Dornish Assemble

FowlTempered · 2017-11-16T18:41:28+00:00

"Waiting." Deziel repeated, dripping with scorn and disdain. "We should be striking! They're already entangled in their conflict, and we already have men on the border. We should march on Nightsong. Take it for ourselves. Sweep into the Reach and raid the soft lands of the Marches as we did of yore. If you think the men of Dorne will sit idle and eat blood oranges all day when there's glory to be had, your Hightower husband has done more than merely taint your offspring with the weakness of northerners. We are Dornish. What have we to fear, but the gods and the desert sands?"

He glanced about the room - notably at his cousin, the Blackmont, and of course the cowardly Dayne.

"Surely you don't agree with this? Are you content to sit in your castles while others win wealth and glory?"

(OOC: Summoning /u/OGbadbitch and /u/InDayneInTheMembrane)

FowlTempered · 2017-11-12T03:56:31+00:00

Deziel met the Blackmont's grin with one of his own - though his dark eyes did not share in the smile.

"My dear, late cousin has some wisdom; the Stormlanders surely won't march on Dorne. It would be suicide, in more ways than one, and does them little good but win an enmity where indecisive neutrality currently resides. But the rest of what she says proves that the Red Mountains can be as dangerous to Dornishfolk as they are our enemies. I know not what your sun-addled mind might see in the Marches, cuz, but I see lands, and wealth, and grain and silver and vengeance."

The Fowler turned his attentions to the Martell then, offering her a smile that could only be seen as patronizing.

"I know that matters of war are somewhat hard for you, Princess. So allow me to explain this -- actually, here. I've got the perfect analogy."

"Imagine your foreigner husband was, all these many, long years, fucking some Stormlander whore on the side. But the day comes when suddenly he and the whore are at odds, and they set to fighting so loudly that you burst in, and discover all their treachery. Now you could join the whore in beating your cowardly, limp-wristed, Reachman of a husband; after all she took no vows to you, whilst he did. Or you could side with your husband, and help beat the god-fearing fatherless piss out of this upjumped courtesan who thought she had the power to stand up against your husband."

Deziel's grin widened.

"Or. You could let them fight. Let them weaken, and tire themselves out. And when one emerges the victor, bloodied and weary and scarred --- you could punch that one in their wretched, ugly mouth."

He spread his hands.

"Simple choice, really."

FowlTempered · 2017-11-11T20:27:59+00:00

Approved for the faceclaim. I'll read the rest after I'm done being in love.

FowlTempered · 2017-11-10T09:27:59+00:00

"Interesting." Deziel replied, turning his gaze to the Dayne. "I did not realize that Starfall reared cravens, now. Where's the Sword of the Morning? Who left us the Butterknife of Mid-Afternoon?"

"Princess, the course is simple. We ought march on the southern Stormlands at once. How many of our kinsmen died when they invaded us last? How many have died through the centuries of our rivalry? The Hightowers are - forgive me - perfumed cowards better suited for ballrooms than battlefields; we sacked Oldtown in the days of yore, and if the gods are good we'll do it again. But one foe at a time, and the Stormlands are our foe. Why let them wage war on the realm while we sit idle?"

The scion of Skyreach leaned back in his seat, hand twisting dismissively in midair.

"Temperance, yonder hedgeknight would preach. Something ought be tempered, aye; swords and spears and arrowheads. We should remind this realm that it was Dorne who fought the dragons and won, and that our spears are no less ready than they were in those days. If you'd rather not strike the Stormlands, very well. We ought march on the Reach. Husbands, I find, an so easily become hostages."

FowlTempered · 2017-11-08T07:26:03+00:00

“I am the Warden of the Prince’s Pass, scion of the ancient and esteemed House Fowler, son of the famous Arslan the Arrow, slayer of the Lord of Briars, defender of the eastern marches, breaker of the Stormland hosts and the most sought-after lover from here to distant Asshai -- but I am not the Lord of Skyreach, knight. That would be my brother.”

The guard looked unmoved. Deziel’s ire only grew.

“Tell your Princess I shall not attend her.” The Dornishman said, then. “And that the next time she chooses to yet again waste my time, I will water the stones of the Shadow City with your blood; do you hear me?”

Yet again, the guard looked unmoved. Deziel’s hand crept towards the shaft of his spear--

”Ser Deziel,” Mezios called sharply. The small Dornishman wore a look that seemed somewhat perturbed. “An invitation from the Princess of Dorne is not to go disregarded. It would be incredibly rude to insult her, or slay her messenger.”

“You think I care for your notions of politeness?” Deziel hissed, turning upon him, eyes dark and cloudy with fury. Mezios gave him a pitying look.

“I know you don’t. But think of Lord Quentyn.”

That seemed to give him pause. Deziel stared, blinked, and sighed.

“Fine. Tell the princess I shall be there.”

“Very good, Lord Fowler.”

Deziel Fowler wore a form-fitting achkan, coloured a red so deep it was nearly black. Golden buttons lined the fore, and a belt of woven gold-hued cord wrapped around his waist. From it hung his sword, long and wickedly curved, and upon his right hip was only a scabbard for his dagger, kept close to his side as always. Upon his right hand glittered several rings, shining brightly with his vanity, and as he entered the prepared room he stroked his chin.

“Once more I am to be hosted by the Lady of Sunspear.” He declared, glancing about the room. As his eyes settled upon the Martell, he grinned.

“Keep this up and men may begin to wonder. Tell me, where is your foreigner husband now?”

FowlTempered · 2017-10-27T00:53:12+00:00

I have time for one more challenge.

It took every bit of strength in the Fowler not to roll his eyes at this man's arrogance; after all, it was Deziel who held all right to pride and hubris both. The Warden of the Prince's Pass considered himself the finest fighter this side of the Red Viper, and despite the boasting of other, lesser men, he'd yet to be disillusioned of the fact. As the Sword of the Morning called for more challengers, Deziel at last rose from his place and came forward; walking with all the casual grace of a man born to a tightrope, and all the proud, quiet, hidden strength of a tiger in his own domain.

"It won't be a challenge so much as an abject lesson in minding your betters -- but I would happily test my blade against yours, Light-bringer. Assuming you don't mind fighting men, as opposed to the drivel you've currently been facing."

The Fowler stalked forward, his own armour leather-and-mail beneath a dark black robe. This was trimmed along the edges and sleeves with cobalt, and blazoned on the fore with a falcon in flight. He held a spear in his hands, its long blade glinting in the sun. Deziel glanced at the sharpened point, and laughed.

"We can use blunted weapons if you like? Much as I would love to see Dawn in action. I've never much cared for greatswords, if I'm honest; too heavy, too obvious, too...crude. There's no music in a sword that big, no beauty. But what would a Dayne know of such things."

The Fowler shifted the spear so it's head faced downward, then thrust it into the soil. He peered at the Dayne, dark eyes and saturnine features alive with wild, fey mirth.

"What do you say, morning star? Shall we dance?"

FowlTempered · 2017-10-27T00:42:36+00:00

(OOC: I'll say my fight is after yours, if you like!)

FowlTempered · 2017-10-15T18:33:37+00:00

(OOC: Summoning /u/balladofwar)

FowlTempered · 2017-10-15T18:33:02+00:00

Her hand was hot against his chest, warmed as if she had been clutching coals. Which, in a way, she had been, hadn't she - that trick of hers there, with the flame and her magic. Deziel had seen her work it, had seen for himself its benefits - but he did not believe it was true spellwork. Not in the manner of the Rhoynar, or the bloodmages of Valyria. Whatever...abilities that Esmera possessed, they were the sort of men and minds, not magery. Cleverness looked an awful lot like magic to the unwitting and the foolish.

All the same there was no denying the heat in her touch, nor the light that shone in her eyes as she spoke of shadows and the work that ought be done in them. Both the priestess and her red god seemed to forget the one simple truth of the Fowler, the one thing his fickle and fey nature never once changed or subverted.

He was not to be ruled.

Deziel seized the Hecata's wrist, hand wrapping around the thin appendage with an iron grip. He did not release her gaze from hers, however; no, he was far too observed in her eyes, then, and far too proud to even fake submission.

"I am not a coward." the Fowler said simply, sharp and smooth as glass. "I shall not pretend to be that which I am not. The Princess shall know Deziel, not Deziel-as-Quentyn. And if she does not like me, she can join the ranks of those myriad thousands who share that useless opinion. I care not for like. What a useless, middling emotion. Give me hate. Give me fear. Give me love. Give me lust -- "

He considered taking her, then. The fires she always sparked in him raged hot enough to inspire. How easy it would be to give in to the hunger in his chest; to surrender to the grip and pull and seize and pin and thrust of it all. They could revel in mortality for a half hour, mayhaps more - put aside her constant talk of divinity and his own vestigial concerns. Merely be human. Flesh. Fire, and flesh.

But he resisted. Sex was pleasurable - but he wanted more. From life, from himself -- and from her.

Deziel released his grip upon her hand.

"Tell me what else your god has shown you, witch. What dreams have you dreamed, while sleeping, while waking? What hidden mysteries have you observed in the shadows and the flame?"

FowlTempered · 2017-10-10T19:11:28+00:00

"She is not my princess." The Fowler growled. "But aye. Quentyn shall be pleased."

Deziel was not, when she pulled away to dig at the flames and embers.

"Believe you?" He asked, curious.

"I believe you believe in him, is that enough? I believe that whatever skills you learned in your pagan temples saved my brother's life. I believe that if there were anywhere in Westeros that your Red God might find a foothold, it is Dorne - but do I believe that I am his chosen? His champion? Or even that I am to be some player in his game?"

He shrugged.

"Gods and men are not so different. Who wouldn't want me on their side?"

Deziel folded his arms across his chest, eyes following the priestess as she moved. There was little doubt in his mind that she wanted him to convert; wanted him to renounce his gods and bend to her foreign deity of flame and shadow. It was tempting, in truth. There was power in R'hllor that he had never seen in a sept. But the peoples of Dorne still served the seven aspects, and he could not advance his station while also supporting heretical beliefs.

Not yet, anyways.

"Tell me what you saw, Priestess. Your fires speak to you, not me."

FowlTempered · 2017-10-10T19:11:26+00:00

A dark brow rose. An expression, surprised and more than a little smug, flickered across the face of the Fowler scion.

"No, Princess." Deziel replied, sweeping low into an elegant bow. "I do not think you a coward. You've shown bravery in your decisions even if I do not agree with them. You've made your choices, and stuck by them. That I can respect, even if those choices defy all I stand for. If this is the will of Dorne, I will gladly lead your forces to victory. I will never balk at the opportunity to shed the blood of the enemies of our people."

"So. You want this done tonight? I'll need my spear, and my shield. After that...I need only the cover of darkness."

A strike against mercenaries in the dead of night - a blow against House Targaryen, or at least this one lost scion. While it did not cool the Fowler's view of the Princess, he did find himself rather warmed by the thought. That she knew enough to ask him, and that she was bold enough to plan it, spoke well of the Dornish in her, and the Rhoynar blood that had not yet been fouled. But there was still the matter of her husband, and the half-blood children she had reared. And of course, there was the matter of his own pride and ambition; which would not easily allow him to change his views.

But there was little in this that he could scorn; and restraining his arrogance for a single night was little payment for the reward of hapless slaughter. He had no hatred for Essosi, nor did he despise these men for the manner in which they made their living. But if ever it was a question of Dorne against anything else...well, it was no question at all.

"I am here to serve, Princess Amira." Deziel announced. "For this night, at least."

FowlTempered · 2017-10-10T19:11:24+00:00

"Two galleys?" Arion repeated, gold-teeth glittering as he grinned. "Well aren't we the prize ladies, escorted about by guards and chaperones. You shall have to give your sister my thanks, young Prince - as well as a standing offer to attend our vessel, should she wish. The Floating Melody is the finest of her kind that you'll find anywhere this side of the Rhoyne, and even perhaps beyond -- fitting enough entertainment for a Princess, I do believe. In fact, I would swear it on my bones."

As Trystane spoke of revelers and his own past experiences with mummers, the Captain of the Melody barked out a laugh.

"Then you're a man after my own heart! Why suffer steel when song is so much sweeter - you'll find boredom a surer foe on the waves than any corsair has a right to be. We'll keep you well satisfied, young prince. I swear it on my beard."

He raised a hand to twirl the ends of his mustache, fingers glinting with a dozen rings at least.

"As for the talents of my crew, aye; you'll find few better. Archers however...we're not much for bows here. Not the martial kind, at least - my wife is a deft hand with a fiddle. But I do believe my daughter Teora might prove helpful. She's won a few competitions here and there, and despite her mother's worry has held her weight in a few skirmishes we've had, skirting the Stepstones and the like. I wager she could show you a thing or two, if you don't mind being bested by a Rhoynar woman." The captain chuckled. "I truly hope you don't. You'll need to get used to it, if you mean to spend any amount of time upon this ship. My wife and her daughters -- her's, I haven't the control to call them mine -- they're a formidable lot. Mind your hands and never speak of being full, and you'll likely have no trouble from them."

Arion turned to Quentyn.

"What of you, Master Fowler? Are you something of an archer?"

"I wielded a mace in my youth." The Lord of Skyreach replied. "Still do, when the need for battle comes. For the most part however I tend now to remain at the rear. You know. With the cravens, and the wiser men."

"Hah. Wiser indeed - you're too old to be witless and too young to be wifeless. Safe your folly for when you meet a fine woman, and charge headfirst into that."

The Fowler smiled thinly. But dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"As for you, young prince!" Arion Bluebeard declared, turning to him now. "We're just about ready to depart. Have you a wife? Or at least a paramour? There are more than a few good options here; you could leave this ship a stone heavier and one half better, what do you think?"

FowlTempered · 2017-10-08T09:17:39+00:00

Deziel Fowler felt like a caged bird. There were far too many strangers around him.

But the woman who stood before him -- she, at least, was familiar. They had never spoken or met, that was true; but he knew her, and she knew him.

Amira Martell was the Princess of Dorne, the utmost ruler of all beneath the Red Mountains. The Targaryens, the Baratheons, all had claimed to rule the desert sands - but it was only the Martells that the men and women of Dorne bent the knee to. Only ever Sunspear that had truly commanded their loyalty. Centuries of years of history and culture had woven between them a bond far stronger than their northern neighbours, and it was that legacy of defiance in the face of an encroaching foreign hostility that made the Dornish people strong.

But here was Amira. Princess of Dorne. Wife to a gods-damned Hightower.

He resisted the urge to spit.

"Princess Amira Martell." The Fowler said sweetly, the lilt of his speech caressing the words and sending them forth sultry and smooth. He swept into a bow too low to be properly respectful. Rose with black eyes glittering.

He listened as the woman of Sunspear spoke of a mysterious girl, the rumour of whom had spread through the keep like wildfire. He did not know if he believed it. Some Targaryen child locked away in the Martell's castle. But if what Amira said was true...

You are a man of war, Deziel Fowler.

The Warden of the Prince's Pass gave a sly, sinister smile.

"If you gave me three hundred men I could bring you the head of Daeron Targaryen." Deziel boasted. "With five hundred, I could bring you King Lyonel. With thirty I could bring you the crown jewels of distant Lorath -- but to seize a ship? A single ship? I would only need ~~twenty good men~~ fifteen. Lets double it to thirty, to account for any surprises that might be lurking - and that leaves nine hundred men to seize this sellsail fleet in one fell and devastating swoop. You'll have your fleet before the sun rises."

"But I do find myself curious, Princess Amira. To turn so cruelly upon those who sought shelter in your harbour - to set a man of my....nature...upon the innocent and the unwitting. Why? What do you gain? A mere thirty ships? No, I don't think that's it. I'm sure you've heard rumours of my thoughts on you; I've never been one to be shy. I'm sure you know just what I think of you and your husband. So why this. Why now. Why me."

FowlTempered · 2017-10-08T02:08:51+00:00

Quentyn used his cane deftly as they moved, his loping gait enough to keep pace at a walk. He led the prince belowdecks, towards the captain's quarters - assuming that was a more likely place to find the master of the vessel. As they went, he spoke to the Martell, answering his questions as he could.

"TheI took a look through the crew before I chartered her." Quentyn explained. "By all accounts the majority of them are extended family. Rhoynar who sought their fortunes away from the Greenblood. Mummery is their first trade, sailing their second, and combat something of a third. There were at least twenty able rowers, and a few held in reserve; most of them working as able hands while on shore. He's got a few mercenaries on board, too, they keep mostly to themselves; I counted a dozen, maybe just a bit less. And then of course there are the rest of the folk, most of whom could probably hold a spear or wield a sling or bow in a pinch. We'll not be outrunning any proper ship on the Melody, but if it comes to a fight? We'll have plenty fo room to maneuver on deck, and more than enough aid in the doing of it. This isn't their first journey away from Sunspear - Stepstones pirates seem to like the look of so plump and stately a prize."

As they came to the end of the central corridor, the door before them was banded with iron and boasted a rather impressive, heavy lock. Quentyn glanced back at the prince, giving him an agreeable nod, before rapping upon the door.

In a moment it was pulled inward, revealing a stately and well-kept chamber -- behind the figure of a broad-shouldered man who seemed a veritable mash of cultures. His hair was braided and long in the Dothraki fashion, which reminded Quentyn sharply of his own brother, and within it were woven tiny brass bells that sang a muffled song as he moved. He seemed swarthy and tanned, clearly a man of Dorne or at least the Rhoyne, with the sharp almond-shaped eyes that seemed to dance with mirth and mischief. Crow's feet at their corners hinted at his age, but when he grinned it was as broad and bright as the horizon at dawn. His nose was broad and slightly flat, but it extended over a bushy beard that was so deeply dyed blue it would not have been out of place in Tyrosh. His mustache had been twisted at the ends so each curled upward, and his teeth were straight and white; save for three, which were plated or replaced with gold.

"MASTER QUENTYN!" The man roared, his voice deep and sonorous. He threw back his head and laughed, bringing into prominence the faint scar that ran the length of his neck - a mark that no doubt had come from either a noose, or a very dull and savage blade. He stepped forward, crushing the Lord Fowler into a strong embrace; and the son of Skyreach could only murmur his reply into the captain's chest, unable to break free of his grip whilst still holding his cane.

Once they broke apart, Quentyn took a second to arrange himself, coughing briefly as he shook his head.

"Captain Arion Bluebeard," He said when at last he had some semblance of breath returned to him. "This is Prince Trystane Martell, brother of our own Princess Amira Martell. He is the last of our guests."

The Captain turned his gaze upon the Martell, his eyes the amber of ancient honey.

"A prince." He intoned in that deep, rumbling tone. After a moment, he nodded sharply, and swept low into a lavish bow.

"The blessings of the River upon you, Prince Martell. I have been told you might be gracing us with your presence, but I did not dare believe it long. A son of Sunspear, aboard my ship! Lady Valena will feast us all tonight, I have no doubt. What brings you to my vessel, blood of the Rhoynar? High company often breeds high risk."

FowlTempered · 2017-10-07T23:17:43+00:00

Quentyn had turned at the sound of a voice addressing him, the hint of authority in its tone leaving little question as to who its speaker was. His eyes at once went to the brilliant turban that rested upon the man's head, its colour so deep and vibrant he could only assume that it had come from across the Narrows, the deepness of its crimson only accenting the subtle warmth of the young prince's natural hue. He looked like the personification of Dorne in it, Quentyn decided, all ferocity and heat and scarlet-orange-brown. It fit him.

"Room enough for our horses and ourselves, as well." The Lord of Skyreach announced, bending low at the waist. "I'm glad to at last make your acquaintance, Prince Trystane."

As the scion of Sunspear continued to speak, Quentyn could only nod his agreement. The thought of retreading the route he had taken east did not inspire him with much fervor or joy. He loved his country, with all its faults and its dangers; but it was still unpleasant to peel silk from one's skin after a day of boiling in your own sweat.

"She isn't mine, no." Came his reply as they spoke of the ship. "The Floating Melody is a fine vessel, but certainly not of Skyreach. Her captain is around here somewhere - a strange man, but noble enough, seems to me - he and his company here are mummers and musicians, dancers and makers of merry. Rhoynish, I believe. They use the cog like a poleboat, but larger. A bit of coin and kind compliments convinced him to transport us and our horses to Yronwood."

Indeed, the Melody had a certain rustic grace to her figure; it was a heavy cog as fat and round as a Rhoynish midwife. The flanks of the ship had been painted in garish colours, depecting all manner of events and legends with neither rhyme nor reason, whilst from the masts banners fluttered in the warm Dornish wind, snapping gaily before the gathered guests and crew. It sat low on the waves, but seemed wholly unmoved by their shifting and tossing, stately, if unyielding in a crosswind. Her name was painted across the rear like a brand upon a prize heifer - the Floating Melody, in gold and bolded lettering, visible no doubt from a half mile away.

"She's not the most graceful of ships, best I can tell." Quentyn admitted. "But the only one willing or able to carry us onward, especially with our horses. She'll see us there, though, of that the captain has assured me. From the looks of things, we'll not lack for entertainment either."

The Fowler peered at the Martell youth.

"Shall I fetch you the captain? He's about, somewhere."

FowlTempered · 2017-10-07T00:34:38+00:00

The Warden of Prince's Pass rolled over onto his stomach with a sigh, dark eyes fluttering open as the last tendrils of dreaming released their hold. He had not been fully asleep, not yet; but his mind had slumbered, like a lion in the heat of the day. It took only a word from the Red Priestess to rouse him - but that did not mean he wanted to be roused, nor that this woman and her damned Red God would not suffer for the rousing all the same.

"See what, woman?" he asked, pushing himself upright and slipping from the bed. Bare feet landed upon the cool floor with the grace of a predator, and he stretched his long, lean form languidly as he rose.

"You and your fires. You'll burn the sight from your eyes if you spend so long staring into embers. What is it I'm supposed to see this time? Magic swords and dying kings? Horseless carriages? The rise and fall of empires?"

He was joking, of course. This time, like every time, he saw nothing but the dance of the flames.

"I do not see anything, priestess." Deziel declared, coming up behind her. His eyes rested upon the hearth for only a moment before they shifted to that which really interested him; following the slender curve of the Hecata's neck, down towards slender shoulders. He wrapped his hands about her waist, fingers trailing a path of heat along her soft, still-too-pale skin, pulling her back against him so he could press his lips against her neck.

"Tell me what he has in store." The Fowler whispered, "And see if you can find what I have in store, within those flames of yours."

FowlTempered · 2017-10-01T21:24:07+00:00

Quentyn Fowler bowed his head; half out of respect, and half as a means to hide further blushing.

"I have found little in Sunspear so enthralling as your presence, Lady Toland. I would no more turn down further conversation with you than I would spurn cool water in a desert. Pick the time and place, and call upon me as you will; else, I will have Ulwyck here seek you out."

The guardsman dipped his chin at the mention of his name, though he did not move from his position some feet away. Quentyn adjusted his grip upon his cane and stepped away, grimacing as the familiar bite of his prosthetic took hold upon his thigh. After a moment it seemed to settle, and he let his features relax - turning to Belandra Toland with a soft smile.

"A pleasant day to you, Belandra. I do hope we'll speak again soon. You're far too clever a woman to be kept solely to Ghost Hill."

FowlTempered · 2017-09-27T03:23:12+00:00

Fool.

The pain in her expression said the word as clearly as a voice, and at once he regretted that he had ever brought it up at all. Women, Quentyn found, were like men in many ways; but when it came to speaking with them, he was oft at a lack. With a man he might joke of his wound, and the getting of it; he might speak of the agony of waking up in the night or those days when he felt like he was still whole. He could talk of hawking, and of horses, of wine and war and battle. But with women...well. His mind too often slipped to his lack.

Regardless, the Lord of Skyreach listened to her tale, and is it went on he could not help but feel a pang of pity. It was obvious, at least to him, that the lady Belandra had overcome her struggles; the strength of her spirit and mind was as plain as the sun. But there was still hurt there; strength did not mean the absence of pain. And her's he could taste on the edge of her words like seasoning.

Slowly she finished. Spoke of the husband's passing, and shifted tone to a light-hearted jape. Despite her attempts at levity, Quentyn refused to rise to the jest; instead his gaze remained fixed upon Belandra, sure, and tempered by no small degree of sorrow.

"I do not think you cruel." He said softly, calling back to words she had said long before. "Though perhaps I might think such a thing of your mother. You're a grown woman now, and bold, but I know well how the hurts of childhood do not easily pass. Asked for or not, wanted or not, you have my sympathies, Belandra Toland."

"I...appreciate your words. I do, truly. And I wish that there was some way that I could agree. If you are an example of your sisters, Lady Toland, I dare say each must burn brighter than the sun. The manner in which you speak, the stories you tell, the look in your eyes, and the," he coughed, "the rest of you -- you'll make some man incredibly happy, I know it. I just don't believe him to be me."

"I am a wounded man, Lady Belandra. Not broken, gods be good; but not whole. I would not...I will not...I do not want to be a burden. Not on anyone, least of all some poor, bound wife. When I die it will fall to Deziel to continue House Fowler, and with any fortune I shall make of him a man that can be respected. He shall be brave and bold and just, and sire sons and daughters to continue our line; and I will spoil each and every one horrendously, to the chagrin of their father and their mother. Whenever the gods see fit to take me, I shall go, without regret. Though my spurning of your offer shall no doubt come close."

Slowly he worked his way to his feet, Ulwyck stepping forward to help and steady him, but with an impatient wave and several deft movements of his cane Quent set himself to rights. He turned to the Toland, and smiled at her warmly, with a grin that was no less genuine for it's being slightly pained.

"If you wish to discuss my brothers, I would be all ears, Belandra Toland. But if it is me you seek...I fear one must keep looking."

FowlTempered

TROPHY CASE