Potato Nose
patreon
Wild Card segment 6
🕑 Added 2024-09-15 14:13:01 +0000 UTCI don't know what I expected of wherever we were going to be all meeting up. I can say with certainty that I wasn't expecting a relatively normal looking study with brown carpeting. Sparhawk, Berit, Kalten, and Kurik surround me on all sides; Berit remains quite faithfully at my back and I'm pretty sure he doesn't once relax or sling his axe. Others join us; one a younger looking man with narrow features and build in chain mail so well polished it looks almost like silver. His curly, dark hair and olive complexion makes him look almost Mediteranean to me, and the general shape of his face brings to mind those models who feature on a lot of fashion magazines. Past the cuffs of his chainmail sleeves, his forearms are wiry and his hands callused, and I have little doubt both of these features are probably courtesy of the large and extremely alarming axe slung across his back. The axe is single bitted, anchored to the axe haft at the top and near the bottom of the bit, and its edge is barely curved, bringing to mind an oversized meat cleaver. Having done large amounts of cooking I know intimately well what that design of blade can do to a pork shoulder and I have absolutely no interest in seeing what its larger cousin can do to a human in this man's hands.
Next to him stands an absolute unit of a man, round faced and jovial looking despite the sober expression on his swarthy face. His light blue surcoat covers a plain white tunic, neither of which does anything to conceal his size. He's not carrying a weapon that I can see right now, but I almost think he wouldn't actually need one; he looks like the sort of dude who not only wrestles bears in the mountains, but only uses one arm against the smaller ones to keep it a fair fight.
Almost at his elbow is a big guy, at least a half foot taller than anyone else in the room, in a green surcoat and a conical helmet like actual Vikings wore rather than the horned things a lot of people seem to think they wore. Two Nordic looking blond braids hang down from beneath that helmet looking slightly frayed and in need of brushing and rebraiding. A relatively plain looking broad axe peeks over his shoulder, and I'm getting the sense that axes are uncommonly popular with this crowd, at least as much so as more ordinary swords. Part of me feels like my years of D&D experience have lied to me; I'd expect more swords and other than those soldiers earlier in the evening there seems to be an absence of spears.
As simple weapons go, spears were supposedly king of the battlefield by virtue of their ability to maintain distance... which, actually, might explain the higher than expected numbers of axes in the room? A weighty axe head is probably better at moving sharp sticks out of the way than a sword. Or maybe my wild ass guess is wildly off base.
On the right wall of the study, a large fireplace burns cheerily. Next to it, a short, rather pretty looking woman in homespun robe. I can't really guess her age; she could be a regal twenty or a youthful fifty or any age between. She's seated and watching me with an unreadable expression, while a girl that's probably her daughter snuggles up sleepily next to her. Part of my attention is drawn to the incongruous grass stains on her feet. A boy who looks at most ten or eleven is standing next to the window with his back to the wall, eyeing me with the same reflected distrust and wariness adopted by everyone in the room aside from Sparhawk and the last person to enter, an older man who walks around and behind the desk to take a seat.
The man behind the desk. How to describe him? Mid forties to mid fifties, looking wan, overworked, and probably not eating or sleeping properly, though I imagine the early hour doesn't help in the slightest. Despite his iron gray hair and beard, he shows little sign of actual deterioration, and the body beneath his simple robe carries the sort of comfortable strength that comes from a lifetime of disciplined, steady exercise. Given these guys are all knights, I fully intend to heed the adage 'beware an old man in a profession where men die young' and do my level best not to piss him off.
I glance wearily over my shoulder at Berit, whose nearly hostile focus on me is probably where this room full of strangers are drawing their social cues from. He seems to be just waiting for an excuse. My legs are informing me of their displeasure at the uncustomary amount of jogging I've done today, and my feet complaining vociferously at that same jogging being done on cobble and later walking across a mile of slippery, uneven ground. Even though I'm usually awake for hours longer than this, it's been an eventful night, and I'm ready for it to be over.
That's not a luxury I'm liable to get for a while, though. For the time being, I resolve myself to try and remain unobtrusive while keeping my ears and eyes open. If I'm lucky, I might learn something.
The man behind the desk rubs his lined forehead and sighs. "Sparhawk, would you care to tell me why we're all gathered here at this unseemly hour? And who is this... person?" he adds, looking at me pointedly.
"I'll get to his part in things in a bit," Sparhawk says. "For now, it doesn't matter what he hears." I definitely don't like the unspoken subtext this seems to convey to everyone present.
"So back to the question of why we're here?"
"Several reasons," Sparhawk says in reply, then looks at the woman by the fire. "But I imagine it's best if you tell the first part, little mother."
The affectionate name apparently applies to the woman who's been scrutinizing me since the moment she walked through the door; she seems almost reluctant to tear her attention away from me as she addresses the man behind the desk. She retrieves a long, cloth bound object she carried in with her from the floor by her side and unwraps it, revealing an ornate, sheathed longsword. "Sir Tanis has traversed the divide to the House of the Dead," she announces solemnly.
"Tanis?" The name seems to strike the older man like a physical blow, and his voice is laced with stunned dismay. "When did this happen?"
"Very recently," the woman replies.
"And this is why we're gathered?" he asks, turning his head to look at Sparhawk.
"Only in part," Sparhawk says. "There've been a number of events in the last day that require discussion and decisions to be made. But to start with, yes, Tanis visited me before he went to deliver his sword to Sephrenia. He told me that someone in the royal crypt wanted to speak to me. I went to the cathedral and was confronted by the ghost of Aldreas. He told me a number of things, and gave me this." Sparhawk hefts the spear he's been carrying all night, then twists the head of the weapon free, shaking out a ring set with a red gemstone into the palm of his hand.
"So [i]that's[/i] where Aldreas hid it," the older man comments thoughtfully. "Maybe he had a few more wits remaining than we all thought. You said he told you things. Such as what?"
"That he'd been poisoned, likely the same poison given to Ehlana."
"Was it Annias?" asks Kalten, a dark tone in his voice.
Sparhawk shakes his head. "No. It was Princess Arissa."
"His own sister?" the slender knight exclaims, clearly appalled by the notion. "That's monstrous!"
"'Monstrous' is a good descriptor for Arissa," Kalten says almost flippantly. "She's not the sort to let little things hold her back. What I want to know is how she got out of that cloister in Demos to dispose of Aldreas, though."
"Annias arranged it," Sparhawk answers. "She entertained Aldreas in her usual fashion, and when he was exhausted, she gave him the poisoned wine."
Something about the wording of that statement raises the hairs on the back of my neck; meanwhile, the slender man seems confused. "I don't quite understand," he admits.
"Well... Bevier, the relationship between Arissa and Aldreas went somewhat beyond what is customarily acceptable between a brother and a sister," the older man behind the desk says tactfully, confirming my suspicions. Or as tactfully as that sort of information can be relayed, at any rate.
Bevier, apparently, is as distressed by the statement as I am, judgng by how his olive complexion pales as he deciphers the older man's meaning.
"So, this was revenge, then?" Kalten asks. "For locking her away in the cloister?"
"No, I don't think so," Sparhawk replies. "I think it was all part of the plan, first removing Aldreas, then Ehlana."
Kalten hummed. "All in the pursuit of putting Arissa's bastard on the Throne."
I find myself interjecting a question of my own; it's an unwelcome one, but it comes out of my mouth all the same. "Uh... does he have a legitimate claim to the throne?" At the silence that follows as EVERYONE in the room turns their focus onto me, I clarify, "I mean, you said that, er, the King and..." I trail off with a grimace.
Sparhawk responds. "I have it on good authority that despite Arissa's other dalliances, Lycheas is Annias' issue. No doubt part of why Annias is so invested in seeing Lycheas take the throne; he has influence there even if Annias' familial affection is questionable."
"Wait. A Primate of the Church?" interjects the jovial looking knight, startled by Sparhawk's revelation. "That- Does Elenia have different rules for higher Clergy than everyone else?"
"Not really, no, but Annias doesn't feel the rules apply to him," the older man behind the desk says wryly. "And Arissa likes to go out of her way to break them. They make natural allies in their debauchery." He turns his head to look out the window a moment, before facing the room again. "I'll pass this information on to Dolmant. It may prove useful to him when the time comes to elect the new Archprelate."
"Pass it along to the Earl of Lenda as well," the woman Sephrenia adds. "The royal council is corrupt, but even they're likely to balk at the possibility of Annias sneaking his bastard son onto the throne." She turns her eyes to Sparhawk, only briefly glancing at me as she does so. "Is that all that Aldreas had to say?"
Sparhawk shakes his head. "There was something else. We already know that we need some magic object to cure Ehlana. He told me what it is: Bhelliom. He says it's the only thing in the world with the power to do so."
Sephrenia looks horrified. "NO! Not Bhelliom!"
I'm not sure about that, in all honesty. Thinking on my magics, I have some potent, or potentially potent, healing magics at my disposal. My instincts tell me that with only a few weeks of effort, I should be able to burn away diseases and poisons with faerie fire.
"That's what he told me," Sparhawk replies.
The viking looking man grunts, "That presents a problem. Bhelliom's been lost since the Zemoch war, and even if we COULD find it, it would be pointless without the rings."
"Rings?" Kalten asks.
"The Troll-Dwarf Ghwerrig made Bhelliom," the viking explains. "Then, he made a pair of rings to unlock its power. Without those rings, it's useless."
Sephrenia still looks unsettled as she comments, "We already have the rings."
"We do?" Sparhawk asks.
"You're wearing one, and Aldreas gave you the other tonight."
Sparhawk looks at his hand, and only now do I notice he's wearing a ruby set ring on his right ring finger. Busy as I've been in the short time since I got here, and given the majority of that time having been in lighting that ranged from poor to nonexistent, I think I can be forgiven for not noticing it before now. "How?" Sparhawk asks. "Where did my ancestor and King Antor get them?"
"I gave the rings to them," Sephrenia says with a shrug.
The rest of the room shifts a little at this announcement, so I take it that even though it means nothing to me, it's somehow significant. Sparhawk indirectly confirms this as he slowly responds, "Sephrenia... that was over three hundred years ago."
She shrugs, seemingly uncaring. "Yes, something like that."
Sparhawk stares at her, incredulous, while I find myself looking at her speculatively. Eternal youth? Periodically restored youth? Sparhawk swallows, then asks, "Sephrenia, just how old are you?"
"Rude," I blurt out, unthinking. "You never ask a lady her age."
The small chorus of snickers and strangled laughs that echo around the room seem to ease people's attitudes toward me a little, especially Sephrenia, who smirks a little at me, before turning her attention back to Sparhawk. "Exactly so."
Sparhawk, on the other hand, eyes me darkly. "Be silent" he orders, and my mouth snaps shut. He turns his head back to Sephrenia.
"That was... sudden," Sephrenia says thoughtfullly. She examines me, then continues, "Is he compelled by you somehow?" Sparhawk's lips tighten. Sephrenia gets a stern, warning look on her face. "Sparhawk, such magics are questionable at best. I know [i]I[/i] never taught you such things, certainly not to a degree of slavish obedience."
"This isn't MY doing," Sparhawk protests. "It goes back to when I was making my way out of the city."
