Tiber refrained from reprimanding Tyr for what must have been the thousandth time. Three times that number, more like. Skipping the palace guard to walk freely through the city was foolish at best, downright cruel at worse. If anything were to happen to the prince, heads would roll. Literally. Tiber's included, and now – Samson's. But as always, the prince gave little face to his consideration of responsibilities no matter how many times he was scolded.

“Did it hurt?” Samson asked, staring at the blue pattern that had appeared on Tythas' neck. Right over the jugular, now the man was a marked mage and therefore (relatively) safe some the 'holy justice' of the church.

“Itches a bit, no more.” Tythas replied. He had relaxed after a few days in Tyr's company. Observing him as a quiet man who spoke more with his eyes than his mouth. Always playing at one of the many games common around a court of nobles. At first, he had found the prince irascible and aloof. Until all of that was peeled away when Tyr was separated from others and sat alone somewhere. Reading, dutifully polishing a blade that needed no such labor put into it courtesy of a simple enchantment. He was a complicated man, but he had simple wants and needs.

Observant. Laconic. That were words for the kind of man Tyr was. Observant enough to act as would most benefit him most around the right people, only dropping his guard when in the company of his 'brothers' – though never completely. There was always a veiled way about him, a film that made his deeper character opaque and murky hidden behind the many masks he wore. A master of subterfuge in that way. It was a near guarantee that not a single fine lady or gentleman that frequented the palace knew him as any more than a rogue or scoundrel. One moment he would be cracking jokes and smiling without letting the exclamation of joy reach his eyes, and a second later he was back to brooding or staring into a cup with a frown.

They underestimated him for it.

“Still...” Tyr chuckled. Again, a mask. There was joy in the intonation but none in the eye. “On your neck? You could've gotten it on your hand if you didn't want it on your face. He lifted the sleeve of his linens to reveal his arm. Curling from forearm to bicep was a pattern more aggressive in comparison, black as night. A 'sleeve', they called it, more done for the art of it than any actual purpose.

“I can cover my neck with a shawl, if necessary.” Tythas hadn't wanted to get it at all. Had piped up, even. Tyr had itched to beat the man, before he checked the urge. Tythas did not deserve it, Tyr was just twisted and it was not the other mans problem that he was like this. He understood that his father associated anger with violence, but refused to become more like the man than the little he already was.

“True enough.” Tyr shrugged, behaving as he did. Appearing to take a healthy swig of the chilled alcohol to reveal that he had drank hardly any of it. He beckoned over one of the hooded men that found themselves interspersed throughout the establishment. A gaunt face, a milky eye indicating half blindness. These men weren't chosen for their looks, but their more immeasurable qualities.

“Fennic.” There were no bows, no 'my lords' or 'your highness's'. No need for it, not among this lot. Tiber looked up at the man as well, a look of distaste plain on his thin lips.

Only a nod between them to indicate understanding. The man, Fennic, said nothing at all.

“It's time.” And that was all. Whatever he had commanded, it needed no explanation. Fennic nodded and left the inn. He moved in a way that would indicate a thief, perhaps an assassin. Even footed and as quiet as a dead man six feet beneath the earth. A skill that only one of those particular trades would pick up after many years of hard experience. In reality, he'd been a hunter, a very skilled one. Well used to tracking quarry regardless of the species.

“A talon?” Tythas asked. Talon, cutthroat, hitman. Sicario in Baccia and Milano.

Tyr shook his head. Fennic was no legendary assassin, though he knew his axes well enough. “Rogue, experienced woodsman. Makes a good scout.”

“Is he always that quiet?” Tythas frowned. “You know... Like, why does he never talk?” This hadn't been the first time seeing that particular face in the crowd of black hoods, he seemed close to Tyr's confidence but never made a sound.

With a chuckle, Tyr looked at Tiber and leaned forward. “Do you want to tell him, uncle?”

“Tell me what?” Tythas leaned forward, caught up in the conspiracy of it all. Like it was some big secret. He was curious enough, eager to learn what kind of business happened outside the rigid doctrine of noble society. Had always held the interest, though he'd never been allowed to explore it. Titus was a very strict and proper man, had been.

“Fennic can't speak.” Tiber said, looking at Tyr disapprovingly. Doing that thing he did with his lips, like he'd chewed on a mystery mass in the leg of a chicken or was trying to find a splintered bone in his mouth with his tongue.

“Can't speak?” Samson too, was curious. He didn't like the look of that one, that Fennic. An ill natured man even at a cursory glance. A criminal. Samson might have been a slave, but not for a crime. The crime of losing a fight, perhaps, but through no theft of subterfuge. Tyr knew it was only in the looks, though, judging a book by its cover was a mistake. Fennic had a heart of gold and was by far one of the more appropriately mannered blackguard.

Tiber didn't humor them, so Tyr spoke in his stead. “Ole Tiberius here cut out that mans tongue out himself. Wanted to take the whole head with him, though.”

“...Ah.” Tythas coughed nervously, one eye watching the still face of Tiber. He knew who that man was, as soon as he'd heard the name Tiberius Scarr he'd known.

Tyr let the tale end there. Both of the newbies of their fine troupe exchanged glances and returned to their meals, picking at the food noticeably slower. While true, there wasn't much more to the story. See, Fennic was a thief alright – and had been caught thieving. Join the greenwatch or lose your thumbs – few men would choose the later over two or three years as a conscript in the ranger corps. Caught 'stealing'. Also known as hunting on the wrong land at the wrong time and ridden down by one of the eastern nobles.

Both men had been there when that poor man was thrown in irons. A lot of criminals were sent to the capital for sorting, arrayed in the commoners district on a plinth and pelted with refuse. Food to feed his family, or an honest mistake – Fennic never said. Didn't matter, the law was the law and some nobles were more aggressive with it than others. Tyr had dueled a man for rights over Fennic's conviction, and this had been the best way.

Many assumed the story about the tongue made Fennic a dangerous man. He was. Dangerous, that is, with an axe or longbow – but he was no assassin. Good at finding things, Tyr swore his one remaining eye could see better than five on a normal man.

The tongue came later, after Tyr had arrived to offer the man a job. Now, he had no family left. Wife had taken the children and simply disappeared. Found a new man, or so the rumor went. Fennic had rarely spoken about it then, now he couldn't speak at all.

An accident is what it was. A cut and sore on the tongue that had needed removing. Magic or fire couldn't solve it, it was too late for that. Cancerous, the healer had said, too advanced for a normal cure. And so, Fennic had asked himself. Half asked, with his mouth full of pus weeping meat. And Tiber obliged, Tyr too sick at the smell of it to do much more than gag. Saved the mans life, though the old knight still looked down on a petty criminal regardless of their acquittal through service.

Was like that for a lot of the blackguard. Little favors here and there, and a steady wage. That's all it took to secure the most basic loyalty of a man. Provide to their needs, or their hopes and dreams if you can get to the root of it. They'll die for you. Die for their prince. He didn't want them too, though. They were tools, in their way. Servants, but so was he. They were also his brothers, and his position as a prince made many of the more honest men feel blessed by the gods to be considered so.

God fearing men who worshiped and loved the imperial family regardless of Tyr's impotence. Some convicted of death, most of them criminals to some degree until Tyr had found them. Not all were as friendly and loyal as old Fennic, but they all had their part to play. At the very least, they'd put steel to flesh at any given moment should the prince ask it of them. That was what mattered.

They'd make fine enough knights if they'd been born or educated under nobility. Tyr had never much cared for 'commoner' as a measure of ones worth as a person.

Samson cleared his throat, sounding like two bears mating inside a metal box. “Your two wives were very kind. I hope I did not offend them.”

“Who cares if you did.” Tyr returned to his leaning position, sighing. “You didn't, though. For the record. They said they liked you.”

“You should treat your women better.” Samson had shed his nervousness much faster than the mage beside him. Regained a bit of his pride after learning that no man would ever chain him again, such was the oath. Not afraid to die, but afraid of the shackle. Tyr could understand that. “They carry our future. In my society, the women rule. Long after our warriors are picked to bone beneath the southern sun. It's the same here, no? They will carry your house after you perish in battle, or otherwise...”

In agreement with Samson's words, Tiber wasn't one to argue with them. There was disrespect, and then there was plain knocking some sense into a boy who thought himself older and wiser than he was. This was certainly the latter. He liked Samson, a lot, the man was a true warrior and worthy of the armor he wore. Clean, polite, but capable of that sort of pride and forthrightness that was necessary in a man.

“I'm not saying you're wrong. Tiberius says the same thing sometimes, you're like two peas in a pod. I don't wish to abuse them, and I don't. That was a unique situation. It was selfish and reckless of--” Tyr received a hard look from Tiber who was loyal to both he and his father. If made to choose between the two, primus came first. Even before his own family. Except for one situation in particular, though Tiber refused to accept such a thing could happen. “His primus, my father. I feel as though they were forced into it. No, they were forced into this betrothal and their lives are wasted on it. Regardless, I care for their well being. Trust that. But I will not allow either myself, or them – to feel attachment. That is not the way, and they will be happier for it.”

Nodding in satisfaction that he had been heard, Samson relaxed a bit. This was all he could do for now, to ensure decency. “You have many wives here? I had thought men of the north only took one. We take many wives as well, I have been told this is strange among your people. That you are mostly monogamous.”

“It depends.” Tyr replied. “High nobles usually take concubines, which are like wives – but hold no legal title. As for a primus, it's different. We, and I mean we as the Imperial royal family, can marry as we like. In this case, my father said it – so it was law. Better to breed. The church allows this for the same reason, but monogamy is generally the law.”

Technically, a man could have as many wives as he wanted – the process was just... Very complicated. Betrothal was a bonding between houses and every subsequent house added to the bond would need acceptance from all those before it. For higher nobles, the law was 'one' to prevent any sort of monopoly on responsibility – but ultimately the primus was the law. If Jartor said it was so, it was, all they needed to do was get his permission.

“I see. Two wives, at your age. Must be a busy life.” Samson mused, expression darkening more with every word. “You will soon have many children. As I did.”

Tyr ignored the obvious implication behind the man's words. Samson didn't seem the type to find solace in either sympathy or pity. “Three wives.” He held up three fingers to accentuate the number. “Two who claim me. One who refuses to. Though she's a college mage so she'd be about her duties regardless. Haven't seen her in two years, since the day she threw a saucer at me and declared herself unwed. As if such a custom exists.”

He chuckled at that. It had been funny. Her, acting just as he did – astonishing the court. Thankfully, his father had found it of some comedy too. A rare smile, maybe the last time Tyr had seen an honest one split the lips of the man since that day. It'd, in essence, only gone downhill from there – in terms of their father-son relationship.

“As for a busy life? Perhaps, but not in the making of children. I've never touched them.”

“Truly?” Samson raised his eyebrows. “Do you yearn for the flesh of men? This is understandable, but still – your duty to your clan and people is to bear a son, no? Take a man and wed him, you are primus, what you say will be law one day.”

“Truly.” Tyr sighed. “Sigi tried once. By force. Nearly split me at my hinges. Told her if she could beat me in a fist fight I'd do it. As for men, no. I prefer women. At least I think. They are nice to look at, I have not yet had the pleasure of bedding one. Nor will I. A whore here and there to tickle my back, that is all. To beget a bastard primus would be a great dishonor on my father's name. He might kill me for it, and the fear of punishment far outweighs my curiosity regarding his reaction. Nobles and clergy be damned, but I do fear my father. I respect him enough to obey that simple rule.”

“But the fist fight? You beat the woman? She looks very capable.” Samson seemed surprised. He should be, Sigi was indeed strong. All northerners were, by default it seemed. But she had a way about her that communicated a wild strength. Tyr was strong, capable enough for a man – but he was inferior to her in that regard at least. Sigi had a palpable aura as a warrior, Tyr was more subdued and juvenile. Maybe with a blade, he'd win, but with bare hands Samson would consider the wife superior.

“No. She beat me bloody until she was dragged off me, had me drooling on the floor. Wasn't a long spar.”

“So...?” Samson seemed to be saying 'So why hadn't it happened?' His grasp of the unfamiliar common was good, considering his status as a foreigner to this continent, but his grammar was strange at times. Often ending sentences early or leaving words out entirely. Common was only common on the eastern continent, perhaps Oresund as well. In Agoron, where he hailed from, their regional dialects were dominant with Assyrian being the most widely used language. The language of trade, they called it.

“In Oresund, defeat comes through submission. You can beat a man to within an inch of death.” Tyr replied. “If you refuse to accept defeat, you are not defeated. Take my arms, legs, eyes. Only in death, should I refuse to submit – can I be beat. In their custom. Thus, I simply refused to give up. She's been cross about that ever since. A fortunate loophole, because she is much stronger than I anticipated.”

Thus, they were still technically within the arena of a 'duel' in the custom of her homeland. At all times and forever until he verbally surrendered. By their laws, she'd be free to break Tyr's neck and claim victory. Wife or not. Of course, she couldn't do that, it wasn't the Harani way. That worked vice-versa, with neither of them admitting defeat – though she 'won' more often than not. Never had she beaten him so badly as back then, though. Now, she seemed to like it for what it was. Just a spar, with her playing with him like they were children. Often suggestive in her movements and mannerisms in an attempt to rouse him. Except this time, should he finally agree, he was certain her own superior attitude would refuse to bed him. Now it was about pride, not the initial claim to his body.

Jartor had laughed at that. He'd married a northern blooded woman – Tyr's mother. He liked their ways, and their bluntness. The primus of Oresund and he were old friends with the former being a great mentor to the younger primus, and that's how Tyr had been forced to accept the hand of two of Ragnar's daughters. A bond of true friendship between their houses. A man, Tyr, that would be required to safeguard them by honor until his dying day and see to all of their needs.

And he did, mostly, he wasn't so honorable as to dote on them. Honor went only so far as pride or a promise between consenting parties. Beyond that, it didn't matter how honorable one was. An arrow through Tyr's eye would send him to the black as quickly as any murderer and he wouldn't be given his unique position in the queue to cross. All were equal in death.

“You have such worries, for a man of your age. You should bed them. Enjoy life while you can. Surely they would appreciate the chance to fulfill their own duties. These women do not hate you as you think they do. They are not prim and proper sheep. Women are more often than the men hot blooded and passionate, not allowing them to show their true nature is a cruelty that you do not see with your eyes. They deserve to be loved.” Samson's lesson hung in the air. Tiber was a harsh man, but he'd been gentle with his late partner and had done much for them. He didn't know if they were still alive, but given the context of the past they were probably dead.

Maybe there was wisdom in what Samson said. Maybe Tyr just appreciated the man for giving him the eye of an equal in all respects but wisdom only age could bring. Maybe he just didn't want to listen after all.

Regardless, Mikhail arrived. Another blackguard. “Boss.”

'It's time'. The implication of his arrival needed no elaboration.