Scyld Scefing

[mistermajere]

Name: Prince Novgorod-Seversk
Gender: male
Age: 20
Appearance: tall; lanky; fine-boned; shoulder-length hair so blond it's almost white; enormous brown eyes

[mupsmiley]

Name: Æschere
Gender: male
Age: 25ish
Appearance: short-ish (doesn't like it commented on), stalky-ish (think, James Bond--without Daniel Creig but with his general physique), with black eyes that shift a lot, and... pockmarks... he blends in well with dark moores.

[mistermajere]

His sister was dying.

Novi couldn't breathe. He stood at the edge of the wall and watched the push of the waves against the stones, far below. The spray of the water sparkled in the gray dawn, and he watched the glimmer of sun on the far ocean horizon and hated it--because no sun should rise now, or ever again--Felma was dying.

His hands on the stones of the battlements were white, his veins spidery and blue against his skin. He took a breath and eased back. This place reminded him of her. She'd brought him up to the walls when he was younger, when the press of the court and the sweaty heat of the roaring hearth in the center of the great hall had been too much for him. She'd brought him here, and she'd taught him how to climb the battlements, how to keep his balance on the narrow stones, how not to look down.

"My Prince," came the voice of an attendant behind him.

Novi closed his eyes.

"You are sick. You should return to your rooms."

"All right," he said. And the attendant led him away, to the tower and the stairway within, where another attendant stood waiting for him, a woolen cloak in her hands. She draped it around him as if he were a boy of five and not a man grown--a man soon expected to take his father's place, now that Felma was dying--and Novi allowed her to pat him awkwardly on the back as he began the descent down the stairs.

[mupsmiley]

He did not notice his third attendant, though the man lurked in such a casual manner he might have been mistaken for a stable boy, loafing about amidst daydreams of higher wages. He most certainly would not have been dreaming of romance. There was a certain lackluster in his eye, which promised a detached repulsion quite unlike that of the average unlearned servant. And he was subtler of action and swifter of response than one innocent of any pressing worry. He repositioned himself against the wall with an idle sigh, checking at a pocket watch to make sure he had kept his appointment. [you know they had pocket watches back then--don't even try to deny it! ]

The prince was meant to fence at five. Why was he late? Punctuality, Æschere thought, of princes, was surely something of a paramour. Had something gone wrong? Would the royal household not be needing their new fencing instructor after all?

[mistermajere]

Novi didn't look up again until he heard one of his attendants say, politely, "I regret to say the prince is feeling ill today. He will meet you at dawn tomorrow."

He looked up. They'd reached the bottom of the stairs. A man stood there, looking for all in the world like a common servant, but for the sword at his belt.

"Come, My Prince." The attendant gave him a nudge, and only then did Novi realize he'd stopped to stare.

[mupsmiley]

The next day Æschere could be found in almost exactly the same position. He was contemplating his watch as it wound down when Novi first approached, and tilted, lithe to impertinence, a questioning grimace as Novi descended the last of the spiraling stairs, "Novgorod-Seversk? I presume?" he bowed, all secretive mockery.

[mistermajere]

"Novi," replied he of that name, almost automatically.

[mupsmiley]

"How do you do? I assume you have been informed of my employment? And purpose?"

[mistermajere]

Novi rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. He hadn't much last night, or the night before, and Felma--

"No," he said. "I mean, yes. I mean--" If his royal father were here, he'd be slapping his forehead against the wall. Novi cleared his throat. The man across from him seemed coolly collected. And derisive. "I'm pleased," Novi began again, "to have you as my fencing master. Where shall we begin?"

[mupsmiley]

"We shall begin by moving to the fencing grounds," stutters gave Æschere a headache. He smiled wanely and tried to massage away the previous night's bourbon with the thought that it would hardly do to enjoy the company of one's victim.

[mistermajere]

Novi followed him through a door and into a gust of biting wind. It was hardly dawn, and the training grounds were empty but for the guards on the walls. It occurred to him that he didn't know his fencing master's name, and he opened his mouth to ask for it, then closed it. "Master" would suffice, probably. And this man didn't seem particularly prone to friendly introductory procedures.

[mupsmiley]

Indeed, he hardly seemed prone to friendly procedures of any kind. He only turned once, on their trudge through the sodden straw, to ask if the continual supervision was entirely necessary. It would make things difficult. He eyed the ridge of battlement, on which silhouettes of soldiers strode. "Do you find this terrain suitable for practice?" he turned with a more stoic air, and managed to bow his head half a tilt, in due subservience.

[mistermajere]

Novi hesitated, startled, and managed to say, "Yes, I think so?" All new recruits trained on this ground. Felma would complain of the gray walls and take him outside the castle, to the green hills beyond, but--

Stop, he told himself. Stop. And it was only when he noticed his mouth moving that he realized he'd spoken aloud.

[mupsmiley]

"Stop doing what your highness?" there was a silkiness to his smile which bode complete confidence. Æschere was already quite assured of his plans; the guards on the battlements could hardly notice from afar...

[mistermajere]

Novi winced--he'd seen that coming--and tried to smile back. "Sorry, I talk to myself sometimes. Bad...habit. Shall we train at this spot?"