Of Storms and Swans
From darkness they rode, a force twenty one strong that cut across Wynrose with a brimming storm nipping at their heels all the way to Swan’s Gate. They flew the banner of House Mhòrdha brazenly, the sickle claw of an Arathian raptor imposed upon the looming visage of Witchmount. Their horn-bearers announced them with fanfare each time they neared a settlement, though they spared not an instant of their journey on stopping in each town - thundering through with the clamor of hooves and parting only for the young, the old, and the infirm.
Only once they reached the inner regions of Swan’s Gate did they cease the ruthless pace, slowing to a trot until the came upon the manor grounds. The Marquis himself and a mere two guards made the final approach, breaking rank and riding straight to the gate while the remaining eighteen sat patiently in formation on their horses even as the rain began to fall.
“My name is Mortificer, Lord of House Mhòrdha,” shouted Lord Mortificer, raising his voice above the howling winds. “I have come to welcome the Swan of Wynrose back to Arathi,” He stared down the guards surely attending the gates with a heavy glare from his sole good eye, waiting motionless astride his mount for the Lady’s answer.
@hodelle-mcglenn
Swan’s Gate was instantly on alert with the newcomer and his entourage. Men and women clad in dark teal and golden armor formed a line, protecting the manor entrance and the precious contents inside. The Lady Gregory would likely be holding both children close to her legs as they peered from the windows, Mister Hartford more than likely close behind them, watching the interaction unfold. But the Lady herself would have descended the foyer stairs as swiftly as she was able.
Upon the announcement, Hodelle would nod to her right-hand guard, the giant man moving through the doors, hand on his sword and helmet slipped beneath his arm. Hodelle would follow behind him and to the side some, slowly easing her way down a few of the steps of the manor’s exterior.
Her eyes were a bright, unnatural gold as they bore into this Mortificer. Her gown was a deep teal, accented by gold lace and embellishments. The line of warriors and the like remained firm below, their shields hoisted up in their protective stance. Each shield had the emblem of a swan encircled by roses, and each set of eyes was trained directly on the man.
“You will forgive me,” came the strong, even voice of the woman. “As I have not heard of you, Mortificer, Lord of House Mhòrdha.” Her head was held evenly and her eyes were settled downward along her nose as she peered hard at the man. “But I thank you all the same. To what do we owe this unexpected arrival?”
@mortificertheruthless and @thegildedcage @kelly-hartford for slight mentions.
If the row of guards gave Mortificer any pause, he showed it not an inch. His sole eye swept over each of them in turn, possessed of such piercing intensity that it surely rattled even the bravest man. His form shimmered in the rain, as if he kept one foot in the present and another... elsewhere.
“Come now, Lady McGlenn - does this show of fear really become you? If I meant you ill, I would come under cover of night – not announcing myself in each settlement I passed through the entirety of your lands.” He spoke so assuredly, so smoothly. His words rang with truth: her guards should have had far more notice than it seemed they capitalized on.
Mortificer did not balk in the light of her golden gaze, but in the hazy light available during such a frantic storm his eye almost seemed to glow with a pale emerald light of its own. The distance and the frantic rain made it impossible to know for certain.
“You will forgive my frankness, but if you know not of me then you should surely know of Mhòrdha. Of Witchmount, in the far north.” He kept his tone even, despite the show of that most treacherous emotion: fear. “Or am I to believe that the old tales are dead? That children in Arathi are no longer put to bed with grave warnings that if they are cruel, the Witchmount will steal them away to the Otherworld and curse them with a form befitting their vile heart?”
He advanced his steed, and for a moment one so versed in light and shadow as she might feel the rattling chill his presence exuded. A whisper of the Otherworld said to exist alongside and separate from the world in which they lived and breathed.
“My mother was a wise woman, and she instructed me thus: if you would make allies, do so in threes.” He kept his eyes locked on her own as he spoke, raising his voice to be heard above the din. “If the first and second offer no answer to your letters, then visit the third – for no letter is truer than a man’s words of the moment.”
“Now,” he remarked after pause enough to for her to consider his words. “Do you plan to allow me passage into your home, such that we may discuss alliances? Or should I turn aside and ride back to Witchmount?"
@hodelle-mcglenn
