[Log] Offense, Past and Present
Erasmus and Errol nearly duel for fun, but Brand has other ideas about illustrating a point about politeness to sorceresses.
--[ Fencing Salon ]---------------------------------------[ Royal Palace ]----
It is a room of wood and plaster, spacious and shaped for utility. The
floors gleam beneath iron chandeliers and matching wood panels stretch
up to form a wainscoting that has purpose as well as function. Banners
and painted images decorate the off-white plaster walls. On one side
are risers for guests to watch matches and training and the "sette
spade" diagram looks down upon rows of practice weapons. The floor is
divided into two by a small wood fence, matches on one side and
practice on the other. Inlaid into the practice area are grids and the
compass rose, and tucked in one corner, the elaborate interlocking
diamond grids of the Spanish school. What windows exist are often
curtained to prevent glare.
A door in the south leads out to the third floor.
Erasmus is here.
--------------------------------------------------------------[ Exits: S ]----
The fencing salle is much improved in the past few days, and has finally had
the staff's touch to make it ready. Things gleam, they sparkle, they're
likely to last about as long as a beer around Random when the room starts
being used. Erasmus, his uniform jacket off and on a riser, stands inspecting
the practice weapons.
Errol must have left his hat and gloves in the library, but he remembered to
bring his scowl - an expression of irritation that begins dissipating as soon
as his brisk steps carry him into the salon. "I say," he says, boots tapping
on wood as he glances about. "Good show, Commander."
Erasmus looks over, and gives the man a wide grin, giving the practice sabre he
holds a flex. "They did an impressive job, didn't they, mi'Lord?" he replies,
glancing about the room. "I see Princess Flora's touch, otherwise it might've
been bare to have more room for slashing."
"Indeed," Errol notes, his raised brows and small smile appreciative as he
glances about. "It makes our facilities at the manse seem...Spartan in
comparison - as befits a palace, I suppose." Pausing to follow the hang of a
banner, he remarks, "And I suppose some frippery is in order, to absorb the
sounds of curses and oaths."
Laughing, Erasmus puts away the blade and strolls. "Always with the
representation, it should be the salle to end all. It should suffice to
buffer the residents from the language, and I have no fears of bringing
foreign dignitaries in, if they so wish it. I wager that's a headache you
don't often have to worry about in your home," he adds with a chuckle.
"Of late, it's the royals dropping by at all hours with hints of certain doom
that is more distracting," Errol replies, finding of bit of laughter of his
own. "Perhaps I can modify our salon to be less...attractive. Further from
the parlor, to make the impending jaunt for liquor a bit more daunting." A
thoughtful hand lifts to the stubble at his chin.
Erasmus whistles, remarking, "Aye, the ease should be adjusted. If you had a
dungeon or some such basement, it would be a useful move. Stairs, the dank
smell of rot, bad lighting. Sounds like a perfect spot." He looks about,
pride clear in the final result, and adds, "Though I'm glad this wasn't put
down there, myself."
Errol nods a bit while making his way to the practice area, tapping his feet
ahead of him here and there. "Solid flooring - nice and even," he notes. "No,
a basement would not do. Although some interesting tactics can be learned in
the darker alleys of the night, or even aboard ships where the crew has
issues of confined space and precarious balance to attend to." A small,
confident shrug. "What do you wish to see it become?"
Erasmus listens thoughtfully, thumbs hooked in his belt. At the question, he
smiles slightly. "In truth? Common ground. It is, perhaps, an odd thing to
lay out a spread for a violent activity in the hopes it will attract
disparate people together, but there is... or should be... a sense of honor
and right way of handling here that will confine and guide disagreements." He
shrugs, adding, "I am not so much a duelist myself, Lord Feldane."
"Perhaps not in practice, Commander de'Mandrake," Errol replies in kind with
both formal title and informally small, uneven smile. "But in spirit? You
speak of honor with a sense of duty, and of the confinement of disagreements.
You seem to have the philosophy well in hand," he notes, a casual offhand at
the hilt of his side-sword.
Erasmus's eyes twinkle at that, and he says with forced seriousness, "Yes, but
applied in a solid punch to the jaw most of the time. Perhaps I need to learn
the right rules." He adopts an almost merry, pleased expression then. "Do you
think, sir, that more realistic tactics as you mention could be practiced in
this room? Perhaps with blocking off space? It is something I teach my men,
though I don't think setting fire to the floor would be looked upon kindly."
Errol glances about again, eyes anarrowed at the fencing and floor. "You mean
as a space for formal duels? I believe it would do just smashingly." A series
of nods follows. "And I quite agree that violence might bring us together. I
sparred with one of the Kitezh a few weeks back and found their style unlike
anything I had ever seen. Given the mysteries that lay down along that black
road, we should pool our resourses, as it were. Our leanings of all things
bladelike."
"How much did you learn of the other during the bout?" Erasmus asks, some
undercurrent of meaning turning the question into a knowing one, and not
merely a curious inquiry. "And... I'm concerned that what lies down that Road
is not going to be dispatched by simple blades, or guarded against with a
keen eye." He frowns, gaze drifting to a Unicorn banner.
"Admittedly, not as much as I might have liked," Errol admits, the tenor of the
conversation washing away his smile like so much silt along a river. "But
that is the beauty of the concept, here. You might invite the foreign
dignitaries to join, and we all would profit over time." He is standing near
Erasmus, surveying the practice area, absent of hat and gloves.
Erasmus nods thoughtfully, glancing back to the other. "Any who wish it, for
participation or observing. I rather thing we'd get to know our common allies
better, as you say, for a more unified force. But on a lighter note," he
continues with a growing grin. "How best to christen the room? With drink for
the floor boards and drunken shouts for the walls, or something more dry and
proper?"
Emma makes her way into the fencing salon, clad all in green. She gives a
brief, approving glance around the room, then approaches Erasmus and Errol,
her presence announced by the sound of her heels on the wooden floor. Still,
she overhears Erasmus's words, and calls, amused, "Oh, please do tell me it
will be the first, gentlemen."
Errol seems about to speak when Emma announces herself. "Dear cousin," he
exclaims while taking a single step her before halting. "I was thinking both
might be possible, but surely first is of the utmost import, yes." The
Commander's contagious grin grows some as he regards her.
Erasmus turns and sweeps into a bow that is at once formal and theatrical. "If
the lady insists, there shall be debauchery and plenty of accidents not
remembered or admitted to the next morning!" he answers with a laugh. "Lady
Emma, the room is ready for your education and, no doubt, high amusement."
His tone and gaze is pleased and not just a little fond.
Emma's lips twitch, briefly, amused at both the men. "I am glad my presence
will not ruin -all- of your fun," she teases. That said, she steps first to
her cousin. "And don't you look handsome, dear Cousin -- as always." She
offers him a hand, that contagious grin infecting her, as well.
Errol's fingers circle hers, and he bends into a shallow bow that halts above
their meet. "I find myself quite disarmed - and in a salle, no less," he
admits, grin unwavering as he straightens. "Surely you must attend the
opening, Emma; your radiance will immunine the proceedings."
"Or drive some to extraordinary showing off," Erasmus notes gruffly, with
humor. "It is a common disease."
"I am given to understand that this is normal showing off for my cousin, rather
than anything extraordinary," Emma quips over her shoulder, before dropping a
little curtsey at Errol. "Thank you, Errol. I shall do my best to attend."
That said, she turns her attention to Erasmus. Poor Erasmus. "My dear
Commander, I do not believe I've seen you in uniform, yet. It is quite
dashing on you." Indeed, she looks as if she might reach to straighten his
collar, just because it's there. She stops herself, however, and simply
offers him her hand.
Errol's sidelong glance to Erasmus holds not simply amusement in his deep brown
eyes, no, but the promise of invested amusement - the type that pays
dividends in the future.
Erasmus fails to see the other man's look, as he observes Emma with almost the
same sort of look he warmed the salle with shortly before. The slender hand
is taken, though his bow over it includes a light kiss to the back that
Errol's left off. "Thank you, Lady Emma," he replies, looking up at her sly
before he straightens and lets go of her fingers. "A soldier enjoys wavering
between dashing and downright filthy in the line of work."
"You are quite welcome, Erasmus," Emma replies. Her lips press together, and
she ought to be given credit for at least attempting to hold back the
comment. She can't resist, though, and she says in a stage whisper, "Dashing
and downright filthy, hm? You'll have to tell me all about it later."
Errol most likely does not hear, as he is distracted by a footman in Feldane
livery just inside the door. He paces that way, concern playing along the
lines of his brow.
Erasmus keeps his laugh to a manageable level, though the Commander's gaze
slips almost unconsciously to Errol, though the only thing to worry about
seems to be a retreating back. "What, tales of crawling through muck, diving
through flaming fields, and a lot of sleeping on the backs of horses?" he
asks innocently, hooking his thumbs on his belt and adopting a comfortable
stance.
Emma watches Erasmus's gaze slide away, then back, but she doesn't comment upon
it. Instead, she nods to his words. "They're your tales. Of course I want to
hear them." The words are sincere, and her smile faint, but warm.
Erasmus studies Emma thoughtfully, the bemused air still lingering over more
serious regard. Then, "Aye, though to the cheery tales, my Lady, and not the
ones of defeat and hardship. Every soldier who's seen battle is a storehouse
of story, both interesting and terrifying. But do you like our tame
battlefield?" he asks, cheerfully, with an expansive gesture about. "The only
possibility for ambush is the banners there, but they seem to be securely
fastened to the walls."
"Defeat and hardship are a part of life, unfortunately," Emma intones. "But
I'll listen to the tales you'd have me hear." Her brow furrows, just a bit,
but his cheerful words distract her from her thoughts. Glancing away from the
Commander, she summons up a smile, and nods. "It is quite nice, Erasmus.
Welcoming even, which is impressive for a salle."
Erasmus smiles, looking at the room proudly. "Princess Flora's touch. I
might've left off the banners detail and such, but it really brings the room
together. I'd like to host an event, to spread word of the club and warm the
room with fighters, but with the army so recently returned, that may be a
delayed party until things settle down."
Emma bobs her head, turning her gaze back to Erasmus. "That seems a wise idea.
If there is anything I would be able to do to help with the planning, I hope
you will let me know. It really is lovely."
Errol has concluded his conversation and wandered back within earshot enough to
reply: "Please don't wait for things to settle down, Commander. We might
never see it in use!"
"Well, it can be in use immediately," Erasmus considers. "With the grand party
afterward. As far as I'm concerned, it's ready for use as it is now."
Emma chuckles softly at Errol's words. "It certainly would appear that way,"
she agrees. She steps back from Erasmus as her cousin returns.
Errol's small uneven smile grows conspiratorial. "Surely it has seen some use?"
His tone seems to suggest remedy, should the answer be negative.
Erasmus catches the tone and studies Errol's face with a sizing up expression.
"Well, it did see Ladies Cyndre and Taleyn pit arms, but to my knowledge that
is all. A void unfilled, as it were."
"I imagine that void ought to be filled," Emma says, mildly, looking between
the men.
Errol might deflate a bit in disappointment - a child's birthday balloon the
day after. "Then I shant be the first. My career at second is something less
savory," he admits. "Still..."
Brand walks into the salon, and pauses in the doorway, gaze focousing in on
Erasmus.
Erasmus laughs easily. "Well, blood has not yet been split, even in sport, so
you can still take that from the more masochistic of opponents." He doesn't
seem to leap forward with his hand raised; perhaps his earlier note on not
being a duelist was not mere modesty. Still, he does not reject the idea
either. "Lady Emma, were you intending to learn?" he asks, glancing to her,
then past her to the door.
Brand says, "Good day commander, Errol, young lady. Am I interrupting?"
Errol might smile a bit at the mention of 'learn', then follows Erasmus' gaze.
"Your Highness," he says by way of greeting, before dipping into a compact,
precise bow."
"To learn to spill blood, or to fence?" Emma says, looking at the Commander,
with a decidedly innocent expression. "I was planning upon improving my
skills, Erasmus -- Commander, that is." She glances toward the new voice, and
is quick to follow Errol's lead. "Your Highness," she echoes, dropping in a
curtsey.
Erasmus bows with automatic grace to the Prince. "Not at all, Highness," he
replies, as if there were any other response to the question. "Can I help you
with anything?" Duty reasserts, and the Commander's stance straightens from
the slouch the company had allowed.
Brand says, "I was hoping to speak to you."
Errol, too, stands a bit taller with what ducal air his has managed to
cultivate thusfar.
Emma straightens from her curtsey, folding her hands before her primly.
Erasmus nods, giving proper apologetic looks to Errol and Emma before moving to
the redhead at the door.
Privately, to Erasmus, Emma flickers a smile that is both disappointed and
understanding in the Commander's direction.
Brand says, "It is not something that need exclude the young Lord Feldane and
your other companion."
"Very well, Highness," Erasmus replies, stopping within conversational range
and looking somewhat relieved. Private conversations, apparently, mean
Disaster in his world.
Errol clears his throat lightly, his glance to Erasmus sharper, the one to his
cousin more indicative.
Emma's brows lift just slightly, but she does not comment -- nor does she put
herself forward.
Brand folds his hands in front of him, and says, "My mother, Commander, was
Pathi. Myself and my sister also share that discinction."
Seeing a need to school his expression, Erasmus does so and nods.
Errol glances, sidelong and faintly apologetically, to Emma.
Brand bares his teeth. It might be meant as a smile. "I am not offended, sir.
Don't worry. And neither should the young Sibyl have been if she truly
believed in the doctrine of isolation."
Emma gives the very slightest shake of her head in Errol's direction, before
returning her attention to Erasmus and Brand.
Erasmus pales just slightly, and he considers, before noting, "I should not
allow my frustration to find voice in flippery, Highness."
Brand glides foward, though he doesn't come quite within reaching distance.
"Because you are loyal to Amber, commander, and because you put the True City
before yourself, there are things you need to understand."
Erasmus picks the wiser of his options available and nods, the gesture sharp
and firm. If the approach of the Prince gives him anymore unease than the
words already spoken, the man doesn't show it.
Errol's earthen brown brows lift at Brand's statement, and - despite manners
and breeding - quite obviously watches the conversation play out.
Emma maintains her silence, her expression remaining neutral.
Brand says, "All of Oberon's children have roles. Some are very obvious. I
wonder if you have an idea of what mine might be?"
"It is not my station to wonder on the roles of the King's children, Highness,"
Erasmus answers quietly, unease filtering into his voice.
Brand says, "I think all of this will be easier to explain through SHOWING as
opposed to SPEAKING. One of my titles is the Count of Forked Tongue. Have you
ever heard of Forked Tongue?"
Errol's expression might display his ignorance, but certainly does his vauge
unease.
Emma flickers a glance at her cousin, before returning her attention to the
Commander and Prince.
Erasmus draws himself up, just slightly. "No, Highness, I was not aware of the
meaning behind that title." He watches Brand with a very faint squint, which
might be wary if he allowed it more room.
Brand is suddenly holding a trump, and extending his hand towards Erasmus. He
looks over at the others. "Errol? Young lady? I promise it will be safe, if a
bit chilly."
"Your Highness, allow me to present my cousin, Lady Emma Feldane," Errol
glances between the two, a bit of residual concern along his brow. "Lady,
Prince Brand of Amber, Count of Forked Tongue."
Emma steps forward, then, saying, "Your Highness, I am honored. And I do not
fear a bit of a chill." Clearly, she has every intent of coming along.
Brand gives Emma a very cheery, toothy grin.
Erasmus is eyeing the card in Brand's hand as if it might be a snake. One never
knows. "Aye," he finally says, heavily.
"And I shant be out of fashion this early in a season," Errol notes, perhaps
wishing he had brought his gloves as he steadies the hang of his side-sword.
Brand gathers everyoe up and they are off.
--[ Forked Tongue ]---------------------------------[ Somewhere ]----
Forked Tongue is a rough isosceles triangle of land, perhaps an acre
in size. The base is bound by a cliff, perhaps a hundred feet high.
The sides are rivers, which flow to a junction at the triangle's
point. There are no bridges over these favors, though the ruins of
bridges are evident on the banks. The ground is covered in snow, with
old, bleached bones sticking out of it here and there. About thirty
feet from the river junction, where you have appeared is a grey and
nondescript stone tower, maybe sixty feet tall.
Erasmus is here.
-----------------------------------------------------------[ Exits: None ]----
Brand disengages from the rest of the group, and pauses, surveying the area for
a moment.
Errol takes a few steps, boots crunching in snow, his attention moving from
bonepile to bonepile, then finally to the tower. Brown eyes narrowing, he
flicks a glance to Emma.
Erasmus blinks hard, his hand drifting to the rapier at his side as soon as
it's released, and the other feeling his pocket for a small box there. Both
hands seem to find what they want, and he drops the post-trumping prep
motions to peer about.
Emma stands perfectly still, her own eyes wide as she looks about them. Her
gaze goes to the tower, then to Errol. A slight nod follows, before she steps
to Erasmus where he stands. She moves close to his elbow, as if she were a
bit frightened.
Brand strides forward, taking a small silver key from his pocket, and unlocks
the tower door.
Privately, to Erasmus, Emma steps close to that elbow for just a moment, hand
touching the elbow lightly. It is not a gesture that hints she needs
reassurance, but rather, one of support for the Commander.
Erasmus starts at the touch at his elbow, his gaze taken up with staring at the
tower, and the Commander puts an arm around Emma's shoulders, both for some
warmth and comfort.
Errol takes point of the trailing trio, a gloveless hand never far from the
ornate hilt of his blade. Back to Erasmus, he misses the gesture entirely.
To Emma, Erasmus says, "I think I would have rather dueled all of Feldane than
end up here. But it could turn out... interesting?"
Erasmus mutters to Emma, "I... have... than... But... interesting?"
Emma leans herself against Erasmus, showing no sign that she's planning to move
from the circle of his arm. She tilts her chin at the tower, slipping an arm
around the Commander's back and moving that way. She offers a small smile.
"Let us hope so," she murmurs, a bit more loudly than she means to.
Brand opens the door, and steps in, moving out of the doorway, leaving it clear
for the others.
Erasmus smiles back to her and follows Errol, taking on more of a visual
alertness than warring with whether or not to draw steel.
Errol does not crouch under the archway, but does adopt a wider, lower, readier
stance as he follows Brand with light footfalls.
Emma angles herself slightly as she steps through the door, that she doesn't
leave Erasmus behind.
The tower is not large. It is perhaps thirty feet across. The ceiling is
perhaps 15 feet high. The floor is littered in old bones, and runes are drawn
in blood on the walls. Hanging upside down from the center of the ceiling is
a nine foot Frankensteinian horror, slack, eyes glazed and empty, but clearly
breathing.
"By the unicorn's horn," Errol mutters, not-quite-underbreath, as he glances up
at the abomination.
Brand has moved off to the side.
Erasmus stares upward as his eyes adjust to reveal the thing hanging there. The
Commander steps forward away from Emma's embrace with an absent pat of
assurance on her arm, his gaze dodging about the figure, as if trying to see
dim stars at night.
Emma once again freezes in place, blue eyes widening even more. Erasmus's
departure is not acknowledged, as she asks, "What is it?" Question asked, she
too steps forward, unable to take her gaze from the thing.
Brand says, "Once, this... person was poised to sweep horror and disease upon
Amber."
Erasmus goes still, studying the figure directly now, his expression...
difficult to define.
Errol glances back to his companions at that, with more questions playing along
his features than he grants them time to answer.
Brand says, "Oberon, he felt, has caused him to lose power in his home shadow.
He sought out the darkest magics he could, and resolved to return the favor.
I was sent to deal with him. It is not a known story. It is not Benedict at
Moon Pass, but it is as important. The fact that you have never heard of him
or of Forked Tongue means I did it properly."
"What people do not know cannot frighten them," Emma murmurs, arms folding over
her chest. Her expression, now, has shifted to one of academic interest.
Erasmus's hands curl into fists, and he remains silent, staring up.
Brand says, "As you can see, he was defeated." He walks around the thing, and
then his gaze finds Erasmus, "But I did not do it alone."
Errol nods as he, too, circles the dangling defeated. "It would appear that His
Highness' charge then, if I might, is the arcane defense of the True City."
Erasmus looks then to Brand, his expression revealed as nearly ill.
Emma makes a soft, thoughtful noise. That is all.
Brand says, "I summoned the Pathi. We severed him... it from its power. We
destroyed his army. We ensured he would never be a threat again. The only
thing we could not do was force its spirit to vacate the body it had created
for itself."
The ill countenance fades as Erasmus listens to Brand, and he resettles as if
back from the brink of something, folding his arms on his chest.
"Do you wish to banish the spirit, Your Highness?" Errol quietly inquires, his
eyes never leaving it vessel.
Emma steps over to Erasmus, once again, looking to him, rather than Brand and
saying, "It is trapped in a prison of its own making." She again reaches to
touch the Commander's elbow, even as she looks to Brand and Errol. "Such a
thing could be done," she adds in agreement.
Brand says, "By all means, if it is within your power. Though it is so far gne
into itself that no one I have brought here in centuries has so much as seen
the body twitch."
Erasmus glances briefly to Emma and offers a faint smile before looking to
Errol. The situation has stilled him to the core, and he merely watches.
A scrape of steel heralds Errol's side-sword's arrival in his hands, both sets
of fingers coming about the hilt. He glances back to Emma with a single brow
lifted.
Brand observes with a pleased demeanor and a clinical interest.
"Erasmus," Emma says, her features grave. "Commander. May I have your sword?"
Then, to Errol, "Speak to it, Cousin. Tell it that we will send it to rest."
Bright eyes lift to Erasmus once again. "If you are not willing, Errol will
be able to carry this out alone, I am certain," she assures, more quietly.
Erasmus, without hesitation, draws his rapier and presents the hilt to Emma,
his nod firm. "Please."
"Spirit," Errol begins, already making sweeping motions with his blade. "You
are being sent to your eternal rest."
There is no response. Just a continuation of glassy eyed stare.
Emma inclines her head to Erasmus, taking the rapier from him by the hilt, no
hesitation in the movement. "Thank you, dear Commander." Her words and
bearing are almost ritualistic, as she approaches the thing, and from the way
she holds the rapier, she's not an inexperienced swordswoman. "Cousin," she
says, pausing to wait for Errol's direction.
Erasmus steps back toward Brand, watching impassively.
Brand murmurs to Erasmus, "I hope you understand."
Erasmus glances to the Prince and nods, his expression grim, before he looks
back.
"We shall take off its head," Errol replies, clinically. "And banish it," while
drawing back his side-sword up and over his shoudler. "On my mark."
Emma gives a single, short nod. "Aye." Entirely focused on her task, she lifts
the Commander's sword, as well, waiting for Errol's mark.
Errol nods, once, sharply, and lets fly with his sword.
Emma's own blade cuts toward the thing's neck opposite Errol's, and though it
is not the typical task of a rapier, the blow is struck with a fair amount of
force, aimed such that her blade -- if all goes as she plans -- slides
beneath her cousin's, dissecting whatever his blow might have missed. Of
course, that's if all goes as she plans.
Errol's blade, designed for slashing as well as running through, rips into the
abomination precisely at the angle Emma foresaw.
A deafening, rage-filled shriek fills the tower, and then all signs of spirits
and magic are abruptly gone. The creature falls to pieces, forming an untidy,
ichory pile in the middle of the floor.
Erasmus tenses more immediately after the blows than at, and lets out a breath
of what could easily be taken as relief.
Brand covers his ears, looking perturbed at the sound.
Errol dances back a step, keeping his boots clear of abominatory debris.
The mushy pile leaks black slime.
Emma takes a single, smooth step back from the ichorous cascard. Still, the hem
of her skirt gets spattered with it, and she wrinkles her nose. "Curses."
Brand turns to Erasmus, as if what just happened was not at all unusual, and
says, conversationally, "The problem, of course, is that the Sibyl have great
say over what happens with the Pathi. And the one you spoke to clearly is
influenced by her emotions. If Amber needs this sort of help again, she will
remember you, and her conversation with you."
Errol draws a kerchief from the depths of his pockets and offer it to Emma,
along with a faint, serene nod.
Erasmus's study of Brand speaks volumes, only some of it vocalized, "I will be
certain to be more polite to the Sibyl from now on, Highness."
Brand says, "Be a good man and send her flowers or something."
Emma takes the kerchief from Errol, nodding her thanks to him. She leans down,
rapier still carefully held, and dabs at the goo on her skirts. Her gaze
lifts, however, turning sharp at the mention of flowers.
Errol produces a second kerchief and only a hint of a small smile. The former
he uses to wipe ichor from the steel on his hand.
"Any idea what she likes?" Erasmus asks, sounding a little uncertain, still
studying Brand for signs of Greater Clarification.
Brand says, "I haven't the faintest. I've never actually met her. Fiona knows
her though, and I could ask."
Emma looks to Errol, his handkerchief, then back to Errol, as if trying to
decide whether or not she should give it back to him. Instead, she lets it
fall, then tugs a delicate, lacy handkerchief from her sleeve. "I am quite
certain I could advise you, Commander," she says, casually. She makes her way
over, wiping the lacy wisp along the blade, courtesy cleaning it.
To Brand, Erasmus glances to the approaching Emma, and steps a halfstep closer
to the Prince. "Given some... signs, you don't expect me to submit to the
Sibyl's... advances, for Amber, do you Highness?"
Muttering to Brand, Erasmus glances to the approaching Emma, and steps a
halfstep closer to the Prince. "... some... signs, you... me to submit...
the... advances,... you..."
Brand raises an eyebrow at Erasmus.
Privately, Brand says, "Well, it couldn't hurt."
Brand mutters something to Erasmus.
Erasmus rubs his chin thoughtfully.
Errol discards the kerchief in his hand as well, and returns his side-sword to
its scabbard.
Brand addresses Errol and Emma, "Thank you." He smiles. "Maybe now I can
finally renovate the place. Shall we return to Amber?"
Emma finishes cleaning the rapier, then discards her handkerchief as well. She
waits just a bit off, trying not to eavesdrop. "Certainly, your Highness,"
she says, to Brand.
"If it pleases His Highness," Errol replies, smoothly, but the faint relief in
his expression might indicate that the notion pleases him as well.
Erasmus nods, looking to Emma and the now-clean sword with a smile. "Aye, I'm
ready."
Brand is holding a trump again, and reaches out his hand.
Your surroundings change.
--[ Entrance Hall(#250RJ0) ]------------------------------[ Royal Palace ]----
The grandiose entrance hall of the palace is a broad expanse of
gleaming polished pale-marble floors, which contrast sharply against
the massive blocks of dark stone which form the walls. The ceiling is
vaulted, and hung with colorful banners.
Massive double doors to the south, flanked by a pair of guardsmen with
pikes, and moved via a counterweight system, open into the Main
Courtyard. The hall runs north clear through the central keep that
forms the core of the palace, until it intersects the Long Gallery;
some distance back is broad double staircase that leads to the second
floor. Elegant sets of double doors to the east and west open to the
Great Hall and the Grand Ballroom, respectively, while a number of
other doors lead off to smaller rooms, including the Yellow Room and a
small sitting room.
Erasmus is here.
--[ views ]-------------------------------------[ Exits: N S E W NW SW U ]----
Emma keeps hold of the sword until she's certain all are safely back and
accounted for. Then, she offers its hilt to Erasmus, giving him a long,
steady look.
Privately, to Erasmus, Emma's look is assessing, but also firmly suggests she
trusts him -- and that just maybe her offer of help was sincere. Then again,
maybe she's just making sure he gets his sword back.
Erasmus takes a breath to clear his lungs, and nods, taking the rapier back and
sending it home. "I... need to get to work. Highness, Lord Feldane, Emma," he
says, nodding to them.
Privately, to Emma, Erasmus seems very inward, as he did since seeing the
monster thing, and is somewhat unreadable.
Errol begins distributing bows, "And I, as well, am forced to take my leave.
Thank you for the opportunity to travel, Your Highness."
Emma gives a small, sympathetic smile to Erasmus. "Good day, Erasmus. Let us
speak again soon. I still wish to help break in the salle."
Brand's trump disappears as quietly as it appeared.
"Of course," Erasmus replies to Emma, before heading off as the field trip
party splits in many directions.
Brand replies, "Good day," variously.
--[ Fencing Salon ]---------------------------------------[ Royal Palace ]----
It is a room of wood and plaster, spacious and shaped for utility. The
floors gleam beneath iron chandeliers and matching wood panels stretch
up to form a wainscoting that has purpose as well as function. Banners
and painted images decorate the off-white plaster walls. On one side
are risers for guests to watch matches and training and the "sette
spade" diagram looks down upon rows of practice weapons. The floor is
divided into two by a small wood fence, matches on one side and
practice on the other. Inlaid into the practice area are grids and the
compass rose, and tucked in one corner, the elaborate interlocking
diamond grids of the Spanish school. What windows exist are often
curtained to prevent glare.
A door in the south leads out to the third floor.
Erasmus is here.
--------------------------------------------------------------[ Exits: S ]----
The fencing salle is much improved in the past few days, and has finally had
the staff's touch to make it ready. Things gleam, they sparkle, they're
likely to last about as long as a beer around Random when the room starts
being used. Erasmus, his uniform jacket off and on a riser, stands inspecting
the practice weapons.
Errol must have left his hat and gloves in the library, but he remembered to
bring his scowl - an expression of irritation that begins dissipating as soon
as his brisk steps carry him into the salon. "I say," he says, boots tapping
on wood as he glances about. "Good show, Commander."
Erasmus looks over, and gives the man a wide grin, giving the practice sabre he
holds a flex. "They did an impressive job, didn't they, mi'Lord?" he replies,
glancing about the room. "I see Princess Flora's touch, otherwise it might've
been bare to have more room for slashing."
"Indeed," Errol notes, his raised brows and small smile appreciative as he
glances about. "It makes our facilities at the manse seem...Spartan in
comparison - as befits a palace, I suppose." Pausing to follow the hang of a
banner, he remarks, "And I suppose some frippery is in order, to absorb the
sounds of curses and oaths."
Laughing, Erasmus puts away the blade and strolls. "Always with the
representation, it should be the salle to end all. It should suffice to
buffer the residents from the language, and I have no fears of bringing
foreign dignitaries in, if they so wish it. I wager that's a headache you
don't often have to worry about in your home," he adds with a chuckle.
"Of late, it's the royals dropping by at all hours with hints of certain doom
that is more distracting," Errol replies, finding of bit of laughter of his
own. "Perhaps I can modify our salon to be less...attractive. Further from
the parlor, to make the impending jaunt for liquor a bit more daunting." A
thoughtful hand lifts to the stubble at his chin.
Erasmus whistles, remarking, "Aye, the ease should be adjusted. If you had a
dungeon or some such basement, it would be a useful move. Stairs, the dank
smell of rot, bad lighting. Sounds like a perfect spot." He looks about,
pride clear in the final result, and adds, "Though I'm glad this wasn't put
down there, myself."
Errol nods a bit while making his way to the practice area, tapping his feet
ahead of him here and there. "Solid flooring - nice and even," he notes. "No,
a basement would not do. Although some interesting tactics can be learned in
the darker alleys of the night, or even aboard ships where the crew has
issues of confined space and precarious balance to attend to." A small,
confident shrug. "What do you wish to see it become?"
Erasmus listens thoughtfully, thumbs hooked in his belt. At the question, he
smiles slightly. "In truth? Common ground. It is, perhaps, an odd thing to
lay out a spread for a violent activity in the hopes it will attract
disparate people together, but there is... or should be... a sense of honor
and right way of handling here that will confine and guide disagreements." He
shrugs, adding, "I am not so much a duelist myself, Lord Feldane."
"Perhaps not in practice, Commander de'Mandrake," Errol replies in kind with
both formal title and informally small, uneven smile. "But in spirit? You
speak of honor with a sense of duty, and of the confinement of disagreements.
You seem to have the philosophy well in hand," he notes, a casual offhand at
the hilt of his side-sword.
Erasmus's eyes twinkle at that, and he says with forced seriousness, "Yes, but
applied in a solid punch to the jaw most of the time. Perhaps I need to learn
the right rules." He adopts an almost merry, pleased expression then. "Do you
think, sir, that more realistic tactics as you mention could be practiced in
this room? Perhaps with blocking off space? It is something I teach my men,
though I don't think setting fire to the floor would be looked upon kindly."
Errol glances about again, eyes anarrowed at the fencing and floor. "You mean
as a space for formal duels? I believe it would do just smashingly." A series
of nods follows. "And I quite agree that violence might bring us together. I
sparred with one of the Kitezh a few weeks back and found their style unlike
anything I had ever seen. Given the mysteries that lay down along that black
road, we should pool our resourses, as it were. Our leanings of all things
bladelike."
"How much did you learn of the other during the bout?" Erasmus asks, some
undercurrent of meaning turning the question into a knowing one, and not
merely a curious inquiry. "And... I'm concerned that what lies down that Road
is not going to be dispatched by simple blades, or guarded against with a
keen eye." He frowns, gaze drifting to a Unicorn banner.
"Admittedly, not as much as I might have liked," Errol admits, the tenor of the
conversation washing away his smile like so much silt along a river. "But
that is the beauty of the concept, here. You might invite the foreign
dignitaries to join, and we all would profit over time." He is standing near
Erasmus, surveying the practice area, absent of hat and gloves.
Erasmus nods thoughtfully, glancing back to the other. "Any who wish it, for
participation or observing. I rather thing we'd get to know our common allies
better, as you say, for a more unified force. But on a lighter note," he
continues with a growing grin. "How best to christen the room? With drink for
the floor boards and drunken shouts for the walls, or something more dry and
proper?"
Emma makes her way into the fencing salon, clad all in green. She gives a
brief, approving glance around the room, then approaches Erasmus and Errol,
her presence announced by the sound of her heels on the wooden floor. Still,
she overhears Erasmus's words, and calls, amused, "Oh, please do tell me it
will be the first, gentlemen."
Errol seems about to speak when Emma announces herself. "Dear cousin," he
exclaims while taking a single step her before halting. "I was thinking both
might be possible, but surely first is of the utmost import, yes." The
Commander's contagious grin grows some as he regards her.
Erasmus turns and sweeps into a bow that is at once formal and theatrical. "If
the lady insists, there shall be debauchery and plenty of accidents not
remembered or admitted to the next morning!" he answers with a laugh. "Lady
Emma, the room is ready for your education and, no doubt, high amusement."
His tone and gaze is pleased and not just a little fond.
Emma's lips twitch, briefly, amused at both the men. "I am glad my presence
will not ruin -all- of your fun," she teases. That said, she steps first to
her cousin. "And don't you look handsome, dear Cousin -- as always." She
offers him a hand, that contagious grin infecting her, as well.
Errol's fingers circle hers, and he bends into a shallow bow that halts above
their meet. "I find myself quite disarmed - and in a salle, no less," he
admits, grin unwavering as he straightens. "Surely you must attend the
opening, Emma; your radiance will immunine the proceedings."
"Or drive some to extraordinary showing off," Erasmus notes gruffly, with
humor. "It is a common disease."
"I am given to understand that this is normal showing off for my cousin, rather
than anything extraordinary," Emma quips over her shoulder, before dropping a
little curtsey at Errol. "Thank you, Errol. I shall do my best to attend."
That said, she turns her attention to Erasmus. Poor Erasmus. "My dear
Commander, I do not believe I've seen you in uniform, yet. It is quite
dashing on you." Indeed, she looks as if she might reach to straighten his
collar, just because it's there. She stops herself, however, and simply
offers him her hand.
Errol's sidelong glance to Erasmus holds not simply amusement in his deep brown
eyes, no, but the promise of invested amusement - the type that pays
dividends in the future.
Erasmus fails to see the other man's look, as he observes Emma with almost the
same sort of look he warmed the salle with shortly before. The slender hand
is taken, though his bow over it includes a light kiss to the back that
Errol's left off. "Thank you, Lady Emma," he replies, looking up at her sly
before he straightens and lets go of her fingers. "A soldier enjoys wavering
between dashing and downright filthy in the line of work."
"You are quite welcome, Erasmus," Emma replies. Her lips press together, and
she ought to be given credit for at least attempting to hold back the
comment. She can't resist, though, and she says in a stage whisper, "Dashing
and downright filthy, hm? You'll have to tell me all about it later."
Errol most likely does not hear, as he is distracted by a footman in Feldane
livery just inside the door. He paces that way, concern playing along the
lines of his brow.
Erasmus keeps his laugh to a manageable level, though the Commander's gaze
slips almost unconsciously to Errol, though the only thing to worry about
seems to be a retreating back. "What, tales of crawling through muck, diving
through flaming fields, and a lot of sleeping on the backs of horses?" he
asks innocently, hooking his thumbs on his belt and adopting a comfortable
stance.
Emma watches Erasmus's gaze slide away, then back, but she doesn't comment upon
it. Instead, she nods to his words. "They're your tales. Of course I want to
hear them." The words are sincere, and her smile faint, but warm.
Erasmus studies Emma thoughtfully, the bemused air still lingering over more
serious regard. Then, "Aye, though to the cheery tales, my Lady, and not the
ones of defeat and hardship. Every soldier who's seen battle is a storehouse
of story, both interesting and terrifying. But do you like our tame
battlefield?" he asks, cheerfully, with an expansive gesture about. "The only
possibility for ambush is the banners there, but they seem to be securely
fastened to the walls."
"Defeat and hardship are a part of life, unfortunately," Emma intones. "But
I'll listen to the tales you'd have me hear." Her brow furrows, just a bit,
but his cheerful words distract her from her thoughts. Glancing away from the
Commander, she summons up a smile, and nods. "It is quite nice, Erasmus.
Welcoming even, which is impressive for a salle."
Erasmus smiles, looking at the room proudly. "Princess Flora's touch. I
might've left off the banners detail and such, but it really brings the room
together. I'd like to host an event, to spread word of the club and warm the
room with fighters, but with the army so recently returned, that may be a
delayed party until things settle down."
Emma bobs her head, turning her gaze back to Erasmus. "That seems a wise idea.
If there is anything I would be able to do to help with the planning, I hope
you will let me know. It really is lovely."
Errol has concluded his conversation and wandered back within earshot enough to
reply: "Please don't wait for things to settle down, Commander. We might
never see it in use!"
"Well, it can be in use immediately," Erasmus considers. "With the grand party
afterward. As far as I'm concerned, it's ready for use as it is now."
Emma chuckles softly at Errol's words. "It certainly would appear that way,"
she agrees. She steps back from Erasmus as her cousin returns.
Errol's small uneven smile grows conspiratorial. "Surely it has seen some use?"
His tone seems to suggest remedy, should the answer be negative.
Erasmus catches the tone and studies Errol's face with a sizing up expression.
"Well, it did see Ladies Cyndre and Taleyn pit arms, but to my knowledge that
is all. A void unfilled, as it were."
"I imagine that void ought to be filled," Emma says, mildly, looking between
the men.
Errol might deflate a bit in disappointment - a child's birthday balloon the
day after. "Then I shant be the first. My career at second is something less
savory," he admits. "Still..."
Brand walks into the salon, and pauses in the doorway, gaze focousing in on
Erasmus.
Erasmus laughs easily. "Well, blood has not yet been split, even in sport, so
you can still take that from the more masochistic of opponents." He doesn't
seem to leap forward with his hand raised; perhaps his earlier note on not
being a duelist was not mere modesty. Still, he does not reject the idea
either. "Lady Emma, were you intending to learn?" he asks, glancing to her,
then past her to the door.
Brand says, "Good day commander, Errol, young lady. Am I interrupting?"
Errol might smile a bit at the mention of 'learn', then follows Erasmus' gaze.
"Your Highness," he says by way of greeting, before dipping into a compact,
precise bow."
"To learn to spill blood, or to fence?" Emma says, looking at the Commander,
with a decidedly innocent expression. "I was planning upon improving my
skills, Erasmus -- Commander, that is." She glances toward the new voice, and
is quick to follow Errol's lead. "Your Highness," she echoes, dropping in a
curtsey.
Erasmus bows with automatic grace to the Prince. "Not at all, Highness," he
replies, as if there were any other response to the question. "Can I help you
with anything?" Duty reasserts, and the Commander's stance straightens from
the slouch the company had allowed.
Brand says, "I was hoping to speak to you."
Errol, too, stands a bit taller with what ducal air his has managed to
cultivate thusfar.
Emma straightens from her curtsey, folding her hands before her primly.
Erasmus nods, giving proper apologetic looks to Errol and Emma before moving to
the redhead at the door.
Privately, to Erasmus, Emma flickers a smile that is both disappointed and
understanding in the Commander's direction.
Brand says, "It is not something that need exclude the young Lord Feldane and
your other companion."
"Very well, Highness," Erasmus replies, stopping within conversational range
and looking somewhat relieved. Private conversations, apparently, mean
Disaster in his world.
Errol clears his throat lightly, his glance to Erasmus sharper, the one to his
cousin more indicative.
Emma's brows lift just slightly, but she does not comment -- nor does she put
herself forward.
Brand folds his hands in front of him, and says, "My mother, Commander, was
Pathi. Myself and my sister also share that discinction."
Seeing a need to school his expression, Erasmus does so and nods.
Errol glances, sidelong and faintly apologetically, to Emma.
Brand bares his teeth. It might be meant as a smile. "I am not offended, sir.
Don't worry. And neither should the young Sibyl have been if she truly
believed in the doctrine of isolation."
Emma gives the very slightest shake of her head in Errol's direction, before
returning her attention to Erasmus and Brand.
Erasmus pales just slightly, and he considers, before noting, "I should not
allow my frustration to find voice in flippery, Highness."
Brand glides foward, though he doesn't come quite within reaching distance.
"Because you are loyal to Amber, commander, and because you put the True City
before yourself, there are things you need to understand."
Erasmus picks the wiser of his options available and nods, the gesture sharp
and firm. If the approach of the Prince gives him anymore unease than the
words already spoken, the man doesn't show it.
Errol's earthen brown brows lift at Brand's statement, and - despite manners
and breeding - quite obviously watches the conversation play out.
Emma maintains her silence, her expression remaining neutral.
Brand says, "All of Oberon's children have roles. Some are very obvious. I
wonder if you have an idea of what mine might be?"
"It is not my station to wonder on the roles of the King's children, Highness,"
Erasmus answers quietly, unease filtering into his voice.
Brand says, "I think all of this will be easier to explain through SHOWING as
opposed to SPEAKING. One of my titles is the Count of Forked Tongue. Have you
ever heard of Forked Tongue?"
Errol's expression might display his ignorance, but certainly does his vauge
unease.
Emma flickers a glance at her cousin, before returning her attention to the
Commander and Prince.
Erasmus draws himself up, just slightly. "No, Highness, I was not aware of the
meaning behind that title." He watches Brand with a very faint squint, which
might be wary if he allowed it more room.
Brand is suddenly holding a trump, and extending his hand towards Erasmus. He
looks over at the others. "Errol? Young lady? I promise it will be safe, if a
bit chilly."
"Your Highness, allow me to present my cousin, Lady Emma Feldane," Errol
glances between the two, a bit of residual concern along his brow. "Lady,
Prince Brand of Amber, Count of Forked Tongue."
Emma steps forward, then, saying, "Your Highness, I am honored. And I do not
fear a bit of a chill." Clearly, she has every intent of coming along.
Brand gives Emma a very cheery, toothy grin.
Erasmus is eyeing the card in Brand's hand as if it might be a snake. One never
knows. "Aye," he finally says, heavily.
"And I shant be out of fashion this early in a season," Errol notes, perhaps
wishing he had brought his gloves as he steadies the hang of his side-sword.
Brand gathers everyoe up and they are off.
--[ Forked Tongue ]---------------------------------[ Somewhere ]----
Forked Tongue is a rough isosceles triangle of land, perhaps an acre
in size. The base is bound by a cliff, perhaps a hundred feet high.
The sides are rivers, which flow to a junction at the triangle's
point. There are no bridges over these favors, though the ruins of
bridges are evident on the banks. The ground is covered in snow, with
old, bleached bones sticking out of it here and there. About thirty
feet from the river junction, where you have appeared is a grey and
nondescript stone tower, maybe sixty feet tall.
Erasmus is here.
-----------------------------------------------------------[ Exits: None ]----
Brand disengages from the rest of the group, and pauses, surveying the area for
a moment.
Errol takes a few steps, boots crunching in snow, his attention moving from
bonepile to bonepile, then finally to the tower. Brown eyes narrowing, he
flicks a glance to Emma.
Erasmus blinks hard, his hand drifting to the rapier at his side as soon as
it's released, and the other feeling his pocket for a small box there. Both
hands seem to find what they want, and he drops the post-trumping prep
motions to peer about.
Emma stands perfectly still, her own eyes wide as she looks about them. Her
gaze goes to the tower, then to Errol. A slight nod follows, before she steps
to Erasmus where he stands. She moves close to his elbow, as if she were a
bit frightened.
Brand strides forward, taking a small silver key from his pocket, and unlocks
the tower door.
Privately, to Erasmus, Emma steps close to that elbow for just a moment, hand
touching the elbow lightly. It is not a gesture that hints she needs
reassurance, but rather, one of support for the Commander.
Erasmus starts at the touch at his elbow, his gaze taken up with staring at the
tower, and the Commander puts an arm around Emma's shoulders, both for some
warmth and comfort.
Errol takes point of the trailing trio, a gloveless hand never far from the
ornate hilt of his blade. Back to Erasmus, he misses the gesture entirely.
To Emma, Erasmus says, "I think I would have rather dueled all of Feldane than
end up here. But it could turn out... interesting?"
Erasmus mutters to Emma, "I... have... than... But... interesting?"
Emma leans herself against Erasmus, showing no sign that she's planning to move
from the circle of his arm. She tilts her chin at the tower, slipping an arm
around the Commander's back and moving that way. She offers a small smile.
"Let us hope so," she murmurs, a bit more loudly than she means to.
Brand opens the door, and steps in, moving out of the doorway, leaving it clear
for the others.
Erasmus smiles back to her and follows Errol, taking on more of a visual
alertness than warring with whether or not to draw steel.
Errol does not crouch under the archway, but does adopt a wider, lower, readier
stance as he follows Brand with light footfalls.
Emma angles herself slightly as she steps through the door, that she doesn't
leave Erasmus behind.
The tower is not large. It is perhaps thirty feet across. The ceiling is
perhaps 15 feet high. The floor is littered in old bones, and runes are drawn
in blood on the walls. Hanging upside down from the center of the ceiling is
a nine foot Frankensteinian horror, slack, eyes glazed and empty, but clearly
breathing.
"By the unicorn's horn," Errol mutters, not-quite-underbreath, as he glances up
at the abomination.
Brand has moved off to the side.
Erasmus stares upward as his eyes adjust to reveal the thing hanging there. The
Commander steps forward away from Emma's embrace with an absent pat of
assurance on her arm, his gaze dodging about the figure, as if trying to see
dim stars at night.
Emma once again freezes in place, blue eyes widening even more. Erasmus's
departure is not acknowledged, as she asks, "What is it?" Question asked, she
too steps forward, unable to take her gaze from the thing.
Brand says, "Once, this... person was poised to sweep horror and disease upon
Amber."
Erasmus goes still, studying the figure directly now, his expression...
difficult to define.
Errol glances back to his companions at that, with more questions playing along
his features than he grants them time to answer.
Brand says, "Oberon, he felt, has caused him to lose power in his home shadow.
He sought out the darkest magics he could, and resolved to return the favor.
I was sent to deal with him. It is not a known story. It is not Benedict at
Moon Pass, but it is as important. The fact that you have never heard of him
or of Forked Tongue means I did it properly."
"What people do not know cannot frighten them," Emma murmurs, arms folding over
her chest. Her expression, now, has shifted to one of academic interest.
Erasmus's hands curl into fists, and he remains silent, staring up.
Brand says, "As you can see, he was defeated." He walks around the thing, and
then his gaze finds Erasmus, "But I did not do it alone."
Errol nods as he, too, circles the dangling defeated. "It would appear that His
Highness' charge then, if I might, is the arcane defense of the True City."
Erasmus looks then to Brand, his expression revealed as nearly ill.
Emma makes a soft, thoughtful noise. That is all.
Brand says, "I summoned the Pathi. We severed him... it from its power. We
destroyed his army. We ensured he would never be a threat again. The only
thing we could not do was force its spirit to vacate the body it had created
for itself."
The ill countenance fades as Erasmus listens to Brand, and he resettles as if
back from the brink of something, folding his arms on his chest.
"Do you wish to banish the spirit, Your Highness?" Errol quietly inquires, his
eyes never leaving it vessel.
Emma steps over to Erasmus, once again, looking to him, rather than Brand and
saying, "It is trapped in a prison of its own making." She again reaches to
touch the Commander's elbow, even as she looks to Brand and Errol. "Such a
thing could be done," she adds in agreement.
Brand says, "By all means, if it is within your power. Though it is so far gne
into itself that no one I have brought here in centuries has so much as seen
the body twitch."
Erasmus glances briefly to Emma and offers a faint smile before looking to
Errol. The situation has stilled him to the core, and he merely watches.
A scrape of steel heralds Errol's side-sword's arrival in his hands, both sets
of fingers coming about the hilt. He glances back to Emma with a single brow
lifted.
Brand observes with a pleased demeanor and a clinical interest.
"Erasmus," Emma says, her features grave. "Commander. May I have your sword?"
Then, to Errol, "Speak to it, Cousin. Tell it that we will send it to rest."
Bright eyes lift to Erasmus once again. "If you are not willing, Errol will
be able to carry this out alone, I am certain," she assures, more quietly.
Erasmus, without hesitation, draws his rapier and presents the hilt to Emma,
his nod firm. "Please."
"Spirit," Errol begins, already making sweeping motions with his blade. "You
are being sent to your eternal rest."
There is no response. Just a continuation of glassy eyed stare.
Emma inclines her head to Erasmus, taking the rapier from him by the hilt, no
hesitation in the movement. "Thank you, dear Commander." Her words and
bearing are almost ritualistic, as she approaches the thing, and from the way
she holds the rapier, she's not an inexperienced swordswoman. "Cousin," she
says, pausing to wait for Errol's direction.
Erasmus steps back toward Brand, watching impassively.
Brand murmurs to Erasmus, "I hope you understand."
Erasmus glances to the Prince and nods, his expression grim, before he looks
back.
"We shall take off its head," Errol replies, clinically. "And banish it," while
drawing back his side-sword up and over his shoudler. "On my mark."
Emma gives a single, short nod. "Aye." Entirely focused on her task, she lifts
the Commander's sword, as well, waiting for Errol's mark.
Errol nods, once, sharply, and lets fly with his sword.
Emma's own blade cuts toward the thing's neck opposite Errol's, and though it
is not the typical task of a rapier, the blow is struck with a fair amount of
force, aimed such that her blade -- if all goes as she plans -- slides
beneath her cousin's, dissecting whatever his blow might have missed. Of
course, that's if all goes as she plans.
Errol's blade, designed for slashing as well as running through, rips into the
abomination precisely at the angle Emma foresaw.
A deafening, rage-filled shriek fills the tower, and then all signs of spirits
and magic are abruptly gone. The creature falls to pieces, forming an untidy,
ichory pile in the middle of the floor.
Erasmus tenses more immediately after the blows than at, and lets out a breath
of what could easily be taken as relief.
Brand covers his ears, looking perturbed at the sound.
Errol dances back a step, keeping his boots clear of abominatory debris.
The mushy pile leaks black slime.
Emma takes a single, smooth step back from the ichorous cascard. Still, the hem
of her skirt gets spattered with it, and she wrinkles her nose. "Curses."
Brand turns to Erasmus, as if what just happened was not at all unusual, and
says, conversationally, "The problem, of course, is that the Sibyl have great
say over what happens with the Pathi. And the one you spoke to clearly is
influenced by her emotions. If Amber needs this sort of help again, she will
remember you, and her conversation with you."
Errol draws a kerchief from the depths of his pockets and offer it to Emma,
along with a faint, serene nod.
Erasmus's study of Brand speaks volumes, only some of it vocalized, "I will be
certain to be more polite to the Sibyl from now on, Highness."
Brand says, "Be a good man and send her flowers or something."
Emma takes the kerchief from Errol, nodding her thanks to him. She leans down,
rapier still carefully held, and dabs at the goo on her skirts. Her gaze
lifts, however, turning sharp at the mention of flowers.
Errol produces a second kerchief and only a hint of a small smile. The former
he uses to wipe ichor from the steel on his hand.
"Any idea what she likes?" Erasmus asks, sounding a little uncertain, still
studying Brand for signs of Greater Clarification.
Brand says, "I haven't the faintest. I've never actually met her. Fiona knows
her though, and I could ask."
Emma looks to Errol, his handkerchief, then back to Errol, as if trying to
decide whether or not she should give it back to him. Instead, she lets it
fall, then tugs a delicate, lacy handkerchief from her sleeve. "I am quite
certain I could advise you, Commander," she says, casually. She makes her way
over, wiping the lacy wisp along the blade, courtesy cleaning it.
To Brand, Erasmus glances to the approaching Emma, and steps a halfstep closer
to the Prince. "Given some... signs, you don't expect me to submit to the
Sibyl's... advances, for Amber, do you Highness?"
Muttering to Brand, Erasmus glances to the approaching Emma, and steps a
halfstep closer to the Prince. "... some... signs, you... me to submit...
the... advances,... you..."
Brand raises an eyebrow at Erasmus.
Privately, Brand says, "Well, it couldn't hurt."
Brand mutters something to Erasmus.
Erasmus rubs his chin thoughtfully.
Errol discards the kerchief in his hand as well, and returns his side-sword to
its scabbard.
Brand addresses Errol and Emma, "Thank you." He smiles. "Maybe now I can
finally renovate the place. Shall we return to Amber?"
Emma finishes cleaning the rapier, then discards her handkerchief as well. She
waits just a bit off, trying not to eavesdrop. "Certainly, your Highness,"
she says, to Brand.
"If it pleases His Highness," Errol replies, smoothly, but the faint relief in
his expression might indicate that the notion pleases him as well.
Erasmus nods, looking to Emma and the now-clean sword with a smile. "Aye, I'm
ready."
Brand is holding a trump again, and reaches out his hand.
Your surroundings change.
--[ Entrance Hall(#250RJ0) ]------------------------------[ Royal Palace ]----
The grandiose entrance hall of the palace is a broad expanse of
gleaming polished pale-marble floors, which contrast sharply against
the massive blocks of dark stone which form the walls. The ceiling is
vaulted, and hung with colorful banners.
Massive double doors to the south, flanked by a pair of guardsmen with
pikes, and moved via a counterweight system, open into the Main
Courtyard. The hall runs north clear through the central keep that
forms the core of the palace, until it intersects the Long Gallery;
some distance back is broad double staircase that leads to the second
floor. Elegant sets of double doors to the east and west open to the
Great Hall and the Grand Ballroom, respectively, while a number of
other doors lead off to smaller rooms, including the Yellow Room and a
small sitting room.
Erasmus is here.
--[ views ]-------------------------------------[ Exits: N S E W NW SW U ]----
Emma keeps hold of the sword until she's certain all are safely back and
accounted for. Then, she offers its hilt to Erasmus, giving him a long,
steady look.
Privately, to Erasmus, Emma's look is assessing, but also firmly suggests she
trusts him -- and that just maybe her offer of help was sincere. Then again,
maybe she's just making sure he gets his sword back.
Erasmus takes a breath to clear his lungs, and nods, taking the rapier back and
sending it home. "I... need to get to work. Highness, Lord Feldane, Emma," he
says, nodding to them.
Privately, to Emma, Erasmus seems very inward, as he did since seeing the
monster thing, and is somewhat unreadable.
Errol begins distributing bows, "And I, as well, am forced to take my leave.
Thank you for the opportunity to travel, Your Highness."
Emma gives a small, sympathetic smile to Erasmus. "Good day, Erasmus. Let us
speak again soon. I still wish to help break in the salle."
Brand's trump disappears as quietly as it appeared.
"Of course," Erasmus replies to Emma, before heading off as the field trip
party splits in many directions.
Brand replies, "Good day," variously.