Page 1 of 2 12 LastLast
Results 1 to 10 of 13

Thread: Fragmenting of an Empire, Chapter 1: The Death of a God

  1. #1
    Senior Member The Dark Man's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2012
    Location
    Crete
    Posts
    273

    Fragmenting of an Empire, Chapter 1: The Death of a God




    “The Golden Bell rung out thrice- and the city fell silent. The son of God stood tall on the tower, his banner waving proudly in the wind. The city was theirs, and the warriors of the frozen North trembled in fear as the Bell resonated through the blood-stained streets speaking of retribution” –The Book of Creation on the Slave Prophet Kastus’s uprising in the holy city of Ayreth.

    A peculiar silence filled the halls. It was not uncommon for it to be silent in the Basilica, but there was something distinct, different, and quite unnerving about this silence. Perhaps an outsider wouldn’t have recognized the eerie and mournful overcast that hung in the vaulted stone hallways, though the two clerics who traveled somberly side by side could surely tell.

    “I can’t believe it” said the first Cleric, his arms wrapped around his torso in a comforting manner, obviously concerned. “Over two hundred years, and now he’s… y’know…”

    “Dead” finished the second Cleric, dread heavy in his voice.

    The first priest nodded. “Still can’t believe it, though. How can he, the son of God, be dead?”

    “It was bound to happen, considering he was in a mortal vessel” replied the second. “Our bodies deteriorate with time, and no matter what kind of a spirit lies within them, they will crumble into dust as He intended.”

    The first cleric sighed. “Creator save us” he whispered. “What do you think is going to happen now?”

    The second remained thoughtful for a moment. “The Pope will probably crown a new Emperor.”

    “I meant with the Northerners” he hissed back. “Creator knows they’ve been sitting on the border, braiding their beards and sharpening their axes, just looking for a reason to attack!”

    “It’s not like they are any more capable of defeating us” countered the second cleric. “Our armies are still far more numerous- an attack would be foolish and costly. Besides, with the Creator on our side, no battle can be lost.”

    “But the Kingdoms, brother” pleaded the first priest. “They have been yearning for independence for ages. Whispers of dissent and rumors of rebellion are thicker than Nord’s heresy. If a Kingdom were to revolt against the Empire’s rule… what would stop the Northerners from conquering us?”

    “God would never let such a thing happen!” snapped the other man. “He forged this Empire himself! He shant let it fall!” The voices of the priests now echoed loudly through the hall, bouncing off the high ceilings and stained glass windows.

    “But that’s what I’m worried about, brother. What if God would let it happen? What if the death of his son was a sign that he is displeased with us, with our sins? What if he is just throwing us to the dogs?” His voice was quiet, cold. The gloom of the basilica seemed to enclose around them even tighter.

    “Sacrilege!” gasped the first cleric, hardly able to believe what his brother in cloth was saying. “You dare twist the words of our Lord? He did not abandon us; such a thing is ridiculously preposterous! Kastus himself said that he would bring Holy Fire upon our cities and homes if we were to stray too far into our sins, brother.”

    “Forgive me, I just… this is all so hard…”

    The priest stopped walking, and placed his hand upon his fellow cleric. “Steady, brother. It is not every day that a God-Emperor dies in his sleep” he forced a warm smile, a transparent attempt to calm his friend. “You must stand strong before God- this is but a test of faith. Those that secede and rebel are the true sinners, unworthy of his love, deserving only of the Holy Flames.”

    “You’re right, brother, of course…” stammered the first priest. “I just think that something bad is going to happen.”

    “Then let them happen. Just know that through faith, we will always prevail” responded the other man, squeezing his friend’s shoulder tight with confidence. “The Arch-Bishop has just sent the messages off to the Sovereigns of the Kingdoms. Soon, all will know of the Emperor's death, and the wicked shall be weeded from the garden of the righteous."

    ---

    Welcome to Fragmenting of an Empire. The basic premise of is that Emperor Kastus, a seemingly immortal man and son of God, founder of the powerful Pontetate Empire, has recently died. Now, the vassals of this empire have a chance to secede from the empire they’ve been tethered too for so long. What will happen? Only your actions in the RP can determine if civil war will occur. The life, death, or fragmentation of an Empire will be completely upon your shoulders.

    In this RP, set in a gritty and realistic fantasy world of my own creation, you can play as truly anyone you want- a King who wishes to break free from the Pontetate Empire’s reign (or perhaps do the opposite and stay with the Empire), a minor Count or Duke looking to usurp the throne, a blood thirsty Nordic Jarl looking for revenge long over-due, or perhaps even a common citizen or soldier. Whoever you play as, you have an extensive amount of creative freedom here; if you are in charge of a Kingdom or nation, you can create all the background lore and information you want, so long as it doesn’t contradict the base canon. There is no set path for characters to follow, and they may all go and do their own thing, whether that be fabricating a war, or working to stop one via peaceful solutions. One thing is certain, though- conflict is inevitable. If you’re interested, reserve your spots now, and stay tuned- an OOC with proper information on lore and monsters and magic will be up in a few days’ time.


    Characters & Factions

    Spoiler


    Magic, The Stav, Spirits, Demons, and the Fae
    Spoiler


    Troop Numbers for Each Faction
    Spoiler


    Rules

    Spoiler


    Character Sheet Template
    Spoiler


    Map

    Spoiler


    This is the RP's somewhat official chatroom, so we can keep most of the clutter off of the threads. Please direct your important questions to this thread, though, so everyone can see the ensuing answers/discussion.


    This is the RP's offical Wiki page. All information on characters, factions, and events must be posted here, unless you wish to keep it secret for whatever reason.

    Without further ado, here is the IC thread. Let's get to it.

    - - - Updated - - -

    Gaston Vaurien, Castle Celland

    The ceiling swam before his vision, its simple and smooth lime mortar surface stretching indefinitely and imperfect. His eyes scanned the surface, exploring every nook, crany, and knoll that progressed from it. The bumps, the lumps, the clumps of mortar which was not-so-masterfully spread as the chamber’s ceiling had completely enraptured his attention, while the darkest recesses of his subconscious screamed for something that was [i]remotely[i] interesting to fixate upon.

    The taste of wine brought him mostly back to his senses. The liquid trickled down his throat, the fruity taste bursting with a bitter oaky finish. He sighed as he ran his hand through the mane of shaggy black hair that adorned his skull like overgrown weeds, the sound of his exhalation loud enough to cut through the endless droning of the Borkish man who sat at the desk.

    The Bork stopped talking, nonchantly tossing the pieces of parchment onto the desk, a look of both offense and relief mixing upon his face, seemingly ecstatic to be released by the inquisitor’s sigh of boredom. “There’s only about a dozen left.”

    The inquisitor rolled his eyes at this, and took another drink of wine, this one being more of a gulp than a sip. Wine always made things better. Not enjoyable, mind you, but better. “Might as well get it done with, Gaston” added the Borkish man, his southern accent causing the inquisitor’s name to be pronounced Gas-tun.

    “Probably” replied the inquisitor, running his hand through his mane of jet black hair once again, thinking of some way to avoid having to read through all of the bloody letters, notices, and manuscripts which lay upon the desk. “How about this?” asked Gaston, rising from his slouched positon in the chair. “You read me the sender and subject of each article. If we don’t feel like looking through them, we toss ‘em in the fire, and say the courier fucked it all up” he offered, indicating the brazier in the corner of the chamber, its embers dying, but still glowing hot enough to incinerate a pile of papers.

    The Bork smiled. “Sounds good to me” he said.

    “Jolly good!” announced the Inquisitor, who promptly gulped down the remaining wine. “Proceed!”

    “Alright, let’s see here…” the Bork ran his meaty hand over his bald head before reluctantly picking the papers back up. Fredrick, as the Bork was named, was a big man, and looked offset sitting behind the articulate and official inquisitor’s desk, the chair looking just slightly too large for his thick physique.

    “We got a memo from the steward about the latest ‘Honorary Keeper of the Royal Drapes’-“

    “Burn it”

    Fredrick crumpled the paper and tossed it into the flames.

    “And here’s a notice from the castle chef about the shortage of Dram Roots…”

    Gaston snorted. “Burn it.”

    He did so.

    “And this…” Fredrick trailed off.

    “This what? What is it?” asked Gaston, who was pouring himself another glass of wine.

    “Uh… you might want to take a look at this…”

    Gaston sighed, this one not indicating relief. The inquisitor snatched the parchment from his aid’s hands, his eyes promptly skimming its contents. They stopped skimming, and began to read in full, engrossed by the words on the page, pulled along by pure terror. A gulp of wine followed reading the letter. And another.

    “So…” said the Bork, trying to spur some sort of a response.

    Gaston stared at the parchment blankly for a moment, his eyes re-reading the words to see if the message was some sort of a joke. A curious expression grew on his face as he discovered that the letter was indeed not tomfoolery; a grin, large a goofy, stretched across his visage. He began to laugh. Hard. The sound of his merriment resoinated through the small chamber that served as his office, echoing down the stone corridors and throughout the castle.

    “Sir?” asked Fredrick, concern sweeping across his face.

    “He’s dead!” laughed Gaston inbetween laughs. “He’s dead! That’s so great!” he wiped a tear from his eye.

    “Great?” questioned the Bork, obviously concerned for the Inquisitor’s sanity.

    “Great as in funny” giggled Gaston. “Looking at the situation, though, this isn’t ‘great’ at all. Damn funny, no doubt! Ironic! But sure as hell not great…”

    He looked back towards the letter in his hands.

    Gaston Vaurien, Grand Inquisitor of the Territory of Celland,

    As of this morning, the 20th of April, 210 AB, our Emperor, savior, and war-master, Kastus, The Son of God and Avatar of the Creator Himself (blessed be His name), was found deceased in his bedchambers. The power of the Empire has been temporarily shifted to His Majesty the Pope, head of the Church of the Creator, who will decide within the halfyear who shall inherit the throne of His Holiness’s Empire, the Kingdom of God. While Kastus’s physical form may have failed, that in no way means that the Creator Himself has abandoned or looks down upon us, as this event was foretold in His Book. This is but a test of faith, Brothers, one which we shall persevere. We must stand strong in our faith, or stand instead in the shadow of His wrath.

    An ceremony of great proportions shall be held in the Holy City of Ayreth, on the 10th of May. Consider this message both a bearer of bad news and an inivation to the Funeral of Vesselitude, hosting by His Majesty the Pope and His Majesty the Arch-Bishop. Creator Bless you.
    -Lucius Scribonus, Arch Bishop of the Church of the Creator

    Last edited by The Dark Man; 01-05-2013 at 10:07 PM.
    ALL CRIES ARE WAKING!
    Whitest White of all White!
    Blackest Blacks of all Blacks!
    Shame and Son, Sun, and Shadow!

    Stronger than gods, brighter than mortals!
    Only He is Awake!
    Only He is Alive!

  2. #2
    The King Vahir's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2011
    Location
    Dread Isle
    Posts
    704
    In the fields adjacent to the great port of Icegale, inside a crudely-constructed wooden stadium near the dark woods beyond, amidst shouts and curses, a nord warrior fought a worthy foe- A fenbear, a large and savage mockery of the bears outside the region. Clothed in a simple leather vest and armed only with a small shortsword, a round wooden shield and the crowd's encouragements, the man fought tooth and nail against the animal, which was as large as a horse. Circling the bear, he dodged its attacks as it tried to slay the intruder. The audience was excited, as so far no other challengers had lasted this long. Alone in his silence, Jarl Magnus "Wolfheart" Stent watched the duel motionless, his eyes fixed upon the warrior's movements. Beside him stood two equally still figures in the shadows, clad in the heavy armor of the huscarl. Suddenly, the warrior made a false movement and the bear slashed him with it's paw, sending him flying a few feet, before regaining his feet and raising his shield, crouching in agony. The crowd jeered and laughed.

    "There he goes!," chuckled a peasant in the audience. "Won't last much longer, that's for certain."

    "And with all my savings bet on him, too," complained his friend.

    "You should have thought of that before betting on something other than the bear!," the first man laughed. "That's as good a lesson as any. You had to learn it one day, lad."

    "Do you want my fist in your face?" the second growled.

    "You're welcome to try to put it there," the first replied, "But I'd hate to break both your arms."

    Purple with rage, the second man punched the first in the nose, breaking it. Bringing his hand to his face and feeling the mess of bone and blood, the second man laughed.

    "Alright, pup, let's play it that way!"

    As they fought, many in the crowd joined in, and the brawl caught the attention of the Jarl and his men.

    "Should we step in and stop those fools?" asked thane Einwolf to his lord.


    "No," he said gruffly, still focused on the battle in the stadium, "Let them have their fun. Round them up afterwards and force them to repair their mess."

    Because of the fighting, nobody besides the Jarl noticed when the warrior wounded the bear, and then slew it. Looking up at the crowd expecting its praise, he realized that nobody was paying attention, and stormed out with his teeth clenched. Silently the Jarl and his men left, leaving the crowd to it's amusements. Intercepting the warrior at the entrance, Magnus stepped forward, and, after hesitating a moment, the victor kneeled. After a moment of silence, Magnus spoke up.

    "You fought well. Few men could claim a feat equal to what you accomplished in that arena."

    "And yet they could not care less," the man said.

    "It matters not what they think of you, Gregar. By slaying that beast, you proved to yourself that you are superior to that rabble. And to me for that matter. I now tell you that I intend to make you a thane."

    "Thanes are mere servants," Gregar said after a moment's thought.

    "Thanedom is a position of great honor. And it need not be forever; For you are a mighty warrior, and the blood of many heroes flows in your veins. And High King Hrothgar's, aye, deny it as he might."

    Gregar looked up to Magnus. "May I return to the keep?"

    "You may," the Jarl said quietly. As Gregar turned to leave, Magnus stepped forward and laid his hand on his shoulder. "Gregar, you brought great honor on your house today. Do not forget that." He wished to tell Gregar how much pride he felt at his accomplishment, but could not find the words. Gregar nodded. "As you say father." He then departed.

    When he left, Einwelf stepped up to the Jarl. "Perhaps we should go back as well. The day grows late."

    "No," Magnus said, sighing, "We still have to visit the project. They do not expect my return, and such an occasion to visit it in secret may not come again soon."

    "I do not understand all this focus on secrecy, lord. Won't the slaves we have building the ships inevitably tell others about their labors when we are done with them?"

    "They will not," Magnus answered with a small smile upon his lips. "I intend to take measures to ensure of that."

  3. #3
    Supersonic Electronic Deja Vu's Avatar
    Join Date
    Aug 2008
    Location
    Costa
    Posts
    1,817
    Manor Viporra, Dovurak
    Borkstvo

    "Excellency, my Lady! I need to speak with my Lady!" cried the court messenger, Revi as he hurried through the crowd of the ball.

    As he bumbled through the crowd his slick leather coat shone on the flickering chandelier and lanterns as a storm raged outside. Drunken lords and less than noble women were shoved aside as he vaulted the grand stairwell. The regal upholstery was almost rumbled from the floor as he tore down the hallway toward the inner quarters of the Herzogina's private mansion. Men-at-Arms held him up before he could get any further, a pair of longswords almost skewering the Frankish rogue through his weathered garments. Obviously in a rush, the messenger forsake the common courtesy to wait for the guards approval, crying aloud


    "MY LADY!"

    Heavy chestnut doors trimmed with polished bronze slammed against columns of chiseled granite that framed them. A very irritated Herzogina and her personal handlers now stood in the open hall, her excellency eying the intrusion with pure venom. Her arms were crossed, hidden in the large sleeves of her robe where a dagger lay, and seriously considering using it. Seeing the often suffocating court messenger dripping on her fine rugs did little to dissuade such a thought. Regardless she spoke up, breaking the ragged breaths of Revi with a fume of discontent.

    "Speak up Revi, or let us enjoy the ball in peace."
    "Urgent word comes from Borkenfurt, Lady Copette insists it is for your eyes only." and so Revi eased himself off the swords that threatened to cut him with every gulp of air he took.

    The humidity outside rivaled the ballroom he passed to get here, and the warm bodies of the Herzogina's Welcoming Room were enough to put beads of sweat on his brow. From his coat he pulled a letter, glazed with a teal wax emblem easily recognizable as Copette's personal seal. He deftly handed the letter with a bow, wishing not to retain such responsibility any longer. He had ridden quite hastily through terrain he would pass by even on a fairer day, so important was this message. The crackling storm hung like a hex over Dovugrad, occasionally rumbling the up the soles of Revi's boots, and flashing blinding light over the shoulder of his Herzogina as she quickly poured over the letter. Her brow furrowed, and furrowed, and she seemed to burn a hole into the parchment before folding it and shoving her way past Revi much like he had to the guests downstairs.


    "Revi!, may your Frankish blood be soiled by every Cellish whore of the ages. I want the court assembled by morning, even if we have to bar the cellar from the damn fools."
    "My Lady, may I sugge-"
    "No. No. Whatever it is no. I'll have you stuffed and mounted Revi, I swear by whatever god you pray to."
    "....yes My Lady."

    With that she practically stomped down the grand stairs, in such a rush many nobles hurried out of her way before bowing least they be run over. Her gaurd flanked her, a bit oddly as her pace kept them behind her. On the ballroom floor he intended targets sat at a long table, feasting casual as other member of the court danced the night away. At its head sat her Magnar Jasta, and her other relative Astrid, the former who sat in a drunken stupor and the latter chatting away like a milkmaid to a housecat. Fortunately Astrid saw her niece and her lethal glare before she crucified anyone unfortunate to stand between the two of them, and hurried the tables less noble occupants with a wave of the hand. Tyne's uncle however, was far less fortunate and far more drunk to take notice and let a woman of fancy linger for a second too long. The second the girl caught the eye of her angry Herzogina she ran for the hills; Magnar be damned. Jasta rolled his eyes and turned an unsteady head to Tyne looking for a reason behind her ill mood. Astrid began to speak before Tyne cut her off, standing before them tyrannically.


    "Gods lay dead and you fancy yourself the brothels finest?"
    "Pardon?"
    "Ten score year and he leaves not with a bang, but a whimper. A divine comedy if there ever was."

    "Surely you are mistaken Tyne."

    "No Aunt, Old Atrox was Mistaken. Gregor was greatly mistaken. I am not mistook."

    And with that she tossed Copette's letter to Astrid, who snatched it up.


    To her excellency, Herzogina Viporra
    Forgive my haste Herzogina but I must keep this short if this parcel is to reach you as intended.
    Revered Kastus has passed in his sleep, The highest of gatherings are expected to occur the 10th of May in the Holy City in response.
    Keep safe, and may we all live to see the harvest before this dread erupts.

    Dutifully Yours, Copette D.

    Her grey gaze flew over the penmanship as Jasta spoke up,"Bloody Brendel's heart must be aflutter with anticipation."
    "And the whip he cracks will do so where it pleases Uncle, so we must mind our manners least we upset his sensibilities." Astrid grabbed at the jug of whiskey Jasta had taken a liking to and downed a swig.
    Tyne paced about in thought."It seems like a fine time to go sailing, Astrid, don't you think." murmured the Herzogina, as a particularly strong bolt cackled outside.

    The ballroom hushed for a moment, before the band began to play again, clouding the tables conversation once more.

    "You know what your grandfather used to tell you about sailing."countered Lady Astrid, reprimanding her niece like a nursemaid.

    "That northmen with beards to their bellies would take me away to the frozen lands to sacrifice to their pagan demons." shot Tyne, and venomously spat back
    "He also said the Emperor was immortal and he'd have Brendel's head on a pike before his next winter. We see how well he was with forethought."

    She sat down at the table, finally, relieving the tension of her guard as they circled around the trio, shrouding them from peering eyes and ears,

    "Besides, even barbarians will pay good coin for what all these drunkards grow in their backyard."
    whispered Tyne, tapping the fine oaken tabletop with an impeccable nail.

    Jasta grumbled from tired lips, his face contorted as he rest on his palm.
    "The northern pass speaks of new Cellish land for hopeful pilgrims. Men of the Kilt havn't blazed new trails from here to Ayreth in eons. Perhaps it lies elsewhere..."
    "Fruit, grain, and even bitter tradesmen won't sway our own troubles." barked Astrid as she brushed the whiskey far from Jasta's grasp.

    Dauntless, the scheming Tyne offered her own argument.
    "How many goods of the north travel through our port under the guise of Cellish shipment? Should we shear this sheep for what it is, perhaps we could profit from the wolf."
    "Words spoke in darkness shall never see the light of day my Lady. Best we keep to ourselves." hissed Jasta from his stupor.
    His sister Astrid agreed, "This is not our horse to feed Tyne."

    With that the trio fell silent. Herzogina Viporra sat steaming in her own plots, while her Aunt and Uncle tried to arrange for the mornings court gathering. The storm outside had faltered, with a slow drizzle steadily tapping at the windows of the manor. Guests were succumbing to the warm food and stiff brews and heading home, lanterns dimming and wax dripping causing the ballroom to grow darker and quest with every passing minute. The servants of the manor were already bringing the place back to its former glory, gathering glasses and appetizers up as Tyne's mind lay elsewhere. Her incessant tapping suddenly stopped as she clenched her fist.

    "And who pray tell, should be our most grand and capable Emperor now?"

    It left the most sourest of tastes in Tyne's mouth. They all knew who would wish to be Emperor, and they all knew what good would come of that. The question hung in the air as they retired to their quarters. The grand court of Dovurak would be very busy tomorrow. The entire empire would.
    Last edited by Deja Vu; 01-06-2013 at 04:03 PM.
    <+Harsh> Deja - Bring it, you sexy short arse motherfucker. <+revengebrb> - He's Agent Double-o Deja, he's got a license to chill

  4. #4
    Herzog's Palace, Trussak
    Borkstvo


    For a moment there was complete silence and not a soul in the company of six gathered in the old palace chapel none dared even move. The small stone chapel was built around the time the Nords were driven out of Borkstvo and still featured Nordic style architecture as was common those days. Religious symbols and old and weathered statues of saints still filled the chapel but its function as a house of worship was taken over by a newer and bigger chapel so it served as the Herzog’s council’s meeting place. Two fires were lit in the chapel but did not manage to keep out the cold. Dressed in a fine dark blue tunic with gold embroidery and a thick black fur coat Chancellor Stanimir Jagislid headed the gathering and finally responded to the news just shared with his colleagues.

    “This…” Chancellor Stanimir Jagislid started. “will change a lot of things.”

    He sat to the right of his brother’s chair at the head of the large oaken table. An empty chair of course as Herzog Jagar and his wife had left for Estradee. The seat sinister was also unoccupied as Black Simek joined his lord on his trip as advisor and bodyguard. They had gone to speak with the Concertis of Estradee to negotiate future plans.

    Spies at the Borkstovan court, of which there are many, had quickly sent word to Trussak. News of the death of the fleshly manifestation of the Creator himself had reached those of highest rank within hours and would seep through to even the lowest members of society in a matter of days. The cupped hands of the upper echelons could often manage to keep a few drops from falling to the ground, provided of course the fingers were pressed together tightly, but with such a torrent it could not do anything but overflow.

    “I imagine the Herzog will send us our commands soon.” The Treasurer, an old boyar by the name of Uril Temelic, suggested. “But naturally we need to decide what to do when others learn of this and confront us.”

    Uril Temelic, baron of two rather large patches of eastern Trussak, had been at court since the day Aren Jagislid first claimed the duchy. He was one of the lucky few powerful enough to survive Herzog Jagar’s reorganisation of court. Stanimir had learned that Jagar questioned Uril’s loyalty but the man was capable and more important, was not corrupt. Like many wealthy boyar of Trussak Uril was involved in trade importing vast quantities of wares which often never even saw the Trussak streets but moved on immediately to other parts of Borkstvo.

    “Indeed. Before we can formulate a response we must consider what this means for us; in other words, what this means for our king.” The Chancellor replied.

    “There are many fine men who could be selected as the new emperor, men with power and name.

    “It would not surprise me.” Uril agreed, understanding like all in the company the Chancellor’s meaning. “And it could work out in our favour.”

    “To a peaceful transition” Sevgen Morgendau, one of the Herzog’s advisors joked and raised his cup of wine bringing on a few chuckles.

    “But can he make the others kneel?” Uril continued, ignoring the advisor’s joke. “We need to be prepared for the consequences of his appointment. At the same time we should be prepared in case the childless king is passed up.”

    The boyar of Karevo were men of ambition and men of pride. Though none would mention it, not even with the Herzog and his guard dog abroad, king Brendel inspired fear but not loyalty. A proud Brendel could make use of the vacuum of power Kastus left and declare Borkstovan independence but it was not clear how many would truly follow. When Karevo joined Brendel against Gregor Bardic’s rebellion, the spoils of civil war were substantial. Different approaches brought different rewards and as the council was well aware Herzog Jagar has no other motivation. Messengers were sent out to instruct those of import and of course new orders were sent to the Herzog’s underlings working at the court in Borkenfurt. Regardless of how the situation would develop, the king and his minions had to be reminded who their loyal friends were, and who were not.

    “Blood will spill.” The Chancellor added with a smile as he put forward the nature of things all were accustomed to. “And as my brother would argue: If blood will spill and it can stick to our soles… and if it can, it must… may we decide who we step on.”
    You'd think so, but you'd be wrong

  5. #5
    Kwisatz Haderach SilverLine's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2012
    Location
    The Windy City
    Posts
    47
    The Camp of the 501st, Laodecia
    Archelochus Potentia

    Arc stood between the opened curtains of his tent, looking down on the camp below. His command tent had been erected on a small hill overlooking a small basin with a stream running through it. The early morning activities were underway, men bustling here and there, making preparations for the days march.

    He was alone in his tent, an extravagant affair made of red cloth with banners flying the standard of Laodecia flying from the main poles. He never quite felt comfortable inside. Clustered below were lots of other little red tents, and men moving about between them, but beyond that was the land of Laodecia. Green plains stretched for leagues out from the little hill. This spot was called Lookout Hill. It was one of the only raised spots in this part of the country, and for centuries had been a place where sentinels were posted to defend against invasion from the west. And proving to it's name, Arc felt like he could see forever off this little hill surrounded by flat lands. At this very moment he thought he could see a rider coming through the grass.

    He could also see one of his men trudging up the little hill.

    "Morning sir!" The man called. His name was Areulan, Arc's second in command.

    "Goodmorning Sergeant." Arc replied. Areulan had been in the company before even Arc, but never had aspired to command. He was a soldier, content to charge the enemy headlong and listen to orders. He didn't concern himself with strategy or tactics, those were left to better, or at least more ambitious men. Arc admired Areulan for this.

    Arc on the other hand was a born commander, tactics and strategy were his forte. He was the type of man who, when he walked into a room, people knew had authority and commanded respect. He commanded the respect and loyalty of his men, and they would follow his every command. But as with all great leaders, he never truly seemed to be part of the group. It was his curse, that he should always stand outside, looking in.

    "What are your orders for the day?" Areulan asked, breaking Arc from his contemplations.

    "Hmm? Oh, yes. We march for the crossroads today." For the last week they'd been patrolling the border. There had been far to much peace of late, and the mercenary armies were not in high demand.

    "Should I get the men moving?" He asked. "Give them a little while longer. I've been pushing them hard. Oh, and come up here a moment." He waved Areulan closer. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a rider out there?" He asked, pointing to the speck on the horizon that was growing ever larger.

    "It looks like a rider to me sir."

    "Alert the sentinels. No need to get slack just because there's no war going on." He said, and slapped Areulan on the back.

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

    About twenty minutes later, at the edge of the camp, a lone rider bearing Laodecian colors rode up and was stopped by the sentinels at the edge of the camp.

    "I come bearing urgent news from the capital!" The rider called, and a moment later was ushered into the camp. He rode through and up the hill to Arc's tent.

    "Greetings!" Arc called upon seeing him. "What do you bare?"

    "Tidings from the capital m'lord!" He pulled a letter from his saddle bag and handed it to Arc. "You won't believe it sir." He said. "But now I must be off, I still have to track down three more companies before the day is done!" And with that he rode back the way he came and took off through the fields.

    "What is it sir?" Areulan asked.

    Arc, broke the seal and read quickly. "The emperor of the Potentate is dead." He said finally.

    "What?! The God Emperor of the west?" Areulan exclaimed.

    "The very same." Arc replied.

    "Unbelievable... But what concern is it of ours that they dispatched a special courier?"

    "War is expected. We are to prepare and march for the capital." Arc said. "Inform the men!"

    This was unexpected. The Potentate had stabilized the region for the last two hundred and some years. War was sure to follow. And with war came chaos, and with chaos came opportunity. Perhaps the time was coming for Arc to finally make a move. He let a small smile creep onto his face when he was sure no one was looking.
    "A man can be destroyed, but not defeated." -The Old Man and the Sea


    Open eyes and stars
    Clouds drift across the moonlight
    I wish that I could fly

  6. #6
    Run Boy Run Mars SnR's Avatar
    Join Date
    Aug 2011
    Posts
    104

    Taog Castle, Dunrock, Capital of Celland
    King Raghnall Artair O'Cain the Lionsmane, King of Celland

    The loud clanging rang through the halls of the castle. The castle was traditional with stone stacked on stone, and yet there was a Cellish flare with beautiful oak and mahogany carvings trimming the doors. In one of the rooms of the corridor were two men, with blades in hand, and circling one another. One man stood with long flowing red hair, adorned in, not a lavish robe, but yet better tailored than that of any commoner. The fur and leather robe swayed about his massive body as he sidestepped and moved in unison with the man opposite him.

    The second man was much older and gruffer, The scarring on his face proved to tell a tale of many hard-won battles. The man was comfortably dressed in a simple cloth tunic, as a man would dress in his own home. The two men stared one another down. The fireplace flickered and lit the room with dancing shadows. The older man stepped forward to attack and the red haired man raised his blade and defended. Then, in turn, the red haired man was on the offense, and the older man defended. The two went on in this way for nearly twenty minutes. Each man taking his turn on the offense, and the opposite in defense.

    Finally, the older man stepped back, and stuck his blade in between the cracks of the stone, leaving it standing there as if it were the blade excalibur. "That'll be all for today," The old man bowed his head, "Your highness."

    The red haired man sheathed his blade and placed his hand on his hips. He leaned back and pointed his face toward the ceiling to open his airway and catch his breath. "Please, Garbhan" Raghnall panted, "You have known me since I was a mere pup, and far too young to sit upon the throne of Celland. We are in private, you aren't bound to such cordiality here."

    "My lord, my cordiality is practiced, even in the times when they need not be," Garbhan moved to the corner and began stroking a falcon which sat on a perch. Raghnall moved to the corner of the room, picking up a bow, aiming it at a neatly bound hay target, "You're getting slower, Sir Greumach, I fear that your age is catching up to you." Raghnall let out a laugh and offered a smile. Garbhan had been Raghnall's mentor since he was a younger man, and Raghnall often rattled off quips at him. Raghnall finally released the arrow landing it within the right side of the bulls eye, not much of a feat considering he was a mere twenty feet away from the target.

    Garbhan kept his eyes fixed on the bird of prey, and continued stroking it, "Aye, the sprightliness of the body is to be cherished, Raghnall. Remember that." He said it with such humorlessness, as was his way.

    The last beating flaps and gentle coos intruded the silence of the room, as a pigeon had landed on the window frame. Garbhan immediately recognized the sound, and hurried himself to the window. Raghnall paused from his shooting and looked at the bird, "From whence does this fascination with all these birds come?"

    "Birds are free," Garbhan answered as he removed the parchment lashed to the bird's leg,"They are the ideal of what I hope for the people of our nation." Garbhan moved away from the window, and opened the parchment. His eyes scanned left to right across the paper. His eyes furrowed, and he grew solemn.

    Raghnall smiled and chuckled a bit, "I didn't coin you for the idealistic type, Sir Greumach. Perhaps there is still yet hope for this nation." Garbhan didn't respond. He wasn't even reading anymore. He was simply staring at the parchment, as if the words were going to change. "Garbhan? Garbhan, what troubles you?"

    Garbhan approached Raghnall and placed the parchment in his hand. Garbhan turned and placed his hands on the window frame, looking out into the night sky, searching for wisdom. Raghnall's eyes scanned the parchment in the same way, and his lips silently mouthed the words of the parchment. With each word mouthed, the expression of shock grew more and more on his face. Finally, Raghnall let the parchment slip from his fingers onto the floor. Both men simply stood there in complete silence, the only noise that could be heard was the faint crackle of the fire place.

    The castle steward intruded in Garbhan's bed chambers, and his nasally voice broke the silence of the room, "My lord, I just received word from the west. Progress is being made and the colony is...," The advisor paused, and he scanned the two somber men, "My lord, is everything..."

    Raghnall interrupted him, "Kastus is dead."

    "What?" The steward didn't comprehend the words that reached his ears.

    Raghnall slowly turned to face the man standing in the doorway, "The ruler of the Pontetate empire, ceases to live."

    The steward's face was in total shock, "Wha.. what does this mean, my lord?"

    Raghnall ignored his question and erected his posture, "Send word to the clans. I want messengers riding to the lords tonight. Gather a small company of men. A funeral will be in order and we will be expected to be in attendance, "Raghnall hastily marched out of Garbhan's chambers, quickly followed by the steward and Garbhan. The three of them now strode hastily side by side through the halls of the castle, "Send word to the west. The colony's success has become a matter of utmost importance. The need for secrecy has never been more vital than it is now. I will leave in the morning for the capital. Make haste, steward." The steward split off from the group to carry out the king's orders.

    "Shall I travel will you, my lord?" Garbhan inquired.
    "You know exactly where I intend to send you, Sir Greumach. And you know there is no other I can entrust with this task."
    "So then, you truly intend to do it. You truly intend to seek Celland's independence."
    "I do, but first I must seek the imperials with reason. Diplomacy must prevail," Raghnall's tone was one of passion, and yet desperation.
    "My lord, you know very well that the Pontetate will not release us without bloodshed. We must rally our..."
    "No. I refuse to discard the lives of our people needlessly. We must first seek out diplomacy. That is why you must seek the nords. We must make peace with them, we must secure the safety of our people."
    Garbhan Greumach let out a long sigh, "Very well. I will be gone by first light. I will ride for Maclow. Let us pray this Hrothgar isn't half as bloodthirsty as his ancestors."

    "Be swift, Garbhan, and do not be careless with your life. For your blade may yet be needed."
    Last edited by Mars SnR; 01-07-2013 at 01:47 PM.

  7. #7
    U gonna get albatross'd
    Join Date
    May 2012
    Location
    Blargville
    Posts
    404
    Stonehelm Keep, Hightower, past the 9th bell of the night.

    'Twas a sadly rainy day in Stonehelm the day councillor Ravello decided to visit his daughter. The fellow looked positively unremarkable, standing in the midst of the grand foyer of the keep that served as Hightower's garrison for troops and guardsmen. In fact, Artovis seemed to blend in with the background in his unassuming attire, that most people might even neglect the fact that he was twirling stones between his fingers. Only the stones were flying through the spaces between his fingers somehow. As he stood there, slightly wet from the rain outside, twirling the stones between his fingers for simple amusement, he couldn't help but wonder if anything exciting would happen during the length of his stay on the council. Surely, he couldn't leave everything for Edwin in a few decades. And Soryn wasn't getting any younger to boot. Where was he, Artovis wondered.

    Then came the heavy steps of leather boots down stone stairs. With a glance away from his stones, which neatly fell into his palm, the man's bearded face became upturned in a fond smile, one that only a loving father could give. As the raven-haired and aptly named woman came down the steps and approached him, he simply closed the distance and embraced her.

    "Woman, you're getting fatter every year." he muttered, all with a light-hearted smile on his face "You should go down to the streets more often."

    With that he raised his brows as if expecting some sort of reaction, alas all he received was a friendly punch to the shoulder. Hard enough to hurt, but not enough to damage. A chuckle escaped the councilman as he rubbed his shoulder. His daughter seemed tired, though and it showed easily in her smile. Her eyes half-lidded and her expression seeming so content, it was just about to fall asleep.

    "You say that every year, father, I might start to believe you and then you'll be obligated to console me on my shattered ego." his daughter replied light-heartedly, then she rubbed the back of her neck and furrowed her brow some "You know, Edwin was looking for you earlier, he said he had something important to tell you."

    "Does he, now?" this made Artovis furrow his own brow in worry, for his apprentice and adoptive son rarely, if ever was the type to deliver news in anything short of a forced lazy or sarcastic tone "It must be serious, then, if it's actually important to him. I suppose you'll be going home by yourself, Ala-" he cleared his throat and a faint smile graced his lips "I'm sorry, Raven. Honestly, o daughter of mine, what possessed you?"

    It earned him another punch to the shoulder, this time slightly harder. With another vibrant chuckle he reached out and gave her a firm pat on the back of the neck "Remember this is the Old Hound you're dealing with, kid. Now get yourself home, I have to find my apprentice."

    And with that, they would part. A sigh escaped the councilor as he turned his gaze to one of the windows along the keep's halls. Perhaps the weather was fitting for the news he would hear? He wondered little, though and simply turned 'round and out the large wooden doors at the entrance to the keep, banded with iron, they nevertheless relented under his push and he made his way out into the rain. 'Twas an odd sight that followed as he walked through the rainy streets whilst others hid under what shelter they could find and shopkeepers covered their stalls from the rain for the night in the streets bellow the keep.

    Minutes later, Artovis arrived at the base of the Ivory tower, as he liked to call it. He turned his gaze upward, squinting to avoid raindrops falling in his eyes. He sighed fondly as his eyes traced the sharp architecture as it rose high over the streets of Hightower. Aptly named, he thought as he often did, with a smile. He turned his gaze downward to the large stone doors that formed the entrance to the tower. Of course, many students would learn the easier entrances during their stay, but to most, the very first test was to step past these doors. Some enhanced their strength and pushed through, others tried a different approach. Artovis, simply reached out and touched the stone with his open hand. He felt the coolness of the large barrier. And with practiced ease and concentration that came so easily it was second nature, Artovis projected his will unto the stone, and that will, would turn to force by the power of his stav. By now, it was childs play to slowly push the door out of the way and then close it again. It was all done with a finesse that only another mage would truly recognize for what it is. As Artovis stepped along the homey and cozy halls of the tower, lined with warm-coloured wooden furniture and invitingly elegant torches, he would extend his hands to each torch he passed, stealing some of the warmth for himself. By the time he made it to the elderly head-scribe's desk, the tower's venerable secretary, the man was dry and warm as if he were reclining in a soft armchair before a roaring fire.

    "Good evening, master Kivan, how goes the work? Have you chosen your successor for the post yet?" he asked leisurely, as if nothing in the world required his attention more than small-talk with the greybeard before him.

    The scribe himself glanced up from the parchment he was scribbling dutifully away on with a ragged quill. Setting his instrument aside he would direct a surly, grumpy look of an old gentleman who would rather not be bothered to stay up past the ninth bell. With a grunt, the secretary cleared his throat and slid his hands along his beard for a thoughtful moment.

    "A lot of work had to be done today and I'm starting to think I should give all my assistants the boot. All three of them didn't show today. Wonder what skirt they were trying to get under this time. I'll tan their hides tomorrow. If they're in any condition to show." with another grunt the scribe shook his head and his worn and wrinkly features formed a curious expression "But enough about that. How can I help you, master Ravello?"

    "I'm looking for Edwin, in fact. Have you seem him hereabouts lately?" Artovis asked as he clasped his arms behind his back and patiently waited.

    The old man furrowed his brow some, many apprentices of both science and magic had passed by him for this long day and faces started to blur together for his weathered eyes. Nevertheless, he eventually answered.

    "Aye, I remember, passed by, said to leave you this letter. Also something about the Dancing Lion." the scribe muttered and started to rummage round his desk, cluttered not due to lack of effort, but rather too much to sort for any honest working man. Eventually, he produced a letter that was sloppily sealed with a familiar seal, just at the edge of where the envelope closes.

    As the piece of paper changed hands, Artovis flashed the old scribe a charming smile and inclined his head in thanks, he then turned and started casually walking up the stairs of the tower, rising higher and higher, and nonchalantly greeting the various students and professors that passed him by in his ascent. He lightly pulled the seal free more than he broke it open. Artovis was certainly relaxed, after all, what could be so important that wouldn't make Edwin skip an early night at his favorite pub? As he rose along the steps, he would read the contents of this letter, written in the simple, but rather blunt and clear way that his apprentice had a way of saying things with.

    By the time Artovis had climbed the highest step in front of the door to the council's meeting chamber, the jovial and relaxed posture and expression on Artovis's face had all but vanished. With his eyes keenly focused on the words on the letter like a hawk studying its prey and his hands gripping it harder than was called for, the mage pushed the door to the meeting chamber open and heavily sat, reclining in one of the three high-backed chairs. He dropped the letter onto the table in the middle of the room on the top of the tower, exposed to the elements and heaved a sigh, watching the paper slide and threaten to fly away, before he gently placed the tip of his finger onto the paper's edge. His other hand raised to rub his face and slide his fingers along and 'twixt his beard.

    "I hope the Empire's God just knows how to pretend being dead very well." he muttered more so to himself as he closed his eyes. Instantly, countless scenarios played through his head. Kastus had ensured peace in the realm and thus far, there'd been no threat to Stonehelm during his reign, long as it was. But now, if this rumor that Edwin had heard was true, things would change, probably for the worse. Many years had passed and he knew well enough that many would be hungry to find themselves sitting on the throne of the Potentate Empire. With his brow furrowed and his good mood scattered to the harsh and howling winds nearby, Artovis couldn't help but wonder, if the dusk of his home would come, should war break out for the Empire's throne. For a moment, a sadness, deep melancholy would dominate his eyes as he pictured his home, burning, be it under the banners of opportunistic lords or the holy symbols of the church. So much could change in but one year. And yet one question dominated his thoughts after a while. "Why now, Kastus? You proved your holiness long ago, shook the earth to its foundations with your rise...why abandon it to the shifting winds of politics and games of power again? If you are a god...why leave your servants to chance?"

    The man heaved a heavy sigh, suspecting that gray hairs would adorn his head in greater number than they did the year before. He rose from the high-backed chair and took the letter with him as he strode back down the stairs of the tower. This time, there was something in his walk that made all that passed him by look over their shoulder. This previously relaxed and completely unrestrained man was now walking with a sense of purpose and an expression of grim dread. Few had seen the councillor in this state. Once again he arrived before the scribe's desk, placing his hands firmly on top of the worn oaken surface.

    The elderly man, seemingly prepared to leave for his home, seemed irritated at first, yet the expression on Artovis's face gave him pause. He sat back down on his chair and leaned forward with a worried expression.

    "Master Ravello, what's wrong? Did Edwin try to climb up on the tower's peak again?" he asked in all seriousness, but worry shone through his facade of a grumpy old man.

    "News on witch's winds, my friend." Artovis started, his expression turning into a deep frown that made him look ages older "Edwin's caught word of dark rumours from the empire. They speak of the emperor's passing from this world."

    For a moment, the scribe seemed uncertain what to think, then his eyes grew wide and his brows raised. "Mage-King's many-starred cloak." he politely exclaimed and reached up to touch his cheek, shaking his head in disbelief. "What would you have me do?"

    Artovis opened his mouth to speak, then paused. In truth, he was unsure what to ask. His mind raced through the possibilities and then he breathed out, seemingly found some sort of relief in a thought.

    "Send a messenger to Celland and tell the courier to be as fleet of foot as possible, send it to the Lionsmane. Get a quill out, I'll tell you what to write down." he spoke with a forced confidence and calm that masked the worry that raged in Artovis's mind not unlike the storm outside. He took a deep breath, and began reciting a message to the one monarch that he could hold in high esteem.

    Last edited by Alabala; 01-10-2013 at 02:42 PM.


    Split your lungs with blood and thunder!

  8. #8
    The Inquisitor's Keep, Frankmark
    6th Hour of the Morn


    Grand Inquisitor Armand Epopus Riechtjol sat at his desk. It was a great mass of polished mahogany, almost as sturdy as the stone floor that lay beneath it, with three blocks of paper resting atop it. The pages of each stack were as aligned and perfect as Armand could make them. Every now and then, as he took pages and returned them to their proper stacks, he would heft one of the piles and tap its edge on the top of his desk in order to straighten the pages again. Sometimes it was necessary to tap again, clack, and then on another side, to make double sure everything was in order.

    And indeed, Armand saw to it that order was maintained. Perched upon his straight-backed oak seat, he had no time for dilly-dallying. He had retired to his chambers at the last bell of the previous night and awoken a mere four hours later, as was his custom. His life did not leave much time for rest, and besides, he did not want rest. In all his time in Frankmark, and especially in the capitol city, Armand found it hard to sleep. The cause was not quite clear to him, though he was certain that his unfailing energy was a sign from God to keep up his work. He tried not to take pride in his work so as not to open himself up to vanity, but it was hard for him to deny that it was Good. All Armand desired was to spread love for God. How could anybody not be proud of such a glorious calling?

    Beneath the ground, the keep was a veritable labyrinth. Armand liked the cool of the underground. As he walked to his early morning appointment, he was smiling and sighing happily all the way, having stepped from the relative cool of the half-dark morning into the comforting cold of his stone domain. It was his custom to keep the halls well-lit, but the holding chambers were black as sin. He felt it was important that the heretics be shown exactly what kind of place their souls will dwell in for eternity should they try to deny the love of their Creator. A world of darkness and pain. He regretted that he must be the facilitator of such a world, but there was nothing Armand regretted half as much as heresy.

    When he arrived at the room that held his next partner in the exploration of evil, he knocked on the thick wooden door. This was a mere courtesy, of course. There was no lock on the door, and his lost sheep were not given the freedom of movement. Why should they move? They would not be given this right in Hell. After waiting half a second, Armand opened the door into the small, dim chamber. "Hello, my poor soul. Fear me not." He spoke these words with a smile. They danced from his lips, a relatively high-pitched cadence that moved up and down with gentleness.

    The subject looked at him. The eyes were tired, but defiant. A man's eyes. A cornered man's eyes, but they yet had honor within them. Armand had no use for this heathen's false honor. "I have committed no crimes, and I demand I be set free!" The subject's words fell flat. There was little conviction behind them, and Armand believed this would be a quick meeting.

    He was still smiling, but these next words came from a place that was much darker than he had shown earlier: "You would make demands of your master, my soul? You don't have the right to demands, nor even words, my soul. Your master would have your tongue, my soul. And yet he feels it might be a more useful conduit for pain if left attached, my soul. Heh heh heh..." His ragged laugh bounced off the walls and repeated itself several times over, growing fainter and fainter as it carried on. Fear entered the eyes of the subject, strapped to a table that was slanted upwards so he could see the door. The subject's eyes were wide with abject panic, and he opened his mouth to speak, but could not move his tongue. Then he screamed...


    As Armand set the stack of papers corresponding to the morning's subject on its appropriate pile, he heard a knock at his door. "Enter!" he said.

    The messenger pushed open the door with no particular urgency, took a few steps into the room, and declared: "A letter for you, father." He held the sealed paper up in his hand. "From the Potentate, by the looks of the seal."

    Armand walked over to the messenger and took the letter. "Thank you, friend." He pulled a few coppers from a pocket of his robe and handed them to the messenger while smiling big. A bead of sweat formed on the messenger's forehead. Armand patted the man on the shoulder and looked him dead in the eye, still smiling. The messenger gulped and the aforementioned sweat rolled down his face. Armand dismissed him with a wave, and all the tension left the room with the messenger. He had closed the door, perhaps too hastily, on his way out.

    Finally, Armand opened the letter. He felt supreme unease as he started unfolding it, and thought that was odd. It was only a few lines, the handwriting cramped and neat, and right away Armand's eyes locked on a single word. "Regret." His eyes widened and began to flit around the page for some sort of guidance. In seconds he had taken in the whole thing. His unease mounted, turning into a wave of pain and grief, and he let out a soul-chilling wail as he slumped to the floor. Tears streamed down his face, which was twisted into a sad caricature of even his most vile smile. All that showed on Armand's face now was misery. "Regret," indeed.
    ‎"The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven." - John Milton, Paradise Lost

    If you're into gameplay videos, check out my YouTube channel.
    -The Chronicles of Riddick: Escape From Butcher Bay and .hack//Infection play-throughs are in progress!-

  9. #9
    Junior Member Anticlere's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2013
    Location
    Vilnius, Lithuania
    Posts
    3
    Dunrock, the Kingdom of Celland
    Caila Metella Dei

    Some people, it seemed, were just born to be annoying. Worse still, their ilk were also the ones least likely to realize when they were being bothersome.

    "It truly is an honour that you would agree to see me, Inquisitor. As I mentioned, there were quite a few matters that your inquisitorial ladyship might find of interest... With the sorry state of the flock here in our humble kingdom... I say this with no intent of implying any sort of failing on the Inquisition's part..."

    The Rethyian inquisitor's insincere smile seemed to do nothing for the morbidly thin priest's nervousness. Now that he'd made the mistake of opening his mouth, he could properly appreciate how expressive those green eyes of hers truly were - for example, they were presently doing a splendid job of making her contempt for his flustered pleasantries painfully obvious. It was largely thanks to their unwavering stare that the hapless man had gone and gotten himself into the unfortunate predicament of tangling his speech up in meaningless words in much the same manner as his body had already done with his robe.

    "Truly... If nothing else, the work you have done here is nothing less than admirable... Well, maybe if we were to go by the bare numbers, then... But numbers, bah! They fail to account for the realities of our situation, and..."

    Caila's cheek slipped down along her palm; where once her eyes had been contemptuous, now they were beginning to look rather glassy. Being the strict adherent to Rethyian customs that she was, the inquisitor had made the mistake of lying down on her lectus (imported all the way from Ayreth, for that matter - she wasn't about to trust the native savages with making one) for the duration of their conversation - which meant that, as her unwelcome guest blathered on (and on, and on), the likelihood of her falling asleep was increasing with disconcerting haste.

    "...And, well..." Stammering, insufferably boring old fool. "...we all do our best..." Well, he's not really that old, I guess. "...to serve the Creator..." Not that old at all; in fact, I don't suppose he could be much older than thirty. "...in whatever ways we each of us are able to..." Although, as far as saving graces go, that is a pretty rubbish one. "...be it more or less." All that really means is, it took him that much less time to become an utter bore. "I'm sure that, whatever challenges we may encounter..." Does he ever shut up? "...they are merely test of His devising..." Look at him, bowing his head whenever he mentions the bloody Creator. I can't be bothered to deal with this.

    "Brother Briaen?" The inquisitor's smile was much too sweet to be genuine.

    If the way he swallowed in what he fondly imagined was an inconspicuous manner was any indication, the priest himself realized as much. "Yes, your inquisitorial ladyship?" His own smile seemed timid and forced.

    "I believe you had a point, once." Hers was openly a grimace, now. "Get to it, if you would."

    "Ah! Uh, heh," Bravely, the Cellish cleric attempted to keep his smile up in spite of Caila's predatory grin, trying hard to interpret what obviously wasn't a friendly joke as just that. All in vain, unfortunately - after a moment's struggling, it flickered and died at last, in much the same way that his host's half-decent mood had after his abrupt appearance on her doorstep. "Of course. I-"

    Fate, however, was determined to be as unkind as it possibly could to our poor Brother Briaen. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the sound of light, yet insistent tapping on the window filled the room.

    A colourful flurry of curses in both Rethyian and Estradeen followed as Caila rolled reluctantly off her lectus. It had been during her apprenticeship that she had been taught the tongue of the southern cities, and she took to it remarkably well; so well, in fact, that she'd made something of a habit of slipping into it whenever a stronger word the entirety of whose meaning those around her needn't necessarily grasp was required.

    Her thoughts were ones of bloody slaughter and other wholly unpleasant things as she walked up to the window, firmly set on being unhappy about whatever - or whoever - it was that had chosen this particular moment to disturb her. Of all the things she was expecting to have to murder to win herself some measure of peace and quiet, however, the Rethyian noblewoman had to admit - a messenger falcon bearing a scrap of parchment with the seal of the Inquisition upon it hadn't been one of them.

    Sensing opportunity, the corners of her lips curled upwards in a wry smile.

    "I'm afraid your point, whatever it may be, will have to wait. Thank you for visiting, Brother Briaen - you may leave, now." Caila announced without even bothering to turn around.

    Clearly, the priest hadn't been expecting that. "E-excuse me? Your inquisitorial ladyship..?"

    "Inquisitorial business, I'm afraid. Unless you would prefer to remain, in which case I would have the unfortunate responsibility of making sure your soul was judged by the Creator Himself for such a breach of protocol."

    Taking a moment to pick through her tone in search of any traces of a joke, Brother Briaen was finally forced to concede - there were none. "O-of course, your inquisitorial ladyship. I will return on another date, c-certainly." He rose from his chair - ornate, as was the Cellish fashion, - and withdrew from the room as hastily as etiquette allowed, all bows and mutters, until finally, the inquisitor heard the heavy door of her relatively humble dwelling close behind him.

    She breathed a sigh of relief. One annoyance dealt with. Whatever message this blasted bird carries with it, it can hardly be worse than a barbarian playing at being a priest.

    In all her years numbering twenty and six, she had never been more terribly wrong.
    Experts say that tortoises require a diet that contains just the right balance of calcium and phosphorus and that they should be provided with a heated kennel. Then they undermine their authority by saying that tortoises can dig under fences or climb over them and are vicious. I think maybe they've got tortoises somehow muddled up with prisoners of war.

  10. #10
    Senior Member Palamon's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2012
    Location
    U.S
    Posts
    147
    Fallheim, Duchy of Sophorell, Frankmark

    He crumpled the letter in his hand and through into the fireplace. He palm went up to his face, his fingers massaging his temples. There was a weary look across his aging face. The fire spattered in sparks and flames as the letter burned. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back as he strode across the cold stone floor.

    “So, Kastus.” He said dismissively. His attendants looked around their round wooden table, some bickered or spoke off topic. “My lords, this is not a matter to be taken lightly.” The Duke of Sophorell had now taken his seat in the largest of the wood and iron chairs. “This may cause distress among many citizens, not to mention it is a very precarious political situation within the rest of the Empire.” At this the lords spoke amongst themselves, none coming up with an reasonable solution.

    “Leave. Get out.” The duke spoke softly. The lords understood this tone of voice very well, it was the tone taken by a man who had no more rage, no more anger, a man weary and almost broken. They left without a word through the large wooden doors of the hall. Jonathan rose from his large wooden chair and walked over to the window.

    The raindrops splashed the sill and left Fallheim in a blanket of misery and darkness. As the Duke looked out from the window of his keep he could not help but feel his heart sink. Jonathan had always thought himself to be a servant of the people, and when the people hurt, he too felt pain. The people of Frankmark already carried a large economic burden now the death of Kastus would surely crush some.

    As he turned away from the window, he walked back leaving the hall through a back room to enter a small dim candlelit room. Papers and letters covered a large desk table. Jonathan sat down letting a breathe of exasperation leave his lungs. He looked over sheets that contained incomes and expenditures, taxes and levies. He picked a quill and once again began the tedious work of running a Dukedom.
    It was within moments of this work beginning that young man in a chainmail hauberk entered the room. “My lord”, the man started, “There was another gathering in the countryside today.” He was more a boy than a man, and his face looked innocent and ill experienced.
    “Oh really? Tell me, Sir.... uh.. Sir Daril that’s it. What was the nature of this ‘gathering’?” The Duke continued with his work only pausing to think of the young man’s name.
    “Well My Lord, they were gathered in a mob like manner, they yelled amongst each other, many shouting insults about the Queen. It was disgraceful.”
    “Was it disgraceful? Those people caused no harm, committed no crimes, all they did was speak out, and I’m afraid rightfully so.” The Duke’s tone grew more serious.
    “My lord? Do you mean to say you support this unrest?” The boy’s voice quivered slightly as he did not understand.
    The duke laughed, “Unrest? Haha. Well Sir, Daril, I tell you now that that is not unrest. They have the right to assembly, and if you’re to be a knight here you best learn this is a common sight. Now I ask you only come to me if it is a matter of life or death.” The Duke then looked down again, scribbling with his quill across a long piece of parchment.
    “Yes My lord.” The young man left and exited the room. The Duke continued writing.

    The people of Frankmark were becoming restless. The Queen sat in her “ivory tower” and relished in the fruits of royalty. Meanwhile in bar back rooms and attics, some men met in secret as they talked in general about their misfortunes as people so unfortunately cast into the lower ranks of the socio-economic chain. Every now and again these men got bold and would decide to take up their pitchforks in protest, yet as per the usual their tiny band of misfits would be met with an entourage of men-at-arms. The Duke was in a constant state of distress. He wanted to serve his people, and do what he felt was for the “greater good”, yet he was also a man of honor and swore that he would carry out the orders of the crown.

    So in this dark room in a tower in his little slice of the world he wrote. He wrote not just letters of finance and commerce, but he wrote manuscripts and manifestos, many of which will never see daylight. He channelled much of his frustration and contempt for the way of the world into these scraps of parchment. Yet as he wrote, he continually wondered, what is it worth?

    Kastus was dead. That thought that he had so easily shrugged off before had kept nagging at him. The avatar of the Creator, the son of god. Dead. So no creature may escape mortality. Jonathan took up his quill once more and began to write with a renewed fervor.
    "And so it is in politics, dear brother,/ Each for himself alone, there is no other."
    -Geoffrey Chaucer

    "Loyalty to the country always. Loyalty to the government when it deserves it."
    -Mark Twain

Page 1 of 2 12 LastLast

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •