Carrington Whitethorne entered his estate in Camelot holding Questor's green plate helm in one hand. He climbed the stairs to his lavish room, and sighed. He polished the old, dented helm with his claok before setting it upon a shelf with a black beneath it which read.


"In memory of my best friend, and true brother, Questor Whitethorne."


Carrington felt a pang of sarrow for the fallen soldier, then quickly left the room. He slowly plodded down the stairs, battle-weary and exhausted, feeling as though the events as of late had taken it's toll. As he enared the door, three cloaked men approached his door. He nodded at them and adjusted his cloak.


"Carrington Whitethorne, I have brought you ill news." The man said, lowering his hood; Carrington immediately recognized him as the magistrate Tamura.


Carrington sighed and nodded. More bad news? His mind probed every possible situation..what else could go wrong? He thought of Moryan, and their love..as well as the Lions. Had something happened to her? Had someone else of the Order fallen?


"Carrington Whitethorne," The magistrate repeated, "It has come to the court's attention that you are not the true son of your father, Lord Whitethorne, but a bastard whelp born to a common barmaid. The woman ahs come foreward, as well as a witness from Lord Harbury's court, to prove this. We've the written documentation and evidence to support her claim. We have found that you are not the claim to this estate, or any land your father may have owned. All of it will be promptly turned over to the true son of Whitethorne, Albricht. Here and now, by order of the Crown, you are stripped of your proper title of Count, and will be justly compensated."


The magistrate spoke these words coldly, harshly, and carelessly as if they were nothing to him. Carrington could not believe the words he was hearing. It had all come so quickly...was it real?


" These men will escort you from Albricht's estate, and by his order, you will never return. This property is the right of Lord Albricht Whitethorne, the true Edling of Whitethorne. Farewell. "


And with that, the magistrate handed Carrington the written documentation, which included a personal confession from his late father, which he had written in a fit of guilt. The two massive cloaked men grabbed Carrington by each arm, and drug him away.


And Carrington's world collapsed, right there that afternoon, the noble's son and former generally stripped and left with nothing. The collapse of the Whitethorne.

 

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Moryan searched frantically for Carrington, having heard the rumors on the streets of Camelot about seeing him taken forcefully from his home.


She had never been comfortable there, only sharing a few nights there in his bed, but she knew something dire must have happened if he was taken from there by magistrates.


She had heard of a rush of missives being sent by nobles and word on the street was garbled and unclear.


Then she headed for Arguyle's estate, looking for word of Carrington's whereabouts.

Smiling and laughing, Crispian strode up the stairs of the wood shop to the small quarters he kept upstairs. Scrolls and letter of entreat were piled on the desk, for he had been gone the past four days.


Sitting down, he began to work through them all, reading petitions for aid from the League, memebership to the League, correspondence from Allies and Guild-mates. He smiled each time he read "Lord Crispian" for the accolade was so wrongly laid upon him, but one he could seem to shake.


As he neared the last of the stack, Jashen slipped into the room. His studded armor hissed slightly against the leather of the chair he settled into, adjusting the two blades at his waist for comfort. "Hail Brother, have you heard?" the younger twin asked, his face serious, almost grave.


"Hm?" Crispian raised his eyebrows in distracted interest as he read word from Thidranki sent by Sister Mirial, a young Cleric in the service of the League.


"It seems you are not the only one who is called 'Lord' incorrectly," Jashen continued, waiting for Crispian's attention. "Carrington has been stripped of titles, lands, and holdings. He's not even a Whitethorne of full blood." No smirk marked his face that this might be a jest.


Crispian sat back, thoughtful. He had raced Carrington by horse from Cornwall to Snowdonia in the past days and knew the Lord Whitethorne had been busy with defense of the Realm, as well as a personal dailliance. This intregue must have been abrew that entire time.


"I hate politics," Crispian said, rubbing his forehead. "See what you can find out, Jash. Who, when, how. And send that new lad, Tannir, in here."


Jashen sketched a mocking bow as he left, signalling Tannir to go in. The young rogue stood hestitantly waiting as Crispian wrote something. He sanded it and read, keenly feeling his lack of formal schooling, but greatful Mirashta had made him learn to read and write at least.


The note read:


" Lord Carrington,

Let me know if the League can help. Court lies are vile.


Crispian


PS I won't race you as a commonr. So let's clere this up."


"Take this and find Carrington Whitethorne," Crispian said, pressing his seal of office into the warm wax. "And don't let anyone see you pass it, if you can avoid it."


Tannir bobbed his head and dashed from the office.

 

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ooc, ACK that sucks.

ic,


A mouse, seeing this, scurries back into the wall of the Whitethorne estate to ponder his next moves...

Sir Racius Lutheran sits in his estate quietly, lording over a massive oaken desk as he listens to a report regarding the Whitethorne situation. He ponders silently on the course of action that should be taken, and then makes a decision. "Track down Carrington, and bring him back to my estate. I will have words with him."

Sad story, it is hard when things like this happens in our lives. But, I am sure that at the end he will recover.

SSHHHHH don't ruin the plot for me...I haven't seen this one yet.


/sit watching in anxious anticipation munching popcorn


Anyone want any?

Carrington closed his eyes, his heart writhing in agony. Not the true son of Whitethorne? Could anyone not see Abricht's treachery? Had his support for the marriage of Ravyin and Drayton caused the Harbury court to conspire against him? He didn't care right now. He just sat there, unable to move, in shock. Everything he had been given, worked for, and earned in his life was gone...except for a few sentimental possessions and his rank within the Order. Other than that, he wa just another bastard son of a noble, bedded secretly, living his life as a lie. His heart wrenched at the thought.


He layed his few possessions on the floor next to him...Questor's plate helm, the plaque of Moryan's poetry he had made for himself...she held the other, the plaque commemorating his quick rise to the rank of General, and the very scrolls the brought him down. He buried his head in his hands and took a deep breath, his fingers toying with the bangs of his blonde locks.


He began to ponder Arguyle's words...and what he had said. He sat up slowly, a new look of courage in his eyes.


"I won't lay down for them." he said, raising his posture and looking to Arguyle, his chin proud, but a tear rolling down his cheek, marring his strong features.

 

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A large mouse runs out of a hole and surveys the human, and then runs over to the scrolls. Unnoticed to the distrought fellow, the rodent then laburiously unrolled one scroll and started running around on it looking it over.


The blonde, noticing the varmit, knocked it aside. Undettered, it ran a semi-circle behind Caer and then scurried into the green helm to hide for a minute. When it felt the coast was clear, it scurried back over to the scrolls and finished it's review of it.


Then, secretly, the mouse scurried back into the helm to hide there.

and a stealthed form detached itself from the wall across from the McFadden estate and scurried across the city to its master....


(better than just /bump)

 

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