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Message: <blockquote data-quote="havenstone" data-source="post: 4389283" data-attributes="member: 61094">The Scion of the d’AramantsWHILE ATRIX IS being ushered to his family, Mullod and Cannedun bring their human protégé to the d’Syrnon palace. “Old Patriarch Thusis has been a friend to generations of dwarrow,” Cannedun informs Darren. “He’s always interested in adding our stories to his library and our craftwork to his collection.” Upon arrival, the gray dwarrow look over the recent additions to Thusis d’Syrnon’s collection. They lift a heavy cloth from one prize piece and recoil in shock and disapproval. Darren looks over their heads and sees a tablet of intricately carved stone which, when the wind moves across it, produces a low muttering sound that raises the hairs on his neck. “Skrintwork,” Mullod growls, throwing the cloth back over the tablet to silence it. “What is it?” asks Darren at once. For a few uncomfortable moments, no one answers him. “Leagues below us and the Delve, lad, there’s another race of dwarrow,” Cannedun explains. “The Skrint have unparalleled skill at shaping stone. Their craft can catch the least whisper of sound or breath of air and echo it back transformed or distorted. A Skrint maze is a formidable thing, cunningly carved to deceive dwarrow senses. They add guidepost stones like this to help them find their way through.” His fingers trace a brief runic inscription on the back of the tablet. “This says, To the heart. Which is a long way of saying ‘down’.” “The Skrint worship the Dark,” Mullod adds grimly, “and we leave them to it. It’s rare for them or their damned craft to find its way to our caverns, let alone the surface.” MEANWHILE, ONTAYA IS making sure all the Wildengard squires have appropriate quarters for the night. As a result, she comes upon several squires waiting in ambush for Carwyn, Kyla, and Nina -- evidently hoping to avenge the beating they received in the tavern brawl. Ontaya faces down the squires as her three friends come around the corner and join her. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns the would-be ambushers. “You’ve been ordered not to cause more trouble for Kyla. That doesn’t change just because we’re in the Palace.” “Have you been in hiding in the hills so long, Ontaya,” comes a mocking voice from the opposite end of the garden, “that your tastes have turned to these coarse barbarian wenches?” Ontaya turns to face a handsome youth with long chestnut hair, light eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard: Agerain d’Aramant, the most influential young scion of his Family, nephew of Patriarch Athagon. Agerain’s love of dangerously violent bullying, dueling, and brawling against weaker targets from other Families has set him at odds with Ontaya many times in the past. As usual, he is hanging around with a small cluster of other young d’Aramants, who regard the four party members with lazily expectant smiles. “Agerain,” Ontaya acknowledges him, refusing to rise to his gibes. “These young women are under the protection of Marcor d’Syrnon as well as myself.” “You really expect me to believe that Count Marcor cares about your harlots?” Agerain pretends to slap Nina -- and Ontaya catches his arm in a vise-like grip. The color drains from the young d’Aramant’s face as he tries and fails to pull away. “You dishonor yourself by this behavior,” Ontaya informs him quietly, and lets go of him. Agerain glances around at his cronies and the squires, clearly considering whether the odds are in their favor in a fight. Ontaya shakes her head. “Don’t be a fool, man. The castellanry is just around the corner. Hasn’t Reynalt had enough to say about your brawls?” Agerain scowls. By common consent of the Families, the castellan of the Patriarchs has broad powers to maintain order within the Palace walls, and has often punished Agerain for starting duels and other trouble. “Hiding behind the law as usual. Your cowardice won’t always save you, you know.” Ontaya shrugs, keeping her temper. “You call me coward, but I’ve never seen you start a fight with fewer than five friends at your side.” “Ontaya!” A voice echoes through the garden before Agerain can respond. “Where are you?” “I’m here, Ellikard,” Ontaya calls back, recognizing the voice of her adoptive cousin. Moments later, a small group of d’Orbis youth arrive: the slender Ellikard, his sister Emerath, and several of Ontaya’s other close friends. Ontaya glances at the Wildengard squires, who are visibly wilting now that they are outnumbered. “Go to your quarters. I don’t expect to see any repeat of this foolishness.” As the squires skulk away, Agerain sighs and gives a deep, mocking bow. “Another time. Welcome back to Lynar, your Reverence.” He and the other d’Aramants saunter off in the direction of their Family keep. Ontaya pushes down her irritation and introduces her adoptive relatives to Carwyn, Kyla, and Nina. Emerath gives Ontaya a quick kiss of greeting while Ellikard shakes his head. “We heard that you were back, and that Agerain and his boys were on the prowl, so we came looking for you. He’s got worse while you were away -- picking fights with anyone from any Family who looks at him the wrong way. Soon he’ll be backed up by dozens of d’Aramant country cousins who have been showing up in preparation for the war. I don’t know how our fathers think that the d’Orbis can stay neutral when the d’Aramants show such arrogance and offense.” “Patriarch Athagon should control his nephew better,” Ontaya agrees. “But the d’Orbis country cousins are showing up, too. I’m sure we can handle Agerain if he starts a fight.” “A fair fight,” Ellikard corrects her sourly.</blockquote>

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