my bed and set it alight, along with the curtains and a large number of my books. I panicked and ran past him, attempting to shove him aside with my shoulder, which I did. But, the strangest thing was...I could not pass through the doorway."
She took another long sip from her tankard and finished the remaining bit of chicken on her plate.
"It was a barrier spell, woven into the frame of the door to prevent me from leaving, that threw me onto the burning bed; I started to scream. Illixion merely pulled himself up and waved his hand at me. The fire vanished, the doorway vanished, the entire room vanished and I found myself in the old man's study, sitting in a chair with my eyes pointed at the floor. I was crying, then, weeping for my mother, who had been dead for several years. I know it was foolish, too, of me to cry, but it was such an unsettling thing; thinking that I had truly felt the flames on my skin. The old man looked down at me with sadness in his eyes and asked me a question that I will never forget. 'Seralle,' he said in his strange accent, 'why do you fear death?'. I had no answer for him, then...and still do not."
Sera sat her tankard back in its place and looked at Brogan, briefly tracing her eyes over the lower half of his form.
"I think, though, that I fear death because I have yet to live," a sudden blush came to her cheeks, "I-I apologize, Brogan, I meant to speak of something more pleasant."
"Of all the things I've been told of you, Brogan Arten, no one ever mentioned that you are a clever man. Strong, yes, they've all praised your strength in combat...and your bravery...even how handsome you are, but never once have they mentioned you capable of being witty. I daresay that is the most pleasing thing I've learned about you."
She smiled as he filled her tankard and offered a slight nod in thanks.
"Your mother sounds like a fine woman," Sera took her now full tankard and allowed herself a long sip, "it will be interesting to meet with her...once we head north." She thought for a moment, of what story to tell; whether it should be of her family or her own excursions into Warrhon. The princess took a chunk of chicken from her plate and chewed on it for a bit. "Alright, since it is my turn, I'll tell you a story. Not about my mother or father, or half-brothers or cousins or anyone in the court. I was sent, on my ninth birthday, to study magic in Gryphon's Keep; far to the east of here, near the Sand Eater lands. I had been there for nearly two years, studying the craft under the tutelage of a man known as Illixion the Mad. One morning, just after I had risen from bed, the old man burst into the room; flames wreathed around his hands. In an instant, he let loose a bellow and began throwing fireballs at me; screaming at the top of his lungs about power. The fire struck my bed and set it alight, along with the curtains and a large number of my books. I panicked and ran past him, attempting to shove him aside with my shoulder, which I did. But, the strangest thing was...I could not pass through the doorway."
She took another long sip from her tankard and finished the remaining bit of chicken on her plate.
"It was a barrier spell, woven into the frame of the door to prevent me from leaving, that threw me onto the burning bed; I started to scream. Illixion merely pulled himself up and waved his hand at me. The fire vanished, the doorway vanished, the entire room vanished and I found myself in the old man's study, sitting in a chair with my eyes pointed at the floor. I was crying, then, weeping for my mother, who had been dead for several years. I know it was foolish, too, of me to cry, but it was such an unsettling thing; thinking that I had truly felt the flames on my skin. The old man looked down at me with sadness in his eyes and asked me a question that I will never forget. 'Seralle,' he said in his strange accent, 'why do you fear death?'. I had no answer for him, then...and still do not."
Sera sat her tankard back in its place and looked at Brogan, briefly tracing her eyes over the lower half of his form.
"I think, though, that I fear death because I have yet to live," a sudden blush came to her cheeks, "I-I apologize, Brogan, I meant to speak of something more pleasant."
Haha, alright. Writing up my response.
"Blackened steel, taken from the land of the Sand Eaters. It can cleave bone as easily as a knife slices through bread."
Lorgan took the blade in his hands, running thick fingers along the nearly shimmering blade. He tested its weight, gave it a couple of light stabs into the air and then, slowly, he returned it to Brogan.
"They say that weapons like these are created by magic. Can ye imagine such a thing? Sorcerers standing around a forge, throwing words at a lump of metal until it looks like a sword?"
He slapped his knee at the thought, just before Brom began to speak. Lorgan scoffed midway through and gave a dismissive wave, but did not interrupt the prince.
"Shit on that! Perhaps I'll show these southern girls how bloodthirsty I really am. Let me find one with her moon-blood and ye can damn well watch how bloodthirsty Lorgan Ogreson really is! I might even have the decency to let ye have her when I'm done." He was jovial again, "So long as they don't point, laugh, stare or brag too long, there will be no problem from me," Lorgan offered a smirk to the prince, standing from his seat to look down on the boy. He placed a massive hand on Brom's shoulder and stared him in the eyes. "If there's no mead, though, you can bet your royal asses that I'll be killing someone tonight." The Ogreson let loose another massive laugh as he turned away and strode toward the door, kicking aside several pitchers as he did. "Now, lads, I've got to piss. Get on to your kingly feast. If ye hear the girls screaming my name, don't bother with bothering me or I'll knock your ears sideways."
- - - -
What place is there for me amidst this noise? This infinite rumbling that tears away at focus and demands a facade be enacted. Am I merely the pawn born to play a queen or the queen born to...
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden thundering of a distant drum; the applause following her father's speech about the future of the realms.. All around her, though, the din of merriment and joy resounded. Plates were moved, cutlery scraped, tankards were crashed together. Seven different songs burst into existence at once. Quickly they mingled and swirled together, creating a disjointed melody and broken chorus. Sera stared out from her high perch at the high table, to the left of her betrothed. She knew she wore a sour face, despite the resplendent feast spread before her. Unbidden, words came from her lips.
"The Sand Eaters are known to use pipes in their peace ceremonies. I find it strange, in a way, that savages can make peace with such a simple action. Their leaders meet and smoke from the same pipe, they trade stories and tell jokes," she placed her elbows on the table and rested her forehead, trailing her eyes along the chaos of the arrayed tables, slowly turning her gaze to Brogan. "it makes me wonder if that is because peace means so little to them, or if it is simply that they understand that peace is a thing to be made...not traded for." She slid her hands from under her chin and wrapped them around a horn tankard. "Then I wonder who brought the pipe."
She drained the tankard and placed it back gingerly, eyes still fixed on her betrothed.
Lorgan took the blade in his hands, running thick fingers along the nearly shimmering blade. He tested its weight, gave it a couple of light stabs into the air and then, slowly, he returned it to Brogan.
"They say that weapons like these are created by magic. Can ye imagine such a thing? Sorcerers standing around a forge, throwing words at a lump of metal until it looks like a sword?"
He slapped his knee at the thought, just before Brom began to speak. Lorgan scoffed midway through and gave a dismissive wave, but did not interrupt the prince.
"Shit on that! Perhaps I'll show these southern girls how bloodthirsty I really am. Let me find one with her moon-blood and ye can damn well watch how bloodthirsty Lorgan Ogreson really is! I might even have the decency to let ye have her when I'm done." He was jovial again, "So long as they don't point, laugh, stare or brag too long, there will be no problem from me," Lorgan offered a smirk to the prince, standing from his seat to look down on the boy. He placed a massive hand on Brom's shoulder and stared him in the eyes. "If there's no mead, though, you can bet your royal asses that I'll be killing someone tonight." The Ogreson let loose another massive laugh as he turned away and strode toward the door, kicking aside several pitchers as he did. "Now, lads, I've got to piss. Get on to your kingly feast. If ye hear the girls screaming my name, don't bother with bothering me or I'll knock your ears sideways."
- - - -
What place is there for me amidst this noise? This infinite rumbling that tears away at focus and demands a facade be enacted. Am I merely the pawn born to play a queen or the queen born to...
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden thundering of a distant drum; the applause following her father's speech about the future of the realms.. All around her, though, the din of merriment and joy resounded. Plates were moved, cutlery scraped, tankards were crashed together. Seven different songs burst into existence at once. Quickly they mingled and swirled together, creating a disjointed melody and broken chorus. Sera stared out from her high perch at the high table, to the left of her betrothed. She knew she wore a sour face, despite the resplendent feast spread before her. Unbidden, words came from her lips.
"The Sand Eaters are known to use pipes in their peace ceremonies. I find it strange, in a way, that savages can make peace with such a simple action. Their leaders meet and smoke from the same pipe, they trade stories and tell jokes," she placed her elbows on the table and rested her forehead, trailing her eyes along the chaos of the arrayed tables, slowly turning her gaze to Brogan. "it makes me wonder if that is because peace means so little to them, or if it is simply that they understand that peace is a thing to be made...not traded for." She slid her hands from under her chin and wrapped them around a horn tankard. "Then I wonder who brought the pipe."
She drained the tankard and placed it back gingerly, eyes still fixed on her betrothed.
Lorgan Ogreson threw another one against the ground. His squat, brutal, nearly porcine face was ruddy with fury and wet with crimson, alcoholic spittle.
"Gods! Which hell is this we've entered, eh?!"
He stood over an ornate table, littered with empty silver pitchers. Small puddles had formed on the glossy surface, a rich and fine red wine. Lorgan's shadow swallowed half the room as he shifted and circled the table; bringing each pitcher close to his face before tossing them carelessly to the ground. He snarled at one, in particular, before tipping it back and draining the contents.
"Wine in every damned room! Wine," he said the word as though it were offensive to him, "is never enough! I've emptied this entire hall and-" Lorgan tossed his head back and let loose a frothing roar, "I WANT TO..." The ogre stopped as suddenly as he had begun, turning his eyes to Brogan, first, then to Brom. The huge man relaxed, visibly, slowly placing the empty vessel onto the table behind him.
"Silent as the grave...it suits your father better than it does the two of you."
Lowering himself into a seat, despite the furniture's groaning protest, Lorgan gave the princes a wide smile.
"Aye, it was a fine blade that they gifted you with. And a fine name, too. Nightsbane. Finer still was the lass. Aye," he said again, with more energy "slender as an arrow, but with tits like my sixth wife had. A shame I'm not the bastard I once was, I might've fought you for her hand, Brogan." Lorgan let loose a booming laugh and slammed his fist on the table.
"Gods! Which hell is this we've entered, eh?!"
He stood over an ornate table, littered with empty silver pitchers. Small puddles had formed on the glossy surface, a rich and fine red wine. Lorgan's shadow swallowed half the room as he shifted and circled the table; bringing each pitcher close to his face before tossing them carelessly to the ground. He snarled at one, in particular, before tipping it back and draining the contents.
"Wine in every damned room! Wine," he said the word as though it were offensive to him, "is never enough! I've emptied this entire hall and-" Lorgan tossed his head back and let loose a frothing roar, "I WANT TO..." The ogre stopped as suddenly as he had begun, turning his eyes to Brogan, first, then to Brom. The huge man relaxed, visibly, slowly placing the empty vessel onto the table behind him.
"Silent as the grave...it suits your father better than it does the two of you."
Lowering himself into a seat, despite the furniture's groaning protest, Lorgan gave the princes a wide smile.
"Aye, it was a fine blade that they gifted you with. And a fine name, too. Nightsbane. Finer still was the lass. Aye," he said again, with more energy "slender as an arrow, but with tits like my sixth wife had. A shame I'm not the bastard I once was, I might've fought you for her hand, Brogan." Lorgan let loose a booming laugh and slammed his fist on the table.
She offered a light giggle as she took the flower, genuinely amused at the grim expression of her husband-to-be. Lightly, she took it in the palms of her hands, bringing it closer to her face. It was a beautiful flower. The younger brother spoke at her, but the words were only registered in the distance.
A deep blue prismatic distortion emitted from the smoothly crafted glass, striking the splayed petals with a deeper indigo and spreading the frozen stem into tiny, spear-like tendrils that snaked throughout the prison that had immortalized the Hinterblossom. It brought a genuine smile to her face, the strange trinket she held.
"It is beautiful," she admitted, taking her eyes away from it and cradling the glass against her stomach as she offered a slight dip of her hips to her betrothed, "and I have never had the pleasure of seeing such a flower before. You have my thanks, Lord Brogan...and thank you, Lord Brom, for informing me of its purpose." Seralle didn't expect much of an answer from the man, but she met his eyes; searching for his thoughts.
His eyes were deeper than she expected and perhaps there was even a hint of anxiousness in them. She met his gaze evenly, studying him as he gauged her thoughts of him. He was a man of few words, she knew, but he knew his symbols...if this gesture were truly his.
- - - -
Terrin Quinn watched the spectacle with veiled interest, standing in his appointed place beside the throne. Standing in front of two armored knights, he must have appeared extremely small to those who were paying him any mind. His sleepy eyes were fixed on the two betrothed, the wild young girl and the barbaric young king. Most likely, it would be that those wandering eyes were more curious as to what he obscured, rather than the towering men behind him.
The two knights held between them an ornate chest, emblazoned with the sigil of House Arten. He turned his head, to King Piervue, who had taken to his throne once more. With a slight inclination, the king gave Terrin his order.
"Lord Arten," he said as bowed to the northmen, "the royal family has also seen fit to prepare a gift." Terrin swept his arm to the knights, before straightening himself. The pair opened the box, revealing a grandiose weapon; a heavy blade forged of blackened steel, bearing an engraving of House Arten's sigil.
"The box is yours, as well, Lord Brogan," Seralle added, stepping away from the northmen and her father, "if it please my lord father and betrothed, I would be alone for a moment before the feast begins."
A deep blue prismatic distortion emitted from the smoothly crafted glass, striking the splayed petals with a deeper indigo and spreading the frozen stem into tiny, spear-like tendrils that snaked throughout the prison that had immortalized the Hinterblossom. It brought a genuine smile to her face, the strange trinket she held.
"It is beautiful," she admitted, taking her eyes away from it and cradling the glass against her stomach as she offered a slight dip of her hips to her betrothed, "and I have never had the pleasure of seeing such a flower before. You have my thanks, Lord Brogan...and thank you, Lord Brom, for informing me of its purpose." Seralle didn't expect much of an answer from the man, but she met his eyes; searching for his thoughts.
His eyes were deeper than she expected and perhaps there was even a hint of anxiousness in them. She met his gaze evenly, studying him as he gauged her thoughts of him. He was a man of few words, she knew, but he knew his symbols...if this gesture were truly his.
- - - -
Terrin Quinn watched the spectacle with veiled interest, standing in his appointed place beside the throne. Standing in front of two armored knights, he must have appeared extremely small to those who were paying him any mind. His sleepy eyes were fixed on the two betrothed, the wild young girl and the barbaric young king. Most likely, it would be that those wandering eyes were more curious as to what he obscured, rather than the towering men behind him.
The two knights held between them an ornate chest, emblazoned with the sigil of House Arten. He turned his head, to King Piervue, who had taken to his throne once more. With a slight inclination, the king gave Terrin his order.
"Lord Arten," he said as bowed to the northmen, "the royal family has also seen fit to prepare a gift." Terrin swept his arm to the knights, before straightening himself. The pair opened the box, revealing a grandiose weapon; a heavy blade forged of blackened steel, bearing an engraving of House Arten's sigil.
"The box is yours, as well, Lord Brogan," Seralle added, stepping away from the northmen and her father, "if it please my lord father and betrothed, I would be alone for a moment before the feast begins."
"I can only imagine, Grey," Ruarc muttered, offering him a slight, crooked smile, "they're just such impressive people." There was a slight rumbling of his chest, a contained bit of laughter as he placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and leaned in close. "Sera and the King were arguing, earlier. I have a feeling that this meeting is going to go badly."
He pulled away after the whisper and briefly cast his eyes toward King Piervue, wrapped in his violet velvet and adorned with his heavy golden crown.
There was a forced smile on the King's face, which made the lines of his face seem more pronounced, as he greeted Brogan and his followers. Ruarc noted that his father looked weary as he stood, leaning heavily on the polished obsidian of his cane. His old hands clutched the decorative eagle that topped the cane with a surprising steadiness that much reminded the lad of a man about to draw his sword.
Piervue Loroughe lifted his free hand and bid the only northerner that bowed to rise. He steadied himself, pressing his weight onto the cane instead of his one good leg, before speaking.
"Welcome, Brogan Arten, Brom Arten and Lorgan Ogreson. It is an honor to have you in my city as friends. "
As King Piervue bid his guests to rise Pyrra slid away. Ruarc watched her taking light steps away from the northerners and circling around the back of the throneroom. He watched her carefully, noting which shoulders she tapped and which men were prepared to defend their king. He was unsure if Grey was watching, as well, but the movements were subtle and quick; befitting of a practiced musician. It only lent credence to his unease. She disappeared into a corridor after making a half-pass around the room and as she did, Ruarc swallowed hard.
Everyone was on edge. The visitors, the king, the princess...everyone.
It was her that he watched now, the woman he had been brought to the keep to guard; his half-sister and charge. Seralle Loroughe stood in a fine dress of silk and lace, white and flowing, leaving little to the imagination while retaining what constituted regal modesty. Her flaxen hair was brushed all to one side, sweeping down on her left cheek and trailing to her waist; small blue flowers woven throughout. She was quiet, as she was in the company of the court, her elfin face pale and almost disgusted; the empty expression on her lips denied by the unrest in her shifting eyes. She was looking for an escape, he thought, a quick way to be rid of the entire situation.
She spoke then, in a voice that seemed too small for the girl he knew; too quiet and flat.
"As my father would welcome you as a friend, I must welcome you as my betrothed. My name is Seralle Loroughe, as I am sure you are aware, Brogan Arten. It is my pleasure," she nearly seemed to choke on the word, stuttering once before fully completing it, "to finally meet you."
He pulled away after the whisper and briefly cast his eyes toward King Piervue, wrapped in his violet velvet and adorned with his heavy golden crown.
There was a forced smile on the King's face, which made the lines of his face seem more pronounced, as he greeted Brogan and his followers. Ruarc noted that his father looked weary as he stood, leaning heavily on the polished obsidian of his cane. His old hands clutched the decorative eagle that topped the cane with a surprising steadiness that much reminded the lad of a man about to draw his sword.
Piervue Loroughe lifted his free hand and bid the only northerner that bowed to rise. He steadied himself, pressing his weight onto the cane instead of his one good leg, before speaking.
"Welcome, Brogan Arten, Brom Arten and Lorgan Ogreson. It is an honor to have you in my city as friends. "
As King Piervue bid his guests to rise Pyrra slid away. Ruarc watched her taking light steps away from the northerners and circling around the back of the throneroom. He watched her carefully, noting which shoulders she tapped and which men were prepared to defend their king. He was unsure if Grey was watching, as well, but the movements were subtle and quick; befitting of a practiced musician. It only lent credence to his unease. She disappeared into a corridor after making a half-pass around the room and as she did, Ruarc swallowed hard.
Everyone was on edge. The visitors, the king, the princess...everyone.
It was her that he watched now, the woman he had been brought to the keep to guard; his half-sister and charge. Seralle Loroughe stood in a fine dress of silk and lace, white and flowing, leaving little to the imagination while retaining what constituted regal modesty. Her flaxen hair was brushed all to one side, sweeping down on her left cheek and trailing to her waist; small blue flowers woven throughout. She was quiet, as she was in the company of the court, her elfin face pale and almost disgusted; the empty expression on her lips denied by the unrest in her shifting eyes. She was looking for an escape, he thought, a quick way to be rid of the entire situation.
She spoke then, in a voice that seemed too small for the girl he knew; too quiet and flat.
"As my father would welcome you as a friend, I must welcome you as my betrothed. My name is Seralle Loroughe, as I am sure you are aware, Brogan Arten. It is my pleasure," she nearly seemed to choke on the word, stuttering once before fully completing it, "to finally meet you."
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