#raven alderscorn

[This was inspired by a character prompt from @house-vexile​ on discord. Thanks, Phen!]

Overheard at the Carline Canopy.

“See there,” Bernard whispered across the table to his wife.

“See what? Where?” Anette asked, beginning to swivel her head around the busy establishment.

“Don’t look!” Francois whisper-yelled.

Anette returned her gaze to her husband confused and annoyed.

“Ye ‘member me tellin ye about that elf?”

The Hyur woman cocked her head and blinked at Bernard slowly. “Can ye narrow it down, ya old fool?” She raised her palm to present him with an entire building that was more than half filled with the fair-folk, just as the entire Shroud was.

Bernard rolled his eyes and leaned in, his whispers remaining needlessly urgent. “Just the other night, 'member? Fancy suits, big spender?”

Anette shrugged, remembering something about the conversation but unconvinced of its importance. “Aye?”

“That’s him! But don’t look! He’s talkin to Mionne. Derrek says, yeh know Derrek, he’s the one what loads lumber up the river by the mill. Anyroad, Derrek, he says he reckons he sees him in the forest sometimes too, not wearin suits but armor the likes you ain’t never seen and a fancy sword to boot.”

Anette shrugged. “So?”

“So,” Bernard said, “it turns out that he ain’t no normal sharp. Derrek says he saw him - him and his catte - take on a camp of Red Bellies! Just the two of 'em, mind ya! Says he never seen no fightin like that in all his days! Quick as lightnin, cuttin arrows from the sky, spinnin and dodgin! They took out every last one of them rascals.”

“His cat?”

Bernard huffed impatiently and waggled his hand about to indicate the various Miqo’te around them.

Anette sighed, “Gods you’re racist.”

“BUT LISTEN! I gots to talkin to Derrek that night and we figured it out.” He leaned in even further. “We reckon he’s one of those folk you hear about. Rich and fancy, wearin all black and goin to parties and drinkin, right? But really he’s a trained killer from a secret order who left home to set right what’s wrong. A hero!”

Anette could only sink into her chair and roll her eyes so much and had finally had enough. She swiveled in her chair to see what the old fool was on about. There, leaning against the counter with a grin and a glass of whiskey, the Elezen man was chatting with Miounne. She turned back to her husband with the glare of someone who could barely conceive of a man as stupid as the one before her.

“You arse,” she said shaking her head and taking her drink in her hand again.
Bernard was finally stunned into silence.  "That’s Lord Raven,“ she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and sitting up a bit straighter. "He’s Ishgardian, A knight,” she said as she took a sip of her ale.

“…is you blushin?” Asked Bernard.

Anette smoothed the folds of her simple dress and took another drink.

NOTE: This isn’t for my entry but two ideas came to me at the same time and I really wanted to get it down.

(This is continuation of a story written for last year’s writing event. Read it here for context if you like.)

Raven gazed into the fading embers within the stone fireplace, casting him in their tired glow. The fire had died some time ago and his glass sat empty in his hand, carving a rounded dent into the arm of the soft leather chair. Behind him Carlisle, the butler of Alderscorn manor from before Raven was born, stepped softly into the room. Little occurred within the walls of the home without Carlisle knowing of it, seemingly by divination or scrying, Raven sometimes thought. And as such he knew he didn’t need to explain the presence of shattered glass on the floor, nor at whom he’d thrown it.

“Leave it,” Raven said softly from across the dark room. In the silence Raven knew that Carlisle was staring at the sea of shattered crystal on the floor, longing to sweep it up and restore balance to the chaos. “Later,” Raven added. Satisfied enough that the task was merely deferred, Carlisle crossed the room to the dying hearth and stoked it anew. As he worked, he caught sight of his lord and the quiet pain he endured.

The man that had visited is in the House of Lords, an important man in the legislature and one of Raven’s oldest friends. He and Raven served together in the war as Knights and, upon the declaration of peace, had entered into politics and settled down with family. It did not take much wisdom to discern the nature of Raven’s mood nor what occupies his mind.

The fire sprung to life once more, lifting a veil of darkness from the room. Noting his lord’s empty glass, he crossed to the bar and returned with a decanter of bourbon. As he approached to fill the glass, Raven reached for the bottle instead. The butler began to protest, refusing to let his master sink further into drunken self-pity, when Raven spoke.

“Get another glass,” Raven said.

For a moment the two men held the bottle between themselves. Raven gave a little tug and Carlisle relented, releasing the bottle. “M'lord,” he responded, crossing back to the bar and retrieving a clean glass. He held it out for Raven to take, holding out his hand for the dirty one in return.

Instead, though, Raven poured bourbon into Carlisle’s glass and then his own. “Sit with me,” Raven said, finally looking up at his butler.

Carlisle blinked as he finally understood. As he sank into the chair next to Raven he saw him not only as his lord or his employer or even the rich brat he sometimes accused him of being, but a man who felt alone. And in turn, Raven saw Carlisle not as his butler but as his oldest friend.

Raven took a sip of his drink and let the liquid burn its way down his throat. Carlisle did the same and allowed himself to lean back into the seat. His eyes naturally found the fireplace and it’s flickering, dancing light held his gaze.

“Alain was here,” Raven said, knowing this was not a surprise to Carlisle who, in fact, let the man in when he arrived.

“And how was he?” Carlisle replied.

“Fat.”

Carlisle couldn’t stifle a laugh and Raven joined him. The sound was sudden and filled the room, somehow lifting a layer of shadow that had settled like a layer of dust.

“Yes well, I suppose he’s earned it,” said Carlisle.

“I suppose he has,” Raven said. The smile faded from his lips and he took another long drink, lapsing into silence for a time. Finally, Raven was the first to speak. “What do *you* think?”

Carlisle had just taken a sip and not yet withdrawn his glass when Raven asked the question. He opted for another long draw from the drink and cleared his throat. “M'lord-”

“Please, Carlisle. Don’t *M'lord* me right now,” Raven said. “What am I going to do, Carlisle? Fire you? Fury’s tits, the house would crumble to dust. Just…what do you think? About what he said. And don’t bother denying it, I know you heard.”

“M'lor…,” Carlisle began and then sighed. “Raven. What should I say? Do you want me to agree with you?” He swiveled slightly in his chair to better face Raven, who had done the same.  "Well I can’t. However, I’ll not join against you either. It's… bloody unfair that everyone sees fit to tell you how you should feel and what you should do.“ The sudden fervor with which Carlisle spoke stunned Raven silent and wide eyed. He had often spoke candidly to his butler and he, in turn, had always a comment or criticism. But even so, it had always the feel of banter or camaraderie.  

"Do they come to simply to visit?” Carlisle continued, “Mm? To see how you fare?” In his gesticulating, a drop of bourbon had splashed from his glass to the floor. Without pause or mention, he produced a clean towel from his jacket and dabbed it clean as he continued.  "No they do not! They come, yes, but they come with admonishments and, and…wedding proposals!“

"…wedding proposals?”

“The Toussaint’s youngest.”

“She pretty?”

“M'lord, she’s seventeen.”

“Oh…But is she-”

“Not particularly, no,” Carlisle huffed. “But the point is, my lord…While their motives are in serious question…their point…is perhaps valid.”

Raven turned away from him, setting his jaw tightly and shaking his head.

Carlisle put his drink on the small table that sat between them and reached for Raven’s arm, grasping it. Raven turned, expecting to see the admonishment, the look he’d grown so accustomed to. What he saw was a pleading kind of sadness, a desire to understand. The sincerity caught Raven off guard and he could only look at him.

“I’m not trying to tell you *how* to live your life my lord…I…simply don’t understand *why* you refuse to live it.”

Here now, Raven stared not at the man across from him but into a future for which he had no plan. There was no training, no exercise that could prepare him for it, no sword that could hew nor arrow pierce. His life was his own now and he, without mentor or orders, has been unwilling to begin a new chapter. He swallowed hard and refocused his eyes on his butler.

“Because I’m afraid.”

The crumbling walls of Camp Dragonhead were heavy with the echoes of orders and armor. When Temple Knights were first deployed to complement the dwindling numbers of the Hailenarte force, spirits had risen. The ill held hope that the camp could holdout against the dragon hoard had begun to gain luster. Many are the stories told of the Temple Knights - peerless in battle, noble of birth and keen in the ways of war. Surely they will turn the tide of this battle. And for a time, it seemed as if they had. But as the days turned to weeks even the brightest armor may tarnish and grow dim. Even the strongest stone will be carved away by the endless waves of the sea.

The hoard had descended from their mountain lair before dusk, attacking without preamble or ceremony. A roiling ocean of darkly gleaming scales and pitiless fangs sharp as glass dashed itself against the iron stone walls of the keep. The archers rained fire and arrows upon them, leaning over the walls at times to shoot straight down while being held fast by fellow soldiers. Swordsman carved into those that managed to scale the wall, the steel of their swords ringing against scale and flesh.  When one knight fell they were quickly replaced from the diminishing ranks. For a time, this balance stood even until the last glint of the dying sun carried forth the tangled shadows of a hundred beating wings.

By dawn the horde abandoned its attempt at siege, driven back into the mountains at great cost. Hundreds perished and twice the number wounded. Raven hurried through the ruined courtyard amid the chaos that always accompanies a quiet patch in the storm of war, calling out orders as he went. He wove around the corpses of dragons and men alike, their mixed blood freezing into the sodden ground. “You there,” Raven addressed a knight, “gather anyone that can bend a bow or swing a sword and meet me here in three minutes.” He stabbed toward the ground with a gloved finger.

The knight was clearly on the far side of exhausted but to his credit he snapped to when addressed; his voice caught in his throat upon seeing his commanding officer. Raven’s long hair fell in strings over his blood streaked face. Bits of his once proud armor were missing and what remained told a harrowing tale.  "I-I…Yes, my lord!“

"Belay that order,” a voice boomed from behind them both.

Raven and the knight turned in unison toward Brynn Alderscorn. Again, duty prevailed, and the knight snapped a smart salute. “Commander!” the knight responded.

“Make ready the horses and gather the wounded into carriages. We break camp immediately,” Commander Alderscorn said.

“Belay *THAT* order,” said Raven, his black eyes wide and disbelieving, never wavering from his father.

The knight was unsure how to proceed, not only having been caught in a conflict between high ranking Temple Knights but between father and son as well. He opted to simply stand at attention and keep his mouth shut and his eyes fixed to the distance.

“Break camp now??” Raven continued. “They’ve been routed, we need to pursue . We can win this once and for all!”

“Reckless and pointless, Raven,” Brynn said. “We retreat, the keep is lost.” Commander Alderscorn spoke with authoritative certainty, his tone leaving little room for argument. A fact Raven ignored.  

Raven glared at him, confused and indignant. “It isn’t lost! I can win this battle for you but it must be NOW!”

“Reckless!” Brynn repeated. “Listen to yourself! *You* will win this battle? Look around you, boy!” Brynn’s arms spread wide, presenting the horror that surrounded them. “The battle is already over.”

The cold certainty with which his father delivered his words incensed him. He gestured violently, punching at the air, beating his gauntlet against his armored chest. “I don’t need to look around, *father*, I’ve seen. Whilst you hid in the map room planning escape, *I* fought and bled with my men!”

Cracks spidered through the sturdy façade of Brynn’s countenance as he was met with Raven’s ire and accusations. “I am responsible for the lives of these people, child, and for the defense of Ishgard! I will not be questioned by the likes of YOU who fight only for your own glory. Not for a single moment could you bear the weight of command!” Brynn roared, his deep voice turning heads throughout the demolished courtyard, stopping knights in their tracks.

“I would bear it gladly,” Raven growled, heedless of the spectacle they had created, “and far better than the likes of you, old man!”

“Then you are a FOOL!”

“AND YOU ARE A COWARD!”

Raven never saw the hand that slapped him, nor the look of pained regret that followed. He stood amid the held breaths and wide eyes of the collective audience of knights, his gaze downward. The filthy curtain of his hair obfuscated the look of shock upon his face making the humorless laugh that followed all the more disconcerting. He raised his head slowly, nodding and never looking back to his father.

The two began to speak at the same time but Raven’s sharp, cold tone sliced Brynn’s words off at the tongue.

“I’ll go on my own then,” he said. He turned away. “Stay and burn with the rest,” were the last words Brynn ever heard from his son.

There’s a saying in Ishgard that all roads lead to Halone and, perhaps, there was some truth in that adage. For, on this late evening in particular, one of her flock stumbled from the tavern, into the streets of the city, and eventually found himself in Her house.

He entered the Cathedral and slumped onto one of the massive oak benches that sat sentinel on either side of another door. Beyond stood row upon row of empty pews, like soldiers in a wooden army. The sleep he so desperately needed eluded him, however, and he found himself lost in the river of his own thoughts.

Then stay and burn with the rest.

Raven pressed the heels of his palms against the sockets of his stinging eyes.  "Stop,“ he said to himself. Against the tears that threatened to breech the tired lids of his eyes? Or the memory of his own words that echoed in the cavern of his mind. Words spoken on this night, some years ago. The last words his father would ever hear from his son.

Then stay and burn with the rest

"STOP, DAMMIT!” he hissed, shoving himself to his feet a little too quickly. He stumbled into a candle stand, knocking it to the marble floor with a violent clatter, sending half-spent candles rolling until stopped by their own melting wax. Like a ship at sea, he listed back and forth and watched their flames flicker and carve through the white wax, gathering it into pools against the cold floor. Raven sagged and finally sank to his knees before the mess of bent iron and untended flames.

Then stay

“Please…”

and burn with the rest

Unbidden, the tears finally came in great sobs. He sagged backwards against the unyielding wood of the bench and spread his arms along it’s seat and peered upward  through hazy eyes at the visage of the Fury that adorned the stained glass window above the door. A glow, warm at first, and then all consuming and furious, lit her from behind and shone down, lending a divine aura to the crumbled form of the knight.

He squinted in defiance against the light. “No,” he growled. “It’s not your sin to forgive.” As if in answer, the sun moved upon its natural course and left the window dim with overcast, morning light. Raven closed his eyes against the sparks that dazzled his vision and fell into an uneasy sleep.

(The story this refers to can be read here.)

“Gods, Brynn,” Gerart said with a bemused, doubtful laugh, “to hear you tell it, the boy’s useless! If that’s the case, pack ‘em up, send 'em off to the Astrologicum!”

The two men, father and son, marched down the lane toward one of the Cathedral’s many training squares. The chill of the early spring morning was just beginning to warm up and the pace that the older man was setting raised beads of sweat on his son’s forehead.  He dragged his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “He’s not smart enough,” Brynn said.

They reached the gates of the training grounds and the air was suddenly filled with the music of practice. Calls and cries and the percussion of wooden swords against shields. Gerart gave a stern look to his son. “I was joking. The boy is what? Ten?? If I'da given up on you as easily as you’re set to give up on Raven, I warrant you’d be rollin’ out maps and fetching tea for your betters.”

“Dad…” Brynn began  to protest again and reached for the latch on the gate.

Gerart’s hand seized upon the gate and held it closed, straightening to his full height. “Yes, *Captain*?” His tone and posture left no room for further nonsense.

Brynn’s mouth snapped shut and he stiffened to attention. It was one thing to have a discussion within the walls of the family manor but here, in uniform and within the shadow of the Cathedral beneath the appraising eye of Halone herself, there was no questioning his father.

“Nothing, General,” Brynn said.

“Good,” said Gerart. “I believe I will assess Raven on my own. You may go.”

Brynn snapped a salute and headed off, waiting until he was well clear of his father before he began to grumble under his breath.

Within the fenced-in grounds, practice continued unabated until one of the instructors noted the approaching General and called for attention. As a unit, all in attendance stopped what they were doing to turn and snap a chorus of salutes.

“Go on,” Gerart called. “Continue.”

It wasn’t difficult to pick Raven out from the trainees.  He was shorter than even the most diminutive of students by almost a foot. Gerart couldn’t help but snort. Fury’s tits, he thought. That sheild is wearing *him*.

He watched the drills and noted that Raven’s movements were smooth and natural. Moreso than any of the others. He moved from position to position by instinct, rather than by clumsy, stiff rote. He also seemed bored out of his skull.  "Pair up!“ called Gerart.

The instructors flinched but recovered easily. "You heard the General! Move into pairs, it’s time to spar! Move!”

The students sprinted to the equipment bins and hastily buckled into full protective leather and strapped oversized helms to their heads.

Gerart watched as Raven squared up against another boy and all of the ease and confidence with which he had performed his solo forms crumbled to the dirt.  He stoically observed, his stern eyes all but hidden beneath his heavy brow, thick arms crossed over his broad chest. But in his mind he sighed and groaned each time Raven was knocked to the ground. 

What had Brynn done to my grandchild, he thought. Raven’s footwork was solid, he noticed, and decidedly not in the textbook, clearly improvised. He moved with as much grace as he could muster while he attempted to hoist the shield in the way of oncoming attacks. More often than not, he would miss the block entirely and take a strike against his helmet, which would shift to cover his eyes and prevent any defense against the next attacks.

“Alderscorn, front and center!” The General called. Everyone stopped as a group and turned toward him. Raven peeled off and shuffled dejectedly to his grandsire. “Did I tell the rest of you to stop?!” The students snapped back into action and began anew.

Gerart knelt down as Raven approached, still having to look downward to meet his eyes.

“I know,” Raven said.

“What do you *think* you know, boy?”

“I’m horrid.”

“Yep.”

Raven, perhaps not expecting to hear the truth, though he should have known better coming from his grandsire, sulked. “May I return to my arse-kicking or have you more wisdom to impart? General.”

Gerart had to summon a great deal of will not to laugh. If there was ever a doubt under Halone’s blue sky that this boy was his grandson, it had just vanished. “In a hurry, are you?”

Raven thought to continue his sardonic tantrum but he was too dejected and sore to do so. “Not especially,” he said.

“Your problem…well, ONE of your problems is that you’re trying to fight like everyone else. *Are* you everyone else?”

Raven merely starred at him. “I rather thought that was the point of all this. They teach us as one. The drills, the instruction…”

“And how’s that working for you?” Asked Geralt.

“…about as you’d expect,” admitted Raven. He was beginning to see around the corner of his grandfather’s thoughts. His grandsire was a smart man, he knew this, but he was prone to circumlocution. It could be frustrating but he also appreciated  being allowed to come to his own conclusions rather than being barked at, which was his father’s primary tool for instruction. “So then…how do I fight like me?”

Gerart grinned, causing the wrinkles around his eyes to carve deep paths. Atta boy, he thought. “Drop that, for one,” he said pointing his chin at the shield. Raven dropped it without question as if he was just waiting for permission. “Good. Now. How you like that helmet?”

Raven blinked. “It’s not the most comfortable piece of headwear I own but I do appreciate that it keeps my brain intact.”

“Nah, I seen you move, boy. You won’t need it.” When Raven hesitated, Gerart put his hand out.

“Right…well, if you’re wrong I don’t suppose I’ll have the wherewithal to say I told you so,” he said, slipping the strap from his chin and dropping the helmet to the dirt next to the shield.

“Right. Now give it a go,” Gerart said.

Raven didn’t move at first. He raised his finger, “ah, question?”

“Mmhm.”

“What do I do with my other hand now? I can’t exactly block a sword with it lest I wish to have Carlisle tie my shoes for me from now on.” Raven presented his sword hand alongside his empty one.

Gerart seized the boy’s empty hand and slapped it to the handle of the sword. “Add power to your swing,” he said. He then grabbed Raven roughly by the sleeve, “grab hold…” He released his arm with soft punch, “…shove. Do what feels natural to YOU. Not your father. Understand?”

Raven was beginning to get the picture and he nodded. With a slap against his shoulder, he was sent back to his sparring partner.

Gerart stood once again and nodded to the instructor who turned toward him for confirmation. It was highly unorthodox to allow students as young as these spar without a shield, let alone a helmet. But he sure as hells wasn’t going to say so. As the two began, Gerart had to keep himself from grinning. The change was immediate and left little doubt in his mind. The boy was a natural and from now on he himself would assume the role of Raven’s instructor.

(This story picks up from where Prompt #3, Bargain, left off)

Raven and Artoirel left the Proving Grounds and walked uphill along the gilded path. The main throughways of The Pillars wound among the spired buildings and passed vast manors, sanctums, and academies. Both beautiful and formidable, the Holy See intimidates just as much as it inspires, though only outsiders would allow themselves to seem impressed. The denizens of the neighborhoods through which they passed glide along with noses in the air and eyes cast downward.

“Those were four of my finest that you trounced,” Artoirel said with a grin. Raven had bested the knights after being coerced into an impromptu sparring match. Lord Fortemps knew of Raven’s reputation and had learned much from his conversation with Ser Aymeric regarding his skill, though it was quite a thing to see it with his own eyes. “Younger by a decade, warmed up, and fresh. While you…”

“…are old, rusty, and hungover,” finished Raven.

Artoirel smiled. “Well, I wasn’t going to word it precisely that way.” He turned to Raven as they continued to walk. “Impressive, Ser Raven. Truly.”

“The one has potential. Provided he can get his head out of his arse,” Raven said, pointedly ignoring the complement.

Artoirel nodded, “Robert. Father says much the same.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed a frustrated puff of air that instantly crystalized in the cold. “I don’t know what to about him.”

The men had reached the top of the stairway and stopped just short of the massive double-doors that serve as the entrance to Ishgard’s primary and most astounding structure. Out of habit, Raven took off his sunglasses and his gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket. The guards on either side of the doors lowered their halberds in unison, blocking entry. Artoirel flinched and fell back a step while Raven seemed to not even notice.

“He’s just looking for a chance to prove himself to you,” said Raven. He noted that Artoirel looked at him askance, and he snorted. “Perhaps you’ve spent so much time being Artoirel de Fortemps that it slips your mind from time to time? He looks up to you, my Lord. Give him more responsibility. Put him in charge of some men, perhaps, or assign him a task beyond what you think him capable.”

Artoirel couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. “I’d have said the opposite but, hearing it now, it seems obvious. I believe The Lord Commander to be right,” he said with admiration, “you’ll make a superb instructor.”

Raven sighed inwardly and turned toward the guards, pulling the lapel of his coat inside-out to present the ornate pin that signified his position within the Temple Knights. Wordlessly, the guards retracted their polearms and cleared the way for Raven to push the heavy door open. The air within was warm and fragrant with the scent of wood oil and incense. “Welcome to the Vault, my lord. The perfect setting for the story you’re about to impart.”

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

Lucien stood at the center of the Master bedroom as Raven paced hither and thither, preparing for an evening out. He was halfway into a three-piece suit, hastily applied one article at a time, looking instead like a man who was drunkenly undressing. The cuffs of his untucked shirt were protruding loose from the arm of his jacket like ruffles on a lace blouse. His collar was unfolded against his neck, scratching against his freshly shaven cheek. He paced and swore and sighed with each unsuccessful lap. The valet was unwavering and resolute like a lighthouse bashed upon by the unrelenting crashing of waves. A beacon in the darkness without whom all would be lost.

His lord was a formidable man, there is no doubt. Cunning, intelligent, and resourceful. A captain of men and successful in business. And yet…

“Fury’s tits, the time…” Raven said as he fished through another drawer, shoving articles of clothing to one side and the next. “Lucien, where in hells are-”

Lucien’s hand raised to produce a pair of mythrite cufflinks which Raven plucked on his way by, fixing them to his cuffs.

He crossed and opened the double doors of his armoire, and stared at a sea of black cloth. “Where are all my-”

“On the inside of the left door on the hook,” Lucien said evenly.

“No…”

“Your *other* left.”

“Ah,” Raven said, pulling a black tie from the hook and looping it around his neck. He tied a hasty half-windsor as he continued to wear a beaten path in the rug toward his dressing cabinet. He opened and closed the tiny drawers, one after another, his search becoming frantic as the various pins, chains, and tie tacks clinked about. He growled and turned away from the drawers, leaving them in disarray. “Lucien, do you know wh-”

A fine, silver pocket watch, scratched and patinaed from age and use, dangled from a chain at the end of Lucien’s fingers.

Raven took it from him and, for once, was still as he stood before his valet and attached the chain to his waistcoat and deposited the watch into a pocket. Lucien wordlessly adjusted Raven’s tie and collar so that the knot was perfectly dimpled and sat straight. He tugged and shifted the fine cloth at Raven’s shoulders and cuffs and, satisfied with the presentation, tucked his hands behind his back.

Raven nodded with a smirk at the man who’d been in his service all of his adult life.  He began to leave the room when he stopped and turned, a question barely formed on his lips. “W-”

Lucien pointed to the sideboard in the hall at the invitation Raven was about to ask for. He snorted and shook his head in amusement, picking it up and tucking it into his breast pocket. “Where would I be without you, Lucien?” Raven called from the steps as he descended, leaving Lucien grinning in the bedroom.

“Where, indeed, my lord,” Lucien said to himself.

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

The runner had found Raven, just as the Lord Commander promised, and he’d taken to the chilly streets of the city before the sun had gotten high enough to melt the frost from the cobbles. Raven had gone to Ser Aymeric for information regarding a missing child and, while he hadn’t been able to help him directly, was good enough to set up a meeting with someone who could - Lord Fortemps.

He’d expected to wind his way to Fortemps Manor for his meeting but, somewhat mysteriously, the missive had said to meet at Lightfeather Provingrounds. So, donning his long, wool coat and dark glasses, Raven pulled up his lapels and found the place with nary a look upward.

The guard snapped his heels at his approach and Raven waved him at ease. A sense of pride and reverence swelled within him as he laid his hand on the massive ironwood door he’d not passed through in many years. It was much warmer within, thanks to the braziers, so he stowed his leather gloves in his pockets and released the buttons of his coat.

The heels of his fine shoes clacked on the stone as he passed through the Hall of Accolades, the walls lined with names of past tournament champions etched into platinum. His eyes found his own name without truly looking for it and he rubbed his thumb across the shining plate and smiled. So many names appeared between his and the most recent. Gods, has it been so long?

He was still smiling when he’d rounded a corner and started to hear the familiar sounds of early morning sparring within the training square. Commands being barked, the cadence of steel ringing against steel, leather boots dancing on rough dirt; music to Raven’s ears.

“Hold!” the instructor called to his men, who lowered their weapons and relaxed. “Well, well,” said Artoirel Fortemps to the new arrival, “look what the cat dragged in.” He grinned widely, as did the four house knights who turned to regard Raven who, despite his fine (if out of place) clothing, was clearly worse for wear from the previous evening’s libations.

The grin on Raven’s face diminished as he realized the trap he’d just walked into. Ser Aymeric had kept to his word, arranging a meeting with ‘Lord Fortemps’, just not the particular one he had in mind. “Lord Artoirel,” Raven managed and bowed a bit informally, “and his ladies in waiting.”

Artoirel laughed and walked forward to clasp arms with Raven while his men glowered. “It’s good to see you, Ser Raven, very good indeed,” he said, his face alight with joy that Raven didn’t fully trust.

Raven narrowed his eyes somewhat. “Oh?”

By way of answer, Artoirel put his arm around Raven and turned them both around to face his house knights. “Men, do you know who this is?”

The house knights glanced at each other before turning back to their lord. One of them, a smirking, cocksure elezen who was clearly the de facto leader of their little group, spoke up. “Well, my lord, he rather looks like yourself…after being trodden upon by Vishap.” The group laughed heartily at that. It was a fact that, especially side-by-side, Artoirel and Raven appeared very much alike…apart from their drastic height difference.

Raven smirked. He had to admit, that was clever. Artoirel, however, was not as amused and continued undaunted.

“This is Captain Alderscorn, Temple Knight and veteran of the Dragonsong War,” said Artoirel, whose tone acquired a bit of sharpness to lace his joviality. The house knight didn’t apologize, though his smirk was wiped from his face for the moment. “Quite,” Artoirel said to the men now that they were silent. His smile immediately reappeared as he continued. “Captain Alderscorn here requires information,” he explained. “In an exciting twist of happenstance, our Lord Commander, Ser Aymeric, requires a swordmaster to oversee the training of recruits.” Raven’s stomach lurched and he fought the instinct to flee.

“If you’ve studied your history, like I know you lot have not, you would know the name Alderscorn from it. This man’s Grandsire was General Gerart Alderscorn; war hero and legendary swordsman - Fury’s Blade, they called him. It is purported that he taught Ser Raven here everything he knew - a claim, if I’m honest, I rather doubt.” Artoirel grinned slyly, reclaiming his arm from around Raven’s neck, and rejoined his knights. He crossed his arms and regarded Raven who began to feel like the fox on a royal hunt. “Have you anything to say for yourself, Ser Raven?”

It was obvious where this was going. Artoirel’s pantomime and grandstanding was meant to spur Raven into defending those claims with a display of swordsmanship. Raven had nothing to prove, he knew. He’d begun training from the time he could hold a wooden sword and did so to this day. Besides, why should he interview for a job he wasn’t sure he wanted?

“Do you honestly believe I can be baited?” Raven asked coolly.

“Mmhm,” Artoirel replied and met Raven’s icy stare with a smirk.

Raven held Artoirel’s gaze for a time before sighing and holding his hand out. Godsdammit.

Artoirel tossed Raven a blunted practice blade and stepped to the side, grinning proudly. The house knights retrieved swords of their own and looked to their lord for instruction.

Raven took off his long coat, trading his sword from hand to hand as he did so, and handed it to Artoirel. Giving the blade a few long practice swings, he attempted to adjust for its weight as well as the incredible hangover he was experiencing.

“Ser Raven?” Said Artoirel. He pointed to the bridge of his own nose and then extended out his palm.

It took Raven a moment to realize he was still wearing his sunglasses and he took them off, handing them to Artoirel. With a final glare at Lord Fortemps, he exhaled a sharp breath and squared himself up to his opponent - the mouthy knight had nominated himself to face Raven.

“You ready, old man?” sneered the knight.

No, Raven thought, but he nodded.

No sooner did Raven nod than the knight was on the move. He snapped a sharp thrust that Raven parried by pure instinct, swiping the blade away from his face and stumbling sideways to avoid being struck.  The other knights laughed and jeered, gaining confidence at the clumsy display. Artoirel remained silent, a soft grin playing on his lips as he watched the events unfold.

Raven laughed along with them and even nodded his agreement to the insults. “Impressed?” he chuckled. He took a moment to refocus and pulled his suit jacket off, tossing it carelessly to the dirt floor.

“Oh, indeed my Lord!” jeered the knight. “Perhaps I should fetch my Mother? You know, to make this a fair fight?” He turned to the other knights who clapped and laughed.

Raven stepped back to the line and relaxed into a comfortable stance. He grinned at his opponent. “No, no. Let her sleep,” Raven said. “We had a long night and she needs the rest.”

The smile died from the man’s lips and he scowled. Likewise, the others had caught the insult and their laughter fizzled out. “How dare-” he began to say but Raven cut him off.

“Care to join?” Raven said to the remaining three knights, drawing a circle in the air around them with the tip of his sword. “Defend the honor of this man’s hard working mother?”

They all looked at each other and, as one, turned toward Ser Artoirel who nodded. They plucked their swords from the dirt and joined their friend in a semi circle around Raven.

Adrenalin surged through Raven’s veins and began to sweep away the cobwebs of his hangover. He breathed in deeply, relishing the moment. He lived for it. The stretched second before the fight when all was silent and still. When action was pulled back taut like a bowstring, held by sore, shaking fingers that threatened to loosen their grip and let fly. The younger knights narrowed their eyes and set their jaws, nostrils flaring with each breath - young pups trying to look bigger than they are by raising their hackles.

Raven winked.

After a moment of surprise, the knight launched his attack and the other three followed.

The dance lasted only a few moments. The first two went down almost immediately, their approaches clumsy and half-hearted. Raven feigned a spin and reversed direction causing the smirking knight to catch his own man in the head with a heavy backswing. His mistake sent him into a fury of heavy, sweeping swings that Raven merely dodged, infuriating him even further. Finally, their swords made contact as Raven stepped into range. The volley was short lived, however, as Raven whirled, locking the man’s blade against his own and flinging it out of the knight’s hand.

Raven swung hard and swatted the man on his ass with the flat of the training blade causing him to yelp.

“Bad house knight,” Raven admonished and swatted him again.

“I YIELD!” he called, rubbing his stinging backside with one hand and raising the open palm of the other. “Fury above, I yield!”

Raven offered a half-hearted salute with his sword before tossing it to the dirt. Ser Artoirel joined Raven and handed him his coat and jacket. “Shall we talk?”

Raven accepted his clothes and walked out of the ring with Artoirel, leaving the house knights to rub their wounds. With a sigh, Raven turned to him. “This had better be worth the price.”