[color=lightgray][h1][center][color=9354FF]Ryn[/color] & [color=ab274f]Prince Wulfric[/color] - Part I[/center][/h1]
[center][b][u][color=red]FLASHBACK:[/color][/u][/b] Sola, 27th[/center]
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Having arranged with Count Hendrix a day for their outing, Wulfric was waiting at the training area where they’d decided to meet that morning. He had arrived early, curious what reactions his disguise would garner. So far, no one had recognized him as a prince, so he was counting it as a success. Taking his previous experience acting as a ‘sell-sword’, he had arranged for second-hand leather armour of his size to be delivered to him. His own sabre was unfortunately too distinctive, so he had taken one of a less artisanal make. This was part of the reason he had chosen this location; he was testing the weight and handling of the unfamiliar weapon.

Besides the lower quality attire, his appearance was only slightly altered. He had told Curran he required a disguise for undercover work. The servant hadn’t asked questions, and had helped dye his hair and eyebrows a dark shade of umber with what he was told was a washable dye. His valet was skilled enough with makeup to subtly alter his features – a warmer face powder for the base, a strengthened jaw here, a few lines and shades to add some visual heft to his nose there, thickened eyebrows, penciled in hooded eyelids, and some other details had done the job. His hair had been styled differently, too. It had been mussed to give it a more unruly look, all of it brushed back, his customary side fringe gone. His tiny eyebrow scar had been deepened and lengthened to make it more apparent. Another mark to point to his ‘profession’, as it were.

A few more casual swings against the training dummy had him habituated to his sword. He switched it out with his side-arms next. A dagger sheathed at the small of his back, and a knife hidden within a boot. Both were adequate, which meant he could comfortably use them if he happened to have need of them. He sheathed his weapons, and engaged in a light stretching routine, biding his time until the count arrived.

What Wulfic didn’t realize was that the count was already there.

The early morning sun cast long shadows across the training yard as Ryn leaned against the fence, his eyes fixed on the figure before him. He had arrived earlier than the promised time, expecting to be the first one there. However, His Royal Highness was even more eager for their rendezvous. Prince Wulfric seemed utterly absorbed in his training, oblivious to his audience of one. Ryn watched, fascinated, as the prince tested an unfamiliar blade, his movements a study in controlled power.

When at last the sword was sheathed and stretches began, Ryn decided it was time to make his presence known. He pushed off from the fence, his boots crunched softly on the packed earth as he approached. [color=9354FF]“Morning, Adel,”[/color] he called out, using the pseudonym they had agreed upon. [color=9354FF]“That was some fine bladework. Though I couldn’t help but notice you’re favoring your right side a touch more than usual. Is the new sword throwing off your balance?”[/color]

[color=ab274f]“Good morning,”[/color] he replied as he completed the last few exercises. The count had made his steps audible this time. Based on where he’d come from, he had already been at the training area for some time. Wulfric could have sworn no one had been there, hadn’t heard him arrive, and hadn’t felt being watched at all. [color=ab274f]“You might have said sooner you were here,”[/color] he commented, and finally glanced at the count. An eyebrow raised, both at Fritz’s comment, and his modest attire. [color=ab274f]“A bit,”[/color] he agreed. That the count had not only managed to assess his usual style, but had also discerned the subtle differences in his handling now spoke of his skill. [color=ab274f]“It shouldn’t be a problem, but…Care for a spar?”[/color] he tried, a hint of intrigue sparking. He had felt challenged by Hendrix in other instances, so he was rather curious how a practice match with him would go.

[color=9354FF]“Only if you enjoy sparring with opponents who fall short of your skill.”[/color] Palms open, Ryn shrugged, [color=9354FF]“I fear I’d offer little challenge for you.”[/color]

[color=ab274f]“I do not believe you would make for a dull opponent, but I shan’t press.”[/color] He motioned with his head towards the slums. [color=ab274f]“Shall we?”[/color] He didn’t take the lead, because if he was to act as the count’s guard, he needed to keep Hendrix in his view.

[color=9354FF]“Ah,”[/color] Ryn raised a hand. [color=9354FF]“A moment.”[/color] 

He began to circle the prince, slow and deliberate. From a distance, his disguise was passable—worn leather armor and boots, a plain tunic and trousers, and a nondescript sword sold by the dozen. However…

Completing his circle, Ryn planted himself before Prince Wulfric. [color=9354FF]“Excuse me,”[/color] he murmured, reaching to test the material of the shirt between his fingers. Soft, finely-woven. His hand shifted to the leather armor—scratched, but beneath the wear, the hide was supple and expertly tanned. He could almost smell the richness of it.

Just as he suspected: second-hand, but high-quality. Perhaps too high-quality for where they were going.

[color=9354FF]“May I ask where these hand-me-downs came from?”[/color] 

Tilting his head, Wulfric observed the man as he circled him. He resisted the urge to turn around to keep him within sight. For better or worse, he [i]was[/i] getting used to Hendrix appearing out of nowhere, behaving oddly, and being in his proximity. Even so, he pinned the count with a habitual stare as he inspected his outfit. Fritz’s examination was entirely professional, revealing his mercantile roots as he explored the make of his apparel. He was tempted to capture the man’s wrist, but if he did [i]that[/i]…It was for the best he kept himself still. Subtle tension lined the prince’s body until the count stepped out of his personal space.

[color=ab274f]“I made several inquiries for the armour, but this particular piece is from Ser Warren. He purchased it for his son with the idea that he would follow his father’s footsteps, but Warren Jr. was ultimately headhunted for investigative work. This was a keepsake they didn’t mind me having,”[/color] he rolled a shoulder as he explained. [color=ab274f]“It was either this, newly made leather armour, a collector’s piece, or army surplus - all distinct one way or another. Why, do you have a preference?”[/color] 

When the title “Ser” was mentioned, Ryn smiled. [color=9354FF]“I don’t. However, you’re overdressed for the slums. Which usually leads to unwanted attention.”[/color] He took three measured steps backward, creating space between them. 

[color=ab274f]“Thus your choice to dress down,”[/color] he nodded at Hendrix’s clothes for the day. [color=ab274f]“You do not intend to make it apparent in any way whatsoever that you are a count or a merchant?”[/color] he checked. When Fritz confirmed that was the case, Wulfric grew thoughtful. [color=ab274f]“I see…”[/color] He watched the man for a moment longer. [color=ab274f]“Is the idea of me going as your guard not feasible then?”[/color] he questioned. [color=ab274f]“I doubt your everyday peasant could afford to hire someone for protection, or that they would have a reason to do so in the first place,”[/color] he noted. He had expected they would act as the count and his guard. However, Hendrix seemed to have something else in mind. Wulfric wasn’t comfortable with the idea of leaving behind his weapons or armour. Yet, if he wished to blend in, he would have to make concessions. Resigning himself to last-minute alterations with a light sigh, he prompted, [color=ab274f]“Do you have any suggestions?”[/color]

The furrowed contemplation etched across Prince Wulfric’s features drew Ryn forward—one measured pace, then another—until his hand could rest against the pauldron. [color=9354FF]“I suggest… you learn what life is like without the securities you’ve grown accustomed to.”[/color]

His fingers traced the intricate fastenings until they found the first of the buckles. [color=9354FF]“No armor to shield you.”[/color] The buckle came loose with a quiet sound. [color=9354FF]“No blade to ward off threats.”[/color] His hands sought the next fastening. [color=9354FF]“No coin to smooth your path.”[/color] The second buckle gave way. [color=9354FF]“Nor title to bend others to your will.”[/color]

[color=9354FF]“It’s time you saw this kingdom from the bottom.”[/color] Of course, even the slums they would visit today were not truly the bottom—not by far. But it was as close as they could reasonably get.

For now.

Wulfric tracked Hendrix’s movements, entranced. He was reminded of their dance, the intricate back and forth they had been entangled in unfolding yet again. A bracing touch to his shoulder, then the count’s hands were already working to unleash his straps one by one. Disarming him. [i]Unbinding[/i] him. Unearthing new possibilities. A frisson of excitement ran down his spine, electrifying. The awareness he had forcefully kept at bay surged forth as eager as flames stirred by a poker. He was [i]interested[/i] in this man, but not only that - Wulfric was [i]letting him in[/i]. Fritz had a way of working past his defenses, of testing boundaries, of shifting and blurring the lines until they could be crossed unnoticed. 

And [i]that[/i], that was…

[i]Dangerous.[/i]

[color=ab274f]“Careful.”[/color] A warning to them both. Listening to his earlier impulse, Wulfric grabbed Hendrix’s wrist, staying him from progressing any further. He was glad he was so practiced at controlling himself, truly. His expression and voice remained impassive, his breath even, his heartbeat steady. His muscles were taut, but that was the same as before. 

He didn’t care to test if the heat he felt could be sensed in his gaze, so before they could lock eyes, he released the count’s hand, and walked away. [color=ab274f]“I will get rid of these, then, shall I?”[/color] He gestured to his warrior’s equipment with a wave, a casual glance thrown across his shoulder. On the way towards the training hall - the sole building in the training area, which was used for storage and changing - he focused on his breathing to regain his equilibrium.

He did not take any longer than usual to take off the armour and weapons, but the familiar process centered his mind on what was important: the mission awaiting him. Really, that he was thrown off that easily showed one thing, and one thing only - it had been far too long since he had last visited his favoured escort agency. He would have to book an appointment one of these days. Right now, though, there was work to do.

Having paid off a groggy receptionist for the use of a secured locker to store his gear in, Wulfric emerged in his boots, trousers, and tunic only. He had carried a mere pouchful of silver with a couple of gold coins in the mix, an amount he had deemed minimal. Yet, when he’d passed it all to the receptionist in exchange for the locker’s key, insisting the man keep the extra as a tip, he’d been given a look that said was out of his mind. He was sure the worker had the impression some shady exchange might happen at the training hall, now. 

Oh, well.

The royal had achieved his goal, which was to divest himself of the money and the mercenary guise. He was sure he passed off as a peasant now. He strolled back to Hendrix, this time genuinely as unruffled as he appeared. [color=ab274f]“Well?”[/color] he questioned with a smirk, raising his arms, inviting observation and assessment.

There was something endearing in His Royal Highness taking such evident pride in looking perfectly ordinary. Ryn offered an approving nod.

[color=9354FF]“Much better,”[/color] he said, already shrugging out of his summer jacket—a well-worn piece of sturdy cotton, faded from its original forest green to the color of old moss, patched at the elbows and frayed just so at the cuffs, with brass buttons that had long since lost their shine. The garment, which had always hung somewhat loose on Ryn, settled perfectly across Prince Wulfric’s broader shoulders when he helped the prince into it. The prince’s shirt, while passable, still carried subtle hints of its finer origins in its weave. It was better to obscure the shirt as much as possible.

[color=9354FF]“And for the final touch.”[/color] Ryn dropped to one knee in the dirt and wrapped a hand around the prince’s ankle to guide his foot onto the propped knee with the practiced care of a bootblack preparing to earn his coin. But instead of polish and brushes, Ryn armed himself with a convenient stone and began systematically destroying several hundred gold’s worth of master cobbling. When the boot was sufficiently abused, he slathered a liberal coating of mud over his handiwork, working it into each crack and crevice until every scuff and scrape looked honestly earned.

The other boot received the same attentive ruination, his trouser knees collecting muck as he worked. Ryn paid no mind to it.

Wulfric raised an eyebrow as Hendrix went on to ruin his shoes, an amused smirk playing about his lips. Being coated with mud unexpectedly reminded him of Aiden. As a boy and a young man, his cousin was habitually mucky on account of his job. Nostalgia washed over him, and for a moment, he wondered what it would have been like if he was there to accompany them. He dismissed the idea with a huff, the wistfulness receding to the deepest recesses of his mind. When his second foot was released, Wulfric offered a hand up to the count. [color=ab274f]“Should I go roll over in a puddle of mud?”[/color] he joked. [color=ab274f]”Or have all the details been attended to?”[/color]

Ryn chuckled as he rose to his feet, brushing off the lingering dirt from his knees. [color=9354FF]“If we were aiming for true authenticity, we’d do better to purchase some from a citizen,”[/color] he said. [color=9354FF]“But I dare say we’ve tarried long enough.”[/color] His fingers found the flat brown cap tucked away in his pocket and settled it atop his head. [color=9354FF]“Shall we?”[/color]

[color=ab274f]“You say that as if we’re running late,”[/color] he quipped, amused. [color=ab274f]“But let’s.”[/color]

They emerged from the training grounds into the city. Morning crept across the city like spilled honey, golden and slow. Already the streets stirred with life. Shopkeepers threw open their shutters with wooden groans and metallic clinks. Chimney smoke rose in lazy spirals from breakfast fires and bakery ovens, while darker plumes surged upward from smithy forges. Market-bound carts clattered over the stones, their steady rhythm mixing with vendors calling greetings.

The street they walked down was familiar. It was in the so-called respectable part of the city, the baron’s estate at the tail end of it. However, traversing it on foot was a different experience. When Wulfric had to go somewhere, it was usually in a carriage or mounted. He had taken strolls, of course, but most often in the noble area or the merchant district. Treading upon the cobbled paths, he took in the waking city.

The scent of freshly baked bread drew in early risers on their way to work. Sizzled sausages, fluffy waffles, sandwiches, and more were offered on the go by tiny street-bound food stalls. A few patrons had settled down in cafés, coffee or tea in hand. A young news hawker was charming her way into more sales as she went from eatery to eatery, proprietors and regulars greeting her with a welcoming smile. A milkman was in the middle of his milk run, hand drawn wagon rattling behind him, ferrying secured churns. Many craftsmen were already working away in their shops, preparing for customers who would visit later in the day. 

Passing carriages forced pedestrians to the sides. On one such crossing, a man heading down the opposite way knocked shoulders with him, gave him a single angry look, and spat, [color=white]“[i]Watch out,[/i]”[/color] before hurrying along. A curious experience, that. The prince was not used to having to move out of anyone’s way. He remarked upon the action with a thoughtful hum, and moved on with a metaphorical shrug. He was in the guise of a peasant, so others had no reason to be so mindful.

[color=white]“‘Ats how they get ya,”[/color] an old man smoking a pipe in a shaded corner announced to him. He was leaning in a rickety chair which was as aged and worn as its occupant, a gray-haired and bearded vendor. He was minding a fish stall. Some fish were laid out on a limited stock of ice while others had been smoked or pickled. A few specimens were still alive, stored in containers of saltwater. 

[color=ab274f]“Pardon?”[/color] Wulfric turned to him with a puzzled smile.

[color=white]“Thugs. Some o’em look real nice, like that,”[/color] he pointed his chin at the departing gentleman in the distance. [color=white]“But they’ll knock in ya, fake a fall, drop some shit. Pretend yer at fault, demand you pay ‘em back. Miserable bullies, they are.”[/color] He took a drag of his pipe, blowing rings of smoke upwards. [color=white]“Best take care, lad.”[/color]

[color=ab274f]“Whereabouts?”[/color]

[color=white]“Hm?”[/color] The man opened his eyes slowly, not having expected the conversation to continue. He squinted at him, inspecting him. [color=white]“Hrm…Yer not from around here, aye?”[/color] It wasn’t a question. [color=white]“So, ‘ats why. Reckon’ ya were too cocky fer yer own ‘ood, or jus’ ‘ad yer ‘ead in th’ clouds, was tellin’ ya what type t’ avoid,”[/color] he shook his head, rambling half to himself. [color=white]“Yer [i]lookin’[/i] fer a fight?”[/color] 

[color=ab274f]“No fights,”[/color] he smiled. [color=ab274f]“Just gossip.”[/color]

[color=white]“Psshh,”[/color] he snorted. Spying a potential customer, he called out, [color=white]“FISH! FRESH CATCH O’ THE DAY!”[/color] He turned to the men. [color=white]“Now, if ya ain’t buyin’, [i]shoo[/i],”[/color] he waved them away, turning to his prospective buyer.

Ryn stepped forward before the conversation could wander off entirely. [color=9354FF]“Actually,”[/color] he said, [color=9354FF]“we were wondering if you might have any work going. Or know someone who does?”[/color] He gestured between himself and the prince. [color=9354FF]“We’re a bit short on coin.”[/color]

The old man’s pipe bobbed as his eyes moved from Ryn to Prince Wulfric and back again, like he was weighing fish on invisible scales. Whatever he saw apparently met some internal standard, because he took the pipe from his mouth and pointed it toward the waterfront. [color=white]“’Round the docks, they’s always needin’ muscle. Loadin’, unloadin’, that sort. Pay ain’t much, but it’s ’onest enough.”[/color] He paused. [color=white]“Usually.”[/color] He squinted at them again. [color=white]“Just don’t go askin’ too many questions ’bout what’s in them crates.”[/color]

Another customer approached, and the fishmonger’s attention snapped away. [color=white]“FISH! FRESH CATCH O’ THE DAY!”[/color] The fishmonger turned back to them and made shooing motions. [color=white]“Go on then, can’t stand ’ere gassin’ all day. Though…”[/color] He hesitated. [color=white]“If yer still ’bout later, might be worth stoppin’ by t’ Shack. Buy an old man a drink, ’ear what’s what.”[/color] He turned to his customer, dismissing them as thoroughly as if they had ceased to exist.

Ryn and Prince Wulfric exchanged glances. The docks it was, then.[/color]