King

“Are you not their king?” Marcellus was incredulous with rage. There they sat discussing the deaths of millions, of needless slaughter brought on by this tragedy, and Raylon dared speak of his people’s pride? The light eyed vampyre caught his queen’s sharp glare of disapproval, but he couldn’t hold his tongue. He could barely hold his sword. “The blood of Orisians and Illyrians alike turn the Pass red, and you are concerned with he is concerned with his people’s pride? This is madness.” Is this what had become of the men and women that ruled the nations of existence? Kings and queens that buckled beneath the pressure of the crown, bowed to the ridiculous whims of their people, and wept like children pulled from the teat? It was a wonder any of them had survived, at all. The thought was sickening. “Now is as good a time as any for you to rein in that foolish, unnecessary pride you speak of. You are their king. If they do not answer to you, they should respect your recourse as their lord. Or is that concept foreign to your people?” It was out of respect for their queen that the Queensguard stood idle, allowing Raylon to pass. It was out of respect for her decisions as their monarch that they’d not rallied what few armed forces they had and charged to battle with the invading foreigners. They did not agree with her, not always. But they respected her decree. That is was subjects did. More importantly, the queen did not speak for all her vassals. The Orisian Duke was not as forgiving as his cousin, and though he possessed a quaint military force on Orisian shores, the shadow of the Dominion stretched far. It would be nothing for him, if it were his will, to send orders for his forces to return in bulk—flooding all of Ceyana in blood and destruction as he slaughtered the Illyrians. Or attempted to. Regardless, the outcome would likely be the complete annihilation of the island. Surely, Gabriela realized this. “If you aren’t refugees, King Raylon, you’re conspirators.” It was a the fact of the situation. “That is how the Orisian people will see it. That is how the world will see it.”

Quinton is quickly becoming a fan of the woman’s girlish blush, and her blatant inexperience with such pointed attention. There are some that might consider his glances too forward, his mannerisms too inappropriate, but he sway of her hips, the cast of her eyes, and the faint hint of a smile at the edges of her lips that she likes it. But, her rawness with the interactions begs to wonder why, or how? The beauty of Hildebrand’s women is reputable enough for him, an outsider, to have heard—so why then does it seem as though he is the first person to have ever looked at her this way? A game, perhaps? No… There’s sincerity in her fluster, and that blush—redder than the sunrise—is well beyond the skill of even the most talented actress in all of Terrenus. Perhaps, then, it is that they find her tamed mannerisms boorish. Indeed, there seems to be a lack of overt excitement surrounding the woman. Calm, poised, regal—stately in her ways. He can see how that might be unappealing to a young man, still addicted to the thrill of battle and the promise of rulership. However, unassuming and boring are exactly what Quinton desires. In the Autumn Hall, Quinton takes his eat across from Varda, watching her with the same intensity as before. The way she sits, speaks, even the way she eats. Everything she does, he realizes, is practiced—likely over the years that she’s been grooming herself as head of this house. Even the way she breathes seem meticulous, and this careful, prim and proper way of conducting herself is something that he favors greatly. “You’re a very graceful woman,” he says out of turn, foregoing the business discussion for a moment longer. “Beautiful and graceful. I like that.” He blinks, committing her to memory. Then, he speaks again. “I’m looking to invest a great deal in the development of areas such as this. Money for more land, better farming equipment, trade schools, renovations, and things of that nature.” The man studies her for a moment, appraisingly in the way his gray eyes undress every inch of her. “Naturally, I will take a modest percentage from profits. Whatever my money goes into – wherever it is spread – it’s only reasonable that I see a return from it. But, as I said, this fee would be quite reasonable and not expected until the second year.” Aurelius had set a good precedence with that timeline. Quinton was pleased to use it as the baseline for future arrangements. “You would be free to determine how much money you would like, a small or large sum, and also when and how the money is used. I simply provide you with the funds to see your vision—visions—realized.” Letting his words settle for just a moment, Quinton’s lips curve into a smirk. “Of course, there are some small caveats concerning the matter. For instance, the Kadian sweetened the pot with a small private villa on his lands. I don’t think that I would have a need for two, though the idea is charming. However, I think that if I were to have a villa built on these lands, the real point of it would be to ensure visits from you, Lady Varda.” Tilting his head, Quinton gestures toward her in invitation. “What do you think?”

It’s been three weeks since he last saw Varda Hildebrand, but Quinton can picture the woman in his mind with perfect detail. It’s always been a talent of his, remembering things, especially faces, as if he’s captured them and added the poor, unsuspecting souls to his ever-growing collection. Usually, a good sketch was enough to free him from their spell of interest—he’s drawn Varda twice. But still, he thinks of the woman in his more uninspiring moments, remembering her long, luxurious hair, her light eyes, and the way she looked at him the first time they met. Odette, knowing how easily her dear friend is prone to fixate on things, leaves the matter be. They travel to Goldcourt manor in silence, her flipping through the bulkier dossier on Prescot Goldcourt and his daughter, Evienne, him busy with his charcoal pencils and sketchpad. She cocks a dark, manicured eyebrow. “Varda again?” Quinton scoffs. “You’ll see. What do we know about Prescot?” “He’s more in line with your usual associates,” Odette replies, not at all displeased. They know how to handle men like him. It’s these good-willed, honorbound men and women that prove the most difficult. “Wealthy, powerful, and utterly lacking any sense of morality.” Quinton continues sketching. “They say his daughter is quite beautiful, as well. A little young, but something of an entrepreneur. She’s been looking for investors.” “How fortunate for her, then, that her father was able to secure this meeting.” Odette hums her agreement. “What does she dabble in?” “Fabrics,” Odette says, less enthused. “Dressmaking and the like.” “A brutal business, then.” The men and women of the fashion industry are little more than ravenous piranhas. Smiles of sharp, hungry teeth that will sooner tear you to bits than offer any true assistance. Backstabbers, liars, and cheaters. Poor girl. “Well, let’s see what comes of this.” As they arrive, Quinton cleans his fingers on a kerchief on his lap. “Lacker this for me, will you?” Then he exits the transport, leaving Odette to preserve her likeness against smears and smudges. Inside the manor, Quinton gives the long, tall halls his customary inspection. He gives the furnishings their due respect, finding them all lovely, but focuses the lion’s share of his attention on servants he passes. Do they hold their chins high, are their shoulders squared? Do they greet the guest with an honest smile? He’s seen these manners of men and women in the Hildebrand and the Kadian’s estates. You can tell a lot about a ruling family by those they employ, and so far, Quinton appears placated. As always, Quinton’s presence goes against the grain of the estate’s culture, and he gains more than one curious glance from those he passes as his guide ferries him to their destination. He’s dressed in black this day, a sharp, two-piece business suit that has become a staple in the more modern areas of Renovatio and Terrenus. Tighter at the shoulders, chest, and waist, the chic suit cuts a striking, lean-muscled and athletic profile. His dark hair is cropped short at the sides, left longer at the top and brushed to the left, and his full beard is groomed and kept low. Quinton walks with his left hand exposed, the ink of the Rosinderian tattoo on the back of it shimmering in the daylight. The art seems to move, to writhe curiously—or is it a trick of the light? “A Mr. Swan,” the servant says. Unsurprisingly, he finds Prescot daughter waiting for him. What a doting father she must have to run this risk. Were he fuller of himself, Quinton might have left, feigning insult at the idea that the lord of the house did not seem prepared to receive him. But it’s been a while since he’s played a proper game—and few thought themselves more clever and witty than the God of mischief than noble born. Evienne will make for good entertainment if nothing else. She’s an attractive young thing, with light grey eyes that remind Quinton of his own, and a fair complexion most find appealing in a lady of nobility. Tall, lean, though the combination of both appears to leave her somewhat lacking in the way of curves. There’s an old beauty—a stately beauty—to her, the kind Quinton remembers reading in the heraldic tomes of his father, or the legendary tales of the Age of Heroes. Undoubtedly, she will make whatever lord she’s paired with more than pleased. Moving deeper into the room, closer to the young woman, Quinton extends his marked left hand when at arm’s length. “Quinton Swan.” Then, for the benefit of the game, he makes a note of her father’s absence. Subtly, of course. “I must say, you are by far the most attractive Prescot I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Most have big heads, blocky features, with sunken eyes and mouths too large for their faces. But you? You, sir, are a vision.”

That works. Thank you.

I'll get in touch with you after work about taking over their spot, then. As for slavery, does that mean that some super secret areas still practice it or that even some of the noble houses do? Also, how long has it been since the Tyrant King was overthrown? How long has Valuriyam been in charge?

I'll probably have to jump in later. Thank you for keeping the door open.

Q1: What is the legal status of slavery in Ursa Madeum? Q2: What's the process of making a noble house in Ursa Madeum?

Quinton returns to gazing out at the lands sprawling out from the feet of the estate, maturing into high, jagged plateaus and rolling fields. “I grew up in lands like these. Not nearly as beautiful, but rooted in this way of life. Having developed myself into a man of means, I have learned to appreciate both sides of the coin—those that rule, and those that are ruled—and the hardships that beset both.” Realizing the seriousness in his tone, Quinton smiles, this time genuinely, and offers Varda more of his attention. Inappropriate though it may be, he is not covert in the way his eyes wander her body. His gaze lingers on her arms, which long and slender, and her legs as well. All that he sees he commits to his memory with every blink, immortalizing her in his mind’s eye. “I’ve been fortunate enough to make a number of sound investments over the course of my life, and they have proven most beneficial to me as of late.” Abandoning the window, he crosses the room again, flowers in hand, presenting himself more closely to the woman. “Rather than investing this wealth in areas that would hardly notice it, I’ve decided that it would be better—more beneficial—to help cultivate lands such as these.” Gray eyes fall to the flowers in his hands. “Perhaps, it is my way of paying respects to my origins.” His lips purse thoughtfully, and once again, he meets her gaze. “However, my Lady, to answer your question—truly answer your question—as to who I am, that would take far too much time. Many days spent walking amongst the fields, and nights admiring the stars. Many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, just the two of us, for even the briefest stray in conversation would set us back days and weeks in our task.” Quinton smiles again, more devilishly this time. “Thus, for the sake of brevity, I will say that I am a man that merely hopes to give back, for so much has been given to me.” While his words hang in the air, thick like a fine cologne, Quinton returns to something she’s said. They’ve full coffers and yet their lands are rather small. Expansion may not be of interest to them, but I’ve never known a lord to ignore development prospects. “It is a business proposal,” he admits, looking her over more fondly. “However, if you would prefer a more comfortable venue, I would be happy to follow.”

For a moment, Quinton is silent. Not stunned or awe-stricken into stillness by the woman’s beauty; he’s much too pragmatic for that. Instead, it is an appraising silence, the one a master jeweler might take when inspecting a fine diamond for flaws. And a diamond, he realizes, is an apt comparison to the woman approaching him. Sharply cut in that appealing way makes men certain it is ‘the right one’ and women gawk and shed tears of delight to wear such a glorious gem on their wed-finger, Varda is something to behold. Long hair, light eyes, with angular features that seem to smoothen at their edges—the chin, her shoulders, her elbows. But the lithe foundation of her body does not detract from her more womanly aspects, and he notes how her hips and bust swells generously. The woman’s ring, he sees but discards the thought from memory. Until the man stands beside her and greets the visitors as Lord Hildebrand, he is nothing more than a plan. And plans are ruined all the time. “Please, there is no reason to apologize.” Quinton doesn’t force a smile, somehow feeling she will know it is disingenuous. Instead, he greets her with a neutral respect. “I understand that I did not give you much notice prior to my arrival. Thank you for agreeing to meet me at all, my Lady.” Of course, there is more to it than that. More than anything, Quinton’s proposals have become feelers of the land’s political landscape. Would a lord or lady turn him away before even hearing what it is he was offering, like some poor salesman of worthless trinkets and goods? Or, will they field a brief meeting for the chance to substantially empower their house? It is a test of business acumen, and so far, the Kadian and Lady Hildebrand have provided an impressive sample. “Hail, Lady Hildebrand,” Quinton replies, grey eyes lowering their gaze to the flowers. He takes them, not only to avoid offending her custom but to allow his fingers the chance to brush over hers. “You must forgive my ignorance. Had I known, I would have brought you a bouquet, as well.” After looking the flowers over for a minute, he decides that white roses are suiting for her—though, perhaps flecking them with bits of red would be more accurate, given the hints of a blush still giving color to her cheeks. “I will be sure to make amends for this.” Holding the flowers in a careful manner, Quinton crosses the antechamber to stand at the edge of a window. “Smoothly, indeed. Ursa Madeum is far more beautiful than I expected it to be. It has made this little business venture of mine quite enjoyable.” There’s a longing in his voice, not of his own accord. I’ll need to work on that. Rosinder was gone—best to abandon the memories of it, as well. “The lands under Hildebrand oversight are particularly beautiful, if I do say so myself.” He half-turns, cutting a sharp profile in the daylight. “Do you have any interests in expansion, or perhaps development? And if so, are you financially equipped to begin such at your earliest convenience?”

“The greatness of a man, minimal or large, is nothing more than opinion.” Quinton meets the Kadian’s eyes with firmness that, until this moment, has not been present. “To some, that greatness might only be obtained by conquering a nation, slaying a thousand demons, or trampling a tyrant king. To others, it might come from helping those you lead tend the fields, or build their homes; living amongst them as they are your brethren.” He lets the words hang in the hair for a moment. “For me, it is the latter.” The philosophical discussion is replaced by discussion of their business pursuits, and Quinton is thankful for it. There must be something in the air, he finds himself thinking. I’ve not spoken like that in years. I’ll need to be careful in this place. It serves him no good, no purpose, to revert to that honorable, bright-eyed man. He, like their home and everything in it, is dead. Best to leave him that way than go digging up old corpses. “You’re not wrong,” Quinton agrees. “I had a look at your fields upon my arrival, even felt about the soil. Your yield will be substantial.” And yet, he feels there could be more. “Fifteen percent is more than agreeable, as is your timetable of return. But, what is your plan for institutes to educate your fellow brothers and sisters? As you’ve mentioned, this place will attract merchants of all kind. Undoubtedly, some will choose to take advantage of this positioning and settle down. Do you have a trade initiative, plans for schools?” Quinton takes the offered glass of wine and samples it. Sweet, with a hint of bitterness. “I would be highly motivated to assist in this endeavor, as well. While crops are a solid foundation, education is where the most money can be made. It can be costly – building, hiring proper tutors with competitive benefits and wages – but quite rewarding, assuming your institutes are able to generate quality, highly learned graduates.” He stirs his wine, wondering if the budding lordling has even thought this far ahead. Something in the man’s eyes tells him he has. Lifting his chin, Quinton regards Aurelius with curiosity and waits.