<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold">King Allistair &amp; General Wolfhart</span> // <span style="color: #FFFF80">The Ring</span> // <span style="font-size: 85%; line-height: 116%;">Collab Kiddo/Lewi</span><br/><a href="//www.creativefreedomrpg.com/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&amp;u=111593">@Lewi</a></div><br/><br/>Bren hadn’t started when Allistair entered the Ring. He felt him there, but the General took his time in acknowledging his presence. Black sorcery left a stain on the soul, and even without being an active practitioner, he could still sense the magic around him, like a snake might taste the air; a sixth sense he could never turn off. The King had a pure aura, having only practiced battle magic, and Bren envied it. As much as he wanted to divorce himself entirely from that world, he was an unwilling member of it, and there was no pretending that wasn’t true when demons were always hounding him. They couldn’t touch a soul untarnished by the forbidden arts, which was why most smartly kept their distance. He couldn’t hide the flecks of evil that clung to him, but he did have a choice, even so. If it weren’t for Aloysius, for Allistair, if it weren’t for his men, and the life he’d been so graciously given the opportunity to live… he would have surrendered to them long ago.<br/><br/>A bead of sweat trailed down from his hairline when he stopped moving, his muscles tensing and giving off heat as his metabolism caught up with him. Perhaps he ought to have eaten something, he decided, but now that Allistair was here, he resolved to the challenge. Usually, Bren was a man of few words, and knew that he projected a resolute and determined leader when he addressed his men. When he sparred with Allistair, it was different; he was comfortable in the Ring with the other man, a man he regarded as highly as kin. The King provided an outlet that no other could replicate, and he found it easy to lose himself in their contest, away from the expectant eyes of the common people. Bren turned, his sword hand dropping to his waist as what might possibly have been a smile pulled at his lips.<br/><br/>“You wear the armour, and we call it even, then.”<br/><br/>Allistair smirked as he paused in his donning of his armor when Bren spoke back to him. He gave a soft chuckle as a bit of a glint entered his eye. Oh how he loved friendly challenge. And Bren was the only one who could stand up to him it seemed. Twas the benefit of being raised as brothers. He removed what of the armor he'd already donned and stepped more into the ring his own sword hand dropping.<br/><br/>"Just for that," he started, "I don't think I will wear it.”  He waited patiently for a response from Bren and wore his competitive smirk the entire time.<br/><br/>"You know what happened last time," he frowned. Bren stepped to the weapons rack and tossed a sword to Allistair, then lifted his own in a defencive stance. "Last chance.”  Allistair caught it with ease and cracked his neck.<br/><br/>"I've made my choice. Shall we then?" He asked as he took his stance. "The guest makes the first move." He teased as if Bren was so unaccustomed to sword play that he was a guest in the ring.<br/><br/>"As you wish."<br/><br/>Normally, a duel was started with a bow, but Bren skipped the formalities with Allistair. With careful steps he eased inward, sword held before him in a neutral position. Then, he jolted forward with the quickness of a cat, twisting his sword into one hand and swinging it upward, a move he didn't often open with.  It was unexpected and Allistair narrowly avoided the blade, but taking advantage of his open posture, he tried to drive a boot into Bren's ribs to kick him away or down underneath the arm that he had swung at him with.  Bren was impressed by the quick reaction, but his focus remained unfaltered. Rather than dodging the blow, he angled the blunt of his sword to intercept it, then shoved back.  The shove knocked Allistair off balance and he rolled with the motion in a backwards somersault, coming up onto his feet again with his sword at the ready.  Bren pressed his assault, coming blow-to-blow at Allistair's resistance. His movements were fast, but the King was no newbie swordsman, so he didn't hold back, even when he felt Allistair's sword come a little too close to his cheek, leaving a clean cut in its wake.  Allistair hadn't come out unharmed, either.  In the middle of their farce he had squired a small cut on his arm, but he knew better than to let his guard down with Bren. One sloppy move was all it took.  As Bren came blow to blow with him, Allistair took a step close to him fending his sword off with his own and placed the opposite leg behind Bren's knees and attempted to buckle them so he'd fall onto his back.  Uncertain of his opponent's intentions, Bren attempted to skirt back, but lost his footing and went careening into the dirt. His breath came out of him when he hit the ground, and his bewildered eyes met Allistair's.<br/><br/>"Playing foul now, are we?”<br/><br/>Allistair smirked and pointed his sword at Bren's throat for a moment before offering a hand to help him up. “All's fair in love and war my dear brother.”  A glint appeared briefly in Bren's eye as he tentatively took Allistair's hand, then wrenched down with a strong arm. He was on his feet in a mere moment, his sword now pointed at the king's throat.<br/><br/>"Yield," he commanded, his will not to smile faltering.  Allistair laughed as he looked up at Bren and his brow knit in mischief whilst he brought his foot up and kicked the hilt of Bren's sword to make it fly out of his hand and away from his face.  Had it not been a friendly duel, Bren would have, in that situation, gone to blows with his opponent in a savage, unarmed blitz. Since it was Allistair, the man simply remained standing, arm outstretched as if expecting his weapon to rematerialise in his hand. With an age-old sigh, he let his arm drop as he calmly stepped around the fallen man to retrieve his sword, and trying not to look vexed that it had even happened. Had he been wearing his armour, it wouldn't have. When he picked up the weapon, he held it pensively as a faraway look fell upon him.  Allistair had prepared himself for a wrestling match that never came. He frowned and stood, dusting himself off and sheathing his own sword.<br/><br/>"What's wrong?" He had a sinking suspicion he already knew, but he was going to ask anyway.  Bren turned, uncertain how to communicate his current thoughts. He blinked slowly to sort them out before speaking, choosing his words with care.<br/><br/>"Just now," he began, cowed, but keeping his voice low, “Did… you feel it?" It was unlike Bren to stumble over his words, moreso since he used words sparingly.  Allistair's brow knit in confusion.<br/><br/>"I didn't....What is it?" He asked. When he said ‘feel’, he wasn't sure what Bren meant. He rarely spoke of magic, so it didn't occur to him at all to focus on magic rather than on something else.<br/><br/>"I don't know," Bren admitted. A glazed look came over him as he considered, very clearly bothered by it. "It's.. foreign. Almost not there." It was difficult to put auras into words.  Allistair paused for a long moment before answering.<br/><br/>"Whats foreign?" It was then he felt it. It was just barely able to trip him off. Someone was using magic nearby. "What...what is that?”  Something was not right, and they both knew it. Bren had a niggling feeling biting at his thoughts, turning them cold. He swallowed, then gathered his nerves and gave Allistair a hard look.<br/><br/>"It's not black magic," he confirmed, "Beyond that, I don't know. Harold..." he trailed off. Harold would likely know.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Queen Cestaline</span> // <span style="color: #FFFF80">Scarborough Castle</span><br/><a href="//www.creativefreedomrpg.com/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&amp;u=110674">@thetruegarsot</a> <a href="//www.creativefreedomrpg.com/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&amp;u=111598">@krimson_nightmare</a> <a href="//www.creativefreedomrpg.com/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&amp;u=110549">@Tidfe</a></div><br/><br/><br/>The Queen watched her husband exit the dining hall, leaving her alone with the Archivists.   Continue her meal?  She hardly had the appetite for it to begin with.  A careful breath escaped her.  In the silence that followed, she set her cutlery down on the gingerly folded cloth napkin.  "I fare well, thank you," she began, "Though it seems I am the only one."  She gestured to the empty table as if to demonstrate, a distasteful look overtaking her.  "If you meant to speak with your King, you'll find you're only just late.  He's excused himself.  I expect he will be busied for some time."  She couldn't keep the irritation from seeping into her words, but it was all part of the persona she had adopted for this role.  Scarborough's Queen was not supposed to be fond of the sparring matches they were undoubtedly about to engage in.  Cestaline herself wouldn't care if they both took each others' heads off.<br/><br/>"I do wish I could stay and speak with you both," she said, standing now herself and folding her hands together, "But I'm afraid I find myself quite distressed.  You must excuse me."  It was no secret that she would visit her private garden to calm herself when under stress.  She had no reason to hide that- she reckoned that the less she was vague about details, the less they would question her intentions.  It had worked for three years now.  Cestaline made to exit the dining hall, but paused in the door frame, remembering something.<br/><br/>"Oh, Harold?" she turned sideways in the doorway to address the older man.  "The General would like some maps prepared for his patrol.  Please have them ready before sundown."  The Queen rarely gave orders, unless the matter was of utmost importance.  To her, it was.  The kind of maps the General would need were military in nature- and thus contained information of his patrol routes and guard stations.  Valuable information for General Mozt, should he find it.  Giving him no time to respond, she hurried from the dining room.  The halls were reticent now, with the guard so occupied with recent orders and all of the servants now likely tending to the vacant table.  The cold stone floors were hers and hers alone to walk, it seemed.<br/><br/>The sound of clashing blades drew her attention momentarily when she passed the infirmary halls en route to her little sanctuary.  Piercing eyes squint over the stone wall some two stories up, observing her husband’s heated duel with his general.  The woman frowned in distaste.  At least they would not disturb her, she reasoned.  She proceeded with little more thought to the matter.  By now, it would be too late for them to salvage their defences, assuming her contact followed through with the plan.  It would be a simple matter to put the final nail in the coffin, and finally, after so long… Cestaline shivered.  It was too soon to be celebrating.  Patience, she reminded herself.  Patience was crucial.  Her pace quickened until she stood before the turn in the hall, where Allistair had adapted into her terrace.  Before entering, she took a moment to peer down the hall behind her for anyone that might be following, seeing none but her exquisite, emerald gown trailing behind her.  With caution, she passed through the port.<br/><br/>The change in atmosphere was immediate.  She kicked off her dress boots and socks, her bare toes stretching in the grassy, slightly damp soil.  It wouldn’t provide the link to the earth, as it was over man-made ground, but it was comforting, nonetheless.  The space was accommodatingly large, with an open roof and view of the sky.  Sunlight was trickling in through small gaps in the lush awning over her.  Perhaps her link to the earth here was impossible, but this garden did have one more secret within it.<br/><br/>Certain now of her isolation, she spread her arms like a bird and closed her eyes.  Dim, thin lines of blue darted across her skin as she tapped into the ley line trailing directly through the garden.  As the site of the ancient, long dead grove, the castle had adopted some of its magical properties, which resulted in the link.  It was a very small and unremarkable link, one that, ultimately, couldn’t provide enough spell power to warm up your breakfast tea- but it was still a ley line, and if one knew how to manipulate them, they could be used much like magical roadways.  Up until now, she had been sparing about her magic usage.  With the eve of her long-planned attack nearing, she found it rewarding to finally give herself a little wiggle room.  It was critical that her contact received her message immediately.<br/><br/>She reached into the soil with her power, drawing a collection of fallen leaves and twigs into her hands.  She filled it with her aura, and they took the shape of a little finch, its pieces held together in a soft blue glow.  A soundless chirp escaped its rock beak, its elderberry eyes darting upward at her expectantly.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">It is time,</span>” she spoke, “<span style="font-style: italic">Gather your forces and send an ambush to the northern pass at sundown.  Do not waste this opportunity, Puppet Master.</span>”<br/><br/>It was an intentionally short message.  The more information she filled her messenger with, the stronger the magic required, and she did not want to put strain the line.  Besides, she trusted the sorcerer would know what to do with the information.  The spectral, leafy finch chirped her message back to her, mimicking her voice.  Satisfied, she cast it into the ley line and instructed it to find Archibald.  It dissolved into blue particles, and it was done.  Cestaline gathered her gown and settled carefully onto the little bench in the middle of the garden.  She could hear the real birds singing to one another in the trees, and the ever present buzz of an insect’s wings.  It was so peaceful that it was hard to imagine that it was the centre of a brewing war.  A one-sided war, it was looking like.  The general may have been on his toes, but he was not prepared for what was to come.  A shiver of anticipation touched her and she revelled in her soon-to-come victory.  At long last,<span style="font-style: italic">she</span>would be the one to succeed in this task where all before her had failed.  There was little else to do now but wait.<br/><br/>It was a beautiful morning.