(LOG) Duel: Uhtred vs. Ilgnuit

Uhtred Valenti's challenge had brought an interesting turn out. It was inevitable that servantfolk and nobility came to rub elbows against the axe-grooved fence post that separated the rest of the world from this quiet place that the prince now stepped carefully into. A kind of strange, morbid carnival air gripped at his bare, broad barreled torso as men-at-arms pushed people back without much in the way of resistance. Confections would have been sold, had it not been so blatantly inappropriate. Uhtred's sword was in his hand and buried in its scabbard, the tip of which dragged a track on the ground. There was a dull sound of shock, for he had forgone the usual allowance of armour and shield, but it was lame in its potency. The aetheling often did such things, it seemed.

Ilgnuit had not forgone armour and shield; it would be terribly imprudent of him to do so, and his longsword was hardly a match for Uhtred's. But he had attended regardless. He had no choice, and his brother would surely not kill him. He was self-assured in that, if nothing else. Relatively light armour kept him mobile, his shield rather more a guard attached to his wrist than anything particularly clumsy. The only thing he left in the sand was boot-prints, and one could imagine a certain element of metaphorical faeces. His eyes turned upwards towards the crowd; his wife, his half-brother, his sister-in-law, the Steward, the Priest. And the people. At least it would go some of the way to proving someone would stand up to Uhtred. And he'd not die. He was certain, smug, arrogant in his knowledge he'd not die.

Synaria sat, staring into the mirror in the women's wing, carefully applying the small onyx stones to her skin, putting on her paints and powders in somber colors, then running a brush through her long curls until they shone blueish in the light. It was time. She heard the call like a siren, felt it tingle down her skin. Fingertips pulled the black lace over her head then wandered down to attach her funeral bells. One last look in the mirror and she grinned viciously. He would know, by her look alone, just who's side she was on. But that screaming in her head brought a hard edge to her eye. 'His life was supposed to be mine.' Finally she slid out of the women's wing, bare feet making but a whisper of sound against the stone as she made her way to the yard, carefully pushing her way through the crowd and choosing a seat, bells gently chiming her arrival. Dark eyes landed on her husband, cold.

Silas Valenti attended in his typical black and blue draperies, his occasional guiding monk bringing him to stand next to Princess Synaria. He greeted her very quietly, and otherwise stood with his hands together in front of himself, hood obscuring everything above the tip of his nose. Freshly shaved for the occasion, and in full control of his faculties after his rage with Lady Blacke, he remained much as a slightly morbid reminder of why they were here; a visible presence of the grim reaper, perhaps, with his hood and posture, rakish figure, sightless stare. The irony wasn't lost on him. His father's representative, to ensure all went to the rules. As if he could stand witness to any visual rule-breaking. Here to tend to his duties regardless. Honour thy father, and all that difficult preaching.

Garnett had wanted to wait with Uhtred, but propriety insisted that she already be seated with those awaiting. A raised dais served for the royalty, the Princess soberly garbed in the blues and blacks of the Valentis with her hair pulled back into a stern twist. Her head throbbed with the noise of the throng, every ounce of her will focused on not burying her face in her hands or covering her ears as her stomach roiled, a sour taste still lingering in her mouth from the over indulgence the night before. Far too often for her tastes, she felt curious eyes on her, and it reminded her to keep her freckled face composed and emotionless. The natural rise in the sound caused her to wince and glance toward the door, eyes focusing intently on her husband..dipping down to the scar on his chest to see her gift. Even now, it made her chest tighten, though her stomach protested at the sensation, Garnett simply composing herself to watch as emotionlessly as she could, only a slight tinge of nerves as the difference in protection between the two. Uhtred would still triumph..easily. He must. A small nod greeted both Silas and Synaria, her gaze sliding back to the combatants quickly.

Morcant was dressed properly, for once. Black leather trousers, thick, V-G engraved belt, polished boots now rendered pointless by the sand, a velvet shirt and his Justiciar's hood. The hulking man's aforementioned footwear (no doubt shining out of the attention of the wench who insisted on him being presentable as opposed to his own initiative) crossed the sand in Uhtred's direction, both of his gauntleted hands extended towards the Crown Prince. "Your sword, if you would, your Highness," he rumbled, face entirely hidden by the balaclava-esque coverings of his face. The blade had to be tested, as did Ilgnuit's. No foulplay. It couldn't be afforded. Anticipating it being handed over, he'd weigh it by the tang, look over the blade, give it an exploratory swing, and then hand it right back to its owner for re-sheathing.

Uhtred Valenti finally reached his place on the opposite end of the ring, and now his sword was resting against his shoulder. Behind him tracked four men carrying tall branches that threatened to topple with the slightest gust of wind: elm branches. They did not enter the ring, but took each polar centre and stood at attention. At the commencement, they would set them against the fence posts, as tradition would demand. Meanwhile, Uhtred relented his sword, letting the grisly, plain grey monstrosity free of its scabbard to threaten the air with its dull shine. It gave him an opportunity to stretch out his arms, bend his back, pop his neck. He hadn't looked at the man on the other end of the ring, not even when he took the sword back and replaced it into its home.

Christoph Valvogt's sharp eyes slid around the ring, noting who was there, who wasn't. The day had dawned bright for the contest, a sure sign to him that God observed as well. The servants lingering on the edges seemed to almost vibrate with excitement, or was it anger? Some of them it was hard to tell, but all watched with fascination, whispers rippling through the crowd. Nobility seemed no less curious, a low mutter of voices surrounding the fence as they peered at the swords and the Princes. It was the Hareshi princess that got narrow-eye glances, the royals seeming arrayed against the younger Prince, though if the reasons for the contest were true, one could scarcely blame them. Of course, that was only if they were true ..the bad blood between the brothers was no secret.

Morcant turned to pace across to the other side of the yard once his business with the larger of the Prince's was complete, going to tower over the younger and extending his hands - repeating precisely the same words to Ilgnuit. He took the smaller blade from him, tested it, weighed it, examined it, and gave it right back to him. He went back to the centre of the yard, and nodded once. "Everything is in order," he boomed, then making his way out of the picketed area, and closing the gate behind him. He slid his black eyes around the crowd, and then placed his hands down firmly on top of the fence. "You may begin when it suits you, my Lords," he then thundered, taking on the presence simply of Justiciar from that point; observe the rules were followed, assure the third Prince present of their validity.

Ilgnuit handed over the sword when requested, eyes still focused intently on his wife - dressed in black, how quaint. She actually thought he was going to die. She'd be sorely upset, he was sure, when Uhtred couldn't do it. He waited. He took his swod back and balanced it in one gauntlet, eyes then travelling across to Uhtred once the voice of the Justiciar announced the beginning to be any time now. His feet settled into their place in the sand, weight shifted invisibly between them, eyes firmly on Uhtred. Begin. Begin this charade of a duel. He looked no less smug; in fact, he looked entirely pleased with himself. He'd prove so many points today. He knew it. A little disappointed his mother wasn't there - a little disappointed several of the ladies weren't there. And his father.

Synaria nodded gently to Garnett, placing a hand on her knee for a gentle squeeze, perhaps feining fear or anticipation instead of the rage she felt. The other hand went to Silas, grasping his boldly and giving another light squeeze in greeting before dropping it back into her lap. All the while, her eyes laid on Ilgnuit, staring back at his smug expression with one of ice. Ignorant of the narrowed glances from the others in the crowd, her lips turned down in a deep frown. Deep breath was taken at Morcant's words, fingers clasping tighter on Garnett's knee, the feeling of being robbed making her stomach churn and her blood to heat. And still, cold eyes never left her doomed husband's face.

Uhtred Valenti felt the familiar tingle that had once been fear in the back of his spine when the word came. Finally, Uhtred looked at his brother. He looked as though he might have smiled, except the steel rippling in his skull mirrored that which now hissed from the fleece-laden scabbard. The latter fell to the floor as he began to move. He did not charge head-first, as many amongst the outside world may have thought. Instead he paced, cutting off the ring from left to right, over and over, encroaching on his foe's space by small incriments like a large cat. That dull monster blade kept low. And when Uhtred finally did strike, it was round-about. He put himself to Ilgnuit's left, and ducked low when he moved right. The sword flickered straight up, in a swing that would turn to a thrust the moment it made contact with something; aiming low for the exposed hip parallel with his sword's hand.

Garnett's black gloved hand laid over her sister's, fingers curling around it supportively as her eyes slipped over to Ilgnuit. Their discussions of him came to mind, wondering what the Prince thought would happen on this day. Disappointment touched her face for an instant while she studied Ilgnuit, and she gave a small shake of her head. Her thumb rolled against Synaria's hand, breath catching when the Justicar called the battle to begin. An icy chill crept over her, skin prickling beneath the swathing clothing, and she stifled the shiver as she stared once more at her husband, a momentary fear for him gripping her .. and a reluctance at what she knew she would see. And then he was moving .. and she couldn't breathe, couldn't take her eyes from them, the easy movements of Uhtred hypnotizing her such that she jumped when he finally swung, fingers twisting with Synaria's.

Ilgnuit's eyes remained trained on his brother when he came closer, predicting some sort of outright charge; when it didn't come, one of the first rules of combat sprung into his mind from dim and distant lessons; If they go one way, they're probably going to go the other in the next instant. So, he moved left, sword extending to catch Uhtred's, letting him thrust at the space in which he'd previously been and only moving to back it with any form of strength once he was spared that initial thrust. His weaknesses were quite obvious; smaller, less physically suited, only really knowing from lessons and what few skirmishes he'd had. He had none of Uhtred's innate tactics. Just those in his mind. He'd defend, for now; and find an opening later.

Uhtred Valenti was in his battle song now, a strange murmur in his lips. The old tongue carried no further than his own ears, making it look as though he was speaking to himself. The entire world seemed so slow, as though he could look away from what he was doing and glance back before the repercussion had ended. He saw his sword slide past Ilgnuit's absence, and decided in that moment to give him a taste of his force. So he did not stop there. His body twisted in a sharp little turn, using his momentum to whistle the sword back, over his shoulder, and tilt into a diagonal, brutal swing that was intended solely for Ilgnuit's shield. Sometimes fear could make a man falter where skill was not necessary. Those hungry eyes ate at his faux brother's flesh.

Ilgnuit's shield came up, as anticipated, and crashed against the force of the blow with a shattering sensation up through his wrist. His knees bent, and once he felt himself buckling he deliberately threw all of his weight against them, and skidded down and alongside his brother with an upwards swipe of his blade. His teeth clenched, his forearm feeling much as though it'd been hit by a bull, but he relied on his smaller size to get him out of any lasting damage beyond a fracture or two. He caught himself to his feet once he was behind Uhtred, and in a sudden rush of adrenalin and testosterone, began launching more of an open assault on him; careless, swift, and hoping to circumvent the clumsy weapon used against him. He had no concept of whether he even once struck anything but metal, but just recklessly swung his uninjured arm as swiftly as possible.

Uhtred Valenti kept motions as simplistic as possible when that first counterstrike came. He stuck his sword out blandly and hopped back, allowing his weapon to be knocked back. When he hopped forward, it was with mild surprise that he found Ilgnuit to his back. His expression shifted to strained bemusement when he twisted around, and saw some hellion hack hacking at his body. His free hand gripped the blade of his sword and he checked the attack like a quarterstaff, feeling the dull shiver and pain in his wrists when the steel bounced. Uhtred kept pressure on his brother's blade and turned the tip of his own around it, looking to circumnavigate the strike entirely and flick a horizontal gash into his brother's charming little face.

Ilgnuit's face turned sideways a tad too late. The blade's tip raked across his cheek, and he stumbled backwards, one gauntlet rising to his ruined prettiness and then shortly being looked at. His expression changed from smug, to outraged. His face! He might as well be dead! His grip tightened on his blade, eyes narrowing on the branded 'G' resting on his brother's skin. His lips curled back, and with an angered shout, he lunged forward, this time more recklessly than his previous lunge; shield and sword used to block, whilst he made repeated attempts to get a swipe in on that sickly representation of weakness on his sibling's body. How dare he! Unfortunately, in a better warrior, the blind rage might've landed Uhtred on his arse; but Ilgnuit wasn't a good warrior, so it lessened him, and made him less capable.

Uhtred Valenti hopped back a few paces and planted his feet terra firma, putting his weapon high in his grip and shaking his head left and right as though he was going to attack Ilgnuit with bare hands. And then the charge came. Uhtred kept the triumph from his eyes as he jumped back without swinging his sword at the first swipe so that it caught the air under his elbows. The second swing was snatched away like a kitten's paw, and Uhtred thrust his point into Ilgnuit's shield as a taunt, and then returned it to its original high reach. The third swing, however, nearly caught him. This did not please the aetheling. A fourth might have come, but Uhtred was unconcerned. His body abruptly dropped into a crouch. That high sword stance became a diagonal swing that cut at Ilgnuit's ankles; the strike that killed more men than any other, in a shield wall.

Garnett released Synaria's poor hand when she realized her grip might damage the woman's fingers for it had tightened until the seams of her gloves seemed as though they might pop. The ache of her head made the battle hard to follow, each clash of the weapons stabbing through her ears until she wanted to scream. Her facade though remained admirably stuck, face seeming made of porcelain as she watched in reserved silence, ignoring the occasional cheers and gasps of the gathered throng. She flinched at the blade as it went toward Ilgnuit's face, blinking at herself for doing so. "First blood." She murmured under her breath to Synaria, brow arching at the onslaught of blows that Uhtred threw back easily though her throat tightened when Ilgnuit almost touched him. It was the final swing though that actually had her lips twitching for a moment despite the seriousness of the day, recalling her own practice weapon slamming into Uhtred's ankle..her husband hopping on one leg. Amusement faded though, and she watched sharply, suddenly wanting to see in earnest the effects of a strike properly done.

Ilgnuit's ankles met with the blade with a sickening crunch. He landed, unattractively, on his front in the sand, blood from his face and ruined lower legs, the rage for a moment blinding him to the pain and causing him to turn - and try to stand. Crippled, he collapsed to his knees with a startled cry of anguish, blade piercing the yard floor to support his balance away from his source of pain. His eyes looked up to Uhtred, narrowing; this was where it ended. This was where points had been proved. This was where Uhtred walked off. And left him an ugly cripple! This wasn't going to plan. This wasn't how it was supposed to go! Still, he was sure of living, for now; sure of it. He'd stare at Uhtred with a lack of fear that came out of stupidity rather than bravery.

Silas Valenti had simply listened, thus far. Able to make little out but clangs, swipes and sand flurries. The squelch and crack, however, made him lift one gloved hand to place it lightly on Synaria's shoulder. It looked much like a gesture of support, but in actuality, its intention was, 'It's almost over now.' Which, despite her desire to kill him herself, would no doubt please her to some extent. Supporting his sister-in-law in her time of difficulty was only right, and the place of the Church to comfort the bereaved. He could smell blood, and the silence that came after the crippling told him all he needed to know. One of them was about to die, and he knew perfectly well who'd be meeting God this evening.

Synaria seemed as stone, watching intently and eerie in her stillness. Garnett's painful grip had not even registered. Blood dripping down the gash of Ilgnuit's face, she could almost hear it. A crack of her lips, a strange twist contorting them into what could have looked like agony, but in truth was rage, hotter than she feared she could contain. 'Mine', seethed and spat that dark voice in her head. She forced it's silence, forced that rage into the only outlet appropriate... tears. They beaded at the corners of her eyes, slipping down her cheeks when the blow to his ankle left him with sand in his face. She could smell the coppery scent of his blood, hear it hissing from his veins. Her fingers twitched, her skin growing warm as if she were in the midst of a low-grade fever. Those trembling fingers brought up to lay on the hand on her shoulder.

Garnett got her wish with brutal clarity, her eyes locked onto the downed Prince with disbelief. The playful blow to Uhtred's ankles took on a sickening new understanding, though to her credit, she neither flinched or looked away from the battle before her though her cheeks were utterly pale. From some vengeful part of her mind, there was the whisper: At least he knows Uhtred takes him seriously now. Synaria's tears went unnoticed, everything but the display in front of them ceasing to exist as she waited..eyes dry though her stomach churned violently. She would see the last of it.

Uhtred Valenti let loose his song for all to hear, now. Those who were schooled in the tongue could not understand it still, for it was spoken at such a rush, at a mighty, hoarse tone. It sounded like the anthem of a heretic, and kept tempo when he reached his boot out to smash into the arm that held desperately tight to that sword. His sword fell in his grip, from point-up to point-down, and as the boot landed, so did the sword, in a sharp arc that thrust itself at the small of the man's back. It would not kill, however. Uhtred refused to be thought of as a man who would kill another from behind, even if he was. "Lift your head," he snarled, "and I will despatch you with some sort of dignity." Whether he would or not, however, was all up to that brimming anger that swam in his brain.

Ilgnuit suffered only brief further denial. A few moments of incredulous disbelief, and then a slow acceptance. He was about to die. He'd assumed himself into his grave. His eyes looked up, and placed themselves directly on Synaria. A moment later, they drifted; hand on hand, hand on shoulder. Two figures in black, cowled. Very suddenly, his fear wasn't of Uhtred. It was for Uhtred, and it was inexplicable; an innate turning of weight in his chest. Memories; learning to dance, his first encounter with his wife, his wedding, his few blissful weeks with her, burning beloved items. Flirting with Lady Blacke. Brandy with the Advisor. That damned decadent bathtub. Hurling insults across the dinner table. Blinding headaches. But the one image on his mind at the point of his death, was that conjoined set of hands on Synaria's shoulder. His one wish was that he knew why. "You're more blind than our brother, Uhtred," he murmured, voice only loud enough for him to hear. "Tell my mother I love her."

Uhtred Valenti grimaced at the man's words. He had always hated last words. He hated them so much that now he was furious, far more so than before. It forfeited Ilgnuit's dignified end. He put his boot on the man's chest and slammed him into the ground so that his knees dislocated. He hit the man's skull with his sword to make him simple. He stomped on his neck and arm. His sword stabbed into the man's belly and twisted so that the flesh didn't capture the blade, and cut into his windpipe. He crushed the ribs under his feet so that it would be easy to hack into the chest. And then, in front of God and everyone, he carved out a hole in the man's chest and reached inside to pull out the heart that quivered its final nerve responses. He held it in front of the man's face, and lifted it in the air. He tried to take a bite out of it, but it was tougher than he'd expected, and so he just got his face bloody. And then he swung his sword to point at every man and woman, to declare to them the secondary point of this duel. "All are accountable to royal decree."

Christoph Valvogt waited in silence for that final blow, the outcome of this decided and known seemingly to everyone but Prince Ilgnuit himself. Once the true violence began to the body, he raised a fist to send servants scattering to the bell towers and in moments they were tolling the Prince Ilgnuit's death and the Crown Prince's victory. What remained of the younger prince would be displayed in the chapel until the time of the funeral, the silent sect of the priesthood waiting to take the body when the Crown Prince finished. And with that finished, he faded into the backdrop of the crowd, listening to the whispers and no few individuals wretching and gagging at such a display. Still, none missed the Crown Prince's declaration, a shudder rippling through them as all seemed to fall back, the carnival atmosphere beginning to fade.

Synaria stared back into the eyes of Ilgnuit. Even from the distance, she was amazed at what one could see, swimming in the pools of his condemned mind. He saw really saw her, for the first time, and she drank in his fear like wine. Sweet, yet so bitter on her tongue she could spit. "Goodbye, love." She said quietly, voice dripping with venom, just as Uhtred lifted his sword. The crunch of his bones, and shredding of flesh pounded like thunder in her ears. Unblinking, tear streaming eyes never left as Uhtred tore his body apart. Her skin warmed further, fingers tightening on Silas' hand to still the thrumming ink. Her stomach did not churn, no want to wretch, she had seen her brother rip the bowels from bandits, and the bite to the heart reminded her of the pigs eye. It was over, her chance was gone, her future uncertain. She could only stare at the pooling blood, lost.

Silas Valenti remained without visible reaction, but the sounds didn't go without recognition. There hadn't been any dignity. Uhtred had promised him dignity if he lifted his head, and there had been none. Expressionless, the Prince-Deacon inwardly raged. Barbarian excuse for a monster. He'd loathed Ilgnuit as much as anyone else, but fair was fair, statement was nonetheless a statement. He didn't know which brother to loathe more. Instead of concerning himself with handling such venom now, however, his attention turned in Synaria's direction, and he bent to whisper, "Appearances," to her, whilst offering her the nook of one arm for 'comfort'. It might well be comfort for her impending possibilities rather than her recent 'loss'; but nonetheless, appearances. She would need to be the widow that sympathy loved if she intended to move forward.

Garnett's jaw fell open when Uhtred settled not for a single blow ending his existence, but a display descrating the body and bringing back horrific memories of the visions that had once clutched her. Her stomach protested violently, but she clenched her teeth, determined to show now such weakness before the gathered crowd, though a shiver raked over her at Synaria's whisper. However, when Uhtred took the heart in his mouth, she was forced to press a gloved hand to her lips, the sounds of the day still ringing in her ear. The sword for an instant even swung toward her, and her pale eyes held his face ..her husband's face, though in that moment he seemed a stranger. Two hundred and twenty-four. The number echoed in her head as her hand fell to her side, thumb touching each fingertip as a silent count began in her mind.

Synaria felt like all time had stopped, the world around her nothing but a blurr of meaningless colors. All that was in focus was the bright stains on the dark sand and what was left of Ilgnuit. The tears flowed harder, her body finally trembling, and a single sob escaping her. But not for the lost life. The whisper, brought her back, glassy eyes turning up to the blind face. "Yes." She whispered and looped her arm in his, struggling to get to her feet. The ground felt like it was weaving beneath her, body having no choice but to lean heavily on the Deacon. "I need to get away from here." She whispered to him. Her control was slipping, the longer she looked at the body, the blood. That dark beast gnawed at her mind. They all had taken from her. They all would..."Please."

Garnett finally snapped from her disconnected state when she heard Synaria's sob next to her, worry lighting those pale eyes. Silently, she dipped her fingers into her pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her tears as she rose to support her. An uncertain glance shot toward Uhtred, Garnett not knowing the proper order of things. Should she stay for him or go to see that Synaria was tended to properly? "Do you want me with you?" She finally settled on whispering to the distraught woman, her hand slipping around her waist to help support her, worried gaze lifting to Silas for a brief moment. Confusion gripped her, uncertain for a moment if it was an act for she knew that Synaria held know affection for him...but it seemed far too real. Garnett's eyes shot questioningly toward Uhtred, hoping for some direction.

Uhtred Valenti wiped his blade on one of the last bloodless sections of Ilgnuit's body, the latter of which he kicked once in the groin for good measure. The vicious weapon found its home in the warm fleece of his scabbard, where the battle song still resonated amongst blood-warmed steel. A man gave the prince a towel to clean himself from the blood that had managed to splatter all over him in his zeal, and as he wiped he pointed his scabbard to the elm branches. "Burn those," he said. They would never join Ilgnuit's body, not for as long as Uhtred lived. He did not give a whit about Synaria's condition at that point, and Uhtred met Garnett's gaze with a touch of apathy. He threw the cloth back at the man who'd handed it to him and stormed off; sword in one hand, and a dripping, cold heart in the other.

Silas Valenti nodded once, bending some to quite literally pluck her up into a cradle-carry. He stepped around the pickets, pausing when he got to Garnett, and murmuring, "I'm going to take her to her quarters," to her, and then practically swept away. Slowly, albeit. He was slow normally without carrying someone, but he tried to move as quickly as possible to get the Princess away. Whether Garnett came with them or not, it didn't particularly matter to him. Synaria not having a fit in public, was. He made no comment to his brother; he'd 'congratulate' him at a later date. Now wasn't the time, and it would disagree with his sympathies with Synaria, and their appearance of grief and unity. Why the unity? Because the Church backing her strengthened her appeal to stay and not be sent packing.