While Tanithil took care of the business talk, Arlen studied the two new guests, a warm smile on his face as he bounced on his toes in relentless excitement. The human showed a slight hint of intrigue at the mention of treasure hunting, and had seemed impressed by his jumping stunt. Maybe he’s not so bad. Arlen waved at him where the guy was hiding behind Zion, waggling his fingers at the youth playfully. Maybe he was just shy or something? He didn’t answer Tanithil either – well, not with words.
He grinned at the demi-human’s cheer, finding it infectious. “Yeah, nice to meet you too!” he bounced closer. Not as close as he usually would, just in case the human got too spooked. “Well, you don’t have’ta worry about swimming right now.” He laughed at the joke; it started almost as a hiccup, feeling like the sound had to pass some boulders in his throat, but it went easier and smoother with each laugh. “No need for catfishin’ either,” he smirked. “Those are wonderful skills to have – do you have any experiences with deserts?” he wondered curiously. The man’s question was a good one; he didn’t know this place either, so Arlen just shrugged. “Why don’t we go and find out?” Smiling, he went on, eager to explore this town, and find a decent place for breakfast.
Theodore had put the swordswoman so far out of his mind that he was genuinely taken aback to see her. He’d noticed the stench first; the accumulated monster blood and viscera. The buzzing of flies drew him closer, and then there was that sensation of another Ichor Blessed. She’d gained some energy for herself now, and it was a strange thing – it still felt like absence, yet clearly, she had something. It was like staring into a gaping maw, a never-ending hunger driving it to consume any and all who would dare approach. Similar to the Abyss, in a way.
Was that her domain? Greed? Absence? The anti-thesis of being; nonexistence? He wasn’t certain. He wasn’t, but he was attracted and repelled to it in equal measure.
When he finally saw her, all miserable and beaten down, fatigued and unaware, as feeble as a nearly dead prey– He hissed on an inhale and stopped in his tracks.
The surge of wrath and retributive desire was swift, powerful, and blinding; it was as if a surge of lightning had struck him that very moment.
Theo narrowed his eyes at the woman, bloody fantasies plaguing his mind. He could cut her down now, he could have her at her mercy, he could humiliate her.
How easy it would be, to surround her and beat the rest of her measly life force out of her. How simple, to pass by and run his spear through her, leaving her for dead. Perhaps even tripping her would suffice, and she’d meet her end in an ‘accident’, an unfortunate soul who’d fallen into a ditch and broken her neck after she’d chewed off too large of a chunk of the Abyss than she could handle.
Then, there was a second desire, the inverse of his first one, and nearly as strong.
He was tempted to simply meld into the crowds, disappear, and let this one meeting never come to fruition without her being the wiser. Why would he bother interacting with her at all? Why should he pay her any mind, when she was so downtrodden? Surely, he had already surpassed her?
But no.
That would be running away.
Her first run might have been tough, but who knew how the next ones would go?
He could become villainous enough to murder her in plain sight, but what would he gain? A small amount of Ichor and resources, in exchange for infamy?
Clenching his hands, straightening up, a blaze of fury brightening his crimson irises, he strode up right to her. “Hello, there,” he greeted a beat before reaching for her shoulder. His hold was firm, and he pulled lightly, urging her to turn around. Just in case she still had her reflexes, he was prepared to avoid any potential reflexive attacks on her part.
His followers were right by him, merely watching. Some were cautious, even spooked; the doctor and the child both looking at the blindfolded woman as if she were a fairytale monster manifest. Maris and Ezra were both tense, though they both oozed a particular smugness and sense of superiority. Sana appeared mostly neutral, if somewhat disapproving.
“You found it, didn’t you?” he asked rhetorically. His voice held a clear spark of anger; challenge, even. She couldn’t see him in the physical sense, but he stared right where he expected her eyes to be located underneath the blindfold. “Remember,” he demanded. “Remember who helped you.” He stared her down, studying her tired figure. She might be too out of it to appreciate subtle implications, so he’d spell it out for her. “You know I could have attacked you now as you’d done when you first met me. You know what would happen if I did, don’t you?” Know that I spared you. Know that I was merciful. “Remember that. If you have any honour,” he spat, finding it difficult to believe that she might, “you will find a way to repay me.”
He gave her the chance to respond, if she would, exhausted as she was.
But he did not expect the conversation to be long, if there even would be one. After their second meeting, he’d withdraw into the crowds, and continue with his plans – a shopping trip would be just the thing to clear his head.
Attire: Hunting gear -> A toga (over a tunic) and sandals Date and Time: Sola 24th, Predawn -> Morning Location: His room -> Knights' barracks -> The forest -> The castle -> The church Mention(s):AT THE CHURCH@Helo a very pink Leo, @JJ Doe someone he knows? Interaction(s):AT THE CHURCH@princess Anastasia, Calbert & Landon, @Lava Alckon Farim, @Rodiak Nahir & Ece, @PotterKira
EARLY MORNING
One moment, he was sleeping, the next, he was awake and alert. He’d startled, and was almost halfway up and out of the bed, but it didn’t take looking around to know he was alone. “Tch.” He dragged a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, and sat up. Raindrops pattered against the windows and balcony doors. Accompanying it was incessant, loud, overly-frivolous chirping. From where he’d set it on the night desk, Wulfric picked up his revolver, cocked it, and treaded lightly to the balcony doors.
Of course, opening them alerted the sparrows regardless, and they flew off away from where they’d been perching. “Damn birds,” he muttered. It was a dark, cloudy, rainy morning. It was the twilight before dawn; the clouds only partially covered the gradually lightening skies. It was blessedly fresh, and he inhaled, deep and long. He stood there for a while, soaking in the atmosphere – and the rain – not minding the drizzle the winds carried his way.
The rich earthly scent of petrichor hung heavily in the air. The rain washed away the usual smells of civilization, and enhanced those of nature. There was that distinctive freshly aquatic odor of the river and waterfall carried all the way from the direction of the forest. Then there were the woodland undertones of the trees, shrubs, and grasses. From the nearby castle’s gardens, the fragrance of flowering apple and magnolia trees was spreading, their sweetness as gentle as their budding blossoms.
It was pleasant, relaxing, invigorating.
Wulfric opened his eyes, staring into distances unknown.
He still wanted to shoot something.
With a low sigh, he retreated back inside. He had several hours to spare; he would go on a hunt. He dressed in simple, if high quality hunting attire, and donned a leather cloak.
THE BARRACKS
What he assumed would be a short stop at the knights’ barracks – he was there only to fetch his metaphorically dusty archery equipment – was unexpectedly prolonged when he found out about the previous night’s happenings at the Varian ceremony.
Despite its vicinity to the hospital, the knights’ barrack had its own medical quarter. As he neared the hallway leading to it, he heard an unusual hubbub. Wulfric changed his intended route, investigating the noise.
Within the infirmary, a troubling sight awaited.
One royal guard lay injured on a medical bed. His chest was heavily bandaged. A nurse had just changed the bandages, and was on her way to dispose of the old bandages which had bled through. The injured man had a deathly pallor about him, breathing shallowly in his coma, a layer of cold sweat clinging to him. Near his bed was a captain of the guards, and three other lower ranking men. The guards had been holding a discussion, though it died down at his approach.
“Your Highness,” the captain greeted, and all the guards bowed. “As you were.” At his sign, they straightened up.
“Captain…Blair,” Wulfric recalled his name after a beat. His gaze flitted to the recovering guard. “What happened?”
The head guard gave his account of the event. “We were searching for Lady Violet, Your Highness, which led us to the ceremony at the Lover’s Lake. There, a fellow named Erik, who introduced himself as the manager of the Ravenwood Artisan Guild, warned us away. We did not leave, however, and Lord Ravenwood, who wasn’t himself, charged us. Ravenwood’s guards tried to stop him, but it was in vain. We drew our weapons. Casey over there was the first in his path, and…” The man trailed off. “He looked like a fu– like some monster bear had clawed him,” he concluded quietly. A moment of grim silence passed before Blair finished his report. “Ravenwood was then led away by some others. On the orders of Prince Callum and Princess Anastasia, we left the premises. We carried Casey here, and alerted a doctor. I ordered several other guards to continue the search for Lady Violet.”
Wulfric nodded once, appreciative of the comprehensive summary. However, there were a plethora of questions which occurred to him. “Let us start from the beginning…Since when is Lady Violet missing? Why were you searching for her at the Lover’s Lake?”
“Countess Damien reported it last night.” The man proceeded to explain shortly why such urgency had been deemed necessary.
“Yet no one thought to search Lady Violet’s room to inspect the ‘disarray’ mentioned by the countess?” Clearly, the answer was no. Too, the guards had merely followed the count and countess’ suspicions that Violet might have gone to the ceremony.
“We will certainly have to review security and investigation protocols. A renowned noble he may be, but you do not follow Count Calbert’s orders or suggestions blindly.” At his stern tone, a murmur of apologies followed.
The guards’ contriteness was sufficient, so the prince nodded. “You said you were warned away? Did this Erik act antagonistically…?” he frowned.
“No, Prince Wulfric. He was genuinely worried. He said Lord Ravenwood had taken some sort of a drug which made him vicious towards perceived threats.”
“A perceived threat, hm?” Wulfric scoffed. It was telling that a Varian man in their land faced with their people considered Caesonian guards a threat. Drugged he may have been, yet obviously, the Varians were well aware of the potential risks. “How was the situation resolved? You said someone lured Lord Roman away?”
He was given the description of a woman he recognized – Torvi. Jorviksdottir had taken it upon herself to redirect the crazed lord’s attention by taking away Lady Mina Blackwood. “That white-haired woman is one of our agents. It was a good thing she was there,” he commented. A pause followed as he organized his thoughts. “What is Casey’s state?” In other words, would the man make it or not.
“He’ll pull through. They say he was lucky,” Blair added bitterly.
“I see,” Wulfric stated. There was a brief pause as he considered the situation. “His medical stay will be fully paid for, including his salary for any days of missed work because of his injury. Inform his family if you have not done so yet.”
Blair swallowed heavily, seemingly touched. “He’ll…he’ll appreciate that, Your Highness.”
There was a contemplative quietude shared among the men.
“Varian will pay.” Wulfric proclaimed.
The main culprit of the incident was certainly Lord Ravenwood. “Social faux-pas or no, permit or no, you adhered to your duties. To have one of the royal guards nearly slaughtered to death,” he shook his head. “It will not stand.”
The prince huffed. “Now, I don’t expect that the lord will ever so much as face charges for assault, however, I will ensure that the Varian royals compensate us for this matter.”
That, however, was for later. He had intended to go on a hunt, and so hunt he would. There were only two questions remaining. “Lady Violet is still missing?” The captain confirmed this with a nod. “…And what of my siblings?” he queried.
One of the guards who’d been silent thus far shifted awkwardly. “Er– Your Highness,” the man was awkwardly torn between wanting to look away and trying not to seem as if that’s what he was doing. “I ‘eard– I ‘eard the princess was carried to ‘er room by Sh-Shah– …by His Highness Farim.” He shuffled sheepishly, a hint of red creeping into his cheeks. “She– she was out of it – tha’s jus’ wot I ‘eard, is all!” he exclaimed, patently aware how this news would be taken.
“She what?” Wulfric hissed ferociously. The guard folded into himself with as much guilt as a scolded puppy. “S-sorry, I dunno any more, Prince Wulfric.”
The royal clenched his teeth. “Continue your duties. My siblings’ guards will be dealt with in due time.” It was fortunate none of them were there at this very moment, or he would have been irresistibly tempted to give them all a good whipping. The sheer incompetence was appalling, and Wulfric added ‘extra training for the royal guards’ to his ever-growing mental list of to-dos.
He exited the infirmary in an awful mood, though the knowledge that he’d get to unwind in the following hours helped. He fetched his sturdy composite bow, a quiver and arrows, a bow sling, and some other supplies. Before he departed, he had a very light breakfast alongside the few knights who had either risen early or were on their way to sleep following a night shift. He packed a few treats for the hounds he’d take today, and was finally on his way.
THE FOREST
He picked up a pack of short-legged scent hounds at the royal kennels. The building was sizeable for what it was, as they kept different types and breeds of hunting dogs. Inside, each had a spacious kennel which could be opened up into the outdoors area. Outside, they had fenced exercise grounds for the days when no one was taking them on a hunt.
The canines at the kennels were unusually restless. “They’ve been loud all night. Something’s got ‘em disturbed,” the hound master commented.
“Is that so…?” A number of select hounds were released to accompany him, barking loudly in excitement, and he crouched down to greet them. He petted the bunch as they crowded around him. “Let’s go.” He snapped his fingers, and the hounds followed.
Soon, they were trekking into the forested area towards the west-north of the castle. There were still plenty of trails to follow along this close to civilization. They passed near enough to the Lover’s Lake for Wulfric to notice the Varians at work already.
They were cleaning up after the ceremony – and after Roman’s rampage. The evidence of the man’s mindless wrath was plentiful; numerous trees had been felled or heavily damaged, and there was an eerie silence as the animals had vacated the surrounding area.
Wulfric couldn’t help but think that part of the reason for the Varian’s clean up was to remove evidence of all that had transpired.
Silently, he headed further northwards. The ground was soft due to the rainfall it had soaked up throughout the night, the muddy areas yielding under his boots. The underbrush swished between his ankles, growing taller and denser the further he strayed off the beaten path. Leaves rustled with the wind and rain, thick droplets penetrating the canopy to fall down below.
He sent the dogs ahead, and followed their communicative barks. As soon as they caught scent of a prey, their pitch changed, and he knew they were hot in pursuit. He followed on foot at a steady pace. When he closed in on the dogs, he took ahold of his bow from where it’d been slung on his back. He grasped it in his left, ready to shoot. When the pack was within sigh, he withdrew an arrow from the quiver. Then, the hare was within sight, and he nocked the arrow, aimed,
released–
and missed.
Had he had a rifle, he would have made the shot. Wulfric didn’t mind though. He wasn’t that good of an archer, and getting frustrated would be pointless. Besides, the hounds were still chasing after the animal. He took his time searching for the arrow first, because he did not wish to litter.
When he found the hounds next, they had managed to chase down the hare. It was a neat kill with minimal tearing. He cleaned the hare right away, letting the dogs at the parts he didn’t need.
The hunt went on afterwards, and two catches later, Wulfric deemed it enough. The second hare, he’d shot dead. The third, a rabbit, he had weakened with an arrow to its flank, and the dogs had finished it off. With three kills under his belt, it was time to head back.
TO CHURCH
At the castle, he took a simple shower, using a mild but pleasantly scented honey soap. He generally preferred long soaks in scented baths, but he was short on time. Since he had decided to attend the religious ceremony, he forewent stronger scents, additional oils, or perfumes.
An attire fit for a courting event had been prepared for him, but a change of plans called for a change of clothes. He retreated into his room in a bathrobe, calling on his servant.
His introspective mood was interrupted by a knock. He gave permission to enter. “Get me the damned ceremonial shroud, would you?” He ordered after a moment. “Ah…Your Highness will be attending the church, then,” Curran noted. He was too professional to be ruffled either by his cursing or by the request. It wasn’t an unusual request per se, but while Wulfric frequented the temple, his visits to the church were sporadic. The attendant excused himself, and returned a few moments later, bearing the requested clothing.
The tunic was simple enough to put on his own. Driven by a measure of paranoia, the prince added a belt, a sheathed dagger at his hip, and a holstered revolver at the small of his back. Finally, he turned to face the servant, extending his arms and standing still while the man wrapped the toga around him.
“It will be an event to honour His Majesty,” the servant noted. His tone was utterly blasé, but Wulfric knew the man was aware of his distaste for deification. It was a subtle warning to let him know what to expect. “Afterwards, The Royal Curd will have its grand opening,” the man added after a beat.
“The cheese restaurant?” Wulfric was tempted to sigh. He turned around at Curran’s subtle prompt as the man worked to properly place the complicated garb on him. Traditionally, wearing a toga was all about the method of wrapping and folding it, with nary a knot holding it in place. His left side was more heavily layered, which required him to keep his left hand in a fixed position at about 45 degrees, extended forward or held on his chest. He wore no additional jewelry nor any other accessories. The toga was a heavy woolen cloth, uncomfortably weighty, and rather stuffy this time of the year.
At times, he regretted that it had become somewhat of his trademark.
But it was what it was, and he hitched a ride in a carriage to the church. Plenty had gathered already, and he sighted many familiar faces. Immediately upon his entrance, there was an uptick of noise, some turning around to catch sight of him, many beginning to chatter amongst themselves. Wulfric nodded here and there in greeting, offering a sedate wave to the crowds. With his free hand, he gestured for the unruly masses to turn around and sit down. Gratifyingly, they obeyed.
More obvious than any other disturbance, however, was a blotch of…lurid pink?
Irrevocably drawn to the irregularity, Wulfric blinked at the sight of a pink Leo. What the–? He wasn’t sure if the lord was developing a penchant for absurdist humour, or if someone had played a practical joke on him. As distracted as he was staring at the out-of-place patch of pink, he almost didn’t notice the woman next to him. He blinked again.
Was that Dantès? He did not get the chance to confirm his suspicion – he had not stopped in his inspection, and was past the pair before he could get a second look. However, that woman was the same height, had the same build, and the same hair as the Lady Dantès he had met at the masquerade. However, the woman next to Leo was clearly a servant. One of their royal servants, even, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Option one. The two women were one of the same.
Option two. Leo’s hot pink visage had disturbed his sight to such an extent that a vaguely similar woman made him think of Dantès.
Frankly, both options seemed equally likely.
All thoughts of whether he’d just hallucinated or not were dispersed as he caught sight of a stranger trying to ingratiate herself to Anastasia. A random nobody, acting as if she belonged among a group of royals.
But first things first. There were royal peers and nobles he wished to greet.
“Shehzadi Nahir,” he bowed to her, “My lady,” he gave a respectful nod to Ece. “It is my hope you will find this gathering enjoyable and illuminating.”
He stepped forward, not yet acknowledging the intruder. “Shahzade Farim…” It was unfortunate that they were not in a more private area, as he wished to thank the man. “A good day to you, and may it be peaceful,” he said instead. “Count Damien, Count Monet,” he offered each a nod in greetings. “Good morning, Anastasia,” he graced her with a small, genuine smile.
Anastasia had already seated herself next to Farim, and thus, it was a simple matter to take a protective stance next to the pew. “Miss,” as he redirected the smile to Kira, it acquired a far cooler edge, even as his tone remained entirely pleasant and polite. “I understand the desire to mingle with such prestigious personages as ourselves. However, I am certain you can appreciate the need for caution and for proper protocol when someone as unknown as yourself approaches royalty.” Regardless of whether Nahir and Ece accepted Anastasia’s offer to sit with her, he did not intent to let the stranger anywhere near his sister. Not even if all the other royals gave their permission, he would not allow it.
Sora got the hit in. He thought he might have gotten the brain, but he wasn’t sure. It felt down, but was that really it? Peering closely at it, Sora crouched down, ready to inspect it. “Don’t worry, we would have had to clear the cellar out soon anyhow,” he told the hammer lady. “But–”
Before he could say anything else, the thing picked itself up, and turned to face him. Sora’s eyes widened, and he jumped away from it faster than he thought possible. The zombie was still slow, but it knew to aim at him. Did that mean it could feel pain??
Either way, his stab hadn’t been enough to do him in, and Sora was ready to protect himself, thinking about stabbing it once again, this time in the eye-socket. However, hammer-lady grasped the situation as quickly as he had, and dealt the death blow. She swung the massive hammer as if it was second nature, splattering rotten, dried out brain matter all around. “H-huh. I sure hope it’s dead dead now, yeah.” He watched Blonde’s confident posture, gory hammer in her hand.
Now, he wasn’t queasy about blood but…this was a human – even if it was a once human – crushed into bits and pieces. Even though it disgusted him, Sora was still way too curious to let it be. He crouched down next to it, examining the corpse.
Before he could really start, Tiny went onto a tirade. That’s right, she’d shouted something or other when he’d stabbed the thing, hadn’t she?
“I was– No, I– It’s not–” He didn’t get a word in as she went on and on, shooting question after question in that sharp, high-pitched, near hysterical critical tone. “Would you just–”
He ground his teeth at that final interruption. Anger flared, sudden and bright. “I don’t want to hear shit from someone who just stood there doing nothing!” he snapped back.
Sora realized he’d gone too far as soon as that last word left his mouth, but the upset feeling wasn’t easy to overcome. He looked down– Bad idea. He looked out– It wasn’t much better. Was it just his imagination, or were the zombies starting to be drawn to the sounds from their inn again? He exhaled harshly. They couldn’t argue, not here, not now. They had to work together, or else they’d end up dead, like Tiny had said.
He looked back at the small elf, still disgruntled, yet also contrite. “Look, I’m sorry. That wasn't fair to say to you. I get that you’re worried and scared, ok? I am too. But it’s easy to talk about how things should have gone down after the fact. Doing something in the heat of the moment?” He shook his head.
“Besides…It’s not as if I went in without a plan, you know?” he tried saying gently. He inched closer to the fallen zombie. Without compunction – now that he got used to the grisly sight – he grasped the head. “Do you know which are the weakest parts of the skull?” he asked rhetorically.
“There’re a few of them. The eye sockets,” he indicated the area with his fingers. “But I was behind it, so stabbing it here would have been difficult. Same for through the mouth.” He pried open its jaw and showed off the palate. “Then there’s the temple – that’s why people shoot themselves here,” his hands moved to the temples. “But a knife ain’t a gun. And then…” His fingers travelled to the back of the skull, specifically, towards the base where the neck was joined to the head – and more importantly, where the spinal cord attached to the brainstem. “Here.” He felt up the stab wound.
For all his theoretical (high school level) knowledge though, it’s not as if he was an actual expert. Even after thoroughly rooting around the stab wound, he wasn’t sure how deep he’d gotten, or if his dagger had even really reached the brain.
“Maybe I didn’t get it good enough,” he shrugged, “or it takes more damage to do them in, or smashing the brain case is the only way…We can’t know that without trying a bunch of things.” His hands grasped the zombie’s neck. “Oh, and severing the head with a knife wouldn’t be any easier. That’s why they used axes for executions back in the days, ya know? Even with those, some still failed…” he fell silent in contemplation, then met Tiny’s gaze again. “Either way, I did think. But yeah, I agree we’re gonna need to be careful if we wanna survive.”
Wulfric nodded as he noticed Zarai signaling him from the distance, acknowledging her nonverbal gesture, and subtly motioned for her to go ahead. After he and Lord Drake Edwards had drifted apart, the royal idled by the buffet. Perplexingly, he was soon drawn into a rather…intense interaction with Fritz, of all people.
When he and Zarai met up, it was later at night. Wulfric found her lounging on a couch in one of the guesthouse’s drawing rooms. He was still in his full costume; he must have just returned from the masquerade. “Zarai,” he greeted her. His tone was a notch warmer than usual.
However, as he examined her closely, his eyes narrowed. Her black sleeves were sheer enough for him to notice something off. Suddenly, he stepped closer. First, he removed his gloves, storing them into an inner pocket. Then, with gentle motions and a featherlight touch, he pushed the sleeve of her dress up her arm, revealing the bruise forming beneath. “Who.” His voice took on a deeply frigid quality.
He was asking because given its size and shape, the handprint must be a man’s. Had it been a woman’s, he’d have assumed the culprit to be her mother. In which case, he would have said nothing. Zarai wasn’t the only one with a hands-on parent. A shared commonality of theirs they had noticed years ago, and had decided not to speak of by way of silent agreement.
But because the mark was left by someone he didn’t know about, Wulfric reiterated, “Who needs to die.”
As she contemplated the bruise, Zarai's mind raced with thoughts and emotions. She knew she should be furious at Monet for even daring to lay his nasty, grubby hands on her, but the lingering dread and fear outweighed her anger. The realization that she had finally stood up to face Lord Monet's aggression left her feeling vulnerable and exposed.
Feelings she did not wish to linger on.
“Lord Marcus Monet,” Zarai spoke his name with disdain, her lip curling in distaste. Uttering his name felt like expelling venom with every syllable and left a bad taste in her mouth. She knew Wulfric’s options against him were limited due to Monet’s strong ties with the Varian crown. Despite this, the idea of his death brought some satisfaction. “He is my mother’s top choice for my hand.” And only one, so far. She sniffed her arm, “He didn’t leave his stench on me, did he? Ugh, I ought to burn this dress, but that would be a waste of perfectly good fabric.”
At the mention of that name, Wulfric clicked his tongue, as if dismissing the off-handed notion of assassination once he learned who the man was. But he didn’t.
Oh, no, indeed he did not. He merely shelved it for the moment.
Gently, he rolled Zarai’s sleeve back down, once again concealing the bruise. “And for once in your life, you are listening to her?” he questioned. He could surmise that the lord was her last option, what with her reputation in Varian. “Is that why you spoke to Auguste?” he suddenly recalled. Her question led to an amused huff. “A moment,” he drawled. He removed his mask, and put it on the nearest surface. The silver metal gleamed brightly, its curved, menacing shape set against the marble end table.
Wulfric shook his hair loose, and carded a hand through it. Because it was rather warm, he removed his feathered cloak, and threw it onto the couch where it landed with a soft clanking of chains. Underneath, he wore a simple if elegant black tunic lined with silver. Taking off the cloak revealed his weapons; a shortsword belted at his hip, and a revolver holstered at the small of his back.
"Yes," Zarai sighed. There was no point in lying to Wulfric; he’d just see right through her anyway. “Although, I fear my proposition may have been a touch too bold for dear Auguste,” she admitted, leaning back on the couch, her gaze fixed on Wulfric. She couldn’t help but let her eyes wander over him, taking in his every movement. He was undeniably attractive– and pretty, too– but she would never admit to it aloud. Zarai refused to stroke his ego.
Freed from his costume, Wulfric settled in next to Zarai. “Allow me…” he offered his hand palm up, waiting for her to set hers into his. When she did, he delicately scented the air around her. Immediately, his nose wrinkled, and he pushed her arm away - largely in jest. “It’s faint. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he waved a hand dismissively. “So, are you now seriously considering courting?” he gave her a look, eyebrow quirked.
She appeared momentarily offended before realizing he was only playing with her. "What? Is it truly so difficult to imagine?" she retorted, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Mother left me with no choice; it's either I find someone else—someone who meets her demanding standards—or be shackled to that," she added, a shudder of disgust running through her at the thought. There was only herself to blame; had she fought against the rumors of her tainted reputation, the search might have been different.
“No choice?” Wulfric repeated. “No eloping, absconding, relinquishing your status and becoming a commoner?” he wondered. “Were those not the choices you had had in mind once upon a time?” A hint of that sharp criticism she despised so much crept into his tone. Yet, he genuinely was curious, and at least attempted to curb the sarcasm.
Zarai scoffed at the suggestion. “No, I won’t run away.” She glanced down at her hands. “Got any suggestions for me?” Zarai returned the quirked brow, “Any handsome, ridiculously rich gentlemen looking for an experienced wife?”
With a sigh, the prince leaned back against the backrest, observing his - as much as it pained him to admit it - friend. He seriously contemplated her question, sensing it was far more important than Zarai’s joking tone might lead one to believe. “Well, despite what you’ve said about Auguste, he isn’t one to balk easily. As I recall, you were the one to run away.” His gaze narrowed, and his chin raised haughtily as he gave her a warning look. “Yet, even if he were to permit it, I would not allow you to continue your openly promiscuous ways if you were to marry my brother.”
Yes, he too, was demanding; as Zarai liked to say, just as much if not worse than her mother.
But when the tense seconds passed, he eased up. “Then, in recent memory…Cassius Vael, now Damien. A bastard, but Calbert’s, and one he clearly intends to treat as a legitimate son.” Despite his personal distaste for Cassius, there was no indication of it, his tone entirely factual. “Shahzade Munir has a reputation similar to yours, I believe.” He did not know much else about the man, unfortunately.
“If rich is enough, even a merchant would do.” He was sure Duchess Lesdeman had in mind a landed noble, however. By way of association, something occurred to him, and he snapped his fingers. “Ah. How close are you to Count Fritz Hendrix, exactly?” He recalled having seen them together at the ball his family had hosted. “And before you say, yes, I am aware your mother would disapprove.” The mild grimace indicated he had experienced the duchess’ vitriol against anyone bearing the name Hendrix.
Zarai's fingers played with the edge of her sleeve as she considered the suggestions laid out before her. Among them, Shahzade Munir stood out as a viable option. However, she was much more drawn to his sister, Layla, who exuded a commanding presence that could persuade Zarai to do almost anything. Yet, she knew her mother would never entertain such a union, regardless of Layla's wealth or potential future role as a Sultana.
A memory surfaced, accompanied by a voice that made her stomach clench, and her heart flutter. “Your hands are beautiful… You are beautiful, Zarai.” She pushed the memory aside as shame overtook her. "Count Hendrix is a friend," she said firmly. And if he were to be safe, he’d remain so.
At her assertion, Wulfric gave her a look – the kind that made it clear to her he thought she was being silly. “Zarai…A friend is exactly who you should consider. Marriage with someone you can get along with— It is a valuable thing.”
“Tch.” Zarai slumped against the back of the couch, grateful for the tightness of her corset that provided some cushioning for her still-bruised ribs. “I could marry Monet,” she mused, her voice laced with bitterness. “Endure for a night or two, then kill him in his sleep. A nice soft pillow over his head for a few minutes.” She didn’t meet Wulfric’s gaze as she continued. “Or poison. They say poison is a woman’s weapon, don’t they? A bit of it in his morning tea or porridge would do the trick.” She was unsure if she said it in jest or was seriously considering it. Though, it would be her last resort.
While Zarai was averting her gaze, Wulfric studied her, free of judgment. “If you could endure it,” he pointed out, tone serious. “It might have to be for longer than you are thinking. Weeks. Months. Years,” he warned. He knew from his mother just how difficult it was to get rid of an unwanted but well-positioned husband. He told her as much: “It wouldn’t be difficult for him to guess at your designs. He could blackmail you. Threaten you. Manipulate and pressure you until you feel you have no choice, again.” He waited as long as it took for her to absorb that. When she did, he moved closer, within whispering distance. “If we are to arrange an accident, it will have to be very, very thorough,” he relayed quietly, the smirk audible in his tone. Then he leaned back, as satisfied as a cat who got the cream.
She considered his words for a moment, reluctantly acknowledging their truth. As much as she hated to admit it, Wulfric was right. Despite Monet's repulsiveness, he was a man of power who could indeed make good on his threats. How else did such a man turn a crumbling House into what it is today? However, Wulfric’s last sentence echoed in her mind like ripples in a lake of red. Yet, the fact he was saying those words to her felt somewhat comforting.
"And what about you?" Zarai inquired, suddenly intrigued by Wulfric's marital status. "I mean to say, not with me—gods, no—but has anyone caught Your Highness's eye?"
Immediately, the inquiry had him raising his brows. For a moment, he thought Zarai had taken his advice to marry a friend far too liberally. As she clarified, however, he grew visibly relieved. “Oh, good. You had me worried you had gone insane,” he flashed her a knowing smile and she returned the same smile, rolling her eyes. Wulfric was sure both of them would sooner see the world end than entertain marrying each other. He hummed and stretched as he mulled over the question.
“Well…There was Mayet, but she proved too immature, and had to return home. Before we could duel, even,” he sighed, evidently disappointed. “The dinner!” he suddenly exclaimed, as something occurred to him. “Had I been at that damned dinner, I could have demanded an honour duel.” He stood up, agitated, and paced across the room. He stopped at the alcohol cabinet, and collected glasses and a drink. “Oh, look, there’s one of your favourites.” He poured himself a shot, downed it, and followed it with another. He brought the drinks over, poured for the both of them, and handed a glass to Zarai as he retook his seat.
Zarai snorted at his reaction, unsurprised over his very obvious disappointment. “I did hear that the dinner was a complete shitshow, plates thrown and all. I would have paid to be there.” She took the glass and sipped from it as Wulfric continued. At least now their future dinners with the Alidasht would be more peaceful with Mayet gone.
“A shitshow indeed,” he confirmed. After a pause to ruminate on the event, he went down the list of the candidates for marriage.
“Of the Alidastht, there was that cousin of theirs,” he referenced Saiya, “but the Grand Vizier is her adoptive father,” he shook his head. “Then there is Layla,” he smirked at Zarai, “who is more your type, I believe?” Frankly, the woman’s age was an issue too; with her being almost 30, they would need to get to the whole procreating matter very quickly. “I have yet to acquaint myself with Shehzadi Nahir, but I would like to.” From his assessment, they were both manipulative, diplomatic, and secretive. Given their similarities, perhaps they would be compatible - or perhaps, they would clash.
“From Varian, I would consider only Princess Beatrice, but I do not believe she or her parents would be inclined to the union. In Caesonia, there are a few more choices…” he trailed off, unenthused. “I suppose if I had to pick someone, it would be Priscilla Edwards.” He did not mean the reluctance as a slight against her. If anything, it was a sign of his esteem that he considered her an acceptable option.
“The Edwardses are incredibly wealthy,” Zarai nodded, contemplating his choices. “What of the Damien girls; what was it? Violet and Crystina?” She tapped her fingers over her glass, humming in thought, “Doesn’t Duke Vikena have a daughter too?” She paused, recalling the rumors she had heard about Charlotte. She didn’t think the rumors about her were true; she found them stupid and unfounded. And still, they mirrored her own predicament back in Varian and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for her.
“Although, if you are seeking a strong union, I'd suggest considering the Ganasea princess. It's unfortunate that Mayet couldn’t be here, you two would have made quite a cute couple.” She flashed him a teasing smile before taking another sip from her glass.
“I do not wish to allow Calbert of all people to marry into my family,” he told her. “As for the ladies themselves…There is something off about Violet - have you seen her lately?” he commented. “And Crystal is like a rabbit,” he waved a dismissive hand. A sheltered, naive, fearful woman was difficult to see as anything but a child.
He grimaced at the mention of Duke Vikena. “Good Gods, to have Lorenzo as an in-law,” he mock-shuddered. “Charlotte is fine, though, I suppose. But I am expecting her to take the reins of her duchy as soon as possible.” In which case, she couldn’t exactly double up as a queen.
There was also the matter of his general lack of interest, but that wasn’t something Zarai needed to know.
“Believe me, I am considering all options,” he sighed lightly. He raised a nonchalant shoulder at her attempt at teasing; he frankly only regretted not having been able to duel Mayet. “She was far too volatile. Throwing a knife, and holding a foreign dignitary at blade-point in a fit of rage?” he shook his head.
"I found her arrogance rather charming," Zarai hummed as she not-so-gracefully rose from her seat. Almost instantly, the room began to spin in a pleasantly numbing manner, just the way she liked. With a carefree attitude, she kicked off her heels; they were just an accident waiting to happen. She sauntered over to the bookcases that lined one of the walls.
“Of course you did,” he snorted. “Yet, I distinctly recall you saying in the past that, and I quote, my arrogance was one of my most unfortunate traits,” he paraphrased with an eye roll. It’s not as if it offended or upset him, but it was a mystery why she favoured women the more insolent they were. Granted, he too, had found Mayet’s haughtiness intriguing, so he wasn’t in much of a position to criticize Zarai for the same.
“And still is,” Zarai shot him a pointed look before returning to her search.
Sora listened to Tiny’s lists of reasons why fire wasn’t a good idea. He nodded throughout, though a pout crept into his expression. “So, no Molotovs?” he summarized, obviously disappointed. “Awwww, maan,” he sighed. He guessed that idea would be shelved for later. “I guess you’re right we gotta see first what actually kills zombies…Is it destroying the brain?”
At this point, the dragon-man – Sora decided to call him Ryu – produced a flame. “Hoooly-” Sora gasped, and just stayed there, mouth agape, utterly stunned at the evidence of magic. Still in a haze, he heard Tiny tell him about the ‘status’ thing. “Uh…Status?” he tried, and right there it was. Suddenly, out of nowhere, completely out of place – a holographic computer screen in front of his face. Listed were his name, age, race, level, stats, and a skill. “Taming…” That made sense. He didn’t know what to make of the idea that this world really worked based off of game logic.
Like Tiny had pointed out though, it’d be a bad idea to make assumptions based on media they’d consumed. They actually had to try things out to see how they worked. “Oookay, so there’s a fucking status screen, god, does that make me feel crazy,” he muttered. With a thought, he closed the screen.
He walked back downstairs, eyeing the zombies outside. Seemed like his exclamation hadn’t agitated him. “Hey, what’cha doin’–” the question died on his lips as he saw what Blonde was up to. She opened up the cellar, and an undead stumbled out.
It was slow, ungainly, but a walking corpse to be sure. Sora exhaled harshly, cursing out the intruder zombie in his mind. As his heartbeat raced, Sora felt adrenaline surge through him like lightning. Slowly, but faster than the zombie, he walked up to it as quietly as he could. It couldn’t see him, but he still kept to its blindside, approaching it from the back. Mostly, he focused on moving as quietly as a mouse. Once close enough, he unsheathed his recently acquired dagger, and aimed a stab at the base of its skull. If he was right, the zombie wouldn’t know what hit it.
“I beg your pardon, My Lord.” Riona approached the crow man as soon as she spotted him. “The man you were dancing with, are you acquainted with him?”
“Hmm?” Wulfric turned towards the stranger. He had been on the lookout for Zarai, who had apparently got entangled in a drinking contest. But now that his attention was on this woman bearing an orange dress, a cat mask concealing her features, he was struck by a strange sensation of familiarity. “Count Hendrix and I have recently become acquainted, yes,” he answered, tilting his head as he studied her. “But if you are interested in him, you need only approach him,” he suggested, amusement colouring his tone.
The appellation “Count Hendrix” surfaced again, affirming that it was the name he was known by within this circle. “He is a foreigner?” Riona asked. The crow man had a point, but if the stag man had any relation to the people she was thinking of, then she’d prefer to approach him in a less public space.
“A foreigner?” That was a good question. Given how the count concerned himself with Caesonia, the prince suspected his family might have been one of those ‘political exiles’. Here, the woman acted as if she knew him, or should know him, yet didn’t recognize his name. Curious. “You could say. He is from Varian.” At the very least, Hendrix was a citizen there.
Varian. Her heartbeat picked up speed. “I see, thank you.” Echoes of memories rippled through her—those days when Ríoghnach had waited with bated breath, impatient for the carriage to emerge from the horizon, carrying people, gifts, and stories from faraway lands.
“Why all the questions?” he couldn’t help but wonder.
She opened her mouth, paused, and then said. “Because it is courting season, My Lord. If one must seek prospective matches, the least one can do is ask questions.”
“If one must, yes, but you were not inquiring for the purposes of courting,” he stated as firmly as he would a fact. “There were no signs of romantic, sexual and/or political interest, nor any indications that you were trying to hide such,” he noted. “No, it was more so,” he fluidly waved a clawed hand, “a weaving of the known and unknown, locating something familiar in the unfamiliar, connecting points of information new and old.”
He cocked his head at her again, his fixed gaze briefly revealing the intensity of his intrigue. “Since it is evident you have your reasons for secrecy, how about an exchange? Whatever you believe, hm, shall we say safe to reveal? Your information related to the count, and in return, I will offer the same. I would not mind even mundane matters, if you are seeking the same.”
Riona’s dark eyes narrowed as she tilted her chin upward to look down at the taller man. While the stag man brought feelings of nostalgia, this crow man also felt… familiar. Infuriatingly so. “Rather presumptuous of you. Who are you to dictate what I do or do not feel?” Even if his claim about her interest in the stag man was on point.
The woman’s reaction stirred the edges of faint memories of a time long past, but not quite to the point of recall. “I was not dictating your feelings, merely making an observation based on your behaviour,” he noted. “Of course, I may have been mistaken, in which case, I apologize,” he shrugged easily. “Though, your reaction does lead me to believe I was right on the mark.” He chuckled lightly, entertained. “Or is it that you let others’ words dictate your thoughts and emotions?” he pondered, almost half to himself. “Oh, but these are merely bothersome assumptions again, are they not?” he added rhetorically.
“More to the point, is my offer appealing to you or not? If not, it strikes me as rather pointless to exchange pleasantries. Especially given that it is rather presumptuous of you to demand my name without bothering to introduce yourself first.” Though he’d thrown her words right back at her, his tone was a contrast to hers; mild and light - almost bored, in fact. A hidden smirk belied his apparent disinterest, however.
The crow man sure did like the sound of his voice. Or maybe he was just bored senseless after no one wanted to chat with the oh-so-charming fellow, so he picked Riona to be his plaything. “Others’ words and attitude do shape my thoughts and emotions about them. And I’ve decided I’ve already wasted too much of my time and energy on you.” Her gaze fixed onto his. “I respect myself too much to keep this conversation going.” Without another word or gesture of farewell, Riona turned heel. At least she now knew Count Hendrix was a Varian noble. It should be easier to find out more about him from there.
That tone of her voice - even if now much older - combined with her fiercely oppositional words, and the number of mannerisms which reminded him of someone from the past…It all clicked together with sudden clarity. “Lady Dantès.” He hadn’t intended to call out to her, and was clearly surprised that this particular name found its way to his lips. Had found its way out to the world after years of silence. Years of being consigned to oblivion; to the belief that the whole family had met a most unfortunate end.
The dead name, reanimated by a too-familiar voice, seized Riona where she stood, rooting her feet to the polished ballroom floor. Slowly, she turned to face the crow man, studying him through narrowed eyes to discern which ghost precisely had found its way back to haunt her. For better and for worse, there weren’t that many options. “Fake Prince?” she asked at last.
The train raid to Javaria had been fun. Wulfric didn’t get to ride trains often, and he and his guards and servants had had it all for themselves. After the train ride, a carriage was waiting for them. A drive in that later, he and the company his parents had insisted on arrived at a small estate. It, and the whole town around it were so different from what he was used to. It all looked like something straight out of a fairytale. The young royal could easily imagine it having been built by elves, because the houses sort of looked as if they’d been grown right out of the forest. There was a mystical air to the area, and Wulfric was sure there were all kinds of secrets hidden within.
However, he wasn’t here to explore. At his arrival to Count Bernard’s estate, the few guests lingering outside burst into whispers. They did bow or curtsy, but they still reminded Wulfric of flies, what with their annoying buzzing. His guards loomed behind him, their presence serving to deter the buzzards from flying too close.
They made their way inside, the count’s servants announcing his arrival. The reception hall was on the smaller side; a good two dozen guests made for a crowd. Then, there were all the children; there were as many youths as there were adults. A large group of children was a foreign sight to the prince, so he watched them curiously.
There were those murmured greetings and buzzing whispers again. Wulfric looked from guest to guest, searching for the count. However, the first to approach was Duchess Edwards, who weaved through the crowd, and emerged right into the protective bubble formed by his guards with practiced grace and eerie focus. She had a predatory glint in her eye. Similar to Morrigan’s when was about to torture a ‘fun prey’, as she called it.
“Hello, Prince Wulfric, how lovely to see you!” She covered her mouth with a hand as she laughed merrily. But the emotion didn’t reach her eyes; they were all pure calculation.
“Good day, Duchess Victoria,” he smiled a smile as empty as hers. “You’re a very pretty lady, and that dress really suits you!” He flattered her the way he had been taught to do in etiquette class.
She blushed, and Wulfric wondered if that was acting, or if she was just a fan of compliments. “My, what a charmer you are!” As they talked, they slowly moved towards where he spotted the actual hosts of the party. “You will be a lady killer one day, I can tell.” Somehow, the rapacious glimmer in her eyes became even brighter, intenser. “I do have a very pretty daughter, you know? She’s only six now, but give her a few years, and she’ll be the best there is, I know she will!”
Wulfric hummed noncommittally. “Girls are boring,” he commented.
“Oh! At that age, are you?” She fake-laughed again. “Well, if you’d ever like a friend, I have a son too.” She suddenly clapped her hands as they came to a stop before the Bernards. “But! This is my brother’s birthday. This is Jonathan, Your Highness.” She leaned down slightly, holding her hand to her mouth, gesturing that she would relay a secret. “He is a bit odd, but please, do not mind him.” She wasn’t quiet enough not to be heard. Did she not realize?
“I’m not weird!” The young lord burst out, glaring at his sister. But at his father’s sharp, “Jonathan!” the child looked down, sulking. “Sorry,” he said without looking at anyone.
Ignoring what had happened, the prince greeted him. “Nice to meet you, Jonathan.” Wulfric went out of his way to smile at the child, but the boy was still looking down.
“Hi. Your Highness.” His reply was sullen, and he even kicked at the floor. Wulfric judged him as very childish.
“I brought a gift for you. I didn’t know what you liked, so there’s a few things in it. I hope that’s ok.”
Finally, the child looked up again, pleasantly surprised. “O-oh. Thank you…Prince Wulfric.” There was even a slight warm smile, genuine gratitude colouring his expression.
Easy.
“You are very generous, Your Highness.” Count Bernard bowed, taking over for his son. Jonathan gave his father an angry look when the count wasn’t looking, but Wulfric saw it. “Now, let us commence the celebrations!”
They were led into the dining room. Even though it wasn’t his birthday, he was offered the seat of honor. “You don’t mind sitting to my right, do you?” he asked Jonathan, who was still lingering by his side.
“Um. I guess…Is it true you’ve never been to anyone else’s birthday party - other than your family’s?” Wulfric nodded, and Jonathan brightened considerably. “Oh! That’s so cool! T-that I’m the first one, I mean…” he trailed off, slightly embarrassed. But the prince didn’t pay it any mind. Anyone would be honoured.
Their table was set just for the children. That was a shame. Wulfric had wanted to talk to the count, and ask him about this town. He supposed the youngest son would have to make do.
They sat down. For the first time, Wulfric could take a good look at the other youngsters. “Who are they?” he asked Jonathan quietly, who eagerly introduced them.
Immediately to the prince’s left was a girl in a ruffled, pastel seafoam dress who had white ribbons tied in her black hair. She sat all prim and proper, but had eyes only for him. She was the daughter of a neighbouring baron, Suzanne van Bergen.
Next to her were two girls, Margaret Laine and Jennifer Ilves, who were fervently whispering to each other. Here and there, they’d break into giggles after looking at him. They had dresses too, but even though they were multi-coloured, they were plainer than the first girl’s. Margaret had chestnut curls and a freckled face, while Jennifer wore her dark blonde hair in pigtails. The former was a merchant’s daughter, and the latter a banker’s.
Next were a pair of twins, Cora and Charlie McDowell. The girl had her hair braided and pinned up, while the boy wore a ponytail. They were both dressed in practical clothing. Maybe it was a local custom, but they just looked very poor to Wulfric. Their parents were owners of a mining company, and were the Bernards’ friends.
Close to the twins sat a child whose appearance left Wulfric puzzling over their gender until he heard the name Mariel. Her short, artfully styled ashen hair, coupled with a royal blue doublet and black trousers, could easily have led anyone to mistake her for a boy. She came from the minor noble family of Tveit.
At the other end of the table, a girl sitting somewhat apart from the others caught Wulfric’s attention. She had sun-kissed olive skin and dark wavy hair that was slightly browned from time spent outdoors. Her outfit was an unfamiliar, but harmonious blend of Caesonian fashion with accents of Alidasht. When asked about her, Jonathan admitted he wasn’t entirely sure himself. Like Wulfric, this was his first time meeting the girl. All Jonathan knew was that she was the ward of Lord Desmond Dantès. He guessed she may have been brought here to familiarize her with the social circles of nobility.
To the right, a pig—wait, no, just a very plump boy—by the name of Florian Lund occupied a seat. The emerald green tunic strained to contain his substantial girth. He was joyously engaged in devouring a pastry, blissfully unaware of the crumbs that scattered onto his lap. Each bite set his rosy cheeks and honey-blonde curls into a cheerful dance. Despite his unassuming appearance, he was the progeny of one of Caesonia’s greatest knights.
Next was a tall, gangly boy with wild black hair, who kept grimacing as he strived to avoid Florian’s flailing elbow and the spray of food particles. He was hunched over himself, as if to withdraw into a nonexistent shell. Subtly, he inched to the left, trying to get further away from the fat boy. This bony boy’s name was Juan Venegas, and he was the son of a lord.
Adjacent to Juan was a stocky boy who kept shifting around, jittery and restless. Though he kept looking around, he didn’t really seem to notice Juan getting closer. His hair was shorn right down to his skull. Wulfric thought he might jump out of the chair any moment. He was Tomás Meaghan, whose parents were successful in the wood industry.
Lastly, there was Lars Blundell, the scion of another lesser noble family. His presence was imbued with a palpable sense of arrogance, his posture and demeanor leaving no room for doubt about his high regard for himself. He seemed utterly indifferent, even dismissive, of the esteemed gathering around him. This included the prince, whom he viewed as an equal at best. His air of superiority was as unmistakable as it was unapologetic, setting him apart from his peers in both manner and attitude.
Since it was around noon, lunch was served first. The children were louder than Wulfric deemed polite, but the conversation topics were familiar. What such-and-such did, or how they’ve gained this-and-that, or did a good-great-charitable-or-some-other thing.
The last meal was dessert; a birthday cake, of course. Ooohs and aaahs ensued from some of the more eager children.
Then…
Then came the singing.
The children opened their mouths, and an ungodly cacophony emerged. Wulfric could only stare, slack-jawed, as they began to sing the happy birthday song.
Weren’t entertainers supposed to be hired for this part?
Was Count Bernard so poor he couldn’t afford them?
This was terrible.
Some of these youths must have had basic music training, but this particular group had never sung together, and it showed. Some started too soon – or too late – and others rushed to get through, while a few were either too loud or too quiet.
When it was finally over, Wulfric congratulated Jonathan, said, “Happy birthday,” and shook his hand. The same sentiment echoed around the table.
Jonathan blew out all the candles, mouth puffed and face growing red as he snuffed out the flames. That done, the cake was cut and distributed. Any decorum thus far displayed grew exponentially worse with the amount of cake consumed, Wulfric observed. Florian devoured his piece as greedily as the pig he resembled, the girls’ giggling somehow got shriller, Tomás knocked an elbow into Juan, and even the previously sedate twins were exchanging up-to-no-good grins.
After their meal, they were led into a drawing room, where the gifts awaited opening. Jonathan appeared warily hopeful, but not too enthused. There weren’t many presents, but wasn’t he excited about seeing what he’d get?
Yet, as the unwrapping commenced, it became apparent that very few gifts were actually intended for Jonathan. Several were gifted to him, but were meant to impress his parents; things like sample goods from various businesses and territories. A few were actually presented to his parents while Jonathan received a token gift only. And the ones for him didn’t seem like much in Wulfric’s opinion.
His gift, of course, was special. As he’d said, there were several items packaged together; a sheathed dagger, a leatherbound journal, an embossed fountain pen, and an intricate puzzle box. Jonathan marveled over each and every one, and turned to him with a huge grin. “Thank you, Prince Wulfric! These-these are great! It’s…it’s the best gift.”
Obviously. It was from him, after all, Wulfric thought with a smirk.
Jonathan bounded up to him, and Wulfric offered him a hand. The child took it, but also sprung a hug on him. That must have been one of those strange, touchy-feely practices from the north. Wulfric patted him awkwardly and got out of the hug as smoothly as he could. “Glad you like it,” he smiled politely.
“I don’t-don’t just like it, I love it!” Excitedly, Jonathan proceeded to tell him, and to everyone else how grateful he was, how generous the prince was, and how great the king and queen were, et cetera. Just as Wulfric had thought that was it for the gift giving, he noticed a girl who’d kept her gift to give to Jonathan herself rather than handing it off to the servants like everyone else had done.
It was Lord Dantès’s ward who lingered at the edge of the gathering. Clutched in her hands was a small package, plainly wrapped. She frowned down at it, no doubt realizing it paled in comparison to his perfect gifts.
Noticing her hesitation, Lord Dantès went to her side. He spoke gently, reminding her that thought and meaning mattered most of all. With a reluctant nod, the girl shuffled to Jonathan, presenting the package as she said, “I made this for you.”
Jonathan accepted the gift and peeled away the brown paper. Below the modest wrapping lay an equally modest handkerchief. Some of the children, and even adults, snickered at the present. But when Jonathan unfurled it, Wulfric saw the intricate embroidery—the Bernard crest, Jonathan’s initials, and symbols representing his birth month and blessings for his future. “I hope you like it.” The girl watched Jonathan’s reaction anxiously.
Thankfully for the young lady, the count’s son appeared happy. “I do,” he reassured. Gently, he traced the embroidered handkerchief, fingers going over each stitching. He ended up putting it into his pocket, then took her hands into his own. “You thought about me when you made it. That means…a lot,” he told her.
In fact, Jonathan liked it so much that when they went into the small ballroom, he danced with Lady Dantès first, regardless of what his parents thought about it.
Meanwhile, Wulfric, who was more used to dancing with adults, asked Duchess Victoria for the first dance. She was very easy to charm, and though he didn’t enjoy the way she spoke down to him, he was used to that too. Adults always underestimated him. For the second dance, he asked Countess Bernard, who laughed when he did so, told him he was adorable, and accepted.
Even so, the countess urged him to dance with ‘someone his age’ next, so Wulfric picked Lady van Bergen. He didn’t like Suzanne, but she never figured it out. She was blushing so hard, Wulfric wondered if she’d overheat from it. When he was done with her, she skipped to the gossipers to brag about dancing with the prince. Wulfric looked around for someone else. Lady Mariel Tveit was with Florian already, so he sought out the next noble.
He spotted the tiny girl off in a corner again, her guardian Lord Dantès close by. Wulfric approached and bowed to her exactly how he’d been taught to do when asking a lady for a dance. “Would you care for a dance?” he asked politely, and offered her his hand.
Among all the reactions he anticipated, the sheer dread etched on the girl’s face was not one. This wasn’t the timid nervousness of a maiden about to dance with royalty. Her fear was raw, similar to the terror visible in prisoners moments before their execution or the despair of a certain servant. Lady Dantès stared at Wulfric like her worst nightmare came to life.
Desperate and wide-eyed, she looked for help from her guardian. When Wulfric followed her gaze, he met the warm, welcoming smile of the brunet. His eyes, almost black with hints of green in the right light, reminded Wulfric of the gentle demeanor of the horses Aiden tended to. With this lord, Wulfric didn’t feel belittled for his youth; he only looked down at Wulfric because of being taller, nothing more.
Lord Dantès turned his attention to Lady Dantès, saying, “It is up to you, sunshine.” His tone lacked the coercive edge the other adults used to push their children to interact with the prince, truly allowing her the freedom to decide.
The Dantèses exchanged a long, silent conversation with their eyes. Eventually, the girl steeled her resolve, and her deep brown gaze pierced Wulfric.
She executed a proper curtsy but stood rigidly as if bracing for a duel rather than a dance. “It would be my honor, Your Royal Highness,” she said, though her body language suggested otherwise.
“Alright,” Wulfric answered casually, though his smile had grown befuddled. He had no idea why the girl was so scared. Her guardian seemed to know, but Wulfric had never even met these people, hadn’t heard about them either. Who were they, to react like that? “If you’re sure.” He looked from the girl to the lord one more time. The lady, however, had clearly made up her mind, and accepted his hand.
He led her onto the dance floor, and started with a very simple waltz. He couldn’t help but think that she might run away if she grew too scared. However, she was also watching him defiantly, as if trying to challenge him despite her fear. It was weird, so he asked outright, “What are you afraid of so much?” She was moving very stiffly, which made it for an extremely awkward dance, though Wulfric did what he could to make it less so. If they were dancing, then it should at least be a decent dance.
The girl looked like she was about to deny it before simply admitting, “You.”
Wulfric hadn’t expected that admission. He tilted his head, studying her some more. “Why?” he asked simply.
Lady Dantès returned his scrutiny. “Do you care?”
Wulfric gave her a look. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Why else would I ask?” Maybe this girl was a bit slow.
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
He considered that for a moment. He didn’t think he would. The people who’d been afraid of him so far, he wasn’t mad at them, except if they wanted to hurt him. “I promise,” he said eventually.
“Or tell your parents?”
Wulfric sighed. Lady Dantès seemed to think this was some terribly important thing. “They wouldn’t care about what some random little girl thinks – or says. They’d just tell me not to pay it any mind either. But fine. I won’t tell them.”
Her eyebrows knitted together as she weighed the sincerity of his words. “You scare me,” she paused, biting her lip, then continued more boldly, “because you’re mean and fake. Just like your mother and father, and their parents.”
“What?” Wulfric burst out, immediately indignant. Then he remembered the promise, and sulked for a while. “What do you mean?” he followed up when he felt less upset. He was still pouting though.
Even though Wulfric was the wounded party, the girl had the gall to be upset by his outburst. A sense of mistrust permeated from her. He managed to rein in his anger, but he had somewhat violated his promise. She must be wondering if he was also a liar.
Lady Dantès leaned in closer, determined to catch any lies. “You look nice and you talk nice, but it’s not real, is it?” She regarded the others in the ballroom. “You think you’re better than all of this,” she challenged.
“You think it’s fake when you try to be nice? Should everyone be rude and insulting like you are?” He scowled down at her, frustrated. “You don’t know me, you don’t know my parents, and my grandparents are dead. You’re the liar.” She wanted honest? She’d get it. “Everyone thinks I’m better.” He looked around the room. “Maybe not Lars,” he snorted. “You’re like him,” he accused, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’re just some stupid girl, and you’re jealous because you want to be better.”
The girl stared at him, bemused. Then suddenly a smirk spread across her face, and she let out a small laugh. It took a moment for Wulfric to realize his defensiveness caused it. “If that’s what you really think, then you’re stupid,” she retorted.
“They don’t think ‘Wulfric’ is better than them. Nana said these kinds of people will kiss up to anyone they can use.” Images of the gift opening crossed his mind. “And they can use a ‘prince.’ You should learn how to tell the difference, Your Highness.”
“So what? They can use me, I can use them,” he shrugged. Regardless of what Lady Dantès thought, he was better at it than others. And he’d get better still. Besides, many, many people really did believe he was special. What did it matter if some were pretending? It’s just how it was.
The look she gave him could only be described as pity. “It means you’re replaceable, dumb-dumb.” Lady Dantès sighed. “Kind of sad that the only way you can be nice is by faking it…”
The way he was watching her now was as if he was studying a new lifeform. He’d been told about the idea of ‘the heir and the spare’ when Auguste was born - a bit before, actually. If he ever died before he could get to be king, then someone else was there to do it. That was so obvious he didn’t even bother saying anything about it. As for the other thing, it’s not as if the girl was kind either.
When she spoke again, she didn’t look scared or wasn’t laughing anymore. She was getting bolder by the second. “You like hurting people. Lars is a bully, but at least he didn’t do what you did yet.”
So this girl thought she knew something. He wondered how. Could she be guessing? “No, I don’t.” Well, maybe sometimes, he did. “What did I do?” he challenged.
His answer seemed to cement her opinion of him. “Hurt people so bad they’d rather die than live another second with you around.”
“Is that what ‘they’ told you, too?” he wondered. This must be why she made him promise not to tell. Whoever ‘they’ were, they must be an enemy.
“They are the people who work for you.” She tilted her head to the side. “They know what you did to that man… what you like doing to others. But they’re scared because they know how mean you can be… But here you are pretending to be Prince Charming.”
“Whatever. You’re just pretending to know something more. And you think you get to call other people liars,” he scoffed. It was good the song was ending, because he didn’t want to spend any more time with this girl if he could help it.
The tiny girl lifted her chin to look down at him. “Are you talking to a mirror? It sounds like you’re talking about yourself.”
As the music came to an end, she said, “I’m scared of you, because a mean prince will only be a mean king,” and left the dance floor without him.
TLDR for the flashback: Wulfric visits Javaria in Montague, attending Jonathan Bernard’s birthday party as the young lord celebrates reaching 8 years of age. One of the invitees is the mysterious Lady Dantès, a ward of the Lord Desmond Dantès. During the event, Wulfric dances with her once, but the two clash, as the 6-year old girl accuses him of being ‘mean’ and ‘fake’ despite also being clearly terrified of him.
“There’s no need to fight them all.” His voice carried a note of weariness. They swayed to the music wordlessly until Ryn gasped. “Today or tomorrow? Adel, I’m happy you’re enthusiastic about our little outing, but we haven’t even settled on a destination yet!” Prince Wulfric regarded him with a blank stare. “You… are talking about my offer this morning? In the kitchen?” No response. “‘Then we should do this again, next time I’ll take you outside’?”
“The…outing,” Wulfric repeated. Hendrix was quite masterful in pretending nothing unusual had occurred. Well, the moment had passed, though it lingered heavily at the back of his mind. “I suppose. I will notify you when I am available, and I can act as a guard while you go about your business.” He had no preference for location, but given the usual constraints… “Unless we find ourselves with unlikely bouts of free time on our hands, it will have to be within the city.”
The prince’s words drew a playful smile across Ryn’s face, “So if we did find ourselves with bouts of free time on our hands, you’d consider venturing outside the city?” With a man he suspected to be an assassin?
“Why not?” he shrugged, confidently nonchalant.
He studied Prince Wulfric, as best as one could study another covered from head to toe, and moved on to another question, “Where have you never stepped foot in?”
“In Caesonia?” He found it strange the count was asking where he hadn’t been. “Some minor villages aside, I’ve been more or less everywhere.” Really, it was easier to answer in terms of where he had traveled. “I’ve been to Varian often, though the visits were usually to the major cities. I haven’t been to Alidasht much, but one of those times was a year-long stay.” In conclusion? “I have never been anywhere outside these three kingdoms.”
“... minor villages...” It ruffled in response.
That town was no different than countless others strewn across the kingdom; it boasted nothing to make it stand apart. A place of little consequence, bereft of resources and strategic value, just a humble place tucked within the folds of the kingdom. The soil was stingy, the view unremarkable. It was a place you passed through on your way to somewhere more important. But oh, the people! They danced when they felt like dancing, fought when the fight was worth it, and loved their neighbors as themselves. They had little but gave much, sharing whatever they could. So though the town was poor in coin and influence, it held the most coveted treasure: a home.
A home that had fallen to rubble and dust, its beating heart forever silenced. Bodies were heaped together in a charred, tangled mass in the square. She, the centerpiece.
He never visited, did he? That minor place of little consequence.
“Apologies, I meant where within Sorian have you never set foot in.” But if the prince did go everywhere in the capital… “If you have walked every corner of the city, where have you spent the least time in?”
‘Every corner’ might have been an overstatement. “The slums, low-end establishments, the mines…” he shrugged. “I do not go out of my way to mingle with commoners.” He was sure that was self-evident, and yet…
“Why?”
Wulfric sighed at the question. Nonverbally, he indicated for them to move off the dancefloor. If this was to become an involved conversation, he’d rather have it in a more appropriate setting. “I am aware that you are a proponent of personally involving yourself in every little thing, and acquainting whomever you come across. Yet why would I? I do not deem it necessary nor efficient.” Neither did he hold that kind of interest in most others. “You and I operate in very different ways, Hendrix,” he shook his head. “However, I take it that you are set on proving me wrong, or some such.”
What would have normally received a quip or two was met with sobriety. “Noblesse oblige.” The count let a moment pass to note the response the phrase elicited before pressing on. “Despite what you may think of them, they’re still your people.” Ryn’s mien was as unruffled as his mask, betraying nothing. “A kingdom is only as strong as its most marginalized. If you want to make a stronger kingdom, you must start from its foundation... or risk your castle toppling.” His gaze never strayed from the prince’s eyes, pinned into place. “Everything starts from understanding.”
Once again, the count sought to meet his gaze, even through the heavily obscuring mask. Wulfric acquiesced by staring him down. “Yes, it does,” he agreed with the literal meaning of ‘nobility obliges’. “I know my duties,” he stated coolly, a touch offended at the implication that he did not, or that he wasn’t performing them. “The poor are the foundation? That’s a bit of a stretch.” The ‘castle toppling’ bit was…an interesting threat, to say the least.
“Understanding,” he scoffed, disdainfully tossing his head aside before he turned a haughty look on Hendrix. “What you mean is that I should rule based on sympathies,” he sneered. “But it is exactly that which so often leads to favoritism.” That wasn’t his only grievance; someone trying to dictate how he ought to care or for whom and for what was not appreciated. That aside, there were advances he had in mind for the kingdom. “I will harness potential where it exists,” he proclaimed resolutely. “And there are certainly improvements to be made, that we can agree on.”
A guffaw erupted from Ryn, sudden and loud enough to turn the heads of those within earshot. As his laughter continued unchecked, however, their curiosity waned and they relegated the sound to the status of background noise. Soon, they all returned to their own affairs.
Eventually, his laughter subsided to sporadic bursts. “So,” he said between gulps of air, “you’re no different from him.”
With a last chuckle out of his system, Ryn sucked in a deep breath. “You know Adel, for someone who complains a lot about favoritism, you do tend to disregard ‘the poor’ and focus on very specific groups of people...” Instead of pointing out the obvious implication, he rubbed his chin and voiced another thought. “It’s like you use that as an excuse to avoid due diligence.”
Ryn frowned slightly, “I also hadn’t realized you’re the sort to rely on chance to find individuals with potential. Would you not rather nurture it so anyone can harness it?” His eyes fell onto Prince Wulfric’s neck, to where the scar was. “There’s no shame in admitting you’re intimidated because you don’t know how to handle them.”
“Not to worry,” Ryn reassured, patting the prince’s shoulders with both hands, “that’s what our excursion is for. Once you’ve witnessed the lives of your people—really seen them—you’ll be able to come up with the best way to improve things for everyone.”
“People are the foundation of a country. It doesn’t matter if they’re poor or rich.” His hands slid off Prince Wulfric’s shoulders. “If you can’t take care of the foundation… what’s your purpose?”
Ah, that laughter. Such a pointed, hysterical thing. So familiar. Was it an echo of the time when he himself had first wondered how similar he’d become? The prince experienced a rare feeling of contriteness. “Perhaps not so different after all…” His father did hate the destitute, the infirm, and all such ilk. Was indifference an improvement? Wulfric sighed. “I would ask why you bother,” with me, he didn’t explicitly say, “yet I can guess well enough.”
Underneath the calm exterior, Ryn’s heart stopped. “Oh?”
Wulfric merely hummed in answer, however, and moved on. “Bias and hypocrisy,” he lifted a hand, not seeking to defend himself. “I am aware I prioritize those in power,” he twitched his shoulder in a small shrug. Truthfully, it did bother him, the idea that he was overlooking an important problem. “An excuse…” He fell into thought.
It gnawed on him, at times, that it may be because of excuses that he hadn’t killed his father. The risks it would carry for him, to commit regicide and patricide. The risk of opening forth a path to more bloodshed; how such an act may wreak havoc upon the nation. The question of how it would all affect his siblings. Excuses aside, would it not be by becoming king, even if by force, that he could once and for all truly affect the changes he wished?
Then again, hadn’t a large part of him, too, genuinely believed in internal change?
So…was the notion that he didn’t have enough power in and of itself an excuse?
“Hm.” He’d adopted quite the stereotypical thinking pose, elbow perched upon a folded arm, balled fist set against his chin.
He reached no particular conclusion on that line of thought. Instead, he glanced back at Hendrix, shaking it off for now.
“Oh, I am all for education. Unfortunately, attempts to improve it have been limited at best.” He wasn’t a fan of the conclusion that he was ‘intimidated’, and found it a tad dubious that an excursion with the count would make such a striking difference to his plans. “We shall see,” he hedged.
He tilted his head at the question about his purpose. “My aim is to take care of them.” He could have expounded on their different views of caring, or regale him with his goals for the nation and its people. But that’s not what the count was saying, here.
However, those words seemed to be enough. Hendrix visibly relaxed, and his expression softened.
“You know,” Wulfric continued, a tone of revelation in his voice. “Since you are so heavily invested in the prosperity of this county, and appear to possess a desire to act as my arbiter…”
He stared down at Hendrix with more intensity than at any other prior point during their conversation.
“Take my advice to heart,” he intoned solemnly. “If you conclude that I am incapable,” he lifted an arm, and set a clawed finger against his own neck in a very telling manner.
“Do. Not. Hesitate.”
Ryn blinked a few times. “Is that a request?”
Wulfric straightened up, hand waving dismissively. “An advice,” he reiterated casually. “Make of it what you will.”
But he could not leave it at that. “No.” Ryn stepped closer. “What is it that you want?” His eyes desperately searched the prince’s, looking for that silver thread he thought he saw the glint of behind those words.
Wulfric considered the other man. “Would it not be a grand thing,” he began softly, “to have someone you could trust with both your life and with your death?” He paused, the question lingering unanswered. “I have a few people for the former…but the latter?” A wry smile formed. “It might be better to pick someone I mistrust, than to have no one at all. Why not you?” he prompted.
“You’re putting your complete trust… into someone you mistrust?”
Slowly, his shoulders lifted up, then dropped after a moment. “Well, it isn’t as if I would let you, but…you strike me as sensible and capable enough.”
“You wouldn’t let me, but you still ask me to… Is this, not-a-request, for insurance?”
Ryn stared up at Prince Wulfric for a long time. “Thank you for the compliments,” he finally said, “but I fear I may disappoint you.” He lifted up his open palms. “I’d make a terrible assassin.” He then shrugged. “So, you have no choice but to live up to my very, very, very lofty expectations, and be ‘capable.’”
Dark eyes twinkled behind the mask. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Wulfric felt as though he’d seen the count before, many years ago.
As he started wondering if he should be disappointed, Hendrix offered…an alternate offer?
Wulfric was vividly reminded, how not so long ago, he had been fiercely telling himself he wouldn’t live by someone else’s standards. Yet, had he not unwittingly fallen into the trap of listening to his parents far too much? Maybe, a counterweight was just what he needed.
“I know a thing or two about lofty expectations,” he quipped. Without the faintest clue of what exactly he was agreeing to – and frankly, why he was – the prince raised his right hand. “Shall we shake on it?”
Ryn eyed Prince Wulfric’s offered hand while his remained suspended. “Be careful, Adelard. Promises can be soul-bindingly powerful. If you want to shake on it, shake with intent to fulfill it.”
“Of course,” Wulfric said calmly, despite Hendrix’s outlandish manner of phrasing that. “I fully intend to use you to fashion this country into a better kingdom.” A note of amusement crept into his tone at his next words. “We could also term it…cooperation.” He studied the count for a beat. “I will do what I can to realize that goal,” he stated seriously. “And you?”
“Yes.” The answer came out without hesitation. “I am with you in this endeavor. We always have been and always will be.” For it was in their nature. The oath.
Ryn reached for Prince Wulfric’s outstretched hand, but stopped a breath away from it, waiting for the prince to bridge the gap—a chance to back out. “For a realm not just ruled, but truly served.”
“So be it.”
Wulfric bridged those last few millimeters with ease. Smoothly, he took ahold of Hendrix’s hand. It was a firm, solid grasp. Silent now by way of agreement to a common purpose, the two men shook on it.
The polished stone floor of the grand throne room ran slick with splattered blood as the figure stumbled forward. Before the other could retreat, crimson-stained fingers closed tight around fine robes and drew their faces close. The crown tumbled from its place by the sudden motion, somersaulting and caroming across the floor in glints and gleams.
Eyes, darker still than the night’s reign, supped deep of betrayal writ plain. With the last laborious breaths questions and curses might have passed drained lips, but only a gasp emerged—“Noblesse oblige.” A wretched cough sent flecks of scarlet flying. “Swear… you’ll care for them all.”
If they were going to take it all, let it come with the duty owed.
“I beg of you.”
Or someday face the consequences of one’s hubris.
Someday…
… ṣ̶̕o̷̪͙̐m̵̰͂ë̶̬́́… d̷̨͎̪͒̑ǎ̶̹̗͔͌̈̚͜ỹ̶̭͎̟͆̈́…
After a deep discussion Wulfric and Ryn agree to work together for the betterment of Caesonia.
After Theodore’s discussion with Samuel concluded, they each went separate ways. Theo didn’t bother asking the man where he stayed; when it was time to find each other, he was confident they could do so.
The walk across the darkening city was surprisingly pleasant. Sure, part of it was the pleasure of having made a good deal. But even tired as he was, he’d always had a special fondness for the night. The stars could be seen faintly, far, far above. Had it really been from somewhere up there where the Perishing Star had descended from to slay the Thousand-Faced God?
Even those who had lived at the time gave no clear account of what had happened. Perhaps, it had been beyond mortal comprehension. After all, how could godhood or god-slaying feats be perceived or understood by mere mortals?
It did beg the question, however, whether the Perishing Star was a deity, or an anti-thesis thereof. No one worshipped it, not as far as he knew. Was it even a being, an entity in any comprehensible manner? Well, the Thousand-Faced had not necessarily been such. Yet, the god’s death had brough doom and ruin upon them. They had lost the divine, yet had gained magic.
Was magic merely the natural result of the god’s death, a concentrated blessing dispersing into a myriad of infinitesimal pieces available to any and all who but strived to harness that potential? But if it was that, wouldn’t have monsters been attracted to any mage adventurers? He’d heard of no such thing.
It was a mystery.
The monsters. The Abyss. The inexplicable draw he felt to descend into the very depths.
There’d been that one moment when Theodore had stared down, and wanted to jump, Was it a premonition of things to come? Was death an inevitability? Would attaining godhood inevitably lead to him abandoning who he was, his self, his very soul?
All of that was an unknown. Whatever came, however, the urge persisted.
It stayed with him well into the new day. It would be a constant, until he died – whether that death be literal or metaphorical.
He and his followers had met up at the tower. He’d retained his spear and shield, but the others had sold their loot or else had brought their earnings. Through the night, each of them kept a portion of their earnings; one of the preventions against getting robbed.
They’d found a shabby, run-down inn. The rooms were cramped and unsanitary, and the other guests within surly or loud or too drunk to do much other than stumble around. The proprietors didn’t seem to care – as long as the minimal fee was paid, it was all good in their book. Honestly, the lodging were barely a notch above the stables. In the morning, Theo questioned if even that assessment had been correct; he was fairly certain he’d got a rash or two from bed bugs.
After a cheap, oily breakfast, Theo decided getting a decent bath was in order. Apparently, there were communal washing facilities available. The group got cleaned, then they all headed to the markets together for a shopping trip.
Arnfinn was clinging to him. “Will you get hurt again today?” he asked quietly.
“Hmm, well,” the dhampir absent-mindedly patted the boy's head. “This is why we’re getting some gear now. That’ll help me not get hurt, or get hurt less, at least.”
The cambion pouted. “I don’t like you being hurt.”
Theodore chuckled. “I know, I know. I’ll get stronger, though. Strong enough not to get hurt.” That was a promise to himself as much as it was to Arnfinn. His first day had been successful, and he was buoyantly riding the winds of good fortune. However, the previous day had had its own striking revelation.
There were other people like him out there. People like the blindfolded swordswoman. He’d warned his other followers of her. Until he had other recourses, encounters with her were preferably to be avoided.
But he couldn’t run forever. He needed power. Whether it be equipment, training, the fragments of divinity gathered from the Abyss…He’d get it all.
First order of things, however, was buying some adventuring equipment and supplies.
xVampire3go
Xaltwind
BurnDaWitch
Kaithe Dame
Yanadere
Morgana
Spyce
Stryder BC
Citrus
