Valor go Hunting, Ch. 2 (Patreon)

CH. 2

Meet the Tarthans

(Art done by using BING Ai Generator)

Simon yawned. He slouched deeper into his green armchair in front of the fireplace, one hand lazily tracing the golden embroidery along the arm. There were six such chairs in total, all in different predominant colors trimmed in gold, and spread out in various areas of the study. Each belonged to one or another of his siblings, the largest reserved solely for their father. More often than not, its oversized blue-and-gold seat was left empty.

Lord Admiral, the castle's unanimously beloved feline dictator, purred and curled up more in his lap. His calloused hands idly stroked the cat's ears and back as they both watched the drama unfolding before them. 

It was like this every day. Even in the supposed sanctity of the study, where he and his brothers had received schooling from the servants, staff, and visiting professors, learning grace, tact, professionalism, and etiquette, he was not safe from the squabbling of everyday life.  And what was the source of today's brawl?

"And I say," roared Cole, pounding his fist into his sibling's head as he held the other man in a headlock. "That I would have easily courted Lord Moirmonte's daughter if you hadn't swooped in and spilled wine all over my doublet!"

"I did you a favor," snarled his opponent hotly, straining to dislodge himself from Cole's powerful arm.

"It! Was brand! New!"  

Cole punctuated each word with another punch to the dark-haired head of his rival. His handsome, lightly stubbled, scar-covered face was twisted in indignation.  He might have stopped the fight entirely if he could have seen himself in a mirror just then: dress coat wrinkled, blond, well-coiffed hair in horrible disarray. The eldest of the Tarthan Princes was a stickler for looking presentable at all times, only ever contradicted by his roughhouse nature and large muscular build.  Of all of them, only Cole came close to their father’s stature.

Vincent - the one being grappled - kicked one leg up, nearly smashing Cole in the fork of his legs save for the eldest's quick jerk and instead being struck only in the thigh.  The blow still elicited a much higher-pitched yelp of pain from the big, bulky, blond than he would ever admit himself capable of.  This helped Vincent extricate himself and then immediately reverse the lock, slapping the top of his brother's head furiously several times.  

Among the Tarthans, only he was so fit as to directly wrestle with Cole. His hair was dark, much like Simon's, but that was where their similarities ended: his hair being shoulder-length, well-tamed; some might have even claimed it to be dashing.  Vincent had also inherited the indigo eyes of their late great-grandfather.  Combined with his tall, lanky build, sultry features, and smoldering good looks, it was no wonder he was considered the heartthrob of nearly all the kingdom's young maidens - and many other kingdoms besides.  If only they knew how he was in private when not courting or fawning over his collection of beloved swords.

"As if!" he roared right back at Cole.  "A bore like you would never have interested her!"  

He went stumbling back as Cole shoved hard and broke free.  They both took several hearty swings at one another, barely blocking or dodging them.  Anyone unused to their antics might have felt compelled to step in, before it all devolved from fisticuffs to a rather humorous slap-fight.  Both grown men were trying to cover their faces while still childishly smacking at each other.  

"You just kept going on and on!" he continued, yelping as one of his ears got clipped.  "About your bloody horse!  No girl in her right mind wants to hear the definition of a destrier versus a charger!"

Simon’s eyes glazed over more as the fight continued, making him lean back in his chair.  His lazy, unfocused gaze panned towards the last Tarthan in the room.  Isaac was idly reading a book, the cover of which suggested less than appropriate things given that they were all 'spending time together' at their father's request.  Even though they rarely saw him once a week, if that, they knew to continue following his directives.

The silver-blond, slender-bodied man lounged in his own chair, colored in gleaming silver and cream-white, one leg arched up over a cushion and barely seeming to be bothering to try and pay attention anymore.  He was boyishly handsome, a true rake if there ever was one.  Unlike Cole, he let his blond hair hang where it willed, like Simon's but effortless to manage, and unlike Vincent who did the same but kept it rakishly combed back, Isaac allowed his to remain constantly disheveled as if it added to his roguish charm. His fine clothes were purposefully rumpled so as to further amplify the effect.

"Could you please separate them?" Simon asked, exhausted. After coming straight home to the castle, he had bathed and changed his clothes to more relaxed attire.  He'd expected yet another offer to join his siblings for dinner, an affair he tried to avoid if only because there was often little actual eating involved.  Tarthan food fights were legendary in the castle, and the cooks had the King's authority to punish the lot for such infractions with chores.  Irrepressible rough-housers, they nonetheless continued the culinary combat at least once a week.  

Imagine Simon's surprise when he emerged from the bath to find that the royals' dinner was being delayed as per apparent orders from their father.  He had evidently left specific instructions that the boys were to await his arrival in the study.  And so they waited.

Simon could not remember being more tired or sore.  As a result, he had been barely able to keep his eyes open all evening.  Every time they would drift closed, images of the damnably fascinating bandit woman from earlier would flash before his eyes.  He would only be disturbed from his reminiscing - or brooding as his brothers constantly teased him for - about her by the latest uproar from his chaotic siblings.

"You wrongfully assume," responded Isaac idly, flipping the page of his book, "that I care what those two lummoxes do to one another."  

His tone was light, airy, and musically mischievous, unlike their elder siblings who all but exuded masculinity.  He always sounded like an overgrown teenage boy rather than the young man he was, and his never-ending need to cause trouble didn't do much to dispel the impression.  

Of the four boys, he had the least familial resemblance to any of them, although there was a very good reason for it.  Among the royal siblings, none treated him or his twin, Isidora as anything less than true family; adopted or not.  This included the aforementioned roughhousing that was no doubt about to resume.

Simon tiredly scratched Lord Admiral's tummy, making the cat purr even more.  "Given that this entire situation is your fault, I'd say you should."

Isaac gave him an irritable look, bright eyes flashing before he glanced up at the other two.  They had since stopped slapping one another and both were glaring down at him.  He shrank a bit behind his book, grinning weakly.  "Err...I don't know what he's talking about."

Cole growled loudly.  "So that's why she vanished all of a sudden!"

Vincent rubbed at his reddened cheeks, scowling as well.  "Of course...you little weasel.  You took the first opportunity to swoop in like a vulture and abscond with the maiden."

"Now boys..." Isaac spoke hurriedly in a placating tone, sliding out of his chair and holding his book in front of him like a shield as his older brothers advanced on him.  "Let's not jump to conclusions!  Simon might be misremembering!  You barely left the drinks table the entire night, dear brother.  Perhaps you had a few too many."

Simon yawned again, leaning one cheek on his hand, elbow propped up on the arm of the chair.  "Doubtful."  

Both of the other boys gave each other a look then glared again at their youngest brother.  "Besides," Cole rumbled.  "Simon doesn't drink."

"Everyone knows that," added Vincent icily.  He paused for a second then, glancing at Simon directly.  "Why were you hanging out at the drinks then?"

"Security," he mumbled.

"You're paranoid." This sentiment was echoed among all three of his brothers.

"And yet no one got poisoned."

"There was poison?!" balked Cole.

"Nobody died."

The other Tarthans all rolled their eyes, although they ranged from exasperated grunts to begrudging smiles.  Then Cole and Vincent returned to glaring at the youngest of their number, their ire returning at full strength.

"R-right..." stammered Isaac, still caught in the lie.  "But still I'm sure I'm innocent.  In fact, I barely remember being there at all."

"You were wearing that absolutely horrible pink cravat from her hometown in Pharusbury," added Simon.  "Bragging about it."

"It's salmon and it's from Pikecaster!" barked Isaac indignantly, realizing only a second later that he had fallen into a trap.

His two older brothers shared a look, then glared back down at Isaac as he quailed before them.  "What do you think we should do to him?" asked Vincent coldly with a grim smirk on his lips.

"I think we should..." Cole replied, eyes sparkling dangerously.  He and his brother exchanged a wordless, malevolent grin and nod before they both rushed towards Isaac.  The pretty-faced flirt gave a feminine shriek as they plucked him up beneath an arm apiece and pinned him to the floor where they began to ruthlessly tickle him.  The echoes of their mock-struggle rang around the study as the trio devolved soon into fits of laughter.  Simon just rolled his eyes at their antics.

"S-so," choked Cole, sitting up and wiping at his eyes.  He ran a hand up through his hair, then blanched and began trying to comb it all back down.  "How was she?"

"Hmmm?" asked Isaac, choking with how much he had been laughing.  His doublet was all mussed, even worse than before, and his cheeks pink.  All of theirs were.  "Oh I...well I merely took her to the side while the two of you were arguing, and asked if she wanted a drink.  We flirted and wooed for a bit, but by the time I had returned from the buffet table to refresh her with a light snack, she had disappeared!"

"Well, where did she go?" asked Vincent, panting as well.  Their collective eyes flashed and they all turned a suspicious glare towards Simon.  "Simon~?  Did you...?"

He gave them all a glower in return.  Among all of them, his was the most famous.  "Of course I stepped in.  She had already had far too much to drink, and she was engaged.  None of you seemed to have noticed that.  Or bothered to ask."  He shook his head.  "I summoned a servant, had her taken to a quiet room to calm down and take some medicine, and then she was allowed to retire for the evening."

They all made to stand up, looking as if he were their next intended victim, but he merely pointed at the lounging cat in his lap.  The three brothers looked at Lord Admiral, sighed, and each slouched down into their individualized, gold-trimmed armchairs once more.  Disturbing the family cat was likened to a death sentence.  

The feline had a sort of vindictive intelligence, and he liked to take out his anger on anyone who drew his ire.  Leaving messes in rooms, puking in favorite slippers, clawing drapes and blankets, or startling them late at night when one of them was sneaking back into their room after a night out doing whatever it was that his brothers did in the evenings.

The racket this would cause would invariably rouse half the castle, and earn the miscreant a smack across the ear from their reproachful father, when he was around in the evenings.  It was worse if they woke up Isidora.  If Simon's glares were legendary, her's were near god-like for intensity and intimidation.  She may have appeared like a delicate flower, but she could cow even their father into docility.

"So...any idea what the old man wanted us here for?" asked Vincent, pulling out a letter opener to pick at his nails with.

"None," replied Cole, who was using a mirror to - in a vain attempt to fix his hair - looking more and more distressed.  Isaac eventually took pity on him and combed it out for him, using a tiny bit of a solution that kept his hair in place combined with small pins to make sure.  Vain as he was, Cole's heart was still in the right place.  Usually.  

He gave Isaac a hug with one arm after they finished.  Simon would never get used to how touchy-feely his family was. They were always hugging one another, wrestling, competing, jostling, punching, poking, tickling, etc.  They only agreed to keep him out of it as much as possible since he valued his personal space, but when their brawls and scuffles were forced indoors, he invariably got dragged into their messes.  

"How long has he been gone this time?" asked Cole.

"Two weeks," supplied Simon, always keeping track of such things as one should.

"He's been staying out longer," Vincent observed.  "We really should talk to him about it."

"Yeah, no thank you on trying to flush that Wyvern out of its den," grumbled the eldest.  "You know father.  If it's important, he'll tell us.  Like he did with the Vrangling incursion two Springs ago."

The four boys all conceded the point, but Simon kept his thoughts about it to himself.  Riding the borders as he did, he was among the first to hear any rumors of massing armies or deployment of kingdom forces.  Even he had little to no idea where their father was always riding off to, strictly forbidden at risk of losing his patrols if he ever followed after.

Besides, those Vranglings had definitely been a concern.  He still remembered the stink of burning tar, the squelch of the mud underfoot sucking at armored feet, the howls of Glenwoad’s most ancient foes echoing across the battlefield.  “Drakervarg!” they had cried.  “Drakervarg!”  

Knowing little of their harsh language, Simon did understand that the word somehow attributed to both Glenwoad as a whole or specifically its ruling class.  Either way, his duel with Prince-Hussar Beredh would forever remain among the five most harrowing of his life; never before had he met a man that hated him so vehemently without actually knowing him.  No one had won that day.

The Tarthans lapsed into silence for several long minutes.  Outside, the moon had risen ever higher from the horizon; late evening was passing into night and the fire continued to burn.  Cole pulled faces and poses at himself in the reflection cast by a gleaming silver placard on the wall.  Vincent lounged, both utterly relaxed and yet balanced on a rapier's edge for readiness, fittingly balancing his small knife on the tips of his fingers. 

 Isaac had returned to his book, one foot kicking rhythmically like he always did when reading an especially saucy section.  Better not to ask so as to avoid being shown exactly what it was about, as Isaac knew was the best deterrent to Simon's inquiries.

Better to just close his eyes for now and...

"Do you think it's about...?" asked Isaac softly as the fireplace burned a bit lower and the darkness outside the castle stretched beyond the ramparts of the keep.  Everyone's attention turned to him.  Even Simon opened one eye, no less groggy.

What now?

"Is it?" asked Cole, perking up and beaming.  "Goddess bless, I'd almost forgotten all about it!"

Forgotten what?

"When is it?" Vincent pried, leaning forward in his chair and stowing his tiny knife back in his sleeve.

It? 

"Only about a month away," was Isasc's eager yet stressed reply.  "And we're Hosting this year!"

Oh Goddess, not that... Wait, Hosting?!

"The Ten Games Tournament!" 

All three of his fellow Tarthan brothers cried as one, lifting their hands and giving a triumphant cheer. Simon, meanwhile, just let out a heaving groan of protest. This jostling, plus the loud shout, caused Lord Admiral to yowl in protest.  All of them quickly froze and stifled themselves, watching, hesitantly, as the great lion of a tawny cat stretched on Simon's lap, then mercifully resettled. 

He had been Mother's cat. He missed her too, even after all these years. Sometimes, they would come into the study to find the only occupant allowed to sit in the single dark, shroud-covered chair located in a quiet corner. Only the Lord Admiral could sit in her chair, they'd all agreed, even Father.

They resumed talking, quieter now.

"Are you two entering?" Vincent cast an eye about the others as he spoke, but leaving Simon out as usual.  Not out of vindictiveness, he knew.

Cole let out a heaving sigh much like Simon's earlier, just more exaggerated.  "Can't, I competed the last time it was held - in Dagrmont.  I would have won too!" he swelled his chest proudly.  The other two snickered loudly, rolling their eyes.  He shrank a bit, scowling at them.  "Well... I almost would have! Damn Vrangling injury..."

He rubbed at a hidden scar on his left arm just below the shoulder, where his red tunic's sleeves were rolled up past. Simon noticed it didn't tremble as much as it used to.  Vincent meanwhile was not so sensitive as to notice, or he was too blunt to be nice. "If I've told you once, I've warned you a thousand times, brother: just because you're tall as a Troll doesn't mean you shouldn't guard your head. You're lucky your Great Helm is so thick, or that Wyrdblod would have splattered what little brains you have left."

 "Yes; thank you, Vincent."  his grunt of return came, each word uttered as if he were being struck in the chest. His eyes were resentful and angry, a powderkeg of nerves, as were they all. Isidora not being around had a tendency of making evenings a lot more tense.

"Hey come on now, let's stop fighting," consoled Isaac, patting Cole on the arm but giving Vincent a placating smile. Like his sister's, his charms were hard to resist. What tension had been forming in the room slowly dissipated as Isaac walked his two older brothers through a begrudging yet still overly-manly apology. Isaac at least kept them honest and, by the end, they'd ended it in a fist bump, followed by a hug from their fair-haired little brother. Brotherly love, and all that.

They resumed talking about what else but the Ten-Games Tournament.

Goddess...that is going to be so much paperwork...

"Tenth place isn't bad at all," Isaac murmured, still consoling Cole, now with a slightly more helpful Vincent as backup. "That's still, what, in the Circle of Champions, right? That's amazing!"

"Honorary Tenth place. Officially I was Eleventh..."

"Oh officially nonsense, we know Cole is the best Ten in our hearts."

"He puts the...Ten in Ten-Games," supplied Vincent, sounding halfway earnest.

Cole remained unphased by their attempts to cheer him up. "Father was watching..."

Every Tarthan winced on his behalf, but Isaac was first to offer consolation, even if it felt slightly like scrambling to everyone present.  "It's farther than I ever made it! "

"You've only ever competed in the archery games," again countered Vincent.  "You don't get to go to the Grand Melee if all you do is one or two events! And you've never enlisted for the Masquerade Brawl, so you couldn't buy your way in with accolades or merits."

"Has that math ever made sense?" Isaac queried.

Simon halfway perked up, once again jostled from his half-slumber slouch.

"Ten-Games Math is practically child's play. I will teach all of you, anytime. It is so easy if you do it while actually sparring."  Cole sounded far too eager for how late it was.

"I still don't get how a bunch of sword-flailing and getting all knocked about in a metal coffin equal numerical value used as a monetary system."

Managing a rare hoarse chuckle, Simon chimed in. "I kicked twelve boyos' arses today, what do ye mean I only get the Light Platter at the banquet table?!" he grunted in an overly husky voice lifted by an affected Lochlander accent.

His jibe was ignored by the rest of them.  "Couldn't be simpler, Isaac. See, you have to separate the personal performances of each combatant into specific categories and then rank them based on..."

Isaac quailed beneath the outpouring from Cole. "Cole, not asking to learn it tonight. Remember the rule about when we overshare." All Tarthans, even half-asleep ones, muttered however begrudgingly along with their archer brother. "We all Care. We all Overshare.”

Cole would say that. Even someone as straightforward as Cole still had surprises. He was the go-to on anything Ten-Games related when came the actual competitions, law rule or otherwise.

“The Masquerade Brawl,” hummed Isaac then.  “I’ve never seen much of a point for that one either, other than as recruitment opportunities.  Giant piles of fully armored knight-aspirants bashing each other black and blue.  Utterly barbaric.”

“Hey now, it can be a ton of fun!” argued Cole vehemently.  “I’ve met some of my best comrades at the Brawl whenever I’ve attended.”

“The commoners love the festivals,” explained Vincent.  “Exchange of culture, local crafters make masks based on the competitor's personas, reenactments of the Goddess Epoch, the Springpole…”  The second-eldest’s indigo eyes hazed over slightly as he grinned.  They all rolled their eyes at what he was no doubt pondering.

“You’re still prohibited from attending,” reminded Cole.

Immediately the smirk fell from Vincent’s face.  “It was a harmless tryst!” he complained, for once losing his superior, haughty wisdom he always was trying to project.

“Little bit of advice,” mumbled Simon, drawing their collective attention.  “Your ‘little tryst’ almost resulted in a Duel.  Next time you want to dance with a young woman, try to make sure her husband isn’t in the crowd waiting for the second reel.”

“Bah,” scoffed his older brother, making the rest of them snicker.  “As far as the Masquerade,” he continued, growing a touch somber again.  “I don't blame you on wanting to avoid it.  Far too many competitors, and not all of the most respectable nature.  Anything can happen."

The other two nodded, before, as if feeling guilty, they glanced at Simon.  "What do you think?" Cole asked.

"Hmm?" Simon muttered, still drowsy.  Her smile was all he could think about right now.  He kind of hated it, maybe.  Her lips had been scarred, rough, and frayed.  Her teeth were far too sharp.  Had she smelled… like something both singed and husky, heavily earthy but also with a hidden sweetness?  He would never have admitted it, but it had been a nice scent.

"About the Tournament!" Cole pushed.  "Are you going to enter?"

"Simon's never entered," chortled Vincent.  "He'd rather spend time riding around in the woods or running security.  Can't be too careful with those poisons, eh?"  He gave Simon a grin, to which he returned with a lazy, extremely rude gesture, not at all befitting a prince, with his free hand.  That just made Vincent grin even wider.

"To be fair," Isaac spoke, trying to keep the peace, and the focus of the conversation, intact.  "Security really is an important job!  Especially at that big of an event.  Remember all the drama two years ago, when Duke Fairbank's son almost got assassinated?"

As one, their expressions darkened.  "Can't believe a lowlife would stoop that low just for a better shot at the title," Cole growled.  "If you can't compete honorably in the games, you shouldn't even bother showing up."  He turned back to look at Simon.  "They didn't ever catch the guy, did they?"

Simon shook his head.  He'd been only marginally involved that day, having been focused on clearing out drunken brawls when the news had been passed amongst the security details.  "No.  It was a near thing, from what I remember.  But with no suspects and Antoinne unable to name his attacker, there was little we could do."

"So?  Are you?"

"Hmm..." Simon grunted, confused by the shift in conversation.  A moment's pause reminded him of what they had been discussing prior to the Fairbanks debacle.  He played with the tip of Lord Admiral's tail with his finger.  "Maybe."  

He didn't even really mean it, just said it so that he didn't appear like he was ignoring them.  As annoyingly energetic as they were, he still loved his brothers.  A stunned silence made him refocus his flagging attention onto them all.  They looked shocked, to which he sighed, already sensing the way they were no doubt about to overreact.

"I don't know.  Father's always so excited when you all attend.  He balances boasting to everyone within earshot and worrying constantly between each and every event."

"His joy would be indescribable if you at least entered your name," supplied Isaac.  The other two nodded.  "Especially since none of us can attend.  Cole went last year, and both I and Vincent did the year before in Lighthaven.  It's bad luck if a hosting Kingdom doesn't have at least one of its own Princes competing."

“Stupid rule…” Cole muttered.  “If a Kingdom is Hosting, their royal family should get to compete.”

“Ah yes, and that whole issue of Kingdom-favoritism and Boosting would do wonders for our reputation,” chimed in Vincent.  “You’ll be busy enough helping us all coordinate.”  He turned back to Simon, continuing the previous eagerness. “Even if you didn't compete, you could maybe look to sponsor someone!"

"I have several excellent recommendations," Cole spouted.  "Glenwoad knights of my personal circle, tried and true."  He glanced at Vincent.  “That’s not Boosting, right?”

The fencing Prince opened his mouth, paused, and pondered that for a second.  “It’s…frowned upon,” he conceded.  “It would be better if they were sworn vassals to Simon specifically, but he’s never had any vassals.”

And never will, no thank you.  Simon snorted.  "I know you're all excited and mean well, but the Ten Games are more your speed than mine.  It's a popularity contest for the most part from all the years I've watched from the sidelines; nobles from all over bet on and boost up their champions for the best placements, gear, and matches.  None of it feels genuine."

"To be fair, it's a very different feeling once you're actually on the field," countered Cole, the most knowledgeable of the tournament proceedings, given that he had entered and attended more of them than any of his siblings.  The other two nodded sagely.  "Sure, we can't stop or even prohibit some back-alley dealings for position, but everything in the Games is won, not bought.  That's always been the way it is."

"Then why is it almost entirely comprised of the noble and knightly classes at the tilt?" Simon shot back.  "Merchants, soldiers, peasants; you hardly ever see any of them after the Brawl."

"It's a different arena," replied Vincent, shrugging as if this were common knowledge.

"Literally," added Isaac, perhaps thinking he was being helpful.

"And it's not all just jousting, brother," Cole continued.  "It's called the Ten-Games for a reason.  As for the membership...it just isn't the place for the lower classes.  They aren't prohibited from competing, but it's not like the Brawl's open enlistment; you have to pay to enter, either with money or with winnings.  Prize money from the Masquerade is worth more to those of more modest backgrounds than a place in the lists.  A handful of accolades can change a lower-class family's entire fortunes for the better."

"So it's still all about money," grumbled Simon bitterly.

The other three traded a look.  "Well yeah," admitted Cole.  "Money is a pretty big factor.  There's more at stake though than just safety and trophies though."

"There is also fame," added Vincent.

"Prestige too!" Isaac chimed in.  "Bragging rights, courting favors, lands and holdings given to the most lauded competitors..."

"Plus it all helps keep the peace."  Cole proudly declared as if reading from an informational pamphlet.  "Smooths out hurt feelings, strengthens alliances, sets up marriages."  He counted them off on his big fingers.  "The merchants contribute and donate large amounts of gold, admission is free for anyone to come and watch, and the entire kingdom comes together to root for their favorites.  It's great fun!"

"Fun...sure," Simon again felt unable to bite back a yawn, stretching and popping his jaw as he did.  "A bunch of peacocking is what it is.  Peasants don't care what helmet carries the livery and laurel crown, and nobody but the nobles put much mind as to what house or banner one fights for or under.  Plus, none of you have ever worked the security side."  He gave them all a reproachful glare.  "Do you all have any idea how much corruption goes on underneath these events you like to call 'Games'?  How much work it is to keep things running smoothly?"

"We're still talking about the assassination attempt?" Isaac asked, sounding almost bored.  "Most people just think it was a tragic accident."

"Fairbanks' son almost died," he spat vehemently.  "And it was no accident.  I saw the crime scene myself.  The whole thing stank of wrong, not just some third-party interference of a noble who was trying to thin out the competition in the worst possible way.  Antoinne Fairbanks was found in a private room, by himself, in an unused wing of his family's castle.  If it hadn't been interrupted, we would have had our first true Royal death by murder in three generations, right under everyone's noses."

They all grimaced, looking genuinely chagrined at the idea.

"What do you mean by 'wrong'?" asked Vincent, dropping his light-hearted tone.

Simon thought back to the grisly sight he had walked in on.  Right as he had entered the door, another man had hurriedly exited, nearly running over Simon in his attempt to exit the room.  The grizzled soldier's face had been pale, and the view that awaited Simon's eyes quickly explained the reason why.  He tried to recall as many details as he could without focusing too deeply on them.

"The location, timing, and set up of the room all spoke of a premeditated attack, not just some opportunistic assault.  Whoever the attacker was, they spent deliberate time and attention in mutilating their victim.  Antoinne is unlikely to ever hold a sword again."

 Vincent looked distinctly unnerved by that.  "Give me Fearmen in the dark before that..." he muttered.  "I heard all of this secondhand.  I was occupied during that time and only heard about it all after the fact."

"Was that Lady Imelda of Anguisex or Duchess Gisele of Dagrmont?" snickered Isaac.

"A gentleman never kisses and tells," sniffed the second-eldest, then he grinned wolfishly.  "But perhaps a little birdy might sing that there was a song for each arm that night."

Simon rolled his eyes as his brothers all crowed like village boys.  "Can we focus?" he snapped, cutting through their immature squawking.  "Ten Games.  Security.  You all talk about how glorious the Tournament is, but we cannot afford for that kind of tragedy to happen again."

"Simon's right," snarled Cole, crossing his burly arms.  All three turned to look at him in surprise, Simon especially.  "Utterly inexcusable.  Lighthaven is unlikely to host again for at least a decade, especially since it was one of its ruling class' relatives that was attacked.  The damage it would do to Glenwoad's reputation alone.  Scandalous."  Isaac and Vincent nodded again in unison.

There it was...  Simon sighed again.  Lord Admiral bumped his hand with a furry nudge of his head, prompting him to resume petting.  It helped, if only a little.  "If security were taken more seriously," he continued, dropping the point since his meathead brothers were unlikely to focus on the real problem with the situation being discussed.  "Personal guards for attending nobles, increased patrols for the competition itself."

"Curfews perhaps?" ventured Cole.

Simon shook his head, but to his surprise, Isaac spoke up before he could.  "The populace would hate that.  Late night tavern parties and social gatherings are just as important to them as the Games are to the nobles.  People from all over the Ten Kingdoms will be here to enjoy Glenwoad's hospitality and culture.  Placing the entire place under martial law would be a disaster for our reputation, for the lower classes as much as for the visiting nobles.  We all remember the last time those were put into effect, in Dolorem."

All three shuddered.  Simon didn't, if only because he had never been to their most easterly neighbor's kingdom but still he knew to be wary of the name.  The land of the Cryingmen was a place of grim reputation; beautiful vistas and clifftops overlooking the sea and fields that contested with the very shadows of intrigue and danger they cast.  They served as one of the Ten Kingdom's bulwarks against invasions from the Outlander Kingdoms, as well as the stewards of the Goddess Road and the River Beithir.

"Not to mention, increased hostilities at the other borders are always something to consider," chimed Vincent, getting them back on track.  "The last few campaigns have seen more activity from the Nordlings, Vranglings, and Arrughant than any time in recent memory."

"Do you...think it'll be war?" ventured Isaac gingerly.  The fireplace gave an ominous pop as a log collapsed into the flames, making all of them jump.

"Father would know," Cole muttered in a grave voice.  "But Goddess willing, I hope not."

A dark air settled in around them all.  It was dispelled as suddenly as it arrived by the double doors leading into the study being abruptly flung open.

"What's all this then?!" roared a voice suddenly from behind them all.  Lord Admiral leaped into the air and landed on a bookshelf. He hissed indignantly at the newcomer, then jumped down delicately, rubbed himself against Simon's leg, and stalked out huffily past the newcomer. He barely seemed to notice the cat, ferocious attention fixed on the young men before him.  "Who said you all could be moping around?!  Can't stand moping!  Liven up, you four!"

"Father!" cried Isaac, rushing forwards first and hugging the figure that all but filled the doorway.  

They all in turn stood to greet their father. Save for Isidora, all the Tarthans were now finally in one room together again. It had been a long time since the last occurrence of such a family reunion.

Simon couldn't help but wonder how long this feeling of unity would last.  Or how long until, inevitably, their father would begin correcting them.

He did not have long to wait, but until then, he did at least enjoy a small surge of boyish satisfaction to know his Father had come home again. No matter how long it was to last.