<html> <body> --------- Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars II: Denuncio (i) Tuesday, June 22, 724 CR Erick broke away before they had gone far to re-join the gaggle of rats ambling down from the Matthias pavilion, leaving Charlie accompanied only by the three equines. Their mounts stopped at the edge of the tournament field while Charlie and Bryn walked out to stand with the others before the Duke's stands. Charles tried to catch his gaze but Charlie purposely stood so that Bryn's formidable presence was between them. The Lutin, Kelficks, Misha's foster 'son', stood to Charlie's opposite side. He stood taller than a typical Lutin, almost as tall as Charlie himself. His complexion was an ash-pale gray tinged slightly blue quite different than the normally expected greenish hues. He and Charlie were not particularly friends, in the sense of the camaraderie such as he shared with Bryn, but neither were they on disagreeable terms. Kelficks was a commoner, and also lived more beyond the Keep than within. As Misha's fosterling he was training to be a Long Scout which necessitated much of life being lived far from the confines of civilization so the two had relatively little comport. The Lutin favored Charlie with a half glance and toothy smile upon his sallow features. At his hip hung a finely crafted saber and a shield hung from his off arm. To Charlie's other side Bryn stood without baldric or shield revealing nothing of what he might bring into whatever match he was cast and, likewise, Baron Matthias carried nothing. “For the third of the quarter final battles in the melee category the following two warriors will stand forth,” The crier, behind a podium slightly below the level of the Duke's platform atop the High Box, called out in a voice subtly augmented by magic to be loud enough for even the most distant spectator to hear. Beside him a page boy, either age regressed or not yet touched by the Curses, help up a shallow bronze bowl. The crier reached into it and drew forth a bronze coin. “The Baron Charles Matthias of the Narrows!” He called out, holding the coin aloft though none could read the icon or name stamped into the soft metal. Charles stepped forward and dropped to one knee, bowing toward the High Box. The crier handed the coin to the page and reached into the bowl for another. “The Lord Charlie Sutt, son of Archduke Sutt of Western Pyralia!” With an indrawn groan Charlie stepped forward and mirrored his sire's one-kneed bow before the stands. “The rules of this engagement are known to all, and as such will be understood in lieu of repetition. Both parties may retire to prepare themselves and shall return hence at the passage of five minutes. If either should fail to present themselves their standing shall be forfeit.” That said, the crier stepped down from the podium. Charles and Charlie rose as one and glanced at each other; Charles with a warm smile of pleasure but Charlie with the flat neutrality of trained politesse. Without a word or even nod of acknowledgment he turned away and walked with Bryn to rejoin their mounts at the entrance. “This will be interesting,” Bryn chuckled when they walked through the pair of horses and the ubiquitous guards who were never far away. “Matthias versus Matthias again! Let's see if you can best your brother's...” “I am not a Matthias,” Charlie snapped, though his voice was not raised beyond a conversational volume. Bryn's ears sprang up and pinned forward when he finally caught Charlie's mood like a mule's kick to the chest. “He is not my brother. Not any more family than you, Bryn.” Charlie stepped into the shadows of the pavilion and snatched up the empty wooden chalice Erick had left behind. He filled it from a ewer of wine standing nearby and downed it with a single long swallow. “That's not true, Charlie,” Bryn admonished but Charlie ignored him, plucking at the straps of his cuirass. “Maysin, could you help me? It seems my servants have forgotten that they have duties.” Maysin came into the shade of the pavilion but Bryn stayed her from coming any closer. “You sent them away, Charlie, to enjoy the festival. Let me help.” With thick but deft fingers Bryn began loosening the buckles of Charlie's armor. “Why no armor?” “I need be able to move, quicker, and for longer than Charles can. If he's armored I can simply outmaneuver him until he tires and move in for the kill.” Freed of the ornate steel breastplate Charlie shrugged out of his chain shirt, wincing when the links caught at the short fur of his cheeks and neck. Maysin stepped forward quickly to take the heavy heap of metal from his hands. “I won't let him best me as easily as he did Erick.” “They danced the sword for three turns of the glass, Charlie! It was hardly an easy task for either of them.” Each bout consisted of five four minute segments with a two minute respite between. Thus far no match had lasted more than four turns though Dupré and Intoran had come sorely close before the ram was disarmed and yielded. “What's got your hackles up, anyway? You've been sour all day.” “Hangover,” Charlie lied, his voice muffled briefly as he shucked his coif and gambeson leaving him in nothing more than the loose cotton shirt and bloused leggings he had changed into after his turn at the joust. “Just... left me with a headache that's not going away.” When Maysin extended his baldric and swords he handed her the chalice and took the belt. He slung it over one shoulder without bothering to belt it around his waist and stalked out of the tent to stand in the warm afternoon sunshine. To one side he glimpsed the Matthias banner fluttering from a boisterous crowd of rats and others gathered around his sire's pavilion. Charles emerged from the deep shadows within walking alongside Erick, smiles lifting their whiskers and their tails swaying amiably behind them. Charles' younger children gamboled about them while Kimberly followed slightly behind with her eldest daughters conversing with light, merry voices. Charlie looked away with a sour weight in his gut, noticing only that Charles had armored down as well, to a jerkin and kilt of studded leather. Maysin emerged from the back side of the pavilion with a stately thump of hooves and jangle of ornate saddlery. After many years of practice she could alter her form from quadrupedal to bipedal and switch into appropriate accoutrements as easily as most other people their daily wardrobe. With a toss of her monochromatically striped head the zebra mare pranced to a stop before her rider with such fanfare that he could not help but let a smile pull his whiskers up briefly. Curling his long, unshod rodent toes into the stirrup of the fancy saddle she bore Charlie hauled himself up. Bryn walked over while he settled himself and checked the girth strap, the one thing Maysin could not tighten on her own. “Knock 'em dead,” the young royal chuckled and gave Charlie's thigh a sway as Maysin trotted forward with a high-legged prance that made her saddle jingle rhythmically like a dozen tambour players on the march. Charlie glanced toward the far end of the pavilion row at the crowd of rats, and other rodents, making their way toward the field beneath the Matthias banner. What a good idea, Bryn. But, even as he thought it, he knew that could not happen because of the magic that made full battle, with real weapons, possible for the spectacle of Metamor's tournaments. But Charles would be feeling the sting of the magic upon his twin blades, to be sure. For a moment Charlie regretted the magical blunting of his swords and he savored the thought; but only for a moments as brief as his conscience and training would allow. Maysin clomped to a halt at the gate onto the tournament field, unaccompanied unlike the Matthias horde as Bryn was following along a distance behind in converse with Argamont and the quartet of ubiquitous guards in their trail. Charlie traced his fingers along Maysin's neck and then gave a parting pat before striding confidently onto the tournament field. Stepping up to a small table near the squire's post Charlie unsheathed his blades and laid them down. A pair of mages, one from Metamor and another officiating from Marigund, carefully looked them over and pronounced the spells upon them intact. Picking them up Charlie sheathed them in the baldric slung over his shoulder and walked toward the mid field. Charles was approaching from the opposite direction, a smile upon his muzzle and tail aswish. He walked with jaunty good humor. If anything, Charlie felt as if he were stalking his sire, despite the smooth, cultured gait trained into him by both tutors of etiquette and child-like master of arms. No matter his inner turmoil, politesse left him with an unconscious outer demeanor that was preternaturally cool, calm, and collected. They walked toward each other and stopped in the center of the field before turning toward the High Box. The tournament caller was once more at his podium and repeated the general rules of the match, if in brief. Charlie found his gaze lifting upward toward the platform behind and above the caller. Malger was standing between the Duke and visiting Steppelander king, his gaze down toward his adopted son while he spoke to the foreign king. Misanthe stood at the rail with Suria and both gave him a wave. As one Charlie and his sire bowed to the High Box and turned to face each other. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>