RP:In His Majesty's Service
Summary: Sir Gorehilt is summoned to Fort Freedom in Larket. There, King Macon reviews the knight's recent activities. Specifically, what has Gorehilt been doing for the Crown lately? The knight explains he has infiltrated a gang in Rynvale and gained their trust. Satisfied that the mission is worthwhile, the Rage King sends Gorehilt away with his blessing, among other boons.
Council Meeting Room
A u-shaped table is the focal point of this boardroom. A map of Larket and the Eternal Forest is nestled within the concave space of the table. This room is the command center of the entire Larketian military outfit, and of greater campaigns when necessary. The King also meets with respected advisors in this room to shape city policy.
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Gorehilt steps up when bidden. Nervously, he tries to make eye contact with Sir Gordwyn. Bearing and decorum make it difficult to read anthing in the face of his fellow knight. It would be good to see a little fellowship or reassurance. Sir Gordwyn offers none; he merely marches out of the chamber, clicks his heels, and holds the door for the next man. "Sir Gorehilt," the herald's nasal call echoes through the vast foyer. Gorehilt flinches at the honorific, hurriedly stiffenes his face back up, and marches into the council room. He hears the door shut behind him. Without turning his eyes, the greenskin tries to study the table out of his peripherals. A crisp haircut and a bit of polish go a long way, but all the same, the last thing that Gorehilt, or, shoot, Sir Gorehilt wants to do is stay here a moment longer than necessary. Reaching the focal point of the table's "u" bend, he stops, clicks his heels, and snaps to attention in full armor and colors. "Sir Gorehilt, your highness," a bored, jowly clerk announces, "a tournament fighter, knight errant and," he adjusts his reading glasses as he flips through a dossier, "known troublemaker." The clerk dips his quill and prepares to add notes to Gore's permanent record.
Macon sits opposite the focal point of the table, leaning to the left side of his chair, chin resting atop his bare fist, propped up on the armrest. The Furious King is inside the silvery shell of The Rage Armor sans gauntlets and his marble crown sits on the table to his left, encircling the Red Tower and a piece of The Eternal Forest on the map. The Larketian Royal’s iconic great ax stands sentry just behind his seat, the axehead, with the recreated Rage Stone glowing red at its center, looming over the top of the backrest. The Veratoakan immigrant directs slate eyes towards the saluting Sir Gorehilt and nods his head once. He has a daily docket in the form of a stack of papers on the table to his right, but it seems like he hasn’t checked it for this particular appointment as he opens the conversation with, “Tell me wha’ this is about.” In his accented growl of a voice.
Gorehilt definitely feels his heart skip a beat when the king speaks. A half-second of silence follows, but it feels like an eternity. Is Gorehilt supposed to talk? Was the king addressing him? What's to tell? The knight's mind races, trying to pick up the fragmented pieces of the general defense he'd been preparing for himself. "Your highness," Gorehilt finally begins, but the jowly clerk cuts him off. "Sir Gorhilt has drawn unwelcome attention for drunkenness, revelry, extortion," he writes as he speaks, "and consorting with roguish company unbefitting his title and station. Per regulations," the clerk draws a pudgy thumb across his pile of notes, sliding the sheets one at a time until he finds the one he wants, "a knight errant may be recalled and held to account for his errantry, for better or worse." Jowls jots a couple notes without looking up. Gorehilt feels his cheeks heating, and he tenses his jaw, biting back an outburst. His gloves give a quiet creak inside his gauntlets as his fingers, already in tight fists at attention, clench tighter still.
Macon lets out another growl, though this one does not resemble speech in any way. He looks towards the clerk while the rap sheet is read off, but doesn’t miss the tensing in Gorehilt’s muscles. The Rage Knight encourages the emotion coming from the orcish man, sending out a push of angry aura out from within himself as easily as he might exhale a breath. A wood elf member of The Kingsguard standing sentry outside the meeting room can be heard snapping at a member of the fort staff for water to be fetched for her. The King of Larket is disinterested in most of the ‘errantry’ being brought forth, but does raise a brow at one bit, “Roguish company…” he repeats, leaning slightly forward in his seat, “...Would tha’ be here in Larket or abroad? Anyone I’m familiar with?” He’s ignoring the clerk now, clearly addressing Gorehilt directly.
Gorehilt is way too susceptible to the pulse of anger. "You're about to hold these fists to account," he snaps, his tusky mouth flashing a snarl as he breaks attention to glare daggers at the clerk, "when they cave your fat, smug little face in like a rotten tomato. With all due disrespect to your pen-pusher stooge, your majesty, this is some bull." In the wake of the angry pulse, the knight begins to realize how badly he's broken his bearing. He's not about to apologize, but when he addresses the king, it's in a marginally more concilliatory tone. "I'm out here looking for trouble, you know, looking for bad guys. That's my job, right?" He looks around the table. "Right? Now I find some trouble, and you guys bring me under scrutiny." Gorehilt rolls his shoulders out, shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he finds his way back to attention. "Abroad, your majesty. They're a gang of some kind in Rynvale, one with resources. Loyal men. Money."
Macon finds shelter in the unrest his furious aura creates. In the shade of the conflict stirring between the other two men present, the king can think for a moment before he is addressed by Gorehilt again. The King is Larket. So to call into question the procedures that have led the greenskin to be called here today is to question The Rage Knight himself, and that is the source of the anger and sternness in his voice now. “You have not been summoned here for discipline.” He eyes the clerk, giving a space of silence for a protest that he knows will not come from the pencil pusher. “If you do not report on what you find, then at some point you cease t’be a knight and are merely one of their -gang-.” He recycles that word with venom. Then his tone lightens, “Wha’ will you do now with this position you ‘ave with them? At the very least I expect you t’steer them away from activities in or against Larket, or inform Us of such plans if you cannot. Are Our enemies in their sights? Are they scheming on Cenril or might you direct them tha’ way?” The line of questioning boils down to ‘what is the value of you being in line with them?’
Gorehilt stiffens. King Macon's tone knocks the mouthy knight right back on his heels. As abruptly as the fury had swept over him, the greenskin remembers himself and is mortified. How could he cut loose like that? Who did he think he was mouthing off to? Gorehilt's head swims, but he manages to remain vertical and, by gradual effort, put his mind back in the moment. “Yes, your majesty," he begins, his own tone gradually shifting from anemic to professional as he goes on, "of course. I’m only beginning to really get the scope of their operations, and they may be, um, they may have enough power to be a political asset.” Not wanting to sound too cowed, he goes on. “These guys are, I mean, I say ‘asset’ because I already have some influence within the organization. By my next report, I can tell you exactly what I can do for you. I’m talking real covert power, at your disposal.” His brow wrinkles as he stares just over Macon’s head, still a little too shaken to attempt direct eye contact. “Your majesty.”
Macon smirks and nods, “Good. We look forward to your next -timely- report then.” He emphasizes the word to make sure that the circumstances for Gorehilt’s summoning here today are not to be repeated. Then he tilts his slate gaze to the clerk and growls out some orders, “Make sure that Sir Gorehilt’s operation is properly funded.” This is a tremendous boon being granted, as nothing will upset the king more than finding out the treasury hasn’t given enough gold to meet the needs of the request, so they will always air on the side of supplying a surplus. “And if there is any magical equipment you might need, stop by The Academy before you leave the city and put in an order.” The clerk flinches and gathers a sheet of Fort Freedom letterhead to quickly write up authorization for such a thing that will be provided to the orcish man before he departs. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?” The accent is gone again, the practiced Lithrydelian dialect returned as things wind down.
Gorehilt feels the hairs prickle down the back of his neck. His spine straightens, and he clicks his heels in the affirmative. "Timely" will be his new middle name. While he's still silently laying out a mental roadmap for a future schedule of reports, the King again catches him off guard. Gorehilt blinks and tries to grasp what's just been said. He has an "operation" now. It's effectively been given carte blanche. Not bad, considering Gorehilt's spiraling imagination had already convinced him today was going to end with him in the brig. Or the dungeon. Yanking his mind out of that pessimistic fantasy and back into the reality of the moment, the knight can't resist sneaking a quick look at the clerk. The knight should have known that a king of the axe would side with his fighting men, not the bureaucrats. It's a lesson he won't soon forget. Gorehilt clears his throat. "Ah, nothing, your majesty. Expect me again punctually, when, uhm," he fishes, "you may see your generosity has been put to good use."