503-10-28 Damon's execution
It's Sunday, October 28, 503 A.G.
The man known as Damon Osborne has been found guilty of treason against the Empire and murdering Lord Vincente Caprios. And when you get caught, the punishment for such things is final.
Rourke is standing near the water's edge the rain of the day not touching him as he looks out across the water. He's got his knights, as ever, and his features are in a relaxed set while he stands preparing himself.
Mena walks onto the beach with her two knights on guard, as always. There is a light cloak over her shoulders with the hood pulled up to protect her features from the falling rain. She pauses just a few steps onto the beach, watching you there from a distance for long moments. It is a brief glance to the knights behind her that precedes more movement, steps once more carrying her in your direction.
A knight near Rourke notes your approach and nods, clearing his throat slightly. Rourke glances over at him, then you, and he smiles faintly. A hand is offered. "Good day, Mena," he says in greeting, then glances upwards. "Well, not so good, but endurable."
Rourke and Philomena are talking quietly near the water's edge, four knights near the group. A large section of the beach has no rain falling upon it, as if some invisible power is being invoked.
Making her way down to the beach flanked by the usual two Knights, Anna looks about to see who's here so far and what's the status quo. Seeing Rourke and Mena, then Raziel after she smiles and heads on in their direction only to pause when close enough so that she might dip a courtsey to the Royal pair. "I would say good morn, except that I'm not sure it's appropriate, given the occasion. My love to you both anyway, and your Grace, it's wonderful to see you back with us again."
Stiffly walking, with the support of a silvered cane; the top that of some ancient dragon, comes the Duke Regent over the beachead. With him, are two squires he's commanded to escort himself, as well as a slightly familar figure to those more familar to the castle; that of his servant and friend, Silas who is garbed today in stiff leather, and a jagged-edged ritualistic-looking short sword is at his side, tied as is proper, but clearly ready for use. The most Raziel manages to the Imperial Couple is a stiff incline of the head as he seems to be favoring his left side. "Your Majesties."
Jessaphine walks quietly across the beach, Mordred in tow. As they edge near to the group she dips into a deep curtsey to the royal couple, Princess and Duke.
Rourke turns to the arrival of Anna and Raziel, inclining his head to each with more formality than they would normally be greeted with. "Your Highness, Your Grace. My gratitude for your presence."
Mena turns her attention to the arrivals, inclining her head to each as they bow or curtsey. "Greetings," she says, nodding an agreement to Annabelle's words to Raziel. "Yes, it is good to see you up and about, Your Grace."
Mordred follows after Jessaphine, bowing before the royal couple, as well as the Princess and Duke. He looks to Jessaphine afterwards, before stepping back.
Anna takes up a quiet stance now near to Rourke and Mena, words taking the back stage on this sombre occasion. To all those who greet her however she offers a small, understated smile and inclines her head to Jessaphine and Mordred in a returned greeting. But now, silence.
Duke Raziel plants the silvered cane into the sand, as if he'd chosen that particular spot to rest in. The two squires stay only a few feet back, and rigidly at attention. Silas seems more relaxed, but wary, clearly protective of his Liege.
Alone, cloak flowing behind him, the towering baron of Trabachas makes his arrival without any more ado than what naturally accompanies a really big guy armed with a really big sword strapped to his back. The sword, really, is enough company on its own. After glancing at the royals, Trahearn throws a bow their way, adding a wink at Mena, before finding a place to stand. He really won't care if anyone calls 'down in front,' either.
Rourke glances about at those who step onto the beach, inclining his head to Jessaphine and then Mordred. The latter figre holds his attention for a few moments before he looks to Mena. "This is very bloody," he murmurs to her in an expressionless undertone. He notes and nods to Trahearn's bow.
Caspian heads through the rain to the place where is it not raining and stands, watchful.
"Hopefully this time around it won't be followed by a stable fire from some other stupid group," Annabelle murmurs soft, inclining her head to Trehearn as she sees him arrive. "I remember the last execution we had here at the beach."
Jessaphine rises slowly from her curtsey before dropping again to Trahearn, keeping rather quiet she keeps her hood raised despite the protections offered from the rain.
Almost late, but not to be forgotten, a little man drags his pull-cart onto the beach and begins to hawk, "Sausages! Hot sausages! Get 'em here!"
Mena turns her attention back to Rourke at his statement, nodding to let him know she realizes the implications. "I'll just wait for you back there for when you are ready to leave," she tells him quietly, though hardly secretively.
Mordred doesn't wear a hood himself, the rain falling down onto his mid-length brown hair. The rest of his thin, athletic body is covered by a long, thick black wool cloak that falls to just above his ankles. The man crosses his arms, as if he is trying to shrink into himself at the presence of all the other nobles. He quirks an eyebrow upwards as the sausage man yells, but doesn't move from his spot.
Glancing around, Phaeton walks up towards the Imperial couple, tightening a cloak around his body. "Morning. I suppose the weather is appropriate, a sunny execution would feel..wrong." He chuckles faintly and bows his head before glancing at Rourke before lowering his voice slightly.
Phaeton mutters to Emperor Rourke, "... disagreements,... always... you when... me.... family."
Trahearn doesn't appear to give a rat's rump about the rain. He just lets it drizzle down his shorn hair, his cheeks, his cloak, and stands with arms crossed, looking around. A nod goes to Jessaphine, recognition in his gaze, before he levels his stare on Phaeton.
Is that a scowl? Looks like a scowl. Feels like a scowl.
Drusilla strides down onto the beach, a cloak with the hood pulled up to protect her previously injured face from the rain. Or perhaps to protect others from the sight of it. She stops a short distance from Trahearn, bowing to the Imperials and then nobles.
Rourke lifts Mena's hand and brushes a kiss across the back of it, nodding to her. "Very well." He turns attention to Phaeton and gives a slight nod. "Fair enough, thank you." He says something quieter, then.
"Hello Phaeton," Anna replies soft as Phaeton speaks quietly to Rourke, but she doesn't interrupt other than that. Once more she grows silent, and like Trahearn the pitter patter of rain drops upon her doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest.
Mena gives the Emperor a bit of a smile, releasing his hand to step away from his side. She glances between husband and brother for a moment before moving further back away from the water's edge. Two of the knights on the beach follow her.
Phaeton nods at Anna and gives her a soft smile, "And to you, Anna. Good to see you too." He turns and looks at Trahearn for a minute consideringly before giving him a slightly amused smile. He does remember himself after a moment and give Rourke and Mena a bow.
Duke Raziel remains still, and his own expression somber. Perhaps even troubled. His mismatched eyes of blue, and brown seem equally as conflicted, though his other features remain complacent, and impassive. He says something quietly to Silas, then looks towards Mena.
Mordred adjusts how his coat settles on his body, before leaning down to whisper in Jessaphine's ear. At the end of what he says to her, he gestures at Trahearn.
Trahearn doesn't return the smile unless one can consider a scowl a smile. He crooks his finger at Drusilla, a demand for her attendance at his side emphasized by the way he points to the place beside him.
The Emperor exhales and says something quiet, almost to himself, and looks at the water. Finally he pivots to watch the steps to the beach. He's not quite ancy, but clearly waiting.
Two add to the growing crowd, two city guardsmen approach from the Keeper North and stops near Caspian to murmur a few words. The young Shriff nods slightly to them both, glancing to the dock area, and then departs with the both of them without further ado. He'll live to see other executions. Maybe.
Jessaphine blinks slightly, taking out of some trance by Mordred's whisper. Leaning in she whispers quetly in return, a hand going to her lips to keep as quiet as possible.
Phaeton blinks, once. His eyes dart away for just a moment and then he returns to considering Trahearn.
Drusilla notices the crooked finger and moves to stand near Trahearn, bowing to the Baron a little bit before standing by his side.
Memnoch stomps down the steps leading to the Beach at a hasty clip, his cane held out at one side in a firm grip. He is dressed appropriately for such a grand event, decked out in blacks, crimsons, and purples, looking rather soaked altogether. He heads toward the apparently magical dry spot on the Beach, his face eager and .. excited, it would seem.
As she waits, Anna then turns to speak to one of her two Knights, who in turn gestures to a page boy nearby. A message is passed on, it seems and at seeing this happen she is content.
Mena picks a spot a bit on the edge of the protection from the rain, though one that she still has a good vantage of Emperor and shoreline. She shifts her cloak around her shoulders for a moment as her gaze scans the crowd.
Trahearn glances down at Drusilla, briefly, before looking past the others at the Empress, a brow lifted. "Don't faint," he mutters to the squire at his side.
Seated on the back of a cart, Damon is brought to the beach without having to make a step himself. "A necessary evil, regrettable, but for the greater good," he replies to Roland calmly. Indeed, he really does seem very calm for a man about to be executed.
Four knights, each carrying one corner of a small cart that holds the prisoner, carries said cart down the staircase that leads to the beach. Once there, the cart is put back on the ground, the two knights in front pulling it along. Roland and Brody follow the cart from behind.
Mordred nods his head, looking up from Jessaphine to catch sight of the cart coming down the road. He watches quietly as he tries to get a look at the man within, though doesn't seem entirely too interested.
Roland smirks at the words from Damon, but now that he's on the beach, he says nothing further. The procession continues through the wet sand toward the awaiting Keeper. It takes a few moments. It's hard to pull a cart through sand.
Duke Raziel merely continues to look on, soberly. Another glance is given to the direction that Mena wandered. At Damon's words, he only shakes his head, frowning.
When the prisoner reaches the beach, Rourke's chin lifts a minor amount, his already precise posture becoming close to rigid. His hands link at his back while he marks the approach of the knights and prisoner.
"I'm not going to faint," Dru tells Trahearn quietly, hands clasping behind her back. She looks around to the man carried in the cart, mouth turned down into a faint frown.
Damon continues to just sit there on the cart, watching as the Knights struggle to bring him to the beach. He's not exactly tied up or anything so it should in theory be fairly easy for him to try and make a run for it... but he doesn't.
Mena remains two steps removed from the crowd, still. She nods to any that meet her gaze as she looks around. But as the prisoner approaches, it is him her eyes rest upon intently.
"See that you don't," Trahearn grouses as he looks at the cart and Damon in it. The scowl returns. "Something ... " he begins, then shakes his head.
Jessaphine watches the cart approach before averting her gaze to those gathered. Keeping her silence she pulls her cloak a bit closer to herself.
Brody walks beside Roland and scans the crowd with cool attentiveness. He takes off into the people after nodding to Roland.
Memnoch watches the arrival of the condemned man with what appears to be snide amusement. He angles his cane out at one side, holding it tight, the skull-handle's own maddened expression seeming to match his malicious smirk. Indeed, the lanky Lord looks about ready to execute the man himself. At least he's restraining himself.
When the cart reaches the spot before the Emperor, the knights pulling it stand to bow, then move off. It is Roland that remains. He bows first, then lifts a leg to plant a food on the side of the small cart. "Your prisoner, Sire," he says, then unceremoniously pushes the cart with that foot until it tips over to spill the prisoner out of it at the Emperor's feet.
Surrounded by so many people Damon decides to take in the faces of those gathered here. Each face he can see clearly is looked at with a gaze so intent it is as if he is burning the memory into his soul. As the cart comes to a stop, him brought before the Emperor Damon meets Rourke's gaze, stoic. "Ahhh, the Keeper of Lies himself." His lips curl into a condescending sneer. He really does have nothing to lose.
Trahearn moves closer to Emperor and prisoner, that ferocious scowl shifting to a show of attentive concern. "Stay here," he instructs Drusilla, softly.
"I'm not going to faint," Drusilla tells Trahearn quietly, sounding just a tiny bit annoyed. She looks back up to the Baron now, going on to say in almost a whisper, "I'm not a little girl anymore. You don't have to worry." When told to stay where she is, she nods and looks back to the Prisoner without another word.
Brody gives a look toward Drusilla as he wanders through the crowd. He's just checking people over and listening. Nothing to see here.
Phaeton narrows his eyes at Damon, which go quite dark. There's a faint curl of his lips at that attitude, and he shakes his head. Crossing his arms over his chest, the Baron watches him intently, though for once he keeps his silence. Fingers rapping on his arm, he frowns deeply at him.
"Thank you, Sir Roland," Rourke murmurs in an undertone when the cart's brought near and the prisoner spilled forth onto the sandy ground him. The only real admission to any strong sentiment is found in the tightness of the muscles along his jaw. "Damon Osbourne," he calls in solid, clarion tones, "you are guilty of high treason, the kidnapping and torture of Lord Adrian Barca, the stirring of public unrest, an attack of drugging the populace of this isle, and the murder of Our beloved cousin, Vincente Caprios. For these crimes, you are condemned to death, and would that you could serve a hundred such deaths for what you've done." He pauses a moment, drawing in a deep breath of the sea air.
And even though Damon has been dumped unceremoniously on the sands of the beach, off the cart, he still looks to all with complete nonchalance and lack of care. Something must be wrong with his legs, for he moves not at all from where he was dumped. "My only regret? That dagger was meant for you, not your beloved cousin. I believe in what I did. I believe that you are the Keeper of Lies. I believe that you are deluding /all/ of these people for your own love of power. And perhaps one day these people will see through your lies and illusions and sentence you as you are me, now."
Roland does, of course, remain near the Keeper. Just behind him, in fact.
And quietly Mena remains in her spot, her gaze upon the prisoner dumped forth and her husband looming over him.
Jessaphine shivers slightly, averting her eyes from Damon though he still gets a small frown. Lowering her hood slowly she watches the sand at their feet, with her still black and blue bruised eyes.
Mordred reaches up, resting a hand on Jessaphine's shoulder as he watches the exchange between Damon and the Keeper, his brow furrowed as he listens intently.
Memnoch finally betrays a flash of anger at the prisoner's words, silently snarling, grabbing his cane up with both hands and plunging the base into the sand just before his legs. His posture becomes yet more immaculate, head tilting back as he glowers off toward Damon.
There are guards, there are knights, there is Roland, but Trahearn keeps his stare on Damon. The scowl even returns at that statement about the dagger and its intended target.
Phaeton sighs softly, shaking his head as he looks at Roland, "Fanatical idiot." He murmurs softly, and watches the prisoner with a deep expression of distaste.
Drusilla's eyes are on Damon now, and were it not for the burns to her face she might have a scowl that matches Trahearn's, but she can't so she doesn't. She contents herself to just glare at the prisoner.
Roland would, of course, agree with Phaeton! But he's on duty and that leaves little in the way of expressing his opinion. At least in public.
Anna's lips are pursed tight as she looks on to the prisoner. Much like Memnoch she's trying very hard to restrain her own anger towards the man. It is only the subtle working of one of her jaw muscles that speaks of the extent of her emotions, and that barely so.
Roland does keep a constant attention from his spot behind the Keeper.
Rourke arches a brow at Damon's words, cool disdain on his countenance. "I was going to offer you the honor of last words, but it seems that you have already taken them, and as filled with propaganda as I would expect. By right of throne and the will of Providence, Damon Osborne, today you die for your crimes against this Empire."
Duke Raziel exhales, slowly. A tired, sad sort of sigh. His features now turn to a frown that match those eyes. He says quietly, "You do not believe in the demons, Damon Osbourne. Yet, there are demons in your own heart. Intangible, but no less real. Hatred. Spite. Cruelty. These are not the tools to enlightenment. They are the products of those who do not know compassion. Love. Humanity. I will take no pleasure in your death, here, today. Only sorrow. You were mislead." He looks down, then, and waxes silent after hte Emperor's words.
The Emperor's emerald eyes become stained with darkness, and in but a few seconds the green is washed away to perfect blackness where the pupil and iris are indistinguishable. Those who remember the last execution recall the currents of the isles being drawn from the water, but this time, it is as if glowing cords just materialize in the air near Damon. The strands of power are bright against the backdrop of the rainy day.
Brody looks with lazy scorn at Damon and fingers the hilt of his blade as he edges through the crowd.
As he looks up to the Keeper from his position, despite those strands of power that reach out of the air, Damon is proud enough to retort back at least one more time. "By the will of Providence? There is no such thing, and /you/ know it. I may die, but I die knowing the truth... as will you all one day!" With his left hand he points a finger to as many people in the crowd as he can.
Mena watches with as neutral expression as she can manage, which is pretty good. As the process starts and Damon is lifted up into the air by the currents, she shifts on her feet only slightly.
Trahearn bellows back a suggestion of what Damon can do with himself before the execution, something physically impossible for any man unless a few livestock and some housecleaning gear is close by, and then spits on the ground.
There is not so much as the movement of an imperial muscle, but the glowing ropes of the Keeper's power snap around Damon's wrists and ankles. Pulling tight, they draw toward the water along the sand at first, and then they lift him into the air as they reach the edge of the waves, hauling him out over the sea until he's about thirty feet from shore.
Jessaphine keeps her gaze on the condemned man, though she shivers faintly forcing herself to watch in silence.
The eyes of Phaeton switch to Rourke and he frowns faintly, a trace of concern on his face before he goes to watch Damon impartially, though he does nod at Raziel's words though his eyes stay on the murderous zealot.
Okay, this isn't exactly what Damon expected. A noose perhaps. An executioner's blade. He'd heard of the last execution here, but seeing is believing. Unfortunately he's getting a front row seat. As he's hauled out from the beach, to a safe distance from the 'spectators' Damon tries to struggle somewhat now, though it is just with his arms. Really, it's as if his legs don't work at all. "Damn you all, all of you!" he shouts out, "I curse all of you, and I'll see it done from the other side!"
Trahearn blackly invites Damon to haunt a specific orafice of a 82-year-old fishmonger.
Rourke watches with a cold, distant quality to his features. Those nearby might hear a faint murmur, lost upon the wind, before the knots of power begin to pull upon the levitating form of Damon. It is not a hurried thing, this ripping asunder of the prisoner. Not today. Today, the Emperor seems to be taking it very, very slow, so that Damon can feel it.
Phaeton murmurs something slightly and then grimaces as he looks at Damon, "Given your actions.. the other side will be very hot for you, for a very long time indeed. Damned, I suspect, is what you are."
Jessaphine shivers, looking away with a little gasp and a soft curse of her own muttered under her breath "armajalo.." her eyes closing to keep the sight from her completely.
Roland keeps his attention more on the beach than on the prisoner. Though, he could be said to glance that way every now and then.
Duke Raziel turns his eyes away. "End it," he says, to Rourke in a forced tone, and a hissed breath.
Mordred shakes his head, closing his eyes at the sight before them. He keeps his hand squeezing Josephine's shoulder, his teeth clenched.
"He tortured a good man, Raziel," Trahearn states to the duke. "He doesn't deserve a bit of," expletive deleted, "quarter."
Mena continues to watch, her forest gaze locked onto the man hovering over the water caught in those currents. It is much akin to a carriage wreck. It's horrible, but she can't look away.
The screams from Damon start out low, defiant, guttural to begin with, but as the pull continues with agonising torture the pitch of his cries rises and grows more shrill. A swear word or two might be heard to be made out amongst his screams, and then slowly signs of the stress begin to show, if they can be seen from so far ashore. One of his shoulder joints pops out from its socket, giving his shoulder and arm a distinctly unnatural shape.
Brody pauses to look with pride toward the Emperor and disdain for the man in the air.
Memnoch pulls his cane up from within the sands, tucking it into the crook of an arm. He claps quietly, nodding to a few folks gathered nearby him, even as he watches Damon in the distance. "All hail our good Emperor! Long may Providence keep Him on the throne, and long may His justice prevail," he intones to the individuals around him, likely gaining some kind of affirmation or another from them. Apparently he's enjoying the show.
Anna covers her mouth with one hand slightly, to perhaps hide the slight wince that she holds in watching this event... and yet there is satisfaction in seeing it also. This man was indirectly responsible for her husband dying as well, afterall. She wants to see him hurt.
And at Memnoch's cry, Anna joins in, "All hail the Emperor!" In the bid that others might also take up the cry of loyalty and unity.
As the man starts getting torn apart and the area is filled with screams of pain and torture, Mena's gaze starts to move between Damon and Rourke.
Drusilla's expression is pretty much the same as it has been for the last few weeks, which is relatively neutral, gaze slipping back and forth between the Emperor and Damon.
Trahearn doesn't wince. He looks rather deliberately satisfied. "Justice," is all he growls.
Brody certainly echoes that call. "Hail the Keeper!" He keeps going through the crowd, just mingling.
The first expression touches Rourke's lips when the screams become incoherent, and it is a dark and bitter smile, slightly sad. He glances toward Raziel and Phaeton quickly, not even really an acknowledgment. The currents continue their slow, inexorable snapping of muscles and dragging of limbs from sockets.
"Sausages! Get 'em now!" continues to hawk the vendor. "Buy some shark bait, chum the water for the man!"
Duke Raziel does not look satisfied, at all. Nor does he take up the cry of 'Hail to the Emperor', and 'Keeper'. For a moment, he looks around at the faces that seem to revel in the slow, ardorous torture of a fellow human. He murmurs something quietly, so that only those nearest him; Rourke, and Phaeton, and the Knights and Squires that accompany he and the Keeper, before he turns 'round, and begins to leave. Stiff, slow, the silvered cane sinks into the beach sand, as the Duke Regent of Mists turns from the execution, before it is finished, and begins to head towards the Castle.
Jessaphine keeps her gaze averted, a bit pale below all her bruises. "hail the Emperor.." a faint whisper as she raises her hand to rest upon Mordred's on her shoulder.
Shortly after the last shoulder joint popped out of socket, his other does the same accompanied by a gut wrenching cry that should turn any person's innards out. It is only after a few more seconds that one of his lower leg from the knee then is pulled free of his thigh, with blood spurting fast from the arteries torn and exposed. Slowly, the waters below start to turn a sanguine red, a feast for the sea life below, waiting.
Phaeton grimaces faintly as he watches things continue, his attention distracted by the spectacle. His eyes narrow faintly before he gives a faint sigh, making no attempt to move. He does glance at Raziel briefly and nod his head towards the Duke. The Baron swallows hard as he watches, though his eyes are dark, expressionless now.
"He'll bleed out soon," Trahearn observes quietly, to anyone close and no one in specific. He doesn't look that disturbed by the cries or by the blood, but then, he doesn't have a reputation for being namby-pamby, does he?
As the first limb is rent from the body, Mena's gaze leaves off the prisoner completely, instead focusing solely on the Emperor.
Mordred hears Jessaphine's whisper, shuddering again at the cry that indeed does wrench at his gut. The tan healer keeps his eyes shut tightly. He doesn't move, knowing that he'll need to see where he's going, and if he opens his eyes, he'll be hard pressed to tear his grey eyes from the spectacle.
When the water begins to be stained with the blood of Damon, that's when Rourke slowly nods satisfaction. "I heard Vincente's screams," he says, to anyone or noone, before the power give their hard twist and finish the dismemberment, letting the body parts fall to the waves of the sea.
Roland looks around the crowd far more than he looks toward the water. A knight's duty is to protect the Keeper, and they all take it rather seriously.
Anna's gaze flicks to Rourke as he mentions Vincente's screams, a series of emotions flitting past her face which she then deigns to stifle once more. Chin up, she looks to the water just in time to see the man pulled apart, literally.
Brody notes Trahearn's observation with a smile breaking through his stoic expression. It's quickly restrained, but he looks stoically happy, now.
Jessaphine turns from the water, the screams too much like those she's heard quiet recently. Taking a deep breath she tries to keep quiet and not faint in public.
Well at least the screaming stops as Damon is finally pulled apart, released from the anguish of his torture. Limbs, torso and head fall down in bloody chunks to the sea, his arms and legs surfacing once more to float as if testimony to the man that was. He certainly is no more.
Phaeton sighs slightly and gives a slight shake of his head, but he remains where he is, close at hand to Rourke. His attention turns towards the Keeper then, and a slight expression of concern is in his eyes. He brushes his hair from his face with a smooth motion and grimaces faintly before his lips move slightly.
Memnoch clearly looks pleased, watching the grisly spectacle off in the waters with a morbidly euphoric expression. The clapping slowly dies down as he watches one of Damon's legs get rent in two, and he wets his lower lip, either on account of hearing the sausage vendor, or seeing all that blood, or perhaps even something else entirely. When the prisoner is properly destroyed and falls into the sea bit by bit, his clapping resumes with renewed zeal. "Let it not be said that Imperial justice is lax! Look upon the price of treason and trust in our Keeper's divine mercy," he calls to the group at large. Somebody has to play the part of propaganda agent for the other side, anyway.
When the body has been lost to the waves and the sharks, Rourke just stands there, breathing steadily for the span of several breaths. "Let all who would harm the people of this Empire know what they face!" he shouts, turning away from the water. "Let all those who would plot against the safety of each and every one of us beware!"
And with the man's death being so complete, Roland steps to the side and bows once more to Rourke. "If there is nothing else, Sire?"
Brody takes up the call from Memnoch, sending the words, "The Keeper!" up on a shout.
"Let justice always be so swift and sure," Trahearn tacks on, then echoing Brody. "The Keeper!"
Duke Raziel continues to hobble down the beach, heedless of what may be thought of him for so leaving. Silas escorts him, as do the reluctant Squires, likely quietly wondering in their minds if they'll get in trouble for leaving the scene too early. If he hears Rourke's cries, and words, he doesn't turn back to acknowledge them. He presses on, at his slow, easy gait, and up the beachead, to the docks, and the Keeper's City.
The Empress does join in the call for "The Keeper!", though it is after a short clearing of her throat.
"Hear, hear!" Annabelle exclaims, taking on the tone of enthusiasm that Rourke and others in the crowd initiate. More quietly after, Anna looks to Rourke and smiles proudly, "That was well done, Majesty. It was good to see him get some pay back."
Marcus arrived just in time to witness the ripping of the traitor. He is standing a bit apart from the goup, and gives a small nod at the man's passing. Further enough apart from the group, the rain falls on his raincloak, while he keeps his silence.
Rourke turns his attention to Roland, blinking back the blackness as the exertion of power fades. The emerald hue returns slowly. "I think that concludes business, Sir Roland. Thank you," He inclines his head to the knight and turns his regard to Anna's comment. His lips quirk for her. "If only it could bring back what we've lost," he says, quietly. "But hopefully others will see, and reconsider."
Roland gives yet another bow toward the Keeper before he trots off toward the city as well. There's a lot of things to see after as acting First knight.