• Closed • [Venora] Chorus

[Peake]

1st of Saun, 716
Venora Village

Venora, both the Noble House and everyone related to them, were cockroaches. If Peake were to ever confess his deepest secrets, one of them would be just how much he disliked his vain noble family. Artists and pretty faces? Most people believed Venora to be some sort of immortal stamp upon mankind, but whenever Peake gazed upon the pompous features of one of these clowns, his fists clenched and begged for an opportunity to smash those pretty teeth. Even the rebels, the Burhan, held more of his respect than this particular house. For such reason, the already poor humor of the noble grew worse every step of the way.

As the armored giant advanced through the adorned streets, wrapped in the somewhat infamous golden armors of the Royal Guard, many dirty looks flew towards him, some even recognizing the Andaris heir, others recognizing a tax collector, and others simply recognizing just how intimidating the fast pace and the ire built within Peake’s frame. The horse being almost dragged by Peake, as in the three trials of travel needed to reach Venora he had seen no break, it was quite obvious that the animal was a few breaths away from meeting death. In that sense, Peake was smart enough to have removed his expensive rear from back of the horse and instead use it to exclusively drag the supplies needed for the sojourn. Still, the relief of weight did not help the horse much, which could barely keep walking, swaying left and right like a broken mast amidst the storm.

Peake’s refusal to be escorted to the Venora Estate was, in great deal, a reckless mistake he shouldn’t have made. Driven by the anger of the moment, Peake’s refusal could not only cost him the sweaty travel through the busy streets, but also cost him the life of the horse. The horse was replaceable, but there was still a need to carry all the equipment on top of it. Peake was no mule, no matter how stubborn.
“Come on!” said Peake, barely making his way onward, pulling the reign of the horse behind him whilst pushing the commoners before him. The more resistance he encountered, the harder he pushed, and the harsher he pulled. In truth, the tight street he had adventured within slowly began to resemble a fighting ground. The horse’s volume combined with the nervousness caused by complete fatigue, and the testosterone-filled beard that drug him. The yells of protests and the growing chaos soon alerted the guards of the source of trouble.

Unfortunately for Peake, the pushing guards that made their way towards him were no hope for the horse, which at last released its last breath. All of a sudden, the horse simply collapsed forward and slammed its head against the cobblestone below. The body followed, its weight first landing on the equine’s knees before it rolled to the side and died unceremoniously. Despite no men or women being trampled before the loaded corpse of the now deceased animal, panic was still present, be it for the witness of such a sudden death by the animal, or perhaps by the consequent kicks Peake delivered to the horse’s corpse.
“Get the fuck up!” yelled Peake, each word being delivered at unison with a harsh - and armored – kick to the head.
There was, obviously, no response by the dead horses’ part, although some of the watching eyes from the crowd certainly had something to say.

A dozen bits and kicks later, the guards had already reached the source of the commotion, quickly dispersing the crowd by gently directing everyone on their way with the use of helpful shoves. The leader of the dispatched group, a somewhat old and powerful in the waist type of man frowned at the sight of Peake’s armor. Despite the obvious stains produced by travel and weather, and a few dents in the armor taxpayers would pay for with their taxes, the man’s identity and affiliation was distinguished effortlessly. Some frowns and unsure gestures brought forward the oldest and highest ranking officer of the Iron Hand, the previously described leather-wrapped individual, which immediately recognized the man before him.
“Hail the Ouroboro! Captain Haggfried, at your service, Lord Andaris,” said the soldier in his somewhat strange high-pitched voice. “What seems to be the problem?”
“My horse died, that’s the fucking problem. I need a replacement, fully resupplied for my return to Andaris. Have someone escort me the way through this shithole towards the Venora Manor,” replied Peake, without a hint of interest for educations or anything similar. “Oh, and its Baron now.”
“… Right. It will be done, my Lord.” There was clear doubt in the Steward, whom, despite disliking Peake, still was loyal to the King. Peake was, in a way, the embodiment of the King’s word, which is what the Ouroboro Guard stood for.

A few clicks of his fingers, swift gestures with his arms and yells with his screeching voice, everything was soon sorted out. The crowds were dispersed, the horse was dragged to the side of the street, and three men were appointed as escorts to Peake, whose bad mood seemed to have only increased in ire. Just the thought of having to meet Alistair and be offered the Venora piss they call wine made his blood boil. Combine that with the excuses of their betrayal and Peake already prepared himself to set the village on fire.

Thanks to Lazuli for this amazing template!

[Alistair]

"I am not looking forward to this meeting, Damien," he said. The Lich shrugged and leaned over the balcony overlooking Sabaissant, flicking a wilting flower from Alistair's room that lay high in the tower. "Yes you are," the mage responded. "I can practically smell it. What a great thing for the eternally brooding Lord - that someone actually interesting is coming about." The Lich laughed. Alistair had talked previously about Peake, and for some reason he spoke highly of him despite his public reputation and their averse alignments and belief systems. There was something about his image and utter fury that Alistair admired in a way, perhaps much in the same way that he admired Damien initially for his distant and harsh demeanor.

He tired of all of the pleasantry, the kindness, the exchanging of words and flowers and sweetened wine in such continuous succession that it became a bore. Alistair didn't even drink. He didn't like himself when inebriated; too relaxed. The mind always had to be at least partially on edge.

"Mother isn't looking forward to it," Alistair said, sighing. "She's too much of a craven to allow herself to be confronted for her choice of inaction and allowance of Zvezdana's marriage. She cowers beneath the word 'traitor' - she's actively stopped allowing the counsel of those who remain more notably loyal of King Cassander. As a result she's informed me that I must keep the 'honorable' Lord Peake Andaris away from her and her handmaidens. She's well aware of his more brutish temperament, and fears he may take out his wrath towards our family upon the poor young girls. Instead she'd rather he take it out on me, apparently." Damien grinned.

"You want me to go with you, don't you?" he asked. And Alistair responded only with a look, one that evidently displayed the response he was to give - a clear and resounding confirmation. The mage shook his head but agreed nonetheless, and Alistair triumphed for but a moment. It was time to invite the feared guest into the halls - he could even see him causing a ruckus in the streets below, streets that Alistair's room watched over at all hours of the day, as the city was set alight by festivals in the night as much as it was brightened by the sun in the day. Many said that the residents of Sabaissant were all of a more nocturnal predisposition, and that wasn't too far from the truth.

As Peake would approach the gates to the Sabaissant du Cristel, the palace of Venora, a woman wearing a lavish dress approached him with hands clasped together. She was of black hair and light green eyes, and she curtsied and introduced herself as Diane du Saintogne. "Welcome to the Sabaissant du Cristel, Lord Andaris," she said in an accent that was certainly distinguishable from that of the typical Andaris dialect and tone. "As the one assigned to greeting you, it is my duty to overlook your wellbeing and ensure you are kept satisfied by this experience. Do not be afraid to request anything of me - be it the location of our Marseille de la Frontage, our ducal wine, or the names of the best and most exotic whores we can offer. Sabaissant is often called the heart of beauty, art and music in Rynmere, and we would like to demonstrate that to you in the best way we can."

With that, she beckoned him to follow her and stepped through the gates towards the palace. Shortly after she turned her back though, she paused, as the visage of Lord Alistair approaching alongside Damien encompassed her view. "That shall be sufficient, Diane," he said. The woman was sent by Alistair's mother to guide Peake away from the more 'sensitive' areas of the palace. But her machinations were pointless; Peake was not here to humiliate Alistair's mother. He was here to discuss the future of this country - whichever stance on it he took.

"Peake," Alistair called his name. "Long time no see. I saw you fondling a dead horse earlier. This your usual Saun morning?"

[Peake]

Peake’s first impression of the ‘palace’ was the saccharine female that had an expression so pretentious Peake almost volunteered to deliver the beating she had missed early in her childhood. Having already exchanged a few distasteful comments to some of the citizens encountered on the way to the Venora residence, the nobleman’s patience for formality, etiquette and pedantry was null. As such, his reply to the female was to stand before and send an obvious warning with his eyes: stay away. Although a nobleman by birth and some mannerisms, Peake had a clear distaste for any sort of snobbishness outside of its appropriate borders. Every single item in Venora was tainted with that air, that aroma… It was as if a circle of snobs had gathered before an empty bottle and had laughed and snorted their disdain into an actual perfume. Peake was partially ashamed of being here, not only because he was part of their word, in a way, but also because he being here meant this place would most likely be saved from burning.

“This armor being removed and cleaned would be appreciated, woman.” The woman nodded, and as they approached the palace, she snapped her overly-delicate fingers to some nearby servants. However, her motions were cut short as she was dismissed like the whore she would’ve been if not for her social status. And there he was.

Alistair-fucking-Venora, name mandatorily accompanied in both written and spoken form with a curse in between. Whenever Peake’s genitals were assaulted by the kick of an angry woman, Alistair’s face would probably be the image that manifested in his mind as the pain made him squirm. If there ever was a man Peake could call an ally, or a friend if one was willing to stretch the relationship between the two, Alistair would be the one. Peake’s apparently undiagnosed gigantism made him slightly taller than Alistair, which despite not being surprising, it still made Alistair a formidably tall individual. As for his lineage, despite being cursed with being born into House Venora, Alistair also shared the weight of the future. Being the direct heir to the Barony, and eventually the one set to receive the title of Duke, he was likely to be one of the faces Peake would have to see for the rest of his life. That pretty and clear face of his craved for a good fist, and Peake had often fantasized about being blessed with the honor. It wasn’t envy, as Peake was obviously the prettiest of the entire Kingdom due to his extravagant beard genetics.

A grunt was the first response Peake delivered, followed by an uninterested mutter. “On a typical morning, it’s a dead whore, not a horse. As the pronunciation is similar, some cretin must’ve mistaken my wishes.”

Peake did not bother with any presentations nor courtesy towards the male – he felt it was pretty clear the urgency of this matter. Being stripped away from the King’s back for six entire trials was not a small deal, especially in the brink of civil war. Both the King and Peake were in the belief that this meeting was imperative for the well-being of the Kingdom. He did, however, glance towards the other male present in the scene.
“Who’s that, your butler? I bet his name is Sabaisstian and all.” Making sure to mock the pronunciation of the name just like the woman earlier did, Peake scoffed at his own jest. It was also pretty obvious that, despite being a guest in a place where he held almost no power, he was still pretty bossy.
“Let’s go somewhere to talk. Call someone to remove this shit off me and to get it polished or something.”

Thanks to Lazuli for this amazing template!

[Alistair]

The ladies gathered around quite notably scoffed as Peake spoke with his regularly lewd tongue. A dead whore, not a dead horse, he said. Alistair could scarcely hold back his laugh as the extravagantly clothed women whispered into one another's ears, gossiping about the brutishness of the heir to Andaris. "Isn't he quite the hooligan?" One woman said to another. "But in a way, his brutish appeal is somewhat charming. He is without wife, yes? Perhaps my father can arrange something."

To that, another woman slapped the other on the back of the head.

"Maria, you're a drab whore. His eyes clearly fluttered in my direction while that bitch Diane shook her ass at him. He shall be married to me, and my child shall be the future King of Andaris. The seer of Tou-la-Ford told my father as such." Alistair turned to the two women and shushed them. Damien was practically choking on his laughter, as Alistair stared quietly at Peake. "This is not the usual day in Sabaissant, I promise. Certain individuals are merely devoid of proper respect." The two young ladies quickly made themselves removed from the scene, while Alistair nudged Damien to shut his trap.

Although the nickname Sabaisstian almost invoked laughter again. To this, the Lich responded directly. "No, My Lord," he started, "I am Damien Noch. The court theologian and Alistair's personal spiritual guidance trainer." To this, the heir nearly smacked him in the face. The Venora was not religious in the slightest, and had always been clear on that matter; man had already surpassed the Immortals. It was why they leeched off of humans and others for curried favors and aid in their trivial war.

"Damien is irrelevant," he said pointedly. The other mage took the hint, rolled his eyes and kept silent beside Alistair. "He is not a noble, not a butler, and certainly not of importance to our present conversation, which takes priority." The man clapped his hands, and several assistants practically flung themselves at the noble's side. He pointed at Peake and made a quick gesture, and the men immediately began to assist the Andaris in whichever way he requested. Though, at least one of them was practically trembling in the face of his intimidating stature and bold nature. The Venora tended to be more graceful with their subjects than he, and Peake had a reputation for his... indecency.

As for talking in private, the Venora agreed, gesturing for Peake to follow him as they climbed the path to the palace and turned into a large building alongside the cliff that the castle was seated upon. The words titling it, seated atop the archway that led into it, were displayed as such: the "Hall of Budding Wisdom". It was a large library, with exquisite and intricate bookshelves that were decorated with many vases and potted plants; vibrant flowers decorating the room, statues of great thinkers from Venora's history lining the corners of the room, the entrance and the beginning and end of the stairwell to the second floor. It was the seat of intellectual discourse in Sabaissant, and today, it was Alistair's and Peake's - and Damien's, though he remained quiet and nigh obedient. The heir made sure to inform the Andaris that he was more than trustworthy.

As they entered the hall, Alistair led Peake to a small table with books he'd prepared for them. They involved information about the royal lineage of Andaris, the history of Veljorn Burhan and his company, and even the personal accounts of Alistair who had spent some time in Burhan as a youth. All of this information was prepared for this discussion, as Alistair was never one to waste time or come to a meeting empty handed. There was a pen and quill for each of them, as well as a piece of parchment.

"Veljorn Burhan, Edmund Burhan, Zvezdana Venora, and Marcus Krome. Three great and historic families painted as rebels and fools in a single stroke. I worry not only for the values of our Kingdom if this rebellion is to succeed, but additionally for the honor and reputation of my house. I cannot abide by the Venoras being called traitor and kingslayer for the next century, especially given our history as the closest and most beloved by those of Andaris; we have for time immemorial been wed to your house, been kept in close company and shared wise counsel; I seek not to dissolve that peaceful bond between us. It would mean our end, and the dissolution of Rynmere."

He spoke from the heart in this. There was absolutely no world that existed in which the seven houses warring with one another was at all advisable. They needed to maintain solidarity, especially the houses of Venora, Warrick and Andaris. There was no other option.

"Our two Duchies alone are half of the population of this Kingdom. Warrick is still yours to set to task. The southern houses can easily oust all of those in the north, especially on our own territory. And so I advise a plan: that we raise the armies of Venora, Andaris and Warrick, innumerable in number - and set them upon that of Veljorn's men when they are most vulnerable: during the siege of the city of Andaris. It is due to this faint idea, desperately scrawled by I who has no mind for tactics, that I have invited you here. The people of this Kingdom require the wisdom and authority of men like you to guide us in this battle between brainless turds and the good men of our nation."

[Peake]

Unlike his hosts, Peake’s face remained as tired and uninterested as it had been from the moment he escaped the open sceneries of this overpopulated rat den. His snide was taken humorously, which he did not mind and perhaps appreciated, especially before critical information was transferred in private. Alistair was kind enough to clap, and the army of servants began removing each of the components of Peake’s ornate armor quite properly, to Peake’s surprise. Despite some tugs being made to Peake’s limbs, offense he usually punished squires for with a quick backhand, he knew just how especial the Ouroboro Guard’s armor was. As far as Peake knew, it was originally designed not only to be elegant and practical, but to also be the first plated armor to overcome a direct impact from a crossbow’s bolt. It had obviously failed, as one such bold couldn’t even be stopped by a shield, but some of the genius behind it had remained, making it quite good at deflecting them if received in a good angle.

Each piece they removed and dragged away freed Peake’s body from weight and oppression, step by step revealing his bulky body that hid under the black gambeson. Whilst this was occurring, and the individual whom accompanied Alistair gave an explanation Peake did not bother to lend his attention to, the nobleman’s eyes trailed off towards the females. No matter their caste, they looked like whores in Peake’s misogynistic eyes. He certainly flirted with the idea of halting his meeting with Alistair to instead be a gentleman with each of the females, which meant doing some farmer’s work and giving them both a mouthful of Andaris’ most valuable seed. It was then when his thoughts flew back to Syhera, his fiancé, and perhaps the only woman that he had not been inside of. Perhaps if her moans resounded through Andaris like alarm bells their engagement would be taken seriously.

Even if Peake’s reproduction instincts were starting to flare up with his fantasizing, soon enough he found himself free of the armor’s burden, to which Alistair began walking him through the halls of the palace. Unsentimental, and totally insensible to works of art, Peake’s gaze remained strictly forward, either in the few moles that appeared on the back of Alistair’s neck, or in some distant servant Peake did not trust. It was undeniably worrying to be here, unarmed, unarmored, when this man’s sister had rekindled the fires of war. The fact that Alistair’s family was technically passive to each side of the war, thus waiting for a chance to strike at whatever yielded more profit, was not reassuring to the bearded giant. To imagine himself dying in the frail and cream-coated, exfoliated hands of a Venora was as shameful as waking up and finding one’s penis missing.

At last, the three wise men arrived at the palace’s private library, whose name Peake only glanced at, and perhaps in his disinterest he read the name “Hall of Butting Wisdom”. Not bothering to re-read it, or logically discard such ridiculous name due to the nature of Venorans, Peake merely sighed as he was conducted to what appeared to be an amateur study table. Books filled with information known by every peasant, surely no different than the one Peake had already memorized to quickly calm down the King’s quench for violence and war. Little use that would be to them, expect perhaps useful enough for Peake to lose some respect for Alistair.

Who was Alistair, anyway? He was the heir to his family’s duchy, but he was no warrior. He had not earned a knighthood, nor had directly studied combat strategy outside of pure theory made for the amusement of pretentious noblemen. Noblemen were usually businessmen, and war being one of the most profitable ventures out there, it was often studied by those moved by greed or deluded altruism. That was Peake’s idea of the looming civil war, a business move by some who cared not for longevity or legacy, for those that would rather have silver now than plant cooper and harvest gold some arcs later. Alas, Peake was still open to whatever Alistair had to say, and so he took a sit, leaned back and crossed his arms as he barely fulfilled his role as a respectful guest.

“There will be no flanking, because there will be no fighting in this war. Nothing other than small skirmishes, anyway.” Peake concluded at last, confident in what he said, despite speaking without much emotion. Having repeated this to the King on several times, Peake was getting tired of speaking the same words over and over. “This is a civil war that is built on sand. It’s going to crumble as quickly as it was built. I can’t disclose the King’s plans, as I’ve taken a vow, but I will say this: without a Lord Commander, my word has weight on what is to be done. And I say wait and see.” Peake reached out for a scroll, which he guessed was a map, and after effectively guessing, he rolled it out and trapped each corner of the parchment with a book. Then, with a finger he pointed towards Burhan’s territory. “Veljorn and Edmund Burhan. Two men allied because they are family, nothing else.” His finger then moved to Krome territory, north of Andaris. “Marcus Krome, a lordling that thinks himself important. As I don’t know much about the Duke’s position on this, I’ll still call it a possible no-show supporter.” At last, Peake moved his finger to Venora’s territory, south of Andaris. It was then he went quiet, staring back at the heir as if wondering if he was staring into the eyes of a friend or a foe.

“Zvezdana Venora, second child of Willow Venora, younger sister of Alistair Venora, man I’m currently wondering if I should choke before or after I hear a well-deserved explanation.” With every word, Peake’s mask of apathy fell apart, and once again that rabid intolerance and rigid nature gleamed within his eyes. “You’re not a Baron yet, and that I understand. One day, however, you will be, and then you will be Duke. If both of us live, we’ll most likely be in charge of the fate of our people. History books can always be wiped, but I want you to know that your incompetence in controlling your whore sister or slapping your mother into reason I’ll remember forever. This farce of a war could’ve been avoided if you, as heir, had done what was expected from you.” Peake was obviously bothered about all this, and after a few moments of doubting if to speak his mind or not, finally he decided to let it slide for the sake of the longevity of them both.

“But sure, if you want to talk strategy, let’s talk strategy.” Peake’s tone changed to sarcasm, almost mocking Alistair like Peake mocked the overly-sensitive squires in the Iron Hand. “A combined attack, you say? One of those that are logistical nightmares, besides being next to impossible to properly organize, limiting the options of improvisation in the battlefield and whose costs are so high they seem extracted from a mathematic example? Well, how interesting.” Peake seemed to be done with the mockery, as instead he leaned forward and harshly pointed towards the Burhan territory, more specifically towards the Burning Mountains. “Or you just set the mountains on fire while the rebels take turns with your whore sister. You see, mountains tend to be quite windy, and wind and fire are a dangerous combination. Considering that from the 10th to the 32nd there are no predictions of rains, I’d say it’s the perfect weather to burn some rebels. I thought the name would be more obvious. You create a cordon for the first five miles of the river in case part of the army tries to make it out and you fill them with arrows. With a tenth of the manpower you’ll most likely wound the army and whatever morale they have left, and you just wait.”

And with that, Peake leaned back and crossed his arms, his expression proper of a bastard present as he stared back at Alistair and waited.

Thanks to Lazuli for this amazing template!

[Alistair]

Immediately, unpleasantness. Peake and Alistair had spent quite a time together in their youths, and had been estimated by many to grow into proper companions as they were fast friends as children. But the two of them changed over time, and the Andaris became significantly colder and harsher than he had been in the days of yore. Alistair had lost his ability to recognize emotion the same way - if he'd ever had it at all - and so now the conversation was that of a raging bull bashing into but a wall of concrete. Choke? he asked himself. The Venora's eyes hardly shifted. He simply stared, blankly, at Lord Andaris... like he always did.

But he did not remain entirely silent. No. He wasn't offended or threatened by anything the man said, but he did feel it was his obligation to remind him of his rank. "You are a Lord, Peake," the man said. "I have invited you into my home. I need not your pointless threats. If you want to choke me, go ahead and try. You won't like the result." He placed his hands in front of him. The man spoke of how Alistair needed to detain his whore sister and that he'd failed to do so, staining himself as an heir. He only smirked at that.

Control Zvezdana? It was an impossibility. She was as a great flame that sought to burn through the garden of her house. Ebony, Willow, Kaleb, they'd all tried to control her. She was far too irrational to make the proper choice, and Alistair did not have the public or political authority to make decisions for her. He was not Duke, yet. If he had been, he would have removed her from the family on the day of her wedding to Veljorn.

A proper reprisal.

"As for what was expected of me?" he rolled his eyes. "I was expected to stay quiet and do nothing. My grandmother is exceptionally sentimental, and my mother favors the idea of being something of a Queen Regent in her future. The Duchess and I discussed the future of Venora and realized the stain upon our honor that Zvezdana had wrought. Yet, she refused to act. Do you expect me to punish or harm my grandmother, the Duchess? Someone of great importance to both this Kingdom and these lands you walk upon?" He shook his head; the idea was laughable, and he thought Peake had known better.

"I have done my best. You are not in a position to question me. My reputation as a politician and leader ousts that of your own, and rightfully so with your current display of lacking wit. So please, step off the undeserved grandstand, Lord Andaris. You can flail about with words of vapid nature that intimidate the hearts of others, and you will often succeed. But never will you succeed with me. Unlike my sister, I am not a rebel or a whore. I am a Lord." He left it at that. Peake could challenge, insult or rage at him all he desired.

Alistair didn't care. He would never surrender the prestige of Venora to fall beneath the heel of Andaris. They were to be as companions, compatriots. Peake would have to learn to cooperate with the Duke of Venora now and in the future if he wished to maintain a successful Kingdom. That was simply a fact.

His plans with the mountain were intriguing, though, Alistair did admit. The man placed his thumb beneath his chin and pondered, allowing his mind to escape from the pointless argument Peake had instigated and back to important matters at hand. If the Lord wished to continue to pursue his antagonistic behavior, that was fine, though Alistair would pay him little mind. He parted his lips to speak. "Such a plan would be hastily scribbled. They will not take long to arrive through the pass. I do approve of the notion, though I wonder of our time-frame. Additionally, if that fails, would you continue to rule out the idea of a flank? I need clarity on this." He would be approaching the Duchess about this soon, after all, attempting to persuade her to his side. Peake's options, including their requisite Plan B's, needed to be clear.

[Peake]

What had started as an empty threat grew into a quite viable answer for Alistair’s little attitude. As Peake listened, his unchecked fury grew with every curated word that escaped Alistair’s refined mouth. Everything Peake detested was present in the Lord: fancy words, calm arrogance, and a bullseye drawn on a pretty face Peake wanted to destroy.
“You may be a Lord, Alistair, but I am a Baron. And while you’re here reading your books with your ‘theologist’, I’m in the King’s Court trying to contain this situation. “Peake signaled around them by opening his arms wide open. “Do you see any weapons on me? No, you fucking don’t, because despite me being a warrior, I am a politician and a nobleman. My weapons are my words, and by the way you speak to me, I’d say yours are too. Try to pick your targets correctly, though, because I won’t waste my time listening to you petting yourself in the back while you’ve been too much of a coward to disagree with your peers. Next time, instead of sitting around quiet, raise your voice and tell your mother or your grandmother just how stupid of an idea fueling the war is. Nobody has asked you to murder anyone.”

Peake was annoyed, really annoyed. Alistair was the one that sent a letter, claiming how his allegiance still remained with the Kingdom, how unfortunate it was the civil war that was slowly advancing towards Andaris. Now, however, he tried to play politics and strategy when Peake had no intention to do so. It was Peake the one that wasted three trials on the road, not him. Leaning back and raising his head as his teeth clenched, a low growl escaped him as his brown eyes bounced between the Lordling and his butler. Used to be in a position of power within Andaris, to be stripped of those rights and privileges in this poor excuse of a fort was exasperating.
“Next time you invite me here after you’ve fucked up, know that I won’t be coming as a friend anymore. Seems you don’t want one of those. And if you’re going to have that attitude with me, then I don’t want you as a friend either.”

Sighing, Peake finally let go of the bickering between the two of them, surely not willing to forget Alistair and hold a future grudge against him for that. Instead of focusing on personal drama, Peake adopted his attitude of Commander of the Ouroboro Guard, and even the attitude of the Lord Commander, role he was partially playing as well due to the death of Thomas Endor. Despite Peake having fucked Queen Freya, nobody was smart enough to point towards them two like Peake had pointed towards Thomas and Freya. Their deaths were on his back… but thankfully Peake now had a pretty armor and a lot of prestige to hide the stains. Looking back down at the map, Peake would shake his head.

“No, I don’t want a joint attack. I don’t know if you’ve realized, Alistair, but we’re defending, not attacking.” Peake sighed, perhaps a bit condescendingly as he deemed Alistair’s tactics to be inferior to his. “The main difference between us and them is that they only have an army to lose. We have everything to lose. The moment we pack our troops together, they are easy pray for catapults or wildfire even if it takes out part of their own troops. Sure, we’d win the battle, but we’re losing thousands of men, equipment, and wasted supplies.” Peake leaned forward and pointed towards the east of the island.

“I still believe in smarter fighting. Hit and run, like burning the mountains. If we take out a thousand men, we’re still victorious, and we’re likely to get away with almost no casualties. What would be ideal is to destroy the supply lines, stop the advance of the army’s mass or delay it. We take out their morale, and we win this war. Nobody will try to siege a castle with an empty stomach, with corpses all around, or for the whims of some Burhan.“ Pause, in which Peake would stare at Alistair to see if he was following his train of thoughts. It was a dangerous game, the one they played. Anyone could create a thousand different strategies, but getting to know the way of thinking of the commander of an army… it was dangerous. Alistair hadn’t proven his loyalty to the King but anything but words, so Peake technically was gambling the Crown away by discussing this. “Nobody fights to the death in the battlefield, because nobody wants to die. That’s a fact. Our objective is to cause as much psychological damage as we can and cause the rout to spread in the Burhan army. Once that happens, we’ve won.”

Peake broke his stare and instead signaled towards the east of the island in the map spread on the table.

“This is the big problem with that strategy, however. Avari and Zor River, and Lake Krome. This is the Burhan’s main way of sending supplies up and down the river, and the King has little to no control over them. We can’t drain the river, and we can’t block it. With Krome and Burhan controlling it, they are giving us a hard time. And like you said, they wouldn’t take long to reach the pass.” Nora’s Pass was a delicate location, but one the Iron Hand couldn’t quite use for anything. Too big to collapse it, too small and too far away to send the King’s army within it. It was still a pending question mark. “Which is why we’re trying our best to shatter the relationships between Burhan and Krome. That is the number one priority right now, and hopefully time will help us do it. It’s still a much better strategy than packing our manpower together and risking heavy losses.”

Thanks to Lazuli for this amazing template!

[Alistair]

Peake was, simply enough to say, an utter dick. Alistair's eyes must have rolled half a dozen times as he retorted to the noble's words. He had began this with hostility, and somehow by Alistair's lack of squeamishness and submission he'd become offended. It was the Peake he knew, to be sure, though his attitude was far from necessary in a time such as this. Peake was indeed a more skilled tactician than Alistair was. He knew his lack of experience in the field of war, which was why he desired to learn, potentially from the Andaris. Alistair observed that his tactics seemed limited to the battlefield, however. When dealing with the strategy of life as a nobility, he faltered.

He created enemies with his words - his crude attitude, one unjustified. The man was not nearly great enough in personal characteristics to carry such an aura of authority and dominance behind his words. His behavior was childish as a result of his self-aggrandizing beliefs, ever was he condescending and harsh yet unwilling to allow harshness in return. Somehow Alistair's self-defense to Peake's ridiculously crass claims was the man not wishing to be his friend. It was targeting him. In Alistair's mind, he sounded much like some youthful girl wishing to remain exalted in everyone's eyes. The slightest insult was a crime.

"You're an utter moron," the man said with the same cold look. It was a statement of fact, at least to him, and required no emotion behind it. Damien's eyes immediately widened, and the Lich stood from his seat and stepped off to the corner of the room. Alistair followed suit in rising from his seat and staring into the eyes of the Andaris. "This is a time of civil war, one in which allies should be treated with respect and acknowledgment rather than pointlessly harsh preconceptions. I was quite kind in my invitation of you. I firmly believe that House Andaris should rule this Kingdom, not Burhan. Yet you do not hold the same respect for me or my house. I get it - Zvezdana's a bitch. I feel much the same way, Peake. But I am not. You know nothing of what has occurred in this household, yet you act as if I am some craven who can't properly challenge the decisions of his grandmother. I can. I have done so. It is due to me that we are Neutral to this engagement rather than flat-out supporting Veljorn's army. You insult me and expect that I say nothing back. In reality, you're the fucking craven."

His eyes flared. He was irritated. Peake had questioned things about him that no one could dare question - he questioned his dedication to his ideals, and to his noble house. He insinuated his weakness. That could not stand. "I am strong," he said. "Stronger than you. I have gone against my house and all odds to fight for my ideals. I consort with you despite my family's disapproval. I can't even expect that the King will be grateful since I'll soon be labeled as the kin of a traitor. I don't fucking care though, because I care about Rynmere, something I have always demonstrated. But you don't acknowledge that, do you? You just want to be above me. You are not." Alistair shook his head and laughed. He could see the seething anger in the Andaris' face.

He didn't care.

"I want to be your friend and ally, but I won't stand for your shit talking and hypocritical behavior. You think I'm weak? You think I'm a craven? Fight me. I'll gladly beat the shit from your ass and feed it to the throat of your bloody dragon. I am not one for you to step on and condescend."

[Peake]

Moron.

As the word left Alistair’s mind, Peake’s mockery flared out alarmingly quick, brown eyes widening as much as the smirk beneath his beard. There was clear satisfaction in his features, having finally cracked open the flowery skull of the Venora, having brought out dishonorable words to those pretty lips. No matter how fancy they believed themselves to be, their false belief of superiority had just been destroyed with simple snide, which the Andaris felt very proud of. Alistair was a good man, except in the ‘man’ part as many rumors about his inverted sexuality had been fluttering around. And despite Peake still liking him as a friend, his features couldn’t help but hint at how furious the Baron truly felt.
Unlike Alistair, a pawn in a game which his house was unsure of how to play, Peake’s side was obvious from the day of his birth. Many family issues had split the Andaris part, but the ideal of prosperity and peace was imbued in each spawn of the Dragon. Peake had the power Alistair lacked, and to be disrespected from someone otherwise considered bright was a grave offense. Peake rose from his seat as soon as Alistair was done, eager to have the last word, to be proven right, and to climb back up the altar House Andaris deserved to be on.
“We’re treated you Venora with respect so far, and you tried to stab your oldest allies in the back for a fancy chair. We’ve mingled our blood for generations but you almost chose to start spilling it. This is a time of civil war, indeed, but one thing you don’t seem to quite understand.” Peake rose his head, looking at Alistair from above. “You don’t deserve any praise for a half-done job.”

Pause. The tension in the room could almost be palpable, perhaps as much as Peake’s body odor, as the road did not quite offer as many bathhouses or randomly filled bathtubs as Peake would’ve liked. It didn’t seem to bother him, that detail, as instead he was focused on the features of his childhood friend, which had apparently grown a bit daft as time had passed. As usual, Peake had to be the professor to enlighten the student.
“You cut half your neck. You fucked half a woman. You burned half your House. It doesn’t really count, does it?” Peake asked. “Some things you cannot do half-ways. You cannot be neutral to the rebel when House Venora is Andaris' ally from the days of the Sacred Seven. The fact that you tried to use that failure in an attempt of winning an argument disappoints me.”

Peake shook his head, and scoffed mockingly. He wasn’t done yet.
“You think you’re strong because you call me a moron? That’s why you’re weak, Alistair. You don’t have the guts to admit the truth, to admit that you don’t really have a say in this matter. Do you really think you have the right to complain if someone steps on you, or hurts you? You don’t. You have the right to be quiet, because everything else will only be your own undoing.” Peake paused, once again. He truly liked these dramatics cuts in his pretentious speeches. “You know what the truth is? You’re not bigger than me. You’re not stronger than me. You’re not even prettier than me. You and I represent the future of our families, and so we will always be above you.”

Peake leaned forward slightly, his most unpleasant features showing themselves to Alistair as he tried to intimidate him with not only his appearance but also with his harsh ideals.
“You give the dog a bone, and it keeps coming back, hungrier and hungrier, until it is your leg what he chews on. That’s why in times of civil war, we don’t show you respect and give you bones. In times like these, we beat the curs into obedience until they learn their place. You think I want to fight you? I don’t need to – I’ve already won. So learn your place,”

Peake finally showed his true colors, the fear monger and dominator, as his hand flew to attempt to deliver a harsh backhand to Alistair’s pretty face. If it landed, it wouldn’t be very physically painful, but it would be quite on the symbolic front. It would also give a very pleasant sound for Peake’s ears.

“… And bend the knee, bitch.”

Thanks to Lazuli for this amazing template!

[Alistair]

Everything he said was bullshit. A compromise was not a half-done job. Preventing total decimation of the Renaults in the face of this war was not a half-done job. He had done well, and he knew he'd done well, and he was still lobbying for the support of Cassander and House Andaris. As for House Venora betraying their oldest allies? He could only scoff.

It was Zvezdana - she did not represent House Venora. Alistair would, because he had the conviction to go further than she did, to do more than merely marry a powerful man and expect it to all go well from there. "I'm here so I can make my half-done job a fully completed one," he said, though he thought he didn't need to. He thought it was obvious. "I don't know how it works in your delusional mind, but you can't merely play a divine trumpet and have everything go your way. You are incredibly spoiled, Peake. Everyone's always treated you as if you aren't some loud-mouthed volatile shit just because you're the heir to Andaris. Not me." He shook his head.

The man, in his eyes, was a fool and had always been a fool. That was not to say he was unintelligent. Alistair respected much of what he said and did, and he carried experience with him that Alistair lacked. The two of them were merely opposite sides of the same coin - both the pragmatist but one with a heart of anger and one with propriety, poise, subversion. "We don't need to be above you," the man responded. Peake's arguments made no sense. He had never claimed to be Andaris' superior - he had merely claimed that they were not so far beneath them as to be spat upon. But of course, the man would not understand that. He was a bloody, angry wreck. He didn't understand grace. He didn't understand civilized society. Peake had never been a nobleman - he would have got along much greater in the world if he'd joined the military.

Ali knew that for a fact. The air of diplomacy was one that grew sour upon him, and now he was merely insulting Alistair to maintain his perceived dominance. The Venora would not have it. As the man threw his arm to attempt to fling at Alistair, he moved to grab his wrist and began to pressure it - Peake would quickly discover that Alistair was quite physically strong, and he was applying a severe amount of pressure to his wrist that seemed to only intensify. In reality, he was augmenting the harm he could inflict by lacing his palms in the slightest bit of corrosive energies, which would bruise and weaken Peake's muscles for long enough for Alistair to triumph over him. He let go once he knew his arm would go partially limp and went to throw a punch at the man, applying all of his force to bash into his gut. The man did not look angry at all. He appeared very calculated.

Alistair had every intention to rein the Andaris in - to show him that he wasn't his bitch, and the only one who'd be bending a knee would be his smug, bearded ass in a tearful apology.