Journal Entry - Obtoxicullous

It comes to me now, in a strange way, that for as vast as the world may seem, it is ever entangled in destiny and bound fates. Much like any predator is beholden to its prey's survival, so too are my own desires beholden to those fates of which it revolves around.

I must, then, put forth the utmost care and consideration into studying my enemies as well as their histories to therefore better understand how fate might be twisted to my will. This artful mastery of manipulation is not unlike magic in that it might take many attempts and failures to perfect to some degree of satisfactory results.

But then, where to start? Why the answer comes, of course, to the Viottos, for as sovereigns of my focus, they alone stand my opposition. I shall recount their tale as it is best known to me, for my records, and in hopes that later it will prove useful and adequate to my theory.

The first notable fact—and some may even dare to say unusual—is that Cristaldo was not the rightful heir to the throne of Lorellia. It was, in fact, his elder brother, Cypristian. And it was not by death but by life that he pinched the crown from under the grasp of his sibling. For Cypristian's mistresses only produced daughters, and a woman could never rightfully hold any position of such lofty power in Lorellia.

It was the birth of Cristaldo's twin boys that moved him to the front line of succession, to the ire of Cypristian and his many supporters. It was an infrequent occurrence that heirs to the crown should be rearranged, but the king was well within his rights to do so. Though it did present a unique situation. Normally, fluctuations in power were brought about in a singular manner, through death, either timely or untimely, but that left little room for deliberation or challenge. Therefore, Cypristian being stripped of his inheritance while still alive was not only unexpected—it was a direct affront from his own father.

Such an upset could only be met with resistance and outrage, and though I find no direct evidence, the fact that the king died shortly after his decree that Cristaldo should become his new successor gives more than passing credence to the suggestion that Cypristian had a hand in hastening his father's departure from this life and his throne.

The swiftness of the king's demise left the door open for Cypristian to challenge Cristaldo's crowning as king, and he did so with remarkable gusto, using all of his influence and connections within La'Trest. Several charges were brought against Cristaldo, including blackmail, forgery of royal documents, and of course, murder. A series of political and physical battles played out between the two brethren for the next several months.

During this time, Cristaldo's two boys had become a year old. They, along with their mother, Lady Vivienne, had remained in the royal estate in the countryside, far from the turmoil of the father and uncle's political skirmishes, until Cristaldo had secured victory and sent for his family to be brought to the capitol at once.

On its way to La'Trest, the queen's carriage was attacked. She escaped, along with Artus, but Prince Gautier was never found. While I'm sure the loss of a child is deeply troubling, I believe that there was some relief granted to Cristaldo in knowing that Artus would never have to face the same treachery.

Prince Artus, however, would meet his own troubling misfortune a mere ten years later, one that would leave a lasting mark on his soul, when the vessel he was aboard, along with her entire crew and that of an additional escorting ship, would mysteriously vanish—leaving him the only survivor. Even more curious was that the only wreckage, along with the prince himself, was located by the faithful ravens of Homenil's very own Bhalthier Cullach.

It's at this point in my research that I begin to feel some pity for the boy. Is it by luck or chance that he should continue to slip through the fingers of fate? Or is it a curse that all those around you should fall to peril while you walk through fire untouched? Once more, he has escaped calamity—slipping away the hour my victory draws near—as if fate has snatched him up and placed him on a shelf well beyond my reach. Or...perhaps fate plays no part at all.

Perhaps my answers lie in Homenil...

***

Ardaik 8th - Central Ocean

The stench of seared flesh and smoldering wood still lingered at midday. Rowan and the princes had initially sought to keep themselves out of the way of the crewmen rushing about to make repairs or tend to their comrades. They stayed mostly at the stern, near the helm, until a sailor spotted the sturdy redhead and set him to work. Rowan was next to be put to a task. And once Artus was standing without their company for more than a few minutes, he found himself completely exposed to the depths of his own thoughts and, even worse, his feelings.

They'd been forced to leave men stranded in the water when they fled the dragon. Artus's grip tightened on the railing to the degree that his knuckles went white. Suffocating in that cerulean-turned-black abyss was a terror and pain he knew. He knew the taste of that very last breath as it escaped, that unique vintage of fear and hopelessness. The sound of it. And now, he'd indirectly sent more men to that very same fate.

If he hadn't taken the relic...

Artus exhaled slowly, allowing those thoughts to float away on the white-tipped waves. This wasn't his fault. Not entirely, at least. The men they lost today, yes. But not the whole of La'Trest.

How could he have known that his little plot would illicit such a tremendous disaster? A very different weight joined his guilt as he continued to stare over the side of the rail. Something like an anchor tethered to his chest joined by pressure against his shoulder blades. A kind of compulsion to lean just too far over the railing...to let his boots lose purchase on the sea-sprayed deck...to let go.

Artus very suddenly pulled away from the railing. "Those men were sailors," he whispered to himself, his knuckles cracking in protest to the intensity with which he wrung his hands as he paced. "Sailors and soldiers willing to die in the line of service. Sailors and soldiers..." But acknowledging their occupation and sworn duty scarcely made their fate more digestible to him. It still twisted his insides and did so even worse when he caught the questioning stare of the helmsman and navigator.

Artus cleared his throat and pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. It felt hot, but his hands were also cold. "Excuse me," he muttered as he hurriedly made his way down to the lower portion of the quarterdeck, where the admiral's office was. Perhaps Laurent would allow him another cup of that strong ale or a book. Anything to keep his mind occupied or inhibited.

The moment he reached the partially open door, however, Artus paused, met with the sound of Sebastien's sharp comment.

"As long as he's aboard, that thing will pursue!"

"With respect, Laurent, the Retribution is a faster galleon," Paniel stated from where he sat quite casually in the chair across from Sebastien. "Newer, and with more guns. I can take his highness north if the L'épine de Rose needs to see others elsewhere."

"That would be a fine idea, commander," Sebastien said. "However, I shouldn't imagine your ship or this one will make it another night further, nor his highness far without proper stewardship."

"What's your suggestion then, Sir?" Laurent wondered, spotting Artus in the doorway before fixing his gaze on Sebastien.

"We must get the prince to land, where—"

"Forgive me," Paniel interrupted, waving away some of the smoke from Laurent's pipe that'd drifted toward him. "Can a dragon not fly over, nor torch, land?"

Sebastien did nothing to hide the irritation in his voice as he continued, "Where we wouldn't be fish in a barrel."

Paniel huffed out a laugh. "You would make yourselves vulnerable to all manner of other things, then," he stated in an almost lethargic tone. "Have you been overrun by any toads or undead yet? Accosted by mercenaries? Traffickers?"

"Perhaps his highness has an opinion on the matter?" Laurent said, the others following his eyes toward the door, where Artus still silently stood.

"Your highness," Paniel greeted, getting up to stand in a simple display of respect. "It's a relief to see you well."

"I can't possibly look well," Artus said, feigning a convincing smile before venturing further into the room. "But thank you. The feeling is quite mutual." Paniel gave him a brief, apologetic smile before reseating himself, while Laurent seemed content to say nothing for the moment. "What's this about, then?"

"The incompletion of the ceremony has allowed that dragon to return to our land," Sebastien said, folding his thin arms across his chest. "There is little doubt in my mind, your highness, that the dragon will come after you."

Flann's hearty baritone cut in, then—just as he too entered the room. "That dragon's Auganull the Black. He hails from the Frigid Marsh near the Silent Slough, and he's a bastard fer sure, but no more interested in yar little rock than any other beasty." He came to stand beside Artus as though he'd been asked to join them before adding, "He ner leaves the Slough and Marshlands, just like the giant toads and undead... Until now, at least."

"Little what?" Paniel asked. Both he and Laurent looked quite confused.

Sebastien's expression, on the other hand, was pure recognition as he stared at Artus with his jaw visibly clenched—tight enough to make his sharp jaw and high cheekbones look even more pronounced. "I didn't realize you were so knowledgeable on the subject of our assaulter, Prince O'Conar."

"Aye! Of course, I am!"

Artus broke out into a cold sweat—his skin prickling with goosebumps. "Prince O'Conar is familiar with Serellian history and geography, Sebastien. Nothing more."

"Any Serellian knows of the Slough and rightly fears it. But how and why they'd come this far south, tis a mystery to me," Flann said.

"A mystery..." Sebastien echoed.

Artus knew that tone. It meant the advisor didn't believe one bit of what was being presented to him. "That's enough, Sebastien."

"Are you defending him, your highness?" Laurent wondered after removing his pipe from between his lips. "Perhaps you know Prince O'Conar better than Sir Sebastien is aware?"

"If ya got something ta say, then ya might as well say it," Flann said as he squared his shoulders toward Sebastien.

The advisor sized up the Serellian with a superior gaze as though he were looking down his nose at a child, despite the fact that he was sitting. "I've not yet dismissed the idea that your country may have had some hand in all of this," Sebastien said. "And you've only given me further cause to distrust you and your woman guard."

Paniel's brow lifted. "Woman guard? Hm...interesting."

"Heh, you strike me as the type who would distrust his own reflection," said Flann before adding, "Believe what ye like about me, but Edna's risked her life to see that we all got out of La'Trest, and if ya speak ill of her or her honor..." Flann shrugged his broad shoulders. "I believe I'd have ta challenge ya to a friendly duel."

"A prince defending his guard's honor..." Sebastien scoffed. "What a backward little place Serellia must be."

Artus took a firm hold of Flann's arm, tugging him toward the door. In truth, the action was a wordless request on his part. If the other prince didn't want to accompany him out, Artus certainly couldn't force him. "Admiral Paniel, I trust you wouldn't mind providing us accommodations for a few hours? I think we all need some rest. And some space."

"Of course, your highness," Paniel replied, standing once again.

To Artus's surprise and great relief, Sebastien neither objected nor followed. Rowan and Edna, however, both straightened up when the two princes emerged, followed by Admiral Paniel.

"What did they say?" Rowan wondered as though he'd not been trying to catch as much of the conversation as possible while waiting.

"The Retribution will be hosting us for a while," Artus replied, directing his gaze to the ship in question. "I should imagine Sebastien will stay here. I think I'll leave Kenton with him as well since I'll have you with me."

Rowan's concern was all but forgotten, replaced by a small smirk as he studied Artus's expression carefully before speaking. "Well, I can't say that they'll be missed."

"You could," Artus replied with the hint of a smirk of his own, his gaze touching Rowan's lips for the shortest moment. "If you wanted to be kinder, that is." Every exchange like this between them reminded Artus of why that selfish part of him had been compelled to linger at the docks the night of the festival. In a few of the foreign books he owned, characters did all manner of things in the name of love. Propelled by the overwhelming affection they harbored for one another. Heroic things...evil things...terribly foolish things. Maybe there really was some truth to those fantastical tales.

Their moment was again short-lived, however, as Paniel interrupted. "This way, gentlemen. The accommodations won't be quite as grand as they were on your previous stay, Prince Viotto, but I'm sure you'll find them preferable to your previous lodgings."

"A brig?" Artus snorted. "Yes, I should imagine so." His reply earned a small smile from Paniel as he led Artus, Rowan, and Flann toward the planks bridging the L'épine de Rose and the Retribution.

Mounting the plank had been quick, but once both of Artus's boots had left the deck of the Rose, he hesitated. He didn't often board a ship in this manner, and since he wasn't tethered to the others as a prisoner this time, fear gripped his throat. What if he were to get dizzy while crossing? Or if there was a hard gust of wind and he lost his footing? The slap of the waves below spurred Artus into motion, and his pride drove him forward, regardless of the way the rise of the ships with a wave made his knees quake. Rowan was right behind him, he reminded himself—and Paniel was a few steps in front.

Artus's relief was immediate once he stepped foot onto the Retribution. "Could we get some dry clothes? And some water to wash up with?" He thought to ask for something to eat as well, but Paniel was first to offer.

"Of course, your highness, and a meal as well," Paniel replied, peering briefly toward the sky. "It's nearly supper. This way."

Their quarters were located on the second deck near the bow of the ship, far from the great cabin and officers' quarters but also just as far from the brig and regular crew. Their nearest neighbors were spare rigging, canvas, crates, and barrels. While normally, Rowan would have scoffed at the idea of housing royalty in such lowly accommodations, given the past few days, he was just grateful to have dry clothes and privacy. Their washroom was just a corner of the cabin sectioned off by a curtain, but he'd lingered in place a little longer than usual before exiting.

"Your turn," he said, touching Artus's shoulder as he passed him.

He was still astounded at how easily Flann seemed to adapt to their new lodging. The Serellian was lazily swinging in a hammock, puffing on his pipe while studying the swaying lantern. Edna was hanging sheets of canvas to divide up the rest of the room almost evenly between them, though Rowan was pretty sure that she was intentionally giving her and Flann more space. He didn't bother to bring it up in conversation, however, if only for the fact that he and Artus had claimed the bunks uncontested.