Warp Token 2 Word Update

2k words

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She prepared a loofa and brush, and began to wash him down, suds running down his shoulders as she scrubbed. Roderick was no stranger to being cleaned down by a bath wench in his day, and he felt a wave of nostalgia for his younger years, when he was just a simple men-at-arms without a care in the world.

It felt good to be cleaned up, especially by a woman, her soft hands and comely figure catching his eye. Her gown was thick and heavy, covering everything from the shoulders down, but she had a head of golden locks that complemented her cerulean eyes. Whatever his opinions of the Bretotonians, their women were quite the lookers.

She seemed to pick up on his train of thought, perhaps catching onto his lingering glances. The loofa paused between his shoulder blades. “I touch you, you don’t touch me,” she suddenly said. “Those are the rules in the wash house. You break them, the guards break you.”

The water splashed as Roderick raised a hand to his chest.

“You needn’t worry, lass, I’m promised to another, and she is far more my type.”

She narrowed her eyes, perhaps taking his words as insult, despite her stating their boundaries. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew his type was Skaven assassins, she might call for the guards out of spite.

She continued her work, the washing room silent except for the occasional drip or splash. Roderick was tasked with cleaning himself from the waist down, while the maid went and fetched him his gear. His wargear had been cleaned during his bath, and he was ordered to dress in plate rather than leathers. “Your travel gear is unbeffiting of my Duke’s halls,” Edouart explained. “But mostly, it is because steel is quicker to clean than leather.”

Von Kessel’s officers were also dressed in mail and armoured hauberks, while the Captain himself wore the colourful regalia of a nobleman. These were obviously borrowed from the locals, whether he chose them himself or was forced, Roderick could not say, but Kessel at least had his plumed officers hat to distinguish his Imperial origins.

Once they were all pampered up, Edouart’s retinue brought them to the foot of the castle. A set of stairs wide enough for ten men to walk abreast loomed up and away from them, turning at sharp angles as it rose into the sky and the towers. The rattle of chains announced the rising of the entry gate, and Edouart and Von Kessel took the lead up the initial rise.

“What was the point of cleaning us up, just to make us march uphill?” Lothar muttered from the rear, and his complaint couldn’t be further from the truth. Ten minutes up steps and ramps and through battlements, Roderick began to sweat in the humid Brettonian air. After twenty, the group smelled of exertion. A whole day of marching had preluded their audience with the Duke, and now the added altitude did no favours.”

“Perhaps we’ll get second bath in the Duke’s royal bathrooms,” Roderick remarked. The Imperials laughed, the Bretoonian’s did not.  

“Captain, kindly remind your charges of proper court etiquette,” Edouart grumbled. “I do not want to hear afoul use of language in my Duke’s presence.”

“We are sailors,” Von Kessel answered. “Every word we say is afoul. Isn’t that right, Goswin?”

“By Rhya’s sweet tits it is!” the burliest among them answered. Each one of the Brettonian escorts looked at him as though he were mad. “But we’ll keep on our best behaviour, Edouart, don’t you worry your shiny helmet about it.”

“See that you do,” the knight-errant muttered.

The upper cathedrals of the castle soared into the clouds like grasping armoured fingers, four reinforced towers marking the bounds of the ramparts uppermost limits. One of them was slightly taller than the others, and upon its flat top rested the greatest ballista Roderick had ever seen. The width of the drawstring was wider than a carriage, the tips hanging over the rounded edges of the bastion.

Yet another gate barred the way ahead, but at least this one announced the end to the climb. The men standing guard drew open the entrance, the double-doors wide and tall enough to let an ogre pass unhindered, swinging with an immense creak of heavy wood. The sound of their clocking boots gave way to soft thuds as they traversed from stones to carpet, the floor covered in a soft ruff of maroon wool that stretched to the corners.

Shields with crossed swords hung on display to the left and right walls, reared by gilded armour stands that looked far too gilded to be for anything but decoration.

Beyond the lobby, the space extended into a grand depth of a hall. Three trestle tables formed one half of hexagon occupying the far side of the space, while two separate trestles formed a lane in the closer. Silks covered the tables, velvet liveries covering up the cobblestone walls, interspersed by hanging armaments.

Even the ceiling had extended, rising into a space reminiscent of a cathedral, where sets of banners depicting the Lyonesse coat of arms hung from the distant rafters. All Roderick had seen on the ascent was defence, but in its heart was a veritable palace, and from the outside this looked to be only the entry wing.

The seats were occupied by just as many women as men, each as lavishly dressed as the commoners in the streets below. Laughter and chatter echoed off the walls, mingled with the sound of a harpsicord being played by a musician in the far corner.

Roderick and the Imperial’s entrance was marked by the clunk and grating of moving steel, and the quiet ambience of revelry dimmed as their approach was noticed. Lively conversations turned to silent stares, faces with powdered cheeks and glossy lipstick scowling, as though the Imperials had disrupted something of import.

“My Lords and Ladies,” Edouart announced, stepping forward and puffing out his chest. “Forgive our interruption. These… travellers, have requested audience with Duke Adelhard, by claim of friendship.”

The title of travellers was said with no small contempt, even though Edouart could have announced them as Empire men.

“Come forth,” a voice boomed from the midst of noblemen and women, strong and wilful. “I would see what friends of mine would interrupt my feast.”

Edouart gave the group a pointed look, Roderick falling in line as Von Kessel walked forward. The partygoers parted before them, giving them a wide berth as they clutched goblets of wine in hand. Roderick glanced back when the great doors of the hall slammed shut, sealing away the sunshine, the hall lit by gloomy candelabras and hanging sconces.

The Imperial men advanced until they stood within the epicentre of the trestles. Robes and skirts swished as the nobles bowed their heads, but not for the Imperials.

The Duke of Lyonesse was distinguished by one of the finest cloaks Roderick had ever seen, the silk made from a rich blend of blue and maroon stripes, the collar gilded with gold ribbons. It was slung in favour to one shoulder, exposing a moth-white tunic with a quilted surcoat over the top, itself embroiled with the roaring lion of the Lyonesse heraldry.  

Adelhard’s handsome features were complimented by a dark beard of combed hair, his moustache curling at the edges to form exaggerated tips. He was on the taller, Roderick’s eyes would perhaps be level with his chin should he stand side by side with him.

As the Duke approached, Von Kessel dropped to a knee. Roderick and the others followed in his example, the Duke standing before with a frown on his chiselled face.

“Arnulf,” the Duke began, looking down on the Captain. “I should have known it was you. You always make a habit of showing up announced to my castle. Do you not understand, that these revelries are for only the renowned to partake?”

“Then why are you here, your Grace?” Von Kessel asked, never taking his eyes off the floor.

Gasps of shock whispered through the hall, even the musician had stopped his playing to gawk. Roderick couldn’t help but partake , glancing at Lothar in silent confoundment.

The Duke fumed, and it was hard not to imagine his great fist coming down on Kessel’s plumed cap. Off to the side, Edouart grasped his sword in silent fury, as though the mock had been directed to him personally.

For a long moment, Roderick wasn’t sure what would happen, but the last thing he expected, was for the Duke to snort, his teeth exposing in a hearty grin.

“You barnacle-ridden mongrel! Now I know it has been too long since you graced my halls.” The Duke helped up the Captain, and the two shared a companionable embrace. “Yet I was not aware of your ship coming to port. Do not tell me you have gone to bed with the smugglers?”

“Worse,” Von Kessel replied. “We were stranded ashore when we fell under attack, five nights ago.”

“Ulric’s beard! And what of your wolf?”

Von Kessel shook his head.

“Ah, I am truly sorry to hear that, Arnulf. Your ship was truly a marvel of this age. And yet, she was as sturdy as a mountain, how did she come to fall?”

“That is quite the tale,” Von Kessel said. “And I’m unsure of where to begin.”

“You’ll start with some wine, naturally. A goblet for this man, and his men, as well. They have come from a long, hard road, let us treat them to Brettonian hospitality.”

The men rose from their kneels, and Roderick had scarcely taken a breath before a cup was placed in his hand, a servant pouring him a drink from a silver pitcher. The liquid was cherry red, and after giving it a tentative sniff, he took a tentative sip. A second quickly followed. It had been too long since he’d tasted good wine, but the Brettonian red was even finer than that.

The Duke seemed on familiar terms with Von Kessel’s men, giving them hearty handshakes and warm welcomes, asking after their health and their relatives. When it came to Roderick’s turn, he received no such greetings.

“Your officers I recognise, but not this one,” Adalhard said, looking him up and down. “Are you a fresh sailor, ser…?”

“Roderick. And no, my Lord Duke, I am no sailor. My feet vastly prefer the solidity of ground than water.”

“As do mine, my good man,” Adalhard chuckled. “There is no greater sense of purpose, then the moment one stands upon the ground he fights for. And yet, you are a long way from home for someone who is not a sailor. Come,” he said, waving a beckoning hand. “You will eat and explain at my table.”

The Imperials were given honorary seats at the Duke’s left, Roderick finding himself in the second position along, pre-empted by Von Kessel himself. On the Duke’s right was the most beautiful woman Roderick had ever seen. She was sat in a throne as elaborate as the Duke’s, her pale skin barely distinguished from the gossamer gown she wore, the garment clinging to her thin but shapely figure. Atop her head she wore an elaborate crown of rubies, the same matching colour as the floral patterns swirling down her clothing. Even her eyes were a striking shade of orange that bordered on red.

The Duchess could have been the Lady reincarnate, and Lothar stared in awe until Roderick elbowed him out of it. The revelry gently resumed now that the Imperials were welcomed by their host, the nobles returning to their muted conversations.

At the Duke’s behest, the dishes across the hall were rotated, until all the plates had circulated to Roderick’s table. Mountains of meat sat before him, stuffed turkeys sitting in beds of roasted vegetables, flanked by hunks of crispy bread. There were giant sticks of venison, bloody with taste and thick with the smell of herb. Of source there was plenty, wine and sprig combining into trays of honeyed relish, and if that wasn’t enough, deserts followed behind, pastries packed with berry and cream served along cakes big enough Roderick could have fit inside one if he’d crouched.