Fuzzybootz
FernStone
SkullsandSlippersThe hanging gardens of the Palais de Voltas proved a wonder in itself and given the right conditions could almost rival those of Semiaramis. The trees, greeneries, and finely trimmed fauna proved as much a reference towards a desert oasis as it did a work of art and the marble bench seats lining the circular center allowed its visitors a chance to enjoy the cool shade and frothing ponds. The mid-morning had not seen many visitors, save the gardening crews and passing servants, however, one particular woman separated from the rest.
Her shoulder length brunette hair draped past her face, covering her back and the finely tailored, emerald green dress only served to expose her elevated status. Her finely sculpted face proved a stark difference given its partial silk shawl veiling and through the cascading sunlit rays, light cast across the marble rim seat to betray the wet tears flowing down her face. Her hands shuddered as her fingers gently trailed along the water's edge, attracting several exotic colored fish to her finger. She smiled only briefly as the chilling waters served to numb her flesh and as the little fish began to nip, a tear escaped to splatter across the pond. In an instant, the fish scattered, leaving the woman alone to once again address her own miseries.
Sobbing gently, the girl removed her hand to flick water droplets across the lily-laden pond. The morning would be long and arduous as they had been for the past ten or eleven years following her marriage to Lord Eyrial Elireth. Since that fateful day and her brother's departure, the beatings had only served as a reminder as to the fate Valanians suffered following its downfall. With each passing minute, Ryanna Le Cross wondered when she would ever find happiness ... or the arrival of two men, one of whom she had not been seen for over a decade. She'd had not seen her brother in person, though rumors of his feats amongst the resistance had begun to circulate through many courtly ears. Lucius Le Cross continually remained largely absent and this day proved no different. He had neither appeared, nor issued letters and every night had ended in tears and longing for his return.
The other man she was certain to reside elsewhere on his own business affairs. She could not blame him nor his absence, but the spark he brought each encounter had served to re-ignited a part of her she'd believed to have perished so long ago.
"Ryanna! I did not expect to see you here, what brings you to the Lord Sovereign's palace?"
The girl gasped as a shadow darkened around her form and found both terror and delight immediately filling her senses. One moment she was alone and the next, he'd appeared out of thin air. It was almost as if magic had appeared on a whim. It couldn't be true; or could it? Was she, Ryanna Elireth beginning to lose her mind? Misshapen thoughts and doubts swirling through her mind quickly surfaced only to disappear upon finding a warm and comforting hand grasp around her shoulder. It almost seemed to perfect and timely as the sounds of the frothing fountain coursed through the serene courtyard.
"Milady," the man gently addressed as his reflection appeared over the rippling water's edge, "Are you alright?" His straight, long blonde hair, towering complexion, and piercing, dark blue eyes only proved to melt her fluttering heart and shortly after seating along the fountain pond's, marble rims, the girl's breath almost caught in her throat.
Puttering, her lips whimpered as the morning's still fresh memories of Eyrial's fury had once again shattered her spirit. And yet, here Pontius was, gentle, caring, and a comforting presence. It was almost enough to erase the violated shadow that composed the previous fifteen years of her life. Alerting and possibly re-igniting Eyrial's wrath would not serve her well despite the former Valdemarian's gifted presence.
"My good Duke," she slowly answered after a time. The words leaving her lips arrived slow and somewhat composed, yet upon each passing moment, Pontius' expression grew worrisome, "It ... would please me ... if you would allow me a moment. I am not well and it's unlady-like to appear before you in such a manner ..."
"I digress, I am a stranger to courtly customs and cannot fathom what would suit properly esteemed manners, although I cannot help, but to ask what it is y..."
Pontius' words completely trailed as his gaze spotted strange features along the girl's face, earning her embarrassed expression. "Milady, your face! You ... oh Athirat be damned ... you cannot be serious." Sighing, the towering aristocrat stole a glance towards the garden's vacant passageways as he rose to beckon her away from the fountain pond's edge. Much to his relief, Ryanna did not object allowing the Duke's fingers to curl around the girl's hands.
"Servant! Servant, I beseech you," Pontius beckoned, attracting a young, pot carrying servant's attention, "I require a water pitcher filled in heated water and clean hand towels."
"My good Duke, please," Ryanna protested as her face delivered a fearful expression, "Lord Elireth will know of this and..."
"By Athirat, milady," Pontius scolded upon inspecting the dark red marks, bruises, and cuts covering girl's face. "Your eyes have swollen red and cuts are dotting your face. Let us speak elsewhere and away from prying eyes."
The aristocrat gently grasped the girl's hand and upon guiding towards a secluded location under a shaded pomegranate tree, Pontius' shoulder glances swept across the outward openings before his hands once again brushed gently along Ryanna's quivering form. As tears began to stream down her face, the Valdemarian's caring gaze seemed to pierce right through her form, allowing her quivering to slowly cease. It was after Pontius reserved a moment to caress his thumb along Ryanna's face to wipe away her tears that a heart throbbing gasp escaped her lips and in that very moment under the tree that she felt every fiber of being belonging to him; and she held absolutely no regrets.
"Answer me, milady," he firmly inquired upon summoning the arriving servant girl. Following a generous gold offering to complement the servant's troubles, his hands set to work in delicately retrieving the pitcher and towels before wiping the dried blood and along her cheeks, "Did he beat you again?"
Whimpering again, the girl only looked away and towards the shaded grasses below. After a brief time, the blonde aristocrat carressed his companion's face and shared the brief silence that swept across the courtyard. The Duke sighed again as movement sounded through a particular entrance. His eyes strayed to note the armored men walking through a particular courtyard entrance and almost immediately found recognition as the company intended for the day's negotiations. The Lord Sovereign's employment rested on negotiations requiring a mediator and naturally, Pontius' expertise fell in that category.
"Milady, I have business to attend so I must depart. We will speak later, but I assure you that Lord Elireth will account for what he has done ..."
"Good Morning, Etchelion and allow me to offer the Lord Sovereign's gratitude towards your arrival! It was regrettable that the Lord Sovereign could not accompany you, however, given the realm's affairs, he was called away towards unavoidable appointments and as such, I, Duke Pontius of Valdemar shall vouch in his stead. Please, walk with me! We must enjoy a morning's breakfast!"
A military escort trailed through the Palace walkways as the two leading men and their retainer bodyguards stalked. Attendant servants and palace shock troops stood to attention and parted ways as the Duke made his entry. The visitor seemed intrigued given his stares along the various crystal chandeliers, garden courtyards, riveted, marble rails, and life-sized, golden figurines lining various walkways. The cool morning breeze swept through the palace grounds to greeted the two as they made their way towards a secluded room along a terraced platform overlooking the sea. Further up, Crossbowmen and Firearm wielding Crown Watchmen doted the various roof locations to properly guard the Lord Sovereign's palace residence.
Their watchful glares met the commander's own battle-hardened gaze and amidst relocating towards the elevated terrace, the mercenarii returned a glare of open defiance. Duke of Valdemar issued a clap to summon servants towards their locations. Following proper seating customs, the Duke's invitations progressed into ordering a morning course to begin the day's negotiations. Commander Etchelion's watchful eyes carefully darted between the entrance locations before resting back towards the seas. The gentle breeze coursing through the vine covered wooden wall panels did nothing to ease nor relinquish the man and his retainers' observant stares. As refreshments and appetizers arrived, the Duke took a moment to enjoy his tea and bΓΆrek before offering an inviting gesture towards the sucuklu yumurta and omelettes as was customary amongst Sarifen breakfast dishes.
"So," Pontius began as he enjoyed his bΓΆrek, "I trust you've sorted through the wharf front to enjoy the Lord Sovereign's hospitality here within the Palais de Voltas, Etchelion. Tension has startled the local garrisons of late and the situation could certainly prove lucrative under our employ. The Lord Sovereign wishes to convey his personal list of terms towards particular functions regarding the capital's security. Given The Coal Company's ... legendary reputations, I'm sure you'll find little issue regarding added patrol details in and around the merchant and commoner districts ..."
Lucius' eyes wandered through the firmly structured warehouse's cellars. The hours since the elderly merchant and his laborers had treated his wounds were had only just ranged into the double digits, yet the previous evening's memories were not lost. Throughout his own recollections, he'd forgotten how badly his body ached and the weariness enveloping his senses. The elderly merchant and his men had cautious erred on keeping the Prince properly fed and attended and thus far, he'd remained thoroughly conscious. The Prince found many thoughts pounding through his mind and even more questions to ponder across given his surprising company. So many wrongs plagued Voltas as injustice, corruption, famines, food shortages, and common lack of regard towards the masses threatened to turn Valania into an expansive mausoleum.
The same could not be said for those under Michel's care and the kindness he'd witnessed the man and his family offer towards their visitors had not simply escaped his attention. Amidst the flickering candle light, Lucius gaze rested upon the elderly merchant as he addressed the girl's scrapes. The Coeur's were an ancient family that had faithfully conducted business over the course of several centuries and mercantile generations ranging in the countless dozens. These days, times were harsh and the Coeur line had branched off or relocating elsewhere, many residing within other Valanian, Vectisian, and Vorstian cities. As the last and perhaps the eldest amongst the Coeur male line, Michel had seen much during his life as a Voltasian resident. He'd witnessed the final days of Francois IV, the short reign under Lothair I, the Sarifen annexation, and Conqvist's rise to power. As merchants, the Coeurs survived the Conqvist mandated purges and death squads to build a legacy as one of the few remaining prominent merchant families still operating along Valania's shores. The past five or six years were not sightly and the manner, in which aggressive Ivalians had monopolized trade had spelled doom for the great Valanian composed Trade Leagues that had dominated Western Carcassonian maritime sea lanes.
Michel was forced to take drastic measures to survive the competitive nature associated towards the Ivalian tariffs and mercantile efforts that had driven out so many others out of business. His efforts had inevitably switched to grain exports, distribution, and association alongside various cartels, which had inevitably brought more lucrative Ivalian partnerships to his tables. His efforts to distance himself from the Sarifens had certainly earned scorn and legal ramifications, however, his grain warehouses had become fully stocked and amidst the famines raging across Valania proper, he could afford to distribute grain handouts and still manage to conclude business affairs without attracting looting or upstart mobs. That they'd all convened again proved more than simple coincidence, all of which stirred more than a hundred questions towards his companion, Daedhel. Her wounds had not proven fatal, despite having at least suffered through as many musket wounds as his.
Her words did nothing ease the stinging given their previous encounters and ... nights shared together. Wincing, the Prince looked away as a frown of equal displeasure enveloped his expressions. He'd at least hoped to have enjoyed an honest, however, given the woman's nature and circumstantial upbringing, the immediate realities dawning before him had inevitably illustrated the fact that a simple, genuine greeting was too much to hope for. That matters shifted towards his return and his companion's presence had almost certainly proved enough to surface a cold and collective side he'd only unveiled towards his worst enemies. Nevertheless, he knew that the Dae's abilities were almost second to none and her mutual assistance could perhaps have proven to have resembled single greatest stroke of luck following his return to Voltas. His companion, Onatha, directed her green pupil less eyes upon on Dae's form.
βI am Onatha,β she voiced before inhaling for a moment before looking away to earn the Prince's comforting hand along her arm.
"Pleased ... to see you too, Dae. I'm certain you're at least as popular as I, given your likeness towards musket balls, however, I'm afraid my wounds outmatch yours." Smirking, the Prince grunted again as he lifted his arm. Michel's efforts had seemingly mended his more serious wounds, however, that weakness and muscle soreness had almost certainly left him in a pained and seemingly exhaustive condition.
"Cβest des conneries, Dae!" he began again, wheezing, "The traitorous Lord Sovereign does absolutely nothing as Sarifen conscripts murder our people, starvation and death greets us at every Carcassonian corner and ... and we are mulling here in this cellar while that bastard Aryanpur dines on our suffering!" Lucius raised a fist and angrily slammed it upon a nearby table. His fuming only served to attract frighten Ona, however, the previous day's incidents had not escaped his memory.
"Did you see what happened at the harbors," the Prince inquired, "What those swine did to our people? They are butchering commoners like mere cattle!"
The walkways echoed in a most eerie fashion and through the passageways, an escort of several squadrons under the Crown Watch's command descended into step. An even larger escort trailed in their wake in the form of plate armored Zhayedans and firearm carrying Nezamnite soldiers. Their destination remained a high priority under the highest of orders and as they marched through the depths, their steps clicked into precise unison. Deep under the Citadel Chareil-Besançon, only the most despised criminals entered the dungeon corridors, to which they were kept within individual cells. The lower they descended, the greater the checkpoints became; where upon Conqvist housed a sizeable garrison under the Citadel.
Few other citadels offered such measures concerning security and to become a prisoner within the Chareil-Besançon's lowest depths truly raised questions towards what the intended convict had committed to provoke or startle the Lord Regent and Sovereign's ire. This night, the soldiers marched down the spiraling staircase levels where the screams of other prisoners and tortured victims filtered through the layered passage descents. The Citadel's dungeons had seen expansion following Valania's annexation and throughout the years, the additions of lower depths had become home to various criminals, kept under close scrutiny and an interchanging permanent garrison. Occasionally the massive fortifications involved additional numbers and reinforcements given that the massive fortifications also sat along soaring bluffs perched across an island overlooking both the harbor and the surrounding city.
What lay beneath the towering citadel network proved incredibly deceptive and the conjoining draw gates and spike rimmed, steel doors proved enough to enhance the fortification's already impregnable features. Only the Melitan Citadel, the Krak des Seine-et-Montrésor exceeded the citadel's construction that involved architectural grandeur, durability, impregnability, and defensive emplacements. Still, the Chareil-Besançon's chambers famously interred the most vile prisoners, to which the accused never returned nor gained the rights to ever see the light of day. Down below, the same fate befell one such prisoner as his escort forcibly prodded him onwards. A miniscule sack covered his head while chains bound his arms, hands, legs, and feet. The strains had begun to wear on the man's wrists and the steel collar surrounding his neckline had already begun to yield pink and red marks along his throat. The tinkering dings and notes associated towards cluttering metal buckets and striking boots fell upon the dimly lit stairways, torch laden corridors, and the occasional draw bridge doors. All the same, the dank smell of rotting flesh, mold, urine, and stool had begun to empower the arriving soldiers' nostrils, yet the prisoner remained unphased.
As they progressed through the lower dungeon levels, the screams and shrieks elevated throughout the various, isolated cell blocks. The armed guards stationed along various choke points offered their nods and acknowledgement as the soldiers marched through their locations. The passages slowly evolved into a labyrinth of stairways, steel rimmed defensive locations, and winding tunnels. Sometime into the journey, the men's descent brought them through several entries before halting behind a creaking grill door. No sooner had they arrived when an a half plate armored officer and an escorting entourage appeared. Footsteps echoed across the cavernous chambers and the songs of ringing, dripping water, moaning winds, creaking metal, falling rocks, and maniacal laughter filled the large passages laying ahead. Various scriptures dotted the walls, only further illuminated and enhanced through the various swinging ceiling lamps and strangely aligned candles stationed before the various wall mounts built into the stone surface.
"Halt prisoner," a leading Zhayedan shouted.
"Salaam, Inquisitor Saren! I am SavΔrΔn SardΔr Bharmgor and my men and I are here to formally discharge the captive."
The Inquisitorial officer removed his plumed helmet and offered a hand towards the escort's lead officer, "Salam e Khosh Amadid, SavΔrΔn SardΔr. I assume this is the impudent heretic we were so thoroughly informed?"
"Bale, Inquisitor! I'm sure you'll find better use of him than us. We've already besoiled Yadin-Hamon's graces in his presence and it would greatly do us honor to be rid of this evil daeva! By orders of his most noble excellence, the Bozorgan of Baktria, we of the Imperial Sarifen Zhayedan Guard hereby relinquish the custody of this heretic to your Order."
"Careful, SavΔrΔn SardΔr," Saren warned as he drew a sharpened knife. Smirking, the Sarifen scornfully waggled a finger before the Zhayedan's face and pointed towards the ground. "You speak heresy on many accounts and a curse to his name. Although ... I am certain this shall be overlooked following prayers to Yadin-Hamon's Temple Altar. Inquisitor Jamshid shall take my leave for I am departing in your direction."
"Then it is done, Inquisitor Saren," Bharmgor answered, "The prisoner is now the Inquisition's responsibility."
"In the name of the Zendricaanist faith, I hereby command the Inquisitorial Order to escort the heretic to his block for internment and last rites," Saren demanded, as he offered a roll of scriptures and keys towards another plume helmetted officer. "He is now and forever condemned as an enemy of our savior and supreme father, for which his soul will be banished to the depths of the eternal abyss."
The Crown Watch threw the prisoner to his feet and stepped back into a disciplined double line. The Nezamnites spread in unison and formed lines behind the Watch Soldiers. The prisoner neither whimpered nor spoke as his bag covered face hit the cold stone floors. Without emotion, the armed Inquistors brandished swords and formed another line whilst others retreated further down the cavernous chambers, scriptures in hand. As they performed their duties, the Zhayedans, Nezamnite, and Crown Watch ranks opened to allow Saren's company. Upon their immediate departure, a particular Crown Officer formed alongside Saren before hurling a large pouch of gold within the man's reach.
"Courtesies from the Lord Sovereign, Inquisitor," he remarked.
The thin man paused a moment, observing-until it was obvious that he was indeed free to finally move, at least. Slowly-almost painfully-he brought his shackled wrists up to the ragged burlap covering his head, took it in his fingers-tightly-and pulled.
What was revealed as he cloth was removed was a face far too young-at most, in the middle of his third decade if that-, far too thin, far too fine, to seem to belong in such a place. Narrow, long, with mild noble features-high cheekbones, narrow and soft, dark lashes, a nearly straight nose and thin, narrow, almost dainty mouth. Save for his eyes, a color between orange, yellow, gold and brown that looked almost like a demon's for the blazing fire in them.
For all his beauty, one would swear that, if the folk tales of the 'evil eye' were real and that too strong a malignant gaze could curse or kill, his, surely, would be the ones to do it as he looked first upon the purse laying on the ground in front of him, then up to his jailer. He paused a moment, then reached out and grasped at the purse, his beaten, scratched hands fumbling at it clumsily. He sat up and inched himself against the wall, leaning against it, putting the strain of his frail weight upon it, rather than his aching bones and flesh. He stared down at the bag a few moments afore undoing the knot, revealing a mass of gold coins inside, each bearing the face of kings, present and passed.
A moment later, he laughed. A dark, venomous laugh, one not at all befitting one so young. They had captured him, beaten him, insulted him. Stripped him of his garb and spat on him before they dragged him through the muck and grime and then the maze-dungeons, berating him all the while, insulting and striking at him at every chance where there were none present to punish them for it. All of it for fear of the supposed monster, for jealousy of his birthright, as though the fleas finally had their day when the roles were reversed and he was the one beneath them. Yet always, they knew, he gazed at them in contempt under that cloth, smirking, his eyes narrows, brows lowered and smiling only with the left side of his mouth. That gaze that reminded them that they were not what he was and never could be.
This, though. This was well done-an insult that spat on him like the vain idiots who every day tortured the masses, ever bringing themselves closer to the insurrection that would be their graves.
"What's this, then? Coin's of no use here. So unless your Soverain wastes his money on the most expensive of insults, I think you have other plans for me," he said-and his voice cracked, raspy for want of water, weak for lack of food. Still smug, angry... yet with a hint of respect this time, at least.
"I think not, bastard, for your life is over and forfeit," a leading Inquisitor answered. His face remained shadowed amidst the dank and filthy cavernous walls. The scriptures lining the cells and walls had only just layered upon the walls, however, the sheer volume, closely plastered arrangement patterns, and packed lettering along each ledger held functions only the Zendricaanist Inquisition knew. Short snaps and curt orders brought dozens of Inquisitors into a packed formation lining a circle. Moments later, chanting echoed across the interior as quick motions danced along the walls to form grotesquely shaped dark shadows. This soon brought the prisoner to within the circle's center, escorted by half a dozen armored Inquisitionists, whom quickly darted away the moment the man fell upon the cold stone floor.
"The Lord Sovereign's mercy is candid, bastard, but only just and his desires involve an entirely separate destiny," the lead Inquisitor shouted as his voice boomed across the walkway. The shadows along the walls danced and wriggled as several Inquisitors removed numerous ledgers along the walls. The prisoner immediately screamed and convulsed as one after another, the shadows disappeared before forming a wriggling along a radius surrounding the man's location. "Your life will follow a path towards redemption as only our father would know. Rise and redeem yourself in Yadin-Hamon's name!"