Triple Extra Large
Triple Extra Large
NAME tab Rohan Marshall
NICKNAMES tab Ro, Duke
AGE tab Twenty-five
BIRTHDAY tab June 6
GENDER tab Male
SEXUALITY tab Heterosexual
ROLE tab The Duke of Eastcliff
HEIGHT tab 5'10" (178 cm)
WEIGHT tab 170 lbs. (77 kg)
BODY TYPE tab Svelte
HAIR tab Black, well-maintained, elegant, moisturized
EYES tab Teal blue, 'icy', staring into your soul, judging you
STYLE tab Modern socialite - custom-tailored, well-fitted, eternally presentable regardless what he's wearing; looks good in everything and better without anything
EXTRA tab Missing his left pinky; scars across his back
♡「 tab Faceclaim: Salo by sh0d03
♡「 tab any
♡「 tab extra
♡「 tab info
♡「 tab here
Triple Extra Large
POS TRAITS tab Proud, loyal, detail-oriented, social butterfly
NEUTRAL TRAITS tab Follows trends/customs, well-read, eloquent, will see a task to completion
NEG TRAITS tab Proud, deceitful, obsessive, addictive
LOVE tab Wine, women, gambling, having control of the situation
LIKES tab Good company, a good argument, book recommendations, staying abreast of current events
DISLIKES tab Losing control of the situation
FEARS tab His debts and habits coming to light, tarnishing his public image, losing his position in the Court
A Useful Ally tab 1/1 (taken by Emilio/Greed) tab REQUIREMENT: none
♡「 tab you are someone who has knowledge of the Duke's proclivities and you have proof of them
♡「 tab you two have reached a mutual agreement for now - he can get things done, you keep your silence
♡「 tab slowly, but surely, the Duke is going to attempt to take away that proof
A Good Friend tab 0/1 (unclaimed) tab REQUIREMENT: none
♡「 tab you are a trusted confidant of the Duke's
♡「 tab you are very much aware of his activities, possibly at some point engaging in them with him
♡「 tab the Duke greatly appreciates your companionship and actually having at least a friend in you
A Necessary Loss tab 1/1 (claimed by Maiden/Alora) tab REQUIREMENT: none
♡「 tab you had a loved one in the military
♡「 tab the Duke has informed you himself that they died honorably and for the Crown
♡「 tab the Duke, however, is unwilling to divulge details or release the body to you
Triple Extra Large
x
Pt. I: Fortune Favors the Bold
Pt. II: Gentlemen's Honor
Pt. III: A Morning in Escia
Bleary teal eyes blinked open to behold a room that recognized its function, but not its location. Sun’s light, through thick red curtains, diffused through the almost pearl-white wooden shelves that lined either wall, revealing the rows upon rows of age-worn books that looked to gather a fine layer of dust atop them. The furniture, themed ivory white in an already ostentatious room, seemed welcoming enough. On the other end of the room appeared to be a stately desk with hardly anything atop it except for a scattering of misplaced books and stationary. The chairs scattered about gave the impression that it was a place meant to entertain guests - perhaps welcome them in quiet study, but with sheets draped over them it seemed there were hardly any guests to account for there. There was a fireplace there, nestled in a mantle of gray-white stone, its opening covered with a thin gold fence, whose embers still lingered - giving the room a distinct warmth that wasn’t from the morning streaming in. A single white door beside a painting-decorated wall seemed his only point of egress, but opposite that, on the other side of the room, was an overlarge window - taller than he stood, its curtains the only things preventing the room from being flooded in morning’s call. He found himself in a reading room - and judging by a loud ‘thump,’ the clattering of books, and wordless groan, he was not alone. He focused his attention across from him to a man clad in black-gold finery, whose color matched the catlike gaze and complemented the mess of short brown hair they were framed by. He was a mystery - someone vaguely familiar to his sleep-addled mind, but he needed to account for himself first and foremost.
The Duke’s eyes traveled through the room, searching through a haze of what he could only describe as exhaustion and delirium - either it was the airiest hangover he’d ever suffered or it was a morning’s deathly headache, and he wasn’t entirely certain which was worse. He was… trying to get better, at least. He was trying his best to avoid getting unconscionably drunk, but given his recollection of the previous night’s events was a blur at best, he felt as if he failed on some fundamental level. Rohan sighed, trying to rub his eyes to wipe away the sleep, only to find a mask still around his face, failing to realize the thing still clung around his head. He placed a thumb underneath it and slid it off his face, finally getting a moment to gather himself, before he turned it over to behold its design: a white, almost overly decorated thing whose serpentine design left the embroidery on the mask and then framed it.
The mask was tacky and he had no recollection of choosing it for himself… but it was well-made, that much he appreciated. Setting it aside, Rohan spied the couch he was laying across - white upholstery with golden accents, its cushions filled with what must have been down. It was comfortable enough, but given his own state of dress - perhaps too-stiff cream formalwear with blue trimming - he could only imagine he staggered into the reading room, found some place to lay down, and not bothered to make himself comfortable in the process. The fact that he didn’t know - or, perhaps, couldn’t know - silently infuriated him, but he was hardly one to voice his dissatisfaction. He determined he needed to understand the situation before he could get a firm grasp of it. Rohan stood from the couch, tired and out of sorts, though he took the time to adjust his clothing and brush his hair back to appear at least semi-presentable. He made a mental note that he needed to get into something more comfortable and find some place to actually get some sleep.
“Good morning.” He said, his voice betraying the dryness from where it came. Rohan cleared his throat before he spoke again, his eyes trailing as the mystery man searched the room for something in particular, though he did not know what.
“I’d assume you’re a guest here as well, given the state of dress.” He pointed to the tuxedo and tie combination before his attention then shifted away from him and towards the door. Pieces of familiarity began to join together in his mind to form a picture of the man who stood before him - he recognized the face, he even recognized the title, but he never quite caught the man’s name.
“I certainly apologize for any impropriety. I appear to have taken the one comfortable place in the room to sleep in while you had your back against a bookshelf. Falling books are a hell of a thing to wake up to.” Rohan made his way to the door, placed a hand on its golden handle, and gave it a twist - quickly finding it was not budging to a low rattle. His hands went into his coat pockets to try and find a key, but found none - indicating at least to him that he was not the one to seal the two of them inside. He took a moment to investigate the handle itself and found event despite its finery there was no locking mechanism that he could engage on that side of the door. His gaze shifted to the base plate itself and found no keyhole, either - which indicated to the Duke that they were trapped inside. It wouldn’t be Rohan’s first time as a prisoner, but he was left wondering by whom and for what purpose. Political ransom, perhaps? Old debts looking to finally do him in, debts he thought he settled?
Rohan elected not to worry about what he didn’t know, his attention shifting back to the man in the room on his quest to search high and low for… something. Through the shelves of books and along the surfaces it seemed the man was intent on either getting a lay of the land or trying to find something where it wasn’t - until the man found the desk and opened some of the drawers, hopefully finding what he was looking for. The Duke strode over to see what was there before he offered an open hand to his roommate - and possibly fellow prisoner, and he hoped the two could at least get along.
“I’ve seen your face many times around court, but I don’t think we’ve ever had the opportunity to introduce ourselves,” he spoke, with a smile on his face. “I’m Rohan Marshall. Duke of Eastcliff. If I remember correctly, you must be the new Marquess of Redmont. Pleasure to meet you.”
■ 「 THEME : Shostakovitch - Waltz No. 2
■ 「 OUTFIT : Duke Charming
Teal blue eyes danced across the smoke-laden hall before their gaze fixed to the cards turning in a flourish before them. The gambling hell where ladies and gentlemen of all vices were welcomed was called “Antares” and it found a steady patron in the Duke - a man who’d won fortunes and lost as much in the span of hours for the better part of a year. They had no reason to turn him away, after all - he had the money and was oftentimes far too willing to spend it, but many of its patrons had to wonder where that money came from. Many figured it was the spoils of war; the dead had no need of the possessions, after all, and the man was nothing short of a consistent performer on that stage, being something of Escia’s mighty orchestra’s “director” even at a young age. Some figured it was a boon granted through his position at court, that he received some insurmountable sum simply for being a noble within that esteemed circle. Others figured it was something the Queen of Escia had a hand in, that their once-blossoming relationship allowed him some leeway with the banks and creditors - after all, if they lent money to someone close to the Crown, surely the Crown would be beholden to them, right?
All about him were the sounds of hushed conversation, his peers and countrymen paying close attention to the spectacle in front of them: two players locked in a battle of wits on the battlefield of luck, officiated by one motley-dressed judge, the ‘dealer,’ in a numbers game to get to but not beyond twenty-one. ‘Vingt et un’, it was called, where two players competed not only to beat the dealer, but one another. High stakes, winner-take-all, “solid” money only - the tension in their game was palpable enough in that ostentatious den that it could be carved through like a cake. For some, the pervasive aroma of alcohol itself was intoxicating - for Rohan Marshall, the Duke of Eastcliff, it was about the game. It was about approaching each game ready to lose it all, only to gain it back in a moment’s notice. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he’d find himself gambling - yet there he was, ready for it all. He experienced the highest highs, the lowest lows, the thrill of never knowing what came next. When he won, he celebrated like a king - drinks for everyone, a generous tip to the dealer, a meal in front of everyone; but when he lost, all he could manage to do was shake it off and play again seeking the next “big” win.
“Four.” The jester-dealer dealt the starting hand and Rohan saw it was not ideal: a two of hearts and a two of spades. His gaze snaked towards his opponent’s hand.
“Nine.” It was hardly awful. His opponent: a younger, orange-haired fellow with all the eagerness of a buck let out the stable for the first time. There was a shakiness to his hand that let the dark-haired man know he wasn’t a regular at Antares. He could also tell by the state of his dress that he wasn’t a noble of any import - secondhand clothes that smelled of smoke and soap? Dirtied shoes whose soles betrayed the dirt paths they walked? How gauche - yet, despite it all, Rohan spotted the glint of hope, that sparkle of optimism that colored those sky-blue eyes. It almost sickened him.
“Eight.” He spoke, his clear voice through the din of conversation smooth like satin, after being dealt the four of clubs. It was neither great nor terrible - he had the opportunity to take a reckless risk. In the best-case scenario, he had a nineteen by the next card; worst-case, ten. Both were reasonably acceptable outcomes.
“Eleven.” His opponent’s voice betrayed a nervousness that amused the Duke as he swished his glass in his hand. He watched as the blue-eyed man’s attention shifted between the dealer and the door.
“Twelve.” Once more, not terribly ideal - in his hand were two 2’s and two 4’s. He had a distinctly non-zero chance of going over the limit of--
“Twenty-one.” The king of hearts flipped into his opponent’s hand as if to spite the Duke. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. The dealer looked to Rohan with an expectant look, to which he responded by tapping on the table twice. He swore he saw a smirk.
“Twenty-two.” Teal eyes fell on the red queen of hearts and her eternal smile. Once more, his night out was cut short by a stroke of luck. He bit back his disappointment with a small smile. Rohan closed his eyes, sighed quietly, then stood up from the table to offer the man a congratulatory shake. “Well, I don’t know about you, but--”
“b***h, I hope the [********] you do!” The other man shot up, arms in the air, whooping and hollering as if he’d taken the crown. He blinked, incredulous - he’d clearly forgotten how crass the peasantry could be. After the other man took a moment to compose himself, he finally took Rohan’s hand, gripped it firmly, and shook violently. “I… apologize, I don’t know what came over me.”
The Duke chuckled. “Nothing for it. Go and celebrate. Good game.” He felt defeated, certainly, but it wasn’t… bitter, it wasn’t awful. If anything, it served as another reminder of how hollow it all was: the sweetness of victory, the bitterness of defeat, the ecstasy of gold, the torment of loss - none of it truly mattered… until it did. He felt empty as he watched his opponent scoop his winnings away into a burlap sack that clearly said “flour.” He closed his eyes as he knocked back what remained of his drink, the fire of a bitter spirit coating his throat doing little to wash away the problems he saw on the horizon.
All about him were the sounds of hushed conversation, his peers and countrymen paying close attention to the spectacle in front of them: two players locked in a battle of wits on the battlefield of luck, officiated by one motley-dressed judge, the ‘dealer,’ in a numbers game to get to but not beyond twenty-one. ‘Vingt et un’, it was called, where two players competed not only to beat the dealer, but one another. High stakes, winner-take-all, “solid” money only - the tension in their game was palpable enough in that ostentatious den that it could be carved through like a cake. For some, the pervasive aroma of alcohol itself was intoxicating - for Rohan Marshall, the Duke of Eastcliff, it was about the game. It was about approaching each game ready to lose it all, only to gain it back in a moment’s notice. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he’d find himself gambling - yet there he was, ready for it all. He experienced the highest highs, the lowest lows, the thrill of never knowing what came next. When he won, he celebrated like a king - drinks for everyone, a generous tip to the dealer, a meal in front of everyone; but when he lost, all he could manage to do was shake it off and play again seeking the next “big” win.
“Four.” The jester-dealer dealt the starting hand and Rohan saw it was not ideal: a two of hearts and a two of spades. His gaze snaked towards his opponent’s hand.
“Nine.” It was hardly awful. His opponent: a younger, orange-haired fellow with all the eagerness of a buck let out the stable for the first time. There was a shakiness to his hand that let the dark-haired man know he wasn’t a regular at Antares. He could also tell by the state of his dress that he wasn’t a noble of any import - secondhand clothes that smelled of smoke and soap? Dirtied shoes whose soles betrayed the dirt paths they walked? How gauche - yet, despite it all, Rohan spotted the glint of hope, that sparkle of optimism that colored those sky-blue eyes. It almost sickened him.
“Eight.” He spoke, his clear voice through the din of conversation smooth like satin, after being dealt the four of clubs. It was neither great nor terrible - he had the opportunity to take a reckless risk. In the best-case scenario, he had a nineteen by the next card; worst-case, ten. Both were reasonably acceptable outcomes.
“Eleven.” His opponent’s voice betrayed a nervousness that amused the Duke as he swished his glass in his hand. He watched as the blue-eyed man’s attention shifted between the dealer and the door.
“Twelve.” Once more, not terribly ideal - in his hand were two 2’s and two 4’s. He had a distinctly non-zero chance of going over the limit of--
“Twenty-one.” The king of hearts flipped into his opponent’s hand as if to spite the Duke. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. The dealer looked to Rohan with an expectant look, to which he responded by tapping on the table twice. He swore he saw a smirk.
“Twenty-two.” Teal eyes fell on the red queen of hearts and her eternal smile. Once more, his night out was cut short by a stroke of luck. He bit back his disappointment with a small smile. Rohan closed his eyes, sighed quietly, then stood up from the table to offer the man a congratulatory shake. “Well, I don’t know about you, but--”
“b***h, I hope the [********] you do!” The other man shot up, arms in the air, whooping and hollering as if he’d taken the crown. He blinked, incredulous - he’d clearly forgotten how crass the peasantry could be. After the other man took a moment to compose himself, he finally took Rohan’s hand, gripped it firmly, and shook violently. “I… apologize, I don’t know what came over me.”
The Duke chuckled. “Nothing for it. Go and celebrate. Good game.” He felt defeated, certainly, but it wasn’t… bitter, it wasn’t awful. If anything, it served as another reminder of how hollow it all was: the sweetness of victory, the bitterness of defeat, the ecstasy of gold, the torment of loss - none of it truly mattered… until it did. He felt empty as he watched his opponent scoop his winnings away into a burlap sack that clearly said “flour.” He closed his eyes as he knocked back what remained of his drink, the fire of a bitter spirit coating his throat doing little to wash away the problems he saw on the horizon.
Pt. II: Gentlemen's Honor
“I knew you were trouble, Marshall. I knew it! This is my money we are talking about. Every week! For years! I give you cash and you keep making promises you can’t keep.” His eyes opened to behold a rotund man squawking at him like an overfed bird, in a rickety carriage drawn on horseback down a street few recognized, let alone ventured. It was close to midnight. He was picked up in a time where hardly any lights lit the streets - both of them a long drive away from where either of them called home. Beside them were two men - their seconds, he remembered. “Now look what you made me do. We’re settling this one way or another. I don’t care if you’re the Duke of Eastcliff or the King of Escia, I’m getting my price in blood or gold!”
His white-gloved hand slicked back his black hair as he looked to the man across from him, the sharp look in his eyes letting his creditor know he had no intention whatsoever of paying him then and there. The portly man clicked his tongue and looked to his second. “As we agreed. Handle this and you’ll be paid handsomely.”
Rohan looked to his second and he spotted his second’s clear hesitation - a nervous sweat, eyes darting between him and the small box that was at the creditor’s side. The Duke drew a small breath once he felt the carriage roll to a stop. There, beneath the cloudy, crimson-red harvest moon, atop a hill that overlooked Escia’s Whitestone memorial cemetery, beneath the ashen branches of fiery leaves, would be four gentlemen exiting: The Duke of Eastcliff, Rohan Marshall; Taryon Morley, a ‘merchant prince’ but hardly a noble; and their seconds, who would duel for them. Rohan chose the place and time, Taryon chose the weapon - dueling flintlock pistols of far-away make - deadly, precise, ostentatious. When their driver presented the pistols, Taryon’s second was eager to reach into the box and grab his weapon, taking the moment to inspect then load it. Rohan’s second, however, wanted nothing to do with it. Not that Rohan could blame him, after all - he was a ‘disinterested third party’ looking to just observe; never did he imagine being used in a duel.
However, it wasn’t the second that reached into the box, it was Rohan. Taking notice of this, the rotund merchant looked at the Duke confusedly before bursting out laughing. “So, you’ve a death wish on top of a debt? How fortunate for me.”
“None of us are going to live forever, nor do I want to.” Rohan finally spoke. “But you don’t send an errand boy to do my job. My second here is just to make sure nothing runs afoul tonight, regardless who wins or loses.”
Taryon scoffed. “I’ll get my dues one way or another tonight. Get in position, let’s get on with it.” Rohan took his time inspecting his weapon - the round black shot, the thinness of the wadding, the fineness of the powder, the grit on the striker. He felt how it weighed in his hand, how far the trigger pulled, how the hammer cocked and reset. It was a fine piece - perhaps overly decorated, but it was practical enough. Unlike his opponent, he loaded his shot like someone of his station would - slowly, deliberately, precisely. He cocked the hammer, keeping his pistol raised and at the ready, before he placed his other hand behind his back. The driver marked off where the two men would stand and let them stand for a moment before turning his attention to the merchant.
“This is a duel of satisfaction, gentlemen. This is not just a debt of coin, but of honor.” The driver’s shrill voice cut through the air like an eagle’s cry. “Rohan Marshall has decided the place, Taryon Morley the weapons. On my ‘fire’, you will pull the trigger. Am I understood?”
Both nodded solemnly. The driver raised his hand beside his head. “Ready!”
From their standing spot they turned slightly, making themselves a smaller target to hit. “Aim!”
They leveled their pistols at one another, each squared at one another’s chest. Rohan, however, spotted a dangerous glint in his opponent’s eye, a curious look, a knowing smirk. He felt his heart still in his chest, knowing the following moments would have made all the difference in the world. He blinked as he rested his finger on the trigger, knowing exactly how hard he would have needed to pull to fire. He breathed out slowly.
“Fire!” He watched the other man angle his arm upwards, its movement nearly imperceptible to any onlooker - but Rohan knew the wrong end of a barrel was staring at him. It wasn’t his first time. Both of them pulled their triggers at the same time. Four men stood atop that hill, and if the merchant’s second had his way, only three would walk away. The sparks made from the hammer striking flint burned a vivid shade of red, making the gunpowder beneath burn to a uniquely acrid scent. His teal gaze focused on his opponent, every muscle tensed within as he felt the pistol’s kick into his hands. What many people seemed to forget was that while the Duke of Eastcliff may have been a very young noble of the Court, he earned that position. He was lowborn once. He didn't have the esteem of some rich family. He didn’t have a title to his name aside from a property on the fringes of Escia’s outskirts - Eastcliff, a place that overlooked the Narrow Sea. He was able to lead others and guide others, of course. He was an ensign, then a captain, then a brigadier (though not by choice), and eventually a general in a very short amount of time. It was decided he was the best for the job nobody else quite got the results he did. Not too long ago, Eastcliff was recognized as a Duchy and Rohan its Duke.
It was all an elaborate dance, a production he had no idea he was directing, yet there he was, at its podium, given the conductor’s baton. Many great victories and just as just as many great losses were attributed to his name, though it did not stop the belief that he was the best suited for the job. He was a military advisor for the queen, the one to break the good news and the bad, serving as the face for all their military’s successes and shortcomings - and he did it all with grace. Perhaps that’s why people tolerated his existence or even welcomed him - nobody else did what he could accomplish, though perhaps his greatest achievement was ensuring the ethereal “peace” between Eisenwald and Escia was brokered at least somewhat successfully. He may have absolutely been a young upstart, an irreverent, dishonest snake, a debtor with no sense of scale - but he was the best for the job.
He felt the bullet graze his cheek past his eye. If he was even a hair’s breadth in its direction, the shot would have no doubt killed him. He watched as the man before him clutched his gut, trying to contain the deep crimson that stained the front of his clothes. His opponent’s pistol clattered to the dirt beneath him as he groaned in pain, leaving Rohan to close those green-blue eyes and sigh quietly. Whether he was lucky or unlucky he wasn’t certain, nor did he care to linger on the thought. He flipped the pistol in his hand and handed it to the driver.
“He ought to survive if you get help straight away. The nearest surgeon will be, funnily enough, by the Escia Memorial Mausoleum. He’s as good at autopsies as he is at stitching together intestines.” Rohan carried on as if an attempt on his life wasn’t made.
“We’ve bad blood ‘tween us still, Marshall. I am not satisfied!” The merchant, seething, pointed an accusatory finger towards Rohan. The Duke considered the merchant no longer worth his time and began walking off.
“Any charges on your honor you’ll have to live with, I’m afraid. My debt, however, is settled.”
“Not with me, it’s not! You may be a good shot, but how about a fencer? Hm? You determine the place, I’ll decide the weapon. This isn’t over and you know it.”
The Duke looked over his shoulder and regarded the man as if he were looking at a piece of trash. “And how many more ought to suffer because you’re a graceless loser? If I didn’t know any better, you’ve arranged this duel to have me killed on the spot on the hour. Poetic, really, that I’d die beside the graves of those I commanded.”
“It’s the pistol’s fault, you know how these things go.” Like a child caught in a lie, the merchant shook his head then stamped on the ground. “So you’re declining my duel? On your honor, no less?”
Rohan Marshall turned to face forward then began his long walk back home, putting a hand up beside his head. He waved as if to dismiss him. “Look about you, Mister Morley. Ask if honor matters to those buried here. You’ll find only crickets answering.”
His white-gloved hand slicked back his black hair as he looked to the man across from him, the sharp look in his eyes letting his creditor know he had no intention whatsoever of paying him then and there. The portly man clicked his tongue and looked to his second. “As we agreed. Handle this and you’ll be paid handsomely.”
Rohan looked to his second and he spotted his second’s clear hesitation - a nervous sweat, eyes darting between him and the small box that was at the creditor’s side. The Duke drew a small breath once he felt the carriage roll to a stop. There, beneath the cloudy, crimson-red harvest moon, atop a hill that overlooked Escia’s Whitestone memorial cemetery, beneath the ashen branches of fiery leaves, would be four gentlemen exiting: The Duke of Eastcliff, Rohan Marshall; Taryon Morley, a ‘merchant prince’ but hardly a noble; and their seconds, who would duel for them. Rohan chose the place and time, Taryon chose the weapon - dueling flintlock pistols of far-away make - deadly, precise, ostentatious. When their driver presented the pistols, Taryon’s second was eager to reach into the box and grab his weapon, taking the moment to inspect then load it. Rohan’s second, however, wanted nothing to do with it. Not that Rohan could blame him, after all - he was a ‘disinterested third party’ looking to just observe; never did he imagine being used in a duel.
However, it wasn’t the second that reached into the box, it was Rohan. Taking notice of this, the rotund merchant looked at the Duke confusedly before bursting out laughing. “So, you’ve a death wish on top of a debt? How fortunate for me.”
“None of us are going to live forever, nor do I want to.” Rohan finally spoke. “But you don’t send an errand boy to do my job. My second here is just to make sure nothing runs afoul tonight, regardless who wins or loses.”
Taryon scoffed. “I’ll get my dues one way or another tonight. Get in position, let’s get on with it.” Rohan took his time inspecting his weapon - the round black shot, the thinness of the wadding, the fineness of the powder, the grit on the striker. He felt how it weighed in his hand, how far the trigger pulled, how the hammer cocked and reset. It was a fine piece - perhaps overly decorated, but it was practical enough. Unlike his opponent, he loaded his shot like someone of his station would - slowly, deliberately, precisely. He cocked the hammer, keeping his pistol raised and at the ready, before he placed his other hand behind his back. The driver marked off where the two men would stand and let them stand for a moment before turning his attention to the merchant.
“This is a duel of satisfaction, gentlemen. This is not just a debt of coin, but of honor.” The driver’s shrill voice cut through the air like an eagle’s cry. “Rohan Marshall has decided the place, Taryon Morley the weapons. On my ‘fire’, you will pull the trigger. Am I understood?”
Both nodded solemnly. The driver raised his hand beside his head. “Ready!”
From their standing spot they turned slightly, making themselves a smaller target to hit. “Aim!”
They leveled their pistols at one another, each squared at one another’s chest. Rohan, however, spotted a dangerous glint in his opponent’s eye, a curious look, a knowing smirk. He felt his heart still in his chest, knowing the following moments would have made all the difference in the world. He blinked as he rested his finger on the trigger, knowing exactly how hard he would have needed to pull to fire. He breathed out slowly.
“Fire!” He watched the other man angle his arm upwards, its movement nearly imperceptible to any onlooker - but Rohan knew the wrong end of a barrel was staring at him. It wasn’t his first time. Both of them pulled their triggers at the same time. Four men stood atop that hill, and if the merchant’s second had his way, only three would walk away. The sparks made from the hammer striking flint burned a vivid shade of red, making the gunpowder beneath burn to a uniquely acrid scent. His teal gaze focused on his opponent, every muscle tensed within as he felt the pistol’s kick into his hands. What many people seemed to forget was that while the Duke of Eastcliff may have been a very young noble of the Court, he earned that position. He was lowborn once. He didn't have the esteem of some rich family. He didn’t have a title to his name aside from a property on the fringes of Escia’s outskirts - Eastcliff, a place that overlooked the Narrow Sea. He was able to lead others and guide others, of course. He was an ensign, then a captain, then a brigadier (though not by choice), and eventually a general in a very short amount of time. It was decided he was the best for the job nobody else quite got the results he did. Not too long ago, Eastcliff was recognized as a Duchy and Rohan its Duke.
It was all an elaborate dance, a production he had no idea he was directing, yet there he was, at its podium, given the conductor’s baton. Many great victories and just as just as many great losses were attributed to his name, though it did not stop the belief that he was the best suited for the job. He was a military advisor for the queen, the one to break the good news and the bad, serving as the face for all their military’s successes and shortcomings - and he did it all with grace. Perhaps that’s why people tolerated his existence or even welcomed him - nobody else did what he could accomplish, though perhaps his greatest achievement was ensuring the ethereal “peace” between Eisenwald and Escia was brokered at least somewhat successfully. He may have absolutely been a young upstart, an irreverent, dishonest snake, a debtor with no sense of scale - but he was the best for the job.
He felt the bullet graze his cheek past his eye. If he was even a hair’s breadth in its direction, the shot would have no doubt killed him. He watched as the man before him clutched his gut, trying to contain the deep crimson that stained the front of his clothes. His opponent’s pistol clattered to the dirt beneath him as he groaned in pain, leaving Rohan to close those green-blue eyes and sigh quietly. Whether he was lucky or unlucky he wasn’t certain, nor did he care to linger on the thought. He flipped the pistol in his hand and handed it to the driver.
“He ought to survive if you get help straight away. The nearest surgeon will be, funnily enough, by the Escia Memorial Mausoleum. He’s as good at autopsies as he is at stitching together intestines.” Rohan carried on as if an attempt on his life wasn’t made.
“We’ve bad blood ‘tween us still, Marshall. I am not satisfied!” The merchant, seething, pointed an accusatory finger towards Rohan. The Duke considered the merchant no longer worth his time and began walking off.
“Any charges on your honor you’ll have to live with, I’m afraid. My debt, however, is settled.”
“Not with me, it’s not! You may be a good shot, but how about a fencer? Hm? You determine the place, I’ll decide the weapon. This isn’t over and you know it.”
The Duke looked over his shoulder and regarded the man as if he were looking at a piece of trash. “And how many more ought to suffer because you’re a graceless loser? If I didn’t know any better, you’ve arranged this duel to have me killed on the spot on the hour. Poetic, really, that I’d die beside the graves of those I commanded.”
“It’s the pistol’s fault, you know how these things go.” Like a child caught in a lie, the merchant shook his head then stamped on the ground. “So you’re declining my duel? On your honor, no less?”
Rohan Marshall turned to face forward then began his long walk back home, putting a hand up beside his head. He waved as if to dismiss him. “Look about you, Mister Morley. Ask if honor matters to those buried here. You’ll find only crickets answering.”
Pt. III: A Morning in Escia
Bleary teal eyes blinked open to behold a room that recognized its function, but not its location. Sun’s light, through thick red curtains, diffused through the almost pearl-white wooden shelves that lined either wall, revealing the rows upon rows of age-worn books that looked to gather a fine layer of dust atop them. The furniture, themed ivory white in an already ostentatious room, seemed welcoming enough. On the other end of the room appeared to be a stately desk with hardly anything atop it except for a scattering of misplaced books and stationary. The chairs scattered about gave the impression that it was a place meant to entertain guests - perhaps welcome them in quiet study, but with sheets draped over them it seemed there were hardly any guests to account for there. There was a fireplace there, nestled in a mantle of gray-white stone, its opening covered with a thin gold fence, whose embers still lingered - giving the room a distinct warmth that wasn’t from the morning streaming in. A single white door beside a painting-decorated wall seemed his only point of egress, but opposite that, on the other side of the room, was an overlarge window - taller than he stood, its curtains the only things preventing the room from being flooded in morning’s call. He found himself in a reading room - and judging by a loud ‘thump,’ the clattering of books, and wordless groan, he was not alone. He focused his attention across from him to a man clad in black-gold finery, whose color matched the catlike gaze and complemented the mess of short brown hair they were framed by. He was a mystery - someone vaguely familiar to his sleep-addled mind, but he needed to account for himself first and foremost.
The Duke’s eyes traveled through the room, searching through a haze of what he could only describe as exhaustion and delirium - either it was the airiest hangover he’d ever suffered or it was a morning’s deathly headache, and he wasn’t entirely certain which was worse. He was… trying to get better, at least. He was trying his best to avoid getting unconscionably drunk, but given his recollection of the previous night’s events was a blur at best, he felt as if he failed on some fundamental level. Rohan sighed, trying to rub his eyes to wipe away the sleep, only to find a mask still around his face, failing to realize the thing still clung around his head. He placed a thumb underneath it and slid it off his face, finally getting a moment to gather himself, before he turned it over to behold its design: a white, almost overly decorated thing whose serpentine design left the embroidery on the mask and then framed it.
The mask was tacky and he had no recollection of choosing it for himself… but it was well-made, that much he appreciated. Setting it aside, Rohan spied the couch he was laying across - white upholstery with golden accents, its cushions filled with what must have been down. It was comfortable enough, but given his own state of dress - perhaps too-stiff cream formalwear with blue trimming - he could only imagine he staggered into the reading room, found some place to lay down, and not bothered to make himself comfortable in the process. The fact that he didn’t know - or, perhaps, couldn’t know - silently infuriated him, but he was hardly one to voice his dissatisfaction. He determined he needed to understand the situation before he could get a firm grasp of it. Rohan stood from the couch, tired and out of sorts, though he took the time to adjust his clothing and brush his hair back to appear at least semi-presentable. He made a mental note that he needed to get into something more comfortable and find some place to actually get some sleep.
“Good morning.” He said, his voice betraying the dryness from where it came. Rohan cleared his throat before he spoke again, his eyes trailing as the mystery man searched the room for something in particular, though he did not know what.
“I’d assume you’re a guest here as well, given the state of dress.” He pointed to the tuxedo and tie combination before his attention then shifted away from him and towards the door. Pieces of familiarity began to join together in his mind to form a picture of the man who stood before him - he recognized the face, he even recognized the title, but he never quite caught the man’s name.
“I certainly apologize for any impropriety. I appear to have taken the one comfortable place in the room to sleep in while you had your back against a bookshelf. Falling books are a hell of a thing to wake up to.” Rohan made his way to the door, placed a hand on its golden handle, and gave it a twist - quickly finding it was not budging to a low rattle. His hands went into his coat pockets to try and find a key, but found none - indicating at least to him that he was not the one to seal the two of them inside. He took a moment to investigate the handle itself and found event despite its finery there was no locking mechanism that he could engage on that side of the door. His gaze shifted to the base plate itself and found no keyhole, either - which indicated to the Duke that they were trapped inside. It wouldn’t be Rohan’s first time as a prisoner, but he was left wondering by whom and for what purpose. Political ransom, perhaps? Old debts looking to finally do him in, debts he thought he settled?
Rohan elected not to worry about what he didn’t know, his attention shifting back to the man in the room on his quest to search high and low for… something. Through the shelves of books and along the surfaces it seemed the man was intent on either getting a lay of the land or trying to find something where it wasn’t - until the man found the desk and opened some of the drawers, hopefully finding what he was looking for. The Duke strode over to see what was there before he offered an open hand to his roommate - and possibly fellow prisoner, and he hoped the two could at least get along.
“I’ve seen your face many times around court, but I don’t think we’ve ever had the opportunity to introduce ourselves,” he spoke, with a smile on his face. “I’m Rohan Marshall. Duke of Eastcliff. If I remember correctly, you must be the new Marquess of Redmont. Pleasure to meet you.”
■ 「 THEME : Shostakovitch - Waltz No. 2
■ 「 OUTFIT : Duke Charming