The many courtiers and nobles staying at the castle were rudely awoken by the state of uproar the guards were in. Heads poked out of doors systematically along the corridors as the guards ran through and shouted to each other.
"What's going on...?" The songstress asked when she looked out. The guard captain stopped and bowed his head.
"Apologies, mi'lady. There is a rogue running loose in the castle. The guards have been ordered by our liege to hunt them down." He clarified. And just like speaking of the Daeva, King Damien swept through the corridors himself, aided by his personal royal guards. Upon seeing him, the guard captain stiffened to attention like a saluting statue. Damien did not look pleased, and the look demonstrated it.

The king saw how the guards were still searching frantically, and he turned to his guard captain.
"This-- Is an embarrassment." Damien remarked coldly to the captain. "I am only mildly disappointed now, seeing your men have not found the rogue." He began softly. "So I want you to imagine where you will be when I am very disappointed that you have not only failed to bring the rogue before me, but also allowed more slip-ups in security." Damien coldly described the severity of the issue to his guard captain. He brought his face up to his with the full bear of the King's gorgon-like gaze. "Double. The efforts. And then double the security. I will not witness another foolish chase like this, for your sakes." Damien put simply.

The guard captain could not be any stiller, as though even his breath and pulse had ceased for a moment.
"Y-Yes... Sire." He barely managed. The king said nothing more and then withdrew. The guard captain broke for breath as Damien looked at all the nobles.
"Back to bed, all of you!" He commanded. The courtiers and nobles begrudgingly obeyed. "I want my royal guards on duty around my quarters until dawn comes. I will not have this rogue take my life tonight if that is the case." Damien relayed to his personal guards, who nodded silently and followed their liege. The rest of the guards continued to search the castle, well into the early hours of the morning, before finally giving room for rest and laying down their torches in admitted failure to catch the rogue.

As she she had spoken the last words Thrack dashed towards her. She pulled the sword free of her back, and held it as high up as she could when it suddenly burst into flames. The crowd of Netixels around all wowed and started shouting for the fight to begin. But the flames didn’t matter and turmoil around Tikki didn’t matter. . What mattered was the target ahead.

An enormous thirst for blood shot through her and as the sword, as Gram spoke a sense of power tingled in her grip and she did what she was told and adjusted accordingly. He was right. The grip now felt stronger and just as Tikki was about to run through Thrak, her father gripped her shoulder and in the movement she swung the sword at him overwhelmed by the swords emotions as if they were her own. She didn’t even realize that she had cut down her own father, because immediately after, Kurîl had dashed towards her tackling her sideways knocking the air out of her.

Quickly before she fell off, she used the sword and drove it into the branch, then looked up to see Kurîl. He looked frightened. Burned and cautious, but oh so frightened, and instead of worrying for her cousin, Tikki smiled and was just about to pull the sword out to continue the slaughter.

However he was faster and despite the flames licking Kurîl he called out at her
“This is NOT RIGHT. Your father…! You struck him down..!” then he backed away with a whimper as the flames took its toll on him and he couldn’t resist the pain any more.
“I DON’T CARE” Tikki screamed back. “None of you have EVER believed me! NEVER HAVE YOU! “ she gasped for air as she spoke in such rage, and anger. “I am NOT weak! I am Smart, strong and trustworthy! But you fools couldn’t see any of it and only saw my differences instead of my strengths! You better apologize or Ill make sure NOTHING is left.”

The guard captain stopped to address Mirabelle,
"Apologies, mi'lady. There is a rogue running loose in the castle. The guards have been ordered by our liege to hunt them down." He clarified. And just like speaking of the Daeva, King Damien swept through the corridors himself, aided by his personal royal guards. Upon seeing him, the guard captain stiffened to attention like a saluting statue. Damien did not look pleased, and the look demonstrated it. Mirabelle held onto her expression of confusion, even though part of her wanted to gut the King there and then. Such a careless and wild thought was unbecoming, yet all the righteousness of accomplishing it seemed to outweigh it.

The king saw how the guards were still searching frantically, and he turned to his guard captain.
"This-- Is an embarrassment." Damien remarked coldly to the captain. "I am only mildly disappointed now, seeing your men have not found the rogue." He began softly. "So I want you to imagine where you will be when I am very disappointed that you have not only failed to bring the rogue before me, but also allowed more slip-ups in security." Damien coldly described the severity of the issue to his guard captain. He brought his face up to his with the full bear of the King's gorgon-like gaze. Mirabelle's eyes soured at the sight. "Double. The efforts. And then double the security. I will not witness another foolish chase like this, for your sakes." Damien put simply.

The guard captain could not be any stiller, as though even his breath and pulse had ceased for a moment. Mirabelle thought it was no different to mental torture.
"Y-Yes... Sire." He barely managed. The king said nothing more and then withdrew. The guard captain broke for breath as Damien looked at all the nobles.
"Back to bed, all of you!" He commanded. The courtiers and nobles begrudgingly obeyed. Mirabelle followed suit and shut her door as Damien spoke. "I want my royal guards on duty around my quarters--" The door knocked and locked shut. Mirabelle then moved toward her bed and pulled away the disturbed covers. She sighed softly and then slipped into bed, the meeting of midnight still fresh on her mind. Who are you...? She asked the deep reaches of her mind, as the symbol of the seal burned into her closed eyes. She fell asleep thereafter.
________________________________________

Papa! Papa! I'm going to find you, papa!
... Are you here in the rose bushes? ... No... Too thorny. You wouldn't hide here...
... Maybe you're hiding behind the big apple tree! ... I found you papa!

Your turn!

"Alright, pup! I'll count to 30 then! Go hide!"

Heheheeheehe! No peeking!

"... One...! Two...! Three...! Four...!"

The blackness melted away, and his face glanced back at Phillip, a smiling child running through the apple orchard. It was summer, and everything was so bright, it burned into Phillip's mind.The vision soon became only white light.

"F-Five... Six... Seven... Eight... Nine... T-Ten..."

Visions of the battlefield returned. The sound of ground being trampled like thunder and horses neighing like banshees on the wind. The battle horns blared as Phillip watched his lance glide towards his foes. The vision then became white light once more as his lance splintered upon steel.

"Eleven... T-Twelve... Thirteen... Fourteen... Fifteen... S-S... Sixteen..."

The light fell into shining stars that sparkled across midnight's dark curtain, as the full moon shone light into the rose garden court. Phillip watched as his beloved wife twirled at his fingertips, her soft countenance and gentle expression brought tears to his eyes, and the blurriness faded once more into the light.

"Seventeen... Eighteen... Nineteen... Twenty..."

The light was blinding as Phillip stepped out from the darkness to the head of the tournament grounds, and looked out to his people cheering from the stands. He raised his hands, and they all went wild in cheering his name in an almost fanatical chant. The vision once again faded to white.

"Twenty-One... Twenty-Two... Twenty-Three... Twenty-Four... Twenty-Five..."

I'll be fine, father.

"Anton... No..."

As Phillip counted, the last vision unfolded to him. It was the battlefield once again, but it was not a battle he recalled.

"Twenty-Six...

Once more, the ground was pounded, and the horses neighed. But the sounds were only a sad shadow of the glory days past. It was not a thunder, nor banshees upon the wind. It was a solemn place filled with only rain.

"Twenty... Twenty-Seven...

The pace then quickened as the shouts of men filled the air, and echoes of familiar voices filled the air.
"He's still only a boy! You can't do this!"
"He was conscripted by the King's mandate..."
"I am... Very sorry... Old friend..."
Phillip watch as the soldier whose eyes he looked through raised his lance, lifted to the battle cry honouring the King Vertreaux.

"Twenty-Eight...

The soldier charged forward with all the others, forward unto the mist and rain that concealed the enemy. Arrows were fired from the obscurity and brought down mighty chevaliers by their horses. Phillip then recognized the cry of the soldier, and his heart sank.

"Twenty-Nine..."

More than ever he wanted to cry for his son to stop, but he had no place in this world... Never had he a place to do anything once his son had departed, and forward unto the mists of fate. Phillip could only watch... Watch as his son rode toward the line of rebel archers hiding behind a mound, when the line of spearmen leaped up and raised the wall of spikes that signified any charger's doom. It was all too sudden, and as the sound of spear piercing right through horseflesh sounded, Phillip saw only sudden red and heard the agonizing cry of his son as a spear went right through his gut, impaling him.

".... T-Th... Thirty..."

The battlefield was gone, and Phillip stood once more in the apple orchards. But the days of summer had fled and escaped him. He finished his count and opened his eyes, and saw no longer the bright vibrant world he once knew, but a desolate overcast day of winter. Soft flakes of snow began to fall gracefully from the skies above, and tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked upon a lonely grave beneath the great apple tree.

"... I... I found you... Anton..."

Forgive me...

A thunder clap the sound of Ylath's dying roar woke Phillip to his senses. He sat up straight and true, short of breath and eyes wide as fish's own. He took quick breaths, and looked around his room, darkness encompassing him and only fleeting when lightning streaked the Ravenfellan skies. When he finally realized it was all a dream, Phillip fell down flat on his back once more, and rolled onto his side. The vision of the lonely grave still stayed fresh in his mind, and the memories plagued his rest. He closed his eyes and groaned quietly, unsure of how he still goes on.
"Just another night... In the land of nightmares..." Phillip muttered to himself. He sighed and tried to return. Not to nightmares, but to night's rest.

Surtr wasn't sure who he had just killed. And he didn't care. It tasted blood, and as the crimson vitality boiled around him, the weapon cried out in excitement, having been fed for the first time in a long time. It was the succulent flavour of a tormented soul, the irresistible tang of violent death. The blade's warcry was terrifying, and silent. "Oh, do that again. Please? Slay another. Slice them in half, gut them like pigs, slaughter these lambs, led so far astray." he whispered into his wielder's mind. Then he heard her cries. She screamed at the one who seemed to like her. The one that wanted to help. He had everything he needed now. Nothung grinned, or would have, were a sword capable of such facial expressions. "They don't care about you." it whispered into the woman's mind. "Look at them, they think you mad. And they still don't believe you. Even as you blaze with righteous flame, they refuse to accept it." the weapon whispered louder as it spoke, encouraging the madness in his wielder. The wicked thing cackled to itself as it continued to sow unrest in the mind of its owner. "Look at them. All convinced you're weak. None of them trust you. That look in their eyes, it's not fear. Look at them. They don't trust you. They thing you're a stupid, weak little girl. Show them. Slay them all. Show them your strength. I am your friend, would I lie to you? Let me show you how strong you are. Cut them down..."

Even as he spoke, Gram grew lighter, easier to wield. But with every passing second, his power faded. Starving from going so long unblooded, trapped in a cave, the sword could only maintain its violence for so long. But if she kept killing. If this would could keep killing... Oh the things he could do for her. But these ones had to die. The blade was sure he could convince her, he just needed her to take the first few steps down the dark path. Once that was done, it would be an easy task to shove her off the cliffs of madness. Soon enough, weapon and wielder would change roles. It was never very hard. Especially with troubled individuals like this one. But he'd never converted a woman before. They had strange wills, and stranger minds. That didn't worry the weapon, but it made for a new experience. "Kill them. Kill them all. Gut them, flay them, take off their heads. Run them through, for the sakes of all the gods. Please... Let me taste them..." Surtr was not about to put up with hesitation and conversation, and other "tion"-based nonsense. It needed slaughter, it was was prepared to pull some strings and blatantly lie, and do other, more underhanded things just to taste the gore of the slain once more. This wasn't the sort of Frazettan masterpiece the sword imagined when it thought of the sort of violence it desired. But it would be sufficient, it supposed. More than that, even. A blood-soaked princess was probably more attractive than some axe-wielding barbarian anyway. Certainly, if both were standing atop a mountain of corpses, he'd pick the former. The fact that the barbarian already had an axe notwithstanding. This all hinged on his wielder actually slaying all these people, though. Dying a second death by starvation thanks to her sluggishness was not going to go over well. Though he supposed it would give him a chance to find someone more suited to the task, if she couldn't pull it off. "Kill them. Nothing but liars, cheats, and traitors. They hate you. Show them your strength." he encouraged, eager for the slaughter, even as his flames began to fade, albeit unnoticeably slowly...

Date - 16th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 6:14 AM, Middas, Morning
Location - Province of Ravenfell, Capital-City of Arthroyeaux, Royal Court of Arthroyeaux

The storm from the east passed over Arthroyeaux swiftly as it has come, going by mostly unnoticed in the early hours of the morning. There were no thunderclouds to be seen well by the time the sun rose. The first rays of dawn lit the skies and cast long shadows from buildings and trees all over. The palace guard had continued to patrol the castle at all hours and maintaining their perpetual pattern of security.

The nobles would not wake for a while yet, aside from the early birds. Damien, on the other hand, was more than awake at this time. He was already up and dressed for the new day to begin. This was routine rather than sudden happening, as Damien enjoyed having as much time to think and ponder. He did not fancy waiting in court in the morning and afternoon to address the concerns of nobles outside of court.

However, Middas was one of three days each week that the courts opened for the citizens to visit their lords the Barons and Baronets. In Damien’s case, it was the upper class citizens who came to the palace to visit him, and either complain about ridiculous levies or horrible living conditions. It was annoying, but Damien couldn’t possibly organize for all the complaining nobles to be assassinated.

Actually, I could. However, they provide too much income and ‘loyalty’ for me to viably consider having them all killed. Damien noted in his mind. He shrugged and turned away from his window, having satisfied his time of thought and viewing of the capital. He then made his way around the palace to sort a few affairs before breakfast.
__________________________________________

Date - 16th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 6:18 AM, Middas, Morning
Location - Province of Ravenfell, Capital-City of Arthroyeaux, The Loving Rose

Rays of sunlight streamed through the window and through cracks between curtains, striking across the bed of lovers on the second floor of the inn. There, a brutish orc warrior lay naked beneath the sheets, snoring loudly like any orc would. Beside the warrior, was an Argonian masseur, also void of clothes and lied upon his side upon rich bed sheets. His tail was curled over the snoring orc warrior, as the Argonian wide awake held his head aloft with his hand and stared at the window. He took deep and satisfied breaths, pleased that he could sleep enough regardless of the orc’s loud sleeping noise.

The Argonian then got out of bed gently, so not to rouse the orc warrior. He watched the sleeping orc as he moved around the room, careful not to trip over any bits of armour carelessly tossed aside during moments of passion. The masseur then found the orc’s coinpurse and other valuables, choosing to help himself to some ‘tips’ that the orc could not possibly miss. When the masseur was done, he moved over to the curtains and drew them wide open. Light flooded the room, but the orc still did not wake from his slumber.

The masseur said nothing, but wandered over again to the orc’s side. The Argonian then laid there beside him once more, facing his lover of the morning and tracing his cold fingertip across the warrior’s broad shoulders.

“Wakey, wakey, my orc warhorse.” The Argonian playfully crooned, and the orc shivered slightly, waking a little to the voice of the masseur.
“Uuungh… Wha—Flicks?” He groaned loudly. The Argonian nodded with a smile, and sprawled himself gently over the orc’s chest.
“Yes, Flicks-His-Tail is still here with his orc warhorse.” The Argonian reassured sweetly, and waited for his lover to be able to get out of bed.
__________________________________________

Date - 16th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 6:30 AM, Middas, Morning
Location - Province of Ravenfell, City of Marceilles, Dancing Plate Inn

Lamont awoke to the sound of birds chirping outside his window. He shook his head as he felt under his pillow, feeling satisfied upon touching what the rapier in its leather coverings was. He pulled it out as he sat up in bed, yawning a little and getting up slowly.
“This doesn’t compare at all to the bed at home…” He murmured groggily, before wandering over to the wash bucket.

Lamont doused his face with water and rubbed it clean, before shaking his head free of the droplets. He looked into the mirror on the wall, thinking about how he was going to approach the baron. He tilted his head, and then smiled charmingly.
“My name is Lamont DuFairre, son of the true king—“ Lamont then dropped the smile as his lips curled. “No, that won’t do…” He scolded himself. He then closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again to a Lamont with a look of confidence. “I am Lamont DuFairre, the true heir to the Ravenfellan throne!” Lamont announced to himself. He stood there for a few moments, staring at himself, before sighing and dropping the confidence he held. “This is going to be a little harder to get across than I thought…” Lamont remarked. He then shook his head and started washing up. He aimed to make himself presentable to court, since it was the day court was open for those with concerns.

Evelyn was up early, but the kiss still gripped her chest and she was in no mood to talk to anyone. Last night burned freshly in her mind, and the shattered remains of the wine bottle could still be seen below her window. She felt cold, apathetically so. 

Oh, and not to forget about the little panic of an 'intruder' last night, Evelyn didn't bother sticking her head out her study when the bell sounded. Rushed footsteps swept past her door, but she already knew whoever they were trying to find was long gone. 

Considering the fact that a warm bath might loosen her up for her meeting with Kester, Evelyn summoned a servant to start her bath. She enjoyed her private bathroom, it had marble floors and a large, deep basin in elegant design that was ideal to soak in. After the servant derobed the elf and guided her to the tub, Evelyn requested that the blinds be drawn and for more candles to be brought in. 

Sitting back neck-deep in steamy water, Evelyn remembered why she enjoyed baths in the semi-darkness. Little candlelights twinkled from all parts of the room, on tables and along the floor. Water lapped against her body, echoing off the stone walls in the quiet silence. She sighed, leaning her head back. Palace life had its perks, which she indulged occasionally. But the heat of the water could not melt away the chill at her core, and she frustratedly got out after twenty minutes and toweled herself off. 

In freshly cleaned Mage robes, Evelyn put the gold earrings back in her pointed ears and ran a brush through her silvery hair. Cool eyes stared back at her from the mirror. She tried a smile, and although it felt hollow, the mirror convinced her she meant it. Satisfied, Evelen moved to her study and rang for a servant to bring up breakfast. She would take it in here while she waited for Kester. If he doesn't bother showing up I'll go see Lucius or something.

Mirabelle awoke briskly from her peaceful slumber, forgetful of the events of late last night. She stretched her arms out and yawned cutely, covering her mouth suddenly out of habit. She then stood up to her feet, and opened her windows to gaze out from her room. She sat by the windowsill for a moment, simply staring at the sight of Arthroyeaux at morning with a content smile. The peaceful picturesque scene was enough to brighten Mirabelle's day immediately. She remained satisfied with a moment of procrastination in favour of enjoying the sight, before soon after deciding it would be better to make the most of her time.

Mirabelle caught one of the servants wandering the corridors, and requested for her bath to be ready. She then proceeded to pick out her garments for the day and then make her bedsheets on her own. Mirabelle preferred to reduce the work of the servants as much as possible, partly out of empathy but also out of necessity to avoid an inquisitive servant snooping around her belongings.

The servant returned eventually with fresh towel and two other servants with buckets of hot and cold water, and together the three of them made sure Mirabelle's bath was ready to be used. She briefly requested a light breakfast to be brought up, before thanking and dismissing the servants. Once they had left, Mirabelle slipped off her dressing gown and stepped into her bath, soaking up in the steamy water and using the soap to her hygiene.

Once she was done, Mirabelle dried herself fully with her towel, putting on her emerald leaf-green dress and put on her green slippers. She neatened up her bathing area and looked for her lute. There she sat once more by the windowsill, gently plucking at the strings and humming in absent-minded melody as she waited for her breakfast to arrive.
_______________________________

Phillip sat alone in the dining room, as nobody else who would normally join him for breakfast was up at so early an hour. Only the cooks who were still busily cooking his morning meal were up as early as he, and even then they had not woken before the lord. The baron had once again had a sleepless night, concluded only upon sunrise and the chirping of the early birds by his window. He had attended to his own bath and personal grooming on his own, and readied himself before heading to the dining room. Now he sat and waited, reading a certain book he had brought downstairs with him.

It was not random at all, as he had kept this book in a particular place for him to find at any time. He had recently been inspired to read once more of the tale of Avaddon the Revenant Mistwraith, detailed in the book titled "The Vengeance of Mistchapelle". Phillip recalled being told the tale once or twice, over a campfire on a night before the Battle of Mistchapelle. His fellow Chevalier Bannerets taught him of a fabled warrior who boasted a chevalier's prowess wielding the powers of fate.

As far as Phillip read through the book, it tells of how the Revenant Mistwraith was once the chevalier Aventine Vestille, son of Baron Vestille, the lord of Mistchapelle. The early chapters illustrated the life of honour and virtue Aventine lead with a stalwart heart, sworn to uphold his father's name and serve his father's kingdom. It was all embellished with court life and the all-too familiar Bretonian politics and intrigue, and Phillip felt as though he could imagine what was to happen next in ever chapter. The current chapter illustrated a plot by secretive figures to murder the Baron Vestille, a scene of classical Bretonian origins. The presence of treachery and dishonourable plots disgusted Phillip within, but he evermore wished to read to the end.

Eventually, kitchen servants brought out Phillip's morning meal of toasted manchet with butter and honey, with a side of poached quail eggs. Phillip did not close his book, and simply slipped it to the side. He continued to read as he began to eat, and was careful not to make a mess upon the delicate pages.

Date - 16th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 6:21 AM, Middas, Morning
Location - Province of Ravenfell, Capital-City of Arthroyeaux, Royal Court of Arthroyeaux

Damien DuRant
Damien walked on through the hallways, accompanied by his personal guard. He was reading a letter he had found on his desk that morning. His face was stern, but devoid of real emotion, as he read the black writings upon parchment marked with the obscure seal.


Damien did not smile, but inside he felt gratified. He partly still fumed upon the inadequacy of his guard in detaining the rogues, but as the letter indicated, he was also partly pleased knowing that it was the best of the best, now at his beck and call.

It’s all falling into place…

He folded the letter many times, before visiting the dining room where he planned to dispose of the letter in flame, and then proceed with his day. He passed by nobody important on his way, just a few servants making the rounds and a boy whom he barely recognized as one of his courtiers.

__________________________________________
 
Date - 16th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 6:25 AM, Middas, Morning
Location - Province of Ravenfell, Capital-City of Arthroyeaux, Royal Court of Arthroyeaux

Leithe "Kester" Abaelard
Kester bowed his head sincerely as the king passed by, out of formality more than respect. As he expected, the king went by without even an acknowledgement of his presence, and that was all Kester could hope for. He kept walking quickly, anxious to visit Evelyn. After what happened last night, I have better chances being blown up than procrastinating and then having something terrible happen… He kept thinking.

He knew where the court mage resided. Despite still having been in court for only a fair while, Kester knew well enough where the truly important people take up residence in the palace, as well as where the amenities needed were placed.

As he travelled, Kester began to consider how he should approach the one he was indebted too, as he saw it. I haven’t even made an appointment… Divines know I of all people have any idea of how to approach a powerful mage… Kester thought to himself nervously. I even made note of what a terrible idea it would be coming so unannounced, but… He then shook his head. Ugh… No, I will just have to be honest and humble, just as father always said. Kester reaffirmed to himself.

He reached the ornate gateway to the court mage’s domain. Kester swallowed a lump in his throat once more, and then gathered the courage in his fist to knock upon the oaken doors. He then waited briefly for a response.
__________________________________________
 
Date - 16th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 6:41 AM, Middas, Morning
Location - Province of Ravenfell, Capital-City of Arthroyeaux, The Loving Rose

Flicks-His-Tail & Devlin Mallory
Flicks-His-Tail leaned in the doorway as he watched and waved goodbye to his love of the morning clunk out in the armour he walked in with. The Argonian masseur smirked and counted the coins he scored in his pouch, before leaving the room in a mess in his wake.

He shut the door closed and made sure the left curtain was let loose, before leaving the room for the caretakers to clean out the used sheets and deal with the mess. In the meantime, Flicks smiled, all cheered up for the morning ahead.

Flicks soon passed by Devlin, who was just letting loose his left curtain as well. The Argonian smirked at the Breton, passing him by without a greeting. Flicks did not think it was worth the time to strike up a conversation with such a reserved character, or at least not the time he could be spending on a delicious breakfast.

And Flicks always had an appetite for sweetrolls on the morning after.
__________________________________________

Date - 16th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 6:40 AM, Middas, Morning
Location - Province of Ravenfell, City of Marceilles, Dancing Plate Inn

Lamont DuFairre
Lamont kept practicing in front of the mirror, trying to find the right approach for what he imagined a stern and respected baron. But no matter how much heart or soul he put into it, he always felt a little shallow by the end, and scrapped the approach in favour of a new and inevitably disappointing introduction. There was a knock on his door after a while, and Lamont sighed once more in resignation.
“Who is it?” He asked as he fixed his doublet.
“It’s just me, Roland!” A familiar voice replied.
“Oh, come in.” Lamont uttered.

The door opened, and Roland stepped into the room. Lamont looked to him and smiled, finished with his attire. He held his arms out.
“Well?” He inquired briefly. “Do I look the part?” Roland smirked.
“Like the lost prince I imagined when I agreed to this quest.” Roland replied. Lamont chuckled and turned back to the mirror.
“I won’t be a lost prince anymore, I can tell you that.” Lamont murmured happily.

Roland held his smirk and shrugged.
“We’re having breakfast downstairs. Come join us so we can get it over with and head to the castle.” Roland told him, before leaving the room. Lamont nodded before he left, and then stared at his reflection in the mirror. He finally half-smiled and decided that being himself was good enough for him.
__________________________________________

Date - 15th Dawn's Light (April), Year 547 of the 2nd Era
Time - 3:47 PM, Tirdas, Afternoon
Location - Province of Ravenfell, Near Arthroyeaux, Netixel Haven

Tikki Siagathar
"Oh, do that again. Please? Slay another. Slice them in half, gut them like pigs, slaughter these lambs, led so far astray." The sword whispered. Tikki ignored him briefly, bellowing with all her rage at her cousin for recognition, and gratification, at the threat of destroying everything she knew without even a flicker of regret.

"They don't care about you." The sword whispered to Tikki. "Look at them, they think you mad. And they still don't believe you. Even as you blaze with righteous flame, they refuse to accept it." the weapon whispered louder as it spoke, encouraging the madness in his wielder. Tikki shook her head, as everything began to blank out in her head. Kuril’s lips were moving in pleading motion, but she heard nothing of what he said.

"Look at them. All convinced you're weak. None of them trust you. That look in their eyes, it's not fear. Look at them. They don't trust you. They think you're a stupid, weak little girl. Show them. Slay them all. Show them your strength.” The sword continued to whisper. Tikki hesitated and relaxed her grip on the sword, her stance lowering.
“But… But…” She began, the rage in her voice faded slightly.
“I am your friend, would I lie to you?” The sword reassured. As you he spoke, he felt lighter, easier to wield. “Let me show you how strong you are. Cut them down..." The sword ordered, and Tikki already felt the rage run through her veins again.
“You… Are my only friend…” She murmured.

“-- Please stop this Tikki!” Tikki head Kuril cry out. The flames began to fuelled by the anger she felt as the memories of being reprimanded came flooding back from the one statement.
“NO!” She screamed with an unholy pitch, her cry echoing through the forest as the flames became the fury of the hells.
"Kill them. Kill them all.” The sword hissed as Tikki flew at her new-found enemies, the fear in Kuril’s eyes just bleeding with terror as the sword reached for him. "Gut them, flay them, take off their heads.” The sword continued to chant, hinting of a dance of death. Tikki’s once timid nature was replaced with an unseen and unexpected possession to destroy and maim. “Run them through, for the sakes of all the gods. Please... Let me taste them..." The sword continued to plead. Tikki pulled the sword free from her cousin, her second victim.

But she did not stop there, not even as he fell to his knees and began to succumb to a singed and fatal wound dealt by such a blade. Tikki did as the sword bade her to, kicking her cousin over and slashing at his guts, before swiping off his head with a swing of her weapon. As the blood of her kin stained the sword, so too did the flames like that of a pyre began to reignite and burn so much brighter than before. But it wasn’t enough.
"Kill them. Nothing but liars, cheats, and traitors. They hate you. Show them your strength." The sword encouraged. Tikki turned to the rest of her kin, who were now more frightened than awed as they were before. The rage in her eyes were that of a demon, the hunger found in her bared teeth was insatiable, and the blood of her own family that stained her body and clothes was a sight that only nightmares could conceive. Even Thrak, who was intent on taking her down before was now beyond all delusion of stopping the monster he saw before him at this moment.

They began to distance themselves at first, and this only made Tikki angrier. With another furious roar, she leapt at the rest of them, only to be satisfied when Netixel blood rained from the sky and soaked into the soil of their home. It was long until the storm would come to wash away the blood that Tikki would stop, her sword driven into the last Netixel she could catch and murder.

The rest had fled, like a flight of crows from a master that even they feared. And by the end, the flames still burned bright in the darkness of the stormy night. Tikki only stared at the flames of the sword, her eyes now blank and face stained with crimson and dripping with rain and tears as she would begin to realize what she had done.

And how much she had relished in it.

The violence was glorious. The arterial spray was a cathartic release that the weapon had not expected for a very long time. The relief was blissful, but when his wielder did not cease the senseless murdering, the entirely uncalled-for slaughter of her friends and relatives, Gram felt his strength returning. He felt the pit of rage, that tiny, blazing star of hate filling with power. There was no better feeling, than that of hot blood, spilled from the heart of some poor bastard, running down his length, the ruddy fluid coating him in its coppery tang. A sword could know no greater ecstasy than that of being shoved to the hilt into an enemy, of being soaked in the vitality of those that were not its wielder. Surtr Nothung knew such pleasure once more, and the weapon cried out in victory.

The fire that bathed the blade and its wielder faded away as the pair observed their victory. This woman had vanquished her enemies, and seen them driven before her. All she was missing was the sound of their women lamenting. He supposed she also missed her opportunity to enslave the survivors, but he didn't much care about that. The weapon only wanted to deal death and taste the end of life. What went on in between wasn't really his concern. Being a sword, there was not much else to be concerned about. "You did it." Gram encouraged as Tikki observed what she had done. "It was gorgeous. Glorious. You're a hero now!" the blade praised the woman who gripped it, but it was quickly realizing that she wasn't going to be too happy about things, if the tears in her eyes were any indication. She had slain her own family, after all. That was okay, though, that just gave her less reason to go back to them. Now she could safely wander the world, and become a peerless warrior. Or find him one. Either way, Surtr was not about to fade into history so soon. He wanted to be the weapon of the world's deadliest warrior. If that was not this slip of thing, the bird-girl adventurer who had taken things to far, well, that wasn't his problem.

"This is your chance, my dear. Your opportunity! Excelsior! Carpe diem! Carry this victory onward! Let us rout the world with our might! Bathe me in enough blood, and you'll be invincible! Immortal! Keep going, and I can grant you any wish!" the blade was straight up lying at his point. It had worked before, so it saw no reason to not try it again. Every adventure seemed to start this way, with the delectable slaughter of an innocent family. Their succulent flesh rent asunder by the unstoppable weapon. An act so horrible that his wielder saw no reason to even try to repent. And his promise of wishes was a good one. Hoping for the impossible, the one who held the blade would slaughter hundreds, thousands, trying to bring them all back to life. And with a little encouragement. One more soul! Two more souls, and I can do it all! they would continue forever. Nothung would never be satisfied, though. And it would never have enough souls to bring those it had slain back to life.

No one had to know that, though. They just had to swing him in anger. As long as the blade flashed through the air on wings of rage, as long as its fire burned with hatred and blood was spilled in the name of anything, the sword was unstoppable. All it took was a little push. Once his wielder began to descend into madness, everything else would just fall into place, like the necks of the damned, awaiting execution...

There was a knock on the door and Mirabelle stood to her feet.

"Yes?" She called to the door.
"Your breakfast, mi'lady!" a servant replied. Mirabelle put her lute aside and stepped towards the door to open it. There, the servant girl stood with the silver tray of breakfast and tea for the morning. Mirabelle took the tray graciously, bowing her head to the servant who went on her way. Mirabelle then sat on her bed with the tray on the side. All she requested for breakfast was an apple, porridge and tea on the side. She worked away at the porridge, taking her time as she was free to do so, leaving her tea to cool until second, before finishing with the apple.

Once she was done with the porridge and tea, she set the tray down nearby neatly for a servant to pick up. She then took the apple and headed off on her way after taking her lute with her under arm.

_______________________________

When he had finished his breakfast, it was still early for Phillip's court members to awaken and even earlier still for him to address court. However, he felt that there was not much else for him to deal with before he addressed court and citizens in need. There never was, and Phillip was never one to believe in free time. Not once in two years time has free time ever meant anything.

He took his mind off it once he closed his book, and then departed for the great hall. The good side to opening to audience early was being able to address many more issues than he would normally do. There, he sat upon his throne and called for audiences to be opened for any who wished to visit and bring their problems before him.