Chapter I - Dreams of Grandeur

Rainstorms plagued the city of Luthe in the days that followed the initial uproar. Normally, Jorelle enjoyed gloomy weather, but the context in which the dense precipitation came made it impossible to appreciate.

Jorelle had been sitting at his desk and filling out paperwork when the envoy delivered the news. "Lord" Jacken Brie had murdered his wife in cold blood, not even an hour after he was in the company of the prince. He'd been arrested and was now being held in a tower cell on charges of first degree murder. At first, Jorelle's only reaction was shock, but this soon devolved into the cold rage that the knight was well-known for. He had known Jacken's wife well - a sweet and naive commoner girl of beauty unusual for her station. The image of Jacken beating her to death was a dreadful one. His breath smelling of alcohol, his fists wet with blood...

It could've been Ausera.

He felt a pang of guilt the moment after he had the thought.

The news spread like wildfire, and soon the farmers and bakers and smiths and housewives and noblemen of the city were only talking about Jacken Brie. Jacken Brie, son of Lord Anton Brie! Jacken Brie, the heroic crusader who slew two dozen savages with nothing but his bare hands. No, no, that was nothing but a tall tale, one peasant would say - Jacken Brie is obviously nothing but a drunk adulterer who deserves to be hung. But he's so swarthy and beautiful, another would retort -- Oh, so handsome! His wife was a commoner, you know, a well-dressed noble would interject. I bet he finally got sick of her endless babble and put an end to it the old fashioned way! One can hardly blame the fellow.

No matter where Jorelle went, his ears were filled with chatter about Jacken Brie. He was able to tune it out at first, but it soon began to gnaw at him. Anger was a disease, Matthew had always told him, an ailment that needed to be treated as soon as it appeared. And the more Jorelle Blackhair heard about Jacken Brie, the more furious he grew. Thus it came to be that he was riding through the streets of Luthe an hour after midnight in the middle of a great tempest, dressed in the garb of a lowly courier, soaked head to toe, all for the purpose of paying his old "friend" a visit.

He deserves to be thrown to the dogs after everything he's done. It's a wonder he didn't kill someone sooner, thought Jorelle, pulling back the hood of his coarse linen cloak as his destrier drew closer to the stables. By the time he had dismounted, the rain had dowsed his hair, completely ruining the style he'd spent his morning perfecting. At this point, it hardly mattered. This visit would be over soon enough, and he could head home with a clear conscience.

He ascended a flight of steps and knocked quietly on the door to the tower. A cacophony of noise followed, and soon a guard was standing on the other end, staring out at Jorelle through the peephole.

"No one's to see the prisoner without direct orders from the Prince," said the man, his already gruff voice further muffled and distorted by the layer of rotted wood before him.

So, Jorelle thought, they are keeping him under a tight watch. He had come prepared, however.

"I'm here on behalf of the Knights of Saint Rord." Jorelle paused, drawing a sheaf of parchment from a pocket on his vest and holding it up to the peephole. "And I have Enis' signature right here."

The guard examined the paper for a few moments before deciding it was authentic, and proceeded to open the door to allow the knight inside.

"Make it quick," spluttered the man. "Mister... erm..."
"Jorelle," replied Jorelle, setting the document containing the forged signature down on a nearby table. This wasn't the first time he'd had to "write on behalf of the Prince," as Matthew always said. While he wasn't exactly proud of his ability to uncannily copy Enis' handwriting, Jorelle had to admit that it doubtlessly came in handy.

The walk to the top of the tower was utterly silent, save for the rain pattering down lightly on the roof. It certainly didn't help to ease Jorelle's anger or anxiety about his upcoming visit. Nevertheless, he knew it was something he had to do. The sooner the little conference was over with, the better.

It'll be done soon. Done, and over.

"Well, if it isn't old Jorelle Blackhair. Come to chastise me for my sins, hmm?"

Jorelle had hardly noticed that he had come to the end of the stairwell only to find the door open and Jacken sitting before him in an oaken highchair, his back turned to a window. He was smiling smugly, his teeth as white as ever, and his thick brown hair no less wild than it had been six years ago.

"I'm here to talk, Jacken."
"Really?" Jacken felt his upper lip, running his hand across the stubble that was coming in. "I never would've guessed."
"I see butchering your wife hasn't lessened your wit." Jorelle narrowed his eyes and glared directly at the man before him. It was enough to sour Jacken's expression.
"Is that what the smallfolk are saying, hmm? I bet. According to one, I probably stoved her head in like a great egg, yes? Perhaps another claims I raped her a dozen times? What I really want to know is what you believe, Jorelle."

He's lost it. Completely.

"I believe you're a murderer," Jorelle replied, flatly. "And I believe you need to be punished like one."
"Oh, please. They wouldn't DARE to hang me so long as my uncle lives. He could start a civil war in a few seconds if he so willed it." Jacken shook his head, sighing deeply. "So go back to your little chapel, Jorelle. Pray to Rord that you'll finally get in Ausera's pants. Or don't, I could care less... Whatever the case, I'm already sick of listening to that little high-pitched voice of yours. I'd recommend leaving as soon as possible, or maybe you'll find out that the stories of me being able to kill a man with my pinkie are true."
"Did you kill her?"

For the first time in their conversation, Jacken paused. He stood from his chair, breaking eye contact with Jorelle, and paced over to the window.

"Answer me," Jorelle said, his patience beginning to wear thin. "I need to know."
"It was an accident."
"You killed her or you didn't. This is a yes or no question."
"It was an ACCIDENT, Jorelle. I didn't mean to, no more than I-"
"You'll tell me, or I'll see to it that you're hung from the gallows, no matter what your goddamn uncle does."

Jacken slammed his fist in the window. The noise was great enough to startle Jorelle, but other than this, Jacken made no other movement. He didn't even flinch, and kept his eyes fixed at the nothingness that sat before him, cloaked in the black mists of the storm.

"I killed her. Does that make you happy to hear, Jorelle?"

Exactly what I needed to hear.

"No. It doesn't. But it does confirm the punishment I have in store for you."
"Death?"
"Death doesn't even begin to describe it."