#orazio garibald

[steppesthetic]

[Orazio/Kovis]  Snows Melt, Part One - Stone

I originally wanted to make this one big story but thought it might work better in two parts. Important Arathor political/magical stuff, yadda yadda. And you get to see Orazio again. :)

Though this isn’t what I wish to write for terminalpleasure’s challenge, I do hope that in writing these more typical RP stories for the Arathor storyline I can find the voice, style, and skill to produce something with a more resonant meaning that the challenge calls for. To that end I invite anyone to give constructive feedback, if they feel up to it. Special thanks to princessprovost for already helping on that front.

“Oh? How could you possibly make that assumption?” Kovis’ smug grin made his gloating all the worse. That he even bothered to hide the truth of his stealing the Ancestors’ Stone was nothing more than a game now.  Before the party led by Dame Rhosmera had returned Kovis’ men had started their preparations for leaving; only the guards at the gate gave the Zarrin pause. “You think I failed to notice your absence? Your sneaking about? How your knights managed to scatter the Warsong so easily?” The banner-lord made a lazy, noncommittal gesture. “I must confess guilt for my knights’ skill, I suppose. Silly me, not bringing the Daravsh’s second-best.” Orazio continued. “It was magic. And I know Arrel was not the perpetrator. I know well that you don’t trust the woman with half as much as you would have her believe.” Was it a nerve Orazio struck? Kovis’ long stare from across the table meant something, and if he only knew where to keep pressing it might have been a weakness. Alas, he was alone and lost in this plot the reckless bastard had cooked up. There was no way but forward from here. “You planned to betray me from the start, you vile Lightless bastard.” “As did you, Lord Garibald.” Kovis stood, suddenly looking very grave in his accusation. “And do not speak of your Light to me. I know what hides under the veneer of your beloved Queen’s land. I heard what her sorceress unleashed against the Argents. What you unleashed, against your own people. “Even if I hadn’t planned on taking the Ancestors’ Stone, you never stipulated terms. And why would I, any man, allow your unholy kingdom to take such power for themselves?” If only Kovis could have known his own distaste for the Miasma, Orazio thought. If only he knew of Marcus, and Marcia. Then, perhaps, they would never need come to blows. Or perhaps the blackguard would only have cursed his heart for being so weak. There was no way but forward. “There is no altruism in your motives, Lord Kovis.” The sound of his estoc scraping against its scabbard caught the blonde’s attention as he turned to leave the room. “And if you would seek to challenge my right to this stone it will be in view of all.” For a moment Orazio had considered gunning the general and his retinue down at the gates, but for all the loyalty of his men and the understanding of the Order he felt not the confidence to start a war, not in this way. A duel in the courtyard, however, would make it clear to all the rightful owner of this mysterious prize. The prize that could have him connect to the dead and half-dead in ways which required no faithless marshmancers. The prize that would connect Orazio to the answers--the answers he could trust in. Once in sunlight the Golden General seemed to stand taller, soaking in the heat, reveling in it. “The snows should be clearing in Stonesmeet now.” From their twin scabbards he pulled his gemmed sabers and gave them a few lazy slashes. “So much better to fight here than there.” Below his feet shifted endlessly, making the lord look like an overexcited boy--but in his eyes there was the same deadly purpose that Orazio knew was in his own. A lesser duelist would need put hope into Kovis being a better horseman than he was duelist, but the viscount made no such assumption. Kovis welcomed this. He knew he would win just as surely as Orazio knew for himself; only, he hoped, he could read his opponent better. It need not have been long for Kovis to make the first move in their makeshift ring, the soldiers and knights staring with deadly interest to see who would win. Aggression was Kovis’ greatest ally; he would not abandon it. When he led to the left Orazio pulled back his right and deflected the first hit, swung away from the second. He held out his arm and challenged the general to fight past his guard--only one or two passes were needed to do it. Kovis did it in one. Taking his chance, the burlier battle-mage bent low and tackled the taller man to send him flying on his back. Orazio took the time given to him to taunt, and coat his blade in flame. “Yield now, my lord, before your next lesson turns more painful.” Kovis’ stunned look turned to rage; he led not with a slash of his sword but a low, sweeping kick that nearly put his target at his mercy. Orazio held the youth by his armor to keep himself from falling and took shoulder-on a slash that would have done much worse damage had it landed anywhere else. Where wearing on his opponent’s guard was Kovis’ strength, Orazio found his with one moment of serendipity. The hiss and vile smell of cauterizing flesh filled the air as he grabbed the blade stuck in his pauldron, blood sticking to his arm, turned its wielder aside, and pushed him away to give space for his estoc to hit home in the back of his leg. Again, a hiss and a scream of pain. Kovis fell on his knee and this time made no sign that he would rise again. Kovis looked much less the child in defeat. With his pretense of dueling skill stripped away it was plain that he desperately wanted that stone in his possession; it was but a question if one wanted to risk more than the other now, but Orazio had answered that question for himself long ago. Still, his opponent would not release his sword. “Perfidious... magic!” He gasped, stumbling back to his feet. “It was no spell that saw you defeated, my lord.” He held his sword high. “The stone is mine, see it to my hand.” Slowly, Kovis reached up, giving Orazio the glare of a wounded tiger as he pawed at something beneath his cuirass. Briefly he clutched at it through the brigandine… but never moved beyond there. He said something that he could not hear, or failed to take note of. Through the black padding of his armor something glowed brightly, sending beams of light coursing from his neck into the sky, casting his face in sharp shadow that canceled even the sun’s. “No!” 'He screamed back defiantly. Two voices spoke deep from within his chest, the second guttural and bellowing. Inhuman. He charged again. Where there was once the most human defiance in his eyes there was now something else more bestial and hateful, crazed. All went white; the light blinded him, he turned away to get some distance. As he put his foot down he felt no resistance, and stumbled, fell. Fell for ages. Pain lashed over his whole form. As he descended he thought about how he would get up and bait Kovis into another reckless attack. How he would wound him, only kill him if necessary. How he would take the stone home and see them cured. Marcus. Marcia. Suzanne. Virn. Mother. Father. Segelin. Farnes. Stratholme burning. Hasic. Fire. The cave. He would not fail this time. Like always he would stand again and keep moving. Like always…

Kovis woke to the sound of birds.

The end of his dream was so sudden and painful that he left it gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks, the silk sheets flying. Only when he was upright did he recognize the birdcalls. Spring, he not so much thought as knew, instinctively. I’m home. The sound was one he had only heard once before, yet the memory was so strong it quelled, for now, the torrent of emotions not his own that were welling inside.

At least, the sensation was calming until he felt the pain. Something stretched in his leg and he screamed; but as he fell slender hands caught his arm, holding him steady while she was lowered onto the pillow. His eyes followed the arm up the brocaded sleeve to see his friend’s anxious eyes and dark hair. Arrel hung on for dear life, looking as stunned as he.

“He is awake!”

Two other sets of footsteps echoed over the empty expanse of Kovis’ solar. He looked right--the bespectacled Keb Azat, and someone else. Long, wavy brown hair that dipped below his shoulders, a look that was almost severe until the unabashed concern was noted in his eyes. “Jahme,” he warned--or wheezed. After a cough he found the moisture to speak more competently. “Don’t give me that look. Arrel does it well enough.”

The knight bit his lip and nodded, but anyway fell to a knee beside Kovis’ bed. “General…”

Keb looked neither surprised nor particularly pleased. Behind his cool mask he seemingly thought of everything under the sun. For now, though, Kovis had no ability to catch up with his captain’s racing thoughts. He said the obvious.

“I am awake.”

“I can see.” He frowned. “You’re crying, my lord.”

“... Yes.” He could still feel the hot tears streaming down his cheek, and barely contained the pressure that threatened to burst from his breast. It was as though he had borne witness to his own death. To the duel… but what did he do? He tried to think back on the expedition to Draenor but could only remember the beginning of the fight, then…

“I killed him,” he realized, thinking aloud.

Keb paused. “Yes, Zarrin.”

“I… used the stone.” He turned his mind back to Orazio’s vision. The hand clutched over the Ancestor’s Stone, slung under his neck. He had gripped it to make sure it was there. Or had he?

The two knights looked to each other; then Arrel; then Kovis. “Yes, Zarrin. And we must face the consequences.”

[steppesthetic]

[Story] Orazio Garibald - Stoking the Flame

In the lower districts of Hasic the foundries toiled through the night. Black smoke grasped up from every workshop in service, the tendrils disappearing under a gray blanket of clouds. The fog would soon come to the estuary, snow in the mountains; but none of that would hinder the city's efforts through the winter. The captains knew their ships. The lighthouse blazed as brilliantly as ever. And the portal still worked for whoever had the appropriate permit.

A flurry of activity followed Lord Garibald's wake wherever he deigned to venture. When he found the city again after his long departure it was comforting, almost sleepy in its peaceful nature, the hot-blooded politics of summer fading away as the cool winds blew in; but it was no time for hibernation, not yet. From his vantage point at the Free League's quarters he saw all, the docks and warehouses teeming with a frenzy he hadn't seen since his childhood.

"Am I?" The one-armed knight had upon him a look stonier than Orazio could ever imagine in his youth. A skirt-chasing wastrel turned into a grim taskmaster, a keeper of secrets, and the only true ally he could count on.

"You kept the peace."

"It was simpler when there weren't so many so eager to break it." He shifted in his seat, propped between bookcases. "All a man in my position needed to do was pay off the Syndicate, back then."

Orazio turned his attention back to the square below. Emptier than in the warm summers, but cleaner too. With most of the old scars gone it almost looked like a model town from this high up, though the winding streets and clutter of the outer reaches left something to be desired.

"What did it take this time?"

A sigh. "Siccing the Companies on them. You said they needed steady pay, after all."

He felt a smile tugging at him and chuckled. That the guilders and claimants managed to drum up any money at all in his absence was a good sign for a city, but only now did her realize how poor a sign it was for the viscount himself.

"Didn't expect them to recover so quickly. But as the kingdom profits, they profit. At least they were kind enough to share some of that wealth."

"They... will not be happy, my lord, once they realize how long you plan to keep them working."

Orazio shook his head. "Neither will they like my departing again. But the kingdom calls, and I have made it a habit to answer."

When he turned he saw the miniature of Suzanne, doe-eyed and pale, gazing to the artist with something resembling honesty. There was something underneath the warmth in his heart at the sight of her, but he dared not give voice to what that was just yet. All too soon he could not gaze at her overlong, and glanced back to Segelin.

"Eastfold has had a long, peaceful summer. But it is nigh time we wake up from this vacation and provide more to the mother kingdom. The guilders won't complain much--they will have coin aplenty to compensate their efforts through the winter. The Royal Army needs supplies. Tell the masters they will want every Lordaeronian soldier to look down at his rifle or blade and see a Hasican stamp.

"We share our recovery with the kingdom, and we shall see returns."

Segelin nodded, his sunken eyes cast low. "That... isn't all, is it?"

"Perceptive as ever, my old friend. No, it is not. Call up the Hasican Companies, inspect them. I shall take them with me south. And find any interested volunteers."

Segelin's silence belied his debelief, something Orazio grinned mockingly at before the withered knight could even muster his answer. "You expect me to find volunteers to cross the Dark Portal, my lord. And in winter no less."

"Yes, Sir Segelin, I do. If anyone asks why, say it's for plunder--unless they're nobility, then glory. Pay special attention to them. If they can fund an army then they can afford a few spare horses, and I would prefer some dragoons. They performed admirably against the Crusade.

"The masses should be easier to sway, and with the Iron League working around the clock they should provide our volunteers with some decent weaponry. Tell them... whatever is suitable. Draenor teems with riches. Orcish trophies sell well. The Draenei are generous people--so on, and so forth.

"More importantly, we take the offensive here, and now. Lordaeron is stronger than ever, as Her Majesty said recently. Let our people stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the northerners and see just how strong Her kingdom is. Eastfold no longer stands alone."

His orders made clear, Segelin stood and bowed without comment, gathering his now-useless sword from its rest against the wall.

"One more thing, Segelin."

"My lord?"

The viscount stepped behind his desk. A once-rich piece, worn ragged by the many counts that once ruled over the city. He wondered how many fortunes were built and broken from the parchments stored therein--much like what he pulled out then.

"You were from a knightly house in Tirisfal, before your parents lost their favor. For all too long you have bowed and scraped for the peerage of one lord or another--and now, you're useless for that sort of work. So by all rights, why should I keep you around as my knight?"

Segelin extended his hand as the proclamation was handed to him, secured as Orazio clasped the parchment to his grip in a tight embrace.

"Defend Itonum. Manage it in my name, and the name of Her Majesty, Queen Madelynne I. Prove yourself there, and no one will speak ill when you are eventually made lord, steward."

Finally he allowed himself to smirk at his own cleverness. "And next time you put the Free League in line you can sic your own dogs on them."

For how the knight stared down at his gift it might as well have been a second left arm, but as recognition dawned on him Orazio could see just how much a new home meant to his servant. Segelin of Itonum.

"Keep the flame lit while I am away, Segelin of Itonum. It's a task I could only ask of one so loyal to my family."

"Yes, my lord. But I must ask: why must you venture into the portal yourself?"

"Why, to show my peers just how wrong they've been. For if I have learned anything from my enemies, it is this: a good leader truly can be in two places at once."

[steppesthetic]

Hasic -- A Peaceful Interlude

It was no longer so easy for him. The actions of Diregate had left him crippled, directionless. He had never considered himself the greatest, the most forefront fighter; but he was a knight, so what was he without his right arm? He was no longer Lord Garibald’s right arm in Eastfold, or so he had been sure.

So it was not the hefty pension he received that surprised him as much as it was the appeal for help immediately afterward--build your estate, get comfortable, and run my duchy. “Duchy,” a deliberate use of the word, something the viscount would only say in the presence of Segelin or Sir Farnes. His ambition was plain, honest; and yet not even he dared voice just how badly he desired the rank that, in the lord’s mind, would finally seal his legitimacy in what had once been among Arathor’s richest, greatest provinces.

Segelin forwent armor. It did little in a true scuffle but to perhaps block the first blow--the second knifeman would always know where to strike next, under the armpits, to the groin. To win a war in Hasic one must be the first to strike, and preferably without bloodshed; for, if blood was spilt, noble or guild blood at that, there’d be no hope of resolving business in the anarchy.

And so Segelin forwent his knife, too. Clothing of his old house’s colors were replaced with black and gold, the right sleeve pinned to his buttons. His sword would be nothing in such a crowd, so he took it without fear of making a threat. This was how Segelin went to war now.

His bastion loomed over the central square of the city that had adopted him. It was a century-old monument to the Strom-sponsored count who had once ruled over the coast; then it was a home for the moguls and petty lords who had toppled him, but not the Garibald family that had saved them from Arathi wrath.

“Now all this will change.” Those were the first words the red-haired scion of House Harwyn and Garibald said to Segelin on his return.

To his credit much had changed, and for the better. The same multicolored penants fluttered over the Free League’s quarters in the old count’s home, but over that was the black and gold of House Garibald, and the sigil of House Albrecht over all that. The reaching oak had been carved over every doorway, his workstation as Eastfold’s viscount took a whole floor of the looming, fortified manor, and merchant and minister alike bowed to one of the last descendents of Arathi blood whenever he was near. All business came and went through his office, all ships stopped at his docks--others were merely allowed to collect his profit.

But now the lord was gone, and this had been his longest absence yet. In the darker parts of his mind, the reaches that still felt some tingling along his right arm and despaired, he doubted if the peace would hold without Lord Garibald.

By mid-morning all the men and women who were likely to show up had arrived, though they were no longer as punctual as before. The first order of business needn’t be announced or prefaced: they’d had this conversation weeks before.

The first speaker was typically the most insolent these days. Master Marca Guillam was no exception, a ruddy merchant of Kul Tiran stock. He paced around the meeting hall, not bothering to look up at Segelin’s elevated desk.

“... I was hoping the First Chair would speak on His Lordship’s behalf, truth be told. How many times do we think he can escape from captivity? Twice in a row, well, that would be an exceptional feat--wouldn’t it? That would certainly justify his recklessness! Just what will we do without the viscount here, or even able to send a message?”

Segelin tapped his gavel, more to get the man’s attention than to silence him. After many years of being the First Chair he still never considered himself a political operator--in fact, he was sure that was what kept him employed--but he knew well the value of being recognized, not ignored.

“There will be negotiations on how to release his lordship from Argent custody, but it is yet too soon to say if our men have even reached Blackmarsh, let alone the front.”

Marca huffed with a twitch of his brown mustache. “There’ve been executions before, sir knight. Lord Garibald is an arcanist--skilled, I’ve been told, if not that wise apparently. They won’t release him!”

“I did not know we had such a master tactician in our room today! And an archmagus at that!” Walter Bonezzo drew himself up, looking every bit like his mercenary father. “You forget yourself, Guillam. And more pertinent to the conversation, you forget Lord Garibald’s command. He is not in control of the front, most likely led by that… Duke. The Gilnean.”

“I forget nothing--not even your purchased title, my lord.” The merchant gave an elaborate bow, rising with a sneer. “Even given his general, it would have been the viscount’s fault for obeying whatever foolhardy command he was given that night. More importantly, be it his own mistake or no, Lord Orazio Garibald’s absence hurts us. Who can bring support from Lordaeron? Who can ensure that business runs smoothly in our great city? We allowed his rule because he protected us--”

Were Segelin younger, and still right-handed, he would have reached for his sword instead of the gavel. But he was interrupted, as was Master Guillam, by a gentle touch on the squat merchant’s shoulder. Where most would be happy to be in such close proximity to the black-haired beauty beside him, Marca looked nothing but flustered at being surprised so mid-rant.

“Bah--well, Lady Sienna. I take it you’ve something to add?”

“I thank you for being so kind, Mister Guillam.”

The Free League’s meetings were anything but a stand on ceremony, being barely as old as Segelin’s 40 years, but when Lady Agnese Sienna stepped into the clearing between the two camps she made the buzzing forum as silent and as stately as any proper court. With a knowing smile she bowed her head to the first chair, where Segelin resisted the urge to stand in her presence. Instead he gripped the arms of his chair and nodded back.

“... Lady Sienna, of Headsman’s Hill. I think I speak for all when I say that no one expected your presence at a meeting of the Free League.”

“No, I suppose none of you did. My husband was never fond of tradesmen, and he found the idea of their running a city, let alone an entire… viscounty, questionable at best--no offense to you great lords and moguls, of course.”

“None taken, my lady. You were to speak?”

She gave that soft smile again, a hint of her intelligence and mockery behind it but still as disarming as it ever was.

“Oh, heavens. Right. Regardless of my husband’s feelings, he has long departed and I fear our esteemed Lord Garibald may never find him. And with the viscount himself gone, I fear you are the men running this viscounty. Interesting it is, then, that you say you ‘allowed’ Lord Garibald his suzerainty over Eastfold. I believe it was his--our queen who appointed him as lord, not any of you.”

“You imply one could rule over this land without popular support, Lady Sienna.”

“You imply he sought that support through you. Lord Garibald arrived with an army on your doorstep, casting out the Syndicate thugs who had looted your town for years. Do you really think he needed your support to be Eastfold’s protector? You gave him his father’s title, other gestures which were empty to you, but strengthened his legitimacy. None of you spoke against his claims of Arathi blood. Some of you gave him household troops to fight Lady Marlow; the rest schemed against him… and failed.

“Hasic has always been a rather… rambunctious city, but I found it strangely quiet on my arrival. You may think the people are holding their breath for who might take over next, but in reality, well… if I were but a commoner in these streets I might simply wonder if you could manage a month sans his lordship without murdering each other in this very room.

“You people, those who have the audacity to call yourselves the Free League, had a choice. You could have asked my husband for help; but you chose not to, just as Lord Garibald chose not to support Niccolo’s campaign against the Alteraci invaders. It is too late now. You best hope the viscount survives, for there is not a soul left in this land that can keep you rats from fighting over this sinking ship.”

Though she kept her gaze low, her voice steady and clear, Lady Agnese’s bitterness was all but palpable to Sir Segelin. He had heard it before, and seen the lady on the verge of tears. Though no one dared speak it, it was nearly certain that Lord Garibald had had Lord Sienna killed, or exiled. He couldn’t bring himself to cast the woman out, and yet her words could hardly go without a response. He found himself rising from his seat and yet couldn’t muster the strength to step away from the dais. Instead he looked to the assembly, ready to rail against her, and cut off their scathing words.

“My lady, I assure you that Eastfold will not fall in his lordship’s absence. It is not the Free League that protects the Eastrun and its tributaries--it is I. And by the power granted to me, and by the support of all those in this city who love Lord Garibald, I will not allow this assembly to fall into anarchy… as it has in the past.”

The room rose in such an uproar that it pained the knight’s ears, made it feel as though the building itself were shaking. The camp of Marca Guillam were making the most fuss, but even the retainers of House Rosso, by far the smaller crowd and loyal to Lord Garibald, passed several scathing glances and fussed among themselves.

“You shall not speak that way of the Free League! We freed this city of Stromic tyranny, we appointed the viscount, we run this land! And no noble, no matter how popular, no matter how esteemed, will insult us so boldly--let alone his pet knight and his strumpet!”

With eyes shut he recalled days when he was nothing but a bravo on the streets, eager to cut down any man who spoke ill of a fair girl. They were comforting memories now. He could do no such thing today, and needed his gavel to do twice the work of a sword. It clamored against the desk, the knight hoping that its lack of use would make its effect more potent now, when it was most needed.

“Captain Muzio! Guofu! I need both of you inside, if you will!” He nearly shouted himself hoarse.

His bidding quieted the crowd more than any loud noise or threat, for their presence itself carried a threat no one could ignore. With a creaking the doors to the chamber opened, the magnificent carvings parting to show a Pandaren and a man. The human was short, wiry, aged, dark from his many years of retirement on the frontier. Guofu was unmistakable. No one had ever seen a creature both so comical and so intimidating in full plate, his grayed snout smiling good-naturedly to the lords as he bowed. In one hand there was an intricate, massive dragon halberd, in the other a cruel falchion of Stromic make.

They both looked expectantly to Segelin. For once he felt in control, secure with a competent command to fall back on. “Send a messenger to today’s plaintiffs, tell them they may enter when ready. In the meanwhile, could you stay here? I am afraid our assembly has grown somewhat rowdy.”

Muzio belatedly doffed his wide-brimmed hat before gesturing behind him, the sound of running down the side corridor following him. “‘Course, sir knight. I don’t want none of the ladies here feeling worried.”

He smiled, forgetting the charged air and relaxing back in his seat. “Talk of Lord Garibald’s capture has been tabled for now. Masters of the Free League, may I introduce you to Captain Muzio Fisher? To some of you older masters he may be familiar, but long ago he left Hasic for… ah, the weather had turned against him, almost in spite of his loyal service to our city. My lord’s champions found him on the frontier, guarding his family and friends with nothing more than a scratch militia, and they have provided excellent protection out on that bloody moor.

“His people are still out there, on the open plain. Two hundred, two and a half? Against thousands of Trolls, against a legion of undead. It is because of the meager bastion they clawed out on the high plains that there are no such armies threatening Trollgarde or Firstpass.”

Instinctively Segelin looked to the crowd among Marca Guillam, and found the tall, lanky figure of Lord Anwyl Clyff, his blonde hair and Arathi features standing out. He returned the look, nodded once. “Lord Garibald’s knight is correct. His militia have acted nothing short of valiantly in Eastfold’s defense.”

“Indeed, in all Arathor’s defense. Master Guofu has been so kind as to keep the peace in our city, and his presence has ensured that his fellow Pandaren settlers are treated with respect, dignity. He’s saved my lord’s life more than once, and, most importantly, makes an excellent cup of tea.

“Do you wonder what these two men need?” A rumbling came from below, far stronger than the sound of the messenger’s boots earlier.

“It was something Lord Garibald freely provided on his own, personally, using the great wealth this city provides to directly ensure its protection. He is, unfortunately, a prisoner, and as such can hardly access his own vaults. His wife, Light keep her safe, is also fighting desperately for our kingdom’s survival, and my lord’s speedy recovery. In short, my friends, Masters Guofu and Fisher need their money.”

The rumbling became a small quake as two dozen armored halberdiers stormed in two neat files from behind the captain and the bodyguard, lining the walls neatly, making a perfect formation. Segelin and Farnes had drilled the Hasican companies endlessly to form to perfect parade; in the absence of a victory to celebrate, their parading skills would be needed here. They could not have been more perfect if they had tried, and a warm rush of pride left Segelin grinning at the intimidating display.

“Not just the captains, though. Their people, our people, the men and women who march to war for your continued profit need pay so that they might continue their brave service. The House of Garibald’s words are ‘Spent and Spilt.’ More than enough blood has been shed in service of our city, my lords and ladies, and until now Lord Garibald has spent all the coin he could. Now it is your turn to follow his example, for however long it takes. Paymaster!”

The sergeant stepped forward into the center, a crisp salute offered up.

“I trust each and every one of you will be kind in your dealings with the companies’ paymaster. He is a patient man, but can’t stand clamor and loud noises. Do him a favor. Once you are finished arranging his further funding, this meeting of the Free League shall be adjourned.”

Only then did the first chair allow himself to step down from the dais, leaving the desk and with it the weight upon his shoulders. The two masses of nobles and businessmen merged into a spiraling queue--among them, Lord Clyff and Lady Sienna. With one hand he caught the paymaster’s attention, the man seeming alarmed at the sheer amount of money brought to the chamber for bribes and sealing deals.

“Sergeant, you will refuse all payment from House Sienna and House Clyff--not that I suspect they’ll insist.”

The young man blinked. “Aye, but--they’re prominent folk, like to have more money than most from the rural estates.”

“No, they’ve done enough. What’s been paid with blood need not be paid again with coin. Remember that.”

“‘Spent’n Spilt,’ sir.”

He nodded, once. Aye. Just as his lordship would have wanted.

[steppesthetic]

[Orazio Garibald] - Dark Hearts

Before the sun had even set the nearby Ebontide was pitch black, proving its namesake as it seemed to swallow all light between the shore Orazio stood on and Highpass, White Haven clinging to the near mountainside. Beyond that the many vales and valleys. Beyond that, the desolate Myrwood.

There had once been a time when Lord Garibald felt himself responsible for the frail, tiny woman’s safety. Wide eyes spoke of innocence preceding her age. She was soon to lose that. Eager to. It did not take long for her to-be husband to realize it was for the best: in this new Lordaeron it did not suit anyone, woman or man, to trust their ambition in someone else’s hands. She fought for her position at Ebonloch and fought to keep it thriving; meanwhile he struggled to provide her from protection from within just as he had struggled to keep her protected during the Grand Crusade.

Fortune favors the bold. It was a trite and common expression among the warring merchants of Hasic, with their plots and constant searching for opportunity. For however rote their renditions of the term were, however, Orazio could not fault Suzanne’s own use of it.

She had no choice but to be bold. To be reckless. At least that was what they both had learned.

Then would it be any surprise…?

The long march from Oaksfall seemed to finally take its toll, and he let his head fall into waiting hands. No, it couldn’t be. Jonas Mitchell’s manipulations still lingered in his mind. And how could they not? The blond bastard had used Orazio’s greatest, newest weakness. The greatest reminder that he was frail, no matter how strong his body or his connection to the Arcane.

"Father... why didn't you protect us?”

Marcus and Marcia were hardly of age to support their own heads, let alone speak or walk or gaze so lovingly at him--just as they did in Mitchell’s illusion. But it didn’t seem to matter in that moment. All the respect for Jonas’ abilities had turned into absolute hatred, blind rage at his bald-faced manipulation; but a moment after that and he had forgotten all his disdain for the deceptive man. All he could do was stare at the boy and girl, gaze in wonder at how they had grown, pour over to see if they might really grow to resemble so much their mother and father.

“Mother is... wrong…”

All that manipulation. The false prison, the care, the reports of his family’s safety and the dignity given to him as a man of noble--no, pure blood. It cut so deeply into him, dredged information from depths of his mind he never wished to see light. The inquisitor was nothing if not a man of ability and talent.

The marsh. It was a being whose true nature he saw in the bones that littered Grimstone’s lower reaches, in the carrion creatures that thrived off that legacy of suffering and its spawn. He feared its influence. Yes, he feared it, even when he wished to defend its practitioners. It would have been as easy for the inquisitor to find as the memories of his children, twisted as they were for his gaoling.

“We aren't who we should be, are we?”

It raised a question in the battle-mage’s mind. One which he dared not ask. It was so easy to dismiss just then, to stubbornly stick to his protection of Suzanne and his tacit acceptance of all the evils an ambitious woman must inflict to see her family protected. Was it not simply a play on Orazio’s insecurities, and could it even possibly be a sign of more than one guilty conscience?

If there was anyone full of guilt over the marsh’s use then it wasn’t Jonas himself. Indeed he had quite effortlessly committed himself to even more morally bankrupt incantations--or at the least more obviously bankrupt. The simple return of Lady LaVette’s primeval magic. Magic is magic. Tools are tools. The world exists not to have judgement be cast upon it, but to be mined, its strengths utilized. What was the marsh to a necromancer but another tool?

Aye, there could only be Lady LaVette herself. Orazio had distanced himself from the woman out of mere discomfort at her flirtations, something he could hardly afford if Jonas Mitchell indeed laced that manipulation of his with an inlaid truth. She had her own haunting demon, someone or something that made her mind blank, absent. Another false ghost to keep her too horrified to banish his magic, to play off her guilt if there was any to find.

His hands clenched for want of holding his sword, or else to make a fist with which to give Jonas’ meek face a parting punch.

"Yes... help Mister Mitchell, father. Any of them... make them pay for what they did... to us."

“But what did they do to you?”

It was whispered, so slight in sound that even the battle-mage could barely hear himself speak. He felt insane, so drawn in by what was nothing more than an illusion: and even if it was something more than that, it could have been nothing less than intentional. To drive a wedge between the veritable bloc of spellcasters, to cast doubt and suspicion within Lordaeron’s noble ranks, and to have Orazio cast a wary glance over his shoulder before making even the meekest of moves.

He had been that way once before, when he felt he could do nothing to save Suzanne from the preying of the Queen’s Gilnean Legion and their thugs, or from the infinite ranks of the Forsaken. It weakened him. It weakened all his efforts for the kingdom, whether his fears were justified or not.

Orazio Garibald would not let doubt grip him again. That much he had sworn at Diregate.

But it was obvious now that a certain stubbornness crippled him just as fear for his love once did. To examine Jonas’ illusions would be to cast doubt on Suzanne herself, to ask after his own allies’ motivations, and to interfere with his wife’s work in ways which neither of them had ever planned for nor wanted.

“Can you.. stop her? Mister Mitchell says he can fix us if you join him..."

No, he thought to the wide-eyed replicas of Marcus and Marcia speaking simultaneously to him, I will not join you. But I will see good done, if only to reverse whatever ill has befallen my real children. If only to make up for however I failed.

It would take a different kind of man to see this quest through. Orazio had twice fallen for Jonas Mitchell’s deceptions, and was close to falling for a third. The same stubbornness that had kept him so willingly blind to his wife’s activities was the same blindness that made him accept all that was before him. Neither was Suzanne naturally innocent, nor Jonas nothing but a liar. To keep his marriage intact one must be trusted far more than the other; but if something had indeed happened to dear Marcus, dear Marcia, then he must know. Not even Suzanne would keep the truth from him.

It was a certain deftness of mind which Orazio had not practiced in all too long, but it could be done. As he stood then in the darkening twilight and looked once more to the Ebontide he found it even more mysterious and opaque than before.

The quest for truth could well take him to the heart of darkness; and yet though Orazio shuddered, he found some small solace in his ability to accept that fear, and the very real dangers that came with it. Though the Chief Inspector title had long been taken from him, this might be the first time he would actually use it.

And this time, it would be for more than mere ranks or favors.

Orazio has lost: Hardheaded

Orazio has gained: Phobia (Unholy)

[ohtraveller-blog]

The press of milling people only served to make the pounding in Babak's head worse. Loud, swirling conversation, blended together in an unconscious stream of words that pressed on his ears. A drunk patron knocked him into the table, did the same to a few others down the line as he stumbled his way back to the bar.

Divinity's Reach would never be Babak's first choice for revelry, let alone a public house in the commons; but it was not his choice to make.

It was his man's favorite retreat, after all. And retired Seraph had earned their comfort, questionable as that comfort was to the Kournan lordling.

The man who caught Babak's eye from the entrance of the Busted Flagon was familiar, as much as any fuzzy image could be. He was the sort of man to be left on the fuzzy periphery, smiling in spite of fate's dictation that he be irrelevant. Retirement suited him well--almost as well as his belly, not quite making him unhealthy but certainly marking the good life at home.

Babak grinned despite himself, exhaling the sick air of the sick city. This was no time to be dour.

"Seraph Petrus!" As though Babak wasn't aware of his own massive figure he threw an arm up. "Come here! I've many rounds to buy you!"

Brown-haired, only dusted by gray, and that same handsome, unknowing smile--Petrus had not yet been struck low by his five-and-forty years. The lack of armor certainly made him look different, but he was recognizable enough for a former footsoldier. As he sat across from Babak he was no longer so exuberant. As he laid his coinpurse over the table the guard's eyes sought out his for a look more thoughtful than he hoped would be given.

"Ba--m'lord," the graying man began, "I know how hard times were after the lord's passing. Please, I can pay."

Were it a man less a friend to Turan Varesh Babak might have felt like throwing him out the tavern; but Petrus had been nothing but. The hot tightness in his chest subsided after a second. His right hand clenched briefly under the table while his left tipped the purse back to the softened guard.

"Put that away," he insisted. Softly. A bemused chuckle followed.

Petrus wouldn't insist, himself. He was used to taking orders. A shrug, and the pouch was gone. "Don't let no one say I refuse free drinks, even from the poor."

"If I was poor, Petrus, you wouldn't be here now."

The irreverent smile was gone for a moment. Awkwardly he brought up a finger to scratch at his nose, head tilted down. He had to catch himself, halt a bit before speaking again loud enough to carry over the insane din.

"Ye--yes, I heard 'bout that! And m'not here to haggle, m'lord. Can't get by on a pension--I thank the Six for Queen Jennah, but..."

Babak nodded, smiled. The smile came easily: their situations were similar, though for Petrus a loss of income was no great tragedy. It was life, a reality that needed fixing.

"... but it is not enough. I understand. You heard about the offer, then?"

"N'how couldn't I?! Word is you've half Queensdale's Winter harvest pouring into the market, you were asking for former Lionguard to take on. And after all that--then you send word to me."

He could feel his cringe, and it was too strong to stop. Already his windfall of gold--plus the savings--had dwindled to just enough. Just. Enough.

"I've no need to brief you, then!" His fingers drummed on the table. He couldn't quite make sure if Petrus had noticed the grimace. "I could have sent word sooner, yes, but I had to make sure the venture itself would work."

"And it will." The former guard leaned forward. Babak saw the hope in his eyes, and held onto the table to keep from reeling.

"It will."

Petrus nodded, scratched his nose. "... My pa was into the whole business thing, yes. He, uh, made damn sure I was aware of this: labor is expensive. An' I know those roads south can't be safe, heard that news after what happened to Lion's Arch.

"I've got some boys I know'll be interested. They're all old Seraph, the good ones. With us and those little Lionguard cubs you've been lookin' for... yeah, we'll show 'em how it's done. We're all lookin' for proper work, and with a proper lordling too. We talk out the price, we'll send it to ya. How bout it?"

Banded labor was almost as much trouble as a guild. Worse yet, they were soldiers; they would stick up for each other. But if there was any man living to whom they would show half the respect they gave each other, it'd be the son of the late Lord Varesh. Babak counted on this.

He nodded. He had no choice. The guard was overjoyed.

"Good! Good. We'll, uh--well, m'lord, I was worried your family fell off the edge after the lord's death, heard nothin' of ya."

"Save for Kartuk." Babak did nothing to hide his rueful smile. Petrus looked nigh embarrassed. He looked eager to change the subject, Six bless him.

"Well, yeah. But I have to ask, m'lord, what brought you to this? Runnin' caravans, well, I always figured you for a Seraph-to-be huh?"

"Father did, too." The lord bowed his head briefly in respect to the dead. 

What brought you to this?

His mind brought forward images of smuggled goods, hiding in warehouses. Blonde-haired ladies, so charming and skilled at discussing nothing, all eligible and beautiful. Families of the Ossan, all scrambling to keep their fortunes and cultures afloat. Oranges, too. Oranges and dusty old tomes with gold inlays.

Was he to explain that it was the smiling smuggler with smokey eyes? His itch to flee Divinity's Reach and never look back? A drunken tour around Salma markets? Or was he to give the boring answer, the most proper and perhaps most accurate: a man like Babak needed coin to trade for prestige, a good marriage, a suitable family name.

Somewhere in the moment between the question and Babak's race to find an answer Petrus looked up, looking something between shocked and delighted.

"Nevermind--this, this is the man. I've been meaning to tell you 'bout him! Not a bad one, for someone from the Arch. Knows his way in a fight, I'll tell ya that: ORAZIO!"

The weight of economic slumps and a boring home life left the old Seraph's shoulder's as he flagged down a red-headed man at the entrance. The years had been kinder to him, Orazio thought, until he saw the scarred and sunken face, the hollow beauty of a young man robbed youth, and robbed of more as he passed his prime. Even the gossipy comrade's smile he gave Petrus looked depressing--it only highlighted his wasted features.

Room was made between the first former guard and the thin, dour-looking man on his right. Orazio plugged the gap. Babak made sure to have his hand out to greet him as he sat.

"Orazio, I haven't heard much but... I suspect I was about to get an earful." As the two shook hands he chuckled, avoiding the hollow green stare. "But you are from the Arch, yes? Lionguard? I can't see Petrus here making friends with civilians."

"Neither can I, my lord." Orazio's rejoinder was tempered by something in his eyes--he pointedly avoided looking at Petrus.

"... I am afraid I'm not here to enjoy a drink, my lord Varesh. Petrus here spoke much about you but--well. There has been an incident."

"An--what?" The brunet blanched. He seemed to already know. Orazio looked to Babak with a tight grimace.

"A moment, my lord?"

They departed in a silence louder than the din around them, briefly ducking out the door. A few minutes later, and only Orazio returned.

"... His daughter took ill last week. I imagine he told you nothing about this, but you would be at a disadvantage after seeing that whole display. A horrible way to make an introduction, is it not?"

Orazio's eyes seemed to sink in even more now. Something about the look he cast down onto the table wasn't right. 

"... No, my friend, it is quite alright. Dwayna bless his girl."

"Yes, all the Six bless her. Might as well stop at all the shrines." He nodded down at the table. "He told me all about you, Petrus. You and your father--both an impressive pair. Said you even fit his old armor perfectly."

"Ah, well, I've much to live up to. Yes."

The former Lionguard lit up with a grin, strangely seeming more sincere than anything else he had said or done in their short meeting. He leaned forward.

"From one highborn's son to the other: I am quite sick of that talk. You are your own man, regardless. That you seek to prove it, here with this caravan? It is proof enough."

"We have yet to see it, my lord--but you are nobility?"

The depressed-looking man no longer looked so depressed as he threw his head back with a bark of a laugh. "HAH! Am I nobility? I cannot say one way or another, my lord. All I know is that I found a life where my blood means little, and it strangely suits my needs!

"You have been in Lion's Arch, Lord Varesh?"

He nodded. "That I have, before the attack and after. Awful mess, though at least it had the spark of life before."

A shrewd smirk. A wagging finger. "See, my lord, I had figured I saw you before. Never knew your name, but when I saw you, when I walked in the door..."

"We have met, then? There was a Lionguard ball, I remember. I attended, as a patron."

The look grew no less shrewd. Aside from his eyes, the former lord looked nearly embarrassed as he bit his lip. "No, I am afraid not. My lord..."

Clenching heat in his chest. Babak thumped the table, once.

"You mean to say you think you saw me in a... less flattering light?"

The other shook his head. "A less consistent light, I should say--less lamps down at the warehouses, I am afraid. Could have been anyone, but he did strike quite an imposing figure. Dressed in the most burly, exotic armor too. Long, black hair. A very similar man to yourself, very unique."

Orazio spoke quietly, every bit the rueful, meek, embarrassed former civil servant except for those keen green eyes focused on Babak's own. Strangely enough he was crystal clear over the tavern, which only seemed to whisper as the former nobleman lowered his voice.

"The one warehouse in particular... was the object of an investigation, once. We figured the syndicate responsible had cleared out by the time there was any suitable evidence--no names or faces to attach any accusations to!

"Anyone who was found near the Baroness Marlow, though... All interesting figures, I should say."

"Lady Marlow is my dear friend. You will make no accusations about her here, and never in front of me." Babak felt his hand ball into a fist. He brought no blade to level against the slanderer, but a gloved hand will do well enough against this one.

Orazio held both hands up, retreating in all but physical space. "--My lord! I, I cannot make any accusations! I am, after all, a former guard. But seeing you here confirms more than I would like to admit. And if rumors happened to spread..." He simply shook his head, eyes downcast once more.

"You are not here to guard my caravan." He could feel the back of his teeth gritting as he voiced the realization.

"No, Babak, I am not." Another sad smile, a shake of his head as he pulled some papers from a satchel. "I am here for a client. And he needs a bulk order. You and this... Captain Windborne? Another interesting friend. You will have it delivered."

[steppesthetic]

Charlotte Marlow - All that We Have, Part 1

The beginning of a multi-part story. The next chapter should come very soon when I feel like it.

It was rare for Charlotte Marlow to find herself dreaming, but when she did it was the same dream, each time.

It had been her hodgepodge army against Lord Garibald’s. To press her claim to her own slice of Eastfold she had to drive out the man who wanted to take it all, who called himself the heir to Duke Harwynn. To that end both scrambled together the houses of men who would sooner stab either of them in the back--but they didn’t even manage that, cowards that they were.

She had come so close.

The flanks folded, the Hasican banners scrambling while the Queen’s Men held, pinned, in the center. It had all been so fast. The left spur open, the summit the last obstacle between her and Hasic. Lord Garibald’s banner, his makeshift citadel, his oversized battery of mismatched cannon--none of it would stop her, and with her men smelling victory they forgot all ideas of betrayal.

For the first time the acrid blinding gunsmoke smelled sweet to her, brought sweet tears to her eyes as she flew through it to reach the pretender’s camp. The sweetest sight in the world, for even as Lord Orazio Garibald exposed himself to immolate her troops, bring forth that magic she daren’t summon, she saw fear in his eyes. It almost felt like victory.

The screeching of her cell was enough to remind her that it was not.

“My lady,” a deep, strange voice called from outside, “you are to be presented.”

The light from the window of the opposite shadow cast Guofu in silhouette but she recognized him all the same--who could forget his figure? The rotund, elderly Pandaren was about the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen in full plate, but he seemed to carry it well. And he was proper enough in his respect.

“So it is time,” the baroness allowed herself to say.

“Of course, my lady,” he replied, “time for you to be presented.”

Charlotte stood and once again noted how odd this dungeon truly was. Most were dark, some so dark the prisoners would forget the light’s existence, forget hope. But here, no. The Hasicans loved to put their prisoners on display, and so here she was, given a portrait window to the outside world that loomed up from the gutter surrounding the central plaza. She was an exhibit in a zoo, a rebel dressed in the finest silks only to ruin them in her cell, awaiting her death.

“The people will be disappointed without their entertainment.” Her voice echoed until it seemed to boom out of the cell window. “Lord Garibald hates disappointing his people.”

“He is a just and kind lord,” Guofo was most pleased to reply. By his kindly smile and near-reverent bow of the head, he seemed to take her words as nothing but a compliment.

Six months, and for all his excellent Common and pretty words the Pandaren guard had had nary a conversation with her. The exchanges between them served no purpose but to make the baroness feel she no longer knew how to speak, that the words leaving her mouth no longer made any sense.

“You were always awful at conversation, Guofu, but I thank you for taking care of me.”

“I serve to the viscount’s pleasure, my lady. He will be pleased to know you have been cared for.”

She stepped forward, picking up the mucked hem of that bright blue dress given to her--the colors of House Ambroise, her birthright, always blue and gold. The viscount had a wicked sense of humor. The Pandaren’s smile was as it always was: warm, inscrutable. The graying whiskers around his snout were what led Charlotte to guess Guofu’s age--much too old to be on the battlefield, she was certain.

With a shock up her spine the woman realized this would be the last friend she had ever had. If she was right about the reason why her cell door was open, why her guard was standing beside it, why she felt the presence of other men lining the dungeon outside.

“Orazio’s finally made up his mind, has he?” Her voice came out weak. She had hoped using his given name would fire up some flame of rebellion, but it wasn’t there. Her execution was at hand, and no amount of dreaming would push that reality away--she had lost. Could she do nothing but whisper at it?

“Lord Garibald is a busy man, but he has finally returned home.”

“Did he wish to see it himself?” She tried to sneer, tried to put some venom to spit at this panda-man in her rival’s absence, but felt more tired than anything. Not even fear shook her, just a shivering weakness. Despite it all she knew she was strong enough to stand, and so she did--never would she buckle and be carried like some weepy waif.

All the same a hand came out to steady her swaying--clad in bright steel, fur bunching up at the wrist. Strong, for all the wrinkles and mottled scars hidden under his gray fur.

“What is it, my lady, you think he wishes to see?” The voice came out as low as her own, barely a breath to keep it from reverberating down the stony halls.

“My death,” she sighed out. She felt something leave her then--more strength? Why did he make her wait so long for this moment?

“If my lord wishes you to die, my lady, he will have wasted many dresses.”

Behind the massive guard Charlotte spied the glint of gold against a deep recess of sable. The gown for this latest day in captivity was different from the others, colored and embroidered in the sigil of House Garibald, oak leaves and branches twining around the black bodice. It was an insult, one of the highest order--but not death. Charlotte found it remarkably easy to remind herself of that fact.

“As I said, my lady, you are to be presented. There will be handmaidens to see you washed, fed, clothed.”