The King of Rynmere nodded assertively when the young Knight stared at him and, eventually responded. “This is what I want, friend,” Cassander knew that the man was a Venora: there was something in the way he carried himself, even when he was nursing a wound, that marked him as a nobleman of high birth. And the man’s features reminded him of every other Venoran-born noble he had had the fortune to meet. Tristan recognised him… from some function or another, too. But he did not know which Venoran the Knight was. He could not pin a name to the face… so he became ‘friend’.
He did not ask for the Knight’s name, though… at this stage, he could not risk appearing uncaring of his subjects, especially one who had saved his life. “You will serve me well, I know. Nothing would make me happier than to have the kin of Tristan watching my back. You will join the Ouroboros Guard!” His voice still carried, as if making a proclamation across the city for all to hear.
Sitting, the King watched for a moment as the medic worked quickly and efficiently on the Knight, before turning to face the playwright. He shared a private smile with his friend, his eyes once darting back over the exquisite form of the slave briefly, “beautiful…” be murmured softly as the play resumed, even though it did not answer the other entirely. “A truly remarkable creature. Yes, Tristan. Please, I am not so arrogant as to make this a one-time offer!”
They quieted, and the King tried to ignore the hitched breathing from the Knight, as well as the general anxiety from an attempted assassination, and watched the play. For the most part, he could not concentrate on the final act, though he schooled his features - a trick learnt through hours of careful tutoring in etiquette and politics - into one of interest, even rapture. To anyone watching him, he would be the perfect audience member.
Gregg worked quickly and silently on Andráska’s leg, securing a bandage around it to keep the wound securely closed for now, until he could seek proper medical assistance. “You should have left the blade in, M’Lord…” the medic whispered, though his voice was clearly chastising, “Leaving the embedded object in a wound such as this one acts as a plug of sorts. Removing it is what has caused this blood loss.” Only then did he turn to the slave, who had not made a sound, and was clearly trying not to become a nuisance.
Ordinarily, he would not have dealt with a slave. But the Lord had asked it of him, so he roughly grabbed her hand and eyed it. “Wrap this around it. It will heal in a couple of trials.” He ordered her gruffly, pushing a second bandage into her uninjured hand and turning away. He had to ensure the prisoner was well secured, ready for the King.
The final act continued, and the King stood, followed by a ripple of movement from the sea of audience members behind him. Loudly and obviously, he clapped. He did not woop or cheer - such things were beneath him. But he smiled genuinely at Tristan, and even laughed a little when whistles were heard behind them. “Well done, my friend. A masterpiece!” He called over the noise of clapping, even though he had barely paid attention the last act. He was on edge; the remaining guards knew that, and they worked quickly to usher the audience out of the theatre. Cassander felt a pang of guilt for the Venoran... this was not the ending he had envisaged, ushering out the audience and barely having time to greet and congratulate the cast members as he had intended. He had hoped to honour Tristan properly.
But there was a man upstairs. “I must go...” he finally said, glancing to the two men on eather side of him. “I must know why. Please, you are welcome to accompany me. Though I am aware you may wish to meet your deservedly adoring fans, Tristan!” He clapped the man on the back, though it was forced slightly, his smile strained, and then he turned to Andráska, “And your leg... perhaps it should be properly looked at.”
He turned to leave, though was halted by the sight of a figure at the auditorium doors. "Tristan Venora..."
He did not ask for the Knight’s name, though… at this stage, he could not risk appearing uncaring of his subjects, especially one who had saved his life. “You will serve me well, I know. Nothing would make me happier than to have the kin of Tristan watching my back. You will join the Ouroboros Guard!” His voice still carried, as if making a proclamation across the city for all to hear.
Sitting, the King watched for a moment as the medic worked quickly and efficiently on the Knight, before turning to face the playwright. He shared a private smile with his friend, his eyes once darting back over the exquisite form of the slave briefly, “beautiful…” be murmured softly as the play resumed, even though it did not answer the other entirely. “A truly remarkable creature. Yes, Tristan. Please, I am not so arrogant as to make this a one-time offer!”
They quieted, and the King tried to ignore the hitched breathing from the Knight, as well as the general anxiety from an attempted assassination, and watched the play. For the most part, he could not concentrate on the final act, though he schooled his features - a trick learnt through hours of careful tutoring in etiquette and politics - into one of interest, even rapture. To anyone watching him, he would be the perfect audience member.
Gregg worked quickly and silently on Andráska’s leg, securing a bandage around it to keep the wound securely closed for now, until he could seek proper medical assistance. “You should have left the blade in, M’Lord…” the medic whispered, though his voice was clearly chastising, “Leaving the embedded object in a wound such as this one acts as a plug of sorts. Removing it is what has caused this blood loss.” Only then did he turn to the slave, who had not made a sound, and was clearly trying not to become a nuisance.
Ordinarily, he would not have dealt with a slave. But the Lord had asked it of him, so he roughly grabbed her hand and eyed it. “Wrap this around it. It will heal in a couple of trials.” He ordered her gruffly, pushing a second bandage into her uninjured hand and turning away. He had to ensure the prisoner was well secured, ready for the King.
The final act continued, and the King stood, followed by a ripple of movement from the sea of audience members behind him. Loudly and obviously, he clapped. He did not woop or cheer - such things were beneath him. But he smiled genuinely at Tristan, and even laughed a little when whistles were heard behind them. “Well done, my friend. A masterpiece!” He called over the noise of clapping, even though he had barely paid attention the last act. He was on edge; the remaining guards knew that, and they worked quickly to usher the audience out of the theatre. Cassander felt a pang of guilt for the Venoran... this was not the ending he had envisaged, ushering out the audience and barely having time to greet and congratulate the cast members as he had intended. He had hoped to honour Tristan properly.
But there was a man upstairs. “I must go...” he finally said, glancing to the two men on eather side of him. “I must know why. Please, you are welcome to accompany me. Though I am aware you may wish to meet your deservedly adoring fans, Tristan!” He clapped the man on the back, though it was forced slightly, his smile strained, and then he turned to Andráska, “And your leg... perhaps it should be properly looked at.”
He turned to leave, though was halted by the sight of a figure at the auditorium doors. "Tristan Venora..."
