1337: The Young General Slayer – Part 3 1337: The Young General Slayer – Part 3 “I am fine,” Oliver said.
“…We can’t afford to have any mistakes, my Lord,” Lasha said, and she sounded quite serious, for the first ti in their journey.
Oliver responded seriously, in turn.
“I am well aware, Lady Blackthorn.
I do not intend for any mistakes of that sort to happen.” “But your eyes…” Lasha said.
“They do tend to do that,” Oliver said.
“You can safely ignore them.” “They’re a hard thing to ignore,” Verdant noted.
“But none can cause you accusation rely for the look in your eyes… Or actually, they very well can… If you could sheath them, so the guards have no reason to draw their weapons at us, that might be for the better.” “Sheathing my eyes?
You do say so rather ridiculous things, Verdant,” Oliver said, but he sucked in a deep breath regardless, and managed to get a handle on his warring emotions.
He pushed Ingolsol away.
The Dark God especially seed to resonate with the city.
Oliver supposed it made sense, knowing what he now knew of him.
The Dark God was the God of power, and this Royal Capital was the very heart of all the power in the Stormfront… And the very fact that such an understanding could now pop quite freely into his mind made him shudder.
He tried not to think about it more than he needed to, but there was no denying that the form of Ingolsol that dwelled in him was the most dangerous that it had ever been.
They were stopped at the gates to the palace, and checked.
The guards in their gold plated uniforms looked at them all over as if they were not better than the peasantry, despite knowing very well of their station.
But of course they would.
The guards of the Royal Palace were nobles themselves, and in so ways, they even liked to see themselves as above the nobility, for they had taken an oath, and given up privilege, achieving a sanctity that few other nobles would dare to reach.
They were allowed their passage inwards, but none of the Patrick n dared say a word.
They very much felt as if they were walking on a knife’s edge, and Oliver was very aware that the majority of that was his own doing – or so he thought.
He pretended not to see Verdant’s plastered smile twitch, as a certain degree of malice tainted his eyes for a second, and when Blackthorn’s hand curled into a fist, making her gauntlet creak, he did his best to look the other way.
The aggression wasn’t exactly burnt when they saw more of the Royal Palace.
With the noble won that had offered themselves up to the High King, in the hopes of more power in securing themselves a position as the High King’s wife.
No doubt Blackthorn in particular had particularly strong feelings about that ancient practice, where the young won were all but being used as sacrificial lambs by their families, but she kept those words to herself.
Besides, to find those won, you had to look for them.
Certainly, they stood out, wearing various dress pieces of white sowhat on their bodies, whether it be within a white veil that covered their faces, or a white sleeve dyed a different colour from the rest of their dress.
But for the crowd that was present, they ought to have been hidden well enough.
This was an event worthy of nation-wide celebration, after all.
Which, Oliver supposed, was part of the reason they had to make such a long and winding journey, only taking to the road for a few hours at a ti each day, and stretching their procession out as long as they could, so they only arrive right on the day of the celebration itself.
The various inns had always been only too happy to welco nobility, but the further they ca to the Capital, even their hospitality had begun to run dry – the true evidence of just how many nobles had passed through.
Days of journeying, just for this, and already, they all seed quite ready to go ho.
The noise of the crowd seeped in through the carriage window, and their three guardsn on the outside had to practically fight to see the crowd parted, doing the job of the guards that were ant to be leading them towards their carriage ought to be parked.
“…There’s all sorts of them,” Oliver murmured.
More nobles than he had ever seen in his life.
Every House worthy of note had made an effort to make it to the Capital.
If their schedules were free, and they had the slightest bit of inclination to see themselves better socialized, they’d seen to it that their tailors were called, and the finest of clothing was prepared for the day.
It was like seeing a competition amongst peacocks, each vying for the title of best dressed, whilst others neared perilously close towards the title of the most ridiculously dressed.
For that purpose, even Oliver had put on his finest clothing.
He was the only amongst the Patrick n who had been brought that did not wear any hint of armour, indicating his status as their Lord, showing that it was their duty to see him defended, armour or no armour.
“We expected it to be around this busy,” Verdant said lightly, as their carriage was pulled to park alongside many other carriages.
“Out,” a guardsman’s gruff tone told them.
“There are other carriages waiting.
You will leave here, and our stable boys will see your carriage parked sowhere with more space.” Oliver supposed that sowhere with more space would likely be outside the palace walls, which quickly brought up the question ‘why did they make us co inside in the first place?’ The answer to that, as it was with all strange noble customs, was the simple blanket term of tradition.
Despite where he was, after spending such an amount of ti in the carriage each day, Oliver was only too glad to see himself set free of it.
He jumped out as soon as the door was open, causing a grunt of surprise from the nearest gold-plated guardsman when he landed next to himself.
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