Dead Star Dockyards

Len stared blankly out the window of the carriage, stunned at the sum cited as his reward - 55 million Buls. It was a number he only ever heard when speaking about annual territorial revenue or mage battalion upkeep, something a normal person might never be able to earn over their entire lifetime. Not that he knew how much a normal person could live off of, or how much that fluctuated between places. Orphan though he was, Len had never really lived among the soldiery or made productive conversation with the city folk, so his perception of 'normal' for finances was wholly inadequate. Regardless, this amount would probably be enough to purchase some low peerage from an impoverished noble - land included.

Naturally he wasn't certain how much land he would be able to secure, nor did he know how much of a return he could expect from this land, but at the very least it would be a path to independence. He might need to answer to a higher power, and administration could prove difficult for someone as inexperienced as he, but in comparison to risking his life as a knight on the battlefield? A little bit of 'same-old same-old' wasn't anything to complain about.

Though, he did wonder who he should submit himself to. Given recent events and how Diana predicted the situation within the Empire to develop, settling within the borders of the authority he called home might not be the best idea - not that he knew of some place stable that would accept him . . . except for maybe Donovan.

He'd have a practical justification to do so being his 'brother', and he considered his relationship with Donovan, Diana, and Titanyana to be a positive one if nothing else. Sure, it might be a bother to assist in the development of their new home, but doing so would likely establish a place for him and his progeny amongst their ranks. Territory on a Verdant Globe would be a plus as well - it would be difficult to go bankrupt on such naturally prosperous land.

"-wiz has been engaged in tactical exercises with Count Vido Wiradin, are you familiar?"

"The name . . . rings a bell." The conversation between Losiram and his father drew Len back into the realm of reality.

"Mm. I'm not surprised given the distance between territories, but he's a big player around this area and one of our . . . well, I'll just call him a close associate for now." Arrelois grinned, clearly hiding some critical information he thought improper for the setting. "He and his territory produce most of the Empire's Seahrdrin, a metal we often equip our more skilled knights and soldiers with."

"Seahrdrin?"

"A rarer metal, light and holds its edge if a tad brittle. Perfect for broadswords and polearms, not so much for rapiers." A wicked smile formed on his face. "It's the specialty of his territory, you know! He's quite proud of his accomplishments in managing the reserves."

"I see." Losiram's lukewarm response to Arrelois' excitement concealed a tacit understanding of his intent. If Len had to bet, this Count would likely be attending her wedding with Arrewiz as a special guest of sorts - though he either hadn't received a formal invitation or made a formal request yet. Making a good impression on a man of his status would be good for the relationship of the territories going forward, even if that good impression was built upon some less than genuine flattery. "Has he been enjoying his stay here?"

"We've made sure of it! Even if we don't have the most luxurious accommodations, we have the best spirit!"

Len recoiled at his father's cackling. Given his absence in the training exercises and usually antics, Len could only assume Arrewiz had taken it upon himself to entertain the Count. Honestly, this move was probably of his father's design. Presenting his son as an infinitely more rational and composed individual in such a subtle way would open up opportunities that might otherwise be closed to Arrewiz on account of Arrelois' reputation as a bit of a nut.

"The spirit of house Arre . . . I so dearly wish to be welcomed by it."

"Of that you need not concern yourself!"

For a moment, Len wondered what Losiram was talking about. Why would their willingness to accept her be in question? It wasn't like this was a particularly prideful family, heavy though their duties might be. Only upon considering who else was in their household did he understand - Arrelois' wife was the sister of the deceased Empress Consort. One might develop a faulty impression of House Arre's pedigree if they considered the prior generation having marital ties to the highest power in the territory, doubly so when your own pedigree is fairly low.

- - - - -

"Losiram!" A horse barreled through the checkpoint at the castle gates, guards not bothering to stop the rider on account of his steed. "Losiram!"

Arrewiz, dressed up in his command livery, made his dismount without stopping, his horse continuing along in its trot as the rider floated through the air. Losiram herself had only just turned to face him, and was now suddenly engulfed in a small cloud of dust as Arrewiz made his landing. Rolling through with a somersault to break the fall was probably the best for his given situation, but dirtying the ornamentation of command was a faux pax so serious even Len was aware of it. Fortunately there hadn't been rain recently, so the dust would be the worst of it.

"Losiram, are you okay?" A voice in the back of Len's mind grumbled about the eye-catching gaudiness of his foster brother's garb and how little the dust managed to mitigate it as the bride to be underwent her inspection. He tried to kill the voice once he caught it, recognizing it to be an inappropriate thought for what should otherwise be a heartfelt reunion, but his general agreement with its assessment only left him the option to keep his mouth shut. He couldn't tell if this voice was borne of his exposure to Donovan's callous utilitarianism or Wall's crude analyses . . . probably both. "You aren't hurt anywhere, are you?"

"I'm fine, Wizzy." Losiram put her hand over Arrewiz's, guiding it to cup her cheek so she could nuzzle into it. "I lost a few men, but we made it."

Just as Len was contemplating how best to enact a subtle evacuation from this heartfelt reunion, he caught sight of a tear forming in Losiram's eye. In an instant the guilt he had been suppressing rushed to the fore, a hollowness in his gut he didn't like considering. It had been easy enough to ignore when in front of strangers and the bodies of the deceased, much like an act their presence offered the motivation to hide it. Once they were gone, though? Now that he was in the presence of the familiar? The walls keeping it in came down.

He wanted to puke, but he couldn't do it here. Not at the front of the castle, not in public. Queazy and a tad lightheaded, Len turned to find a nearby bathroom or some other location he could purge his breakfast in peace and quiet.

"Let's leave them to it." Instead, Len was interrupted by a slap on the back from Arrelois. "Wanna head over to the grounds?"

"D-do I have a choice?"

". . . no?"

Len sighed, the fog in his mind being dragged along with the breath. The awkward yet devious expression on his father's face sullied any type of guilt he might have felt as both survivor and killer, replaced by an imperious gloom. Of course his father would want a spar. Even if he hadn't been briefed on his actions against the pirates, he would be desperate to gauge Len's progress after an academic year at the Sanctum.

"Let me get my lance."

- - - - -

"You carry it much better now." Len had yet to swing it, merely removed it from the protective bag he used to prevent damage to his luggage, and he was already receiving a compliment. Preferable to a critique of course, but strange that this was all it took. He remembered being on the receiving end of the 'correction stick' more often than not as a result of his missteps.

Speaking of, the 'correction stick' was being spun around like some circus baton in his father's hands, juggled in tandem with his sword and his dagger. It wasn't a particularly special piece of wood, in fact it wasn't even something crafted, like a wooden sword. It was merely the most recent fallen branch to catch his fancy on his expeditions beyond the city walls. Naturally it was stripped of all leaves and twigs, otherwise it wouldn't be a 'stick', but that was the extent of the work put into it. It was adequate to spar against his children with.

"It's been a while since I've been able to use my stick, you know. Wiz has graduated from it, and Viro has been so busy with her etiquette training she hasn't the time to spar."

That's right, Arrelois would spar against his children with his 'correction stick'. Further, he would let them use real weapons while he did so. It might appear dangerous to do so, but his philosophy was that people needed to train with their proper combat gear in order to best acclimate themselves to the fight. This philosophy appeared to be effective given the prowess of his children and the reputation of his troops, however Len felt he didn't gain much from it. He was too slow to compete, to the point he would lose against a correction leaf, so his legs and forearms ended up bruised more often than not. Fortunately he only ever received one bruise at a time from this playfully abusive father of his, he would always swing the stick hard enough to break it against his body to end the exercise and never make full contact at any point before it.

"He . . . graduated?"

"Mhm. Forced me to draw my sword a few weeks ago, right after he got back from visiting you in fact." The sword and dagger disappeared in a moment, both gracefully sheathed while the stick was spinning midair. "Now let's see how far away you are. Ready?"

Len said nothing. Responding would earn him a light tap to the forehead before he could react, dropping into a combat stance would offer him the opportunity to make the first move.

"Oho? No wobble?"

Len took one step forward and slid his other foot behind him, building up momentum whilst putting him in range to strike. This wasn't a move he would have been capable of before, his core and grip strength wouldn't have allowed it, which clearly surprised his father. Not that it mattered, of course. Even if it was a low sweep meant to make the opponent jump or concede space, Len was evidently too slow for this to matter. Faced with a pole with enough momentum to shatter his legs without stopping, his father merely stepped over it.

"Good idea, but too low. I get wanting to make ducking impossible, but you need to ensure your opponent doesn't take an easier path out. You can always let your weapon fall a little if they try it - they can't exactly force themselves to fall faster."

Len redirected the orbit as it came around, going vertical instead of continuing on a horizontal track. Snapping his neck around to reacquire him as soon as possible, Len caught sight of his father's approach just in time to change from an extending slam to a retreating one - stepping backwards instead of forwards to keep him in the danger zone. Lethal if contact is made, all Arrelois needed to do was step to the side.

boonnnnngggg

The vibration hurt Len's hands, but he didn't have time to whine about it. Pulling back as fast as possible while shifting the positioning of his hands, Len narrowly avoided a slap to his hands. Normally this wouldn't be too concerning as his usual combat gear included gauntlets - something he wore for just that reason - however they were too deep in his luggage to collect on short notice. He needed to fight without them.

"Good reactions, now for your defense."

He couldn't complain about this disadvantage either, his father would merely retort that he couldn't ensure he would always have them.

"Overhead strike."

Len ducked pushing the lance upward to cover him.

"Side strike."

He dropped the tip on the side being attacked, retreating for space all the while.

"Stabs?"

Len left the far tip to drag in front of him as his father made some opportunistic jabs. To be completely honest he shouldn't have been able to do anything at this point. If an opponent was in a position to stab at Len, it meant they would also have the leeway to close enough for a guaranteed strike. When he used the pile lance, he lived and died on the energy of the weapon and his distance from the opponent - an excess of one allowed him to exchange it for the other. Having the tip on the ground whilst running away was without a doubt the lowest energy state it could be in, totally lacking the capacity to make a move in short order. Being stuck hopping to either side of his lance while avoiding the tip of a branch was practically the closest his opponent could be.

"I think that's enough."

SNAP

"Ow." His father had been merciful enough to telegraph where he was aiming, so Len's expression of pain was more of a formality than anything else. Sure, it stung, but after having the opportunity to brace himself the twig didn't hurt that much.

"You did good."

"Didn't feel like it."

"Well, that's the weakness of a slow weapon. You just need to get faster." Arrelois ruffled Len's hair, much to his chagrin. He actually put effort into his appearance today, if only to avoid disappointing his mother. "In that respect, you've improved a lot. I mean, you look a little bit taller, but not enough for me to think it's a growth spurt."

"Conditioning." For a moment Len's mind wandered, trying to recall a good place to perform said conditioning. "It's strength and endurance training, and it's really hard."

"Oh?"

"You'd find it difficult too."

"Would I?"

"Mhm. You can't use Split, only your body. I think its the reason I was able to survive my encounter with the pirates." Len had a spark of inspiration. If conditioning was truly something that judged a person's abilities independent of Split, wouldn't it be the perfect way to get back at his father? It wasn't like he regularly ran long distances or lifted heavy weights, after all. "Would you like to join me?"

"No Split, huh? Sounds interesting, but I don't think it'll be much use to me." Arrelois snapped the remaining length of his correction stick, lazily tossing the pieces towards a pile of refuse in the corner. "At my level-"

"Speed trumps strength." Len finished the sentence, wanting to keep the conversational initiative. "But what do you do if someone is just fast as you? What if there are a lot of them? Wouldn't you want to have something to leverage?"

"I suppose . . . fine." Len hadn't actually convinced him of anything, something he could tell from the expression and tone of voice of his father. Why did he relent then? "I'll give it a week or two, but only during my sparring time and it can't interfere with my other duties."

Frowning, Len supposed that was a reasonable concession. He wouldn't be able to drag his father along for the day-long sessions Donovan occasionally subjected him to, not that he planned to go that far, but an hour or two every day might still yield results. If anything, he'd get to experience a fraction of the suffering, which was slowly becoming the true goal.

"Alright, that works for me. I'll go move my stuff."