#stenden

[secretprisonhusband]

anyone know where I can get older hollyoaks episodes (yes brendan brady era 2010-2013) that isnt uksoapshare/filefactory? keep getting an error/unavailable 😩

[starlightcandythings]

Nobody is gonna match with Aaron only Robert same with HO with Ste and Brenden 

after Brenden left they put Ste with nearly every guy on the show but nothing beats Stenden or Robron  

[thepilgrimofwar]

Bad Influence

Whistling a jaunty tune, Vissehn hip-bumped his way into Stenden’s office. Despite the late hour, he knew the young Lord would be awake. “Goooood evenin’ my fine friend, how is th’Lord of the Emberglades after sucha fine war-meetin?” He waggled a pair of bottles towards Stenden.

Having changed out of the stiff formal wear, he wore a loose grey tunic with the sleeves torn free, exposing the pale copper of his arms and the multitude of freckles, and the musculature that had been gained in the Phoenix Wars. His feet were bare and his hair wild as he closed the distance. Sliding onto Stenden’s desk, he flopped onto his back. “Celebrate wiv me!”

Stenden squinted at his friend, and then sniffed his friend to check exactly how much of his bottle had already been emptied without him. “You’re drunk,” he said, almost redundantly as Vissehn slid across his desk, knocking over miscellaneous papers and stationery of no great importance. 

The Lord of the Emberglades considered chiding him for a moment but chose to lean back into his chair instead. “But I suppose today’s proceedings are worthy of some celebrations,” the boy reached out for the other bottle. He had enjoyed his fair share of alcohol in his time, just never straight from the bottle and never unsupervised. But this week had been full of many firsts for him as Lord of the Emberglades. Why stop there?

“I’m not yet piss drunk, so I’ve got aways to go!” He laughed and pushed off another stack of envelopes, cat-like in his destruction. When the bottle was taken from him, though, he crowed and sat up, lifting his own in victory. “Yeah! Yer a Lord now, sometimes ye gotta take the wins when you gottem!”

Taking another pull, he bounced his leg. “There’s gonna be more’n a fair share of moments where there’s naught to celebrate, so we’ll enjoy this one.” He clinked his bottle against Stenden’s. “So, hows a Lordling celebrate wivout his friend Fish around normally?”

Stenden initially takes a sip, then, once that initiation was passed, he took a swig and wiped his mouth on his arm in a manner that he thought what rougher men would do. The look did not fit the soft spoken boy, but it did not stop his enthusiasm. “I don’t, typically.”

He does a small elbow pump at his waist and did a small jig of success, “that’s about it really. Apart from- you know- smiling the rest of the day.” The boy shrugged. “But this is good, an appropriately bigger celebration for a big win.”

Once Judereth came in to meet with him on the morrow, it would be likely that the rebellion would be down to just Arenias himself. Forced to fight on two fronts with Muroco Rockhoof, an esteemed warrior by reputation alone, causing as much chaos as physically possible on one of them. The war had turned in his favour and for the first time in a week, he breathed easy. Anxiety in his chest had begun to loosen its grip on him.

Vissehn grinned at the boyish victory dance, and a laugh poured from him. “D’aww, yer grandmarm’d be proud, you such an unstandin’ young lad as all that.” He snorted and sat up straight, even though it caused the room to spin. “Near enough I reckon, though, yer old enough to be livin’ life the way us -adults- do.”

He waggled his brows, knowing how short the stretch of years between them was. Nevertheless, he made a show of pulling himself to his full height. 

“Now, as yer agent I am here for -you- in all ways, so, how’s our Lord of the Emberglades wanna spend his evenin’ of victory?” He laughed delightedly at the sound of the words. “Say it, and it shall be done, assumin’ it don’t require sobriety.”

“Well,” Stenden began, putting in some pre-alcohol induced thought before his senses fully left him. “You climbed through the window here. Think you could make it onto the roof?” The boy paused. “Do you think I could make it onto the roof?” Based on his tumble and shove from a few days prior, he certainly had the training for it. But perhaps not the lack of restraint that had stopped him in the past.

The youths eyes grew wide with delight, pupils blown wide. “Lookie there! Ye do have somethin’ yer age behind those eyes.” He leaned forward and stage whispered. “I have climbed all these roofs, an’ if yer as light an’ quick on yer feet as that shove says you are, well, you too can be King of the Mountain on this here manor.” 

Flinging himself off the desk, he almost started for the window before sticking one hand straight up. “Ah!” Turning his back to Stenden so the other youth wouldn’t see exactly where it came from, Vissehn reached between the slim space at the front of his binder and withdrew a small, wrapped object. Traipsing to one of the candles, he lit the end of it and let it hang off his lips as he then bowed to Stenden.

“Lords first, afterall, yer the victor tonight.”

Stenden took another swig from his bottle and then with a small amount of flair, he tucked the drink into the band of his belt and climbed onto the window sill. He reached up, felt a grip at the upper end of the frame, and pulled, clumsily at first.

“How’d you make it look so easy?” His legs dangled at the window, kicking as he lifted himself and got a better grip on the wooden supports of the roof above.

“Practice!” Vissehn stepped in behind Stenden, and offered his shoulder for a boost. “Just put yer hips an’ arse into it, ye’ll get it!” He took a puff of the bloodthistle.

When it seemed the young lord had a good grip, Vissehn slipped under his legs and put one on each of his shoulders, pushing Stenden up higher. “There ye go, just haul yerself up right nice, and we’ll have our victory on the roofs!” He patted Stenden’s thigh as the other moved up.

Once Stenden was most of the way up, Vissehn scrambled after, all ungainly elbows and knees. He was quicker at it, from practice, though the liquor in his veins made him less graceful and more squirmy.

With Vissehn’s help, the boy scampers onto the roof, flopping forward on his belly until he finally lay flat. Stenden then rolled on his back, uncorked the bottle once more and took a big swig while watching the skies above. It was a cloudless night, and though there was a chill of midnight breeze rushing by him, the alcohol kept him warm.

“Victory,” he muttered as he raised his bottle towards the stars.

Vissehn reached to the back of Stenden’s head just as the lad was flopping over, and pulled free the tie holding back his hair. “Come on, yer on a roof with a good bottle and a fair friend, let this go.” He twined the ribbon around his fingers, about to toss it into the wind… before thinking better of it. He slipped the small cloth into his pocket instead and took a swig of his own bottle as well.

Staring up at the stars, he sighed happily. “Now this is the life. Big open sky, good booze, good friend, nothin’ but endless tomorrows an’ new things to come.” He lipped the joint briefly, before plucking it up and offering it towards Stenden.

He squinted at it, then took a deep breath and almost immediately started hacking like a cat with a hairball. It burned at his throat, and reflexively attempted to wash it down with alcohol that simply made the sensation worse. Stenden laughed, coughed, laughed, and hacked again as the alcohol began setting in.

“Indeed!-” he exclaimed between heaves. “This is the life.” Stenden’s hair whipped about him in the wind, and he tucked it over one shoulder to keep it tame. “The future used to scare me. Endless tomorrows had always meant endless dangerous, endless challenges, and endless duty. But this? I could never have predicted this lay in my future. And this isn’t so bad.”

Vissehn snickered at the youths attempt. “Not bad-- your first try?” He took a puff, letting the smoke curl away after a moment, pursing his lips so it made a pretty trail in the air. “Ain’t no reason to fear tomorrow. It’ll come, fear or not, and it only carries promise. You fucked up bad today? You got tomorrow to fix it up. There’ll be challenges, but somethings are wonderful an’ they’re just a moment, somethin’ you’d miss if nothin’ changed.”

Glancing at the younger boy, Vissehn’s gaze softened and he took a long slow drag, letting the bloodthistle burn in his lungs. “And this ain’t so bad at all.”

Humming the tune he’d created, he washed away the burn with the liquor, smacking his lips. “So, Stenden, if this ain’t what you predicted, tell me what future ye saw for yerself the moment Sederis kicked it an’ you were given the Emberglades-- what endless tomorrows did you see afore you that made you so scared of ‘em?”

“With how the war was going at the very start of the Phoenix Wars?” He took a more relaxed breath of the joint, letting it in and then exhaling sharply. “The Alliance marching down the passes, and the Glades arming every man-woman-and-child to resist. Dame Everleigh would not have wanted to cause a massacre, but we’d force one on her. Then, Nelio Goodember possibly ceding to those blue flags in exchange of occupation for peace.”

“That hung over my head for the opening months, until their attention was pulled elsewhere. Then tomorrow brought the risk of famine, as the crops failed from winter. Then the risk of the population growing weary of the war, and rising up in arms.”

“Then after the War ended, tomorrow brought the risk of the war we’re fighting right now. Arenias was always going to move once the war was done. I just had never expected him to be stupid enough to attempt such a thing during my Uncle’s funeral- With all his friends from the Guard present.”

“Hey, tomorrow brought th’worst it could-- grandpap tried to smother ye in the cradle while yer uncle went to th’grave. An’ look how its going for him!” Vissehn jabbed at the air, shifting on the roof as though he were in a boxing match. “Fuckin’ with th’best-- and me-- The Sunguard had to offer, losin’ allies, losin’ neutralities. He’s on the backfoot, an’ you’re pressing the advantage! 

His voice changed as he cupped a hand around it, growing higher but threadier-- a goblin announcer voice. “Look, Stenden’s goin’ in for a hook! Arenias takes it like a stiff, and oh Light lookit that footwork from the boy-Lord, by gold, he’s goin’ in for a takedown! Arenias won’t have seen that coming, and there he goes down, down!”

Reaching over, he grabbed Stenden’s arm and made him lift into the air while he slapped the tile roof with his other hand. “One-- Two-- Three!” He crowed, and mimicked a roaring crowd. “And that’s the match, folks, our new Lord of the Emberglades, the golden boy with a heart of fire, pretty as a picture an’ twice as heartless, the one, the only, STENDEN EMBERHEART!”

He roared the name to the night, and then dropped Stenden’s arm as he was wracked with giggles.

Stenden laughed into the night, letting it rise into the night sky without a care in the world. His friend was right of course. So far, his tomorrows have meant new challenges to rise to. New ways to prove himself. At every turn he had been undermined and underestimated. No doubt because they thought he was weak- the boy who’d hide behind his mother’s skirts as a child. But when given the chance to stand on his own two feet- Without Solendis guiding his every move- Without Relriah to shield him from the world- authority seemed to suit him. Though, perhaps not the bloodshed done in his name.

“Viss,” he cut his friend’s name short, as the concoction of alcohol and bloodthistle began to mix and muddle. “You’ll be sticking round after this is over aren’t you? You said you’ll give a pass to a parcel of land when I first asked for your help.”

The youth looked over at Stenden, shaggy hair falling in his eyes as he watched his friend laugh. In the light of moons and stars, Vissehn was written in softer lines, the curve of his smile less biting, the lean length of him rendered young and unfinished rather than the slim assurance of him.

Propping himself up on an elbow, he snorted. “Ye can’t be rid of me that fast, a war ain’t enough to scare the likes of me away. I might have short ears an’ blue eyes but I know a friend when I see one.” He punched Stenden’s shoulder affectionately. “I’m a rover by nature, but I said I could sit a spell here, didn’t I? I meant it.” 

He grabbed the bottleneck and shook the remains. “With such a staunch pal as yer ol’ Fish friend, I think I’ve earned the last of this bottle.” Vissehn downed it rapidly, trying to soak in the cool night, the warm burn of liquor in his belly, the presence of Stenden and the chill of the roof beneath. 

A life always changed, he knew, and he wouldn’t stop it-- but this moment, he knew, would be precious someday. In the way a sculptor can feel the shape of the masterpiece in the marble, he felt the nostalgia blossom from his thoughts, making the night hazy and gilded while at once being so stark as to cut through all thoughts of anything like tomorrows or the future.

“So long as ye got a space for me, I think I’ll linger on.” Vissehn drawled low and slow. “Just don’t be forgettin to make a space, else you’ll be losing me.”

Stenden watched as his friend downed the last of the bottle, then staring out into the stars. “I will,” he promised- he wished. Not knowing if life would accommodate it. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had Viss. I’d spend the holidays in Dawnveil, playing with the other children of the servants there. But they were always distant the way that acquaintances are since I came and went with the seasons.”

He rolled over to his side and gave a wry smile. “Thank you,” said the Lord of the Emberglades, who had been reminded what it was like to be his age. “You’ve kept me sane in these wild times- and I’m not sure if the manor would be as tolerable without you around to spruce up the place with your spirits.”

After he had said his peace, Stenden finally began to relax again, letting the sombre lows turn back into a contented high as he watched the clouds begin to roll through the night sky. Committing the moment to memory as well. A small respite from the decorum of nobility. A chance to be a boy, even for just a moment.

--

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel

[thepilgrimofwar]

Warplanning 2 - Edited Roll20 Log

[Backdated from after Breaking the Line & The Wintergales, and before The Whole Hog]

[Event Start]

Days had passed since the start of the civil war and the weight of it all seemed to bear down upon the members of house Emberheart. Dark rings could be seen beneath the eyes of Solendis and his son Stenden. Sleep did not come easy for either of them. One, worrying about the life of his son, the other, worrying about the lives of his people. The Lord and his Steward both did what they thought was best, but so far, had nothing to show for it apart from the coalition that gathered before them.

Judereth and Relriah had both opted to stay on the frontlines with the other officers at the head of their militiamen. Keeping up the fight against Illithia as they gained ground from their initial winnings. Zarannis too had decided to stay on a frontline of her own, keeping an eye and ear on Mediea Wintergale, and speaking with her sister Illsei. She believed that decisions moving forward were left to those ready to make them and as the party gathered in the War-Room the unfolding of what was to come would soon become clear.

[Banter]

Thanidiel spends a long, long, drawn-out moment staring at Beathyn particularly. Then to Renalays. Then to Beathyn. Just Beathyn. Her long platinum brows entrench in the polar opposite of 'pleasure.'

Kebha is about as focused as she's ever going to be, which is not a lot. Her ear flicks as Thanidiel edges closer.

Lirelle looks between Renalays and the woman on the opposite side of her. She looks askance at Thanidiel briefly before turning to the inquisitor. "What are you doing here?"

Thanidiel definitely seems to prefer the Illidari over the -Inquisitor.-

Ethalarian sits with his arms folded over his chest, leaned back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table like the uncouth dirt farmer he is.

Stenden looks across the table to all the officers who came today. The rest were seeing to their troops at the front no doubt. "Thank you all for coming." The boy gestured to the walls where briefings and reports on the major players in the conflict. "If you need to get up to speed, especially for the new comers, feel free to have a gander." He said, in reference to the Inquisitor and the Illidari who both seemed to cause tension with their very existence in the war room.

Vissehn yawns and scratches under his arm, looking unkempt and delightfully uncouth. He waves to the others, before listening to Stenden with the fullness of his short attention span.

Kebha seems to be absolutely oblivious to this tension- but then, she also doesn't see a problem with her eating habits. She instead chooses to bounce on her heels, 'looking' down the table at the assembled lot.

Vissehn:"Oi, hail scary Inquisitor lady. Eat any babies t'day?"

Renalays:"Sir Valcinder -humbly- requested my presence here on behalf of the Lord Emberheart here. Not that it has been an inconvenience; the Inquisitors have been... sorting the Kingdom province by province, as it were."

"Are you offering?"

Vissehn makes a show of warding off danger, feigning a stricken look.

[Planning Starts Proper, Summary of Turn 1]

Solendis:"So now that we're all gathered: Goodember is in our custody. The frontline against his realm of Shalemarch is holding for now. The Illithian front has gone well thanks to your efforts- And House Wintergale has, just last night, declare their loyalty and support."

Thanidiel:"I assume Fish saved the day in the Cloudrend Glades?" That's a veiled insult.

Lirelle:"Hm. Wasn't aware you knew each other."

Thanidiel:"Don't."

Renalays:"Are you ashamed of your service, Phoenix Guard Highdawn? No matter - this is not the time to coddle or press egos."

Beathyn clears his throat loudly and dramatically, attempting to keep some ensemble of order on Solendis' behalf. "As per our agreement that we came to," he gestures towards the compatriots of the diplomatic team of Vissehn and Renalays. "He will be providing us verbal support and access through the Cloudrend Glades. He won't however, be providing soldiers for the war effort unless he is attacked by House Illithia directly."

Isilos raises an eyebrow at the mention of his Nephew's organization before slienlly returning to the table and ignoring the rabble.

Lirelle squints at this weird shared history. Right.

Thanidiel stares at the Inquisitor for a steady moment - the vile burning bright in her felfire eye before she huffs and focuses on the report. "That's good," she can -at least- claim.

Thanidiel:"It would be harder if we had to drag him by his ancient ear from skirmish to skirmish."

Stenden:"Going by how old he is, that ear might come off."

Thanidiel:"Withdrawing support whenever things bothered him again would have struck the morale."

Lirelle:"It saves us the trouble of having one last player to deal with after this is over. As long as he keeps his word."

Kebha loses interest in the table, and retreats to crouch on those lovely chairs right there like some kind of weird, folded gremlin. She can hear just fine from here thanks.

Solendis gave his son a LOOK. Which chided him back to a more official tone.

Vissehn:"He's piss-scared of throwin' lots. Wants to be independent an' his own entity."

Vissehn shoots a look to Solendis, and murmurs to Stenden.

Ethalarian 's eyes flick back and forth between Renalays and Thanidiel, but he doesn't seem interested in saying or doing much. Above his paygrade, probably.

From Vissehn: "Might rip off half his face wivit, yeah? He'd look a right horror, like from Northrend."

Renalays:"Exactly. Complacency is what we need from your people. Not a... tenuous simulation of it."

[Wintergale gives nominal support]

Stenden folded his arms. "So, what should we do about this development. Before we move on to... Other affairs that need dealing with." Stenden looked to the military minds at the table.

Esheyn also chooses not to get involved in... any of that. She folds her arms across her chest, listening silently.

Lirelle:"Zarannis will keep him in line, one way or another. There are other things more important for now."

Oosaarn released a frosted breath into the air with a snort. "Don't suppose they would simply follow whoever kills their leader."

Beathyn flings his arms into the air at Oosaarn's comment. "That's what I kept saying!"

Renalays:"Inefficient."

Beathyn gives a look at Renalays.

Oosaarn:"It's the only way Warsong decide who's right."

Renalays:"The Sin'dorei do not rally as easily as the other cultures of the Horde."

Kebha perks up at that- that was what she was good at. The killing thing. The talking thing, not so much.

Renalays:"They would spend weeks, if not months, fixing together all of their pieces into a different puzzle with different names."

Ethalarian exhales a long sigh through his nose.

Renalays:"Less energy dedicated to -killing.-"

Oosaarn:"Just saying. The other person can't win the argument if they can't argue."

Vissehn jerks a thumb towards Renalays. "His death can wait til the present unpleasantness is done."

Solendis:"So, logically speaking. We could start up a Western front against Illithia. Only real question is, how much ought we invest into this- and does the Coalition wish to be part of it- Rather than continuing to advance as they are now against the more defensible frontlne."

Thanidiel:"A token force would demonstrate 'allyship' between Wintergale and Emberheart."

"Otherwise, I doubt Illithia has interest in traversing the Cloudrend Glades either."

Stenden tapped his finger on the map. "So, a token force. Diversion perhaps to draw numbers away from the east?"

Thanidiel:"Possibly. It's easy to feign numbers."

Thanidiel:"Tie branches to the horses' tails, burn more fires than there are squadrons every night. Yes?"

Lirelle:"If you intend to create a diversion, you still send -enough- men to handle being a diversion."

Renalays gestures her gloved hand in Thanidiel's direction. For both seeming to -dislike- each other, they're almost speaking like two halves of the same weapon.

[Muroco offers Rockhoof Guerilla Warfare.]

Muroco:"I can act as a diversion."

Thanidiel:"Honestly I like that."

Oosaarn:"I would like to see the Grimtotem acting like a diversion."

Stenden looks at Muroco. "I'm listening." His ears perked up at the sound of that.

Thanidiel:"He counts for thirty of your ill-fed Northerners."

Lirelle:"That is honestly not a terrible idea."

Muroco bangs his fist on Mammoth with a resounding thud. "Your locals aren't used to seeing someone like me, and they haven't seen Grimtotem tactics before."

Ethalarian arches a brow in the big Tauren's direction. "I didn't realize smashing everything in sight to a pulp was tactics." He scratches at his chin. "It works for you, though."

From Lirelle: you could do an event for mark when hes got free time since he's not around as much

Thanidiel:"Grimtotem are quite known for guerrilla warfare amongst the Shu'Halo."

Oosaarn:"It's called psychological warfare."

Muroco:"They're going to smash themselves into a pulp against me."

Oosaarn:"And also regular warfare."

Stenden:"It'll spread our forces more thin, but if you believe you can do so, I can give you one division of troops for support. If you can instruct them- I am certain they will be very useful to you."

From Lirelle: or he can write a story cause he's really good with those, you can talk with him imo

Kebha nods in the background. "The big one is good."

Muroco is now a leader of fledgling guerilla fighters to-be.

[The Fate of Nelio Goodember]

Stenden turns their attention back to the front. "So. Now onto the other matter at hand. Nelio Goodember."

Renalays:"Ah, you have contained the fat bastard?"

Oosaarn:"Horrible name."

Renalays:"His petition records at the Magistrate annoy me."

Kebha subtly perks up, resting her cheek in a clawed hand and looking like she might actually be paying attention.

Vissehn beamed. "I dangled him off a balcony!"

Nelio Goodember is dragged into the room, bound, but not gagged. "UNHAND ME!" he screeches as he gets shoved onwards into the corner of the war room.

Renalays:"Did you break your wrist in the process or did your youthful years prepare you for that?"

"Hello there, Lord Goodember."

Lirelle:"Oh for fucks sake. Who thought it was a good idea to drag him in here?"

Vissehn laughs at Renalays, brows waggling at her.

Kebha literally hisses at the loud bastard.

Oosaarn:"You're surrounded by enemies. And at least half of us don't so much as blink at the idea of removing someone's head. Best to keep a silver tongue."

civil*

Thanidiel:"What the orc said. Shut your jowls."

Solendis gives a wry smile. "My idea, I think it was best to let him listen to his fate as he's decided- and to plead his case accordingly." He walks up to Nelio. "Hello friend."

Lirelle sighs. Fucking diplomats man.

Ethalarian glances up and leans forward to take a peek around Esheyn at the bicc boi currently dragged into the room. He grunts and then goes back to being a grouch and leaning back. Exactly what he figured one of these northerners to look like.

Nelio Goodember pouts and shuts up for now. Not wanting to aggravate the warriors with a blood thirsty reputation. "Well?"

Vissehn waves to Nelio. "Oi! Nice seein' ye again! Thanks fer cushioning my landin!"

Oosaarn just... marched right up to the trio and sized up Goldmember. "Could untie him and let my worgs chase him around until he feels like being cooperative."

Esheyn glances to Ethalarian with a shrug as he takes a better look around her. She comes to lean against the table when she turns to face Goodember and the others, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Kebha:"He looks like he would make good crackling, no?"

Vissehn elbows Stenden. "See, I got manners."

Stenden speaks up. "So. I've been told I should execute you."

Nelio Goodember visibly sweats as the orc steps up to him. "W- Worgs?"

Oosaarn:"Yes. Giant wolves. Worth ten of your pitiful chickens."

Thanidiel:"I'll repeat myself and my say that I dislike the concept of killing him if we can use him. Shove him back in the dungeon with his House's seal and give him a treat every time he stamps off orders for his people on our behalf."

Ethalarian throws a hand up and shakes his head in Esheyn's direction. "You could also let Muroco just step on him a little at a time." He tips his chair back on two legs now. "Unbroken bones make for good bargaining chips."

Muroco:"True."

"I could break the bones he can live without."

Kebha:"Ooooh! Can we hear his toes crunch?"

Oosaarn:"Mokra hasn't tasted elven flesh since the second war."

Muroco:"He's too corpulent. He won't put up much of a race against worgs."

Solendis:"Bargaining chip sounds the most useful. But by not just having his head- I fear we will be sending the wrong message about how we see traitors."

Vissehn looks to Stenden. "What you wanting for him?"

Vissehn:"You're the Lord here, we're offerin' the peanut gallery of commentary."

Thanidiel:"Fish has a point for you, Lordling. In the end, we stand by your choices whether they feed us or burn us." That's... not comforting in spite of the -fervent- loyalty expressed.

Ethalarian visibly cringes. Smooth, Thanidiel.

Stenden looks at Vissehn, and at the man that was visibly shrinking by the moment into the corner of the room. "I'll hear everything at my disposal first. What I want is for the realm to stop tearing itself apart- and how we handle this... Traitor, will determine that." He gives his agent a nod. Wait, see. For now at least, he supposed. 

Thanidiel doesn't seem concerened at all. 

[Judereth Swiftquiver nominated to rule Shalemarch]

Lirelle:"He has no worth to us as a prisoner, he is simply consuming resources. What Highdawn said is made much more smoother if someone else is in charge of Shalemarch. Someone capable. And loyal."

Renalays:"Do you have a recommendation then, Lady Dawnbrook?"

Solendis snaps his fingers at Lirelle. "What was that? Who would that be?"

Lirelle:"I'm sure you have minor lords that you could elevate to that position, those who have served your family all this time. Failing that, give it to Judereth. She is capable enough, and you no longer have the Black Banner to call on. Someone martial is not out of the question."

Oosaarn:"I offer no useful advice except that which entertains me. Former general. Not diplomat."

Nelio Goodember sweats more.

Renalays:"Judereth is an individual that the State would appreciate in control of Shalemarch."

"She has merit and war to her."

Kebha hasn't a sane thought in her head, she is not the one to be asking.

Solendis scratches his chin. "That would work. She's known to the peasants as a good leader too."

Solendis:"So where does that leave you?" he looks at about to-be-not-Lord Goodember.

Renalays:"It sets the tone as well for your government, I will preface, however, Lord Emberheart. Embrace one group to alienate others."

"Although, your uncle and his father before him had no taste for noble-blooded aristocracy and I suspect you have some inkling of that in you."

Vissehn looked to Renalays. "Stenden ain't neither of them, he's willin' to do what it takes."

Nelio Goodember:"I have-" he paused. Gold? That'd be ceased. Influence? In chains? "I have the love of the people? I pulled them from poverty and kept them well cared for in a time of heavy Horde levies- If you remove me, I believe any still loyal are likely to resist the decision!"

Oosaarn:"Want my advice? Side with those whose loyalty and honor are iron. Not sniveling nobles who more likely to respect their dinner plate than you."

Renalays:"I will believe that when he takes after the traditions." She stares plainly at Stenden, "A leader should fight, like the Farstriders who warden and guide us."

Ethalarian rolls his eyes.

Stenden sighed and joined his father. "I am the Emberglades." he says coldly. Looking at Renalays, he gives a small smile and a nod. "I can't please everyone. But I can keep the peace, even if it costs blood."

Thanidiel:"--Lady Illithia spills enough for her family."

Muroco:"Want me to punch him in the stomach for you?"

Stenden frowns but says nothing at Thanidiel's comment.

Lirelle:"Enough Brat. He is a child. If he dies on the front lines, this becomes an even bigger mess than it already is."

Oosaarn:"Too easy of a target."

Vissehn bristles visibly but says nothing.

Ethalarian:"Much as I'm loathe to admit it, the fat bastard raises a valid point." He turns his attention to Lirelle. "How certain are you that this replacement of yours won't have to contend with sedition from within?"

Renalays scoffs behind her white mask - more reigned by Lirelle than anyone else who had barked back at her.

Lirelle:"I don't know, and I don't care. His subjects love his money more than they love him. Any disorganised mob that forms can be easily crushed."

"If necessary I will remain here with the Crows to handle any sort of consequences."

Ethalarian:"Oh, right. Murder more of the common folk. That's always the solution."

Oosaarn:"So take his money for yourself."

Renalays:"If you are going to install your own woman in Shalemarch, then have the process be organised. Order is what comforts the lost."

Thanidiel:"Fish could help there if he doesn't miss the frontlines."

Lirelle:"Common or not, once you take up arms, you have already made your choice."

Thanidiel:"No faster courier and herald in Quel'Thalas."

[Summary]

Stenden stands above Nelio Goodemeber. "I have heard your council," he gives a nod of appreciation to the heroes gathered in his hall. "As Lord of the Emberglades, I hereby strip you of all lands- titles- and assets- They now belong to me to redistribute as I see fit." He says, clear as day. "Bladeborn," Stenden looks back over his shoulder. "Fetch Judereth Swiftquiver. Tell her what has transpired here and that she needs to meet with me immediately." He turns back to Nelio. The man who had severely- Severely- underestimated him. "And you. You will remain in the dungeons. A hostage to your supporters. Hopefully they're not stupid enough to get their 'Lord' killed by rabbling."

Vissehn nods. "I got a way with the lowborn. Bein' one, yanno."

Renalays:"Hmm."

Kebha looks almost disappointed that she's not going to get to murder anything, but she just sighs and taps her claws on her cheek.

Vissehn bows low, silently and obediently, and immediately slips away to do Stenden's bidding.

Renalays does have a glint of what appears to be genuine appreciation of Stenden's mandate - even with that subtle behaviour to the boy's agent.

Nelio Goodember eyes started to water. At least he'd live. Right? Right?

Stenden:"Thank you. All of you. I do appreciate your council."

Thanidiel:"Shall the rest of us push to the western front?"

Oosaarn:"Is that where the fighting is?"

Stenden looks to Muroco. "Especially you, Rockhoof. I have high hopes for your efforts and high hopes that my soldiers will not disappoint you or your methods."

Stenden:"Yes, keep where you are- And when Rockhoof draws more than they can afford away from their lines, it should give you an opportunity to strike once more as you did."

Lirelle mulls over Stenden's ruling. It was at the very least, acceptable. A hostage was not her preferred method of doing things, but it had its own merit at least.

[Event Ends]

[thepilgrimofwar]

Minutes to Midnight

In the dead of night, the officers of the coalition passed under the arches of the Emberheart manor once more. The doors to the manor had been repaired, and the breaches in the walls barricaded. Like the Emberhearts themselves, it had survived the worst and was beginning to function once more- only not as good, never as good as it once was until a new section of the wall would be rebuilt.

But as Stenden watched the heroes from his office window that overlooked the central courtyard, he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of bloodshed they had wrought in his name. The reports had said two hundred dead, two hundred and seventy captured, most of them the wounded that the retreating Illithians could not take off the field. But two hundred men on paper was merely a number. In reality, it meant a field full of corpses. It meant two hundred families mourning the loss of a father, a brother, or a son. It ate at him, but he did not leave it in his mind for too long, lest he give time for those thoughts to sink in.

Instead he focused on other things. Two hundred and seventy lives saved by their capture. Countless more lives of the Heartlands saved, if they had needed to fight without the Coalitions’ help. That while he lamented the blood spilled, it was done to prevent a greater evil. He just hoped that the peasants who were dying for his claim on the Emberglades saw it as such too.

Stenden walked down to the dining hall-turned war room. On the walls were pinned reports. Briefings of the major players in the war. Goodember’s Mercenary companies. Estimated fielded numbers. Portraits of officers who might be sighted at the various fronts. Then, on the dining table itself, was a map with square tiles representing the push and pull of the frontlines. The war had been going on for almost a week, and the reality of it was finally beginning to sink into the boy’s psyche.

First, though, the boy thought to himself. He needed a square tile for the Coalition itself. It had proved that they were more than a match for the forces at play here and wanted a banner to mark their majority of troops. But he had expected no less from the heroes of the Phoenix Wars. If Sederis could be counted amongst their ranks, there was no reason to doubt that they’d pull through. No matter the cost.

Lirelle entered the dining room, her steps making more noise than they usually did since she had gotten tired of the repeated screams she seemed to elicit from those on duty, even when she tried to announce her presence. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

It was a question she had asked Sederis a thousand times over when he had gotten similarly caught up in worrying about matters of state, and it seemed almost cruel for the boy- and that is exactly what he was, to be doing the same.

Stenden puffs up his chest initially, trying to play the part of a disgruntled lord. But after a moment he deflates, realizing there was no one in the room worth acting up for. Afterwhich he smiled for his Aunt Lirelle. “Sleep doesn’t come easy for me,” he admits. “Not in these times anyway.” The Lord of the Emberglades glances at the tile for the Crows and the tile of the Gilder’s Guards which had been flipped to their side of the frontlines.

“So the raid on Goodember’s Manor was a smashing success. The assault on the Illithian lines to our west has driven them back. And I’ve got a missive from my agents that the Wintergale situation is looking very promising for the time being. I’d say that you’ve won us a tremendous start to a very bloody war.”

“You sound just like your uncle.” Her tone was neutral, and he could have taken it as either affectionate or accusatory, and even she was not sure which she meant it as.

“Are you sure you really know what you mean when you say that? Are you prepared for the number of people that are going to die in this war, both your people and his?” As she spoke, Lirelle picked up the Emberheart emblem on the board, hefting it in her hand and using it to knock over those to the west, first the blue of Ilithia, then the red of the Glades.

Stenden nods, slowly, with no small measure of thoughtfulness. “I thought I did,” he said as he watched the tiles get knocked over. “I’ve been told, time and time again, that this is necessary. That if blood isn’t spilled now, or if I had refused to kill my countrymen, then the Emberglades will split back into five bickering states. Wars will be a constant reality. Just like it was for Mereded growing up.”

“But I remember the assassins as they were cut down. I remember the bolt that pierced Lady Flamethorn. I remember Lady Highdawn shielding me, spilling her blood on my behalf. The killing, I can swallow, for now. But the sacrifice that people are making for me? The peasants who die as we speak for a boy they’ve only ever seen at a distance? That is what keeps me up.” 

The boy starts standing up the fallen pieces on the map, and Lirelle knocks the first of them down. She does it with a smile that only a corpse could make, then returns the Emberheart crest and starts to help him with the rest of them. “That is the way of things, as they have been for thousands of years, and how they will continue to be. If people believe in something that they’re willing to die for, then they will die with a smile on their face. Your time should be spent thinking of where best to spend their lives, not worrying about the fact that they would lay them down for you. Lives are wasted when those in charge hesitate. Don’t.”

-

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel @esheyn

[thepilgrimofwar]

An Example

Crows and Hawk went flying down, tryin’ to catch a bastard, got him fallin from his bed and trussed him up for Embers!

Chorus: Feathers fine and flyin’ through, feathers ‘gainst the dark, to our creeds we must be true, hail thee, Emberheart!

[Chorus] Rode up on the dark of night thru again til morning there they gathered in their might despite our kindly warning

[Chorus] Went on through the castle halls Least as I remember Saw a bloat without no balls and knew he was Goodember!

Stenden sat in his office, one that had belonged to Mereded, Solendis, then Sederis and now was his. The chair seemed to envelope him, a space bigger than he was, where decisions bigger than himself were made. Sons and daughters had been sent to die from that chair and though he was now beginning to fully understand what it meant, he was powerless to do anything.

His mother had ridden off with the army on his behalf. Though she acted as if she was merely playing a role in his father’s game of propaganda and tale-weaving, Stenden was sharp enough to know that was only a half-truth. Relriah had wanted to keep him safe, and this was the most direct way she knew how. Leaving Stenden in a position where he could do nothing but wait- and it ate him on the inside.

But when the news of Goodemeber’s capture made its way to him in the form of a runner, he leapt to his feet, wanting to cheer but realizing that he had no one to cheer with. So he shut his eyes and took a breath instead. There would be time for joy and celebrations later, after this war was done.

“Ohhh….!” The voice filled the entry hall as the company entered, a bright and cheery tenor that lilted strongly into alto. “Crows and Hawk went flying up, tryin’ to catch a bastard, got him fallin’ from his bed and trussed him up for Embers!” As the Crows entered, a young lad in the colors of the Emberhearts lead the way, holding the rope that wrapped around the portly captive who was marched up alongside. The youth whooped loudly, and the chorus came in from the other troops.

“Feathers fine and flyin’ through, feathers ‘gainst the dark, to our creeds we must be true, hail thee Emberheart!”

The company lead called a halt, but Vissehn was far too gone to care. Standing up on tiptoes, he hollered out into the foyer. 

“Ste-- M’lord Emberheart! We got tidings!” He crowed, laughter following the words.

Stenden opened the office window that overlooked the courtyard. Though he had received word, actually seeing the portly man bound and sacked did bring a flood of relief that he found hard to describe. “What tidings Bladeborn?” He called down from above, letting Vissehn have his moment despite already knowing what had transpired.

Puffing up his honestly narrow and unimpressive chest, Vissehn shouted back. “WE GOTTEM!”

Stepping beside the figure of Goodember once more, Vissehn placed both hands on the man's cheeks and made him look up to the young lord. “This is who called us in, friend, and there’s loads more mischief for me to tussle up beyond even you, Your Most Lordly Lordliness of Lordington Goodember!” He patted the man’s head, grinning into his gagged face, and then passed the rope to another in the company of Crows.

Nelio Goodember, who still had phantom pains from his shadowmended broken nose, shot the boy a venomous look. But Stenden returned it. An emotion bubbled up within the usually soft spoken and reserved boy. It was the tension of struggle. A rush from being underestimated, and able prove them wrong. A delight of power, not gained from cruelty or coercion, but from the kindness of murderous friends. The Lord of the Emberglades smirked at his subdued vassal.

“Take him away,” he said to the House Guards of the manor, who went unburden the returning Crows. “He’ll have to be satisfied with the cellar until we have a proper room ready for our new guest.”

As the guards took their quarry elsewhere, Vissehn looked up, and decided he could probably climb the wall to the office window. He shouldn’t, but he could imagine it-- the running jump, the quick scramble for handholds, ascending to the window and then giving Stenden the news, in song, while the rest of the world caught up to them.

Looking to Garris, the older commander was the picture of mercenary ease; perhaps something like what Vissehn would look like, in another hundred years. Just as Vissehn was about to go back into the ranks, Garris caught his eye.

Gaze flicking to the wall Vissehn had stared at so longingly, he canted his head, and offered a wink.

It was all Viss needed.

Whooping loudly, he rushed the wall and launched himself into the air, hands barely making purchase on the roofing before he was hauling himself up, boots scrabbling over the tiles, and then he was at the wall. It took him mere moments before he was to Stenden’s window, and with a groan and an exhaled WHOOF, he was perched there on the young lord’s sil.

“Oi.” He grinned, panting hard from the exertion of doing all his acrobatics nonsense without having the sense to loosen his binder.

“Hi,” he responded, and folded his arms dramatically. “Am I supposed to be impressed?” Stenden huffed.

Vissehn blinked at the dramatic rejection of his childish charms, and for a moment he looked all his handful of years; wide eyed and dumbstruck that someone wasn’t impressed with the feats he’d accomplished. “I-- I mean-- yeah!” 

When Stenden took on the serious mien, he looked so much like Soldenis that Vissehn was stunned. Of course the brothers had their similarities but Vissehn had always seen Stenden as more like Sederis. Now, he could see how being raised with Relriah and Soldenis had left their stamps on the youth; he knew the face of lordly disdain so well that even in what might have been pretend, it seemed genuine. 

Then, the moment passed. Lordling or no, he was Vissehn’s junior and he was starting to think, friend of a kind. Vissehn leaned forward so his face was much nearer Stenden’s, frame filling out the space in the window.

Tapping Stenden on the tip of his chin, Vissehn grinned. “You don’t even know the half of it! I jumped off a balcony to gettim’!” He laughed. “Don’t go pretendin’ you aren’t in awe of your pal Fish, being the man of the hour.” Waggling brows, he finally sat down heavily on the widowledge. “Made a good pick with me, huh?”

Stenden holds the pout for a moment longer before breaking down into laughter. “Consider me impressed!” and just like that, he’s obviously so. Closing the window he sits on the windowsill and observes the boy of the hour.

“Birds of a feather, me’n the Crows!” He made room for Stenden, relief washing through him and coloring his cheeks a shade pink. He didn’t need validation from Stenden, nope. Not him. He didn’t crave being recognized by his peers. That was someone ELSE.

Stenden smiled. “Well, you seemed to have fit right in with the Crows, and managed to keep Lord Goodember alive- with what sounds like great difficulty-” Stenden couldn’t help himself, and just wanted Vissehn to get to the good parts. “Why in Fel did you have to jump off a balcony to get him?”

With a dramatic sweep of his arms, he set the scene. “We was storming and fighting, and I had to shoot his big Captain of the Guard fellow and then the man hollers ‘-Run-’ and we hear this ruckus, right?” Vissehn leans back against the glass pane. “So we see this sack of shite just… STUMBLE off the balcony, through them big windows on the side of the hall, and I’m like-- Shite!” He jerks forward as though catching something. “SO I ran an’ barely got through, an’ caught him afore he bit it by falling to the ground! Ugh, near pulled my arms from my socket.”

Stenden listened intently at first with the talk of fighting and shooting, but then, as the scene from the balcony became clearer in his head, the boy snorted. “You single-handed caught three hundred pounds of noble-born lard?” He glanced at Fish’s arms and squinted. “What happened next? My good sense says that he’d have fallen head first and snapped his neck- How’d you pull him back to safety?”

“Lirelle horked somethin’ gross and healin’ and he snapped out of his stupor and started strugglin again!” Vissehn smacked his forehead. “So of course whatcha think happened, happened-- he fell, and I fell with him!” 

Turning, he gripped Stenden’s shoulders gently. “He went doooooown….” Vissehn began to slide off the sil, onto Stenden’s office floor… pulling Stenden down with him, in terribly slow movements. “An’ I landed on his fatass, no harm for me!”

Vissehn landed on the floor with a laugh and yanked Stenden down with him. 

Stenden lets himself drift with the storyteller, allowing himself to be yanked down to the floor in dramatic slow-motion. He chuckled, “I guess you could say he cushioned your fall then?” The Lord of the Emberglades remains prone, flipping onto his back and continues listening.

“He needed a lil’ coddling after, cause he got a lil jostled, but I was right as rain.” Propping himself up on his elbow, he saluted Stenden. “An’ then we marched home and I made a song ‘bout it.”

Stenden replied. “I suppose Ms. Dawnbrook managed to fix the worst of the fall, seeing that all he has to show for it are bruises and an undignified sacking!” He snorts again. He’d have to speak with the vassal Lord later, where he’d put on the airs of his station, but for now Stenden was content in being a boy.

“I heard the tune a ways-off, and to the laughter of the Crows as the lot of you arrived. Would you sing it for me?” He asked.

Nodding at the lord’s assessment, he enjoyed the moment of just being a teen, sharing space with someone else his own age. It had been far too long, and Stenden was good company.

Looking at him now with a smile, Vissehn sat up and primly crossed his legs. “Oh, yeah! I can sing it. AHEM.” he cleared his throat, and unlike before when he was singing riotously, straying key part of the charm, now he actually tried. His voice was a very high tenor-- almost more akin to alto-- and when he put his mind to it, clean and pretty.

“Crows and Hawk went flying down, tryin’ to catch a bastard, got him fallin from his bed and trussed him up for Embers!

Feathers fine and flyin’ through, feathers ‘gainst the dark, to our creeds we must be true, hail thee, Emberheart!

Rode up on the dark of night thru again til morning there they gathered in their might despite our kindly warning

Went on through the castle halls Least as I remember Saw a bloat without no balls and knew he was Goodember!”

He paused then, and his cheeks went redder. “I thought-- well, I wanted t’make a good showin for ya, so the last line is like…” He cleared his throat.

“Rolled him back through hill and dale Having done our part Back to the true lord of the glades Stenden Emberheaaaaaart!”

He laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, the color in his cheeks high.

Stenden let the silence sink in after the last line was sung. He smiled. He hadn’t heard the sounds of singing for what must have been two years. Before the war, before he had the weight of ten thousand lives rested upon his shoulders. Then, after giving the moment the reverence it was due, the Lord of the Emberglades started to clap. Slow and serious at first, before giving his full applause.

“Bravo, Vissehn. Bravo!” He cheered, still on his back staring at the ceiling of the Emberheart office. A place of work-turned-opera house for a few precious minutes. “I’m almost certain that masterpiece will be sung by many a peasant for years to come.” Especially the ones Goodember had pressed into service, he thought.

Finally Stenden sat up and shot Vissehn a smile, “In either case, promise me that that won’t be the last song you sing in my name. There’s plenty of work left to be done, and you’ve got a singing voice you ought to be proud of.”

His whole face red, Vissehn reached out and ruffled Stenden’s hair. “Stahpit, you’re gonna make my face explode.” Closing his eyes, he squirmed in place. “But, I can promise that, yeah, I’ll keep singin’ for ye. Just keep giving me things to sing about!” Reaching out, he lifted up Stenden’s arm into a feigned flex. “Gotta get strong like your uncle, or savvy like your father, or hell, beautiful as yer mum.” He chuckled and released his friend’s arm. 

“That’s a promise then,” Stenden said, picking himself off the ground and onto his feet and gave Vissehn a hand. 

“But I’d like to think I’ve got a bit of all of them in me.” Only time would tell if the little Lord was right.

-

@stormandozone @retributionpriest @thanidiel

[thepilgrimofwar]

Of Dirt and Gold

He waited until all the important people had quit the chambers, until the warplanning and the debates and the logistics were hammered out, until the words were chewed over in his mind. It was all the same, he’d thought-- these plannings were just shoving forces here and there, shoring up edges and pressing advantages. It was the most boring part of war; tactics and strategy that did not survive the first encounter.

Now, though, he waited outside Stenden’s office, waiting for the young Lord to return. He did not pace, instead leaning with booths shoulders to the wall, finger tapping out the tune for Goodember’s Fall on his elbows.

Vissehn did not wait long as Stenden came marching up the spiral staircase. He was exhausted and somewhat flustered from the affairs he just had to deal with. Though it had ended amicably, he felt that he was this close to insubordination if he had not come to a compromise with Lirelle. He was glad for Thanidiel’s presence and suggestion- And Vissehn’s support, the one thing he could always count on.

Seeing his friend at his door, he managed a tired smile. “Hey Viss,” he said, the shortened name he had coined on the rooftops seemed to stick. “I think that went well, all things considered.”

“Ey, Sten.” He tried out the shortening of the name, finding it worked better than he could have hoped. “It sure went.” Vissehn pushed away from the doorframe and stepped into the office first, showing his back to Stenden as he gathered… what he could of his thoughts. 

Once they were in the room, Vissehn perched himself on the edge of Stenden’s desk and levelled eyes at the youth, one brow cocked. “You and the dead woman sure have a lot of thoughts on people whomst neither of you come from. Those soldiers might be your people by law of these lands, an’ she might see their blood as just the war’s due, but unless they’re dead set to dying for one Lord over another, there’s always more there. Least the militia.”

His voice was carefully neutral, despite the words, and he bounced one leg. 

“Do you think I made the right choice?” Stenden’s tone is filled with exasperation. There was no answer to this question of course. Everyone had an answer that was right to them. “I have thoughts of them for sure, but as far as I’m concerned, they are not tools- To be used, expended, until they are of no use to me- That was Mereded’s way, and I’m trying so hard not to repeat his mistakes.”

The anger in the youth abated some at the genuine frustration and consideration Stenden put into the fate of the captured. “It’s a sight better than outright ordering their deaths.” He offered softer, and ran a hand through his golden thatch of hair. “I think yer trying, and that’s more’n I can say for most nobility I’ve come across.” He glanced sidelong, lips pulling into a tight furl. “They’re men an’ women just like us.”

He glanced to Stenden again, taking the measure of the boy once more. That red hair, the fine-boned face that was so like his lady mother’s, the set of jaw that was somewhere between father and uncle. He would grow tall-- as tall as Sederis, in all likelihood, if not taller. Intelligence lit those green eyes, and emotion that was raw and mortal.

“Sten, yer gandsire made his mistakes in thinkin’ oceans of blood would buy lasting peace. There’s no thing as lasting peace-- there’s spans of time where shit isn’t as raw a deal, but it always ends.” He sighed. “If you remember that an’ keep the price of violence low, yer ahead.”

His thoughts swam; Stenden had spent his whole life sheltered in these and the Dawnveils’ walls. He’d never been so hungry his body wasted, never know a violence so far above him he couldn’t retaliate. He wasn’t a cruel or unjust lad-- he was so used to the life of a Lord he knew nothing else.

Finally, he stood up. “After this next engagement, I want ye to set aside some time for yer pal Fish. Not much-- the span of a few days. Leave th’paperwork for yer father for a spell.” He closed the distance and laid a hand on Stenden’s shoulder, forcing his lips to pull the roguish smile that had predicated their trip to the roof. “Ye trust me?”

“I do, of course I do,” Stenden responded with a tired smile of his own, though it would never be as roguish, never be as wide. It was true of course, that he had lived a sheltered life. Never starved. Never struggled for warmth on a cold winter’s night. “It may be difficult, but I’ll make time for you.”

“And I know they are just men and women like you and me, but there are so many voices Viss, so many. From both the living and the dead,” he ran his hands over his face and through his hair, undoing his tie and letting the locks fall across his shoulders. “My father speaks about them as leverage. Mother speaks about them as means to vengeance. Lirelle speaks of tools to war. Sederis speaks- spoke- of them as children. His duty- my duty, to protect them, from the abuses of power- even- especially the ones from myself.”

“That way, I will never be like Mereded. He may have had two hundred years of peace, but the cost of that is one we are paying for now. Because you’re right. Peace never lasts. Nothing ever lasts.” Vissehn didn’t know what the boy was referring to exactly. But neither did Stenden. In a span of two weeks, which felt like an eternity, everything for the boy had changed. He had changed.

The cascade of red hair was so familiar it ached in Vissehn’s throat. If he could have prevented the death of Sederis, he would have-- his regret, as it was for many, from the Phoenix Wars. He could have saved a friend, and saved a youth from a weight far too much for one to carry so young.

“It’s hard, to just see people as people. That’s all they are, though.” He shrugged. “Sederis was a good man but he was blinded by his guilt an’ what his father tried to make of him. Yer mother’s been a pawn in so many politics… I figure, she’s burnin’ herself up to reclaim somethin’ robbed from her and she’d take all of the Emberglades down wiv her if it means getting her pound of flesh. Women don’t get it easy, no matter their place in the world.” His voice is soft on that, something almost bitter and longing in the words. “Yer father sees numbers an’ can’t tell a man from a scarecrow.” His voice becomes a sneer, and his lips curl away from his teeth. “Thinks yer lineage is what sets a man apart. Huh.”He suppressed the urge to spit. 

Taking a breath, he closed the distance and placed a hand on Stenden’s shoulder. “Hey.” Again his voice went low with an urgent earnestness. “Yer doing what you can, right? Just keep trying. Keep making th’choices that no one wants to hear, for the sake of people who may not like or respect ye. You’re more than decent, Sten. I got faith in your choices. I’m here fer advising and helping where I can, but the reason I’m here is ‘cause I got faith in you. I wouldn’t have signed on wiv Solendis, an’ I didn’t become Sederis’ anything but friend, yeah? Ye said you were the Lord of the Emberglades, an’ it weren’t a title-- well, I ain’t signing on with a title, I’m signing on wiv you.”

He speaks with a conviction that he wills to fill his friend, to flow from the place his hand connects. His thumb brushes the place where collar meets skin and he grins roguishly. “I’m here to listen if ye got summat else to tussle with. Or if ye just need some sense beat into yer arse.”

Stenden makes a chuckle, the first today. “I appreciate it, I really do,” he looks up at his friend. “You have to believe me Viss, when I say that I’m trying my best. That if I make a bad choice, it isn’t out of callousness, or that I’ve forgotten that people like you are just that: People.” And at the same moment of confession and a promise not to be callous, he mentioned that very line that got under his skin. Not so much that he said it, but the manner in which it was said. Like it was a matter of fact that there was something that set them apart at the core- and that it was normal

The hand drops. He wants to say it; wants to remind Stenden that they both bleed red, that their bones both bleach white in the sun, that their graves will be no more than stone and earth encompassing decay. Vissehn works the words over like tough hide in the jaws of his thoughts, and no matter how he grinds against it he finds no blood in the meat.

“So long as I have yer trust, we’ll be just fine, won’t we?” His voice is light, grin wide as he throws himself over the chair that faces Stenden’s desk. Words will not make a concept into a man; he cannot break a lifetime of Soldenis lectures with anger or debate or fighting until they’re bleeding, even if his belly screams for it, even if he would feel better by slamming someone with that noble blood hard enough against the stone to see it wash over his hands. 

Lying to survive was given to him in the cradle with milk; lies are the currency of the Unwelcomed, and Vissehn was wealthy beyond measure.

Swinging his long, lean legs, Vissehn whistled. “So! Got an uprising to settle, an’ then those… men in the ground who think we’re still fightin’ the Big Blue Lion, huh?”

“Yes,” he was glad for the redirection to the company of Men of the Black Banner who were somehow still operational in the troll tunnels that line the borders of the Emberglades. “I hear they’ve been stealing from peasants all along the mountain range, occasionally burning crops. Must think that the Alliance won and we’re all just sympathizers providing for the enemy now.”

Stenden wondered if the Civil War breaking out had anything to do with their sudden resurgence, or if they had always been there since the end of the war and Zarannis had been observant enough to pick them out.

Vissehn snorted. “Well, it’s a good thing I ain’t goin’ to that lil shindig.” He drew his hands under his eyes and batted his lashes at Stenden prettily. “These lookers would make ‘em shit bricks an’ shoot first, ask questions later.” His blue-gray eyes were certainly not the common Sin’dorei fare, shiny like metal and without the glow most considered inherent in the elves of the north. 

“Seems a real shite deal, though. Best of luck to them that are gonna try an’ pry them from their foxholes. Must be hard thinkin’ the world ended.” He whistled softly, but there’s no sympathy in his words; his fey mood has returned, masking the bubbling rage that boiled in his center.

Stenden laughed when his friend batted his eyelashes at him. “I’m sure they would. Hopefully father giving Zarannis their banner would at least make them pause for thought,” he said, shaking his head for his own benefit. “Just like the Shalemarchers. We’ll deal with them the best we can, and if we can get them home- All the better.” The boy failed to appreciate that if they had a home, it was likely gone in Lord Tar’saren’s scorched earth policy he employed against Everliegh. Stopping her advance dead in its tracks. The Bulwark functioning as its namesake.

Still sprawled like a kitten, Vissehn laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ll wish ‘em well an be glad I ain’t joinin’. I’ll take a revolt over men who think it’s all over, anyday. A man whose got kin an’ babes an’ land can be reasoned with. A man without shite? Hoo.” He mimed wiping sweat from his brow.

Propping himself up on elbows, he let his grin reach his eyes. “Speakin’ of…” His tongue passed over his teeth as he weighed the capricious desire in him with the anger he struggled to hold at bay. In the end, he was no match for his own baser thoughts.

“Hows about we don some cloaks an’ slip off to somewhere they’re singin’ the good songs, all bawdy and blue.” He lifted his brows invitingly. “Or we can see if’n there’s some trouble to suss up with yon merchants in town. Somethin’ to get us out of this prison of a castle! Tel’dorei don’t do well in stone walls.” He drawled the last, a helpless and teasing whine.

“I really shouldn’t,” Stenden replied, and felt the weight of his station bear down upon him. But, he had already done his duty had he not? Put his foot down on what he could not accept, and what would be damaging to the realm that he had to put back together. The war meetings were over and it was all he was good for. Tomorrow’s reports could wait. His father was handling the amnesty proclamations. Drafting reconciliation clauses had a deadline that lay far into the future for now. All he would be losing was sleep, and with the war no longer in such a precarious state, he reckoned he could afford it.

“But yeah, why not?” He said with a grin. 

Vissehn’s grin was slow and languid, and he pushed up on the chair to rise, slinging his arm over Stenden’s shoulders as she all but pushed the youth out the door to the office and towards the guest wing. “I got a few spare cloaks an’ a ratty tunic that’d suit ye, let’s get gussed down an’ have ourselves a night.” This he whispered into Stenden’s ear, the anger metamorphizing into something capricious and fey; he couldn’t fight Stenden, not right now, so he’d do the damage his father had warned Vissehn against.

He’d make a mortal of the Lord, if it killed the both of them.

--

They made their way through the mostly-empty halls to Vissehn’s suite, and the youth threw the lock as soon as they were inside. “Now, come on, off with that fancy embroidered doily you got on an’ we’ll be out th’window an’ in a tavern afore the maids can gossip to yer father that you were seen walkin’ to my rooms.”

Led by the impeteous youth, Stenden tries his best to be silent as he makes his way to the guest wing. The beating of his heart rises, for the thrill and fears of being caught. Either by his father or the House Guards who would no doubt repeat what they saw to him. “Right then,” he says taking off his shirt of blues and golds and looking to Vissehn to provide him with something… Less telling of his station. “I doubt the patrons at the tavern would recognize me. I’ve hardly shown my face to the people until the last few months.”

“They’ll not think yer anything but maybe a byblow once I’m done wiv ye.” Vissehn’s brows arched high as he dug in his wardrobe, pulling and discarding clothing like mad. He’d earned hazard pay from his stint spying, and a sizable portion must have been blown on the clothing he now tossed wildly-- it was a flurry of linen and cotton. Finally, he found what he sought, and wadded it up before chucking it straight at Stenden’s head.

The tunic proved to be well made, if simple; geometric embroidery around the collar and hems were all it sported by way of ornament, the natural colors of the fibers making it seem of poorer make than it was. “I got that in… I think it was th’humans camp?” He whistled. “Smuggled it on’ to look th’part, but it was Eversong made, the man musta taken it off someones washline.” He snorted. “It’s too big for my scrawny bones but mayhap it’ll fit those growin’ young shoulders of yours.”

For his part, he simply pulled on a tight ocher vest, lacing it over his chest with a skill and speed that seemed uncanny. “Now, out the window we go!” His laughter was wild and bright as he flung himself to the sil and tossed the shutters wide. Without waiting, he was hopping onto the tiles, thoughts already halfway drowning in a bottle.

Stenden caught the wadded shirt as it rushed towards his face and chuckled. Then he gestured at the mess of clothes that had seemed to fountain out of Vissehn’s wardrobe. “I should have expected it but I’m really amazed at all this. You must have an outfit for every occasion.” The boy of the Emberglades pulled the tunic over his head, checked if it fit but tugging on the shoulder edges.

Then, as his friend pulled himself out the window, Stenden smiled inwardly and followed him out. “So do you know where we’re going?” He asked as he pulled himself onto the tiles after Vissehn.

“It’s all part of bein’ a spy, a soldier AND the best damn singer in Eversong.” He grinned as his friend caught up, footing sure on this part of the roof. He’d explored it the first day he’d arrived-- he knew its cracks and shifts better than he knew the path to the front door. “I have to look the part!”

Unsaid was that he’d grown up in the same tunic for a decade, rehemmed and patched until almost nothing remained of the original fabric. When he got his first payment from the Sunguard, he’d been so stunned that the cheque had nearly been caught by a breeze. When the gold was in his hands, he’d spent it all on nothing-- pastries he’d never eaten, amusement and novelties, clothing. His innate vanity had overcome him and he’d been so pleased with the purchases.

It took him longer to realize how he was going to earn the coin; now he kept it out of vanity but the gilt had flaked from the lily. 

When their boots hit the cobbles, Vissehn jerked his chin towards the common parts of the expanse. “There’s a spot what I was told about by the cook, I think-- no one will much care who you are so long as you aren’t an Emberheart, so we’ll just have to pass you off as a bastard if someone gets too nosey.” He flicks Stenden’s nose as they walk, his arm finding its way around the young lord’s shoulders once more.

“A bastard huh?” Stenden folded his arms as they made their way down the cobbled streets towards the nearby township. “Shall we pick an emergency name? Reddy Redwheat?” He gives Vissehn a grin and a terrible, terrible suggestion that he thought- for whatever reason- was a good one.

“Oh, and should I put on an accent as well? I doubt I speak like a peasant.” Stenden cleared his throat to attempt a voice, but realized he had no idea what they sounded like. It humbled him somewhat, and his smile faded into thoughtfulness. “Why are we really going to the tavern Viss?”

Vissehn laughed at the assumed name. “Just say yer name is…” He tapped a finger to his chin. “Ah! Say yer Alya.” He snickered. “Her get won’t be round here, the Bears aren’t fond of anyplace without trolls.” he let the words hang enigmatically, still drawing on Stenden’s arm.

“We’re gonna get piss drunk.” His response was easy. “I’m gonna learn you a bit, after the next fight, but I want you to remember how good it is to drink somewhere where noone cares who yer father or mother are, where yer just another nameless cock amongst the roost. Yer accents fine, plenty of lads from the south get good educations, an’ tonight, yer my friend from the south!” He clapped Stenden’s back.

“Alya,” he raised an eyebrow at his friend. “A girl's name?” He brushes off the engenderment, it didn’t matter too much to him compared to other boys his age. Likely a side-effect of growing up around Dawnveil girls who were valued no less than the boys were.

The smile returns to his face when he gets clapped on the back. “Well no worries then, it even sounds like a spot of fun!” An anxiety spread up from the pits of his stomach but he ignored it. It was likely the first time he’d be regarded without his title hanging above his head. Would people hate him, not knowing who he was? Would he truly be just like everyone else? Only time would tell.

“Alya is a boy’s name where I’m from! Right up there with Ilya, Ivan an’ Ares.” He repeated his cousins names by rote. It was strange; he hadn’t seen them in most of his life, but he remembered their names and their faces and how they’d died. “Now, Alyashun, that’s a Matriarch’s name, an’ so I gave you the name of one of her sons. He’s got red hair an’ long ears cause she got him with a nobleman.” His brows wriggled. “Some of the southern lords got Deals with the Mama’s of the clans.”

It didn’t take long, even on foot, to reach the bar. It was less a tavern than most-- meant to service the soldiers passing through and not the locals. So, when Stenden and Vissehn entered, nobody looked up from their tables or glasses. It was all loud voices and laughter-- they were winning, afterall. The atmosphere was light without being riotous, and it seemed the perfect place for a pair of young roustabouts to get a drink.

Vissehn guides them towards the bar itself, and one of the bartenders behind the wood calls out above the din. “What’ll it be?”

“Two of whatevers cheap, my friend!” He slaps his silver down, turning to listen to the motley men and woman having their grand times. The conversations are as expected; the front, the pay, what came next. However, a small group of men next to the pair of youths were speaking of other things-- the camp followers, and their lovers back home.

Stenden listens in on the men. Though most of their conversation continues about lust and desire there are subtle and occasional reaffirmations of fidelity. So despite Mereded’s best efforts to forge perfect soldiers from his people: Drilling children into trained men and women, praising a warrior ethos that found value in being expendable. The people continued to live, continued to love, and outside the laws they lived under- life continued as normal. It made him wonder if he had it in him to change things. Because if this was proof that was all a tyrant like his grandfather could do, what chance did he have?

But he pushes that away as two mugs of the cheapest ale slide across the table to them. “Victory is on everyone’s lips- Victory and what to do with it,” Stenden says with a smile. From Solendis’ propaganda papers that were being published out of a converted farmstead, winning was only a matter of time now.

They outnumbered their enemies three to one. Between House Swiftquiver’s new orders against a new enemy, and Amnesty Offers forging new companies of men. All they needed to do was march up to the last stand of Westheath at the Illithian fortress-home. But of course, the papers did not speak of the sheer disorganization of it all. Army units were spread throughout the Emberglades, some marching towards Kearn, others assisting with law and order in Shalemarch. Worse still, it did not mention that it could be over- Right now- if the Illithians that remained weren’t prepared to fight to the death.

The boy listened to the men nearby them for a moment longer before asking his friend a question. “No one special, no camp followers that struck your fancy or girls where you’re from?” Stenden did not know of course, of his friend’s people. Only that they were different.

“Well, the best of the Sunguard, this war weren’t gonna last long.” He takes a glug of the ale and his brows shoot up. “Cor, even yer piss ale is better out here. I don’t regret slowin’ myself down here for a space.” His gaze slides over the room, but it keeps latching onto the youth next to him. The warm glow of the candlelight seemed to make him older, show the man he would become.

These men and women would serve Stenden; they would live their lives in service, but at least they lived. It was a comfort, that the nature of living never changed. If there were no lords tomorrow, if the whole system was gone, people would still drink. They would still laugh, and fuck, and cry and die. No matter what, people could thrive. If he could, he’d make it easier on them-- use his place and words to pave a path forwards for the people.

No one should have to starve; no one should fight for their right to live. He’d born it, but he remembered the whispered truths from his mothers lips. He knew the promise of the Tel’dorei.

Freedom.

The question startles him out of the reverie, and he looks to Stenden with a half choked laugh. “Me?!” He snorted and shook his head. “Ha! I’m not th’kind to take a long shine. A pretty girl-- or handsome lad-- for a summer’s hour, lips locked with mine and hands a-wandering-- that’s certainly a pleasant waste of time. But I got too many places to rove for more’n that.” He chuckles. “A tumble, sweet parting words, that’s all it’s gotta be for a lad like me.”

The lies flow easily. It’s not hard; it’s not as if the relationships between individuals were kept from him. He knows the mechanics of intimacy-- has given others pleasure. But the charm he summons is as much armor as it is invitation, and when he leaves he knows his paramores sing his praises without knowing the secret of his frame.

“They got a pretty Lady on the line for ye? Kissed an’ cuddled a gal from the Dawnveil’s lands?” He adds, willing to court danger for awhile with the conversation. He leans forward, so their noses nearly brush. “Don’t tell me my friend hasn’t had such a pleasant diversion.” His words come out low, teasing, those pretty blue eyes lidded with mischief. 

Stenden takes a big swig of ale before continuing, hoping to dull the heavier thoughts that seemed to be dampening the evening. “Of course I’ve had… Pleasant diversions,” he paused and stressed the last words taken from his friend. “There’s a girl from Dawnveil, niece of one of the maidservants who was staying with the Dawnbrooks for the summer- Least, what passes for summers on the Isle.” A blush seems to rise on the boy’s cheeks. It was nothing serious of course, just a kiss and bit of clumsy exploration before their time was interrupted by a dinner bell. But the thoughts still fired up something within him when he thought of it.

“Sheri,” he said wistfully. “But she isn’t on the line no- Lowborn- and all that,” Stenden waved his hand as if chasing something off in mock annoyance. “In either case, I didn't see her the following year, or this one. So I doubt anything will come of it: To my father’s relief if he ever knew about it.”

Then as the ale started to sink in he narrowed his eyes at his friend, “or handsome lads?” That seemed to resound in his memory.

Vissehn snorts. “Yer father likely had somethin’ to do with her not bein’ there the followin’ year, friend.” He shakes his head, the memory of his conversation with the steward not one he would forget, despite the liquor and attempts to drown out the derision and disdain the man had for the people he considered his lessers. “But that’s a start, my friend!” He pats Stenden’s shoulder, in the way the wise do for the uninitiated; congratulatory and yet condescending.

He does not let his thoughts linger on how ephemeral Stenden’s attentions are; his own are flighty as well, save that he sees the common and the noble with the same lack of permanence. 

When his friends eyes narrow, Vissehn giggles wickedly. “C’mon now, you have a good education an’ spent time wiv the Dawnbrooks. You can’t be so sheltered as all that!” He leans in, the ale thick in his breath, and drags a finger under Stenden’s chin-- from throat to the very tip, where he catches the boy quick, thumb at the point of his face. 

“I’ve kissed the Jessamine of th’ Rosewinds an’ made her flush so prettily ye could say I placed the flowers in her cheeks; I courted th’lord of Voidsunder so well he gave me a blade fit for a king... all for the price of my lips.” He runs his tongue over those selfsame lips, slow and deliberate. “Had plenty of pretty lordlings an’ handsome lasses. May be a Fish outa water, but they know me by my honeyed tongue, and aren’t liable to forget what I can do with it, either.” His grin widens and he lets a brow rise, conspiratorial and mocking all at once.

Stenden turns red, half from the alcohol, and half from the embarrassment before pulling away from Vissehn’s hand. “I know! I’m not sheltered it’s just that-” he leaned back and gestured at his friend from head to toe. “You’re Vissehn! I wouldn’t have figured-” the boy quickly went back to his drink to shut himself up. His friend was a man’s man. Loud, boisterous, boastful. But he supposed he was pretty enough to draw the turn the heads of many-a-Lord.

Then, after a moment of alcohol mired thought, he gave Vissehn a look. “Were these courting of the Lords and Ladies intentional or incidental?” He asked a not so subtle loaded question.

Vissehn’s laugh is uproarious, and he grips the bar to catch himself from falling off his seat. “Cor, the look on you!” He slaps the counter and takes a long drink, finishing his flagon. Dropping more silver, he chuckles even after the moment of pure, chaotic mirth is spent. “Ahhh… I forget how young you are sometimes, friend!” He reaches up to ruffle Stenden’s hair. “Hoo. I should be kinder,” though his tone is not promising.

At the pointed question, Vissehn snorts, eyes flicking from Stenden to the barkeep who was pouring him more. “People get drawn in by someone who smiles and has a good time. Half th’time I just grin an’ giggle and they line themselves up neat like-- common an’ not.” He pauses. “I tell you this; I’ve taken a gift or so for my charm, but I’m no whore.” He says it without rancor or shame. “I don’t seek coin, or power, or nothin’. I’d be a mighty fool of a strumpet if’n I turned down your offer back when you asked if I’d join on.” He lifted his brow meaningfully. 

When the mug was filled, Vissehn nodded to the man behind the counter; he knew the kind, and he knew that the fellow was not a fool. Stenden would be known here, for all Vissehn’s posturing, and that he had come to drink-- and not cause trouble-- would be known as well. What happened with the information, well… he knew an ear or three to whisper in. He’d make this a good thing for the boy-lord, and not one for ill.

Solendis might think making a man of an idea made it lose value; Vissehn knew better. Heroes were made from people, lifted high. You weren’t born a god; the best heroes had a little of the godliness in the blood, and fought-- bled-- wept for the rest. 

He shrugged then. “When I was just a sprout, I was popular with my set. Got myself good at talking, and listening, and it did me well. When I joined up with the Sunguard, well-- the good folks there were more noble than not. Myself, Captain Sunshard, The Oracle… who else.” He taps his chin. “Dawnstalker, yeah. He’s common. Highdawn is akin to it. You see how hard it is to name even two hands worth of commborn?” He lifted his newly filled mug for a drink, and then clinked it against Stenden’s. “I’m a simple man; I like diversions. New things, fun things, fun people. I’ll make friends with those around me, easy, and if they want more, well-- if they’re interesting, I don’t see the harm.”

Stenden got a refill for himself as he listened to his friend. “Power flows upwards,” he made the shape of a pyramid with his hands. “Peasants & commonfolk to landowners & merchants, landowners & merchants to their barons, barons to dukes, then dukes to the king- Well Lord Regent in our case.” The boy tried to explain what he knew of the system he was in. 

“Commonfolk are good folks, but in the places that make the world, they rarely have the power to stand the others.” He gave a thoughtful pause. “The Glades, we value merit as much as we do birthright. Take Lady Swiftquiver or Lord Tar’saren for instance. Raised to their stations from action- Not whose loins they sprung forth from!”

The boy had forgotten his cover, and began speaking all Lord-like. Not drawing that much attention in the lively tavern but enough for the man behind the counter and some nearby to really take notice. But to Vissehn’s relief, they liked what they heard and made no mention of it.

“I don’t give a lick about power.” Vissehn offered back with a laugh. “I’ve been poor as they come an’ I’ve lead troops, all the same, and power is just another thing they try’n sell ye. I’d rather be fightin’ on my own. Now, I’ll take it-- when needs must, or when it suits-- but that’s not for me.” He waves a hand, noting that the shift in conversation is far easier for his friend to stomach. Well, that was fair-- he was a sheltered lad, and hadn’t lived the kind of life Vissehn had. And well. Vissehn was luckier than his aunties and girl-cousins; he’d at least had the veneer of protection, and choice with his pursuits, brief and limited as they were. He’d never been faced with the ultimatums or the pressure. He’d been a boy long enough for it to benefit him.

“I got a passel of thoughts on things here but this ain’t my home, so I’m gonna listen more than I talk.” He shrugs. “All I know is, pretty face an’ a way with words-- that gets me in a lot of doors. Noble, merchant, common-- we all wanna feel special an’ get that attention from someone who seems interested. When that don’t work, Hawkin’ mail, or th’Sunguard sign would do the rest. Now, I’ma have to find me other sure ways of finding mischief.” He wiggled both his brows. 

The boy nods, it was never about power for Vissehn. Stenden remembered their first meeting, how he had casually turned down his offer for power. As meager as something as a cottage and a small stint of land. But perhaps, he thought, it was more about freedom than any particular distaste for power.

He chuckles and raises his mug for his friend, “to mischief then!” Stenden cheers and slips deeper into inhibition. But through his ale muddled thoughts he finds a thread that he picked up earlier but discarded at the time. His smile mellows somewhat as he stares into his mug. “Speaking of mischief- What did you mean my father had something to do with her not being there? Sheri, I mean.”

The pair raise their glasses in the call for mischief, and it's as good an oath as Vissehn has ever given. He drains the flagon again, the quality of the ale just beginning to affect him. Everything has a gloss to it that he associates with the edge of inebriation, and it's a pleasant one-- with pleasant company to boot, even if Stenden is just a lad with more nobility than sense. 

The other youth snorts as he puts down the empty mug. "Yee father got some notions about how you ought to spending your time. Which include less of me altogether." He twirls a finger in the air dismissively. "Not the first fucker to tell me I'm a bad influence, first one to say it was cause he'd set his--" Vissehn cuts off, and scowls. "Well, he had his ideas and I got mine. I got the feeling though weren't the first time he's warned someone off of ye, he had the words ready to cut to the quick; we're all just lucky I'm a bastard with no honor to protect from, yeah?" He rubs at the back of his neck. "If he got wind of somethin as sordid as a lordling pawing at a servants girl, well. Seems he's the type to tuck that away and get it gone afore anyone else is the wiser. Hope he just sent her and her auntie packin, an' no worse."

Emotions churn through him, they cut, wash away, and swirl. Like a storm on the alabester wall that was Stenden. He did not know what to do with any of it. "I had my suspicions," his voice hardens, swinging away from the mirth it held just moments ago. "And he must have said the same to you." He gestures for the barkeep to give him a refill.

"To protect me? Did he say what from? From you?"

"Fuck, Sten, I was piss drunk. I'm proud I didn't hit him in the jaw, cause I was that mad but I don't recall all he slung at me. Just that I'd be ruinin' yer future, and he was protectin' your credibility." He will not say he has a much better memory than he lets on; that Solendis knows he is Unwelcomed and Tel'dorei and a lower form of low than even the commoners at this bar, in these lands. Stenden can wring that from his father if he wishes; he can fight the power of his ancestry on his own, without the need to defend the honor of his friend who has none.

There is a quality to the hardness in Stenden that reminds Vissehn of the last days of Sederis rule as Lord in these lands, and it more than the reminder of his own fractured history that sobers the lad. Here was another who would not care to be controlled; sees his father's warning as protection, unnecessary for him, rather than protection of the way of life. He drops silver as a tip, and slings an arm around Stendens shoulders.

"Let's get th'fuck out of here, howl in the hills for a spell. Yer father can't rid you of me; yer the only one who can send my ass to pasture." He offers it consolingly, guiding Stenden to the door.

“Part of me wishes you punched him- But consequ- conse- That’d have been bad,” Stenden slurred minorly.

But as Vissehn slung his arm around his shoulder, the boy rises to his feet and gets guided to the door. “That’s good,” he says, “because I never will.” With one final gesture to the barkeep, he swallowed both his ale and his anger down in one go.

He did not say it, but there was a tension in his heart. Being treated like a houseplant. Put in a box as his father did the gatekeeping. With that information now in the open, he began to wonder how many friends he had lost. Or if that girl from Dawnveil actually did feel the same way he did for her- he had assumed she never came back because he hadn’t mattered that much to her. He had been Solendis’ offering to the Emberglades, except Solendis had never asked if he was willing or not- because the offering was finally beginning to think for himself. Like mother, like son.

-

Image by Jason Manley.

@retributionpriest​ @stormandozone​ @thanidiel​

[thepilgrimofwar]

Of Memory and Honor

Sederis’ body lay in the courtyard of the Emberheart’s manor. Nothing had touched it since it was placed upon its alabaster altar. Not frost, nor flame, nor the passage of time. Magic saw to it that he did not wither as all other things did. But as Stenden Emberheart gazed upon the spellbound body of his uncle, he began to wonder how long it would be before he would too lie on that very altar. He had already lived fourteen summers, and perhaps a thousand more lay ahead. But as he spied where the Alliance spears had pierced his uncle, the years ahead began to shorten. Maybe only a hundred remained? Maybe less? Maybe, he mused, he could be dead as soon as tomorrow. It was a forlorn conclusion that awaited an answer that none could give. Not even Lady Death.

“The garden overgrows,” said Solendis, appearing behind his son. “It honors him with the thorns and flowers of spring.” The Steward of the Emberglades looked upon his brother’s body. Though time had healed his grief, the pain still lingered.

“It does, though I doubt he has much use of that honor.” Stenden looked up at his father. “Have you made the arrangements?” 

He nodded. “I have. It will be held soon. On the anniversary of his death.”

“Good,” said Stenden. “He watched over us for all of the Phoenix Wars. Now it’s time to let him rest.”

“Shall we commission a statue?” Solendis followed the young Lord of the Emberglades back into the manor, passing through spartan halls of the castle-like structure.

“I very much doubt Uncle would’ve appreciated the gesture,” Stenden led the way back to the upstairs study, a place that had been Solendis’ domain, then Sederis’, and now it was his. Lord of the Emberglades. Bearer of his family’s bloody legacy.

“Sederis? Probably not. But for the people to remember his sacrifice? A statue would be a permanent reminder.” Solendis pointed at the map on his desk. “Kearn would be most suitable.”

Stenden considered it for a moment before settling into a chair made for far larger men. “No,” he replied, shaking his head.

“No?” It hadn’t been the first time his son had rejected his ideas, but that grated against him nonetheless. It was too much like Sederis.

“As much as you think it is necessary, we can ill afford the artisans and masons for a statue of deserving quality while all of Quel’thalas rebuilds. No, we grow fields that will bear his name.”

Solendis cocked his head. “Fields.”

“There is a saying, no? That those who plant fields believe in a future. That there’ll be a harvest. A house to store it. A family to feed.” Stenden recalled the old saying from the Heartlands. “We need to show that Uncle believed in that future.”

Solendis suppressed a laugh, letting on only the slightest of smirks. “I very much doubt that the everyday peasant would see that. They’ll see a muddy lane and a barren field and think ‘oh, the fields of Sederis are shite’ and move on with their lives.”

Stenden chuckles at his father’s rendition of a country peasant. “Then we make sure they’re the finest bloody fields in the Heartlands. Give it to Loddinian as a gift for his many years of service. I’m sure he’ll be as devoted to those fields as he was to Uncle.”

“And what would you grow there?”

Stenden gave a side glance to the empty bottles of whiskey at the far side of the study. Try as he might to clear them out, there was always more of them to be found at the manor. “Barley. To be malted and given to Heartland Distillery. Peasants may not understand subtlety, but they’ll understand some good fucking alcohol.”

“Language.” Solendis stated, not as a Steward but as a father.

Stenden nodded, cleared his throat, and continued. “Otherwise, I’m sure having Uncle’s memory celebrated between friends and family would make him happy. Something he did not have the luxury for while he still lived.” The boy shook his head. “So, fields? Or statue? What does the Steward of the Emberglades think?”

“I think the statue would be the safer option. Stone doesn’t need to be tended to, maintained, and will not be at the mercy of droughts and famine. But.”

“But?”

“But as a brother, I’d say that a name on a fine whiskey is how Sederis would’ve liked to be remembered.” In that moment Solendis smiled, glad for the first time in a long time that he was wrong. Stenden wasn’t like his brother at all. Solendis clapped his hands, for it was the first time he saw his son do something that Sederis never did. He listened.

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Art by CD Projekt Red

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