Scrutinising Isidor's Suitors

[votivescholars]

The discussions had been long and intense. Apart from the Tenemil boy, each of the potential suitors Lieselotte had found had been fought for, and against, by each of them at various points. The genetic advantage of Andolian as a husband was a particular point of contention. Genetically Andolian was clearly the best match, Vercor pointed out, and the goal of marriage was to strengthen the bloodline. In return Lieselotte was quick to say that if he really thought that then he would have married a Scottish girl instead of her. Stathis sat uncomfortably through most of the arguments except for the odd occasion he intervened with an unhappy grumble or a small rant.

At the end of it all they were down to two. Lieselotte championed 'the handsome Zandros' while Stathis supported 'the Leywalker boy'. Vercor was not going to choose anyone based solely on a second hand account, even his wife's, so they soon found themselves calling on Harrowheart once again. Lieselotte asks the death knight to arrange for Zandros Alter to come to the Durant manor on one day and Basil Leywalker on the second. Both are allowed to bring their parents for the visit, and are assured that this is not a formal event (though they are advised not to treat it casually either). Both will get a list of the customs and manners expected of them for meeting the Archon. A list which, though they ask Harrowheart to write in his native language, is rewritten by someone with a finer hand.

When the first day comes Harrowheart is asked to come to the manor ahead of time so that Lieselotte can run over some rules. Namely, how to address the Archon, and how to introduce him. Then, finally, Harrowheart gets to meet the infamous Archon Durant, Accomplished Scholar of Magic Itself, creator of Dragonfire, and father of Isidor Briar Durant.

Comments

[votivescholars]

Stathis heads straight outside, to the grounds where there's a chill in the air. At least there aren't servants around to overhear them. Harrowheart's answer gets a hard look from him. "Don't play games with me. You've got the look of a man who's finding it hard to stay polite."

He taps his unlit cigarette against his jacket and peers off into the distance for a minute. "Is it the boy? Zandros? You don't like him even though you should?" He grumbles. "I wouldn't blame you. I don't like him much either. Too..." His hand waves around his head. "Clean. Too pretty. No man is that good."

The Archon watches the charades with a light frown with his wife. The action, however, gets no sign of recognition from him.

"Skoldaskilde, I think that's Harrowheart," Lieselotte says. "Perhaps they're saying he's hungry."

"They could be saying anything. Guessing games are not the point of this meeting," the Archon says drily. Then he looks to his guests and assures them, "We will resume our conversation shortly."

It's more for the calm, confident tone than for the words he says. When the door opens again and Perkins arrives followed by another servant, both with trays, Lieselotte's smile is one of relief. Plates filled with cakes and sandwiches are a good distraction, she thinks.

[westfallcorndog]

Harrowheart averts his eyes at Stathis' initial stare. He's not going to challenge the man on this when he knows he's been so easily caught in his attempt at deflection. He tries to make up for it by offering his lighter to Stathis.

Reluctantly he begins, "I do not mean to be impolite. I have many things on my mind. It is hard to, uh... Be an actor for the living today." A slow drag from his cigarette and he finds it in himself to admit, "I do not like him, Sir, no. But I have no reason to dislike him, truly. He has done nothing wrong. It is possible that he is really a good man. Perhaps that is why I do not like him."

His gaze flicks up and down Stathis before he says, "You are Isidor's uncle. You know her well. Do you believe she wants to be a wife or a mother?" The way he watches, it would seem he knows the answer already.

Lady Alter's eyes shine with the arrival of little cakes. What a pleasant offering! She pats the knees of her husband and son, encouraging them to drop such dreary conversational topics. Their servant is happy to do so, and Lord Alter relents at his wife's request, but Zandros continues to glance at Lieselotte. His sister catches his look and between dainty bites of cake she speaks with him in Common.

"They don't know what you're saying."

"I know they don't," he says, hiding his tension as he leans forward to take a small sandwich. He nods at the Durants before he takes a bite and smiles after. Casually and aside to his sister he says, "I can't tell if it's how he translated it or if they just don't know."

"It doesn't matter," she says, her voice far-off, her eyes on her cake. "If he loses his mind and tries to kill us, you can stop him."

The servant looks queasy at her words, so Zandros comforts him with a small sandwich. Eat, don't think.

"It matters to me," Zandros says, still keeping his tone quite casual. "I try to say I'd like to live a comfortable, safe life with my potential future wife and suddenly his runeblade is putting on a light show."

"Zandros," his mother says, smiling. "How do you like your sandwich? Perhaps you ought to discuss that – or nothing at all. It is not polite to speak a foreign language in front of our hosts."

He smiles at his mother and lifts his sandwich, laughing lightly. "It is good. Simple, but good. You ought to try one."

She curiously takes one for herself at her son's insistence. Best to keep up appearances, after all.

[votivescholars]

Stathis hesitates for a moment, but then takes the lighter. Once his cigarette is lit, he hands it back and enjoys his initial drag before he answers. "In all my years knowing her, Isidor has never wanted to be anything but her father." He takes another long, thoughtful inhale. "She didn't want to be a patron, but she is, and she's good at it. I'd dare say she even enjoys it. She didn't want to be the ambassador to the Nexus, but she is, and she enjoys that too."

He looks back at Harrowheart. "What people want and what they find happiness in aren't always the same thing. She won't be a wife or mother like you see on television or read about, but she'll be good at it. She's always the best at what she does. I'd wager she'll even come to enjoy it." Leaning to one side, he eyes the death knight. "Is it really my niece's happiness that's got you like this?"

Lieselotte can only assumed they're talking about the food, so she smiles brightly with each of their indecipherable comments. A glance to her husband finds him staring at the door. They both trust Stathis will bring their translator back quickly, but in the meantime... this is embarrassing.

"We should show them some Earth technology," Lieselotte says quietly.

"You're not putting our guests in front of a television because of a language barrier," the Archon says without looking at her. Although... a display might be a good chance of pace... He turns his attention to the potential suitor in front of him. "Zandros," he says, because names at least transcend languages. He dips his head at the man, gesturing to him with an open palm, above which he summons a small light that shines gently. "You have magic." He moves the palm towards Zandros, then the light goes out as he gestures to himself and then to the door. "Would you like to show us?"

[westfallcorndog]

Harrowheart smokes with a dour stare. He takes a long, slow drag when Stathis is through speaking, then plucks his cigarette from his lips and stubs it out on his armor. "Imagine that which she becomes on a world where she is allowed her true loves."

Zandros sits straight with his eyebrows expectantly raised at the sound of his name. He expects he won't understand this 'Archon,' but he also knows that the man deserves the respect of his attention. The sudden appearance of magic, much like a name, bridges the divide between them. A show of magic and a motion toward the door... His smile isn't one of feigned propriety. He claps a hand to his servant's shoulder and together they stand. The servant gathers Zandros' weapons while the other Alters slowly rise to their feet. His mother and father already look proud in their own unique ways – Lady Alter smiling with her hands clasped, Lord Alter's head held high and the faintest smile of his own curling the corners of his lips.

Together they leave, and at the Durants' guidance are led outside of the manor where Harrowheart is standing while Stathis smokes. Lady Alter shudders at the surprising chill and wraps her arms around herself, laughing quietly and politely at her accidental slip of transparent emotion. Harrowheart chuckles at her, and though she'd have preferred no attention be brought to her she finds it in her to smile a little more. He's undead, and after all they are to be allowed their sense of humor.

Lord Alter, though, he doesn't appreciate it much. He puts a hand on his wife's shoulder and watches Harrowheart until the death knight looks away. Harrow's blue eyes fall on Zandros, who nods his way with an eager grin.

"Finished with your cigarette?" Zandros asks as he approaches. Harrowheart snorts and nods. Laughing, Zandros adds, "I think my sister was jealous when Stathis got one. You wouldn't mind sharing with her, would you?"

Harrowheart's eyebrows rise before he fishes out another cigarette. As he goes to give it to Zandros Lady Alter scuttles over and snatches it up for herself, smiling cheekily. Harrow manages a lopsided grin and takes another for Zandros' sister, who hurries over now that she knows smokes are officially being dispensed. Harrow lights the cigarettes for the ladies, stows his lighter, and gestures vaguely to Zandros as the women return to the sidelines.

"So why'd y'all come out here? Kept y'all waitin' too long?"

Zandros tilts his head and shrugs his shoulder in a way that suggests he wasn't bothered, but others perhaps were. "The Archon wanted to see my magic," he says, stealing a glance at Harrowheart's cape. He might have asked for a smoke himself had it been a more appropriate time.

Harrowheart rumbles, thoughtful and yet dismissive. He looks Zandros up and down and says, "Figure you'll need someone to help you show off that spellbreakin', huh?"

Zandros bounces his eyebrows when he nods. "Absolutely right. But I'm going to show them the Light first. Out of respect for your... Particular persuasion..." And here he gestures up and down the death knight, who doesn't seem altogether thrilled at what's being said, "You may want to stay back. I'd hate for there to be an accident."

The two share a few more sentences in Common, and the conversation concludes with Harrowheart rewarding himself with another cigarette. He returns to the Durants and the rest of the Alters as Zandros and his aide move a few yards away from the group.

In German Harrowheart explains, "Zandros would like to show you the Holy Light. It is his religious magic. A magic of life. First, he is going to show you its healing powers. Then, he is going to show you his spellbreaking."

Harrowheart nods towards Zandros, who nods back. His servant draws the double-ended sword and Zandros removes his glove, then rolls up his sleeve. With a word from his master the servant carefully carves the blade across the offered palm. Zandros' eyes and teeth clench and he winces at the feeling of it, but after a moment's wincing he finds his focus again and raises his palm for the group to see the blood.

His other hand flourishes, and when the motion ends a white-hot light has engulfed it. He clasps his palms together and closes his eyes like a man in prayer. A few brief seconds and three whispered words, and when he parts his hands again and wipes away the blood the flesh is mended.

He calls across the distance, and Harrowheart translates. "A small example of the power of the Light. He also can clean a poisons from the blood, and he can heal a wound that will kill." Zandros stops speaking and pauses, and Harrowheart takes the opportunity to explain something for himself. "When I was a living man, the Light did saved my life. I am – was – attacked by a monster and would have died."

He reaches behind his neck to undo the clasp of his gorget and it falls into his hand, exposing the risen scars of the mauling that mangled his neck. "Upon my back, it is the same. There was no skin. I was bleeding. I had, perhaps... A minute, two minutes to live. But a Light-caster woman, she, uh... She finds me, she heals me, and I live. It is a very powerful magic for healing, the Light. A very powerful magic for a patron. If he is a caster of the same power as the woman who saves me... No one dies if they are with him."

[votivescholars]

Stathis isn't sure whether that awkwardly translated response is an answer in defiance of Durant ways, or one of devotion to his niece. Either way he doesn't get time to follow up with more questions as his brother has managed to direct the Alters outside. For now he closes his mouth and resumes his usual frowning while he watches Harrowheart and Zandros talk and he finishes his cigarette.

While the ladies get their own cigarettes, Lieselotte uses a little magic to warm up the area around them. Her gestures are minimal, and there's no showy display, so she doesn't concern herself with making a scene of it. As long as their guests are comfortable she doesn't mind.

The Durants stay by the sidelines, listening to Harrowheart's translations and watching Zandros' demonstration. Only Lieselotte flinches when Zandros cuts his hand, but all of them look surprised at the spectacular results of the healing. None of them expect Harrowheart to give such a vivid example of how it might be used in the heat of battle.

When the gorget falls away, Lieselotte hisses sympathetically and leans to get a closer look, brow weighed down with a concerned frown. "It must have hurt."

Once the Archon has eyed Harrowheart's scars, he turns and walks to Zandros, holding up his own hand and tapping it before holding it out expectantly. "May I take a closer look?"

[westfallcorndog]

Must it have hurt? Whether Harrowheart no longer remembers or simply doesn't want to say isn't entirely obvious, but whatever his reasons he remains silent. He watches as the Archon approaches Zandros, who stands respectfully straight as he waits for what the Archon might tell him with a gesture.

Again, he makes his point very clear. Zandros offers his palm to the Archon to examine – to take, if he chooses. Where seconds ago there was a slice through the flesh now there is only the faintest of scars. Zandros traces it with his fingers and rolls a hand toward the Archon to do the same if he so chooses. After the Archon takes him up on it or declines he waits a few more seconds and once again runs his fingertips across the wound. The faintest light illuminates his path, and when his motion is through the scar is slightly lessened. Zandros mimes doing the same a few more times, though now without the magic, and then he taps his other palm. No scar there. No visible scars anywhere on his body, in fact. Seems he's got something Harrowheart didn't have... But is it a matter of time, talent, or the severity of the wounds that makes the difference?

"Ready for that spellbreakin' show?" Harrowheart calls to Zandros, whose face twitches with the offense of being interrupted. He looks to the Archon then, fully knowing that the man can't understand what Harrowheart shouted in Common and yet expecting he has an idea. Is it time to continue, Archon?...

[votivescholars]

The Archon's hands are cool, but dry when he takes Zandros' hand and pulls it slightly closer. His grip is firm, but gentle as he examines it and watches the continued demonstration. Seeing the scar disappear, the Archon relinquishes Zandros' hand with a low sound of approval. He clasps his hands behind him, gives Zandros a respectful nod of thanks and returns to the sidelines.

"You may continue," he tells Harrowheart and then turns to watch the show unfold.

[westfallcorndog]

Harrowheart repeats the Archon's message, and Zandros proclaims something with great confidence. The death knight, who hasn't yet learned how to properly shield his emotions, shows his surprise. He gestures to the Durants and the Alters with a sweep of his arm and questions the young man, whose self-assured smile says as much as his words. He gestures to the death knight, explains something in the calm manner of a man who knows he's about to succeed, then folds his hands behind his back and waits.

Whatever words they exchanged has Harrowheart unfastening hidden buckles from beneath his pauldrons. They come off, his cape follows, and finally he's unhooking secret braces that keep his breastplate on his chest. Zandros isn't wearing armor, and it wouldn't be fair for Harrowheart to be the only one protected. Still, is it right to be shirtlessly dead in front of a pair of noble families? Right or wrong, it doesn't bother him to have the bramble of scars on his back on full display.

He nods then and draws his runesword from his scabbard. It shines to furious life in anticipation for what is to come, but Zandros isn't moved by its display. He orders his servant to hand him his double-bladed sword. A flick of his wrist causes some mechanism hidden in the hilt to set the blades spinning. Zandros squares his stance and Harrowheart follows suit.

"Adel'var roth lo!" Zandros shouts, and scarcely do the words pass his lips before Harrowheart's left hand shimmers with dark magic. He twists at the air and pulls, and a thread of darkness grips Zandros' midsection. He starts to be pulled in toward the death knight and his waiting blade, but Zandros swings his whirling sword in front of himself and severs the unseen magic. The spell sputters out and Zandros is stopping his momentum in a few strides, closer now to Harrowheart but not within melee range.

Harrow's face twitches to see his magic so easily undone. He's got to try something different, then. Frost magic, and this time far from stealthy. He raises up his hand and in that motion conjures spikes of ice that burst violently from the ground and travel in a deadly streak toward Zandros.

But ice magic is as easily halted as the Shadow was, this time not with a spinning blade but an arcane gesture of Zandros' glowing hand. The wall of ice grinds to an abrupt halt halfway between them and Harrowheart rumbles his displeasure. He's looking like a fool here while Zandros squashes his magic!

He begins to cast something else, but the second the spellbreaker's eyes catch sight of the magic in Harrow's palms he gestures again and it fizzles out. Dies right in the death knight's grasp, snuffed out before it even began. Harrowheart tries again with a sweep of his arms, but now not even a hint of magic fills his palms.

The two exchange gestures, Zandros streaking his Light-blessed hands through the air and Harrowheart struggling to squeeze out the smallest bit of magic that never comes. He can't cast. Him! A magical creature! A being made of magic, and he can't cast!

Harrowheart grips his sword's hilt with both hands and Zandros shouts to his servant who quickly throws him his ornate shield. The living boy catches it just in time and barely manages to set his feet in preparation for the heavy sword that comes crashing down on the top of his shield. The bash of metal on metal echoes around the courtyard once, twice, thrice as Harrowheart violently slashes and fails with every strike. He roars in frustration and Zandros laughs at his unbreakable defense.

Fast as he can Harrowheart backpedals, quickly making space between himself and his rival. He pulls at the two halves of his runeblade and it splits with a shriek. Zandros is charging at him now, shield at the ready to ram into the death knight. Fast as he can Harrowheart manages to conjure enough ice to lash his blades to his forearms, but he hasn't got time to free his hands. Zandros charges into him, unbalancing him briefly but not quite knocking him down. He takes the shield to the shoulder and pushes back against it, human strength against undead. They strain against each other, but in the few seconds that pass it becomes obvious Harrowheart's strength will win out as Zandros is left crouching farther and farther down.

Something's got to give. Zandros knows how to hold his shield against his foe so that Harrowheart can't properly swing his weapon, but his own curved blade is perfectly designed to slide past. Quick as he can he slips his sword around and buries it right between Harrowheart's ribs.

The death knight howls, first like a man and then like an animal. In a whirl of magic that Zandros can't stop he begins to change, to twist into another shape, a taller, bestial thing with massive arms and claw-tipped paws and snarling teeth now black with blood that bubbles out of his punctured lung.

Zandros falls back, shocked by the change. He hadn't expected a man from Westfall to be a worgen! Harrowheart bears down on the fallen man's shield with both blades, puncturing through it and grazing both of Zandros' sides. The death knight lifts the shield and tosses it off, leaving Zandros fully exposed and wincing from the pain in his sides where blood is seeping through his clothes. Next Harrowheart rids himself of Zandros' weapon, finally pulling it free with more bubbling blood from his snout and nostrils. It's tossed away opposite the shield, leaving only Zandros left to deal with. A few drops of dark ichor fall onto Zandros' face as the worgen leans down and quite easily picks him up.

Now Zandros is back to his senses. He begins to conjure white-hot Light and Harrowheart growls at the feeling of the magic even being near him. A burst of blinding magic, another wolven howl. Harrowheart tosses Zandros a few yards where he hits the ground hard and rolls, while the death knight reels, blinded and whimpering.

Both of them need a moment to suffer through their wounds. Harrowheart scrubs at his eyes with the backs of his paws and Zandros cradles his wrist, cheeks hot with pain. Magic engulfs Harrowheart as he falls back into his human form, swaying.

Another bubble of blood escapes Harrow's mouth, and he takes that as a sign he needs to end this. He staggers toward Zandros who tries to rise before a plated boot kicks his chest and pushes him back to the ground. Then that same boot is at his throat and bearing down. Hard.

"Fallë, Fallë..." Harrowheart mocks through bloodied teeth grit in a twisted grimace.

Lord Alter, distressed, steps forward and looks to the Archon. He demands something urgently, an order more than a request, while his wife desperately grips his arm.

"Fickhell furrë hergen borthe Durant... Heh heh heh."

Zandros gags. He gasps for breath and grabs at Harrow's boot, but he can't get the weight off of his neck. This wasn't part of the agreement!

Lady Alter closes her eyes and looks away. She's not going to watch her son be killed! Lord Alter begins to repeat what he demanded, but a dull thump interrupts him. He doesn't see the way he son punches Harrow's knee, quickly toppling him, but he does see the death knight fall. He lands heavily, and both parties immediately scramble back to their feet.

Zandros' unwounded hand begins to shine with the Light. He strikes his arm from sky to ground and shouts, "Haevil raesilde remdel vo Laras!"

Harrowheart shudders and stares into the distance. His bloodied jaw drops and his eyes lock onto Zandros... But he doesn't move.

Zandros draws a circle in the air and the mere gesture is enough for Harrowheart to seize, to shake as if he were hit and suddenly go half limp. His arms hang, his head hangs, his knees bend, and he sways in place. Louder now Zandros continues, "Haevil raesilde aumvael vo Laras!"

Whatever magic he's doing has Harrowheart trapped. The light of the runes on his weapon grow in intensity until they're almost painfully bright. Zandros sweeps his arm horizontally. "Haevil!" Zandros yells, "Raesilde! Hemrollë! Vo Laras!"

Suddenly there's a squeal, an inhuman shriek. The sound of metal scraping metal, of steam boiling through a too-tight hole, of pigs – or people – being gutted. Harrowheart's sagging jaw opens as far as it can manage and a black smoke begins to billow out from deep inside him. It flows through his nose and seeps from his eyes like black tears. And still he doesn't move. He sways where he stands, trapped in one spot, truly and completely defeated.

Zandros watches this for a second or two to assure that his spell holds before he turns to the Durants and his family, arms held out until the pain in his wrist becomes too much and he has to clasp it near his chest. He laughs, beaming with pride even as he's covered in growing bruises and the blood of the dead. "Baedil lo! Helfthe baedil lo! Haha!"

[votivescholars]

The Durant brothers talk amongst themselves, leaving Lieselotte to watch with a raised eyebrow as Harrowheart removes his clothing. She almost goes to say something, but nobody else seems concerned, so she relaxes back into polite smiling.

Even duels are rare in Durant life, despite the impression Isidor gives. Servants passing by find it difficult to resist staring, and Lieselotte and Stathis exchange comments as the fight unfolds. The sudden aggression when Harrowheart beats down on Zandros' shield gets a small, startled jump from Lieselotte. It's the inhuman wail of Harrowheart splitting his sword that Stathis makes shift uncomfortably.

The fight intensifies and Lieselotte finds it the most difficult to watch. The violence is one thing, but her strongest concern is her guests. This isn't proper etiquette, and while Durant life necessitates a certain lack of convention it's a thin line between 'necessary' and 'too much'.

Harrowheart's boot comes down on Zandros' neck and she stiffens. "Vercor." Her eyes shift from the commanding Lord Alter to her husband standing still, his eyes locked intensely on the brutality in front of him. "Vercor, this is enough."

On his other side Stathis leans in. "Vercor, you need to say something."

The Archon doesn't even unclasp the hands behind his back. A moment later Zandros gets out of precarious situation and proceeds to exact his own revenge. Despite the horror of Harrowheart's defeat, Lieselotte looks visibly relieved.

With Zandros victorious, Stathis looks to his brother. "I hope he hasn't broken him."

The Archon proceeds to walk to Zandros to take his hand in a firm, congratulatory handshake. "Well done." He gestures to the clearly painful wrist. "Can you heal that?"

Stathis follows the Archon and also nods, giving a few words of congratulations before turning his attention to Harrowheart. He pats him on the shoulder and tries to get his attention. They really do need Harrowheart in one piece.

Meanwhile Lieselotte rains foreign words of praise upon her guests, making sure to show just how delighted she is with the display. Hopefully they'll forget her husband's risky silence from the moment before.

[westfallcorndog]

Shaking hands comes as easily to Zandros as smiting the undead. He swiftly and proudly takes the Archon's congratulations, smiling broadly until the pain in his wrist distracts him. At the Archon's question Zandros wiggles the fingers of his good hand and conjures a bit of Light as he does. He can heal that wound, of course he can. But then he nods toward Harrowheart, who despite being touched by Stathis is still swaying in a trance.

Zandros stumbles over to him and passes his hand before the death knight's eyes. With that small gesture and a whispered word his spell is undone. Harrowheart leans back and with a ragged throat desperately inhales fresh air. He sighs it out immediately as one heavy black plume of smog and Zandros laughs good-naturedly.

"You fought well," Zandros says with a tug of a smile on his lips.

Harrowheart snorts, black at first but cold fog at the tail. He only stares at Zandros, his jaw set and his eyes full of bitterness.

With a pat to Harrow's shoulder Zandros laughingly suggest, "Don't look so grim! I'm not holding the neck thing against you, am I? Besides, no one likes a sore loser."

Somehow hearing that doesn't lighten Harrowheart's mood. Zandros shakes his head, still smiling somewhat fondly. "Good always defeats evil. If you're not used to it yet, you will be soon!" Another laugh, a harmless joke from his perspective. "We'll have plenty more duels now that I'm 'enough to be a Durant,' I'm sure of it."

Harrowheart's gaze slowly shifts away from Zandros toward his armor. He's got nothing to say. He fuses his sword together on the shameful walk back to his gear and begins to silently suit up once more.

Meanwhile the Alters revel in Lieselotte's distraction. Lady Alter clasps her cheek and tries to wave away comments she's sure are compliments while her daughter smiles her brother's way. Only Lord Alter isn't fully pulled into the display. He doesn't watch the Archon once his son has shaken his hand, but he doesn't partake in untranslated small talk either. Instead he keeps his eyes on his son, watches as he shares words with the corpse and begins to mend his own wrist with a gentle, persistent application of the Light.

When Harrowheart is fully suited once more he hastily scrubs his face of blood, but only really succeeds in smearing it around. Now his bright, glowering stare is framed by dark brows and black-streaked cheeks. He lights himself a cigarette and finds Stathis.

"What happens now?" He asks in German. "Do they return home?"

[votivescholars]

Stathis looks between the two soldiers worriedly as one laughs and the other coughs out black smoke like an overdone goose. Whatever his concerns are, Harrowheart seems to be able to move again and heads off to dress again so Stathis offers Zandros a stiff smile.

By the time Harrowheart is armoured up again the Archon has walked with Zandros back to the rest of the group to nod along with his wife's enthusiastic praise. Stathis stays behind, making it easy for the draugr to approach him undisturbed.

He nods to the question. "I think we've seen and heard enough." He eyes Harrowheart up and down and nods once more. "And you need a break after that. Just tell them how impressed we are with the display, assure them we'll be in contact shortly and we'll give them a gift basket before sending them on their way."

[westfallcorndog]

"I don't need a break." Harrowheart practically spits the words out.

And a gift basket? A gift basket for those people? What about him? What's his payment? His recognition? Will he even get a 'thank you'? Anger bubbles in him like his own black blood clogging up his lungs. He clenches his fists and sets his jaw and fixes Stathis with the kind of roiling, vengeful look that betrays how much he doesn't belong here. Not with the cultured, and not with the living.

Without acknowledging his orders he turns on his heel and strides toward the Alters. Their joy is silenced by his frigid arrival. He speaks, his words stiff and stilted, and Zandros smiles triumphantly -- though his family are more conservative in their respectful nods toward the Durants.

A winning day for the Alters, all things considered. Despite their translator's turn toward the door they themselves are quite pleased. They'll take their pleasantries and their gift baskets, but it's Zandros' handshake with the Archon and the hope of a new deal between families that brings them real satisfaction.