Brighteyes turned his glare from the now clearly unwanted company and said to Ulric with deliberately phrased contempt
"It is no one of consequence Ulric Glade Chief.” Brighteyes said dismissively, “Just another one of the castings of a Great House of the Zellussin. One of those who thinks the deeds of their fathers should be as of their own and supposes to hold the moon for it."
That observation by the youth wiped some of the smug off the guy's face for sure. It did not, unfortunately, send him on his way. The Elf studiously ignored Ulric entirely to continue whatever the hell he thought he was doing here.
"I will hold a full third of the trade through Zelus in my hands pup, of what can you claim but to be the only surviving son of a butcher holding power because he doesn't mind wading in blood? And I see that your Eldest Sister has now fallen so low as to become property. A good thing I did not tie myself to her, this would have been such a shame I would have had to release her or taint my house by association." Sneered the pompous Elf down his thin nose.
Hey now! Where had this fucker found the cojones to come over here with this? They were over here minding their own business and everything.
"You come all this way to brag about being too busy eating from a silver spoon to bother wiping your own ass, Cochise? How's about you take the hint that none here are impressed and fuck off?" Ulric said indignantly, unable to restrain himself.
The lime-colored eyes lit with confusion, as if the puff had heard a pigeon start reciting Latin. A toss of the ridiculous tail of hair preceded the Elven merchant’s kid’s incredulous reproof.
“You taught the animal our language? How gauche. Does your wilting House plan now to breed them as comfort pets for the hearth?” Mocked the, as yet nameless, noble’s son leaning forward to attempt to loom over the young Prince.
The attendees of the Festival were starting to take notice of the happenings and attentions turned to what was shaping up to be the night’s entertainment. Many rumors had flown around recently and the odd Human in company of two of the Lord Iriel’s children was central to a few of them.
Ulric noticed Bald’rt across the room in audience amongst the movers and shakers of his peoples and felt, more than saw, the Lord of Iriel’s attention, like a hawk’s shadow passing overhead. The oblivious Lordling noticed nothing beyond his gloating preen. From the dais the Dragons sat and Ulric knew there was no chance they did not know what was occurring, yet they did not descend to defend their offspring. They were joined presently by their Lord who traded brief words with them, his expression neutral but giving Ulric the impression of bad weather on the horizon. The circulating guards no doubt also had not missed events. Still, none had moved to intervene, none but one. A form similar in feature, though in more restrained, mature dress to their harasser broke off from hushed dialogues in alarm, to begin making its way through the crowd of Aes’r backs.
Not satisfied that his work was done, laced cuffs swished as their antagonist made some hand gesture, fingers signing something unfamiliar to Ulric’s education thus far. By the way Brighteyes’ expression turned grim it was nothing complimentary, no surprises. The lifted chin of fine-featured face was turned in a condescending smile as he continued his campaign, addressing Ulric directly for the first time.
“I would expect nothing less from a den of ill-bred cutthroats. Be proud, Animal, you are only barely understood, but this is still impressive. Most of your kind never live long enough to grasp the nuance of a proper tongue.”
Meanwhile, following the diatribe and the threatening position directed towards her brother, Geyrt was positively vibrating. Her hand clenched bloodlessly onto her knife hilt and the other was drawing blood from her own palm, yet she didn’t strike. Brighteyes' namesake had widened with outrage and he rose from his seat, was clearly about to do something drastic.
Ulric decided about that time that he was just about done listening to any more of this particular Elf's rudeness. He hadn’t crossed between worlds to take shit off some millionaire’s wet spot. At the same time, he was deeply confused. This shit didn’t make sense. It was against everything that had been explained to him about Elven society, it ran counter to anything close to acceptable conduct he’d observed amongst the Iriel’en. He was convinced that only outright shock had held the pair of Iriel’en royals in place, up to now.
What was this idiot angling for? A fight, obviously, but why? And with who? Surely not the kid. With Geyrt? That would be hilarious to watch, but no, there was no way. She’d eat this bastard without chewing. That she hadn’t already had something to do with the Shadow nonsense, it had to, she’d already have killed the poncey little ass if not for some constraining factor. Which left only him. But why? And why hadn’t anybody stepped in yet? He was given no more time to consider it, his Shadow was recovering from her earlier stunned silence.
“What Iriel does is no concern of yours. Already this has gone-“ Geyrt began.
“Silence property.” The noble cut her off contemptuously, “The shade of a nothing of a barbarian has no right to speak before its betters. Such a waste, you might have been a jewel of your people if only you had ever been shorn of the thorns.”
Geyrt went silent, the bad kind. She had straightened, uncoiling to stand behind her brother menacingly.
The golden-haired lad was only a moment more delayed, objecting “Outside of Honor’s bounds are you now Scion of Morion.” In a hissed tone.
Louder, the young Prince announced, “Sam’sav, you insult Iriel beneath its own roof, you insult one held under Iriel’s Guestright, and who is, by the sight of the Eternal Gaze, [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. There will be an accounting.”
“By whom Prince Lumyt’seit? You? Or will you name your now worthless sister as champion? Perhaps one of the much-vaunted guards you keep? Perhaps it is that you have no already run out of friends to offer as sacrifices to your incompetence and can find none other.” The Zellusin Lordling struck out, pleased at the pained tightness in Brighteyes’ gaze at the reminder of the loss of his friend.
Blood roared in Ulric’s ears and he found himself standing next to the Elven Fortunate Son, out of his chair and easily moved from outrage to just rage. He reared over top of the Elf and kept the fucker in his sight as he looked over the silver woven bird’s nest of a hairdo to make sure he wasn't about to do something Brighteyes might regret. That older Elf of similar form to the one before him approached from the corner of his eye, struggling through the dense press of onlooking bodies now.
"Brighteyes, I am a guest under your roof and courtesy has value to me, if it doesn't to some others. Can you speak me any reason not to crack this asshole's head open and pour out all the stupid?" Ulric said, his Elvish suffering some for trying hard not to grit his teeth.
Things were spiraling faster now. That whispering, niggling little voice of unreason that had become a worrying companion to Ulric's more familiar thought patterns was now a priest preaching blood and fire to the pulse of quickened heart-beat.
At last, proximity forced the Elf to give him full attention and his conceit ratcheted up even higher before breaking off the knob.
"You would have me believe this barbarian pauper in his borrowed rags is Lord of anything but mud? Absurd. This is clearly another game to grab for power, a ploy by backwards Treesleepers to lay claim to the Ancient’s legacy. Yet I find it fitting that the Valin be allowed to spend the last days of its short life rutting on top of its better's left overs." The Elf laughed, indicating with a ringed hand to his graceful Shadow while covering his mouth with the back of his other, uncalloused, hand.
The priest in his mind found a convert. Ulric's mind cleared suddenly. All the anger and indignation crystallizing into an almost peaceful decision to murder this fucking elf. Ulric's eyes snapped to Geyrt who was in the act of pulling her knife, her face twisted into fierce snarl. He reached over and gently lay his hand on hers shaking his head. There were probably rules and implications for a Shadow to murder someone publicly but, more importantly, she wasn't allowed to kill him because then Ulric wouldn't be able to. Just stood to reason, didn’t it? Ulric was all about straight lines right now, and the coaxing beckon of the furious living in his mind was all pure, hard-edged geometry. No sir, if she got to cut that Elf’s throat Ulric wouldn’t be able to MDK him and that would have been a godsdamned shame.
"Hold Geyrt.” He said calmly, voice distant to him, as if from across a wide river, “Don't worry, I'll take care of this one, you just sit back and relax. Enjoy the show."
Geyrt glanced at him with surprise, breaking her murderous glare away from the corpse that hadn't figured out it was a corpse yet. Her features relaxed as she slammed her knife back into its sheathe and she gave him a nod.
"Kill him then and have done. This one has crossed lines against you publicly and must not be allowed to live to do so again. He has offered insult against Iriel and will not be allowed to live." Geyrt clarified with fury still evident.
"Brighteyes, will you witness for me?" Ulric asked without inflection.
Brighteyes had mentioned doing some such way back when he and Geyrt were still having their spat. The Prince that was more than a child instantly drug a finger across his neck and spoke with anger Ulric had never heard from the mellow kid.
"It will be done Ulric. Call the bastard to the floor and end the drought beneath his feet. Just as Eldest Sister Geyrt did for the cur when he gave her cause fifteen years ago on this day. This time, there will be no healer to put him back inside himself." So spoke the young lord of Iriel, heat palpable.
"Did you catch that Deadman? The only trade you'll be doing is in two coins over your eyes. Meet me now and have an end to this game." Ulric told the corpse in the same bland tone.
"You will not even ruffle my clothes you Human peasant. I call you liar and thief. You are no Lord and you have stolen all you have from the lands of my people to sell back to them. I will claim your life before all my kin, and our holy land will know proper Lordship. Worry not, I'll keep your lovely Shadow well while you rot." Brayed the corpse.
That would have properly riled him a few minutes ago. Not now, corpses made all kinds of noises after they were dead. This one just needed to be a little deader and he would stop was all.
While all this went on Bald'rt and his wives merely sat their thrones in attendance on the Hall. There was no question they had heard everything, Vedyr mirrored her daughter’s expression, looked like a judge declaring a death sentence. Bathe's gaze burned coldly but she said nothing. Shor was her usual expressionless self but her hand gripped the wood hard enough to make sound, belying her neutrality. Oddly enough, Bald'rt simply smiled an amused smile, as if a joke were about to be played. Ulric was going to make sure it was a practical one and much more funny "Uh Oh" than funny "Haha". He didn’t know why things had been allowed to reach this point and, now he didn’t care.
Brighteyes raised his voice cutting clarion through the hall, his words bringing to a halt, like a spell of time, to the cheerful riot of the attending Elves.
"A challenge is laid. Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade] has called Sam'sav Morion to the floor for his insults delivered towards person, retinue, and clan. Sam'sav Morion has accepted."
All eyes raised around the room and the last of the attending Aes’r shuffled around to get a view of what was going on. Some of the Elves were grinning looking forwards to some entertainment at a thus far tame Festival. Some were frowning, uncertain about the aspersions cast or uncomfortable with the open displays of uncivility. Some were indifferent, as if this were simply a matter of course. Ulric noticed that most of the royal guard were exchanging hushed words with some of the fancy clothed guests, which was confusing until the little metallic coins used as a universal currency were counted out. Ah, placing their bets then. Ulric hoped they knew well enough to bet that dead people never won duels. The older Elf, so clearly related to the dead man, had reached the front of the pack too late to curtail the madness, his mouth screwed into a furious grimace.
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Ulric put the peanut gallery out of mind.
"You are challenged Lordling Morion of Zellusin, in the way of Iriel. I, Heir Lumyt'seit of Iriel, will witness. What weapon choose you?" declared Brighteyes, leveling a gaze that matched his mother's and extending one hand in a formal gesture towards the corpse.
"My knife will be good enough to carve life from this animal fraud." Shouted the corpse gratingly, his high voice shrill.
Lordling Morion had a hand on his belt knife, the instrument as pompously useless as the rest of him with its ivory hilt too smooth for grip, fanciful curves of flowers carved with metal inlay on the blade that introduced weaknesses, and many briar shaped quills on the guard. Damn thing would get caught on anything. The Elf’s stance was comfortable enough, his movements carrying their characteristic smoothness, but there was sweat beading on his forehead and shifting in his feet that bespoke a lack of something. Sam’sav Morion’s eyes roamed the room looking to the crowd as if for support and he seemed to implore the Elf that bore his features upon sighting him. A coward then, Ulric concluded, used to having others to hold his dick for him. The slight shake of the older Elf’s head indicated that things were beyond his ability to intervene now. Good. Ulric really only wanted to kill one person today but his schedule was open.
Brighteyes' other hand extended to Ulric before he announced "Ulric Glade Chief knives are chosen do you have one or would you borrow mine?"
Ulric was getting bouncy, all the resistance he'd been putting up against the violent urges had been wearing. Really took it out of him trying to figure out where that shit was coming from. Now he was free to do as he wanted, no strings or worries. Impatiently he shook his head, sharply cord-tied hair whipping. Hands clenched and unclenched without conscious input and his grey eyes never left the corpse a few paces away. Just a few meters away. So close. Gods he was almost high with it. His thoughts flashed back to the long-ago charge of the [Forest Lord] its fury and malevolence unforgettable. Idly, he wondered how Sam’sav Morion would have handled it. Let us see, he decided.
"No, thanks Brighteyes. I'm not even going to use magic. This is going to feel better if I do it with mine own two hands." Ulric told the lad reassuringly.
Brighteyes just nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Ulric Glade Chief has chosen empty hands without spellwork. I have witnessed. Let there be an end to grievances. Begin." As the words left his mouth Brighteyes raised his right hand to signal the start.
Ulric had been rocking on his toes lightly, knees loose and almost instinctively in the Undan ready. When Brighteyes gave the signal his legs surged. The corpse was trying to pull his ridiculous knife free when the frills on his waistcoat caught in the stupidly curling leaf-shaped prongs of the guard, tangling from panic when he saw Ulric charge. The idiot hadn't even cleared the knife from its sheath when Ulric hit the elf in the chest with his shoulder, and a satisfying folding in the body accompanied the sound of impact. Breath blasted from the corpse as it was launched to slam into the polished floor, sliding briefly as it rag-dolled. The poor dead Lordling coughed a groan and rolled desperately, scrambled to his feet, and, finally managed to pull that absurd dagger free of his own clothes. His form hunched over cracked ribs and breathed raggedly. Those narrow light green eyes widened when he saw that Ulric had not remained still.
By the time the dead man had reached his feet, Ulric was already on top of him and seized the knife hand with all his might, crushing fingers against the hilt with his left hand. He felt bones breaking and ignored the agonized gasp of the corpse to grab the shoulder of that gripped hand with his right. Fingers dug into cloth and flesh and Ulric wrenched the arm out straight across his chest before ripping the wrist downwards. His knee rose to break the elbow cleanly. The crack of bone sounded an echo through the room that was so fucking satisfying. But the corpse was still moving and he needed it to stop with the screaming.
The hand gripping the shoulder whipped back across the Elf's face knuckles deforming the refined features of the pretty Elf’s cheek and slamming the head to the side. He hadn't released the knife hand, was still grinding the bones playfully against the hilt and that was all that held the Lordling upright as his legs folded beneath him. The pain of body weight pulling against the broken arm must have been something else because the Elf screeched and vomited down Ulric’s front. Dead people shouldn't do that. Disgusting is what it was. Just like a corpse not to think of the mess it was leaving behind.
Ulric shed the knife from the ruined hand sending it to slide across the floor under the one of the great tables of the Hall. He had to grab the corpse's hair to keep it from sliding to the floor and gripped the thing's collar with the other. It was an easy thing to lift it up to his eye level, feet dangling. Ulric allowed himself a brief grin that turned into a snarl as he swung the body to his left, building momentum and then counter rotated right, turning himself to bring the elf swinging over his back and shoulders to slam the screaming face as hard as he could into the floor. The weight of the body and of Ulric's full-strength throw shattered the neck and face and the corpse flopped and twitched a few moments before finally stilling, like a good corpse should.
Ahh damn. That was nice. Nothing like it, as a matter of fact, Ulric thought, looking down at his victim. He began to come back to himself now, the deed done and the violent animal that had taken up space in his head happy. If he weren't so elated he'd be a little concerned about that but, so far, he only really got all murdery with things that needed murdering.
It’s fine, Ulric, just fine, ride the wave, the voice whispered.
Returning rationality threw cold water down his back, made loud counterpoint, interrupting the happy simplicity of his thoughts. Fine? He asked himself. His eyes took in the body cooling on the floor. A floor with a rather large pool of blood congealing from a skull that had been smashed open. I’m pretty fucking far from fine, he decided, feeling adrenaline like pure vibrating life leaching out of him to leave him empty of its glory.
The ultraviolence was getting worse. That concerned him. Problem was, it didn’t scare him, and it should have. This wasn’t self-defense, or saving a kid, this was deliberate killing. Forget that he’d been instigated and his enemy had intended the same, whatever the hell was going on was changing Ulric’s instincts and mental patterns.
Fuck man, is this what I am now? He asked the room quietly, ignoring the silence of the watching Elves. No answer was given.
It was like somebody had taken his fight or flight response and casually snipped off that whole flight thing. The only use that serial killer in his skull had for flight was to circle around and get them from behind. Breathing lightly there in the middle of a crowd of Elves with a cruelly savaged body at his feet Ulric wondered again what the hell was wrong him. That Watcher must have done something, must have screwed up something in the rebuild. He'd never been the greatest fan of people but he'd never been capable of casual slaughter. Had never been capable of contemplating enjoying it.
*PING*
[https://i.imgur.com/lU1IiQh.png]
Figures. Ulric had some idea what that would be all about but was too busy trying to ignore the part of him basking in the fact that the corpse was no longer offending him by moving. It would seem that he had indeed fought the duel as such things were intended or recognized by the Akashic record. No holds barred and to the death. It took a few breaths to come to terms with things intellectually.
Ulric couldn't say he disagreed, it felt correct not to contaminate such things with unnecessary rules. Anything else cheapened what was, for once and all, an honest murder. Peace was never an option between them and he refused to lie to himself about it. One of them had to die today and he was not merely a little glad it was the other guy.
Brighteyes broke the spell.
"It is done, Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade] has slain his antagonist. May the roots take his bones." Brighteyes voice held the intonation of a ritual statement in the first sentence and the condemnation of a Baptist in the second.
Bald'rt's laughter erupted booming throughout the hall and the room came to life, Iriel'en cheers resounding. After a short drum beat of feet on the floor, applause?, the folk returned to their celebrations. All around Ulric saw Elves resuming conversations and festivities, and the royal guards collected winnings. Smart bets then. Idra favored Ulric with a brief salute, fingers to head before returning his attention to his duties scanning the room. The Dragons of Iriel relaxed into their seats and resumed whatever conversations they'd been entertaining themselves with. A few disgruntled faces disappeared into the crowd, cursing.
Ulric was wondering what to do with himself when Geyrt slapped him on the back heartily and said with the most warmth he'd had from her "It was a deed done to fullness Ulric. Any other like-minded jackals will think twice before stepping forward to have their necks shaken like the mongrels they are."
The woman was all smiles now. Maybe he hadn't been out of line killing that asshole like that then. According to all evidence the Iriel'en considered it a job well done. Certainly the Iriels themselves did and, given that they were the closest he'd come to allies and friends so far in this world, he guessed that was good enough for him.
Before he could do much other than give Geyrt a bemused thumb's up two Duties, the servants of the fortress city, approached. Behind them was the Elf that had many similar features, well similar before they'd been mashed into a pulp, to the recently departed moron. At a sharp gesture the Duties gathered up the body and departed at a double time. The no doubt kinfolk of that baboon didn't look particularly happy.
Fuck. He really wasn’t in the mood for this, it was supposed to be a party! Fucking Elves and their batshit crazy nonsense! The room was full of people and that always put him on edge, and he had some serious anger management issues to look into without some other clown coming along to fuck up his chi. Ulric resisted an urge to say something sarcastic and goad the relative to get it over with.
Enough, damn you! Ulric shouted himself down. Instead, he tried some level of diplomacy. He reminded himself that he wasn't here to make enemies and forcibly pushed down the aggression.
"Greetings. What can I do for you?" Ulric tried.
"I would not hear my tongue from your mouth, your accent grieves my ears. We may discourse in your own language, sour the air though it may." Gritted out the older version of the dearly departed.
Ulric could only sigh briefly. It would seem that he was going to have to lower this family tree into the ground, one branch at a time. He was about to tell the Elf to eat his own guts and die, a particularly fun little blurb that Geyrt had tossed at him not so long ago, when Ulric heard Bald'rt's voice behind him.
"It has been a long while, has it not Lord Sav'ris Morion? To what do I owe the pleasure of your gracing my Hall again after so long?" Greeted Lord Bald'rt with enough cheer to put a wise man on edge.
Wisdom his kin had been lacking it would appear this Elf had in spades, the man new danger when he saw it. He guarded his expression, losing the open hostility. He clearly knew from what quarter he was most at risk as he only shot Ulric a glance or two, keeping his attention on the [Lord of the Deep Wood].
"Ninety four cycles of the Twins my Lord, it is a wonder how quickly does time ride the wind and events conspire to keep us busy. I see your Hall is graced by even more splendor now than then. No doubt thanks to your guiding hand." Said the Elf in precisely clipped accents.
Ulric took note of the combination of reserved tone with outright kiss ass verbage. He could smell a game in the air, one related to the one that had led events to their deadly conclusion just now. There was Elf Fuckery about and it made his teeth itch. Hopefully he could lean back and stay out of it. Or, at least, more out of it than he already was. He still had Heckle's blood on his hands, literally, and Jeckle here was no doubt aware of it. Even so, Ulric had been publicly greeted like a friend of the family and clearly held a position of favor in the Iriel'en court. Not that it had stopped the dearly departed from outlandishly convoluted suicide by Glade Chief.
The cheers and raucous applause for a sound killing of kin had done nothing for the guy's attitude but he wouldn't risk insulting the Lord of the land casually. Especially not when Bald'rt was so clearly happy about the outcome. That had to sting. No telling with Elves though, Vedyr had been pretty upfront about wanting to have her own daughter's head over the multiple infractions of Iriel'en custom. It had only been Bald'rt's effective removal of her into Ulric's custody that things had been smoothed over to, not quite satisfaction, but at least peace. Ulric had thought it before but these deep wood folk really just did not fuck around at all. They did everything in full gear.
To Ulric's surprise Bald'rt took his distant cousin's hand in his and at least pretended to be kind. Or maybe it wasn't pretending, the wild Elf could be changeable and surprisingly poignant when he wanted. Just because he'd been glad about the duel's outcome didn't preclude a sadness for the loss.
"It is a tragic thing to lose a son, Sav'ris. I would know, after all. A thing not to be wished on any of our kin. Please, come away and find some joy for the years to come. Your son fought as well as he may have and died against the bane of the [Forest Lord], there are not a few heroes of Iriel that have fallen to such a creature. To expect your oldest to best the beast's slayer is beyond reason. Come. Let us drink spirits and find you a wench or three."
As the Deep Wood Elf's voice soothed Ulric noted that anger in this apparent sire of the recently departed lordling smoldered to be replaced by sadness. When the Elf heard that the [Forest Lord] was dead though, there was a flicker of some other emotion. There and gone, ephemeral, and Ulric wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been looking out for another attempted knifing. That was the same expression Ulric had seen on a board member when he'd been about to cut a department and collect a bonus. Opportunity and naked greed.
The older ponce let himself be led away without further incident though and Ulric was relieved. Score another point for Bald'rt. Not that Ulric exactly had a problem with going two for two on the night but this really was supposed to be a festival and he'd come here to have fun. Shut up Brain Tiger he whispered to that niggling set of urges that suggested he'd already been having fun.
Brighteyes got Ulric's attention by waving a plate of food he'd conjured from somewhere.
"Let us eat Ulric, I had hoped to enjoy your company again." He said cheerily, as if he had not just refereed a death match.
"I would have found you earlier but Mother has refused to let me leave the chambers since we got here. I am not allowed to leave Irielhos again until I have completed my instruction in combat and spell casting." The boy groaned.
Ulric forced a smile. This was more normal, a rambunctious scamp getting grounded for breaking curfew. That was supposed to happen. The breath of fresh air that was Brighteyes helped Ulric cool off. After a few minuets of catching up, Ulric didn’t have to force the smile, the kid’s enthusiasm and energy were too positive a vibe for him to stay down around.
Picking some of the offered sliced meats off the plate Ulric put them between a bisected bun and bit down. Completely amazing. Juicy, fatty, chewy, and loaded with flavor. Groaning, Ulric asked what it was.
"It is the [Stone Plated Boar} we killed Ulric! We are Hunters! The meat was still good and Father wanted to serve it while it was fresh. It is a good thing, only the best cuts are acceptable for Festival." Brighteyes said before rubbing his nose proudly.
"Mother said it was a flawless kill to leave no taste of violent death as happens when the beast dies a slower death." The lad continued, bragging rightfully.
Ulric had been there; the kid had shot the thing from better than fifty paces while it was moving between trees and dropped it. Even Geyrt was impressed and told her junior brother so. He basked in his sister's praise and Ulric was gladdened again that things had worked out as they had. Even with all the fucked-up nonsense that had come with this fortuitous encounter with wilderness Elves he'd been able to help a boy reunite with his favorite sister. Maybe he'd even be able to keep that sister alive instead of rushing off to die in a war. That'd be peaches too.
Ulric sat back and listened to the two of them engage in light banter, a rare glimpse of his Shadow relaxed and happy with her kin, similarly content, while he drank and enjoyed the spread. In the company of his only two companions in this world, Ulric found a measure of peace. The evening passed without further incident, at least none that Ulric would be made aware of, he ended up falling asleep on the table from a combination of good beer and food coma.
One of the breaks in the otherwise pleasant Elven gallivanting was when the father of the boy who had been murdered in the forest during Brighteyes’ capture approached Ulric. The Elf, a handsome warrior in his apparent prime, introduced himself with somber humility. Brighteyes had gone tight around the eyes, his shared pain with the older man evident. He shook Ulric’s hand and promised a favor owed for bringing justice to his child’s murderers. Ulric took the man to the bar and the two strangers connected by unfortunate fate shared drinks and stories, the man spoke of his child and of the joy he had given him, and Ulric told him of his parents and departed sister, the two of them taking comfort in tales of loved ones.
He was a character was that warrior, with a dry sense of humor to rival Ulric’s and the two of them spent several hours making casual rude observations about party goers and the various fops who roamed the Great Hall on this festival day. Many of the attendees had only this day arrived and would return to their homes on the morrow, contributing to the war effort only indirectly. So it was that they had the contempt of a distant cousin who would be in the thick of things taking vengeance for his dead child while they sat far from danger replacing their sword arms with coin. Ulric, now placed in the position of being himself a warrior, and wasn’t that just rich? Commiserated with the man and they kept one another company. When the man asked how training with Idra’se was proceeding, his ears twitched with suppressed laughter and distinct schadenfreude and remembered suffering when Ulric spoke of the obsessive, maniacal demand for perfection that was the instructor’s passion in life. The two of them were pleasantly drunk and parted with many back pats and promises of drinks shared in the future.