PART 1: THE DUEL
A bead of sweat slid its way slowly down Darren’s face, inching towards his chin. He ignored it. Shifting his left and rearmost foot just ever so slightly to the right, Darren adjusted his saber so that it faced his opponent, slowly circling him. Priceless tapestries, unimaginably rare vases, and invaluable ancient weapons and armor in displays shifted by in the background. Darren paid them no mind, keeping his eyes fixed upon his opponent’s smug half-grin. A sneer crawled its way onto Darren’s face. That grin wouldn’t be there for much longer if Darren had anything to say about it.
Taking a step forward, Darren shuffled towards his opponent before rotating his weapon out of its ready position and launching a sweeping blow towards his opponent’s arm. His opponent almost immediately parried, his turned blade catching Darren’s blow on its crossguard. Darren disengaged his weapon, bringing it back before unleashing another sweeping blow towards his opponent’s left flank. Reacting quickly, his opponent shifted his blade in his hands and parried the strike.
Grinning madly, Darren pushed his blade up his opponent’s in a screech of steel. Quickly disengaging around his opponent’s crossguard, Darren cleaved into the flesh of his opponent’s arm. But his opponent’s eye’s only steeled. Darren realized something was wrong and tried to retreat, and bring his saber back into its ready position—but it was too late. With lightning speed, his opponent sprang forwards and drove his blade through Darren’s stomach before quickly withdrawing it and parrying Darren’s downwards blow in a spray of blood. Darren snarled, clutching his stomach and staggering back a half-step, his saber half-raised in front of him defensively. His opponent just took a further step back, lowering his guard and waiting. He wasn’t kept waiting long.
“Halt!” A harsh voice shouted the voice loudly into the air. The referee pointed his left arm at Darren. “Feint, disengage, superficial cut to the lower right arm.” Pointing his right arm at his opponent, the referee continued his analysis. “Parry, riposte into a lethal blow.” The referee paused a second to let the words sink into the crowd. “Match goes to the defendant.”
A light applause sprang up across the room as the victor graciously flashed a smile out at the crowd, bowing slightly. Darren gave the man a hate-filled glare, still not lowering his sword.
“Fuck you, Khajiit.” Darren spat the acrid words out, glaring at Khajiit as fiercely as he could. The crowd hushed, focussing back on Darren and realizing he had yet to drop his sword.
Khajiit just gave Darren a smug half-smile and shrugged. “I told you that you stood no chance.” He shrugged again. “Not my fault you can’t handle the truth.” The crowd oohed.
Darren roared and lunged at Khajiit. Several members of the crowd shouted in excitement. But Darren barely made it two steps towards Khajiit before an invisible force smashed into his chest, picking him up and slamming him down onto the ground, knocking the saber free of his grasp and all the air out of his lungs. Darren huffed and curled up slightly, desperately trying to recover his breath. His eyes watered, and suddenly the pain slammed into him. His bleeding gut. The nick on his wrist and neck. His newly acquired bruised back. After a couple seconds, Darren caught his breath. He could have stood up. But he didn’t. He just laid there on the ground, panting. After a couple seconds, the face of the duel proctor loomed into view, a half-smile twisted across his face.
“I trust you won’t try to stab the healer or me, correct master Stine?” The words were sarcastic, the duel proctor having been amused by the noble’s antics.
Darren just moaned and lay still. “No…” The half-groaned word was nearly unintelligible.
In a swirl of black and white patterned mage’s robes, the proctor spun and waved a hand. “Mildred!” The man spoke firmly while snapping his fingers and crooking his finger in a beckoning gesture. “Come here!” A half second later the healer arrived. She was dressed in mage’s robes similar to the proctor, except hers were green with blue patterns. She crouched down next to Darren and placed her hands above his belly wound. Green energy flowed its way down her arms to pulse into Darren’s wound. A half second later, Darren felt the familiar burn of the wound closing itself. Out of the corner of his eye, Darren saw Khajiit slowly approaching. After standing over Darren for a couple seconds with a gloating look on his face, Khajiit leaned over and in a mock whisper spoke to Darren.
“Your brother was a goddamn coward. He died running, with an arrow in his back.” The words were malicious, each and every one of them aimed to pierce. Darren spat a glob of blood mixed phlegm up into Khajiit’s face.
“Fuck you, asshole.” A dark look came over Khajiit’s face and his hand slunk down towards his sword, but with a reproachful shake of the proctor’s head, Khajiit backed down. His eyes narrowed as he glared down at Darren.
“We’ll resolve this another day.” The words were menacing, and there was no mistaking the intent behind them. Darren just grinned up at him.
“Oh, I’ll be glad to.” With a final, menacing glare, Khajiit turned around and strode away. A retainer ran up to him, offering a rag. Khajiit snatched it up and shoved the man away. He wiped off his face, and with one last hateful glare shot over his shoulder, disappeared into the crowd.
PART 2: THE DEAL - AN HOUR LATER
“You’re a goddamn disgrace to this family, the Stine name, your mother, your brother, everything you touch goes to shit!” Carver was pretending to get worked up. That meant that he was resorting to more traditional speechcraft strategies. Unfortunately, Darren had been well trained in those same speechcraft strategies. He knew what his father was trying to get him to do. He wouldn’t take the bait. He stoically met the eye of his father.
“He said Calvin was a coward. I couldn’t let that go. You know that, father.” Darren tried to keep his voice calm. It was difficult. Carver lifted his chin, straightened his posture, and glared at Darren.
“Calvin was never a good soldier. He always preferred his numbers and letters over the sword.” Carver tilted his head back a quarter-inch further and sniffed. “No surprise he was killed on campaign. He was a horrible duellist and a worse warrior. Better dead on campaign, than disgracing our name here in court.” The words were spoken imperiously and candidly as if Carver were analyzing a poor marketing proposition. Darren’s fists clenched and unclenched themselves, barely able to keep himself from striking his father.
“You’re sick. You sent him there to die, and you knew it. We all knew it.” The words were raw and came out full of emotion. Carver opened his mouth to make a rebuttal, but Darren cut him off before he could even say anything at all.
“You’ll never have this family behind you. I’ll manage your docks for you but someday I’ll win your men’s loyalty and I’ll crush you and your little empire and make every last bit of it mine.” With that last, venomous diatribe Darren spun and walked off through the ballroom, rudely pushing by several masked and finely dressed lords and ladies loitering around in the ornately decorated ballroom. His back turned, Darren failed to notice the proud, Cheshire smile stretched across his father’s face, the man who slunk out of the shadows to stand next to him, or the half-muttered words that came out of his mouth.
“I’d have it no other way, son.”
~~~
Darren cackled and threw the dice out onto the table.
“I’ll never lose!” Darren shouted the words gleefully as the dice rolled across the table before landing on a four and a six.
Darren's already flushed face flushed redder as he glanced between his tiles arranged before him on the table and the numbers the dice were showing.
Stolen story; please report.
“Aw man, why do I never win at this game.” A frowning Darren sullenly grumbled the words to himself. Darren tossed three of his tiles towards the pile of used tiles in the center of the table before grabbing the bottle of liquor resting on the table in front of him and upending the last of it into his wine glass. Putting the empty bottle back on the table, the edge clinked off the other seven already emptied bottles sitting on the table. Maurice grinned at Darren from across the table.
“You’re sure playing a poor game tonight, Darren.” His words were confident, cocksure. Maurice reached out to grab two of three tiles Darren had thrown out before throwing out two more of his own and revealing his seven tiles to the rest of the group. A collective groan went up from the rest of the seven players, and Maurice’s confident grin grew smug.
“Nine and a ransom. Dragon, on side.” A nine and a ransom was a virtually unbeatable hand with a dice roll of ten. Backed up by the power of a dragon, the odds were slim that anyone could beat it. Maurice waited for a couple seconds, glancing around the table before leaning forwards to claim the pot. Just a second before he could put his hand on it, a voice rang out.
“Hold it.” The slight voice was reproaching, sly, and slightly amused. Everyone at the table, Maurice included, turned to stare at the speaker. It was Victoria, the sole lady at the table. She was wearing a gloating look on her face. Her long, blue and black stylish dress shifted about on her slim figure as she uncrossed, and then crossed her legs. Maurice paled. Victoria flicked her white-gloved hand to reveal her tiles, a ten and an archmage, with a merchant on side.
“Oh come on,” Maurice said, flopping back into his chair and slapping his hands on the table in disappointment. “Really? Ugh.” He pointed at Victoria with a serious expression on his face. “That one was just luck, and you know it.” Victoria shrugged and motioned to her retainer to move the pot to her stack of chips containing roughly half the total wealth at the table.
“That’s just the way it is. You win some, you lose some. Some just win a lot more than others.” Victoria smiled slyly, and almost everyone at the table groaned again.
Darren chimed in. “Man, I gotta get you ta’ teach me sometime, Victoria. You’re great at this.” Darren moaned. “Not me. I’m ter-terreal-terr-turbidal,” Darren trailed off, frowning, before finishing the statement with an easier word. “Bad at this game.”
Victoria shrugged, flipped her blonde locks with a noncommittal shake of her head, and gave him a patronizing smile.
“I’ll think about it.”
A retainer came around the table and was laying out a new set of tiles to the players when a man walked up.
“Scuze’ me folks, but I was wonderin’ if I couldn’t have a brief word with young masta’ Stine ‘ere, I had a business proposition I wanted to discuss with him…”
Darren quickly gave the man a brief scanning. He clearly meant business. The portly man was wearing black leather gloves combined with a traditional black leather duster that had long since fallen out of style. Underneath the open duster, he wore Kalmanthian military fatigues, with the black and red four sharded badge of a major. It took a couple seconds for Darren’s beleaguered mind to recognize the uniform, badge, and their significance, but as soon as he did he snapped to action. Darren immediately began channeling a spell, one that would quickly sober himself up. It was one of the few spells he’d had the aptitude and time to learn, and one that had served him very well in the past.
Darren subtly jerked his head at the retainer. The man, already watching Darren, stopped laying out the tiles before straightening his back and addressing the nobles.
“I would like to profusely apologize for the inconvenience, but it appears host Stine has a business partner. If the rest of the lords and ladies would be so kind as to give them the courtesy of privacy…”
The rest of the nobles grumbled, but nonetheless got up and filtered out of the private lounge. They knew the drill. Before the retainer could make his escape behind the rest of the nobles, Darren waved the man down, beckoning him over into speaking range.
“Would you be so kind as to fetch this kind gentleman and I a Trallean 271 S.A, please.” All trace of the lackadaisical, oblivious, slouch that had just been gambling was gone. The retainer nodded and left for the storeroom, coming back a minute later with the requested drink in hand before setting it and an extra wineglass down on the table in front of Darren. After filling both his wineglass and the new one, Darren flashed a winsome smile and turned to the major, handing him the drink.
“So, you said you had a business proposition for me?” The words oozed friendliness. The major glanced discreetly around the room before he spoke.
“Professional, emptyin’ the room. You’re a smart one. One, willin’ to take a risk in order to get things done.” The major nodded. “I’m Nash. Nash Kephees.” He extended his hand. Darren firmly grasped and shook it.
“So, you were talking about risks?” Darren questioned the man, genuinely curious. “What sort of risks are we talking about here?” Nash nodded and licked his lips.
“Risks. I heard what happened in the duellin’ court. How you challenged that pompous ass for talkin’ shit about your brother. That was a bold move right there. Khajiits the fifth-ranked duellist in the city. He would skewer all but one or two of my soldiers in a fight. You pissed him off right good. That ain’t somethin’ a lot of people would do.” Nash’s eyes were narrowed as he watched Darren. Darren shrugged back at him.
“He insulted my brother. I couldn’t let that stand.” Darren spoke candidly, then took a sip of his wine. Nash raised his glass in a salute before taking a sip.
“You know, I heard about your brother after he died. I was at that battle, not his commander, but leadin’ the 127th. Khajiit was full of shit. He didn’t die runnin’. At least not from a fight. Him an’ his retinue was escortin’ munitions to a marksman brigade when he got shot in the back.” The words were solemn, serious.
Darren just nodded, staring down into his drink.
“I know that.” The words were quiet but definitely audible in the silence of the room. Darren looked up to meet Nash’s gaze. Nash shrugged.
“So about the proposition.” Nash discreetly glanced around the room again, confirming their privacy. “It’s gonna have to be discreet. This ain’t—” Nash glanced furtively around the room again. “This ain’t somethin’ you can go flashing around and showin’ off to everyone.”
Darren gave the man a level stare. “Get on with it.” The words were impatient, commanding. Nash swallowed and obliged.
“Me and some friends of mine were hopin’ to move some goods through the city…”
~~~
Darren stared aimlessly off at the priceless painting, too absorbed in his own thoughts to admire the artwork. He took a sip out of his wine glass.
A slender pair of white-gloved hands slipped over Darren’s shoulders, taking firm grip of them. He didn’t start at all, not protesting or questioning as the hands began to slowly massage his shoulders, relieving a portion of a tension held within his heavyset frame.
“How much did we make tonight, Victoria?” The words were spoken woodenly, devoid of emotion.
“Seventeen crowns, my lord.” Victoria’s proud, sensual voice wafted out into the room as the massage continued. Darren took another sip of his wine.
“Good. That’s a good amount. Well done, Victoria. Well done.” Darren’s voice was tinged with approval this time. The hands stopped roaming, and Victoria strode around Darren’s chair before sitting herself down in the chair next to him, a pleased smile stretched across her face. It was tight for the both of them.
“You know how I like to please my lord.” The words were half-whispered and oozed with sensuality. One of her hands roamed down Darren’s leg. He just shook his head at her antics.
“Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.” The words were stern. Victoria frowned, halting her actions. She paused for a moment, considering, before speaking.
“How did that business deal go, anyway? Was it another soldier trying to get you to convince your father to support another foolish campaign against the Horse Tribes?” Victoria asked the questions delicately. Darren shook his head.
“He was a smuggler. Illegal weapons, runes.” Darren spoke frankly. Victoria’s eyebrows climbed for the ceiling.
“A smuggler?” She said the word incredulously, glancing towards the door and confirming their privacy. “Then we should report him to the council.” Darren shook his head.
“I took his offer.” Darren’s voice was mellow, serious. Victoria looked at him, surprise evident in her face.
“Why?” The astonished word shot out of her mouth. Darren turned his head to look Victoria in the eyes.
“Remember what I told you, Victoria.” The words were slightly reproachful. Victoria thought for a second before her eyes flared with understanding.
“We always win big.” Victoria’s words were resolute. Darren nodded solemnly. She turned forwards, shrugged, and then nodded.
“You’re right.” The words were accepting. The conversation died, and the two just sat there, enjoying each other's company.
~~~
A dark figure stood hidden in the darkness of the arch of the entrance to the private lounge, a familiar Cheshire smile stretched across its face as it watched Darren and Victoria. Dipping its hat, the figure turned and silently walked out of the room.