Alabos Hold is nestled into the mountains. The Mountains that stretch up into the sky, towering over the castle in large points, like some great entity pinched up the ground as if it was nothing more than dough. They reach so high into the sky that they rake like fingers through the clouds; thus these mountains are often nicknamed 'Willow-Man's Claws.' Running from these mountains, past the castle and down towards the coast is a massive river of icy water, fittingly named 'Serpent's Maw.' The sky wrapping around Willow-Man's Claws was grey, and the clouds thick and heavy with the overhanging promise of rain.
For all the pointed spires of Willow-Man's Claws behind it, Alabos Hold itself is quite flat in its rooves and balconies. There was much open space, and the castle was built in levels. Tall stone walls, straight wells of stone stairs. Circular towers with arched windows and flat rooves, save for crenelations. The flat stone rooves of some buildings acted as a balcony or walkway for the floor above. The castle had one pointed roof: the dark form of the pointed peak marking the building where all the living is done inside. The other buildings and even the towers all had flat rooves, and the farther back in the castle you went, the more stairs you had to climb. You could see every part of the castle from the bottom of the hill, for each part behind the other was risen up the mountain. Not so far as to be detached, but it created a tall and strong figure, like the castle was looming above you for miles. Discouraging to attackers, but also to any who came to visit.
The castle sorely lacked any decoration or artwork on the outside, much to the displeasure of neighboring peasants and visiting royalty alike. Even passing merchants would whisper to each other about the bland-looking castle— for all the color, music, and liveliness inside, the outside was dark, imposing, and solid. It looked much like an idea rather than a real thing to exist. Like something you could never reach, no matter how hard you tried. There was a dirt road that transitioned to gravel, then cobblestones the closer you got to the castle. The road was paved and sloped to allow entrance for carts and wagons, but even the surrounding citizens had little to do at the castle, unless a party was being held. Even from outside the city's vast walls, you could see the castle. A statement. A taunt to all outside, daring you to seek it out. Daring you to find a weakness in its strong stature.
These were things Kessian never noticed about his city before. Now it was all he could think of when he saw it, kneeling in the mud by the outcropping of roots and soil by the river bank. Cold, icy water rushed past them only a few feet away, but Kessian couldn't focus on the water and how Jorgoff continually claimed it to be relaxing to dabble in. No, Kessian could hardly tear his eyes from the dark spot on the mountain that was Alabos city.
Kessian had fallen into oblivion on Yetsh's shoulder. He found himself lying in this muddy alcove when he awoke, Jorgoff sitting in stunned and grim silence nearby. Yetsh was nowhere to be seen, and when he asked, Jorgoff explained that she went to get a small boat. Now the Prince rubbed at his pounding head, staring over the alcove at the city in the distance. Jorgoff had his fabric shoes off and was splashing around in the edge of the freezing water, but dared not wade deeper than his shins. Even on the banks the current was strong, a mere whisper of how easily the water could sweep away the sturdiest building. "Lord Kessian, truly, just step in and let your worries flow away with the water!" Jorgoff encouraged for the fifth time.
"I will not, Jorgoff! Cease your gibbering about the water!" Kessian hissed, turning and sitting down with a rub at his aching head, briefly closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the pounding. "It's been a full Sun Face, where in Oldel's name is Yetsh?" he grumbled, setting on a pointless venture to try rubbing the mud out of his silk hose. Jorgoff stopped kicking at the water, turning to stare fretfully in the city's direction. "What if they got to her?"
"Nonsense, Jorgoff," Kessian scoffed, drawing his cloak tail in front of him to squeeze out mud clumps. "Yetsh is one of the best knights in Gressyk. Hence why she's my personal guard. It's not just a display of formality, Jorgoff. Who would need the better guards more: my stubborn older siblings or the "poor young ones who can't fight?"" Kessian pulled his face into a crude and inexperienced pout, batting his eyes.
"....You," Jorgoff, rubbed his hands together, nodding slowly.
"Precisely. Yetsh can outmatch even Hiligan, I'd gamble."
"But — there was more than one of them, my Lord. You think she can hold that many off?"
"Of course," was all Kessian responded with, giving a firm nod of his messy-haired head.
Jorgoff just hummed, taking a breath before turning back towards the river. He lifted his arms to his sides and exhaled his worries out into the river, chewing on his lip. Kessian needed him to be positive. He needed to be positive for Kessian. That's right, he told himself, nodding with eyes brimming of determination. Fire in his chest, Jorgoff turned back to skip over to Kessian, landing in an energetic crouch that made the mud 'squelch' beneath his bare toes. "Hey, Kessian, maybe the river will get that mud out." The grin on the servant's face increased tenfold when the twelve-cycle-old prince slowly lifted a deep scowl of irritation to his fifteen-cycle-old servant.
There was a long silence of grinning and scowling before Kessian finally growled and threw his hands in the air, rings clinking. "Fine! Fine, fine, the river! Yes, Jorgoff! If only to stop your fascinated, small-minded jabbering!" Jorgoff only giggled, helping Kessian to his feet.
"Oh, but you do so love my jabbering! Deny it all you want, you can't order me to leave you out here," Jorgoff hums, like some strange species of bird.
"Can't I?" Kessian grumbled, lifting his arms to his sides and allowing Jorgoff to undo clasps and buttons and eye-hooks and laces.
"Not to my knowledge. You don't have an invisible army, do you?" the servant grinned, folding the muddy cloak over one arm and holding muddier boots in his other hand.
Kessian scoffed, the corner of his lip curling. "If only. Everything would be so much easier if I did," he shook his head, walking over to the river. He paused on the edge, the water lapping just beyond his toes. He stared down at the clear liquid, watching a few small chunks of stubborn ice rush past. "This is a terrible idea. You have terrible ideas, Jorgoff," Kessian huffed, puffing out his chest and stepping into the water. Immediately, he cringed, fingers curling into fists and his shoulders rising to his ears. "How... do you enjoy this?" the prince hissed, much to Jorgoff's delight.
"I grew up on this river! For a lot of people, it's the only means of washing. You learn to love it," Jorgoff waved a hand factually, setting the boots down beside his own shoes. He chuckled, idly watching his young master wiggle in an attempt to deal with the cold as he waded in further. Standing where Jorgoff stood, the water came just past Kessian's knees. "Oh — Kessian, don't go any further—" Jorgoff bent to set the cloak down, and when he looked up he managed to glimpse the fall of Kessian's small body, legs swept out from beneath him. With a loud expletive Jorgoff quickly scrambled across the slippery mud, feet struggling to gain traction and propel him across the ground. Kessian floundered against the bank, clawing off handfuls of mud as he coughed up water, fighting to keep his head above the torrential waters. The shock of the cold battled with the pure energy of the fear-fueled adrenaline in his veins, making it hard to think and hard to coordinate, but impossible to stay still.
Jorgoff continued to hissed curses, diving along the bank to grasp as Kessian's arms or shoulders. The fabric of the lord's shirt was loose and slippery, and the restrictive vest was little to hold onto. "Kessian! Grab my hands!" Jorgoff cried, but the boy didn't seem to hear, wildly floundering at the bank. The water swallowed up the raven-haired head before it resurfaced and Jorgoff scrambled to follow. The mud, however, had another plan. The unstable ground shifted beneath him and launched him into the angry waters too, quickly pursuing the boy he worked for. Jorgoff, who did know how to swim, hurried the small distance separating them and scooped Kessian into his arms, struggling to keep the both of them from drifting towards the center of the river, feet scraping at the rocky, muddy bottom of the river in a struggle for anchorage.
The boys didn't hear it, but a muttered grumble was uttered nearby. Two strong hands clasped Jorgoff's shoulders, who held a clinging Kessian. Jorgoff was hoisted out and landed heavily on his back, the black-haired prince curled up to his chest, looking much like a wet and trembling cat. Jorgoff 'oof'ed, the air knocked from his lungs by the impact. It didn't hurt, but it had force. He looked up in shock, and met Yetsh's stern gaze.
"The whole point of the boat is so you didn't have to swim the river."
A moment of stunned silence followed the gravelly statement. Jorgoff then started to chuckle — he couldn't help it! The fear of losing the prince to the river, the shock of being hauled out, the severity of Yetsh's gaze, the dry humor of her words... it all overwhelmed him. His chest started to bounce a little, much to Kessian's groaned displeasure. Jorgoff let himself go limp, eyes closing as he just laughed out the nerves of the situation.
"Oooh, but swimming is so much fun," Jorgoff wheezed quietly, Kessian rolling off the servant and regaining his breath on the muddy ground. Yetsh walked over, kneeling in the mud beside him. "Kessian," she nudged his arm, and his brown eyes opened to stare up at her. His heartbeat pounded in his head more than ever, an aggressive pulse in his eyes and ears. Yetsh shook her head and put a hand on his chest, pressing down slightly. "You're safe, Kessian. You're safe. Calm down," she said, her deep voice resonating like an anchor down her arm and into his thin chest.
After a moment, Kessian's breathing had stilled and he sat up, usually curly hair plastered to his face and neck in a messy curtain. "Of course," he puffed out with a breath, pushing himself to his feet. He stood there, looking much like a wet cat for a moment, before he started peeling off his vest to ring out his shirt. Yetsh, however, shook her head. "Don't bother. You need to change clothes, anyway."
"I'm sorry? Change clothes? And what, we're going to waltz back up to the castle to get them?" Kessian squinted at her. It was then that Kessian noticed the distinct lack of green on his bodyguard. It was off-putting; every time Kessian had seen Yetsh throughout his life, it was in that same outfit with the same haircut and the same expression. Now she was dressed in what he could only describe as peasant garb. It was only a moment before he understood. "No," the word dropped like a flat stone to sand. "No, absolutely not. I am not wearing poor people's clothing."
Jorgoff snorted and sat up from the ground. "My lord, we are, for some reason, running from the guards. I think they'd spot your clothes and crown in an instant."
"Right, because my face isn't recognizable at all," Kessian drawled, eyes narrowing. He turned his squinted eyes to Yetsh's face before grumbling in his throat and pulling his bejeweled dagger from his belt. "Fine. Simply fine," he shook his head as Jorgoff chuckled and stripped away Kessian's shirt. The boy shivered, wiping water off of his pale skin as Yetsh tossed Jorgoff a dry shirt from the boat. White cotton, with twine laces up the front. The sleeves were loose and cinched only at the wrists to keep them out of the way. Kessian scowled his distaste as Jorgoff laced up the shirt. His soaked hose and trousers were changed as well, switched out for linen trousers which tucked into thick brown fabric boots.
"You too, Jorgoff," Yetsh tossed him more clothes, and the servant quickly started changing himself. "Dramme, too," Yetsh grunted, pulling her own hair down from the ponytail into loose-hanging braids.
"What? No, I am not taking out my Dramme!" Kessian protested louder than he'd protested at anything else today. "They are a mark of my status and identity and I have bore them since birth! I shall not!"
"Then we might as well carry you back to Jaldien on a silver platter," Yetsh said calmly, stoic eyes ever unchanging. "That's the whole reason you can't wear them or the crown. They give away who you are. You need to take them off."
Kessian opened his mouth to speak his rage, but caught himself. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, nearly red in the face from the angry energy bubbling in his hands and toes. "Oh, do whatever you like, won't you? It's not like we'll be staying here," Kessian snarled quietly, but let Jorgoff approach and slip the precious rings out of the bridge of Kessian's nose. The servant also took the rings from his fingers and the crown from his wet head, carefully detangling some hair that got caught around it during the thrashing of the water. The now plain-looking prince makes a face, lifting his wet hands to rub at the empty piercing holes in his nose, rubbing over the bridge. "It's... strange. How do people walk around without Dramme?"
Dramme was different for people of different classes. Kessian's Dramme, like his siblings, were silveroak and three in number through the bridges of their noses. Those who worked for royalty or were nobles wore two gold Dramme, one in each brow. Yetsh had already removed hers, and once Jorgoff had removed Kessian's, he quickly took out his own. "We'll get used to it," Jorgoff waves a hand, rubbing at his brows. He looked down at the jewelry in his hand and blinked when Yetsh tossed Kessian's fine clothing back into the river. Kessian looked about to protest something again, eyes on the jewelry in Jorgoff's hands, when Yetsh spoke.
"Don't worry. We aren't throwing them away," she said, walking over to the small rowboat she hauled over and pulling bags out. One a belt with pouches tied on, which she held out to Kessian. The boy paused, then took the belt and started tying it around his waist, slipping his jewel-encrusted dagger into it. She gave a shoulder bag to Jorgoff, who perked up. Slinging it over his shoulder, he slipped the jewelry and crown into the bag, clicking his tongue. Yetsh brought out a bag for herself, bigger than the others but empty at the moment.
"Okay. We have new clothes, new bags, no Dramme, no money. When are you two going to tell me why we're running?" Jorgoff turned a light frown towards his two companions, shifting his gaze to observe Kessian. "The council... what in Ninisal's name happened back there?"
"Jaldien being obstinate, as per usual," Kessian growled with a flash of irritation, patting down his new and rather plain shirt, checking the laces absently. "Things didn't go how they were supposed to, thanks to her."
"Aaaand... how were they supposed to go?"
"Not here," Yetsh interrupted, casting her gaze around like they were suddenly ringed in soldiers, even though there was not a soul to be found. "Later. We can't stay here for too long. It's been too long already."
"Mm," Jorgoff frowned slightly, walking over to the boat to start pushing it down the bank towards the water. "Well. If it comes to it, I'm sure we could sell our Dramme," he shrugged, apparently unbothered. "Where are we going?"
"The port. I set up preparations in case something went wrong," Yetsh nodded, joining Jorgoff in pushing the boat. The mud made it easy, but as soon as the wood hit the water the pull was insistent. "Into the boat, now," she ordered quietly, and Jorgoff easily hopped in. He held his hands out to Kessian, helping the shorter boy in with a quiet murmur of reassurance. Once they'd both seated themselves and Yetsh double-checked they'd left nothing behind, she nodded and shoved the boat into the water, holding on tight. She, with obvious skill, climbed in and immediately they were careening off down the river.
"Doesn't this river go through Ninisal's Sorrow?" Jorgoff twisted to look at the large woman behind him. She was combing her thick fingers through her hair when she nodded. "Uh... isn't that going to kill us? You know... giant waterfall?" Jorgoff's face twisted into worried confusion at Yetsh's seeming indifference.
"No," she shook her head slightly, not bothering to look up.
"How..?"
"We're going to get out before we get there," Yetsh lifted unimpressed eyes to look at Jorgoff, who blinked and his face reddened, overtaken with a sudden sheepishness. "Oh yeah. Of course."
"There's a ship waiting for us at the port, I presume?" Kessian spoke up, lounging across the plank-seat of the boat, picking at the wet mud in his hair. "How thoughtful of you to prepare for my plan to fail," he said dryly, leveling a half-lidded gaze on Yetsh.
"And if I hadn't, sire, we'd have nowhere to go." Yetsh raised a thick brow and shook her now loose hair. "Yes, there is a ship waiting at the docks. It'll take us to Morrin, if we get there before it leaves."
"If we're going south to Ceyn, we'll have to be careful. Maybe you should leave the mud in. Makes you look lower class," Jorgoff chirped with annoying cheerfulness.
"Thank you, Jorgoff," Kessian grumbled, but he dropped his hand. "I don't think we'll find any trouble in Ceyn. If it was Hyllelin, it'd be more difficult, but Ceyn harbors less hostility towards us. It is a shame Ixynn isn't on the water — it'd be much easier to trade and travel if we were. I've spoken with Gjirdir about it before — taking over Ceyn. He said it was a ridiculous notion," Kessian scoffed, waving a hand.
"Well... maybe a little ridiculous," Jorgoff maintained his sunny grin.
"I should have gotten a different servant."
Jorgoff laughed. "Awwww, I know you love me."
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