Targeting the Duke

[Reinstadler]

A year of failures. Even in the midst of his own certain brand of... confidence, the young nobleman could see that for what it was. Failures, setbacks, embarassments. Oh, they were subtle. Perhaps only he realized they existed, but that was part of the problem. He had been inconsequential, meaningless.

He hadn't mattered in the least. Oh, he had sent a smear campaign against the governor. Perhaps it had worked on some mild level as there had been no further encroachments of royal power, no more military build up, no more walls. But Calomel had not gone to pledge fealty. He hadn't even acknowledged Reinstadler in any way at all. The people were... fools; no, they were insane. Absolutely insane. They wouldn't respond to common sense or fear-mongering.

So what did he have to show for his time here, his exile away from court? He expected to bring order to Myrken Wood, to return with a success most thought improbable. Were he to return now, it would be draped in insignificance. How could he have wasted a year in his prime here, accomplishing so little?

But then Myrken did not matter much to the court, not really. Even success here would be met with speculation, interest but perhaps not ascension. Court gossip changed so quickly. When Calomel was performing magical miracles, he was of interest, but now, it was too late.

Some things, however, did not shift. There was one person in Myrken who had cause such an affront that decrying him would never go out of Fashion. "Have word sent to the traitor Burel." Reinstadler snapped to his closest servant. "I am meeting with him tomorrow. If he knows what is in his best interest, he will open his doors to me." If targeting Calomel would not lead to unquestionable political capital back home, he would shift his attention to targeting one who would.

[Vanidor]

When the so called traitor would be discovered, the man who had been assigned as his Castellan (if such a grandiose title was even needed for a man who simply stood at a desk outside of the estate in question) could only laugh in general mirth. A sort of gaiety one would see from another that had just made a great... great joke. But the response that would eventually filter back to this servant (surely he'd stay long enough to receive word of agreement) would certainly be different. The same man who had laughed at this demand to open doors would deliver the tongue-twisting answer to the servant.

With a general wave of his hand as well, to take in the surrounding land that made up Darkenhold. 'The Duke of Thessilane has no doors with which to open up to the good master Reinstadler. For here in Myrken he owns no abode wherein to hold such an august person as his lordship in any sort of conclave, and indeed, rests his head where only a friend would allow it. However, the Duke will be spending some time doing business in Myrkentown on the 'morrow, at a counting house on Merchant's Row. Shan't be able to miss it, as I would suspect that your master is indeed a keen fellow. Just look for the men in smart crimson uniforms outside. While the Duke is not here, now, to give full assurance of this, I can safely say that he can find some time to see into whatever hearty matter demands such a demand for conversation, as your master seems to think is required.' And with that, he would bow very deep, perhaps moreso than one would need to do for a... a servant. But it was done. And he'd go back to looking bored, whilst standing at his little post just outside of Darkenhold.

[Reinstadler]

Reinstadler's own personal guards were left at the door to not mingle with Burel's crimson assortment. It was the tradeoff for the young nobleman to enter with his sword at his side and an unarmed toad of a lackey to announce him. The well-dressed but slight and rather dumpy man shouted out in a shrill voice. "Graf Josef Reinstadler, Emissary of the Royal Throne." One sucess for Reinstadler, if you would call it that. Gilby had never been able to discredit him. Unfortunately, that was more due to apathy than anything else. The simple fact of the matter is that the Court cared so very little about Myrken. Reinstadler was less of a nuisance there than back home. But were he to return home from this backwoods hovel a failure, he would be ruined for life. And now, the only real success he could fathom stood in the form of the Duke.

So the Graf would follow the shrill man's voice further into the room. He was dressed, quite noticeably, in royal colors, wearing them proudly, a patriot of patriots. His face would be quite beautiful were it not for the sneer he wore upon it, centered by a fencing scar on either side. He wore all three with noble pride. Where he got the accent was anyone's guess as it was far more affected than even that at Court. There was an ornate jewel encrusted cane in his hand, which he now pointed fearlessly at the Duke.

"This, foul traitor and wretched slaughterer of innocents, is an ultimatum." No greetings. No polite banter. Nothing. Reinstadler's back was against the wall and he could take no joy in this, even if he might have only a year ago. "Surrender yourself to me within one day in the name of the King for your treasonous betrayals and murderous crimes or I shall declare war upon you here in Myrken. I am a Gentleman, a.. noble soul, so I give you this one chance to comport yourself with whatever dignity and honor you have left." Words said, the cane was lowered, though his gaze never left the Duke.

[Vanidor]

There would be silence within the meeting room of the counting house. That was where this meet was to take place, of course. Rather public a location for something that was supposed to be private? Well, maybe not quite so private as that. Surely the young Graf wanted to make a statement by doing it so openly. And so... so proudly at that. There he was, resplendent in royal ruffles and iconography. There was much to be said about that. About the way he wore his sword like he knew how to use the thing, being so kind as to leaving his guard outside whilst coming in to make such a bold proclamation.

An interesting counterpoint, this man in his vibrant and up to date fashions. He looked like a fop, if anything. The pair of unassuming men in black and crimson coats to either side of the desk that the Duke currently sat behind had barely lifted an eyebrow. Burel, himself, maintained a face that was as calm and bluff as ever. His eyes, though. That odd match of bright green and soothing blue were settled upon Reinstadler. It almost looked as if they were... laughing. Those eyes that is. The Duke himself was very... very reserved.

And wearing none of the matching finery as it happened. Oh, he had a very ornate coat hanging from the back of his chair. The thing was rich in velvet and silks, with thread of gold that wound its way in whorls and patterns common to Thessilane from wrist to elbow. There was more at the shoulders and upon the high collar. Indeed, one could surmise that the coat that hung so idly behind the Duke cost more than everything that the Graf was currently wearing combined. It didn't help that there was a hauberk of chain sewn and hidden within the panels of that coat. As it was, Burel was sitting in his seat, a rich silk shirt spreading across his heavily muscled and wide shoulders. His sword hung from the other side of the chair, as it happened.

But, yes. The quiet. No sound beyond the echo of Reinstadler's declaration. Just the creak of wood and the sounds of a building that was, most likely, older than the two men combined. Finally, the Duke would release a soft sigh and set down the sheaf of papers that were held in his right hand.

"Now, now. My dear Graf. Graf? They still use that title in Trae Kelsa do they, I would have figured such an obscure thing would have fallen to the wayside. But then, you are Trae Kelsan, and I am not. I guess I would not know what the royal court decides to do with it's time these days. Obviously nothing to assist it's ever so loyal subjects here in the hinterlands." The papers were down, and his hands rested upon them lightly. It was amazing how his voice could be so calm. Almost... almost soothing?

"I was about to offer you a cup of cooled wine, I understand that it is quite hot outside. Such a summer we are gearing up for, hm? But... if you wish to insist with business so swiftly, we can dispense with the formalities that, as far as I am aware, are still the protocol for visiting... Dignitaries and embassies." He stood up slowly, a warrior's frame to this one. Gone now were the boyish looks that once spoke of innocence and naivety. Almost twenty years on his throne had robbed him of that. There was even a dusting of silver starting to force their way into his hair at the temples.

"Your claim falls upon ears that do not recognize your authority here within the Kingdom of Amasynia. As for your noble soul, I would suggest that you search elsewhere for a way to regain your lost status, whatever that may be, back within your poisonous viper's pit of a court that you hail from. Besides. I am sure that if the Trae Kelsan court wished to deliver such an ultimatium to me, they would have sent a proper officer of the court. Another Duke, perhaps. I understand there are a number of them who sit idly by, doing nothing but plotting and scheming in the shadows." A glance for the Graf. Burel was wholly unimpressed with this display, his mannerism showed it.

"If you... choose to... What was the threat, 'make war upon me' then by all means do so. You may, of course, do as you will. It is your right as a member of Trae Kelsan nobility to do such, in service to your aspirations and grasping. I, however, must return to my duties and seeing that the wealth from this seasons harvest back home are properly distributed and adjusted, so that my countrymen shall know prosperity. And so that succor can be given in reparations to those who have been displaced by my actions. If you are done here, Sir, then I would say that you know the way out? I have papers to attend to."

And here, Burel would settle his massive frame back into his seat, calloused fingers picking the papers up from the desk. There was another silence. Ah. But then.

"However. I shall warn you, Graf Joseph Reinstadler, Emissary of the Royal Throne... If your... petty war with me harms but a single citizen of Myrken... Well. I shall not need to say what should be said, do I?" And then, as curtly as the Graf had introduced himself, he would summarily be dismissed. The guard would step forward to make sure of it.

[Treadwell]

From a back room of the counting house come the sounds of creaky floorboards and huffy breaths and throaty declarations of "Mmph mmph!" Even in these boiling days of summer, and even after having had to give a sermon at his church in town, Aloisius H. Treadwell must go about his duties as Councilor for Revenue and Finance, and today, those duties extend to making sure this local counting house is being run properly. The seemingly ever-widening (though surely not truly so!) old politician stops just inside the main meeting room, giving a tug at the loose, purple, padded vest around his middle. A pause is taken to peer this way and that through his heavy, frosted glasses, and the purple-garbed fellow gives another clearing of his beard-hidden throat.

"Ahem! Hullo, Duke Burel, Lord Runsta--er, Resta, er, ahem, Reinstadler! Fancy seeing the two of you here, together, or, for that matter, any few important folks, hmm hmm, at one place in this town short of a rare Council meeting! I, mmph mmph, seem to be interrupting, though? What is the matter of business here, if I might ask?"

Beady eyes twinkle; glasses come off; sweat gets wiped with a purple-gloved, sausagey-fingered hand. There the huffy-puffy gent stands, awaiting recognition and response.

[Reinstadler]

A public setting. Of course. There was little chance Reinstadler would be dragging the Traitor back to Razasan, in chains or otherwise. Therefore, he needed witnesses to his intentions. He had to be able to take credit for whatever might befall Burel in times to come. Here he would have witnesses aplenty.

Burel's eyes laughed and the young nobleman's eyes simmered. Not for a moment did he lose his intensity, his seriousness, his focus. He was self-aware. He knew how this looked. He knew what this was. His confidence throughout was a testament to either his sheer desperation or his unquenchable thirst for what was as-of-now beyond his reach. He knew what his opponent must think yet he stood tall nonetheless.

Truly, what response did Burel deserve? Reinstadler would not defend his own title. It was an affectation, the only true marker that the young man might, deep down, be something of a romantic, but it was something divinely bestowed and something he wore with true and proper pride. He was not here to trade words with the so-called Duke or to accept cups of wine. There would be no banter, friendly or otherwise. For Burel to be a dignitary, he must first have dignity, but this would not be stated aloud. No Duke of the Court would recognize Burel's authority anywhere, but this fact was not voiced. Not here, not now.

The older man stood up with a warrior's frame and the younger man did not flinch. He was committed. Nothing that was said to him, nothing given to him less than outright surrender, would matter.

And then it came: a complete and utter dismissal, no less than had been expected. Fine, then, you feather-toting, puffed up wretch of a midget, war it shall be.

Of course, this was not enough, not in this god-forsaken land. In the midst of all of it, another of Myrken's parade of fools, perhaps the largest fool of them all, deemed his feeble little presence worth even a moment of important men's time. Harm a citizen of Myrken? Oh, Josef Reinstadler would not be saddened in the least if all of Myrken, this den of the insignificant, the disrespectful, and most of all the common, burnt to the ground if that is what it would take to achieve his goal. In fact, he would welcome it with noble joy in his heart. No matter what you might say, Burel, you cannot threaten a man with nothing to lose, and this man, despite his fineries and wealth, his beauty and poise, was such a man.

With one last sneer at Traitor and Counselor both, Reinstadler would storm out of the room, choosing his own quick gait instead of allowing the guards to dictate a pace for him.

[Vanidor]

Even with such an utter dismissal the Duke had not taken eyes off of the simmering Graf. Half his attention on the papers, the rest on the other man and Treadwell both. A slight smlie would etch its way across his features as the other would depart, leaving him with the Councilor and Priest. That smile remained as his attention would slid towards Treadwell in full.

"Just another threat against my life, Councilor. Nothing out of the ordinary in that, I would say." What was more, he was certain it would be done while here, on Myrken soil. A number of implications for that, wasn't there. It almost made him smile once again. "Ah, but nothing of true import. If I die, I die, and that is life, yes? But you are here for the taxes due to Myrken, if I am right?"

And, as if the threat against his life was nothing but another day at the office, so to speak, Burel would slide forward the pile of papers that had been drawn up here in the counting house. "Your merchants should get a tidy profit if they can handle their end, as long as the council has no issue with distributing grain and wheat and fruits from Thessilane this year. Really. You are in the best position to handle the influx being in the middle of everything, right Councilor?" And that light smile would sweep back upon his face, eyes betraying nothing of the plans within plans that lay behind his head.

[Treadwell]

"I should think I am, good Duke! I am, as you have so wonderfully pointed out, mmph mmph, quite well in the middle of everything!" Plump hands rub up and down his own hungrily burbling middle, at that. "But, yes, yes, I'm here to make sure these folks are doing their jobs, and that they are. It's splendid--marvelously wonderful!--when they do, you know; it means I can hasten myself to my coach and, there, on to my. . . whatever meal comes at this time of day! Have you something that we need to address, though, before I move on, sir, mmph mmph?"

Beady, sparkly eyes narrow in their doughy, padded pits, trying vainly to focus on the blurry, bleary, gray-scale image of the Duke amid the blurry, bleary, gray-scale image of the rest of the room and world.