Closed Ironmere Twin Imposters

[Tyrell Vakarian]

The sound of steel clanking and clashing filled the air. Metal plates clanked as the soldiers moved under their armor, steel swords sliced through the air and clanged against one another. Feet kicked up mud. Heavy grunting and breathing filled in the gaps. It was like a symphony to the ears of the Lord. Combat was something he loved to watch. When two men really got into it, it stripped away any sense of identity. There were no longer houses, names, wealth, status. All you are left with is two animals desperately fighting for survival. It was glorious to watch order dissolve into chaos like a facade hiding the true, ugly face of nature.

One man fell to the ground and the tip of a longsword was brought to his throat before a hoarse, old voice bellowed "ENOUGH!" and the hostilities were ceased. The sword rested casually at the fighter's side as a hand stretched out to lift his opponent to his feet. It was if a switch had been flipped and suddenly civility reigned. "Bran Grey is the winner!" the elder gentleman refereeing the match proclaimed. The victor threw up his hands before bowing for his lord and the two fighter were walked out of the makeshift ring in the dirt.

The wind whipped up between the mountains and sent a chill down everyone's backs. Tyrell pulled up the fur lined hood he wore over his armor. Some may say coming to such a formal event in full armor was a bit much, but that was the kind of man the Lord was. He refused to ever be caught off guard. "And now, introducing..." The ref began again, ushering the next round. "Tanner Dorfin and Ser Alden Rodrich!" Everyone in attendance perked up at the second name. A knight? In this hobbled together tournament? A look of intrigue came across Tyrell's face.

Two men entered the ring and a smirk spread across the Lord's face as he leaned forward in his seat.

 

[Staevos Toth]

He could hear the name of his former Master echo from the groundskeeper. "Ser Rodrich, you're up!" the man said, as the knight rose to his feet. It was his name now. No one knew the name "Staevos Toth" and no one ever would. He had been wondering the countryside for months now, using the name of the now dead Knight he once squired for. What started as a determined, headstrong plan to reach glory, and bring honor to a dead man seemed so far behind him now. It was a wonder he hadn't been caught yet.

At first, the plan worked wonderfully. He buried his master after his unfortunate end, and took on the name for himself, travelling away under the mans name. But now, he seemed in no better place than he would have been as a lowly peasant. Though he took on the name of a Knight it seemed to do him no good, leaving Staevos with no money, no food, no shelter, no land, and with nothing to his name but the belongings of a dead man. And a horse. All of which, lead him to this very moment. A small tournament in Ironmere, with a small prize pool that Staevos did not have the luxury of saying no to. Luckily for him, though, most of the men who entered this tournament did not have the training that he did.

The man rose to his feet, tightening the shield that was slapped across his left forearm before the doors before him peeled open. The light seemed blinding for a split second, before his eyes could adjust to see his surroundings. The locale seemed just as pitiful as he was. Blood stained the walls of the small pit, which reeked of sweat. His face grimaced as the smell seemed to slap him across the face. As unpleasant as it all was, though, Staevos was on a mission. He had no other choice but to win here today, putting enough gold in his pockets to last him for the foreseeable future. He smiled, making eye contact with his opponent, before slapping his visor down and unsheathing his sword.

"Begin!" the old man howled before the crowd went in an uproar. He laughed behind the his helmet, watching the man across from him barrel forwards. Staevos could read him like a book. He raised his shield arm as the man whipped his sword above his head with a downward strike. It struck hard against his shield, but it was nothing he hadn't felt before. With a quick thrust, Staevos reached his arm forward after blocking the blow, the edge of his shield crashing into what would have been the bridge of the mans nose, had it not been for the helmet, sending the man fumbling backwards in shock. Each decisive step allowed for a clean and powerful strike against the man. 'One, two, three,' he counted in his head, matching every exhale with the strike of his sword. The man tried to gain his footing, but against the would be knight, he had no chance. Staevos sent a kick straight to the mans solar-plexus, knocking him flat on his back. Within the blink of an eye, he lunged forward, the tip of his sword going straight for the gap that revealed the poor fellows neck.

"That's it, enough!" A familiar voice called, Making Staevos freeze in place. "We have our winner, Ser Alden Rodrich!" Slowly, he lifted up the visor to his helmet, revealing the smirk that lay beneath "Dog shit." He whispered. Staevos straightened up, sheathing his sword as he rose, turning to face the Lord. He removed his helmet fully, taking a bow, before eventually making his way back into the underbelly of the arena.

 

[Tyrell Vakarian]

As the two combatants entered the arena, a smirk had stretched across Tyrell's face. The helmets were hiding most of the two men's faces, but the Lord had caught a quick glimpse before their visors were thrown down. Everyone was quite shocked to see an actual knight in this lowly tournament, but Tyrell was more intrigued by which specific knight had entered the ring.

As any knight should, the fight was ended in mere seconds. A block, a counter, a few successive blows, and that stance of victory as he aimed his sword down at his opponent. Ser Rodrich seemed competent to say the least. He was rightfully declared the winner of this round and he removed his visor and gave a bow to his Lord before turning to head out.

"Halt!" Tyrell bellowed as he stood from his chair, his eyes fixated upon the knight. "Nedd, escort Ser Rodrich to the empty preparation chamber. I'd like a word with him." He called out to his hand, his eyes remaining upon Alden.

"But sir, the tournament is still-"

"You heard me!" He scolded as he turned off and stepped down the elevated platform his chair sat atop.

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The knight was escorted to one of the many rooms combatants used to prepare themselves. This one appeared dusty and disheveled as if it hadn't been used in months, perhaps years. He would round the corner to find Lord Tyrell standing there waiting for him, the smirk upon his face turned into a grin. "You fought well out there, Ser Rodrich. Tell me, what's a knight doing in these parts? I know neither myself nor my late father knighted you." He goaded.

 

[Staevos Toth]

The smug expression quickly faded from Staevos's face as the Lord called down to him, ordering the man to one of the empty rooms below the establishment. What started as a simple plan to get some food in his belly and money in his pockets was now creating variables. He shot a small glance to the Lord looking down to him, and locked eyes with him for a moment before following his escort, Nedd, into the underbelly.

Staevos did his best to keep himself calm as he entered the room. Looking around, it was clear the place hadn't been used in quite some time. There was dust covering nearly every surface, and cobwebs stretched across the the simple wooden furniture that lined the room. Upon closer inspection, one might have even noticed the rat droppings spread about the place, clearly marking it as their own. Well, it was now. As his gaze wandered, Nedd would lead him around the corner to see Lord Tyrell standing with an all too familiar look on his face. Staevos was known to make that face himself given the right circumstance. That look of complete dominance over those around them. The knight looked over to the young Lord, and despite the fears that began to grip his mind, he kept up his stoic facade.

"It's a pleasure, my lord, and thank you." He said, offering a slight bow to the man. Staevos's hand nervously found the pommel of his sword, resting there to find some security. The way Lord Vakarian spoke, it was still unclear to Staevos if the man knew he was not the knight he claimed to be. It was leaning that way for certain, but for now he thought it best to try and keep up the charade. After all if he was found out, impersonating a Knight had very serious consequences, often resulting in getting hanged, and Staevos would not go down without a fight.

"I've been traveling, as it happens." Staevos started, a smirk growing across his face. "Truth be told, I have been looking for a new squire. Bad case of pox took mine. When I heard about your little tourny, I figured it might be a good opportunity to see what sort of fighting spirit the men around these parts had. And, meaning no offense my lord, but it seems you must have taken every man who had even but a shred of talent for your guard. Most everyone I saw fight today was poor at best. Even the man I fought seemed no better than a peasant with a stick. Though, I suppose I could have gone a little easier on the lad." Staevos took a breath, trying to calm himself. Though he could feel his heart pounding behind his chest, he felt his tale sounded believable to most. He kept up the sly look of his face, rolling his head slightly as he shifted his feet. "So, if you don't mind me asking, why did you bring me down to this little hole, my lord?"

 

[Tyrell Vakarian]

Some liars were good. Some were poor. Some where exceptional. There were varying levels that depended on different factors. "Ser Rodrich" fell into the category of a good liar, but he was not great. His story was believable enough. Simple and vague enough to pass. Yet there were subtle tells that he couldn't control. His pupils dilated ever so slightly, his breathing quickened as he fought back his pounding heart. It was good, but it Lord Tyrell was better. He loved to lie to get his way, but he loved picking apart the lies of others.

"Truth be told..." He began much the same way his company had. "... You haven't spoken a single truth." He eyed his fingernails in a non nonchalant way to show he was already three steps ahead. "Well, I have taken almost every man worth a damn to serve in my house's army. So I suppose I don't tell the truth much either." He offered a light chuckle.

"You see, when one wishes to impersonate a knight, it's best to choose one of a lesser known status. It's hard to convince people you're someone you're not when you try and play the part of someone accomplished. You seemed to have the same thought, but what you didn't account for is choosing a knight so mediocre that he might as well be a war veteran." His black eyes peered straight into Staevos' eyes. "You really thought I wouldn't know 'Ser Rodrich the Brown? The man who shit himself after getting slammed on his ass in a jousting tournament?" The laugh returned, much more hearty this time.

 

[Staevos Toth]

Staevos’s jaw clenched as the Lord spoke. His heart pounded uncontrollably in his chest, beating faster and faster, despite the emotionless stare he offered Tyrell. He took in a deep controlled breath, doing his best to calm his reactions, though the shakiness of his exhale seemed to tell more truth than his words.

His mind flashed back to the very day that Vakarian spoke of, about his former master. Staevos was maybe fourteen at the time of the tournament, and that was only one incident that Ser Rodrich would be ridiculed for. His fist tightened as that man’s gaze drifted to the floor. His eyes closed, giving off the uncontrolled body language that Lord Tyrell was all too right. When Staevos turned his head to meet the Lord’s gaze, he came to hate the smug look of satisfaction that stared back at him. A smirked quickly flashed across his face, letting off a small chuckle. “Ser Rodrich was a much better man than what people gave him credit for.”

The play was up. His back was to the wall, as his mind took off in all directions of what could happen next. The taste of death teased him as his mind went clear. His eyes darted across the room, turning to the guard who stood near the door. The charade had gone on long enough, but Staevos would not go down without a fight. In a flash, Staevos withdrew his sword, bolting to the other end of the room. The guard that stood between him and the door was on to him, however, and quickly withdrew his blade to clash with Staevos. The metal clanged as the sound of swords bit into the air, small sparks flying from the colliding steel. The guard was good, but just as before, Staevos proved better. With a few quick moves, Staevos disarmed the guard and sent his sword through the opening between the man’s armpit.

As he withdrew the blade and the body fell limply to the ground, Staevos made his best efforts to reach for the door. As he did so, a strange feeling came over him. Something was stopping him. With all his strength he could barely move an inch. A strange, almost burning sensation began to creep over his body, and soon, Staevos felt unable to breath. He turned from the door, seeing Tyrell staring straight back at him, looking him dead in the eye with that familiar look. The look of dominating another. His hand reached out toward Staevos, and just as his vision began to fade, it all disappeared in a second. Staevos gasped for breath as he collapsed, looking up to the Lord. “My name is Staevos,” he coughed, in between breaths. “Staevos Toth.”