2021-02-28: A House of Lords
- Cutscene: A House of Lords
- Cast: Day Muirwall
- Where: Kilika
- Date: February 28, 2021
- Summary: Rattled after the fall of Luca and an erroneous Hyland attack, Sir Day receives some dire portents from the mainland.
With a frustrated snarl, Day pushed back the visor of his helmet. "Where did that damned Maltran end up? I've half a mind to--" The sentence hung unfinished as he clenched his teeth far more impotently than he could ever like, just staring emptily out over the mustering ground.
A mustering ground that seemed entirely too empty. Fewer of his men than he would like had returned, and many of those who did came back wounded and shaken after the attack by the soldiers of Hyland. An accident, they'd said, but one that had taken even the legendary Sergey Strelka out of the fight.
An accident that befell his men after they'd already put too much on the line for the sake of not only the Guard, but the entire contingent. And yet, one he couldn't follow up on himself. The White Knight wouldn't want it - and in the end, for all that a group of knights had come to ride with him, he lacked something he'd given up for the sake of his own honour.
Rank. The son of the Margrave of Muirwall might've been able to challenge Lady Maltran for her error. A mere penitent monk, even of the church militant, not so much.
Once again, my own sins strike me at the knees, he realized as he relaxed his jaw and slid his helmet off, shaking his sweat-soaked hair out with a heavy sigh. Once again, all I get for my efforts to atone is punishment. This campaign was one disaster after another. And it wasn't just the accident.
No - it was more than that. Everything had fallen apart in the end, from the moment Sin had turned up to the attempt to buy time for Luca to the retreat itself. To the entire nature of the campaign - to the cruelty of the Red Priestess at Bevelle, known to him mainly through the words of messengers, and to the deceit of Pearl in throwing the gates of the city open at all. He'd fought as hard as he could to try and turn the campaign around, to conduct his side of it with honour.
Finding honour in any of this was growing harder, no matter how much he tried to avoid anything that could be taken as kicking the people of Spira when they were down.
A soft footstep just behind him alerted him to a familiar enough presence, and he looked back to find Seraph Vesna, in the green tunic she'd taken to wearing now that her secret was out, tending to the huge white warhorse he'd ridden in. "Guingryph is alright," he assured her, his voice low and more sullen than he'd really wanted it to be.
"I know." With quiet green eyes, she turned a look of worry to him. "Day... you did what you could, didn't you? The Goddess wouldn't expect you to do anything else. So you don't have to feel like you failed."
The silence fell over the pair like a fog rolling in. A million answers bubbled to the young knight's mind, but to give them all voice would have required an entire choir to spring from his tongue. That his sins were too grievous to forgive. That he hadn't tried hard enough. That he must have doubted the Goddess in his heart. That he'd let his guard down for a beautiful woman just once and set himself back even farther. That riding with Hilde had left his heart so full of hate that he could never rid himself of his sins. That he couldn't bring himself to the level of zeal of some of the others - a zeal so great that they could throw away honour for the sake of expediency.
He closed his eyes and bowed his head, a few locks of hair hanging in his eyes. The chorus of self-reproof wouldn't come, but it didn't need to. He knew Vess could read it in his face, and he was unsurprised when she slid a delicate hand over one of his and squeezed reassuringly, as if her touch could somehow absolve him.
It helped, a little. At least one of Althena's spirits saw something in him. That feeling buoyed him, for the moment.
Only the thud of hoofs and the jingle of chainmail broke the silence. Day looked up at the same moment Vess did, in time to spot a messenger on a sleek chestnut horse riding up to the pair, a large sack of letters slung over his shoulder. "Sir Day?" the man surmised.
"That's right," he answered, sliding his hand from Vess's with a little blush. Their relationship wasn't like that and he'd hate for anyone to get the idea.
The messenger apparently had other things on his mind, unfurling a short scroll. "I bring news from the mainland," he reported. "I regret to inform you that the Margrave Armeric the Fourth of Muirwall has gone to the house of Althena some three months ago. The Margravine Lucilla and her consort, the Duke Moregal of Redwater, send their regards."
An answer wasn't forthcoming before the messenger galloped off. Even if he'd waited an hour, Day couldn't have found one beyond staring off into the distance as his thoughts resounded with the thunderclap of the words before melting into an empty void, one he knew would be filled by a sudden tidal wave of anguish when his senses caught up to reality.
His father, dead. His sister, stepping into the inheritance Day himself had abandoned. Her new husband, now with power over Day's home fief through the law of jure uxoris.
Vess's hand tightened around his again. Day drew a breath, pinched with restrained emotion, and slipped his fingers into the spaces between hers.
"Duke Moregal," she murmured.
"A tyrant of a man," Day answered almost on autopilot. "I fear for Lucilla, married to such a fiend."
Vess tightened her grip. "This is going to make things worse," she warned as gently as she could. "And I'm sorry. But he may be more of a fiend than you know."
As she went on to explain, Day's shock and sorrow gave way to a look of dawning horror.