Lorenz Rochefort

@Reinolt Froste and @Sir Lorenz Rochefort: The Gilded Cage

(Year of the Emperor 278, Konigsheim. Winter.)

@The Onyx Dragon was a cathedral of frost and velvet. Chandeliers hung like inverted crowns, their crystal arms dripping candlelight. The walls were carved stone, each arch etched with the sigils of old Hesan bloodlines. Music drifted like perfume—refined, forgettable.

@Sir Lorenz Rochefort stood near the gallery, a glass of wine untouched in his hand. His coat was cool white silk, his boots polished to a mirror. No sword. No sigil. Just the name.

He had been introduced half a dozen times already. Each time, the same rhythm:

“Ah, Rochefort. A fine house.”

“Your brother, Sir Alaric, is a man of rare discipline.”

“I met him once—he’s the very image of Hesan virtue.”

Lorenz smiled, nodded, and let the praise pass like wind over stone. He did not correct them. He did not invite more.

A voice interrupted the next approach—warm, amused, and precise.

“You must be the younger Rochefort,” said the man. “I met your brother once. He was… exemplary.”

Lorenz turned. The speaker was young, dark-haired, dressed in deep navy with silver embroidery. No uniform. No crest. Just charm.

“I’m @Reinolt Froste ,” he said, offering a hand. “And you are exactly as I imagined.”

Lorenz accepted the handshake, cool but polite. “I hope that’s a compliment.”

Reinolt smiled. “It is. Though I confess, I find your brother’s perfection a touch exhausting. He’s the sort of man who makes even silence feel like a drill formation.”

Lorenz blinked, not quite catching the barb. “My brother is… disciplined. It’s served him well.”

“Undoubtedly,” Reinolt said, sipping his wine. “But I find conversation more interesting when it’s not a test of endurance.”

Lorenz’s mouth twitched. “Then you’ll be disappointed in me.”

Reinolt tilted his head. “On the contrary. You’re here without a sword, without a crest, and without a script. That makes you rare. And I prefer rare company.”

Lorenz looked at him, uncertain. The compliment landed. It was not about Rochefort. It was about him.

“I suppose I’m still deciding what kind of company I want to be,” Lorenz said.

Reinolt’s smile softened. “Then let me offer a distraction while you decide.”

They stood together, the music swelling behind them. For the first time that evening, Lorenz felt the air loosen around his shoulders.

@Reinolt Froste and @Sir Lorenz Rochefort: Salt and Linen

(Year of the Emperor 279, @Horn’s Light. Late summer.)

The sea was a sheet of hammered silver, its surface broken only by the slow arc of gulls and the distant silhouette of a merchant galley. The café clung to the cliffside like a barnacle, its whitewashed walls and striped awnings fluttering in the salt wind. The scent of grilled fish mingled with rosemary and brine.

@Sir Lorenz Rochefort sat beneath a cream-colored umbrella, legs crossed, a linen napkin draped over one knee like a treaty. His shirt was crisp, his cuffs immaculate, his hat angled just so to shield his eyes from the sun. He was frowning at the sand that had found its way into his sandals.

“This is a punishment,” he muttered, brushing at his ankle with a handkerchief. “I’m being punished.”

@Reinolt Froste, lounging across from him in a loose shirt and sun-darkened skin, smiled over the rim of his glass. “If this is punishment, I dread to think what your idea of pleasure looks like.”

Lorenz gave him a look. “Pleasure doesn’t involve sweating through my collar.”

“I offered the shaded terrace.”

“And miss the view?” Lorenz gestured vaguely at the horizon. “No. I’m committed to the illusion of leisure.”

Reinolt chuckled. “A noble sacrifice.”

They were interrupted by a sharp voice from a nearby table.

“I said boar stew, not this… this fish broth.” The speaker was a broad-shouldered man in a travel-stained doublet, his Hesan accent clipped and unmistakable. “Do you not understand plain speech?”

The server bowed, apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t serve that dish here. But I can recommend—”

“I don’t want recommendations. I want what I asked for.”

The knight’s voice carried, drawing glances from other patrons. Reinolt winced. Lorenz stared into his wine.

“Gods,” he muttered. “We’re like a rash. Show up anywhere and start itching.”

Reinolt leaned in, voice low. “He’s not we.”

Lorenz arched a brow. “Please. I’m just as bad. I’ve complained about the sand four times.”

“Five,” Reinolt corrected. “But you’re not the same.”

“How flattering.”

Reinolt’s tone softened. “That man wants the world to be Hesan. You’re trying to make space to be yourself.”

Lorenz looked at him, the breeze tugging at the brim of his hat. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then, quietly: “It’s harder than it should be.”

“I know,” Reinolt said. “But you’re doing it anyway.”

The knight’s voice rose again, demanding a manager. Reinolt reached across the table, plucked a crumb from Lorenz’s sleeve, and flicked it away.

“Besides,” he added, “you look far too good in white to be lumped in with him.”

Lorenz rolled his eyes, but he didn’t hide the smile.

Letter from @Sir Lorenz Rochefort to @Reincarnate (Before the invasion of Alendria)

Year of the Emperor 280, Beltane

My dearest Reinolt,

I write to you from the Sitztange Encampment, which is, I assure you, as dreadful as it sounds. The journey here was a parade of indignities—mud, rockslides, and the sort of provincial hospitality that makes one long for the civility of Konigsheim. We passed through towns so quaint they seemed to have been painted by a child with no sense of proportion or taste. The people stared as if we were apparitions. I suppose they’ve never seen a man of value in full regalia.

The battalion is settled, though the accommodations are rustic. I’ve had to make do with a tent that leaks in the morning dew and a cook who believes salt is a luxury. I’ve taken to dining on hard biscuits and the capital wine you thoughtfully gave me. It is a comfort.

There are rumors that some of the western battalions have begun dealings with goblins. Goblins, Reinolt. Can you imagine? I find it utterly barbaric. What next—diplomacy with trolls?

Alendria, I’m told, has a beautiful countryside. If the campaign proceeds as planned, I shall petition my father for a villa. Something with a sunny view, where we might doff our overcoats.

Alaric is here, of course. He is as he always is—stoic, dutiful, and utterly consumed by the weight of command. I sometimes wonder if he even notices the world around him. He speaks little, and when he does, it is with the tone of a man addressing a ledger.

I miss Konigsheim. I miss the salons, the music, and the company. I dream of Frau von Wassenberg's renowned Samhain gatherings. When this is over, we must attend.

Yours in exile,

Lorenz

Letter from @Sir Otto Rochefort to @Sir Lorenz Rochefort (After the Princess Elara Scandal)

(Contains a letter from @Sir Otto Rochefort putting the blame for @Princess Elara of Alendria's disappearance on @Sir Lorenz Rochefort, even though it was @Sir Alaric Rochefort that ran away with the princess and Lorenz was not involved. In this letter, Otto also digs into Lorenz as a person and expresses his disappointment. This letter was likely not well received by @Sir Lorenz Rochefort.)

Year of the Emperor 280, Beltane

My son,

You write with excuses. I read them with disappointment.

The capital has summoned House Landon to renounce all claim to the throne. The scandal of Elara’s disappearance—by Rochefort hands—has rippled through the court like fire through dry grass.

I have taken ownership of the matter. The name Rochefort will not be dragged through the mud by rumor and silence. But I will not shield you from consequence.

You knew of the dealings. You knew of the goblin terms. You knew what was at stake. And you knew your brother was doubting the orders of his superior nobles. Why did you not report this to me?

I have long tolerated your indulgences, your salons, your performances. I allowed you your masks, believing they served the family. But now the mask has cracked, and I see the face beneath.

This is your burden.

Restore what has been broken. Redeem what has been lost. Find the princess. Return her. Or find another way to restore the honor of this house and the Emperor it serves.

Do not write back with excuses. Do not seek refuge in Konigsheim.

You are my son. And you will act.

Your father,

Otto

Letter from @Reinolt Froste to @Sir Lorenz Rochefort (After the Princess Elara Scandal)

Year of the Emperor 280, Beltane

To Lorenz of Haus Rochefort,

I acknowledge receipt of your letters.

In light of recent developments, I must advise discretion regarding future appearances—particularly as Samhain approaches. The climate in Konigsheim has grown sensitive, and association with your house invites scrutiny I am not in a position to absorb.

There is no ill will. But prudence compels distance.

For your own sake, I urge you to remain away from court until matters concerning your brother are resolved.

With respect,

Reinolt Froste