REGARDS TO THE RAVEN

[Masouri 2267]

Regards to the Raven

 

@Halt

 

Spoiler

 

 

_____________________________________

 

“Is this the place?”

 

From atop their horses on a snowy hill, Alexander frowned as he and Belisar surveyed the slush-soaked streets of Ravenmire from afar. It was a strange thing to imagine for the Alstion Prince, that worthy foes were holed up in such a cold place, faraway from the rest of mankind. It seemed to be a quiet place, despite the stout stone walls, and the banners atop the ramparts and towers flapped in a lonely, whistling wind. 

 

“This is the way he ran,” Belisar answered with a shrug, and impatiently drummed his fingers on the pommel of his blade. “Are we going or not? If I stay in a saddle any longer, I’m going to get blisters on my a -”

 

“Yes,” Alexander cut him off with a grunt, and hiked up his scabbarded sword before he flicked his horse’s reins. “Come on. Let’s be quick about it.” He suppressed a shiver as the northern wind gusted; for all his visits to Stefaniya in Haense, he did not think he would ever grow accustomed to the cold. 

 

Alexander and Belisar earned a few askance looks from the smattering of townsfolk as they trot their horses through the open gates, in search of the target that had fled from them earlier. There was only a paltry din of chatter, no longer than the bleats of a flock of goats that a farmer seemed to be herding to a market. 

 

Their mission was a simple one - to hunt down the bandits, kinslayers, and excommunicants that took refuge here, and root them out for good. More than one crowned head had ordered it, and, even though it was just Alexander and Belisar who trot down the streets, he knew the world would soon come to watch this stage.

 

It did not take too long for them to get the lay of the place. “This is definitely the place,” Alexander muttered with a misty breath to Belisar, after they spied more than one guardsman sporting an Aurelian cross on their mail. “We should - Belisar?” he wheeled around when he noticed his companion was not there. Instead, he saw the Ruthern had made a bee-line to what looked like a tavern at the end of the street. “For God’s sake.” 

 

By the time Alexander had urged his horse to catch up, Belisar had already slid from his saddle, and was tying his own horse’s reins in a loose knot to a fencepost outside. “What are you doing? We’re not here to drink.” 

 

“What?” Belisar shot him an unabashed look as he tied off the reins. “There’s no better place to get information than a tavern, Alexander.” 

 

The Alstion relented with a mutter, and dismounted from his horse to join him. Their armour clanked, and their greaves trailed muddy slush, as they marched inside. There were a handful of patrons present - all of whom could no doubt instantly recognised the two of them as outsiders - but, after a few moments, it turned out that Belisar’s hunch had been correct; they quickly learned that this place had become a refuge for those defeated in the Covenant War, and that their targets were indeed in this place.

 

 

“See? Pope man was right,” Belisar whispered to Alexander with a smirk as they stood listening to one of the tavern’s patrons - a soldier of some nobility with a Pertinaxi Cross inlaid on his mail - regale them with Ravenmire’s history.

 

“He is called the Pontiff, not ‘pope man’,” Alexander grunted back.

 

“Oi,” the Pertinaxi soldier barked with narrowed eyes, “are you listening? I’m telling you, we were the heroes in the war! I’m not minded to tolerate you saying otherwise. If you came to learn, then you had better listen.” 

 

With a creak of armour, Alexander exchanged a look with Belisar. And there’s our window. “Are you accustomed to being spoken to so rudely, Belisar?”

 

“Most regrettably,” Belisar said melodramatically, “I am not. Where we come from, a duel follows an insult. Should we take this outside, my good man?” 

 

With his armour’s cross gleaming in the dim light, the soldier was all too eager to accept. As they made for the street outside, fanning out to face one another, Alexander almost pitied him as he slid his blade - Abyssal Light - from its sheath. In his periphery, he saw Belisar flash him an excited thumbs-up.

 

Alexander indulged in the same battle-trance that had led him to victory in countless bouts before, and each stroke of his blade was a lightning-fast reflex. He barely felt the vibrations of steel as he parried the Aurelianist’s first blow, and cleanly transitioned to a riposte that clanged into his opponent’s shin, and brought him to a knee, before Alexander lifted the sword to his neck. “You are defeated,” he said softly, only vaguely aware of the modest crowd that had formed to watch in the streets. “You -”

 

He cut off as blood splattered onto his mail, and a blade bloomed in the Aurelianists’ throat. He was only mildly surprised to see Belisar holding the other end of the blade, standing over the soldier. Some of the blood splashed through Alexander’s visor, and he twitched as he felt it on his cheek. “I wasn’t finished.”

 

“What? You were the one who said to be quick about it,” Belisar hummed as he withdrew his sword with a fleshy squelch, and let the soldier collapse on the cobbles, motionless. “You can do the next one.”

 

Alexander was about to ask what he meant by next one, but it was then that he heard hisses of steel as swords were drawn from the crowd by others wearing the Aurelian colours, who glared at the corpse of their fallen companion. There were three of them in total, and what few townsfolk there were quickly dispersed from the street with frantic gasps as the soldiers closed in around them. “Three of them against two of us,” Alexander said softly as he backed against Belisar, watching the soldiers approach.

 

“Three Stassionites,” came Belisar’s dismissive reply. “It’ll be fine.”

 

Belisar had the right of it again.

 

Alexander could not have said if the fight lasted five minutes or five hours, but, by the time it was done, Ravenmire blood had stained Alexander and Belisar’s mail. As Belisar brandished the disembodied head of one of the soldiers with a whistle, the remaining two took off running - as best they could, at least, with what injuries they had sustained. 

 

“Well,” Belisar chimed cheerily as he bounced the head in his hand. “I’d say that went about as well as expected. Wouldn’t you?”

 

Alexander loomed to the blood running through the grooves of cobbles, and the two corpses dead at their feet. With a flourish, he flicked the loose blood off Abyssal Light’s gleaming surface.

 

“For an opening act? It’ll do.”

 

 

---

 

 

[Enlightenment 1543]

"God Bless!" the Roach exclaimed at the grand news

[Xarkly 13206]

 

Patriarch Villorik regarded the news alone that night, in the White Comet Chapter-House.

 

The Blood of Ruther never stayed dormant for long.

[ContestedSnow 845]

Ratibor signed the Hussariyan, albeit hesitantly, as he heard the news of the intrepid adventurers' journey to the land of Ravens. It seemed that the Shark and the Dragon were fiercer beasts.

[Olox_ 3648]

On the top of the Hand of Horen stood the Lord of Alba, Charles Reman Alstion. The grey-eyed Prince directed his gaze to the waving BLACK DRAGON BANNER that he had hoisted on the mast with his brothers the night prior. The man did not speak but offered a silent prayer to those who died in this very Palace and at the Battle of Anthill. Once the prayer concluded Charlie thought of what was to come and managed to smile faintly at the thought, for he was ready.

 

 

 

[seannie 7004]

Amidst the snow and spruce of the far north, Tiber of the Nauzica prowled the lands with his band of scouts in search of their quarry. The Banner of the Black Dragon was raised and soon fire and blood would be brought upon their enemy who thought they had escaped retribution. Though during such, the Nauzican curses, for he had received word of Alexander and Besilar's preemptive exploits, and thus feared on missing out himself. Regardless, there was no time for further complaining, for as Tiber crested the hill ahead, the lands of Ravenmire had shown themselves bare.   

 

[Javert 5772]

Henry Arthur Haverlock, Duke of Blackworth, reflected on the events of that night with a frown. Aaunites, Heartlanders, whatever they had called themselves now - They had come into the capital of Ravenmire to seek blood. Henry had invited them into the tavern, spoke to them as a civilized man, and when that failed a duel was offered as retribution. It was then that the Heartlanders tied up one of Henry's men - a man of Blackworth, and had attempted to have him killed.

 

No matter how it was phrased, it was not Stassionites who they had faced that night. It had been Men of Blackworth, and the Duke had tried numerous times to settle the affair with words instead of blades. Still, the night ended with loss, as the Duke and his men lost one of their own - one who Henry considered a friend.

 

"I tried so hard for peace, Prince Alexander. I tried desperately to remain on amicable terms, even as the world around me called for blood. God forgive me, for I have failed in my mission to keep the peace."

 

The Duke then fell into a deep depression. He had failed his promise to his people to keep them from war. He had failed his promise to the Pontiff to attempt to mend the burnt bridges. He had failed to keep Sir Illatius alive. Still, the Duke resolved to do what he could while he still could.

[annanicole__ 1626]

Mathilde Augusta of Stassion of Old sat inside her home within the walls of Númendil, softly sighing at the mere mention of Stassionites. "May God bless those whom He chooses. May even the excommunicated find solace. May divine grace be bestowed upon all." With a heavy heart, she retrieved a piece of paper and commenced penning a letter to her estranged "family" in Rhosmark, questioning if she could still label them as such. Mathilde had become increasingly detached and disenchanted with her kin in recent years.

[MRCHENN 3697]

“I’m starting to think we have comedic timing.” Jon Ashford de Lewes commented to Ser Lukas, at the two dead Blackworth men lying on the stone roads of Ravenmire. The bodies were fresh, indicating that they had been slain only hours prior.

 

”We’ll have to find new prospects to investigate.”

[framalam 63]

Lukas looks grimly onward towards the gore in the street, his leper's mask making any vision hard. He leans down, shifting about in his hood to peer at the dead. A grand, heaving sigh escapes the iron man before to Jon.

"His son will do enough. All boys want swords, no?"

 

He steps closer, leaning over the body to hear for any posthumous lisping. 

 

"His son will be enough."