Time clutched desperately onto Evangelus' coattails, holding on for dear life as the Feyal gripped the reigns of his horse tightly, urging it to ride just a little bit faster. The sun's citrus rays would not last forever, he knew, and the sooner he and his men made it clear out of the Highlands and back into Fort Algiery, the better. Sweat dripped down the eighteen year old's brow, and the rest of his men were rightly drained, loosely gripping onto their reigns with slack fingers and rolling necks which ached for pillows and comforts that were far ways from this spot. They could barely bring themselves to kick at their horses' sides for a little nudge, and instead, were content to travel at a crawl, humming along to the click-clack of their hooves on the hillside.
Evangelus, with his usual stern gaze, turned back towards his men, giving them a sharp, curt nod, to which the lot of them stood straight once more, backs erect, heads held up high, as if they were nobility themselves. Just because they felt like worn-out dishrags was no reason to appear as one, as far as the elder son was concerned. With a tight grip of his reigns, he clicked his steed forward with a grunt, the rest of his men following suit. Fort Algiery was in their sights — an incentive to sit straight and put on their knightly faces was given to them, and rightly so, they pulled themselves back together, their horses trotting at a livelier pace.
It was just his luck, he knew, to actually meet trouble on patrol. Usually, it was only bandits crawling by, dying for their ignorance when they attacked Atlas Verde's knights, hope to get a few coins out of the victory. Granted, victory never came for anyone who was faced with Evangeleus' patrol, the elder son made sure of that. But, alas, they were none of his favorite little rapscallions today, picking fights that they knew they would never win, no.
Today, there had been armed men, with swords, staves, spears and all of them were equipped with shoulder pads and breast-plates: they meant business. While Ev was able to forewarn his knights of the attack, that didn't stop the battle from being brutal. He had not lost one of his men, but a scattered few of them had bleeding injuries — oh, they were fine now, but Evangelus did not like to have the stain casualties on patrol report. Carefully had he bandaged the men's wounds with durable leaves with absorbent fibers he'd seen about the road, but it would be best to get them some medical attention as soon as possible...
But as Fort Algiery came closer and closer into their view, the young Feyal couldn't help but smile.
"Wipe the blood from your brows, men," Evangelus announced, urging his horse forward. "We've arrived."
Who were those armed men, who had been able to hold their own against his men? Against Evangelus, they had no chance, but they were quite a few degrees tougher than the usual bandits and thieves they found on the roads. Why was that? Why were they so readily prepared, as if they were waiting for them? Their armor had no insignia, thus, it was hard to imagine the lot of them belonging to any organization, but still... it was too soon to rule out the possibility. These thoughts rushed through his head as they had their horses untacked after riding through the fort's gates, as Evangelus patted a few of his injured men on the back firmly, advising they go have it looked at, before anything else.
He was a wreck — but it couldn't be helped. With gloved hands did he smooth his hair back into place before making his way through to the hall, simply decorated, simply elegant. As he darted his eyes to and fro, looking for his sister, some men walked past him, holding their wounds with a sturdy arm and nodding towards Evangelus, the elder son giving them permission to head for the infirmary. It was troublesome, to have to come back home with some of his men wincing and scrunching up their faces in embarrassing pain, but it couldn't be helped. He, of all the patrols, had to run into trouble.
Ev's limp made him easy to spot in a crowd, but said limp was even more evident after just riding on his steed for hell knew how long. Still, as usual, he took his time, walking slowly, trying to keep his pronounced hobble down to a dull, smooth walk, although this was probably in vain. He bit his lower lip in a silent, invisible frustration — his limp was never something that bothered him until he was around his knights, on patrols, in situations where he could literally feel everyone's eyes burning into his skin.
It was a sick sensation — a feeling that would never go away.
But alas, there was Calyse, already back from her patrol, of course, talking with her soldiers, who all seemed in relatively good shape. Tch, it figured — but he figured running into a big of trouble on the road wasn't the worst thing in the world. Perhaps this could even give a hint as to what had happened to the King, Head Mage, and High Lord of Ravensway. It was doubtful, but who knew?
As he approached the table, he felt the other soldiers grow silent — most likely in respect for the elder son, knowing that he was probably here to speak with his sister, the heiress. He gave them a polite, curt nod, before turning to his sister, a light smile on his face. While they were plenty of seats at the table, he would not sit unless invited, despite Calyse being his sister, despite him being nobility. It was just common curtesy, after all.
"Back already, Calyse?" he asked, shaking his head. "I should've expected that. No matter what, it seems like you're always ahead of me." Despite his words, they were kind, complementing, while at the same time, they were an unconscious reminder of how far ahead his sister would always be from him. The heiress, untouchable in her unquestionable right to the throne.
"May I join you?" the elder son inquired. He was always so formal, even with his own sister. But that was the way it had to be. In his mind, better to be too formal than to be seen as rude in everyone else's eyes — an opinon that would've killed his reputation, undoubtedly. When the world was watching you, waiting for you to fall from your figurative tightrope. It would be a long fall if you screwed up, and there was no net waiting for you at the bottom.
