Homecoming [Noble Renown][Private]
Aug 29, 2023 10:15:38 GMT -5
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Aug 29, 2023 10:15:38 GMT -5
Correspondence via Postal Drake to the Fenastra manor was not uncommon. The patriarch of the Fenastra clan was a busy man - the kind of man who kept a good deal of kettles in the fire, each one carefully watched to ensure they did not boil. He rather enjoyed that business, that control. Others in the centuries past called him an odious man for his preferred methods of dealing business, but he liked to think of himself as pragmatic. One did not live to near-seven centuries (he liked to claim he had lost track, but Lormundel knew the exact year down to the day. Six hundred and eighty-nine, four months, forty-five weeks, and five days. Age was a source of pride for the elder race) without having an acute understanding of the best ways to get what one wanted, either with money, or with force.
Lormundel did not often forge his alliances with charm. That was an unnecessary and extraneous sentiment when the former two did the trick just fine.
Nonetheless.
He was often accustomed to taking letters in his office - so a visit from a Drake carrying a single, innocuous letter was not uncommon, especially during the twilight hours when he preferred to work.
The gilded seal on this particular letter, however, was.
Lormundel nearly clutched the fine parchment in his hands hard enough to bend at the momentary shock that coursed through his system - only a momentary lapse in emotion, but who could blame him? After all, it had been nearly a single year since the announcement that the Sol City council would be opening positions to elves of all kinds, not just those who bathed in the sun. A year of careful lobbying, bribes, and careful assassinations all to get him ever-closer to earning his own seat within those hallowed halls. And now his time had finally come, the day that the ancient ones born in Lunala’s image would be able to gain back the power they were so desperately owed after the elven wars.
How he’d clawed his way from nothingness for this moment. Once a simple sailor, from a family of old-fashioned values and even harder workers. How he’d learned and stolen and worked until he secured himself an education. A fortune. A manor of white stone and a wife with a vapid personality, but considerable wealth. A failure of an heir, and a success of one. But his ambitions were nowhere near close to being realized. Not until now - this long-awaited first step.
With long fingers that only betrayed a hint of age in them, the white-haired moon elf plucked a letter opener from his desk and sliced through the golden seal of Eldenwar Solaria with ease. Unfolded the nest creases, intimately familiar with the golden paper and bronze ink that most official letters used. An eyesore. As he skimmed the contents, though, that self-satisfaction waned in favor of trembling, ice-cold anger.
To Lord Lormundel of House Fenastra,
It has come to our attention that you have made a formal declaration of your intention to declare a new ward to inherit your title and estate upon your retirement. Until quite recently the records reflected that you made such a decision as your firstborn son and heir, Cyran Fenastra, had been killed along with his wife, Rowan Pavyre. In lieu of a son to inherit your title you declared that his own child, Marlow Fenastra, would be the one to train in her father’s stead and take over your family business. We had no reason to doubt this declaration; not until an anonymous eyewitness and friend of the crown approached us with some concerning information.
Cyran Fenastra is, in fact, quite alive.
We are inclined to believe that this is an honest mistake on your end, though the reasoning for such an erroneous oversight is lost on us. Whatever the reason, we anticipate that you, as an upstanding member of the Moonglade Conclave and friend to the crown, will rectify this situation. As such, we have issued a formal decree reinstating Cyran Fenastra as a member of your family effective immediately. We hope that you can welcome him back with open arms and come together as a family. We’re sure that his daughter will be quite happy to see him once more.
May the golden sun shine its everlasting warmth upon you,
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, HIGH KING ELDENWAR SOLARIAN
What was this… this mockery? How in the world had the crown caught wind of his stain of a son? Lormundel had gone through great lengths to cover up the incident with Cyran - his failure to even act as a political piece in his marriage, an arrangement where he’d had to do nothing and he still failed at such a task. He’d had to grovel and beg to maintain the alliance with the Pavyre family, a household built on the foundations of old money, a fortune amassed from the old days of the elven war. An eye for an eye, they’d demanded. He had killed their daughter, so it was only fair that they kill their son in return if the alliance to flourish.
Oh, but Lormundel had felt pity for his runt of a son, hadn’t he? Getting rid of him felt like culling a horse with a lame leg. It was not his fault he’d been born with such deficiencies, nor was it his fault that he could not fulfill the one duty he’d been created for. No, the fault was merely Lormundel’s for having such a weak child in the first place. Naturally, he would pick the Pavyre alliance over his own embarrassment of a child, but he figured he didn’t need to waste resources and money hiring a hitman when he could release Cyran into the wild and let nature do the work for him. Surely, the whelp wouldn’t survive more than a few days.
Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about Cyran in years. The only time that child crossed his mind was when he caught glimpses of the boy’s expression in his own daughter, or when he saw the old family portrait commissioned of Cyran and his wife and daughter that they kept in the attic to rot now. He didn’t feel grief or hatred or even disappointment. Just… nothing. Cyran was inconsequential.
Until, apparently, someone discovered he was alive and took the matter over Lormundel’s head.
Who could have done such a thing? Sabotage on that level would mean that someone close enough to the family remembered Cyran, and knew the truth of what he’d been exiled for. And clearly, that someone sought to spite him by spitting in his face like this. Reinstating a noble title to that inept fool? Their business would sink!
A knock on the door drew him out of his thoughts - Lormundel shoved the letter into the topmost drawer of his desk, smoothing down his hair and regaining his composure at the drop of a hat. “Come in.” He demanded.
The door cracked open - little Marlow stepped in, as quiet as a mouse. She’d long since mastered the art of being seen and not heard.
… In retrospect one could not say that Cyran had done nothing for Lormundel. He’d given him the ideal progeny, after all.
The young lady - for she was now well into her second decade of life, still a child, but already flourishing and growing and learning - clasped her hands behind her back, head bowed, waiting to be addressed.
“What is it, Marlow?” He asked, only a touch of impatience in his voice betraying his previous indigence.
Marlow lifted her head, pushing her spectacles further up her nose. “I, ah, was coming to deliver my most recent report to you when I thought I heard noises. Is everything okay?”
And he stared at her, those silver eyes and brows knit with concern, looking so much like her father that it almost felt like a blast from the past. As she matured, the physical similarities between the two became ever more apparent. In her youth, she’d possessed the same kind of softness and kindness he’d infected her with, though Lormundel was making great strides training that out of her. What would happen if she were ever to learn that her father was out there, still alive, and had not abandoned her as he’d once explained? What would she do when she learned of all the lies he’d told her to foster obedience?
No. That simply couldn’t be allowed to happen.
It would not.
“Everything is fine, Marlow.” He waved a hand, neither offering her a smile nor a frown. “I’ve merely received word that we have an important guest coming to visit soon.”
“Oh.” She still looked confused, though the concern began to wane like the phases of the moon. “Will I be allowed to attend?”
“Not for this event.” He did not explain why, nor did his tone offer any room for argument. The request was not out of the ordinary - Marlow was still in training, and there were many dinners with more unsavory clients that she was not yet allowed to attend. “You are not to leave your room for this, understood?”
Marlow did not argue.
“Of course.”
“Don’t you have studies to attend to?”
“I… yes.”
She dipped into a low curtsy, leaving Lormundel alone in his room once more to ruminate over this situation. No - the truth of the matter was that he simply could not allow Cyran to interfere with his plans. He’d shown mercy once. He would not do so again. All he had to do was welcome his wayward, naive sone home with open arms, and shield his eyes from the dagger that would be planted in his back.
Quick and efficient. Silent. The problem would be gone in an instant.
Lormundel pulled a new piece of parchment from his desk, getting to work. He had arrangements to make, and research to do. He was still not sure who’d thrown this unexpected development at him, but they would soon find that they would regret such a thing.
First thing was first, though - deal with his son.
From the balcony of her estate, the Duchess Pewhairangi received a letter bearing the seal of the crown and smiled.
A letter arrived at Shade’s Valley in the early hours of the morning. One bearing an insignia that Cyran hoped never to see again.
Cyran,
As per the decree of King Eldenwar Solarian, you hereby have been reinstated as a member of the Fenastra Household, along with your name and inheritance of my fortune and my estate. The Fenastra home welcomes its lost son with open arms. To discuss your return home, I expect to see you join us for a formal ceremony reinstating your title in the first month of fall. Your room is open for you to stay in for this visit.
The letter was not signed. It did not need to be.
The letter fluttered from his hands, hitting the floor with the weight of a death sentence.
He did not want to go.
It was safe to say that leaving the Fenastra home had been akin to being born again. He had a new lease on life - or perhaps it was more apt to say he had a life for the first time. For in that manor, he’d merely been existing, a living ghost up until the point Marlow was born, and then a ghost once over when Rowan nearly killed him. He’d anguished, but he was free. Able to live for himself, and no one but himself. The life that had flourished was perhaps not the most savory one, but it was his. He’d become an assassin, found a way to survive despite the odds, and that had led to a life more fulfilling than anything he could ever imagined.
What would happen now that he’d had this thrust upon him? What would change? So much had already happened in the last few weeks, the incident with Vulcadreus and Zarius -
He did not want to think about Zarius right now.
The point being that so much had changed. Cyran had changed, and he was… surviving right now, dealing with the mental turbulence in the aftermath of the battle with the god of rebirth. It felt like he was barely wading above the water, unable to breathe, only able to keep himself afloat for Del and the kids. That did not stop him from often wandering around like a spirit himself, lost and without purpose, until he reoriented himself once more. His peace was being held together by a thread. What change would this bring? Why now, of all times? Why play this game of pretending to want Cyran again? Why break his heart again when he’d already almost accepted he was unwantable and unlovable?
And what in the world did he want?
He’d not wanted to tell Del about the letter at first - not because he did not trust her, but because she already had to deal with so much of his shit these past few weeks, and gods, he was a damn mess, she didn’t need more on her plate. She didn’t need to watch him crumble apart like quicksand when she was doing her best to hold him together right now. They were supposed to be partners, equal, and here he was, a burden to her because he could not control his emotions. But she’d already felt the fresh wave of anguish through their bond, and because she was kind and perfect and far too patient for him she would not hear another word of it, as always. And once more he was reminded of the promise that she would follow him into hell if need be.
And why did she care so much why did she want to keep subjecting herself to him and his poison and this darkness that was far deeper than she probably ever envisioned-?
So he explained. And he showed her the letter. And he told her about the circumstances of his exile, something she’d probably already had an inkling of but had never questioned. He spoke of Rowan’s death and the fact that her family had demanded recompense for something they believed was his fault, and how his father had agreed.
“I never wanted to go back. I have everything I want here. There’s only one thing I have ever regretted not fighting harder for.” He’d finished after the long-winded explanation, still wondering how Del could possibly want to marry him after all this baggage. “I don’t know what he wants from me, but I suppose it’s my duty to see this through.” And perhaps, a small part of him hoped to see his daughter again. He doubted he would be able to. But Cyran needed to hold onto that thought, because otherwise, why bother with the summons?
And to his surprise, Del promised she would accompany him.
It was going to be tense, he warned. His family were not the loving sort, and they would not be kind nor welcoming. But she would hear none of it.
And so here they were. Making their way to Eclipse City to attend Cyran’s formal reinstatement as a member of the Fenastra Household. Cyran, as himself - and Del, his intended. A small, bitter part of him found humor in this situation. His parents would abhor the kind of woman Del was. A fierce woman unafraid to speak her mind, uncaring whether that person was noble or commoner. Titles meant nothing to her. She gave and loved fiercely, a smith and carpenter who frequently worked for free because it was the right thing to do. Oh, this would sting.
That humor did little to ease his nerves as he brought Del closer to his manor. A place she’d seen once, in his dreams, brought to life here. A manor of white stone surrounded by ample gardens, almost seeming to glow in the moonlight. He’d not bothered dressing up much for the occasion. Just a simple black tunic and cloak, his hair in a braid down his side. He didn’t have any of his daggers with him. Not right now. Not when he couldn’t bring himself to hold them. A plain black eyepatch. Modesty in defiance of the opulence around them.
Cyran turned to Del, grim, as they passed the gate and made their way through the gardens. One last moment of peace before they entered the lion’s den.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Bringing Minions
Marlow Fenastra
Lormundel did not often forge his alliances with charm. That was an unnecessary and extraneous sentiment when the former two did the trick just fine.
Nonetheless.
He was often accustomed to taking letters in his office - so a visit from a Drake carrying a single, innocuous letter was not uncommon, especially during the twilight hours when he preferred to work.
The gilded seal on this particular letter, however, was.
Lormundel nearly clutched the fine parchment in his hands hard enough to bend at the momentary shock that coursed through his system - only a momentary lapse in emotion, but who could blame him? After all, it had been nearly a single year since the announcement that the Sol City council would be opening positions to elves of all kinds, not just those who bathed in the sun. A year of careful lobbying, bribes, and careful assassinations all to get him ever-closer to earning his own seat within those hallowed halls. And now his time had finally come, the day that the ancient ones born in Lunala’s image would be able to gain back the power they were so desperately owed after the elven wars.
How he’d clawed his way from nothingness for this moment. Once a simple sailor, from a family of old-fashioned values and even harder workers. How he’d learned and stolen and worked until he secured himself an education. A fortune. A manor of white stone and a wife with a vapid personality, but considerable wealth. A failure of an heir, and a success of one. But his ambitions were nowhere near close to being realized. Not until now - this long-awaited first step.
With long fingers that only betrayed a hint of age in them, the white-haired moon elf plucked a letter opener from his desk and sliced through the golden seal of Eldenwar Solaria with ease. Unfolded the nest creases, intimately familiar with the golden paper and bronze ink that most official letters used. An eyesore. As he skimmed the contents, though, that self-satisfaction waned in favor of trembling, ice-cold anger.
To Lord Lormundel of House Fenastra,
It has come to our attention that you have made a formal declaration of your intention to declare a new ward to inherit your title and estate upon your retirement. Until quite recently the records reflected that you made such a decision as your firstborn son and heir, Cyran Fenastra, had been killed along with his wife, Rowan Pavyre. In lieu of a son to inherit your title you declared that his own child, Marlow Fenastra, would be the one to train in her father’s stead and take over your family business. We had no reason to doubt this declaration; not until an anonymous eyewitness and friend of the crown approached us with some concerning information.
Cyran Fenastra is, in fact, quite alive.
We are inclined to believe that this is an honest mistake on your end, though the reasoning for such an erroneous oversight is lost on us. Whatever the reason, we anticipate that you, as an upstanding member of the Moonglade Conclave and friend to the crown, will rectify this situation. As such, we have issued a formal decree reinstating Cyran Fenastra as a member of your family effective immediately. We hope that you can welcome him back with open arms and come together as a family. We’re sure that his daughter will be quite happy to see him once more.
May the golden sun shine its everlasting warmth upon you,
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, HIGH KING ELDENWAR SOLARIAN
What was this… this mockery? How in the world had the crown caught wind of his stain of a son? Lormundel had gone through great lengths to cover up the incident with Cyran - his failure to even act as a political piece in his marriage, an arrangement where he’d had to do nothing and he still failed at such a task. He’d had to grovel and beg to maintain the alliance with the Pavyre family, a household built on the foundations of old money, a fortune amassed from the old days of the elven war. An eye for an eye, they’d demanded. He had killed their daughter, so it was only fair that they kill their son in return if the alliance to flourish.
Oh, but Lormundel had felt pity for his runt of a son, hadn’t he? Getting rid of him felt like culling a horse with a lame leg. It was not his fault he’d been born with such deficiencies, nor was it his fault that he could not fulfill the one duty he’d been created for. No, the fault was merely Lormundel’s for having such a weak child in the first place. Naturally, he would pick the Pavyre alliance over his own embarrassment of a child, but he figured he didn’t need to waste resources and money hiring a hitman when he could release Cyran into the wild and let nature do the work for him. Surely, the whelp wouldn’t survive more than a few days.
Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about Cyran in years. The only time that child crossed his mind was when he caught glimpses of the boy’s expression in his own daughter, or when he saw the old family portrait commissioned of Cyran and his wife and daughter that they kept in the attic to rot now. He didn’t feel grief or hatred or even disappointment. Just… nothing. Cyran was inconsequential.
Until, apparently, someone discovered he was alive and took the matter over Lormundel’s head.
Who could have done such a thing? Sabotage on that level would mean that someone close enough to the family remembered Cyran, and knew the truth of what he’d been exiled for. And clearly, that someone sought to spite him by spitting in his face like this. Reinstating a noble title to that inept fool? Their business would sink!
A knock on the door drew him out of his thoughts - Lormundel shoved the letter into the topmost drawer of his desk, smoothing down his hair and regaining his composure at the drop of a hat. “Come in.” He demanded.
The door cracked open - little Marlow stepped in, as quiet as a mouse. She’d long since mastered the art of being seen and not heard.
… In retrospect one could not say that Cyran had done nothing for Lormundel. He’d given him the ideal progeny, after all.
The young lady - for she was now well into her second decade of life, still a child, but already flourishing and growing and learning - clasped her hands behind her back, head bowed, waiting to be addressed.
“What is it, Marlow?” He asked, only a touch of impatience in his voice betraying his previous indigence.
Marlow lifted her head, pushing her spectacles further up her nose. “I, ah, was coming to deliver my most recent report to you when I thought I heard noises. Is everything okay?”
And he stared at her, those silver eyes and brows knit with concern, looking so much like her father that it almost felt like a blast from the past. As she matured, the physical similarities between the two became ever more apparent. In her youth, she’d possessed the same kind of softness and kindness he’d infected her with, though Lormundel was making great strides training that out of her. What would happen if she were ever to learn that her father was out there, still alive, and had not abandoned her as he’d once explained? What would she do when she learned of all the lies he’d told her to foster obedience?
No. That simply couldn’t be allowed to happen.
It would not.
“Everything is fine, Marlow.” He waved a hand, neither offering her a smile nor a frown. “I’ve merely received word that we have an important guest coming to visit soon.”
“Oh.” She still looked confused, though the concern began to wane like the phases of the moon. “Will I be allowed to attend?”
“Not for this event.” He did not explain why, nor did his tone offer any room for argument. The request was not out of the ordinary - Marlow was still in training, and there were many dinners with more unsavory clients that she was not yet allowed to attend. “You are not to leave your room for this, understood?”
Marlow did not argue.
“Of course.”
“Don’t you have studies to attend to?”
“I… yes.”
She dipped into a low curtsy, leaving Lormundel alone in his room once more to ruminate over this situation. No - the truth of the matter was that he simply could not allow Cyran to interfere with his plans. He’d shown mercy once. He would not do so again. All he had to do was welcome his wayward, naive sone home with open arms, and shield his eyes from the dagger that would be planted in his back.
Quick and efficient. Silent. The problem would be gone in an instant.
Lormundel pulled a new piece of parchment from his desk, getting to work. He had arrangements to make, and research to do. He was still not sure who’d thrown this unexpected development at him, but they would soon find that they would regret such a thing.
First thing was first, though - deal with his son.
From the balcony of her estate, the Duchess Pewhairangi received a letter bearing the seal of the crown and smiled.
A letter arrived at Shade’s Valley in the early hours of the morning. One bearing an insignia that Cyran hoped never to see again.
Cyran,
As per the decree of King Eldenwar Solarian, you hereby have been reinstated as a member of the Fenastra Household, along with your name and inheritance of my fortune and my estate. The Fenastra home welcomes its lost son with open arms. To discuss your return home, I expect to see you join us for a formal ceremony reinstating your title in the first month of fall. Your room is open for you to stay in for this visit.
The letter was not signed. It did not need to be.
The letter fluttered from his hands, hitting the floor with the weight of a death sentence.
He did not want to go.
It was safe to say that leaving the Fenastra home had been akin to being born again. He had a new lease on life - or perhaps it was more apt to say he had a life for the first time. For in that manor, he’d merely been existing, a living ghost up until the point Marlow was born, and then a ghost once over when Rowan nearly killed him. He’d anguished, but he was free. Able to live for himself, and no one but himself. The life that had flourished was perhaps not the most savory one, but it was his. He’d become an assassin, found a way to survive despite the odds, and that had led to a life more fulfilling than anything he could ever imagined.
What would happen now that he’d had this thrust upon him? What would change? So much had already happened in the last few weeks, the incident with Vulcadreus and Zarius -
He did not want to think about Zarius right now.
The point being that so much had changed. Cyran had changed, and he was… surviving right now, dealing with the mental turbulence in the aftermath of the battle with the god of rebirth. It felt like he was barely wading above the water, unable to breathe, only able to keep himself afloat for Del and the kids. That did not stop him from often wandering around like a spirit himself, lost and without purpose, until he reoriented himself once more. His peace was being held together by a thread. What change would this bring? Why now, of all times? Why play this game of pretending to want Cyran again? Why break his heart again when he’d already almost accepted he was unwantable and unlovable?
And what in the world did he want?
He’d not wanted to tell Del about the letter at first - not because he did not trust her, but because she already had to deal with so much of his shit these past few weeks, and gods, he was a damn mess, she didn’t need more on her plate. She didn’t need to watch him crumble apart like quicksand when she was doing her best to hold him together right now. They were supposed to be partners, equal, and here he was, a burden to her because he could not control his emotions. But she’d already felt the fresh wave of anguish through their bond, and because she was kind and perfect and far too patient for him she would not hear another word of it, as always. And once more he was reminded of the promise that she would follow him into hell if need be.
And why did she care so much why did she want to keep subjecting herself to him and his poison and this darkness that was far deeper than she probably ever envisioned-?
So he explained. And he showed her the letter. And he told her about the circumstances of his exile, something she’d probably already had an inkling of but had never questioned. He spoke of Rowan’s death and the fact that her family had demanded recompense for something they believed was his fault, and how his father had agreed.
“I never wanted to go back. I have everything I want here. There’s only one thing I have ever regretted not fighting harder for.” He’d finished after the long-winded explanation, still wondering how Del could possibly want to marry him after all this baggage. “I don’t know what he wants from me, but I suppose it’s my duty to see this through.” And perhaps, a small part of him hoped to see his daughter again. He doubted he would be able to. But Cyran needed to hold onto that thought, because otherwise, why bother with the summons?
And to his surprise, Del promised she would accompany him.
It was going to be tense, he warned. His family were not the loving sort, and they would not be kind nor welcoming. But she would hear none of it.
And so here they were. Making their way to Eclipse City to attend Cyran’s formal reinstatement as a member of the Fenastra Household. Cyran, as himself - and Del, his intended. A small, bitter part of him found humor in this situation. His parents would abhor the kind of woman Del was. A fierce woman unafraid to speak her mind, uncaring whether that person was noble or commoner. Titles meant nothing to her. She gave and loved fiercely, a smith and carpenter who frequently worked for free because it was the right thing to do. Oh, this would sting.
That humor did little to ease his nerves as he brought Del closer to his manor. A place she’d seen once, in his dreams, brought to life here. A manor of white stone surrounded by ample gardens, almost seeming to glow in the moonlight. He’d not bothered dressing up much for the occasion. Just a simple black tunic and cloak, his hair in a braid down his side. He didn’t have any of his daggers with him. Not right now. Not when he couldn’t bring himself to hold them. A plain black eyepatch. Modesty in defiance of the opulence around them.
Cyran turned to Del, grim, as they passed the gate and made their way through the gardens. One last moment of peace before they entered the lion’s den.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Bringing Minions
Marlow Fenastra
Quest Name: Head on a plate
Participants: Two or more
Location: Anywhere
Post Requirements: 9 post per person, 250 words per post
Reward: +50 security to your home region
Description: Your renown and accolades across Charon has earned you quite the reputation, your name now in the mouths of some very important people. This has opened many opportunities for you, but it has also caused the attention of some very dangerous people to land on you. Regardless of why, someone wants you dead and has hired a very skilled assassin to take you out. Your task is simple, don't die, but that's easier said than done as someone has paid a lot of money to dispose of you and has hired a very dangerous assassin. The skill set of the assassin is up to you.
Participants: Two or more
Location: Anywhere
Post Requirements: 9 post per person, 250 words per post
Reward: +50 security to your home region
Description: Your renown and accolades across Charon has earned you quite the reputation, your name now in the mouths of some very important people. This has opened many opportunities for you, but it has also caused the attention of some very dangerous people to land on you. Regardless of why, someone wants you dead and has hired a very skilled assassin to take you out. Your task is simple, don't die, but that's easier said than done as someone has paid a lot of money to dispose of you and has hired a very dangerous assassin. The skill set of the assassin is up to you.