Marianne at Court Ch. 05

"It didn't mean anything." Marianne said to Nyrene Pryce.

"I don't know. Did you see how long he held your hand?" came the response.

"It wasn't that long..."

"Oh yes. It was."

"I just can't believe he's out here, drinking, with such an...injury." observed Sharra Darly. She shook her head and her freckled features wrinkled up into a frown. "If that were me, I'd be in bed all night. And day, for that matter."

"Yes, but you're not exactly known for your resilience, Sharra." Nyrene japed with a wry and cocksure grin.

"Shut up!" Sharra responded, looking altogether quite annoyed at her friend's words.

"I'm just saying...I mean, how much do you weigh?" Nyrene replied. She wasn't totally off-base, Marianne thought. Sharra was definitely a thin girl, but it wasn't as though that she and Nyrene were completely robust either. If anything, that observation of Nyrene's was based completely on the fact that Sharra's breasts weren't as big as the other girls'. But that made no matter - Marianne thought Sharra was wonderfully cute, and if her modest chest ever bothered her, she had never articulated it to her friends.

"Hey, Nyrene, do you think we could...?" Duncan slid in. He still look disheveled from his earlier entanglement with the petite beauty, but it was clear he wasn't satisfied with where it ended. The young knight ran his hand through his hair awkwardly, not making eye contact with Sharra, or Marianne.

"Ah, yes. If you excuse me, I'm off to test my own resiliency. Toodles!" offered a chipper Nyrene. With that, she took Duncan by the hand and led him off into the depths of Misthallow.

The party had gravitated toward the front porch of the estate. It was a warm evening, but it was still allowing cool spring winds to cut down through the night and cool down the guests. That's where Jason went off to. Marianne could see him through the gargantuan front window, grinning wide grins as he sipped wine and joked with his friends, leaning against the ornate front railing of the porch. Marianne had to admit to herself that she'd been stealing glances at the burly prince ever since their encounter earlier in the night.

She also noticed how incredibly dark it had gotten. Beyond the front porch, Marianne Newhook could gaze down the road. Radiant torches burned at the end of lanterns at either end of the street, but on either side a rough thicket of trees extended far beyond her line of sight. In fact, the sprawling forest surrounded Misthallow, and despite the immensity of the property, Marianne still felt almost as if she were on an island.

The darkness was a bit looming, Marianne thought. Dark and sinister shadows that plunged down the road past the lanterns. She hadn't believed in evil witches and disfigured forest-monsters that frequent children's stories in quite a long time, of course, but she still found this sort of darkness disquieting. She supposed that was something that never quite left someone.

And, right as she stared, a rider came up the road.

He was hard to see at first, wrapped in shadows as he was, but as he approached Misthallow, Marianne could discern that it was a young man, wearing a determined expression. He was bald - or perhaps he was shaven. She didn't recognize the man.

More and more of the partygoers turned to look at the rider as he made his way into the front lawn. Sliding off of his horse, he bellowed a challenge: "Jason Algrave!"

The Prince had been surrounded by friends and admirers by the front steps of the porch. He looked at him and let silence hang in the air, and although Marianne couldn't see his face, she sensed, from his body language, that he was confused. "...Yes?" he asked him, making a shrugging gesture.

The man raised a hand and issued a point. He wore thin leather armor over what seemed to be a pitch-black long-sleeved undershirt. And gloves. He looked prepared to be doing, whatever it was that he was doing. "You fucked Renore. And you'll pay."

"That's Garth Cander." Sharra said, next to Marianne peering out the window. They were close enough to the open doors that they could hear what was being said, and Sharra was as invested as Marianne seemed to be. "Lowborn knight. Or near as much, I'm not sure. He lived at the palace until two years ago, when he was caught accosting women in one of the baths. Had no idea he was even still near the city. As for this Renore, I'm not sure. Maybe someone Jason knew before the war? Cleary, he is invested in this woman's prince-fucking habits. That much is apparent."

Marianne turned back out the window with a wide-eyed expression. Jason was walking down the steps, speaking quieter now. "Let's go outside!" she exclaimed to her friend. They joined the small throng of young nobles leaving the interior of Misthallow and filling the outer porch. They were lucky enough to find spots at the front, along the very railing that Jason had just been leaning against before he went down to greet his challenger.

"Listen, I'm not sure what you're talking about. I don't know any Renore, Garth." the Prince told him. His body language was casual and reassuring, but it seemed to Marianne that Garth wasn't interested in hearing any of Jason's words. If anything, it only made him more wroth.

"You fucked her, you piece of shit. She was mine. And you fucked her." with that, the man took a swing at his prince. Despite her relative newness to court, Marianne knew that this sort of action could mean imprisonment, or even death. Yet, after Jason slipped from the path of Garth's fist, he waved away the clutch of compatriots that were stumbling down the steps to come to their prince's aid.

"No." he called out. "I have this." he finished in a tone that waxed more casual than Marianne thought appropriate for this situation. She'd heard similar tones from men she'd bandaged back home, during her training. How could men have such a seemingly intimate and warm affinity for violence?

Garth Cander continued his onslaught. Another punch was flung through the air like a hurled stone, coming down toward the prince - who dodged again, this time stepping to his right and bringing his own fist up into the stomach of his opponent.

Sir Garth keeled over briefly, but silenced the sentiments of encouragement given to the prince from the now-sizable porch crowd when he stood up and readied his fists once more. He went on the attack again, throwing a hard punch that was, again, dodged. Undeterred, Garth followed that up with an uppercut from his left side. It came close, and maybe even glanced the prince - but if it did, Jason had no reaction. Instead, he countered, his biceps seeming to expand as he brought his fist through the air to collide with the cheekbone of his foe.

Garth stumbled back, but didn't fall. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and quickly stepped to assault Jason again. The crowd grew louder, with gasps and murmurs from the women and loud jeers and suggestions from men. The prince was urged by his friends to leave Garth battered and broken. At this rate, Marianne thought, that just might happen.

In the dancing torchlight that filled the space on the stone road, Garth Cander moved his feet. Punches glided through the air, slower and slower. His assault was fierce, or at least, it would be, if any of them managed to connect with the shadowy prince. Jason's raven colored hair was disheveled and matted to his brow with sweat, but that was the only indicator that the man had been in a fight at all. Garth, on the other hand, seemed to wheeze, and blood trickled from his mouth and a cut on his face.

Seeming to tire of playing the defense, Prince Jason Algrave made his move. Stepping back from yet another punch before shifting back into the space between the two, bringing his knee up and into the stomach of Sir Garth, wounding him there for the second time. He followed that up with a punch to the side of his throat, sending his challenger reeling to the ground. Garth laid there, head in the grass beside the road, wailing in agony. Marianne sensed that it wasn't purely from the pain.

Jason walked over to the defeated Garth, then shoved him over with his foot. Garth rolled and laid in the grass on his back, his expression one of pure frustration. Despair, even. Someone shouted something to the prince, a jape of some kind that Marianne could not hear. The prince turned and smiled, looking every part of that of a victorious warrior. He seemed big, strong, and capable. Sweat made the curves and crevices of his muscle glisten, and matted the magnificent mane of dark hair that he had. His devilish smile was fixed on the crowd that watched him win, and Marianne thought for a moment that he made eye contact with her.

He didn't notice Sir Garth stir.

Garth reached up and gripped the bottom of the prince's tunic, lifting himself up from the ground. His expression was cold and violent, and...and, where had he gotten the knife?

The dagger's polished steel glistened in the torchlight as it cut through the darkness...right into the side of the prince, just above his hip. Jason keeled over and groaned in pain. The revelers, realizing what had occurred, stirred to life. Some girl shrieked, and a troupe of young knights burst from the crowd. Not long before, they were drinking and japing. Now, they defended their prince, as Sir Garth had attempted to land more strikes on the prince, but was stopped by a flurry of fists and feet, his blade falling to the grass.

And Prince Jason Algrave bled, on the ground.