House Alderscorn @housealderscorn - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag (2024)

It was very kind of Denis Villeneuveto castTimothée Chalamet in the new Dune and give me the absolute best portrayal of a younger Raven that I could possibly ask for.

Seriously, put some snow in the background, swap a sandworm for a dragon and it’s there. Even the shots with his Father and training with his mentor are perfect.

The gif (if it decides to play) would be Raven getting chewed out, the cocky little jerk.

Prompt 2: Sway

Master and apprentice faced each other in resolute silence. The student, young but talented for his age, furrowed his brow and opened his mind to the infinite possible moves. Which would his opponent be expecting? Which would allow for the greater defense against his older, wiser mentor? He cautioned a glance into his grandfather’s eyes who returned his gaze with a smirk that etched deeper the creases at their corners.

“Make your move, boy, before I die of old age,” said Gerart.

Raven huffed and set his jaw. Quite right, he thought. It was time to decide. His hand darted forward but he hesitated at the last moment, cursing himself for both his indecision and for giving away his train of thought. Maybe his grandfather hadn’t picked up on it though, maybe he-

“Bringing the bishop into the fray, huh?” Gerart said, dashing Raven’s hope. “ Bold move, little bird, bold move.” He nodded his approval, clearly impressed. “Here I thought you’d tip toe around the board with the knight,” he said pointing at the obsidian chess piece. “Seems more your style. Slow, predictable, timid…”

“I’m trying to concentrate,” Raven said. He was studying the board, drawing the paths with his mind for as many moves as he could manage, his hand still hovering over the bishop. He couldn’t see what was so dangerous about the move, though, and it worried him. “You’re trying to distract me because you know I’m winning,” he bluffed. Raven had never beaten his grandfather at chess. Not once. Where Raven studied the board, took his time, attempted to predict the course of the game, Gerart picked moves seemingly at random. No sooner will Raven finish his turn than his grandfather would spare a quick glance at the board and shift a piece. It was infuriating.

“I’m serious, the Roshenko gambit is a ballsy maneuver. Shows you been doing your reading, I’m impressed. But, hey, don’t let me sway you, boy. ”

Raven, who had never once picked up a book on chess strategies and hadn’t the single, foggiest idea who the fuck Roshenko was nor what his gambit involved, suddenly felt out of his depth. He looked to his knight and quickly traced its available paths. All but one was blocked but the remaining move showed promise. Perhaps victory would be his after all if he could wear his grandfather down through attrition. Defense being the best offense and all that.

He shifted to the knight and placed it safely out of reach and grinned at his grandfather. “I think I’ll wear you down instead, old m…”

Gerart’s hand was on his queen the very moment Raven had finished his move. “Check and mate,” he said, standing up with a groan and stretching his back.

“Wha….n-no,” said Raven staring at the board, his defeat laid bare. “That's…you shyster! You said the knight was the safe move!”

Gerart pulled the pipe from his waistcoat pocket and began to pack it with his thumb. “Yup. Lied. Shoulda moved the Bishop. You'da still lost but you’d have lasted longer.” He struck a match with his thumbnail and brought the pipe to life.

“But I don’t know the Roshenko gambit,” Raven said, still sitting at the table.

His grandfather shrugged as he blew out a voluminous plume of fragrant smoke. “Made that up too. Shouldn’t listen to the people trying to beat you Raven. Your enemy seldom has your best interest in mind.”

Prompt 1: Crux

***** A few years back *****

The magistrate pinched the bridge of his nose and sagged backward in his seat as his Chamber hung in anticipatory silence. The two Serpents, the captain of the guard and the arresting officer, stood at regimental attention, in contrast to the drunken Ishgardian slumped in the seat before them in a heap. At the podium stood the witness, the unfortunate carriage driver who took pity on the sharp dressed, if disheveled, elezen who had stumbled into the street once the bars of the Lavender Beds had shut their doors for the night.

"Let us try this one more time WITHOUT INTERUPTION," The magistrate said in a slow, measured tone. "You," he pointed at the carriage driver who straightened immediately and wrung his hat, "picked up this…gentleman, who directed you to drive him to the Carline Canopy…."

"Well, that is, in a manner of speakin' your honor, if ye beg my pardon," said the driver. "See, he - that is, the gentleman here - didn't know of the Canopy by name, no sir. He gets in, see, and he goes 'hotel' and then I go 'which hotel?' but by that time he was sawin logs - that is, he's asleep, see…"

The magistrate sighed heavily, "Yes, fine…."

"..But I ain't no slouch, see," continued the driver tapping his temple with a finger, "I see's the way he's dressed and all, fancy suit, good shoes, and I say to myself, 'take 'em to the Canopy! Ain't no finer establishment for a gentleman, says I, let Miounne take care of him."

"The picture is painted, dried, and hung on the wall, thank you" said the magistrate. "Suffice it to say, however, you did not reach your destination."

The Ishgardian snorted. "Sort that out yourself?"

"Again, I remind the defendant to seize hold of his obstinate tongue," said the magistrate, more tired than angry. "Continue," he said to the witness.

"N-no sir, we never did. See, we was -waylaid-," the driver said pronouncing the word carefully. He'd just learned it that evening and was proud he got to use it himself. "Waylaid," he repeated, "by the 'ood."

The magistrate looked toward the captain of the guard with tired eyes. "I assume you're more familiar with the vernacular than I, Captain, care to translate?"

"The *Hood*, your honor," said the captain sternly, "Alas: 'The Black Hood', real name: Jerrik Gantry. Deceased. "

"You have his sheet?" inquired the magistrate.

"Sheets," the captain corrected, presenting the stack of papers before him. "Wanted for arson, assault, murder….name the crime, your honor, he's committed it."

"Dangerous then."

The captain stiffened his jaw and stood straighter. "Killed four of my own, your honor. Good men."

"Right," said the magistrate, whose eyes drifted over the drunk nobleman with curious wonder. "And *he* killed him?"

The room turned their eyes toward Raven who had started to snore.

The captain turned to his officer who answered after a hard swallow. "Never saw the like," he said in a near whisper, regarding the hunched over Ishgardian with wide eyes. "With the Hood's own knife even...Fast as a blink, like it were easy."

"Any clue as to his identity?" asked the magistrate.

Instead of answering, the captain gathered up the large envelope of personal effects and placed them on the magistrate's bench and returned to his spot.

The magistrate tipped the envelope and emptied the contents in front of him. An empty flask, a pocket watch, voucher for an obscene amount of cash, and what appeared to be a passport. The cover was deep blue leather, embossed and filigreed in tarnished silver with the image of an ornate shield. He peered at the credentials within and raised his brows, glancing toward the captain who only nodded slowly.

"What should we do, your honor?" asked the captain. "Can we hold him?"

"Hm." He tented his fingers beneath his chin and watched the snoring knight. He had been a soldier himself long ago but was fortunate enough not to know the horrors of real war. Not like what was transpiring in the mountains northward where the Ishgardians battled not soldiers but beasts that towered like buildings and breathed ice and fire. Endless hordes of beating wings, razor sharp teeth, claws the size of canoes. What must that do to a man? And how does one wake from such nightmarish misfortune.

"Therein lies the rub," the magistrate said under his breath.

"Your honor?" asked the captain.

"Captain, take this…" he peered again at the Ishgardian's credentials, "Ser Raven Alderscorn to the barracks. In the morning throw a bucket of water over him and inform him of his sentence: He is bound to community service as a servant of Gridania. Give him to Luciane," he snorted. "She's got a troublemaker of her own. Maybe they can sort one another out."

With his judgement final, the magistrate stood, stretched and yawned. Stepping from the bench he noticed the worried expression on the captain's face. "There's a problem, captain?"

"Ah, well…potentially," he said glancing nervously at the sleeping knight. "How…can we make him do that? If he chooses not too, that is?"

"Officer," the magistrate said, addressing the subordinate who snapped to attention out of habit and nerves. "How did you place him under arrest in the first place? Dangerous man that he is," he asked, knowing the answer already.

"W-well…I just…said 'you're under arrest'. He said…'fair enough'"

The magistrate nodded and walked off. "There you go. Drunk or not, the man's a Temple Knight. Evening, gentleman."

Prompt #7: Forgiven

There's a saying in Ishgard that all roads lead to Halone and, perhaps, there was some truth in that adage. For, on this late evening in particular, one of her flock stumbled from the tavern, into the streets of the city, and eventually found himself in Her house.

He entered the Cathedral and slumped onto one of the massive oak benches that sat sentinel on either side of another door. Beyond stood row upon row of empty pews, like soldiers in a wooden army. The sleep he so desperately needed eluded him, however, and he found himself lost in the river of his own thoughts.

Then stay and burn with the rest.

Raven pressed the heels of his palms against the sockets of his stinging eyes. "Stop," he said to himself. Against the tears that threatened to breech the tired lids of his eyes? Or the memory of his own words that echoed in the cavern of his mind. Words spoken on this night, some years ago. The last words his father would ever hear from his son.

Then stay and burn with the rest

"STOP, DAMMIT!" he hissed, shoving himself to his feet a little too quickly. He stumbled into a candle stand, knocking it to the marble floor with a violent clatter, sending half-spent candles rolling until stopped by their own melting wax. Like a ship at sea, he listed back and forth and watched their flames flicker and carve through the white wax, gathering it into pools against the cold floor. Raven sagged and finally sank to his knees before the mess of bent iron and untended flames.

Then stay

"Please…"

and burn with the rest

Unbidden, the tears finally came in great sobs. He sagged backwards against the unyielding wood of the bench and spread his arms along it's seat and peered upward through hazy eyes at the visage of the Fury that adorned the stained glass window above the door. A glow, warm at first, and then all consuming and furious, lit her from behind and shone down, lending a divine aura to the crumbled form of the knight.

He squinted in defiance against the light. "No," he growled. "It's not your sin to forgive." As if in answer, the sun moved upon its natural course and left the window dim with overcast, morning light. Raven closed his eyes against the sparks that dazzled his vision and fell into an uneasy sleep.

(The story this refers to can be read here.)

Prompt #6: First Steps

"Gods, Brynn," Gerart said with a bemused, doubtful laugh, "to hear you tell it, the boy's useless! If that's the case, pack 'em up, send 'em off to the Astrologicum!"

The two men, father and son, marched down the lane toward one of the Cathedral's many training squares. The chill of the early spring morning was just beginning to warm up and the pace that the older man was setting raised beads of sweat on his son's forehead. He dragged his fingers through his hair and shook his head. "He's not smart enough," Brynn said.

They reached the gates of the training grounds and the air was suddenly filled with the music of practice. Calls and cries and the percussion of wooden swords against shields. Gerart gave a stern look to his son. "I was joking. The boy is what? Ten?? If I'da given up on you as easily as you're set to give up on Raven, I warrant you'd be rollin' out maps and fetching tea for your betters."

"Dad…" Brynn began to protest again and reached for the latch on the gate.

Gerart's hand seized upon the gate and held it closed, straightening to his full height. "Yes, *Captain*?" His tone and posture left no room for further nonsense.

Brynn's mouth snapped shut and he stiffened to attention. It was one thing to have a discussion within the walls of the family manor but here, in uniform and within the shadow of the Cathedral beneath the appraising eye of Halone herself, there was no questioning his father.

"Nothing, General," Brynn said.

"Good," said Gerart. "I believe I will assess Raven on my own. You may go."

Brynn snapped a salute and headed off, waiting until he was well clear of his father before he began to grumble under his breath.

Within the fenced-in grounds, practice continued unabated until one of the instructors noted the approaching General and called for attention. As a unit, all in attendance stopped what they were doing to turn and snap a chorus of salutes.

"Go on," Gerart called. "Continue."

It wasn't difficult to pick Raven out from the trainees. He was shorter than even the most diminutive of students by almost a foot. Gerart couldn't help but snort. Fury's tits, he thought. That sheild is wearing *him*.

He watched the drills and noted that Raven's movements were smooth and natural. Moreso than any of the others. He moved from position to position by instinct, rather than by clumsy, stiff rote. He also seemed bored out of his skull. "Pair up!" called Gerart.

The instructors flinched but recovered easily. "You heard the General! Move into pairs, it's time to spar! Move!"

The students sprinted to the equipment bins and hastily buckled into full protective leather and strapped oversized helms to their heads.

Gerart watched as Raven squared up against another boy and all of the ease and confidence with which he had performed his solo forms crumbled to the dirt. He stoically observed, his stern eyes all but hidden beneath his heavy brow, thick arms crossed over his broad chest. But in his mind he sighed and groaned each time Raven was knocked to the ground.

What had Brynn done to my grandchild, he thought. Raven's footwork was solid, he noticed, and decidedly not in the textbook, clearly improvised. He moved with as much grace as he could muster while he attempted to hoist the shield in the way of oncoming attacks. More often than not, he would miss the block entirely and take a strike against his helmet, which would shift to cover his eyes and prevent any defense against the next attacks.

"Alderscorn, front and center!" The General called. Everyone stopped as a group and turned toward him. Raven peeled off and shuffled dejectedly to his grandsire. "Did I tell the rest of you to stop?!" The students snapped back into action and began anew.

Gerart knelt down as Raven approached, still having to look downward to meet his eyes.

"I know," Raven said.

"What do you *think* you know, boy?"

"I'm horrid."

"Yep."

Raven, perhaps not expecting to hear the truth, though he should have known better coming from his grandsire, sulked. "May I return to my arse-kicking or have you more wisdom to impart? General."

Gerart had to summon a great deal of will not to laugh. If there was ever a doubt under Halone's blue sky that this boy was his grandson, it had just vanished. "In a hurry, are you?"

Raven thought to continue his sardonic tantrum but he was too dejected and sore to do so. "Not especially," he said.

"Your problem…well, ONE of your problems is that you're trying to fight like everyone else. *Are* you everyone else?"

Raven merely starred at him. "I rather thought that was the point of all this. They teach us as one. The drills, the instruction…"

"And how's that working for you?" Asked Geralt.

"…about as you'd expect," admitted Raven. He was beginning to see around the corner of his grandfather's thoughts. His grandsire was a smart man, he knew this, but he was prone to circumlocution. It could be frustrating but he also appreciated being allowed to come to his own conclusions rather than being barked at, which was his father's primary tool for instruction. "So then…how do I fight like me?"

Gerart grinned, causing the wrinkles around his eyes to carve deep paths. Atta boy, he thought. "Drop that, for one," he said pointing his chin at the shield. Raven dropped it without question as if he was just waiting for permission. "Good. Now. How you like that helmet?"

Raven blinked. "It's not the most comfortable piece of headwear I own but I do appreciate that it keeps my brain intact."

"Nah, I seen you move, boy. You won't need it." When Raven hesitated, Gerart put his hand out.

"Right…well, if you're wrong I don't suppose I'll have the wherewithal to say I told you so," he said, slipping the strap from his chin and dropping the helmet to the dirt next to the shield.

"Right. Now give it a go," Gerart said.

Raven didn't move at first. He raised his finger, "ah, question?"

"Mmhm."

"What do I do with my other hand now? I can't exactly block a sword with it lest I wish to have Carlisle tie my shoes for me from now on." Raven presented his sword hand alongside his empty one.

Gerart seized the boy's empty hand and slapped it to the handle of the sword. "Add power to your swing," he said. He then grabbed Raven roughly by the sleeve, "grab hold…" He released his arm with soft punch, "…shove. Do what feels natural to YOU. Not your father. Understand?"

Raven was beginning to get the picture and he nodded. With a slap against his shoulder, he was sent back to his sparring partner.

Gerart stood once again and nodded to the instructor who turned toward him for confirmation. It was highly unorthodox to allow students as young as these spar without a shield, let alone a helmet. But he sure as hells wasn't going to say so. As the two began, Gerart had to keep himself from grinning. The change was immediate and left little doubt in his mind. The boy was a natural and from now on he himself would assume the role of Raven's instructor.

Prompt 5: Vault

(This story picks up from where Prompt #3, Bargain, left off)

Raven and Artoirel left the Proving Grounds and walked uphill along the gilded path. The main throughways of The Pillars wound among the spired buildings and passed vast manors, sanctums, and academies. Both beautiful and formidable, the Holy See intimidates just as much as it inspires, though only outsiders would allow themselves to seem impressed. The denizens of the neighborhoods through which they passed glide along with noses in the air and eyes cast downward.

"Those were four of my finest that you trounced," Artoirel said with a grin. Raven had bested the knights after being coerced into an impromptu sparring match. Lord Fortemps knew of Raven's reputation and had learned much from his conversation with Ser Aymeric regarding his skill, though it was quite a thing to see it with his own eyes. "Younger by a decade, warmed up, and fresh. While you…"

"…are old, rusty, and hungover," finished Raven.

Artoirel smiled. "Well, I wasn't going to word it precisely that way." He turned to Raven as they continued to walk. "Impressive, Ser Raven. Truly."

"The one has potential. Provided he can get his head out of his arse," Raven said, pointedly ignoring the complement.

Artoirel nodded, "Robert. Father says much the same." He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed a frustrated puff of air that instantly crystalized in the cold. "I don't know what to about him."

The men had reached the top of the stairway and stopped just short of the massive double-doors that serve as the entrance to Ishgard's primary and most astounding structure. Out of habit, Raven took off his sunglasses and his gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket. The guards on either side of the doors lowered their halberds in unison, blocking entry. Artoirel flinched and fell back a step while Raven seemed to not even notice.

"He's just looking for a chance to prove himself to you," said Raven. He noted that Artoirel looked at him askance, and he snorted. "Perhaps you've spent so much time being Artoirel de Fortemps that it slips your mind from time to time? He looks up to you, my Lord. Give him more responsibility. Put him in charge of some men, perhaps, or assign him a task beyond what you think him capable."

Artoirel couldn't help but laugh and shake his head. "I'd have said the opposite but, hearing it now, it seems obvious. I believe The Lord Commander to be right," he said with admiration, "you'll make a superb instructor."

Raven sighed inwardly and turned toward the guards, pulling the lapel of his coat inside-out to present the ornate pin that signified his position within the Temple Knights. Wordlessly, the guards retracted their polearms and cleared the way for Raven to push the heavy door open. The air within was warm and fragrant with the scent of wood oil and incense. "Welcome to the Vault, my lord. The perfect setting for the story you're about to impart."

Prompt #3: Lost

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

Lucien stood at the center of the Master bedroom as Raven paced hither and thither, preparing for an evening out. He was halfway into a three-piece suit, hastily applied one article at a time, looking instead like a man who was drunkenly undressing. The cuffs of his untucked shirt were protruding loose from the arm of his jacket like ruffles on a lace blouse. His collar was unfolded against his neck, scratching against his freshly shaven cheek. He paced and swore and sighed with each unsuccessful lap. The valet was unwavering and resolute like a lighthouse bashed upon by the unrelenting crashing of waves. A beacon in the darkness without whom all would be lost.

His lord was a formidable man, there is no doubt. Cunning, intelligent, and resourceful. A captain of men and successful in business. And yet…

"Fury's tits, the time…" Raven said as he fished through another drawer, shoving articles of clothing to one side and the next. "Lucien, where in hells are-"

Lucien's hand raised to produce a pair of mythrite cufflinks which Raven plucked on his way by, fixing them to his cuffs.

He crossed and opened the double doors of his armoire, and stared at a sea of black cloth. "Where are all my-"

"On the inside of the left door on the hook," Lucien said evenly.

"No…"

"Your *other* left."

"Ah," Raven said, pulling a black tie from the hook and looping it around his neck. He tied a hasty half-windsor as he continued to wear a beaten path in the rug toward his dressing cabinet. He opened and closed the tiny drawers, one after another, his search becoming frantic as the various pins, chains, and tie tacks clinked about. He growled and turned away from the drawers, leaving them in disarray. "Lucien, do you know wh-"

A fine, silver pocket watch, scratched and patinaed from age and use, dangled from a chain at the end of Lucien's fingers.

Raven took it from him and, for once, was still as he stood before his valet and attached the chain to his waistcoat and deposited the watch into a pocket. Lucien wordlessly adjusted Raven's tie and collar so that the knot was perfectly dimpled and sat straight. He tugged and shifted the fine cloth at Raven's shoulders and cuffs and, satisfied with the presentation, tucked his hands behind his back.

Raven nodded with a smirk at the man who'd been in his service all of his adult life. He began to leave the room when he stopped and turned, a question barely formed on his lips. "W-"

Lucien pointed to the sideboard in the hall at the invitation Raven was about to ask for. He snorted and shook his head in amusement, picking it up and tucking it into his breast pocket. "Where would I be without you, Lucien?" Raven called from the steps as he descended, leaving Lucien grinning in the bedroom.

"Where, indeed, my lord," Lucien said to himself.

Prompt #2 Bargain

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

The runner had found Raven, just as the Lord Commander promised, and he'd taken to the chilly streets of the city before the sun had gotten high enough to melt the frost from the cobbles. Raven had gone to Ser Aymeric for information regarding a missing child and, while he hadn't been able to help him directly, was good enough to set up a meeting with someone who could - Lord Fortemps.

He'd expected to wind his way to Fortemps Manor for his meeting but, somewhat mysteriously, the missive had said to meet at Lightfeather Provingrounds. So, donning his long, wool coat and dark glasses, Raven pulled up his lapels and found the place with nary a look upward.

The guard snapped his heels at his approach and Raven waved him at ease. A sense of pride and reverence swelled within him as he laid his hand on the massive ironwood door he'd not passed through in many years. It was much warmer within, thanks to the braziers, so he stowed his leather gloves in his pockets and released the buttons of his coat.

The heels of his fine shoes clacked on the stone as he passed through the Hall of Accolades, the walls lined with names of past tournament champions etched into platinum. His eyes found his own name without truly looking for it and he rubbed his thumb across the shining plate and smiled. So many names appeared between his and the most recent. Gods, has it been so long?

He was still smiling when he'd rounded a corner and started to hear the familiar sounds of early morning sparring within the training square. Commands being barked, the cadence of steel ringing against steel, leather boots dancing on rough dirt; music to Raven's ears.

"Hold!" the instructor called to his men, who lowered their weapons and relaxed. "Well, well," said Artoirel Fortemps to the new arrival, "look what the cat dragged in." He grinned widely, as did the four house knights who turned to regard Raven who, despite his fine (if out of place) clothing, was clearly worse for wear from the previous evening's libations.

The grin on Raven's face diminished as he realized the trap he'd just walked into. Ser Aymeric had kept to his word, arranging a meeting with 'Lord Fortemps', just not the particular one he had in mind. "Lord Artoirel," Raven managed and bowed a bit informally, "and his ladies in waiting."

Artoirel laughed and walked forward to clasp arms with Raven while his men glowered. "It's good to see you, Ser Raven, very good indeed," he said, his face alight with joy that Raven didn't fully trust.

Raven narrowed his eyes somewhat. "Oh?"

By way of answer, Artoirel put his arm around Raven and turned them both around to face his house knights. "Men, do you know who this is?"

The house knights glanced at each other before turning back to their lord. One of them, a smirking, cocksure elezen who was clearly the de facto leader of their little group, spoke up. "Well, my lord, he rather looks like yourself…after being trodden upon by Vishap." The group laughed heartily at that. It was a fact that, especially side-by-side, Artoirel and Raven appeared very much alike…apart from their drastic height difference.

Raven smirked. He had to admit, that was clever. Artoirel, however, was not as amused and continued undaunted.

"This is Captain Alderscorn, Temple Knight and veteran of the Dragonsong War," said Artoirel, whose tone acquired a bit of sharpness to lace his joviality. The house knight didn't apologize, though his smirk was wiped from his face for the moment. "Quite," Artoirel said to the men now that they were silent. His smile immediately reappeared as he continued. "Captain Alderscorn here requires information," he explained. "In an exciting twist of happenstance, our Lord Commander, Ser Aymeric, requires a swordmaster to oversee the training of recruits." Raven's stomach lurched and he fought the instinct to flee.

"If you've studied your history, like I know you lot have not, you would know the name Alderscorn from it. This man's Grandsire was General Gerart Alderscorn; war hero and legendary swordsman - Fury's Blade, they called him. It is purported that he taught Ser Raven here everything he knew - a claim, if I'm honest, I rather doubt." Artoirel grinned slyly, reclaiming his arm from around Raven's neck, and rejoined his knights. He crossed his arms and regarded Raven who began to feel like the fox on a royal hunt. "Have you anything to say for yourself, Ser Raven?"

It was obvious where this was going. Artoirel's pantomime and grandstanding was meant to spur Raven into defending those claims with a display of swordsmanship. Raven had nothing to prove, he knew. He'd begun training from the time he could hold a wooden sword and did so to this day. Besides, why should he interview for a job he wasn't sure he wanted?

"Do you honestly believe I can be baited?" Raven asked coolly.

"Mmhm," Artoirel replied and met Raven's icy stare with a smirk.

Raven held Artoirel's gaze for a time before sighing and holding his hand out. Godsdammit.

Artoirel tossed Raven a blunted practice blade and stepped to the side, grinning proudly. The house knights retrieved swords of their own and looked to their lord for instruction.

Raven took off his long coat, trading his sword from hand to hand as he did so, and handed it to Artoirel. Giving the blade a few long practice swings, he attempted to adjust for its weight as well as the incredible hangover he was experiencing.

"Ser Raven?" Said Artoirel. He pointed to the bridge of his own nose and then extended out his palm.

It took Raven a moment to realize he was still wearing his sunglasses and he took them off, handing them to Artoirel. With a final glare at Lord Fortemps, he exhaled a sharp breath and squared himself up to his opponent - the mouthy knight had nominated himself to face Raven.

"You ready, old man?" sneered the knight.

No, Raven thought, but he nodded.

No sooner did Raven nod than the knight was on the move. He snapped a sharp thrust that Raven parried by pure instinct, swiping the blade away from his face and stumbling sideways to avoid being struck. The other knights laughed and jeered, gaining confidence at the clumsy display. Artoirel remained silent, a soft grin playing on his lips as he watched the events unfold.

Raven laughed along with them and even nodded his agreement to the insults. "Impressed?" he chuckled. He took a moment to refocus and pulled his suit jacket off, tossing it carelessly to the dirt floor.

"Oh, indeed my Lord!" jeered the knight. "Perhaps I should fetch my Mother? You know, to make this a fair fight?" He turned to the other knights who clapped and laughed.

Raven stepped back to the line and relaxed into a comfortable stance. He grinned at his opponent. "No, no. Let her sleep," Raven said. "We had a long night and she needs the rest."

The smile died from the man's lips and he scowled. Likewise, the others had caught the insult and their laughter fizzled out. "How dare-" he began to say but Raven cut him off.

"Care to join?" Raven said to the remaining three knights, drawing a circle in the air around them with the tip of his sword. "Defend the honor of this man's hard working mother?"

They all looked at each other and, as one, turned toward Ser Artoirel who nodded. They plucked their swords from the dirt and joined their friend in a semi circle around Raven.

Adrenalin surged through Raven's veins and began to sweep away the cobwebs of his hangover. He breathed in deeply, relishing the moment. He lived for it. The stretched second before the fight when all was silent and still. When action was pulled back taut like a bowstring, held by sore, shaking fingers that threatened to loosen their grip and let fly. The younger knights narrowed their eyes and set their jaws, nostrils flaring with each breath - young pups trying to look bigger than they are by raising their hackles.

Raven winked.

After a moment of surprise, the knight launched his attack and the other three followed.

The dance lasted only a few moments. The first two went down almost immediately, their approaches clumsy and half-hearted. Raven feigned a spin and reversed direction causing the smirking knight to catch his own man in the head with a heavy backswing. His mistake sent him into a fury of heavy, sweeping swings that Raven merely dodged, infuriating him even further. Finally, their swords made contact as Raven stepped into range. The volley was short lived, however, as Raven whirled, locking the man's blade against his own and flinging it out of the knight's hand.

Raven swung hard and swatted the man on his ass with the flat of the training blade causing him to yelp.

"Bad house knight," Raven admonished and swatted him again.

"I YIELD!" he called, rubbing his stinging backside with one hand and raising the open palm of the other. "Fury above, I yield!"

Raven offered a half-hearted salute with his sword before tossing it to the dirt. Ser Artoirel joined Raven and handed him his coat and jacket. "Shall we talk?"

Raven accepted his clothes and walked out of the ring with Artoirel, leaving the house knights to rub their wounds. With a sigh, Raven turned to him. "This had better be worth the price."