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Thread: [M|IC] The Coronation Game (Alura and Naming)

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    Default [M|IC] The Coronation Game (Alura and Naming)

    The war with Altim taught Sigrid a great many things.

    A large number of them were practical. He had learned how to avoid the first wave of enemy arrows during an offensive charge. Ways to identify weaknesses in enemy lines, and how a commander might best exploit them. The best way to fight with a supporting squad, and tactics to use when outnumbered. How to organize military supply lines and make effective use of reserve squads.

    Other lessons, however, were not.

    He had learned that men often shit themselves when they die. He had learned how it feels to break a human skull with his hands. He had seen the way that Altim’s soldiers ravaged the towns they took, burning buildings and claiming their spoils from any unfortunate civilians who remained. He had learned to distinguish the mournful keening of the dying from the screams of those less fortunate, and how powerless both might make a man feel.

    He had thought war a glorious thing, once. A part of him still did. But, if nothing else, he was perhaps a touch less naïve than he had been before.

    If he were to die here, so be it. But first, Cydonia’s last knight would show his enemies just how much he had learned.

    It had been about half a span since the capital’s walls had fallen. Altim’s forces had flooded in through the breach, driven into a frenzy by their lust for a seemingly inevitable victory. Cydonia’s soldiers had retreated into the city streets, and the battle had transformed from a typical siege into something more bloody. Enemy soldiers roamed in groups, looting at will, and fell upon any Cydonians they found like packs of bloodthirsty wolves. They made no effort to distinguish between fleeing soldiers and civilians, it seemed, and took no prisoners. At some point, fire had broken out in the southern district, and was quickly spreading. The flames suffused the night sky with an eerie orange glow, ash fell from the heavens like snow…and yet, the coppery stench of blood remained. Pervasive. Inescapable.

    When the walls had fallen, Sigrid had commandeered a nearby squad and retreated to one of the city’s major intersections. Under his orders, they had quickly arranged themselves to stop any Altim soldiers from driving further into the city. The bulk of his forces were positioned to hold the main road, whilst smaller groups waited in the buildings on either side of the main street, ready to ambush any enemies that committed too heavily. He assumed that other pockets of Cydonian soldiers were doing the same, though he hadn’t heard any news from them. They’d fended off two groups of attackers so far, leaving the plaza riddled with bodies. It wasn’t long before a third rounded the corners, however, drawn by the sounds of their combat like moths towards flame. With a wordless battle cry, the Altim wolves charged, and Sigrid and his men stepped forward to meet them.

    The knight had, unsurprisingly, positioned himself right in the middle of their meager defensive line. When the two forces collided, he found himself thrown right into the thick of combat. Thankfully, his new squad was skilled. With some careful maneuvering and a handful of spears, they did a good job at stopping Altim soldiers from surrounding Sigrid, leaving him free to kill with reckless abandon. With a stroke from his claymore, Sigrid severed an arm from its body, and left the Altim soldier to bleed out. He dropped his shoulder into a second, sending the man reeling, before killing a third with a quick, clean thrust. Another Altim soldier stepped forward and thrust a spear at him, but Sigrid ignored it. The blow was off-target. He trusted his plate to deflect it, leaving him free to split the man’s torso open with a savage overhead stroke.

    When given a chance to breathe, Sigrid gave the signal, and his ambush squad make themselves known, spilling from their hiding holes in violent fashion. Just as quickly as they had appeared, the Altim soldiers retreated, leaving several deal in their wake. The force disappeared down another street just as quickly as they had come, seemingly inclined to seek easier prey. With the enemy temporarily rebuffed again, Sigrid did what he could to catch his breath, whilst casting a weary eye over the rest of his forces. Their numbers were dwindling, and he could feel fatigue starting to drag him down. A single flank or any real coordination from Altim’s roaming bands would likely be enough to end them, but they held, for now.

    War, it seemed, still had one lesson left to teach him. No matter how strong he might be, Sigrid was still one man, and one man was not enough to turn the tide of a battle like this. After a moment of quiet reflection, however, Sigrid shoved the thought aside. This was not the time or place. Not that he seemed likely to get another chance.

    “Captain.”

    Sigrid forced steel into his voice, so that his men wouldn’t realize just how tired he was becoming. It wouldn’t do to demoralize them now. Still, the person who stepped forward in response to his words was definitely not the man he had asked for.

    “Captain’s dead, sir. Went down in that skirmish just now.” Sigrid grunted his displeasure.

    “Take five men and scout out the nearest side streets. Make sure those soldiers aren’t trying to flank us.” The soldier nodded, before turning away. He barked a few orders at the others, and them a group of them scurried off to do his bidding. The knight watched them go, before quickly turning his attention to other matters. Before he got the chance, though, another call went out.

    “Someone’s approaching from behind, my lord! Looks like they’re wearing messenger colors!”

    Finally

    Sigrid hated fighting blind. As it was, he had no idea if there were any other pockets of resistance out there, or if most of Altim’s troops had already pushed deeper into the city. He had no idea if any of the battlefield generals had survived to coordinate the rest of their defense, or if that duty would also fall to him. Now, hopefully, he would finally get some answers.

    He turned to face the approaching messenger and was greeted with the sight of a young boy, barely of age. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaved, and a thick layer of sweat and grime coated his skin. Even so, the boy saluted. Sigrid couldn’t help but be both impressed and amused. Formalities, here? In the middle of a battlefield?

    “Sir Sigrid Barriston?” His voice was shaky, but Sigrid paid it no mind.

    “What news, boy?”

    “Message from the king, sir. He requests your presence.” Sigrid nodded, as if this were to be expected. It wasn’t quite everything he was hoping for, but it was a start.

    “Form up, men. As soon as those scouts return, we’re falling back to the keep.” His squad responded with a few weary cheers, before the messenger, looking and sounding more than a little uncomfortable, spoke up again.

    “Um…pardon, my lord, but the king only requested your presence. Specifically, sir.”

    Sigrid was stunned into silence, for a moment. The king had almost single-handedly unified Cydonia, if the stories were to be believed. Surely he had some sort of plan. Even so, the idea of abandoning these men to hold and die here, alone, left a bad taste in Sigrid’s mouth. Still… there was nothing to be done about it, he supposed. After a brief few seconds spent gathering his thoughts, Sigrid turned to shout at his soldiers again.

    “When your sergeant returns, tell him that he has the command. I’ll send help and orders as soon as I’m able.” The response he got this time was much more subdued, if still agreeable. That done, he turned back to the messenger.

    “Did you have any trouble getting here, boy? Are there any Altim soldiers between here and the palace?”

    “Um…not that I saw, sir.” Good. Sigrid would’ve felt bad about having to take an honour guard, and pull more men away from the battlefield.

    “Lead on, then.”

    Dressed in battered plate, covered in the blood of the fallen, carrying a claymore that was feeling heavier by the moment, Sir Sigrid Barriston began his journey to the palace, unable to help but wonder what, exactly, the king had planned for him. For them all.

  2. #2
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    Barricaded behind a heavily-embroidered pair of silk curtains, Princess Riana Elisabetta Fortuna touched her fingertips to her lips and laughed lightly as the whispers and shrieks of laughter beyond them pierced the affected formality of her mock marriage. Her long blonde hair was wreathed in white and pink roses, a fine scarf raised on the back of one of her hands so that she could see beyond it. She was garbed in a sleeping gown, its icy blue shade of particularly costly dye and doing well to highlight the blue of her eyes. A heavy thumping echoed back to her where she sat canopied within her bed, heavy gowns hung at the foot of it to separate her from her waiting retinue. More flowers threaded into garlands roped around the posts of the large bed and rose petals scattered across the floor. There were perhaps more petals on the other girls than lining her path, but nonetheless the dark-haired Lady Orleans' daughter, Andorra, attempted to lift an unwieldy candelabra in order to thump it like a proper herald's staff and succeeded in tipping it over with a crash. The candles skittered across the stone, several quenching themselves and a few leaving trails of wax as they rolled towards the other girls. There was a screech of chaos as the herald lost control.

    Unable to hide herself any longer, Riana threw aside the silks obscuring her view and dropped her makeshift veil in surprise, half-tripping over it as she scrambled down from her bed. One of their number fanned her skirts as a small flame flickered, two others pursuing her with a goose-down pillow doing their best to smother it - and possibly her. The would-be herald did her best to lend the princess a hand down from the high furniture and the girls chased around them until the candles were returned to the righted candelabra and a more reasonable herald's stick had been found. One suit of armour in the drafty corridors of the castle was missing a wicked-looking spear that took four of them to carry all the way back to the room, whispering and cackling the entire way under the supervision of the others.

    So wrapped up in their amusements were the girls, that they had not noted the silence in the halls. Even the servants had been absent instead of going about whatever they usually spent their time minding. Shushing one another and giddy from their mischief, they had forgotten their make-believe and collapsed into a laughing pile, talking over the news of the city and of courtly life. The Lord Havlin's daughter, Patricia, reminded them amidst their appraisal of the knights who had participated in the last tourney that only a prince or equally-positioned noble would do to maintain their families, to which they mostly agreed. With a wicked grin, Andorra pointed out how valiantly one of the newest knights had performed despite a relatively humble pedigree.

    That had been some time ago, Riana realised. She had been seated at her father's left hand, beside her mother, admiring the display of skill by the knights decked out in the colours of their Houses and liege-lords. It was a perfect afternoon. She had even been encouraged to offer her favour to one of the knights, and had allowed her mother to choose for her. The selected knight was dark of hair with eyes the green of sweet Balian winter melon, the heir to one of Altim's High Houses. He had been charming that day as he had bowed over the hand that offered her gift, accepting it with a flourish.

    She could not help but wonder now if the handsome knight was fighting against Cydonia now.

    Her father had told her little of the war, but she understood that old alliances were breaking up under the weight of... well, she was not entirely certain, but the closing of their borders and trade restrictions due to the fighting had made the castle feel a little stifling at times. Still, the king had shielded her as much as he could, allowing her light-hearted and sometimes careless nature to carry her forward without ever fully appreciating the dire situation evolving practically at their door.

    The fighting had in fact, moved nearly into their house this night - something Sigrid's men had witnessed first hand as they fended off the press of Altim's warriors into the heart of their great city. Meanwhile, Her Royal Highness Riana Elisabetta Maria Fortuna Renauldi Alderbahn Gaudi-Tyche, head bowed together with a dozen heirs to the kingdom's most notable legacies, was merrily weaving impossible futures and sharing filched strawberry wine with her ladies-in-waiting in the luxurious chambers that showed little sign of the chaos outside their warm walls. Rolling onto her back in the midst of the furs and woven carpets layered beneath them, Riana smiled up at the friendly shadows dancing through the intricate designs of the high vaults of the stone ceiling.

    Her father would put things right with this awful war business, and soon there would be a celebratory tournament. Things would be as they were and she would make her own selection to offer her favour to the most noble knight of a good House. Her fingers touched the smooth, polished surface of a goblet thrust into them and she drank deeply, soft lips stained by the berries to match the others whispering back and forth across their loose circle.

    Spoiler: Completely Unsolicited, Contextual Praise Definitely not Acquired via Torture 

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    The sounds of combat seemed to chase Sigrid all the way back to the castle. The metallic ring of steel striking steel, the disorganized shouts of men fighting and dying, often grew so loud that Sigrid was convinced that he would find soldiers waiting around every corner. A part of him yearned for it – he was no good here, skulking around behind the front lines. Every second he delayed was another second in which allied soldiers died, and Cydonia found itself weakened even further. A glimpse of Altim colors would almost prove a welcome sight, if only because they would bring an end to the suspense.

    It turned out that the messenger boy had spoken true. Sigrid encountered no Altim soldiers during his journey, for better or worse, and it wasn’t long before he reached the castle. The towering fortress of walls and peaks had seemed so impenetrable once, but today it looked small indeed. Regardless, he was admitted without challenge. The guards waved him through without so much as a second thought, though he caught at least one of them casting wary glances towards his battered and bloodstained gear. They had been expecting him.

    His walk through the palace halls proved a strange experience. For the most part, it was much as he remembered. All the trappings of wealth were here, displayed proudly, for all to see. Intricate stonework, plush carpets, and lavish tapestries were the standard. A giant brute in bloodstained armor, Sigrid couldn’t help but feel out of place. Even more eerie, however, was the silence. The castle walls were thick enough, or the fighting far enough away, that Sigrid could hear nothing of the battle that raged on outside. He could have almost forgotten they were at war, had he not witnessed such violence first-hand, and so recently. There were no pompous nobles, tailed by long trains of tittering sycophants as they moved from one appointment to the next. He saw no butlers, or servants, or maids. There was just him and his guide, moving through one identical, empty hallway after the other.

    Their arrival at the throne room would have proved a great relief, were it not deathly silent too. There were no guards at the door today – an oddity in and of itself. The cavernous room beyond appeared vacant, at a glance. Great marble columns, the stone lined with streaks of gold, gave the vaguest impression of a walkway. At the far end, atop a raised dais, sat the most unseemly chair Sigrid had ever seen. A masterwork of wood and fabric, it loomed over he rest of the room, even whilst vacant. The chair dwarfed Sigrid, who was by no means a small man. He had always gotten the impression that he could lose himself in it, if he ever decided to sit. Not that he ever would. A monument to the king’s former victories, marked by the excess they allowed.

    The king was not seated in his overly fancy chair. In fact, Sigrid couldn’t see him at all, to begin with. It wasn’t until he neared the dais that he caught sight of the man. Positioned near the far wall, he stood with his gaze directed upwards, at the tapestries that adorned it. His shoulders were pulled back, his head held high, and his hands were clasped behind his back. Even now, in a situation such as this, he radiated a calm and collected energy. Totally in control of his surroundings, even as they fell to pieces around him.

    The king was dressed in a set of ornate robes that seemed to match his throne, though they didn’t seem to fit him as well as Sigrid recalled. He remembered the king as a larger man, fattened by the luxuries of his new position. But he was thinner now, judging by the way his clothes hung from his frame. His face was marked by new lines, his cheeks were gaunt, hollow, and a few wisps of grey had started to creep into his beard. The war, it seemed, had stolen more from this man than just his lands. He threw a glance at Sigrid as the knight approached – the clanging of his armor was as loud as any herald, amid such quiet – but quickly returned his attention to the tapestry above.

    The moment stretched as the king continued his silent contemplation. He acted as if they had all the time in the world. Sigrid bore it for a moment, but it was he who spoke up first.

    “You sent for me, your grace?” Sigrid didn’t bother to kneel. The king didn’t respond straight away. When he did, his voice was soft. Measured, even. He spoke with the same calm certainty with which he stood.

    “All my life, I’ve wondered just how a kingdom falls. How something so large, so powerful, might be sundered. Torn into such tiny pieces that they no longer resemble the whole. How a ruler might be rendered so utterly impotent. I always told myself that it would never happen to me. That I’d planned for every eventuality, and my dynasty would last forever…and yet, here we are.”

    This wasn’t going the way he had expected.

    “I’m glad you yet live, Sir Barriston. I have a task for you.”

    “My sword is yours, your grace. Give me your orders, and I shall see them carried out.”

    The king chuckled at that. The noise was almost discomforting, all things considered. When next he spoke, he didn’t address Sigrid, but the messenger boy. Apparently the child had followed him inside, quiet as a shadow. Sigrid had forgotten his presence until the king had drawn his attention to it.

    “Bring my daughter.” The boy bowed his obedience, and quickly scurried off. Sigrid’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepened.

    “Your grace?”

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    "I see for you... Mmmm, yes, I see..." Patricia looked down her nose at the outstretched palm of the princess's hand, somehow managing a certain gravity amidst the ring of noble girls. She was the mother hen of their number, but she prided herself on her ability to predict futures. It was something her mother's chamber maid had taught her, she had told them. It had fascinated them ever since they were old enough to wish on stars and flowers and had been part of their ritual when they were all able to come together.

    Riana inclined her head to peer at the lines of her palm as if she might see what the other girl saw there, the fine, smooth fingers of her other hand caressing the embroidery of the pillow draped over her lap.

    "What do you see?"

    "Is it a prince?" Dark-eyed, beautiful Carlotta leaned into the princess's shoulder as she watched eagerly, handing one of the goblets off to Andorra.

    More practical perhaps, Andorra responded, "What's the use of reading what we already know. What will she do for Cydonia?"

    Patricia shook her head, but smiled. Her fingertip trailed along the lines of the princess's left hand once more and she finally shared, "The shape of the hand is oval, fingers long. It has the shape of water. It marks you as sensitive, receptive: this faded line here means something troubling or forgotten, but while you are young. The life line is long and deep and curved to show vitality, but there are small marks here, here, and here. The one..." She tapped a little feathered curve as she continued, "means there is something here that can change your course along this line. Hard to say, but I think these little lines mean a gift."

    "Well, what does that tell us, then?" One of the others asked impatiently, "Could you be any more cryptic?"

    Riana smiled, but waved a hand politely. "Oh, tch, the indomitable Forza is shining through you, Aletta. If anyone could wrest a map from Fate it would be you. Sadly, I think Patricia's more delicate gaze is as much as we mortals might hope to see..."

    Patricia and Aletta both seemed mollified by the reply and the elder of the two continued:

    "This is quite strange, however. Do you see where this - well, look." Turning her own palm, the reader showed a forking line completely absent from her own.

    "What does it mean?"

    Riana and Patricia spoke quietly before finally the latter stated, "I've heard about this before. What did she say? Do you know I can't recall... But this. Look along the love line!"

    Carlotta's attention was immediately returned from her whispered conversation with a few of the others. "Let me see it!"

    Patricia tapped below the bare ring finger. "It ends with a sword."

    Carlotta gushed and Riana found her hand grabbed as they all speculated on what such a thing could mean. Riana glanced at the upturned line that did indeed look very like a sword, half-smiling at the silliness of it. Patricia reached for her right hand and she parted her lips to suggest that Carlotta have a turn when the heavy wooden door to the antechamber groaned open and what felt like an age later the small form of a blushing messenger boy appeared at her door.

    For a moment, a dozen pairs of eyes regarded him unblinkingly, the strangeness of his presence there suspending them.

    "Are... Are you lost?" Patricia finally asked. The boy shook his head, maintaining his composure despite their stares.

    "Your Highness, your presence has been requested in the throne room."

    "Now?" Andorra asked as she stood and moved towards him as if he were a stray puppy she intended to shoo away. The discomfort grew so that the boy's face was as red as the banners that hung in the throne room, but to his credit he stood his ground dutifully as a few others raised their voices in support of ushering him away.

    "Forthwith, Your Highness." He replied, bowing slightly to both Riana and the other ladies. Andorra looked back at the princess who raised a staying hand.

    "Why did you not give this summons to Farah or Brea to bring? Surely you know you are not permitted here."

    The boy's ears were nearly on fire, but he managed to maintain himself all the same. "They've gone, Your Highness."

    "Gone? Gone where?" They all began rising to their feet, curious whispers rising with them.

    "Please, Your Highness. Begging your pardon, but it might be best not to delay."

    Somewhat offput at the insinuation that her timing was in any way imperfect, Riana laughed at his cheek and nodded. "Very well." She turned her head to her retinue, "Perhaps he has some gift for me. If the war has gone well, perhaps he intends to take us into the night markets once more."

    He had been unusually busy, so she had done her best to leave him to his management of the war. Perhaps as the castle had grown so quiet he was finally going to celebrate the moment of peace with her. Her ladies helped her quickly to dress, leaving the flowers in her hair and fitting her feet into heavily embroidered silk slippers below the volume of a gown the colour of a jay's wing and shot through with threads of gold.

    Through their preparations the messenger kept uneasy watch in the silent halls. Finally the giggling ladies joined him and he led the way. The walk was uneventful, though the few sounds they did hear seemed far off from them. Riana gazed down an intersecting corridor as they passed one of the major junctions within the castle's many ways, realising that they had not seen another soul that she could recall since Farah had settled them into her chambers for the night.

    Brushing away the thought, she hooked arms with Andorra and walked in ease as two of the others kept her small train from dragging across the stone floors. An fur-lined cloak made to match Riana's gown hung carefully over Aletta's arm. When they arrived at the throne room, the noble ladies withdrew and Riana was admitted to find her father accompanied by a lone knight. The messenger boy preceded her to announce her, though as Sigrid had noticed before her there were no guards nor heralds of her entry. She surveyed the room once inside for others, seeing no sign of advisor nor the other courtly fixtures to be found there usually at all hours. Despite the lengthy time it had taken her to respond to the summons, her cheeks were touched with pink from excitement and hurry. Her pace was regally measured as she crossed the expanse of stone and marble, though she was desperate to know what surprise might be in store for her.

    When she caught her father's eye, a smile bloomed on her face and she moved before him, dropping into a low curtsy and kissing his signet affectionately. It would have been impossible to miss the knight in the king's presence, and her gaze had swept below her lashes to study him in her periphery as she had passed by him.

    "Good evening, My Lord."

    Riana's ladies in waiting crowded at the doors, ears pressed to the seam intently so as not to miss a moment.

    Spoiler: Completely Unsolicited, Contextual Praise Definitely not Acquired via Torture 

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    If king Riam noticed Sigrid’s confusion, he was not at all concerned by it. The monarch made no attempt to explain, and instead turned his attention back to the tapestry above. He seemed the very picture of serenity, standing there - a stark contrast to Sigrid himself. Was he truly content to delay, to wait for his daughter to join them, whilst a battle raged on outside? When every second that passed brought them closer and closer to inevitable ruin? In that moment, Sigrid had a difficult time believing that this was the same man who had united the shattered clans into a single kingdom. He did not voice such concerns out loud, of course. It was not his place to question, and so, Sigrid could to nothing but wait.

    The moments dragged on. To Sigrid, each passing second felt like its own self-contained eternity. He felt much too aware of everything that was at stake here today to be wasting time so idly. The delay began to chafe more than his armor, and the knight had to resist the urge to shuffle about. The moments before battle were always the worst, and this endless anticipation had much the same feel. They were too far removed from the fighting to hear it, but Sigrid’s imagination taunted him with the screams of dying men. As if he were possessed of some sort of sixth sense that allowed him to feel the battle happening outside. Feel the deaths of his men, and the way Cydonia’s hope was wilting.

    It came as a great relief when the great hall’s main doors swung open, and the messenger boy announced the princess as well as he was able. Maintaining his formal posture, Sigrid half-turned towards the far end of the hall, and was greeted by the sight of the king’s daughter. She was a pretty enough thing, to be sure, but on a day like today, it was hard to view her overly extravagant gown as anything other than absurd. It was as if she were dressed not in cloth, but draped in raw privilege and wealth, somehow given physical form. Did she even know how close they were to disaster? Somehow, the knight doubted it. Despite his personal opinions, however, Sigrid remembered his manners. The knight kept his expression a carefully cultivated neutral, and dipped his head politely in acknowledgement, if not respect, as she passed.

    The king remained patient as his daughter went through the motions, but Sigrid didn’t miss the glimmer of pride that seemed to dance just behind his eyes. His formal airs lasted just long enough for the princess to rise, before they quickly vanished, smothered by a father’s familiar warmth. He moved to embrace her, if only for a brief moment, a gentle welcome upon his lips.

    “My daughter. It’s always good to see you.”
    It was strange, in a way, seeing a member of the royal family behave so casually. Sigrid did his best not to stare, and not to judge. If anyone could get away with such informal address, it would be the king, he supposed…and if a man wanted to hug his daughter on the day they were both going to die, then who could really blame him? Thankfully, the unexpected display of familial affection lasted for just a moment. King Rian took a small step back as soon as he were done. He looked back and forth between princess and knight both, toying with one of his rings idly as he gathered his thoughts. At long last, Sigrid allowed himself to hope that they’d finally get some answers.

    “I have a gift for each of you.” The next words out of the king’s mouth were spoken without preamble, and were not at all what Sigrid had been expecting. “To you, my sweet child, I give the gift of life. Again, I mean.” A soft chuckle slipped from the king’s lips, despite their grim circumstances. “And to you, Sir Barristan, I give the greatest thing I can offer. Duty.” At long last, the king’s relaxed airs seemed to melt away. His warm expression faded, replaced by one more grim.

    “I would spare you our fate, Riana. You are to flee the capital. Tonight. Seek refuge with our allies in the east, and try to rally them to our cause. Return here and reforge Cydonia, if you can. If not…well, then, live a long and happy life.” The king’s final words would linger, just for a moment, before he would finally turn his attention to the knight attending them, one final time.

    “Sir Barriston, you are to escort my daughter. You shall protect her with the same dedication you would me. This shall be your final act in my service, and your first in hers. Do you understand?”

    It was only then, under the full force of the king’s gaze, that Sigrid realized he had allowed his mask to slip during the king’s speech. He had unwittingly allowed his eyes to widen, and had thrown a not-so-subtle glance at the princess, as if assessing the woman he was now bound to serve. The knight took a moment to visibly compose himself, straightening his back and schooling his features back into the same look of impassive dedication employed by all experienced soldiers. He nodded and voiced his agreement, out of habit more than anything, whilst his mind raced to catch up, and digest the full implications of the king’s words. What they might mean for him, for the princess, and for Cydonia as a whole.

    “Excellent.” The king sounded relieved. “Everything you might need has been prepared. Our young messenger friend will show you both the way.”

    Whilst not technically a dismissal, Sigrid recognized the king’s final words for what they were. Had he been alone, he would have taken his leave then and there. Now, however, it seemed that he was required to wait upon the princess’ whims. He had never met her face-to-face before, but hopefully she would prove reasonable. Hopefully she understood the importance of time, if they were truly going to escape, and wouldn’t spend too long pressing the issue, or saying her goodbyes.

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    She had worried over him as he had kept long hours and remained apart from her for months. Like Sigrid before her, Riana did not miss the thinning hands and shoulders of her father, the king. He had only called for her, visited in brief snatches so that she felt as if she had only seen him passing by until now. She looked over him, brows drawing slightly despite her genuine smile. When he embraced her, she was as much a child as she had been the first day she had been allowed to meet him at court, tripping over her gown and carrying a disgruntled rabbit who was no doubt displeased at the ruff she had fastened about its furry throat so that it would also be ready for a courtly appearance. Her worry melted away as she smiled and returned her father's embrace, savouring it even in its brevity. She squeezed his hand as she stepped back appropriately.

    "The pleasure is mine, Your Grace." She replied formally, dipping another and somewhat more shallow curtsy.

    Riana was, perhaps, more familiar with her father's manners so that his silence did not seem so strange. Still, even with that benefit it was clear that something had him... almost anxious? Lips curving in anticipation of some sort of game or excursion, Riana glanced directly at the knight. Was he part of it? Her musings were set aside at the mention of a 'gift'. She had known it!

    Tittering sounded off just beyond the doors, a small flurry of ladies equally excited for a walk through the night markets. Riana pressed her lips together to straighten her smile at their reaction. She, too, was eager for this strange absence to be over, for the quiet that had fallen over the keep to lift and life resume as it had always been. As he continued to speak however, the voices beyond the door fell silent and Riana's lashes fluttered in confusion though the rest of her face remained slightly smiling.

    She chuckled when the king chuckled, nodding slightly. When his calm slipped, the laughter curdled in her throat and she rested her hand over her heart. She suspected he was jesting, some elaborate joke or mystery in honour of their seeing one another again. Forcing a new, light laugh from her throat, the tension still floating through it, she shook her head faintly at his words. Even as she did it, she felt the piercing certainty that his words were sincere driving through her mind's attempts to brush the reality away. The grim cast of his face was frighteningly unfamiliar.

    "I... I do not - Oh, you... The game is most elaborate, Your Grace. For a moment, you had me fooled." A last trickle of distressed laughter eked from her as she stared nakedly at Sir Barriston, only now noting the blood that spattered his armour. Her lips wavered as she looked back to the king uncertainly. "Father?"

    The air seemed thin and her head spun. She stood very still, grasping for her easy joviality. The quiet beyond the doors and the emptiness of the chamber that suddenly seemed even more cavernous weighed on her chest like a stone. Slender fingers ran against her collar, curling about the fine chain that encircled her throat while the other hand smoothed her voluminous skirts uneasily. Drawing a sliver of air despite the stifling pressure, she managed to whisper, "Well, I... I am afraid I am not dressed for such adventures tonight, My Lord. Perhaps... perhaps another night?"

    She looked only to her father then, Sir Barriston as real to her as a figure from the tapestries that ran about the length of the throne room.

    Spoiler: Completely Unsolicited, Contextual Praise Definitely not Acquired via Torture 

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