Celeste — Roleplayer Guild

Overture

  "Never before had I seen Queen Tatyana act so foolish, so thoughtless. She had never fought a hopeless battle, nor ridden with men she knew to be doomed. And yet, when she gazed upon the silhouette of Myezneva against the Heavens, just moments before nightfall, she led one of the most ill-conceived cavalry charges in Moonlandish history... and it proved to be her greatest victory."

  — Vizhal Czemiriy,The Owl's Rebirth

  As the falling sun painted the Heavens in a deep orange with its fiery glow, and turned the land into a black mass, a lonely silhouette stood on the horizon. A rider with a feathered armour and great white antlers on its head, sitting on a steed the colour of the coming night, with a long halberd in hand, it faced dark plains and mountains as far as the eye could see, and a mighty host waiting at the foot of the tallest spire.

  The rider remained still and silent, eyes beholding the holy land and the foe that now held it in its clutches. Below, the great host growled, drums beating and horns blowing, and grew thicker, an endless forest of spears and banners.

  Another rider appeared, and many more followed, until they seemed to stretch from one corner of the horizon to the next, hundreds upon hundreds of black figures before the dying light. The sound of the hooves of their horses was soft, and there were no horns nor drums to signal their arrival.

  The foremost rider's hair fell over their shoulders as they removed their helm, bordeaux streaked with grey, and beneath the hair was the face of a pale woman, the marks of a long life in her features. Her lips were thin and stiff, unsmiling, but her golden eyes were bright with tears.

  "Look, brother..." She whispered to the knight beside her, whose eyes were as golden as hers, and as filled with tears as hers. "At last."

  The knight took a deep breath, then sighed. "Myezneva."

  The eldest daughter and youngest son of King Koryan held each other's armoured hand, and gazed into each other's eyes. Nothing more was said between them, but the silence was not eternal.

  "They outnumber us, Your Majesty." Said a knight in green and silver armour with a broken antler. "We cannot hope to break them."

  The Queen did not frown, nor did she look at the man. Instead, she led her stallion sideways, along the line of knights, and kept her eyes on her foe. "How many, brother?"

  "They must be at least three hundred thousand strong, and with great machines of war, if the tales are to be believed. There may be even more lurking behind the Night Spire. The Nertessians are fond of large numbers." Prince Vamorev answered as he followed her.  "Little to no cavalry, though."

"We should wait for the rest of our host to arrive, Your Majesty. Otherwise, we'll be throwing our lives away." The green and silver knight whispered, joining them. "A couple thousand knights cannot rout a host so large."

  The Queen turned her eyes towards her men, her Knights of Nezmenia, with their black armour and halberds. They were like statues, their feathers and banners rippling in the wind the only motion, their horses the only ones making any noise. After so long, after losing so many of their comrades, they were still unflinching, even in the face of this foe. They were ready to fight and die... and so was she. They had all waited long enough for this day.

  "Grand Marshall, I want your Knights Stellar to cut through their left flank!" She commanded as she turned to the green and silver knight, her voice strong and unwavering despite the tears. "Do not stop until you've reached the foot of the Night Spire!"

  Despite his earlier protests, the knight did not hesitate when he responded with a shout, trotting back towards his men. "Yes, Your Majesty!"

  She then turned to a tall rider dressed in black silk and scales. He was a young man, with black hair and black eyes, though his knights were old and hardened. "Vizhal, you and your knight-enchanters will burn your way into their right flank, where their machines of war will most likely be! I want to see your fires reach as far as the eye can see and light up the Heavens!"

  Vizhal, the Raven Prince, gave her a broad, mischievous grin. "We will be happy to oblige, Your Majesty!"

  "All other orders will form a second line behind my knights, and charge with me! To the Night Spire! To Myezneva!" Her command was responded with the roaring assent of a dozen commanders, and now her stallion was trotting back the center, to her knights, to her brother and niece.

  "Vamorev, you and your best knights will be at the front. I want you to carve us a path through their center." She whispered to her brother, her hand once again on his. "Whatever happens, remember that I love you, and that you need not prove anything to me. I know you will make our clan proud."

  "You do realise that this is an impatient fool's notion, do you not? It is very likely we will all find ourselves dwelling in the Heavens before the Moonrise if we charge now."

  There was no scorn in her brother's voice, nor in his eyes. There was, however, a spark of playfulness, and she adored him all the more for it.

  "I have been patient and careful for too many seasons, brother." She answered.  "Besides, as much as I try to run from it, I will always be a Vikentiy, and us Vikentiy are all impatient fools at heart."

  Sister and brother smiled at one another, and then they parted, the Queen putting her helmet back on. Now, there was only one thing left to do. So, with a pull on her reins, the Queen moved to face her niece, sitting proud and straight on her white mare, a cape with the Moon and stars hanging from her shoulders. She was not a little girl anymore, with a wooden stick for a sword and tales of chivalry in her heart, but a woman grown. 

  "Vikara, you will carry my banner and ride with me." The Queen said, still smiling, and received a small nod in return. The princess took the banner that was offered, the Owl of Nezmenia looking majestic before the blackness, and moved to stand beside her Queen.

  The time had come. Night would soon fall, and the wait would come to an end.

  "Hear me! Hear me, Moonlanders!" She shouted at her knights and pointed her halberd at the Night Spire, at Myezneva. "Behold, behind the hordes of the infidels, our home! A land blessed by the Moon, stolen by these foul peoples, tainted by their evil gods! Many springs and autumns ago, I asked you to follow me to this land, and reclaim it for our people! We all made countless sacrifices to come here! We lost people we loved! We gave up our dreams and our lives!"

  Her knights were silent, but she knew they listened, and as she swiftly led her horse down the length of the line, her halberd held high, her banner flying behind her in her niece's grip, she felt her very spirit fluttering within her.

  "Now, I ask you to ride with me one more time, but not in my father's name, or my own! Nay, I ask you to ride for your Moonlandish siblings, scattered and aimless for so long! For too long! I ask you to ride for the lands lost! For the clans lost! For our broken thrones and our butchered gods! If our people are destined to fade from this world, then let us fade united, as a storm of steel and blood!"

  The Queen turned, and galloped her way to the other end of the line.

  "So ride, Moonlanders! Ride now! Ride now! Ride before the Moonrise! Ride for Nezmenia! Ride for the broken Moon!"

  She stopped then and, as the knights before her could see how tears ran down her cheeks, and how her shoulders shook, she raised her halberd higher than ever before. Wordlessly, she turned to the black mass that awaited below, but her halberd remained high.

  The Queen roared, fierce and powerful.

  "Death!"

  Before she was done, thunder cracked and the earth shook, for all knights there gathered roared with her.

  "DEATH!"

  She smiled, halfway between a madness and euphoria.

  "Death!"

  Once again, her knights responded in unison.

  "DEATH!"

  Her throat hurt, and her tears barely let her see, but she spoke once more. This time, her knights did not even wait to retort.

  "DEATH!" Less than thirty thousand Moonlanders roared from behind the black and white baners of Clan Vikentiy, but so mighty was their cry that they could have been a hundred thousand. The very air seemed to tremble, and many began to wave their spears, their halberds and their banners.

  "Children of the Moon, charge!"

  The Queen swung her halberd down, and horns and drums sounded as her stallion began to gallop down the slope, towards their foe. Soon, the sound of thousands of hooves joined the music of the drums and horns, and the Queen was not alone for long in her charge.

  Grey feathers and grey cloaks fluttered in the wind, like they had when Nezmenia still stood, as her brother and a thousand Knights of Nezmenia pushed forward. They galloped in silence, their motions deliberate, disciplined, and their postures stiff. They would not flinch when they faced the pikes and arrows of the Nertessians and the Adnerians.

  Before long, the Knights of Nezmenia were close enough to see the faces of their foes, and the first Nertessian arrows flew. Dozens fell, but none faltered. Those that were carrying jars of starfire threw them at the humans, and soon there was a wall of white fire where archers and pikemen had been. Those with bows and arrows loosed them, and more humans fell. The rest continued to gallop, their lances and halberds ready for slaughter.

  The Moonlandish charge did not break, even as thousands of arrows rained down upon them, and as the knights neared the front lines of the Adnerian and Nertessian infantry, a panicked quivering seemed to take ahold of them. The sight of those tall antlered men coming towards them, their sound like an earthquake, like a storm, broke the spirits of many.

  And then the Knights of Nezmenia crashed into the wavering pikes, and for every one of them that fell ten more lived and galloped through, trampling on everything in their path, driving their weapons through leather and scale and plate alike. Like an arrow, they pierced through their foes, and the Queen and her niece followed, stabbing and cutting through all that came near them. To their left, the Knights Stellar of Methya were fighting bravely, though they advanced little, and lost many. To their right, the Raven Prince's knight-enchanters were burning their way towards the great machines of war of the Adnerians, their starfire cleansing the land of the worshippers of the Red Pantheon.

  As the Heavens darkened, the land became brighter with starfire and common fire alike, and the battle continued. Thousands of humans had fled the carnage, but many more remained. Many knights climbed down from their horses, swords and shields in hand. Arrows flew back and forth, and the knight-enchanters did their best to bring down the Adnerian machines of war, many of their own burnt alive or crushed by the monstrosities.

  By the time the Moon rose at last, the fighting had come to an end. The Nertessians had fled to the Moon's Throat, and the Adnerians had lost their king and run, never to return again.

  There were no cries of joy, nor beating of drums, nor blowing of horns, to signal the end of the battle. There was no grand, loud celebration of their victory. That was not the way of Moonlanders. Rather, the survivors held one another in silence, or cared for the wounded and the dead.

  The Queen, for her part, only stared at the Heavens, at the Moon and the stars, and at the great white castle that stood between them. Covered in sweat, blood and dirt, with her halberd broken, she stared... and smiled.

___________________________________________________________

I

  "A garden needs not to be born from creation. Even ruins can suddenly find themselves brimming with living beauty. A jasmine is just as beautiful between pristine marble pillars as it is amongst crumbling walls. A chrysanthemum cares not where it is planted, so long as it blooms. As long as they embrace its light, the Moon blesses the broken and the unbroken alike."

  — Dynast Risara Simariy va Myezneva,The Moonlit Romance

  Far away from the cacophony of life beyond the walls, colourful carps were swimming beneath the surface of turquoise waters, lilies and lotuses drifting with the gentle breeze, leaving behind their small ripples. Time stood still in the Constellatory Gardens of Myezneva, the soft wind their only music, the perfume of the flowers and the trees their only scent, the pavilions and galleries their castles and palaces. The Southern Simariy had crafted all of it with scholarly precision, following the teachings of ancient artists, hiding the vulgar and including the splendid. It was majestic from every angle, by turns soothing and inspiring, and perfect for painting.

  The boy's hold on the Queen's hand was as gentle and steady as the breeze that passed through the leaves of the trees to caress her face. He seemed to fear a tighter grip would break her long, bony fingers. A sweet sentiment, truly, but the Queen was not so feeble yet. She could still walk, even if her ankles hurt somewhat. Her mind was still sound, and her senses had not lost their sharpness. She was, after all, Queen Myara's daughter, and Queen Myara had been no weakling even near the end of her days.

  The canopy above was not as thick as it had been before, which meant that autumn could not be far away, and winter would follow soon after. Yet the sunlight that slipped past the intertwined branches was as bright and warm as it had been in the past turn of the Moon, and the flowers had yet to whither. The morning was perfect, and entirely theirs to relish.

  Her grandson's brush slowly glided over the fine paper before them, clearly trying his best to be patient, to take his time as he tried to follow the graceful movements of the carps with his golden eyes, the eyes of their clan, the eyes of the Owls of Nezmenia. The Queen held the paper still for him, and her smile was sincere as she saw fins and scales appear before her eyes. Her grandson was talented with the brush.

  They were sitting on the edge of the pond, dressed in fine green silk and cloth of gold, their feet inches away from the water's surface.

  It was all the Queen could have asked for, truly, that her last days on this world were spent like this, in these beautiful gardens, with her sweet grandson to keep her company, and to learn from her. After a whole life spent riding to battle with her halberd in hand, she seldom felt like riding anymore, or even walking. These days, just sitting, and letting her senses be soothed by the gardens, was enough.

  "Your mother tells me you have been avoiding your fencing lessons." The Queen whispered softly, breaking the silence. The boy stilled for a moment, the eye of one of the carps left incomplete.

  "I'm sorry, grandmother." He muttered, pouting. His brush drooped, and his small self seemed to shrink.

  The Queen squeezed his hand affectionately, and quickly pressed a small, reassuring kiss on her grandson's long hair, bordeaux like her own had once been. "I am not upset with you, sweet child. It is alright if you do not enjoy swords. It is a fool's notion to think that all boys must be enamored with such things."

  The Crown Prince bit his lip. "The Marquis of Kruventh says boys should not paint with anything but blood and steel."

  That made the Queen scoff quite loudly.

  "Of course he says such nonsense. Before he grew his antlers, his father beat him bloody for painting flowers with me in his leisure time." The Queen said, looking into his eyes. "Your grandfather always dreamed of having a son who would grow to become the greatest knight who ever lived. He made our Marku train from dawn until dusk, and never let me teach him to paint, or read him the works of scholars. He wanted a warrior, valiant and proud... and he got what he wanted, in the end."

  Radu was silent as he held her gaze.

  "Your grandfather was an oaf, and he raised your uncle to be an oaf as well. Strong oafs, yes, and very brave too, but they were oafs still, and both died young. Were you to heed that pathetic marquis, you would find the same end. I loved them both, and I had to bury them both. Sweet child, I don't want you to become like them. I don't want you to be an knightly oaf. I want you to live long, and rule wisely, and let others fight your battles."

  She let go of her grandson's hand to take the brush from his faltering hold, and firmly pressed the handle against his palm.

  "And I want you to paint with this brush."

  Her grandson smiled and nodded, the painting resumed, and silence reigned in the gardens once more.

  After a dozen more strokes of the brush, the painting was finished, and the boy's small hand was tugging at her sleeve. The Queen gazed at the finished work, losing herself in the details. They had spent the better part of the morning in its creation. It was a treat the two royals had given themselves, as a reward for the many days they had not shared before, the boy being tutored by the male courtiers while the Queen was forced to feast with their wives.

  She had seldom had time to contemplate art in her youth, and there had not been many peaceful strolls through gardens during the crusades. Now that she did not need to wear armour and hold a halberd any longer, she could appreciate the delights of courtly life, even if she found courtiers and their customs insufferable.

  "Well, how about we take a stroll now, Radu?" The Queen said, taking the brush from the boy's hand before standing up. "I would like to hear what you've learned since the last time we spoke."

  The Crown Prince nodded enthusiastically and stood up swiftly, his hand holding hers again, and he smiled as he dragged her towards another section of the gardens, where the trees were sparser and the world beyond Myezneva could be seen. He did not speak at first, but hummed a lively tune instead. The paper, now forgotten, was left by the pond.

  He began to speak as they walked the length of the beautiful balustrade, their eyes barely lingering on the plains and mountains of the highlands, or the dark clouds that were forming far away to the north, where the Terstrian Riverlands lied.

  "Demibor Bazhoriy says that the Paladins of Krax are burning Moonlandish newborns as sacrifices. His father wants to go to war with them."

  The Queen let out another scoff.

  "Ah, yes, Eliabor Bazhoriy. That puffy little man whined like a babe when I agreed to the armistice with Charlin, and he even had the gall to suggest that age had robbed me of my wits. You would do well to pay no heed to that warmonger's ramblings when you sit on my throne, Radu. He is not even a half-decent commander, and his so-called knights were useless when the time came to march to the holy land."

  "But is it true, grandmother? Do the Paladins really burn newborns?" Radu enquired.

  "I find that very unlikely, but they would not be the first order to violate their own code of honour. Even the Knights of Nezmenia did it once or twice, and the Dream Plague has made monsters out of better people."

  They passed under an archway and into a tree tunnel, the leaves still a vibrant green, before the Queen spoke again.

  "Did you hear of King Yaroval's death?"

  The boy gave a small nod.

  "Vikara told me Axohaan returned and killed him and took over Kadulum."

  The Crown Prince's golden eyes looked down at the marble floor, forlorn. He had grown somewhat fond of Yaroval when the young king had visited Myezneva, during his pilgrimage to the Moon's Throat. He had been the typical Moonlandish king, in the Queen's eyes: always plentiful in bravery, but often lacking in good sense. Nevertheless, he had always been friendly towards Clan Vikentiy, and his death meant the loss of a much needed ally in Kadulum.

  The Queen gave the boy's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "The Ghûls claim as much, though I have never met an honest Ghûl. I would not be too fearful... nor shed a tear for King Yaroval. He was a good man, and the Moon will welcome him to dwell in the Heavens."

  She resumed their walking, stepping into a pavilion where a feast would soon be held for the women of the court. The Queen did not look forward to that, at least not the entirety of it. It would be pleasant to see her daughter again, however.

  "Were you King of the Moonlanders, what would you do if the tales of Axohaan's return happened to be true?" She asked as she sat on a marble seat, pain already following her every step.

  "Send Leirkev to defeat him. A Simariy killed Axohaan once." The boy answered without a moment's pause, sitting beside her.

  "Hmm..." The Queen mused. "Well, us Vikentiy descend from the Owl Goddess, yet you don't see us grow feathers and fly. And I would argue that the same principle applies to the Simariy. Still, I suppose it is not an entirely foolish notion."

  Radu frowned. "But you would have to send an entire army with him to defeat the Ghûls, and you would have to go through Charlin or Karkarth to get there, or go by ship."

  His grandmother gave him a lopsided smirk.

  "Not necessarily, child. The Ghûls have few friends in this world, and no small amount of countries would be happy to lend their strength to their eradication. And there is something to be said about the last descendant of the Grand Simariy going on an epic quest to defeat one of Yuwan's greatest foes. I would join that quest in the blink of an eye if my dear stallion was still alive, and I am half dead."

    She let out a sigh and leaned back, the sunlight making the white of her antlers almost blindingly bright. Her grandson soon joined her, his eyes closed. He seemed deep in thought, but still serene, just the way she wanted him to be.

  "What is on your mind, Radu?" She enquired, head leaning towards his.

  His lips parted, but no sound came at first. When it did, it came as a muttering.

  "A lot." He smiled, and giggled a bit. "My mother said in her letter that she was bringing a girl she wanted me to meet. She's the daughter of the Prince of Letozora."

  The Queen groaned, rolling her eyes at the Heavens.

  "Your mother never learned the value of subtlety. I know the prince and his daughter. The man is very kind-hearted and intelligent, so he would make a fine grandfather. But his daughter is, sadly, unpalatable in every way. She will drive you mad long before your wedding. If I were you, I would plant a moonflower with his son. He's comely, he likes the same silly poems you do, and I have been told that he has a lovely singing voice."

  Radu blushed at the last part, prompting a giggle from his grandmother.  "Now, anything else on your mind, other than your future bride and paramour?"

  "Umm..." He was still blushing, but his voice was not embarrassed, but afraid. "What will happen if the Dream Plague comes here? What if there's Afflicted?"

  The Queen placed a soothing hand on the top of his head, stroking his hair. "Never fear, for I am the Owl, and owls are clever creatures. Besides, the plague will have to go through the Grand Inquisitor before it can get here, and given the wonders he did with Terstrians and Jahun-ka, he may well end up making the Dream Plague our ally."

  The two shared a smile, the Queen and her heir. Soon after, the first courtiers entered the gardens, and the feast began.

___________________________________________________________

II

  "One wonders what sparked this romance between ice and ash. The only thread that bound them was covered in the blood of the boy's clan, and their first meeting was drenched in blood as well. History and tragedy should have made them sworn foes, to slay one another in a memorable duel between the finest examples of everything glorious about their respective peoples.

  And yet, when the Masked Inquisition emerged at last from the woods, a moonflower had been planted within the labyrinth of intertwined trees, and both Moonlander and Jahun-ka still lived."

 — Anonymous,The Untold Tales of the Battle for the Marowit Forest

  The lips that were roughly pressed against his were soft to the touch, but the hands that were gripping his arms were not. Their calluses felt like rough stone on his skin. Everything about this person, truly, felt like rough stone. A huge ashen stone, heavy as it pushed him against the crumbling walls of Grinsterdov, overwhelming him.

  The first drops of rain outside were amongst the sweetest sounds he had ever heard. He had always loved the rain, even as a child. The drops falling on his face, so cold at times that they stung, and his feet soaking up in puddles of rainwater. There had never been any shortage of rain in Badrev.

  He sighed into the other's mouth, and shivered under his touch. When those lips slid down his face, towards his neck, and parted, teeth scraping against his throat, the sighs turned to gasps.

  "Mine." The ashen creature growled, then bit hard, though not enough to draw blood. Not yet.

No. Mine. He thought, his white hands reaching for the horns that rose from the top of the creature's head, amidst thick black hair. His hands were not covered in calluses, but they were scarred. Had been that way for the longest of times.

  The raindrops were becoming plentiful and heavier, but beyond the body pressed against his, he could see that the light of the morning could still escape the clouds and bathe the gardens of Grinsterdov, making the grass and stone glimmer. Gardens born from destruction, these were. Yielding had not spared the castle from the horrors of war, but merely delayed it instead. By making it his seat, he had brought the wrath of Terstria upon the castle, and this part of the castle had taken the brunt of their violence.

  He often thought about rebuilding. He owed the people of Grinsterdov as much. But it was so beautiful, so perfect in its imperfection. He would have gladly spent every day and every night here, simply gazing at every detail...

  "Stop thinking." Came another growl, followed by more kisses, more biting, and more caresses from those coarse hands. 

  "Sorry."

  A hand pulled on his long black hair.

  "Stop talking."

  He smiled at that, and pressed his whole self against the other's. They lost themselves in one another then, not a single word more spoken between them. They knew what the other needed too well. Soon, his hands were being held over his head by their wrists, and his neck was surrounded by long, thick fingers. The other's lips never left his as those fingers squeezed softly, and he felt a fluttering in his chest as the other's own chest rumbled.

  "Harder." He whispered softly between kisses.

  "Of course." The other whispered back, gazing into his bright green eyes with unadulterated love and lust. It was almost as intoxicating to him as the words spoken, but less so than the pressure on his throat as those fingers closed again. It was harder than before, though it lasted only a moment. He gasped when it was over, and kissed the other hard, in a clash of lips and teeth.

  The rainfall muffled the symphony of gasps, moans and growls that surged from within the ruins, like it had many times before. Such was one of the Moon's many blessings for the secret lovers who had planted a moonflower under its light.

  By the time the rain ceased, leaving in its wake large pudles of muddy water, soaked grass and slippery stone, Moonlander and Jahun-ka lied breathless in each other's arms, their eyes still burning with utter adoration, the lust long sated. They kissed again, though the gesture was now chaste in nature, and a pale hand found itself gently holding an ashen chin, thumb gently stroking the scars on its skin.

  "It's folly." Said Khavor as the Grand Inquisitor's lips kissed his chin.

  "It's necessary." The Moonlander beneath him retorted, the look in his eyes admitting no further discussion. Not that such a thing had ever stopped the Jahun-ka.

  "But folly nonetheless." The massive man with the ashen skin insisted, hands on either side of the smaller man's head. "The Plaguelands are not like the woods or the riverlands. It's not Terstrian knights you will be facing, but something worse. You know this."

  Leirkev sighed, the hints of a pout on his lips. "What sort of Grand Inquisitor would I be if I refused to deal with those ungodly abominations? If I let thousands of Moonlanders die alone in the middle of Somnus?"

  "A sensible one. A live one." Khavor's face was but inches away from Leirkev's, the worry in his expression undeniable. "It is not your duty to save all Moonlanders."

  "Well, if you don't want to come with me, you can stay here and protect our castle." The Moonlander snapped at him, sitting up. The green fire in his eyes was growing fiercer. He would not relent.

  Khavor's hand reached for his cheek, holding it tenderly. "I'd rather protect you."

  Leirkev's expression did not improve. "I'm not a helpless maiden, Khavor."

  "But if you don't return..."

  The Moonlander did not let him finish. "You will probably march into the Plaguelands on your own and kill everything in your path until you find me, like a good Jahun-ka."

  The two stared at one another in silence, motionless, until Khavor's lips parted again, and delved in for a long, deep kiss.

  "Damn you." He said with his hand buried in Leirkev's hair. "If I didn't love you..."

  "I would not be here." Leirkev smiled up at him. "I would not survive without you."

You would not survive without me. He thought as the Jahun-ka returned his smile.

  Outside the crumbling walls of Grinsterdov, rain fell once again.
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