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Explorer
Patchwall 6, CY 593
74—No parties without the party.
The throne room of Furyondy has grown tense. On one side, the Liberators of Tenh stand with an enraged Belvor and his bewildered son. On the other, a full score of powerful Southern Knights stand at the ready.
Lucius leans toward the party wizards. “I got the King,” he mutters. “You do the room.”
Heyrdicus moves to Butrain’s side. Leaning close to the older man, the Liberator speaks softly into his ear. “Don’t humiliate him,” he whispers. “You have your throne now, and he has his pride.”
Xanthan Butrain stares hard at Heydricus for a moment, weighing the loyalty of this adventurer he does not truly know against the service to both his reputation and life that Heydricus has rendered. Finally, he nods, and whispers, “Wise words.”
All eyes are on Butrain as he turns to face Belvor. The new and former kings of Furyondy lock eyes for a brief moment, then Butrain begins to speak. “In the great library of Chendl, there is a book,” he says, smiling as his non-sequitur dispels the tension in the room. His knights laugh or shift uncomfortably, and the lordlings and courtiers reapply the expressions of rapt attention that accompany even the most banal of a new king’s ramblings. “It records the names and notable deeds of Furyondian kings, dating back to our secession from the Great Kingdom.” Butrain is smiling now. “Few have ever seen this book, but I have read it. One thing I noticed was that the manner in which the king’s name was recorded seemed to be directly related to the greatness of his deeds. Poor or inept kings instructed their loremasters to inscribe their meager deeds with gold, or magical ink.” The crowd laughs at this. “The great kings, of course, needed no such embellishment.”
“We have before us,” Butrain says, extending an arm toward Belvor, “the only former king that I believe need not inscribe his name at all.” Butrain pauses while his compliment sinks in. There is a smattering of applause from the crowd at this. Belvor has relaxed his guard; the silver-haired paladin squints suspiciously at the praise, but remains silent.
Butrian continues. “For I cannot imagine that at any time in our future the name of King Belvor might not ring within the hearts of Furyondians true. For his courage, for his integrity, and for answering the clarion call of war, he will be honored so long as the crescent rises over the three crowns on our arms.” Butrain moves to stand before Belvor. “Once I took knee to you as a man to his liege, now I bow as a lesser to his better man.” As he says so, Butrain bows deeply. He rises, and whispers, “You’re free now, Belvor. You always pined for the adventuring life, now go adventure.”
“Thrommel will be king someday,” Heydricus says into Belvor’s other ear. “Your sonyou’re your grandchildren will rule—now come to Tenh, we can use your sword.”
Belvor says nothing, but nods stiffly. After a moment, the new king smiles a thin and satisfied smile and turns to the crowd, raising his hands. “Why are you still here?” he shouts. “Don’t we all have a wedding to prepare for?”
As the crowd filters out of the room, Butrain spares one last glance for Belvor and says, “Tenh is a good place for you, Belvor. Fight our enemies, and win.” To Heydricus, he says, “I find myself again in your debt, Tritherionson. You have cleared my name, protected my honor, broken a foul witches’ curse, and now advised me true. And I am in a position to repay favors, thanks to you.”
Heydricus says, “There is one thing—I believe we are still wanted for our attack against Piscean?”
The king scoffs. “A small thing. I, for one, never believed you guilty.” He leans close. “But it will serve my purpose. I am looking for a fight with the ecclesiastic courts.” Butrain smiles. “Enjoy the wedding, then leave Chendl for a time. I will deal with these charges, and advise you when it is done.” With that, Butrain motions to his guards, and leaves the room.
The archmage Lizst sidles up to the Liberators of Tenh. “Deftly played,” he says. “My compliments. Thrommel is to have his kingship after all.”
“May the gods protect us,” Jespo says.
Fräs hisses.
“You have done well by the boy,” Lizst says. Four times slain, four times returned, and still the heir to the throne.”
“Four times slain?” Belvor says.
“We kept it from you, milord, as a courtesy. But the Four knew.”
“Well, you can’t keep a moth from the flame,” Heydricus says defensively.
“And who is your new companion, if I may be so bold as to ask?” Lizst motions toward Malae, who has wandered absentmindedly into the adjoining courtyard. “Is this a new attendant, or just another hanger-on?”
“He was kept by Piscean in a soul gem,” Prisantha explains. “He is Ivid’s brother—Malae, the former Imperial Duke of Ferrond.”
Lizst smiles. “Interesting. I am something of a historian myself, you know. Ivid III had no brothers. I would keep a close eye on that one, were I you, Pris.”
-----
Thrommel’s wedding is brief and desultory—a clumsy event, more at the direction of Furyondy’s new king than its high clericy. Thrommel delivers his vows with a dazed expression, and is unusually quiet throughout the ceremony. Butrain’s daughter, no beauty by any stretch of the imagination, manages to look at least dignified in her hastily-prepared dress. Above her veil, however, she has her father’s eyes; cool, pragmatic and calculating.
After the vows are exchanged, Butrain leads a procession to the main ballroom, where a band of musicians and a feast has been prepared. Speeches are given, great quantities of wine, ale and a curious dwarven fungal liquor currently in vogue in the Furyondian capitol are consumed. As the last of the food is cleared away, the tables are removed to make a space for a dance, and the musicians unfetter their bowstrings. The glittering finery of the Furyondian court is somewhat jarringly juxtaposed against the rough-edged Southern knights that form the core of Butrain’s retinue, and despite the message within the match, neither the groom’s side of the aisle nor the bride’s seems interested in mingling with the other.
After the long line of congratulatory drunkards has passed Thrommel by, Heydricus finds the prince, and expresses his congratulations, along with this advice: “Your strength is as a military leader. Engender the loyalty of the fighting men of Furyondy and you shall have your throne. Get the fighters on your side, Thrommel, lest you have no allies at all in court.”
“Well,” Thrommel says, somewhat drunk. “I shall still have you.”
“A prince needs more than adventurers if he is to live to see his throne. However, I have asked Prisantha to craft a bracelet of friends for you. If you are in danger, use it.”
Jespo has been drinking steadily since the feast, playing drinking games with Regda. The broad-shouldered fighter is still clear-headed, and Regda is engaged in a dagger-throwing contest with several approving Southern knights, but Jespo has grown exceedingly drunk, and is staggering from group to group, expounding on the virtues of conjuration magic, and reminding his audiences that he fought in the Temple, too.
Fräs seems to have inherited some of Jespo’s drunkenness by proxy, and is perched on Regda’s shoulder, hissing “miss” each time one of her opponents throws, and purring at Regda’s marksmanship
Jespo makes his way to Prisantha’s side, and bumbles through the crowd of admiring young noblemen attending her every word. “Well, who would have thought it—our Thrommel is married,” Jespo slurs. “I feel like a proud parent.”
“Well, he almost ran away from the whole affair, the fool,” Prisantha says. “If he’d his way, there would have been an ugly fight.”
“Still, he consented of his own free will,” Jespo adds. “Credit where credit is due.”
“Mostly free will,” Prisantha says.
Jespo smiles. “It’s moments like these that make me proud to be a wizard,” Jespo says. He puts his arm on Prisantha’s shoulder, and leans in close. “Do you remember that time that I’d grown cross with you and called you a ‘hedge wizard?’”
Prisantha wrinkles her nose, and attempts to detach herself. “No, I’d forgotten,” she lies.
“Well, I was wrong,” Jespo says. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. Why, next to you, I am the hedge wizard!”
“There are no hedge wizards in our group, Jespo.” Prisantha says.
“No, no. I am a poor wizard. I always have been. You know, when I was first accepted into my apprenticeship, my mother . . .”
“Jespo, look!” Prisantha says. “Lord Mertin the elder is here—I think you should introduce yourself,” she suggests.
Jespo squints in the indicated direction and stumbles off. Neither nature nor admirers can abide a vacuum, and within moments several young men have taken Jespo’s place, asking questions and attempting to out-do each other with their rapier-hilt wit.
Heydricus counts six admirers around Prisantha. Both of the two women vying for his attention notice that the Liberator has grown distracted, and keeps gazing at something over their shoulder. Heydricus makes a subtle gesture, and then Lucius is standing next to him. His sudden appearance and flat, level gaze unnerves the two women, and they quickly make excuses to leave.
“Look at that,” Heydricus says. “It’s pathetic the way they crowd around her.”
“Is it?” Lucius asks.
“The things some men will do,” Heydricus says spitefully. “Abasing themselves like a pack of feral dogs.”
Lucius regards him evenly. “Even before I died, I was never much of a romantic,” he says, “but since . . .” he trails off. “Well, it changes you.”
Heydricus does not respond. He is staring at Prisantha and her admirers, a flush slowly spreading across his face. Lucius notes this and strides across the room. When he reaches the knot of lordlings standing in a semi-circle around the Enchantress of Verbobonc, he claps his hands loudly, startling the men.
“There’s a horserace outside,” he tells them, widening his eyes. “And it’s to the death. You should all go look.”
The young noblemen glance at one another, and finding a certain camaraderie in their shared terror of this violent-looking adventurer, they scramble.
Prisantha is staring furiously at Lucius. The assassin shrugs. “Me and Heydricus was sick of them as-holes.” He walks away.
Prisantha marches over to Heydricus, perhaps intending to give him a piece of her mind, but when confronted by his most endearing smile, her will weakens, and she accepts his arm. He leads her over to the dim and sparsely populated end of the ballroom, stepping over the new king’s hunting dogs as he goes.
“The musicians are very good, don’t you think?” Prisantha says.
“Oh hell, yeah. They’re great,” Heydricus says.
“I love this song,” she adds.
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, hell yeah. It’s great.”
“Have you danced this evening?”
Heydricus nods. “Oh, yeah. Once or twice.”
Prisantha waits for a few moments, but there is no invitation forthcoming. “This all happened so suddenly, I didn’t get a chance to wear a proper gown. I had to borrow this one.”
Heydricus pipes up. “You look great.”
“It doesn’t look to small on top?”
Heydricus examines the area in question. “No . . . no, it’s fine. Um, maybe we should talk about tomorrow. I was thinking that we could go after Zeflen in Calibut. Calibut is crucial, it . . .”
Prisantha is shaking her head no.
“You don’t agree?”
“Why don’t we just take a day off?”
“A day off, huh?” he says, laughing at himself. “Sure. We could have a few drinks, and relax.”
“I’ve already had a few,” she says, batting her eyes.
74—No parties without the party.
The throne room of Furyondy has grown tense. On one side, the Liberators of Tenh stand with an enraged Belvor and his bewildered son. On the other, a full score of powerful Southern Knights stand at the ready.
Lucius leans toward the party wizards. “I got the King,” he mutters. “You do the room.”
Heyrdicus moves to Butrain’s side. Leaning close to the older man, the Liberator speaks softly into his ear. “Don’t humiliate him,” he whispers. “You have your throne now, and he has his pride.”
Xanthan Butrain stares hard at Heydricus for a moment, weighing the loyalty of this adventurer he does not truly know against the service to both his reputation and life that Heydricus has rendered. Finally, he nods, and whispers, “Wise words.”
All eyes are on Butrain as he turns to face Belvor. The new and former kings of Furyondy lock eyes for a brief moment, then Butrain begins to speak. “In the great library of Chendl, there is a book,” he says, smiling as his non-sequitur dispels the tension in the room. His knights laugh or shift uncomfortably, and the lordlings and courtiers reapply the expressions of rapt attention that accompany even the most banal of a new king’s ramblings. “It records the names and notable deeds of Furyondian kings, dating back to our secession from the Great Kingdom.” Butrain is smiling now. “Few have ever seen this book, but I have read it. One thing I noticed was that the manner in which the king’s name was recorded seemed to be directly related to the greatness of his deeds. Poor or inept kings instructed their loremasters to inscribe their meager deeds with gold, or magical ink.” The crowd laughs at this. “The great kings, of course, needed no such embellishment.”
“We have before us,” Butrain says, extending an arm toward Belvor, “the only former king that I believe need not inscribe his name at all.” Butrain pauses while his compliment sinks in. There is a smattering of applause from the crowd at this. Belvor has relaxed his guard; the silver-haired paladin squints suspiciously at the praise, but remains silent.
Butrian continues. “For I cannot imagine that at any time in our future the name of King Belvor might not ring within the hearts of Furyondians true. For his courage, for his integrity, and for answering the clarion call of war, he will be honored so long as the crescent rises over the three crowns on our arms.” Butrain moves to stand before Belvor. “Once I took knee to you as a man to his liege, now I bow as a lesser to his better man.” As he says so, Butrain bows deeply. He rises, and whispers, “You’re free now, Belvor. You always pined for the adventuring life, now go adventure.”
“Thrommel will be king someday,” Heydricus says into Belvor’s other ear. “Your sonyou’re your grandchildren will rule—now come to Tenh, we can use your sword.”
Belvor says nothing, but nods stiffly. After a moment, the new king smiles a thin and satisfied smile and turns to the crowd, raising his hands. “Why are you still here?” he shouts. “Don’t we all have a wedding to prepare for?”
As the crowd filters out of the room, Butrain spares one last glance for Belvor and says, “Tenh is a good place for you, Belvor. Fight our enemies, and win.” To Heydricus, he says, “I find myself again in your debt, Tritherionson. You have cleared my name, protected my honor, broken a foul witches’ curse, and now advised me true. And I am in a position to repay favors, thanks to you.”
Heydricus says, “There is one thing—I believe we are still wanted for our attack against Piscean?”
The king scoffs. “A small thing. I, for one, never believed you guilty.” He leans close. “But it will serve my purpose. I am looking for a fight with the ecclesiastic courts.” Butrain smiles. “Enjoy the wedding, then leave Chendl for a time. I will deal with these charges, and advise you when it is done.” With that, Butrain motions to his guards, and leaves the room.
The archmage Lizst sidles up to the Liberators of Tenh. “Deftly played,” he says. “My compliments. Thrommel is to have his kingship after all.”
“May the gods protect us,” Jespo says.
Fräs hisses.
“You have done well by the boy,” Lizst says. Four times slain, four times returned, and still the heir to the throne.”
“Four times slain?” Belvor says.
“We kept it from you, milord, as a courtesy. But the Four knew.”
“Well, you can’t keep a moth from the flame,” Heydricus says defensively.
“And who is your new companion, if I may be so bold as to ask?” Lizst motions toward Malae, who has wandered absentmindedly into the adjoining courtyard. “Is this a new attendant, or just another hanger-on?”
“He was kept by Piscean in a soul gem,” Prisantha explains. “He is Ivid’s brother—Malae, the former Imperial Duke of Ferrond.”
Lizst smiles. “Interesting. I am something of a historian myself, you know. Ivid III had no brothers. I would keep a close eye on that one, were I you, Pris.”
-----
Thrommel’s wedding is brief and desultory—a clumsy event, more at the direction of Furyondy’s new king than its high clericy. Thrommel delivers his vows with a dazed expression, and is unusually quiet throughout the ceremony. Butrain’s daughter, no beauty by any stretch of the imagination, manages to look at least dignified in her hastily-prepared dress. Above her veil, however, she has her father’s eyes; cool, pragmatic and calculating.
After the vows are exchanged, Butrain leads a procession to the main ballroom, where a band of musicians and a feast has been prepared. Speeches are given, great quantities of wine, ale and a curious dwarven fungal liquor currently in vogue in the Furyondian capitol are consumed. As the last of the food is cleared away, the tables are removed to make a space for a dance, and the musicians unfetter their bowstrings. The glittering finery of the Furyondian court is somewhat jarringly juxtaposed against the rough-edged Southern knights that form the core of Butrain’s retinue, and despite the message within the match, neither the groom’s side of the aisle nor the bride’s seems interested in mingling with the other.
After the long line of congratulatory drunkards has passed Thrommel by, Heydricus finds the prince, and expresses his congratulations, along with this advice: “Your strength is as a military leader. Engender the loyalty of the fighting men of Furyondy and you shall have your throne. Get the fighters on your side, Thrommel, lest you have no allies at all in court.”
“Well,” Thrommel says, somewhat drunk. “I shall still have you.”
“A prince needs more than adventurers if he is to live to see his throne. However, I have asked Prisantha to craft a bracelet of friends for you. If you are in danger, use it.”
Jespo has been drinking steadily since the feast, playing drinking games with Regda. The broad-shouldered fighter is still clear-headed, and Regda is engaged in a dagger-throwing contest with several approving Southern knights, but Jespo has grown exceedingly drunk, and is staggering from group to group, expounding on the virtues of conjuration magic, and reminding his audiences that he fought in the Temple, too.
Fräs seems to have inherited some of Jespo’s drunkenness by proxy, and is perched on Regda’s shoulder, hissing “miss” each time one of her opponents throws, and purring at Regda’s marksmanship
Jespo makes his way to Prisantha’s side, and bumbles through the crowd of admiring young noblemen attending her every word. “Well, who would have thought it—our Thrommel is married,” Jespo slurs. “I feel like a proud parent.”
“Well, he almost ran away from the whole affair, the fool,” Prisantha says. “If he’d his way, there would have been an ugly fight.”
“Still, he consented of his own free will,” Jespo adds. “Credit where credit is due.”
“Mostly free will,” Prisantha says.
Jespo smiles. “It’s moments like these that make me proud to be a wizard,” Jespo says. He puts his arm on Prisantha’s shoulder, and leans in close. “Do you remember that time that I’d grown cross with you and called you a ‘hedge wizard?’”
Prisantha wrinkles her nose, and attempts to detach herself. “No, I’d forgotten,” she lies.
“Well, I was wrong,” Jespo says. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. Why, next to you, I am the hedge wizard!”
“There are no hedge wizards in our group, Jespo.” Prisantha says.
“No, no. I am a poor wizard. I always have been. You know, when I was first accepted into my apprenticeship, my mother . . .”
“Jespo, look!” Prisantha says. “Lord Mertin the elder is here—I think you should introduce yourself,” she suggests.
Jespo squints in the indicated direction and stumbles off. Neither nature nor admirers can abide a vacuum, and within moments several young men have taken Jespo’s place, asking questions and attempting to out-do each other with their rapier-hilt wit.
Heydricus counts six admirers around Prisantha. Both of the two women vying for his attention notice that the Liberator has grown distracted, and keeps gazing at something over their shoulder. Heydricus makes a subtle gesture, and then Lucius is standing next to him. His sudden appearance and flat, level gaze unnerves the two women, and they quickly make excuses to leave.
“Look at that,” Heydricus says. “It’s pathetic the way they crowd around her.”
“Is it?” Lucius asks.
“The things some men will do,” Heydricus says spitefully. “Abasing themselves like a pack of feral dogs.”
Lucius regards him evenly. “Even before I died, I was never much of a romantic,” he says, “but since . . .” he trails off. “Well, it changes you.”
Heydricus does not respond. He is staring at Prisantha and her admirers, a flush slowly spreading across his face. Lucius notes this and strides across the room. When he reaches the knot of lordlings standing in a semi-circle around the Enchantress of Verbobonc, he claps his hands loudly, startling the men.
“There’s a horserace outside,” he tells them, widening his eyes. “And it’s to the death. You should all go look.”
The young noblemen glance at one another, and finding a certain camaraderie in their shared terror of this violent-looking adventurer, they scramble.
Prisantha is staring furiously at Lucius. The assassin shrugs. “Me and Heydricus was sick of them as-holes.” He walks away.
Prisantha marches over to Heydricus, perhaps intending to give him a piece of her mind, but when confronted by his most endearing smile, her will weakens, and she accepts his arm. He leads her over to the dim and sparsely populated end of the ballroom, stepping over the new king’s hunting dogs as he goes.
“The musicians are very good, don’t you think?” Prisantha says.
“Oh hell, yeah. They’re great,” Heydricus says.
“I love this song,” she adds.
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, hell yeah. It’s great.”
“Have you danced this evening?”
Heydricus nods. “Oh, yeah. Once or twice.”
Prisantha waits for a few moments, but there is no invitation forthcoming. “This all happened so suddenly, I didn’t get a chance to wear a proper gown. I had to borrow this one.”
Heydricus pipes up. “You look great.”
“It doesn’t look to small on top?”
Heydricus examines the area in question. “No . . . no, it’s fine. Um, maybe we should talk about tomorrow. I was thinking that we could go after Zeflen in Calibut. Calibut is crucial, it . . .”
Prisantha is shaking her head no.
“You don’t agree?”
“Why don’t we just take a day off?”
“A day off, huh?” he says, laughing at himself. “Sure. We could have a few drinks, and relax.”
“I’ve already had a few,” she says, batting her eyes.
The Liberators will adventure through Epic levels.
