The Savage Storm of Golden Geese

Tarquin

Tarquin was often told how lucky he was, the Blackwell's mercy was a rarity, an impossibility.
They neglect the views of others, this was not luck- this was tactical, he was no use dead.
No Blackwell areas had fell to a Northern hand since his capture three years ago.
He had tried to escape once, but the soldiers caught him, and William made sure he would never try again. 10 days of beatings in a dark and dingy cell. Dirty and alone, a broken man. He never tried again.

Having unwillingly paused an ancient war, Tarquin felt he was a burden. His family's burden.

Whenever he found himself questioning his place in Summerstone, dreaming of his old life beyond the barrier, William brought him back to reality.
A neverending watch over his enemies, on nights slow he often thought of a Northern army marching to the gate, only stopped by the water that hugs the giant labyrinth of stone.
Tarquin Dullon would not hesitate to lower the double drawbridge.

Today was less dull, a house he had only heard of arrived no more than an hour earlier. Of course the Barrington's did not look in his direction, but he prefered that rather than a vile and humbling stare.
Two years of nothing left him a shell of the warrior he was meant to be, physically and mentally he was lesser than a noble and now only a prisoner who could read.

At this time, he would be alone atop the Gate Tower, sipping and chewing whatever extras he managed to steal. Instead he stands in the Main Hall serving it to people uninterested. They bite at the end of a sasauge before throwing back into a pool of grease, only to fall into the mouth of a dog. Tarquin did not get the same pleasure, only broth.

He looked forward to setting his eyes on Peter Barrington, the Warden of the South, but only found him to be a dissapointment. The books written by men much wiser than him describe a hulking beast of a man. That much is true, only the height is matched with width in the wrong places. He doubted he could lift a club, nevermind swing it without breaking a sweat.

The Blackwell boys were as loud as ever, in particular Gregor and Breen. Tarquin noticed them having more than one cup of wine, but didn't care to say anything. Perhaps Breen would throw up and excuse himself, all the better for Tarquin's ears.

"You there, another. Take my plate too." A soulless Barrington demands, handing him a half full chalice of wine, and a plate of food barely eaten. Two half eaten sasauges stare at him.
Tarquin nods in response, taking his chalice and plate to the kitchen.
It is crammed and hectic in there, servants hand off plates to one and other whilst the other half clears them of leftover food, he hands the plate to a servant and squeezes past some others, pouring the richest wine he had ever had the pleasure of smelling back into the chalice, filling it to the brim.

Handing it to the Barrington, he looks into the chalice. His eyes carry the burden of disgust, not that Tarquin cared.
"It'll do, now leave me alone boy."
Tarquin scurries back to where it is safe, far away from the table.
He wished he had put poison into the chalice, make the disgust reasonable.

Tarquin noticed the space between the other Blackwells, Oriel and Emerick- usually inseperable, sit far apart. Oriel's seat taken by Emerick's soon to be wife Amara.
They seemed to get on at intervals, but Amara didn't seem very expansive on her muted ideas.
It was clear she held back, the only question is was it for the Barringtons or Blackwells she restrained her tongue.

William raises his hand and uses it as a call to Tarquin, not a motion wasted.

"You're dismissed from the hall... watch for any late arrivals. Josiah and his patrol should have returned hours ago." William commands, his breath thick with alchohol.
Tarquin silently nods and leaves the hall, taking a needed breath of fresh air. If his lungs could thank him, he'd bet his heart on moments such as this being the catalyst.