The Duel

["Kathie Care" <kathie@availablelight.net>]

And a good time was had by all... In case you missed being able to observe
OOCly, here it is! =)

--------------------------------------------------------

3/11/01
Logfile from DuneIII-Ophelia

Dueling Hall -- Imperial Arena (Kaitain)(#1119RntFJM)

        A small, intimate space, this dueling hall appears to have been hewn
from some drab native stone. A low ceiling hosts a brilliant, yet somewhat
faded mural depicting two beasts locked in savage combat. Wooden torches
have been set in plain iron sconces on the walls, their flames shedding dim
light upon the chamber.

        The floor of this hall is taken up almost entirely by a rough
circular mat, which leaves just barely enough space for spectators to seat
themselves upon one of the low stone benches set well outside of the ring
proper. A faint spicy scent lingers in the air, though its source cannot be
identified.

Players:

 Sanla                                              Wallach

 Nestor                                             Shane

 Wilhelm                                            Steffan

 Dominic                                            Srulin

Exits:

 Spiral Stairs <U> leads to Observation Dome -- Dueling Hall (Kaitain)

-------------------------------

The forms having been obeyed, the demands of the Great House Moritani being
sent to the Landsraad High Council, the Judge of the Change Alexi Nestor
been appointed by the Emperor and LHC...the score will be settled by the
ancient and honorable rite of kanly!

Nestor enters the arena and begins a slow walk aimed, apparently, at the
center of the large hall.

A place has been prepared in Kaitain City, the disputants summoned there at
the appropriate time. On one side, the House Moritani enters, on the other,
the House Ginaz.

Steffan enters the hall with a confident, arrogant stride, chin elevated and
eyes cold and indifferent. The Siridar-Marquis wears no shield, no mercy or
quarter to be shown. This is to be a battle to the death, and one trained in
the intricacies of dueling by the greatest swordschool in the Known Universe
takes his place on the appointed side, sneering towards the opposite in
venomous scorn.

Srulin enters alongside his elder brother, Steffan and Dominic of House
Ginaz. He notes to himsel of a small room which they are apparently in
currently. He follows his comrades towards the Ginaz side of the small room.
His hands behind his back, and his lips curled to a small grin. It seems he
may have high hopes that everything will go quite well for House Ginaz. This
is the night that the Ginaz will prevail and become the stronger House
between the two. A few times, his eyes would peer towards the Moritani side,
seeking any sign of fear.

Leading the Moritani contingent is the Countess herself, garbed in a severe
black gown. Just as severe is her expression, lips pursed together in a
thin, straight line. Her heels click on the floor, stirring up an echo as
she steps forward, skirts lifted slightly by one hand. Her other hand,
however, is also occupied. Lightly, it rests upon the arm of the High
Councillor of War, the Earl of Turcal, Shane Padron.

Dominic follows behind his Marquis and comes to stand on the right side of
Srulin. His eyes survey Shane for a moment before coming to rest upon his
Siridar. His face has a somewhat grim expression.

Shane looks to Ophelia briefly before looking across the room. It's not
every day that one gets to face potential death, and even rarer that in so
noble a forum one goes head to head with a master from the Ginaz
swordschool. It's even less rare that one expects to have much to share
about the story later save a statistic. His expression there for bears an
expected focus...one that must come from his youth, perhaps a calm based
simply on ignorance of what truly he has gotten himself into, the now
Warmaster-once-Swordmaster.

The Moritani Chancellor, Baron Wilhelm Falkenberg, files in behind the
Countess Moritani, his Sapho-stained lips pursed tightly. He glances briefly
to the Ginaz, a cold stare falling upon Steffan. One hand is held to his
side, the other rests upon his sabre, as if waiting to spring should the
Ginaz prove to be more dishonorable than their reputation would suggest.

A few paces behind the Moritani Countess and Councillor and other high
ranking staff walk a tall young man, Squire Wallach, and a young woman, Lady
Sanla. The young man's face is stern and solemn; the lady's eye's nervously
jump across the unfamiliar faces in the room.

Nestor takes in a breath from his present position at the center of the
hall. "Years ago, a Kanly was declared and begun between Houses Moritani and
Ginaz. Finally, it is to come to an end in single combat as chosen by the
Siridari of both noble Houses. The two combatants will now step forward and
present themselves to the my person, the Judge of the Change in this
dispute."

Steffan steps forward, eyes going from Nestor to the Countess of House
Moritani and then back again as he proceeds to present himself to the Judge
of the Change, proceeding with the timeless tradition followed since the
ratification of the Great Convention.

Her hand yet on his arm, Ophelia stops Shane from stepping forward just yet.
Turning to face him, she places both of her hands on each side of his face,
so as to tip the man's face down to hers. Her brow knits as she gives him a
rather... concerned look.

And without further ado, or warning, the Countess Moritani leans up on her
toes to lightly brush her lips across the forehead of the Warmaster, her
face pausing near his as she murmurs quietly to him, "May your blade stay
sharp, and your aim true... You know what is needed... come back to us."

So much for focus. Smiling, quietly, but not planning to fight the
swordmaster with the stain of lipstick upon his forhead, Shane bows to the
Countessa before stepping forward, approaching the judge of change and
Steffan. Oddly, there is not the seething hatred that mars his opponent's
features, but as stated a determination of focus, of duty. It's not about
hating the player, but hating the game, and so Shane turns to face the Judge
of Change as the forms prescribe.

Nestor looks first to Steffan and then to Shane. "What you are about to
participate in is a ceremony nearly as old as the Imperium itself. Vendetta
is not to be taken lightly...and neither is death. This combat will take
place here shortly and will be between the two of you alone and unshielded.
Do you understand the terms of this combat?"

Steffan inclines his head without the slightest hesitation, apparently
anxious to get the combat underway and the blood gushing.

Shane nods as well. His hands remain clasped behind his back, feet
comfortably apart as he looks to the Judge of Change.

Srulin's hand drifts quietly up to brush a stray lock of wispy blond hair
from his eyes. He spares his brother a cool and encouraging smile, his
ice-blue gaze twinkling; he appears as eager as his brother.

Ophelia's hands clench, and she brings one up to press to the stiff front of
her corseted mid-section. Her knuckles slowly begin to whiten, but she
remains steady on her feet, her eyes locked on the center of the hall where
the combatants stand.

Nestor takes a moment to acknowledge each combatant's understanding of the
Forms thus far. "Both of you will now take a step back from each other and
draw your blades for my inspection. Though it is not explicitly a part of
the Forms, I believe that an inspection for poisons now will quell any
questions as to the fact at this time or at a later date by both parties..."

Steffan shoots a dry look at Nestor ... ironic for a Harkonnen to be
policing poison, after all. Nonetheless, he draws a thin, slender rapier
from his side and extends its blade towards the Judge.

Nestor passes his Ixian hand ominously over the Ginaz rapier, slowly as if
to draw out any suspense from the Moritani side. Quickly thereafter, a
neuter voice is emitted from the hand itself, "Clear."

Shane looks up as well. One cannot help but to notice the irony in this at
least. Drawing his curved blade, it a single blade, though much more like a
korean war sword than the more familiar blade of the Rapier. He holds the
blade in his hand, palm flat and open, other hand holding the hilt while
looking to Nestor.

As if in mirror image, Nestor waves his metallic hand just as slowly over
the Moritani's blade. A "Clear" resounds from the hand upon this inspection
as well.

Srulin's eyes rest on Shane's blade with derision. The Ginaz are set in
there ways, and as far as he is concerned, it is the best way. Confident
that a rapier in the hands of a Swordschool graduate is worth ten swords in
the hands of any other, he spreads his thin lips in an even broader smile.

Nestor nods, then turns his attention to the gathered masses. "Know ye this:
If there is /any/ interference by either side, I will call a violation of
the Forms and victory will be found for the opposing House. By interference,
I mean so much as stepping a foot onto the mat upon which these two
combatants now stand. All present are aware of my status as Master of
Assassins as well as Mentat - know that I will observe and will find such
trickery as well. Do not attempt it." He waits several long moments for that
to sink in with the surrounding group.

Steffan replies with dry contempt, "None would recognize it better."

The Countess does not drop her eyes, nor move her gaze in any way from the
Harkonnen's hand as it passes over the blades, and only when the final
'clear' is given does her chest resume rising and falling with her breath.
As the Judge speaks, though, she does look down, checking the position of
her feet in relation to the indicated space. But quickly her eyes lift, and
she stands once more with head high and chin lifted.

Shane nods, looking to Nestor. There is again that slight smile, and well,
why not? Perhaps this will be the advantage that he has over Steffan. It's
nto personal, it's business. His style is different, the Ginaz is cocky, and
he's got a type of sword not used in centuries as his primary weapon. Hell,
Steffan is everything he is supposed to be and who the hell knows what this
upstart from Moritani is supposed to be. So, it shall be a rather
sharp-edged ride but at least he won't have to worry about a seeker in his
back...at least not until tomorrow.

Nestor retorts to Steffan, "I will take that as a compliment." With that, he
begins moving backward toward a position that will put him off the mat at
one of the two edges of the square room not occupied by either House - quite
the metaphor. Having stepped off the mat and checked his own position, he
speaks again. "Remember how long this moment has been in the coming," he
intones, "and fight with honor and bravery. The fate of your Houses rests in
the next few moments. Who can say that they have borne witness to such an
event?" Another breath is taken. "House Moritani, you may invoke the words
of challenge per the Forms."

Steffan lifts a hand in supreme arrogance to stifle a false yawn, looking to
Shane and then back to Nestor, awaiting the proceedings with quite obvious
impatience.

Continuing, Shane stares at Steffan, a smile at the yawn, amusement, and
perhaps a hint more evilness. Ginaz or not, that's going to merit a cut. "I,
Earl Shane Padron of Turcal, choose the blade then to settle the Kanly."

Steffan tiredly makes the scripted reply, following the Forms to the letter,
"The Forms will be obeyed. I will stand before the blade."

Nestor nods after waiting a moment to take in the scene and let just enough
tension build. These are nobles, after all...and they do appreciate a good
drama. "The combat may...BEGIN!"

Ophelia holds silent, waiting, watching.

Steffan hefts his blade and gestures towards Shane, inquiring around a wry
grin, "Is the Moritani ready?"

Srulin's eyes flow smoothly to the center of the ring. Hands behind his
back, breathing even, he watches with his smile kept in check, but
nonetheless apparent at all times.

Well, this wasn't going to take long. He'd be a fool to stand there and let
the Ginaz pick him apart so like a bolt Shane brings that blade upwards, the
slight curve to it making it dangerous, since it need not thrust but only
slice to inflict damage. The thrusts are quick, but clearly not meant to be
the end-all and be all, Shane pressing forward against the Ginaz. "Does this
answer your question," he hisses out lowly.

Steffan easily parries the blow and twists, lashing out at the Moritani's
midsection. "Just promise to die in the most gory, agonizing means possible,
and I'll do my best to oblige," he taunts.

Sanla sqeezes Wallach's arm and turns her face away from the sights in the
ring, but her eyes don't budge from the action.

With the thrust to the midsection, Shane spins, the point of the Steffan's
blade already drawing first blood, sliding through the vest and into the
side of his hip, though missing anything vital. For his part though Shane
brings his sword down sharply across the top of Steffan's, trying to force
it out of position before bring his own up in a slicing arc.

Steffan takes a slight clip on the shoulder, scarlet seeping through his
nice, clean grey tunic. Damn, that's going to be one heck of a cleaning
bill, but he doesn't stop to bother, rising to the challenge with practised
gusto, rounding on the Moritani in a flurry of sword strokes.

First blood. Ophelia winces, but she can't tear her eyes away from the
deadly dance before her. Not yet anyways. Her knuckles whiten even further,
and she even sways on her feet now. But the Countess remains upright, her
gaze intently forward.

Wallach draws closer to Sanla, a nauseating sense coming about him.

As he said, Nestor watches the proceedings with a practiced eye, one never
quite sure where that eye is scrutinizing.

One might detect a slight flinch across Srulin's face. First blood
wasted...one verse to be knocked from the bard's songs of victory, no doubt.
He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath, intensity of
observation renewed.

Deflection, deflection, knick. Deflection, deflection, knick. It's almost
like practice. Shane's feet move backwards briefly before having to turn to
the side so that he's not constantly running, and as the positioning of the
fighters changes it's easy to see a hint of the sanguine fluid of life
marking his wrist, or his shoulder, or his bicep, little pin pricks taht
while none too serious, are slowly going to cause more wear and fatigue as
this goes on. Enough running though, Shane attemps to change tactics,
pressing in on one of Steffan's lunges, trying to bring that long curved
edge in an upwards strike again, cut the man in from midsection to head if
he weren't careful.

Steffan deftly dodges the attack and uses the opening of that drastic move
to aim for Shane's face ... time to give him a few scars to remember this by
as he's roasting in Hell.

The grating sound of steel versus steel can be heard, as Shane's blade comes
down to deflect away Steffan's, but the force of the blow is too strong and
it is his own sword that bites, deeply, into his cheek, cutting a swath the
entire way from his jaw to his temple, barely missing the eye at that. The
blood comes out freely, actually seeming to splash form the side of his face
before Shane quickly brings his foot up and kicks towards Steffan's
midsection with all that he can.

Steffan takes a foot to the beans and doubles over slightly, only a eunuch
able to quite deflect that without much pain, the Marquis wincing as he
steps back to recoup, the loss of his manhood painful, but certainly no loss
to Justine, after all.

Shane steps in, blade at the ready as he looks about to strike and then it's
not his sword, his foot that raises once more, attempting to kick the
Siridar right across the face, the man not without the strength to make such
a blow hurt. From artful swordbattle to down-and-out slugfest, this exactly
the turn of events that's going to bring this kind of fight to Shane's
level.

Steffan is of no mood to go from dueling to kickboxing, and jabs at the
approaching foot, attempting to skewer a few little piggies in the process.

Marco watches on with a calm expression. Never once does he lose his cool
relaxed demeanor. The glowing blue of his eye follows the events on the mat,
soaking up everything in a giant visual gulp. With his arms crossed over his
chest and face set in a serious, business expression, the man from Arrakis
watches on silently. Death is nothing new to him.

They're good boots, the angle enough to deflect the blow. Shane slows a
moment though, stepping back to reset, as he looks at STeffan. The right
side of his face is smeared in blood, and then he grins, a moment, as he
runs his hand through his hair, shaking it out, and watching the doubled
over Swordmaster, though the man seems to be getting his wind. "Man," he
says, quietly. "Is this all you've got M'lord? Everyone in the audience
thought they'd be home ages ago," he taunts.

Srulin's face darkens at this insult to his nobleborn brother. His jaw
flexes, indicating his strong desire to speak, or perhaps spit, but his rage
subsides into a sullen stare after a moment.

Steffan bellows in anger as he begins to lose patience, "Then hurry up and
die!" his sentiment echoed by his sword which darts for Shane's neck.

A bit wobbly on his feet, though not out of it yet, Shane has little
intention of doing that. Hanging in and hanging in, the anthem of the
underdog and as Steffan comes in high, Shane ducks low, attempting to swipe
his blade this time in a fashion that leaves Steffan perhaps without
something important, say perhaps his internal organs. The blade is lunged
upwards almost in the way pikemen performed the same gesture to stop the
stampeding horses, his body ducked to try and avoid the blow.

Ophelia raises a hand to press a knuckle to her lips, her eyes watching the
arc of the Ginaz sword as if it moved slowly. In her mind, it does move
agonizingly slowly, and as Shane ducks, her eyebrows lift. And then her eyes
track Shane's sword, her expression hopeful.

Srulin's sullen demeanor is broken by an elbow jerk, drawing the attention
of a few people on the floor. He winces briefly, his frown deepening into an
expression of childish concern as his attention swings back to the
combatants.

Steffan looks concernedly over at his brother, barely backing away from
Shane's onslaught. His brow furrowing in inquiry, he cannot however afford
to forget the battle and turns back to the Moritani champion, thin blade of
his rapier seeking a shoulder.

Oh that's going to hurt. The blade does indeed land into his shoulder,
sliding thorugh shirt, and in the most grotesque of ways, actually sliding
thorugh to pierce and end up behind him. But in the way of shield fighting,
slow, deliberate, it is perhaps not until it is too late that the same
gesture is almost instantly repeated, Shane's blade pressed to Steffan's
middle, the blade sunken in slightly, though unfortunately with a rapier
what is left to do save for pushing further? Shane, however, mustering up a
last little bit of strength to even move his arms, drags that blade
lengthwise up the middle of the Ginaz Siridar's chest, no cheer, no taunt,
nothing, simply the slow sluicing of his blades upward from navel to throat.

Ophelia sees the blade exit the back of Shane's shirt, but his body blocks
her view of what he in turn is doing to his opponent. She gasps aloud,
thoughts of doom flitting through her mind. And then does she avert her
gaze, a hand instantly reaching out for someone, anyone, to support her, as
she begins to lose her balance.

Sanla shuts her eyes tight and buries her face in Wallach's shoulder.

Steffan opens his mouth in wordless shock ... to be beaten by a mere
Moritani swordsmaster, a piddling piece of Ophelia love-meat. So shocking he
could die ... and is. Great gouts of gore spray from his midsection, bathing
Shane and all within around twenty feet of him in a lovely shade of crimson
sure to complement the grey of the Marquis' spilling entrails. He falls to
the ground and shudders, convulsing as his bowels losen, a scent more foul
than blood and innards quickly spreading as the Ginaz cuts lose in
defacation, a final scorn to the Moritani before he gives up the ghost.

Nestor puts up a restraining hand to the room in general. "All
non-combatants remain in your places! The combat is not yet over."

Wallach hugs Sanla, both to confort her and to turn his attention away from
the gruesome display.

Sarah looks like she could be sick.

Marco stands like a pillar of strength, giving aide to his Countess.

Standing, slowly, Shane moves, following the look on Steffan's face, his own
filled with hatred, then pity, then sorrow, then in all honesty, pain, as he
watches the man fall, Shane kicking him in the chest to help get that rapier
slashed in his shoulder to a position OTHER than impaling him, a scream
cutting from him at that and quite frankly the final force of that brings
Shane to simply fall back most ungracefully onto his ass, sitting for a
moment, as he looks over to Ophelia, and the Moritani faction, his
blood-drained form simply falling backwards and looking up blankly at the
top of the dome, empty.

Dominic grimaces at the death of his Siridar. He shakes his head slightly,
as if the events that have unfolded are not too much of a surprise to him.

Nestor repeats, "Remain in your places!" as he himself strides out at a
non-hurried pace toward the two bodies now lying on the floor, only one a
corpse for certain. Why won't he move faster? Because it isn't in the Forms.

Spurt, spurt, gush, gush, Steffan is dead and his last bits of life's ichor
fountains like some unholy bidet. The Marquis is dead, long live the
Marquis.

A sudden gasp from the Ginaz side of the room draws attention once more to
the young Prinz Ginaz. But rather than seeing his attention directed to the
combat floor and the cooling mess of his brother, occupants in the room see
a man whose gaze is entirely unfocused. The man's jaw slips open and a cry
like that of a fallen crow is heard. His neck twists upwards and two
pencil-thin streams of blood trace from his open lip and down his neck. In
but a moment, the heir to House Ginaz has joined his Marquis, his brother,
dead on the floor of a Kaitain Arena.

Nestor sneers as he points a metallic finger at the Prinz Ginaz.
"In...your...place!" he says through a sneer. "There are better ways and
places for this display."

Ophelia sees not whose arm she grips, though her head turns back towards the
combatants in morbid curiosity. Having missed it, she didn't see the killing
blow to the Marquis, and shock and surprise washes across her face like a
tidal wave. Again, she gasps aloud, and were it not for the words of the
Judge, her feet would have crossed the line onto the mat moments before.
Wordlessly, silently, she waits, color rising brightly to her cheeks with
her anxiety.

The limp form of the Prinz makes no move. He's not quite good at listening.
A Suk would be a useful thing for him to see...or maybe he'll just be sent
to the morgue without much thought.

Dominic moves quickly to the side of Srulin.

Shane lays, and doesn't move. Nope, that would hurt too much. And quite
frankly, he truly feels it's entirely possible that if he even tried that
would be exactly what would finish the blood rolling from him to decide he's
lost too much and he'd die. As it is he definitely has the desire to sleep
but before he can do that duty's going to dictate he do something, so the
best he can do is push his sword away a few inches as it slides across the
floor. "Obey...the damned....forms," he spits out bloodily. There may be no
winner if Nestor doesn't get his ass over there soon.

Nestor looks now to Dominic. "Remove the Prince or even if the Moritani
dies, I will call for a violation of the Forms in the favor of the
Moritani." Did he fail to mention that the Forms make stipulations for both
one and two deaths in these duels? Hmmm...pity.

Dominic nods at Nestor's words. "Am I allowed to call for a Suk to come and
attend him?"

"A suk...that'd....be nice," comes the last words from Shane as he closes
his eyes, and slowly starts to slip into a sleep brought from his loss of
blood. Not yet, but his body has decided staying awake is just...too much
work.

Nestor nods to Dominic. "You may take him to one, yes. Do so now." With that
he continues the last few steps toward Shane. He, it seems, does not merit a
Suk at this moment. "The last cut from the Ginaz. Is it mortal?"

No. It can't be. The Countess' lips silently mouth the word that she waits
to hear Shane say... 'no'.

Sanla turns her head enough to look at the carnage with one eye and sobs,
"Someone please do something for them."

As a Master of Assassins, perhaps the man will be able to use his own skill
to know that a man could survive that. It wasn't low enough to get a long,
nor was it in enough to get the neck or throat or an artery. Just
muscle...enough that arm won't be used much but while the cut's not mortal,
laying there could be. There's just a quiet....'mmmm' though whatever that
means.....

Dominic quietly murmurs something into his communicator as he moves Srulin's
body off to the side. A few moments later, several Ginaz dressed in black
uniforms come in and quickly carry Srulin out of the room. Dominic nods to
one of them and resumes his previous position, waiting for the inevitable
results of the duel.

Marco still does not make a sound nor does he move. He stands watching on
with a neutral look at the scene.

Nestor does indeed bend over to look at the wound more closely. He's quite
obviously in no hurry here. After a few drawn out moments he stands
straight. "The Moritani will survive. The Forms have been obeyed and, as
Judge of the Change, I declare House Moritani the victor of this duel."
Always business first. "Does the House Moritani Siridari wish to re-enter
negotiations with House Ginaz at this time?" Yes, he's surrounded by carnage
and death, but there are the Forms.

Wallach's face loses color as he forces a look to the combat floor.

Ophelia straightens, releasing Marco's arm that she yet clutches, even
smoothing her skirt before saying evenly, "We wish for the withdrawal of the
Kanly, and, as Victor, we lay claim to satisfaction of the list of demands
as delivered to the Landsraad High Council. The Forms must be obeyed."

Nestor nods. A slow look down to Shane then back up. Apparently the man is
now the secondary issue. After all, he declared the combat over. "Lady
Moritani, the Forms state that you may either choose withdrawal and receive
ten percent of House Ginaz's resources and the dissolution of said House or
you may call for negotiations in which case you may bring your list to them
and negotiate the terms of their loss. If you choose one you will not
receive the other. Which is your choice, Lady Moritani? Assets and
dissolution of House Ginaz or negotiations and satisfaction of this vendetta
once and for all? Think before you answer, as this decision will carry grave
consequences for your House as well..."

Ophelia snorts quietly, shaking her head. "My list, as it is, is far more
important than dissolution of a worthless House. We will re-enter
negotiations, of course, to see that this matter is settled as it should be.
Once and for all."

Nestor bows slightly. "As Judge of the Change, I witness the decision of
House Moritani to re-enter into negotiations with House Ginaz. The Forms
have been obeyed." With that, he gestures to the now-unconscious Shane.
"There is no more business to be settled tonight."

Not wasting another second, Ophelia's head turns, and she barks out a
command - one not to be disobeyed, not here. "Fetch the Suk!"

Sarah just stands looking pale, unable to rip her eyes away from the bloody
mess on the floor.

Sanla takes a deep breath and looks at the pools of blood on the mat. She
whispers, "Is Earl Shane really going to be alright."

Nestor takes a step back from the corpse and the unconscious form of Shane
so as to observe but not intrude.

Wallach pulls her a little closer and says, "I hope so."

There is a slight shuffling from the back of the Moritani group, and an aged
Suk shuffles forward. "I am here, I am here," he murmurs - perhaps having
dozed off in the back of the crowd. To the fallen Shane he shuffles on, his
eyes glancing over the corpse so nearby briefly. But the living man is his
goal, and he intends to keep the young man breathing. His work begins,
ensuring that Shane can be moved without further damage.

Shane is a really good patient, really. He doesn't move, doesn't complain.
Well, he bleeds a lot which can get messy but besides that...

Dominic takes a last look at his fallen Siridar and makes his way out of the
room. He nods to Nestor on his way out.

Soon after the Suk follow two pairs of Moritani guard, a stretcher between
them. Carefully, they lift the fallen Warmaster on to it, carrying him
quietly - and gently - from the hall.

Marco raises an eyebrow looking on. That certain look on his face means one
thing, he needs a drink.

Ophelia cranes her neck as Shane is carried past her, trying to see over the
shoulders of the guards. Her concern for the Warmaster is plain on her face,
and she pauses a moment longer to incline her head in a deep nod to the
Judge - Nestor. Without a word, she turns, and makes her way out of the hall
as well, without a single glance over her shoulder towards the remaining
corpse of the fallen Marquis.

Nestor nods in return to Ophelia, though it appears as if he wishes to be
the last to leave, so that there can be no comment about the fulfillment of
his duties as Judge of the Change.

<EOF>


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