The Tower

"Admittedly, not as much as I might have liked," Errol admits, the tenor of the conversation washing away his smile like so much silt along a river. "But that is the beauty of the concept, here. You might invite the foreign dignitaries to join, and we all would profit over time." He is standing near Erasmus, surveying the practice area, absent of hat and gloves.

Erasmus nods thoughtfully, glancing back to the other. "Any who wish it, for participation or observing. I rather thing we'd get to know our common allies better, as you say, for a more unified force. But on a lighter note," he continues with a growing grin. "How best to christen the room? With drink for the floor boards and drunken shouts for the walls, or something more dry and proper?"

Emma makes her way into the fencing salon, clad all in green. She gives a brief, approving glance around the room, then approaches Erasmus and Errol, her presence announced by the sound of her heels on the wooden floor. Still, she overhears Erasmus's words, and calls, amused, "Oh, please do tell me it will be the first, gentlemen."

Errol seems about to speak when Emma announces herself. "Dear cousin," he exclaims while taking a single step her before halting. "I was thinking both might be possible, but surely first is of the utmost import, yes." The Commander's contagious grin grows some as he regards her.

Erasmus turns and sweeps into a bow that is at once formal and theatrical. "If the lady insists, there shall be debauchery and plenty of accidents not remembered or admitted to the next morning!" he answers with a laugh. "Lady Emma, the room is ready for your education and, no doubt, high amusement." His tone and gaze is pleased and not just a little fond.

Emma's lips twitch, briefly, amused at both the men. "I am glad my presence will not ruin all of your fun," she teases. That said, she steps first to her cousin. "And don't you look handsome, dear Cousin — as always." She offers him a hand, that contagious grin infecting her, as well.

Errol's fingers circle hers, and he bends into a shallow bow that halts above their meet. "I find myself quite disarmed - and in a salle, no less," he admits, grin unwavering as he straightens. "Surely you must attend the opening, Emma; your radiance will illumine the proceedings."

"Or drive some to extraordinary showing off," Erasmus notes gruffly, with humor. "It is a common disease."

"I am given to understand that this is normal showing off for my cousin, rather than anything extraordinary," Emma quips over her shoulder, before dropping a little curtsey at Errol. "Thank you, Errol. I shall do my best to attend." That said, she turns her attention to Erasmus. Poor Erasmus. "My dear Commander, I do not believe I've seen you in uniform, yet. It is quite dashing on you." Indeed, she looks as if she might reach to straighten his collar, just because it's there. She stops herself, however, and simply offers him her hand.

Errol's sidelong glance to Erasmus holds not simply amusement in his deep brown eyes, no, but the promise of invested amusement - the type that pays dividends in the future.

Erasmus fails to see the other man's look, as he observes Emma with almost the same sort of look he warmed the salle with shortly before. The slender hand is taken, though his bow over it includes a light kiss to the back that Errol's left off. "Thank you, Lady Emma," he replies, looking up at her sly before he straightens and lets go of her fingers. "A soldier enjoys wavering between dashing and downright filthy in the line of work."

"You are quite welcome, Erasmus," Emma replies. Her lips press together, and she ought to be given credit for at least attempting to hold back the comment. She can't resist, though, and she says in a stage whisper, "Dashing and downright filthy, hm? You'll have to tell me all about it later."

Errol most likely does not hear, as he is distracted by a footman in Feldane livery just inside the door. He paces that way, concern playing along the lines of his brow.

Erasmus keeps his laugh to a manageable level, though the Commander's gaze slips almost unconsciously to Errol, though the only thing to worry about seems to be a retreating back. "What, tales of crawling through muck, diving through flaming fields, and a lot of sleeping on the backs of horses?" he asks innocently, hooking his thumbs on his belt and adopting a comfortable stance.

Emma watches Erasmus's gaze slide away, then back, but she doesn't comment upon it. Instead, she nods to his words. "They're your tales. Of course I want to hear them." The words are sincere, and her smile faint, but warm.

Erasmus studies Emma thoughtfully, the bemused air still lingering over more serious regard. Then, "Aye, though to the cheery tales, my Lady, and not the ones of defeat and hardship. Every soldier who's seen battle is a storehouse of story, both interesting and terrifying. But do you like our tame battlefield?" he asks, cheerfully, with an expansive gesture about. "The only possibility for ambush is the banners there, but they seem to be securely fastened to the walls."

"Defeat and hardship are a part of life, unfortunately," Emma intones. "But I'll listen to the tales you'd have me hear." Her brow furrows, just a bit, but his cheerful words distract her from her thoughts. Glancing away from the Commander, she summons up a smile, and nods. "It is quite nice, Erasmus. Welcoming even, which is impressive for a salle."

Erasmus smiles, looking at the room proudly. "Princess Flora's touch. I might've left off the banners detail and such, but it really brings the room together. I'd like to host an event, to spread word of the club and warm the room with fighters, but with the army so recently returned, that may be a delayed party until things settle down."

Emma bobs her head, turning her gaze back to Erasmus. "That seems a wise idea. If there is anything I would be able to do to help with the planning, I hope you will let me know. It really is lovely."

Errol has concluded his conversation and wandered back within earshot enough to reply: "Please don't wait for things to settle down, Commander. We might never see it in use!"

"Well, it can be in use immediately," Erasmus considers. "With the grand party afterward. As far as I'm concerned, it's ready for use as it is now."

Emma chuckles softly at Errol's words. "It certainly would appear that way," she agrees. She steps back from Erasmus as her cousin returns.

Errol's small uneven smile grows conspiratorial. "Surely it has seen some use?" His tone seems to suggest remedy, should the answer be negative.

Erasmus catches the tone and studies Errol's face with a sizing up expression. "Well, it did see Ladies Cyndre and Taleyn pit arms, but to my knowledge that is all. A void unfilled, as it were."
"I imagine that void ought to be filled," Emma says, mildly, looking between the men.

Errol might deflate a bit in disappointment - a child's birthday balloon the day after. "Then I shant be the first. My career at second is something less savory," he admits. "Still…"

Brand walks into the salon, and pauses in the doorway, gaze focousing in on Erasmus.

Erasmus laughs easily. "Well, blood has not yet been split, even in sport, so you can still take that from the more masochistic of opponents." He doesn't seem to leap forward with his hand raised; perhaps his earlier note on not being a duelist was not mere modesty. Still, he does not reject the idea either. "Lady Emma, were you intending to learn?" he asks, glancing to her, then past her to the door.

Brand says, "Good day commander, Errol, young lady. Am I interrupting?"

Errol might smile a bit at the mention of 'learn', then follows Erasmus' gaze. "Your Highness," he says by way of greeting, before dipping into a compact, precise bow."

"To learn to spill blood, or to fence?" Emma says, looking at the Commander, with a decidedly innocent expression. "I was planning upon improving my skills, Erasmus — Commander, that is." She glances toward the new voice, and is quick to follow Errol's lead. "Your Highness," she echoes, dropping in a curtsy.

Erasmus bows with automatic grace to the Prince. "Not at all, Highness," he replies, as if there were any other response to the question. "Can I help you with anything?" Duty reasserts, and the Commander's stance straightens from the slouch the company had allowed.

Brand says, "I was hoping to speak to you."

Errol, too, stands a bit taller with what ducal air his has managed to cultivate thusfar.

Emma straightens from her curtsy, folding her hands before her primly.

Erasmus nods, giving proper apologetic looks to Errol and Emma before moving to the redhead at the door.

Privately, to Erasmus, Emma flickers a smile that is both disappointed and understanding in the Commander's direction.

Brand says, "It is not something that need exclude the young Lord Feldane and your other companion."

"Very well, Highness," Erasmus replies, stopping within conversational range and looking somewhat relieved. Private conversations, apparently, mean Disaster in his world.

Errol clears his throat lightly, his glance to Erasmus sharper, the one to his cousin more indicative.

Emma's brows lift just slightly, but she does not comment — nor does she put herself forward.

Brand folds his hands in front of him, and says, "My mother, Commander, was Pathi. Myself and my sister also share that distinction."

Seeing a need to school his expression, Erasmus does so and nods.

Errol glances, sidelong and faintly apologetically, to Emma.

Brand bares his teeth. It might be meant as a smile. "I am not offended, sir. Don't worry. And neither should the young Sibyl have been if she truly believed in the doctrine of isolation."

Emma gives the very slightest shake of her head in Errol's direction, before returning her attention to Erasmus and Brand.

Erasmus pales just slightly, and he considers, before noting, "I should not allow my frustration to find voice in flippery, Highness."

Brand glides forward, though he doesn't come quite within reaching distance. "Because you are loyal to Amber, commander, and because you put the True City before yourself, there are things you need to understand."

Erasmus picks the wiser of his options available and nods, the gesture sharp and firm. If the approach of the Prince gives him anymore unease than the words already spoken, the man doesn't show it.

Errol's earthen brown brows lift at Brand's statement, and - despite manners and breeding - quite obviously watches the conversation play out.

Emma maintains her silence, her expression remaining neutral.

Brand says, "All of Oberon's children have roles. Some are very obvious. I wonder if you have an idea of what mine might be?"

"It is not my station to wonder on the roles of the King's children, Highness," Erasmus answers quietly, unease filtering into his voice.

Brand says, "I think all of this will be easier to explain through showing as opposed to speaking. One of my titles is the Count of Forked Tongue. Have you ever heard of Forked Tongue?"

Errol's expression might display his ignorance, but certainly does his vague unease.

Emma flickers a glance at her cousin, before returning her attention to the Commander and Prince.

Privately, to Errol, Emma is most definitely not comfortable.

Erasmus draws himself up, just slightly. "No, Highness, I was not aware of the meaning behind that title." He watches Brand with a very faint squint, which might be wary if he allowed it more room.
Brand is suddenly holding a trump, and extending his hand towards Erasmus. He looks over at the others. "Errol? Young lady? I promise it will be safe, if a bit chilly."

"Your Highness, allow me to present my cousin, Lady Emma Feldane," Errol glances between the two, a bit of residual concern along his brow. "Lady, Prince Brand of Amber, Count of Forked Tongue."

Emma steps forward, then, saying, "Your Highness, I am honored. And I do not fear a bit of a chill." Clearly, she has every intent of coming along.

Brand gives Emma a very cheery, toothy grin.

Erasmus is eyeing the card in Brand's hand as if it might be a snake. One never knows. "Aye," he finally says, heavily.

"And I shant be out of fashion this early in a season," Errol notes, perhaps wishing he had brought his gloves as he steadies the hang of his side-sword.

Brand gathers everyone up and they are off.

Forked Tongue is a rough isosceles triangle of land, perhaps an acre in size. The base is bound by a cliff, perhaps a hundred feet high. The sides are rivers, which flow to a junction at the triangle's point. There are no bridges over these favors, though the ruins of bridges are evident on the banks. The ground is covered in snow, with old, bleached bones sticking out of it here and there. About thirty feet from the river junction, where you have appeared is a grey and nondescript stone tower, maybe sixty feet tall.

Everything here is long long dead. The spirits of the things have already been avenged, and have no real reason to hang around. There is one powerful exception inside the tower.

Brand disengages from the rest of the group, and pauses, surveying the area for a moment.

Errol takes a few steps, boots crunching in snow, his attention moving from bonepile to bonepile, then finally to the tower. Brown eyes narrowing, he flicks a glance to Emma.

Erasmus blinks hard, his hand drifting to the rapier at his side as soon as it's released, and the other feeling his pocket for a small box there. Both hands seem to find what they want, and he drops the post-trumping prep motions to peer about.

Emma stands perfectly still, her own eyes wide as she looks about them. Her gaze goes to the tower, then to Errol. A slight nod follows, before she steps to Erasmus where he stands. She moves close to his elbow, as if she were a bit frightened.

Brand strides forward, taking a small silver key from his pocket, and unlocks the tower door.

Privately, to Erasmus, Emma steps close to that elbow for just a moment, hand touching the elbow lightly. It is not a gesture that hints she needs reassurance, but rather, one of support for the Commander.

Erasmus starts at the touch at his elbow, his gaze taken up with staring at the tower, and the Commander puts an arm around Emma's shoulders, both for some warmth and comfort.

Errol takes point of the trailing trio, a gloveless hand never far from the ornate hilt of his blade. Back to Erasmus, he misses the gesture entirely.

Privately, Erasmus says, "I think I would have rather dueled all of Feldane than end up here. But it could turn out… interesting?"

Erasmus mutters to Emma, "I… have… than… But… interesting?"

Emma leans herself against Erasmus, showing no sign that she's planning to move from the circle of his arm. She tilts her chin at the tower, slipping an arm around the Commander's back and moving that way. She offers a small smile. "Let us hope so," she murmurs, a bit more loudly than she means to.

Brand opens the door, and steps in, moving out of the doorway, leaving it clear for the others.

Erasmus smiles back to her and follows Errol, taking on more of a visual alertness than warring with whether or not to draw steel.

Errol does not crouch under the archway, but does adopt a wider, lower, readier stance as he follows Brand with light footfalls.

Emma angles herself slightly as she steps through the door, that she doesn't leave Erasmus behind.

The tower is not large. It is perhaps thirty feet across. The ceiling is perhaps 15 feet high. The floor is littered in old bones, and runes are drawn in blood on the walls. Hanging upside down from the center of the ceiling is a nine foot Frankensteinian horror, slack, eyes glazed and empty, but clearly breathing.

It is not, however, alive. It IS, however, inhabited by a spirit.

"By the unicorn's horn," Errol mutters, not-quite-underbreath, as he glances up at the abomination.

Brand has moved off to the side.

Erasmus stares upward as his eyes adjust to reveal the thing hanging there. The Commander steps forward away from Emma's embrace with an absent pat of assurance on her arm, his gaze dodging about the figure, as if trying to see dim stars at night.

Emma once again freezes in place, blue eyes widening even more. Erasmus's departure is not acknowledged, as she asks, "What is it?" Question asked, she too steps forward, unable to take her gaze from the thing.

Brand says, "Once, this… person was poised to sweep horror and disease upon Amber."

Erasmus goes still, studying the figure directly now, his expression… difficult to define.

Errol glances back to his companions at that, with more questions playing along his features than he grants them time to answer.

Brand says, "Oberon, he felt, has caused him to lose power in his home shadow. He sought out the darkest magics he could, and resolved to return the favor. I was sent to deal with him. It is not a known story. It is not Benedict at Moon Pass, but it is as important. The fact that you have never heard of him or of Forked Tongue means I did it properly."

"What people do not know cannot frighten them," Emma murmurs, arms folding over her chest. Her expression, now, has shifted to one of academic interest.

Erasmus's hands curl into fists, and he remains silent, staring up.

Brand says, "As you can see, he was defeated." He walks around the thing, and then his gaze finds Erasmus, "But I did not do it alone."

Errol nods as he, too, circles the dangling defeated. "It would appear that His Highness' charge then, if I might, is the arcane defense of the True City."

Erasmus looks then to Brand, his expression revealed as nearly ill.

Emma makes a soft, thoughtful noise. That is all.

Brand says, "I summoned the Pathi. We severed him… it from its power. We destroyed his army. We ensured he would never be a threat again. The only thing we could not do was force its spirit to vacate the body it had created for itself."

The ill countenance fades as Erasmus listens to Brand, and he resettles as if back from the brink of something, folding his arms on his chest.

"Do you wish to banish the spirit, Your Highness," Errol quietly inquires, his eyes never leaving it vessel.

Emma steps over to Erasmus, once again, looking to him, rather than Brand and saying, "It is trapped in a prison of its own making." She again reaches to touch the Commander's elbow, even as she looks to Brand and Errol. "Such a thing could be done," she adds in agreement.

Brand says, "By all means, if it is within your power. Though it is so far gone into itself that no one I have brought here in centuries has so much as seen the body twitch."

RPG: Errol declares that he has the First Mastery: Death (DEA-FM) gift:

The mastery over death is the simplest. Everything dies, and there is a natural order to these things. This is the mantle of the psychopomp, the guide of the dead, ushering them on to wherever it is they should go. Where that is remains a great mystery, but the master of death knows there are many routes to it. This mastery grants a number of abilities including:

• The Final Strike - The master may bring the finality of death to any blow they deal. If the strike is a deadly one, no amount of medicine or magic will be able to revive the target (though it provides no advantage towards making a blow more deadly). If the target is unliving, it can be killed in this fashion, even if killing it would normally require some other means.

Erasmus glances briefly to Emma and offers a faint smile before looking to Errol. The situation has stilled him to the core, and he merely watches.

A scrape of steel heralds Errol's side-sword's arrival in his hands, both sets of fingers coming about the hilt. He glances back to Emma with a single brow lifted.

Brand observes with a pleased demeanor and a clinical interest.

"Erasmus," Emma says, her features grave. "Commander. May I have your sword?" Then, to Errol, "Speak to it, Cousin. Tell it that we will send it to rest." Bright eyes lift to Erasmus once again. "If you are not willing, Errol will be able to carry this out alone, I am certain," she assures, more quietly.

Erasmus, without hesitation, draws his rapier and presents the hilt to Emma, his nod firm. "Please."

"Spirit," Errol begins, already making sweeping motions with his blade. "You are being sent to your eternal rest."

There is no response. Just a continuation of glassy eyed stare.

Emma inclines her head to Erasmus, taking the rapier from him by the hilt, no hesitation in the movement. "Thank you, dear Commander." Her words and bearing are almost ritualistic, as she approaches the thing, and from the way she holds the rapier, she's not an inexperienced swordswoman. "Cousin," she says, pausing to wait for Errol's direction.

Erasmus steps back toward Brand, watching impassively.

Brand murmurs to Erasmus, "I hope you understand."

Erasmus glances to the Prince and nods, his expression grim, before he looks back.

"We shall take off its head," Errol replies, clinically. "And banish it," while drawing back his side-sword up and over his shoulder. "On my mark."

Emma gives a single, short nod. "Aye." Entirely focused on her task, she lifts the Commander's sword, as well, waiting for Errol's mark.

Errol nods, once, sharply, and lets fly with his sword.

Emma's own blade cuts toward the thing's neck opposite Errol's, and though it is not the typical task of a rapier, the blow is struck with a fair amount of force, aimed such that her blade — if all goes as she plans — slides beneath her cousin's, dissecting whatever his blow might have missed. Of course, that's if all goes as she plans.

Errol's blade, designed for slashing as well as running through, rips into the abomination precisely at the angle Emma foresaw.

A deafening, rage-filled shriek fills the tower, and then all signs of spirits and magic are abruptly gone. The creature falls to pieces, forming an untidy, ichory pile in the middle of the floor.

Erasmus tenses more immediately after the blows than at, and lets out a breath of what could easily be taken as relief.

Brand covers his ears, looking perturbed at the sound.

Errol dances back a step, keeping his boots clear of abominatory debris.

The mushy pile leaks black slime.

Emma takes a single, smooth step back from the ichorous cascade. Still, the hem of her skirt gets spattered with it, and she wrinkles her nose. "Curses."

Brand turns to Erasmus, as if what just happened was not at all unusual, and says, conversationally, "The problem, of course, is that the Sibyl have great say over what happens with the Pathi. And the one you spoke to clearly is influenced by her emotions. If Amber needs this sort of help again, she will remember you, and her conversation with you."

Errol draws a kerchief from the depths of his pockets and offer it to Emma, along with a faint, serene nod.

Erasmus's study of Brand speaks volumes, only some of it vocalized, "I will be certain to be more polite to the Sibyl from now on, Highness."

Brand says, "Be a good man and send her flowers or something."

Emma takes the kerchief from Errol, nodding her thanks to him. She leans down, rapier still carefully held, and dabs at the goo on her skirts. Her gaze lifts, however, turning sharp at the mention of flowers.

Errol produces a second kerchief and only a hint of a small smile. The former he uses to wipe ichor from the steel on his hand.

"Any idea what she likes?" Erasmus asks, sounding a little uncertain, still studying Brand for signs of Greater Clarification.

Brand says, "I haven't the faintest. I've never actually met her. Fiona knows her though, and I could ask."

Emma looks to Errol, his handkerchief, then back to Errol, as if trying to decide whether or not she should give it back to him. Instead, she lets it fall, then tugs a delicate, lacy handkerchief from her sleeve. "I am quite certain I could advise you, Commander," she says, casually. She makes her way over, wiping the lacy wisp along the blade, courtesy cleaning it.

Muttering to Brand, Erasmus glances to the approaching Emma, and steps a halfstep closer to the Prince. "… some… signs, you… me to submit… the… advances,… you…"

Brand raises an eyebrow at Erasmus.

Erasmus rubs his chin thoughtfully.

Errol discards the kerchief in his hand as well, and returns his side-sword to its scabbard.

Brand addresses Errol and Emma, "Thank you." He smiles. "Maybe now I can finally renovate the place. Shall we return to Amber?"

Emma finishes cleaning the rapier, then discards her handkerchief as well. She waits just a bit off, trying not to eavesdrop. "Certainly, your Highness," she says, to Brand.

"If it pleases His Highness," Errol replies, smoothly, but the faint relief in his expression might indicate that the notion pleases him as well.

Erasmus nods, looking to Emma and the now-clean sword with a smile. "Aye, I'm ready."

Brand is holding a trump again, and reaches out his hand.

Emma keeps hold of the sword until she's certain all are safely back and accounted for. Then, she offers its hilt to Erasmus, giving him a long, steady look.

Privately, to Erasmus, Emma's look is assessing, but also firmly suggests she trusts him — and that just maybe her offer of help was sincere. Then again, maybe she's just making sure he gets his sword back.

Erasmus takes a breath to clear his lungs, and nods, taking the rapier back and sending it home. "I… need to get to work. Highness, Lord Feldane, Emma," he says, nodding to them.

Privately, to Emma, Erasmus seems very inward, as he did since seeing the monster thing, and is somewhat unreadable.

Errol begins distributing bows, "And I, as well, am forced to take my leave. Thank you for the opportunity to travel, Your Highness."

Emma gives a small, sympathetic smile to Erasmus. "Good day, Erasmus. Let us speak again soon. I still wish to help break in the salle."

Brand's trump disappears as quietly as it appeared.

"Of course," Erasmus replies to Emma, before heading off as the field trip party splits in many directions.

Brand replies, "Good day," variously.

Emma does not traipse off after either Erasmus or Errol, folding her hands before her and letting both cousin and Commander go in their own directions. And the Prince, as well.

Brand strolls off, looking fairly pleased.