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Chapter 6: The Queen’s Errant
Elven Blood I
~ 868 RE ~
~ Far Western Iest Kingdom, The Port City Of Taber Nightfall ~
The constant clinking of utensils and clang of iron embraced the dimly lit hall, while banter and mild jests supplied the background music. While conversations soared, so did the spirits of those present, soaring like embers from the fire that animated the room’s center. The enticing fragrance of freshly sizzled meat paired with wholesome herbs and vegetables billowed from the kitchenette. A young maiden in a cobalt commoner’s dress, flushed with a dainty pattern, nimbly stirred at a charcoal skillet. Her beauty and the hum of jovial conversation silenced local murmurs whenever a hearty burst of laughter followed a well-placed jest.
Men and women alike were adorned in the attire characteristic of their homesteads. Women were draped in simple dresses, accentuated by aprons in contrasting hues and brooches that added an alluring pop of color. Men, on the other hand, sported Kyrtill tunics and belted trousers. An exception to these traditional garments was a crew of individuals whose garb suggested a life of luxury and high society, yet their overall appearance told a different tale. They donned regal coats, shirts of exquisite fabric, and armor intricately embellished with studded metals, reminiscing of a glorious past now lost to them.
Their frail outfits were muddied and blood-stained, standing as silent testimonies to a prolonged period of neglect. The sight of their gruesome condition defied the exquisite promise of their apparel, setting a chill of anxiety down everyone’s spine who dared to observe them too closely.
An older man unstuffed his mouth, teeming with chicken and rice, to utter, “There’s no place like the east.” His accent significantly Azurian, a fact that stood out like a sore thumb among the Marionians. Once he tied off the end of this peculiar comment with a hearty swig of mead, he continued, “This is living”, guffawing and clapping the back of his neighbor. His most characteristic feature is his crow’s eyes—a necromancer’s dark mask that pierces the heart of anyone who dares cross it.
The man on the receiving end of his boisterous slap, boasting a dazzling gap-filled smile, readily agreed, “Finally, we made it to paradise.” There was a content hum of agreement from his counterparts, their plates piled high with a feast and their glasses brimming with golden ale. “I dare say, this is the best time since leaving the mainland.”
One such gentleman bore a patch over his eye—an object that was far from being deemed pleasant. In terms of calling it a ‘patch’, such generosity would be an overstatement—it was merely an aged scrap of leather slouched in place to keep any potential irritants at bay. It was evident there was nothing beyond the patch but a hollow cavity; the skin beneath visibly pulsating ad sync with his breaths. It was a sight that was nothing short of grotesque—a sight their acquaintances must’ve grown well-accustomed to, judging by the lack of response. “I am just glad King Grandor kept his word. I feared once we moored at port, we’d be soft targets.”
The eldest of the bunch erupted in laughter at his comment – a coarse sound that could be overlooked for what it bore – a glimmer of triumph. His vest bore the indigo crest of the Royal Azurian Guard, indicating his rank of a captain. Once a courageous and handsome stalwart, his features were now layered with grime and soot, transforming him into a specter of his former self, somewhat increasing his apparent age.
Every soul within those wooden walls did their best to drown out the rambunctious hooting and hollering from their corner while savoring their respective pints of ale. Everyone recognized the notoriety that accompanied the Blue Hammers and wisely chose to keep their distance. A name that once didn’t inspire fear had swiftly climbed the ranks to become the terror of the households across the region. They were ex-cons turned mercenaries, notorious for their brutalities.
One such maiden found herself on the receiving end of their ogling—a voluptuous barmaid who proved too hard for these marauders to resist. The maiden wore her chocolate brown hair adorned with red ribbons, tied into two delicate bunny ears, while the rest cascaded down into curls that framed her back, stopping midway. Her fringe settled just above her wood-brown eyes that danced with warmth. The more dishes she cleared from the tables, the brighter her smile grew.
Growing up in the hustle and bustle of her father’s tavern had facilitated the growth of a proficient tavern maid. Her years navigating the dining space had sculpted her movements into those of elegance. She moved with the grace of a dancer along the weathered floorboards, her feet intuitively avoiding the crevices and stubs protruding from the wooden canvas. Her movements mirrored that of a seasoned maestro, in harmony with the rhythm of the lively hall. Her crimson dress trimmed with white hem seemed to sway in unison, and so did her frilly apron.
One man from the dubious crew called out, licking his lips in anticipation, “Wouldn’t mind getting a taste of that.” His despicable remark was met with agreement as the crow-eyed man chimed in, “She is a catch, ain’t she? All fresh and clean. A far cry from those dirty strumpets back at the port.”
This uncouth exchange was plenty diversion for the gap-filled man to call out to the barmaid who was diligently clearing a nearby table. The sight of the cloaked men made her skin crept up in horror. What could they possibly want from her, she found herself wondering. Underneath their intimidating gazes, she felt her body freeze in place like a deer caught in headlights. “Come over, sweetheart, we don’t bite,” one of them teased.
Bracing herself against the turbulent flood of fear, she pasted on a bright smile on her face, slowly making her way to their nook. “May I be of help?” she asked, her voice bristling with feigned enthusiasm, “Have you finished with your meal?”
The elderly one of them, who bore the crest of a captain, managed to utter between his chews, “Feel free to amuse them. I need to step out for a short while.” The departure of the aged man escalated her apprehension. Her heart pounded louder as she caught a glimpse of her oblivious father, engrossed in his mundane serving duties. She spared a glance at her brother stationed at the band, but his helpless shrug back at her offered her no comfort against her racing heartbeat.
The crow-eyed man scooted his chair back, gesturing towards his lap with a lascivious grin, “Come on baby, take a seat” Everyone within their vicinity could sense the vulgar intention beneath their invite. They were smart enough to realize that she would be exploited to the amusement of these scoundrels for the rest of the night, were she to comply. They waited in silence, their hearts beating in sync with her terror as she contemplated the man’s request.
Despite her fright, as she sized up the muddy blue jacket adorning the man, her gaze fell upon the gleaming blade holstered at his waist. A cold sensation caressed her spine as she struggled to come to terms with the grim reality of her situation. This brute of a man, who poised danger to her and everyone around her, commanded her obedience. She weighed her odds and made a split-second decision. She reluctantly declined his invite, “I’m sorry but I have other tables waiting.” Her smile was a painful reminder of her mother’s radiant one.
The crow-eyed man contemplated her refusal and reasoned, “You sure have been busy, haven’t you? Spare a moment. We just want to talk,” said the man with the eyepatch, taking another sip from his cup.
“I have responsibilities. If I idled, my father would be cross.”
“I can deal with your dad,” the crow-eyed man dismissed her excuse nonchalantly. The sight of him inviting her over again while his hand lightly brushed his sword’s hilt send her fear into a frenzy. She chose to resign to her fate, knowing better than to protest further.
Holding back her revulsion, she climbed into the man’s lap. The moment she settled on his thighs, he let out a triumphant sigh, taking in the scent of her hair. He drew her closer by the waist, his rough palms encircling her. The feel of his breath against the nape of her neck sent shudders down her spine, A sickening smell emanating from him reminded her of the discarded filth from the ships. He whispered, “Not so bad, huh?” pressing his fingers deeper into her hips, imprinting his lecherous touch on her.
Her face turned a shade of fire as he pulled her into a compromising position against him. Something hardened beneath her, pressing dauntlessly against her. She frantically searched for her father, her heart pounding wildly against her chest. But all he did was watch from afar as he mindlessly polished his glasses.
The sight of the barmaid, trapped within the clawed grasp of these men, attracted the attention of two strangers perched at the bar. One of them, his long elf ears poking out from beneath a veil of white hair, gulped down the remainder of his ale. A pair of silver eyes flashing with rage indicated the gravity of the situation. Before he could act upon his impulse, his companion placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.
This man wore a stubble over his tan complexion, a clear giveaway of their foreign origins. His hooded muddy brown eyes could not disguise his thin yet muscular built. A network of scars crisscrossed across his skin, hinting at a history of valor and violence. He took a moment to understand the gravity of the situation brewing with those men.
His eyes narrowed down in disapproval as his gaze fell upon the barmaid’s discomfort. His heart twinged in sympathy even as his companion attempted to hold him back.
“Must you, Elward?” His companion’s weary voice resonated. Elward shrugged off his friend’s concern as he stared right back at him with a fierce glow within his silver eyes.
“We sought these men, Rhomund. These are our men to apprehend,” he called, rising from his seat and striding purposefully towards the ruffians.
Rhomund grumbled, “Great.” His fingertips absentmindedly traced over the leather holster of his dagger, flicking open the top. His gaze lingered longingly over his unfinished jug of ale before he sighed, “So much for finishing my drink,” his voice dripping with sarcasm as he trailed behind Elward.
As the two men neared the barmaid and her tormentors, the tavern owner intercepted them, his chubby face etched with worry. “Wait, that’s my daughter,” he managed to get out. Rhomund only nodded in acknowledgment, maintaining his steps in pace with Elward’s.
The man with the patchy grin immediately recognized the danger looming over them. “Got no place here, elongears.” Elward refused to indulge in the man’s provocation, his face locked in a stern grimace while Rhomund discreetly intercepted.
Rhomund, donning his most disarming smile, asked, “Mind if we join you?”
The man with the eyepatch scrutinized the two strangers, habitually playing with his knife. The sinister glint in his eyes was thoroughly unsettling. “Who are you?” His brusque inquiry was met with a deadpan stare from Rhomund, while the barmaid caught her breath, hope visibly trembling in her gaze. In a desperate act of bravery, her fingers dug painfully into her palm as she croaked a silent “No” to warn their supposed saviors. Elward turned a deaf ear to her protest, maintaining his glare.
As the room grew constrictively silent, the man with the jigsaw grin drew out his sword, his other hand inching towards his dagger. The patrons visibly stiffened at his action, their hearts thumping out of rhythm in the tense atmosphere.
“We are mere travelers. But this young lass here,” Rhomund began, “seems less than pleased with your company.” She stiffens at his words, her eyes wide open in terror. He gestured towards the bartender, “Her father there, and the bard I believe is her brother, both seem rather bothered by your little game.”
The hushed murmurs around the room grew silent at Rhomund’s bald assertion. The barmaid whimpered in fear, her lip jutting out in a tremble. “What’s it to you? Best keep your noses out of our business or else”, the crow-eyed man spat menacingly, his facial features coiling into a snarl.
Having ignored the man’s wrath, Rhomund continued, “I reckon you penance for your misdeeds. My friend here,” Rhomund gestured towards Elward, “is particularly bothered by your treatment of the fair maiden.”
The heavily scarred man shot back instantly, “Good for him. But he ain’t the one sat here, is he?”
“Certainly not. But he begs to differ. He believes that the young lady is being disrespected in this fine establishment.” The girl visibly shook, taken aback by Rhomund’s audacity. “It’s obvious she is uncomfortable. Yet, you ignore her pleas,” Rhomund pointed at the girl.
The crow-eyed man hissed as he drew out his sword, pushing away the girl. Rhomund wasted no time springing into action, swiftly disarming the man. Kicking the sword from his hands, he held the man captive with a dagger pressed against his throat.
“Leave, you and your lackeys, while you still can. Is that understood?” He whispered threateningly into the man’s ear.
The crow-eyed marauder, rendered speechless, hastily scrambled to his feet. Rhomund smoothly returned his sword to him, watching impassively as the man scrambled to catch it clumsily. “We’ll be seeing you,” he stammered, his face contorted in a vengeful grimace. “My lords won’t be pleased.”
Unfazed by his threats, Elward stepped forward menacingly. In an instant, his dagger slit the crow-eyed man’s throat. His fellow marauders rose to counterattack, only to find their ends at the hands of Rhomund. Utter pandemonium broke out in the tavern—patrons running helter-skelter to save their lives.
The barmaid remained frozen in her spot, her heart thudding in her chest. Rhomund, in his composed demeanor, cleaned his bloody blade and turned towards the terrified girl. “My apologies.” His voice was sincerely apologetic, “We’ll handle the aftermath.”
Jolted out of her stupor, the barmaid hastily retreated, stammering, “Who are you?” Her eyes widened in terror at what they had done.
With a nonchalant shrug, Rhomund answered, “This is my companion, Elward, and my name is Rhomund. We are the Queen’s personal emissaries.”
~ 868 RE ~
~ Iest Kingdom, Afternoon On A Merchant Road To Port Branderfel ~
“Confound it! The axle’s snapped clean through. We’re marooned for the foreseeable,” grumbled a grizzled salt, donned in a wind-weathered straw hat. Bathed in the fluctuating warmth of the canyon’s sun, he surveyed the stagnant convoy of wanderers, his countenance clouded with disquiet. “I hold no affection for this locale,” he warned, his voice echoing within the canyon walls. “Plenty of villainous critters skulk around these parts. Once, it was a pack of wolves I espied amongst the shrubbery. They were feasting upon some unlucky soul, however.” Accompanied by the spectral whisper of the canyon wind, he leaned against their immobilised carriage, where the broken wooden rod jutted out starkly from the belly of the upturned front wheel. The carriage’s harnessed pair of horses remained eerily serene amidst the predicament.
The raven-tressed girl cast a glance at the wagon’s overseer with guarded curiosity. “So… we’re stranded here?”
“Appears thusly, missy. I vowed to lead you to Port Branderfel, and that I shall. Just be prepared for a delay. For safety, linger behind the carriage,” he advised, bending to peep under the wooden belly of the beast. A down-at-heel figure clad in threadbare apparel, more dirt than cloth, crawled from the rear of the carriage.
“If we’re staying put awhile, best relieve myself,” he joked, ambling off towards the cluster of nearby shrubs.
Suddenly, from amidst the gloomy hollow beneath the cart, the wagon master’s warning echoed out, “Forewarned is forearmed, lad. These canyons house more than shadows. A bite from some of these creatures won’t just itch. I’d be forced to hack off the poisoned limb and none of us want that blood-soaked situation on our hands.”
Under the unblinking gaze of the sun, the girl, sighing, moved to the carriage’s rear. However, perched ominously above them on the canyon’s brink stood a cadre of men, armed with sabres and polearms, positioned strategically to ensnare the immobilised travellers. As they slithered down the rocky outcrop, their presence became all too apparent. “Bandits… damnation, Diyano, your luck is truly cursed,” muttered the wagoner as multiple pairs of boots came into his limited field of vision beneath the cart.
Swivelling swiftly, the girl took in the oncoming menace. “Seems like you’re in need of assistance. We might be able to provide…at a price, naturally. This highway isn’t exactly free of toll,” stated an imposing man, his face obscured by a tattered fabric mask. His wild tresses, the colour of autumn leaves, framed a hard countenance that hints of a lifetime of savage survival. His attire, a patchwork of worn cloth and battered armour mayhaps intended to intimidate. His sinister comrades, likewise armed, shared his grim determination.
Suddenly, a gloved hand, as rugged as the environment they all faced, clamped her arm. His other hand held a makeshift bag-mask that rendered his visage a grotesque caricature. “Such a pretty thing, aren’t ya? Old timer, you seek survival? This young thing is your toll.”
Yanking her arm free from the unwelcome grip, the girl took two instinctive steps back. “Unhand me, you brute,” she hissed defiantly.
A compact man, his forearms impressive as he brandished his axe, relished the interplay. “She told you.”
“Indeed, but her spirit simply fans the flame,” he chuckled, before addressing the wagon master, “What say you, elder?”
A rueful gaze fell upon the girl from the wagon master. “I am truly sorry,” he murmured, his eyes closing tight, a reluctant surrender.
“What?!” The betrayal rang loud from her as dread clamped its frigid fingers around her heart. Flailing to escape the bandits, she let out a horrifying scream as she was bound and dragged mercilessly along the dust-ridden path.
Another doomed soul lunged forward in her defense. “Do not let them take her!” he roared. But his defiance was silenced by the grim face behind the bag mask. A swift, fatal plunge of the sabre into his gut brought him to his knees. He crumpled, gripping the mortal wound as his lifeblood seeped out onto the parched earth, painting a stark scarlet stain. His dying gaze captured the horrific tableau: the girl’s disappearance amidst the bandits’ cruel laughter.
“My sovereign, I pledge upon my honor, the merchant routes are littered with bodies. The sight was new to me and I, quite mistakenly, attributed the act to wildlings,” lamented a man, his knees pressing into the plush carpet before the youthful Queen Gazalia. His heartfelt proclamation drew the discreetly wandering gaze of Aschiles, the Queen’s advisor. At the queen’s reassuring nod, the advisor allowed a questioning eyebrow to rise.
Elegant but imposing, Gazalia rose from her gilded throne. As she approached the trembling man, her velvet gown whispered secrets that only the ancient stones of the castle were privileged to hear. Gently, she laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Your fidelity has been proven by your swift return, loyal servant. Prudence teaches us to steer clear of that which we cannot conquer. Within these fortresses, no harm shall befall you or your kin.” Gazalia’s emerald eyes, steady as calm seas yet hiding storms underneath, bore into the man still kneeling before her. Contemplatively, she addressed her advisor, “What is your perspective on this, Lord Achiles?”
“Wildlings partake not in such atrocities. Their savagery in war and terror unleashed render them the bane of any kingdom. You reported finding a family strung up from a tree?” His voice, was gravelly with a hint of intrigue hinting at a seasoned and discerning mind.
“My Lord,” the kneeling man replied, his voice barely a murmur, “Indeed I did.”
“Outlandish as it may sound, wildlings carve their victims and drape their hide upon trees as grim adornments. However, a spectacle of hanging their prey, that does not befit their methods: they deem it an undesirable waste of wholesome meat.” Lord Achiles mused, his gruff voice echoing in the silence.
Releasing her hand from her servant’s sweat-streaked hair, Gazalia posed a chilling question, “If not wildlings, who dares to challenge my rule in this monstrous manner? ”
“Men,” Lord Achiles said solemnly. “Not mere footpads, but plunderers nonetheless. This is an audacious attempt at claiming the merchant roads, signaling their dominance over what should have been under your distinct control, my Queen. It points to suppression by an entity, much more potent, possibly an empire. The specter of old tribal rivalries that foments unrest within Islet persists, perhaps resembling factions from the old empire; their motives and allegiances still uncertain. It is of paramount importance that we remain ever vigilant and quell this menace swiftly lest it be construed as a reflection of our weakness.”
The queen moved with feline grace back towards her throne and reclined. “Command my knights to safeguard the routes beckoning towards Port Branerfel. Have another retinue journey to Matrick. Their orders: to bring down any marauder they encounter without quarter. Instruct them to blend amidst the commoners, their arms and armor concealed. We shall demonstrate to these miscreants exactly who reigns over the kingdom they so foolishly attempt to pilfer.”
“As you command, my Queen.” It was Lord Achiles, his voice resonant against the ancient stone walls, as he bowed in acquiescence.
“No one dares to threaten my subjects. Every traveler within my realm shall find safety under the protective aegis of my kingdom. Achiles, have my trusted Lord Knights summoned. I have a separate task for that formidable pair.”
~ 868 RE ~
~ Far West Iest Kingdom, In The City Of Taber At Nightfall ~
The night was awash with an uncanny violet luminescence. From his perch atop the crumbling tavern, Elward’s gaze swept over the once-majestic city, now a deteriorating tableau of rubble and deserted avenues. His piercing silver eyes, keeping a vigilant watch for any trace of the impending gang, didn’t miss a beat as the squeaking hinges of the balcony door demanded his attention.
His gaze landed on the barmaid who stood there, a horn mug, as large as her determination, brimming with a crystalline liquid nestled in her hands. The purity of its aroma wafted over him competing with the cloying decay of the city. “Rest may be more beneficial, child,” he suggested, his consideration masked with frosty indifference.
Nervously pouring the water, she stuttered, “Th-hirst…you might be…,” her voice trailing off as she tendered him the horn. With a nod of gratitude, he accepted. A tinge of pink brushed her cheeks as she whispered, “Thank you, for…for my protection. Apologies for the…the scream.”
A smirk, barely there, flickered on his lips as he replied, “No harm done.”
Braving up, she asked in a soft murmur, “The tales…about you being an elf… are they true?”
Denying with a shake of his head, he stated, “My sire was man.”
“What of your mother?” curiosity gleamed in her eyes.
Considering her, he sighed, “Rumors abounded of elven blood in her veins, but certainty was not my privilege.”
“Really?” a glint of fascination sparkled.
With a solemn nod, he admitted, “Her face is but a forgotten shadow.”
“Oh…I always believed not all elves are formidable, because…you’re not…with me,” she countered in a honey-laced tone that stirred something cold in Elward’s core.
He shot her an iridescent glance, revealing his true eyes. “Perhaps.” His words were as vague as the silver wash over his gaze. He suddenly turned ghostly pale, which was promptly concealed by her hands. As soon as her touch receded, his eyes dimmed back to their normal hue. “Fear them, nonetheless, that’s my counsel.”
Regaining her composure, her curiosity kindled again. “And your companion, who is he?”
“The same who damned my mother to death.” His response was a shard of ice. “Mutual reciprocation forms the basis of our alliance, else we’d be each other’s undoing. Now child, enough narrative for tonight. You should seek slumber.”
“Would not you join in sleep?” she ventured the question.
Meeting her gaze, he shook his head before declaring, “For me, sleep is but a myth.”
~The Next Morning~
“Your daughter has my gratitude for her bravery,” the bartender said, the lilt in his voice a stark contrast to the silence haunting the abandoned tavern. Years worth of memories seemed to have fled along with the patrons, leaving nothing behind but the scent of long-finished meals. The middle-aged man sat amidst an almost eerie tranquility, the silhouette of Rhomund and Elward etched sharply into the scene by the resolute light slanting through the windows.
“We owe them quite a bit, don’t we?” queried the bartender, his eyes narrowing as he carefully traced the intricate pattern decorating a recumbent weapon on the table. “These Blue Hammers, they’re becoming quite a nuisance.”
Rhomund shared a knowing look with Elward before humming his agreement and continuing. “You have good eyes. The quality of these weapons indeed leaves little room for doubt – they are not mere plunderers’ trinkets.” His brow lined with concern as his gaze met the flawlessly crafted Azurian weapons from Flaggard.
Exchanging a weary glance with the two men, the bartender sighed, “Flaggard, all the way on the other side of the globe. Isn’t that strange?”
“I’ve never been to Flaggard,” Rhomund acknowledged with a slight chuckle. “But I can tell you, it requires passing through oceans and continents. The question remains, how did these weapons end up in the hands of the Blue Hammers?”
A grim nod from the bartender marked his agreement. In recent times, Taber has become a breeding ground for lawlessness, as the city spiraled into despair under the lost statutes of its spineless ruler, King Kerchov. The local guards had been reduced to mere regal barricades, while the once brimming marketplace teemed with bandits.
“That is interesting,” Rhomund mused, his sharp gaze not missing a beat. “Who holds sway over the city now? If not King Kerchov and his guards?”
The bartender laughed out in bitter irony. “He cloaks himself with the title of ‘Baron’, ruling from the safety of his exclusive manor, while his so-called ‘common guards’ roam free, exacting terror on his kingdom. The man’s reign is already marred with troubled legacy, and I suspect he’s relinquished his voice over the kingdom to his guards.”
Elward snorted, “A king who prefers the title of a Baron, the status of Taber truly mirrors forgotten tales.” He leaned in, his features softening into a rare smile. “Although you seem wary of us, I want to believe our intents align. Sure, Rhomund and I were once sellswords, but we serve a more profound cause now—a young, ambitious ruler who envisions a grandeur for the Iest Kingdom, reminiscent of its past glory.”
Rhomund, with a stern nod, rose to his feet, allowing Elward’s words to seep into the air, “Elward, we must be going. Our business with the King awaits.”
Taber’s main streets strutted in elaborate majesty, stone pillars and baroque statues painting a tapestry of grandeur. But beneath this gilt veneer lay a complex labyrinth of haphazard edifices, seemingly pieced together from discarded timber. The scenes took Elward back to memories of a garbage heap. In the Fae world, such ugliness would have been depurated by fire. Thick films of detritus slicked the street sides, and the pervasive odor was far from delightful.
Rhomund easily navigated his path through the thronging pedestrian arteries, settling into the ebb and flow of the masses like a leaf adrift on a bubbling stream. He maintained an uncanny dance, coming within a whisper of collision, yet always timing his steps to perfection. Elward, through more cultivated strides, invested much of his attention in poise and nimbleness. The simple task of walking without interruption demanded his immense concentration. Eventually, their exploration of the knotted streets led them to an imposing gateway, guarded by grim-looking men clad in metal shells.
Halting his comrades with a vociferous shout, the rightmost guard signaled other spear-wielding sentries to hold their attack on Elward. Even as Rhomund sought to defuse the situation, the guard retained his aggressive stance, the point of his spear reflecting Elward’s nonplussed gaze. The resounding cadence of seasoned authority radiated from an older guard, ambling towards the scenario. His words commanded respect, causing the younger guard to capitulate and step aside. Past the threshold, it appeared as though they had warbled into an entirely different city, where the broad streets could accommodate even a stream of chariots and the buildings stood in finely polished dignity.
A sweeping boulevard of pristine white stone guided them towards a palace, whose array of domes reigned supreme against the skyline. Rising defiantly around the castle, several piercing spires appeared as though scraping the celestial dome. Set against the backdrop of a blue southern sky and glimpses of port levels, Rhomund and Elward, like muted stains on a vivid tapestry, crossed a grandiose bridge to penetrate the fortress.
A resplendent dome, colossal and regal, crowned the fortified residency. The façade, a stunning montage of towers, walls, and minarets, appeared capable of housing a formidable army. Elward’s fascination was piqued by the architectural mystery; its eclectic mixture of motifs didn’t resonate with Marionian aesthetics. The influence of Azurian taste was unmistakable, with artful frescoes and a love for the artistic expression woven into the design. Marionian sensibilities were traditionally antithetical to such flamboyance, suggesting a complex collation of cultural perspectives.
“His penchant for the theatrics of tardiness is predictable.” Elward muttered, his gaze snared by formidable baroque pillars that lined the opulent corridor. Poised along their lofty heights were intricate and intimate tales etched elegantly in ivory; a testament to the rich tapestry of local lore.
He traced his eyes over the stellar drama of the tripartite tribes, followed by the daring voyages of the progenitor settlers of Marion gliding majestically upon the whims of the wind. His gaze rested on the stoic depiction of an ancient queen who once commanded the contiguous lands with a steely gaze, and the enduring saga of the mortal who tamed the ferocious might of dragons.
Monumental panes of glass, whole transparent walls that reached towards the heavens, framed a breathtaking cityscape that lay beyond. The architectural grandeur and the pulsating heart of the city coalesced into a tableau that wove the narrative threads of time – past, present, and prescient future – into a single, harmonious canvas.
Elward’s eyes twinkled with mirth, subsumed by the potent allure of their surroundings, whilst his companion Rhomond ambled leisurely behind him. Rhomond’s finger shrilly cut through the air as he spotted a colossal dragon, its sinewy form captivated in a dive. Elward chuckled at Rhomond’s terse ‘aha’ moment, rolling his eyes humorously as he steered his attention elsewhere.
Their tranquil pondering was cut short by the majestic swoosh of twin, towering court doors. A burly guard, his features hardened by relentless years of loyal service, boomed with unfettered authority, “His Majesty will see you now.”
As Rhomund and Elward ventured into the ostentatious throne room, their eyes danced over the spectacle of grandeur unfolding before them. The polished stone floor was a liquid canvas reflecting iridescent lights, lending an otherworldly radiance to the room. Lining either side of the lofty throne, two ornate columns reached up, supporting a gilded balcony perched overhead. A riser platform elevated the throne above the rest of the room, crafted thoroughfare of stairs connecting it to the ground. Both sides of the platform were garnished with artisanal paintings depicting deities clashing with primal energies, an invocation of divine warfare. Gilded artwork enveloped the walls, immortalizing tales of old in a veneer of lavish opulence. “This is less of a throne room and more of a pantheon to history itself,” Elward observed, his voice echoing beneath the expansive ceiling.
Accompanying his words, the figure of a man emerged from the shadowed corners of the throne. He descended the staircase, arms outstretched in an ambiguous gesture of greeting or mockery. His purple robe glimmered with intricate golden dragon prints; a creamy sash streaked with purple held a black toga securely around his torso. He donned a gleaming smile, reminiscent of a popular star from the Howl theater. “I see you admire my ardent commitment to preservation of our collective past. Tell me, what brings you gentlemen here?”
Rhomund remained stoically impassive by the opulence, letting Elward rise to address their regal interlocutor. “On the orders of Queen Gazalia, we are here to secure the safety of her territories. I assume we are in the presence of Baron Kerchov?”
“Indeed, I am he,” his visage marred by fleeting bewilderment, swiftly regained its former composure.
“We are but humble errants at Her Majesty’s service,” was Elward’s proud declaration.
Spawned by Elward’s introduction, echoes of whispered tales passed through exotic taverns and hushed royal courts sparked a light of recognition in Kerchov’s eyes. “Ah, the travelling knights, I have heard much about your feats. However, let’s focus on the matter at hand. How can I be of assistance?”
Elward, seizing the opportunity, spoke unabashedly about the bandit encounter within the city walls. Kerchov displayed a hint of contrition, acknowledging the issue while adroitly blaming the ‘freedoms’ bestowed upon the common folk. Elward and Rhomund offered a mutually beneficial solution, the establishment of a city watch in collaboration with the Iest Kingdom guards.
Exercising deceptively restrained democracy, Kerchov brushed them off under the guise of not wanting to burden his esteemed guests. Following a few exploratory paces and awkward silence, he presented an alternative – training his own guards under the tutelage of Iest’s finest.
Rhomund asserted his authority, unyielding in his insistence for the original plan. The rebuttal seemed to deflate Kerchov momentarily, who audibly sighed, dismay etched across his face. He argued passionately about the cultural aesthetic at stake, resorting to an ill-advised comparison between the sovereignty of his kingdom and the grandeur of his sanctuary of culture. His claims of a ‘steeping city close to a blooming transformation’ only drew expressions of incredulity from Rhomund, prompting defensive justifications from Kerchov.
As the confrontation eased into other subjects, Elward shifted his focus to a detail of interest – Kerchov’s crown. Kerchov’s awkward evasion and Rhomund’s harsh reminder of the potential consequences of treason segued into a tense silence, suddenly broken by Kerchov’s claim of the title ‘King of Taber’. The ensuing debate concluded with Baron Kerchov accepting to refrain from using the royal title improperly.
The heated exchange eventually erupted into a physical altercation, as Rhomund – provoked by Kerchov’s audacity – struck the faux monarch, causing the ceremonial crown to tumble from his head, and blood to stream down his face.
Prompt intervention from Elward led to a diffusing of tensions, revealing a hitherto unmentioned detail – Kerchov’s origin in Javel. The revelation sparked a moment of clarity, throwing light on Kerchov’s evident cowardice and inadequate leadership skills, all signs reflective of the traits of those from Javel. The mention of his homeland froze Kerchov’s scornful sneer into a mask of terrified submission. “Isn’t this true, Kerchov?” Elward asked, his icy gaze pierced through Kerchov’s crumbling bravado.
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