Post by Grand Duke Alexander Redwood on Aug 7, 2011 21:28:45 GMT -7
It had been five years since the old grand duke died in battle. The new grand duke still replied somewhat uneasily to that title; to him, the Grand Duke Redwood would always be his father. Even now, reviewing his regiment, Alexander Redwood felt his father’s critical shade beside him, watching his every move. Reynauld Redwood had been a hard man to please in life. In death, at least to Alex, the man set impossible expectations. He saluted his second-in-command, halting his stallion to speak with the man. “Excellent progress, Sharrow,” he said. “The new recruits will be battle-ready within the month, I’d say. Good work.”
Captain Neil Sharrow inclined his head briefly in agreement. “Thank you, your grace.” He paused, a question in his eyes.
The query didn’t have to be articulated. While the grand duke found women something of a mystery, the bond forged between him and his captain in the heat of battle made words unnecessary. “We’ll be sent to the front as soon as I tell the queen we’re ready,” he said, his smile turning to an expression more grim.
“And when will that be, your grace?” Sharrow asked.
The rest of the men looked straight forward, still lined up in formation awaiting dismissal. Alex knew his words would be known by the whole regiment within the hour, so he chose them carefully. “It all depends on my nuptials, Sharrow,” he replied with a bright grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Celvi Gray was a beautiful woman, but the ball two nights before had proved she wanted him as little as he wished to marry her. “As the queen wills, eh?” He saluted again and rode off toward the stables.
A while later, Zaycomb was situated comfortably in his stall and Alex was freshly scrubbed from the hot spring baths that the palace was built on. Donning a deep green tunic over a shirt and breeches of white, he sat on the edge of his bed to pull on his tall black boots. His aunt had insisted he attend a luncheon held by some important lady or other. There would be plenty of women there vying for his attention, even with the news of his betrothal all over the palace. He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees for a moment before rising, resigned, and making his way through the labyrinth of corridors to the appointed place.
Grabbing a goblet of wine, he downed a good half of it in one fell swoop. He recognized some of the people milling around, conversing over identical goblets, and felt distaste for every single one of them. Miserable courtiers, all of them. He sipped at his wine more moderately, steeling himself for social interaction. Who would be the first to approach the handsome grand duke?
Captain Neil Sharrow inclined his head briefly in agreement. “Thank you, your grace.” He paused, a question in his eyes.
The query didn’t have to be articulated. While the grand duke found women something of a mystery, the bond forged between him and his captain in the heat of battle made words unnecessary. “We’ll be sent to the front as soon as I tell the queen we’re ready,” he said, his smile turning to an expression more grim.
“And when will that be, your grace?” Sharrow asked.
The rest of the men looked straight forward, still lined up in formation awaiting dismissal. Alex knew his words would be known by the whole regiment within the hour, so he chose them carefully. “It all depends on my nuptials, Sharrow,” he replied with a bright grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Celvi Gray was a beautiful woman, but the ball two nights before had proved she wanted him as little as he wished to marry her. “As the queen wills, eh?” He saluted again and rode off toward the stables.
A while later, Zaycomb was situated comfortably in his stall and Alex was freshly scrubbed from the hot spring baths that the palace was built on. Donning a deep green tunic over a shirt and breeches of white, he sat on the edge of his bed to pull on his tall black boots. His aunt had insisted he attend a luncheon held by some important lady or other. There would be plenty of women there vying for his attention, even with the news of his betrothal all over the palace. He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees for a moment before rising, resigned, and making his way through the labyrinth of corridors to the appointed place.
Grabbing a goblet of wine, he downed a good half of it in one fell swoop. He recognized some of the people milling around, conversing over identical goblets, and felt distaste for every single one of them. Miserable courtiers, all of them. He sipped at his wine more moderately, steeling himself for social interaction. Who would be the first to approach the handsome grand duke?