RP:It's Simple, We Kill the Dragon

Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc

Summary: Balgruuf gives his son Balder a few stern reminders, not least of which being how very real a threat Hildegarde the Silver still poses to the takeover. Intent on claiming the throne at any cost, he assigns Balder the task of covertly killing Frostmaw's former steward.

Frozen Throne

Balder leans with his shoulder against the throne's high back. In one hand, he holds the end of a chain, the other end of which is attached to a young lady elf by a close-fitting ring of blue steel, seemingly wrought in place around the poor creature's neck. Hardly dressed for the weather, the pitiful elfess has been made up into some sort of court plaything, the day's entertainment. Balder's eyes rove over her exposed midriff, her silken shawl, her bejeweled tiara, and he does his best to feign disgust. He gives the chain a yank, and the broken elf gives a choked yelp, skidding a meter or two across the slick floors to sprawl pitifully at Balder's boots. Apparently resigned to such abuse, the comparatively tiny creature sidles up to the giant, caressing down his calf in an overtly demeaning manner, nuzzling her chest and face into the tall fur cuffs of his boots. Looking somewhat less disgusted, the young warrior looks around the throne room for envy and admiration. What a trinket he's won.

Unlike his son, Balgruuf is not interested in such trinkets. He has taken many such prizes in his time as a young warrior, in the time before Satoshi and before Hildegarde. When war was common and he could reap a prize as was his due. “My son,” he spreads his hands out as if seeking an embrace, only for one hand to reach forward and seek to clasp around Balder’s forearm in the traditional warrior’s shake; his other hand clasping his shoulder affectionately. “I hear that you have been building a little group of young, strong men to serve you faithfully.

Balder sees his father approaching and quickly ties the chain to his belt, freeing the young warrior's hands so he can return Balgruuf's greeting. "Father," he clasps forearm and shoulder likewise, and he gives his ankle a little shake, throwing the elf off himself to skid again across the stone tiles. "Militia?" He laughs through the word and looks down in embarrassment. "My friends are no cowards, and neither am I," his eyes raise up to Balgruuf's, and he smirks, releasing his grip and tugging his shoulder out of his father's hand, callously shrugging off the affectionate gesture. "So they listen to me." Hardly seeming impressed by the strength and loyalty of his "friends", Balder's eyes fall back to the elf, and he fingers the chain as though about to give it another tug.

Balgruuf’s hand is shrugged off and away from his son’s shoulder, but he smiles all the same. The hairs near his lips are tinged a dull red, the blood having never washed out properly. Not that Balgruuf had wanted it to; it was a part of him and a symbol of who he was. “I see. And have they been rounding up little pretties like this one, too?” he asked, barely gesturing at the elf girl on the floor.

Balder shows a little amusement, and he gives dull guffaw. "Buhuhuh. Yeah." Twisting his finger, he begins gradually winding the chain in, and the moment the elf feels it tightening, she begins scooting back toward her keeper. "She's the best one, for sure. The others got roughed up pretty bad, but this one was smart, gave up easy." Balder looks back to his father. "Not like they wear out, either. Elf skin stays fair," his grin spreads a little farther. "Get you one before they're all gone. My boys and I could round up a few more. We'll just have to beat them out of the bushes." He throws a nod westward, apparently referring to the wilds.

Balgruuf only smiled and nodded here and there, the typical parental nod of interest to keep their child talking. As Balder reels the elf girl in, Balgruuf waits until she is nearby before he finally takes action. His leg lifts for a moment before his boot comes stomping down, crushing the elf girl’s head and repeatedly following the motion until there was a reddish pulp left on the floor. “No son of mine will sheathe his sword in some foreign quim!” he roared, his hand reaching outward to slap Balder right across the face. “I will be King! You will be the Prince and my heir, you will only lodge your damn sword in a giant of Frostmaw and make more heirs for our line! You defile yourself, you defile your ancestors by lowering yourself to that level, boy.” Balgruuf is huffing and puffing, as if breathless from his roaring at the boy. He turns, kicking the elf girl’s curvaceous form a distance away; uncaring if it would slide back a little due to the chain that was tied to Balder’s belt. “You should concern yourself with the rumours of that dragon wench coming back to Frostmaw, rather than what hole you can next lodge your sword in,” he spat the words out venomously, before moving to sit down on the throne.

Balder doesn't realize his father's plan until it's too late. The elf girl only has time to gasp, not even time to scream before she's snuffed out beneath the heel of Balgruuf's boot. "What're you-!" Balder's already getting the explanation he was about to demand, and his lips purse, not about to interrupt his father, not when he's on a tirade like that. The notion of swords and scabbards has his upper lip curling up in an uncomfortable sneer. Rather uselessly, he picks up the chain, and it slips easily free from the bloody mess. "She was still good for looks," he grumbles. With a sigh of defeat, Balder shoves off the throne to stand upright and walk a pace away, spinning the chain to fling off any clinging viscera. "What, Hildegarde?" The youth shoots his father a look of dubious amusement. "And what's so concerning about her?" He begins to saunter the perimeter of the room, tracking bloody bootprints. "She comes back, you kill her like the rest. I'll do it myself," he points toward the main hall, "and we'll put her head up on a plaque."

Balgruuf’s elbow propped up on the arm of the throne, his fingers curling and uncurling thoughtfully and his eyes watched the glint of his golden and gemmed rings that adorned his chunky fingers. “Enough talk about your whores, boy,” he grumbled. He had no love for the deeds of his son. His son who was so princely in his looks, yet so cruel in his deeds. Where was his honour? Mixing with the filth like that. “Kill her yourself, hah!” he snorted. “Even I would think twice about tangling with that silver bitch,” he muttered darkly. “Dragons are wily beasts. They have two shapes, you know. That overgrown lizard shape and then the one Hildegarde liked to stroll around in here… We’ll kill her, boy, but we must be clever about it. Perhaps it is time to think of ways to stop her in her path. To stop her in a way that does not dirty our hands...Yes, yes, that might work. I trust you can organise some contacts for that type of work, son.” He was sure his son knew all manner of dark denizens and that he even had friends amongst his little “brave group” who would take up the task of trying to kill the knight. “I must solidify my control over this throne, do you hear me boy?” His hand had since clenched into a tight fist. “I will wear a crown. I will be King of the North,” he growled with want, “and I’ll make a hide coat out of Hildegarde’s scales.”

Balder seems to make at least a little effort to appreciate his father's warning, but Balgruff knows his son and will almost certainly sense the youth's confident, reckless disregard. "I hear you," he mutters back, studying the chain in his hands as he wraps it around his knuckles and balls his fingers into a fist. "Kill the dragon, you'll be king. Simple as that." Balder's eyes shoot over to the throne. "And don't get caught." He'd already had his fill of lectures today, and the youth wasn't eager to hear the old man's spiel about discretion. "And don't get killed." Or caution. "Because you need grandsons." Stretching the chain tight, Balder's hands twist through a strangling motion, choking some imaginary victim.

Balgruuf doesn’t care for Balder’s personal feelings on the matter, obviously. He knows his son cannot kill him given their religious and societal beliefs, so he is held safe by that. “And you will be prince. You will the king-in-waiting,” he promised, knowing full well that the promise of power would entice Balder and reduce the bitter sensation that was brewing within his son. “You are strong and virile, my boy. Whatever sons you produce, they will rule Frostmaw after you and I are long gone. We will start a long line of kings.”

Balder wrinkles his nose and looks down to his boots, only now noticing the crescent of bloody footprints behind himself, leading back to the throne and his father. "Yes, father. I'd better get started." The warrior's cape flutters as he turns to leave. Marching swiftly and with purpose, its quite plain that he's eager to take out his frustrations where he can, outside his father's knowledge.