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Thread: XX Royal Lies [Alura and Koti~] IC M

  1. #11
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    Damanius couldn’t think.

    The jolt of the horse kept breaking through his mind, his entire body twitching as the thud of horseshoes on the cobble broke any thought had tried to hold. His mind was no better than a sieve at the moment, flashing between the face of the guard, the downed man he had struck, and the sensations of the horse beneath him. His body was locked rigid against Horatia, letting her lead them through the town. Muck and stone pelted his body and dress, the blanket beneath him heated with the constant sway of muscle beneath him. Each shout from the drunkards and stragglers was just another alarm in his ears, trying to listen for the rush of guards or horses. It was a complete jumbled mess to his senses, so all he did was bury his face into the woman's back, trying to catch his breath against everything in the world.

    There was a brief moment when the horse beneath him slowed, forcing him to look about in panic, having been dead to the world during their frantic dash through the city. They had come to the countryside, the sounds of the city far off, and the world at odds with his mind. Horatia spoke to him, letting them know of the long ride ahead and that she would be safe. Damanius tried to relay understanding, but the brief respite of the hard ride only let his mind focus for a few minutes, not sure just what his eyes relayed before they were off again. Dwelling some on her words though, he felt himself reflexively tighten his grip against Horatia as they took off again, the heat from below growing intensely as the sleeping world blurred around him.

    Damanius tried to block the rest of the world, tense muscles starting to shake from his grip upon his rider as the horse moved beneath him, the thud of Capiluts hooves lessened just a small amount due to the change of the ground. He wanted to be thankful for it, but even then he could feel sweat beading his body, and the jumped fence forced a grunt of pain from him. So lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t even register when they slowed, the world turning lighter as Horatia finally spoke again. They were stopped in front of a rather humble building, nestled into the surrounding woods as the man waited patiently. It took a few moments for Damanius to realize what he was waiting for, and even further for his body to unwind enough to hand over the tube that contained his bow and arrow, feeling both numb to the world, yet acutely aware of every sore and stiff joint in his body.

    When the second man came to lead them to possible food, Damanius was more than pleased to be off the beast, dropping from his hind quarters with the grace of a newborn duck. Another groan of displeasure escaped him as the monk helped him to his feet, Horatia urging him to follow with the promise of food and clothing. Damanius nodded numbly as he allowed the monk to lead the way, his pace generously slow for him to hobble along with as much dignity as he could muster.

    “Kind sir.. Do you have a place I can freshen up and relieve myself?” Diana asked as other demands suddenly made their needs known. She was given a curt nod in before the man beckoned her to follow through the slowly lit hallways, her feet echoing loudly through the cobbled halls. He led her to a small room, a large basin sitting with water being fed from the local tributary and a stove sitting beneath it, the fire banked with low coals. Thanking the man profusely and accepting the offering of clothes, Diana closed the door, letting a long held sigh pass through, dragging every sore muscle and locked joint back to the forefront, slumping against the door as her mind was finally able to lock back into some sort of stable though, taking stock of everything her body was screaming at her.

    She moved gingerly, tossing some of the stocked wood carefully into the embers, watching the kindling take hold and spread slowly. She moved then to start pulling the clothing from her body, having to struggle through shaking limbs as the layers fell from him, slowly leaving him standing in nothing by his underthings and banded material against his body. He looked to his legs, grimacing at the angry red strips along his legs, some of the skin having blistered from just how tight he had been holding onto Capilut the entire time. He groaned as he ran his fingers against them, finding a mixture of sweat and ammonia, and thankfully no blood despite the wounds. He checked the bandings against his privates, grimacing at the darkened material that took up a small section of them.

    “Cursed body, I am not a wee infant. I have shamed … shamed myself.” He grumbled to himself, not able to find the energy to berate himself as he carefully dipped down into the heating water, shivering as the still cold water touched his sweat drenched body. He couldn’t even hate himself as he allowed himself to sit for just the moment, letting the steady rising heat work through him. Despite the relief he could feel, the pain and images stuck in his head didn’t let him rest like he wished. Even with the long hours and exhaustion dragging at him physically, he couldn’t let himself drift off. The captains face still played in those few seconds, shock in the dead mans eyes turning to realization and shock as death took him. He could recall everything from his face, the short cropped brown hair that framed him, to the wellkept beard that covered his chin. The deep blue eyes that were wide with anguish, his gurgled voice echoing around the bubbling-

    The knock at the door forced a shout of surprise from him, quickly turning to stare at the wooden frame, every nerve alight waiting to see who would enter. Another three knocked sounded through before he could hear the whisper of leather as the intruder left. Finding himself panting a bit, he had forgotten how long he had been resting in the water and slowly got out, having to fight the urge to pace as he banked the fire and moved to the door. The monks had respected his wishes, leaving fresh cloth bandages and extremely modest clothing, something he had seen peasant children wear very long ago.


    It took longer for Diana to emerge back into the main hall, the scent of food calling her. Her hair, freed from its braid, fell in waves around him, framing his face and offset by the brown robes. She walked gingerly, feeling the rough cotton against her bruises and worn skin jarred by each rough movement. It was unsettling as she looked up to see Horatia having entered as well, the quiet serenity offset with the tumult thoughts still burning through her mind, flickering back constantly to the dead captain as she moved to the food, her stomach giving a roll of queasiness at the rich broth and cheese wedges awaited them. She waited for the moment, expecting something from the woman, or at least some noise to break the quiet tension that was growing in her mind, burning through her thoughts as she finally took a bench, looking uneasily at the food. The silence was irritating her, even further as her body protested the hard wood beneath her. It was almost suffocating, so detached from the panicked flight from just mere moments before. She looked towards Horatia, noting the almost relaxed and happy visage of her body, eying the food laid before them. Something itched at the back of her mind, and before she could compose herself, her mouth spoke first, jumping from her spot, the wooden bench dropping with a loud bang from the sudden action.

    “We should be dead. Every action we took tonight failed miserably, and cost an innocent man his life! How can you stand there, looking as though you’ve more care for the simple cheeses than the dead man we’ve left behind?”

    “How is it then that we managed to succeed then?! How in the gods grace are we standing here, peaceful and free as though that frantic dash for our lives did not just occur mere moments before!”

    “Why aren’t you saying anything?! I fucked us over! I killed that man for my own selfish wants in the moment and struck down your friend, and yet you still, you still brought me here, protected me. I killed that man!” Diana stared at Horatia, huffing some as he realized he had given the woman no chance to really speak to her defense. Before she ever allowed the woman to speak, she sunk back to the ground, feeling all her tension bleed from her, leaving her hollowed like a bowl.

    “I fucked up… and killed that innocent man. I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I screamed at you. We should not have managed to get free.” Diana spoke with a hollow voice, unable to muster much more than exhaustion as the shock of the night finally left her, replaced by pure exhaustion behind her. She was angry with herself, her mind having not come to terms with her newfound freedom having cost another life, one she had taken by her own hands.

    Suddenly sleep sounded exceptional to her.


    "Even Dreams, can be a nightmare"
    Spoiler: Click it, I dare ya! 




  2. #12
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    As Horatia's eyes made out the finer detail beyond the shapes of the sparse furnishings and the roar of the fire, she noted the princess's return to the company of their silent hosts. Her eyes passed over her only a moment before she shuffled her way with a slight squelch in her steps to ease herself onto a bench before the fire. She sat there, drying slowly and letting the flames burn off the chill around her. Heavy-lidded eyes considered them in silence.

    She thought of the Band of Horses. A silly name, and one the more serious old guard members of the Resistance tended to mock mercilessly. Really, though, it mattered little to them. They were as close to blood as water could be, and had proven themselves to each other countless times over. She could not say if it were quick thinking or panic on the girl's part, but injuring Brand would likely save his life... That is, assuming the Usurper was not keen to behead those who let the princess slip away.

    Swallowing convulsively, she shifted in her seat. Alfson was clever, and in a good position not to be discovered. He had been by the king's side at the party and in the sight of everyone there could be little reason to suspect him. Riga on the other hand... Flighty, sticky-fingered Riga... Her brows knit with concern. He was smart enough to see danger, but his penchant for taking risks to outmatch his prior mad adventures had a way of pinning him with the consequences. He had luck, no one could question that, but if he had pilfered anything the night of the engagement celebrations would they discover him and punish him for that even if they had no idea of his involvement with the Resistance. Would they torture him, to find out more?

    Leave the girl with Byron, go find him. No, you know it is too far and you cannot leave her. What if the patrols come calling. Her thoughts went to war, her body itching for action despite the exhaustion she felt. She was used to rough riding and days between points of civilisation were little to her. It was another thing entirely to go flat out as far and as long as they had without a rest even for the horse's sake. She would have to trust that the others could see themselves out of the situation - or that the other members present had helped them escape. If any of the other three were found out, the Usurper's men would no doubt realise there was something more afoot than a runaway bride who had robbed the family coffers. That was another thing that would merit discussing, she was sure. The most likely thief was sitting behind her staring at the meal prepared for them as much as eating it. That was a matter for Alfson to unravel.

    Running her tongue along the sharp points of her upper teeth, she realised that she had been staring off for too long. The tension in the air suddenly dawned on her and she swiveled her head on her sore neck to see the girl. She had more to do before she slept, despite how heavy her eyes felt. She hitched the palm-sized pot she had carried with her on her return from the stables and set it beside her as she stood to sit properly, facing the food and the princess.

    Forcing a smile onto her face, she slapped her palms together and chafed the still damp skin. Bowing her head over her hands, she actually offered up a small prayer for her friends. With a little luck Jonas had warned Riga away and those that could not blend well enough had made it through the muckers' gate the princess had tried. Old Byron would lend her a messenger to send to the town, someone unobtrusive.

    When her head lifted, she inhaled the richness of the stew and ladled a bowlful quickly, tearing away bread and allowing her to eat as if she had never seen food. The food was good, and generous, and most importantly nourishing. While they had this reprieve they should use it, recover as quickly as they could in case they needed to move again to a place far less accommodating. The warmth of the meal eased her nerves as it lifted her spirits, the calm of the friary seeping through the worry that clouded her mind.

    She slurped the last of her stew and took more, skewering a morsel of cheese to savour as she ripped away another hunk of bread and, noticing Diana's stare, offered it to her wordlessly as she eyed a bowl of apples the friars had left for them.

    The report of the bench against the stone floor caused her to half-stand, bread falling as she snatched a knife from the table. Realising it was only the princess's upturned bench and noticing the disapproving look of the two nearest brothers, she pointedly put the blade down again as words seemed to pour out of the other woman. Disbelief, anger, regret, shock: all of it mingled through the rebuke Diana leveled. As the princess continued, Horatia sank back into her seat, palms resting on the wood of the long table worn smooth with years of use. She simply listened, the vestiges of her smile still clinging to her lips.

    Her eyes were pitying as Diana seemed to wind herself a bit, trailing off as she turned her accusations against herself. It was a hard thing, to kill someone. Not something that you forgot. She wanted to tell her that it was alright, that it was necessary. She wanted to say it would get easier, but knew that it should not... There were many things she thought to say, but many things that the girl would have to learn for herself and Horatia knew that she was not the one to teach her.

    As the shock fled the girl, her limbs seemed to go limp. She had been coursing with the thrill of the night and now that the tension had broken she was like a marionette without her strings. Taking a slow, deep breath, Horatia finished swallowing the mouthful she had taken before the royal came uncorked. Her steps were determined and her pace unhurried as she squelched her way all the way around the table to where the girl sat and grabbed her by the elbow, guiding her back to her feet with a strong arm. With her steady enough on her feet, she bent and righted the bench.

    "Sit." She waited until she was obeyed to take an apple from the bowl and set it before the girl with a ripe thump. "Try to eat something." She threw the abandoned hunk of bread onto the beaten pewter trencher and filled the girl's cup with the spiced wine the friars had given them to warm them. Setting it beside the food, she waved her hand and began her slow shuffle back to her seat as she continued to speak. "The wine will steady you."

    When she retook her seat, she collected the little pot that had been hidden from view and plunked it between them, pushing it forward with her index finger. "Salve, for the sores."

    Sniffing and scrubbing the back of her hand against her nose, Horatia surveyed the food again before meeting Diana's gaze.

    "No one is going to blame you for doing what needed to be done to escape. Keeping you alive is something we would all give our own to accomplish, even Brand." She said it as much for herself as the girl, concern lancing through her as she thought of the lash of Capilet's hooves in the chaos of their flight. She took a shaky breath and carried forward to say, "If anyone is at fault, it is mine. You should know, Your Majesty, that the captain of the guard will not be the last death. In fact, he is only the first. Some of them will be our own. Some of them will be caught between the Usurper and the Resistance. That is the nature of war. The only thing that you can do is make certain that when you sit on your throne you remember all of the lives we take and have taken. That is the cost of your reign."

    Scratching a bite on her shoulder, Horatia opened her mouth to excuse herself when a big man barreled through the far entrance to the room on the opposite side that Horatia herself had entered. He was perhaps in his fifties with a barrel of a chest over a belly nearly as broad, both vying for attention from the heavy beard that curled from his chin and hid his lips. His brows were like two fall leaves, curling on themselves below a greying tangle of dark hair. Despite his age, hid well-fed appearance and hawkish, glinting eyes belied a quick wit and good health to match his love of leisure. When he spoke, his voice was craggy and carried the thick accents of the northern territories.

    "The world must be on its ear when sense comes out of that mouth." He sounded gruff, but he was smiling below the beard. He made his way towards the women, holding his palms to the fire and looking at the princess warmly before turning his attention back to the horsewoman. "What in damnation are you wearing? Deciding to become a real woman finally are we? Shango finally talk you around to marrying one of those dog-faced sons of Carlisle's?"

    The nearest friar rolled his eyes, disapproving but well aware that the jovial old knight was far from concerned about the preferences of the brothers. Horatia herself winced in exasperation.

    "Hello, Byron. Nothing so drastic, I assure you." She rose respectfully, though he motioned her to sit and heaved himself on to the bench next to the princess. He wreathed his arm around her back like a favourite uncle - which he was to many of the wild youths who had formed Horatia's childhood troupe - and patted her shoulder reassuringly.

    "And who might this enchanting young woman be?" His eyes ran over her, not in the lecherous way of some, but in an appraising, far-seeing way, as if he knew her secrets and could see through private thoughts.

    A little concerned that his natural and well-meaning familiarity would be poorly received by Diana, she replied, "Princess Diana, please allow me to introduce to you Lord Byron Hathaway, former Duke of Oren and one of the Knight Commanders of the late King Aminan."

    "Lord Byron, may I present to you the Lady Diana, Princess of Hymnascal and heir presumptive."

    The man's heavy brows rose to the thick curls that overhung his forehead as he turned his grey eyes to study Diana again, voice smiling. "Yes, yes, I should have seen the resemblance. Striking. You're nearly the spit of him." Rising, he lowered himself heavily, relying on his grip upon the long table. In his struggle to lower himself the hem of the simple trousers he wore below his straining tunic lifted enough to reveal that his right leg was wooden. Inclining his head, he greeted her formally, before struggling with standing. Horatia rose to aid him, but he swatted her away and proudly attended himself.

    Jerking his head towards the hall from which Diana had emerged before the meal he sat himself again and patted the royal's hand. "Off with you and out of that gown, Girl. You look like a fish who's found himself on land. I'll show the girl to the cottage after she's eaten. You know the one, same as that great lout Brand half-knocked the roof from when ... oh, nevermind, shoo."

    With a last look between the two to make certain there would be no trouble, Horatia nodded and drug her weary feet to bathe and dress, enduring the final insult as she nearly tripped over the dirty hem of her skirts as she stepped free of the hall.

    Turning back to Diana with amusement in his eyes, Byron gently pushed the food before the princess nearer to her.

    "Best to eat up... Sounds as though you've had a night of it. A little of the wine will help you sleep."

    Serving himself some stew to keep her company, he blew across his spoon to cool it before taking a bite. "Mmm, delicious as always, Brother!" he said, presumably to one of the many monks around him. In fact, he knew who they were but often made such statements to whichever responded. Which was typically none of them, as they had learned to ignore him ages ago when he first began his reclusion into sanctuary with them. Inclining his head towards Diana and dropping his voice, he explained, "It's not as though any of them will respond anyway."

    Shifting the contents of his bowl, he leaned an elbow onto the table. "Before you retire, you must tell me a bit about how you came to be in Horatia's company. Oh, I've heard the rumours, but of all the things that girl has dragged to my door you are by far, if you'll pardon my saying it, the most exceptional."

    His sparkling grey eyes turned to her expectantly.

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

  3. #13
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    Damanius found comfort in Horatia’s words. He knew that was right about the war, and that the captain would not be the only innocent man who would die to seat him on the throne. The harsh words were a great comfort as he happily plucked the small pot closer, having the dignity to not rush off and apply it now. He stared down at the spiced wine, his stomach not at the point of wanting to eat, but knowing it would be best to have something to at least steady him. The last he had eaten was at the party that was hours behind them, and the rush to get themselves free would catch up before long. He cupped the fragrant wine and took a cautious sip from it.

    And then another longer draw of the wine, feeling the spice sufuse through his weary body, much like the heat from the fireplace nearby. It was somewhat calming as he allowed his thoughts to return to the woman's words, blaming herself for what happened. Already a protest started upon her lips moments before the far door swung open, allowing for just a moment what she thought was a bear. His body was too weary though to react more than his mouth hanging open, his fingers tightening around the bowl of wine. The man made short work of getting closer to the girl, insulting Horatia as he made way to the fire. Damanius could tell the man was jesting the girl, the good natured man smiling as he stood in front of the fire. Something about the large man drew vague memories into the back of his mind as the man moved closer.

    The warmth of the man enveloped him as he wrapped an arm around her, bringing with it the scent of some sort of soap and .. hay? He couldn’t properly place it, but it both put him at ease, and dregged up meager tension that his body could muster. His eyes moved to meet him, locking eyes with the man for the brief seconds, and the look he saw terrified him. The age of the man had not diminished the wise look nestled in the face of hair as he could feel the man scouring his body. It was much like when his own family could look upon him and know when he had done wrong. He would have had more protection just standing nude in front of him, or at least that was the feeling mustered from the look. His eyes darted back down to the cup quickly, having to bite his lip to hide the minor tremble as a cold sweat covered the back of his neck, a sour taste coating the back of his throat before Horatia was able to break his attention.

    Lord Byron Hathaway. The name echoed through his mind as he was introduced himself, finding it hard to speak his affirmation. He did pay courtesy as he looked to the man, noting his wooden leg as the man gave a deep bow, something common he had seen before in the throne room as knights bowed to the king. He nodded his head in acceptance, still not yet trusting his words yet as the man pulled himself back up with pride. The determination to show his loyalty under his own strength was so very calming from his mind, yet those eyes held truth beyond what he could grasp himself, that feeling deep back in his mind. Byron sent Horatia packing as Damanius finally took a bite of apple, something to settle his stomach more than just the spice that warmed his cheeks. Byron served himself the stew, sitting next to her again and laying a comforted hand against his with a reassuring pat. The man was at complete odds. Just knowing that he used to work at the castle was grating on his nerves, and his long gaze just made him feel as though all his layers were being peeled away.

    "Before you retire, you must tell me a bit about how you came to be in Horatia's company. Oh, I've heard the rumours, but of all the things that girl has dragged to my door you are by far, if you'll pardon my saying it, the most exceptional."

    Diana let out a whispered sigh, feeling herself sink into herself as the man gazed at her, eyes looking to hear the adventurous tales of the night. Giving herself a moment, she worked over a bite of cheese, working herself up towards reliving the night again. Silence hung like comfort around him as they both ate noisily, a sharp contrast to the brothers nearby. Draining the last of her wine, she offered up her cup to be refilled while taking a deep breath to steady herself.

    “It started this morning with the announcement of my engagement to Sinal..” She started, letting the memories speak most of her words. It was amusing watching the man react, laughing at the thought of her climbing down the castle walls, to feigned shock at her drawing a bow on Horatia. He was the perfect audience to her story, reacting in such ways that even Diana felt a bit of tension unwind from her, feeling as though the harrowing night had been a grand adventure of fantasy. She could even see the tightness around his eyes when hearing about the death of the captain, yet doubled down on the words Horatia spoke, assuring her that war was a mess to all parties. They were never as pretty or glorious as the stories he had told.

    “Well, you have certainly had your fill of a long night. I am pleased to know that you are safe and unharmed, for the most part.” His words were comforting to hear, bringing a genuine smile to her, small though it was. Her cheeks were rosy with the heat from the fire, and having had another two cups. She nodded, having finished off the apple handed to her, still munching on the cheese wedge that she had managed to grab. Less from wishing to remain ladylike, it was brought around her stomach that had yet to settle.

    “Before we retire, Lord Byron, when did you work for my father?” Diana asked, watching him carefully for his reaction. His face lit up with a sorrowful joy as he looked upwards, gazing into the distance as he reminisced in silence.

    “King Aminan was a strong man, yet few knew he was just. I served under his reign for two decades of my life, my service coming to an end when I lost my leg to disease, a war wound rotting the flesh. I still regret that I had not been there to defend his majesty, wishing I had been able to do something for the man.” He spoke somberly, yet not damping the mood.

    “Ah~!” Diana let out a gasp as it finally clicked for her, and both joy and panic shot through her body, though heavy lidded eyes and clouded thoughts muddled the reaction.

    “You tutored my eldest, Prince Casian.” Diana spoke, getting a chuckle from the man. She knew him as well as she could. Lord Byron had been the first prince’s weapons tutor, having to retire though when Diana had been around two. Damanius had been nothing more than a pudgy thing inside the nursery, though the few times he had been with his mother.

    “You got old.” She said bluntly, though it gained a chuckle from the older man as he looked upon her.

    “Yes, age does that. Though I think I have managed rather well despite the chaos.” Byron responded with a light hearted smile, pushing away the bowl and cup. He stood, assisting her up onto her own feet. Having allowed herself to ease away the tension fully from the night, and with the help of wine, nothing sounded better than sleep at the moment, her stiff joints more than ready to just collapse into anything that resembled a bed.

    “Seems now would be a good time to retire for the time being. Sleep is a commodity we can enjoy for only so long, so let’s get you to the cottage and to bed. I do apologise if the rooms are not to your standards.” He spoke jovially, offering an arm to support as they made their way into the early dawn. Damanius had a small moment of worry as his fogged mind thought to Horatia, but he reasoned that the woman knew this man and supposedly the cottage he spoke of, and would at some point join them.

    For now, his mind focused only on sleep.


    "Even Dreams, can be a nightmare"
    Spoiler: Click it, I dare ya! 




  4. #14
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    Horatia shuffled down the same path Diana had taken, sunlight streaming through the high windows despite her fatigue telling her it should be dark. She arrived at the wash room and closed the door, for a moment simply standing in the dark. Her hands balled into fists. She was not one to reflect on moments already past, but she wondered if her actions had caused the undoing of their plans this night past. She could accept any consequence to herself for her own actions, and it was true enough that her merry band of friends had borne their consequences together before, but... Her nose stung and her eyes shimmered in the low light hidden by the heating bath. She had to trust that the trio she had left behind would be able to cover each other again. She had known the stakes involved in throwing in their lot with the Resistance nearer the castle, but it had not been until the moment the captain of the guard had moved to detain them and she and Brand had been pitted on opposite sides that she realised precisely what that meant. It was not simply a matter of taking lives and having them taken as she had said to Diana. There might come a time when they would face each other and, to preserve their greater aims, be forced to fight and die at the hands of a friend.

    Her breath hitched into a sniffle and she dashed away two hot tears in annoyance. No use crying about the reality of things.

    Tilting her head to crack her neck and immediately regretting it, Horatia contorted to undo the many fastens of her gown and the underpinnings it required. For each layer removed she felt like a new woman and when her ribs were unbound she gasped in air and leaned a hand against the wall, dizziness swirling away her rational thoughts. How this had become an acceptable mode of dress she would never understand, but she was thankful that she had found a way to disregard it routinely.

    Staggering forward and kicking the hateful yellow mass at her feet aside, she practically drowned herself in the bath, working the sweat and dust from her hair. Wriggling her toes, she tested her aching muscles before allowing herself to simply absorb the warmth of the bath. It was with great pleasure that she noted the barest whiff of vinegar and realised that someone had left a pitcher of old wine for her.

    Amberlin, she thought with a smile. Having known her since childhood and, unlike his old commander Byron, having forsaken the sword for the simple life of a friar when he took his vows, must have been the culprit. She worked it through her hair and poured it over her skin, letting the prickling liquid eat away the dirt she could not work clean with her fingers alone. She let it sink in, growling softly as it found a few blisters and bruises of her own. It particularly stung along the shallow cut the dragged dagger the princess had pulled had left along her leg.

    When she had rinsed away the last of the wine and lavender soap that had chased away the harrowing night's remnants, she twisted out her hair and curled herself in a bath sheet. The prospect of the short walk out to the cottage they had been allowed seemed like a great undertaking. The central hall, bath, and chapel where they had been taken to recover sat on the center of a heavily-forested parcel of land that had many such small cottages and shrines branching out through it towards the nearest villages - which were not very near at all. The brothers had once traveled far and wide to give aid and advice to the people, but under the Usurper's rule had become withdrawn and provided aid and sanctuary to some of those poor exiles from King Aminan's reign. It made them a natural friend of the Resistance, though none of them made that well known. The Usurper King perhaps did not think fondly of the friars, but whether he feared or simply thought nothing of them, he had never interfered with the running of the friary. When he had stolen the throne and they had been overwhelmed with orphans and refugees from the castle and its adjoining town, the brothers had taken their vow of silence ostensibly for their faith: but it was a shield behind which they also did their part toward restoring the blessed, rightful rule - or at least someone ordained for it, which they did not believe Sinal Balaser to be. Old Byron had joined them, seeing in the building of the friary an opportunity to serve the people where his amputated leg had left him unable to serve in the actual fighting surrounding his old liege.

    Well-tailored breeches hugged her form, a simple linen short tunic loosely falling to her hips. She had left clothing here on one of her many visits before, thankfully. Her mother's necklace hung heavily against her chest, and as she eased the gold earrings and hair pins into a small pouch wrapped in a scrap of silk, noting with a pang of guilt that one of the hair pins was missing from their number. Her father would be heart-broken.

    When she had borrowed the pouch, she had also taken the summer yellow gown and made straight for the fire in the hall. Amberlin had stopped her, and made a face at her. She supposed if none of the wayward individuals who passed through the friary doors had any use for it, the material might be worth something in such an unusual dye. The brothers were scrupulous about making use of all they had, so she gave it over to them knowing that they would make the most of it. No doubt they would clean and mend Diana's own riding dress and return it to her before they departed - whenever that might be.

    That taken care of, she gripped her belt and boots in one hand, unruly waves of dark hair still dripping slightly with damp and stockings clinging to little pieces of straw and grass as she stepped through the heavy doors through which Old Byron and Diana had passed on their way towards the cottage. The early morning light was hazed by the mists rising from the waters, but the scent of the trees was cool and fresh from it. The chill in the air roused her senses and she took in her surroundings as she passed - the smoke rising above the hall and the dampened sounds of footfalls out of sight as the friars moved about their morning routines. There was canting from the chapel, rhythmic and deep. Despite the brothers' vow of silence they had sympathetic friars and monks from other territories and monasteries who visited them frequently, sharing news of the world and lending their skills and prayers to the work they undertook. Far more in Byron's school of the practical, she still found comfort in the placid air the prayers imparted to the quiet morning.

    When she arrived at the cottage, pine needles swept back from the door, Old Byron leaned against the stone wall with a pipe between his teeth. He had bid goodnight - albeit it was morning - to the exhausted princess and parted with her at the door. Smoke rose from the fire the brothers had left burning for warmth.

    Pulling up short, Horatia shuffled as though she were half her age again trying to explain away some mischief her quartet of friends had managed. His usually laughing tone was serious as he asked her about the night. She told him what she knew of the others, of her concerns for Riga, and asked him what he thought of Brand's position. She told him about the castle square and the announcement of Balaser's betrothal. A man of action as was she, he had the wisdom of time and experience to settle him a bit and allow him a longer view of things that the woman lacked.

    He puffed thoughtfully, then lifted a gnarled brow and stepped forward to rest a hand on her shoulder. "If the girl had been caught that would have been the end of it. You did well to keep her with you. My old men will do what they can for the others, and I suspect if you have all managed to keep from hanging or beheading til now you will all slip free of it this time as well."

    His strong fingers were warm and as they squeezed her shoulder, she swallowed. She wished she had been quicker, or simply bowled the captain of the guard at his first words. It would have prevented Diana's shock, and Brand still would have been clear. She wondered if that would have made them any less suspicious as potential thieves. She blew out a breath, surprised that there was some relief.

    "Rest up... I've been meaning to send Joaquim to fetch some things from Castle Town. I think I'll go have him check in at Ignatio's."

    She nodded her understanding and thanks. He would send the boy to gather news and make contact with the Resistance leaders. They might know the fate of the others within two or three days. The waiting would be -

    Horatia's thoughts were interrupted by a resounding slap across the back of her newly-washed head. Her hand flew reflexively to cradle the site of the blow as she cried, "Och!"

    As he stumped away from her he did not bother to look back as he called back, "How you allowed her to risk her neck climbing bedclothes is beyond me: just try not to take an arrow from any other tender young girls while I'm away."

    Scowling at his back, she watched him leave to have Joaquim brought from the closest village. She had no need to duck as she pressed into the door of the small cottage, making every effort to be quiet. The floorboards shuffled and creaked lightly and she set her boots by the door, belt draped carelessly on the back of one of the two wooden chairs that squeezed along a squat barrel that served as a table. Pulling one of the furs from the bed covered in a patchwork of blankets and more of the tanned skins, she leaned near to the princess to make sure that she slept. Her long hair fell over her face and with a thin, calloused finger, Horatia brushed it behind her ear. She wondered if she had been this afraid when Balaser had brought his fire and thundering chaos to the castle.

    As her eyes studied the sleeping face, breath held for fear of disturbing her, she thought probably she had been more afraid. Afraid and angry. She had lost most of her family in the conflict, and the pair of them that remained had never entirely recovered. Perhaps it would be different for Diana. When cornered she had defended herself. Whoever sat the throne of Hymnascal would need that spine if they intended not only to defend their right to rule - but to defend a kingdom still ill at ease under the mistreatment of the Interloper. Hope and concern intermingling in her expression, Horatia pulled the blankets over the other woman's shoulders and tiptoed across the firelight to wrap herself in the fur and lie across the entrance. Birds chirruped lightly alongside the wind that blew through the trees and the tributaries that bubble along, lulling her quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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

  5. #15
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    Castle grounds, Eastern Gates, Night


    Despite having rolled to the side, Capulit had managed to strike his side, knocking the wind from Brands chest. He swore mentally, clutching at his side as he watched the three of them escape moments before the gate closed, the guards by the doors shocked. The soldiers from the castle doors made their way into the yards, breaking into groups as they scoured the courtyard, detaining the lesser folks who had begun to panic from the noise. Brand just laid back, sucking in the air while trying to figure out what had possessed the princess to act so violently, and even more running ideas of how he would lie his way out of this.

    “Soldiers! To the eastern gate!” He shouted finally into the night, managing to force himself upright and looking to the dead body of the captain, blood seeping into the muddied ground. He staggered on the feet, watching the soldiers draw short as they finally spied the dead body. Sending a short prayer that Horatia would be smart enough to leave the town behind, he turned to the soldiers at the gates.

    “Gather up any able riders and horses, the princess escaped through the gates!” Brand shouted for them to hear, pointing to the closed gates that the guards were scrambling to push open. Brand hobbled over to the nearest wall and slumped down, his world swimming and dancing as he slid down the storm side. He struggled to pull the dented metal off his chest, grunting at the warmth of blood along his side. He inspected his side by the torchlight, looking at the gash that rippled from below his rib to the start of his hip. It was shallow thankfully, and he praised Horatia for being able to avoid killing him while pushing forward. Letting the other guards take to the streets on the horses, he let the night swallow him and rested.

    Castle halls, Before Daybreak

    Sinal Balaser was seething with anger, listening to the reports that the princess and her captors had yet to be dug up. His blood boiled as he clenched his fists, listening to the guards whine their excuses of having let the woman escape into the night air with not a single one of them being able to stop them. The barest scrap of news had left him raging internally, displeased that his guards had been unable to stop a two single women from escaping, only knowing that the horse rider had worn a dress of summer yellow.

    “Shango the second, The color of your lands are summer yellow, are they not? Tell me, what reason did your daughter enter this castle?” The man demanded of the older knight who was now kneeled in front of him.

    “I am sorry, your majesty, but she did not tell me her intentions tonight, other than wanting to come to the ball. I cannot-”

    “Silence! You expect me to believe you had no knowledge about this? Your daughter has taken captive Princess Diana, murdered the captain of my guards, and escaped into the nights. I find this rather hard to accept that you played no part in this.” Sinal bellowed at the man, drawing himself upright and stomping down the steps to the throne. He stopped before the man and lifted him, anger burning deep in his eyes. They stared at each other, Sinal trying to gain any info from the old knight. Letting out a yell of frustration, the Usurper tossed the man from his sight.


    “I shall have the information that I want! For your betrayal, I hereby strip you of your title and claim your lands under the name of King Sinal. Guards, lock this man up and glean any information you can for where his Daughter would have fled to. I do not believe that you have no idea where your whore of a daughter would have gone.” Sinal demanded of his soldiers, moving back to his throne and taking his throne. He waved his hand, motioning for the guards to bring in the next person who he had wanted to talk with.

    “You have summoned me, your majesty?” Grueta bowed low to the king, shaken that her charge had actually managed to escape the castle, yet was now worried for their health and well-being.

    “Tell me this, Grueta. What did Princess Diana tell you about her plans tonight.” He demanded of her, fingers digging back into the woods.

    “What do you mean, your majesty?” Grueta asked, confusion coloring her eyes, drawing the wrath of the king.

    “Do not pettle this senility. Today was the first time that Princess Diana had been outside these castle walls. Yet, already the people had a plan in place to capture her. You were her closest maid, she relied on you for everything. Tell me what you know.” He spoke harshly, hands curling into fists while affixing her with eyes filled with pure malice.

    “I swear your majesty, she told me nothing of this night.”Grueta responded, a tremor of fear passing through her. Her words only upset the king more, who pushed himself free of the throne and descended the stairs, making little time over to the old maid. He swung, catching the woman on the jaw with the back of his gauntlet, sending her to the ground with a dull crunch.

    “I will not hear your lies!” He roared down at her, staring down at her.

    “I swear your majesty! She did not tell me anything.” Grueta spoke in her defense, cowering on the ground while gripping her jaw, pain shooting stars into her eyes. Sinal lifted her off the ground and bodily threw her, watching her skid across the ground, crying out in pain as her body bounced on the stone.

    “ENOUGH. I will not listen to your lies! You have remained steadfast to the princess, never once to me. I have let you stay because she relied on you heavily, and you were nothing more than an annoyance. Now, I will tolerate you no longer. You shall bare your shame and treason to the world for the sins of Princess Diana.” Sinal spoke loudly, summoning over the guards to pick up the old woman.

    “You shall be stripped bare and staked to the castle walls, a sign for any who might think of turning against me. Guards, go!” He shouted, listening as the woman began to cry out for forgiveness, repeating over and over that she knew nothing of them.

    “Send in the eastern guards.” Sinal spoke, not even returning to his throne.

    Brand led the other three soldiers with him towards the throne, swallowing his rage at how he had treated Horatia’s father and the elderly woman, yet played the dutiful soldier. The three of them dropped to their knees in front of the king, a sign of feality as they awaited.

    “You three disappoint me. A woman and child, one sheltered her entire life, managed to escape with ease through your gates with ease. I have no reason to not just behead you here, to end your lives and uselessness to me.” Sinal spoke, glaring down at the three men. None dared look up to the king, but all three tensed, rigid under their armor. He paced around them, letting out a frustrated sigh.

    “Yet, you did bring me news of the woman, and I can understand your shock. Not even I was aware of the strength of the Princess and that whore woman. For that, I shall show you some mercy. You may stand.” He spoke, tucking his hands under his arms, taking the throne again as the guards looked upon him with hope and gratitude.

    “You shall be flogged for a count of 40, then locked in the stockage for 3 days. If you are truly repentant and loyal, then may God seem fit that you will live, and the princess is returned swiftly to us. You are dismissed.” He commanded his men, more of his soldiers encircling the 4 men to escort them to the gaols to await the start of dawn.

    Sinal let out a sigh, rage still bubbling as all he could do was wait, his other captains already combing the city and preparing search parties to go around to the other local towns, ready to find his runaway bride.


    Monastery, Midday

    “Ah, squire Joaquim. A pleasure to see you again.” Byrom spoke jovially as he was working around the grounds, helping the brothers around the grounds as he could. The young man smiled and saluted the old knight, an eager squire who was unfit for the battlefield. The man had taken to Byron like flies to vinegar, eager to prove his worth despite his knock knees and gnarled hand. While not the sharpest blade, he was diligent and was the best as a courier, as most didn’t even bother passing an eye at the young boy.

    “You summoned me, Lord Byrom?” He spoke with a small hitch in his voice, standing straight and beaming with pride at his title. It was honorary, and he knew nothing really came with it, but it was a source of pride for him.

    “Yes, I have been meaning to send you into the castle town, as I am running low on several supplies. I have prepared a scroll and shall have a carriage arranged to transport both you and the goods here and back.” Byron spoke, handing over the scroll to the young man, letting him accept it gracefully. Bryon stood then, clasping the man on the soldier.

    “Now, no dillying around with the young ladies, despite those devilish looks of yours, I am needing those supplies and any news you can bring to me. I do have one request off the scroll that I wish you to ask the tavern keeper at Ignatio’s. As him whe in the blazes he’s going to sell some Chateau Romani. I have been craving that sweet beverage for ages.” He relayed to the young man, watching his eyes light with determination.

    “Yes sir! Chateau Romani.” He repeated back with pride, before being sent off back into town, his hobbled half step echoing along the ground. Byron waited for the boy to vanish around the corner before moving then. He would need to prepare his home for guests, his code having been sent along. Joaquim knew nothing of the resistance inner workings, yet was an integral spy and courier of information. He knew nothing of the codes and keys he ferried across the lands, meaning any guards that would dare question him would think him nothing more than the weakling being sent on an errand. It was a cruel fate to play, but it was better than anything else, and the boy felt pride in being useful to the men who had helped raise him, and his master Byron who took to teaching him how to wield a blade with great patience.

    Castle Gaol, Torture Room, Midday

    The echo of broken bones bounced around the small room, Sinal standing against the door as the men broke Shango’s hand, the man grunting in pain. He watched the man, having spent the better of his morning prying the man for any information he could, seething with anger. The man was either belligerent about protecting his daughter, or truly knew nothing. He was desperate for any information, his search parties having turned up nothing. Even the reprise of those being punished had done little to sooth his anger.

    “Now again. Where would she have taken the princess. I already have men heading to overturn your manse and the stable grounds, so don’t expect her to be able to hide there.” Sinal spoke again, moving up to the edge of the table, looking down at the sweat covered man, his right arm mangled and broken in several places, blood puckering the skin.

    “I swear I know nothing. She had only asked to attend the ball, that was all.” Shango gasped out, his voice hitched with pain, the sweat coating his forehead as he tried to avoid moving his right arm, despite the men standing nearby. He signalled to the guard again, watching them wrench the left arm up higher through the crusher, watching with a grim snarl as the stone was hammered down, hearing another crunch as his wrist was shattered against the stone bench. Shango groaned out in pain, heaving up an empty stomach from the pain that wracked his body.

    “You are a stubborn old man. You’ve already lost your land, your title, and yet you still protect your daughter. I must commend your determination, but condone your brash idiocy. Just tell me what I wish to know, and you may survive this day.” Sinal spoke, leaning against the table with a sickly smile, trying to play into the mans hope for relief.

    “There is nothing to tell you. Not that I would if there was.” Shango spoke, knowing that even if he was let free, there was nothing he could do. The broken bones along his arms would leave him a beggar at the mercy of men, and it was a miserable end for the old knight. He had grown into a husk of his former self, wishing nothing more than to live a quiet life. His wife had already been claimed, his eldest son killed in the takeover, and even his daughter having thrown in her lot with the resistance. A chuckle escaped him, feeling as though he had been put to shame by even his daughter, the image of fire and grit as his late wife.

    “Do what you wish to me, but there is nothing I can tell you, you despicable bastard.” Shango didn’t know if it was the pain that was breaking his judgement, or he felt the desire to end things on his own terms, but he knew he wasn’t going to last the night. He might as well speak his mind.

    “You will never hold the throne, and I know the princess will raise an army to remove that shriveled head from that rotted neck.” He spat at the king, giving him a toothy grin while speaking, a fire in his gut that had been nothing but kindling. Sinal stared at the man with rage, ready to strike the fool across the jaw for his insolence, but he knew that it would only please the man.

    “Your head will roll for those words cur.” Sinal spoke, motioning for the guards to grab the man. They moved, then, having to take time and saddle up the horses and summon the executioner.

    The sun had crested into the afternoon as they passed through the northern gates, the body of Grueta pinned above the doors, barely alive and body on display for all to see, baring her shame to the world. Trumpeters heralded the call for people to come as Shango the second was forced to stumble behind the horse he had been forcibly tied to, broken bones grating along his arms. They dragged him to the executioner's block, waiting until the citizens had gathered round with pity in their eyes at the old lord.

    “People of Hymnascal! Before you lies a traitor, one who harbored the people who had plotted and kidnapped the princess from her castle tonight. Let him be a reminder to all those who wish to protect these types of people!” King Sinal shouted to the people, before nodding to the axeman. He agreed before raising the axe, letting the people watch before bringing it down with a heavy thud, followed by the rattle of the basket at the base.

    “Any traitors will meet the executioner's blade when they are caught. Not even the nobles shall be spared this fate. Any who have information come forth and serve your king to help us return the princess safely to her home!” He ordered the people before moving to return to the castle, leaving the body of Shango the second to be cleaned up by the guards as he rode in silent frustrations.


    "Even Dreams, can be a nightmare"
    Spoiler: Click it, I dare ya! 




  6. #16
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    Day 1 [Day of Engagement Party] - Castle Stables, Early Morning

    Riga was a slick-fingered miscreant from quite a young age. Perhaps the most charismatic of his little quartet, he delighted in acquiring whatever caught his interest. It could as soon be an old boot abandoned in the rain as a fine jewel, or really anything in between. It was a matter of skill in some ways, sleight of hand that needed honing. On the other end, he kept a wary eye out for those who had grown aware of his habits. This narrowly saved him on the night of the engagement celebration for King Balaser and his princess. Unexpected gongs could rarely be a good thing, and that is how the Lady Dowry's favourite ostrich feather somehow became wedged inside a priceless vase next to a few loose coins, an ivory comb carved with the crest of House Marwen, an unbroken wishbone, a little silver key, and the blue ribbon one of the Lord Arden's nieces had been wearing laced through her curls.

    Innocuous as those might seem, no thievery was good thievery when there was a hunt on for thieves. Having divested himself of the evidence, Riga nearly tripped over a scampering messenger as he trotted across the open castle grounds towards the largest of the stables. It took some hunting amidst the chaos, knights clambouring about in all states of dress and undress with pages and squires tripping over themselves behind them - horses expressing their displeasure with a nip here and a trodding on of toes there. Jonas raked his fingers through his hair, sweat beading at his temples and rolling down his throat as he stopped to speak with Riga in their guises as simple servant and ostler.

    "Look, if this is about earlier, I thought you were a girl. You were wearing her headscarf an-!"

    Riga waved a hand impatiently, "Not to worry, Jonas. Wait - headscarf?"

    Jonas eyed him uneasily, and after a moment of perplexed silence, they both seemed to silently agree to move forward.

    "What was it you wanted?"

    "Oh, right, sorry. What's all this then?"

    "Princess has run off it seems. Having nightmares maybe."

    Riga's brows arched nearly into his hairline. "Is she just, terrible timing."

    "Mm." Grunted Jonas in agreement.

    "Well listen, in that case I had best see what use I can be inside. You already send -?"

    "Yes, already."

    "Excellent." He started to walk off and fell back a pace, as though struck by another idea, "Oh, and one more thing."

    "Yar?"

    "Be careful will you. Looks like the dun horse might be a little lame. Best to see him back to the trader, don't you think?"

    "Right you are."

    That settled, Riga moved along and kept watch through the chaos seething inside the stone structure as he evaded the stampeding footfalls of the soldiers issuing out from it. He had no idea at the time what might be happening, but as he met the eyes of Alfson through one of the grand entrances to the large throne room where celebration had been replaced by silent and concerned guests, he flitted off to find the other two of their number.



    Day 1 - Ignatio's, Night

    Cloak far too big for him, the boy Jonas had sent as a messenger passed through the gates of the castle unimpeded. It was something of a small miracle, considering that in an effort to find accomplices of the escaped Princess Diana, the castle and its grounds were being sealed tight. One of the last to leave, along with a pregnant maid that one of the guards had pitied, he escorted the woman as far as her home on the northern residences where some of the castle servants made their homes before breaking away and turning towards Ignatio's.

    When he went to the merchant's residence he was advised that the trade magnate was detained on business at his main headquarters within the town. Having been successful as a horse merchant, Ignatio had grown the family business into trades of all sorts - exotic luxury and finery that made him a perennial favourite even in a time of such political unrest. No one wanted to be on the outs with Ignatio. Still, he had crafted a sterling public persona and used his wiles to turn the best of every situation while allowing those who did business with him to also feel like they had won. He had charm to spare. Despite this, he was a sensible man. War abroad was good for business, but unrest at home was quite the opposite. And, truth be told, he did have a bit of a soft spot for his home territories and King Aminan. Some of his first contracts were with the royal family, and they had garnered interest from other quarters so that his well-deserved and self-created reputation could burgeon at a much faster rate. He had made the most of the opportunity, but Ignatio had liked the spirit of the reigning family. This new Sinal Balaser, the Usurper, asked for much and offered little beyond uncertainty and fear.

    Serving as a pillar of the community in addition to his official duties, it was not uncommon for the townspeople to address their concerns to him before the knights or petitions to the castle directly. This served to increase his power, while taking petty squabbling and complaints out of the king's presence - something King Balaser seemed content to allow if it meant he did not have to listen to the inane braying of the townspeople and the peasantry who lived beyond the walls. He was known also for his lavish events, sometimes holding minor feasts in honour of the town and country traditions and sometimes hosting extravagant entertainment for those of his own social strata. He was a well-known friend to both the holy and the scholarly, and enjoyed a generally comfortable lifestyle.

    There was another side to the man, however. The mask he wore had become a careful guise. His network of horse traders and riders, couriers had become the main route of the royal communications and with it much of the word that left the castle played directly into the hands of the de facto spymaster of the country. Shrewd and calculating, Ignatio had converted his own holdings into a quiet network leveraging the foundlings and infirm of the castle and surrounding areas into a veritable army of watchers. Little happened without Ignatio's knowledge, and because of this he was invaluable to the Resistance and deeply entrenched in the schemings of the old knights who led the movement. It was natural that Horatia's little band of friends should work with him closely - in fact, many of Horatia's work for the Resistance had been through him - as it was his trade to know a good horse and those of any use at managing them for a given task.

    Thus, the messenger boy made directly for him upon slipping free of the castle and arrived at the great door of the palatial merchant's holdings within the town limits out of breath and huffing in the great courtyard beyond the main castle town square. The heavy wooden doors were partially open and light spilled across the cobbles as the scents of hay and oil rolled through the air and mingled with his sweat. Nearly doubled, one of the merchant's aides noticed him and grabbed him by the collar, helping him towards the stables lining one side of the great complex. It was one of the two largest holdings within the town and far from Ignatio's only property. Still, it would not do to associate openly with all of the riffraff of the place, so his trusted aides helped suss out trouble and news. The man had never outgrown his roots, however, building himself by his own hands - so he insisted on speaking with messengers himself whenever possible to avoid any miscommunications.

    As he finished overlooking a manifest and tapped his knuckles against the chest of another merchant who was looking off at a tottering barrel of oil perched beside a swinging lantern to hand the documents back with his signature, Ignatio himself walked after his aide through the criss-cross of people still about their work so late into the night and wandered through a maze of low ceilings and thick wooden beams until he passed into the offices he kept for himself with a little shingle that advertised his services in gold. It was nearly dark compared to the warm bustle of the warehouse as both his office as the desks of his clerks were largely unused this time of night. The boy had been given a pint of beer and was swallowing it, nearly having caught his breath.

    "Tell him what you told me." The aide urged.

    "M'Lord, Jonas sends word what 'as happens at the castle, Sir. Won't let 'em leave, the guests. Says they'll keep 'til 'Er Majesty, the Princess is found, doesn't he? Barely made it out with the gates closing."

    "Get to it," the aide nudged his thin shoulders. "Then we'll find you some supper."

    "Jonas says to tell you 'She's been taken with a nightmare', Sir. That's all 'e said."

    Ignatio's face never budged, but the shock rocked him. So it's underway at last, is it? May we be equal to it.

    Offering a silent hope that those planted within the castle walls would remain undiscovered, he nodded to the boy and passed him a gold coin. Drawing back the aide a moment he whispered, "Not here. Take the boy to Tabitha's for a meal and a drink, will you? Best he not be seen here again tonight - nor you."

    With a grunt of acknowledgement the man escorted the messenger out from the place and Ignatio set about gathering a slew of other runners in all shapes and walks to carry the word to the others. It would not be safe to gather the Resistance leaders tonight - nor likely until the inquiries had concluded, as the castle that seemed to loom larger over the town would have its eyes hawkishly on any such activities. He hoped, however, to have word on who else might be riding with Horatia and her runaway bride tonight.

    A faint smile lifted the edge of his mouth. He might've known the first match would have been struck by the impetuous rider. He only hoped she knew what she had bitten off when it came to the king, young enough yet not always to see the line between foolishness and bravery.



    Day 2 - Castle Stockades, Early Afternoon

    Feeling the pounding of his head with every step, there was still a lightness as if Brand's gut had unclenched at the word that they would be punished by humiliation and allowed to be retained in-service. At least, the one of their three-man watch remaining who had been Resistance members paid in service for the night. It was not what he had hoped he would be doing today, but it beat the alternative. He shuffled on the platform, arms freed in order to remove his armour from him. Though the same steps were taken with the others, the men who carried out the king's orders seemed a little disinclined to jostle him roughly the way they had his companions. Even injured and unarmed he was an enormous fighter and not the sort of person anyone wanted to anger unnecessarily.

    Shouldering his way forward towards the stockades, Brand bent and was practically kneeling due to his greater height. They had had to adjust for him already, but there seemed to be little interest in belabouring the punishment. Some of the servants walked past, a few nobles who were no doubt not entirely willing guests. Their eyes brushed by and Brand could feel them any time someone passed the little side yard dedicated to such penalties, but the tension from the night before was still simply too much for them to dwell on the men held here. There were a few others, their crimes uncertain - and equally uncertain was it that they had committed any crime at all.

    Uncomfortable already, Brand's joints and muscles ached from the awkward positioning and his lips were chapped with thirst. It had been a long night and the sun was unforgivingly harsh despite the chill in the air. His head was splitting and he was almost certain he'd broken a rib or two in Capilet's escape. He consoled himself that they had done their duty, though. So close to perfect.

    He sighed and a guard turned his eyes on him sympathetically. No one liked to punish their own, but no one would dare stay their hand with the mood the king was in... so the man lashed him again, raking a back already pulped and lacerated from the forty he had received. He felt weak, nauseous, but he struggled to master himself and went quiet. He was sorry for the maid who had gone before the king before he and his two companions, but tried to remind himself that they did these things so that such treatments would end.

    Brand heard one of the other guards who had been beaten and placed in the stocks faint again. He had been the only one of the three to keep his feet in the flogging - and one of them had been thin and on edge before it began. He hoped for the man's family that he would last it out, but he had simply hung bleeding and unconscious when last Brand had caught a glimpse of him. Grim times, indeed.

    A familiar shadow crossed the courtyard and Brand felt a surge of new strength. At least, he thought gratefully, he had proof another of their number was still alive and uncaptured. He let slip a silent prayer that the other two were whole, and that Horatia and the princess would continue to evade the king's clutches.

    Riga had not found Brand in the tumult of the ruined engagement party, though seeing the men from the eastern gate carrying the body of one of their number he felt his heart drop for a moment. Too small to be Brand. The big man limped along, but had not seemed in dire danger. Brand had not seem him and Riga would see neither Alfson or Brand again until the following afternoon, when he crossed the yard holding the stocks and blended with a few other servants as they carried vegetables toward the kitchens to help feed the unexpected slew of guests the castle was now responsible to feed until the king's pleasure was to release them. He hoped his silent support was noted, but his eyes narrowed slightly despite the soft gossip of his fellow servants as they finally crossed the threshold back into the castle itself. There were rumours of an execution in the wings. He could only hope that the princess had not been recaptured - and that if she had the Resistance was ready to move. Of Horatia there had been no sign, and between Jonas' cryptic information and Alfson's calm, he hoped that was a good indication that he knew more of what was happening... though Alfson was always calm.



    Day 2 - Castle Execution Yard, Afternoon

    Ignatio was a cautious man, ostensibly a well-respected merchant who dealt in luxury textiles and hard-to-obtain exotica from far and wide. Despite his standing, his absence had been noted from the king's engagement party. Oh, he had certainly supplied a few of the more choice delicacies they had enjoyed, but the king's moods were fickle. He had graciously accepted Ignatio's absence, but had sent a summons to him alongside those to any other absent members of the upper echelon of society - merchant, scholar, and noble, in order to "make clear the obligations of those who have been gifted their lands, titles, and wealth at the pleasure of the crown".

    Whatever he might have thought that to mean, Ignatio was not prepared for the sight that greeted him upon reaching Castle Square. The dais that had been erected for the engagement announcement had been half-torn down and then hastily reconstructed in order to allow for a procession. As he looked about the crowd around him, a few of his aides and other associates half-encircling him, he saw that even the elderly and reclusive of the nobility had joined them. Elward the Scholar, Danbury the Younger, as well as an assortment of disheveled-looking merchants who seemed to be at odds with the abrupt call away from their duties. Even the reclusive, unfortunate, perpetually stone-faced daughter of the ruby-draped Lady Goron stood beside her jovial mother looking as sour as usual despite seeming otherwise in good spirits. Ignatio kept his signature half-smile, hands folded calmly as he waited to see what the procession now almost upon them might bring.

    Around Ignatio in the crowd, though he did not see them all others of the Resistance were mingling. Jonas led one of the horses en route to the square, a royal livery hastily thrown over to disguise his sweat-stained ostler's garments. Riga stalked through the crowd, having accompanied the growing number of servants, pages, and other castle staff drawn to the excitement. He found a spot near where he and the others had watched the engagement announcements only a day before and shuffled in the fresh straw that had not been swept away in order to lay down new. His stomach knotted into a tangle. His eyes were drawn to the approaching somber parade, noting that a weary Duchess Epona rode at the king's side, face drawn and ashen. His brow furrowed. Why had she been chosen to ride beside him as opposed to his closer allies in other houses? The knot turned to thorns and dug into him, heart thudding as a sense of wrong settled over him.

    The rest seemed to suddenly become slowed in time, each motion and word hanging in air as if by some misty magic. Horror and curiosity and fear froze them all. Slowly the procession ended, the riders dismounting and the Lady Epona helped down to stand at the edge of the dais by the executioner. The nobles faces reflected her own attempt at stoicism despite the pallour that had fallen over her. Shango, Horatia's father was led behind a horse, his noble lineage and generations of long service to the throne of Hymnascal cast aside as he was led in a manner far ill-befitting him to the place of his execution. Even prisoners of war were afforded a measure more honour to walk the way on their own legs. The faces about the square were taught, the hearts of the Resistance assembled crying for justice.

    Far beyond the way in the distance, Grueta hung above the gates like an obscene omen of what was to come, body bared to the ravages of the sky and land, to the eyes of those who wished not to see the king's cruelty unavoidably fixed large over his own gates. Bile rose in Riga's throat. Ignatio's eyes hardened like obsidian, sharp and angry over his easy half-smile and relaxed face. Jonas knuckles were white along the lead as he guided the horse that brought the disgraced man forward and he gave him his arm to help him to the stair to climb. A soldier roughly jostled him upward, but he kept his footing and shuffled as upright as he could, face set against the axe. The king could say what he would: the nobility of his line was in chivalry of spirit. No decree, no torment could strip that dignity from him.

    Refusing to bend the knee at the command of the Great Interloper, he stood tall until he was forced to kneel, dragged at the hands of the castle guard. That moment, the step forward of the guards, the rough hands, Jonas stepping back with the horse as his face was cast in pity and shame. The swell of the crowd and the pity in the eyes of those who, even if they had not been fast friends of the broken minor noble, respected him even in animosity as an upright man pulsed like a heartbeat. That pulse reverberated through them all, broken by the king's accusation.

    “People of Hymnascal! Before you lies a traitor, one who harbored the people who had plotted and kidnapped the princess from her castle tonight. Let him be a reminder to all those who wish to protect these types of people!”

    The air was taut, punctuated finally by the irreversible fall of the axe.

    “Any traitors will meet the executioner's blade when they are caught. Not even the nobles shall be spared this fate. Any who have information come forth and serve your king to help us return the princess safely to her home!” He ordered the people before moving to return to the castle, leaving the body of Shango the second to be cleaned up by the guards as he rode in silent frustrations.

    Not even the nobles... the unthinkable, spilling blessed blood in the same way he had opened the veins of King Aminan.

    Engulfed by rage, one of the Resistance members threw back his cloak and hefted a heavy stone, hurling it at the Usurper. "HAIL TO THE TRUE KING! HAIL TO KING AMINAN! HAIL TO THE PRINCESS DIANA!"

    The crowd seemed to turn as one, eyes fixing on the man who defiantly drew his sword and fought back against the guards who moved quickly to stifle him, archers taking aim from the overlooks to silence him should he somehow evade the men on foot.

    Ignatio's own guards moved to aid the royal soldiers, a few hanging back with the merchant's aides to defend him in case of any threat. The crowd parted, too afraid to act. The Resistance were silent, unable to intervene without exposing more of themselves. The man fought bravely until, slumped between two soldiers he was thrown over a horse to be taken back to the castle and, no doubt, interrogated. One of the old knights amidst the crowd pulled his greying beard and watched disapprovingly as he balled his hand into a fist.

    Soon.

    The square was quickly cleared, some of those present being escorted back to the castle - as with the Duchess Epona whose skirts were now stained with the blood of her vassal. When she arrived back to her chambers at the castle, she fainted dead away and remained there, seeing only her ladies.

    Riga inserted himself into the clean up and cleared away the castle square, even managing a bribe to smuggle away the body of the executed knight. As dusk drew the silky, star-sewn burial veil of night across Hymnascal, he managed to have a cart secret him away to Ignatio's. This was the price of the throne, he told himself, a lump in his throat as he considered what his friend had already lost - what they all had. The last of a line with no son to carry on their name. Sniffing, he kept his head down and made for the Owl & Thistle to bury his misery in drink.



    Day 2 - The Friary, Afternoon

    Horatia bolted upright as if she had been struck by lightning. Hair a wild mane framing her olive face, lips parted in a half-strangled cry. Her heart raced in her chest and for a moment the daylight lancing through the windows and gaps in the wooden door of the little stone cottage confused her. She had forgotten where she was, panic painted across her face and an agony like a knife. She could not remember her dream - in fact, she had been certain she had not dreamed at all, and yet... It was almost as if someone had called to her, but no matter how she strained to hear nothing came. Unease crept over her spine and she slid into a seated position, walking her back up the wall as she tried to keep quiet. The princess still seemed to be sleeping, no doubt exhausted from her journey.

    Keeping the fur she had slept in wrapped about her shoulders, Horatia creaked open the door and eased outside, gently closing it again. Her bare feet prickled in the straw the brothers used to line the paths, soft moss, seeds, and grasses blending with the cool of the soil as she moved over them. The sun was starting to fall again from its zenith and while her body was still a bit stiff and sore she felt recovered. The dark half-moons under her eyes now had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. Looking around, she noted the smoke rising from the chimney as the brothers began preparing supper for the evening. Her hand flew to cradle the heavy stone suspended from her throat.

    Just a long night, that's all. Keep moving and things will right themselves soon. No doubt the others are having all the fun preparing to launch the Resistance's long-laid plans. Alfson is probably in his element winding up schemes while Brand and Riga are waiting for the real fighting to begin...

    Her usual assurances to herself seemed lackluster in the afternoon light, so she wound her way through the trees and enjoyed the walk to the meadow amidst the sea of trees that the friary used for its horses. There was something fresh about the air here, clean and bright. Wildflowers dotted up along the fencing, the majestic creatures within its bounds idling, grazing, and running at their leisure. Lifting herself up, she sat astride the gate with hands bracing the post. Capilet, seeing her, moved to her side and she smiled at him, her fingers combing between his ears and along his neck. Pressing her forehead to him, she whispered promises and secrets as she always had and he understood in his way - if not the words, then the heart behind them. She lifted an apple she had taken from the bowl on the little table of the cottage to him, holding it steady as he enjoyed the treat.

    Her eyelids felt heavy still, but her spirits rose a bit knowing Capilet was well. After some time had passed and perhaps sensing the change in her himself, he moved off to roam and she watched the muscular lines of his form as he explored the meadow. She lost herself in the clouds and the quiet sound, much like waves crashing on shore, as the trees rustled their leaves and swayed their boughs above her. The snap of a twig caught her ear and she startled to attention, fingers nearly dropping her from where she had leaned far back from her perch to view the sky stretching over the field.

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

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    Freedom was painful, and confusing. Sleep had been a blessed dreamless affair, his mind and body too exhausted to drag up unpleasant memories. He didn’t stir once with the coming and going of Horatia, dead to the world as he lay on the bed, just letting consciousness be slowly dragged back to him with the need for food and to move.

    Damanius let out the most uncomfortable groan in his life as he began to stir from his near dead sleep. He shifted, feeling the fur blanket fall around him, blinking like an owl as he pushed himself up carefully, careful not to shift his legs more than needed. His eyes traveled the cozy room, taking in the bare room, a far cry from the luxury stone and velvet sheets that he had grown accustomed to. He didn’t fight the smile that broke his lips as he just sat there, surveying the sparse living quarters, eyeing the dimming fire and the splayed clothes and dusty boots at the entrance. He wasn’t sure who had entered the room, but his mind was already beginning to niggle him about that. He tried his best to quash that feeling that settled in his stomach, shifting carefully to the edge without letting out any grimace of pain.

    Carefully he managed to place himself on the edge of the bed and grabbed the small pot that the girl, Horatia was her name, had given him. That night seemed long past, a night that dragged on longer than his day. A soft hiccup broke him as the face of the guard flashed across his mind, the rest of the memories bubbling up as he began a sort of awkward hobble to the door, to double check that it was as secured to his liking. With the room secured, he finally opened the pot, taking a whiff of the paste inside. Allowing himself a smile he worked the hem of the robes up high enough. Blanching at the darkening spots along his inner thigh, Damanius began generally applying the paste to the spots.

    *Sweet merciful god~* Damanius mentally moaned as he felt the effects take place, along with the general motions just soothing to his abused thighs. He sat there, just soaking in the momentary bliss, letting the joy of the moment wash over him for the time being. Damanius’ relief was broken by a rapping on the door, startling the young man to jump up, a grimace painting his face.

    “Please wait, I am rather.. Indecent.” Diana spoke, trying to calm her beating heart while freeing the robe around her waist, letting it slip. No response was given, drawing her up short as another knock sounded from the door. Paranoia spoke of worse things before she fully recalled where she was and let out a breath of annoyance to herself while moving towards the door. Flicking hair back into place, she moved to the door and opened it, smiling politely at the brother standing in front of her.

    Without a word spoken, he offered up the riding dress, a fresh scent of pollen and the woods covered the dress. Diana picked it up, allowing it to unfurl into the wind. She looked it over, noting the surprisingly high detail of the repair as she ran her fingers over it, noting the thin white threads that repaired the small pocked holes that rocks had punctured into it. On matching sides were the same threading, adding the small detail to keep it looking regal and planned, instead of a simple patch. Even her personal tailor had not shown this level of dedication to craft.


    “Thank you Brother. This is a wonderful repair.” Diana offered up as she turned to the man. He smiled and bowed deep to her, taking praise in stride as he motioned back to the smoke rising from the main hall. Cupping his hands together, he made the motion of drinking from a bowl and motioned back to the hall before bowing again to excuse him. Diana took that as a sign for dinner and promised to follow soon. She had thoughts to hunt down Horatia, but the thought of food broke that. Besides, the peace she could feel at the moment was comforting after the strain of the night.

    A break away from that woman would also allow him to distance himself from what had happened. Deciding to forgo shoes, he took one last look around the room before heading out, deciding to remain in the robes. He didn’t feel like taking the hassle of putting on the riding dress. Moving from the cottage, Damanius made his way towards the hall, judging his steps against the prickly ground. Accustomed to wearing shoes so often, the packed dirt and scattered straw both itching and tickling his feet. He couldn’t help the smile that broke upon his face while walking, just soaking in the feeling. He felt lighter than he had in ages. Cautiousness and paranoia still dogged his steps, but the simple joy of walking without having to dart around guards or skitter past the servants left a light feeling in his chest, a weight off his shoulders.

    ‘I could get used to this.’ Damanius thought while walking towards the path, picking up speed some as his destination became more of suggestion as he explored the feeling of freedom. The relief granted by the paste was fueling that feeling as he began darting around, just stretching his legs more than anything. He knew it was extremely out of character that he presented to the world, but he cared not for it. It had been sheer ages since he had been able to just enjoy his surroundings. There was no guise to keep, no darkness lurking in the stones or halls. For once, there was just him and the land. He allowed himself that luxury in the moment, just stretching and testing his bounds of just trying to let himself be himself, despite constantly reminding himself that he was acting a fool.


    Monastery Stable Grounds

    Amberlin raised a hand in greeting, stopping the momentary work of picking straw from his habit, the soft rustle of his sandals on the ground his only real approach. He carried the scent of the farm animals they tended, a basket of fresh fruit and even some eggs nestled in a simple brown cloth. He had spotted her approach earlier, had studied her movements for the brief moments as she had sought Capilut for comfort. While he didn’t know the story of before, having been away from the table when the women rode in, he could still remember the stress of hard rides and long nights.

    Setting the basket down, he bowed to her, a formal greeting before righting himself, turning to watch Capilut for a few moments. Amberlin, while very content with his life, didn’t mind the thought of riding again, taking joy in working with the animals and even the stray horse of travelers that came across the grounds. He turned fully to look to Horatia, studying her like a father watches over their child, trying to glean what was on their mind without even a spoken word. Reaching down, he plucked an apple from the basket, offering it up with an upturned eyebrow and inquisitive look, as to ask what was on her mind.


    "Even Dreams, can be a nightmare"
    Spoiler: Click it, I dare ya! 




  8. #18
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    Day 2 - The Friary, Late Afternoon

    With a sad smile, Horatia accepted the proffered apple, turning it in her fingers.

    "Do you ever miss it, Amberlin?" She asked the silent man. "Riding, the camaraderie of the men? My father said you were one of the fiercest fighters among King Aminan's knights, but that you were also one of the most just. He said sometimes young men would come just to train under you."

    She regarded his own wistful smile for a moment before turning her face towards the sinking sun, shoulders sinking as well as she sighed.

    "I'm worried we haven't heard word back yet. Old Byron said two or three days, but you know how he is, bless him. He'll see the silver lining in every dark cloud until it tarnishes around him and then be thankful for the cover and the rain. Part of his charm."

    Amberlin couldn't resist a cough that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. He knew Byron perhaps best of all. All living, at least. Setting his work aside, he moved to pat her leg, leaning against the fence as they watched the horses together.

    "You know I met Riga when we were living at the castle town before..." She hesitated, then continued without finishing the thought they both understood. "My brother and I practically lived in the castle itself, running through its halls with the other children. He was just 'Lord Vorsyth's son' then. Strange, only child. I thought he was more tightly laced than Lady Marwen's corsets. Then one day, I caught him on the edge of the grounds with a tin cup full of ladies' jewelry. He'd been collecting earrings to get all of the colours. We fought over it and I told him he should return them. We both had black eyes for a week and bloody noses to boot, though I'm certain he had the worst end of things." Her lips twitched in annoyance. She'd given as good as she'd gotten, but being a little boy had made his punishment heavier.

    "It made no sense, really, his father could've afforded many times over what he had taken, but he said that these were different because they had stories attached. People gifted them, they had meaning. And they were pretty." Horatia laughed, "Such a strange boy. But we talked while we waited for our punishments to be handed down and by the end of it we were friends.

    "The girls liked him, though. The older he got, he showed off his treasures, or gifted them. Once he accidentally gifted one of them back her mother's necklace. You should've seen the upset it caused, Amberlin. That woman was more bull than human, ha! When her daughter told her how she'd come by the necklace Riga's father... Well, he wasn't an affectionate father, but he did end Riga's thieving for a while. Until he met Arletta. I've never seen a man more moon-struck - he talks about her still. She kissed him once, I think, outside the kitchens at one of the castle masquerades. He was worthless a fortnight before he could pull his head far enough out of the clouds to get anything done.

    "Beautiful woman. Not noble, though, Arletta... He'd run away with her if she'd let him, I think. Just as well for us she doesn't think it right, I suppose. Besides, his father would do worse than break her heart if he knew." She finished her ramble softly, "I hope he is with her now."

    "If they caught him with anything on his person... Or if Brand was given away - Amberlin, even if he is well, will they let him live for letting us escape? Alfson is clever, I think he'll be safe. How will he get out of the castle unnoticed, though? He's gotten himself too close for it to go unnoticed. Were we too impatient?"

    She rubbed the back of her neck and swung her leg back over the fence. When her feet touched the ground cooling further as the sun died, the friar rested a hand on her shoulder. The warmth was reassuring and her eyes prickled, but she sniffed and blinked upwards. She knew that she had gone on about nothing, that Riga's misspent youth was meaningless to either of their lives now. What she did not say was that the strange noble boy had also seen her lose control of the horse she had tried to sneak out from the stables to go off on her own adventure not a week after their fight, furious that she was not also being sent off as a ward to learn to fight as Riga would be within the coming days. Across the wood where the king's men hunted deer and rabbit she had gone, until it had gone bad. Tree limbs had torn the ribbons from her hair, berating her, scratching her body as she tried to tuck her head down to avoid them. It had turned into a bit of a panic before Riga had seen her and had caught up to help. Despite the chaos, she had loved the freedom - and had only doubled her time towards mastering horsemanship and care from that day.

    All that Riga had learned under the tutelage of the family to which he'd been sent as ward were passed on to her, and they'd staged mock battles and sparred through the years far more like brothers than a proper noble gentleman and a lesser girl who should have been learning to manage a household and courting a husband. The first day she had eschewed gowns and slippers for more practical breeches and riding boots, some of their number had hurled insults, and a few had walked away from the training yard. He'd taken one look at her, smiled, and gone forward as if she had always arrived that way.

    She loved all of her friends and they would all do the best they could for each other, but Riga was her oldest friend and had been almost like a brother, especially... Especially when her brother had fallen during the usurpation. They had learned tricks to riding and grown together, thick as thieves and twice as much trouble. When they had met again after the king's fall, angry and restless, it was only naturally they had fallen back in together and eventually joined the wild band of youths that had created their quartet and the little pocket of resistance that was now infusing the old knight's organised Resistance at the castle town with life.

    As she picked up some of the brother's load, Amberlin waved her away and took it back, indicating she should go put on some shoes before joining them for the evening meal. She studied him a moment, then threw her arms around his neck, hugging him with a sniffle. He stiffened a moment, then smiled down at her.

    When Horatia moved off, apple crunching through the darkening light, he watched the light filtering across the meadow and her receding form before turning back toward the chapel himself, his mouth set in a determined line.

    The woman herself creaked back through the cottage door to find the place empty. She shuffled about, throwing the blankets and furs into some sort of tidiness before securing her belt and tugging on her boots. One hand shifted to push back her sword so that she could tie her laces when she laughed at herself for forgetting all weapons were handed to the brothers upon arrival. Poking one finger lightly into the empty place she kept her dagger, she felt thankful that it was plain. No crest, no maker's mark, no emblem of her family or the Lady Epona's coat-of-arms. It would not be traced back to them when it was retrieved from the dead captain.

    Swallowing, she wondered what her father would have to say about the business. No doubt he'd level ultimatums as he always tried to do. This was "the final straw", this was "unbefitting a lady of her station", and such and so forth. They would argue, she would leave, then they would dine together before the moon ran another cycle. Their rows were like seasons, intense and blustering and drifting away when it mattered or when a thaw set in... The joy was rarer the older she grew, though unknown to her it was fear that pushed her father to fight with her over the path she was choosing.

    Soldiers fought, and soldiers died. They had already lost so much that the thought of losing his only child, his only remaining family was unbearable to him. He had done his best to keep them away, in the quiet lands their family had been given generations past for their service, to keep them safe. Still, she would not be quiet and with his wife lost to him there was no gentle mediation to stand between his grief and worry and the headstrong anger of his daughter. His own efforts to guide her back to something approaching an acceptable course, to shout her into line, had only served to goad her further apart from him. He'd as soon have shouted the wind out of blowing.

    As Horatia walked toward the smoke rising above the kitchens, she was blissfully unaware of the dealings at the castle square decked out for execution. Unaware of the intentions of her father despite their differences and their shared, yet separate grief. She only hoped she had not stepped too far across the line for him to forgive her, though he'd not say it, by allowing her home as he always did. Would they speak of trade with Ignatio, of horses and the textiles some of the women who worked the land beside their husbands had taken up when her own mother could no longer manage it, of the coin and its uses to the estate, and the taxes owed to the duchy and the crown?

    A touch of homesickness curled in her belly and she promised herself that she would visit him as soon as the princess was in the hands of the old knights of the Resistance and the trio left behind in the castle were safe. The horsewoman slid her tongue around her mouth, savouring the pleasant sweetness left behind by the apple that Amberlin had given her. Her stomach rumbled, urging her to hurry.

    When she shoved the heavy wooden door to the same hall where she and Diana had dined that morning, the chill outside immediately began to thaw in the warm air that carried the scents of freshly baked bread and soup. The friars had brought leek, potato, parsley and rosemary from their little farm along with a bit of wild thyme and they bubbled together in a heavy pot. There was even fresh butter laid out with the apples Amberlin had collected, pitchers of wine and ale ready to warm them with the hearty meal. It reminded Horatia of how much she enjoyed visiting when she could.

    Old Byron was seated in the midst of a knot of brothers, regaling them with tales perhaps slightly more than half true. They listened, some raptly and some rolling their eyes, but none moved away or seemed to resent his boisterous presence. The visiting monks and a traveler or two sat near their number, appreciative of the good food as well.

    Collecting another apple and taking a firm bite, Horatia propped it against the side of the bowl of stew one of the friar's handed her. Wedging herself in beside the princess, she nodded to the other woman. Her eyes checked over her face for any signs of pain before digging into the food as if she had a hole for a stomach.

    Between bites she managed, "Rest well-?" She hesitated, noting the travelers. "Rest well, My Lady?"

    Tucking up one knee, she half-turned so that her knee was pressing into the princess's thigh, carrying her bowl with her to continue to eat. "Seems Old Byron is too busy with his stories for much news."

    She wondered how badly their night flight had treated the girl. She should really learn to ride, and perhaps that would fill some of their time waiting here. Then again, if Diana broke her neck in a fall Byron would have her own hide for leather - and she didn't even dare think what the others would say. She did seem like a decent hand with that blade, though... Dense as she could be when it came to delicate affairs, Horatia mulled over a way to bring up that fact without referencing the death of the captain of the guards again.

    Pouring them both a cup of the simple ale two of the brothers were well-known for brewing, she tapped hers to Diana's and held it aloft.

    "To new beginnings."

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

  9. #19
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    CASTLE GROUNDS
    WIZARDS KEEP
    LATE NIGHT

    Sinal strode around the tower, grumbling deeply to himself as he watched the man at the other table work, a bubbling cauldron set in the firepit. He was the one man who had yet to fail him, and the only person who he allowed for a callous nature between them. Between them both sat a long table, various vials and powders scattered about the heavy table, a map of the lands placed between them. The man, Ganondorf, was at work with a certain powder, a bright mixture he was handling carefully as he moved it around the table. Sinal watched the man, studying the strange mixture that the old man worked upon, letting his silence hover between them like a laden cow. He dare not disturb the man just yet.

    Finally the wizened man placed the powder into a glass vial and sealed it with wax before letting out a sigh of relief. It was slipped into the most recent mixture of other vials before he took off the leather gloves he had been working with. Atop it was a blanket of cloth before the entire thing was sealed with a wooden lid that was held down tight with leather. No bigger than a boot, the box was set upon the table in front of the king, plain as the day could see.

    “So, that is it? The serum is ready?” Sinal finally asked, his frenetic pacing having stopped at the edge of the table. He was given a grin in return before finally motioning the man to speak.

    “Yes, your majesty. I need subjects to test it on, but just a few pinches mixed into the person's food will cause them to spill their guts and reveal their truths. Anything you wish to know will be yours like ripened fruit. It’s quite the little joy I must say. Made of a mixture of nocturne pox and fungi, the person will be unable to hide anything from you. No more than three pinches should be enough, less you wish the target to spill more than their words.” He spoke, chuckling at the cruel intentions. Sinal looked to the man with a disgusted look, though tossed the gold coins upon the table and picked up the box.

    “So, are the whispers true though? The peasants have been speaking of a missing bride.” Ganondorf spoke as he returned to the cauldron, stirring it with a heavy metal spoon. Sinal let a growl rumble through his chest as the loose lips of the men, yet let out a side.

    “She was spirited away from me, yes. None have come forth to speak of her, and those that I have tried to force are either to dumb to remember anything, or tightlipped. This serum should get them speaking the truth soon enough though. REgardless, your services have been well accepted wizard. I shall see that one of the street women are brought up soon for your reward.” He spoke, a cruel grin appearing as he looked to the box cradled in his arm. He was out of there soon though, closing the door behind him. The old man unnerved even himself, yet his strange tonics and powders had gotten him into his seat. The black powder the man had brought with him from the east had been like a sign to him, the raw destructive power higher than any catapult could ever manage, and much easier to sneak into places without the enemy knowing it.

    ROYAL BEDROOM

    “Servant, fetch me the crier boy, I have a message that needs to be sent.” Sinal ordered after having changed his outfit, doffing the regal attire from the party before and affixing the gold embroidered outfit of his family crest, affixed with the sapphire gems holding his cape in place. He had hidden the box of serum away, already plotting on who to use the material on first. It would need to be someone that he could test the serum on successfully and its limits.

    “You called for me, your majesty?” The young boy spoke, kneeling at the door after announcing himself. Sinal turned to look at the scrawny boy, giving him the same look one gives to a cockroach. Clearing his throat, he motioned the boy to follow him.

    “Send a message out to the lands. Any who can give me information about the princess or her rider will be granted 1,000 gold coins for their information, as long as it can be held true. Any who lie or their information doesn’t pan out will see themselves thrown into the gallows until the princess is returned to me.” Sinal spoke, stopping onto to make sure the boy was following closely behind him.

    “As well, any who can bring me the princess and the rider shall see them granted a fiefdom and the rank of nobility for their services.” Sinal added onto that, his scowl turning into a cruel smile. While he knew the peasants despised him, the most poor would not turn down the chance to enter the upper echelon of nobility and the wealth that provided. They may hate him, but even the stout heart of gold could be broken by the promises of riches.


    MONASTERY MAIN HALL

    Damanius had taken the time to make himself presentable once he reached the main door, puffing a bit from the excursion. There was little he could do about the flyaway hair, but it was a minor annoyance in the tidal waves of scents coming from the halls. It was paltry from the food he had been raised upon in the castle, but there was something different about this. Opening the door, he smiled as the warmth washed over him, brushing away the cold that had steadily crept up his body. The brothers gave him minor acknowledgement with their bows before returning to their meals. Damanius was just as willing to allow the silence and sneak off with a bowl of food before a booming voice grabbed him, accompanied by a rather hefty arm.

    “Ah, so you do live after all? I’ll have to have Horatia ride harder than that!” Byron spoke, letting out a chuckle at his own humor as Damanius jumped from the sudden weight and words. He turned his face up to look at the older gentleman, responding with a polite smile.

    “Sir Byron, it is a pleasure to see you again. I appreciate your concern, but I just desire to grab some food and retire the..” Diana began before getting a clap on the shoulder, the shock making her go quiet in surprise.

    “Nonsense, that is no way to enjoy a meal. Come sit with the others, let me regale you with tales you unheard of.” He spoke jovially before leaning down close enough.

    “Besides, it may do you good to listen to others and be with the common folk. You’ve been locked away for far too long.” He spoke carefully to her before guiding her over to the semi circle of people that were already nestled in, some travelers speaking of the rough roads and troubles of travel. Diana only gave a half nod while allowing Byron to take the empty bowl and return it filled with the strong stew and even some of the ale from the locals.

    “Sorry about the disturbance my friends, I was just greeting my niece here. Troubling ride in from the night, though not as bad as her mother was.” He spoke loudly as he reclaimed the seat at the front, getting a few laughs from the men as focus was drawn back to him.

    Damanius sat and worked on his stew, more focused on the food rather than the stories, his hunger heavy as he worked through the soup, the ale strong enough to make him choke on the taste upon a first swig. He found himself focused on the stories just as raptly as the others around Byron, amazed at the visages it painted for him. He knew the words were only half true, yet it was such a shift from before that it felt like listening to his father regale him in stories of their campaigns upon the war trails, the different knights who served under him and the feats of strength he had seen.

    So wrapped up in the stories, Damanius didn’t even notice Horatia settling down next to him until she addressed him, her voice just about a whisper to not draw attention. He turned to study her for a moment before responding with a shrug of his shoulders.

    “To new beginnings.” She spoke, taking a swig of the ale and letting out a pleased sigh. Diana looked to her mug and then to Horatia, the guilt from before being replaced with some form of understanding. Both were stuck here now, their actions the night prior have landed them attached at the hip as Diana shifted herself to grant Horatia some more room, as much as she could on the small space upon the bench.

    “Thank you for the medicine. It was most … relieving.” Diana spoke, a tinge of pain reminding her of the soreness of her thighs. She had to resist the urge to sooth her thighs as she finished off the stew, letting a comfortable silence fill between them as she set the bowl down. Her hands wrapped around the ale mug while listening to Byron delve into another story of his, a wealth of stories and humor. She looked to Horatia, studying her.

    Even for a lesser lady, Horatia carried herself like a proper knight, the opposite of himself. While the woman carried herself with pride and strength, he had allowed others to carry him. He wished they could trade roles, she the strong prince that could rally the armies to conquer the king, while he would just be the lady in waiting, gifted with soft words. She surprisingly, was everything he was not. He needed to fix that, especially if he wanted people to honestly take him seriously.

    “I have.. A request to make of you. I want to be able to show people my strength when I go to reclaim my rightful seat. I can’t do that looking like a hapless child holding onto the back of a woman for support. If possible, can you teach me to ride a horse?” Diana spoke, feeling a bit foolish for having to make the request. She knew it should have been something she had learned much earlier in life, but none of her tutors thought it a worthy pursuit. Once Sinal had taken over, there was even less time to even think about it.


    "Even Dreams, can be a nightmare"
    Spoiler: Click it, I dare ya! 




  10. #20
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    Day 2 - The Friary, Late Afternoon

    Shrugging off the thanks, Horatia took another swallow of ale and grinned knowingly. "Imagine you're broken in harder than the horse at the pace we kept. Glad it helped."

    The fineness of the Diana's speech was something that Horatia had lost over the years... or at least, that's what she hoped. It was good to be able to blend in where needed, but nobility was often far from noble, and she was not yet sure if the princess would prove to be the image of her father that Byron seemed to take her for or another spoiled aristocrat simpering about without any real use. Still, the image of her rounding with bow drawn flashed across her mind and her lips turned up faintly. Perhaps, even if she was a little impulsive, her instincts were good. There were many routes to success, something she herself knew well. Sometimes the ugliest was the necessary - or simply the most obvious. The death of the captain of the guard was the result of an impetuous action, but it had well-served them. At least, she thought she saw the reasons for it and hoped that it would. It was far from the first time such a thing had been done by a youth in a shaky position.

    Drawing a breath and crunching another bite of apple, Horatia narrowed her eyes at Diana appraisingly. She liked that the girl had asked of her own accord... Her eyes slid to Byron, considering what the man might think. As long as it didn't kill her and she was mostly in one piece, he might allow it. What Byron did not know usually did not hurt him, either... With a gulp, she flexed a shoulder in quiet agreement.

    "Depends on you. Depends on the horse. I can keep you in the saddle, but whether it's tied into place or on your own strength," She repeated, "Will depend on you. You have to make me a promise, though: no running away. With patrols out, there are even odds they would recapture you before we would find you. You might get some foolish idea that that's necessary at some point, but I assure you that your odds of survival are much higher with us than without us.

    "No time like the present to learn. Meet me at the meadow after they light the lanterns for midnight mass. If you are serious, that is." They would see if she was. No one could control their origins, where they started in life and how they arrived to the portal into adulthood. What they did when they came to that threshold was the beginning of defining who they would be. Diana was young, and she had a sword over her head already, though whether she quite realised yet what the Resistance would ask of her, what the people needed from her, was anyone's guess. She seemed bright enough, healthy enough despite a lack of sunshine and open air. Maybe there was hope she could be more than a figurehead.

    Catching Byron's gaze, Horatia dipped her eyes below the rim of her cup and pretended not to see the look he was giving her. In the back of her mind she was still marking time. Joaquim was still gone, and she wondered what was keeping him.

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

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