In Amber Clad: Part 2

''Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a second person, hypocrisy begins. We parry and fend the approach of our fellow-man by compliments, by gossip, by amusements, by affairs. We cover up our thought from him under a hundred folds. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Friendship," Essays, 1841''

Night's Edge Monastery: Chapel 


 * The chapel has been brought back to its original glory, an airy chamber with benches arranged in rows for the worshipful and an alms-box by the heavy doors, a heavy red curtain dividing a small entryway from the worship area proper. The chapel itself is dominated by seven stained glass windows set high in the wall niches just below the vaulted ceiling, each depicting a new scene, a story that flows from left to right, from the entrance up to the nave.


 * The greatest testament to the glassmaker's art is at the chapel's nave, however, a full six feet across and shining brightly when the sun reigns outside. Depicted is the form of a great white dragon, surrounded in a halo of golden light, with eyes and claws of glittering black onyx. In the floor, underneath the dragon's watchful gaze, the half-black, half-white circle of the Marked is picked out in tile, surrounded by a circle of brass hammered in to shine in the light that spills from the great window.


 * A wide archway, guarded by the ubiquitous heavy biinwood doors of the manor, leads west into the dining hall, while a small banded door near the nave leads out into the rectory and the private gardens of the manor's master.

Candlelight illuminates the chapel this evening. Arrays of candles trailing down along the walls, chasing away the shadows. A plush white rug has been laid over the black and white tiles of the small nave and presenting gold sunburst to its center. The tall blonde Mikin flits along the edges, stopping to check a flame here and then moving off to another small detail at the front of the chapel.

Ducking into the Chapel, Vhramis drips water behind him with each step he takes, leaving a trail on the marble flooring. He steps to the side, sighing at being under a roof again, even as he begins to shake himself slightly to let fly some of the clinging drops. Seems like he almost forgets he's in a chapel. Still, coming in behind him...

Coming in behind him, like a gathering storm, prowls the Sovereign Prince of the Blood. Clad in half-plate as crimson as the image that the latter part of his official royal title depicts, and flanked by an obsidian longsword that sleeps upon his left hip, the clicks of the buckles upon his boots and the relatively light steps that precede them echo softly through the open Chapel. His is a measured pace of regal suspicion and trained alacrity; his expression speaking of conjecture and qualm; his eyes lacking both mirth and warmth within their ethereal blue depths. Droplets of moisture cascade over his armor and drip from his hair, quietly pattering upon the floor in his wake. His gaze is directly drawn to the depiction of the white dragon and lingers there for a moment or two before falling upon the decorations that have apparently been laid out, and the blond Mikin who stands at the head of it all. Suffice to say, Serath's suspicions are not laid to rest.

And the evening's intent likely becomes clear, as the door that leads to the dining hall creaks open, admitting a pair of conspirators and their charge.

It is Kael that comes in first, holding the door for the Lady Rowena Mikin and her maid for the evening, one Meian - the greying mage looking forward into the room and to Celeste, then to Serath... and touching the sack over his shoulder. He then turns back, speaking into the dining hall - "This way, Yer Grace."

Rowena files in as ordered, but halts abruptly in line with the doorway as her peripheral vision grants her confirmation of Kael's unintended success. Here she was, gussied up as ordered. Between the hair styling, makeup, and jewelry adornments, the emerald-gowned duchess is quite possibly the daintiest she's looked in a long while. But that is swift to change. Her face, despite the applied powders and such, becomes utterly blanched and an attempt to gasp for more air is painfully denied by the iron grip of corset and gown lacings. She hisses a plea, reaching back a hand to snag Meian on the shoulder "Too tight...too tight!"

Thankfully, as some here might remember from occasions (debatably?) less dire, Meian tends to keep her head in an emergency. The girl's face registers visible alarm as she glides in beyond Rowena and hears this plea, but nonetheless she darts closer and single-mindedly goes for those laces, tugging them free and waiting for a fully drawn breath to loosen them before she relaxes them with decidedly more slack given.

Vhramis is left looking all the more confused as Rowena enters, though he relaxes somewhat after a moment. Yes, it's an odd mix of emotions for the ranger, but nothing he's not used to. In the end, he remains quiet as he pauses in his steps. Simply watching curiously.

Celeste steps closer to the Ranger's side, pausing just a step or two away. "Here is fine, Vhramis," she mummers in a softer voice. Her gaze darts from gussied up Duchess to wary wildcat.

In defiance of all expectations, the Prince of the Blood does not, in fact, heed the dictations of those that believe they can tell him what to do. Nor, does it seem, that his current disposition has done anything but deteriorate in the face of that which unravels around him as the nature of the deception becomes to come to light. "Rowena?" Narrowed eyes of ethereal blue switch from Celeste to the Duchess as the latter enters the Chapel, the Wildcat turning enough to gaze upon Rowena as she moves while dressed in attire that seems to confirm the Prince's growing supposition. And with that, though still a distance away from the apparent virtuoso of this deception, Serath wheels back around to glare at the director of Night's Edge itself: Celeste Mikin. When he speaks, his words are as ominous and as quiet as the silence before a storm, his sharp words carried over the expanse of the room with ease. "Just what is the meaning of this?"

Kael steps forward, at that - the young man is unafraid, if suddenly serious. "Whate'er meanin' ye give it." He takes a deep breath. "I hae done m' part, an' I tol' ye, is me, that if y' are angry, y' kin be angry with. 'twere me what pulled all t'gether, 's i could." He looks back to Rowena, then to Serath.

"I cannae deny what were asked o' me, nae from 'er." He spreads his hands. "but m' part 's done. What y' do from 'ere is up t' both o' ye. All y' see here is t' serve ye both, t'night - whate'er y' ask we give ye, fer love o' ye both. Th' are nae any servants but me 'n m' Meian - th' is food, 'n wine, an' all th' hospitality w' kin give."

Wolfsbane is left looking just as confused by things as ever, glancing between Serath, Rowena, and Kael. He scratches at the back of his head, tilting his gaze to Rowena, before he sighs and crosses his arms.

Celeste tightens her hand about that hidden treasure and steps to her matriarch's side. "Should you need them, or I." Her gaze slips back to the prince at the utterance of the last two words as she holds out a hand to drop such treasures to her hand. "A gift of love to you both," she explains and pivots on her heel to follow after the Firelights.

"At what point," Serath asks, the tone of his voice harboring intones of unquiet as he speaks, remaining far too calm to be anything but ominous in the manner in which they are spoken, "Did you think it would be acceptable to lure me to this place through deception and lies?" "At what point," he continues, his left hand resting upon the pommel of the obsidian longsword that sleeps at his side, "Did any of you believe that manipulation and duplicity would make this mockery of my emotions warmly received?" "At what POINT," he adds, his words burning the fire of one who has been woefully scorned, "Did you believe that your self-righteous meddling in the affairs of a *Prince* would be admissible as you trampled over my personal life to satisfy your selfish desires and infantile notions of romance?" He doesn't look at anyone as he offers this damning verdict of the charade that he sees around him; his gaze remains upon the ground where it can do no harm.

Kael looks down himself, a bit lost - chastened, retreating several steps - the prince's words strike home, but, frankly, it is debatable whether he wholly understands their real import. Abruptly, he clings to Meian's hand - the young wolf looking up at her, eyes wide, and swallowing. He retreats for the door, looking anywhere but at Serath or Rowena, though he doesn't turn his back on either - some small miracle he doesn't run into the wall or a candelabra or a bench.

"A long night indeed," Rowena squeaks to herself, glancing as the rings are dropped effortlessly into her palm, yet the weight of them is enough to bring her to her knees. Once on the floor, she sets them gently down there, one beside the other. Then, very quietly, she lets her own voice be heard in the midst of the white dragon's witness. "There was no intention to mock," she whispers from the floor, sucking in one shuddering breath after another. Far from home, nowhere to hide. "As matter of fact, there was complete /lack/ of intentions, at least on my part. I'm only here because I was humoring the extensive time, money, and heart that those two people put into this, believing it to be for our sake. I-I said something to Master Firelight two nights past in our library and he took it to heart. Too much to heart, perhaps, and with a wolf's determination he set it in motion but I swear, I swear Serath..." Standing shakily to her feet, she reaches behind and loosens the lacings all together. It didn't matter anymore. "This is only a dress...a gift. My other clothes are still dripping from the storm when I rode...here." Indeed, her hair is still wet from the endeavor, though considerably more tidy. "Please don't be mad, they just wanted to give us privacy to speak." Turning her frightened, doe-eyed arsenal on the building rage that currently stands fuming, she swallows. "Please, just let's forget."

Meian's brief moment of cheer visibly falters, and the girl hangs her head. Silent, and not daring to particularly look at anyone, she squeezes Kael's hand and follows on that retreat.

Wolfsbane doesn't miss the exchange between Celeste and Rowena, lifting himself on his toes slightly to peer at the Duchesses' hand curiously, following it as she rests the objects on the floor, and he seems about ready to move over and get a closer look. Though with a glance back at the others, he seems to remember where he is, and holds off investigating the shiny things until later. Otherwise, he remains where he is, having not been sent off yet.

Celeste shakes her head as she looks back to the prince. "There is no deception here, your majesty. My matriarch truly loves you, and the Light has blessed you with such." She looks over to Vhramis and takes a deep breath before looking back to prince and duchess. "Stay your anger, your majesty and listen to your heart. As she has said, none of this has meaning unless you *want* in your heart for it to... a dream fulfilled." She shrugs her shoulders noncommittally and steps off to follow after the Firelights back into the dining hall.

"Betrayers." That single word is spoken in a voice as dark as shadow, and as sanguine as the shade of armor that shrouds his form. "You would trap a Wildcat to satisfy your sanguine illusions of romance, wound him with this travesty of a deeply personal event, mock him with your dictations and connivance?" "You would use his own heart and blood against him for validity, and ask him to forgive and forget as he stands bleeding before you, growling as he snaps at the hands that attempt to back him into a corner made of their own egoistical delusions of what they believe is best for one who maintains an Empire?" A few moments of augural silence interject themselves, giving way to the quiet of a Prince scorned and disconcerted in equal measure. "I think not," is the solemn verdict he offers by way of final judgment. "To deceive a dragon is a dangerous game to play. To deceive a Prince? Fatal." He looks up at that point, the chill of his ethereal gaze burning with an ire that only one such as Serath can muster. A quiet and dangerous indignation that can shatter armies and sunder kingdoms alike. The fury of the Imperial Blood. "Just who do you think you are?"

Kael swallows, and pushes Meian behind him, gently - his voice dry, broken, the young man steps forward. "... mm"... even in this moment, he stays between that anger and his mate, as best he can, his hands wringing, and head turned to the side - "I .. jus' wan.. wanted.." Words seem to be failing him, as he does his best to get them out. "..t.. t' gi.. give y... ye both... y'... " Swallowing. "H.... hurt me. N... nn... nae them. S... s'my...my f... fault."

"It's an illusion, is it?" This time, it is the mongoose's turn to growl, though it be far more tinny than the baritone of a wildcat. Gritting her teeth to steady her jaw, Rowena marches steadily forward, her eyes locked firmly onto his, should his gaze be kept aloft long enough. Clearly, the heat had only just begun. "I suppose I should have felt equally as much, being as I have remained suspended in this /dream/ by the thread of a promise that you, yourself made. It's my fault, then, fatal as you've deemed it, eh? /They/ have done nothing but put us both into the same room - something that we ourselves haven't been able to achieve in quite some time. Granted yes, there are extreme worries of the realm that rest on both our shoulders that frequently lead us in varying directions, but..."

Reaching within a much more private earshot, she halts her steps and lowers her voice to a seething whisper with an inward lean so that other ears may be spared and some dignity maintained.

"You say wounded? Have I, too, not been tested and bled out by this "illusion"? I would never 'use' you, Serath. But if you've not been convinced of my pledge to you prior to this event, then what I say tonight holds no bearings. So go ahead." She jabs a finger at the blade on his hip. "Enact your duty as *Prince*. Right here..."

Pointing to her throat's artery which is now pulsating furtively, she opens her other hand and lets the flower petals shower to his feet, torn to bits, just as they had twenty years prior. "After all..." a knowing glint catches in her eye, "'Princes are not often waylaid by female bandits'".

From behind Kael, skinny arms draped in purple reach out to close around his waist, a living sort of belt. And that pale face of Meian displays itself leaning around the graying mage's side, determined and set and oddly - really quite fierce, soft young features composed implacably. She doesn't say anything, perhaps quite conscious of that moment of isolation within the crowded room, but neither does she move to retreat any further.

Still mute, and likely for good reason, Vhramis' attention turns to regard Kael curiously for a moment, before he shakes his head slightly at the druid. He gestures to the door with a tilt of his head, before lowering his eyes back to the floor, fixing on the glinting of the distant paif of rings.

Celeste pauses as the mages have not yet moved and steals a glance to the quiet ranger. A slight smile tugs at her lips at catching sight of the subtle nod and she places a hand gently to the wolf's arm. "We should give them privacy," she utters in a soft voice to the married couple and mirrors the ranger's motion to the dining hall.

"My love for you," Serath remarks, taking a step back away from Rowena in an attempt to remain immune to the dramatics, "Is personal. Deep, Rowena. You were... ARE... the most important thing to me in this Empire. In this LIFE. These emotions and loyalties, there were on my terms..." Finally, the ire breaks, if but only for a moment upon the wings of a wounded sigh. "OUR terms, I thought. Yet, if these things mean so little to you to permit yourself to have our marriage forced upon us as some parody of one of those epic tales of romance and love that the bards sing of to earn a few cheap coins - a marriage dreamt up for little reason other than to satisfy a daydream - then perhaps I was foolish in my assumptions." He takes a deep breath, looks back upon Rowena once more, and then looks beyond her. "If this is how you planned this event, dictated at the hands of people who interject themselves into our personal life without invitation or desire, then you can have it for the shallow idealistic drama that it is." "I, however," he continues, "Had far greater designs, and cannot accept this irrevocable trickery for anything more than what it is. I will *not* dance like a marionette in a foul childrens’ play when you are concerned." And with that he turns, moving away from Rowena as he heads for the exit from the chapel, looking for all the world as if he is about to challenge the storm that rages in the heavens beyond, and perhaps defeat it. Yet he stops at the arch of the doorway, though his back remains turned, merely looking upon the sodden night without word...

It's Vhamris's nod at the door that breaks through to Kael... and the young man moves back, staring hard at the floor, letting Celeste usher him out, still wringing uncomfortably at his hands. No more words, just - lost.

"Did you not hear a word I said?" Rowena continues after him, flowers, rings, and people forgotten. "This was not how /I/ would've planned a wedding either. /I/ would have planned a rather large guest list with plenty of petty talk and feasting and DANCE, but I know you shy away from those things. I know they are not your taste. So I was willing to put that frivolity aside." Heat behind her words swiftly fading, Rowena wipes angrily at her eyes and comes to park herself behind him, listening to the rain. "Do you want to know why you are here? Why I am wearing my hair in these perfectly woven braids that are beginning to test my scalp's definition of pain? Let me enlighten you, at least, before you storm away and taunt the lightning, so that I know I've said my piece before having to scrape the crisp remnants of your ashes off the sodden ground." Clearing her throat sharply, she exhales a forceful huff and begins to indulge him with the facts. "It began in the library where I was sneaking around, thinking it was you I'd be stalking but it was in fact Master Firelight, so after a rather lame excuse as to my slinking we began to talk as people normally are prone to do.

"I asked him how his wedding ceremony faired and he swore he was in debt to me for my part in saving Meian's life and thusly his. I could not ask anymore from the poor man so when he swore that he'd do anything I asked and persisted when I told him there was no need, I played it off lightly by saying that all I truly wanted was you, a priest, and myself in the same room.

“Clearly, Master Firelight, being as warm-hearted and loyal as he is, took these words as an oath, not as the jest /I/ thought they clearly were. Serath, the man hasn't slept in two days in order to piece this together for me. I regret it, I do, and I knew you'd be angry if it ever actually fell into play. I even warned of such as a safeguard against any true attempts." A pause and tremor builds back into her voice. "When I arrived here tonight I still had my doubts, that is until I saw the dress, but knew I couldn't turn and run because you most likely would be here, by the hands of poor Vhramis, and I would not be able to sleep knowing that you'd probably rendered heads from everyone's shoulders. So...please don't leave? If you go out that door, so will I, and then while you may just 'walk in the rain' I am most certainly going to GET WET."

At last, the first of the tears falls, accompanied by two more, then a third, and so on. She timidly lifts her left hand to place on his shoulder. "And not in the good sense of the word, either," whispers the punctuation to her plea, a meek attempt at bringing back old humor.

Meian shakes her head slightly, content to go only when Kael begins to move again... and not content to let go of him, which makes the process rather more difficult than it needs to be. She remains silent, however.

What's a ranger to do? Vhramis' eyes are fixed intently on the floor, doing his best to tune out what would normally be a private conversation. Still, despite his best efforts, he likely hears at least a bit. That, or the brief plucking at the glistening wet black mail clinging to him is just coincidence. Where's that damn, distracting raven when one needs it, anyway?

Celeste simply falls into step behind the mages. She glances back to the ranger one, final time. Her mouth works as though to call out, perhaps even to summon him to follow. But such words never find voice and she stays a pace or two behind the married couple.

"No, not here." the Prince of the Blood finally offers in the wake of Rowena's plea, his voice as soft as silk, though lacking the heart that has apparently been cut out of him. "In this hall of mirrors, made by liars, I am a pale reflection of myself." "I'll take my chances with the storm," the wounded Wildcat concludes, "It has less chance of killing me." His words trail off - the armor he wears reflecting his mood as much as the image of his surroundings. "If you wish to find me, follow the tracks in the ashes of my smoldering faith." A step forward shakes him free of Rowena's lingering touch. A second takes him out of her reach. A third casts him out into the rain. A fourth leads him to the darkness beyond.

The stubborn type she is, Rowena eyes the rain with utmost hatred. "Fine," she grunts and trots out after, within seconds ruining the new dress. Nothing unusual there.

"If it's of any interest to you!" She shouts into the darkness ahead "I also came here tonight because I have letters that may shine some light on matters surrounding the Lady Arbiter and the mage, given that the hearing lays on the horizon." Squish, squish goes the mud into her slippers and she grimaces miserably. "Serath, Serath can you not see at least a glimmer of what childlike innocence pieced this 'deceit' together? No one meant to do you or your feelings harm. Especially not I. I tried to shield you from it. I'm sorry if you're hurt, but...” trailing off, she looks up to the sky with a glare for its capacity to drown her out. "In the grand scheme of things, this can hardly be marked as treachery. Light, I'm apologizing for something that is NOT even my doing for the sake of getting you to hold still and...please. It's cold. My stockings are drenched again, a pond has formed in my corset, and YOU are really beginning to worry me." And so, it would seem that Vhramis is left to investigate the shiny items on the floor as he would. Or chase after the two nut cases that have gone out into the storm to continue the medley of bickering and pleading. Tough choice? I think not.

Vhram doesn't seem very interested in the rings anymore, instead looking up as he suddenly stands along in the chapel. With a blink, he lingers in the sudden thunderous silence, staring at the open door leading to the storm. "Easier being alone," he muses to himself, rubbing at his arm gingerly, a sour expression on his otherwise normally placid face.

His hand trails upward to his companion, the glowing Seraphite bow on his shoulder. "Course, the easier choice isn't always the best," he adds in a murmur. With a sigh, he begins to plod to the door the Prince and Duchess took. Not to follow though. Uncapping the quiver at his waist, he fingers the arrows nested within.

Tonight, he shoots.

''Return to Season 6 (2007)