"This isn't. Your moment."
Culver's striped horse fights him before it consents to setting hoof on the wider of the two circles of cracked earth bisecting the Black Road.
Culver says, "You see?"
Emma follows along, on her placid mare. "This is Blighted, then?" she asks.
Culver says, "If you reach, you can feel the last of the process under way. But yes. O Royal Necromancer."
"Spare me the sarcasm, Culver," Emma says, evenly. "I'm too damned tired to argue with you or to listen to your insults." She draws her mare to a halt, then settles back more comfortably in the saddle, closing her eyes and concentrating.
Culver says, "If you're too tired to argue, that could suit me perfectly." He soothes his horse. He offers, all temptation in his voice, "But if you're really that far gone, drink deep of this place. You can."
Emma's eyes open, and she reins her own horse in, as the mare starts to become restive. "I said tired, not stupid."
Culver harrumphs. "So let's deal. This will work. You know it will. So the question isn't that. It's whether you'll sign on Feldane to doing this from here until the end of the Road."
"And then there's the question of how trust-worthy you are of managing the project," Emma says, dryly. "You know I can't give any approval from Feldane itself. Cousin Irene will have to do that."
Culver dismisses that with a flick of his hand. "I'll bet on her being able to swallow a dead rat if it's the price of exuberant gratitude. I can even make it not her fault that she accedes." He frowns at her. "You cannot entirely distrust me if you admit to me you're tired. But -- yes. A puzzle."
Emma is quiet for a moment, then says, "Have you not yet put together that in spite of everything you've done - and let's not forget, the second-to-last time we met, you had the nerve to strike me - I actually still -want- to trust you?"
Culver says, "I know that, and I know that it is difficult to trust me. I am forced to that, crushed and squeezed to it."
Culver says, "What I puzzle over is why you are stuck between seeing the rules that I hew to and trusting all I do on the one hand, or leaping upon your morals and running me through with that."
Culver indicates her sword.
Emma's lips twist in a wry smile. "I guess I'm just complicated." She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "My morals are, perhaps, slightly more flexible than others of our line. Not quite so flexible as yours, of course."
Culver declares, "Excellent!" His horse flicks ears in annoyance at the sudden sound of it. "Flexible enough, I wonder, to go over whether I should still be asking the worthy Princess for permission?"
"Not quite that flexible, Culver," Emma says. "If we are going to try this on a larger scale, then it must be with the support and knowledge of the Crown. There is one thing that would ease my conscience, however."
Culver mutters, "Shortly we won't have heralds enough to keep the Crowns informed and decided on the weather, let alone anything more important." He harrumphs to clear his expression. "Yes?"
Emma fixes her uncle with a long, tolerant look - which likely means she's not feeling terribly tolerant at all. "I want to oversee the project. Officially."
Culver squints at her. "Then you had best drink deep now, and get that part over with. Unless you mean 'officially' -- for this will be our Road, and while I bet on us, it will be no tame beast to politely wait for you to gather strength."
Emma lifts a hand. "Culver, I don't think it is wise for me to actually begin to Blight things, myself. That is a road - literally and figuratively - that I think would be hard to turn back from. But if the Crown approves this, then I would like to contribute however I can, and be kept fully appraised of progress." She summons up a small smile. "Not only that, but of what you might need to accomplish the task, as you progress."
Culver stares hard at her. He balls the reins in his fist. He asks, "A manager. How much worse do things need to get?"
"Do you really think the Crown or Irene will let you do this without some form of oversight, given your recent track record?" Emma counters.
Culver says, "Let me? You don't know what we are dealing for, then. If Irene and her kind hear my plea for them to help me, and Feldane to spark Blight with me, I will not need to drink and eat Blight, I will not need to touch every soul who comes against me and demand its service. It is not a question of them letting me. It is a question of what they want to create as a side effect of it."
Emma's features harden, as he speaks. "As you wish, then. You'll get no support from me on the effort. I've grown weary of being mocked by the likes of you." She gives her reins a tug, beginning to turn her horse about. "By the way, I met a young woman who looked a great deal like your wife. She's lacking a good bit in fire and intelligence, however."
Culver scowls. "Then he means to cheat me. Very well. I thank you for that." He sneers, then. "I will hold a service for your courage. I barely knew it, and now it is gone."
Emma pauses, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Culver, do you really think that mocking me further is going to get you your way?"
Culver says, "You knowingly sign me over to the family curse, so why should I not indulge myself in some actual mockery of you?" He spits. "You choose to throw away a road for Feldane to be clearly the preeminent Duchy without having to whore itself to a Prince. So, very well. I am done convincing. Your way it is."
Emma turns her horse, quite suddenly, and without warning; as a matter of fact, the horse seems rather startled by it, but obeys. "You have mocked me since the moment you met me!" she protests, cheeks aflush with anger. "Not once have you treated with me as if I were an intelligent person. Culver Feldane, I am not some lower lifeform to be bullied about by you!" The last is practically sputtered, even as she flings herself from the saddle. Uh oh. She might charge Culver and his striped horse, at this rate.
Culver's eyes light with delight and he spills from his horse. He draws his sword. "There!" he says exultantly. "Come on, then. This is my place of power, and you are such a small thing," he taunts her with. "If I cannot weep on you, I must tweak you, and if you cannot bear that -- well, then, we'll have this."
Culver beckons her forth.
Emma's jaw tightens, and she draws up short, staring at Culver in silence for a moment. "I wanted to like you, Culver," she says, finally. "I wanted to adore you." She blinks a few times, overly rapidly. Certainly the woman couldn't be about to burst into tears. She takes a deep breath, then draws her rapier. "I'll not kill you."
Culver drops his guard and closes his eyes rashly to say, "Such confidence." He sighs with sublime happiness.
"Culver Feldane," Emma says, her voice perfectly even. "You have insulted me repeatedly. I call you to face the consequences of your insult to my honor, and of your previous insult to my person." She doesn't take advantage of his closed eyes or relaxed guard.
Culver firms up his guard after opening his eyes. "Gladly. Commit to something." He's clearly drawing on the strength of the Blight.
Emma's lips finally curve into a smile, albeit a faint one. "Commitment isn't my strong suit," she says. "Just ask Gil." That said, she darts toward the man, rapier at the ready. She's fast, and lightfooted, and certainly is committed, this time.
Culver maps out her likely attack route, and sets up his parry and riposte. He thrums with the borrowed strength of Blight. "Don't spoil the moment," he sighs at her.
"This isn't," Emma says, even as she notes his preparation, and seems to be playing right into his expectations. "Your moment." At the last second, there's a flick of her wrist, and the nasty, sharp little point of her rapier cuts in the opposite direction, toward Culver's belly.
Culver is sparked with red front and back as he's run through. He stills his instinct to lash out for fear of what it might do to its insides. He asks, in a whisper to avoid having to draw a breath, "Draw?"
Emma pauses, her rapier embedded quite neatly in her uncle's belly. "Firstly, it's not a draw. I win. I should make you apologize, you know." She begins to retract her rapier, slowly. It's rather with a sense of caution, though, than any obvious cruelty.
Culver holds himself still for as long as he has to, and then crumples. The ground drinks his blood hungrily as soon as it drips down. He makes fists to cover the shaking of his hands from reaction.
Emma spends a moment looking at her blade, disdainfully. She flickers a glance toward her uncle, saying, "You'd best get that looked at," before turning and striding away. She heads for her horse, intent on leaving.
Culver says, "Well done." He closes his eyes. "You and Irene helping me ... accolades to spare."
Emma hooks a foot into a stirrup, pausing to look back to him. "Remember, Culver. I wanted to adore you." That said, she pulls herself up into the saddle, and jogs her horse into a trot.
Culver sprawls out to nurse his hurt, fighting to breath just enough. "I'm very happy right now," he says to her with a voice thick with pain. "All things considered. You should be too. Go on. I'll be," and the last word is a whisper, "fine."
Emma says, as the horse begins to amble off, "I'm not happy at all, Culver." She shakes her head, once, and is on her way.
Culver says, "You see?"
Emma follows along, on her placid mare. "This is Blighted, then?" she asks.
Culver says, "If you reach, you can feel the last of the process under way. But yes. O Royal Necromancer."
"Spare me the sarcasm, Culver," Emma says, evenly. "I'm too damned tired to argue with you or to listen to your insults." She draws her mare to a halt, then settles back more comfortably in the saddle, closing her eyes and concentrating.
Culver says, "If you're too tired to argue, that could suit me perfectly." He soothes his horse. He offers, all temptation in his voice, "But if you're really that far gone, drink deep of this place. You can."
Emma's eyes open, and she reins her own horse in, as the mare starts to become restive. "I said tired, not stupid."
Culver harrumphs. "So let's deal. This will work. You know it will. So the question isn't that. It's whether you'll sign on Feldane to doing this from here until the end of the Road."
"And then there's the question of how trust-worthy you are of managing the project," Emma says, dryly. "You know I can't give any approval from Feldane itself. Cousin Irene will have to do that."
Culver dismisses that with a flick of his hand. "I'll bet on her being able to swallow a dead rat if it's the price of exuberant gratitude. I can even make it not her fault that she accedes." He frowns at her. "You cannot entirely distrust me if you admit to me you're tired. But -- yes. A puzzle."
Emma is quiet for a moment, then says, "Have you not yet put together that in spite of everything you've done - and let's not forget, the second-to-last time we met, you had the nerve to strike me - I actually still -want- to trust you?"
Culver says, "I know that, and I know that it is difficult to trust me. I am forced to that, crushed and squeezed to it."
Culver says, "What I puzzle over is why you are stuck between seeing the rules that I hew to and trusting all I do on the one hand, or leaping upon your morals and running me through with that."
Culver indicates her sword.
Emma's lips twist in a wry smile. "I guess I'm just complicated." She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "My morals are, perhaps, slightly more flexible than others of our line. Not quite so flexible as yours, of course."
Culver declares, "Excellent!" His horse flicks ears in annoyance at the sudden sound of it. "Flexible enough, I wonder, to go over whether I should still be asking the worthy Princess for permission?"
"Not quite that flexible, Culver," Emma says. "If we are going to try this on a larger scale, then it must be with the support and knowledge of the Crown. There is one thing that would ease my conscience, however."
Culver mutters, "Shortly we won't have heralds enough to keep the Crowns informed and decided on the weather, let alone anything more important." He harrumphs to clear his expression. "Yes?"
Emma fixes her uncle with a long, tolerant look - which likely means she's not feeling terribly tolerant at all. "I want to oversee the project. Officially."
Culver squints at her. "Then you had best drink deep now, and get that part over with. Unless you mean 'officially' -- for this will be our Road, and while I bet on us, it will be no tame beast to politely wait for you to gather strength."
Emma lifts a hand. "Culver, I don't think it is wise for me to actually begin to Blight things, myself. That is a road - literally and figuratively - that I think would be hard to turn back from. But if the Crown approves this, then I would like to contribute however I can, and be kept fully appraised of progress." She summons up a small smile. "Not only that, but of what you might need to accomplish the task, as you progress."
Culver stares hard at her. He balls the reins in his fist. He asks, "A manager. How much worse do things need to get?"
"Do you really think the Crown or Irene will let you do this without some form of oversight, given your recent track record?" Emma counters.
Culver says, "Let me? You don't know what we are dealing for, then. If Irene and her kind hear my plea for them to help me, and Feldane to spark Blight with me, I will not need to drink and eat Blight, I will not need to touch every soul who comes against me and demand its service. It is not a question of them letting me. It is a question of what they want to create as a side effect of it."
Emma's features harden, as he speaks. "As you wish, then. You'll get no support from me on the effort. I've grown weary of being mocked by the likes of you." She gives her reins a tug, beginning to turn her horse about. "By the way, I met a young woman who looked a great deal like your wife. She's lacking a good bit in fire and intelligence, however."
Culver scowls. "Then he means to cheat me. Very well. I thank you for that." He sneers, then. "I will hold a service for your courage. I barely knew it, and now it is gone."
Emma pauses, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Culver, do you really think that mocking me further is going to get you your way?"
Culver says, "You knowingly sign me over to the family curse, so why should I not indulge myself in some actual mockery of you?" He spits. "You choose to throw away a road for Feldane to be clearly the preeminent Duchy without having to whore itself to a Prince. So, very well. I am done convincing. Your way it is."
Emma turns her horse, quite suddenly, and without warning; as a matter of fact, the horse seems rather startled by it, but obeys. "You have mocked me since the moment you met me!" she protests, cheeks aflush with anger. "Not once have you treated with me as if I were an intelligent person. Culver Feldane, I am not some lower lifeform to be bullied about by you!" The last is practically sputtered, even as she flings herself from the saddle. Uh oh. She might charge Culver and his striped horse, at this rate.
Culver's eyes light with delight and he spills from his horse. He draws his sword. "There!" he says exultantly. "Come on, then. This is my place of power, and you are such a small thing," he taunts her with. "If I cannot weep on you, I must tweak you, and if you cannot bear that -- well, then, we'll have this."
Culver beckons her forth.
Emma's jaw tightens, and she draws up short, staring at Culver in silence for a moment. "I wanted to like you, Culver," she says, finally. "I wanted to adore you." She blinks a few times, overly rapidly. Certainly the woman couldn't be about to burst into tears. She takes a deep breath, then draws her rapier. "I'll not kill you."
Culver drops his guard and closes his eyes rashly to say, "Such confidence." He sighs with sublime happiness.
"Culver Feldane," Emma says, her voice perfectly even. "You have insulted me repeatedly. I call you to face the consequences of your insult to my honor, and of your previous insult to my person." She doesn't take advantage of his closed eyes or relaxed guard.
Culver firms up his guard after opening his eyes. "Gladly. Commit to something." He's clearly drawing on the strength of the Blight.
Emma's lips finally curve into a smile, albeit a faint one. "Commitment isn't my strong suit," she says. "Just ask Gil." That said, she darts toward the man, rapier at the ready. She's fast, and lightfooted, and certainly is committed, this time.
Culver maps out her likely attack route, and sets up his parry and riposte. He thrums with the borrowed strength of Blight. "Don't spoil the moment," he sighs at her.
"This isn't," Emma says, even as she notes his preparation, and seems to be playing right into his expectations. "Your moment." At the last second, there's a flick of her wrist, and the nasty, sharp little point of her rapier cuts in the opposite direction, toward Culver's belly.
Culver is sparked with red front and back as he's run through. He stills his instinct to lash out for fear of what it might do to its insides. He asks, in a whisper to avoid having to draw a breath, "Draw?"
Emma pauses, her rapier embedded quite neatly in her uncle's belly. "Firstly, it's not a draw. I win. I should make you apologize, you know." She begins to retract her rapier, slowly. It's rather with a sense of caution, though, than any obvious cruelty.
Culver holds himself still for as long as he has to, and then crumples. The ground drinks his blood hungrily as soon as it drips down. He makes fists to cover the shaking of his hands from reaction.
Emma spends a moment looking at her blade, disdainfully. She flickers a glance toward her uncle, saying, "You'd best get that looked at," before turning and striding away. She heads for her horse, intent on leaving.
Culver says, "Well done." He closes his eyes. "You and Irene helping me ... accolades to spare."
Emma hooks a foot into a stirrup, pausing to look back to him. "Remember, Culver. I wanted to adore you." That said, she pulls herself up into the saddle, and jogs her horse into a trot.
Culver sprawls out to nurse his hurt, fighting to breath just enough. "I'm very happy right now," he says to her with a voice thick with pain. "All things considered. You should be too. Go on. I'll be," and the last word is a whisper, "fine."
Emma says, as the horse begins to amble off, "I'm not happy at all, Culver." She shakes her head, once, and is on her way.