Legacy Lost

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sun Jun 04, 2017 11:42 pm

Legacy Lost

The following is my very amateur attempt at a novelization of Osric's backstory. Specifically, the below will detail the events that resulted in Osric's exile from House Vale. The story is set in Neverwinter, towards the end of the year 1351 (as of posting, current server timeline is on year 1353, I believe, so it's not too far back in history).

Thank you for reading, and apologies in advance for any typos or grammatical errors.

Table of Contents:

Hidden: show

Main Cast:

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Osric
As the youngest of the Vale children, Osric is a bit more carefree and jovial than the rest of his siblings. Nevertheless, he is known to become brash and bullheaded when pushed to the limit. He has followed in Orelia's footsteps in navigating the diplomat's skills; he has learned a lot from his oldest sister and feels a particular gratitude towards her for her care of both himself and Octavia.[/td2]
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Orelia
The oldest of of the Vale children. She is widely regarded as a proficient diplomat and tactician. She was also known to be her father's favored child; upon his death, most assumed that she would assume leadership of the House. She is particularly close with Osric and Octavia, having helped to care for and nurture them in their youth.[/td2]
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Supporting Cast:

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Omerion
The second of the Vale children, notorious for his intransigence and loose morals. He covets everything Orelia possesses, and plots to supplant her at every turn. His younger sister Odette is the only one who tolerates his behavior. He is skilled with the sword, and enjoys boasting about the many duels he has won.[/td2]
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Odette
Third of the Vale children, Odette is a fawning and sycophantic woman that nevertheless harbors a keen intellect. She is fiercely loyal to Omerion, despite his notoriety, and supports him in all conflicts with the rest of the family, no matter the circumstance.[/td2]
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Olivere
Fourth of the Vale children, Olivere is known only as a reclusive scholar. He mostly prefers to keep to himself, though he is on cordial terms with almost all of his siblings. During family disputes, he prefers that reason and logic win out; he thus has been Orelia's consistent ally.[/td2]
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Octavia
The youngest living daughter of the Vale line, Octavia suffers from a debilitating condition that regularly afflicts her with seizures and hallucinations. Due to her ailing health, she rarely ventures out of the Vale estate. She is close with Osric and Orelia; Omerion terrifies her.[/td2]
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Lady Kerilyn
An influential noblewoman within Neverwinter, and one of Orelia's longstanding allies. Orelia often seeks counsel from this so-called "Matron Lady" of Blacklake, and has always found it sage. With her husband routinely away on trade and diplomatic ventures, Lady Kerilyn occupies her time ensuring nothing happens in Neverwinter's court without her notice.[/td2]
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The Lady of Dusk
An enigmatic and powerful creature of fey origin. Orelia and Osric turn to the Lady of Dusk in an hour of desperation. Her motivations are unclear, but there is no doubt that any power she offers must come with a terrible price.[/td2]
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wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Thu Jun 08, 2017 4:22 am

Prologue: Osric

Marpenoth 15, 1351

The funeral of Lord Rodric Vale of Neverwinter was a grand affair.

By all accounts, it should not have been. On the ladder of nobility, House Vale barely stood above the rung that held aspiring merchants and political bootlickers. They were a young noble family, and much of Neverwinter’s Blacklake district openly suspected the Vales had been elevated out of charity.

Even so, the late lord Vale had made prominent - and wealthy - friends. Flowers, embroidered silks, and golden statues lined the funeral hall, despite the fact that their minor House could barely afford a fraction of their cost. His father’s generous companions had decided to foot the bill for the ceremony. It was they who persuaded a priestess of Tyr to perform the last rites, they who brought the scores of unfamiliar faces to attendance.

Osric wondered if this was what his father would have really wanted.

The fact that he didn’t know bothered him more than he cared to admit. But as the youngest of Rodric’s six living children, each separated by several years of age, Osric only rarely spent time with his father. Rarer still was time spent alone, unaccosted by affairs of the estate or the demands for attention by his siblings. By the time Osric turned twenty, the old man was in his seventies; age and illness sapped what energy he could still muster.

Would Rodric Vale have appreciated all the pomp and circumstance? The opulence? Or would he have thought as the youngest of his sons did, and lamented the excessive adornment of this funeration as one inglorious lie?

Osric simply didn’t know.

Neither did he know why his father would choose to take his own life.

His imagination provided ample guesswork, of course. Perhaps the old man feared the ravages of dementia. Or perhaps it was dementia that drove him to it. Was it conceivable that the lord of House Vale only thought to make himself a swing out of bedsheets but then tied them into a noose by mistake? Perhaps ...

-- but no. Osric forced himself to stop. There was no point to dwelling on the why. He would never understand it. Whether it was an unshakable hopelessness or simply all-consuming madness that had overwhelmed his father in the end, Osric would never know. He could never know. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know either.

Thinking about the circumstances of his father’s death sent a cold ache down his breast. He might not have known his father well, but he still felt the loss. He loved the old man, after all. Or at least, that’s how he should have felt. That’s what he tried to feel. That’s what the rest of the world expected of him.

In truth, all he felt was numb.

“ … and though I mourn my father’s passing with a heart broken by loss, your presence here today breathes warmth into my heart once more. Indeed, it brings all his children much-needed solace.”

Osric stared up at the oldest of his five siblings, Orelia, heir apparent to their house. She stood behind a podium as she addressed the gathered throng, dark hair tied up into a conservative bun atop her head. Stray tears left trails down her cheeks as she spoke words of conviction; her talents were put to good use in their father’s eulogy.

She, unlike Osric, had been close with their father. She was the favored daughter, possessed of both charming wit and a tactical mind. The old man had groomed her to lead their family upon his passing; she stepped into the role with as much grace and poise as any could muster in similar circumstances.

But Orelia was much more than simply the new matriarch of House Vale to Osric. Fifteen years Osric’s senior, she had been as much a mother to him after his own had perished in labor, trying to bring what would have been his only younger brother into the world. In her absence, it was Orelia who raised Osric: she watched over his education, instilled in him his values, taught him the finer arts of diplomacy, negotiation, politics. She cared for him as much as their father neglected him.

For that and more, she would always have his gratitude.

It had been Orelia who discovered the body. She had spared Osric the sight of their father hanging by the neck, a noose of linen sheets reaching high into the rafters within the single unoccupied bedroom within their estate.

“I must offer gratitude in particular to Lord Blackburn, who even in ailing health made his way from Leilon to join us. I know my father counted you among the best of his allies, my lord.”

Osric glanced back to the grey-bearded noble decorated in somber attire. Lord Blackburn offered only a solemn nod, to which Orelia responded in kind before continuing her oration.

“My father led House Vale with wisdom and honor. His loss is keenly felt by those he leaves behind.”

Eyes darting to his left, Osric caught a glimpse of the rest of his siblings sharing the long pew at the front of the temple. Most sat in stone-faced silence; if they felt anything keenly, it was boredom. The one sibling that stood apart was his eldest brother’s Omerion, and the visible displeasure painted across his face.

Osric’s brother had wanted the opportunity to speak during the ceremony, to stake his claim on their father, to scream from a podium that Rodric had more than just the one child. Tradition had not required it and so Orelia forbade it. Omerion was quick to add it to his list of unanswered slights against him.

Still, Osric assumed his older brother would have come to terms with the decision by now. He was not sure why Omerion could not let it go.

“To my brothers and sisters, I know he would have wanted us to come together now. We must honor our father, his legacy, and ensure that House Vale continues to walk a righteous path.”

Orelia addressed them all as brothers and sisters, but in truth, most were only half-siblings. Osric himself only shared a common parentage with Octavia. The rest - even Orelia - had been borne to Rodric’s previous wives.

He therefore recognized the statement for what it was: less eulogy than a direct appeal to Omerion and all the Vale children to fall in line. He suspected there was little chance that his brother would kowtow to such a request though. Orelia and Omerion had never gotten along, not since Osric was old enough to remember. In truth, Omerion didn’t actually get along with much of the family. Osric’s oldest brother allowed his jealousy for their father’s perceived - and factual - favoritism to overtake almost every facet of his being. Whatever his siblings possessed, Omerion demanded to possess. Whatever affection or adulation they received, Omerion could not stand to be denied.

Even had Omerion not been dominated by this streak of unrelenting envy, Osric would not have blamed his sister for making an enemy of him. Outside of the family, Omerion was a petty, uncouth bully, who found putrid joy in the misery of others. He delighted in throwing his status as a noble around the merchant districts, threatening naive tradesmen with fines and penalties he had no ability to levy. He “donated” coins to beggars, and then demanded ludicrous service in repayment. He once required a resident of the slums to serve as his personal step stool for a year after throwing a single coin into the man’s eye. When the man refused, it took five of House Vale’s militia to pull Omerion off a battered and broken body.

“House Vale may be small now, but our potential - as Father would have said - is without limits. We will make Father proud. We will honor his legacy.”

“Yes we will, Sister. But not with you at our head.”

The unexpected reply to Orelia’s eulogy elicited a rippling tide of gasps throughout the hall. Osric glanced to its source; he knew who it would be even before allowing his eyes to confirm it. As the rest of his three siblings tugged on Omerion’s sleeves in futile efforts to return him to the pew, Omerion himself spewed his toxic jealousy unbridled and uncontested.

“You are not fit to lead us, Orelia. You are not even of Father’s blood! You sprung a fruit of a Beggar’s Nest prostitute and were laid at Father’s feet; his naivete is the only claim you have to House Vale.”

Lies. They had to be lies. Osric did not know what was more shocking, the details of Omerion’s accusations, or the fact that his brother chose to lob them at their sister like a trebuchet siege during their father’s funeral. It seemed his sister felt much the same way. For the first time in years, Osric saw Orelia unravel, just enough to reveal a spark of fire behind her poised visage.

“Still your tongue, Omerion! This is neither the time nor place for your ravings.”

But Omerion would not be stopped. All his anger and resentment, accumulated over dozens of years spent living in Orelia’s shadow, had finally come to a head. He bellowed his disgust, his hatred, without a care for the lies that he hurled or the ears upon which they fell.

“No, Sister. I want Blacklake to know. I want all the city to know. Your fraud has been exposed, your deceptions have been dragged from the shadows out into the light. You will not lead us. Not a single step! Not if I have anything to say about it.”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Mon Jun 12, 2017 2:17 pm

Part 1: Orelia

Marpenoth 16, 1351

Situated near the edge of the merchant quarter and Blacklake, the Vale estate was smaller than the average landholding within the noble district. Most considered it poor reflection on Blacklake. Orelia had to admit, her lifelong home seemed diminutive in comparison with some of the other mansions that shared the quarter. “Quaint” and “cozy” were common descriptors used to deliver backhanded compliments to the Vale family; it annoyed her to no end, having to suffer these barbed stings from supposed peers and friends.

The estate's size did have one unintended benefit, however; it's comparative coziness tended to induce an underestimation of House Vale’s prowess in negotiation. Orelia loved being underestimated. It made seizing the upper hand all the more satisfying.

What the estate lacked in banquet halls and balconies, it made up for with its pragmatic use of space. Apart from the main hall, personal quarters, kitchen and barracks, Orelia’s father had ordered the construction of several meeting rooms, including one designed specifically for use by the family. It was a simple but spacious room, housing a circular table from which Rodric had led many a family discussion. It was here that they devised stratagems, negotiated trade deals, and planned for the House’s future. Olivere dubbed it the war room as a jest in his youth, and the name stuck.

Given Omerion’s latest breaches of decorum against her, Orelia thought it sadly appropriate that this would be the room she would use to lambast him for his baldfaced slander.

Seated at the position her father once claimed around the round table, Orelia stared out at her “so-called” brothers and sisters. She addressed them as such in her eulogy to Rodric, but she knew better than anyone that they were not her true siblings. Rodric might have had six children, but Orelia’s mother only had one before she died. The Vales that sat before her now were the children of second and third wives.

It hit a particularly sensitive nerve that Omerion would throw false allegations of illegitimacy at her.

She trained on him, the oldest of her half-siblings, the most stubborn and arrogant child in an adult’s body Orelia had ever met, possibly in all of Neverwinter. “Have you lost your mind, Omerion? Are you truly contesting my claim to Father’s seat with this ridiculous ploy?”

Orelia watched as her brother’s nostrils flared with dismissive derision. The look ill-suited him, conjuring the image of an indignant pig.

“I won’t let you hide behind your vaunted sense of propriety any longer,” he said. “Nor your noble masquerade. I know the truth of your birth, Orelia! You have no right to call yourself a Vale, much less lead us!”

She had no idea what he was talking about or where he had gleaned these untenable notions. All she knew was that her brother was trying to supplant her with slander. Their father had left her to govern the House and no one else. The decision was final; she would not allow Omerion to defy it.

“Who whispers these lies into your ear?" she asked. "Or are they merely constructs of your deluded intellect? They stink of a fabrication conjured from the ether in an effort to take what is not yours.”

“They are not lies, no matter how you protest against them.”

“Whose are they?” pressed Orelia. “Or do you admit they spawned from your own tongue?”

“Curious that you’re so focused on their source. What does it matter the messenger, so long as his message carries weight?”

Orelia scoffed. “The Church of the Maimed God has acknowledged my succession, Brother.” She spat the word with as much affection as she had for vacated phlegm. “Tyr’s faithful agree with Father’s will, as does the rest of Blacklake. Castle Never itself recognizes me.”

“I do not recognize you! And I believe there are others among our siblings that would agree with me.”

“What do you think this is? Succession by democracy? Even were that claim true, the only opinion on the subject that matters is that of the Even-Handed.”

“Is that so?” asked Omerion with a sneer. “Then you won’t mind that I spread word of your illegitimacy throughout Neverwinter? That I have your ‘good’ name dragged through all the mud and scum I can find? That all of Blacklake will know of your filthy mother and the treacherous deception that landed you your title?”

“You’d be willing to burn down a castle to get at its throne?” countered Orelia. “Spreading this chicanery won’t just damage me, Brother, it will damage all of House Vale!”

“Expelling the spawn of a Beggar's Nest brothel from our midst? I should think not.”

A hue of violent scarlet painted over Orelia’s vision as anger welled up into her throat. “You will be silent about my mother! You know full well what is true: she was daughter to a Leilon merchant family. Father loved her and brought her with him to Neverwinter. If she had not perished to illness, you never would have been born.”

A cold, calculating smile spread across Omerion’s face. “And you have no proof of any of that. You of all people should know, Orelia. Truth matters little in the face of scandal.”

Orelia could not contest that statement. She had no evidence, save the word of two already-entombed parents. What witnesses who might have attested to her heritage were long dead. Omerion’s false allegations - applied to the right ears - might very well become truth in the eyes of Neverwinter’s nobility. Perhaps even beyond.

She could not allow that. But in that moment, her fury overwhelmed her sense of caution. “Shameless coward. Father would be disgusted with--”

Omerion exploded, leaping to his feet and slamming his fists down so hard the wood beneath them cracked. His words escaped his mouth now in screams, joined in flight by spittle sprayed with reckless abandon. “Don’t tell me what Father would have felt! He was a man whose lust was boundless enough to sire six children but whose heart only ever had room for one. I stopped caring about any of his opinions decades ago!”

His fury was so full of conviction that even Orelia gave pause at the display. She had always known Omerion harbored resentments about their late father, but she had not suspected how deep its roots had clawed their way into his heart.

Still seated within her chair, Orelia glanced around the table at her other siblings.Their faces reflected a gallery of emotions: Odette’s concern for her favorite brother; Olivere’s amusement at Omerion’s forfeiture of decorum; Octavia’s fear at his passion. Osric, the youngest of her siblings, was the only one to look angry.

Rather than any of the emotions displayed by her brothers and sisters, Orelia felt only two things at Omerion’s outburst. The first was pity. Pity for a pathetic creature, still so obviously desperate for the approval of a father who could no longer provide it.

The second was guilt. She could have taken Omerion under her wing when they were younger. She could have tried harder to get their father to pay him the attention that Omerion craved. She had been so wrapped up in the details of her own political future - the ambitious gambits, the broken engagements, the lost loves - that she had discounted her own relationship with her half-brother. By the time she realized her mistake, it was already too late; Omerion’s opinion of her had hardened into stone. Built upon a foundation of envy and neglect, his hatred became insurmountable.

Orelia was not sure whether it was the pity or the guilt that caused her to broach her next question: “What do you want?”

For the first time that day, it was Omerion’s turn to appear surprised. For the first time, it was Omerion who stood speechless, flabbergasted, as though he could not understand the simple question posed to him.

“There has been enough conflict already,” explained Orelia. “What is best for our family is a speedy resolution to this ... disagreement. Let me be clear; I will not concede my place as head of this House. But if you have a proposal as to how you can be convinced of the validity of my leadership, I am willing to entertain it.”

It was a concession offered for his acquiescence. Money. Influence. Political favor. Orelia could afford that much for this pitiful creature that shared her father’s lineage.

She watched as Omerion traded a meaningful glance with Odette. The hair on the back of her neck instantly stood to attention. What were these two plotting?

Omerion had poisoned the middle sister against Orelia from an early age. Orelia had never discovered exactly how he had done it, but since Odette had grown into adulthood, there had not been a single argument between them where Odette had not sided with her envious older brother against Orelia, no matter the circumstance or situation. It was possible their loyalty was borne from blood; after all, Omerion and Odette shared a mother in Rodric’s second wife. As such, the oldest Vale child harbored few illusions about ever coming between them.

Neither did she particularly see the need to do so. Omerion’s personality had long ago driven away any whom he might have called friend. Odette was the only ally he had.

Odette smiled and Orelia shuddered inwardly. She had never appreciated that expression of simpering sycophancy from her middle sister. Odette fancied herself a prim and proper noblewoman; her dress, her hair, her makeup were all done in accordance with the latest fashions and modeled after prominent ladies of Castle Never’s court. The notion that she could emulate those nobles to gain status also had the unfortunate effect of encouraging Odette to color all her actions with a grating sense of fawning adulation.

“Dearest Sister. You say you seek a proposal as to how to resolve this conflict. Perhaps you would entertain mine?”

Orelia knew Odette no more considered her a sister than she would consider a bandit for a husband, but she decided not to contest the point. “By all means. Speak your mind.”

As Odette spoke, Omerion finally returned himself to his seat.

“Honorable Sister, all of Neverwinter knows of your unparalleled prowess in the art of diplomacy and negotiation.”

Buttering up her rival was a common play from Odette’s playbook, and Orelia saw through it instantly. The words themselves offered only hollow praise; Neverwinter barely knew it had noble house named Vale, much less the talents of its children.

“Our father, bless his soul, was similarly proficient,” continued Odette. “House Vale has risen to no insignificant prominence through his efforts leveraging those very abilities. It is only fitting then, I think, that the one who succeeds him should represent the pinnacle of those skills.”

Orelia did not bother to hide the frown creasing the corners of her mouth. What game was Odette trying to play?

“Perhaps then, our little succession conflict can be settled with a game of said talents. Whomsoever can prove they are the most skilled at the art of diplomacy should inherit the title of head of this most noble house.”

Orelia almost could not believe her ears. Was Odette actually proposing a contest of negotiation? Did she not know her older brother at all, or was she attempting to mock him? To sabotage him? Omerion could barely share ten words with the most rational and calm of beings before things devolved to fisticuffs.

“And who exactly would be the judge of such a contest?” asked Orelia.

“Why, we would, of course,” replied Odette. “Who better to judge? Who better to decide who should lead the Vales?”

“We each get three days to convince our brethren to stand beside us,” said Omerion, speaking straight to Orelia. “At the end of those three days, each of us casts a single vote. Whoever receives the majority of votes shall inherit leadership of this House. The loser will renounce any claim they have to such title from here and forever onwards.”

“And if there’s a tie?” asked Olivere, speaking for the first time that night.

“Then we try again,” snapped Omerion. “We continue until a victor is decided.”

Orelia pursed her lips. “I will not allow this House to be dragged into a state of perpetual internal conflict.”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she had a chance to correct them. She had no intention of conceding to any such contest, perpetual or no. Her statement implied a willingness to do so, but before she could correct that misunderstanding, Odette moved to secure it in stone.

“Then might I propose the following. If the vote remains tied after three attempts, our brother will concede his position.”

That was a surprise.

Omerion shot a furious look to his blood-sister. “I agreed to no such--”

“Come, Omerion,” said Odette with a dismissive wave. “It is only fair. You are the challenging party, after all, and there are limits to indulgence.”

At that, Omerion fell silent, much to Orelia’s continued bewilderment. The whole proposition took her aback; it was almost coordinated in its delivery, planned to the tee. On the surface, she should leap at the opportunity. Omerion might have Odette’s vote, but Orelia could not imagine that their remaining siblings would side with him over her. Certainly not Osric or Octavia and Olivere was a reasonable man. It was her contest to lose.

But should she allow herself to be played into this game? She knew Odette was no fool; her middle sister would not have proposed this bargain if she did not believe it would serve some purpose, even if Orelia could not yet discern what that could be.

And yet the damage that Omerion threatened was very real. If she denied them this opportunity, her brother might very well decide to tear down her name - as well as the reputation of House Vale - for a misguided chance at a pyrrhic victory.

“Well, Sister?” asked Odette. “What say you?”

Osric spoke up. “When our dear sister wins this contest, what’s to stop Omerion from betraying the terms of victory? He could carry out his threat regardless.”

“Do you think so little of our brother, Osric?” asked Olivere with a smirk.

Osric shot a disapproving glare to the brother in question. “He chose our Father’s funeral to make a public gambit for political power. I think the low opinion is well-deserved, don’t you?”

“If it will put your minds at ease, I give you my word, as a son of House Vale, and in the name of Tyr: so long as it is conducted fairly, I will abide by the result of this contest.” Omerion’s words were uncharacteristically calm, although Orelia noted that he never did care much for what their youngest half-sibling had to say.

Osric’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “Do you really expect us to take you at your --”

“Are you satisfied, Sister?” interrupted Odette. “You have his word.”

Orelia considered for a long moment. They were forcing her hand, but she was not sure there was a better play she could make given the cards she had been dealt. There was little chance Omerion could secure the three votes necessary to claim a draw, much less the four he needed to steal her title. If he needed to have his humiliation confirmed before the entire family, Orelia would acquiesce to his wishes. And on the off chance he might truly dare to break a vow made to Tyr … she would make necessary preparations.

“I am,” Orelia finally responded as she rose from her seat. “In three days time, we shall decide the fate of our most noble House.”

That evening ...

The room in which Rodric Vale had killed himself stood unnaturally quiet, cut off from the bustle and business of the rest of the family’s estate. Orelia shut the door behind her and rested her weight against it so that she would not be disturbed. Not that anyone would disturb her. Not here.

It had been an odd choice for Rodric to hang himself in this room, she remembered thinking after she found the body. She also remembered chastising herself for the thought immediately. Her father was dead by his own hand, after all. What did it matter where it happened?

Even so, the thought lingered with her. It was not his bedroom that he chose, but this empty one, this spare room that had not been occupied for years. Her mother’s old bedroom. After she died, it had become abandoned, used mostly for storage, but her father had it emptied out not ten days before his own passing. She had asked him why, but his answer had been cryptic and unenlightening. She chalked it up to the growing madness overtaking his mind.

A portrait of her father surrounded by all his living children - commissioned during happier times - hung upon the wall opposite the door. Orelia remembered a stray thought she had as the servants came to pull down the corpse: with the portrait behind him and at just the right angle, it would appear as though the family had united to watch their father’s death.

Whatever unity they might have achieved, Orelia knew it was about to be shattered.

As she looked upon the image of her father within the painting, Orelia broke down into quiet and unrelenting sobs.

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Thu Jun 15, 2017 10:51 pm

Artist: Chris Dien

Part 2: Osric

Marpenoth 19, 1351

Osric sat with Orelia on the balcony terrace overlooking their gardens. Autumn had already stolen from the trees their summer verdancy. The first hints of a winter wind now began the long process of plucking the leaves from their branches. Soon, they would be stripped of their floral finery and bared to the harsh and bracing conclusion of nature’s cycle.

He could not help but feel his family was about to experience something similar.

The chef had sent tea and pastries up; he watched as his older sister took a calculated bite into a buttery croissant. Every mouthful was an exercise in precision. Too large, and she would appear the fool, biting off more than she could chew. Too small, and it would not satisfy the tastebuds. This was Orelia in a nutshell: every move planned, every gambit anticipated to a tenth step in advance.

All the more reason Osric struggled to understand why she had capitulated to Omerion and Odette’s proposal.

“You shouldn’t have agreed to this ridiculous competition, Sister.”

Orelia swallowed, then dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief. “What would you have me do, Brother? Allow Omerion to slander me across the city and beyond? Even the Many-Starred Cloaks and all their magic wouldn’t have been able to stifle his promiscuous tongue.”

“We could have appealed to Castle Never to intercede. Perhaps the Church of the Even-Handed. They could have ordered Omerion to stop.”

“Possibly. But any success we might have found down those paths would only be undermined by the damage Omerion would do while we pursued them. He needed only to whisper his lies in the right ear and my reputation - along with our House - could be sullied for decades to come.”

“He blasted them like cannon-fire during Father’s funeral. Is the damage not already done?”

“Words spoken by an ambitious second son angling for more personal power might not garner much faith. But if he paid others to spread his slander ... had them witnessed and repeated by purportedly neutral parties …”

Orelia didn’t finish the thought, but Osric got the gist of it. Omerion had found a diabolical means of attack. There was little defense that could be mounted against an inexorable tide of gossip, washing upon an eager grapevine.

He must have been frowning, because Orelia offered a sudden smile. “Fear not, Brother. You’ll be relieved to know that I’ve already spoken to Octavia and Olivere. Both are with me. I assume you are as well?”

She winked at him, and he couldn’t help but smile in return.

“You already know you have my vote,” he said.

Orelia grinned. “Then the game is as good as won.”

“Was it difficult to persuade Olivere?” Osric asked. His middle brother had always been somewhat difficult to read. He had neither Omerion’s notoriety nor Octavia’s reputation for charity. Osric only knew Olivere spent much of his youth with his nose stuck in a book. When they were younger, the tomes were mostly fantastical tales filled with swords and sorcery, dashing knights and beautiful warrior women. Osric had borrowed several from his middle brother, and for a time they had been close, commiserating in the joint escapism.

As they grew older, they had grown apart. Though they remained cordial, Olivere’s tastes had changed. Novels were discarded in favor of tomes on politics, religion, and governance. Osric avoided those as best he could, succumbing to them only if required by Orelia’s insistence.

“No,” Orelia replied. “Olivere’s always been sensible. He knows I am the better choice for leadership.”

Osric loosed a sigh of relief. “Then this will be over soon. Thank the gods.”

The door to the terrace swung open and Octavia stepped in, her meek steps barely making any sound as her feet padded across the floor. Blonde locks of hair - a unique shade among the Vale siblings - whipped back and forth against her face from the winter gale. She was thin enough that Osric wondered if she might be swept away by the current.

“Octavia,” greeted the eldest sister. “Come, join us.”

The girl - older than Osric by just a year - looked much younger than she appeared. Their mother so named her because she was the eighth child sired by Rodric - the previous three had all been stillborn. Octavia herself had been delivered a month ahead of her expected birth date, and she had been sickly and weak throughout her childhood. A high fever overtook her when she was seven and left her senses addled; ever since, she was prone to bouts of seizures and hallucinations. Orelia did her best to care for her, even consulting with several powerful Ilmateri, but their diagnosis had only determined the girl’s condition was beyond the clerics’ ability to heal.

“How are you today, Sister?” asked Osric.

“Good,” came the reply as Octavia sat down beside him and partook of a scone. She nibbled at it like a mouse, incisors carving down flakes of pastry in rapid succession before she began chewing. “The vote’s about to happen.”

“Indeed,” said Orelia. “Only a few hours until you can watch your sister wipe the floor with that arrogant upstart.”

Octavia giggled and grinned. Osric smiled, happy to see her perk up. His sister was beautiful regardless, but her smile accentuated that beauty. Sadly, it was an increasingly rare occurrence these days. Her condition had been steadily worsening for some time now. The clerics indicated that she had perhaps only a few winters left to see. Osric had asked Orelia to withhold that information from their sister, fearful that it might only demoralize her already diminishing spirits.

His gaze lingered on his sick sister for a moment more, before he returned his attention to Orelia. “You’re really not concerned Omerion will go back on his word?”

Octavia interjected before their older sister could answer. “He swore! In Tyr’s name, no less! Just because he used to always scatter the chessboard when he was about to lose, doesn’t mean he would dare go against an oath he made in Tyr’s name.”

She was like that. Outside the presence of strangers, her demeanor could be as effusive and passionate as any typical young woman her age. It was only in the company of the unfamiliar face - and occasionally the hostile family member - that she withdrew into her shell.

“Our sister has a point,” said Orelia, smiling. “Besides, I’ve already made preparations for such an outcome. Don’t worry, Osric. He’ll be head of House Vale over my dead body.”

Osric couldn’t help thinking she was tempting fate, but he decided to keep that opinion to himself. “As you say, Sister.”

“Now, if only Omerion could learn those four simple words,” Orelia said, chuckling.

“I don’t think he’s ever even said those ‘four simple words’ to Odette,” said Octavia. “ … he’s really disagreeable, isn’t he?”

They all shared a laugh at that.

Another half hour and the pastries had all been eaten. The tea had been poured out as swill. Orelia departed to make final preparations for the impending vote, leaving Octavia and Osric alone on the balcony. As the sun began to tuck itself beneath the horizon, Octavia adjusted her chair over right next to his, and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

“Remember when we used to watch sunsets together?” she asked.

“I do,” he said with a faint, teasing smile. “You used to be afraid Lathander would be swallowed by Chauntea and the sun would never rise again.”

“That was a legitimate concern!” Octavia protested with mock indignation. “You know Father liked to scare me. He told me the sun had to fight its way out from the earthmother’s grasp to break the horizon every morning.”

At the mention of their father, Osric fell silent for a moment. He had almost forgotten how Rodric had doted on Octavia in their youth. The affection had been short-lived; Octavia’s diagnosis seemed put a chill on whatever outward displays of love the man had for her.

“Are you alright, Oz?”

The nickname drew a smile to his face. “I’m fine, Sister. I’ve just been wondering ...”

“About what?” pressed Octavia.

“Something Omerion said about Father. How his heart only had room for one child.”

Octavia considered the thought for a long moment before responding. “I suppose there’s no question that he was the most fond of Ori.”

“Do you ever wonder why that was?” asked Osric.

“Ori’s the oldest. Or … maybe it was Mother. You must’ve noticed it too. He changed after she died.”

And after the clerics confirmed they could not cure you, thought Osric, though he would never say it aloud. Instead, he asked, “Do you think he would be doing this if Father had just paid him the attention he so desperately craved?”

Again, she considered the question. “Probably not. Maybe this is Omerion’s final revenge, now that … I mean, now that Father’s not here anymore. It’s not like he can grab the old man and scream at him. All that buried resentment … perhaps this is his last attempt to get it out. To defy and reject Father’s wishes, any way he can. I can … I mean I think I can understand that.”

Osric couldn’t quite hide the surprise in his voice. “It almost sounds like you’re defending our dear brother.”

Her lips pouted in rejection of Osric’s assessment. “I said I could understand, not that I agree. I mean, it is still Omerion we’re talking about. He would be terrible as our leader.”

He smiled again, though this time it was devoid of any humor. “You remember the day we spent at the beach?”

She nodded. “Father took us all there. I was six, you were barely five. We spent the day building a town of sand. I remember you sculpted the most beautiful towers and parapets for the castle. My houses came out like lumps.”

“We asked Omerion if he wanted to join us but he refused,” said Osric. “We worked on without him. It took us a whole day, but we had completed a masterpiece.”

Octavia smiled sadly. “It was sand, brother.”

“Omerion returned. He strode up to us. Pushed you aside. Shoved me to the ground. Stomped through our work like it was nothing. Smashed it to ruins.”

“It was sand,” she repeated. “It would have crumbled all on its own.”

“It didn’t have to be by his hand. That’s the thing with Omerion. He thinks because something is doomed to an ill fate, there’s nothing wrong with ushering it to its end. No matter how much time is left.”

Octavia did not respond.

“He’s at it again, Sister. Except it’s not just sand he’s ruining anymore. It’s our House. Our family. He’s --”

The sound of Octavia’s body hitting the floor sucked all the air from his lungs and broke the momentum of his tirade.

“Octavia?!”

She convulsed upon the ground, shuddering uncontrollably, spasming as she lost control of herself, her body, her limbs. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps. Her mouth opened and closed in rapid succession but no sound escaped her lips. Osric dashed to her side, cradling her head, cooing in a frantic and desperate attempt to restore calm.

“Guards! Get the healer!”
Two soldiers rushed out to the balcony and departed so quickly, only a whirlwind of dust in the air revealed any evidence that they had been there.

Octavia’s eyes rolled backwards into her head as her body struggled against his embrace. Words broke her lips, finally; they were quiet and yet filled with calamity.

“A crown of bones at twilight. Dust and debris in its shadow. A hydra devours its own heads under a pale moon; gratitude is offered for the meal. A rose sheds its petals but keeps a single thorn, and it stabs, it stings, it bleeds and draws blood --”

Osric never paid any attention to the ramblings. More often than not, the words would devolve into gibberish. Now, they escalated into an agonized wail. Osric held his sister close to his breast, paying no heed to the accelerating beat of his heart. He kissed Octavia on the forehead and rocked her gently back and forth. No matter how many times Osric saw it happen, Octavia’s seizures always took him by surprise. Always shook him to his core.

“It’ll be alright. Everything will be okay,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to convince her or himself.

He had seen her like this before. It always passed. However long it took, it would always end. It would do so again. It had to.

… it’s what he had to tell himself. To watch his sister in such terror and agony, helpless to do anything about it ... It was unbearable. All he could do was bear witness. All he could do was pray.

The Ilmateri finally arrived, trailed by the guards that had been dispatched to collect him. Osric recognized him; a lay acolyte, young and inexperienced. Kistle was his name. His superiors had long since given up conventional treatment; they barely bothered to come when called now. Instead, they sent the youngest of their number to put on a show. It was all they could do.

Kistle pulled Octavia from Osric’s arms, and whispered a quiet prayer to his patron deity, coursing divine magicks through her still-spasming body. They did not seem to have any effect.

Time counted another five minutes of intermittent flailing, terrified screams, and nonsensical babble before the episode finally reached its conclusion. Each minute seemed an eternity, a perpetual wait for a relentless storm to recede, a purgatory of bated breaths, but finally Octavia regained control of herself again.

She pushed the Ilmateri’s hands away and sat up of her own accord. Osric knelt down to her side.

“They’re getting worse, aren’t they?” he asked.

Octavia didn’t respond, but he did not need an answer to know it was true.

“Are you --”

“We have to get ready,” she said, struggling to her feet. “It’s almost time for the vote.”

Osric followed suit. “Maybe you should rest. Orelia has the votes to secure victory, even without you. You don’t need to be there.”

“No, Oz. I’m going. It’s like you said.”

She looked at him with as much determination as he had ever witnessed.

“ … it’s our House. It’s our family.”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sun Jun 18, 2017 4:32 pm

Part 3: Osric

That Evening

They arrayed themselves within the war room with Orelia seated at her father’s chair and the rest of the Vale children arranged by age around the table. As the youngest, Osric sat between Orelia and Octavia; his younger sister’s complexion had not yet fully-recovered from her earlier episode but she refused to withdraw from the vote.

He faced Odette. His middle sister sent him a sly smile, and right away Osric felt something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but that smug confidence both Odette and Omerion wore across their faces could not have been for nothing.

The only other person in the room was Cedric Cedain, House Vale’s master-at-arms and captain of the guard. Osric did not fail to notice the shared look between him and Orelia: was this the preparation she had mentioned earlier?

“Let’s get to it,” said Omerion.

“Aye. How exactly are we going to do this?” asked Olivere with a chuckle. “Blurt out names until someone counts them?”

“Nothing so uncouth, I think,” replied Orelia. “Captain Cedain, if you please.”

Cedain stepped forward and presented each of the Vale children with a small piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill.

“Write your vote upon the parchment,” said Orelia. “The names will be tallied and the winner will be determined.”

“Why the show?” asked Omerion. “Or are all your supporters too cowardly to declare their vote before us all?”

“We know your temperament, Brother,” said Osric. “I think it’s a good idea that we don’t need to paint targets on our own backs for you.”

Omerion sneered. “Your vote isn’t with me, that much is obvious. I don’t you need to announce anything to know your biased loyalties.”

Osric furiously scribed Orelia’s name across his parchment and made a point of showing his cast vote to Omerion before returning it to the table. A furious flare of his brother’s nostrils was his just reward.

Odette put a hand out to call for silence. “Enough. Let us cast our votes.”

With a grumble, Omerion conceded. The rest of the table launched into a synchronous motion of picking up their quills and dipping them in ink before carefully scrawling their votes onto the parchment. Osric, having already completed this task, handed his vote to Captain Cedain. One by one, the captain collected the completed votes. Octavia was the last to complete the task; the master at arms tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for her to finish.

Cedain brought six slips of parchment to Orelia. One by one, she announced the names written.

“Orelia. Omerion. Orelia. Orelia. Omerion.”

Five votes cast and Orelia had the advantage. The last vote was all she would need to secure victory. Osric turned to look upon his siblings one last time before the contest was over. Omerion and Odette waited with baited breath to hear the last of the names. Octavia’s expression was muted, but confident. Olivere merely smirked.

Orelia didn’t bother hiding her own certainty that she was about to put Omerion’s aspirations to its final rest.

Her eyes scanned the last parchment, and all her assurance evaporated in an instant.

“ … Omerion.”

For a second, Osric couldn’t believe his ears. His eyes darted to Orelia; the expression she wore made it seem like she had just been slapped. She had been so sure she had secured the requisite votes. Who else besides Odette had thrown in for Omerion?

And what’s more ... why?

Omerion laughed. “Well, well, well. It seems your leadership is not so certain, Orelia.”

The outcome of the vote was almost impossible to believe, but Osric could tell his sister had already adopted an impervious mask of nonchalance. “You forget that a tie favors me, Brother. Two more, and it will be your defeat.”

“You’re so confident of that,” replied Omerion. “Just as confident as you were that this vote would be the only one you needed. I think I’ve proven you would be wiser not to underestimate me.”

“It’s not you I underestimated,” hissed Orelia. She turned to face her betrayer. “Is it, Olivere?”

Osric only had to consider the possibility for a second to know its veracity. Of the options available, it was the only one that made the most sense. Osric himself had of course voted for Orelia, and he could not imagine Octavia would do anything but the same. Olivere, on the other hand, held none of the loyalty for Orelia that Osric and Octavia did. They were cordial, nothing more.

Still, Orelia was no fool. If she had been confident of gaining his loyalty, there was a reason he betrayed her now. Olivere was no fool either. He had to know Omerion would not make a suitable leader for the House. Something had happened to change his vote, perhaps even compel it. Osric’s eyes darted once more to Omerion. What had his oldest brother done? What threats had he made that could have --

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to pull this over you, Sister.” Olivere smiled, sly and wide. “You’re right, of course. I was the third vote for Omerion.”

His middle brother’s derisive glee shocked Osric even more than the treachery. What was going on?

“You gave me your word,” said Orelia. “What does Omerion have on you, that you would turn your back on your promise?”

Omerion and Odette smirked in unison, like a pair of twin hyenas. Olivere himself adopted a mock expression of innocence. “Nothing. I decided that his accusations warranted scrutiny.”

Still a portrait of calm, Orelia asked, “I verified your vote not ten minutes before it happened. Now you’re telling me you changed your mind because you believe Omerion’s in unsubstantiated drivel?”

“What can I say, Sister? Things change. You should know that better than anyone.”

“Consider what you’re doing, Brother!” said Osric. “You know Omerion! You can’t really think we should --!”

“Stay out of this, little brother,” snapped Olivere.

Omerion slammed his hand down onto the table. “Enough! The vote is cast. The result is clear. Another three days, and we vote again. And this time, I will be the one to emerge victorious, Orelia. You can count on it.”

“The nine hells would sooner open a maw beneath your feet, much as we all would enjoy that outcome,” Orelia snarled. “This meeting is concluded. We convene again in three days time.”

Osric watched as Omerion and Odette strode out of the chamber, an infuriating swagger in their step. Orelia ushered Octavia out, presumably back to her quarters. Only he and Olivere remained.

As his brother began to retreat to his own chambers, Osric intercepted him, grabbing his arm so he could not escape.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You can tell me the truth. I can help you. Orelia and I will figure something out, protect you from Omerion. Whatever he has on you, we can make it go away.”

His brother only sneered. Words followed, filled with a fervor Osric had never heard from Olivere before. “You still don’t understand, little brother. I don’t need protection from Omerion. I didn’t vote for him because he threatened me. Neither did I do so as the result of blackmail.”

Osric didn’t understand. His brother’s words landed on his ears, only to be discarded. “You’ve always been reasonable. You can’t possibly think this House would be better served with Omerion at its head, over Orelia.”

“I don’t.”

Olivere wrenched his wrist free and departed without another word, leaving Osric to stand alone, more bewildered than ever.

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Thu Jun 22, 2017 2:55 pm

Part 4: Orelia

Marpenoth 20, 1351

The Lady Kerilyn of Neverwinter was known by many names.

To her enemies, she was the “Frog Crone,” a woman whose tongue struck as fast and as deadly as any sword. Others preferred “the Dowager Witch,” an effort to disparage her unfortunate appearance. These were some of the kinder monikers; they called her other names in private. Most were not spoken aloud among polite company, but rather screamed behind closed doors and in vengeful frustration.

Still others recognized her by titles known best to mouths now filled with rotting teeth, long since emptied of their flesh and foolishness.

To Orelia, however - as well as their allies among the city’s nobility - Lady Kerilyn was the “Matron Lady,” a motherly scholar and learned tactician, wise to the ways of Neverwinter’s political tides. Orelia often sought counsel from this surrogate parent, though the last time she had asked a favor from the House Kerilyn’s matriarch had been years ago, when Orelia’s betrothal to a young Blackburn lord had been broken.

She loathed owing this sort of debt; it spoke all too much of her own inability. But waiting for the Lady Kerilyn’s arrival, Orelia forced herself to swallow her pride. She had misjudged her opponents and she could no longer leave anything to chance. It was why she had invited her ally to come. She could not let her ego get in the way of saving her House.

The autumn winds of the last few days had finally settled down, and the groundskeeper had managed to arrange the season’s fallen leaves into something presentable. Decay had not yet set in, and the leaves still retained most of their color: bright yellows and oranges replaced once-verdant grass upon the lawn. It would not be long before rot stole what beauty was left here, but for now, she could still entertain her guest here.

The Matron Lady arrived exactly on schedule and unaccompanied, as Orelia had requested. Otherwise, there would have been at least two attendants to wait upon her; Orelia had decided judiciously that those extra pairs of prying ears were better suited elsewhere.
They exchanged a warm embrace and kisses upon the cheeks before beginning a leisurely walk through the paths that the groundskeeper had carved from the graveyard of floral corpses. Lady Kerilyn’s dress trailed behind her on the earth, growing befouled with every step. Orelia quietly thanked herself for choosing a more practical set of leathers for the occasion.

“How is the Lord Kerilyn? I’ve not seen him for some time,” she asked the older woman, as way of beginning pleasantries.

The Matron Lady snorted in amused derision. “That old codger’s in Waterdeep, no doubt finding himself young and nubile companions to bed. I suppose that means he’s doing well.”

“Apologies, my lady,” was her half-hearted reply. The Lord Kerilyn was a well-known philanderer, whose love for his wife apparently did not have the strength to overcome the lusts of his flesh.

“Apologies?” Lady Kerilyn smiled. “Fret not, Orelia. If my lord did not fill his bed with strangers every night, I would feel guilty about doing the same with mine.”

Orelia couldn’t help a smirk; her wizened friend grinned.

“What of your family? Your father’s death must have been a shock. I wish I could have attended the funeral, but poor weather delayed my own return to the city.”

A simple nod accepted the older woman’s alibi. “My siblings are … managing, for the most part. But they weren’t close to Father like I was. I think they saw the signs and made peace with his fated departure long ago.”

“And you? How are you, sweet girl?”

It was hard for her to answer, not just because she still felt his loss, but because she could not put into words the deluge of conflicting emotions that still wracked her heart. Watching his mind deteriorate over the past few months had been a daily agony. He had given her so much: her charm, her wit, her intellectual mind. He had taught her everything he knew about diplomacy and negotiation. In the end, she would know more than he did.

She remembered something he used to say often. A silver tongue is useless if the mind behind it has taken to rust. The words had been spoken to a rebellious daughter to focus her studies, but towards the end of Rodric Vale’s life, they seemed more applicable to his fading intellect.

Seeing her distress, the Matron Lady changed the subject. “What of Octavia?”

Orelia offered a small, but grateful smile. It faded quickly; Octavia’s condition did not appear promising. “Unwell. Her episodes grow more frequent with every cycle of the moon and its tears. The last one was just yesterday.”

“She’s a plucky girl. She’ll prove the clerics wrong yet.”

The older woman’s gnarled hands reached for her own and Orelia acquiesced. Her grip was surprisingly strong, firm … and reassuring. “You’re a plucky girl too.”

Orelia smiled, though it was mostly devoid of humor. She suspected she would need more than pluck now, and Octavia’s worsening status only weakened her position. If she should become disabled before Orelia secured the vote ...

All the more reason she needed to resolve this succession contest as quickly as possible.

Lady Kerilyn must’ve seen the expression on her face, because she asked, “You did not ask me here to discuss your family’s health, did you?”

“No. I …” Orelia paused, considering her words carefully for a moment.

“Spit it out, girl. Before the Lord of Bones decides my time on this mortal plane is up.”

Orelia smirked. For some reason, she rather found the idea of the Lady Kerilyn confronting Myrkul to be amusing. “You’ve heard about the little … dispute we’re having over who is to lead our House?”

“I have. It’s rather the subject of some fair amount of gossip at court.”

Orelia sighed. “They’ve heard Omerion’s accusations, then?”

“Of course they’ve heard it, my dear. He lobbed them like conflagrant sorcery during the funeral. I’d be surprised if word of your brother’s underhanded tactics had not reached Baldur’s Gate by now.”

“He lies, my lady. You must believe me.”

Kerilyn smirked. “Oh, I do. And trust me, no one puts much stock in his blither blather. Not yet, anyway. It’s much too self-serving on Omerion’s part.”

It was as Orelia suspected. That much of her calculations had turned out correct, at least.

Lady Kerilyn knelt down to retrieve a fallen leaf from the stone path. It must’ve been recently discarded, for its color retained an unusually saturated shade of crimson. Orelia watched curiously as the older woman held the leaf in her palm, examining its shape, its color, its contours.

“That said, if you do not win this little game of yours, I’m afraid you may lose more than just control of your House. Credence will be lent to your brother’s slander. Your name … your reputation … all of it will be tarnished. After all, why would your family choose him over you, unless there was some truth in his accusations?”

“I realize that,” said Orelia. She knew it all too well. The consequences of losing to Omerion now were unacceptable. Beyond ceding control of House Vale’s future to a brash and stubborn upstart, she would not allow him to dishonor her late mother with his duplicity.

The older woman closed the leaf into the palm of her hand, shattering its brittle veins and dried blade, crushing it into glittering confetti. She swiped her hands against each other, clearing them of the refuse; it looked like dust composed of desiccated blood pouring from her hands onto the earth.

“I take it you’re concerned about your chances for victory.”

“Is it so obvious, my lady?”

“Out with it, Orelia. How is Omerion still in the game?”

“Olivere betrayed me. That vote should’ve been mine. I had secured it! But it seems my middle brother has plans of his own.”

“Olivere,” Lady Kerilyn mulled the name for a moment. “That’s the quiet one that likes to keep to himself? It’s a bit of a challenge keeping your siblings’ names straight, by the way. Did your father really have to make them all sound so similar?”

Orelia frowned. “I’ll let him know your displeasure the next time I visit his grave.”

Lady Kerilyn smiled apologetically. “Yes … I suppose it’s too late to bemoan it. No matter. What of Olivere? You’ve not spoken of him much over the years.”

“He is an enigma, moreso now after this treachery. He’s too smart to believe Omerion’s lies, and has no cause for any loyalty to the man. He’s either been bought, blackmailed … or he’s planning something of his own.”

“Isn’t he fourth in line for succession?” asked Lady Kerilyn.

“Something just isn’t right about this whole thing. The way he was behaving when he revealed his treachery, it was cocky. It was arrogant. I completely misjudged him.”

“What does it matter, in the end? I’ve heard the whispers, I know the rules to your game. Three ties, and it’s still your victory. As long as Octavia and Osric remain in your camp, you will still emerge with House Vale as your prize.”

Her next words were barely a whisper. “... and if they betray me too?”

The older woman looked to Orelia, her expression almost one of amusement. It annoyed her greatly. Could she not see the perilous circumstances to which the contest had sunk? Orelia needed help, not patronizing scorn.

“Have they not always been loyal to you, my dear?”

“I can’t be sure of anything now. Not after … this humiliation. I should’ve won, my lady! Instead, Omerion takes me completely by surprise. I can’t let that happen again.”

“ … and so comes the favor you wish to request of me.”

“You know me too well.”

“How can House Kerilyn be of service?”

“We have been steadfast allies, have we not, my lady?” Orelia asked. “I have supported your efforts to --”

Lady Kerilyn smirked and held up a hand to stop Orelia’s words in their tracks. “Come, Orelia. Speak your mind. I won’t hold it against you if you save the finer points of negotiation for someone … younger.”

Straight to the point then. “As you wish. I would appreciate it if you would leverage your substantial resources to investigate both Olivere and Omerion. Hells, if you can spare the effort, Odette as well. Dig up whatever secrets they have, whatever skeletons they might’ve buried.”

Orelia felt the Matron Lady’s eyes appraise her for a long moment; she almost thought she saw a twinkle of amusement behind them. “I’ll admit … this is a rare occurrence. Usually nobles come to me seeking information on rivals from other houses, not their own.”

“I won’t be caught off guard again. Omerion has another thing coming if he thinks that he can steal my House out from under me, if he thinks he can get away with this travesty of --”

She had to forcibly stop herself from launching into a furious diatribe. Passion was not the tactic that would secure the Lady Kerilyn's aid here. She could not allow her fury to overwhelm her reason.

A flurry of dead leaves swept between them as a westward gust of wind forced them both to shield their eyes. When it subsided, the older woman continued her queries, making no mention of Orelia’s verbalized wrath.

“... how exactly do you intend to use this information, that I and my substantial resources shall attain on your behalf?”

Orelia allowed a grim smile to precede her answer. “That will depend on what it is those resources uncover, my lady.”

Lady Kerilyn’s chuckled. “How deliciously vague. You are indeed your father’s daughter, aren’t you, my dear?”

She didn’t know how to answer that and so remained silent.

They arrived at the estate’s main entrance, having circled the available pathways twice. The sun was beginning its slow descent behind the horizon. Orelia glanced back to her gardens. An evening wind was picking up. Soon, the paths would be overrun with the corpses of dead folioles once more.

“Very well,” said the Lady Kerilyn. “You have my aid. House Kerilyn’s interests are best served with you at the head of House Vale, after all. You will have your information. I’ll send for you once I have anything worth noting.”

The guards pulled open the gates, and they both stepped through. After sharing one more embrace, the older woman cupped Orelia’s face in her hands and whispered into her ear, “I only pray that you use what I find wisely, my dear.”

She could not help but to arch a brow at that. Did the Matron Lady mean to suggest she already knew of something that could be used?

“I will, my lady,” she said. “You can trust me on that.”

“Oh, I do. Take care now, my dear. And send my love to Omerion.”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sun Jun 25, 2017 1:37 pm

Part 5: Osric

Meanwhile

Osric chased his youngest sister down the hall that led to Olivere, Odette and Omerion’s quarters. For being ill, her stride was remarkably quick - quick enough that Osric almost had to break into a jog to keep up. She hurtled forward, pausing only to twist and weave past a line of servants carrying trays of stuffed pheasants and roasted potatoes to the dinner table for the evening meal.

The tantalizing aroma of meat and spices elicited a low grumble from Osric’s belly and he quietly lamented that he would most likely not get to taste the pheasant while it was still hot. The contest had made communal dining all but impossible; as a result, the Vale siblings had taken to eating in shifts. As the youngest, Osric often came last; Orelia usually had the presence of mind to save some of the better courses for him, but with all that was happening, he did not want to impose on her.

The sight of Octavia almost bowling over one of the attendants drew him from his culinary quandary.

“Octavia, slow down!”

“Olivere betrayed Orelia, Brother. I’m going to find out why.”

“I already asked,” Osric protested. “He refused to answer.”

“Well, now I’m asking.”

She reached Olivere’s quarters and knocked on the wooden door. She put all her force into her fist, but the sound barely carried to Osric’s ears, barely a few feet away.

No one answered.

Osric sighed. He gently ushered Octavia to the side and rapped against the door with his own hand, loud enough that he saw one of the nearby servants jump in place from the sudden noise.

Still, no one answered.

He tried the door handle - strangely enough, it was unlocked. He pushed the door forward; the distinct sound of rustling papers and closing drawers told him that someone was indeed within. Why Olivere would not answer his own door, he had no idea … but like Octavia said, they would find out. He swung the door wide open with a quick gesture.

Odette stood hovering over the single - but massive - desk within the chambers. Olivere was nowhere in sight.

“Odette? What are you doing?” asked Osric as he advanced into the chamber. Octavia hung back, still framed by the door.

“One could ask the same of you, little brother,” said Odette with a sly smile. “It’s a little bit early for your nightmares, isn’t it? But if you’re looking to climb into someone’s bed, Orelia’s is just down the hall, as I’m sure you’re already aware.”

Osric narrowed his eyes at his middle sister. He had never liked Odette - he thought her a simpering sycophant, Omerion’s bootlicker and apologist. She would do or say anything for him, for no reason other than they shared the same blood.

“What have you done with Olivere?” asked Octavia. Her voice came out a whisper, barely a chirp.

“Nothing, sweet Octavia. I was looking for him myself.”

“And you just so happened to stumble into his quarters?” asked Osric. “Did your hands stumble into his private journals as well? Is that why you had to slam them shut as we entered?”

“How dare you accuse me of such untoward behavior.” Odette adopted a convincing expression of affront, though Osric knew it immediately to be false.

“You think me audacious, do you? And yet, somehow you feel no hypocrisy for supporting Omerion and his slander against Orelia.”

Odette frowned. He could tell he had her on the defensive. “You have no proof that they are lies.”

“Is that all you need to spew baseless vitriol on Omerion’s behalf? That there is no proof otherwise?”

“You don’t want to antagonize me, Osric,” hissed Odette.

“Oz,” pleaded Octavia. “This isn’t what we came here for.”

“Yes, Oz,” came a biting response. “So what did you come here for?”

He recognized Omerion by his voice without needing to turn around, but he did so anyway. Osric’s oldest brother was tall, muscular, and sported a goatee that only magnified his sinister appearance. A sharp rapier hung from his belt; one of his hands hovered over the hilt as he himself loomed over Octavia. He was large enough that a simple shift of his weight was sufficient to block any path of retreat she might have relied upon.

Osric watched as she shrank against the doorframe as much as she could.

All the moisture drained from Osric’s mouth and his only recourse was to swallow and wet his lips anew. He hated himself for it, but Omerion had always unnerved him. Thirteen years Osric’s senior and boasting greater strength, faster reflexes, and a bully’s personality, Omerion had long since made clear to Osric who was the dominant brother of the Vale children. Now, without Orelia to keep Omerion in check, Osric had only his own wits to fend off an intractable strongman.

“We came to see Olivere,” he finally managed. “We want to know why he chose to support you.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re having such difficulty understanding it. You’d think being a witless fool would leave ample room in your head to accept simple facts.”

“Where is he?” Osric pressed.

Omerion smirked. “I believe I saw him head toward the merchant quarter earlier.”

Though his words were addressed to Osric, Omerion’s attention remained firmly on his youngest sister. Still blocking her exit paths, he stroked a menacing finger down Octavia’s cheek, smiling in cruel delight as she squirmed against his touch.

“Leave her alone.”

His voice trembled against his will. Internally, he bemoaned betraying his own anxiety. As he suspected, the quavering in his words did not go unnoticed; Omerion’s sneer seemed only to amplify in delight.

“Now, now. That’s rather selfish of you, Oz. Where is it written that I cannot speak to our beloved baby sister? Where is it written that you are to be her only confidant?”

“Omerion …” Odette started, but a swift look from the eldest Vale son silenced any dissent she might otherwise have proffered.

“In fact,” continued Omerion, “I think you’ve had an undue influence on dear, sweet Octavia for far too long. Clearly you’ve ensorcelled her into being an unwitting ally to that shameful sister you erroneously hold in high esteem.”

“Is the mere exercise of reason and logic considered sorcery now?” Osric asked. “If so, perhaps the magi of the Many-Starred Cloaks are about to swell in number.”

Omerion had no response for that other than to smile. Instead, he turned back to the youngest of the Vale daughters. Despite being boxed in by Omerion’s large frame, she still tried to wriggle free from her trapped position, desperate to extricate herself from his proximity.

An enormous arm jutted out to halt her latest attempt. “Come now, Octavia. If you are the creature of reason and wisdom that our brother claims you to be, you should not be afraid of me. You should hear me out.”

“What exactly does she need to hear from you?” Osric asked.

“I’m not talking to you now, little brother.”

“What do you want, Omerion?” asked Octavia, barely louder than a whisper.

Omerion leaned in further, so close their foreheads were almost touching, and yet still towering over her, surrounding her, blocking her at all sides.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I want your vote.”

“My vote is with Orelia,” came the simple reply.

“And what will it take to change that?”

Octavia glanced between her siblings; Osric watched as fury welled up inside her like he had never seen before. Her brows furrowed and her eyes narrowed, staring straight into those of the tyrant above her; blood welled into her cheeks and her nostrils flared as she spat her counter.

“You asked where it’s written that I can’t be your confidant? Read my lips, Omerion. I don’t want anything to do with you!”

Omerion’s eyes widened in unadulterated rage.

“You heard her, brother. Her vote won’t change. Neither will mine,” hissed Osric.

“Oh, won’t it?!” Suddenly, Omerion’s hand was on Octavia’s throat. It did not squeeze, it did not even press hard onto her skin, but neither could Octavia’s flailing efforts remove it from her neck. “Even if a beloved sibling’s life is at stake?”

Osric didn’t think. He reacted. In a single bound he was at Octavia’s side, both hands pulling against the massive forearm that pinned his sister against the door frame. He heaved with all his might, but what Omerion lacked in cunning, he made up for with physical strength. It took all of Osric’s effort to pry Omerion’s arm from its place, and the effort only resulted in securing that terrifying grip around his own neck.

“Let him go!” screamed Octavia, pounding uselessly against the man’s arms and chest with her diminutive fists.

“I will, sweet sister. If you give me your vote!”

Osric struggled to free himself from Omerion’s iron grip; it seemed his brother no longer held any of the discretion he had saved for Octavia. The man’s fist closed inexorably around his throat, shutting his windpipe, blocking out air. Through wheezing chortles for breath, Osric pleaded, “Don’t listen, Octavia! He can’t get away with this!”

Tears streamed down her face as she glanced between him and Omerion, the uncertainty and vacillation of her emotion plain for all to see. “Please, Omerion! Let him go! Let him go!”

“His fate is in your hands, Octavia! Give me your vote.”

“You can’t do this!” sputtered Osric through desperate gasps for air.

Omerion’s eyes widened into furious white spheres, streaked with hate and disgust. “I’m sick of people thinking they can tell me what I can or cannot do!”

Suddenly, Odette slammed her hand down on a nearby desk. “Omerion!” she barked. “Stop!”

The words sounded distant to Osric, even though she stood only a few feet away.

“Stop? I’m not going to stop! I’m doing what I should’ve done years ago. Seizing victory! Securing my rightful place in this House!”

He could not breathe.

“You’ll kill him!”

“One less vote for that treacherous --”

“Orelia will have you thrown to the Greycloaks!” hissed Odette. “And I won’t be able to stop her. Do you hear me?! If you do this, I will not stand in her way.”

Everything was being swallowed in darkness.

Omerion’s voice sank to a deadly whisper; it was somehow more terrifying than even his bellowing roar. “So … you intend to betray me as well?”

“No, Brother,” said Odette, her voice a remarkable calm. “But I will not watch you throw away everything we’ve worked for over this failed ploy. Don’t do this! We have an opportunity here, but if you continue down this path, you will have squandered it.”

Omerion considered Odette’s words for a long, dreadful moment, weighing the truth of Odette’s counsel with the Finally, he loosed his grip. Osric sank to the ground, choking, lungs sucking in oxygen like a horse at a trough in a desert. Octavia rushed to his side, her concern a reflection of the same emotion he had for her just a day ago.

“I will have your votes,” spat Omerion. “One way or another.”

He stormed out. Odette followed closely, though she paused at the doorway, glancing to Osric and Octavia huddled on the ground. Osric looked up to his middle sister; if it had not been for her, he did not know if he would have survived this encounter with Omerion. His brother was mad; it was only by Odette’s temperance that Osric had escaped his wrath.

A token of thanks left his tongue, begrudging but genuine. “Gratitude, Sister.”

She left without any reply.

Later That Evening …

“Are you alright?”

Osric nodded to his eldest sister, even as his fingers gingerly brushed his bruised skin. Soreness lingered in his throat, a reminder of the iron grip Omerion had employed against his neck but it was the humiliation that really made a lasting impression. Once more, he had been at Omerion’s mercy. Once more, he had been utterly helpless to defend Octavia.

Orelia’s return from entertaining Lady Kerilyn had been greeted immediately by news of Osric and Octavia’s encounter with Omerion. He now sat with Orelia in her quarters on a fine ottoman his sister had imported from Waterdeep. Octavia had retired for the night already.

“He’s unhinged, Sister. He’s out of his mind. If Odette hadn’t stopped him …”

“Do you really think he would have killed you?”

Osric glanced to his big sister. For just a second, her demeanor terrified him. Her question came empty of sympathy, concern, uncertainty or disbelief. Rather, it was analytical in its inquiry, as though she were interrogating a witness, not consoling a brother.

And then, the sisterly warmth he had known all his life returned to her eyes. Maybe he had imagined that other expression. Maybe it was the stress, or the ever-increasing pressure that summoned a chill frost to her face.

Maybe it was his own weariness that stole reason from his mind.

“I … I don’t know,” he said.

“Perhaps you were right to be concerned, Osric. If he’s so desperate to win … we can not be sure he will honor the results of this contest.”

Osric shook his head. “This isn’t just some competition to him. It’s far beyond that now. He doesn’t just want the House to be his, so much as he wants to deny it from you and all of us who believe in you. He’ll tear it all down if he can, hells with the consequences.”

“A last act of defiance against Father and his legacy.”

“You have to be careful, Sister. I don’t know if there’s anything to which he won’t stoop.”

Orelia’s expression was grim. “If it was only him I had to contend with, I would still not be worried. But with a new wild card backing him … did you find out anything about --”

A blood-curdling scream sapped all the air from the room.

Octavia.

Both of them raced outward, bounding toward the source of the scream. Osric was a few steps ahead of his older sister; just as he turned the corner and was about to reach Octavia’s quarters, he saw a figure exit from within: Omerion. His brother flashed a wicked, delighted smile at him, and then vanished behind another corner.

“Stop!”

Orelia had not caught up to him yet. She hadn’t seen Omerion. Osric pushed his legs harder against the stone floors, forcing himself to run faster, to stride farther. He couldn’t let Omerion get away. He couldn’t get away again! But when he turned the next corner, Omerion was already gone. His mind came to a screeching halt as two choices vied for his decision: to turn back and help Octavia, or to continue the chase for Omerion.

“Osric!” The urgency in Orelia’s voice made the decision for him; he whirled around and ran to his sisters.

“Did you see? Did you see Omerion!?”

Orelia did not reply. As he finally entered Octavia’s quarters, he saw his sister cradled in Orelia’s arms, eyes vacant, mouth murmuring whispers so quiet that he could not hear them, even straining in effort. She laid there, deathly still, absent any of the frantic flailing that so characterized all the rest of her episodes; only the shallow rise and fall of her breast even hinted at the semblance of life.

Terror seized every fiber of his being. He had never witnessed Octavia like this; this was no ordinary episode. What had Omerion done to her?! Osric rushed to her side, grabbing her hands, shaking her shoulders, screaming her name. She responded to none of it. She heard none of it. Her irises stared through him, as though he were not there.

All she did was whisper. He pressed his ear to her lips, hoping that somehow she might tell them what had happened. He offered broken and succinct prayers to whichever deity would listen. Tyr. Ilmater. Hoar. He begged them that she could still communicate. He pleaded that she could be saved.

The gibberish that escaped her lips was their cruel reply.

“Octavia, please …”

A girl stared back at him. No. Not back at him. He was no longer known to her. And the sister he had known was no longer there.

Orelia stared at him, regret and sorrow overwhelming all other emotions upon her countenance. “ … she’s gone, isn’t she?”

Osric could not bring himself to speak those words, even if in the deepest core of his being, he already knew them to be true.

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Wed Jul 05, 2017 8:10 pm

Part 6: Orelia

Marpenoth 21, 1351

They sent for the clerics, but Orelia knew the effort to be a formality more than anything else. By the time the Ilmateri arrived, two hours had passed since they first heard Octavia’s scream. In the interim, their sister slipped in and out of consciousness. Each time she woke, a spark of hope surged that she might recover. Each time she lost herself to the void of dreams, that spark was extinguished. Upon arriving, the clerics snuffed out what dying embers remained. There was nothing they could do, they said. There was no hope for recovery.

Through it all, Orelia watched as Osric sat stone-faced at their sister’s bedside, his hands wrapped around hers. He remained there even as the healers did their work. He remained long after they departed. Orelia sat with him for a little while, but the clock soon struck past midnight. She was exhausted. She beckoned for Osric to follow, so that he too could get some rest, but he ignored her. She went to pull his hands off of Octavia’s, but he only wrenched them free.

“You have to sleep, Osric.”

“It was Omerion. He did this.”

Orelia hadn’t seen any sign of Omerion. She had only Osric’s word, and he had just survived an earlier encounter with their treacherous brother. Much as she wanted to believe him, much as he seemed to need it, there was no certainty to be found in his words.

She chose not to voice her doubts. “Come. You need rest.”

“Leave if you want,” he said. “I’m staying right here.”

She could hear something in his reply, an anger she had never heard from her youngest brother. His belly nurtured a cold fire, one that words alone could not quell. Not tonight, anyway. Perhaps not ever. It would stew in his gut, nursed by hatred and despair in equal measure, until it had no recourse, no outlet of escape, but to consume him whole.

Orelia left what remained of her youngest half-siblings and retreated once more to her own quarters.

Sleep did not come easy. Questions raced in circles around her mind, even despite her weariness. Was Osric right? Had Omerion done this, and if so, how? How could he have terrorized her so thoroughly that she lost all reason?

What would happen with the vote now that Octavia could no longer cast one?

A twinge of guilt lodged itself in Orelia’s gut. Her sister was all but mad, a sister she had cared for all her life - even if it was only out of duty - and all she could think of was how she was about to lose the contest. Another part of her scoffed at her own hesitation; it was the most pressing question, after all.

Without Octavia’s support - and there was no way she could give it now - Orelia no longer had sufficient votes to maintain even a tie. With Olivere at Omerion’s side, her truculent and dastardly brother could win. The man who had potentially driven Orelia’s sister insane was poised to use that crime to steal a seat that was Orelia’s by birthright.

That fact alone certainly provided ample motive for Omerion to be the guilty party. Of that, Orelia had no doubt.

Her mind grasped for options, but none were satisfying. If she pushed to disqualify Omerion from succession for this heinous act, he would only fall back to his original threat: to tarnish Orelia’s name to the city at large. She could summon the Greycloaks, or even the Church of Tyr and accuse Omerion of … of what, exactly? She had no idea what he had done, if anything. No proof. No witnesses. No evidence. And with Odette and Olivere backing him, they would no doubt vouch for his innocence.

It was these disturbing thoughts that ushered her to sleep at last.

Her dreams offered no solace. In them, Orelia stood alone in her gardens. Her father’s grave towered over her, a giant monolith that stretched high into the heavens. Nevermind that he had actually been interred within the Great Cemetery of Neverwinter. Under the monolith’s shadow, six smaller ones - modeled in the same form and fashion - pushed themselves free of the grass and mud and decay. Graves dug themselves out of the earth; some filled with closed caskets, others only with lonely objects. A pendant. A ring. A sword. Framed by earthly prisons intended for corpses, these tokens looked small and out of place.

One by one, she read the the names to which each belonged: Omerion. Odette. Olivere. Octavia.

She came to her own headstone, but her grave was empty. No casket. No symbols, no mementos. It waited to be filled; dread seized her heart and she started to back away. The crunching of dead leaves behind her was the only warning she received that she was not alone after all. Strong hands shoved her forwards and she fell, screaming.

Her body’s collision with the moist earth hurt less than she had feared, but panic continued to course its way through her veins. She whirled around to glimpse at her assailant. She knew who it would be even before her eyes could focus upon him. Omerion. He had come to take the spoils of war. He had come to bury her.

But it wasn’t him. It was not Omerion that stood over her, a cruel jape on his tongue, resentful outrage in his eyes.

It was Osric.

She woke with a start to the breaking of dawn, heart racing. It was only a nightmare, she told herself. Only a dream.

A knock at her door drew her attention back to reality. It was her handmaiden, Nyssa. “My lady. Lord Omerion requests your attendance at the council chamber immediately.”

Orelia cursed beneath her breath. “What does he want?”

“He would not say, my lady.”

She nodded, and dismissed her servant. There was still another day before the vote. Why did Omerion seek a council now?

Her attendants had laid out a simple but elegant dress for her; she put it on, brushed her hair and went immediately to Osric’s quarters. Knocking produced no answer and so she pushed the door open; the bed was still made and Osric was nowhere to be seen, but she knew where to find him.

Octavia’s quarters looked barely different from the night before. Osric still sat at her side, his eyes now bloodshot, the skin around them swollen from tears. He had not slept; that much was clear. He had stayed here all night.

“Osric.”

He looked at her, but his eyes were vacant, unfocused. No words broke his lips. He simply stared forward.

“Omerion is calling a meeting. We need to go deal with him.”

“I’m not leaving Octavia. Not again. If I hadn’t left her, if I had just been there --”

“Osric,” she said again, raising her voice sharply. Her brother needed to pull himself together. He was the only ally she had left. “It’s too late for hypotheticals. It’s too late for regrets. We need to deal in the now. Omerion is still a threat, and now he’s one step closer to seizing control --”

The fire she saw the previous night spewed forth from his mouth like an erupting volcano. “That’s all you care about! Your precious succession! God knows what Omerion did to Octavia, our Sister, and all you can think about is --”

“Do you want him to win?!” Her roar came with a fire all her own, a defiant conviction she had nurtured in her breast that she would not - could not - lose to Omerion. “Assuming I believe you and he did this to Octavia, we cannot allow him to profit from it! We cannot allow this crime to be the means with which he ascends beyond his rightful place!”

Her rebuke stunned him into a long moment of silence. She could see rationality pierce that wall of fury that so enveloped him. Finally, he stood. “Let’s go.”

“Get changed. We need to present a united front. And if I have any hope of luring Olivere back to my side, it won’t be with the way you smell.”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Mon Jul 10, 2017 6:10 pm

Part 7: Orelia

Later That Day ...

They arrayed themselves in the war room once more, only this time, they were one sister short. Octavia’s chair now sat unoccupied, leaving a gap between Olivere and Osric. Orelia took her seat, her eyes struggling not to reveal her building aggravation at Omerion’s presence. The self-satisfied smirk he now wore was almost more than she could stomach.

Curiously, Odette’s face shared none of Omerion’s delight and instead contorted into a scowl.

Captain Cedain stood nearby, while his men stood guard at the doors. As the last of her siblings took their seats, Orelia made it a point of shooting Cedain a knowing look. He replied in kind.

Omerion rose from his seat. “I expect you’re all curious as to why I’ve called this meeting? It’s come to my attention that one among our number is ... incapacitated, shall we say? Octavia can no longer vote in this little contest of ours.”

Osric’s hands balled into fists underneath the table, his knuckles deathly white. Orelia put her own hand on one of his wrists and subtly shook her head at him.

“Actually, Brother,” said Olivere. “I was thinking we should all offer a prayer to Ilmater for our sister In the hope that perhaps might still recover.”

“Agreed,” said Orelia, nodding. She offered a mirthless, but grateful smile in Olivere’s direction; whatever his plot, he at least retained a sense of propriety.

A long moment of peace followed, as the Vale children bent their heads and made their quiet supplications to the Crying God. Orelia took the opportunity to appraise her siblings with quick glances around the table, but she noticed nothing beyond the earnestness of Osric’s prayer. Even so, she had a sneaking suspicion it was not Ilmater to whom Omerion appealed. The last thing he wanted now would be for Octavia to recover.

It did not take long for Omerion to break the silence.

“Yes … now that that’s concluded, perhaps we can get to the business at hand.”

“And that would be ...?”

“I would have thought it obvious, Orelia. I’m giving you an opportunity to resign. Withdraw from the vote. Step down. Concede.”

That last word was more command than request; Orelia ignored it. “Why would I do that, Brother? The vote is yet to take place.”

“And yet the votes are already accounted. I have three. You now have but two. There’s no way you will win.”

“She’s not dead,” said Osric. “Octavia yet lives. Her vote should still count.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” came Omerion’s reply. “If we are to allow the senseless a voice in deciding our leadership, we may as well let a mute act as our herald. A blind man as our scout.”

“That we are considering you for head of our House is evidence enough of how blind some of us have become,” Osric snapped.

Orelia grimaced. She appreciated Osric’s attempt to salvage the situation, but his effort amounted to no more than a desperate ploy. She could not in good conscience argue for an invalid to have a vote, no matter how much her ambition wished for it.

“Spew your vitriol, Oz. It makes no difference. My victory is decided.”

“Much can change in a single day. Yesterday was proof enough of that.”

“And yet I suspect not enough will change in Orelia’s favor. Admit it! This vote is as good as mine.”

“You !@#$ing dastard.”

Orelia’s eyes darted to the source of the profanity: Osric. He too had risen to his feet, hands still balled into white-knuckled fists, the fury and rage he had quashed until now finally finding an appropriate target.

“Watch your tongue, Oz,” sneered Omerion. “You wouldn’t want to be accused of being uncouth.”

“How did you do it, Omerion? How low did you have to sink?”

Omerion stared at their youngest brother blankly. “What are you talking about?”

“What did you do? Threaten her again? Threaten me? Terrorize her? Torture her?”

Omerion scoffed. “Get a handle over your brother, Orelia. His tongue has lost touch with reality.”

“Osric. Stop.” Orelia’s rebuke might as well have been whispered into a howling wind for all the good it did.

“You drove Octavia mad. You effected her incapacitation. You as good as killed her, your own sister, for this accursed succession!”

Omerion’s nostrils flared in anger. “Let me make one thing very clear. Odette is my only sister. Octavia is a half-sister, whose blood we share through an unfit philanderer. I owe her nothing!”

“You admit it then! You did this to her!”

“I admit nothing. Octavia’s condition has long been known to all of us! That it has now worsened is the working of the hands of fate, not mine! And that you would stoop to accusing me of it … Orelia put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“You !@#$ing liar!”

“Osric!” said Orelia sharply. Orelia cursed under her breath. Osric was losing control of his emotions; her situation was already trepidatious enough as it was, without having to deal with this wild card.

“I saw you!” Osric roared. “She screamed, and I saw you leave her quarters, that craven sneer spread upon your face like jam! You did this, I know it!”

Omerion started to laugh, cold and mocking. “I should have expected this treachery of you, Orelia. You knew Octavia was going to succumb to her illness and so have Osric truss up these baseless allegations against me so that you can claim my victory was seized from the jaws of foul play!”

Orelia remained in her seat, her mind racing for some leverage with which to reassert control over the expanding chaos. “Do you deny it then? You are innocent of these charges?”

“I do!”

“Do you have proof?”

“You say this happened last evening?” asked Omerion. “Odette will confirm that I spent both day and night with her.”

Orelia’s eyes darted to Odette; Osric trained on her like a infuriated bull. The middle Vale daughter simply nodded. “I can confirm that, yes.”

“He never left your sight, not even once?” pressed Orelia.

“Not once.”

Osric whirled to face Orelia. “She’s lying for him. You know she is. She’s always lied for him, she’s always been his alibi! You can’t trust her!”

It was Odette’s turn to stand now, anger magnifying the painted color upon her cheeks. “I saved you yesterday, Osric. Now you repay me by calling me a liar?”

“You saved me because it was the right thing to do,” Osric countered. “Do it again. Omerion drove Octavia mad. You said yesterday that if he killed me, you would not stand by him. What he’s done now is tantamount to the same crime! How can you lie for him!?”

“I’m not lying,” Odette hissed through bared teeth. “Omerion did not do this!”

Osric turned once more to Orelia, for once emptied of the fire and fury that had so overwhelmed the rest of his senses up until this point. His eyes pleaded for aid, begged for her to do something, say something …

… but what could Orelia do? She had only his word against Omerion and Odette’s. This was never a battle that could have been won, and she could not help but to feel a sense of irritation that Osric had chosen to engage it.

He knew better than this.

“I’m sorry, Osric. But without more evidence --”

“No.” Just like that, the inferno raging in Osric’s belly was back. He whirled to face his oldest brother. “You’re not getting away with this! Touching Octavia will be the last mistake you make in this contest! I’m not going to let you steal control of this House - I challenge you to a duel. I win, and you withdraw.”

No. A duel? This was possibly the worst idea Osric ever had. Orelia had to stop this, she had to put an end to it before --

Omerion didn’t miss a beat, replying with a snarl. “And if I win, you lose your vote.”

“Osric, no--!” screamed Orelia. But it was too late.

“Done.”

Olivere, silent this whole time, began a slow, exaggerated clap. “My. Things really are getting exciting aren’t they?”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sun Jul 16, 2017 9:38 pm

Part 8: Osric

Marpenoth 22, 1351

Comprehension of the stakes of Osric’s challenge did not penetrate his mind until the following morning. The rest of the previous day had been spent in a blur of planning, training, and preparations for his duel. He had feared that time would quell his rage. He had feared that by the next day, the anger and fury that drove him to confront his brother would have withered and abandoned him. To his own surprise, it neither diminished nor fled. The thought that Omerion could escape judgment for inflicting madness upon Octavia sparked a fire in his gut that would not die. It would not be satisfied until it had its due. It would not be satiated until Omerion had been punished.

He went to bed that night assured of his conviction and confident of his victory.

But dawn brought with it more than light. It brought reason. It brought doubt. The stakes made themselves plain before him, giant pillars ramming downwards from on high, towering over him, daring him to make the daunting climb. He was to duel Omerion, with his House’s succession on the line. Should he win, Omerion would withdraw his claim to leadership. Should he lose, Orelia would hold only her own, singular vote to her name.

What had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been. That was the simple answer. Rage at Octavia’s fate had stolen from him all logic, all tactical consideration, all capacity for self preservation. He could not reconcile the idea that Omerion could escape judgment and so he had lost his mind.

Swordplay and duels were some of Omerion’s few virtues. Osric could not claim the same. He had been trained in the decorum, the steps, the forms, but he lacked both the artistry and passion that fueled Omerion’s many victories. What victories Osric had won had been achieved through clever applications of knowledge applied against inferior opponents. Against his brother, he could not be certain of victory.

He pushed those thoughts away, along with any hint of regret. It was too late for any of that. All he could do now was give it his all. For Octavia. And so he was glad for the conflagration that still roared in his belly. He needed his fire, needed his ardor.

The sun ascended past the horizon as normal, as if nothing had happened in the world at all at all. Osric felt the anger well up in his breast once more. His father’s death was now punctuated by her sister’s incapacitation, and none of the gods saw fit even to cast a layer of gloom over the skies. Where were Talos’ stormclouds? Umberlee’s torrents? Akadi’s winds?

It did not seem right that so much change could go so unacknowledged.

As he dressed himself, he thought back to the previous day. Orelia’s rage had almost matched his own, but it was not directed to Omerion. Rather, it was for Osric. Her displeasure could not have made itself more plain upon her face. Her last act before retiring for the evening had been to ensure the duel would only be to the drawing of first blood, and not to the death. She had refused to speak to him in the aftermath of his challenge and had rejected all requests to meet privately afterward.

It was just as well. Osric understood her frustration. He had taken a contest between his eldest siblings and made it about him. Her position had already been placed in jeopardy. Now, he risked her contest on a duel that he was not sure he could win. There was no explanation he could conjure that would justify his recklessness, regardless of his own fervor. Knowing Orelia, she was doubtless already preparing for his defeat. He would find neither comfort nor reassurance from her now.

No matter. He had his fire. He had his wrath. And regardless of the disparity of skill between them, he knew deep in his heart that Omerion would not be able to overcome the righteous and unadulterated fury that had been ignited by his treachery. Nor had he forgotten the humiliation Omerion had visited upon him just a couple of days earlier. That would not go unavenged either.

He had to win … right?

Osric swallowed a few bites of the toast the servants had prepared for his morning breakfast, but left the eggs and sausages untouched. He would save his first meal for his rage, and that demanded Omerion’s prostration and defeat.

He headed to the estate’s barracks. The day’s schedule did not give him much time to prepare. At noon, the duel would commence. At dusk, assuming Osric was unable to secure victory, the second vote would take place. He could not let it come to that. He had to win, or Orelia would not stand a chance.

A pair of guards greeted him as he entered a compact building; apart from the active guard rotation, the rest of the militia were sleeping soundly. Osric could hear loud snoring emanating through the walls, which were themselves lined with various longswords. Racks of other weaponry ranging from polearms to crossbows were scattered generously throughout the annex.

He retrieved a rapier off the wall. As the sun peeked over the horizon and light poured into the room, Osric stepped into the first of many sword forms taught to him by House Vale’s master-at-arms. Cedric Cedain was a competent teacher, and often suggested that Osric could have become a talented swordsman in his own right, had he only applied himself to the task. Osric had never considered the suggestion seriously, though he wished now he had done so.

As he thrusted his blade forward, the sound of withered leaves crackling under footsteps outside drew his attention. Seconds later, another figure entered the barracks: Captain Cedain himself. He was a burly man, stout of composition and strong of arm. His beard was a curled mess, many shades more colored than the hair atop his head, now more streaked with gray than the fading blonde it once had been. He entered with a succinct snort at his guardsmen before offering a low bow to the youngest Vale lord.

Osric returned the greeting with a nod. “Captain. You’re up early.”

“No earlier than typical, young master, although I would not expect you to know such things.” The man’s response came with his typical stoic expression and impenetrable tone; Osric could never tell whether the man was trying to sling barbs or state facts.

“I see. I hope I’m not disturbing your routine.”

“You are. But that is besides the point. Your sister, the Lady Orelia, has asked that I ensure you are prepared for your duel this day.”

“You have my gratitude, Captain.” A light spar would be helpful, he agreed internally. Even in her anger, Orelia was watching out for him. Perhaps she had not discarded all of her affection for him yet.

The man grunted in reply, and retrieved a standard longsword from a nearby rack. It was the weapon Omerion favored, and so would best approximate the upcoming duel. Cedain’s longsword had a miniscule advantage in length, but held in both hands - as was Omerion’s preferred style - made the wielder a larger target. In a duel to first blood, some would argue that gave the advantage to the rapier, whose swift and thrusting strikes could be delivered at a fraction of the cost of exposing oneself to counterattacks. Osric could only hope that would prove true against his eldest brother.

He and Cedain circled each other for half a minute before the spar began in earnest. Osric was the first to attack, blade thrusting forward to stab at Cedain’s cheek. The captain parried the attack easily, but by the time he made to counter, Osric had withdrawn to his starting position. Cedain pressed his offensive with another series of cuts and thrusts; Osric weaved between the attacks and thrust his rapier forward to gouge at Cedain’s chest.

They traded a few more blows. Osric could tell Cedain was holding back, but he did not belabor the point. Cedain had trained Omerion as well, and by all accounts, Omerion had not surpassed their mutual teacher. Not yet, anyway.

“Your form is improved, my lord. But against Omerion, form will not be enough.”

Osric grimaced. He had not shown Cedain any of his fury. He had not channeled any of his outrage. But there was truth in Cedain’s words that he did not want to admit.

The sound of another’s approach drew both their attention to the door. It was Olivere. He stepped in with the casual, sly smile that Osric had come to know only in the last week. It ill-suited Olivere’s face, Osric thought to himself. He preferred the quiet and kind scholarly brother he thought he once knew.

Olivere held a fine rapier of his own in hand. Osric recognized it immediately; his brother had returned with it from a southward sea voyage, and it only rarely left his hip since then.

“Practicing?” Olivere asked in idle commentary. “I would too, if I were facing Omerion’s blade today.”

“My lord.” The captain bowed once more.

“You’ll excuse us, Captain.”

“As you say.” Cedain retreated from the room, leaving Osric to stand with his brother, alone.

Osric’s brow furrowed; he did not appreciate the reminder of his odds from his brother. “ … what do you want, Olivere?”

“To help you. You must know that you’re the underdog in this fight.”

“Why do you care? You support Omerion.”

Olivere smiled. “I see no reason for anyone to get hurt in this process. And in a duel against our brother, I’m sure we both know that getting hurt alone would be a fortunate outcome.”

“It’s been agreed. The duel won’t be to the death.”

“Were you not the first to question whether Omerion would abide the rules? It’s not like he’s proven himself so amenable to them since ...”

Was Olivere trying to hint at something? “Do you believe me, brother? About Omerion and Octavia?”

“What I believe does not matter in the scheme of things. But like I said, what I want is to help.”

Osric glared at his middle brother. “Unless you’re offering to take my place, I’m not sure what you think you can do to help.”

“I can offer you this.” Olivere unsheathed his rapier. For just a second, Osric thought perhaps his brother meant to assassinate him, but immediately, the blade was tilted down so that it lay flat in both of Olivere’s hands. “You’re familiar with my rapier, aren’t you? I call it Cunning.”

Osric nodded, slow and skeptical. What trickery was this?

To Olivere, he merely said, “I know it. But I don’t know why you think it would help me.”

“You both are free to choose your own weapons, yes? And you favor the rapier. I’ve never told anyone of this one’s enchantments. Come. Let us go a few rounds. You’ll understand in a moment.”

Reluctantly, Osric nodded. But as he raises his blade, Olivere shook his head.

“Mm. That won’t do.” Olivere set down his weapon, and then retrieved a greatsword from a nearby rack. He handed it to Osric, who set his own rapier aside to accept it.

“Wait,” Osric said, blinking as Olivere stepped into an attack stance with his retrieved rapier. “Omerion doesn’t use a --”

Without warning, the Olivere lunged forward to thrust at Osric’s torso. There was no time to think about betrayal or sabotage, only to react. By instinct, Osric deflected the blow, if only just barely. He was unsuited to the two-handed weapon, and his parry was executed sloppily. Olivere pressed his advantage, swiping with the tip of his rapier to deliver a series of cutting attacks. Osric dodged backwards awkwardly, struggling to maintain an unfamiliar weapon’s balance.

Olivere smirked as his offensive came to a close and he retuned to a defensive posture. “Come, brother! Attack!”

Osric obliged, lifting his blade to launch wide, cleaving blows. Olivere deftly stepped aside the first few, but as Osric accustomed himself to his new weapon, his attacks grew bolder and quicker. With his confidence rose his fury. If this was Olivere’s attempt to disable him before the duel, Osric would not comply. He raised his greatsword once more to deliver an overhead slash aimed squarely at Olivere’s head.

To Osric’s shock, Olivere pushed the flat of his rapier’s blade upwards and outwards to meet the brunt of the attack. The move was a novice duelist’s mistake; even should the rapier survive the clash between weapons, it would not be able to withstand the greatsword’s swing and would either be knocked aside or into Olivere himself, all the while helpless to stop the larger weapon’s momentum.

There was no time to divert the angle of his attack, no time to reverse the trajectory. The blow would be dealt. The damage would be done.

He was about to kill his brother.

A sharp and painful clang reverberated through the barracks and into Osric’s ears as the greatblade collided with the rapier’s edge and miraculously, the greatblade rebounded. The rapier itself was undamaged, its blade not even dulled by the vicious swing Osric had unleashed. Somehow, it was capable of deflecting attacks as if a shield.

Stunned, Osric barely noticed the pain in his hands from the backlash as he gaped at Olivere’s weapon. “How?”

“You’ll have to ask the merchant in Roaringshore,” said Olivere with a sly grin. “I didn’t believe it until he showed me in much the same way. You see now? This will be your advantage.”

Olivere withdrew his weapon and then presented it to Osric as a gift. Still amazed, Osric acquiesced and took Cunning into his hands. Just holding the enchanted blade told him that the rapier was something special. Straps of supple leather wrapped around its grip and gold metalwork decorated much of the pommel and guard. The blade itself was not thin like an epee, but more similar to a longsword that had been stretched into a thrusting weapon. Hefty and substantial, it whistled as Osric swiped it through the air.

Breathlessly, he asked, “Omerion doesn’t know of its magic?”

Olivere snorted. “What do you think? Omerion doesn’t know a lot of things … and he’s certainly never asked me about my weapons.”

Osric nodded slowly, suppressing his instinct to convey gratitude. He was still unsure whether this unsolicited gift was some sort of trick.

“There’s more. You should know Omerion intends to use his newest acquisition against you. A longsword he calls Viper; its edge bleeds vitriol. I saw him use it to devastating effect in another duel.”

Omerion always did favor his enchanted swords. What Osric found more curious was why Olivere was suddenly being so helpful. “Why are you doing this? Telling me about Omerion’s weapon. Giving me yours.”

Olivere smiled, though it was not the sly grin that so often overtook his countenance these days. It was kinder. More genuine. “I want you to survive this battle, Osric. Whatever you think of me, please know that to be true, at least.”

“You don’t think I’ll win,” said Osric, unable to hide a hint of indignation from his voice. “I could take Omerion by surprise. With this, I can lay a trap for him. Defeat him. Make him pay for--”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, little brother. This will help you survive. Whether you can win --”

Osric frowned. “If I win, Omerion will have to withdraw his claim to succession.”

Olivere smirked. “Your confidence is much improved from the simple act of receiving an enchanted weapon. Be careful that does not become your undoing.”

Olivere hung the greatsword he had taken off the wall back up, then dusted his hands off. “There’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt in this conflict. I certainly don’t want to see anyone else hurt. That blade will help protect you. I’ll be expecting it back afterwards, but … consider it yours for now.”

As Osric continued to accustom himself to Olivere’s gift, his brother made to depart the barracks. As he reached the exit, he paused. “You know, she was always kind to me,” he said. “Octavia. I cared - I care - about her too.”

For once, Osric did not mind that Olivere departed before he had a chance to respond.

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sun Jul 23, 2017 8:18 pm

Part 9: Osric

Marpenoth 22, 1351

Osric spent the rest of the morning familiarizing himself with Olivere’s gift. Its weight and balance, in particular, felt different than the standard rapier thanks to the ornate metalwork that comprised the coiled snake pommel. Still, the weapon felt good in Osric’s hand; it did not take long for him to adjust to it.

By the time he returned to the estate proper, it was almost noon. The sun loomed overhead with particular intensity, saturating Osric’s home in warm light, so much so that it looked more like they were experiencing the waning days of summer, rather than the beginnings of winter. Cold weather rarely lingered over Neverwinter; the city was accurate to its namesake.

Much to Osric’s chagrin, his arrival to House Vale’s great hall was met by Omerion, who himself was accompanied by a small throng of young lords and ladies. Osric knew them; they all belonged to noble houses that Omerion ostensibly called friends and were sycophants and bootlickers to the very last; even now, they fawned over him like he was the heir to Castle Never.

Osric could not tell whether it was ambition or self-preservation that so cowed these lordlings to Omerion’s whims.

As he approached, his oldest brother’s face broke into a contemptuous smile. “You don’t mind, of course,” said Omerion, glancing to his compatriots before turning his derisive sneer in Osric’s direction. “Just a few more onlookers at our duel.”

Osric felt the fire surge in his breast. Omerion was trying to intimidate him before the battle even began. He knew Osric was not accustomed to fighting with an audience.

But Osric would not allow his brother the satisfaction of showing any weakness. “If you feel the need for so much moral support, I would not be the one to deny you that aid.”

Omerion was ready for the riposte. “Not aid, Osric. Witnesses. Those who can testify that my victory this day shall be achieved justly.”

“Justly? Can justice truly be found in the mouths of these lackeys of yours?” Osric paused to deliberately appraise Omerion’s companions. “... I think you’ll have an easier time finding fertilizer.”

The evaporation of the group’s collective smirk was his gratifying reward.

“Watch your tongue, little lord! Don’t think your impending defeat will merit any mercy from us.” Osric recognized the red-headed lord that growled his outrage as Rhimus of House Ravain. The man was a frequent associate of Omerion; they found a morose commiseration in each other’s company as both were second children who were ill-favored by their parents.

“Snow will blanket Neverwinter before I ever have need to ask for your mercy, Rhimus,” Osric sniped.

“Enough!” Omerion barked to his comrades before whirling upon Osric with a vicious glare. “You’ll be eating your words soon enough, Osric. You’ll rue the day you made this challenge. It will be ever recorded as the day you handed me the reins to our most noble House!”

“That remains to be seen,” said Orelia, approaching as if out of nowhere. “You’ve always had an overabundance of confidence, Omerion.”

“Sister.” Osric smiled, encouraged by her arrival. That feeling faded quickly, however, as she chose not to address him, or even acknowledge his presence.

“Ready to lose your seat, Orelia?” asked Omerion. “I’ll be sure to thank you for keeping it warm for me.”

“We shall see, Omerion,” she repeated. “Now go make your final preparations. Both of you. The clerics of both Tyr and Ilmater have arrived. The duel is upon us.”

Aside from Omerion’s unwelcome guests, a small host of Tyrran and Ilmateri clerics stood at the ready, true to Orelia’s word. The healers were present to assure that no wounds sustained during the duel would turn fatal. The Tyrrans had been invited to oversee the battle itself and ensure both sides honored the terms. Together, they formed a somber assemblage, encircling the dueling grounds that House Vale’s attendants had cleared in their gardens.

The rest of the family gathered along the periphery. Orelia stood alone, her expression an inscrutable mask. She would not meet Osric’s glances, no matter how he directed his gaze to linger upon her. Her reticence made him wary, but he could ill afford to give her feelings much consideration now. After the battle, he would make his apologies and beg her forgiveness. Not before.

Olivere and Odette stood across the dueling ground from Orelia, both wearing haughty smiles. Olivere offered an encouraging - if lopsided - grin. Odette merely folded her arms across her chest and looked away.

Omerion faced him upon the battleground. His was an expression of assurance, even contempt. It was obvious he did not expect much of a challenge. Osric would prove him wrong. And he would do so in front of his entire family.

All except Octavia.

He imagined her by his side, what she would do were she able to do anything anymore. A week ago and she would’ve been at his ear, whispering quiet encouragement and needling well-meaning banter in equal measure. She would’ve kissed him on his cheek, no doubt after coating her lips with an extra layer of crimson so that it would stain upon his skin and make him look more the fool. He would feign outrage afterwards and chase her through the halls until they were too tired to run, then raid the kitchens for sweets. He would let her have her choice of the bounty, even when there was only one of the chef’s sweet tarts left. She would eat it in front of him, except for the last bite. That was always for him.

… it would never be again.

As he turned to face his brother, he knew that Omerion’s attempt to intimidate him would fail. How could it not? The rage he had nursed for a day now simmered to a boil. He had no room in his heart or mind for doubt, for fear, for hesitation. There was only wrath. There was only hate.

He would make Omerion pay.

Osric strode to his starting position. He watched as Omerion did the same. Both of them were dressed in light tunics, holding nothing but their weapons in hand.

A Tyrran cleric stepped forward; the rest of the onlookers fell to silence. He was an old man, hair as white as snow, eyes milky and unseeing. Nevertheless, his voice commanded attention, emanating a rumbling baritone that accentuated his authority.

“We gather here to bear witness to an honorable duel between two lords of our great city of Neverwinter. Lord Osric of House Vale, ninth son of the late Lord Rodric Vale, demands lawful satisfaction from his noble brother, Lord Omerion, in a duel to first blood. Under the most holy jurisdiction of the Church of the Even-Handed, I do preside over this duel, to ensure that its terms are met and its stakes meted out.”

The priest turned to Osric. “Are you ready, my lord?”

Osric struck a defensive posture. “Yes.”

“And you, Lord Omerion?” asked the priest.

“I am,” was the immediate reply.

“Then we begin on my count. Three!”

Osric watched as his brother snickered in anticipation of an easy victory.

“Two!”

He would not oblige him. Too much was riding on this battle. He had to succeed. He had to win.

“One!”

“Prepare yourself, brother!” laughed Omerion.

“Begin!”

It was all Osric needed to hear. Immediately he lunged forward, Olivere’s rapier in hand, point driving forth in a piercing attack aimed for Omerion’s side. His brother didn’t bat an eye, batting Cunning away lazily with his own longsword. A sheen of emerald light cascaded from the weapon - it seemed Olivere’s information had been accurate. This had to be Viper.

Before Omerion had a chance to counter, Osric pressed his forward momentum, stabbing again with his own blade. Each time, Omerion parried the blow, but Osric’s rage spurred him to move faster, hit harder. Omerion’s face finally reflected a note of surprise, and that hint of emotion only encouraged Osric’s attacks. Cunning served him well; its edge whistled a discordant chorus against the air to match the ferocity of his offensive. His brother had underestimated him and he would leverage that advantage and seize victory.

The last of his attacks was so quick that Omerion could not parry Osric’s thrust in time with his weapon; instead, the older Vale sibling had to pivot to dodge the blow. With a flick of his wrist, Osric swerved into a cutting attack with the tip of his blade that he hoped would catch his brother off guard. Could victory already be his? Time seemed to slow down as each moment passed and the tip of his rapier moved ever closer to make its mark.

At the last second, Omerion ducked down. Osric’s rapier trimmed a few of his brother’s hairs, but did not draw blood. Disappointment proved a deadly distraction. In the time it took to realize his task remained incomplete, Omerion delivered a sweeping kick that knocked Osric off his feet. He fell to the floor, hard. But he wouldn’t make the same mistake of letting shock get the better of him. Omerion’s longblade screamed as it came down in an overhead slash that surely would have severed Osric’s limb had he not rolled out of the way in the nick of time. Acid spattered the ground with an angry hiss.

Clawing his way back to his feet, Osric once again assumed a fighting posture. But this time, it was Omerion who seized the offensive momentum. His larger bulk and frame charged forward, closing the distance between them too quickly for Osric to be able to attempt any preemptive strike or countermeasure. So vicious did Omerion’s attacks come, Osric did not remember the magic of Olivere’s rapier until he had already attempted several misguided parries that would have spelled his defeat had it not been for his quick reflexes and instinctive sidestepping.

Osric panted for breath as he scrambled to reclaim distance between him and his brother. Omerion laughed, looking barely perturbed, their last few exchanges having taken an insignificant toll. Osric already began to grow weary. His muscles and joints ached, crying out for relief from pressure to which they obviously were unaccustomed.

Calm. Breathe. Focus. Fight. Osric repeated the words Captain Cedain had taught him in a silent mantra. He just needed to wait for the right opportunity. The right attack. If he could just take Omerion by surprise, he could win. That was all he needed. The right moment. Cunning would do the rest.

Omerion did not fail to oblige. He pressed his advantage, delivering precise attacks Osric could only barely avoid. An odd calm overtook Omerion’s face. Osric always suspected his brother found the sport therapeutic: an outlet for his resentment. There was no doubt that Omerion at one point had desperately wished to challenge their Father to single combat, as if winning a duel over the patriarch of House Vale would have garnered favorable attention from the man.

Osric was convinced his brother now emptied a decades-old resentment against him, one that was actually meant for their late father.

The attacks came so fast, Osric could not think to block them, only to retreat. Too soon, the dull thuds of the butts of polearms slamming into the ground behind him indicated he was about to go out of bounds. He had nowhere left to fall back. It was now or never.

Viper screamed forward. It gleamed a brilliant hue of viridian as Omerion delivered a horizontal slash, so powerful that it came with a furious roar of exertion. Osric saw the blade come, saw his brother’s eyes grow wide, his mouth open in victorious declaration. There was no room to dodge, nowhere to run, no parry that Osric could hope to make that would be sufficient to redirect Viper’s trajectory.

But he still had Cunning.

Rather than parry, he swung the flat of his blade forward to meet Omerion’s attack head on. Any normal rapier blade would bend, would break, would submit to a longsword of Viper’s size. But not this gift from Olivere. Not Cunning. It would block the blow, and in that moment of his brother’s surprise, Osric would steal victory from defeat, avenge Octavia, and secure the throne of House Vale for Orelia.

Just as planned, Omerion’s sword slammed into Cunning and rebounded in a violent clash of metal. Immediately, Osric thrusted his forward to pierce Omerion’s shoulder. He put all his rage, all the fire, all the avenging fury he could summon into the attack. He was about to win. He was about to put his brother in his rightful place. For himself, and most of all for his sisters. There would be justice after all. There would be rightful retribution!

His eyes sought the look of shock that he knew would be on his brother’s face. They sought the look of impending defeat.

Except, it was not there. There was only a contemptuous smile.

He knew.

Before Osric’s weapon could make contact with its intended target, Omerion leaped out of the way. Osric’s eyes could not help launching straight at Olivere. It was a fatal mistake. In that instant of disbelief, of betrayal, Omerion drove the tip of his longsword deep into one of the snake coils that comprised Cunning’s pommel. With a sharp twist of his weapon, Omerion wrenched Osric’s weapon from his hand, sending it flying across the dueling arena before it collapsed to the ground, useless.

Osric cried out by instinct against the twisting burn in his hand. He tore his eyes away from Olivere in search of his lost rapier, but by the time he found it, Omerion had already brought his longsword to Osric’s neck.

Omerion’s voice dripped with haughty victory and mocking derision in equal measure. “Yield.”

Osric wanted to go for his weapon, wanted to chase after what sparse hope remained to snatch victory from defeat, but Omerion’s weapon pressed forward against his skin, and he knew that he could not escape it without losing anyway. There was no way he could win. Not anymore.

… perhaps he never had a chance at all.

“Yield,” Omerion hissed.

Shame drew Osric’s eyes downward, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “ … I yield.”

The Tyrran cleric stepped forward. “In the name of Tyr, I do hereby declare Lord Omerion Vale to be victorious.”

Osric almost couldn’t believe it. His gaze went first to Olivere, furious and accusatory. His middle brother returned only a diabolical simper. There was no regret there, no apology, no hint of remorse. This was his plan all along. And Osric had walked right into the trap.

His eyes darted to Orelia, desperate to explain himself somehow, to rationalize his defeat, to plead her forgiveness. His mouth opened but no words parted his lips. There was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do. Omerion had won; not just the duel, but control of their House.

Worst of all, he had failed Octavia. He was supposed to be her righteous avenger. Omerion’s defeat was supposed to be her consolation. Instead, it was oil upon the fire of the atrocity committed against her. In her name, Osric had handed his eldest brother everything he needed to seize the very thing that cost his sister her sanity.

It was all his fault.

Orelia’s eyes did not deign to meet his. She turned and made her way back into the estate, offering not a single word, nor gesture, nor expression to anyone else. What Osric saw of her face was a mask of stoicism, but he did not need to peel it back to know what churned underneath: disappointment. Disgust.

Tears welled in Osric’s eyes, against his will, and he had to look away. He could not Omerion or any of his lackeys to see them. They already knew Omerion’s victory to be complete. They knew Osric’s failure to be absolute. They could not know that his defeat also came with anguish. He would not let them know it. That much he could still do. That much he could still accomplish. He would save his humiliation for himself, hide it deep in his heart, and shelter it from mocking eyes and cruel tongues.

It was all he had left.

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sat Jul 29, 2017 8:02 pm

Part 10: Orelia

Later That Evening

Orelia stood at an open window in her quarters, looking out at the silhouette of Blacklake District’s many estates against a backdrop of the sun setting beneath the horizon. The clouds took on a myriad of colors at this hour; she found one that looked almost like cotton candy, its wispy tresses taking substance against a darkening sky, and it reminded her of the first time her father had taken her to a carnival.

A traveling circus had found its way to Neverwinter’s market, and Rodric had taken her and Omerion to enjoy the spectacle. At the time, Rodric had not yet ascended to nobility. He was but a simple trader, clawing desperately for leverage, climbing Neverwinter’s social ladder to make ends meet. Orelia’s mother had already passed and Rodric’s second wife was pregnant with Odette. With the demands of a growing family and sustaining a livelihood, it was a rare occasion that Rodric found time to spend with his children. He made time that day because in a rare instance of unity, both Orelia and Omerion had come to him with joint pleas.

Despite their success in cajoling Rodric into spending time with them, their true wish was that the other would be stricken with illness and be unable to attend. Even then, Omerion had been a brat. His mother made a point of ensuring her son knew that Orelia was not his full sister, and he took that counsel to heart. At the carnival, he threw a fit when the sweets vendor handed Orelia a larger swath of cottoned candy. When Rodric could not afford a second portion for Omerion, so envious was he that the little fiend found the first opportunity he could to knock her candy into a puddle of mudwater.

It was that petulant child that was about to steal her seat as head of House Vale.

A pigeon landed on the windowsill, cooing quietly as it strutted about. Orelia grabbed it carefully, inspecting its ribbed legs for a message. Her efforts revealed a small scroll of parchment that she carefully detached before setting the pigeon free. She had been waiting for this. It was a perhaps the last hope she had to salvage her predicament peacefully.

Much to her chagrin, the parchment contained nothing but empty apologies and promises delayed beyond the point of usefulness. Lady Kerilyn had still not provided any useful information and without such, Orelia possessed no leverage to wield against her upstart siblings.

Desperation settled upon her like a squatter upon an empty home. After Osric’s duel, she had gone straight to Olivere in a futile attempt to sway his vote; he gave her no indication that he had any desire to do so. Driven to hopeless straits, she even pushed herself to speak with Odette. She had no doubt her middle sister was steadfast in her support for Omerion, but Orelia was not even given the opportunity to be rejected. Odette refused to see her, claiming illness as an excuse: a completely transparent ploy to avoid dealing with a beggar, clamoring for coin.

With little other recourse, she even briefly considered approaching to Omerion; she laughed that thought to death of her own accord.

Silently, she cursed her youngest brother. Osric might not have destroyed her chances - she was a vote short regardless of his reckless actions - but they certainly did little to improve them. He was never a match for Omerion in single combat. That he thought he could have been was sheer lunacy on his part. And while Orelia could understand his need to avenge their fallen sister, she could not tolerate foolhardy actions, empty of reason or consideration.

Because of him, she had now lost two votes. Because of him, she would now surely lose the contest for succession of their House.

She wasn’t without options. But what options she had left, she was loathe to choose. How far might her standing among Neverwinter’s nobility fall, if she had to resort to them?

It did not seem that Omerion would leave her any other choice.

She was the last to enter the war room. Omerion tapped his foot with barely-contained patience while Odette struggled to contain her simpering smile. Olivere even dared to look excited. Only Osric was conciliatory, but she was not in the mood to accept his apologies, even if conveyed only through an expression. Not yet, anyway.

Before she took her seat, her eyes sought Captain Cedain. The man had taken his usual post behind her chair. They shared a knowing glance and she offered him the faintest of nods. If the worst happened and Omerion should win, Cedric Cedain and his men would prove an integral part in ensuring Orelia retained control of House Vale and it was reassuring to know where he stood.

“Shall we move this along, Orelia?” asked Omerion. “Or do you think you can delay the inevitable?”

She ignored him. “Captain Cedain. You’ve prepared the --”

Omerion interrupted her. “Forget the parchment! We don’t need to go through that pointless charade again. We know the votes. Let us speak them boldly for all of our House to hear.”

Captain Cedain had already begun to retrieve the inkwells and quills, but he paused to look to Orelia for instructions. She nodded. There was no point to demanding a written accounting if the tally was to favor Omerion.

Cedain returned to his post, nonplussed.

“Then let us declare the count! For you, Orelia, there is but your singular vote. Osric, of course, forfeited his in our duel.” At that, he turned a gleeful sneer to his brother before continuing. “As for me ... I have Odette’s support, as well as Olivere’s, in addition to my own. As we can all see, my victory is decided. Succession now falls to me, Omerion, Lord and Head of --”

“Come now, Brother,” said Olivere. “Why the rush? Do you not want to savor your victory? You need not speak for me, nor Odette, I suspect. Let us do this properly, and cast our own votes.”

Orelia trained immediately upon her middle brother. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Osric do the same. Even Odette arched a brow at him. What did that snake have planned now?

“I’ve no mind for your theatrics, Olivere,” came Omerion’s reply, its tone quiet but dangerous. “It is redundant to have you announce your support for me again. Totally unnecessary.”

“Decorum so often requires redundancy,” countered the middle Vale child. “Come now. Can you not afford to indulge me at this final hour?”

Omerion’s eyes narrowed, before glancing to Odette for counsel. She looked as bewildered as Orelia felt, lifting her hands and shrugging in uncertainty, before leaning in to whisper to her brother. Omerion glowered, but nodded.

“Very well. Let us announce our votes individually. Orelia, as the oldest, why don’t you start?”

Orelia’s anger simmered underneath the surface of her expression. Not yet leader of the House, and already he thought he could direct her. “... My vote is for myself.”

“And I vote for myself,” said Omerion immediately. He turned to Odette.

“My vote is for Omerion,” she said simply.

Everyone turned to face Olivere. With Osric disqualified and Octavia incapacitated, his was the last vote. The middle Vale brother enraptured the room, commanding all attention, demanding that everyone present pay heed to his every movement, every word, every syllable. Something was wrong. Orelia could feel it in her bones. This show was not for nothing.

“Well?” hissed Omerion. “Speak your vote, so we can conclude this!”

“Of course, Brother. My vote was for you, of course --”

“Then it’s decided!” declared Omerion. “This is my victory! House Vale is now guided by my--”

Olivere chuckled, loud enough to interrupt Omerion’s jubilations. “You didn’t let me finish.”

Orelia could see the rage behind Omerion’s eyes build with every word that Olivere spoke.

“My vote was for you,” said Olivere, “But I am afraid certain events of late have given me much pause.”

“Get to the point,” said Odette, brows furrowing as she glanced between them both.

“Octavia’s unfortunate accident. Osric was convinced of your guilt, Brother. And I certainly can see why. If you truly were responsible for Octavia’s current condition, then I cannot in good conscience continue to support you.”

The entire room fell to stunned silence.

“Consider your next actions carefully, Olivere. Your words hint at treachery,” hissed Omerion. “Do you dare suggest that you would switch your vote?!”

Olivere smiled, wide and cunning. “I do. I cast my vote for Orelia.”

Her breath loosed from her lungs even as the tension that infused her core dissipated. She had survived. With Olivere’s support, the vote would be a tie: her two votes against Omerion’s. Orelia was still in the game. She had made it past this round. And with only one more round to go, another tie would be her victory.

But then, why did her her heart continue to race?

The rest of the table sat wordlessly, too flabbergasted to speak. All except for Omerion. “You traitor! You fool! What did Orelia do?! What did she promise you, what did she threaten you with?!”

Olivere laughed. “You sound like Osric. Everytime I vote, someone thinks I’m being coerced.”

And then, it clicked.

“But you never were coerced, were you, Olivere?” asked Orelia. “This was all by your design.”

“Sister?” said Osric. “What do you mean?”

“I see it now, so clearly. I should’ve guessed it from the start, from the second you voted for Omerion. This was always your intent.”

Olivere grinned at her, though it was empty of any mirth and instead filled with a sinister pride. “I wondered when you would realize my plan.”

“Sister?” pressed Osric.

Orelia turned to face the entire table. “Two votes have ended in ties now. Another tie, and it will be my victory. That can only happen if Olivere votes for me in the last round. But should he turn his vote to Omerion once more, the upstart yet has a chance for victory as well.”

She continued, despite the slow dawning of comprehension she could see on Osric and Odette’s faces. “With all the rest of our votes cemented, Olivere now controls the fate of our family. It is his vote that will decide who succeeds father as Head of House Vale.”

Olivere clapped. “Well done, Sister. You’ve hit the nail on its head. And I think, you understand too why I maneuvered this contest in this fashion?”

“What do you want, Olivere?” she asked. “What is it we can give you, that will sway your vote to our side?”

“This is --” sputtered Osric. “You betrayed me so you could extort Omerion and Orelia?”

“I never lied to you, Osric,” said Olivere. “I never told you that you would win your duel. I only said I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. But neither could I allow you to defeat Omerion. Not on the terms you gave. So I whispered my weapon’s secret to him, so that he could ensure his victory and keep himself in the game.”

“You --”

Orelia held up her hand. She had other questions. “Did you have a hand in what happened to Octavia?”

Osric whirled upon her, then back to Olivere, eyes reflecting ever-expanding outrage.

“No,” replied Olivere. “But I knew once I gave Omerion my vote, he would not be content to simply concede following three ties. I knew he would try something. I didn’t know what, but I was confident he would eliminate at least one of your supporters. That was my gamble. That it was Octavia … that was my regret.”

“You’re sick,” whispered Osric. “You leveraged what Omerion did to Octavia so you could--”

“More slander. I did not touch a single hair on Octavia's head!” roared Omerion as he whirled on their middle brother. “You are the deceiver, Olivere! Don’t think you can get away with this, I won’t let your treachery go --”

“What? You want me to vote for Orelia, Brother, is that it?” asked Olivere with a snarl. “I will happily oblige, if that is your wish.”

That stopped Omerion dead in his tracks.

“ … what is it you want?” Odette asked, repeating Orelia’s earlier question.

“To see what each of you is willing to give me, of course. Whoever brings me the better offer shall have my vote. It’s as simple as that. Why is it only you and Omerion who think you deserve to get something out of this succession? I feel I have been overlooked long enough. Don’t you agree?”

Orelia fumed. How long had Olivere been planning this? It could not have been long. All of it hinged on Omerion contesting her claim to succession, and that did not happen until their father’s funeral. It was a daring gambit, a tactical ruse that paid off stupendously. Olivere had them both right where he wanted them. Both of them needed him. Neither of them could ignore his demand.

Olivere stood from his seat. “Some time, I think, is needed for you to consider what is at stake, and what you are willing to give me in exchange. I’m in no rush. The next vote is not for another three days. More than enough time for both of you to drum up something interesting.”

His smile was more devious than Orelia had ever seen. “I look forward to hearing from you soon, Sister. I think you perhaps already know what will earn my allegiance.”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sat Aug 05, 2017 11:34 pm

Artist: Chris Dien

Part 11: Orelia

Marpenoth 23, 1351

“I’m sorry, Sister.”

Orelia was sick of hearing her brother’s apologies. “It’s done. The contest is not lost. The game continues.”

“Still … if I had just kept my calm. If I had just held onto my vote --”

“What difference would that have made?” asked Orelia sharply. What use was regret now?

To Osric, she merely explained, “Olivere played his hand deftly. His victory was assured as soon as Octavia fell. Had you retained your vote, he would simply have abstained, and our circumstances would be no different than they are now.”

Orelia threw a gray cloak over the plain blue dress she had chosen, then strode from her quarters, Osric in tow. She wished he would stop following her. Ever since Olivere made his declaration, her youngest brother had been stuck to her side like paper to dried honey. If he wasn’t offering amends, he was prodding her with a torrent of questions. It was suffocating.

“Do you know what you’re going to offer Olivere?” Osric asked, right on cue.

She didn’t. She wasn’t even sure what Olivere wanted, regardless of his cryptic hints. Gold? Prestige? Political favors? Omerion would offer all of them in abundant quantity. She suspected there was little she could do to top him on those fronts. Orelia always had the future of the House in mind; she would not be willing to sacrifice House Vale’s viability to appease a single extortionist. But Omerion … he had already proven he was willing to burn down the throne so he could sit upon a heap of ashes. She had no doubt that he would sell out the rest of House Vale’s coffers to get what he wanted.

“That’s what I’m going to figure out. You need not join me.”

“Sister, I want to help. Please. Give me a chance to make up for my mistakes.”

How she loathed all of her half-brothers right now. Omerion for instigating this revolution against her. Olivere for leveraging that rebellion to his advantage. And Osric … Osric for his incompetence. If he had only been able to back up his words with actual ability, she would not be in this predicament.

She struggled not to allow her frustration penetrate her facade. “You can help. Keep an eye on Olivere and Omerion for me while I’m gone.”

“What will you be doing?”

She paused to stare Osric in the eye. Carefully chosen words left her mouth and hit her brother like a punch to the gut. “ … seeking counsel from an invaluable ally.”

She turned and departed the estate. To her guilty satisfaction, he did not follow.

There were few places within the Jewel of the North that were held in more reverence than the city’s temple to Tyr, more commonly known as the Hall of Justice. Here, the faithful of Neverwinter’s patron deity congregated en masse, offering prayer and beseeching alms for their many troubles. It was not only the poor that came to supplicate. Knights, lords, and merchants all gave offerings to and sought blessings from the Even-Handed and his servants.

Orelia held few of these men and women in high esteem. She preferred solving her own problems, rather than seeking divine intervention. Of course, her lips paid proper respect and her demeanor accorded itself to what was expected of a Lady of Neverwinter, but her heart felt little honesty in such theater. Neither, she suspected, did Lady Kerilyn. It was why Orelia found it so surprising Lady Kerilyn asked to meet her at the temple. She had not known the Matron Lady to be a devout woman. Rather, she thought her mentor paid the deities less lip service than even Orelia herself.

The building itself was a large and impressive structure, shaped of fine stone and marble. Pillars abounded, most decorated with Even-Handed’s symbol: scales resting atop a warhammer. Orelia stepped through oaken double-doors and entered a massive chamber of prayer. Pews lined themselves up to an altar, above which a massive statue of Tyr stared down upon his supplicants.

She felt his eyes upon her then, and by instinct she averted her own gaze, shifting uncomfortably in place.

“Why, Orelia. Fancy meeting you here.”

She recognized the voice and turned to curtsy. The Matron Lady smiled, and at once, Orelia felt at ease. Finally, she was in the presence of a competent ally.

She was half-surprised that the Lady Kerilyn did not have a retinue of attendants in tow, but suspected the nature of their meeting had something to do with the absence. She herself had come alone, after all. Still, Orelia quietly wished to herself that her mentor had chosen something less ostentatious to wear. Her dress was the color of autumn leaves, and showed more skin than perhaps most of the Temple’s clergy were accustomed. The pair received more than a few chastising glares in their direction, though admittedly, more than a few lingered upon the Lady Kerilyn’s figure as well.

It was attention that Orelia did not particularly appreciate; she did not want their association to become overly common knowledge.

Nevertheless, she offered the niceties due to an established lady of Neverwinter’s court. “My Lady Kerilyn. Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Come, come. It is I who should thank you for indulging me the location of our little rendezvous.”

Lady Kerilyn motioned for Orelia to follow her to a seat in the far back of the congregation. A Tyrran cleric - the same one Orelia recognized as the man who had presided over Osric’s duel - stepped to the altar and began to call for attention. The rest of the pews filled with congregants and the murmurs of quiet prayer joined into a harmonious din. Perfect to ensure that their whispered words did not travel far beyond their own ears.

“I do enjoy the thought of us sharing a private conversation amidst the pious,” whispered Lady Kerilyn. “Don’t you, my dear?”

“If it was privacy you sought, I’m sure there are many other options,” said Orelia. “My estate, for example. Or yours.”

The Matron Lady smirked. “Let’s not fool ourselves. There are unwanted ears in your estate, eager to press upon doors and happen upon stray words. You’d not want Omerion’s spies to learn what I’ve discovered.”

It was not lost on Orelia that Lady Kerilyn had failed to answer why they could not have chosen House Kerilyn as the venue for this meeting, but the confirmation that they finally possessed information she could use against her Brother demanded all her attention. “Then you’ve found something at last?”

Orelia was quick to correct her error upon Lady Kerilyn’s severely arched brow. “I of course meant no offense to your capable skills, my lady. I merely lament the timing. If this had come yesterday, perhaps the contest would be over.”

The Matron Lady accepted her amelioration, a clever smile once “Do you think so? Word is that one of your brothers has lost his right to vote in your little contest. And the other arranged the vote last eve with quite the splash of excitement.”

“My lady is well-apprised of the news from my house.” The woman had spies within the estate, Orelia was sure of it. There were few other reasons that could explain Lady Kerilyn’s ample knowledge of the vote, and indeed, all things that concerned the Vales. Orelia did not fault her mentor for planting agents within her home, though it would be an issue she would have to address later. Once the conflict with Omerion was settled, it would be time to clean house, but for now, House Kerilyn’s eyes within House Vale could only benefit her.

“I make it a point of ensuring my allies are well-situated. You’ll learn my dear, if you haven’t already, that there are few things less valuable than an unreliable ally.”

She flinched at those words. Did the older woman mean to suggest that Orelia’s own value as a friend to House Kerilyn was in question?

“I understand. And I’m sure the information you have for me will prove --”

Lady Kerilyn held up a hand. A choir had begun an old hymn Orelia remembered from when she was a babe. It told the tale of a knight of Samular and the trials he endured; clearing, it was intended as an uplifting adulation for the faithful. Orelia knew it well, so well that she could mouth the words in harmony with the singing. Her father sang it to her often in her youth, but for whatever reason, stopped when she reached her seventh birthday. She never heard him sing it again, even though the many nursemaids that cared for her half-siblings often would hum the tune to soothe their cries.

The hymn came to a rousing crescendo before thundering to a deafening silence. It was a few minutes more before the old Tyrran began his oration once more.

Lady Kerilyn smiled. “Spectacular, isn’t it? How the masses can come together like this, joined in faith. How powerful it is … to be the one place where commoners and noblemen alike must all bow before a higher power.”

“I did not think my lady to be such a devout woman,” mused Orelia, careful to keep her voice as quiet as possible.

The Matron Lady chuckled lightly. “Devout? Perhaps not. But i recognize power where it can be found. Tell me you look upon this rabble and do not feel the strength of their piety.”

Orelia turned a scornful eye upon the congregation before them. “What I see is folly. I see want for extrication from humble existences, but done only through empty words and meaningless prostrations. Do you think Tyr - or any god, for that matter - could possibly hope to discern a single prayer from the rest of the cacophony? Their words are wasted upon this stale air and fall only upon deaf ears”

Her eyes darted to the Matron Lady. Curiously, the matriarch of House Kerilyn made no effort to meet her gaze, but instead traced the contours of her features, lingering in odd places, studying her every detail. It was as though Orelia’s head had become naught but the bust of a statue, a piece of art to be evaluated, appraised … judged.

“My lady?” asked Orelia, squirming under the attention. “Is something the matter?”

Finally, the woman’s eyes met hers. She smiled and shrugged, as if nothing peculiar had happened at all. “You are your father’s daughter after all. He too held the gods in insufficient esteem. But perhaps that is because he found somewhere else to place his faith?”

Orelia felt her heartbeat quicken. Just how much did the Matron Lady know of her father? They were not that close, certainly not close enough that he would reveal a secret he had guarded so closely that even Orelia had not learned it until six months prior to his death.

Her lack of response only seemed to amuse Lady Kerilyn. “No matter. Before I tell you what I have, dear child, I would know what you intend to do about Olivere.”

Orelia arched a confused brow. “I think I would have a better idea if I have your information.”

“I would know what you would do without it. Your brother extorts you for his support. Do you plan to kowtow to his demands?”

“What other choice do I have? If I don’t give him what he wants, he’ll give his vote - and my House - to Omerion. I’mt not even sure what he wants yet.”

Lady Kerilyn smiled. “You do have another choice, even if you do not see it yet. The latest vote was two to two. You need only a tie to win. How that tie comes about … well, perhaps I should say that some of your siblings can take Osric and Octavia’s example.”

Orelia frowned deeply. Was this the counsel Lady Kerilyn thought would be valuable? “My lady. If you mean to suggest I should use force somehow to achieve the result I seek … “

She trailed off, loathe to speak more even after her diatribe against the attentiveness of the gods. Even if it was only a statue’s watchful eyes that now stared down upon her.

“Surely you’ve considered it,” the older woman pressed. “A woman as ambitious as you must have known that such a possibility existed. What was the result of your pondering? How far will you go to keep what is yours? How deep into the mud will you sink if victory lies at the bottom of it?”

Orelia did not hesitate. She knew the answer, in her heart of hearts, and if Lady Kerilyn sought to appraise her conviction, sought to evaluate her ally, then Orelia would not disappoint. “I will go as far as I need to. I will do as much as is necessary.”

“Good, Orelia. Good. Then I will tell you two things. First, you need not submit to Olivere’s wishes. There is another option, that I am sure you will decipher. And second, regarding the information I have that will secure your victory in this contest ... its contents concern none of your brothers.”

She frowned. Could that really be true?

“Indeed,” whispered the older woman. “The information I have concerns your sister, Odette.”

Odette?

The Lady Kerilyn smiled, wide and confident, almost as though it was her victory that was being planned.

And in a way, it was.

“You’ll understand soon enough. But come. I tire of these halls. Let us take a walk.”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sun Aug 13, 2017 4:45 pm

Part 12: Osric

Marpenoth 24, 1351

Osric sat at his sister’s bedside as she slept, his eyes drawn out the window at Selune and her tears. How he wished he could draw guidance from their sight as travelers and wayfarers did. How he wished he knew what to do. He had never felt so lost in his life. In the span of a week, his family had torn itself inside out. Their father’s funeral had not even been ten days past, and already his legacy was on the verge of destroying itself.

Two weeks ago, Osric’s worst woes were only what lessons Orelia set upon him and fending off the occasional barb at court. He never once suspected that he would find himself in these straits, his House in disarray, no matter the tension between his siblings. Of course, Omerion had always hated him, but his eldest brother hated almost everyone. Odette felt at best indifference for him. Olivere … Osric could no longer tell. His middle brother seemed to unveil a new mask every few days now.

He never thought Orelia would have anything but affection for him. Sisterly love. No more. That look in her eyes when they last parted said it all. There was only disdain left. There was only contempt.

He could not blame her. He had been too reckless, too brash. He had proven himself unreliable and ineffectual. He had proven himself worthless.

For once, he was glad Octavia could not recognize him as he was now, even as the sentiment filled him only with more guilt. He did not think he could bear her knowing gaze upon him now. How could he look her in the eye and have her know the depths of his failures?

He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. She was beautiful still, but deathly pale and growing thinner by the day. The servants could only feed her soup and porridge. That occupied most of what waking moments she had left. The rest were filled with senseless ramblings that often continued even past the departure of consciousness. She whispered them now, words in meaningless sequence, some too quiet to hear and all vacated of rational thought.

“Seven little lordlings, playing politics. Dusk came for one, and then there were six. Six little lordlings, for what do they strive? Madness swallowed one, and then there were five.”

Osric’s eyes leaped to his sister’s face. Those words … could they have meaning after all?

“...Octavia?”

But he received no reply. She was still asleep. Whatever meaning they had, she would not be able to enlighten, even had she been awake.

The door to Octavia’s quarters swung open. It was Olivere. The narrowing of Osric’s eyes served as his sole greeting; Olivere smiled in response, the faintest hints of an apology coloring the expression.

“Come now, Brother. Do you intend to remain angry with me for the rest of our lives?”

“You sold me out. You leveraged Octavia’s condition to make your play. You’re extorting the rightful heir to House Vale. Tell me … how exactly am I supposed to feel about you?”

“Grateful, perhaps?” Olivere lifted a hand to stop Osric’s outrage in its tracks. “Now, now. You know Octavia needs her rest, preferably uninterrupted by your outbursts.”

A snarl escaped Osric’s lips, but he had to concede his brother’s point. He lowered his voice before speaking again, now barely louder than a whisper though it held no less fury. “Why in the hells should I feel gratitude for your treachery?”

“My treachery, as you call it, likely saved your life. I was the one who convinced Omerion to disarm you in that duel. He would’ve butchered you if he wanted, you must know that.”

“You don’t know that. I could’ve won, but you stole any element of surprise I had!”

“You could’ve won,” Olivere conceded. “To first blood. But what would Omerion have done to you, once you did? Once you took his chance at victory? Do you think honor or decorum or any number of Tyr’s faithful would have saved you from his retribution? Don’t fool yourself, Osric. You know better than any of us, he would’ve made you pay. Orelia would sit upon her throne, and you would meet your grave.”

“You don’t know that.” But Osric’s repeated protest was weak. He could not deny Olivere’s words resonated with truth.

“I don’t,” agreed Olivere. “But it was the most likely outcome. And I’d prefer a little brother angry at me, over a little brother, dead. As I’ve always maintained.”

Osric didn’t know what to believe. He looked away, back to his unconscious sister. “When did you become like this? Conniving. Ruthless.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

Osric snorted. “You prefer another term? Manipulative? Calculating? What should I think of a brother who plots against his family for personal gain?”

At that, Olivere laughed out loud. “Are you … are you judging me? Can you be so naive, Oz? What has Orelia been teaching you all this time you’ve spent under her wing? Only the ambitious can win the noble’s game. I’ve done nothing but take a poor hand dealt to me by fate and play it as a master.”

“The noble’s game is a delusion those discontent with their lot fantasize about to quell their jealousies,” Osric spat. “You are already a noble lord of Neverwinter, just as I am, just as Father was. Why is that not enough?”

“Enough? You think it enough to be last in line for succession, to have no hope of any prominence, to forever be relegated to the background while your siblings overshadow you on the sole merit of their age? If thinking that is not enough makes me cold, makes me ruthless … then fine. I’ll swallow that. But don’t think for one moment that the rest of the nobility do not think as I do.”

He finally understood. His eyes met Olivere’s for the first time, and he saw in them something he had seen before. Jealousy. Resentment. Spite. “You … you’re just like Omerion.”

Olivere stared straight back at him. “I wonder, what is it you think Orelia is?”

“Orelia is first in line to succeed Father, and she is the rightful heir. She is my sister. She is my teacher. My friend.”

“And she is exactly like the rest of us. Omerion, Odette. Orelia. They are all cut from the same cloth. They all know what they want, and they will do whatever is necessary to get it.”

“And what are you?”

“I admit it. I have ambitions all my own. I have desires I would see realized. I have goals that can be achieved with what Orelia or Omerion will give me. But make no mistake … I differ from them in a crucial way. There are lines I will not cross. I care about our family, the ones that aren’t mired in their own plots, helpless to see the workings of others. I care about you, Brother, even if you cannot see it.”

Osric shook his head. “Orelia cares about me.” He hoped she still did. “You’re wrong about her. Orelia is better than that. She’s taught me to be better. We are neither petty, nor spiteful. We put House Vale above our own concerns, we put our family before ourselves.”

Mocking laughter erupted from his brother’s tongue, devoid of any mirth. “My, has she done a number on you. I wondered how you managed to retain such a charming naivete. It makes sense now. She snuffed you out as a rival long ago. She did with you, what she could not do with the rest of us.”

“I … I don’t believe you. Every word from your mouth is a half truth, a deception meant to manipulate. You’ve proven as much. You’re just trying to sow dissension between me and her. Divide and conquer? I won’t let such an obvious tactic succeed.”

“What do I care what you think of each other? You no longer hold a vote. You cannot turn it against her now. No. I merely want you to open your eyes.”

“They are open, Brother. And they see your words for what they are.”

“Tell me then,” said Olivere. “If Orelia is so honorable, how many times has she come to visit Octavia?”

That question hit Osric like a slap to the face. “I … I don’t know.”

“I’ve seen you here so often, I began to wonder whether you’ve moved in,” Olivere continued. “And yet … I’ve not once seen her. Would it surprise you to discover that she has yet to come visit sweet Octavia even a single time?”

“She’s been busy. She has other duties beyond dealing with this accursed competition.” But Osric’s weak protests did little to convince himself, much less his brother.

“Your steadfast loyalty to a woman who sees you as naught but a pawn is truly remarkable. Admirable, even. If I had an ally such as you, perhaps even I would have had a chance at succession.”

Olivere continued, “But I suspect, comprehension has begun a slow dawn with you. You know what our sister is, or you would not rush to defend her failings. The truth is, I have no idea how often she’s come. But the fact that you were so quick to believe in the absence of her visitations says it all.”

A few days ago, and Osric might have launched himself at his middle brother in anger, but now lament and regret formed a steel wall to which even his anger could not surmount. He could not further compound his mistakes … and giving Olivere that morsel of truth about Orelia was already a step in the wrong direction.

“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “To teach me yet another lesson? To lord over me as you would a child?”

“I’m here to see my brother. I am here to see our sister, the only one perhaps more innocent than you. Whatever you think of me, I would have you know that to be true.”

Osric allowed silence to be his reply. He had not much more to say to his brother - nothing that would be productive, in any case. Whether or not this offer was true, there was little wisdom to be found trusting in it. Not after everything Olivere had done. Even if this brother did in fact care for him, there was no guarantee that every word he said was not further machinations on his part.

His brother seemed to detect his withdrawal. “About Cunning …”

His response was a swift and immediate glower. Was that his brother’s true purpose in coming here? To retrieve his weapon?

“It’s in my room. I’ll have one of the servants send it to your quarters when I return.”

“No. Not that. I wanted to say … keep it.”

Osric blinked. He had not expected that.

“Another trick, Olivere? Or perhaps you mean for it to serve as a memento of my mistakes.”

“Call it what you want. Memento. Consolation prize. It’s intended only as a token of my sincerity. Whatever it was in that duel, it is still a remarkable weapon, and one that could serve you well, if you wish it.”

There was sincerity these words that fled Olivere’s mouth, a heartfelt sympathy that Osric had not heard from his middle brother in what seemed like ages. He stared into his brother’s eyes. They met his gaze, filled with conviction. Osric could believe these words to be true, if nothing else. Perhaps Olivere really did care for them. Perhaps his manipulations were merely a twisted realization of that affection.

“ … is that a yes?”

Tentatively, Osric nodded. “ … thank you.” He still was not sure whether anything Olivere did could be trusted, but he could not deny the utility of that blade. His defeat in battle against Omerion had not come from any defect in its design, after all - but his own inadequacies as a duelist.

“I’m glad.” Olivere smiled.

For a second, Osric saw a reflection of that brother with whom he had shared those fantastic stories as children. “Is there anything I can do to persuade you to turn your vote to Orelia? Please, Brother. If you really cared about any of us, you would not allow Omerion to dictate our future.”

Olivere considered for a long moment; Osric could see the cogs turning in his brother’s mind, as though even now odds were being calculated. When he finally spoke, Osric thought he could hear a note of vulnerability in his voice, something he had never heard before.

“I expect Orelia will seek me out soon. I will tell you what I plan to tell her. In truth, there is only one thing I really wish, and if she is willing to indulge me, I will sway the vote in her favor.”

Osric arched a brow. “What is it?”

“There is an enterprise in which I believe House Vale should invest. A lucrative proposition, and more than that, it would help me fulfill a pro --” But here, Olivere paused as if catching himself in misspoken words. It took a moment for him to continue. “ … but I think the reasons are less important than the results. If she is willing to direct our cashflows into this organization, I will turn my vote to her.”

He did not fail to notice the slip of his brother’s tongue, but it seemed there would be nothing gained from pressing that issue at this specific moment. “That’s it? All this … for an investment? It can’t be so simple, or you would have asked for this at the start of the contest.”

“I did. And I have been. For many years, it was Father who rejected my proposal. Of late, it has been Orelia.”

Things were never so simple with Olivere. “What is this enterprise, exactly? Why would they reject your proposal?”

Olivere deflected. “You’ll have to ask them.”

“And Omerion? What’s to stop him from offering you what you want?”

“Nothing. That’s exactly the leverage I possess. But so long as Orelia agrees to this, I will vote for her no matter what else Omerion offers me. Should she refuse … well, the outcome is obvious then, isn’t it?”

“And we’re just supposed to trust you on this?”

“ … I don’t really think you have a choice.”

Olivere smiled, but for once it was empty of the mocking contempt that had so filled it for the last few days. He grasped at Octavia’s hand, holding it gently in his own. Surprise came with the words that followed. “ … she’s so cold.”

It was true. Osric clutched his sister’s free hand, warming them, praying that this small gesture might bring her sleep a measure of peace. “Colder every day. I don’t know how much more … how much longer …” His voice broke and he had to look away and still his tongue to retain a measure of dignity.

To his surprise, he felt Olivere’s arms around his shoulders, his brother’s hand on his own, still clutching Octavia. He recoiled at first, unwilling to show the brother who had betrayed him so many times over any semblance of weakness. Olivere persisted, tightening his single-armed embrace. Soon, he could but give in to Olivere’s empathy. Absent his sisters’ affections, life in the estate had become desperately isolating the past few days for Osric. Even this small gesture filled him with some hope for the future.

It told him something about Olivere - that even if this middle brother was ambitious, cunning, and ruthless - he was still a brother. They still shared the same blood. They still shared in their family. They were bound forever, and Olivere knew it. He understood it. He embraced it. They both did.

A knock at the door broke them from their fraternal embrace. It was Nyssa, Orelia’s handmaiden.

“My lady requests your presence at the council room, my lords. She awaits you there.”

“She wishes us both to attend?” Osric asked, half surprised. He did not think he would be invited to the negotiations, given Orelia’s disposition towards him when last they spoke.

Osric’s middle brother stood and turned his eyes upon him; they twinkled with brimming anticipation.

“It looks like we’ll soon see just how much our sister wishes to be head of this most noble House.”

wangxiuming · Unread post by **wangxiuming** » Sun Aug 20, 2017 3:09 pm

Part 13: Osric

Soon after ...

Osric arrived at the warroom with his middle brother in tow. To his surprise, Captain Cedain greeted him at the door, along with a pair of the estate’s guards. Cedain’s presence could be expected at a vote to maintain order, but Osric found it curious that he would be invited to stand watch over mere negotiations. He arched a brow at Olivere, who merely shrugged, though Osric did not fail to note a hint of concern upon his brother’s face.

“Good,” said Orelia from within the chamber. “You’ve arrived.”

Osric stepped into the war room, offering a polite bow to Orelia, who sat once more upon her seat at the head of the table. As he lifted his head, surprise greeted him in the form of Omerion and Odette, who stood at a far corner in hushed discussion. Olivere followed close behind and Osric could tell that he too had not expected to find them present.

“Is this how you wish to do this, Sister?” asked Olivere with a cunning smile. “Boldly and proudly, for all to see?”

Orelia returned a smile of her own, empty of any joy. “For the grave consequences that this decision shall have … yes. I think it should be done within the stark light of day, for all to bear witness.”

Osric frowned. He had hoped to confer with Orelia in private, to convey Olivere’s terms. But he did not want Omerion to have any chance to catch wind of them and potentially upset the negotiation. Now with both his oldest brother and his middle sister present, there was little chance he would be able to communicate what was needed without it becoming common knowledge.

“Take a seat, everyone.”

He took a step toward Orelia, hopeful that he could take her aside for just a moment, but her open palm halted lifted into the air and halted his approach.

“Sit, Osric.”

“Sister, I just need a moment of your --”

“Sit.”

He could not help a frown from splaying itself across his face, but he nevertheless complied with her request. Settling down upon his designated chair, he once more faced Odette. She looked as bewildered as he felt. What exactly was going on here?

“Must you keep me in suspense?” asked Olivere. “Or is this an attempt to assert what control you have left? We are beyond such preening, aren’t we?”

Orelia laughed. “Hasn’t this whole game been an exercise in watching you preen? I will admit this: I thoroughly underestimated you, Olivere. My attention was focused on Omerion, and I did not see a snake coiling itself around my leg. You maneuvered yourself into a prime bargaining position. To think, you might be casting the vote that would determine who succeeds our father.”

Olivere smirked, ignoring Orelia’s words and turning instead to Omerion. “If our sister is unwilling to admit to the circumstances as they are, perhaps, dear Brother, you are ready to recognize that your victory can easily be won.”

“Don’t you mean my victory can be bought?” Omerion leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, a sly and smug grin upon his face.

Osric glanced to his middle brother. Something was definitely happening - something for which Olivere had not planned. A thin sheen of cold sweat effused from the man’s brow, and for the first time in months, Osric thought he saw uncertainty etch itself upon his face.

“... I thought I would spare you that unkind description,” said Olivere. “It certainly would not serve your reputation to have it known your victory was achieved through bribery.”

“Who says I need to buy anything?” asked Omerion, cold and haughty. “You assume. But you are mistaken.”

Olivere turned upon Orelia once more and Osric thought he saw a hint of panic now. “Is this your game? You think by uniting with Omerion in denying me my rightful due, that you can still somehow come out ahead?”

Their sister’s response was to lean forward in her seat, rest her elbows upon the table and clasp her fingers together in front of her face.

“You really think I won’t do it, Orelia? That I won’t vote for Omerion? I could withhold my vote and he would still win. You do realize that right? You have no chance without me.”

“No, Brother,” she whispered. “This is where you have underestimated me.”

“Sister?” asked Osric. “Please, if we could just speak for a moment, we can win this here and now.”

Orelia ignored him, once again disregarding his plea. Instead, she stood to her feet and addressed the entire table. “We are the children of House Vale. Every step we take, every action we perform, every word we speak … all of it is as an agent of our most noble house. Everything we do represents House Vale.”

“We may have our disagreements,” continued Orelia. “We may have our fights. But one thing is certain. We never dishonor ourselves in pursuit of any agenda. We never seek to step upon the backs of our own family for personal ambition.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Orelia!” snarled Olivere. “The whole of Neverwinter does not have a single more ambitious soul than yours!”

Orelia’s smile was cold and calculating. “And yet I have never leveraged a sister’s incapacitation to extort not one, but two, members of this noble family.”

“Does your spittle carry only mocking jests, Sister?” asked Olivere. “You seek to judge me? What of Omerion, what of the man responsible for everything that has happened to Octavia?”

Osric watched as his sister glanced to Omerion only briefly before returning her attention to Olivere. “There is no evidence of any wrongdoing on Omerion’s part. Osric had his chance to seek retribution in ritual combat, but he failed. I have nothing to hold against our dear Brother.”

“You, on the other hand,” she continued, “...you have much to answer for.”

Olivere burst into disbelieving laughter. “Have you gone mad? Do you actually think to intimidate me with this show? Do you seriously think this inquisition will sway my vote to you?”

“I don’t need the vote of someone who shows such disloyalty to House Vale.”

Olivere’s gaze once more darted to Omerion. “And his little contest is … what? A minor objection?”

“You still don’t get it, do you Olivere?” asked Orelia, her voice quiet and dangerous. “You played a masterful hand, yes. Congratulations. You’ve succeeded in proving yourself among all my brothers, the greatest of threats.”

All her brothers?

Flabbergasted, Osric could only watch as the blood drained from Olivere’s face.

“Does it dawn on you now?” pressed Orelia.

“You wouldn’t,” said Olivere. “You’ll lose the contest! You don’t have enough votes!”

What was she going to do? Osric could not imagine what Orelia could possibly do that struck so much terror into Olivere’s heart.

“I’d rather lose this contest than kowtow to open blackmail. I’d rather lose the throne, than be forced to win it on your terms, Brother!”

She spat the word with unbridled hatred.

“Sister, we can talk about this --” started Osric, but Olivere cut him off.

“Omerion! You haven’t lost your mind, have you? You can win this. Make me any offer, and my loyalty is yours.”

Omerion scoffed. “You expect me to believe you now? After your treachery at the last vote? No, Brother. It is as you say. Orelia can’t win without your vote and it appears she no longer wants it. The contest is mine. I will win no matter what. And this way … I need not give you a single thing.”

“This is a ruse! A trick of some sort, she has planned for this! You won’t win without me Brother.” But his words did little to convince the eldest son of House Vale. Osric watched as he turned on their remaining sister. “Odette! Save your brother’s chances. Make him see reason!”

Odette did not even bother to respond, her expression as troubled as Osric felt as she looked away.

“As Lady Protector of House Vale, I, Orelia, daughter to Rodric and custodian of this noble house, do hereby strip you of your name. Take from you your titles. Banish you from this estate, and any holdings that bear this family’s name. You are a Vale no longer. Ilmater have mercy upon you, for you shall find none here.”

With a swift gesture of her hand, Orelia ordered Captain Cedain and his men forward.

Osric sat stunned. Could this really be happening? Did Orelia really mean to exile Olivere? Had their family not suffered enough? Had it not lost enough of its children?

“You can’t do this!” Olivere hissed as Captain Cedain and his men advanced upon him. “It’s not right! I am your brother, Orelia! There is nothing you can say, nothing you can do that will make that untrue!”

“Orelia, please ...” said Osric. “Reconsider this … madness! You’ll lose the contest. Omerion will win! Olivere … he is our brother. He is family.”

“Not anymore,” said Orelia. To Olivere, she turned haughty eyes upon him as she whispered, “Betraying me was your mistake. Now, it’s come time to pay the price.’

Olivere moved to draw his weapon, but Cedain and his men too quick. In a flash, they bound the ex-nobleman’s hands behind his back and prodded him forward toward the door.

“It doesn’t have to be like this!” Osric cried out. “Strip him of his vote, take away his rights as a noble, but you need not exile him!”

Orelia shook her head. “None of us can trust him ever again, Osric. You should know this better than anyone. This is for the best. We cannot harbor a political opportunist as devious as him within our family.”

“But --”

A cold and mirthless chuckle erupted from Olivere’s mouth, the sound of defeat heavy in his voice, causing Osric’s pleading words to wither upon his tongue. “Give it up, Oz. It seems I was outplayed after all.”

“Finally,” said Orelia. “You understand.”

But Olivere ignored her, focusing all his attention on Osric. The youngest Vale’s mouth opened and closed in desperate vacillation on what to do. He had already lost Octavia to madness. Was he about to lose Olivere to exile?

“Remember what I said,” said Olivere, even as the guards shoved him out the door. “Remember what I told you Oz! They are all cut from the same cloth! You must see it now! Don’t let them take advantage of you! Don’t let yourself be a pawn!”

“Get him out of my sight!” barked Orelia. Cedain grunted and dragged Olivere away.

As the door shut behind them, Osric wondered if he would ever see his brother again.

Orelia came to see him that same night. She found him in Olivere’s room, now an astonishing testament to the efficacy of House Vale’s servant staff. What once had been chambers adorned with shelves of books, clothes and curios, now was only an empty and naked room, absent any sign that it had ever been occupied. It even smelled different; the servants must have scrubbed the place down to the last stone tile, so much did the air smell of caustic reagents and soap.

There truly was no trace of his brother left.

“Are you alright?” asked Orelia.

The question felt odd. Unfamiliar. He had not experienced concern on the part of his eldest sister for many days now. Contempt had been her constant companion up until this very moment.

Neither did he did not know how to answer that question. Olivere had been a snake, it was true. A treacherous viper that had betrayed them all at every turn, and yet Osric could not help but feel as though he had lost yet another dear person from his life.

His father. Octavia. Now Olivere.

The contest over the succession was tearing their family to shreds.

“Oz?”

He glanced to Orelia. “Do you care, Sister? Do any of us matter to you?”

Her soothing words stood in stark contrast from the rebukes she had levied so often in recent days. “You matter. Octavia matters.”

“And if we ever make Olivere’s mistake?”

“ … I practically raised you and Octavia. Olivere … Olivere is different.” Even so, it did not take long for the warmth to dissipate from her tone.

“He had to go,” she continued, with more conviction than Osric thought appropriate. “He was a knife at our throats. We could not allow him to extort us. What kind of precedent would that set? If I am to lead this House, it must be with the respect of its members.”

It almost sounded as though she was trying to convince herself, rather than him. Part of him wanted to argue … but the other part was weary, so weary of all the infighting and chaos. Instead, he contented himself to question the strategic value of her decision.

“How are you going to win now? The vote is tomorrow and there’s no chance you can persuade Odette to abandon Omerion. She supports him even knowing what he did to Octavia. She’ll likely do so even if he decides to slaughter us where we stand. There’s no other votes to which we can appeal.”

“Don’t worry about Odette. I have everything I need to handle her.”

He looked to his sister, eyes pleading, desperate for … he wasn’t even sure what. Forgiveness? Acknowledgment? Trust?

“Tell me, Sister. Please. I want to help. Don’t shut me out. We’re all that’s left. We’re all that we have.”

He watched her frown, considering, the wheels turning behind her eyes, judging every move, assessing each risk, calculating all the variables.

Finally, she spoke again. Finally, she relented.

“Do you remember the name Killian Thane?”

And finally, he understood.

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