tampered | Death to Death [closed]

When; Saturday | December 6 | Late afternoon, going into sundown.
Rating; PG-13? IDK the movies are like lol no bloooood...but there be blood here, so. Yes.
Characters; Caspian (

treadingdawn), Lucy (

lionesscouchant). Jadis (

queenoftraitors), Peter (

oshutup) Susan (

lionessjant) & SPECTATORS (see below cut for details)
Summary; A challenge made in public name of previous personal trespasses, for the otherwise undisclosed purpose of cutting off winter's stone-tipped chill.
Log;

♚detaiiiiils.♕
Location: stadium, looking vaguely like the ring with broken columns and whatnot you see here....but larger as to be in keeping with stadium size, etc, etc. That's a basic idea though.

Annnnd threads will be made for the following 83

I. Pre-duel
a) [locked: Pevensies + Caspian]
b) [locked: Jadis + Allies]
II. Duel [locked: Jadis VS. Peter]
III. Duel [the public, anyone present and watching in the stadium, and while this obviously includes Caspian, Lucy, and Susan, we are opening it for anyone else who would be there and wants to actually do a semi-real-time reaction log. It doesn't have to be fancy, it's just an opportunity that we thought might be interesting to offer, and fun, perhaps. Reply to the main [blank] thread labeled as such with whatever your character is doing, or similarly, to another character's action if you want to interact, reacting.]
IV. Post-duel [locked: Pevensies + Caspian]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Curiosity was a fine thing, and he always woke early, most early for their sort - and if asked, of course there would be a reason, some trifle, Your brushes, sir, you've forgotten them utterly. Yes, that will do. The brushes. Yes, of course.

And it's because of the brushes that he's come with all ceremony, grey suit, all that hair shaved with gusto, come speedily, as if the sun couldn't let soon enough. You had to be polite with your brushes.

He clicks his tongue uneasily, following the little marvel of a show with just the right hint of, Fools, thrice fools, a thousand times fools, why blood, why a war, why ever. It's the brushes. They arouse the diplomat in him.

...damn this to blazes, he'd put his apprentice on charcoal, and be done with excuses.

Now this is a face Caspian doesn't expect to see today--tonight rather--and upon recognizing it he immediately chastises himself for thinking Marius would take no interest in such a thing. It isn't because he feels he should not have presumed the man's distaste for blood and war; it's because Caspian should not have presumed at all.

"Good evening, sir," he says to Marius. He is a king now, dressed in only what a king of his time and place would wear; which is dated compared to anyone else present besides the Pevensies. And still, Caspian wears it very well like a second skin. The braided gold and smooth jewels draped from shoulder to shoulder may be a bit much, but it is less than a crown.

Ah, and this was the time for the mockery of a greeting? For the words and the nonsense, and the pleasantries also? He does not bother, for all that he'll regret the lack of guise later on. He extends instead the gloved hand - for there must always be gloves when he's unfed and white and dreadfully cold - with the brushes, without further ado, without excuses.

His eyes don't leave the combatants. How could they. "And to you."

Jadis has pierced through Peter's chainmail, he can see that even from here, and while the act steals his breath away his words don't miss a beat.

"Will you sit," Caspian asks Marius coolly, polite. It isn't a pleasantry but a genuine invitation owed to the man by the one presiding in Narnia's favor. He has noticed the brushes too and how Marius doesn't look at them or him. All these things he catches with the corners of his eyes because he has trained himself to always be aware of his surroundings. As for the brushes, he doesn't take them, and he has no intention of settling that matter at least after the match, if Marius will grant him this much. Until then, he invites him to sit.

The smell. The smell is first, and then the motion, and the colour also. Blood. Ah, yes, blood. Well, of course, duels as all duels were did invite it; imperceptibly, but he stood straighter, perhaps, just a little more aware. Blood indeed.

"Sit, sir?" He does not mind the expense, and so lets the brushes drop, to an earth that'll bed them for days or week, for all he cares. Certainly, he won't bend to collect them. And he doubts, somehow, that a King of the - hmmm, blood - would either. "No, forgive me. I sit enough, and then I idle."

He doesn't need to look down to see where they land and already he is bending to pick them up, Son of Adam, shoulders bowed and the greatest emperor is no more than a beggar whose head is held erect. He gathers them in his hand, bare fingertips scraping into the dirt because Caspian isn't wearing gloves for this occasion. He keeps them in his hand and doesn't discard them for even brushes are tools, not toys, and they are as powerful as pens and swords.

"On your own accord," says the Telmarine King, nodding and acknowledging Marius' will, whatever it is. He is aware of his straighter posture, he is unaware of its cause.

Oh, devil's work, what is the boy doing, surely he can't be - surely - surely, he is, and there is something in Marius that's young for all his years, something wretched and a little soft, and a little wild also. He sketches a cross in the air, mouthing the barest, In nomine as the boy rises.

Leo III and Charlemagne, and the crowning that never was, for a God that Marius never held dear. He laughs, bitterly, efortlessly. "Behold, sir, you stand anointed."

A cross in the air and the gesture alone reminds him of trees that separate and fortunes bestowed by a lion's breath. What does it mean, he wonders, but even more importantly and more intriguing to Caspian... What does it mean to have the gesture coming from Marius de Romanus? What do you know, wonders the young king, his gaze still on the battle as it grows more vicious by the moment. Only the Pevensies and those of Narnia were present at the riverbank when he received the kingship, by the gift of Aslan, and Marius is no lion. Or is he, in his own world. Who were you before you became this?

Blood on the sand appears like the darkest oil on gold by the firelight.

"I know that," says the Telmarine with the faintest trace of a smile to that bitter laugh. He bows his head again and only slightly because it's true. He has grown past the stage of disbelief that the unwanted prince is the rightful king again, Caspian the Tenth of That Name.

He nods, once. Twice. Something happened here, and he hasn't the faintest of what, and how, and why; and certainly, he knows nothing of why he'd appeal to a gesture that discomforts him, discomforts hims greatly. A gesture he'd have spat on as a Roman man, and one he could not fathom as the witness of time. Too much time -

- and time was nothing in dueling matters. Forgive me, sir, I have left you without witness. He glanced at Peter again, Peter the self-styled King, Peter, who must win, will surely win. Peter, who must have something terrible to gain, and Peter, whom he does not know, and perhaps does not wish to know. But Caspian knows him. Of him.

Ah, there it was. He had come to see what had driven Caspian, his poor, wretched boy Caspian to be another's messenger - this Peter's errand boy. And he could find nothing, could see no bond of submission, no oath, nothing indeed. "Forgive me," he says this time plainly, inclining his head towards Peter, "I had thought he would have died by now."

Not even Jadis taking them both down to cross blades in quarters too close for comfort fazes the Telmarine, for all the stiffness that keeps his muscles rigid. Peter must stand up again and Peter must strike again, he will stand again and he will strike the White Witch until he is the only one left standing. They have a bet riding on this match, a silly and trivial affair but one he has been holding the High King to all week and up till now. He isn't fazed, and he replies to Marius in kind.

"Granted, now that you are learning otherwise," says Caspian while mirroring the incline of his head. It is cheeky, maybe, but lacking sarcasm and bite.

It has been years since retort, centuries since admonishment. And he thinks, perhaps there is something to this, a poetic justice to be settled.

"I shall have the seat, sir," and he takes it without preamble.

Death to Death [closed]

♕DUEL [public/open] setting: stadium [bleachers]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject