| Surprise Arrival |
| Summary: | The d'Armaz are going about there daily lives, minding their own business when boom up pops royalty |
| Date: | 21/04/2019 |
| Related: | None |
| NPCs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Fiorello |
| Fiorello-town along the banks of the surging Fiore is an undeniably pretty place; it overlooks the river in its glory, with brick-and-wood docks that reach out into waving cattails and house a dozen ships at a time. Fiorellans are brightly dressed, with both men and women traditionally growing their hair long and wearing brightly embroidered vests and full-sleeved blouses belted over hardy trousers or skirts. Buildings are largely two-to-three stories tall with hanging baskets of flowers at the eaves and over the signposts of businesses, while the marketplace is paved with swept red brick that makes the clatter of commerce sharp and merry. Quince and persimmon are kept in large stone planters around the square, and the stalls are roofed by gaily dyed canvas; here you can buy some of the best spices in the West, delivered by the Armaz ships directly from Partharia to be processed here before being sent all over Aequor. The smell of them is almost overwhelming, and oftentimes accompanied by the dark, earthy aroma of roasting kaffe beans, another export enjoyed by the locals. Cats can be seen on roof tiles and on windowsills, and it's common local practice to keep one or two in one's shop or home, all thanks to an old superstition that cats drive away water-horses and other bogies. A watched cart-road out of town leads up the slope of Mt Rosa. The road is narrow and switches back many many times as it winds through the trees of the stony slope, beneath rocky cliffs and past natural springs; its this that one must travel to reach Armaz castle near its peak. |
| 21/04/1875 |
After his skirmish with the Qatunax yesterday, Ivo had been looking forward to spending a relaxing day drinking away the pain from his wounds. Not that he was badly hurt, just a few scrapes, but there is a lot of fine wine in Fiorello that he'd be planning to acquaint himself with over a lazy lunch. Sadly, any plans for a lie-in had been rudely interrupted by a messenger from his uncle. One of many such messengers scattering out to find as many of the recognised d'Armaz's as they can muster, as quickly as possible. 'Most urgent' is one of the phrases used, 'don your best' another , but no reason is given. His best is in the castle, not on his ship where he's spent the night, but he does what he can before throwing his blue cloak around his shoulders and stiding with distinct purpose down the gangway. Captain's never run, nobles never run, but he wants to with that sort of summons. As it is he's still striding at a fair old clip as he enters the marketplace and is forced to slow down by a massed crowd. A cheering massed crowd, rather than a hostile one, but one that's blocking his way nonetheless.
He's not been seen much out and about lately, Prince Sylvain al'Ramar. But now he's arrived in Fiorello, with a group of guards with him. He looks around carefully, expression a bit thoughtful as he watches the people present. He is gaze ends up on Ivo, and he watches the man a bit carefully, before stepping in his general direction, steps rather slow now.
Having chosen to get to the castle as quickly as he can, rather than pause to find out just what has the common folk so excited, Ivo mutters a few thanks to The One as it looks like the crowd in front of him is thinning a bit. Sliding sideways into the space he only just thinks to pause to find out why there's suddenly so much clear room, and turns his head to check. Needless to say he recognises the blue of the guard's cloaks immediately; it's the same as his used to be, before he spent the best part of a decade using it and it faded a shade or two. Blue Cavaliers can only mean one thing and it takes a heartbeat until his eyes light on the Prince. Shock follows surprise on his features and then he's bowing low, like in his youth in Lyionesse. Too late not to get to the castle to join whatever reception committee his uncle has managed to put together, so he offers his obediences here. Some of the crowd even follow his lead, or seem to at least, he can only see them out of the corner of his eye as his gaze is downcast as tradition demands.
Sylvain pauses at Ivo's reaction, before he offers the man a smile. "Sir Ivo d'Armaz," he offers in greeting, taking a few steps towards the man. "It's good to see you." There's a brief pause as he looks around, before adds, "I hope you are well?" Waiting for the man, and the others around them, to get back to their feet.
Ivo straightens once he's bidden, although he does not yet return his hat to his head. "Highness," he replies with a broad smile, "welcome to Fiorello. Do you know your way to the castle?" Of course the Prince does, or at least someone in the retinue does, but it's a polite way to ask if he should fall in step with the group as they progress. "I keep well enough," he replies, not wanting to bore the Prince with every ache, pain, and scratch, "we have been lucky here, neither the White Hallers to the west, nor the Qatunax to the east, have reached us." He looks Sylvain over for a moment, noting the differences from when they first met all those years ago. They're both older now, but bearing it well. "And yourself? I trust all is well?" He glances to the Cavaliers, but they all look young, none of them seem familiar from his days, although one or two are eyeing his clock with curiosity.
"Thank you," Sylvain replies, before he adds, "I've visited before, but it's always nice to see a familiar face, after all." As for being older, there's probably something a bit more tired, perhaps more sorrowful, in his expression. "I'm glad to hear none of those enemies have reached you yet." There's another brief pause at the question about all being well, and he shrugs a little. "All things considered, they are well enough."
Ivo gestures respectfully onwards, then falls into step just a fraction behind Sylvain, as befits the other's station. 'All things considered, they are well enough', he ponders the words a moment, then figures that things must be tense in Lyionesse, what with Hellsmouth going Imperial, the raiders setting up their own region, Jasmina make a grab for a crown… All of a sudden he's very glad he doesn't have to deal with all that. Noting the faint hints of sorrow on the older man he resist the temptation to pry for gossip or information and extends instead the figurative hand of friendship. "I do not know your plans Highness, nor how long you intend to stay, but if there is anywhere you would like to visit, anything you would like to see, then I would be honoured to guide you. I know the Count will have fine entertainments if that is your fancy, but if you've travelled long then there are also quieter places, where rest can be achieved." Even as he's talking he finds himself falling back into the old habits he was taught, he's in step with the other blue cloaks, and has to resist the urge to keep scanning the crowds, just in case. It's not his job any more, and there's part of him that still pines for it, but for now he is host until he can deliver the royal to Adriono, and he knows he has to act the part.
"I will be here for a few days, at least, I think. It's good to see how things are in these times, after all," Sylvain replies, before he smiles momentarily. "Quieter places are always good, I tend to prefer those most of the time." It's offered a bit quietly, before he adds, "But of course, the Count's entertainments are always interesting as well."
"His entertainments," Ivo replies with a comfortable and knowing smile, "and his wines." The d'Armaz cellar is near-legendary in Tirth after all. "Do you still hunt?" he asks, making polite reference to the Prince's trips away from the general hubbub of life, "if you are here a few days then there are places a short ride away that might suite." Away from prying eyes, away from the press of people, away from the demands of title and family. As they turn a corner out of the marketplace the throng of people lessens somewhat, but a pair of the cavaliers do still need to pace ahead to keep the way clear of those wanting to catch a glimpse, and those simply trying to go about their daily business. "Please also consider my ship at your service as well, although with the d'Korbina's defection the far banks are not as welcoming as they once were."
"His wines are known to be quite nice as well, that's true." Sylvain replies, before he nods a little at the mention of the hunting. "Every now and then, although far less than before," he replies, nodding a little as he hears the rest. "I will keep the part about the ship in mind," he adds.
There's a whole group of Blue Cavaliers attending the famously reclusive (and therefore, MYSTERIOUS!) Prince Sylvain, and there isn't a young red-blooded woman or man in Fiorello-on-the-River that hasn't heard about it by the time a page comes to bother Myrana in her brother Dario's study.
But as the young girl is related to her and the Armaz are very particular about not killing family members (with only a few notable exceptions), Myrana is therefore shortly summoned.
Like a magic trick, she appears athwart their path coming out of the marketplace, exclusive of any guards or fanfare. One minute the way is clear, and the very next there's The Black-Cat, still dressed despite the specificity of the summons in the crow's black kirtle and messily upswept braid-and-comb that she wore at the desk, left hand blotched by ink all up the side and utterly stained at the fingers. Her sleeves are rolled up with gold pins and there's still a goose quill stylus struck behind her ear, doubtlessly inking the snowy white at her temple as well.
"Ah!" She says, a little out of breath seemingly. "Your highness! What… hah…" She pauses, and sucks in air, trying to play it off subtly and only slightly succeeding, trying to hide that she's panting from her sprint down that alley from where she exited the carriage on the wrong street, ditching her escort. They might not have noticed yet. "What a pleasant surprise!"
"I can vouch for them myself," Ivo replies, for while he might not have access to the very finest bottles the cellar has to offer, he's sampled many of the others. Repeatedly. "There is no finer cellar in the West," he grins slightly, "excepting perhaps your father's of course." He's been in the royal wine cellar before, but his was not the place to sample the wares alas. He's about to say something else, no doubt also wine related, but then there's Myrana, looking… well… very like Myrana. He tilts his head to her politely, and offers a "cousin," in greeting, but from his spot a fraction behind the Prince he shoots her a quizzical look. "We're just on our way to the castle," he offers stating the blindingly obvious as his brain tries to work out what she's up to. "I assume the Count's message didn't reach you yet?" It did, he can tell that, but he'll offer her the cover if she needs it.
Sylvain smiles, nodding a bit as he hears Ivo's words, before he notices Myrana's arrival. "Your Grace," he offers with a quiet smile and a nod. "It's a pleasure to meet you again." He doesn't say much more for now, just listening.
Myrana curtseys with a sweep at her skirts before she tucks her stained hand away behind the small of her back, jewelry jingling as she straightens again.
"I was writing," she says with a slightly sheepish smile. "I'm pleased to see you, highness. It's been a good deal more peaceful since the last time you paid my father's home a visit. This time, naturally, his ships are patrolling the Fiore against the White-Hallers."
Once upon a time, Sylvain was trapped here along with a number of other noble guests when siege was laid to the castle on the mountain, just above the busy trade city. A forested road leads up to the castle itself. They held the walls for a week before rescue came in the form of the Arrani legion, accompanied by forces from Queen Kyrena's Horse Clan, one-time enemies of the Crown who now share ties with the al'Arran and Gendiel.
"It hadn't," she replies gratefully to Ivo, seizing the excuse. "Well, I'll accompany you if that's alright. The big boars have been seen near the road to the castle, so it's best not to ride there once its dark."
Ivo is, for a moment, reluctant to share the Prince with another of his family, it's been so long, and there are too many ties there to the past he had and the future he lost. He'll let Sylvain do the actual inviting her to join them or not though as it's not his place, but does move his elbow out a fract in case she want sto latch onto him rather than make a move for the royal. "I was jus ttelling his Highness that we have been blessed," he explains, so Myrana knows where the conversation is, "that though there are enemies to the east and west we have not yet been directly attacked. Then we started talking wine." Hmm, wine. He's quite like some at this point, but the only skin he has on him is water. Turning back to Sylvain he asks, "if you don't mind the question highness, do you happen to know if Sir Enzo still serves?" The other survivor from their ill fated trip years back, "it has been too many years since we last spoke, he and I, and I've lost track of what he's doing now."
Sylvain smiles, "I'm glad to hear that things are far more peaceful than the last time," he replies, before he adds, "And of course you're welcome to accompany us." At Ivo's question about Sir Enzo, he looks thoughtful for a few moments. "I think so, although I have not seen him lately. I haven't been out and about as much these last few months, to be honest."
Myrana takes Ivo's offered arm with a smile, falling into step quietly for the moment.
And then there were three. As Myrana joins them Ivo listens to what Sylvain has to say in reply, then nods once. "Perhaps then, I should write," or possibly just ask one of the Cavaliers surrounding them when they get to the castle and everyone can relax a little. "He taught me a good many things while I was in Lyionesse, and there are times when I miss his counsel, and his company." Myrana can likely feel the bandage under his sleeve as she takes his arm, but if the cause of it is bothering him he doesn't show it as they walk. "Has spring come yet to the north?" he then asks, remembering the royal gardens in their first stages of blooming, "or is it yet early?"
Sylvain nods as he hears that. "I'm sure he will appreciate you writing him," he replies, before he adds, "We all have some people we miss the counsel and company of, I think." He pauses for a few moments again at the last question. "It has started to appear, but it's still early, I think. A few more weeks, and the gardens will start to bloom, I believe."
"Who is Sir Enzo?" Myrana asks, curious. "Is he one of the Cavaliers?"
If only Ivo could be as sure. He might though, but equally he might bottle it instead. Raising a hand to rest on Myrana's to aid in keeping his focus on the here and now he listens attentively to the answer to his query and smiles back. "I never minded patrolling the gardens in spring," he notes conversationally, "they were always so bright and full of life. In the depths of winter though, when the wind picked up, I swear there were some nights I swore I would freeze." His tone is light, as any old soldier recounting past times, "I suppose it was good practice for life at sea though. Wind on land rarely matches up to the open ocean where it can howl for hundreds of miles with nothing to stop it." He could go on, but luckily for all involved Myrana drops her question in and he stops. Looking almost apologetic he needs to fill her in on that point he replies with a solemn nod, then gives a brief rundown. "When his Highness made his trip to Benide, what, twelve years ago? Thirteen?" He looks to Sylvain for confirmation, but it must be around that long ago. "There was an attack by raiders from the North, before the war was properly joined. The pair of us," he gestures to himself and the prince, "along with Sir Enzo, were the only survivors." There's more to the story, and the look he flashes his cousin says she can ask him again later, but for now he has no desire to force Sylvain to relive that day.
Sylvain smiles as he nods. "Quite understandable. The gardens are quite different from winter to spring. It's like a desert suddenly filled with life." Another brief pause, as he nods at Ivo's words. "Feels like a lifetime ago, with the last few years, doesn't it?" It's said with a bit of a thoughtful expression, although it's a half-smile there.
Well, THAT sounds interesting. Myrana opens her mouth to ask another question, especially when Sylvain adds his reminiscence, but shuts it abruptly when she catches Ivo's look. What on earth happened to them? The curiosity all but vibrates through her bones as she stuffs it down as best she can, trying (unsuccessfully) to keep it from her face. Raiders from the north- Icenailans.
"I was a, ah, GUEST of theirs once," she says like someone figuring out how to swallow a too-big mouthful, moving these words very carefully around the questions she's currently crushing with all her willpower. "When we were retaking Gendiel. You know, they have a written language, while the Whitehallers seem to scorn letters."
"Not that I was able to read any of it," she adds, prudently. "Though I did try."
"Why does it not surprise me that you tried?" Ivo teases Myrana, although he'd've tried too given the chance. She's given a grateful look before he offers Sylvain a more thoughtful one. "A lifetime highness, or even two. I'm sure things were less chaotic back then, but then maybe that's just the passage of the years talking." The times had certainly had their own troubles, just different ones to those facing them now. Seeing how close Myrana is to bursting he almost drops another small fragment of the tale, just to see if she explodes, but decides to take pity and offer a new topic for discussion. "Will you be partaking in the Arcadian Tournament Highness? I was pondering the ship joust again, it was entertaining last year, and I'm looking forward to having another shot at the title."
"That's interesting," Sylvain offers to Myrana's words about the written language of the Icenalians. "And I'm sure none were surprised that you tried." He nods again at Ivo's words. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it's too many things happening in too short a time." As for the part about partaking in the tournament, he shakes his head a little. "I don't think I will. I will probably be there watching, though. It will be quite interesting."
Self-control isn't always one of Myra's better attributes: her resolve crumples like wet paper at this teasing and the rare natural segue into something that's been on her mind. She leans forward a little from where she's on Ivo's opposite arm so she can make eye-contact with the prince. "Highness, may I ask you a pert question?" Uh oh.
"I recommend it if you feel like something different," Ivo notes to Sylvain, "and of course, if you can swim. Although one thing I found when I first put to sea for my uncle is that apparently most sailors can't, it's seen as a sign of ill fortune if you can." Interesting fact right there, he almost follows it up with another one but Myrana pops her question first leaving him with little choice but to try and catch her gaze. Concern is etched into his features as his expression tries to indicate that whatever she is about to ask, she should give serious consideration to not asking.
Myrana is the metaphorical freight train of disaster in a five foot frame. Poor Ivo.
Sylvain pauses for a few moments as he hears what's said. "Wait… they can't?" he offers to Ivo, before he looks to Myrana again. "Wouldn't that depend on the question?" he asks, with a smile.
The trio has proceeded under an avenue lined by twisting old juniper trees and waving blue-blossoming butterfly bushes. The air here is pleasant, and with their accompaniment of Blue Cavaliers, a good deal quieter than the marketplace was. Gardeners are at work among the trees and elegant bushes, and a woman is herding geese towards them with a long willow wand, bright skirts embellished with brass that winks in the sun.
"Not so long ago, the Inquisition accused you of sorcery." Myrana looks up at Sylvain without an ounce of hesitation; Curiosity has a good deal to do with her unfortunate byname, after all. "What would you do if they decided to bring that claim back up again?"
Ivo should have known better, and perhaps one day he'll learn that there is just no stopping his cousin at times like this. He tenses as both 'Inquisition' and 'sorcery' come tumbling out in such quick succession, and his grip over her hand with tighten a little on the same instinct, but then when the question itself comes he relaxes back a fraction. That could have been worse, much worse. It seems like he's going to remain silent on this one, then something in the back of his head reminds him that the prince asked him a direct question, causing him to stumble slightly over the words of his answer as they fall over themselves to get out. "No many no highness. Drowning is considered a quick death, but if you can swim then it prolongs the suffering, or so I'm told." Cheery folks sailors.
"I…" Sylvain begins, grimacing as he hears Myrana's question. "To be honest, I don't know what I would do. Why? Have you heard anything suggesting that they would?" He looks a bit worried, before he looks to Ivo, nodding at the answer. "I think I would prefer no death at all, myself…"
"Only one's suspicious nature, my prince," Myrana demurrs, though her smoky low little voice regains its conviction, even if softly: "The Holy Mother Church seeks to purify itself of Teleko's influence, highness, but this creature commanded the Inquisition in Rikton, when evil magics contained us there and the Inquisition laid siege to arrest you." Her dark eyes flick to the windows of a restaurant near the road where it joins the woodland outside the city itself and begins to wind up towards the castle above.
"I don't trust that the Cardinals who remain are suddenly endowed with more discernment than they were when Cardinal Teleko was in power, highness."
But even Myra, who is certainly bolder than wise sometimes, seems to pause and realize what she's saying. Her cheeks colour, and she takes a nervous breath. "…I would, a-ah, probably best keep it to myself," she says, looking up guiltily at her cousin. "But I would rather be burned myself than see them marching in arms through Lyionesse."
“The feeling being," Ivo explains, "that in the middle of the ocean there is no one to rescue you, so quick is preferable. Amongst the rivermen though, there is no such apprehension, they all swim like fish." That said he falls silent, letting Myrana say her piece. It’s not comfortable to hear,and she gets a cautious look when she starts talking of the cardinals, but he’s not going to interrupt, opting instead to turn and watch to see how Sylvain reacts.
“Hmmm…” Sylvain replies, nodding a little thoughtfully as he hears that. “It would seem that quite a few of them would find it more important to blame the fact that they were so easily led astray by that monster. It probably manipulated their hunger instead of controlling their minds.” He looks a bit worried as he considers this, before he nods a bit at Myrana’s words, offering her a smile. “I hope we can keep both of those things from happening,” he offers to her. He then turns to Ivo, to nod at his words. “That certainly makes sense. I’m glad there’s no such apprehension amongst the rivermen.”
Myra gives a sigh, relieved at Sylvain's response. To call voicing doubt in the holy mother Church (especially the Inquisitors) 'unfashionable' would be grave understatement in Aequor. There’s simply no way to proceed safely, except to shut up. “I don’t think they are at fault; the creature is very old, and very powerful, and had a hundred lifetimes to establish his networks of power in Rikton. But I think you’re right… who would question the intentions of a holy man? He would not need to use his magics on them.”
"It really is difficult to speak rationally about… monsters, though." She uses the word gingerly, like someone testing the waters ahead of themselves while trying not to think about crocodiles in the reeds. "And rude, almost, to mention them when the sun on the leaves is so beautiful." Reaching up absentmindedly, she turns the lightsilver bell pendant in her fingers, muffling the faint tink as they walk. "But I felt you'd understand. I just didn't, ah, I couldn't bring myself to speak on it at the Tourney." What with the burnings and the Falling Blade. Sudden gifts of wisdom and sore throats rained down on castle Averynon for weeks.
Myrana eases her unconsciously tightened hold on Ivo’s arm, registering the bandages under his sleeve. Did something happen on the river? Was there a Qat amongst the refugees he brought back, and did they drown, them or was there a battle?"But, I have decided what I'd like to do," she says, looking on down the road. Bees are droning lazily about the bushes on either side, and shade from the junipers dapples the way, which is paved quite nicely and smoothly with redstone. "I'm going to form a knightly order to research them, and fund expeditions into the field!”
“And of course we all swim! What a ridiculous practice, avoiding learning how to swim. What, do these seamen expect us to throw them ropes when they fall drunk off the dock?” not that Myra is proud of her people or biased or anything.—
Ivo gives Sylvain a polite tilt of his head in response to the prince’s words, but most of his attention is taken up with not turning to look at Myrana as she speaks of forming her own knightly order. It’s…. ambitious, but would give cover for many the activities that might one day get her into trouble. “An order of… monster hunters,” he mulls aloud, using the same terminology she had, “that sounds like something the Church would want to at least supervise.” He doesn’t cast a judgement on if that’s a good thing or not mind, even given what’s been said that’s a very slippery conversation point. He has opinions on the idea, opinions of various flavours, but now is not the time to discuss them, not out in the open like this, so he falls silent again, letting Sylvain reply.
“I must admit that whole thing with the Inquisition and all that made me a bit uncomfortable during that whole event,” Sylvain says, after a few moments of pause. He then nods a bit at Myrana’s words, raising an eyebrow. “A knightly order? That sounds quite impressive,” he offers, after a few moments, before he nods a little at Ivo’s words. “Probably, yes.”
The church would want to supervise? Of course, he's quite right, and Myra somehow hadn't considered this. That could be… troublesome.
“I will have to have the chapel here refurnished with more comfortable guest rooms,” is what she says in a wondering distant tone. Which definitely is what she's thinking of, and not the pits under the wine cellar, or how clever their trackers could possibly be against her Thornesmen.
“Thank you!” she smiles at Sylvain, taking it relentlessly as a compliment, and otherwise falling back into a pleasant silence, which is clearly the calm waters concealing a fucking thrash of pedaling duck feet underneath. Shit! OF COURSE THEY’LL WANT TO SUPERVISE.
Ivo relaxes just a little when Sylvain confesses to having been uncomfortable with the falling blade. He hadn’t figured the Prince to have changed into a bloodthirsty fundamentalist in the years they’ve been apart, but it’s always nice to get confirmation. “I wasn’t there,” he says quietly, not entirely sure how he’d’ve reacted if he had been, he’s not going to get drawn into further discussion of it though, not if he can help it, so he turns back to his cousin and tries to lighten the mood a fraction. “What would you call them? Muster Hunters has a certain kind of ring to it, but I suspect it lacks the required gravitas for such things.”
Nodding as he listens, Sylvain lets out a bit of a breath. He doesn’t comment on anything right now, just listening to what’s said, expression a bit thoughtful.
“But… well I suppose not.” Myra coughs. “What about…” she gestures dramatically! “The Order of, uh!” she stutters, blue eyes darting around. “The B-” wait, the knightly order of the bee won't work at ALL. But that's the trouble with single syllable words; even if you realize what you're about to say and stop in a hurry, it doesn't take much wit to figure out what was left out. Instead she stutters out inarticulately and gives a nervous “h-hmm…”
“Beacon?” she suggests. Maybe this will pass? She doesn't dare look over but why in earth would she? Just LOOK at that beautiful slope of trees! How grand and warranting further study.
“Beacon,” Ivo repeats, as if mulling it over in his head, “could work.” He continues, choosing the phrasing of his next words carefully given their company. “I think the church would like it, light in dark places and all that,” then he shoots a warning look to Myrana as he adds, “and the iconography is right there for there, the fire and all that.” He grips her hand for a moment then looks away again, “still, there’s no rush I suppose. The name can come later, once the idea is fully formulated, and it is a good idea.” Almost too good an idea, which does leave him to briefly ponder why it hasn’t already been had, or indeed if it has by someone else, but soon enough the walls of the castle come into view, and it’s time for the game face once again.