The Count of Castle Rock

Chapter XVII- Responsibility

Sir Andrew Tathagar leans against the western wall of the great hall of Castle Black Roost. Lords and ladies, knights and vassals, dance to the festive sounds of the gala's musical troupe. More erstwhile guests sit above at round tables decorated in black and silver where servers provide food and drink. Fine dresses and decorative suits fill the room, each designed to subtly outshine the next. A battle of fashion for the ladies and a battle of prestige for the men. The winners would be targets at the next big event. Friendly competition among the bored and entitled.

He chuckles and sips his wine. A red from Dalluvian's Pearl, one of his favorites. If none of the other rumors about Count Methuen are true, there is no doubt the man knows his wine. Andrew turns his attention to the stage on which sat the largest table in the hall. At the center of the table sit Methuen; Black Count of Castle Rock, Lord of Nevergreen, Court Magician of King Humphrey IV. The brooding man looks barely older than he did the day Andrew was brought before him twenty-five years ago. To a five year old, The Count was a boogie man shrouded in mystery and intrigue. To a thirty year old bloodied knight, The Count is still an enigma.

"What am I doing here?" he asks his glass of red.

"You're here because your Lord Father asked you to attend in his stead," Sir Rondom Nuamah says as he finishes his own glass. The man is at his side as always. "You're standing against this wall because you hate dancing even though you're great at it."

Andrew chuckles. Rondom hates such events and drinks far too much whenever left to his own devices.

"And why are you here," Andrew asks, finishing his drink and signaling for a nearby server to bring him a new glass.

"I'm here because I adore you and will follow you anywhere, including a haunted castle."

"Black Roost isn't haunted, Rondom." Andrew shakes his head. Rondom only talks about his adoration for his best friend when drink has loosened his tongue, then regrets it in the morning.

"It is haunted, look." Rondom raises his empty glass towards their brooding host. "Look at his face. I wonder who he will turn into a toad? I knew a young man who displeased our Lord Count and was turned into a newt."

"Maybe you've had enough."

"He got better, but it took an entire harvest."

"I would challenge the validity of such a claim, but Count Methuen is quite capable of doing just that."

The two stare across the room. Beside Lord Methuen sits Sir Wellignton of Blades and his wife Viscountess Wellington. Both are decorated knights and Sworn Swords of The Count of Castle Rock. Andrew studies them, pondering their peculiar relationship. The Viscountess's late Lord Father refused to consent to her marriage to an untitled noble. She married the man, a rising knight, anyway. Her father threatened to denounce her and she challenged him to a duel. Needless to say she claimed his seat and title, but strangely her husband found the entire affair offensive. Though the Viscount of Blades by right, he refuses to wear the title.

Andrew respects that level of resolve and a man willing to stand for what he believes is right regardless of how others view him. Andrew's mind drifts to his own situation...

"Care to dance with me," Rondom asks. He offers his hand.

"My friend, you are drunk and you'll be embarrassed about this on the morrow."

Andrew declines with no malice. Rondom is his oldest friend and even though he hides his feelings while sober, they've been together too long for him to keep them secret.

"Fine. There are plenty of eligible women here." Rondom smirks, "I'll pick one for you."

"Careful. You might come back with your own dance partner."