Crime and Punishment
Theater of Tragedy - On Whom The Moon Doth Shine
Ehrendill had sent his two field heralds to announce his arrival at Avamar. In the city, in its alleys, docks and old districts, restless bastards finished their activities earlier and prepared for the meeting that awaited them in the afternoon. The Crow had brought hope, amusement, a near relevance again. The parties, the plots and small conspiracies. For a few weeks they felt like the nobles, sharing their intrigues and their little luxuries. As soon as the sun began to leave behind the western clouds and the moon began to gain its spectral majesty, a procession of lighted torches meandered through the outermost fields of the city, through the cracked walls of Honor and Glory with the names of defeated enemies already worn by time. Through the decrepit statues, advancing to the ruins of huge temple, they gathered themselves. The great family of bastards made their circle of prayers and sacred chants, trying to calm hearts awed by the fear of what the future would bring upon them on dragon's wings.
The Stormwalkers made their way through the crowd, paving the way for their Lord, forming a smaller inner circle with their black robes and black shields with stylized lightning bolts. That particular night, they wore coarse wooden masks to cover their identities, their hands on the sword’s hilts like harbingers of carnage. The crowd shuddered with the memories of the Purge Night in which Dürion had ordered that in all Sirionite territory, in some cases beyond the borders, that the improper and undesirable bastards were hunted and killed by ghosts dressed in Westmorian dead skin. When the moon reached its summit above the ruins, the neighing of the stallion announced the most anticipated arrival of the night. The impatient animal snorted and beat the front hooves on the cracked stones of the once decorated pavement. The squire held the reins and helped Ehrendill dismount. The young Serpentis was dressed with a light armor and a red cape tied to his pauldron covered his right flank, almost like an angel of a single bloody wing. He passed solemnly through the two circles and stood before the feet of a ruined statue, looking aroud at his soldiers and his people; his great family.
The silence wave reigned almost absolute, agitated only by the flames crackling. They held their breath, the fear of drowning tightening their hearts. From the darkness, two Stormwalkers brought the prisoner, head down in silent shame and wrists crossed at his back. No chains or shackles, just ephemeral fetters forged of pure and heavy sorrow. It was the meeting of two princes, one with a silver circlet, full in his glory. The other with a black turban, broken, shattered, torned apart by the judicious eyes of his family. The soldiers stopped two steps back and left the brothers facing each other. Like in the first meeting, Ehrendill advanced and took the traitor's face in his hands, kissing his cheeks and forehead. The prisoner's lips twitched and the elf turned his face so he could whisper in his ear.
Hrafn: “I’m Erik Eyolf Serpentis… how dare you…â€
A slap reddened the raven's face, burning in his ruined character. A spontaneous act, not a proper aggression, but a pull to the very surface of reality. Ehrendill didn’t say a word. After the slap, he began undressing Hrafn. First the turban, then the regalia. He even knelt to take off his boots before getting up again to loosen his belt and let his pants fall off. The sultan was naked as in the children's tales. Hrafn trembled in the cold wind that whipped his skin until his brother waved and a Stormwalker covered him with his black cape. The ritual of ostracism demanded that impetuous and solemn silence. Words did not have to be said, for Hrafn would never hear their voice again. He must keep his eyes on the ground, for he was no longer allowed to look at his family. He was alone now. No clan or lineage was allowed to reach out for help. Hrafn wanted to cry and beg. Without his family, he was a nobody. He wanted to fall to his knees, grab his brother's cape and cry like a child hoping a helping hand would console his black hair. None of this happened. He stood there, empty.
The circle opened and Hrafn finally gained some impetus to walk barefoot in the cold, following the road that led out of Avamar... out of Sirion. His wings were broken, his past cursed and in his future, an outcast. A pariah tempted to look back. Ostracized and banned, he walked in shame until disappear into the darkness. His name would be erased from official documents. Hrafn Skovgaard didn’t exist anymore.
