Journal Entry - Obtoxicullous

If the question arose in conversation as to which of the three human kingdoms was the greatest, it would stir wide debate. Cardenar, some would proudly profess, for its warhorses, textiles, and spices. Others would declare Serellia equally as grand, with its high, snowy mountains, rich with ores and danger.

But between the two lies the vast territory of the third, Lorellia. Its mild climate, rich, fertile lands, and lack of large predators make it picturesque. Its borders stretch from The Whispering Sea in the west all the way to the Central Ocean to the east, effectively forming a barrier between their Cardenian neighbors to the south and the Serellians to the north.

It takes a certain kind of country to stand boldly with enemies to her front and to her back, but Lorellians are nothing if not opportunists. They've taken advantage of their position as a hub for all trade between the other two countries and boast a massive navy, with which they've dominated the waters as well. But Lorellia's stranglehold on trade through the Merchant's Guild has been their strongest defense for nearly a century. Influencing prices and the economic market to pressure their enemies into surrender without deploying a single soldier into battle.

But, not unlike myself, the ruling class of Lorellia has a thirst for something that is nigh insatiable. Clamoring for power is practically written in the religion of their society, after all. And some have found that the very tools and weapons they'd used against their foreign enemies were equally effective against their kinsmen.

Still, one would be hard-pressed to find a better place to live.

And in those regards, the honor of my long-overdue return to Karus, and the beginning of my glorious campaign, shall fall first upon the middle kingdom...

***

Ardaik 5th, year 1179 - La'Trest, Lorellia

Excitement thrummed in Artus's chest—heart racing and nerves firing as he used every ounce of restraint not to race across the mezzanine to the south wing staircase.

He had it. He actually had it. The relic. Now, he needed only to make his way back into the grand ballroom as though he'd never been absent. A task that—given the scale of the occasion—should be simple enough. Anyone of higher standing was not only in La'Trest this evening, but they were here—in the castle.

Lorellians observed many festivals to mark the changing weather, including the coming fall and the start of the harvesting season, but few celebrations could hold a candle to the Festival of Light. Held only once every ten years when, for a few glorious moments in the late evening, the comet of Kamuhr would be visible over the capital.

Artus's great-grandfather signed The Treaty of Kings under the comet's light, which ushered in a time of peace and prosperity across the three human kingdoms. And as such, the festival celebrated this as well.

From the landing, he could hear the music and the clatter of conversation, though to Artus, the jovial ruckus was muted—dampened. However, his mood, unlike the noise of the party, was far from doused. Anticipation coiled in his stomach as he smoothed his thumb over the small object in his pocket.

Not a single one of the attendees, the courtiers, or guards had knowledge of his intent. Coveting such a secret alone made him giddy. Artus hadn't been so pleased with anything since the first time his father caved and allowed him to sail out on one of their Royal Navy's Flagships for a few days. But there was still a piece missing from his plan... Or rather, a person.

As Artus spied the guests from his vantage point, a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him out of his task.

"Good evening, your highness," Kenton stated, looking every bit the royal guard in the newly commissioned armor that adorned all the soldiers with shifts inside the castle for the festival. It wasn't uncommon at all for Kenton to be assigned to the prince personally whenever La'Trest was host to a large event, and although Artus was quite familiar with him, he still only knew the man by his surname.

"Good evening, Kenton," Artus greeted, pleased that he didn't even sound out of breath. He would have blamed it on the guard for startling him if he had.

"I find it hard to imagine you'll impress any eligible ladies from upstairs."

"Perhaps that was my intent," Artus replied, motioning for Kenton to lead the way down the rest of the staircase.

"Oh? Perhaps you were on the prowl for the less eligible ones, then?" the guard teased.

His suggestion of such did evoke a more dramatic response from Artus. The laugh that left the prince was short and quick, like the bark of a flintlock. He knew of lords and ladies who did such things. Rumors of infidelity and treachery always seemed to be a favorite among the wives of dukes and barons, and as such, always spread quickly.

"Could you imagine my father being told he has illegitimate grandchildren?" Artus replied. "He would surely die where he sat."

But Kenton's prodding was also an echo of a familiar sentiment. His mother had already chided him earlier in the evening, insisting that he'd never find a wife carelessly skulking around or daydreaming of spiriting off on ships to who knows where—a wholly absurd notion.

For one, Artus didn't skulk. In fact, he quite enjoyed being the center of attention at parties. However, tonight he had to keep a very tight schedule if his carefully constructed plan was to be a success; so far, it had been.

After dinner, he'd engaged in some light conversation before excusing himself. As expected, three guards had tailed him when he declared his intention to return briefly to his bedroom on the second floor to "adjust his clothing"— a task he'd absolutely be allotted privacy from his guards for.

Then, it was a matter of claiming that he wanted to fetch a cravat pin his father promised him he could wear for the occasion before returning to the party. A pin that was conveniently located in his father's war room and study. A lie, of course, but it afforded him the opportunity to scale the steps to the third floor and enter the otherwise locked room where the relic was waiting, alone.

"Surely," Kenton agreed, and for a moment, Artus had forgotten what the guard was even talking about. After a breath, he recovered all the same.

"I'll find a proper match that will suit me..." he trailed off just as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

For the first time that evening, as he took a few steps back into the fold of the festivities, Artus's excitement—and the thrill of his successful deception—began to tip strongly towards nervous anxiety.

The darkening sky just beyond the ballroom's large, floor-to-ceiling windows imparted just how quickly he was running out of time. The comet would soon be here. And once the guards discovered that the relic wasn't where it should be, and the ceremony couldn't commence, it would not only enrage his father but also be the cause of public embarrassment.

This tradition was something entrusted to and carried out by the ruler of Lorellia, not the king of Serellia, nor the clan lords of Cardenar... It was his country's pride and honor to host the Festival of Light and perform the century-old ritual that supposedly pre-dated even the Kingdom Wars.

It would be a massive upset, and the perfect distraction. The perfect way for Artus to get away for long enough to explain everything to him. A distraction that would be for nothing if he was trapped inside when the search for the relic began.

As he made his way through the sea of familiar and not-so-familiar faces, Artus felt tiny beads of sweat begin to collect at the nape of his neck, and he resisted the urge to put his hand back in his pocket. Their scrutinizing eyes, paired with effortlessly false smiles, were unnerving in a way he'd not experienced before.

It was one thing entirely to have someone constantly judging you based on your status—grasping for any crumb of something to exploit and leverage for your political ruin. It would be another to have his plan backfire. To escape the castle, winning precious time completely alone with the object of his heart's most intimate desire, only to be rejected. To see rumors surface and circulate viciously that the King's only surviving son professed to be in love with a man. His preference an "affliction of the mind" that could send even him to a dungeon cell or worse. A risk he'd grown desperate enough to take.

But the relic was a solid thing... A physical object that, if found in his possession, would be irrefutably incriminating.

The stress began to manifest as a dull throbbing in his temples, and soon he felt short of breath. With his enthusiasm sinking and Kenton still a few paces behind, Artus tried to reason out how long he could possibly afford to sit down if he were to. What would Artus do if he couldn't find him in time?

Wringing his hands, Artus brushed past several more guests. He wasn't even taking the time to truly acknowledge them anymore when he suddenly spotted a flash of vibrant copper hair, the oddity of which drew his eyes. Artus sucked in a deep breath.

There, conversing with the red-headed foreigner, was exactly the man he'd been looking for—the Baron of Boreven's son, Rowan De Saint-Pierre. Rowan was a shining example of what a Lorellian noble was; tall, clean-shaven, and undeniably handsome, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes that always held a mildly scheming look to them.

With wind back in his sails, Artus quickly changed directions, beelining towards the pair. As far as Rowan's present company, not a single name came to mind. And Artus was certain he'd remember such a striking face. If he could memorize stars in the night sky and strips of land barely visible from the undulating waves of the sea, he definitely would have committed the foreigner's likeness to memory. But in that regard, he had none.

Surely, the man was from the north. His clothing wasn't Lorellian style or fashion, and parts of it looked fur lined. His fair, freckled skin and green eyes were very common traits among the residents of the mountainous nation. And his general appearance was also much more rugged than what was popular in Lorellia. There was red stubble sprinkled across his well-defined jaw, and his fiery locks looked rather hastily tied back. Artus knew for certain that he wasn't the nearest Serellian marquis. But since he seemed to be socializing with Rowan, surely he was someone of note.

In fact, as he strode towards them, Artus determined that Rowan must have known the man well. The way they spoke and laughed looked so genuine, which wasn't at all how most Lorellian nobles regarded one another.

There was always a rigidness to how nobility in Lorellia approached and handled each other—polite and curt, yet devoid of any honest emotion. They always had to be one step ahead of each other. Always perfectly in control of every word, expression, and movement, all under the critical gaze of their peers, who would be quick to take advantage of anything that was out of place.

It was a ruthless and delicate social waltz that the Lorellians played, and to observe Rowan so...relaxed with the stranger could only mean two things. First, Artus was correct. The redhead was Serellian and thus couldn't be expected to handle himself in a Lorellian fashion. Secondly, Rowan trusted him, or at least wanted it to look that way.

"Yes, I believe that Kamuhr was the last of the dragons, the 'White Demon' as legends say," Rowan said.

"Oh, is that right? What about our dragons then, if she's the last?" the Serellian countered.

"The last of the ancient dragons," Rowan corrected effortlessly.

"And beaten by a pretty little rock?" the Serellian inquired.

"It's not so pretty—have you not seen it before?"

"Nay, last time the comet came through, I was just a wee lad. Nay interested in the feck'n thing!'' The Serellian's laugh was loud and warm, a far cry from the polite and controlled chuckles most Lorellian men would afford each other.

Artus internally cringed at how effortlessly the man had sworn in a civilized setting but brushed off the faux pas to greet them. "Good evening," he chimed, standing as straight and poised as he could, despite his fingers still tingling.

"Your highness," Rowan said, raising his wine glass slightly in the prince's direction before turning to the Serellian and then back to the prince. "Surely, you've seen the relic, haven't you?"

Artus blinked in response, freezing only for a second before replying, "Tonight? Of course not." Kenton dropped back, but his expression wasn't without some confusion as well. "However, the ceremony should begin soon," Artus added before taking a playful look into the contents of Rowan's cup. "Are you enjoying the party?" If nothing else, a bit of drink could help calm his racing thoughts.

"I should count myself lucky to be in the company of so much royalty this evening!" 

Artus glanced up at Rowan as he gingerly pried the cup from the blond's hand even though it hadn't been offered to him. "What do you mean?" It wasn't that he'd not heard him. He was certainly close enough.

While Rowan was distracted by Artus absconding with his drink, the redhead interjected. "Aye! Arrtie! What has it been? Eight? Nine? No—surely not ten years, has it?" The Serellian looked back at Rowan for affirmation.

"Nine and one half," Rowan corrected.

"Nine and one hal—bah! Who's count'n anyway?"

Artus stood wide-eyed, mouth full of wine, as he struggled to make the connection between that accent, the face, and the way he'd addressed him. In a sudden surge of shock and realization, Artus unceremoniously and completely unintentionally sent a spray of wine from his lips, narrowly missing both men, before he'd managed to choke down the rest and cough out, "Flann?!"

The ensuing laughter from both young men was enough to tell that Artus's assumption was correct.

"Ha, good to see I left an impression! I was worried you'd have forgotten about me." Flann beamed before downing the rest of his drink and making a face. "Rowan said ya wouldn't recognize me, but you both look like ya've barely aged a day!"

"I-uhm..." Rowan was right. Artus never in a million years would have pinned the man in front of him as the Serellian prince he'd met as a child. The boy from his memory was anything but handsome. Flann O'Conar very much had the look of a kid you simply wanted to hit in the face, despite him never having acted particularly deserving of it.

But now... "You...certainly have matured," Artus stammered, his ears set ablaze with embarrassment, though his focus had again returned to Rowan. He cleared his throat, attempting another drink from Rowan's cup, or to at least finish off what was left of the fine vintage as it stung his tongue. He was likely reading too far into the fact that Rowan had even allowed it—that his lips were pressed against the gilded edge of something that Rowan's own had been against only moments before. Perhaps it was a sign, a subtle signal that the blond wasn't disgusted by an act of such indirect intimacy.

"Well, I should allow you both to catch up. I did promise my father that I'd pass a message along to the Count of Orlington while here. I believe I spotted him a moment ago," Rowan said with his all-too-perfect smile.

"Aye, never a moment not ruined by business, eh?" Flann remarked before waving his hand. "Off, with ya then, but I expect ner'more the same when you get back!"

Artus's eyes widened, and he swallowed down the wine so quickly that it hurt. Rowan couldn't leave now; not when everything had been working so far! He'd gotten the relic, he'd found Rowan within the sea of guests, he'd even managed to send away Kenton. By the way he'd clocked the guards and his father scaling the stairs across the ballroom, it was clear they would know within minutes that the relic was gone. And once they'd done a thorough enough search of the war room only to remain empty-handed...

"Rowan! Wait!" Artus called, but the volume of his words died the moment heads turned in his direction, leaving him pinned in silence by curious gazes.

Rowan was already flitting away through the myriad of rich, colorful suits and gowns, shouldering Artus with the company of the unwitting Serellian and any guards still hovering nearby.