Time: A.M. Location: River Port Interactions/Mentions:@mole@Conscripts Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler
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“So, tell us. Where were you last night?”
Vasco patted Rowan’s cheek with blatant condensation. “Rowan, sugar plum, honey bun!” he drawled. “You know you ain’t going to like the answer. So why bother asking?”
He savored the way Rowan’s frown deepened, the wrinkles on his pretty face multiplying like rabbits in a hutch. “Or maybe,” he mused, “this is your way of adding to that laundry list of reasons to get a shiny new human, huh?” Vasco clicked his tongue. “Last one musta been a real piece of work for you to be so keen on ‘trading her in’ for a stand-up guy like yours truly.” He tapped a finger against his temple. Clever play, if that was their game - using incompetence to give the bum’s rush to the heel. Didn’t seem their style, but hey, you never know.
Barrock grunted, “None of this alien slang, please.” Vasco made like he was chewing it over real thoughtful-like before laying it straight. “No can do, pally.” This was who he was, right down to the marrow. A leopard can’t change his spots, and neither could Vasco. “Tell ya what though. You stop being an orc, and maybe I’ll consider it.” Even if the green hulk somehow pulled off that miracle, Vasco had no intention of playing ball. And they all damn well knew it. Barrock was just going to have to get cozy with the lingo, same as the rest of these birds.
“We are so relieved you are well, Vasco.” Aurora’s tear-choked voice drew his attention. “We were worried about you.”
Vasco slid up next to her, slung an arm around her shoulder, and tugged her close. “Nah, toots, you’re the only one who gives a hoot. Rest of them look like they’d be doing the world a favor finishing what the Family couldn’t.” His thumb wiped away the tears ruining her face. “No surprises there. Can’t have the gutter trash sullying a sweet little angel like you, now can they?”
He shot Rowan and Barrock a sidelong glance, a wicked grin across his mug. Tough break for them. Folks like Vasco got a real tickle out of defiling the pure and innocent. Like stomping fresh footprints through a field of virgin snow.
When Barrock parroted the same question Vasco had asked earlier, only for it to be ignored, Vasco spoke first. “For starters, you all need to quit feeling sorry for yourselves. It’s getting real stale, and with everything you’ve pulled off during it, I’m starting to think you’re just dragging your heels. Bellyache all you want about how you screwed the pooch, but it ain’t gonna bring your human back or change that you mucked up the one job you had. Time to put on your big boy pants and move on.”
He aimed a chilly look at Aurora. “If you can’t handle that, then you got no business being out here, Ingénue. The real world’s too much for you to handle.” Vasco tilted her chin up, stared hard into those doe eyes. “You’re a real looker, doll, but what good are you like this? Scram before you get someone else bumped off.”
Releasing the elf, Vasco addressed the group. “But if you’re meaning to even the score, next step oughta be clear as day, yeah?” He flashed them a smile, all teeth. “Find the bastard who killed your gal and put them six feet under.” Now that would be a helluva lot more entertaining than watching this sorry bunch mope around all day, that was for damn sure.
Gathering her notes, she returned to Callum’s side. “... Look, don’t forget that you’re welcome here, Cal. The house doesn’t hate you and I don’t hate you being here either.” She searched his face, wondering how many safe havens remained for him on the castle grounds. “It’d make me sad if you don’t like being here anymore.”
“Never said you were unwelcoming. I go places I’m not wanted all the time. I'd still visit if you lived in a cave full of very angry vipers.” The feeling was gone now but that didn’t make him feel better about it. He’d never felt such intense malice before, not even from Edin. You’re right. I am jumpy, but hey, harder to sneak up on me, right?” It was better to change the subject.
Riona pressed the cup into his hands with a gentle insistence. “Drink this. It might help.” Then she offered a sheaf of notes. “And this is for you. Kalliope helped me infiltrate a masquerade party today. I gathered some information that could get you off to a good start with the Thornbreakers.”
He looked down at the cup Riona placed in his hands. He lifted it close enough to smell, which was a mistake. “I already had tea.” Callum whispered to the cup. “Better tea.” This a nearly inaudible whisper was sighed into the cup before he brought it to his lips and downed it like a shot. Even trying to avoid tasting it, he still made a face reminiscent of a child tasting alcohol for the first time.
“Oh stop being melodramatic, Cal. It’s just water. Lukewarm water sure, but it can’t be that bad.” Riona shook her head. “Seriously, what kind of tea were you guys drinking?”
“Roman’s shaman friend made it, it was tea for people who wish to see.” He whispered with a sense of reverence, describing it just as Roman had. Cal eyed the now empty cup. “Water? I try not to touch that stuff.” He was certain that it had tasted bad; maybe it was the cup. He licked the side cup which didn’t taste any weirder than expected. “Why would I tell them what you found? And why do you sometimes work with Quack, but not officially work with Quack? Never thought you were much of a Thorn-saver.”
“Because I’ve got your back, not the Thornbreakers. I’ve never really been on board with their cause, and I don’t think I ever will be. I’ve been helping out Quack with the effort to help folks in need, but that’s it… He just happened to get himself mixed up with anarchists,” she said, letting her arm drop.
“I don’t know why people think I have a problem with nobility, but I don’t. I have nothing against aristocracy itself. Some of the people I care about most happened to be of noble birth.” Annoyance flashed crossed her face. “What I can’t stand are those arrogant pricks who think their precious titles and bloodlines give them the right to abuse their power and treat others like something they’ve scraped off the bottom of their boots.” A weary sigh dissipated her irritation. “There are plenty of decent sorts among the highborn, people who show basic human decency to commoners. But some members of the Thornbreakers are hells-bent on punishing every last noble, regardless of their actions or character. All because they were born into a family with a fancy title… How is that any better?”
“It’s a depressingly low standard; basic decency and not abusing power, and so many fail at even that. Tells me everything I need to know about the aristocracy here.” Callum shrugged, he wasn’t sure if things were better in other places, but he was sure the rot in Caesonia extended far beyond his own house.
“Gods, don’t remind me,” Riona said, massaging the bridge of her nose.
“Thanks for helping.”
She looked up at him and nodded in acknowledgment. “I might not give a damn about the Thornbreakers, but I worry about you. I want you to thrive and bring change. But you can’t do that if there’s members who think you’re more of a liability than an asset and decide to off you.” Riona lifted the notes back up. “This might help you survive in their group long enough to gain their trust. It has to be an offering from you. Don’t you dare mention me.”
He stared at the carefully gathered notes, he couldn’t exactly read them - words kept shifting and forming patterns on the pages. They weren’t his notes, it wasn’t his work. “That’s what Danroses’ do right; underhanded moves, manipulation, building trust on lies.” He watched the flowing movements of ink, an easy way to get what he wanted dancing before him. He looked Riona in the eye. “I won’t lie to them. They’ll trust me because I’m worth it or they won’t.” There was no waver in his voice.
“Making friends with people who try to kill me, has worked out before. I’ll keep your name out of it if that’s what you want.” He offered.
Riona blinked at Callum, her brow furrowing as confusion and even hurt flickered across her features. Realization dawned, her mouth parted to form a silent ‘oh.’ “Wait. You think I want you to claim you gathered all this yourself?” She shook her head, dark curls swaying, before she forced the notes onto him. “The Thornbreakers wouldn’t believe you even if you did do it by yourself. Just say your secret coterie of informants collected it. The important thing is you deliver it to them yourself. And that you don’t mention me.” Pivoting on her heel, orange skirts swirled around her legs as Riona started toward the back of the house. “If that’s too much for your pride to swallow, then burn those notes.”
“Burn them? Obviously, you worked hard to get this, I’m not going to burn it. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page, and guess we weren’t, but only because I think of the least honest ways to do things first.” He fidgeted with the empty cup. “Secret coterie of informants. You make sound all fancy and official.” He grinned and wondered if Wulfric had a secret coterie of informants. Probably.
Riona halted at the hallway’s mouth, one hand braced on the doorframe as she half-turned, loose locks framing her face. “Callum.” His name carried the weight of a challenge on her lips.
“If you can’t stomach underhanded tactics, manipulation, lying… Then the Thornbreakers isn’t for you. Because that’s exactly what you’re going to have to do for them. They don’t have the luxury of playing it straight, not against opponents with infinite power, wealth, and influence to grind them into the dust.”
“I said I wouldn’t lie to Quack or the other Thornbreakers, and I won’t lie to you either, by the way. I didn’t say I wouldn’t lie at all, just not to allies, or friends?” He said it like a question, a standard he hoped he could keep but wasn’t sure how possible that was. “Guess I’ll see how well I can keep to that.” He wished he had something else to say because as soon as Riona disappeared from his line of sight he worried he’d feel eyes watching him again. He wanted to wait outside, but instead, he pulled a chair close to the wall so he could sit and still feel confident nothing lurked behind him.
“Come on,” Riona called out from the other room, “try to sound a little bit more convincing than that! Are you really going to go with…” She put on an exaggerated impersonation of Callum, “‘Guess we’ll see how well I won’t lie to you guys.’” Switching to a deeper voice, she continued, “When they ask, ‘How can we trust you?’”
“I don’t sound like that!” He shouted back, there was a long pause before he added, “Do I?”
“When you’re drunk.” She said lightly at first and then, “... And when you doubt yourself.” Though she doubted he heard that.
“Good thing I’m not drunk then. That guy sounds annoying.” He mumbled to himself and waited until Riona was well out of earshot before whispering to the quiet room. “This is Riona’s home, she says I’m welcome here.” Maybe it was just to calm his nerves but whatever he’d sensed earlier did not return. The hut felt just as it always had, maybe it was all in his head.
A few minutes later, Riona emerged from the room, dressed in the standard uniform. It was the least conspicuous outfit to be in. Even more so with the Prince by her side.
On the table, she unrolled four thick sheets of paper, smoothing them flat with practiced hands. Layouts of the castle, one for each level, painstakingly drawn from earlier surveys. With a hint of pride, Riona confessed, “I’ve been measuring and mapping the castle. I narrowed down potential locations for hidden rooms… not that I’m sure how to get inside all of them, but it’s a start.” Her fingers traced along the paper, indicating sections still blank. “I haven’t explored these yet.” She looked up at Callum then, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. For the first time, in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was on her own. To have someone by her side gave her immeasurable strength. “So, partner, where to first?”
“You made these!” He looked through the detailed schematics; all four castle floors were laid out perfectly. Or it would look perfect if the lines on the paper would just hold still for a second. “Hey, that’s my room!” He pointed it out as if Riona didn’t already know the castle’s layout better than he did. “Wow! Now it really feels like we're two rebel spies at the start of a master plan!” There was no containing the enthusiasm, it spread infectiously across his face like the grin of a child.
Beside him, Riona felt her lips curve upwards in an answering smile, caught in the gravitational pull of his enthusiasm.
“We know about the secret room in the library, so I guess we can count the first floor solved for now. Second floor, I think that can wait, not like it’ll be hard for either of us to explain poking around in the tea room. So, third floor.” He placed that page on top of the others and pointed to the unknown room. “Seems like a good start, work our way down.” Cal didn’t mention the basement, he didn’t want to go down there, even fully sober that place was unsettling.
Nodding, she rolled up the papers. “Let’s get going.”
“Cal... Where’s your shoes?” Cal only shrugged in response.
Time: Daytime, Sola 24th Location: The Primitus Church of Sorian Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @Helo
The music and chatter died away as Riona stepped out of the lively warmth of the masquerade ball and into the cooler, quieter paths of the park. The transition from the glittering ballroom to the moonlit emptiness was stark. Her heels tapped a lonely rhythm on the cobblestones, the sound crisp in the still air.
A breeze whispered through the trees, carrying a distorted, half-caught syllable that sounded vaguely like an order. Riona paused, straining to listen, but the night remained tight-lipped. Then, madness shattered the silence—a high-pitched cackle that spiraled upwards into a frenzy.
Her head whipped towards the sound and her eyes locked onto a figure emerging from the darkness. It was adorned with a lion mask, its features grotesquely exaggerated by the dim light, eyes nothing more than dark, empty sockets fixed on her.
HahAHAha!
The lion charged.
She ran. Heels clicked frantically against the stones as she dashed along the path. The laughter chased her, bouncing off the trees, gaining ground with every second.
Her heel snagged in a crack. She stumbled, gasping, flailing for balance. Too late. A hand clamped onto her shoulder and spun her around. The lion mask loomed inches from her face. Wild, unhinged eyes gleamed behind it. Laughter spilled out between ragged breaths, drowning out her own panting.
WaHAwHahAHach!HAHAHA!
With no thought but escape, she rammed her knee up with all the force her terror-inspired strength could muster, connecting sharply with the madman’s groin. The effect was instant and gratifying—he doubled over with a strangled wheeze, grip slackening.
Free from his hold, Riona didn’t pause to look back; she ripped off her treacherous heels and sprinted barefoot toward the edge of the park. Up ahead, illuminated by the soft glow of a lantern, was Mr. Brisby, waiting beside the carriage.
“Mr. Brisby!” she called out, her voice shaky but relieved.
The coachman turned, alarmed, and rushed over. “Riona! What on earth?” he asked as he reached her side.
“Madman in a lion mask. Chasing me. Laughing.” She managed to gasp out.
Mr. Brisby’s face set into a grim line as he helped her into the carriage, then glanced back warily into the dark park. “Let’s get you away from here,” he said, securing the door before climbing up to the driver’s seat.
As the carriage rolled away, the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves and rumbling of the wheels on the cobblestones gradually soothed Riona's frayed nerves. Wrapped in the safety of the carriage, she let herself relax.
And felt something hard digging into her. Riona reached down and pulled out a dented pocket watch. … Sh*t.
Riona and the Smithwood servants couldn’t hide their smirks as they took in the sight of Lordling Smithwood’s shocking pink skin and equally vivid hair. Some managed to keep a straight face better than others, but there was no mistaking the amusement in their eyes. The Lordling, for his part, looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. Being assigned Riona as his attendant for the event only soured his mood further.
Outside, the maid held the umbrella over the Lordling’s head as the rain pattered around them. He b*tched and moaned about the shoes the entire way to the church. “I thought they suit you, milord.” Riona said, her tone just a touch too innocent. “As it seems you have a penchant for the flamboyant.” Her gaze flicked pointedly to his flamingo-like appearance. The Lordling huffed while she bit back a smile.
Inside the church, she fell into step behind him, keeping a modest two paces between them.
Ryn hurried through the rain-soaked streets, his heart pounding with anticipation as he approached the café where the courting mixer was set to take place. The pitter-patter of raindrops against his umbrella provided a constant backdrop to his thoughts. When his destination came into view, an unexpected sight caused him to slow his steps.
Near the entrance, a dire wolf lounged. Its majestic presence captivated him, pushing thoughts of the mixer from his mind. Cautiously, Ryn approached, careful to maintain a respectful distance. As he drew closer, the creature’s beauty left him awestruck. “Well, hello there, my stunning friend,” he said, his voice soft and friendly. “I must say, I didn’t expect to find one of your kind here, so far from the wilderness. What brings you to this quaint little café on such a rainy day?”
Piercing, intelligent eyes regarded Ryn while the wolf seemed to study him.
TLDR for the flashback: Jonathan’s birthday party goes on, and the children end up playing football. Lacking a referee, the game devolves into a free-for-all brawl towards the end. As the adults are informed, the fight is broken up. However, Wulfric happens upon the parents arguing soon after. Then, Lord Desmond Dantès speaks to him. The prince is impressed, but unfortunately has to leave. On the way home he saw Lord Dantès holding hands with the castle’s royal gardener, Gardner Haywood. Lady Dantès was holding hands with two other adults he didn’t recognize.
There were other dances after that, but they all blurred together in Wulfric’s mind. As much as he didn’t want to, the anger and frustration at that Dantès girl wouldn’t leave him. Thankfully, after a few more songs, Jonathan suggested they should do something else. He brought out one of his gifts - a ball from Lord Dantès - and said the boys could go out to play football.
“Isn’t that a peasants’ game?” Wulfric asked the young lord. His tone was equal parts scandalized and enthused. The only reason he’d come to this birthday party was because he had heard other people brag how fun they were. And this would be a new, unknown game, so he was really excited to try it out.
“Er…we play it at school,” Jonathan replied, embarrassed. Immediately, Wulfric blurted out, “You go to school?” This was even stranger to him. “I thought all nobles were tutored…” He looked at Jonathan in wonder, but the boy was growing very uncomfortable. “How is it?”
“What, school?” the youngest Bernard asked, a tad grumpy. “It’s just school…it’s boring.” He looked down, turned the ball he was holding in his hands a few times, then peeked at the prince. “This is much better, I promise! Will you play with me?”
“Of course,” Wulfric confirmed, slightly confused. Weren’t they all going to play? “But you’ll have to tell me the rules,” he grinned dazzlingly.
“Oh…alright.” On the way out, Jonathan related the basics. There were teams, there was striking, scoring, and defending. There were some rules about what you couldn’t do, because it was considered barbaric. Wulfric found himself comparing the game to dueling, except football wasn’t one-on-one.
Outside of the Bernards’ estate, past the garden, there was a neatly trimmed lawn. There were white lines running here and there - this was called the field. There were two simple structures on each end of the field; the goals. There were wooden benches far to one side, and Suzanne, Margaret, and Jennifer immediately sat down, chatting to each other. Wulfric’s servants and guards stationed themselves at the stands as well.
Lars set himself as the leader of one team, while Wulfric let Jonathan handle theirs. After much bickering, cajoling, and a sprinkle of insults, it was five against four. Lars had Charlie, Tomás, Florian, and had reluctantly accepted Cora. With Jonathan were Wulfric, Juan, and Mariel.
“You can handle being one down, can’t you?” sneered Lars mockingly. “Unless you want to take that one,” he laughed loudly as he looked at Lady Dantès as if she were a cockroach he wanted to squash. The young girl had remained closer than the three who’d sat down. Wulfric glanced at the youngest lady skeptically. Surely, that small child wouldn’t decide to play. “Just don’t complain it was unfair when you lose,” Lars jeered with a smirk.
“You’ll see who’s the loser when we beat you!” Jonathan shouted.
“Come on, let’s make him regret picking a fight with us.” Wulfric beckoned Jonathan. It was time to start. “You should get out of the way,” Wulfric said to Lady Dantès dismissively. Jonathan made that discomfited frown again, and said softly, “I…I wouldn’t want you to get hurt…Um…” The boy didn’t seem to want to chase the girl away, but was also reluctant to let her stay that close. “It…could be dangerous,” he eventually settled on.
Lady Dantès and, for some reason, Mariel frowned slightly in response. The younger girl recovered first, while the older girl continued to be mildly upset by what had been said. “Thank you for caring. But I’ll be fine, Jonathan. I played before.” Lady Dantès regarded their team with a critical eye. “Who’s doing what?”
“Positions?” Mariel asked, and when the little girl nodded, she finally stopped frowning and turned to Jonathan. “Well?”
“Um…” Jonathan scratched at his cheek, suddenly shyly embarrassed at all the attention. “I-I’ve played different positions…But I’m good at passing. What about you?” he turned to Juan.
The tall, lanky boy shrugged. “If you’re midfield, I can strike.” Quizzically, he looked at Wulfric, who admitted, “I’ve never played in a team.” He had messed around with a ball on his own, and had seen a game or two from a distance, but that was it. There was an awkward silence, and some of the children exchanged concerned glances between each other.
“Your Highness…” Jonathan started carefully. “Could you…keep the goal for us?” Wulfric tilted his head at the boy, expecting an explanation. When the other youth gave it, the prince grew sulky. “What?” he exclaimed. “You just want me to stand around doing nothing?
“It’s not nothing,” Mariel growled and glowered.
“Can you or can’t you do it?” Dantès gave him a challenging stare.
Juan merely stood there, looking uncomfortable, while Jonathan raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Er…n-now, t-there…uhh.” His gaze wildly darted around, seeking a solution. “T-the other team’s all ready! We, uh, we…n-need to decide soon. Could you pleeease do us a favour here, Prince Wulfric?”
It was only because of Jonathan’s pleading, and because he could see Lars gloating from afar that Wulfric agreed. “Fine, but when I’m bored, I’m switching.”
With three positions settled on, the boys turned to the girls. Mariel punched into her own palm, a fierce expression on her face. “I’ll play defense. No one’s getting past me.” Four pairs of eyes landed on the last member. The small child, Dantès, ended up as their second midfielder.
When they were all ready, they got into their designated spots. Wulfric was at the goal, so all he had to do for a while was watch. The ball was placed in the middle of the field. Rather than a clear signal, the opposing teams had a haphazard count-down, then the children launched towards the center, competing on who would get the ball.
Tomás, who was an attacker - the same position as Juan - had that boundless energy driving him, so he made contact first. He was quick, aggressive, and unpredictable. A wildcard that could whirl by all opposition like a sudden tornado, but also a reckless, easily distractible player who often had the ball stolen from him. However, he had Charlie and Cora supporting him as midfielders, and those two were the stars of teamwork. Unlike anyone else, the pair was clearly used to playing together. They moved fluidly in sync, giving Tomás plenty of opportunities to work his magic. Surprisingly, Lars was the defender; from the back, he shouted out orders to his team. Most of the time, they listened to him - and when they got it right, their play was a work of art.
Honestly, their team was weaker, Wulfric could see that from where he was watching. Juan was a decent match against Tomás, but the twins were good at blindsiding him, and Lars was a formidable defender. Jonathan was experienced, and even Dantès held her own, but compared to the twins? Unexpectedly, Mariel was their saving grace; she limited the opponents’ options so much that Wulfric could predict and stop most of their attacks.
There’d been several times where bickering had ensued in the game so far. Tomás had knocked down Juan, Lars had tripped Jonathan, Dantès had kicked Lars, and Mariel had nearly stunned Charlie once by barrelling into him. For each of these events, the team whose player was affected had called foul, while the opposing team had either claimed it an accident or a valid strategy.
The last accident-adjacent event involved Juan and Tomás knocking heads - literally. Juan came out of it with a swollen eye. Wulfric took that opportunity to switch out with him.
“Can you still see out of that eye?” the prince asked the other boy. Juan just shrugged, and mumbled unconvincingly. Wulfric hummed. “Watch out for your blind spot,” he warned.
Because both sides had been injured (Tomás had a bloodied nose), both teams got one point, and a rest period. Wulfric beckoned the others closer. “Juan, you know what to do?” he confirmed. The tall boy nodded, though not without sending a dark glower at Tomás. The young royal glanced at Mariel. “Can you defend with him like you did with me? They’ll want to shoot to his right.”
Mariel blinked, surprised at the acknowledgement, then gave Juan a considering look. The boy scrunched his face, looked away, then back, expression still sour. Then, he nodded haltingly. “Don’t let them score,” Wulfric directed this to the messy-haired boy, giving him a long look. That seemed to work, as Juan’s eyes widened, and he nodded quickly several times in succession.
“Alright,” Wulfric smirked. “I have an idea…” he motioned them all closer. “So far, Jonathan has stuck to Charlie, and Dantès to Cora, right?” The other children nodded. “Well, how about this? Both of you, get on Charlie.” Some started to protest, but Wulfric spoke on. “Lars almost always passes to Charlie, and then he and Cora to each other. Even if he’s forced to give the ball to her, you should have seen those two don’t work together. We’ll cut down on what they can do like that,” he explained, and most seemed convinced.
“Mariel, you can cover Tomás. Cora will be free most of the time, but we should be able to handle that…I’ll deal with Lars. If I can’t score, I’ll pass to whoever’s closest.” He gazed at the two midfielders. “So, be ready for that.” He looked from one player to the other, waiting for each to give confirmation. “Let’s go!”
They got into action. Now, Wulfric was the one leading the charge.
Finally, he got to move! He was smiling, exhilarated as he ran across the field. It was like the wind was with him, even as it rushed against him. It ruffled his hair, filled his chest, and tickled his skin. Hot puffs of air escaped him. He was so fast! The ground was hard as ever, but he bounded up from it with energy. He was like an unstoppable gale now, and he felt great.
Getting a grasp of who was where was more difficult now, but Wulfric got a hang of it soon.
Then, he was on the ball, and Lars was going right at him. Wulfric grinned.
The two faced off, Lars stole it for a moment, the prince launched right back at it…
…Unexpectedly, he slid sideways onto the grass, but got the ball. He somehow managed to aim it to a free player-
-Dantès.
As Lars was trying not to trip over him, Wulfric pushed himself off of the floor. “GO!” He started to run again, just in case. However, the little girl scored, getting the score even. Wulfric laughed, still enthused at the unexpected move he’d done against Lars by accident. It was so awesome, though!
“What about that? You even got beat by a little girl,” the prince pitched in slyly.
Lars got as red as a lobster, and Wulfric was still chucking as he turned around to get back to the game. The boy was shouting something, but the royal just ignored him. One more goal, and they’d be in the lead.
However, before they could resume, another fight broke out. This one was different. It got loud and messy, quick. Wulfric stopped in his tracks, and glanced back towards the players to see what was going on.
He turned around just in time to see Dantès launch herself at Lars, tackling him to the ground. They rolled across the grass, a tangle of flailing limbs, as each tried to gain the upper hand. They punched and kicked at each other as they grappled, twisted, and wrestled on the ground. “Get off me, you rabid half-breed!”
“Take it back!”
“You can go straight to the hells with your pillow-biting lord and take your diseases with you!” Lars grabbed a fist full of Dantès’s hair and yanked it back hard, causing her to scream in pain. But she refused to relent, pulling on his hair in return.
“Get off her, you fucker,” Mariel growled, immediately joining the fight to back up Dantès. “H-hey now,” Charlie tried to help, but somehow got tangled up into it all when Mariel’s kick landed on him. With her brother involved, Cora was at least half-in, trying to pull Lars away at one point, arguing with him at another, and intermittently attempted to get Dantès and Mariel to back off.
After it became apparent that the fight wouldn’t stop any time soon, Florian tried to help, “Um, guys! Let’s not fight.” Jonathan had been too shocked to react, but this startled him. “I-I’m getting the parents.”
Yet, even as he ran off, Juan drew closer. “You fat snitch,” he said meanly, eyeing Florian with a glint in his eye. Whether in an attempt to help him, or because he was itching to fight with Juan, Tomás jumped into Florian's defense. Now, there was a whole group of children brawling wildly.
Wulfric watched, both surprised and fascinated. He had never seen such a…chaotic, violent melee.
Maybe this was why his parents weren’t keen to let him commingle with other children.
“S-say,” Florian shuffled closer. “C-can’t you stop them?”
“Hm?” Wulfric turned to the rotund boy. “Oh, yes. Sure.” He whistled, and the guards who had previously been stationed by the stands came closer. They didn’t seem happy about the fighting children, but had obviously not judged this to be dangerous to him - else they’d have stepped in already. “Can you break them apart?” It was an order more so than a question.
In the following minutes, his guards wrangled the children with the tenacity of a cowboy dealing with a herd of raging bulls.
With the situation safer and partly handled, the three girls approached as well. “Oh, isn’t this so terrible,” Suzanne said to him. Wulfric just nodded. Margaret and Jennifer chattered too, but Wulfric was only half-paying attention. These three girls were like Duchess Edwards; skulking vultures looking to have fun by gossipping about a ‘terrible’ situation.
Soon after the guards had become involved, some of the parents arrived, led by Jonathan. Wulfric turned to his nearest servant; a man who had come to fuss over him, cleaning the mud and dirt off of him. “It’s time to leave.”
As he made his way back to the building, Wulfric passed by the Dantès. The lord was kneeling, asking what had happened. At first, the girl was fuming as she recounted what happened, but as she got to the part where she launched at Lars, her expression crumbled and tears welled up in her eyes. “Then h-he… he,” she choked up. “He called you a…” It was obvious the insult hurt the girl more than her guardian, because instead of repeating whatever offensive remark Lars had made, she burst into tears. Lord Dantès enveloped her in a comforting embrace, gently stroking her head with his hand.
He was murmuring reassurances into her ear when his gaze met Wulfric's.
The prince observed them for a short moment. Pillow biter. That’s what he’d heard Lars say about Lord Dantès during the fight. Wulfric didn’t even know what the insult meant. Obviously, it was some awful, horrible, and upsetting thing. He could find out later, however. The boy looked away from the pair, and went on his way. He would have to say goodbye to some people. It was clear everyone else had decided to leave too.
While people prepared to depart, Wulfric overheard angry shouts coming from one of the rooms. He went to investigate and found Lars's mother screaming hysterically at Lord Dantès, surrounded by several other adults. It mirrored the earlier fight between the children, except now the adults had sequestered themselves away to argue. And just like before, it turned physical. Lady Blundell struck Lord Dantès so quickly and hard it sounded like a whip crack.
Everyone froze. The room went silent, like the quiet before the storm. Except no storm came. Lord Dantès calmly faced Lady Blundell and addressed her and the others in a measured tone. His restraint seemed to shame all the adults present. Eventually, the matter was resolved, and the group dispersed, leaving Lord Dantès alone.
As the last person exited, he turned and opened the door behind which Wulfric had been listening. “I apologize you had to witness that, Your Highness,” he said, kneeling to meet Wulfric’s eyes. His green gaze, so dark it bordered on black, bore deep inside Wulfric. “How are you feeling? I hope this doesn’t deter you from attending any future birthday parties…”
There was a slightly pouting frown on the young royal’s expression at being discovered. “It’s alright,” he said, and tried to look as composed as the lord speaking to him was. “I could have left,” he added. Wulfric openly studied the bright red imprint upon the man’s cheek. The lord didn’t seem to care a whit; hadn’t even seemed to notice, really. Is that what it meant to be a real, proper adult? If so, Wulfric wished he could become one soon. He wanted to be just as unaffected when faced with pain. Still, he gave the man a weird expression when Lord Dantès asked him how he was feeling. “...I’m fine.” At the next line, however, he smoothed out his expression. Because he was a child, and still unpracticed, it was obvious what he was doing. “It won’t.” His parents, on the other hand?
Lord Dantès nodded, as if he understood unspoken thoughts. “At least it was an eventful, if not a little enlightening day?” He smiled.
A fleeting smile appeared before Wulfric made it go away. The way the lord said it, it sounded like they were both in on a joke, or sharing a hidden message. Mock-serious, he nodded sagely. “Very eventful.” The mischievous grin that wanted to escape warmed his gaze with a playful mirth. “And enlightening.”
“I wanted to thank you for your intervention, Your Highness. People might’ve gotten seriously injured if you hadn’t.” The lord bowed his head.
The young prince blinked in surprise, mouth opening. He shut it before the lord could see. He hadn’t imagined anyone could have found anything positive about this situation. His parents - like everyone else’s - would be upset that it had come to a fight, and that he’d been ‘involved’. They might scold or punish the guards, and would surely not allow him ‘unsupervised’ social outings any time soon.
“You’re welcome,” he eventually settled on. It didn’t cross his mind to mention Florian. He was sure the sincere gratitude he’d received was the only good thing he would get out of the scandal. This was for him - just for him. At a prompt from a servant, he said, “I have to go.” He frowned, disappointed but unsure of the reason for it. The lord was like one of his nicer teachers. He’d been impressed by how the man had handled those other adults. But he didn’t know how to say any of that; hadn’t thought of it so concretely. Instead, he went with what he did know: “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Dantès.” It wasn’t just empty words he might have said hundreds of times; he meant it. Same with the following bow.
After exchanging their last words, Wulfric departed for home.
On the carriage ride back, he caught sight of the Dantèses again. They were walking along the sidewalk with unfamiliar faces - except for one. Gardner Haywood, the royal gardener, strolled hand-in-hand with Lord Dantès. Wulfric didn’t recognize the other two adults swinging Lady Dantès between them, holding one of her hands each. One wore glasses over his honey-colored eyes, his features bearing the distinct characteristics of Alidasht. He had a deep complexion and even darker hair. The other was a fair-skinned woman who had auburn hair and eyes darker than either Dantèses.
“Fake?” Wulfric mused half-absentmindedly as mostly forgotten memories had been partially reawakened, and now sluggishly gathered at the forefront of his mind. “I resent that,” he noted, though he sounded almost– tickled, if meriness could ever be ascribed to the crown prince. “However, yes. It is I, Prince Wulfric. What a…thoroughly unexpected surprise.” It was largely a pleasant one, he thought, even if he and the Lady Dantès had never got along the one time they’d met. Recalling her name had also reminded him of the - sadly - deceased Lord Desmond Dantès. Yet another man who had been too good to die so early, to have been slain so horrendously.
“Quite.” Riona said, her tone brazen though her heart thundered in her chest. “No wonder I found you so irritating.” Truth be told, half of her wanted nothing more than to turn on her heel and flee, putting as much distance between herself and the Heir Apparent as possible. Why in the hells was Prince Wulfric here? Did he recognize the maidservant she had become too? No. After all these years working in that castle, he never so much as spared her a glance (not that she gave him a chance to, either). So he couldn’t have. Then why now? With a gods damn mask on no less? Was it the expensive dress? “It’s… been a while.” No, it hasn’t. “What are you doing here being a creepy crow when you should be… socializing with your prospective wives?”
“An evocative costume, is it not?” he agreed. To demonstrate, he swept an arm to the side in a dramatic gesture, feathers rustling in a riotous swirl of black, chains rattling against each other. “Hmm, well,” he smirked as she questioned him on his prospects. Notably, Lady Dantès had rescinded her decision to depart. Was it nostalgia, or was she trying to find out something specific now that she knew who he was? “It would be in bad taste if, immediately after Shehzadi Mayet’s departure, I would begin pursuing her sister.”
So his sights were set on Shehzadi Nahir or Shehzadi Layla? Interesting. Either would make a very powerful alliance if it came to fruition. All the more reason to find the evidence as soon as possible and expose them.
… Or else there’d only be one thing left to do.
“Besides,” a hint of slyness crept into his tone, “who is to say I am not socializing with a prospective wife at this very moment?” He laughed at the absurdity of the idea, longer than was strictly polite. After a moment, he cut off with a sigh.
Her body reacted—feet stepping a few steps back, arms wrapping around her to shield herself from the Prince’s very presence—before the familiar triad flared hot and bright. Anger. Repulsion. Hate. They seared through her veins.
She pierced him with eyes flint cold while he laughed at a joke that only he found funny. “You’d gain little from such an arrangement,” she said, “I have nothing left for you to take from me.”
‘Nothing left for you to take’ was a peculiar manner of phrasing on the lady’s part. Her reaction, too, had been worrying. It gave him pause, frankly. It was a reflexive loathing on her part - but what had caused it, exactly? While he chose not to comment on it, he had certainly noticed. “And yourself? What have you been up to?” he asked eventually.
“Do you care?” she repeated the question little Lady Dantès asked years back.
“Yes.” It was a simple assurance, but truthful. He wanted to know the cause of her abhorrence, of her hatred. He had to know. If his family had been involved in any way - if his past suspicions were more than just that - he ought to know.
A handful of breaths slipped by before Riona finally shaped the words. “What have I been up to? For fourteen years, I’ve endured a waking nightmare. One where the man and woman who slaughtered my home go unchallenged, unpunished.” Her fingers knotted in the fabric of her dress. “Did you know there’s no record left of the town or House Dantès? They’ve erased it all. Redacted from history. Convenient, right? It’s only a matter of time before we’ll be forgotten altogether as if we never existed at all…” Her knuckles become pale against the orange color. “Those monsters grow fat on the spoils of their atrocities.” She hissed, “Just as you reap the rewards sown at the expense of others, False Prince.”
“I see…” Well, he did in part. “I have noticed the suspicious lack of records,” he affirmed. In fact, it was that which had led him to believe that something other than ‘a bandit attack’ had been at play. But how could he have confirmed, when the king and queen never acknowledged such inconsistencies? There were several other instances where a lack of evidence was the only evidence. “I remember,” he informed her. “If only the two of you.”
She rolled her eyes. Not enough to recognize her as a maid. “How much of that memory surfaced only because we bumped into each other?”
“A fair amount,” he acknowledged, tone even. But the memories he spoke of were not merely the result of this happenstance. Why did she think he’d noticed the erasure of her family from official records in the first place? “However, Lord Desmond Dantès is not the sort of man I would simply forget about.”
The way Lady Dantès spoke of her family members’ deaths, it was as if the Danroses had had something to gain by killing them. He had always thought his parents’ reasons to be preventative in nature; to eliminate danger - or rather, suspected danger, or political inconveniences, as the case may be. “Do you know what happened there, exactly?”
Revulsion clawed its way up her throat. “You want the details of how everyone was butchered? Gods…” Riona shook her head. “No, why am I surprised? You were always like this...”
Wulfric blinked at her slowly, once, twice. “No, of course not.” That had been certainly unusually careless phrasing on his part. “I meant, why were they killed?”
“Why? You should know better than anyone why those monsters do the things they do.”
She wasn’t far off the mark; he knew his parents well. And yet… “I do not see what we could have gained by killing your family.” He said ‘we’ rather than ‘they’; he wasn’t that naive. “Were they – what, determined to be dissidents?” he questioned, highly doubtful. Even if they had been, that would never merit slaughtering a whole town, like she’d implied had been done.
“‘Determined to be dissidents’?” she half spat, half scoffed, the sentence out. “Perhaps you don’t remember much of Lord Dantès as you claim.” Of everyone, he had fought hardest against any whisper of conflict with the Danroses.
The Lord accepted every insult, every cutting barb from the preening Caesonian aristocrats, believing this self-abasement would keep their town safe, preserve the peace across the country. The naive fool even dreamed that one day, their kind might exist without living in fear. How disastrously wrong he had been. He underestimated the bottomless greed of those monsters and what fear could do to them.
“Then what?” Wulfric bit out, finally showing some of his own frustration.
“I’m ‘just some stupid lying girl.’ You won’t believe a thing I say because it’ll tarnish your family’s reputation and shatter every illusion you’ve had of yourself.”
“Have I not demonstrated that I am inclined to believe, or at the very least, to listen to your assertions?” he pointed out. “I am not someone who would cling to illusions, no matter how fanciful or entrenched.” He knew very well that reputation was a construct of lies, hopeful beliefs, and the occasional sprinkle of truth to tie it all in.
Riona’s defensive posture relaxed slightly. “If you do care… swear to me.”
“Swear what?” He inquired a tad cautiously. “I can swear that I care, because I do not wish to mistake convenience for necessity.” The difference between the two was something he had been mulling over lately. But he had no idea what Lady Dantès actually wanted or expected. All that was clear was that she hated him.
“If you actually care, find out for yourself.” She straightened up and faced Prince Wulfric properly. “And when you do, swear to me you’d publicly reveal what your family has done in order to stay in power. Every last one.”
“Oh, I shall most certainly find out.” He shook his head though he did not immediately deny the second part of her request. “In order to stay in power…” he ruminated on her words. How much of it was ruling through fear, how much a force of habit? Did she mean any and all executed criminals as well? He could believe there had been unjust killings, but equally, he was convinced that some deaths were necessary.
However, seeking out and rectifying those which had not been necessary, those which had been unjust was agreeable. Yet, it was very much a matter of finesse in how such a thing was to be done. “Total transparency with the hope that it would bring about appropriate accountability?” He had to wonder what results she wished for. Given her hostility, vengeance was easily believable. Perhaps she plotted for his family’s downfall, or for another to take the Danroses’ place. “You have a surprisingly naive and optimistic outlook of humanity. We are prone to excusing the unforgivable, and to turning a blind eye to the unjust.”
There were two ‘worst case’ scenarios he could foresee coming from her request. One, the complete disintegration of trust in the government followed by years of unquenchable rebellions and violent social unrest. Two, he or other parties could present all that had been done as if it had been inevitable - as regrettable yet crucial sacrifices. If the latter happened, then nothing would change, or worse yet, ever greater atrocities could be committed.
Personally, he wished for neither of those; it was a matter of finding a third path, then. “Very well. You ought to keep in mind, however, that I shall do it on my own terms.” Even if it was doing ‘the right thing’, he would certainly do it in a manner that would benefit him, if not necessarily his parents. “Too, if I ever come across something too dangerous to reveal,” such as magic, “it will be my prerogative whether I do, in fact, reveal it. Believe it or not, there are truths the general public is not ready for – not at the present time, and perhaps, not until many years in the future.”
Riona stood motionless, catching every syllable, reading between each carefully crafted line. It was a roundabout way of saying things, but clearly the answer was no. Never, to be exact. Because in the end, all of Danroses’ crimes were exactly that, “too dangerous to reveal.” The truth was a threat to their reign. And a Danrose would never act against their own interests. Nothing would change. Not under this “Prince.”
When the abomination’s spawn finished mimicking human speech, there was silence. Strangely, the lack of a face made it easier to see the thing for what it really was. “Greed and fear,” she murmured.
“Good to know you intend to follow in your parents’ footsteps, Edin the Second.” She would’ve used a different name that suited it better, but she knew that its sire’s name would cut deepest. “They must be proud. How many of your own people will you kill to ‘maintain order’? Was tormenting that servant at age seven ‘for the greater good’ too? Ah! But of course!” She threw her hands up. Her words dripped with caustic sarcasm. “You’re protecting the people from the monstrosities that are yourselves. How very noble! … Too bad you’re doing a gods awful job at it.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. “Is that ‘the truth the general public is not ready for?’... Huh. I wonder why anyone would find any of that upsetting.”
Despite the anger, she was surprisingly composed. Maybe because the thing confirmed what she’d already known, strengthening her resolve. “We have nothing more to discuss. Thank you for reaffirming that talking to you is and always will be a colossal waste of time.”
Rather than turn on her heel, Riona stepped into the thing’s space, thrusting the stupid crow mask up high enough to meet its gaze directly. “I pray your reign shall never come. But if it must, may we be fortunate that it is mercifully brief.” Her eyes blazed with a hatred that could choke the breath out of anyone. She held that smoldering look a beat longer before shoving the mask back into place. Even as she raged and stormed, however, he stood there still and silent, as unaffected as a cliffside weathering a tempest, as calm as the proverbial eye of a hurricane he happened to find himself in the middle of. Even as she ever so rudely removed his mask, he faced her unflinchingly, his lack of expression only reinforcing the impression of featureless, insensate stone. Their gazes met, and if hers was an inextinguishable wildfire, then his was as inexorably, hauntingly serene and inscrutable as an ocean whose surface was wrapped in heavily lingering mists.
“How unfortunate.” It was a flat, toneless utterance, as uncaring to her pain as the universe was to them all.
Brimming with all that barely contained wrath, overfilled with it to the point of bursting, Lady Dantès was incapable of nuance. She wanted an immediate resolution, she expected a clear-cut outcome. Her desire for justice – for vengeance - would not be satisfied until he and his family were all six feet under. Her volatile nature would not stop at mere prayers and wishes for his death, would it?
How unfortunate then, that the last Dantès would have to be slain at the hands of yet another Danrose.
Just or unjust, good or evil, fair or not – what did it matter in the face of pure survival?
He watched her leave without another word. If you must be an enemy, then so be it.
It was no tricky task to espy his magicae. Though faint, like the many in the room, his did not reach to commingle with magical energies nor flux in the same manner others did. Rather, it clung to him—a thin sheet of fluorite green, frigid and still as winter ice; a frosty bulwark that shielded the man from the world as it shielded the world from him.
Ice-olation. Ryn chuckled to himself at the perfectly terrible pun.
Soft-footed, Ryn drifted toward him, this man enshrouded in black, concealing himself from the revelers. But not from Ryn. Not whilst these bespelled lenses retained the power to peer beyond. As the dark-clad man made idle chatter Ryn stole up behind and leaned close to whisper his name—their name—“Adelard.”
The ice cracked; a hairline fissure. Something shifted below the frozen surface. Then Ryn saw Prince Wulfric’s sudden pivot just in time.
A glass of vermouth in hand, Wulfric was perusing the hors d’oeuvres available when he became aware of a certain sensation. A subconscious alert to something that he recognized only by the most minute of physiological reactions; the slight tensing of his muscles followed by an immediate relaxation, a subtle change in his heartbeat, the itching of his fingers urging him to reach for a weapon.
Was someone truly foolish enough to try and ambush him at a public event?
He angled his glass just so, attempting to catch a glimpse of the suspect in question. Unfortunately, the reflective surface did not provide anything of use. And then, they were there. A disturbance in the air indicated someone’s presence. It was now or never.
It wasn’t a cognizant decision, but a reflexive reaction – Wulfric turned around swiftly, his free hand reaching out aggressively, his mantle swishing in a rustle of feathers. As he acted on his desire to show them their mistake, what could only be described as killing intent surged, if merely for a second.
Oops.
He recognized his overreaction, reigned in the unwarranted bloodthirst, and shifted from attacking to intercepting. Which was when he finally registered a detail that had nearly escaped his notice. A familiar voice had called out to him, in the same beat he’d gone on the move. Thus, he stopped almost awkwardly mid-motion, the arm which had been ready to grab left to hang there, in between the space separating him and the count.
He sighed as he looked down at the other man. “You again?” he questioned. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “What exactly–” he started. However, before he could even formulate the question, Hendrix upped the ante by proceeding to be even stranger.
Just as the limb intent on doing harm was raised, Ryn traced its path with his own digits. When the prince lowered his hand, Ryn was there to take it gently in his grasp. With an easy grace, he twirled underneath their joined hands before sweeping into a florid bow calculated to attract every eye nearby; bent deeply at the waist with one leg extended forward while he touched his forehead to the back of the prince’s knuckles and his free arm carved arabesques in the air.
“Oh, Adel!” Ryn sang, “I thought you’d never ask! Yes, let us dance.” He pitched his voice to reach the avid ears surrounding them. Ryn could only hope his little show would suffice to plant seeds of doubt regarding the violence the onlookers thought they were about to witness.
Even for a fleeting span, the prince allowed the depth of his lethal capacity to show, enough to nail the shoes of the most perceptive watchers to the floor, frozen by understanding.
With the air of someone utterly indifferent as to how his slip up may or may not have been perceived by those in the vicinity, Wulfric took his time watching the count’s impromptu performance. He closely tracked the man as he whirled and danced around, then flourished a bow. As he pondered on the oddity in front of him, he guessed at the likely intent behind the count’s eye-catching display. Bafflement gave way to amusement.
“Ha!” he barked a disbelieving laugh.
He had to admit, the sheer gall to try to sneak up on him was impressive. Moreover, Hendrix took being nearly attacked in stride, and even followed it up with a showy improvisation. The perfection of the count’s timing alone was deserving of applause.
“I knew you were an entertainer,” he mused.
In his opinion, the enactment was unnecessary; even if anyone noticed anything, at most, they would experience a brief unsettlement before going back about their business. After all, nothing had happened, and they would feel safe putting it out of their minds. People were rather prone to ignoring uncomfortable matters, and would often craft their own excuses to explain away any discrepancies.
However, he did appreciate the show for what it was.
“Very well.” He reversed their hand-hold, placing his underneath, in the leading position. “I suppose I can indulge you…Since it’s your win this time,” he conceded in a whisper. He drained his drink, and on their path to the dance floor, deposited the empty glass upon the tray of a passing servant.
He stood opposite Hendrix then, retaining an open facing position and the one-hand hold. “Shall we?” At the affirmation, he led them in time with the music, starting with something simple, then weaving in more and more intricate steps as they danced.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have the makings of an assassin?” he asked right away, ironically humorous.
Ryn had not expected the prince to take his lighthearted invitation seriously. In truth, he was ready to let it pass into politeness as soon as the onlookers’ attention scattered elsewhere. Yet, here they stood, vis-à-vis upon the dance floor.
The opening forms were simple enough—bend the knee here, slide the feet to and fro there, bow on cue. Lather, rinse, and repeat. The intricate steps ahead, however, required a proper lead. He rather doubted the habitually commanding prince would allow another to steer him, but then the man had already proven full of surprises. Perhaps he might do so again.
“Quite the opposite. As you can see, I’m not hard to catch.” Ryn cast a rueful glance at the prince. “My apologies for frightening you. I wished only to say hello.”
“Apologizing when you were the one endangered?” he pointed out. “You are already two for two in startling me. Even after I warned you earlier today. Tsk tsk,” he chastised lightly.
“By no means can your talents be underplayed,” his tone was low, forbidding, and strangely melodic. “Not with all these techniques in your arsenal.” He chuckled darkly.
“A stealthy approach,” light steps took him towards Hendrix before he re-established their distance. “Remaining obscured,” he raised an arm, black fabric and raven feathers swirling in front of him in an artistic sweep as he mimicked being hidden. “Breaking line of sight.” He led them into a mutual twirl, so for a moment, they were back to back. “Erasing your presence,” he continued when they were facing each other again. “Or simply blending in.” He raised his free hand, tracing the air in front of the count’s mask and costume. He followed the action with a natural bow, yet another part of their dance.
“Getting close to your target.” This time, when they drew together, Wulfric changed their position. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he slotted his arm against the other man’s back, and laid his palm on the count’s shoulder blade. With his left hand, he grasped Hendrix’s right. Nimbly, he led them into turns and rotations.
“Familiarizing yourself with them.” Rising and falling, they revolved against the other as they traversed the area in graceful spins. “Observing.” An insidious whisper fell against the count’s ear. “Allowing them to become accustomed to your presence.” They pressed closer, until practically no space remained between them. Swift, tightly executed twists ensued. “Biding your time.” His fingers pushed against Hendrix’s back, then let go. They lingered scant millimeters away, still very much so in the other man’s personal space. “Until…” The hand moved a few inches higher. Cool metal claws alighted upon Hendrix’s neck; a mere whisper of a touch. “You strike,” he hissed. Only, his fingers withdrew, nary a scratch left behind.
Wulfric took several steps away, until they were back to the handhold. While he intended to resume leading the dance from a more respectful distance, the count soon drew him in for a re-enactment.
“Three,” Ryn corrected. “The first was at the palace entrance, when I presented you the bouquet of herbs and flowers.” His head tilted in curiosity, “Did you make use of them, or did they wither away in a bin?” It made sense for someone as cautious as Prince Wulfric to throw out any unexpected gifts for safety’s sake.
Wulfric uttered a noise of complaint at the correction. “If you are counting that one,” he grumbled. However, the following question produced a smirk. “Oh, I used them, alright.” There was an odd note of self-satisfaction as he gave the unexpected reply.
They flowed into another sequence of the dance, their bodies moving together effortlessly like two gears in a clock. However, people are not machines and even gears shift in time. Try as they might to resist, change comes to all things in the end. Sometimes, it arrives as a tempest, leaving everyone dazed in its wake; other times, it is a silent, creeping ivy, unnoticed until everything is different. Their seemingly predictable dance, too, was altering, bit by bit with each step and turn.
“Three times, you have marked me a threat,” he continued. “Of all those who’ve passed behind you tonight, all those shadows at your back, what made you greet me in that way?” A faint smile appeared. “I am flattered you hold me in such high regard. How much time did you spend imagining how I might try to undo you?”
Unbidden, a grin spread across his features, hidden as it was beneath his mask. “None at all,” he answered, a laugh in his voice. “Why, did you imagine the ways?” he countered slyly. He sighed audibly as he considered the question. “I should like to know…Why you indeed.”
“None at all? So you made that list on the spot?” That query was answered with a simple, if amused, “Yes.” To which he responded in a low, “... Really?”
Though the prince still led and the count still followed in their stately pavane, as the dance progressed, Wulfric found himself being on the receiving end of his own performance.
“The stealthy approach.” Ryn glided forward, then smoothly back. “Remaining obscured,” he raised an arm, but the effect lacked somewhat without the dramatic black cloak and feathers. “Breaking line of sight,” they spun together, “erasing my presence,” and when they faced each other again they were far closer than propriety deemed wise. “Or simply blending in.” He traced the edge of the raven’s beak and then swept into a bow.
“Getting close to my target.” As if sensing Ryn’s intention, Prince Wulfric moved to intercept, reasserting the lead in their choreography. A soft chuckle escaped Ryn as they spiraled into a series of dizzying turns.
“Familiarizing myself with them.” He leaned in close to whisper a less harsh, “observing,” as one might speak to a frightened creature startled into fight. “Allowing them to become accustomed to my presence. Biding my time.” His fingers reached up, past the mask, and into the hood to rest on the prince’s neck where the ghost of an old injury lingered. Tension gathered in the muscles at his touch. “Until…”
The music ceased; the moment hung suspended as some dance pairs parted and new pairs formed around them. Ryn felt the rapid pulse under his fingertips but he made no other move, the fingers merely stayed there. “So tense, like an instrument string wound too tight,” Ryn said lightly before his tone shifted to one of concern. “Breathe, Adelard. Relax. You need to be able to unwind when you can or risk snapping at the worst possible moment.”
“Presumptuous,” Wulfric growled. Of course he was tense. How could he not be, when it took so much effort to hold back? To stay still while Hendrix made his own point, prolonging the moment of tension—
—until it finally broke. He exhaled harshly. It was far from fear that gripped him; nay, he felt the coming of a familiar thrill. The excitement as someone matched and challenged him. So, yes, he did have to calm down. It was neither the time nor the place.
The hand on Prince Wulfric’s neck slid down and around his back. By the time the prince realized what the count was doing, Ryn had already lifted their clasped hands, settling them into the starting pose as the music swelled again. His hold remained light, easily broken should Prince Wulfric wish to escape. “Choose your battles, Adel. Save your strength for the fight that truly matters to you.” His gaze dropped momentarily in introspection. “If I do end up hurting you… it won’t be tonight.” Lifting his eyes to catch the prince’s gray blues, the slightest of smiles hovered about Ryn’s mouth. “But if it makes you feel any safer… for me to get close enough to strike you, I must also be near enough for you to strike me.”
Wulfric permitted Hendrix to keep the lead as he took the sensible advice, and simply breathed to regain his equilibrium.
The things he might do to this man if given half the chance…
A deep inhale. And exhale.
Best to leave it be.
The next piece was far slower, and the soothing music was enough to lull one into a sense of security, false or otherwise.
“I fight all the battles…” there was a hint of melancholy, even loss, and perhaps, an inkling of doubt. Yet, it was gone with the next words, replaced by surety. “Tonight or tomorrow, I am ready whenever.” Firmly, he met the count’s inky black gaze. “I will be waiting until so are you.”
Wulfric was startled by Ryn and was ready to attack him, but Ryn played it down, and this led them to dance.
Time: MORNING Location: EXT. DOCK Interactions/Mentions: Another guy affiliated with The New Dawn @SilverPaw; Zion @Helo; Guy affiliated with The New Dawn @Lava Alckon Equipment:
⋆ Attire from Avalia ⋆ Backpack ⋆ Smartphone ⋆ Wallet and key ⋆ Computer ⋆ Headphones ⋆ Spare eyeglasses ⋆ Plastic bag ⋆ Letter ⋆ Zion's hunting knife ⋆ Clothes from Earth ⋆ Canteen "borrowed" from Malachi's ⋆ Map "borrowed" from Malachi's
Jun gaped as the nimble vampire-esque elf launched himself off the ship, executing a perfect leap and landing smoothly on the docks below. Part of him wanted to applaud the impressive display of agility, but he tamped it down. Instead, Jun took a tiny step back and sort of half-hid behind Zion's broader frame.
"Think you fellers can tell me your experience with sea-faring?" The dark elf asked once he returned. "Have ya swam before? Been on a ship? Dug up treasure? Any sort of anything you'd like to share with me?"
Treasure hunting. Despite his current circumstances as a reluctant passenger on this voyage, Jun felt a spark of excitement ignite within, enough for his eyes to briefly twinkle with piqued interest.
He had traveled by ship before, but only as a passenger. As for swimming, well, that was hardly his territory. He could muster little beyond a frantic doggy paddle before resigning himself to the dead man's float — that buoyancy trick never failed to elicit alarmed shrieks from onlookers.
When Tanithil's eyes found and pierced his own, Jun hurriedly averted his gaze to the safety of his own shuffling feet. To ignore the questions after locking eyes felt painfully, excruciatingly awkward. But he wasn't about to give up the silent treatment. So Jun gave a small head-shake as an answer.
Time: A.M. Location: River Port Interactions/Mentions:@mole@Conscripts Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler
✠✠✠✠✠
Vasco came to in the grime of a narrow back alley, still reeking of giggle water, dope, and perfumed company from the night before. A groan rattled from his throat as he peeled himself up off the cobbles. He staggered around to get his bearings straight. Every inch of his body felt like it had gone a few rounds with a heavyweight champ.
Something squished underfoot and Vasco blinked blearily at a pint-sized fellow, battered black and blue with streaks of crimson. But the little runt was still pulling air. Vasco racked his brain, trying to piece together the jigsaw of last night’s escapades.
Ever since rolling into Avalia, he’d been aching to paint the town for cheating the reaper, but his minders were tough nuts to crack. After several attempts, Vasco slipped their watchful eyes and he hit the juice joints hard, toasting to life with every riff-raff in sight. Fists flew in a smoky haze of music and hooch, and somewhere between a left hook and a line of joy powder, the night had spiraled.
Whatever was in the powder must’ve been some good stuff too, cause the next thing Vasco knew, Barrock was dragging his keister back to their digs. But how’d he end up back out on the street?
A familiar wave of dizziness crashed over him, the world spinning like a broken top. He slumped down and dug through his pockets, pulling out the little packet of powder from last night. With a lick of his thumb, he dusted the powder across his upper lip and snorted it up. Vasco gazed upward, watching the sky run circles until it tired itself into a calm blue.
He exhaled and eyed the rumpled form next to him. Ah, that’s right. The guy was some two-bit dope peddler. They were meant to do some business, but then the meet-up turned sideways when this squirt flipped his lid over Vasco being human. They ended up beating the stuffing out of each other.
Chuckling, Vasco made sure to frisk the unconscious runt of his valuables before he took off. Good start to the day: a workout and a windfall.
When he returned to Barrock, the big green looked sorer than a boiled owl. Rowan was stewing even worse. Aurora was still wearing a long face, down in the dumps.
Vasco scratched his scruffy mug, aggravating a raw nick on his jaw, then smeared the blood off on his shirt. “Yeah, morning to you lovely dames, too. So, what’s the caper today?”
Time: Night Location: Damien Estate Ballroom Interaction(s): Cowlick @samreaper
Having sneaked into the Damien estate more than a few times at this point, the place was getting to be old hat. Peter knew exactly where to change into servant clothes and it was easy to figure out where certain supplies were being stored. Not that knowing all that made it a walk in the park to move through the Damien estate.
The security was tight, with strategic checkpoints and patrols, and occasional servants passing by forced him to stay on his toes. Peter’s servant outfit helped to some degree, but there was still a lot of waiting and watching involved. He had to carefully choose his moments to move, hide, or pretend he had every reason to be where he was whenever someone approached. But Peter lived for the thrill of it all. With each close call, his heart raced, and the risk only fueled his excitement.
He relished the chance to test his skills. It’s why he made the daredevil decision to be a little sh*t and take it further after he got his hands on a bag of gunpowder from the storage room. Since he was here, might as well snoop through C-Bert and Lili-A’s things.
Peter carefully made his way to the living area of the estate and randomly picked a room he could start his search in. While poking through various items, trying to find something remotely interesting, a sudden noise interrupted his explorations. He froze mid-motion, straining to listen. The sound grew louder. Without hesitation, Peter dropped to the floor and squeezed himself underneath the largest piece of furniture.
The door swung open, and a guard strode into the room, his boots thumping heavily on the floor. Peter watched intently as the guard’s feet paced around the room, eventually stopping right in front of his hiding spot.
Time seemed to crawl as the guard remained motionless, and Peter could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow. He was beginning to think that he’d have to fight his way out when the guard turned and exited the room. The door closed behind them with a soft click. Peter exhaled slowly and counted the seconds, waiting for what he thought would be a safe amount of time before attempting to emerge from his hiding place.
Just as he was about to move, muffled noises pricked up his ears. It was coming from the other room. Being the nosy bastard he was, the rogue listened good.
Back in the ballroom, Peter was just another faceless servant thanks to the servant-issued mask slapped on his face. But he had a harder time finding Olivia and Cowlick than he did with the gunpowder. Turned out Olivia bolted from the party a while ago. And after playing a few rounds of servant roulette with a crowd wearing the same drab uniforms and bland masks, Peter finally found the guy he was looking for.
“Hey Vincent,” Peter called out, “you dropped this.” He handed a leather pouch to Cowlick, then clapped him on the arm, putting a little extra oomph into it. “Next pint’s on you, and we’ll call it square.” Gunpowder delivered, Peter turned away, leaving the farmer boy to do whatever scheme he had cooking.
Ríoghnach "Riona"
Time: Night Location: Damien Estate Ballroom Interaction(s): Shehzadi Nahir @Rodiak
Lordling Smithwood scurried away, his tail tucked so far up his ass you could barely see it. The sight should’ve filled her with a rush. But it was a hollow victory, and she knew it. Shehzadi Nahir’s presence was the only reason he backed down, not because of what Riona did or said.
A stark reminder of the true disparity of their power.
Riona’s grip tightened around the bracelet as a heavy weight of impotence settled in her guts. With each pounding beat, the sensation spread, a knife twisting deeper and deeper into her heart.
She drew a deep, steadying breath, then flagged down a passing servant. “Excuse me, a guest is missing a pocket watch, and he found this bracelet.” Her voice betrayed no emotion as she handed over the jewelry. “Could you see if anyone is searching for a lost bracelet? And if anyone comes across the missing watch, please see that it is returned to the man wearing a lion’s mask.” She pointed at the Lordling in the distance. “Yes, the one who’s laughing like a madman.” After thanking the servant, he immediately departed on his errand.
“Quite a handful, isn't he? Adorable.”
Riona didn’t bother to stifle a groan. “There… can be a certain charm to childish, even self-centered, behaviors in small, occasional doses, I will grant. But even you would not find him so endearing when it reaches King Edin’s level of petulance.” She gauged the Shehzadi’s reaction to her not-so-subtle jab at the King. “It is all good fun to watch from afar. Less so when one is made the brunt of it.”
She noticed the amusement playing across Shehzadi Nahir’s face as she watched the earlier exchange between Riona and Sh*tlord. People did so love a bit of drama, didn’t they? Especially when they could simply sit back and enjoy the show without risking a scratch themselves.
Her gaze drifted to Lordling Smithwood who was still cackling for some reason—seriously, what’s wrong with him? Then, back to her dance partner. “You could do better, My Lady.” A sigh escaped her. “Though it would be a great win for him. He would certainly benefit from having a partner as mature as you. I imagine your words would reshape him in a way mine never could.”
That sinking sensation of powerlessness returned. And with it, doubt.
… What was she even doing?
All of this is a distraction. Only one thing matters, and it’s the reason why you still draw breath. Do not forget. Do not falter. Focus. But I—
Shehzadi Nahir’s silken voice cut through Riona’s thoughts. “Well now, will my nameless and lovely dance partner finally introduce herself?”
“Far be it from me to point it out, My Lady, but you never introduced yourself either.” The most unladylike smirk appeared on her mouth. “Since Lord Smithwood offered but one name, Nahir, I will reciprocate and share only part of mine.” Riona paused for a moment, weighing the risks of it before saying, “Dantès.”
Riona gracefully dipped into a deep, sweeping curtsy. Her movements were fluid, her back straight and her head held high as she bent at the waist, one foot stepping back to support her weight. “From House Dantès.” After a moment, Riona slowly rose.
“You may have gleaned as much already, but I was not officially invited to this party. House Dantès has fallen somewhat out of favor with… certain families. I would be most obliged if you kept the knowledge of my attendance to yourself.”
Peter disguised himself as a servant, took some gunpowder, and looked through Calbert and Liliane’s things. On his way to the ballroom, he overheard something and hid to eavesdrop. Later, Peter handed off the gunpowder to Kazumin.
Time: MORNING Location: EXT. DOCK Interactions/Mentions: The guy who got fed up with Jun @princess; Zion @Helo; Guy affiliated with The New Dawn @Lava Alckon Equipment:
⋆ Attire from Avalia ⋆ Backpack ⋆ Smartphone ⋆ Wallet and key ⋆ Computer ⋆ Headphones ⋆ Spare eyeglasses ⋆ Plastic bag ⋆ Letter ⋆ Zion's hunting knife ⋆ Clothes from Earth ⋆ Canteen "borrowed" from Malachi's ⋆ Map "borrowed" from Malachi's
Was it weird that he felt betrayed? That, despite everything, Jun hoped against hope that maybe, just maybe, Malachi would let him free, one way or another? For a few short hours, Jun had believed he was.
But nope, not a chance. The New Dawn snuffed out that tiny flicker of optimism he'd allowed himself to feel for a hot second and shoved him into another cage.
That's when the walls started going up again, higher and thicker than ever before.
In the days that followed, Jun withdrew even deeper into his shell. He refused to talk to any New Dawn affiliates (save for Zion).
Escape. That was the thought looping endlessly in his mind. Even while he sulked. Even as he helped Zion's rehab in whatever small ways he could. Even when they got sent off to the docks, to be relinquished into the custody of Jun's next jailors.
A great big boat bobbed and swayed in the waves. Was the idea to make it harder for Jun to run? Sticking him on a floating prison with nothing but open water for miles around? Like Alcatraz.
Jun answered the man's greeting with nothing but silence—distrust doing all the talking.
Unable to fully trust people involved with The New Dawn, Jun didn't respond to Tanithil's greeting, just kept staring at the Saltrunner. Wondering how he'd make his escape.
Riona mouthed the words over and over, tasting their curious combination. Count Hendrix. Her mind ran through the list of nobility for a match, but that particular combination of appellations didn’t immediately ring a bell. A newly-minted noble, perhaps?
She shook her head at the offered introduction, dismissing it with a polite, “Thank you, but it is unnecessary.” Getting a name was a prize enough. Besides, other things had to be addressed.
Three times Sh*tlord struck a nerve with Riona.
First was his cavalier treatment of the bracelet, tossing it aside like worthless rubbish. “That bracelet may mean little to you, sir,” she chided, gingerly retrieving the jewelry to have a servant return it to its rightful owner. “But to another, it could hold the same sentimental value as the pocketwatch does to you. Pray handle it with more care.” She knew how little he thought of lowborns, but apparently, his callousness extended far beyond, touching all with equal disregard.
Next came his scathing critique of the servants, the overgrown brat snapping that they were “entirely useless” at their duties. Riona felt annoyance prickle her skin. “As you have no doubt noticed, the servants must attend to a great many needs at once. It would be impossible for them to stand sentry over each guest’s belongings. Nor can they be expected to locate what is not reported missing.”
And again when he spoke of her shoe-shopping errand as some grand act of “graciousness” on his part. Like she was supposed to feel gratitude for the chance to repent for his shortcomings.
As Riona parted her lips to deliver a biting retort, she caught herself. Something about Lord Sh*tewood’s behavior seemed off—restrained. His usual haughtiness tempered (even if it was just by a margin), his actions measured.
Following his gaze, Riona realized why: Shehzadi Nahir. The Lordling was putting on his best face for her, hoping to leave a good impression.
An idea struck Riona. She looped her arm boldly through the Shehzadi’s in a show of easy familiarity. With the regal woman as her talisman to ward off the worst of his attitude, Riona rounded on the Lordling again.
“So you deliberately hurled out shoes into the common area… in a temper tantrum?” She let the question hang in the air, her gaze shifted meaningfully from the Shehzadi to Lord Smithwood.
Riona knew the two were acquainted but not how well. As fun as it was spending time with Shehzadi Nahir, what if it was only because she believed Riona to be of exalted birth? If the Shehzadi thought she was keeping company with a commoner, would her demeanor sour like curdled milk? Her fingers around the Shehzadi’s arm tightened fractionally. Gods, Riona hoped not.
“You must enjoy singularly exalted favor with the crown, Lord Smithwood, to treat their esteemed guest house as your own nursery.”
Riona chided Leo for his dismissive behavior towards the bracelet and the servants. Noticing he was on his best behavior in front of Nahir, Riona linked arms with Nahir to bolster herself while calling him out on his shoe-throwing tantrum.
Time: Night Location: Damien Estate Ballroom Interaction(s): Blue @CitrusArms; Zarai @Rodiak
Well looky there, a pretty face was enough to distract the fife wielding former baker. Maybe it wouldn’t be that hard to get away from her surveillance. Should he just leave without a word? … Nah.
As the drinking game commenced, he scanned the contestants, looking for any signs that the drink was getting to them. Eventually his focus narrowed to a pink-faced gent who swayed back and forth in an unsteady rhythm fueled by alcohol. Peter sidled up close, readying himself for the right moment.
Next round came around and Peter tapped the man’s shoulder. He turned clumsy-like and - wham! - his drink went flying right into Peter, soaking his duds clean through.
Poor fella’s so soused it took him a minute to realize what happened, but the look on his face when it hit? Priceless.
“Welp.” Peter gave the man a pat on the shoulder. “Reckon it’s time for you to head home and for me to get myself cleaned up.” Calling out to one of C-Bert’s servants, he said, “Gotta borrow the washroom.” He didn’t have to say why, they understood well enough and hurried Peter out of the ballroom without further ado.
Peter left the ballroom under the pretense of getting himself cleaned up after an “unfortunate accident.”
High Moon
Snowdrops
Charley
SilverPaw
Tpartywithzombi
CitrusArms
PapaOso
Tlaloc
Vixere
Festive
