BTC

Jon’s dragon isn’t dead though. It was in the promos for next week too.

I fell like there was a better way to give a sense of panic and terror than just poor lighting and shaky camerawork. That seems like the easy way out instead of framing the shots to get that across while also showing who it is we’re watching in that moment.

I agree. That was a great moment. But lots of the stuff on the battlefield and on the walls was hard to follow. Not to mention characters disappeared and reappeared and it was hard to tell where anyone or anything was.

Same. I expected he, Jorah, and Theon were the death shoe ins. 2/3 ain’t bad but he wasn’t the 1 I most expected to survive

Honestly that wasn’t as epic as I was hoping. Parts of it were great. But the lighting was shit and oftentimes the action was super hard to follow. Bran disappeared for unknown reasons. And the Night King is just as much a mystery as before. Of course, some of the zombie action was great, seeing characters, especially Arya, kick ass was awesome, and the dragons scenes were the best parts. Because you could see what was going on lmao

In fact he’s in the preview for the next episode. So once again they’re just relegating him to five seconds an episode.

I don’t think Ghost is dead. There was a scene in some of the promos for this season where he’s killing people or something that hasn’t been shown yet. If he did die I’m going to be pissed

I don’t think so. It’s a pretty wide consensus that plot armor and the idiot ball were employed a lot last season, and that the show has lost its edge a bit. I know some people that watched the show casually that learned the term plot armor because the show employed it so regularly. I don’t think it’s the worst written show around, but it’s certainly declined as it’s gone on.

To be fair, that Theo one is by far the longest because it has like 7 POVs and was basically wrapping up Morane’s book stealing arc, the Tyne’s and Corrick’s arc, Roland’s arc, and setting up this new quest arc. It’s my longest by far. Usually my long posts aren’t even as long as this one was. For the Fallout posts I’ve been coming somewhere between 10-15 pages and I think that’s a pretty good sweet spot for most of my posts. It’s hard to do that in with posts in this arc though since they’ll be running with multiple POVs.

By all means, please do! I don’t know that it’d ever come up in one of my posts so you’re more than welcome to steal it. Asgen and Faida would be a fun duo to see in that type of fight

I was thinking they're paid exceptionally poorly and this is something some assholes like the Coterie do. Sorta like the High Rock equivalent to the fight club Lawrence found. But alternatively, if it was a little more about actually winning and not just watching people beat each other up in interesting ways, I think you're right. Basically the mages and wizards all working to counteract each other or distract each other. Sorta like the real game isn't the fight that's going on, but who can use their magic to counteract everyone else, and do so as subtly as possible. Combining subtly and magic and a duel between knights is like the most Breton thing ever lol

Ain't none of the ones I can see now are right. I knew I shouldn't have let that psychedelic spider bite me either. The trip was fun but the hangover's been weird. Hammers have been talking to me ever since that's more like the Tynes I know and love. Though now I'm thinking about a Breton fight club where audience participation is encouraged so long as it's subtle, so you have all these different mages turning rocks to sand and flaring lights and making helmets really heavy. Basically, no direct effects on the fighters (blinding them, paralysis, etc.) and no destruction magic.

Beranstein Bears Apple, grapes, banana, tomato "If you build him, they will come"

Honestly, I think Faida and Morane could be good friends. They're both weird and scary and sorta solitary magic users, messing with things most people consider taboo. Of course, Morane wouldn't care enough to use her magic to help Asgen or Maric, though she would respect the fact that Faida's a 'cheater' (she's in the Maric school that cheaters are just people who know how to survive)

This is what happens when you mess with shadow magic. The infinite potentialities begin to overlap and meld into one until you forget where one ends and another begins. I knew messing with it warped you, I just never expected the consequences to be this devastating

It was in there but before where it should've been. Or maybe you edited it in the wrong place? Idk when I edited it after you pointed it out the paragraph was there but out of order Good lord I hope not

fixed it. I don't think I've ever done this before and then I did it three times in this post

Thanks Colonel! I wanted to give them a lot more screen time since Maric is leaving and LaViolette was pretty new and unknown. It makes sense now looking at it why you didn't give the Tynes a POV. It sorta surprised me when I started thinking about it that Maric's only real development was back in Skryim. There were a few posts there inside his head. But that was relatively brief and it had been far too long since he got some screen time to be his own character. Really, that sorta requires getting him out of Theo's orbit, since when he's there the role he plays has usually come before his personal stuff. And now it's time to ship him off to the frozen wastes and never see him again

Oh shit, really? Where at? I want to update my copy of it. Sorry about that, and thanks for fixing it

Oh yeah, that was definitely an intentional lie on his part. Dude just wants to help! Even if it means twisting the truth a bit

Damon Ivy Damon noticed the shift in reception when they crossed the Morava Run. The river tumbled out of the Wrothgarians before winding its way to the coast, where it formed the border between Adrard lands and those that had fought alongside Lielle Rolston. The path from Camlorn to Wayrest that the King’s army had marched was dotted with small coastal villages, the stereotypically sleepy sort with tanned fishermen, drunken sailors, and cantankerous fishmongers. The arrival of bull-and-brown cloaked knights, even if only two of them, brooked a cold reception. It was these villagers’ sons and daughters who had fought with Wayrest and Lielle, and had died at the hands of Adrard’s knights. The worst reception was in the two large towns on the route, Alcaire and Gelden’s Landing, the seats of the Aric and Decel families respectively. Unlike the fishing villages, Alcaire and Gelden’s Landing participated in the war firsthand, as the King’s army decided it should take the their castles before meeting the main Wayrestian army. Though the castles had been left intact for the Adrard approved successors, the towns still bore the marks of battle. There were a few houses in each town that were nothing more than ash and blackened timbers, and Gelden’s Landing now sported a partially collapsed watchtower. Only in those towns was the reception outright hostile, as some aggrieved citizens made their displeasure known through curses and spitting at the hooves of Maric’s and LaViolette’s horses. The rest of the group, not obviously associated with the King, received only contemptuous glares. Sir Maric was not a buffoon like some knights, and he did not loudly nor often proclaim the royal sanctity of their mission to rebuke the common folk. Instead, he used the talents and strengths of those under his command. Namely, Damon’s standing as a bard of the Scenarist Guild. Though they often secured lodging in the castles and manors of the nobles whose lands they passed through, that was not always the case, and when it wasn’t Damon was there to ease the discomfort of anyone who might be angry or upset. Though in all honesty, he knew it was the King’s coin as much as any soothing words of his that ensured them beds for the night. It was a doubly wise thing for Sir Maric to rely on Damon, as Wayrest was Damon’s home, and he had spent time in almost all the towns and villages along the Iliac and Bjoulsae. Though this knowledge was unknown to the knight originally, Damon made sure to fill him and the others in, detailing all he knew of the area through which they travelled. He told them which inns served the best shrimp chowder, where thieves were particularly a nuisance, and why Wayrest was vastly superior to Daggerfall. “Complacency,” he said as they travelled east from Wayrest, leaving the city of his birth behind them. “Daggerfall doesn’t strive for anything. It simply rests on its laurels." “And what does Wayrest strive for, exactly?” Dame LaViolette asked, an amused smile on her face. She was a tall woman, and stout too, her face Breton but her pale skin and blue eyes Nordic. He wasn’t sure from which side came the red hair. “To be like Daggerfall, of course.” That elicited a chuckle from LaViolette. He continued, “Wayrest has this older sibling to look up to and try to surpass. But the older sibling seldom cares about surpassing the younger. Simply by being older they take it as a given they will always be better.” “And this makes Wayrest superior how?” LaViolette asked. “Because it’s doing something! The city is always trying to better itself. It’s active, not passive. It makes the city feel alive.” “If you’ve ever fought through a crowd at Tradesman’s Square, you’d know how alive Daggerfall is,” Sir Maric said. He was almost stereotypically Breton, dark brown hair, a sharp jawline, and pale green eyes. Of course, most Bretons looked, or at least pretended to be, far happier than Maric did. Damon chuckled and shook his head. “I have, but that’s not what I meant. Wayrest looks to the future. Daggerfall is too obsessed with the past for my liking.” The discussion on the merits of various Breton cities went on for some miles, with the Tynes putting up a passionate defense of Jehanna, while LaViolette’s defense of her home was more muted, much to Damon’s surprise. Morane chimed in only to denigrate Farrun with her usual venom. Like the good King’s man that he was, Maric defended both Camlorn and Daggerfall. Damon, Maric and LaViolette were all in agreement that Northpoint was the most dreadful by a healthy margin. Eventually their trip took them through the Norvulk Hills, which marked the transition between the Wrothgarians to the north and the Bjoulsae riverlands to the south. The Garrison Road between Wayrest and Evermor wound through these oak, maple, and hickory covered valleys and hillsides. Only on the few small mountains jutting into the sky did firs and pines take over. The most direct path from Wayrest to Evermor followed the Bjoulsae River, but even in the summer, melting snowfall from the highest peaks and occasional storms led to flooding, which made travel difficult. Damon knew it was a fickle river; the calm surface hid deadly currents, and the soil restoring floods could just as easily wipe out a farmer’s crop or sweep away a bridge. Jephre was particularly revered in the riverlands due to the people’s reliance on nature’s good graces. Jephre being god of songs and storytellers as well as nature meant Damon had always found hospitable villagers along the Bjoulsae. Between Wayrest and Evermor the Garrison Roadway passed through the towns of Dorient, Arvaud, and Wind Keep. These were no quaint hamlets, but each a fortress in its own right. The Garrison Roadway was so named because it connected Wayrest and Evermor to the once mighty Bangkorai Garrison, which had since fallen. But it was equally appropriate now, as each of the towns on its path had long been a garrison against Orcish incursions from the Wrothgarians. Or a launching point of Breton attacks against the Orcs. But with the Orcs now gone, either to Hammerfell, Skyrim, or Cyrodiil, the towns were more relaxed than Damon had ever seen them. They also bore the scars of the Pretender’s War, but they were superficial, as most of the defenders had joined Lielle in Evermor and Adrard’s army had marched through unopposed. In the villages farmers were in the midst of the growing season, with hedge wizards weaving what meager protective wards they could over the crops and fields in hopes of protecting them from disease, pests, and weather. Along the Garrison Roadway the group was unable to find lodging at any of the nobles’ castles, as they had all left for a weeklong festival in Evermor. Damon was glad to learn the group would arrive to catch the very end, as he always enjoyed a good festival. Though the trip was not a brief one, Damon still did not have a good read on what his companions’ mission was. They were clearly serving the King, but he had agreed only to guide them to the Scenarist Guild citadel to gather information, and not to participate further. What information they needed he didn’t know, and hadn’t asked. It was clearly important, judging by Maric’s and LaViolette’s presence. But Damon owed Adrard a favor for painting the Scenarist Guild in a good light with the Montclair business, and so he kept his questions to himself. Not his curiosity, though, and he may have accidentally overheard some mention of ‘River Tribes’ and ‘summoning’ when he was assumed to be asleep. No good scenarist could get by without being curious. As for the adventurers themselves, Damon was of mixed opinion. The Tynes seemed friendly enough folks, with Faida a more focused person than her brother, though Damon found they were both good humored. Asgen was a kindred spirit to Damon, both storytellers by nature. LaViolette was friendly as well, though tended to drift in and out of conversations, and seemed to spend quite a bit of time with her own thoughts. Sir Maric spent all of his time with his, and didn’t seem interested in any bardic tales. Morane spoke little, spending most of her time keeping to herself or reading a book Damon hadn’t caught the title of. She was intense and focused, but in a hostile way he found particularly off-putting. Overall, an interesting, though not merry, band of adventurers. They certainly seemed capable, though. If there was any similarities between them, it was that. Evermor was rising into view now, almost two weeks since the group set out. The great tapering towers of the castle rose into the sky. They were elegant, with dark green vines climbing each of them, punctuated by roses of red, pink, white, and even yellow, the white stone beneath only occasionally appearing from amidst the colorful tangle. Cone shaped golden roofs topped each of the castle's four main towers, and they gleamed in the sky. The city rose like a three tiered cake between the craggy cliffs of the Reach and the roaring Bjoulsae River. The Great Falls of the Bjoulsae were audible even from here, as the city marked the furthest point of navigation up the river. As the group approached the city, Damon chuckled to himself and said, “Have I told the story about the Prince of Evermor and the Great Falls?” "No." Naturally, it was the twins who answered. Simultaneously, in fact. Then Asgen continued, motioning to the rest of the group for support, "But we'd love to hear it, eh?" "I've heard this tale before," LaViolette said. "Though I've little doubt your version will be just as entertaining." Damon placed a hand on his chest as if she'd wounded him. "My version? As far as I'm aware, there's only the truth, Madam Dame. And we bards are nothing if not purveyors of the truth." Morane scoffed, which was the most reaction Damon had got out of her the whole trip. She might yet come around. "The story goes that in the Eighth Century of the Second Era, Prince Leric-" Damon started. "I thought it was Leovic, Master Bard," LaViolette said. Damon smiled and said, "Quite right. Maybe you should be the one telling this tale." She simply motioned for him to continue, a playfully smug expression on her face. "As I was saying, Prince Leovic Guimard was an adventurous sort. Climbed the highest peaks of the Wrothgarians, delved into the deepest caverns of the Reach and the Kurallians. It was even said he sailed upon a reconstructed Dwemer airship attempting to pluck stars from the sky." Damon could see LaViolette shake her head and roll her eyes at that. "He was the fifth child of his family, with even nieces and nephews before him. So he had plenty of time on his hands. After the trip aboard the airship, he found himself increasingly bored, and returned to Evermor for a time. "Not being one for royal revelries or the company of his kin, his boredom was not sated. But anyone who spends enough time in Evermor will know that the falls are a constant sound. One grows used to it after a time, but for Leovic they became only a call to challenge and overcome. His boredom led to a reckless plan: he would plunge over the falls." Damon had timed the story perfectly so that as he finished that line, the angle of the road and the city revealed the falls. There were two of them, split in half by a massive rock that jutted defiantly into the air, unconcerned with the over two hundred foot high walls of raging water on either side. The sound was thunderous and echoed off of the hills, amplifying it further. Mist and spray were thrown into the air, which shimmered with the light of a dozen rainbows. "It wasn't much of a plan, in the end. He climbed atop the rock and dove off into the water below as the entire city watched. Boats and divers were ready to help him, and nets were stretched across downriver to catch his body should he not survive. But even with all the attention and preparation, the body was never recovered. Most say he was dashed apart on the rocks below, but no one ever saw any blood. I tend to side with those that believe the plunge was actually a cover, as his time in Evermor had led him to a romance with the mysterious Spirit of the Bjoulsae. They were waiting below to catch him, and his spirit joined theirs in the great river." "Poetic end for a fellow like that." Asgen's tone suggested that he believed every word of it, though the bard knew better. "Whatever happened to the airship?" "Hmm? Oh, yes, funny story that. Apparently it crashed into a glacier somewhere in the Reach. At least, according to rumors. There was actually a Princess of Evemor who set out to find it, but like her ancestor, she too disappeared," Damon said. "So moral of the story, don't jump off cliffs and don't go into the Reach looking for airships," Morane said. "What ever would we do without your guidance?" Faida sniggered, but her brother looked at the nightblade with a relaxed grin. "Funny, that's not what I got from it." "And what lesson did you take, exactly?" Morane asked. Her expression hadn't changed from one of annoyance since he'd started the story, or really since the trip began. He always hated an unreceptive audience. "To be content with what you've got," replied the Nord. "Come on, did your Ma never read you stories? There's always a lesson like that at the end." "Whose Ma read them to you?" Faida asked. "It sure wasn't ours." "Ma didn't read to you?" Asgen asked with a look of obviously feigned surprise. "Guess that settles which of us was her favorite, then." She shook her head as he went on, "These stories are for rich little Breton brats who ain't learned to appreciate their silk sheets and golden piss pots. They think they've gotta get dirty, climb a mountain, and kill a big beast to be happy. But take a look at Sir Maric here. I'll bet he's killed a hundred beasts and I've not seen the man crack a smile since we left." He nodded to Morane. "You neither, for that matter." "I'll smile when I'm content with what I've got," Morane said. "Being on this trip doesn't get me any closer, so I don't know what there is to smile about." "You know what'll make me smile?" asked Faida. "Getting out of these saddles." "I hope your legs aren't too sore," Damon said. "With any luck we'll get to experience the splendor of an Evermor ball. Here's hoping the Vettes know how to put one on like the Rolstons did." "That would be the only reason anyone misses them," Sir Maric said. "Here here," Asgen agreed. A party will be good, Damon thought. Might add a bit of merry to this band of adventurers. And if a few lips were loosened in the process, he certainly wouldn’t mind that either. ** Morane Morane would be content when she figured out shadow draining. She was delighted Damon had interrupted her thinking once again for another riveting tale. He and the twins and the dame babbled on, while she tried to go back to parsing Shadow Draining: Elucidation on the Transliminal Flow of Essence. Winvale had given her the book before she left, and though she had not yet actually cast the spell, she was beginning to grasp how the magic worked. Or so she hoped. She did not yet have teleportation perfected, but she knew the mechanics of the spell. Now it was only refining those skills and continually strengthening her ability. Shadow draining was similar to short range teleportation, though instead of piercing and replacing, the mage pierces and pulls. Having read and reread the book, she spent most of her time turning over the ideas in her head, and it had taken her longer than she liked to admit to figure out that much. It didn’t help that some of her travelling companions were talkative. She found herself liking Sir Maric more and more, as he kept quiet. And compared to her brother, so did Faida, though she seemed a little too curious about Morane’s book for her liking. As they entered the gates of Evermor, she was forced to concentrate on steering the horse through the bustling crowds. The atmosphere was lively and festive, with people better dressed than they usually were and banners strung out between buildings. From what Morane had gathered before, this festival was for no particular reason other than the nobles wanted to throw a party. She supposed the people of Evermor could celebrate surviving the war when the previous rulers hadn’t. The streets climbed up toward the city’s castle and became progressively more crowded, merchant stalls and entertainers lining the road. The singers and jesters and magicians put on their acts for any who stopped to watch. One mage stepped out into the street and halted traffic as he blew a stream of fire from his mouth. But before the fire could set the banners alight, it turned into a group of butterflies that sparkled and then faded away. People clapped and cheered at the illusion, and Damon said, “How lovely. I used to do the same but with birds.” Sir Maric evidently didn’t care for the trick as he spurred his horse forward and drove the magician from the street, heading toward the castle gates. Once there they all dismounted and stable hands came to lead the horses away. A steward, judging by his dress and the way he looked down his nose at everyone, approached. “Sir Maric. You and your companions are all invited to tonight’s ball by Lord Edwistyr Vette and Lady Lysabeth Vette.” He looked at Morane, the Tynes, and Damon, his eyes narrowing. “We will have appropriate attire sent to your rooms for those that do not have any. Unfortunately the number of guests means you will have to partner up, or find lodging elsewhere. If you’ll follow me I can show you to your rooms.” Morane ended up sharing a small room with Dame LaViolette. It looked like storage someone shoved two beds into. The steward returned a frilly dress that looked like child’s, though it was cut for an adult, and Morane didn’t hide her displeasure before she sent him away to find something else. He returned with another dress, better than the last, trim and dark blue, but she had no desire to dress up that nice. “Just show me where you’re keeping the clothes and I’ll find something myself,” she told the steward. With a disdainful look he led her deeper into the castle and down a flight of stairs to a cellar. It was cool, not the enchanted coolness of a cellar used to store food, but the pleasant chill of being underground. It smelled strangely of flowers, not the damp earthy smell she was expecting. The steward produced a key ring and unlocked the first door, revealing a closet packed with clothes. “Take whatever you please. Lord and Lady Vette have no use for them.” The steward then turned and left her alone. It took Morane only a moment to discover why the Vettes had a closet of clothes they did not want. It wasn’t simply the excesses of nobility. The smell of flowers was strongest here, and many of the garments bore rose designs. These clothes were from the late Rolston family, the now dead former rulers of Evermor. The Vettes were from Camlorn, she knew, and had been awarded Evermor after the war. It was a little grim, perusing a dead family’s closet, but she didn’t think she was the one who their ghosts might haunt. Raiding their closet probably puts me at the very bottom of their list of grudges. The clothes weren’t organized in any way, so it took her a while to go through them. Eventually, after passing on dresses and jackets and robes and tunics, she found exactly what she wanted. It was a black coat that reached down to the back of her knees, the buttons a column of gold on the front. The inside was a soft fabric of some sort, a slightly lighter shade than the rich black of the outside. The collar was folded down but could be raised against the wind and weather. It looked more like fancy traveling attire than something to wear at a ball, but Morane didn’t care. She liked it and that was all that mattered. She wore the coat over a dark gray tunic she found, losing the hooded jerkin she usually wore. All things considered she liked the look, and enough that she’d be taking coat with her when she left. It was the least the Vettes could do, seeing as they were such poor hosts they made their guests bunk together. After dropping off the clothes she’d changed out of and washing up a bit, she made her way to the great hall. A servant opened the door and Morane entered, but was stopped in her tracks by what she saw. Living in Camlorn Castle meant she’d grown used to seeing some of the splendor of royalty, though confined as she was to the main yard and Winvale’s tower, most of her contact was brief glimpses or forays into the main castle. And never had she seen it during a celebration. What she saw now was like something else entirely. What had once been the great vaulted Rose Hall was stripped of any floral designs and replaced by the feathers that adorned the Vette banners. Those banners, white and brown mottled feathers on a light blue background, moved gently, as if there was a breeze. They did not hang from the ceiling but floated in the air by some enchantment. From the ceiling fell the feathers depicted on the banners, but before they could reach the ground or land on a guest, they faded into glittering light. Even the pillars holding up the hall had been replaced. She didn’t know what they’d looked like before, only that it wasn’t the carved arrows that stood now. The pedestal base was the fletching of arrow, the column itself the shaft, which looked dangerously thin, though she assumed they were warded in some way. The top of the column was the arrowhead, ending in a sharp point that somehow held aloft the roof of the hall. The whole construction made her nervous, and she sincerely hoped that there was some sort of magic to strengthen the columns. The thrones were gone from the dais, and instead musicians stood there and played their instruments. Soft, light music, not for dancing, but simply as background to the conversations. At the moment, the nobles in the great hall wandered around and talked amongst themselves, laughing and drinking without a care in the world. Morane guessed the ball had only just begun. There was no dinner at the ball, only servants carrying around platters of small foods so guests could eat while they talked. At least that way Morane wouldn’t be trapped between two people and expected to make conversation. She snagged some bread and cheese and moved along the edge of the crowd. She hadn’t yet seen any of her companions, though she wasn’t in a rush to talk to anyone. The Vettes are certainly staking their claim to this place, she thought as she wandered the hall, noting how prominently their sigil and motif were displayed. She drank her way through a strong and bitter glass of white wine the server had called Gwyn Avelle, finishing it only because it was alcohol and not because it was particularly good. She wanted something that was, so she made her way across the hall to wear servants were stationed alongside bottles of wine. The guests were not only nobles, though it was easy to pick out who was and was not one. The sigils emblazoned on their jackets, broaches, circlets, and rings ranged from fighting stags to silver lutes to burning roses to an arrow pierced snake. She knew the last two came about because of the Pretender’s War, from those raised up following Lielle’s defeat. The men wore mostly solid color tunics with their sigils on the front, the women slim dresses with sigils mostly on jewelry. Morane assumed these were the current fashions, though they could just as easily been what the nobles always wore. Once Morane reached where the servants dispensed the wine, she sought out a glass of Carn Prae Rezin, which was far more palatable. The servant gave her a skeptical look, though she didn’t know if it was because of her appearance or wine preference. It was on her way across the hall from where the wine was being served that she spotted a familiar face. More accurately, faces that were strangely familiar, even though she didn’t know who the people were. Both were Redguards in their fifties, the man had greyish blue eyes and a thin beard, and wore silver and pink mage robes. The woman was lithe and fit, her short dreadlocks pulled back behind her head, and wore a set of ceremonial armor. Apart Morane wouldn’t have recognized them, but standing beside each other, she suddenly remembered Zuhkal saying he was from Evermor and that his father was a court mage for a duchy there. She watched them talk to each other, laughing and touching, as if the party wasn’t happening and they were the only two people in the hall. She’d never seen her parents act that way, at least not with each other. She wondered what it must have been like for Zuhkal, growing up with parents who were so loving. Her parents had simply left her to her own devices and then admonished her when she did something wrong or they were angry at each other. When they noticed her at all, that is. Without giving it a second thought, she approached Zuhkal’s parents. If nothing else, she could use this to mess with Zuhkal when she returned. “I’m a f- I know your son.” They looked at her, then at each other, and back to her. “Who are you?” Zuhkal’s father asked. “Morane.” “Dhakir,” Zuhkal’s father said. “Nisira,” Zuhkal’s mother said. “How do you know Zuhkal?” “We train together. In Camlorn.” “With the Coterie?” Dhakir asked. She heard the hope in his voice. She hesitated, but shook her head. “In the army.” “Well, then. I’m sure he’s glad his throwing in with Adrard paid off.” The disappointment was plain in Nisira’s lowered voice, which caught Morane off guard. “What do you mean?” “He hasn’t told you?” Dhakir asked. “I should expect he’d be proud of bet- of leaving us and picking the winning side. Her certainly made a show of it when he left.” “It’s never come up.” “He may not have learned any loyalty, but I suppose he’s no braggart,” Nisira said. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She offered a smile to break the tension, but they gave no indication it changed anything. “What exactly did he do?” “He chose to fight in Adrard’s army,” Nisira said, her voice low, though it quavered in anger as she spoke. “And not toward the end of the war, but from the very beginning. Raised a subject to the Rolstons, grew up in the Jastal household, and the second war breaks out, he abandons that all for Adrard’s army. He left us to fight against us.” She knew why he’d done it. The same reason he became a shadow mage. Because he thought the Thalmor were the bigger threat. His parents obviously didn’t see things that way. “Hopefully he’ll avoid disappointing you as well,” Dhakir said. “He hasn’t disappointed yet,” Morane snapped. This felt far too close to home, and she could feel the anger rising within her. Before Dhakir or Nisira could respond, she turned and walked away. She finished the rest of her wine and the anger settled back to her usual annoyance, though the entire conversation was not at all what she’d expected. They hadn’t cared enough about their son to ask how he was doing. It had been over a decade since she’d seen her own parents, but Morane knew this is how that reunion would feel: like old arguments were being dredged back up, disappointment and contempt along with them. Above all, they were just glad to be rid of her. And yet it wasn’t what she expected to find in talking to Zuhkal’s parents. He was so…well adjusted. Maybe that was the difference between telling your parents to fuck off and your parents telling you to. Zuhkal had made the decision to leave and fight for Theo’s army. But Morane’s parents had shipped her off so they didn’t have to deal with her anymore. They made the choice to move on from her, not the other way around. Now she saw Zuhkal in a different light. She’d just assumed he had a good relationship with his parents. Now she wondered if Zuhkal telling her she needed someone to watch her back was friendly advice, or if he was looking for someone to watch his own back. She knew how hard it was to leave everything you knew behind and go it alone. She was suddenly aware of how isolated she was again without anyone to watch her back. She didn’t like relying on others, but she’d grown used to it over the past few months as she and Zuhkal worked and trained together. She wasn’t going to find someone else to talk about shadow magic or make fun of Winvale with, but spending the entire trip looking over her shoulder would drive her crazy. At the very least, playing nice with the others could ensure they wouldn’t end up leaving her for dead somewhere. When a servant passed by she took another glass of wine and wondered where her traveling companions were. With nothing else to do, she decided she might as well go find out. The crowded hall made it difficult to navigate, but as she waded through a lively tune struck up and people began to clear out from the middle of the room. As the nobles parted and people took to the dance floor, Morane moved along the edges of where the dancers whirled and twirled around. She'd noticed Asgen and LaViolette, paler and taller than most everyone else, standing and watching the dancers. Asgen wore mostly his normal clothing, though a red tunic in place of his usual shirt. LaViolette had on a tunic embroidered It took her a moment to realize they were watching one pair in particular. Damon and Faida were not exactly the most graceful pairing, but what they lacked in skill they made up for with enthusiasm and flair. The nobles dancing near them didn’t look too pleased, but as far as Morane could tell they hadn’t stepped on anyone yet. When the tambourines and viols joined the flutes and drums and the dancers switched partners, Faida was paired with a rather unhappy noble who suddenly found himself paired with a much taller partner who then took the lead. But soon the pace quickened and the dancers were spun back around to their original partners. It was a nearly frantic beat at that point, and Damon and Faida abandoned all pretense of the steps and simply spun about until the song ended and both were left laughing, ignoring the glares all the while. When it ended, Morane realized she had a smile on her face as well. Mostly from seeing how annoyed the nobles were, and probably because she was a little buzzed. She walked over to Damon and Faida, picking up two glasses of wine for them along the way. “I imagine they’ve never seen anything like that before.” "Then they ain't spent much time in Skyrim," Faida accepted the wineglass with a grin and downed it in one go. Then she wiped a bead of sweat off her brow and nudged the bard. "This one, on the other hand..." "Don't let this elegant exterior fool you, dear," Damon motioned with his glass to his patched blue vest and faded red shirt. "The people I usually play for dance a lot more like we did." "I didn't take you for a dancer," Morane said to Faida. "Oh, I've danced with greater lords than any in this room," replied the Nord. "Never at a ball, though." "That's a story I'd like to hear," Damon said. "But first, I think it's time I showed the youngsters a thing or two." Without explanation, Damon broke away and disappeared into the crowd. Morane finished off her nearly full wineglass, felt her cheeks and neck flush as the alcohol took effect. "My parents loved to go to balls. Not with each other, of course. I enjoyed the dancing. It was the," she waved her hand at the assembled nobles, "people that made it unpleasant. Rich Breton brats, like your brother said.” "They ain't what I'm used to, neither." Faida's expression didn't betray her feelings for the attendees one way or the other, though being a mercenary, Morane could guess that the Nord could not have been too displeased to find herself among so many wealthy Bretons, regardless of her opinion of them. "Truth be told," Faida continued, "I took you for a noble. If these sorts ain't your preferred company, who is?" Morane’s lips formed to say No one but she stopped herself short. That had never really been true, as much as she liked to think it was. Darya in her childhood, Sage Jurisa, who taught her at the Institute in Farrun, her comrades in the Shornhelm and then Camlorn armies, and even Winvale. And Zuhkal. Most of those weren’t friendships, but there was something there. She gave a soft shrug and said, “Most people aren’t. I guess the ones who are don’t scare easily, and aren’t boring. And you? What company does a Nord from the Reach keep?” "Same as you, I reckon. The ones who scare easy don't stick around too long with Asgen and me." Morane looked to Asgen, who was excitedly talking to LaViolette, trying to convince her of something and so far getting only a faint smile. “I would imagine it’s not because of your brother. He seems to get along well with most people.” "Aye, making friends might be his greatest skill. Keeping them's another story." “And what’s your greatest skill?” The Nord smirked. “Making sure those friends don’t kill him.” Morane smiled despite herself. The dancers in the center of he crowd fell still as the song ended, but before another could strike up, Damon climbed atop a table. A few guards started to make their way toward him but stopped when he raised his fiddle and bow with a flourish and called out to the band, “Tambourine!” She looked over to see Asgen dragging LaViolette to the dance floor as Damon began to play, a tune that started slower and steady but one she could tell would quicken and build. The smile lingered as Morane said, “You must have your hands full with that.” "Always. Especially lately." Faida was watching the pair now as well. Sure as they were twins, Asgen danced much the same as his sister, all grins and heavy steps. LaViolette wasn’t a trained dancer either, and surprisingly danced with the same abandon Asgen did. She grinned and stomped along with him, just as broadly or loudly. "What about you?" asked the Nord. "I don't imagine Theodore keeps nightblades because you're all so good at knitting." The truth, that Morane was new to this nightblade business, almost slipped free, and she realized she might have had a little too much to drink. The lie came easy once she caught herself. “These days he keeps us busy with war preparations. But when you’re as good as I am, you get to leave on occasion. I returned from a mission right before we set off on this one.” Faida looked curious, but she didn't seem intent on inquiring further. Instead, the sellsword caught a passing servant by the shoulder and relieved him of the wine bottle he was carrying. She took a swig from the top, and responded to his protests by telling him to take it up with "High King" Theodore. She then offered it to Morane. "Here." Morane took the bottle and filled her wineglass to the brim before giving it back to Faida. She then raised her glass and said, "To rich Breton brats and their rich Breton wine." "May they never stop making it." ** Dame LaViolette When Damon’s song came to an end and LaViolette and Asgen stopped spinning across the dance floor her grin did not leave her face. Even as she remembered that she would soon have to tell Sir Maric that his son was missing and his king had conspired to hide that fact from him. Like the march into battle, there was only anticipation, not fear. More than the wine she felt drunk on that anticipation, her body made of nerves and every sensation amplified. It was easy to get lost in that, and she had let go as she danced. But now she had to focus, to calm herself. With the end of the song Damon bowed deeply from atop his perch on the table, and the nobles gave him a hearty round of applause. He soaked it up, a crooked smile filling his face. When he jumped down from the table he sent up a flurry of illusory feathers from the floor and went to join the rest of the musicians on the dais. LaViolette joined Asgen, who was grabbing another glass of wine. She nudged him with an elbow as he took a drink. “That was practically graceful, for a Nord.” "Aye," he laughed, spilling some of the wine as he did. "and you seemed to be having far too much fun out there for a Breton." “You be surprised to learn not every Breton is a stuck up noble. Your dancing would fit right in most places in High Rock.” "That's because my dancing fits in everywhere!" Asgen drained his glass and waved it at a trio of passing noblewomen. One of them scowled, one rolled her eyes, and the third blushed. It was her that Asgen's eyes were fixed on now. "Though lately I'm really starting to like your stuck up nobles." LaViolette joined the second noblewoman in rolling her eyes. “A little taste of the fine things in life and now you’re getting greedy. You really are a mercenary, aren’t you?” "Only till it kills me, Madame Dame." He gestured to the bottle and glasses. "Now how about some more wine? I doubt we'll have another chance to get good and drunk for some time." LaViolette held out her glass for Asgen to fill. “Be careful how much you drink. I would hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of your new friends.” The blushing noblewoman was stealing glances at Asgen. LaViolette didn’t recognize her but could tell from her fish shaped sigil earrings she was from the Emard family, marquis under Duke Jastal. "Embarrass? Me?" He topped off her glass, then did the same to his own and clinked it against hers. "It'll take more than a few cups of grapewater to make a fool of the Raven-Son." He cut one more glance at the noblewoman and seemed to decide that now was the time to move. "Though if those are new friends, then it'd only be right for me to learn their names." She couldn't help but laugh at the Nord's brazenness. It'd taken her a while to grow used to the formality of Breton high society, growing up poor as she did, but it was nice to see someone be so unconcerned with it all. "If you want to impress her, mention you originally fought for Jehanna. She'll enjoy something scandalous like that." He grinned. "You know, me'n Faida might'a won that battle for them if Lady Roain hadn't given up." "That so?" LaViolette tried to put on a face that said she was taking his claim seriously, but new she couldn't hide her own grin. "I think there's one thing you're forgetting, though." "Oh yeah?" She leaned in close and said, "You would've had to go through me." The look he gave her was a mix of surprise and his usual amusement. But LaViolette was pleased to see that it was mostly the former. The Nord recovered quickly with a laugh, however. "The gods must be disappointed to have missed out on such a clash!" "We just might have to give it to them one day," she said. "Now you better go on before your friend loses interest. Or wises up." "Aye, maybe I should." Asgen smiled, and for once without a trace of arrogance. "Thanks for the dance, Madame Dame. We'll have to do it again some time." With that, the Nord turned and started making his way over to the Emard girl. LaViolette watched them talk and a contented smile traced her lips. It was nice that someone’s night would end on a happy note. Hers would be wracked with the guilt over what she’d hidden from Maric and anxiety over telling him about his son. The thought crossed her mind that she could seek out some companionship. The friend of Madame Emard, the one who’d rolled her eyes, had caught LaViolette’s attention. She also knew Baron Renoit’s son would be more than willing. But it was easier to ease her mind with drink than sex, so she turned away from Asgen’s flirtations to find another drink. In doing so she nearly collided with a lithe man in his early forties with thick black hair tumbling to his shoulders. Lord Edwistyr Vette, the host of this ball, reached out and grabbed her shoulders to stop their collision. “Dame LaViolette! Enjoying the party, I see. You’re just who I was looking for.” A broad smile covered his face, one that said he too was enjoying the party and the wine it offered. She stepped backward out of his grasp and bowed, happy that she did so without wobbling at all. “Lord Vette. Thank you for inviting us. It’s been a pleasant evening.” He smirked at the emphasis on ‘Lord’ and waved her bow away. “None of that. How are things in Camlorn?” He leaned in close and attempted to whisper, though in his state it wasn’t any quieter. “Don’t tell anyone, but I find myself missing the place. Even ugly old Oges and Maric the Morose. Not nearly as fun out here.” LaViolette faked a laugh, as she knew just how much more morose Sir Maric would be after tonight. “It hasn’t been the same without you and Alix around. Who would’ve thought he’d ever become a Duke?” “I know he certainly never expected it. He hates it even worse than I do. Before we could even move out here he wanted to go off and hunt down Baron Ashcroft. Good thing your Nord friends found him quickly, otherwise Alix might’ve used that as an excuse anytime he wanted to leave ruling behind.” “I can’t say I blame.” “Ruling isn’t so bad. I’m fine with sitting on my ass all day, so long as everyone around me isn’t dull.” “Jastal not to your liking?” Lord Vette scoffed. “The man spends every moment training. He’s obsessive. Even when he does come to Evermor it’s all so awkward. He knows no one will forget what he did, so it’s all ‘Yes my lord, no my lord, if my lord wishes.’ At this point I’d prefer it if we all could forget the whole thing and move on. The worst of it is either Caroline or Rowley will be marrying one of his children and then I’ll never be rid of it.” “How are they? Caroline must be, what, eighteen now?” “Nearly. You’ve been a bad influence on her, I’m afraid. She trains nearly as much as Jastal and has dreams of glory in battle. The last thing I need is her to turn into my brother. Gods know Alix is an even worse influence than you are.” LaViolette grinned at that. “We can’t help it if your girl is smarter than you are.” He scoffed again. “Right. Well, I can’t help but worry about her. She’s to the point now where she’s asked to join attacks on bandit camps and the like. My brother is a man grown and recognizes his place is in his Duchy. I worry Caroline has his same wanderlust without the wisdom of age to stop her.” “I can sympathize.” LaViolette had run away from her parents when she was thirteen because of those same desires. To see the world, to make a name for herself, to gain something like glory. “I’m sure you can,” Lord Vette said. “Which is why I was looking for you. It’s about Caroline. I was wondering if you’d take her on as your squire. I don’t know that I can stop her, especially with the war coming. And there would be nowhere safer than with you, either in Camlorn or alongside Prince Roland down south.” If she’d had slightly less alcohol tonight, she might have seen this request coming. As it was, her jaw dropped slightly as she thought through this. She’d made friends of nobles, fought alongside them, rise to a high command of the knights of the royal family. She was even tasked with guarding the heir to the throne. But this request, to train and mentor a Lord’s daughter, caught her by surprise. Maybe it was because of her own past, the way she’d looked up to Dame Melie, who had taken in the runaway daughter of poor dockworkers to be her squire and never treated LaViolette any different because of it. The swirl of emotions, pride and fear and guilt, especially the guilt, rendered her speechless for a moment. She wanted to say yes. This was what she’d always dreamed of. The voice in the back of her head whispered Say yes. Look how far you’ve risen. They see you, respect you. Wait until they see what the three of us can do together. Panic shot through LaViolette. The voice in the back of her head wasn’t her own. It should’ve been, the hammer was in her room, sitting in a chest. It had never spoken to her when she was not wielding it. And yet the formless voice continued, Why do you hesitate? You did not when we met, and I’ve brought you to these heights. This girl can help us, we can mold her as we wish. Yet all LaViolette could think of was the cost of the respect she’d earned. She thought of Dame Melie but couldn’t linger on the memories. The guilt she felt about hiding this secret from Sir Maric paled in comparison to the guilt she would always feel over what had happened with Dame Melie all those years ago. And then there was the voice. LaViolette couldn’t bear the thought that something might happen to Caroline because of whatever it was inside that hammer. She wouldn’t let whatever was in there get its hooks into someone else. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” LaViolette watched Lord Vette’s drunken bliss deflate. She quickly added, “Not right now. This mission we’re on is likely to be extremely dangerous, and I’m worried about some of the company. I’ve never fought alongside most of them before. I wouldn’t want Caroline to step into this. But maybe when this is done, if we come back through here, I could take her in then.” Lord Vette brightened at that. “Yes, that’s a much better idea. She’ll be so excited to hear it! Thank you, Simone. Sincerely.” The trust in his voice twisted her stomach into knots, so she put on her best fake smile and said, “Thank you, Edwistyr. It will be my honor.” ** Sir Maric Duke Willem Jastal was the greatest swordsman in High Rock, and he was a traitor. That traitor was a tall, elegant man with closely cut brown hair, clean-shaven with pale green eyes. He smiled easy and often. From across the great hall, Sir Maric watched him laughing and joking with one of his viscount or marquess vassals. There were few people in High Rock Maric hated more. In truth, Sir Maric never quite knew why. Before the Pretender’s War, their only interactions came in tournaments, where they were nearly evenly matched. In the tally to this point, Jastal had only a couple more victories over him. But even before their rivalry developed in the tourneys, Maric hated him. With the Pretender’s War and Jastal fighting for Lielle Rolston, the hate intensified, even more so once Jastal surrendered and was pardoned, retaining his duchy. As far as Sir Maric could see, even when Jastal lost he somehow won. Jastal’s perfect wife and his perfect kids joined him, and together they looked like the very picture of Breton nobility. Sharp, elegant features, every movement with a dancer’s grace, smart and personable with a happiness not even all the wealth in High Rock could buy. It certainly didn’t seem fair from where Maric stood that Jastal should side with Lielle and retain that happiness, but it looked as though the war had never even happened. Maric forced himself to turn away, and took his thoughts to his own family. They were not all three together, but Madeleine was with him in High Rock, which for years was all he wanted. She enjoyed the creature comforts and relaxation that Breton high society brought, and he loved nothing more than lavishing her with whatever she wanted. It wasn’t just about their happiness, or celebrating that they were together. They both sought refuge from dwelling on their son, away in Skyrim. He had tried to write letters, but he never could find the balance between expressing his concern and conveying that he trusted Daric to make his own decisions. Really all he wanted was to know that he was doing alright. He and Madeleine had finally sent a letter to that effect, though as yet there was no response. The start of another song brought Maric back to the party. It’s no wonder I’m the butt of so many jokes. At a ball and all I’m doing is frowning by myself. He looked around and saw his companions spread out around the hall. Damon was atop the dais, fiddling away with the other musicians. Morane and Faida were talking near the edge of the party, passing a bottle of wine back and forth between them. LaViolette was talking to Lord Vette, both laughing like they were back in Camlorn like the old days. And Asgen was…he didn’t immediately see Asgen, until he looked to the edge of the party, where he was locked in conversation with Madame Emard, sister to Marquis Emard, a vassal under Jastal. To other noblemen had just arrived and were talking to Asgen. The frown returned to his face, as he knew that conversation could only spell trouble. He gave his empty glass to a passing server and started to head toward Asgen, when a man stepped from the crowd and headed towards him. The man was heavyset but not fat, and he stood a couple inches shorter than Maric. His square jaw jutted out like he had something to prove, and his ruddy cheeks meant he was deep in his cups. Sir Maric stopped. He recognized the man, but the name didn’t immediately come to mind. The man bore no sigil, but wore a necklace nestled in the chest hair poking up through the man’s unbuttoned tunic. On the end of a black chain was a claw or fang of some sort. A bear’s claw, Maric realized. “Sir Falion LaRouche,” Sir Maric said when the man stopped in front of him. “I’d heard you were in Hammerfell.” “Thomas!” Falion slurred the ‘s’ on the end. “You heard right. Found work down there. Guided an Ansei here to Evermor most recently. He left for Balfiera. Loner, didn’t seem to like company. Reminds me of you, come to think of it.” Maric wondered if the Ansei didn’t like company or didn’t like Falion’s company. “Right. Have you been in touch with your brother recently?” Falion snorted and his mood dropped. “I don’t have anything to say to him. Couldn’t give a shit that he’s a Lord now neither. Farrun would’ve been better off with the Ryger babe than him in charge.” “I was under the impression you’d sworn off returning to High Rock.” “I had. Didn’t plan on staying after the Ansei and I split. But the ball was coming up and I wanted in the tourney. I’m still the Bear of the Gavaudon, no matter what my prick brother says.” Maric remembered the jokes about Falion, how he was more like the Cub of the Gavaudon. Jokes started by Falion’s father. The same father who chose his second son, Marc to be heir over Falion. “How did you do in the tourney?” “I’ve never been very good at the jousting. Never really been good on horseback, is the problem. Never can get the damned things to do what I want. The melee went better. Finished fourth. I swear Ambywyr’s a cheater. Dented my visor so I could only see out of one slit. Claims it was an accident but I don’t believe him. His father was the same way, I remember.” Sir Maric was only half listening, as he watched Asgen over Falion’s shoulder. Neither of the men talking to Asgen were Madame Emard’s brother, thankfully. Still, he knew Marquis Emard and didn’t like what might happen if he caught a Nord flirting with his sister. Or if his friends caught that Nord instead. “When he was still alive I did hear some rumors about Ambywyr’s father. Of course, a man who cheats in the melee is one who’s the most successful on the battlefield. Or so they say.” “Bah, I don’t by that crock of shit. A cheater is a coward, plain and simple.” Falion drained what was left of his wine glass. “But I didn’t want to talk to you about the melee. Though it’s a shame you weren’t here to participate.” “What did you want, Falion?” He could see Asgen and one of the men were both rather animated about something. Madame Emard was trying, and failing, to calm them down. “I heard you and LaViolette are leading some Nords on a quest. Seems like you could use some help from another Breton. I’ve always said, you can’t-“ “I’m sorry, Falion, but I’m afraid this mission is sensitive and we don’t have room to add anyone else. If you’ll excuse me.” Before Falion could protest Maric pushed passed him toward Asgen. But the conversation had held him up too long. One of the noblemen was now inches away from Asgen’s face, and from the way he sputtered, it was clear the man was angry. “How dare you come here and act so dishonorably. You’re nothing but a brute and a liar. Take back what you said at once, or else.” Sir Maric was near them, but a crowd had formed, and he was forced to push his way through to try and get to Asgen. "Or else what, little man?" the Nord responded. The nobleman took a noticeable step back, but spurred on by the presence of his friends and likely a fair bit of alcohol, he said, "Or else you'll have to answer to us. You do not get to come here and disrespect Bretons this way, Nord." "That's how it is, eh?" Maric caught a glimpse of Asgen just in time to see his gaze very briefly flicker over their shoulders and across the room. Following it, he found that Faida was watching them closely. Knowing this, the Nord continued, "Well as it happens, I ain't disrespected any Bretons, because nothin' I've said should be of any Breton's damn concern." Maric finally made it through the crowd to where the nobleman and Asgen stood, only to find Duke Jastal had broken through from the other side. Jastal said, "Viscount Bertault, explain yourself." The nobleman started to answer, but Sir Maric's glare stopped him short. Maric turned to the Nord. "Asgen, what's going on here?" "What's going on is this man and his friends ain't got partners for the dance." Asgen replied. He stared back at the nobleman. "This one was hopin' I'd join him, and he's taking my rejection hard. Tell 'em, Bertal." Maric glared at Asgen’s joke before turning to look at the nobleman. “Your turn.” It took a moment before the nobleman peeled his gaze back away from Asgen. “This Nord was telling Madame Emard a lie about Giraud Callyn being some Daedra worshipping Reachman freak. We cannot stand for that!” Asgen responded with a loud snort. "Goiridh Caellein was a Reachman, but he was no freak. That was your word, fool, not mine." Maric looked between them, his mouth slightly agape. "That's what this is about?" "He's insulted a Breton hero who stood up to the Empire!" the nobleman said, his voice full of uncontrolled drunken anger. "I would think you of all people would recognize his importance. Unless the famed Sir Maric is less loyal than-" Maric's fist cut the sentence short, and the nobleman fell into an unconscious heap on the ground. Duke Jastal peered down at his vassal before turning to Maric. "That was uncalled for." "I agree," Maric said. "It's why I punched him." Duke Jastal narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I meant you punching him. That is not how nobles settle their disputes." "I'm aware of how nobles settle things," Maric said. He glared at the man on the floor. "But I do not see someone worthy of being treated as one." Jastal's face contorted into an angry grimace. "You shouldn't insult one of my vassals that way. He was out of line, but so was your friend, and so are you." Maric could feel the smile rising on his face. "Maybe we should settle things, as nobles do." Jastal's back straightened, and he stood his full height. He had a couple inches on Sir Maric, and he looked down his nose at the King's knight. "Is that a challenge?" "Scared to accept?" "Never." Lord Vette’s voice boomed out over the now silent ball. "A challenge has been offered and accepted. Duelers, you have ten minutes to confer with your seconds before we begin." The crowd dispersed, forming around the dance floor where the duel was to take place. Jastal leveled one last dismissive look at Maric before he helped his vassal to his feet and left to ready himself. Maric starred daggers into the man's back before turning to Asgen. "What was that? You were not hired to cause trouble." "I ain't the one who hit him, boss." "I'm fairly certain you would've if I hadn't," Maric said, though the venom was gone from his voice. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes again, LaViolette had joined them. She looked nervous, her hands fiddling with the glass of wine she held. He didn't know what she had to be nervous about, he was the one about to duel. "Would you fetch my side-sword?" "I uh- of course, Sir Maric." She gave her glass to Asgen and hurried away from the great hall. Maric took LaViolette's glass from Asgen and downed it before giving it back. "What've I gotten myself into?" "Seems to me like you've just signed up to be tonight's entertainment," replied the Nord. "Can't say I'm jealous. I know a dangerous man when I see one, and that Jastal character's got all the signs." Maric waved Asgen's concern away, though the pit in his stomach was harder to ignore. "I suppose this is what I get for supporting the King's idea to pardon those who surrendered." He realized who he was speaking to and added, "No offense to you and your sister. You've certainly done more to prove yourselves loyal in the aftermath than he has." "None taken. We were never loyal to Rolston anyhow. Not the way we are to your man." LaViolette returned then, holding a thin, double-edged steel blade, shorter than the longsword Maric usually wielded. It fell somewhere between a piercing rapier and cutting longsword. LaViolette also carried a padded tunic. She handed the sword to Asgen and began to help Maric into the tunic. "So what's a duel between Breton nobles like anyway?" Asgen asked. "I take it there are rules." Maric nodded as LaViolette secured the straps. "Magic is not allowed except in the rarest cases. Often those duels are to the death. Otherwise, no magic and no killing. Superficial wounds only. It is as much about showing your restraint as it is your skill. Some duels are to first blood, others to three wounds. Sometimes blunted weapons are used and it is to three touches. Some are to submission." "You got a preference?" Maric looked across the room to where Jastal was undergoing the same preparations. It was foolish, this duel, given the sensitive mission he was on. He was the loyal servant, always doing what was asked of him. He could afford to do this for himself just this once. “Submission.” LaViolettee fumbled with one of the straps and he wondered what was going on with her. Had she really had that much to drink? She was usually more focused than this. “I can finish this. Please go relay my preference to Jastal.” LaViolette looked at him with a strangely pained expression on her face, one whose origins he couldn’t discern. He would have to inquire about that later. As he finished with the last strap he said, “Any Nordic wisdom for a moment like this?” "How about some sellsword wisdom instead? You hate this man, yes?" The Nord nodded at his own question. "Of course you do. Don't fight him like he's someone you hate. It'll make you stupid." Maric turned and grabbed the sword from Asgen, and he let his face betray a hint of respect. “That’s some sound advice.” He was about to leave when he caught sight of Faida and Morane standing off to the side. Faida had the same look on her face when it seemed as though her brother was going to be the one getting into a fight. Given how those two operated, he knew Asgen would’ve had some help. He looked back to Asgen. “I expect Faida means well, but I don’t need any help.” The Nord smiled with mock innocence. "I'll be sure to tell her. Make him bleed, Sir Maric." Maric nodded and walked away. The center of the great hall, which had earlier that night served as the dance floor, was cleared. The crowd formed around it, kept at a safe distance by benches brought in to mark the edge of the dueling area, which formed a rough oval around thirty feet long and twenty wide. Duke Jastal’s second stood at one end, while LaViolette stood at the other. A few guards stood by to make sure the duel didn’t spill into the crowd and to stop anyone trying to interfere. Lord Vette was seated on the dais, overlooking the duel. “The duelers have agreed to terms,” Lord Vette said. “This fight will be until one of them surrenders, or becomes unable to surrender. No magic allowed. Are both fighters ready?” Maric and Jastal both nodded. Lord Vette said, “Then let us begin.” As those words left Lord Vette’s lips, Maric let out breath, and the tension within him faded. Once a battle began, his nerves were always replaced by focus and resolve. Asgen’s advice and his own training flooded to his mind. Jastal wasn’t there. All Maric saw was the shift of feet and the tension in the arm as his faceless opponent prepared a thrust. He parried the first thrust, and with the ringing of steel, the fight began. Duels were so unlike battles and melees. There was little armor, smaller weapons, and they were usually wielded with less ferocity. It was appropriate that it took place on a dance floor. The thrusts, parries, slashes, and ripostes resembled a dance more than a brawl between knights. Most in High Rock were either skilled knights or skilled duelers, and rarely ever both. But Maric and Jastal were not ordinary individuals, and for the crowd watching, that much was clear. Maric shuffled forward, turning the thrust Jastal parried into a slash, aimed at the thigh. Jastal jump backward, landing with his characteristic grace. But Maric knew him, was expecting him to keep his feet, and with another thrust sliced into Jastal’s hip, right where Maric knew he’d land. The Duke’s fury redoubled and he pushed forward. With the reach advantage he had over Maric it was all the knight could do to avoid the blade. But slowly he was getting driven toward the edge of the oval. Following Jastal’s slice aimed at his belly, Maric stepped toward the Duke and managed to lock blades with him. Jastal was taller but Maric was stronger, and he pushed the nobleman back and repositioned himself in the center of the oval. It was his turn to attack, and he did so not with the heat of hatred but with a cold fury. He aimed to cut, not stab, keeping Jastal’s longer reach limited as he pressed in close with blow after blow. Their movements were quick, instinctual, the strange music of the ringing of steel filling the hall. Sir Maric aimed a slice across Jastal’s shoulder, who parried it and with a riposte sunk the tip of his blade into Maric’s left shoulder. Maric blocked a cut aimed for his leg and with a backhand slash caught Jastal across the belly. It was shallow, absorbed mostly by the padded tunic, but there was a bit of fresh blood on Maric’s sword. The shift of eyes was all Maric saw of Jastal’s face, the rest a blank slate. Like any good fighter, Jastal’s eyes were nothing lies. But wrist told Maric what to expect, and he was ready for the downward slice aimed at his already injured left shoulder. Jastal aimed another quick swipe, but it was a feint, easily parried and followed up by a cut into Maric’s thigh. He fell to a knee and only just managed to roll away from Jastal’s next attack. The wound on his thigh was deep and it slowed him, and Jastal managed to land another, the edge of the blade slicing across his ribs. Had this been a typical duel, Maric would have lost. But he picked until submission because he knew he could outlast the Duke. Bleeding from four places now, Maric pressed the attack relentlessly. He gave up a small and shallow cut across the left arm to land a much deeper one across Jastal’s chest. Once again the padded tunic absorbed it, but not enough, and Maric could see the growing bloodstain spreading. Jastal’s face was pale, and Maric knew his was well. But their movements did not slow, only quickened, the blades shaking in their hands as they caught attacks that would have maimed, and sent those same attacks right back. It was time to end it. Any longer and he risked not having the strength to finish. Maric feigned a thrust, avoiding Jastal’s parry and slicing him across the lower leg. He staggered but did not fall, and Maric pressed him across the dance floor. They slashed and parried, Maric dodging Jastal’s increasingly wild strikes. And then he saw his opportunity. Backed into the end of the oval, Jastal resolved himself to press the attack. Maric could see his eyes searching for where to push, see his feet shifting in preparation for the attack. So when it came, a strike aimed at the chest hard enough to push through any block or parry, Maric dove forward, rolling beneath it and coming up to drive his blade into the back of Jastal’s calf, deep enough to remain stuck there when Maric let it go. The blow forced the Duke to his knees, and Maric used that chance to reach out and grab Jastal’s hand and force Jastal’s own blade up against his throat. “Yield,” Maric said. Jastal’s face was contorted into pain. Part of Maric wanted to reach out and twist the sword still stuck in the man’s calf. But as he looked up from his opponent for the first time since the duel began, his gaze landed on the rest of the Jastal family, their own expressions a mixture of shock and concern. Maric wouldn’t want Madeleine or Daric to see him in Jastal’s position, though he didn’t expect he would ever be so lucky as to have his family together again. Maric let go of the man’s hand and removed the sword from his leg and tossed it to the floor before leaving the makeshift arena behind. He didn’t need to hear Jastal submit to know he’d won, and he could spare the man that bit of humiliation. Without a destination in mind but wanting to clear his head he eventually ended up standing outside on a balcony beneath a glittering sky. He pressed a hand to the wound on his thigh and let the healing magic spread until the bleeding stopped. That wound was the worst, and the rest would stop bleeding on their own. With a deep breath the cool night air filled his lungs and he wondered what had happened tonight. It didn’t make any sense that he would waste the evening hating Jastal, punching a nobleman, and getting into a duel. Why was he so upset? It was clear this wasn’t simply a problem of tonight. It had been happening since he went to Skyrim and found out he had a son. A son he didn’t know, who chose to stay in Skyrim rather than join his mother and father in High Rock. Maric should’ve been happy to have Madeleine back again, to have some semblance of a family. Yet the knowledge that Daric had existed all those years while he was in High Rock, ignorant to it all, would always haunt him. Seeing Jastal, a traitor who he hated, happy with his perfect family had been the final straw of a stack that had been building for months. The sound of someone approaching tore him away from his thoughts. He turned around to see LaViolette silhouetted by the bright lights of the castle. The lights cast shadows over her face, so he couldn’t see her expression, but he knew her well enough to know something was wrong. She always had some sort of tension and anxiety, had as long as he’d known her. But this was something beyond that. Her hands were held in front of her, fidgeting with a scroll as her eyes looked past him toward the city. “Is everything alright?” he asked. She let out a small sigh, really just the breath she’d been holding finally being released. “I should be the one asking you that. Even if the answer is obvious.” He nodded and turned back to look out over Evermor. She joined him at the balcony railing, still fidgeting with the scroll. He pretended to examine the city as she worked up the courage to tell him whatever she came to say. “I, uh, I want to apologize,” she said, which isn’t what he’d expected. Before he could ask what for she continued, “I’ve been keeping something from you that I shouldn’t have. It’s about Daric.” He could feel every muscle in his body tense up, like he was on the verge of a full body cramp. He was facing her now, and though she had a few inches on him, she shrunk under his gaze. “What happened?” “As we were arriving in Skyrim, we saved him from some creatures. He left not long after. And then when we were leaving, we got word that he’d been attack by Brund Hammer-Fang to try and get Red-Snow to fight him. Brund claimed to have killed him, but the rumors-“ His hand gripped the balcony railing so tightly it was nothing but a stab of pain, though it didn’t compared to what he felt at hearing his son might be dead. In his grief he couldn’t find the words to yell or lash out. “No one knows if he’s still alive or not. We left a recall mark for you in Kyne’s Watch. Prince Roland planned to tell you when we returned, but King Theodore forbid it. He only trusted you to lead this quest,” LaViolette said. Maric heard the hurt in her voice but it was nothing compared to what he felt hearing Theodore had kept this from him. Now the words came easily. “You tell that fat fuck that if my son is dead because he kept this from me I will kill him.” The words surprised even himself, and LaViolette was clearly taken aback. She said, “I-uh, I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. Prince Roland didn’t want his father to know he’d gone behind his back, and he made me swear I would wait until we left Evermor to tell you. But after tonight…” There were so many things he wanted to say. About how Prince Roland’s benevolence was empty since he’d still ordered LaViolette to wait to deliver the message. About how LaViolette’s apologies were empty, since she’d kept this from him. But most of all he just wanted to tell his son how much he loved him and was proud of him, and he might never be able to do that again. Instead, what he said was, “Tell Madeleine about this, and that I’ve gone to find him. If something should happen to me, take care of her. You owe me that much.” Without another word he took the scroll from her and left to gather his things. He just hoped he wouldn’t be too late. ** LaViolette When the sun broke through her bedroom curtains the next day LaViolette awoke with a splitting headache. It was partly from the wine the day before, but only partly. The rest was brought on by the knowledge that she might have destroyed the closest friendship she had. All because she wanted to stay in Prince Roland’s good graces, she’d gone along with his plan to wait until Evermor to tell Sir Maric. Now she could see that all she’d done was hurt someone she cared about, someone who was already so clearly hurting. Morane’s bed was empty, though LaViolette knew she hadn’t come to the room last night. LaViolette had been wide-awake most of it replaying her mistakes over and over again. It felt appropriate that she would make another while in Evermor, so close to her greatest failure yet. She did not look forward to the next few days of travel, knowing where the road they were headed down led. But first she would have to inform the others about Sir Maric. She wasn’t sure how she was going to explain it, though some version of the truth seemed the best option in light of how poorly keeping secrets had gone. She dressed, packed up her things, and put on her armor. Last of all was the hammer, resting by itself in the locked chest at the foot of the bed. She resented that cursed thing more than ever after last night. Not only for the fact that it had spoken to her without a physical connection for the first time, but because it had tried to get her to take on Caroline Vette as a squire. LaViolette knew the hammer only wanted another pawn for it’s inscrutable purposes, and she would never allow it to take hold of someone she’d watched grow up. LaViolette took it and attached it to her belt, proceeding to ignore it’s presence as best she could. A servant directed her to where the group was to be served breakfast, in a small dining hall away from the Great Hall. After the fight last night, LaViolette wasn’t surprised they’d been sequestered away from everyone else. Asgen and Faida were there already, the former looking more hung-over and much more smug than the latter. She almost asked if his night had ended well after all, but it felt wrong to joke after last night. Damon was there, not looking the least bit hung-over, and chatting amiably with a large, square-jawed man she recognized as Sir Falion LaRouche. She was about to ask if anyone had seen Morane when in she walked, still wearing last night’s clothes, her new coat slung over her shoulder, looking nearly as self-satisfied as Asgen. LaViolette sat down across from Asgen and Faida, and Morane soon joined her. They all made small talk as they ate, though LaViolette mostly listened. She was forced to talk, though, when Falion asked, “Where’s Maric? I wanted to talk to him again before you all left Evermor.” LaViolette pushed her mostly uneaten food away from her and looked up. “He won’t be joining us for the rest this quest. Last night he received word his son was missing and feared dead, so he left for Skyrim to try and find him.” That took the whole room by surprise. Out of everyone, Asgen strangely enough looked the most disappointed. The Nord asked, "What's the son of a royal knight doing in Skyrim?" The story came to her mind and she almost told it, but she remembered the pain in his voice when Maric had told her the tale. "The last thing he would want is us gossiping behind his back. We still have our task to complete. Everyone should be prepared to leave within an hour." "Same destination?" Damon asked, casting a quick glance at Falion, who seemed like an intruder amongst the rest of the group. LaViolette nodded and stood to leave. "Any other questions?" No one spoke, so LaViolette turned and left. She made it only a few steps down the hall before she heard footsteps approaching behind her. Turning around she saw Falion leave the hall, a dusting of crumbs on his shirtfront. “Dame LaViolette,” he said in a gruff voice. His breath still smelled of sour wine. “Sir LaRouche.” “I wanted to talk to you. Meant to talk to Maric but since he’s gone I suppose it’s you who’s in charge. Last night I spoke to him about joining you all. He seemed open to the idea. Wanted to discuss it more this morning. Before he learned of his son, evidently. But I was hoping you would allow me to help you on your quest.” She was skeptical Maric was open to the idea. “Why?” He scratched at the shadow of a beard on his square jaw, his eyes finding something interesting on the floor to look at. “I assume you’ve heard my story. Banished by my brother. Been gone a while but I remember how High Rock works. I need to prove myself. I see no better way of that than helping the King’s men and women, sight unseen, so to speak.” His eyes caught hers as she cocked an eyebrow. She certainly understood the desire to prove oneself in the eyes of a hostile family. Not to mention their group was currently short one knight. “No questions and you do as I say, and you can come. Deal?” The corner of his mouth quirked into a brief smile but he tamped it down. “Of course, Madam Dame. Thank you.” With a nod left to go saddle the horses and restock their food supplies. The tasks kept her mind occupied enough that she was caught off guard when the others arrived. Damon was late, delaying their departure, but by the time the rest of the castle’s noble guests were rising, the troupe was headed southeast out of Evermor and into Hammerfell, toward the Scenarist Citadel

Crypt escape, followed by them fleeing only to survive thanks to the timely arrival of Howland Reed and the Crannogmen to spirit them away in the face of the pursuing undead army.

Oh, I thought you meant that showed up in posts, which could be true too idk. But yes I have fleshed out a lot of noble families lol But this one was actually one I just made up on the spot lol. I only have down to the barons established, so the vassals of duke and barons I have to make up whenever they come up. Even I'm not crazy enough to go that deep

Yeah, this is why I went through an upcoming plotline I had planned and combined two characters lol. I really don't need to add any more than is totally necessary