[RP][PotN] Land of the Princes

Velika Kazimir was, she figured, the only member of the caravan who was less than happy to leave the inn. While it had been crowded, the air had grown stale, and the population was just varied enough that talk of anything but very basic matters could have sparked a fight, Velika had spent most of the time copying spell scrolls. Furthermore, leaving the inn did nothing to dispel the voice in her head, constantly threatening her work as Kazimir found herself tempted to write them out in her scrolls. As a result of that, she had begun looking for any useful spell that could’ve helped them get outside even briefly, much less continue on their way.

On the last day she’d found a fireball scroll in her trove of recently-purchased treasures, but Velika had hardly begun to make sense of the Molossian text - which seemed to have been scrawled in a hurry, leaving the hand incredibly difficult to make out - when she passed out from exhaustion well past the witching hour. When morning came there was no more blizzard, so Princess Kazimir had one of her maidens return it to the cart once she’d realized such an action was possible. Maybe one day she’d try figuring that spell out…

At any rate, the inn had emptied out so fast that shortly afterwards Velika found herself pressured into leaving as well. Adjusting her scroll-bag and pulling her heavy furs tighter around her rather frail self, the princess cautiously stepped out into the snowy village beyond. The chill seemed to claw at all of her exposed skin, making the princess grit her teeth in silent discomfort. Whereas most of her kin had developed a resistance to the bite of winter, Kazimir had spent enough time beside burning hearths curled up around one book or scroll or another that she’d never exercised such benefits and seemed to have lost them.

Or maybe it was just that cold…

She waved her maidens away as they offered to get more coats, pointing out perfectly reasonably that any more weight would just make her topple over. Velika had little choice but to brave what relatively little cold slipped past her heavy garments as she trailed after the vast majority of caravaneers and peasants towards what seemed to be the village elder’s home. Unlike most of the structures around, the princess found herself able to recognize it as a building without much trouble.

Maybe Velika had spent too much time in Molossia. Albeit thanks to that she found Nilo’s nattering bearable, or at least easier to drown out with other noise than her fellow caravaneers. The smallest of smiles graced her face as she remembered Èrthu’s choice selection of words describing the merchant’s endless, often one-sided chatter.

The smile quickly vanished as she, her maidens, and her bodyguard - assuming he stayed with her, though she assured him she’d be fine if he went on ahead to stretch his legs - found themselves in another crowd. Velika sighed quietly, making her way through the peasants towards the familiar sights of the other members of the caravan. She didn’t so much as offer a wave to them as she approached, having always stayed at the edge of conversations anyways. Having such a nasty habit of forgetting to hold one’s tongue during… heated conversation meant Kazimir ended up snapping at others more than talking.

So, for the moment, she simply held court with her maidens - who, as usual, stayed respectfully silent until spoken to - and Èrthu.

“...All of these people couldn’t have heard the voice.” She noted quietly, her attention turning to her bodyguard. Regardless of which of them had told the other about it first, they both knew the other heard the strange voice in their dreams… and now in their waking moments, too. “Or… could they? I’ve never read of such things.” Velika admitted quietly.

“Have you heard of anything like this, Èrthu?”

As a Prince of Danaria, Simon de Cavelier could have bought the inn for himself - or at least, two separate rooms for Rodalt and Simon. Though neither had anything to hide from their respective friend, Rodalt's poor hygiene and snoring left Simon with little sleep (and no place to court the innkeeper's daughter in privacy.) One room between the two was fine for their pilgrim budget, leaving the two with more coin for wine and lambchops.

A bottle of ale rolled out from the passed out butler's mighty mitts, spilling and staining the sheets he had managed to frump about his rotund body. The first rays of dawn were peeking through the shuttered window of the inn, accompanied by the gentle strums of a heavenly harp. When the melodic notes found their way into Rodalt's stubby ears, he shot up out of bed in a panic, throwing about bedside goblets.

"Gah, I've died! By the Gods, I am dead and in the Heavens!"

Prince Simon snickered from the window nook where he had taken residence after their wolf hour wine sessions. Somehow he had found the time to shave his boyish face without ever waking his drunken hand. He lowered the harp and fiddled with a chord in jest.

"Aye, you and I know that there will be no wine in Hell, Rodalt."
"I know there will be harps in Hell, boy! It's living Hells with you and that Harp here already!"
"I saw a beautiful woman last night, Rodalt. If only I knew her name, I'd write a song for her, friend."
"But alas, you have it backwards Simple Simon; it is she who must know your name."
"No, No, Rodalt. It burdens me to say that she may be royal in nature."
"Yes, a royal beauty I bet, my lord."
"You daft drunk - stray from the bottle and listen. I swore of her and her retinue that she must be a princess."
"Your words fall empty like these cups, boy. This inn is more arid than that of your grandfather's taint."
"You are horrid and disgusting, Rodalt but a poet none the less. Get dressed Chamborne and let us dine below."
"At once my Lord; now you are the poet!"

Grand Rodalt took a short time gathering their essentials and making himself decent, retaining some form of squire youth hidden below his obese figure, and the two descended below for breakfast. The innkeeper's daughter, at the Prince's beck and call but more aptly at Chamborne's wicked debt.

"Lamb again? We ate lamb yesterday, woman. And the day before that as well!"
"It's a sheep village, Rodalt. What do you expect of these towns out here in the woods, my friend? Shucked oysters and bubble tea? Molossian Spiced Sausage? Do stop bothering this adorable woman."
"Aye, the lamb is good," he conceded, taking a hefty bite out of a seared mutton leg,"But I grow tired of lamb. But where is the variety of life? Where are the rarities to crave for; what of hogs and swine, crisped on open flame? What of Frost Marlin, battered and fried in hot oil, with Argonian babydrake shredded about?"

He dug his fork into a pile of hashed potatoes, limp like that of child's hand.

"Look at this; bare and bland like that of your grandfather's exploits on the chamberpot. You have goat cheese; use it, woman!"
"I'm sorry, my dear, for the outrages of my slow-traveling fool," Prince Simon retrieved monies from his side and slid them into her hand and lingering in embrace. "The food was excellent and you will make a proud cook for a gaggle of children one day."
"Certainly no children today!" Rodalt laughed, drinking his fill of grog with glee.

When the innkeeper's daughter departed, Prince Simon turned to his friend and pulled his cup away to get his attention.

"I had a fervor last night, Grand."
"It must be the village brew aleing you."
"Yes, truly you were sitting on that one, because it's flatter than your sister's bosom."
"Now, now Simon; everyone knows my sister Gelinda was worth her weight in dowry, of which I admit was immense."
"You told me she was twice your size, Rodalt."
"Yes, I told she was worth her weight. Her actual weight. It was quite a fortune."

The Prince broke into a smile and the two shared a hearty laugh by their fireside table. Cavelier took another deep breath and uttered the words he had heard in the night.


Do you hear it?
Thunder without rain
It builds ever stronger
They do not hear it

Do you hear it?
A beast without a head
Its thirst is never slaked
They do not hear it

Do you hear it?
Sounding in the East
The alarm bells ring
They do not hear it

"Ah, that sounds wonderful, my lord. Very foreboding; very ominous, like that of thunderstorms at sea, or the slow fasting of a deserter's lament. Is that why you were practicing on that blasted instrument this morning, my lord?"
"It's not of my work, Rodalt. I told you: it was a fervor in the night akin to a babe's cry that I could not reply."
"I knew something was amiss, Simon. That wench was wet clay in your hands and you molded nothing. You are most troubled by this."
"Accompany me to to the village elder, Grand Rodalt. I feel something brewing inside my head unabridged from drinking."
"Aye, never a problem my Lord. You know very well that I will always be at your side. I'll finish this last plate and we will go.


* * * * *

They had saddled up after dining, each to their noble mount: Crème and Lambin, too obvious to be anyone but Prince Simon and Grand Rodalt on their Danarian pilgrimage. Together they rode, side by side, with Crème always leading her mane just a tad further in showboat pride. At the outreach of the main road they found a gathering of more than just a few villagers already in some form of queue. There were poor villagers wrapped in hoods, muddled together with a couple sell-swords but no banners to speak. One look upon Prince Simon was enough to know of his nobility: a fox-lined coat and cape atop his noble robes with a fat steward in tow on a desert animal, oblivious to the actual geography they were in. The two descended into the mud and approached the group that had long caught wind of their late arrival.

"What of this mob forming? I have come to speak to the Elder, if he would see me. I am a fair man, and will gladly wait my turn to speak to him, however. I have more than enough time to spend here."
"Yes, we're big fans of the lamb."

As her bodyguard replied, Velika found her attention wandering slightly, specifically as a rather princely young man approached. Naturally she’d noticed him before then, being one of their number and all as they traveled, but she couldn’t recall actually speaking to the man. Perhaps when she got Èrthu’s opinion...

“I cannot say, m’lady.” Èrthu shrugged. “My work has not covered topics such as shared dreams. Though…” his voice trailed off slightly, catching the princess’s attention as she turned to see what was bothering the man.

“Did you hear the voices too?” he asked in a quiet whisper, glancing around. “Do you think they might refer to… Them?”

Oh. On second thought, Velika realized she had intended to tell Èrthu of the voice… but had been distracted by something or other. Probably by the princely man who still stood in her thoughts like a slowly-fading ghost. A well-groomed shade of-

Velika!

“Yes.” She replied, struggling not to give away how distant her mind was getting. “It haunts your dreams, too, I assume?” Princess Kazimir explained further to make sure they were definitely on the same page.

At the mention of ‘them’, Velika’s brow furrowed… though she couldn’t help but let the faintest of smirks touch the edge of her lips. “I daren’t think our fellow travelers are worthy of prophetic murmurings in the dark, Èrthu.” She couldn’t help but tease with a slight quirk of her brow.

But the reality of the Horsemen threat soon put an end to her mirth. “...I apologize for the jest.” She corrected herself after a moment. “But that was my very thought, indeed.” Princess Kazimir admitted, shuffling her boots in the drift of snow the crowd gathered in. “Thunder without rain… a beast without a head… sounding in the East… if it were not ‘Them,’ Èrthu, I would be surprised.” Velika murmured with a slight frown.

“But perhaps the elder may yet enlighten us to what it truly means.” The princess continued a little abruptly, subtly clinging to the hope that mayhaps this poem was not as dark as it seemed. “It might be best to wait before judging such a cryptic… prophecy, I suppose is what it is.” She decided, glancing around to make sure no one had been listening in on their conversation.

With a slight shrug in an attempt to dismiss the heavy topic they’d been discussing, Velika began to step away. “Methinks I’ll see what the others know - or think, anyway,” She said, beginning to make her way to the approaching prince. “Feel free to do as you wish, Èrthu… short of strangling Nilo.” The princess finished with another of her small, teasing smirks. “He is the one who knows where our road leads...”

With that said, the fur-laden princess found herself weaving through the members of the caravan towards the noble Simon.

"What of this mob forming?” The prince spoke as he approached. “I have come to speak to the Elder, if he would see me. I am a fair man, and will gladly wait my turn to speak to him, however. I have more than enough time to spend here."

"Yes, we're big fans of the lamb." A rotund man - one she figured was some sort of servant - chimed in. Velika swore she heard her maidens giggling from the other end of the group where they kept Èrthu company. She kept her attention on the princely figure of Cavelier, however.

“I suspect Nilo would disagree.” Princess Kazimir remarked with a small smile of rather mischievous nature. “And I will admit I have had little to occupy my time, myself.” She lied smoothly, having more than enough scroll-copying to keep her occupied for years on end. Gaining a fellow noble’s identity and trust was more important and could come in useful, given her homeland could use all the influence it could get. “Mayhaps if I learnt your name…?” Velika asked, her voice drifting off to allow Simon - or perhaps his advisor - to fill the silence with some form of name or title.

And perhaps Èrthu will make similar use of this time…

Bogatyr Vyacheslav led his horse dismounted through the crowded streets of the village, and tied up the horse, as well as the pack horse led by Alexius Commodus, Vyacheslav's loyal shield bearer. The air was rank with sweat, animal dung, and smoke from the chimneys of the dachas in the village. He had let the horses out of the shed, and they were clearly happy to be able stretch their legs in the crisp winter air. The bogatyr turned to Alexius, "Commodus, tend to the horses, and make sure none of our equipment walks away." "Yes, your grace." The Molossian saluted and stood guard over the mounts and the armor. The servant, Commodus was one of Slava's ((Diminutive form of Vyacheslav)) closest confidants, and trusted friends. He was glad to have him along on this journey.

Vyacheslav was dressed in an ornate winter coat, with his shield slung across his back, and his arming sword at his side, but he left his heavy armor strapped to the pack horse. There was no need to stomp around in the thick mail in the middle of the village, and his coat denoted his stature as a man of nobility. He glanced around at the other members of the caravan he had joined. He had just met with the caravan before the blizzard, and had not had the chance to the meet the group, or introduce himself properly. The boyar's heir, however, decided to seek answers first about the words he had heard during the blizzard, and made his way to the village elder's stoop. Introductions with the party would come in time. He knocked on the door, and spoke in a firm voice in the Gorechi tongue, "This is Vyacheslav Alexeivich, son of Boyar Danilov. I humbly request the presence of the elder."

"Aye, My Lady. Allow me to occupy your time then." The princely man took her gloved hand and held it; it was then that Velika realized how little she looked like a noble, herself. While her furs were undoubtedly of a fine quality, it was the sort a merchant could seek to buy if they foresaw problems with the chill. A faint blush - on top of the rosiness the cold brought out in her face - touched her cheeks and she found her gaze averting Simon’s own for a moment before, as he held her hands and looked deep into her eyes, it was drawn back into his. Silence prevailed for a long moment as the two stared almost helplessly into each others’ gaze.

That is, until it became a tad awkward as no introduction came. Simon craned his neck and shot Chamborne a taskmaster's whipping gaze until his servant remembered his place. The princess’s gaze followed his as he did so, though, and Chamborne found himself receiving two looks at once; albeit her’s was definitively curious rather than harsh.

"Prince Simon de Cavelier, Heir & Son to the Duke Cavelier, Of Kingdom Danaria, First & Last of his name, King Turolt, He Who United Men." He fumbled with what appeared to be a trumpet, still stuck on Lambin's saddlepack, who was now throwing a bit of a fit with his owner, until it shot out of the folds and into the mud below with an audible splash.

"My apologies, My Lord. The trumpet has fallen ill and cannot attend your introduction."

While Simon let out an exasperated sigh and let go of her hands, Velika couldn’t help but let out a rather unladylike snicker, which she quickly cleared her throat to interrupt.

"Do excuse my lively friend, Rodalt. He is my anchor in this world, for without him I would worry for my humility."

“So I can see.” She remarked with more than a touch of humor still lingering about her expression.

"What of you, my Lady? Are you from Yarenivka? What brings you to the Village Elder at this ungodly hour?"

Velika’s attention fully returned to Simon, she found herself hardly even able to notice as someone else came along to deal with the trumpet. Once again, her eyes were locked on the prince’s own, even if he didn’t suffer the same face.

“I…” The princess hesitated. “...I hail from further north and to the east, good prince.” She finally got her thoughts sorted. “Where, lo, some might say civilization ends. I myself am Princess Velika Kazimir, of the principality of the same name.” She announced herself, seeing as her retinue had chosen to hang back somewhat. Erthu must have busied himself elsewhere.

“Perhaps with time my title will grow to be half as long as yours?” She found herself adding almost against her own will. Partly she wanted to keep in good standing with the man for strictly political reasons, but the moment she heard the prince’s full title she’d felt the urge to take a jab at it.

She did intend it in good humor, though, if the man could only see it.

Èrthu listened intently as Velika explained how she had also heard the voice and that it could be about the Horsemen. He did find her attempt at humor to be in poor taste, his disapproval clearly showed on his face as she made the joke. Once she realized her mistake, the princess switched topics, then excused herself.

“Feel free to do as you wish, Èrthu… short of strangling Nilo.” The princess finished with another of her small, teasing smirks. “He is the one who knows where our road leads...”

With that said, the fur-laden princess found herself weaving through the members of the caravan. Èrthu stared after her, a half-smile on his face as he thought about strangling the annoying Molossian. However, his mind split on pursuing after her or wandering off to find something else to do. He nearly did the later, except he spared one last glance over his shoulder and spied who Velika was meeting with.

Gods be damned…

“Prince Simon de Cavelier, Heir & Son to the Duke Cavelier, Of Kingdom Danaria, First & Last of his name, King Turolt, He Who United Men.”

Danarian royalty.

For a moment Èrthu felt a brief fire in his chest and his hand instinctively went to the star brooch pinned to his cloak. He breathed deeply for a moment and tried to calm down. The cool air around him helped slightly in lowering his blood pressure. The Danarian knight found it difficult to be around people from his former country, especially the royalty. They had tried to strip his mother of the land of his late father, and she managed to salvage some dignity by selling their lands to an old family friend and fleeing to Kazimir, to stay with his mercenary uncle.

Focusing on the present, Èrthu began to shoulder through the crowd, making his way towards the princess. Right as he had overheard the prince’s title a small crowd had pushed past, trying to get closer to the elder’s hut and cutting Èrthu from the rest of his caravan. Forcibly he worked his way through until he finally emerged, slightly disheveled, at the princess’s side. He slightly adjusted his cloak to drape better and then focused on the Danarian and his two companions. His off hand was lightly resting on his sword hilt in a non-threatening manner.

However, the soldier’s efforts to back up his royal charge were in vain as the Danarian’s own charge shattered any chances of romance. With a goodbye and an open invitation, the man turned away and began speaking with his charge.

“So he had the dream too.” Èrthu said in a quiet tone, still staring at the Danarian. He turned and looked at the princess who was still staring at the prince. With a gentle elbow to her extremely padded ribcage, he caught her attention then motioned to walk away. He walked ahead, rolling his eyes.

However, in his display of annoyance his attention was not on what lay directly ahead of him. The lapse in attentiveness resulted in the Danarian soldier tripping over a small bearded man ((Grom )) and crashing into a woman ((@doctorgrant )), nearly toppling her over.

“Damn!” Èrthu swore instinctively as he slipped in the mud and snow to steady himself., his arms flailing to catch onto something.

Ner’s slow build to fuming as she milled impatiently outside the elder’s home was interrupted when a man barreled straight into her. In the glimpse she caught before flailing back, he looked young and soldierly, far less removed from days of armed service than Ner herself was. His attentiveness was inversely proportional his readiness for combat, as was apparent as he sent her slipping and sliding in the muck that had become so prevalent as the snow thawed out. It was a miracle that she managed not to take a nosedive, one that originated from years of learning to keep her balance and remain perfectly still while using a bow and arrow.

The miracle ended in record time. The man who’d hit her was flailing like a cat struggling to free itself from a pond, and one of his arms smacked Ner right in the jaw. The impact ruined what coordination she could retain, and suddenly the Molossian found herself stumbling forwards… right on top of the man who’d caused her this trouble to begin with.

That it was rather fitting for her to unintentionally slam him into the ground provided Ner with little comfort as she quite literally ate dirt, the bronzed skin of her face being tinted by full contact with the mud and snow. Laid out on top of the man, perpendicular to him, she was disoriented enough that getting to her feet was not immediately possible. Instead, all she did was groan, her natural urge to start yelling in multiple languages kept suppressed by the fact that her face was still too deep in the muck for her to say anything coherent.

The fun never ended in beautiful Yarenkiva.