Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/936515.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major
      Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Lydia_Martin/Jackson_Whittemore, Isaac
      Lahey/Scott_McCall
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Talia_Hale, Cora_Hale, Peter_Hale, Laura_Hale, Stiles
      Stilinski, John_Stilinski, Allison_Argent, Victoria_Argent, Chris_Argent,
      Gerard_Argent, Kate_Argent, Lydia_Martin, Jackson_Whittemore, Danny
      Mahealani, Alan_Deaton, Matt_Daehler, Scott_McCall, Melissa_McCall,
      Vernon_Boyd, Erica_Reyes, Isaac_Lahey, Deucalion, Kali, Ethan, Aidan,
      Ennis, Jennifer_Blake, Adrian_Harris, Bobby_Finstock, Marin_Morrell,
      Rafael_McCall, Kira_Yukimura, Noshiko_Yukimura, Original_Characters, Liam
      Dunbar, Malia_Tate
  Additional Tags:
      Additional_relationships_will_be_shown, But_not_now_because_spoilers,
      Medieval_AU, With_Victorian_elements_added_in, The_Argents_run_a_fantasy
      kingdom, The_Hales_are_either_prisoners_or_slaves, Castles, Witchcraft,
      Druidism, Magic, Slavery, Penal_Colonies, Fantasy_Vale_Kingdom, Slash,
      Lycans, Pack_Dynamics, Mountain_Ash, Aconite, Emissaries, The_Nemeton_-
      Freeform, Beacon_Hills, Lunar_Cycles, scandals, Line_of_Succession,
      Upstairs/Downstairs_drama, Forced_Servitude, historical_fiction_-
      Freeform, Sword_&_Sandals, swashbuckling, Class_System, Feudal_System
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-21 Updated: 2016-12-12 Chapters: 6/? Words: 9747
****** In the Vale of Beasts and Men ******
by Blue_Jaye_Fevre
Summary
     In a great Vale, far west of the realms of men lay the Kingdom of
     Argenium. Beacon Hills was its' Capital City, and Queen Victoria of
     the House Argent was its' ruler. The Lycan population of old, once
     proud beasts of the woods had been shackled and broken, their power
     sealed behind Groves of Mountain Ash. And the fabled Emissaries, once
     trusted advisors of the Lycans had deserted their charges in favor of
     the race of men. Now, in the year 1336, a young nobleman and Emissary
     in training of the House Stilinski has been gifted with a great task
     in service of Her Majesty.
     This is his story, of the boy who would break the chains and shatter
     the Groves.
Notes
     This one's for you Robyn. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum ;)
See the end of the work for more notes
***** A Brief History of Argenium *****
===============================================================================
From the collected Histories of Argenium, fourth edition by Emissary Tindall
In the year 671, Ulwick the Cunning lead a band of humans from the eastern
reaches of the lands of men and westward towards the uncharted forests, where
the only living things were the trees and the beasts. After five years of
travel and hardship, Ulwick stumbled across a great river, with waters as
bright as stars and as blue as sapphires. And beyond that river lay a great
vale that stretched for miles and miles. Miles of fields and an ocean of trees
filled the great vale, with streams of ore that trickled through the land, as
though they were tears of the earth itself.
Ulwick crossed into the vale with his people prepared to claim the lands for
their own. But upon reaching the other side of the bountiful river, they found
that their lands were not their own. The vale was inhabited by grotesque
creatures that bore the bodies of men, but with hideous faces, covered in fur
and fang. Vicious and savage, the beasts attacked Ulwick's people for months
before Ulwick sought out a weapon for which to destroy the creatures. Upon
discovering by happenstance the toxicity of the plant aconitum towards the
creatures, Ulwick began to cultivate the plant for his people. The followers of
Ulwick, now armed with poisons, oils and other salves capable of killing the
creatures, began to win significant victories against their foes.
By the year 684, the creatures had been pushed back to the westernmost reaches
of the vale, driven to endangerment by the humans. Ulwick was praised a hero
and lived anther fifty years before dying of wounds sustained during an
excursion to the north of the vale.
In the centuries to follow the discovery of the vale, the children of Ulwick
grew prosperous and powerful; they established the town of Beacon Hills in the
year 923, which grew in size, status and influence as the decades passed.
Before the town was founded, the humans of the Vale lived through two further
resistances from the creatures. Both were incapacitated early and with ease.
In the year 1074, the City of Beacon Hills had reached a population of over
sixty-thousand with fifteen-thousand inhabitants living around the vale in the
towns of Whittenden, Brightblooms, Cold Barrow and Stone Quays. It was in this
year that the creatures were given name, and that their power was truly known.
The leader of the surviving creatures, a magnificent beast who called himself
Lykaon, ordered the abduction of hundreds of countrymen and children from
around the city of Beacon Hills. Once abducted, the hostages were given the
bite and unleashed back within the population centers. Like a plague, the curse
spread, infecting thousands upon thousands of humans. The Argent leader at the
time, Andros, proved to be too ineffectual to deal with the creatures. His
oldest son, Aloysius, took control after Andros was assassinated defending the
city from one of Lykaon's skirmishes. Desperate for an answer to his problem,
Aloysius prayed to the Gods for salvation and marshaled the surviving humans to
wage war against the creatures, named Lycans for their association with Lykaon.
Aloysius bravery, tactical prowess, and sheer numbers allowed for the
destruction of the majority of the Lycan numbers.
Lykaon, losing every battle and many of his followers by the week, sought the
aid of the ancient order of Emissaries, men from the West who served the Lycans
for a millennia. The Emissaries agreed to aid Lykaon in eliminating the men who
had fought so savagely against the Lycans. But Lykaon had a short memory and a
trusting heart, for his massacres of the human race had insulted the proud
Emissaries. In retaliation for his abuses of power and his upsetting of the
fragile balance of power within the vale, the Emissaries taught the Aloysius
the secrets of the Lycans, from their strengths and their weaknesses.
Aloysius, armed with the newfound knowledge of the lunar cycle, Mountain Ash
and pack dynamics began to slay the Lycans in staggering numbers. In a last
ditch effort to dispel the humans of the vale, Lykaon staged a massive assault
on the city of Beacon Hills. Aloysius was there and far prepared to deal with
him. It was at this final battle that the Emissaries revealed their treachery
and turned the battle from an even fight into a crushing victory. Lykaon's top
beta, Lupa attempted to flee with her people as they had in the past, only to
find a wall of Mountain Ash miles long standing before the Western reaches of
the Vale. Aloysius captured thousands of Lycans and trapped them within cages
of Mountain Ash.
Aloysius did not want to merely exterminate the Lycan people, but he wished to
make them pay for the deaths of every human they had harmed. In a fit of
determined discipline, Aloysius planted two separate groves around the Mountain
Ash cages of the post-war internment camp. One was short and held back by a
gate of pure silver, coated daily in liquefied Aconite. The second stretched
for miles around said camp, where Aconite was allowed to grow in toxic doses
between the trees. Aloysius intentionally left behind a large mass of land for
which fields could be planted. As a final piece, Aloysius had his Masons
construct a gigantic wall between the outer eastern section of the Mountain Ash
grove, allowing for entrance to and from the grove for humans, but only
entrance for Alpha Lycans. Betas and Omegas could leave, but the great masters
of the packs were helpless within the Grove. Aloysius then formed a a whole
branch of soldiers dedicated to the warding of captive Lycans and pursuit of
fugitive Lycans.
The grove was then christened Lykaon as a reminder to all Lycans of their place
in human society, and Aloysius lived for a great seventy years, after which his
daughter, Esther took his place as the reigning Monarch of Argenium. Esther was
far more shrewd than her father, eschewing the penal system of the Lycans in
favor of servitude. Lycans were forced to work the fields within the borders of
the grove, and many Lycan children were taken and bred into servants for the
upper class of Beacon Hills.
In the year 1293, one such Beta named Talia felt a surge of power, Talia's
alpha father had passed away and she received his gift through being his oldest
child. Talia kept her power hidden for nearly two decades before she was
discovered to be an Alpha. She used her power as one of the few Alphas outside
of Lykaon to organize an uprising of betas. The current head of the Argent
family, Alexander Argent, deftly crushed Talia's resistance and had her locked
away within Lykaon. Talia's children, Derek and Laura were taken from her and
kept as hostages within the Argent household. Talia remained stoic and refused
to cause trouble if her children went unharmed. That year, 1312, saw the last
great rebellion of Lycans within the Kingdom of Argenium.
Externally, a new threat arose in the year 1316, when the vicious Prometheus
and a unity of packs invaded the Vale to free their brethren and slay the
Argent family. During this war, Alexander Argent and his sons were killed,
forcing his niece, Victoria Argent, last scion of the branch of Aloyisus, to
take command and oust Prometheus and his followers. Victoria, like her
forebear, sought the aid of the Emissaries to defeat the rogue Lycans. The
Emissaries agreed, but only under the condition that they be given a proper
place within the Kingdom. With the aid of these individuals, Victoria tricked
the unknowing Prometheus into two separate traps: In the first, his children
and the children of his alphas were given quarter with the Emissary Deaton. In
the second, The Emissary Morrell gathered the Alphas for a secret meeting
between themselves and her own Order of the Vale. Prometheus' Emissary Bacari
warned against the idea, but Prometheus blindly believed in the loyalty of the
Emissaries.
At the meeting, Morrell gave the signal and had the alphas slaughtered by
dozens of marksmen wielding aconite tipped arrows. Before the meeting occurred,
Deaton brought the children within the inner grove, where they transformed into
Alphas. The oldest, a young man by the name of Deucalion, swore vengeance upon
the house of Argent until his dying breath.
For the next two decades, only minor events marked the history of Argenium,
where the rule of the Queen was firm, but just and the land thrived once again
unburdened by the inflammation of war. Only now tensions brew beneath the
surface, not only in the hearts of wolves, but also within men.
===============================================================================
 
UPDATED: Some changes in this intro that I incorporated as I mapped out the
setting of the story.
-Population changes added. Much more reasonable than over 200k worth of
individuals
-Argenium is the territory, Beacon Hills is its' capital city.
-Argenium is a Kingdom, its' rulers are Monarchs (As opposed to the Ducal
system I had in place)
-Beacon Hills founded in 923 as opposed to 1023, allowing for a more natural
population increase.
-town of Stone Quays (pronounced keys) added
-Emissaries originated in the West as opposed to the East.
Slight changes to present a more realistic story alongside a better setup for
the story. I am currently working on the first chapter and should have that up
once I have more free time on my hands. Until then, enjoy! ;)
***** Prophecies *****
Chapter Notes
     Enjoy! This has been a treat to write so far! :D
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The winds were softly blowing across the vast fields of Brightblooms, rustling
the ordered rows of Maize and tickling seas of Barley. The midday sun shone
down upon the farmers in their fields and the villagers upon the paths alike.
To and fro along the worn cobblestone paths leading from the village proper
past the fields and farms of the peasantry, around the bend of the river
Argenium and towards the unclaimed meadows of the Vale strode the townsfolk. So
occupied with their work of carting goods to the local market or rushing to
complete the chores before sunset were these smallfolk that they failed to
notice the young man in the meadow.
It was an unclaimed meadow, still coated in the ripe grass of the springtime
and born by great oaks and apple trees, lone sentinels of an age long gone.
Stalks of tall grass coat the meadows in swathes and here and there lay stones
and rocks, markers for the travelers to know how far they have wandered.
On one such rock, basking in the sun and absorbing its beams in a slim lad of
eight years. Garbed in a worn if fitted Doublet and khaki breeches, the youth
is a picture of the careless living that has come to mark the youth of
Argenium: Sprawled out amongst the earth’s carpet, arms pillowing his head
against a rough-hewn stone, eyes shut to the sun with ears open to the world
the youth hides from the responsibilities bestown upon him.
He hates his lessons, the need for learning and scrolls, or musty tomes, text
flooded tomes and the hazy burn of the tallow. Except for the illustrations of
the Friars and the Emissaries documenting every flower and beast with accuracy
unknown to him; never had those drawings displeased him.
If only father had not been busy with efforts in the city, if he were home he
would tell him the stories of the fanged monsters and the brave knights and the
noble hunters; of great battles and heroes. Instead all that he could do was
play in the meadows while mother rested. She had been so sweet to him that
morning, promising to join him in the fields that day. Once she felt better-
*a thick flutter of wings*
The youth opens his eyes, mind honed on the sound: Set downfield towards the
edge of the meadow, hovering in midair is a massive mint creature of powdered
wings and insectoid appearance, darting about the open air with jeweled
movements,
The youth decides then, that it would make an excellent addition to his
collection. With slight motion he rises, ascending to a crouch and stalking in
an arc around the prize.
When it begins to move the youth rises from his crouch and paces towards it,
practicing the rhythms his mother taught him.
In a picture of greens and golds, of tawny trees and lightened skies a flash of
quartz can be seen amongst the natural hues of the meadow. A slim figure calmly
moves about the meadow, his gait both predatory and light. The creature, a
massive specimen, flutters about occasionally gliding across the tops of the
tall grasses.
The youth moves to the edge of the tall grasses, eyes never leaving the
fluttering creature and the sphere beyond it of field and trail. He moves
through the grasses and towards the creature, which has moved into a circular
clearing and is hovering in the middle. The youth notices the patterns of the
grass, a spiral moving towards the center of the clearing, the beauty of the
moth.
The moth turns, setting brilliant jade eyes on him. He approaches the creature
slowly, as though to not frighten it off. It remains fluttering in place,
regarding the boy with multifaceted eyes brighter than the stones of House
Whittemore.
The youth reaches a hand out to touch the moth. The breeze picks up, rustling
the grass like a sigh from the land itself.
Stiles. A murmur on the lips of the wind.
“Master Genim!” The youth rips his eyes away from the Moth and towards the new
voice in the meadow, which sounds like his mother’s lady in waiting Janis.
He turns back to the moth, only it is gone. The grass is merely patched and
without higher design, the grasses are still.
“Master Genim!” Janis calls out again, her body rustling through the tall grass
as she breaches the clearing. He turns back to her, sorry that he missed the
beautiful moth and ready to return home. Janis is pale, her eyes red rimmed and
glistening with unshed tears.
“Master Genim, we must return to the house. We must send for your lord father
immediately.”
Genim doesn’t reply at first. He doesn’t understand why Janis would be crying
and why they would need father to come home from the city and why mother hadn’t
joined him in the field-
Until he does understand. And the sun grows a little darker in the sky as he
falls prostrate to the ground.
===============================================================================
 
“Stiles! Wake up!”
Stiles flails forward, knocking over a flagon of water and smacking several
plates across the communal table from which he had fallen asleep on.
Apprentices Novak and Jurley laugh loudly, while the beleaguered Innkeeper
casts an evil eye from the bar area.
Stiles gets his bearings, casting the last vestiges of an old dream from the
corners of his mind. Rubbing his eyes, he asks what time it is.
“A few minutes past eleven o’clock. We figured leaving you behind would be a
poor thing to do, especially in light of Emissary Deaton’s chastisements of
late.” Jurley snorts into his drink, voicing his displeasure in the most
intelligent way he could muster.
Rolling his eyes, Stiles notes that he was in his cups prior to surrendering to
Orpheus: A half dozen empty drinking glasses lay strewn across the table,
victims to a night of post session festivities. That Stiles can even remember
that much after the fact is prodigious.
“We need to return to the guild dormitories.”
Jurley snorts again, allowing Stiles to further lower his opinion of his peer.
“Afraid of getting caught? So long as we are up at dawn for morning meditations
Deaton won’t even notice.”
Novak shakes his head in disagreement. “Deaton will know we were out, even if
he never sees us enter the dormitories and we are brighter than day come morn.
We will be cleaning the gutters with the dawn my fellowes.”
The three groan in disappointment and proceed to refill their glasses with
wine. It’s a poor vintage, and it definitely has been cut by the Innkeeper with
something rank. But the flagons are only a handful of Silver Arrows compared to
the more expensive vintages of Whittenden or Lykaon. Lycan grown wine sells for
outrageous sums, even if the quality is only above fair.
Stiles knows that the oaken Syrah his father prefers could easily outmatch even
the most select cask of Whitten Red, but he also remembers why he has never
entered it in the royal tastings. Claudia loved the arbors of Brightblooms, and
she never boasted or bragged of their quality. Only that they be enjoyed by
all.
“Stiles, regardless of time, we should most likely be heading back to the Guild
Quarter. Too much later and we could be picked up by a sweep.” Apprentice Novak
whispered at Stiles. Stiles was all too familiar with the Watchmen, the
unofficial town guard that swept the city at night for street urchins,
criminals and escaped Lycans. More often than not however the sweeps merely
arrested any citizens out on main streets later than usual. Arrested was a
rather formal word for kidnapping however, and the families of the captured
would either have to ransom back their charges or allow them to languish in the
smaller Gaols of Beggar’s Row.
Stiles had encountered a rowdy group one night while walking back from a late
night errand run for Emissary Tindall from the Market District. The hooligans
presumed that he was a drunken friar from the Faith’s Campus who had lost his
way. Stiles told them that he was an Emissary in training and that they would
have regretted attacking him.
They decided to charge him.
It was a foolish maneuver, for even a fledgling Emissary was still more than a
match for a handful of guards-for-hire. Stiles merely blinded them with a spell
of light and scurried off along the streets back towards the Guild Quarter. At
the time Stiles had been taught only a handful of spells and no Martial
training. It would have gone poorly in any other circumstance.
Stiles sighed and rose from his bench, ambling over towards the Innkeeper.
After depositing a small pouch of Silver Arrows on the mans’ bar Stiles
gathered his friends-Friend, Jurley was nothing more than an upjumped son of a
Taskmaster from Whittenden- and exited the Inn of the Triumphant Stag and out
onto Beacon Square.
While the Inn was a shambling, monster of patched wood and precarious add ons,
the rest of the Square was opulent beyond measure: A massive white marble
fountain roared in the center of the Diamond oriented Square, a stream of water
issuing from the mouth of the marble Stag positioned triumphantly over the
corpse of a massive wolf carved from obsidian, while tiers of engraved marble
staged the scenes for every onlooker to observe. To Stiles left was the Armory,
a gray brick fort that housed the proper city Guard. To his right was the
Northern Street that linked Uptown and the Market District together. It was a
well patrolled and lit corridor that led to the River’s Gate and towards the
banks of the Argenium.
Stiles and his companions strolled along the worn but maintained tiles of the
Square towards the Western street, which led towards the Guild Quarter and the
noble houses of Wolfshead Heights. On the Northwest side of the Diamond was the
Town Hall and the City Archives. A light in one of the upper rooms led Stiles
to believe that Lord Mayor Finstock was still hard at work, even at this time
of night.
A chorus of laughter tore Stiles’ eyes away from the Town Hall and to the
Southwest side of the Diamond, where the towering Palace of the Silver Sun was
situated. Built by the flippant King Alphonse I over a hundred years ago, the
Palace was the where the Argent’s held court when they were in the city,
however rarely. Most of the time it was used for Masquerades and Great Feasts,
for Dances and Parties of the Upper Class of Beacon Hills. With great glass
windows and delicate stonework detailing the outside of the palace, Stiles
doubted that it would last more than an hour under siege. Yet the opulence, the
raw power of the House Argent was on full display in the façade of their
palace: Great Iron and Stone fences enclosed the space, while luscious greenery
dominated the slim gardens viewable from the front of the palace. The hidden
cloisters and groves in the rear of the Palace were verdant and evergreen, even
during the vicious winters of Argenium, or so Stiles had heard in whispers.
The loud melodies of orchestras and mummers rang from within the Palace, where
a great ball must been taking place. Stiles focused his eyes towards the West
end of the city, where The Guild Quarter stood. The Iron Spire of Esther,
another Argent holding, loomed tall and oppressing, yet completely
inaccessible. The Peasantry gossiped that the Argents wore Magic rings that
could allow them to phase through the walls at will. Stiles knew better; Phase
magic was practically unheard of in the Vale, although older Emissaries such as
Tindall recounted beasts possessed of such abilities found much further west of
the vale.
The three Apprentices kept moving onwards, towards the heavily patrolled and
grand streets of the Western Ward. The three traveled for a short period along
the Western street until they diverged on Guild’s Trail, the street leading
into the mammoth Guild Quarter. From the outside the Guild Quarter appeared as
a massive six pointed star, at least two hundred feet tall and made of sheer
stone. Between the North and Northeast points of the star was a small walled
enclosure with a gatehouse, a large stable and a Guardhouse where Novice
warriors spent their later years guarding as part of their training.
Novak approached the Gatehouse and called for the Novices to open up. A novice
hunter shouted to the gatehouse to open up for the Emissaries. The portcullis
rose up and allowed the three Apprentices to enter into the Small Yard and
towards the Main gate of the Guild Quarter. A handful of Novices were mulling
about the yard and casually bantering with each other. With so Lycan threat in
over two decades and the sheer army housed behind the Main Portcullis of the
Guild Quarter, few Novices ever took their duties seriously within the Small
Yard.
The three Apprentices entered through a stone tunnel that led to the Common
Yard, eventually exiting out the corridor and into a massive circular space,
the sight of which never ceased to amaze Stiles. Many Peasants believed that
the inside of the Guild Quarter was filled with a handful of castles or other
forts, when in actuality each point of the star was a solid, triangular castle.
Together they more or less formed a hexagonal central yard, with a brick road
ringing the Guilds together. Some green space filled the ring between another
ancillary brick road, with smaller paths forming perfectly straight passages
between the outer and inner roads. At the center of the space was a circular
Green with a squat, stone tower in the center. Taking up the majority of the
Green space, the tower housed the Guildmaster’s Chambers and the examination
entrance rooms for each of the six guilds.
Novak led Jurley and Stiles back towards the Emissaries Guild, the Southwest
Point of the Guild Quarter. They passed the Warrior’s Guild of the Northern
Point and the Assassin’s Guild of the Northwest Point before arriving at the
Ivy-strewn front of the Emissaries’ Guild. As Novak produced a key and led the
group inside, Stiles felt a wave of cold pass over him. He whipped around to
find the source, locating a robed figure standing at the edge of the Green,
facing his direction.
“Will you get in here Stilinski!” Jurley hissed at Stiles.
Stiles turned his head for a moment to hiss back at Jurley. “That’s Lord
Stilinski to you Jurley, remember your place!”
When he looked back, the figure had gone, and the braziers along the path had
been extinguished. Despite wielding more power than five grown men, Stiles
hurried inside the antechamber of the Guild of Emissaries and allowed Novak to
lock the door behind him. With quiet resignations, the three apprentices moved
back towards their dormitories on the different floors of the Guild.
Stiles opened the door to his small stone room, a single with a thin bed, a
small writing desk equipped with inkpot, quill and Eastermarch quality candle-
Stiles refused to buy Tallow candles for his studies- adjacent to a thin
bookcase, which sat opposite to a dresser. A small woven rug sat the center of
his completely stone room, which was small but surprisingly tall in vaulting.
Stiles stripped out of his gray Emissary robes and into a nightshirt and small
clothes. Sliding under the thin sheets of his bed, he recounted the arduous
sessions with Emissary Kessra, the recurring dream of the Moth signaling his
mother’s death, and the mysterious figure of the Green.
Stiles did not believe in Prophecies, but did accept that those in tune with
the Magical energies of the world could often be beset upon by images or
foretellings that would herald future occurrences.
Stiles did not believe in Prophecies.
Cuddling closer to his pillow, Stiles allowed himself to fall back into sleep,
mumbling the well-worn words of Dreamless sleep to himself.
And for that night, Genim Stilinski, son of Sir John Stilinski and Lady Claudia
Stilinski; Heir to Orchid House, Brightblooms and its attendant lands; Emissary
in Training of the Guild and sworn protector of Argenium did not dream.
But what he did not know was the chain of events he had set off, held in the
smallest of his actions.
Chapter End Notes
     Don't worry about being overwhelmed by the details and new settings.
     I have about 8 MS Paint documents that have the layouts of every
     district and the city as well as the whole of Argenium, along with
     two word docs loaded with place names and descriptions, family trees,
     mottoes and organizations. So just sit back and enjoy the ride ladies
     and gentlemen! ;)
     (Oh and since this has a massive cast, I will release a Spoiler free
     dramatis personae once the introductory chapters have kicked off. For
     now, just treat the characters on a chapter by chapter basis.)
     Thanks for reading and please review/comment/rate! Drop me a line if
     you have any questions!
***** Unexpected Sessions *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Stiles had sessions in the morning with Emissary Holgrave, who Stiles found to
be several shades less severe than the ferocious Kessra he had dealt with the
day prior.
Stiles found himself in a room with six other Apprentices: The gaunt son of a
fishmonger, Swyft; the Demure and soft spoken daughter of a town guard, Morris;
The twin sons of a lesser Banker, Joliet; and of course, Novak and Jurley.
Novak yielded no recurrences of the festivities held since Stiles had last seen
him, but Jurley seemed to be coping with the spiteful spirit of the morning
after.
Not that Holgrave cared one bit: The man may have been less wicked than Kessra,
but he was far from forgiving. He stood at the opposite end of the stone
lecture hall. Normally several woven rugs would have been laid down for
students to meditate upon.
Today there were no rugs to be seen, but three medium sized boxes were situated
against the back wall, all covered in heavy tarpaulin. Holgrave moved past one
of the boxes and patted his hand on it neatly before turning back to his
apprentices.
“You were scheduled to practice meditations this morning, but I had something a
bit different in mind. Emissary Kessra has told me of your advancements in
spellcraft, to the point where I feel confident in the lessons I am about to
instill.”
Every nerve in Stiles body went rigid, a thrum of electricity coursing through
his body. Out of the corners of his eyes he caught his classmates acting
similarly, standing straighter and trying to fight the irritations of the pull
of druidic magic. A heavy thud signaled the slamming of the door behind them.
The flames in the wall sconces flickered.
Holgrave walked next to a pulpit affixed on his side of the room, dipped a
black feather into the inkpot on the writing side, and began to mark the names
of the apprentices present. As he wrote, he spoke. “You will work in pairs for
today, with Swyft and Morris, the Joliet boys, and Jurley and the Lord
Stilinski working as the final pair.”
Stiles bristled at Holgrave’s idea of a joke, making light of his Noble status.
He was sure that this was Deaton’s punishment for the three older Apprentices
staying out the before: Stiles would have to duel Jurley for the next hour and
a half before chores and his commune with nature.
“Apprentice Novak, you will assist me in setting the lines.”
For a moment, Stiles actually had the audacity to complain about Novak’s luck
before realizing that they never used lines in duels before. His eyes widened
as both Novak and Holgrave produced small leather pouches and began drawing
straight lines across the entrance of the hall and the back where the Pulpit
was located with a fine black substance. Holgrave made a sharp right turn with
his line, pouring it to the wall instead of in front of the boxes. Stiles
mouthed Mountain Ash as he realized that they weren’t dueling each other at
all.
Holgrave then grabbed the Tarpaulin and wrenched it from what Stiles had
believed to be boxes but had proven to be cages of Mountain Ash, revealing
three snarling Lycans: Stiles had seen the servants in some of the higher
houses, and he had seen them at the Market of the Flesh within the Market
District, but he had never witnessed them transformed into their bestial forms:
Scrunched brows and elongated canines with eyes that shone like the brightest
of torches, that otherworldly yellow.
“First pair up, step over the line and prepare to fight. If you can subdue the
Lycans then you can leave for your chores. You will be graded on the kinds of
spells you use and to some amount, the creativity of these spells. And please
try not to die. It makes my day go by all that much longer.” Holgrave spoke in
a monotone as he motioned for Swyft and Morris to step over the line and
towards the center of the room. The moment they reached the middle, Holgrave
snapped his fingers. The fronts of the cages opened and the Lycans bolted out,
racing straight for the pair.
To her credit, Morris did not cry as a vicious beast leapt towards her, instead
raising her hands up and calling upon a ward of shielding. It worked…
momentarily as the Lycan crashed into the shield before regaining its balance
and swiping at Morris. Morris dodged the blow and summoned a stronger ward
around her person, pushing it outwards and knocking the Lycan off balance.
Swyft was busy managing two Lycans at once: The second and third Lycans had
been slightly smarter in attacking Swyft, with one moving the breadth of the
room and around Swyft while the other rushed the Apprentice all together. Swyft
cast a charm of Obscurement, summoning winds to stay hidden briefly from the
second Lycan. Baffled, the creature stopped and sniffed at the air before
making a wide swipe to its’ left, causing Swyft to cry out in pain and the
claws made contact with his side.
Morris cried out as the Lycan attacking her managed a blow to her shoulder,
ripping through her robes and causing a trickle of blood to seep into the
material. Holgrave merely sighed and continued to mark on the paper, but made
no move to intervene.
Something in Stiles boiled over at that point, for he found himself hopping
over the line and into the fray. The third Lycan, about to pounce on the downed
Swyft, was unceremoniously blasted forward by Stiles manipulation of energy,
sending him crashing into Holgrave’s line and shocking him into submission.
Putting himself between Swyft and the second Lycan, Stiles summoned a stronger
ward around him and took several of the beast’s slashes before pushing him back
several feet. He quickly glanced over to see Morris still holding out against
the first Lycan, although barely.
“Morris, regroup!” Stiles shouted at her as pulled Swyft’s unconscious body to
the center of the room. Morris used what little remained of her energy to
propel the first Lycan back, sending him stumbling towards the left hand wall.
Clutching her shoulder she moved next to Stiles side, tears streaming down her
face. The two Lycans recovering, Stiles gathered up the willdwelling deep
within him and threw up his hand, conjuring a circle of Mountain Ash.
Both Lycan’s smashed into the circle, being pushed back and dazed, if
momentarily. The First Lycan looked dazed, while the Third was roaring and
ready to strike back.
Stiles jumped out of the circle and summoned up the fury dwelling within him,
his hands burning with energy and eyes brimming with light. The First Lycan
dove at him, where Stiles grabbed the creature by it’s’ neck, flesh instantly
sizzling and crackling at the touch. With a roar, Stiles smashed the Lycan’s
head against the wall, a sickening crunch heard underneath.
A snarl resounded from behind him, Stiles whipped around to stare face to face
with the final Lycan. Stiles gathered up the energy of Calm from within and
held his palm against the Lycan’s skull. The Lycan went slack as the energies
coursed through its’ veins and its face reverted from Lycan to human. The
Lycan, so fierce in stature was reduced to a peacefully sleeping girl.
Stiles turns to face still blank faced Holgrave. “I’ve never seen Lycans so
incensed or powerful before. Morris should have taken down that first one with
ease, but it took quite bruising wouldn’t you say Emissary?”
Holgrave’s face remains stony. “The Lycans are strong as they need to be
Apprentice. We should discuss your lack of obedience first however-“
“No, I think we need to discuss why three Betas were nearly able to kill two
Apprentices while their instructor stood and did nothing-“
“Those were mere Omegas Apprentice Stilinski-“
“In the Night’s Hell those were Omegas!” Stiles curses, roaring at Emissary
Holgrave. Stiles remembers the Tournament hosted by the late Lord Lahey of Cold
Barrow four years prior: Omegas pitted against each other couldn’t have even
had a third of the strength possessed by the beasts here.
The room goes quiet as Stiles notes the difference in how the room is lighter,
as though the door has been opened, and the silence of his peers and the look
on Holgrave’s face as he stares at the doorway and- of course.
Stiles wheels around to see an ever stoic Deaton appraising the downed Omegas
on the floor. He slowly raises his head to Stiles. “I came to ask to speak with
Apprentice Stilinski in my work chambers. While I am glad to see he is getting
a chance to display his finesse, I would implore you to remember that not every
lesson begins in bombast Emissary Holgrave.”
“I was merely trying to educate these layabouts in the true meaning of
Druidism, should they wish to leave the Guild I think that we would not be
poorer for it.”
“Yes, and may I remind you that all Lycans held within the Hecatolite cells are
only meant for observation and final rites of passage. Not for basic studies.
You will return these creatures to the Gaol and then you will rectify your
mistake by proctoring the entrance examinations within the Central Keep.
Dismissed Emissary Holgrave.”
Holgrave’s eyes flicker at the tedious punishment he has been sentenced with,
but he humbly bows and begins to place the Lycans within their Mountain Ash
cages. Deaton turns to the Apprentices doles out commands: The Joliet twins
will help take Swyft and Morris to the Healers on the lower levels; Novak and
Jurley will stay and assist Holgrave with the cleanup and reassembly of the
room. Stiles is told to follow Deaton. Stiles holds his hands up in placation
when Novak and Jurley give him sour looks, believing Stiles to have escaped
punishment.
Stiles knows that Deaton forgets nothing, and that he will be paying for the
previous night with some form of punishment.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for reading! Please rate and review! ;)
***** Kings of Argenium, 12th Edition by Emissary Tindall *****
Chapter Summary
     More Supplementary material. This should help you guys get a better
     sense of the timeline. I will be posting a real chapter soon, but
     right now my writer's block is making it a slog. So for now, more
     world building and a better sense of history ;P
     Also a key:
     Roman Numeral for the monarch - Their reign - Their Name - Their
     Birth and Death Dates - A small bio regarding their accomplishments
     during their respective reigns, along with titles for specific rulers
     i.e. The False Queen Mirelle Argent. The brackets at the end indicate
     when certain noble families came to power/were awarded lands and
     titles under specific reigns. The Primroses are the forebears of
     Claudia Stilinski nee Primrose.
(I)                 (642-734) Ulwick the Cunning (642-734): Discoverer of the
Vale and its’ first ruler. Founder of the House of Valewick.
(II)               (734-744) Meryn Valewick (671-744): Ulwick’s youngest son;
Established the first permanent settlement of Eastermarch.
(III)             (744-751) Methis Valewick (695-751): Meryn’s oldest daughter;
Decreed that the line of succession pass to the oldest child of the incumbent
ruler, regardless of sex. Methis began constructing the Ulwick Span in 736.
(IV)             (751-777)Colbryn Valewick (724-777): Methis’ middle son; Was
slain during the Second Lycan Rebellion.
(V)               (777-805) Medger Valewick (739-805): Colbryn’s oldest son;
First stable ruler of the Vale after Ulwick. Completed construction of The
Ulwick Span. Instrumental in the development of paved roads in the eastern part
of the Vale.
(VI)             (805-840) Ferelia Valewick (759-840): Medger’s oldest
daughter; Mother to Arianna; surveyor of the Vale and slayer of Reynard.
(VII)            (840-883) Arianna Argent nee Valewick (799-883): Ferelia’s
oldest daughter and last of the Valewick clan. Arianna married Emile Argent in
824.
(VIII)         (883-904) Aurelius Argent (830-904): First of the Argent line;
established the Iron crown of Argenium and founded many of the initial
political and organizational changes that ushered in the Argent Dynasty.
(IX)             (904-940) Genevieve Argent (861-940): Aurelius’ oldest
daughter and the first settler of Beacon Hills; Founded the city in 923.
(X)               (940-992) Alistair Argent (889-992): The Old King; Alistair
oversaw the expansion of Beacon Hills and its’ first fortifications. Alistair
constructed the Old House, the first living place of the Argents until the
construction of Argent House. Founder of the Guild of Warriors.
(XI)             (992-1000) Anton Argent (929-1000): Moderate King who
established the Guild of Masons and constructed the first set of walls around
Beacon Hills.
(XII)           (1000-1020) Abilene Argent (963-1020): Established the Guild of
Hunters; Founded the first Prison of Argenium: Queenston Gaol. [House
Whittemore landed]
(XIII)         (1020-1041) Ordran Argent (987-1041): Founded the Guild of
Merchants; Attempted to expand commerce across Argenium. Assassinated by a
rival.
(XIV)         (1041-1041) Mirielle Argent (1009-1041): The False Queen;
Ordran’s middle child who poisoned her older sister for the Crown. She was
found guilty of Kinslaying and hanged.
(XV)           (1041-1080) Andros Argent (1015-1080): The Youngest surviving
son of Ordran; Father to Aloysius. An ineffectual King, Andros took some
lengths to counter Lykaon (See, The War of the White Wolf) but ended up being
deposed by his son Aloysius.
(XVI)         (1080-1130) Aloysius Argent (1039-1165): The Great King; Aloysius
is considered to be the greatest King of the Argent line. A brilliant general,
shrewd leader and peerless soldier, Aloysius was responsible for treating with
the mysterious Emissaries in order to defeat Lykaon. Aloysius also founded the
great Lycan prison Lykaon, named in remembrance of the Lycans’ fallen leader.
Aloysius was also instrumental in founding The Faith of the Dauntless Sun,
Argenium’s chief religion. Bestowed with the grace of the Emissaries, Aloysius
lived for well over a hundred years, but ceded the crown to his eldest daughter
Esther in the Year 1130. [Houses Finstock and Lahey landed]
(XVII)       (1130-1180) Esther Argent (1080-1180): The Iron Queen; Esther was
ceded the crown in 1130 by her venerable father. Esther was an influential and
prosperous Queen, if generally disliked. Her cold demeanor and ruthless efforts
earned her little love, but proceeded to turn Argenium into the powerhouse it
is. Esther is responsible for the shackling of the Lycans and their forced
servitude; The proper construction of the districts in Beacon Hills, including
Beacon Square, The Guild Quarter, and her personal fortress The Iron Spire. It
was later revealed that Esther fostered a Bastard son by an unnamed man. The
scandal would prove hazardous for her reputation, but a godsend for the Argent
family in the centuries to come. [Houses Primrose and Daehler landed]
(XVIII)     (1180-1207) Alphonse Argent (1143-1207): The Silver King; Esther
left no next of kin when she died, leaving the crown to her next oldest nephew,
Alphonse. Alphonse took the vast reserves that Esther had generated through
proper finances and lavishly built a new Palace within Beacon Square.
Alphonse’s greatest achievement was the construction of the upper class
district of Wolfshead Heights. His last real marker was beginning construction
on Argent House in the countryside. He died well before the first foundations
were laid.
(XIX)         (1207-1242) Ambrose Argent (1172-1242): A notable military
strategist and warrior, Ambrose saw to the construction of a proper military
within the walls of Beacon Hills, along with proper walls for the city itself.
Ambrose turned the gaudy folly of Argent House into a leviathan military
fortress, complete with hundred foot walls and state of the art architectural
fortifications. [Houses Reyes and Boyd landed]
(XX)           (1242-1260) Annalise Argent (1195-1260): An unremarkable
daughter of Ambrose who is remembered more for stability than any other marker.
She was also noted for her embellishment of Argent House and her induction of
more culture within Beacon Hills. [House Martin landed]
(XXI)         (1260-1284) Victor Argent (1225-1284): Victor put down the Fourth
Lycan Rebellion. His rule was punctuated less by Lycans than it was by the
social unrest of the lower classes of his human subjects.
(XXII)       (1284-1316) Alexander Argent (1260-1316): The last of the line of
Alphonse; Alexander properly handled the Hale Uprising. Alexander and his sons,
Andrew and Maxwell, were slain by Prometheus in defense of Beacon Hills.
(XXIII)     (1316-Present) Victoria Argent (1293-Present): Incumbent Sovereign
of Argenium; Although not formally of the line of Alphonse, Victoria is
actually of the fabled line of Aloysius through his daughter Esther. Victoria’s
forebears were given quaint if comfortable lodgings for their silence and lack
of protestations towards the line of succession. When Alexander was killed
during The Sixth Lycan Rebellion Victoria, then one of Alexander’s Lieutenants,
revealed her linage and claimed both the Crown and control of the army.
Brokering with the Emissaries once again, Victoria gave them a proper place
within Argenium if they were to help her slay Prometheus and his Lycan horde.
After the fall of Prometheus, Victoria married a distant cousin to cement the
line of Argent and has ruled Argenium with a fair and stable hand. [House
McCall landed]
***** Odd Errands *****
“I have an assignment for you Apprentice Genim.”
Standing opposite to the seated Guildmaster, Genim couldn’t help but feel as
though his superior had forgotten his wits.
Stiles blinked several times. “Beg pardon Emissary Deaton?”
Deaton fixed an even gaze on Stiles. “I have an assignment for you to
undertake.”
Was this Deaton’s punishment for his earlier antics? Errands?
“I do apologize profusely for my raucous behavior today-“
Deaton shakes his head in mum silence, although he looks more consternated that
irritated. “Holgrave stepped over his boundaries, but that is irrelevant to the
task I am laying before you. I require you to deliver two letters, in two
separate stages.”
“And yes, the drinking last night at the Inn of the Triumphant Stag was a bit
uncalled for, but before you interrupt me again, I need you to close your lips
and listen.”
Words ripped from mind, Stiles stops his fidgeting and focuses solely on
Deaton’s face. “These are confidences I require you to deliver with the utmost
discretion. The first is to Lord Mayor Finstock, and the second is addressed to
your Lord father.”
“My father? Why does my father require a message?”
“I alone hold that in confidence Apprentice Genim. Now, will you do this for
me, or will I have to send Apprentice Novak in your stead?”
Stiles shook his head in disagreement, eager to see his father and Brightblooms
once more. “I will depart at once.”
“I imagine you will have to, it isThursday after all.” Deaton offered,
returning to a stack of papers on his simple writing desk.”
“Thursday… Thursday… Thurs- Oh light be damned.” The Lord Mayor traveled from
the city to his family estate of Finkeep on Thursday and stayed until Saturday,
nestled in the wooden palisades of Whistler’s Hollow which would have tacked
two days of extra traveling to the small town and back towards the Ulwick Span,
the only bridge spanning the whole part of the Argenium river.
“Apprentice Genim, the novices have prepared a horse for you in the foreyard.
Once you have delivered your father’s letter you will return here to the Guild
for further instruction.
Stiles thanked the Guildmaster and raced to his quarters, tying his coin purse
and several bags of Mountain Ash and other bags of assorted casting materials
to his belt and hastily stuffing the two letters into a cowhide satchel his
father had purchased for him before he left for his training as an Emissary.
The bag had mostly occupied space in his room for his two years at the Guild.
The few times he had used it had been trips to the Market District to retrieve
parchment or small items that would fit within the case. It had sat rather
lonely by his writing desk due to its scant usage or need.
Shrugging aside sentiments, Stiles closed and locked his chamber and rushed
down the dormitory corridor towards a side staircase that would take him to the
ground floor.
===============================================================================
 
Stiles hurried out of the Guild Quarter altogether and into the foreyard to
find his horse. The yard was empty save for a groom shoveling hay off towards a
strikingly empty stable. Stiles paced towards the young man with growing
disease.
“Groom, where is the Horse Guildmaster Deaton instructed you to have saddled?”
The groom looked up in surprise, eyes widening at the sight of the frantic
Emissary before him. “There aren’t no more horses, the last Gelding left more
than half an hour ago and I ain’t got no command from the Emissary about no
horses.”
Stiles looked past the groom towards the stable, completely bereft of horses,
then back to the groom. “Well, go fetch the Stablemaster then! What are you
waiting for?!”
“The Stablemaster took the last Gelding your Apprenticeship.”
Stiles rubbed at his eyes in frustration. “Damn it all, I must be off!” Stiles
stormed off towards the main gate, spilling onto the side road that lead out
towards the Western Path that cut through the city and towards the Square.
Stiles wasted no drop of time by stopping to admire the architecture during the
light of day: The sheer height of the Guild which towered over the city walls,
and the even taller Spire of Esther located many alleyways and blocks of houses
and buildings away.
Uptown, the ward of the working middle class of city guards, skilled craftsmen,
bankers, and other families of fair means, was situated on his left, with the
imposing and ornate walls of Wolfshead Heights coming up on his right hand
side. Black stone walls rose over fifty feet, topped by wrought iron fencing.
Bands of steels wrapped around the imposing brick pentagram, displaying scenes
of human victory over the Lycans of the wars past: The First War, The Second
War of Jean-Baptiste and Reynard, The Great War of Lykaon, The War of Remus and
Romulus, Talia’s Rebellion, and the Promethean Invasion. The first two wars
were depicted on the lowest of the three bands. The Second Band was comprised
of scenes from the War of Lykaon, while the top most band of steel was etched
with the names of the fallen nobility from ever encounter following the War of
Lykaon.
Stiles hurried past the massive walls of the Heights and towards Beacon Square.
Remembering the time of day, Stiles cursed his luck and dodged the throngs of
worshippers en route to St. Aloysius’s for morning prayers. Stiles weaved
throughout the masses eventually entering Beacon Square. The Argent’s court sat
glimmering in the morning sun, a jeweled spectacle for any human to witness.
Stiles moved straight past it, taking the southern road towards the Whittenden
Gate. On his left lay the tranquil gardens of St. Aloysius’s Green, the campus
of stone buildings belonging to the fervent Order of the Dauntless Sun.
It mattered little in the moment, for one hundred paces ahead was Lord
Finstock’s escort. Stiles pushed a little harder, became a little rougher in
order to reach the escort.
“Lord Finstock! LORD FINSTOCK!” Stiles shouted through the crowded street. The
escort began to slow, much to the thanks of Stiles. Making his way to the dozen
strong armored horse and the Lord Mayor himself, Stiles briefly thought over
what kind of letter a Guildmaster would entrust to an Apprentice rather than
one of the City Couriers stationed at various districts. The Guild Quarter had
one for every Guild…
And yet Deaton had sent Stiles in their place. As his heartbeat and footsteps
slowed, his mind began to race. He made a half turn-
“Young Master Stilinski! To what do I owe this interruption?” Finstock hailed,
turning his horse to face the frozen Apprentice.
“Damnation.” Stiles swore under his breath. No turning back now…
“Lord Mayor, I have a letter from- from an old friend.” Best to not trust the
Guards, Light knows how far this reaches.Stiles reached into his satchel and
withdrew the sealed letter address to the Lord Mayor.
Finstock eyed it curiously, briskly snatched the letter and shoved it straight
into the pocket of his doublet.
“Much thanks Young Master, now get on with your tasks.” With a flick of the
reins Finstock turned his steed southward and began to trot off.
As his escort passed under the Whittenden gate, Finstock pondered the black
Seal of Alan Deaton.
What webs are you spinning now dearest spider?
***** The Eastern Way *****
Chapter Summary
     World Building, with some history thrown in for fun.
     Bold indicates new characters; Italics indicate internal thoughts/
     flashbacks/quotes in a historical context.
Having successfully delivered his letter, Stiles set to new purpose towards the
Stag’s Gate. He passed through the town square, towards the Eastern Way,
unhurried by the worshippers filing into the cathedral for morning prayers. He
sidestepped crowds and couples with purpose, avoiding pace. He would make the
trip home by nightfall crowds be damned. He predominantly passed pilgrims,
soldiers and clerks moving to and fro: The ancient and tightly manicured campus
of St. Aloysius’ Green; the austere and restrained Town Hall; and the squat,
diligent Armory. Amidst the fervent endeavors of these public servants were
groups of men and women walking with near arch purpose. Whereas the pilgrims
and clerks and soldiers were currying messages, exchanging letters,
transporting objects and delivering goods between their respective
destinations, the nobles sauntered with aloof purpose towards their next fete.
As one group strode with mad purpose in fulfilling the endless whims and tasks
of their superiors, the other japed and chattered softly amongst them, lost in
the easy comforts of fashionably late arrivals and “petite” appointments that
often stretched over the course of whole afternoons.
Stiles darted between the two sets of courtiers, as water flows in the rivulets
of stones, towards the Stag’s Gate. The Eastern Way was the main artery into
Beacon Hills, a duet of lanes four carriages wide that flowed opposite each
other. Dividing the two lanes were long commons of evergreen trees, flanked by
wrought iron fences and lanterns. Every fifty or so paces would present a
crossing into the opposite lane, allowing for travelers to alter course or
pursue routes into either of the districts bordering on the Eastern Way. The
northern side housed the great market district of Beacon Hills. The district
was the official, sanctioned trade center within the walls of Beacon Hills,
housing everything from Craftsmen’s guilds, purveyors of luxurious goods,
foreign merchants and every conceivable trade imaginable.
The district also housed the Fool’s Lot, a veritable city of tents, playhouses
and the Royal Amphitheatre, where court gathered to attend public spectacles.
Stiles had heard of enormous concerts, tournaments with jousts and staged
melees and even a naval battle staged between Whittenden and Stone Quays.
Apparently Lord Whittemore’s pompous jackass of a son had managed to insult the
cousin of Lord Robert Martin, the Lord of Stone Quays. Lord Martin, whose
vanity was matched only by his wealth, challenged the Whittemores to a public
duel. When Lord Stephen Whittemore of Whittenden haughtily encouraged the
Martins to choose the field of their battle, Robert leveraged the duel into a
public spectacle to be held at the Royal Amphitheatre. When Lord Whittemore and
his arrogant brood arrived at the arena, they found not a pitch set for the
warring teams of their respective cities, but lake filled with small galleys
and sailboats. Lord Martin had paid at personal expense to convert the arena,
and in doing so had practically won the match. As the seaworthy knights of
Stone Quays deftly sailed, fought and swam their way around the land born
knights of Whittenden, Lord Martin had to frequently excuse himself to prevent
a taciturn and violently quiet Lord Whittemore from observing his palpable
glee. The duel was called in favor of Stone Quays, with all twelve of the
Whittenden team’s ships sunken…
…”And more than thirty lives claimed in the melee.” Stiles remembered darkly.
Only Fools and Kings played for honor with other men’s lives at risk. Still,
Stiles had hoped he might one day glimpse at the architecture of the
Amphitheatre. Emissary Holgrave’s dry lectures on the fortifications had him
enraptured at the thought of viewing the site with his own eyes.
A sharp, acrid scent began to burn his nostrils. As if thinking about the
Fool’s Lot had summoned the scent of arenas and human suffering, Stiles came
into view of the pass into the southern side of the Eastern Way. Whereas the
Market District was neat and orderly, with various lots laid out in neat square
grids with proper development and growth, the South-Eastern Quarter was the
equivalent of the untamed forest: A stain of human suffering, the quarter was
less planned and preened as it was fenced in and corralled. Despite running the
length of the Eastern Way and ending shortly before the rear of St. Aloysius’
Green and the Whitten Road, which lead southward towards Whittenden, the
monstrous, sprawling area was left to its own management and devices. With
towering, thick curtain walls shielding the district from the eyes of visitors,
the district loomed obvious to those who passed by, but it was impolite to ask
what lay within.
Stiles had passed through the walls before, on rather moonlit outings for
clandestine supplies and adventures. After all, it was simultaneously the
easiest district in the city to enter and the most difficult to depart. His
first time, on a mission to scout out rare divination ingredients, proved
harrowing. The district was built within a depression in the Beacon Hills,
allowing for a person entering the large area to view down into the center of
the district as if from above. Stiles had likened the view to staring into an
eternal abyss.
The descending layers of patchwork houses and buildings were laid out like
fungi on a rotting tree; streets and alleyways cut in every direction, and city
blocks bore neither intelligent design nor cultivated care. Running through the
center of the district like an angry scar was the road known as Beggar’s Row.
The corruption of man’s soul was laid bare along this avenue: Stonebrow Street
hosted dozens of “Gaols” operated by a shifting web of street gangs and rival
sell swords. It was not uncommon for tourists in the district to be “arrested”
and confined, only to be released upon payment of “bail”. Other groups dropped
the pretenses and were little more than smugglers and robbers with scantily
clad legitimacy. Stiles had also heard that a corner tavern called the Sullen
Slut brewed some of the best barley wine in the city.
Madam’s Way, among the closest to the inner curtain wall of the major streets
in the district, played host to hundreds of bordellos, tea houses, and other
parlors of ill repute. Here every whim of flesh was offered, at costs both
material and immaterial: well to do travelers would seek out a reservation at
Madame Janine’s; laborers might find discounts at the Foreman’s Respite. The
cheekily named Hills and Valleys Inn only offered services to Guild based
produce merchants, while the Lavender Lounge catered to guests with more
delicate purviews. Bordellos catering to patrons who wished to subjugate Lycans
were not unheard of, but Stiles knew an apprentice Emissary who was punished
for mentioning the existence of one where the Lycans were constantly in their
full form. Stiles shuddered at the thought. The idea of even touching a Lycan
was abhorrent, and he could barely consider how a man could even copulate with
one, all slavering fangs and twisted features-
As he banished the thought from his mind, he remembered the lesson from earlier
that day with Holgrave: The Lycans had, in normal fashion, been bound in warded
crates. What was different about these crates however were the markings labeled
on their fronts: A diamond inlaid into a square against a field of fire. It was
the sigil for The Pits, the series of shadowy stadiums that showcased
gladiatorial matches. Whereas proper matches were not intended to be deadly
(Even with blunted weapons and lances, the casualty rates of the spectacles
were high) The Pits openly advertised lethal matches between every matter of
opponent: Men fighting other men or exotic beasts or even lycans, and every
imaginable combination of team, creature, weapon or desire was displayed. The
matches boasted a glorious future to urchins and the downtrodden, who had few
other paths left to turn towards: In reality, only the skilled and brutal
lasted long enough to earn their way out of The Pits. Those that did often left
Beacon Hills all together, departing for the East or joining with the frontier
settlements in the west, where scant comforts and vicious fauna proved more
merciful than years with the Overseers. Those than fell in combat were taken to
the tallest structure in the district: The Glorious Dead, an abattoir that
masqueraded as a temple. When the wind blew towards the north, one could
occasionally smell the fallen combatants piled deep within the airy workrooms
of the place. While in life, the combatants had served the public’s blood lust
and daily toil. In death, they served the public’s more physical needs.
Stiles remembered a quote from Emissary Tindall regarding the practices of
early Valewick settlers:
“In life they sought to sustain their families through the harsh years; in
death, they sought to sustain their families through harsh seasons, if only for
a few meals worth of effort. Winter deaths were preferable for preservation.”
He adjusts his pace and heads for the Livery at the Stag’s Gate, eyes steeled
ahead and not towards the avarice of men along his sides.
End Notes
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