1866-10-20) Blackhouse
Blackhouse
Summary: At Blackhouse, Kalon explains to Myrana the terms that he intends to send to her brother in order to end the war.
Date: 1866-10-20
Related: To catch a thief, the Arkanin/D'Armaz house war
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Kalon  Myrana  

Room Name
Room description
IC date of RP

The room Myrana would find herself in, isn’t poor by any means, rather it’s got a dry stone floor, and the window high up to allow for fresh air, but impossible to reach or climb to. The room lit with candles here and there, by no means is this romantic, but nor is it a dungeon. In the room a small table and bed are allowed for comfort, as well as tall backed chairs and books. For Myrana clothing would have been procured. Made for a noble woman, though not descript enough to cause attention undo either by guards or those who might be nosy enough to figure who is inside.

Food would be a welcomed aroma as dinner has been brought in, roasted beef, some vegtables, cheese and bread. A warrior’s fare, but it is hearty. Likely Myrana would not have remembered her travel here, or the night before, but her bandages would be fresh, and she would be clean, but not by the man in light armor who sets the tray down on the table before moving to sit in one of the chairs opposite as he fixes himself a plate. Humming to himself, his dark features, likely don’t stand out here in the poor light, but she might catch a glimpse of tattoo on his forearm. Wine and water poured, before he is sitting back. Dark eyes watch over where the young woman is laying, before a soft word is passed to someone as the door closed. Merely: “Thank you.” his accent is Northern, for Galenthia, and likely rustic by Aequorian terms.
Arkanin, Garaili, what have you. If she was to roll over, she would find, Sir Kalon Arkanin sitting, and enjoying the hopefully soon to be shared meal.

—-

In the moment before she wakes up, the D’Armaz stirs. Her head turns, and one hand quests up to the lightsilver bell on its black band around her throat as she turns onto her side, perhaps smelling the food in her sleep. If Kalon has been there for any length of time, he’d know that she talks in her sleep now and then, though its hardly loud, and the names might not make any sense. Someone is vaguely scolded, and then she apologizes. Then she wakes up.

It is a very odd thing, to wake up in a place you don't recall coming to in the least. But, sad to say, this is not an experience exactly alien to the young D'Armaz. She wakes up with her face in a pillow— and at once is quite still. If it weren't for the quiet of the room, the telltale sudden cessation of the sound of breathing from the small bed might go unnoticed as her most recent memories of the battlefield reconcile with the current reality of her surroundings.

With an effort, mutely, she slips her legs off the side of the bed, looking around before settling her eyes on Kalon. She stands up stiffly, and is privately relieved that she can. How long was she unconscious? Who tended her wounds and redressed her? There must be servants here. That window is very high up indeed, isn’t it?

“Where are we?” She asks.

—-

“In Wayston, we are headed east, or west, or South. Of course I could be lying as well. We could be in Galenthia.” Likely proper and it is more than likely that Kalon isn't going to tell. A bite of his meat taken and chewed before he stands. “ So you know, I had a lady healer see to you and dress you, no man has molested you, but for now on it is you and I. I can redress your wounds, so you will have to pardon me on that account. I don't trust many right now. Considering your brother and father must know you gone.” And with that he draws the other chair out. “Eat, Lady Myrana.”

He would wait for her to come and sit before sitting himself. “Please understand I can't tell you as I can't risk you running, nor some one selling us out. I need to keep you alive and with me till we to Firen to put an end to this bloody mess.” And with that he points a eating knife at himself. “I am Sir Kalon Arkanin.” Whether or not she knows the Young Wolf by reputation or name doesn't seem to matter as he doesn't wait. “And I mean to save my people. I have made demands for peace and named your wedding bed as one of the prices. I don't want you offended or flattered. This is done to insure your father not try and burn us and rape our people again.” Another bite “Had you a sister fair like you and as warlike I would be happy with her if it meant Armaz blades not in my backs.” And he stops to drink. “I would be honest with you as you did try for peace with my cousin.”

Myrana hesitates, but then sits in the chair as Kalon pulls it out, some of that tight-wound anxiety and fear easing from her straight shoulders. She smoothes her skirts with an absentminded sweep and then takes his invitation, putting some of the roast and vegetables onto her plate.

“From what I’ve seen of your house, I wouldn’t have suspected barbarism like that,” she says, lifting a hand in a peacefully dismissive gesture, as if to deny the thought of maltreatment of that sort while she was unconscious. She takes a bite of the roast and chews, listening. “I don’t think my brother will yield to you, Sir Kalon,” she responds, when he says that her brother must have heard that she’s been taken. “Not just because you have me as a political hostage. You might’ve misunderstand our family dynamics somewhat—”

About to take another bite of the beef then she actually fumbles the fork, coughing. He’s named WHAT as one of his terms?! Looking across the little table at him, she looks as though she thinks she must have misheard him. “M-M-MARRIAGE B—!!”. But he’s serious. Flustered, she does her level best to digest this blunt statement as best she can. All her life, she’s been expecting to marry some old Syndicate thug with something her father wants. Prepared for it, in the miserable sort of way of children of Capofamiglia do. It’s almost pathetically easy to see her uncharacteristically unguarded thought process as she takes this and struggle to process it in a rational fashion. Embarrassment is first, obviously, as Myrana has hardly got the biggest vocabulary when it comes to things of this nature; her toolbox is more or less empty. HE NAMED WHAT?! She stutters inarticulately. //MARRIAGE BED?! She can’t even look at Kalon right now.

Finally, she siezes on the parts that she CAN handle: “My b-brother will dare you to kill me, sir Kalon,” she says, finally, blundering ahead like a bull in a china shop past her stuttering embarrassment and the B word. “We are the only two left of my father’s legitimate children, and he is the one that has been given command of this affair, on our side.” She takes hold of that, and looks over at the Arkanin knight.

…And oh god, if Ramius were to hear about that set of terms.

Myrana goes white as a ghost, and sets the wine down.

“…Sir Kalon, I u-understand your intent.” At least he isn’t some mustache-twisting villain. Or perverse. Their houses are at war; this is a practical solution, logically speaking. Myrana D’Armaz, true to her upbringing, thinks in Syndicate terms. Whatever else could be said about her, she isn’t really vain in that way, and she isn’t disgusted. Just… a little flustered. She’d have to be dense not to be.

“You must do what you feel is right to protect your people,” she says. “Y-you said that you’d be honest, well… well, I am too afraid to deny my father even the slightest thing.” This she says quietly, as someone admitting a cowardice that shames her. “What Lady Jaelynn, god-rest-her, saw in our home in Four Corners was the fruit of the first time my father ever learned of a refusal to obey him on my part.”

“I’d refused to come home from— well it doesn’t matter where from. But I wrote to him saying that I would come to him when my business in the war with the Icenailia was concluded. I was… being selfish.” Her cheeks cool a little.. “ I don’t know what she told Countess Evae, but my father threatened to have someone dear to me drowned.”

She calms a little, and brushes the hair from her face, frustrated and opting for that sort of forceful selective focus that has been her solace with things like the B word. “I won’t make that mistake again. I’m sorry for what I’ve done in your family’s lands. I don’t bear you any ill will, sir Kalon, or your people. But… ” And here she knits her fingers together anxiously. “I h-hope that this matter of your terms is kept as private as possible. There is a knight, singularly stubborn— I am honestly not sure that he will take international politics into mind if he catches wind of this, and my brother Nicolo is not the sort of man to ignore a weakness like that.”

There is amused look as Kalon watches her, but there is nothing that changes otherwise in his demeanor or the fact that he doesn't stop eating. He does pause long enough to take sip and clear his mouth before speaking. “I haven't misjudged shit. Perhaps your family has misjudged us and in part that was likely foolishness on my cousin, the Duchess’ part. I know your father to be a vile uncompromising man. No offense lady, nor do I trust him to honor any agreement that doesn't benefit him in some way and even then it depends on his whims.” A raise of a brow as if to ask if that is right before he continues over the rim of his cup.

“Your father if anything has misjudged my family. We are fierce and stubborn, even if Anca’s politics have rendered us friendless and that has passed to her Daughter. He would find in me someone who understands things in a bit more experienced mein.” A wry smile given. “I pick you because you obviously mean something of use to him or no doubt given what you tell me he would have killed you by now. And If your father wanted our banner men out of it he shouldn't have murdered Lord Lee.” He adds. “We are a strange lot in Wayston. All kin, and when Kin is attacked innocent kin, we all tend to bare our teeth. When our small folk are raped and taken into slavery any hope he had on quelling us outside of wine barrels vanished.”

And there he sips and leans back, perhaps looking to Myrana now the way a wolf would with prey before him. “Your brother will find that I will if assassination comes to my kin while we wait and hopefully talk. He would probably welcome it, but your father would hate losing a piece am I right?” A shake of his head. “This other knight, does he love you that he would come raging for you? Please let me know if I can spare you heart ache.” He adds before he is tilting his head. “Despite being enemies lady, I will not punish you for the sins of your kin who already butchered mine. Jaelynn got what she deserved one rest her. But the rest of us did not want this.”

Clearly one man did though Kalon is smart enough to realize that.

“I was told the initial agreement would have made us slaves and crippled us. Is that true?”

Myrana reaches forward after a moment and takes up the small eating knife again. Despite the fact that Aequoran high court, at which she was in attendance to the Queen for a year before the start of the Gendiel war, is infamous for its table settings of a dizzying array of glasses and utensils, she seems to be more comfortable with the more rural tradition of eating neatly and delicately with the fingers of her right hand and the assistance of a knife if needed. After having dropped the fork a moment ago, she leaves it alone either out of embarrassment or distraction. She turns a piece of late squash over in her fingers like a miniature wheel,

It is a knot she doesn’t much like inspecting too closely. Her survival up until now has been largely thanks to the very quick and intent leaning of how not to be a threat to Nicolo, and in fact to help support him as the Heir of their house. It is certainly a position she does not want for herself; though she is capable, and more capable than she’d like to admit at the sort of thinking and management required of a Syndicate Family… it is not what she wants It is what Nicolo wants. Myra has learned to swim and armed herself with sharp teeth to protect the people she loves, while Nicolo was born with them.

“It is possible,” she admits of the question about whether her father’d hate to lose a tool, and looks up to see that predatory look. The D’Armaz returns a level one, lips pursed and a prickle of gooseflesh going up her back. That, more than the promise to kill her if her brother doesn’t yield or the smile earlier, raises her hackles. Wounded and unarmed, she’s not about to try to assert herself and wipe that look off his face, but it heats her blood anyway.

“I’m not sure what he’ll do,” Myrana wipes her fingers on a napkin. She’s not about to talk about her feelings or anybody else’s! “I’m just not eager to find out.” Pausing, she considers what she knows of the ‘deal’ that her father put forward. “…My father would have made a profit, yes. But slaves?” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. That would be foolish in the long run; if you make someone, eh—” she glances at him, and then tosses her head, brushing the hair from her face distractedly. “-treat with you through trade, it hardly makes sense to cripple them, or take away their ability to thrive.”

Restless, she stands from the table, though her hand goes to her side as her cracked rib reasserts herself. She steps gingerly over to the little spot of light coming down out of the high window and cranes her head to look up through it thoughtfully. “That is like… forgive the phrasing: It is like hiring on a man who trains chargers, and giving him palfreys.”

“No-one benefits, and what you are left with is a novelty at best. He hates the Arkanin after the Thirty Year War, but my father thinks of the future… We were a merchant family.” Turning, she crosses her arms lightly, speaking without the riled spike of anger she showed a moment ago. Myrana is hardly an imposing specimen, but she stands with the dignity of someone much larger, a miniature of her father in that way. “During the War, he gained his title, and we his children were the first generation born into nobility of the Armaz. But that doesn’t change what we are, or how my father approaches deals.”

“All I know is, there’s no point in crippling someone when you are in business with them. I would help the House that was involved with me, not make it so that the trade I made with them was at the expense of their children, and doing so wreck any chance of betterment in the future—.” A pause, and she averts her gaze toward the bookshelf, tempering a little and lacing her fingers together before the skirts of the clean Galenthian dress. ”.. But that is what I think is wisest, and most profitable in the long term.” There’s no real telling what Adriono thinks, after all.

—-

“No, no more than this war has. You know entire villages have gone missing?” Kalon asks with a look, a mixture of fascination and killing, before he drops it. A sigh and he closes his eyes for a moment. “I am not trying to be unkind and I am sorry if I placing anything of the like on you. I am a rage because of your brother and father’s heartless actions. You killed my kin. One death could be forgiven and should have been.” Clearly he means Jaelynn. “She got as she desrved and there is a saying in Wayston that sometimes the pups have to be culled if they’re too weak. And weak she was in the head.” A shake of his head as he looks away in disgust. Likely for everything else. “But Lord Lee? He never harmed a fuckin’ fly and he was butchered like a right pig because your father has pride.” A sniff. “If I was more barbarous as I should be, I should have left you dead and nude with your men.” but clearly that is anger speaking and nothing that would help in the situation now, or in the future.

For now the Arkanin is content to eat carefully in the awkward silence before looking back, taking time to suck at a finger, the juices of the meat and gravy. “This war has done so much damage on us. Our family. Well, mine. I am sure yours has suffered none.” he adds a bit underbreath. “Another time, I am sure you and I could be friends-or would have been friends if met under different circumstances. You are fair, and likely I would have tried for your hand honestly, if I was not set to marry my cousin-though as you and I know that is naught.” no bitterness there as much as he seems amused by it all. “A bloody northerner-whatever rights I was to have, I’ve been fucked from. But. At least I have my people..” almost a bit windy and ranty he is, but what does one do with a prisoner and guest.

“We should get to know one another. As it will be my duty to keep you prisoner, and safe. What would you know of me?”

Entire villages dissapearing? Myrana might have heard of this, but from the look on her face, she didn’t really believe it. It sounded like the sort of thing that soldiers and generals would say, speaking illustratively. She turns away, wrapping her arms around herself and bowing her head to prevent Kalon from seeing her face. Her shoulders draw in on themselves a little and she closes in tightly about her thoughts. Whatever they are, she doesn’t want to show them.

It takes a little while, but she finally responds, tone suspiciously even and unaffected. “So why do your men howl?” Wait, that’s not the sort of question he meant.

Perhaps not, but as the knight studies Myrana he does offer a faint shrug before setting his drink down. “Traditional Garaili war cry of my people. Arkanin means wolf, and so we are rumored in our takes to have come from them. Also it makes our enemies shit themselves and break rank. In the Thirty I killed my first man howling. An Armaz. My apologies, the only others I saw ho boldly and gladly into battle were the Arrani in the North.” A slight grin there “We're they not Garaili I would think them so.”

And then he looks back at Myrana. “Tell me your childhood, good or ill?”

“Arrani,” Myrana mutters, and breaks the odd moment of tension with a sharp, hopeless little laugh. "Of course it was with the D’Arran." God in heaven. She wipes her sleeved wrist across her eyes.

“I spent most of my childhood on my father’s ships,” she says, grateful for the distraction. “Going with him on his trips to Partharia, Lyionesse, even to some port cities here in Galenthia. Partharia is wonderful,” a bit of a smile touches her lips. “It’s too hot, though. Everyone wears layers,” her hands gesture to indicate the robes of a Partharian merchant. “It keeps them cool in the desert. Most everyone wears their money or their wealth in these shivvering layers, so there is always a sound like chimes. And their food,” she turns around and sits back at the table, wincing as she does so, but just gritting her teeth around it. Myra’s life seems to be a string of injuries; if it weren’t for Lady’s Mercy, the miraculous healing ungeunt, she’d be a mass of scars. “It’s complex, and if you aren’t used to it the spices can make you very sick.”

She smiles again a little sourly at some memory and picks up her wine cup. “I was sick a lot, as you can imagine. But I collected a great number of books on those trips; mostly myths and histories. They have this story…”

To distract herself, and to fill up the little room with something other than the dreadful weight of death, she tells Kalon one of the Partharian faerie tales that she knows in her smoky voice.

In the story, the third son of a mighty warlord meets a priest on the road, who asks him to give him his horse, as his has been stolen from him by brigands in the wilderness; if he agrees, the priest will pray for his soul to the one god and the third son will surely go to heaven. He refuses haughtily. The priest asks again. Angry, the third son refuses him again, and finally a third time. He threatens to run him down if she does not get out of the way!

In response, the priest throws off his robes and reveals himself to be a spirit of the desert, wreathed in white hot flames. The third son falls down off of his horse and onto his face, begging forgiveness for angering him, but it is too late; the spirit changes the third son into a desert hare, and tells him that he will not change him back until he has learned humility. Then he vanishes, and the third son is alone. His horse runs off, and he is left alone on the road.

“Obviously, he does not learn his lesson very quickly, or well,” Myrana goes on. “The rabbit prince travels on and on, asking everyone he finds to change him back into a man. The first man he finds is a merchant, who tries to catch him and sell him to the nomads. The second man he comes across is his older brother, who is busy on a quest of his own to save their father and can’t be bothered to stop and help his little brother with his relatively minor problems. Meanwhile, the poor rabbit prince is being chased by wild dogs and approached by lady rabbits, shot at by hunters and set on by hawks. He survives because he is fast, and clever, but he is not happy, and he begins to despair of ever being human again…”
—-

During the story the knight falls silent as he listens. Apparently he is not immune to a good story, and were one to pay attention to his face they could see an eagerness to hear more. As Myrana continues with her story he relaxes back into the tall backed chair. And reaches for his wine, to drink deeply. He only moves to rise up and poor more, before sitting back to enjoy the meal. And stories as well. Finally as the pause comes in Kalon interjects, but not to interrupt.

“A prince of a thousand enemies. He must be quicker and cannier lest hawk, snake, wolf, or man kill him.” A brief smile at that before he relaxes again. “Before you continue, allow me to tell more of myself in offering for this wonderful tale you are sharing. Before I served my Lady Cousin, I served the Queen’s family as a Lancer.” There a story promised should Myra want more and he lays it there as bait for her rabbit tale to continue.

Myra blinks, and then hrmphs. “You’ve heard that one before?” Damnit, literate people! She swirls her glass a little, thwarted. But curiosity piqued. “Lancers are your Queen’s Cavaliers, aren’t they? Why did you leave that service?”

Starting to lean forward as she asks this in order to take a slice of the roast onto her plate from the platter at the center of the table, she quickly thinks better of it and sinks back into the back of her chair, going a bit white. Focusing her eyes with an expression like she might be biting the inside of her cheek rather hard to keep from grunting. Cold sweat prickles the back of her neck. Its easy to forget a cracked rib when you’re sitting still, and whatever painkilling herbs the Arkanin healers gave her worked quite well for a while— but that was before she paced some and got her heart-rate up rather significantly a little while ago. Those sorts of things tend to eat up the best efforts of healers.

“H..hrm,” is the slightly high pitched sound that instead squeezes out of the little D’Armaz in her best attempt at manful, blase toughness. That was not an internal screech, no! Not at all! Wounds? ARMAZ LAUGH AT WOUNDS FOR BREAKFAS—wait no, no they don’t. That doesn’t make sense. Surreptitiously, she presses at her side where the bandages over the hack at her ribs are bulky under her dress. But it doesn’t feel wet, and she lets out a careful breath through her nose. Remember that thought about how she’d try pushing a bookshelf over and climbing out that window? That was a terrible idea. Terrible, terrible idea.

A glance is given before he is looking back to her. “You don’t need to be strong in front of me. I know that I’ve got you lame, running won’t help you-and even if you managed to get out the window- it’s a bloody long fall. The moat’s been dry here for a month, so unless you are exceptionally lucky and don’t impale yourself on the drop, you will likely break both your legs. And I would simply drag you back here, but not call for a healer-Your father has deep pockets, I wouldn’t doubt he could bribe whomever I got here to report on me.” A sniff there as he keeps eating. “I figured I would be straight with you.” he adds again before taking another monstrous bite from his plate. Gentleman or not he is ever a soldier and so his eating graces aren’t terrible, but they are not the best either.

“Yes.” he speaks up, looking back to her. “We’ve heard it in Wayston, though I cannot remember the rabbit’s name. Someone brought it to us. I do love it.” he adds with a grin. “I am a fine fan of stories- give me a bride who can kill and tell me stories, and I would be utterly happy and useless.” he adds before looking to see if she needs any more drink. “And yes again, though I don’t know how men come to join the Cavaliers in Aequor. We have a bit of a rigorous selection. I was one of the top in my class. Mine was before Jaren Cassomir, I believe-though we might have been in the same selection.” a shrug there. “I protected Arturo Romante’s family until the Civil war, and then I was forced to excuse myself.” a frown there. “You likely wouldn’t understand-or maybe you would. Sometimes family comes before you own convictions.”

And that is all he sheds on with his career in the Lancers.

“Let me be candid with you. I am going to do everything in my power to not kill you. But I will if I am forced. You can help save my people and my family, otherwise I doubt you and I would keep company this long. I would sue a ransom for you, and continue on if I knew you wouldn’t bring something to my family.” a stark look. “This is about survival. and if I am honest, We’ve been on the slide back since the whole mess began.”

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