Culluket

The Absent King

When every breath brings pain, one learns to guard ones words.

Kolbe hadn't said much during the journey. He'd spoken cordially but little with his fellow Knights and not at all with the commonfolk, and even now the captain's acerbic order drew only a low rumor of acknowledgement from behind the blank iron helm which hid that terrible, ravaged face.

Linus dismounted and planted the Aretan pennant in the center of the blackened ruin, driving the shaft hard into the dry earth and kicking up a thin cloud of dust. The sapphire-and-gold banner flapped morosely in the hot breeze, specks of soot catching on its surface and marring the royal heraldry. It was eerily quiet.

The perforated helm creaked left and right, taking in the scene. Destruction and chaos. Not a pillage or raid -- they'd stopped just shy of salting the damned earth. This was the burning-brand of fear. No human bodies. Slaves? Or sent fleeing, like the others flooding over the border? Details. Like as not unimportant ones, for now.

What narrowed his mind was the timing.

They were following the King and his new wastrel friends. The King had passed this way. And this was all that was left in his wake. Could be a number of conclusions a man could draw from that. Were they here, when this happened? Had the King of Areta been captured? Or did...

Hnh.

He turned away from the thought, looking back to his fellows. Old Falkenberg and Gerald the Giant, going about their duties and cursing the Elves aloud. With no small reason, for that. The further from the city's walls they'd come, the more ill rumor they'd heard of these savages and the cruel witchcraft they wrought along the river. In the end, the only surprise was they hadn't come across this sooner--

He felt the battle-roar in his bones almost before he heard it. Gerald had found one alive. Konrad was already on his feet and halfway there, ready to aid... or to mitigate whatever damage The Colossus was about to do in his fit of zeal. Kolbe took his time, marching slowly, watching their backs. He didn't know them well, and they like as not didn't well know him. But instinct told him they were good brothers. Brothers he knew he could depend on when the fat started to fry. He'd pay them the same, in blood if need be.

The captain? Could be that was another story. Could be he might not be a man who'd do what needed to be done. Time would tell.

It always did.

The Absent King

Name: Linus Kolbe
Age: 35
Gender: Male
Race: Aretan Hume

Appearance:
There are no fair or courtly words to encompass the horrifying appearance of Linus Kolbe. He is by every impression a dead man who refused to lay down. His eyes, one milk-white and sightless, stare from a red, patchwork ruin of deep furrowed wounds and unspeakable burns, the whole of his skin and skull held together with crude wire-thread stitching and scar tissue, hair long since burned away. His voice comes as a shuddering rasp from somewhere in his chest, deeper breaths rattling in his lungs. Few know what further atrocities are visible on his flesh beneath the padding of his armor.

It works well, in putting the fear of battle into the Crown's foes. Unfortunately, it often has the same effect upon its friends.

Brief character concept:
Quartermaster and record-keeper. He has one good eye and can still swing a blade or hammer with the best of men. And one thing you can be sure of: He isn't afraid of getting hurt.

History:
Who was he, before he was left an embittered husk, cast off from the crucible of war? It barely seems to matter, when few can say who he is now. And following his last return from battle, Linus would have been forcibly retired were it not for his unwavering loyalty and a curious pressure from the clergy that he remain available for duty. A compromise was reached, and he soon found himself relegated to duty as Annalist and Quartermaster; Battle-ready, but kept away from younger, idealistic recruits, those who still believe war is all glory and bright, shining armor. It would not do for the impressionable to see the true, terrible face of war.

As with many older knights in the service of the Aretan crown, Linus is a veteran of a few of the kingdom's renowned campaigns. But what follows him more closely, more cautiously, are the whispers of other, lesser-known campaigns, rumored forays pushing deep into the hidden east. Campaigns of which there are no songs, of which no tapestries are woven, of which there are no writings and any discovered are burned along with their authors.

There are no certainties in this whispered hearsay. But the rumors -- as surely Linus himself -- refuse to die.

The Absent King

Knights be upon you.

Name: Linus Kolbe
Age: 35
Gender: Male
Race: Aretan Hume

Appearance:
There are no fair or courtly words to encompass the horrifying appearance of Linus Kolbe. He is by every impression a dead man who refused to lay down. His eyes, one milk-white and sightless, stare from a red, patchwork ruin of deep furrowed wounds and unspeakable burns, the whole of his skin and skull held together with crude wire-thread stitching and scar tissue, hair long since burned away. His voice comes as a shuddering rasp from somewhere in his chest, deeper breaths rattling in his lungs. Few know what further atrocities are visible on his flesh beneath the padding of his armor.

It works well, in putting the fear of battle into the Crown's foes. Unfortunately, it often has the same effect upon its friends.

Brief character concept:
Quartermaster and record-keeper. He has one good eye and can still swing a blade or hammer with the best of men. And one thing you can be sure of: He isn't afraid of getting hurt.

History:
Who was he, before he was left an embittered husk, cast off from the crucible of war? It barely seems to matter, when few can say who he is now. And following his last return from battle, Linus would have been forcibly retired were it not for his unwavering loyalty and a curious pressure from the clergy that he remain available for duty. A compromise was reached, and he soon found himself relegated to duty as Annalist and Quartermaster; Battle-ready, but kept away from younger, idealistic recruits, those who still believe war is all glory and bright, shining armor. It would not do for the impressionable to see the true, terrible face of war.

As with many older knights in the service of the Aretan crown, Linus is a veteran of a few of the kingdom's renowned campaigns. But what follows him more closely, more cautiously, are the whispers of other, lesser-known campaigns, rumored forays pushing deep into the hidden east. Campaigns of which there are no songs, of which no tapestries are woven, of which there are no writings and any discovered are burned along with their authors.

There are no certainties in this whispered hearsay. But the rumors -- as surely Linus himself -- refuse to die.