Grey the Fairy

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

Amalian District
Night before the final battle

Triscus stood there, his eyes wide and hand shaking as he took in the sight before him. An armoured soldier, weaponless, was lying in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by Amalian soldiers trying to save him. Sticking out of his neck was the haft of a pilum. HIS pilum. Triscus couldn’t stop the sight replaying over and over again in his head, the weight of the spear leaving his hand and landing dead on its mark. The jubilation he’d felt, and then the sickening realisation he hadn’t killed a Tautan warrior, but a Chlotar messenger moments after. “Is he dead..?” he asked the soldier closest to him, who looked back, nodding his head before speaking “Fucking hell… Good throw but… I’d wager yer in the shit now lad. We need to report this in, he’s got a message for the Legate.” As he said it, another soldier got up from the body, a bloodied note with hastily scrawled markings in his hand as he took off down the street. Triscus paled as he sank to the side of the street, narrowly avoiding a stream of sewage that ran parallel to the street, his eyes locked on the Chlotar body across from him. “Shit.”

The sound and screams of wounded men filled the harbour, drowning out even the birds as they flocked to any unattended dead bodies, Quintus walked through the rows of soldiers surrounding him gritting his teeth as he did his best to drown the cries out. He pulled himself onto a wooden parapet lining the edges of the harbour, standing upright before he looked down upon the rows of gathered men. To his front, the First Cohort stood, bloodied and battered, battle tested once more. Some sported bloodied weapons, dented shields, others stared forwards, the shock of battle still played in their eyes. They had taken casualties, the bodies of their comrades lay to their rear, an Amalian Priest was attending the bodies, whereas nearby, the squirming and writhing bodies of those unfortunate enough to not be killed outright were being tended to by Chirurgeons. Quintus had deliberately left them at the rear near the lapping waters of the harbour itself, out of sight, but with their cries piercing his ears, hardly out of mind.

“Sir, the reports in.” The voice forced Quintus to snap his gaze up from the exhausted, bloodied soldiers in front of him to the junior Officer who had pulled himself onto the Parapet beside him, behind him, hundreds of Amalian soldiers were making their way into the wide open harbour central, joining the First Cohort. Not as experienced as the First, Quintus knew they wouldn’t hold up as well in a fight, but with a wince he knew he wouldn’t have much choice but to use them. The Officer coughed, and Quintus nodded “Let’s hear it.”
“Fourth Cohort, Sixth and the Seventh are nearly gone. They joined the Tautom militia when the fighting began. Second, Third, Fifth and Sixth onwards are in good condition. We pulled the soldiers that didn’t betray us from those Cohorts into the Second. It is standing at about… Seven hundred strong.”
“Any deserters?” The Officer bit his tongue and nodded. “All Cohorts are reporting a lot of deserters sir… We haven’t done a full count yet, but…” the Officer trailed off. Quintus simply nodded. He’d lost three full Cohorts. He was standing at about three thousand men, the thought that men had abandoned their posts to flee an enemy inside a city angered him, but he didn’t show it, he simply grunted
“And Arminius?”
“He’s at the Harbour gate, with two engineers and … Something. They look like, giant fucking bellows sir.”
“Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
“There was one more thing sir.”
“Yes?”
“A runner appeared, asking for you sir… But. Well. Someone thought he was a Tautom runner. They… They killed him Sir.”
Quintus stiffened and turned completely to face the young man, his face knitting into a frown. It was unseemly to kill a messenger, even an enemy.
“Was it a Tautan runner? Did they at least get what he wanted?”
“No sir. It was a Chlotar. Vetericus is summoning you.”
“... Would he have me barking like a dog as well?” Quintus swore under his breath and looked down at the tired First Cohort, then up at the fresh faced soldiers behind them, Officers ran back and forth to organise the movements of such a large force. He spat on the wooden planks beneath his feet and growled “Put the man who killed that Chlotar in chains. I’ll deal with him later. We’re moving into the commons to link up with the Chlotar’s. Leave the First Cohort here to rest, I’ll summon them when we need them. Until then, they’re our rearguard.”
“Yes sir.” The Officer saluted, before turning to jump off the parapet, jogging off towards a nearby group of Officer’s awaiting orders. Quintus hopped down himself, walking towards his horse. He finally had the Celesean fire, he thought to himself as he saddled his white steed, the tool that was famed for bringing down kingdoms. And that was exactly what he had planned for it.

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

Tautom City

The street linking the Royal and Harbour Districts

Quintus let out a grunt as he hefted the spear in a hard overhead throw. Quintus watched the iron tip sail through the air before it slammed into the dirt. It wasn’t Ardoiwn’s blood that graced the spear as intended, the pilum had missed him by inches. Vetellius turned to his commander and grinned at him with a hint of sarcasm. “Do all nobles throw good like that sir?”
“Bah. The wind caught it, it was headed straight for him. You saw it!” Quintus snarled in response, frustration clear in his voice. Vetellius simply smirked “Well. Hopefully your blade skills are better than your throwing skills… We’ll be fighting them the old fashioned way.”
“You mean the proper way.” Quintus responded, the frustration in his voice receding as he suddenly barked out himself. “SOLDIERS! READY PILUM!” The cry was carried by the other officers in the ranks, soldiers hurriedly replacing their swords with the much deadlier throwing spears, beginning to draw them back as they got ready to unleash the barrage of cold iron on the enemy. “THROW!”

Bolstered by the frustrated rage of their leader the Lamperts charged.
Ardoiwn was still hung up on the fact that they had tried to slay him in such a manner. The thought of being slain without even seeing his killers face… Ardoiwn shook his head, this was no time for such thoughts.
“Cleph!” Ardoiwn cried to the man next to him, “Yes sir?!” Cleph answered, “Take our right, if we’re going to win this we’re going to need to punch through and surround them!” With a nod the second in command howled and moved down the line. Ardoiwn looked ahead, the distance between the two forces closing. Suddenly he saw the glint of steel as the enemy soldiers changed weapons. “I can’t bring them all out of this...” The man whispered to himself dejectedly.

With a single barked command, the front ranks unleashed their pilum towards the enemy. The spears, designed with a soft iron shaft to bend after impact, embedded themselves in shield, armour and flesh without discrimination. Any pilum that were lucky enough to embed themselves in shields and armour now made these defences useless and unwieldy, the spears stuck in place, their iron tips bent so they couldn’t be pulled out. Those Lamperts were forced to throw their shields aside, making them easier prey as the Amalian’s swords were drawn once more.

The frontliners of the warband use their axes and maces to hew the stuck pilums off their shields, to varying degrees of success. Some broke theirs off with ease, but others couldn’t get it done before the enemy was upon them -- there was not the luxury of time.
Thankfully untouched by the volley Ardoiwn considered the options ahead of him. Force of arms alone would not see him through, but diplomacy was already spent. The only hope was to punch deeply enough to turn it from a clash of lines into a chaotic melee.
His spear leveled in front of him Ardoiwn cried out, “For Lampertei!”

With battlelust and yells and cheers, the company of Lamperts charge forth to meet the enemy, and slam their axes, swords and maces into Amalian frontliners -- splintering shields, breaking bones and, if not that, denting armor. A bloody crucible. The Lamperts may be outnumbered, but covering the width of the street it is impossible for the Amalians to use this to its full effect, to surround or flank them.

The charge was met by the immovable strength of the Amalian shields, the charge’s chorus was answered by Amalian screams. Quintus watched as the front rank of his men buckled under the charge’s impetus, but stood strong, only a few of his men falling under Lampert blade or axe. He knew what would happen next, he had no need to give the orders. From the front, an officer roared. “Hold shields! HOLD!” as the line of Amalians started to regain their footing, one soldier briefly threw back his shield, thrusting with a shortsword into the gut of one Lampert, resulting in a pained cry as deep red and brown guts spilled from the wound. In a second, the soldier withdrew back behind his shield as the Lampet fell, screaming in abject terror and agony. Quintus watched as this motion began to mirror itself across the entire Amalian line, like an armoured machine, the soldiers behind the front rank braced the soldier in front of them as they began to lash out with short blades, ideal for the chaos of the battlefield. More Lamperts began to fall, blood starting to fill the gaps in the cobbles as the Lampert’s weapons crashed against shields and armour with little effect, if they could even swing them to begin with in the cramped press of the battle lines. Even so the Amalian’s still took casualties. Each one was ignored by his comrades, and simply replaced. Deciding to press the advantage, Quintus growled, raising his voice above the screams of dying men “AMALIANS! ADVANCE!”.

Ardoiwn looks on with horror at the display in front of him. The lampert charge made little ground on the metal wall, the quills of short swords punching through narrow gaps to bring swift death. Ardoiwn could merely watch as Alo took a blade into the gut, the man was now on the ground, trying to keep his innards within. Pert took a sword between the ribs, nonetheless he tried to fight on but his strength was gone, his blows glancing.
They were all dying. There was nothing Ardoiwn could do about it.
Ardoiwn did not hear nor see any greater progress on the flanks either, whenever an opening was made, whenever a lampert struck down one of their cowardly foes two more would take his place.
As his friends and comrades died around him a cold rage began to burn in Ardoiwn’s breast. He had to punch through, he had to make the death of those that followed him worthwhile. He had to kill as many enemies as he could, he had to kill all of them.
Charging to the front Ardoiwn was a rapid fury, seven blows here, six of them faints, one striking true. Two blows above the head to punch a spear into a leg before his enemy could respond. Not good enough. Faster, he had to be faster. One enemy got too close, within his spear. Their sword swept across Ardoiwn’s face, but it wasn’t deep enough. Ardoiwn brought his head into his enemy before pushing them away and spearing them.

With fury in his eyes, Ardoiwn breathed heavily, his teeth clenched as exhaustion was pushed aside. He had to kill their leader, then he could slay the rest, then he could save his friends. His eyes darts through the frightened faces before him to make out any man who resembled an officer, anyone with a distinguishing helmet, a plume, the air of command. His eyes falls on a red horsehair crest adorning an ornate helmet, and another beside that, both belonging to two officers, one looks to be in his prime, a scarred face and a grim set dark expression. The other is older, his face beginning to relax in its age, but no less determined, experience obvious in his eyes. With a faint surge of hope in his chest Ardoiwn shouts at them, “Are one of you the coward!? The coward that would slay my friends without so much as a word!?”

Quintus turned his head to the cry, spotting the source instantly. Ardoiwn had taken down several soldiers in front of them, having pushed the gap made in the lines before the soldiers could push back. The Amalian’s had begun to advance, pressing into the Lamperts all the more, making their larger, heavier weapons next to useless, almost impossible to swing around as their own comrades were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the melee. Here the Amalian blade came into its own, slipping between shields and gaps in armour, slaughtering the Lamperts who came at them like madmen. Quintus was relieved to see the tides of the battle becoming clear. But even so, he watched as this Lampert leader hacked his way over Amalian men towards him, followed by a handful of his emboldened retainers. He knew he had to be dealt with. Quintus took his shield up, nodding to Vetillius as he grunted, his eyes set straight forward “The center is buckling. That one.” He nodded towards Ardoiwn “He’s rallying the Lamperts. He needs to die.”

Even as Quintus looked on, the cost of the Lampert charge was beginning to show, while they had managed to make a dent in the center of the Amalian line, it had cost them their flanks, as slowly the Amalian veterans carved their way to the rear of the Lampert line, slowly but surely, the Lamperts were being surrounded, and all that was left was to cut the beating heart from the Godless heathens. Quintus sucked in a sharp breath, in front of him, was the final soldier between him and the berserking warchief, holding his shield high. Quintus grabbed him by the shoulder, bracing him and falling into formation as he growled in his ear “Stand fast soldier. I will give you fifty silver pieces if you carv-”
“With all due respect sir. Shut up.” Quintus blinked at the growl from the soldier in front, seeing that he was watching Ardoiwn intently, until finally, the moment came.

Ardoiwn’s spear punched through an Amalian soldier’s shoulder. There was a sickening crunch of bone and armour as the weight of the blow sent the soldier onto his knees, Ardoiwn grunted as he pulled his spear from the man, the Amalian soldier dying in a pool of blood beneath his face. With the Lampert leader momentarily distracted, the soldier in front of Quintus suddenly struck, throwing his sword out from behind his shield towards the Lampert leader. There was a sound of metal on metal, blade on shield as it was stopped dead in its tracks. At the last second Cleph appeared, having parried the blow, saving Ardoiwn’s life.
“What are you doing here?!” Ardoiwn cried as his friend replied, “Flanks are collapsed, thought I’d save your life.”
While his focus was on his lord however Cleph presented an opening, one the Amalian took to bring his shield down on Cleph’s leg. Cleph howled in pain as his knee was crushed. The Lampert warrior screamed as bone gave way to the metal rimmed shield, his scream was cut short a moment later as the Amalian’s sharp blade tore into his chest, resulting in a brief gurgle before he fell away in the tide of battle. The Amalian looked now to Ardoiwn with a curse on his lips, lifting his blade back for another try at the Gastald, but Ardoiwn wasn’t paying attention.. As he thrust with the shortsword for the Lampert’s neck, Ardoiwn’s spear suddenly shot upwards to catch the attack before parrying the blade away. The tip of Ardoiwn’s spear then shot forwards and hit the soldier in the hand. The Amalian screamed, dropping his blade before it reached its target as the spear pierced his skin, blood oozing from the deep gash. Quintus grimaced, imagining the end for the soldier in front of him. But it wasn’t over.

As Ardoiwn pulled his spear back for a finishing jab into the Amalian, there was a burst of blinding speed, a fit of unexpected rage, when the Amalian lifted his shield, throwing it into the spear before it could begin its forwards momentum, and then threw a hard kick at Ardoiwn’s crotch. There was a soft thud, before Ardoiwn’s eyes widened in unexpected pain, quivering as a loud groan escaped his mouth. With his eyes rolling into his head, the Lampert didn’t have time to stop the Amalian from tearing Ardoiwn’s heavy knife from his waist. Coating the side arm’s handle in his own blood, the Amalian lifted it, and pulling away the shield, swung it hard for Ardoiwn’s exposed face. There was a wet parting sound as Ardoiwn’s flesh tore, the blade cutting deeply. Blood poured down Ardoiwn’s face as he staggers back, before falling in a heap on the ground, defeated.

Quintus watched the grisly spectacle with wide eyes, his mouth open as he watched the berserking Ardoiwn felled by a nameless soldier. Looking past the soldier, he saw the Lamperts closest were also briefly shocked by the apparent death of their commander. The Amalians took full advantage of the brief lapse in their foes rage, with a triumphant roar escaping from their throats, the Amalian center began to push back, hacking down any Lamperts who tried to return to the fight. Quintus looked back to the soldier in front of him, who was still holding the hefty knife and panting, the bleeding wound on his hand almost forgotten. “What’s your name soldier? You did… Well… Better than I thought.”
The soldier didn’t answer at first, his mind lost to the carnage unfolding before him, before finally he seemed to snap back to reality. “It’s… It’s Triscus sir.”

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

Tautom Docks

The roads were streaked with anxious and confused citizenry, high born merchants and lowly plebs all looked with wide eyes towards the Amalian Quarter, the sector where even now the busiest streets could hear the screams of dying men, the roars of a victor, and the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. Quintus ignored all of them. Sat on top of his horse, the sound of heavy hoofbeats on the stone cobbles beneath him became a steady rhythm as the images of panic and fear blurred past him. Whorehouses emptied with half naked patrons gripping their clothes, running to whatever safety they could dream up, oiled strongmen and buskers, their public business interrupted by the growing screams from the south of the city began to run. The images sickened him, but soon, he’d be rid of it. Gripping his reigns tight, he made his way through the plaza were not days earlier his daughter had been married to the King’s son, Prince Zeno. Already, the young princeling was beloved by many of the lowborns and plebs, Quintus had made sure of it, with both bribery and threats, and now, with Vetericus beginning the attack from Quintus’ own quarter, he was betting on it.

Finally, a wall of thick salty air washed over Quintus as his horse rode under the great arches that led into Tautom harbour. The harbour hadn’t broken into the same panic as the rest of the city. Cramped wooden houses and colossal warehouses lined the edges of the harbour, settled against the curtain wall that sectioned off the rich merchant vessels from the plebs, some old and rotting, rented to the crusty fishermen, while rich, grand mansions housed what used to be great trading companies, now twisted into brothels and other inns of debauchery for travellers. In front of the buildings stretched a large open open cobbled floor before it dropped away into the ocean itself. At both ends of the harbour, great walls and walkways stretched around, each wall ended with a great tower, connected by an imposing sea chain, to form a protective circle for the ships inside. Nothing could enter or leave while that sea chain was raised, and that is exactly what Quintus was here for. Nothing was to escape or reinforce the city, he would make sure Tautom’s conquest was total. But he wasn’t alone. In the center of the docks, stood five hundred soldiers in formation, headed by his right hand man, Arminius.

Arriving in front of the men, he quickly dismounted the horse, handing the reins to a younger soldier as he turned to the officer. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now.”
“I have sir. The men are… Anxious. We’ve done what we can, their loyalty is assured. But I can’t speak for their nerves.”
Quintus looked over the soldiers nearby. In the past months, he had gotten his hands on the best equipment, weapons and shields for his troops in Amalian fashion, reminding them of the duty to their homeland, removing any discontent from the ranks. Now before him, stood roughly five hundred men, a full cohort, nearly every soldier wore Lamellar Mail, Scale Mail or something similar, each of them loyal to Amalia and by default, him. Quintus furrowed his brow. He wasn’t sure about the last one. Steel could be strong. Blades sharp. But the loyalty of a human mind changed faster than metal rusted and dulled. He nodded to Arminius and turned back to the horse, pushing himself up into the saddle. Swinging his leg over to the other side, he noticed civilians beginning to watch the scene unfold, feeling safe in the presence of armed men. He spat on the floor, clearing his throat as he spurred his horse forward. Looking out over the soldiers, he spotted many grim set faces, and felt a wash of relief, many of his soldiers were veterans as it was, they knew a battle was coming, but as he looked, he saw the unmistakable wide eyed fear in several others. They would be harder to win over. Sucking in a sharp breath, he began to talk.

“Soldiers of the Second, men of Amalia! You stand here before me, ready for battle. Ready for a fight! Ready to kill! You have been organised here, alone, five hundred souls, for one task alone!”
Quintus kept his voice loud and booming, he knew if he faltered even once, he could ruin the resolve of these men, and they could lose their lives as a result. Lifting his arm, he gestured back towards the Amalian quarter before continuing.
“Right now, across the city, the Chlotar forces have broken the walls of Tautom. They stream in by the thousands. They slaughter any armed individual they find, and they push in deeper by the minute!”
He turned back to the men, many of whom he knew would be expecting to face the Chlotars shortly.
“But not our walls. Not our city. This is not our home! Our home was ripped from us by those faithless, Lampert dogs, who slaughtered your families and broke our BACKS!”
He paused for breath.
“But never our hearts! For here we are! Stronger than ever! Unyielding and unbroken in defiance of our oppressors! In defiance of the world that sought repeatedly to bring us down!
You have been chosen, each of you, because you are Amalia’s finest! Because today, we take the first step in retaking our homeland. To fight back at those that have tried to turn us into nothing more than disillusioned peasants.The Chlotars right now, are being joined by Amalians as they fight through the city! We are no fools, the Chlotars and we share a common enemy! The only difference is, our “King” wants his best soldiers half deep in their cups living a life of FILTH before we fade into nothing! The same “King” who forces us to live off SCRAPS! The same “King” who now sits in his castle, sending his men to die, surrounded by oiled circus acts, quivering in fear.”
He waited. He watched. Some men looked excited as they realised what was happening. Some fearful, and others confused. But he still had one secret weapon.
“Today. We take the first step to retake our homeland.
Are you satisfied living in squalor?!”
There was a pause. Some mumbling from the soldiers before an officer at the back screamed loudly “NO!” joined by the veterans around him. Quintus continued
“Are you satisfied having to debase yourselves day in day out!?” This time the response was more solid “NO!”.
“Are you satisfied with a king who means for us to waste away, as he enjoys a debauched life of unrepentant luxury?”
“NO!”
“Then your duty is clear! And I will give a years pay to the man who brings me a Tautom Officer’s crest when this day is done!”

The prospect of money. There was a sudden cheer from the men at that, many raised their weapons at that promise. The civilians who were watching began to react, some began to run, while others turned their heads towards the high domes of the Balti palace. Were the things he’d said so wrong? Quintus rode his horse back to Arminius, who looked up towards him expectantly, donning his helmet.
“Arminus, get one squad to each harbour tower, I want that chain secured and kept high. Nothing in, or out. If things start to look bad, the men are to damage the gears so it stays up. One squad to each of the gatehouses in case someone tries to outflank us, they’re to lock it down and wait for reinforcements if anyone tries. I’ll take the main bulk to the harbour to the main entrance and form them up. Arminius, you take two squads, set one to start sabotaging the boats in the harbour, and I want you personally to find the Celeasean Fire storage, secure it and… ‘coerce’ the alchemist to work with us. Do you understand?”. Arminius finishes tying his chin strap up and nods to Quintus,
“Yes sir. Oh… What if it all goes to shit?” Quintus looked over to the men who had all begun drawing weapons and strapping shields to their arms as the cohorts officers had begun walking up and down barking orders, drawing his own as he bit his tongue. “Then Arminius. We’re all fucked.”.

In under ten minutes, the main entrance to the harbour had been secured by around four hundred soldiers in a strict shield formation, any city guard who were around had been dragged out of sight and discreetly butchered so word wouldn’t spread about the Amalian treachery. Civilians had either locked themselves in their homes, or had even grabbed old swords or spears and tried to help the soldiers. Back inside the docks, ships were beginning to list as the sabotage team went to work, and beyond that, the great sea chain slowly began to rise from the waves. Quintus watched it all with apprehension, knowing that once Arminius had secured the Celesean Fire, any resistance inside the city could simply be burned into ash. He offered a silent prayer it would come to that. He’d always hated this city.

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

Tautom Commons

The tower bells tolled out across Tautom, echoing off of every lead roof, every lowly gutter and the highest walls. Not one soul hadn’t heard of the day’s joyous occasion, posters, leaflets and criers had been posted on every street and inn to make sure it gathered as large a crowd as possible. And it had.

The city commons, a great urban district at the centre of the city, had become the stage for a royal wedding. The usual grey cobblestone and wooden timber had taken on a bright shine as even the weather had warmed and brightened for the festivities. The houses and shops that lay on the outskirts of the central plaza looked like the heavens had opened up and released a flock of white bunting, now draped over every chimney, sign and corner, the Amalian crest, a silver evening star on a blue field, was side by side with the Baltian dynastic flag, a golden, imperialistic eagle clutching a phallic star in its talons on a red field, draped on every other building. The streets, usually filled with hawkers and prostitutes had now been completely cleared, the grey cobbles swept and cleaned, looking almost as if they had been laid that very morning. Large benches and chairs had been placed in the plaza haphazardly, but there was a clear aisle running down the middle, with an alter at one end, decorated with the flowers and cloth, both red and blue in colour to represent the two families.

Quintus looked out over the crowds gathered around the very public affair expectantly. There was a very good reason it had been made public, but not one he had cared to share with many. A smile twinged the corner of his lips as he looked back from the guards standing between the commoners, who were watching the ceremony excitedly, and the Douxes and royal senators, most especially where King Orso himself was seated, oblivious to the real reason Quintus wanted him present.

He looked to Arminius, his second in command sitting beside him in the same full military dress he wore, nudging the man with his shoulder to get his attention before leaning close
“Is everything in place?”
“Yes. We have troops stationed in the Cassium district ready to move.” He responded quietly. Quintus nodded, sitting back in his chair. He watched the Grand Domestic of Royal Ceremonies speaking, a skinny and effeminate man wearing only a loincloth, with the marks of many self-inflicted lashes covering his body. He is a flagellant, the closest thing to a priest in Tautom. And in front of him were two figures, one, the royal prince Zeno, dressed in an armour not dissimilar from Quintus’ own. The other was his own daughter, Eudoxia, standing a head smaller than Zeno, she was dressed in a fine white wedding dress, with a train that spoke of Tautan decadence.

Over the muttering of the crowd, the Grand Domestic of Royal Ceremonies spoke with a melodious and booming voice before the altar, impressive for a man so outwardly frail, gathering the attention of all.

“Bless and fill the hearts and eyes of whores
We pimps, outcasts, fools and criminal sores,

Take pity on our long misery, o Odovakre’s heir,
On us, bestow salvation from despair,

Unite these two sinners in fidelity and infidelity,
With the seal of the Baltian immortality!

You who knows each weak and shameful thing,
Grant unto this duo Oath’s ring,
Orso, merciful King.”

‘’I so shall!” King Orso proclaims, standing up from his seat in jubilation as he holds aloft his rather phallic ceremonial scepter. Then he began to slap his feet about and starts dancing like a baboon. It is a divine Tautan custom. For a true King, who is God’s highest creation, understands and emulates also God’s lowest.

There was a tense silence as Zeno and Eudoxia exchanged smiles, slipping a golden band onto each others ring finger. The silence lasted but a moment as the Flagellant spoke once more.
“By King Orso’s benevolence, I declare your souls and beds linked! My prince, sanctify your oath by kissing your bride sensually.” Zeno bent slightly to reach her height, lifting a hand to take her shoulder he kissed her modestly in front of the crowd. The commoners in the background erupted into cheers, while those seated began clapping as the two newly-weds turned to face them, smiles splitting their faces as Eudoxia’s pale cheeks began to flush red.

Quintus immediately stood up, Approaching the King who was seated on the other row as he saluted him smartly, speaking in a hushed tone. “My king, if you wouldn’t mind, the Amalians have a small surprise planned.”

‘’Why would I mind, Quizzicus? I do love surprises!’’ The Tautan king says, rubbing his hands in joyful anticipation.

Quintus nods, the smile he wore only grew in size. Looking back to Arminius, he inclined his head. The officer saluted, pulling his helmet on and walking down the aisle and out of the plaza. On the other side of the plaza, there was a woman’s scream as suddenly, the sound of horses moving down a street began to fill the plaza, quickly joined by the tramp of marching boots. Quintus stepped back, putting a hand on the hilt of his ceremonial blade at his hip as he announced confidently.
“Then, my King, you are going to love this.”

Quintus gestured towards the street where the scream originated, as a dozen horses adorned in red ribbons began to appear, drawing carts. Each cart had two horses, and each cart was stacked with neatly arranged crates, with plenty of room to sit around and beside them. Quintus walked towards Zeno and Eudoxia, opening his arms wide.
“Congratulations to the pair of you, my daughter, I am so proud of you. And Zeno, you have taken another step towards greatness. You two are going to be the talk of the city. Are you ready?” Zeno nodded, hesitation growing clear on his face as he looked towards the carts “Is it quite safe?”
“I assure you. Nothing is safer. My best man will be guarding you.” Quintus responded with his silken smooth tongue, putting a hand on Zeno’s shoulder.
“This will win the city folk over to you like none other before you. Now off you go… I can see Arminius returning now.”

Zeno looked towards a growing commotion, he could see a squad of men forcing their way through the crowd of commoners, red horsehair crests adorning their helmets as they surrounded the carts in a well oiled fashion, kite shields and swords held ready. Zeno smiled broadly, looking to Eudoxia and offering his hand
“Are you ready for a tour of the city, my wife?”
“Yes but… Why?” she said with wide eyes, never taking her eyes off the carts and their contents. The young prince simply smiled and led her over to the closest cart, still holding her hand he helped her into the back before climbing in himself with the help of a guard as the contents were now obvious. Food. The carts contained everything, ranging from bread, to dried meats, even exotic fruits imported from Syrome. As the two climbed into their cart, servants began to climb into the rest.

Quintus remained by the king, watching as the carts began to set off down the main street, as his daughter and son in law began to throw food and treats to the crowds, quickly joined by the servants, a throng began to gather around the carts, delight and cheering began to echo as the crowd followed them, the armed guards shoving back anyone who got too close for comfort.
“They will be travelling through the poorest districts, giving alms to the masses, all in the name of this new union my king. There is no reason your subjects shouldn’t share in today’s delight!” Quintus couldn’t help but find himself clapping his hands together like a jester at the thought in the presence of the King’s aura.

“Say Quiralus, you are a most benevolent subject! If only more Douxes were like you! Which is to say, taking after me! Generous, kind, beloved.’’ Orso laughs at Quintus, prodding him with his elbow.

“You flatter me, my King, I only live to serve Tautom, especially after everything you’ve done for the Amalian people. I wish more Douxes were like you too! The city would be filled with mirth and pleasure, as it should, no?” Quintus laughed without realising it, caught up in the King’s aura. But at the back of his mind he remembered his purpose, knowing he was so close. The familiar feel of his swords’ pommel in his grip helped him keep his bearings.

As they laughed, a runner entered the plaza, looking red and winded. Spotting Quintus, he ran up to him with a sealed letter, dropping to a knee as he held it out to him, struggling to catch his breath. Quintus stopped laughing abruptly, regarding the letter like one might a snake. Taking it, he examined the stamp before opening it and reading the contents, making sure to play up the expressions on his face accordingly as he read it. “...”

Orso clapped an oiled hand on Quintus’ shoulder, impacting with a wet smack, joviality never departing him despite the change in mood.
“Why so grim, Quirkus? Tis a day of merriment! Perhaps a dip in the royal pool would do you good!”

Quintus’ face darkened, he lowered the letter and looked up “My king, a group of bandits are in the process of setting up a barricade over the Laelae river, already several sailors have been attacked, and the Chlotar barbarians do nothing to stop its construction!” He states dramatically, scrunching the letter up in an outraged fist.

“Laelae River?” Orso waved a hand dismissively, leaning back to bask in the sun with a smile on his face. “It’s too cold.
I’ve no need to bathe in the Laelae, what concern is it of ours?’’

“The Laelae River is a vital supply line, my King. It is one of our few lanes of trade, trade that is at risk if this isn’t dealt with.”

‘’Trade at risk? Since when do we trade with the deep continent? That’s all overrun by barbarians nowadays, and last I checked they hate us for our freedoms!’’

‘’Renaqui -- we import our lumber from the semi-independent and autonomous Chlotar vassal of Renaqui. We have hitherto maintained cordial relations between our great city states. But we do need that lumber desperately.’’

‘’Well obviously, I am the King! I knew all that. I was just testing if you knew.’’ Orso asserts.
‘’But what can we do? The maintenance of the Laelae is no longer under Baltian jurisdiction. All that land has fallen to hostile autocratic savages! What hero can resolve this most pressing crisis?! I don’t see any! We are doomed, Quitulius, doomed!’’

Quintus lowered himself to one knee before the king, pressing a fist to his chest as he bowed his head
“I have well trained and disciplined troops ready and willing to set out and deal with this problem at your word. My fourth maniple can ride out with me, and with your blessing, I will crush this blockade and ensure our great city begins to assert its rightful dominance over our Baltian possessions once again.”

‘’I don’t know about that, Quirsan, I am quite happy just being King over Tautom. Not to mention; you will die! The Chlotars will kill you when they find you! The risk is great! But wait, I know a way to keep you safe -- probably.’’
King Orso turned to face Quintus as best he could from where he sat, lifting his scepter high in his right hand. His left reached for Quintus’ face before it half-slapped him, an oily imprint now left on the man’s cheek. Quintus certainly felt something, but whether it was tied to the disgust of the king’s slippery hand now sliding across his face, Orso’s aura overpowering said disgust or divine power he couldn’t tell.

Quintus blinked, slowly lifting his face to look up at the king, confusion etched on his stern features.
“I am… Blessed?” he seems to frown, clearly it wasn’t exactly what he imagined it being.

‘’Indeed you are, friend, indeed you are.’’

He snapped out of his confusion, rising to his feet again and saluting the King, announcing loudly.
“Then it is done. I shall ride out tomorrow morning for the river, and put an end to those brigands for the good of the City-State of Tautom!”

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

The Amalian Quarter, Tautom

Quintus stepped out his manor, his boots tapped on the worn down cobblestone as he took in the warm air. Dressed in drab brown clothes and a worn travelling cloak, he looked nothing like his usual proud, armoured self. Behind him was a soldier, dressed in shining, but scratched Lamellar mail. The bright red crest on his helmet indicated his status as an officer. Following close behind Quintus with a wax pad, scribbling down notes.
“-And the fourth. I want their best equipment from their armoury, don’t let anyone near it. They’re to be replaced with the old kit. It’s a waste not to use it when we have more loyal and effective soldiers in the second. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
They walked through the busy, hustling streets of the Amalian Quarter. They were overcrowded, sewage running down the sides of the cobblestone street, with crude timber and stone buildings packed so closely together even a small spark could risk setting the entire quarter ablaze, yet none of this seemed to worry the inhabitants who had become desensitized to their surroundings.
“Give the best Lamellar Mail, swords and shields to the second’s armoury, that’ll teach those plebeians a lesson until they can keep their kit in better order.”
The officer hurriedly notched the notes down, struggling to avoid a beggar lying in the street as they walked, the Amalian quarter was cramped, bitter and overpopulated, but it had become a way of life for them.
“That’s it for today. I’m riding outside the walls to personally invite some extended family members into the city for the wedding. The wife insists. Your final job is to inspect the second. If you suspect anyone of being lazy, undisciplined or worse… Disloyal. Move them to the fourth. Got that?”
“To the fourth. Understood.”
“We’ll get them in shape, God grant me strength…” Quintus muttered under his breath as he approached a horse, already saddled and ready to go. Putting one foot in the stirrup, he hauled himself up in a smooth and practised motion.
“Dismissed Arminius. I should be back before Noon tomorrow. If i’m not, send out a patrol.”
Pressing a fist to his chest, he nodded to the officer who responded in kind, before disappearing in the crowded streets, the deep red crest still visible above their heads. Clicking his tongue, Quintus looked thoughtfully over the streets, thoughts played through his mind, the legacy of his once proud people reduced to refugees in Tautom, the whispers of war and strife from travellers, to the city’s defeat at the hand of the Chlotars. Finally, he drove his heels into the flanks of his horse, heading out Tautom’s gate with a determined expression.

Aemoot, a Baltian village two kilometres to the west of Tautom

Tavern Reference

“Coin fer my services boss?” A youth called out, resting against a set of wooden poles driven into the mud and dirt outside a tavern, looked not much better than the muck he was trying to avoid. Quintus glared at him, before sighing. Producing a coin, he tossed it to the youth before dismounting, handing him the reins.
“If she’s clean and fed when I’m done, I’ll give you more of that.”
Looking around properly, he took in his surroundings. A crude, simple village. It’s roads were dirt, mostly mud from the constant passage of carts and horses. Timber frames and wooden walls dominated the village, but the streets were wider than the Amalian Quarter, giving him a sense of relief as he finally turned to the large thatched building that dominated the street.

The youth offered a crooked and yellowed smile, nodding as he tied the horse to one of the poles. Looking up to the tavern, Quintus inspected the sign verifying it matched the name, ‘Odovakre’s Rest’, that had been written on the small scrap of paper he’d received. Even so, he hesitated, and couldn’t help but wonder ‘Why here?’ He didn’t entertain the thought for long, stepping towards the tavern, he adjusted his cloak and the sword hidden beneath its confines, before reaching out to open the heavy door of the building.

From where he had taken a seat in the smoky confines of the tavern the sound of a door being pulled open, doubtlessly the front from its volume, could be heard over the bubbling voices and occasional cheering of patrons. At once he recognised the man stepping through, and it would seem he him as the eyes of Vetericus and Quintus briefly met -- in his eyes Vetericus recognised the same grim determination he had witnessed a year ago.

A year prior on the fringes of Baltia.

A small skirmish, a small fight between a few hundred men. It never left the field blood red, coated in mud and gore. It certainly hadn’t prepared Quintus for a pitched battle. His past victories felt meaningless, and indeed they were as he knelt on the cold, damp earth, the cacophony of screams and wails of dying men. The pleading cries of those who were dead, but simply hadn’t realised it yet. He looked around, struggling to blink past grime that coated his face. All he could see was bodies. Swords. Spears. Bodies contorted in their death throes, some with the weapons that had taken them still cleft in their bones. They said war was glorious. Heroic. The shock was greater still when you realised most men died struggling to hold their blood or guts in with scrabbling fingers, then simply falling over lifeless.

“For God and glory! We shall prevail this day!” Vetericus yelled, at the front and surrounded by his kin bearing his same red and black warpaint who scythed through the Tautan lines like so many rows of wheat. “Show no mercy for those who stand in our way!” Onwards they charged as one, Baltavigoc chanting mingling with the clash of steel, brothers united and finally able to reach for the throat of those who had sought domination unearned over their home. Thoughts of revenge and a burning hatred inspired in them a strength far surpassing what their enemy could muster, making their way towards the banner of the Tautan General, Valaris.

Quintus looked up. He was surrounded by the Amalian soldiers who hadn’t routed, or simply hadn’t started routing soon enough. Each of them was covered in grime and blood. Usually their own. Some begged for their lives. Some were silent… quietly resigned to their fate. Fewer still glared defiantly at the enemy around them. Weapons were cast aside, around them, stood dozens of Chlotar barbarians, weapons pointed at their captives. He twisted, looking further down the line to the Tautom soldiers, where the center of their battle lines had once stood. As he watched, a barbarian plunged his longsword into the neck of a captive, who simply fell like a damp towel, fingers clawing at the steel embedded in his flesh. Quintus flinched at the cold brutality, wondering if the same end awaited him and his men.

The other clusters of survivors experienced similar fates, a Baltavigoc stepping forwards to question each man of their loyalty to Tautom, and more importantly their devotion to God. The hedonists, those who perverted the sanctity of God would be executed on the spot by axe and sword. Very few were left alive. At last Vetericus himself approached the confined Amalian warriors, followed closely by several warriors speaking in low tones. He and his entourage stopped a short distance before the foremost Amalians, Baltavigocs parting to let them through. The great axe balanced over his shoulder slowly fell towards the ground until its head remained resting there, a loose grip kept on the top of the haft.
“Who amongst you can be called Captain?” Vetericus said in a tone harsh using his native Celesean, but with far less disdain in it than he had given towards the other captives he had already come across.

Quintus stared at the fearsome Viigoc warlord as he approached. Upon hearing those words his stomach sank, feeling the cold dread rising up through him as his mind forced him to run through every possible way he was about to die. Lifting his hands, he unstrapped his helmet, letting the crested helmet fall to the floor as he forced himself to stand up, wiping his face clear of the grime and gritting his teeth, summoning the last vestiges of his determination, staring Vetericus down. “Me.”

Vetericus watched the man stand, nodding as his helmet impacted the earth now muddy with blood. Of all things his tone softened, though it never lost its gruff and warning edge.
“May I have your name, Captain?”

Quintus let out a slow breath, his eyes drifted down, looking at the discarded weapons, he felt his resolve hardening, wondering if he even stood a chance. Before the idea became a reality, he clenched a single fist, nails digging into his palm as he spoke
“Quintus Vitalius of Amal… And these men are from my Amalian Battalion. ...The ones who broke last. If you’re going to cut us down, I don’t think our names matter.” He forced out between his clenched jaws.

“Indeed,” Vetericus retorted, eyes glancing around the surrendered men scattered about Quintus. “Who broke last. Do you know what the men who stand beside me say of you?”
Vetericus gestured with his free hand towards the Baltavigocs nearest him.

“I honestly don’t have a clue. I’d imagine that they want to kill us?” He replied, his eyes narrowing on the men surrounding Vetericus accusingly. He still could not shake the sense of dread he was doing his best to hide.

“They say that you and your men fought well. Bravely, in fact. Tell me, Quintus Vitalius of Amal, are you a man of God?”
Vetericus’ bloodsoaked figure loomed menacingly over the Amalians, clear to all that the survival of Quintus was dependant on his answer.

Quintus didn’t respond immediately, caught off guard by the question. It didn’t take him long to think of a reply. “Give me a blade and your word that your friends won’t interfere, I’ll do you one better and introduce you to him.”

Vetericus responded with a grim smile, the intent of which was hard to discern through all the blood.
“I think mettle has been proven enough today. For your men to follow you so well, they must share a similar conviction, no?”

Quintus simply nodded, he shifted his weight, allowing himself the brief respite as his armour wore heavy on his shoulders.
“Aye. We are of Amalia. Our faith is strong… Stronger than some. Stronger than…” Quintus frowned. He looked back over the captive troops to where the Tautan soldiers were laying, executed mercilessly, realising the true weight behind Vetericus’s question. Immediately he felt anger and relief. Anger at the crude barbarity of murdering captives over their faith, and relief that his answer may have saved his life. Deep down he couldn’t help but feel that after what he had witnessed inside the city, the Tautans had deserved their fate.

“You and your men may go free, so long as you leave your weapons. But be warned; should we meet you in whatever battle may come after, this offer will not be extended again.”
The Baltavigocs did not move, waiting to see the reaction of Quintus.

Quintus stared at Vereticus, biting his tongue as he took in what was happening. Eventually, he simply nodded, reaching down to pick up his helmet. He ran a finger over a cheek guard, wiping the mud off of it as he looked up. “I’ll keep this then.”

The present.

Vetericus pushed himself up, on this rare occasion without his axe for the sake of appearing inconspicuous. Casually walking past Quintus he pushed the door open, nodding to him politely as he would a stranger, expecting him to follow. Idling outside the door for a moment he continued on as Quintus matched his step, leading the pair away from prying ears and eyes.
“I was unsure you would come, Quintus.”

Quintus looked the man over. He certainly wasn’t as foreboding as he remembered. He almost looked normal without the blood of his soldiers drenching his armour. He simply looked past him out to the street as he walked with him
“I wasn’t sure myself Vetericus. I’m surprised I didn’t turn up to see you surrounded by your soldiers. You must be serious about this.”

“Baltia is to be freed of the Tautan mockery that resides within that city, Quintus. You know them to be the festering rot plaguing it as well as I. I remember what you said a year ago. The means are within your grasp.”
Vetericus kept his voice low, speaking as if Quintus was simply a friend he had stumbled across in the night.

Quintus slowly came to a halt on the outskirts of the village, looking across the farmland that he perhaps in the past fought over, back towards Tautom city itself in the distance. He toyed with the sword under his cloak, frowning as he recalled what they had spoken about barely a year ago.
“And I remember what you said.” He furrowed his brow as finally he turned to Vetericus, releasing the blade under his cloak.
“What did you have in mind..?”
What followed was a hushed exchange of words, a plan forming between the two. Both remained alert to their surroundings, careful to not allow any passerbys to overhear, not that there should be any real fear of that in the now Chlotar-held territory. As time wound on an agreement was reached.
“We will meet you then. Soon, Quintus.”

Quintus smirked “Soon. Don’t forget your wedding gift, aye?”.

With a concealed grin Vetericus departed, heading back towards the tavern, leaving Quintus to return to his duties.

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

TAUTOM CITY

The premises of the marvelous luxurious Balti Castle, seat of King Orso Balti

---

As Quintus Vitalius of Amal walks the streets of Tautom, his bodyguard follows him close behind. For being this out in the open is ever a risky affair. The threat’s not just lurking in the lower commons where all the gutter swine dwell -- no, it is not them Quintus fears. It is the ones in their high pearly towers. The Douxes, who seek to undermine him at every step and their many henchmen. One can never be too careful in Tautom City.
Even after entering the courtyard of Balti Castle, the Amalian captain is ever on edge. He approaches the gate leading into Orso’s domain, where a shirtless man with shining, oiled, rippling muscles orders him to stop, crying:
“STOP.’’
Quintus began to slow down, taking his time before coming to a halt within arms reach of the shining, muscular guard, making it clear he would only stop on his terms.
The Guard speaks through his hoplite helmet.
‘’Who goes there?’’
Quintus’ stern brown eyes stared down the guard, a hint of frustration and anger glistening behind them before they vanished in a moment, replaced by a well practised, cool smile, and a bright, friendly gaze.
“Doux Quintus Vitalius, may I have your name?” He paused for a moment, his mouth tightening, as he seemed briefly in thought before continuing
“Hm… Actually no I don’t have time for such trivialities. I’m here for my audience with the king.”

The guard clears his throat.
‘’The name’s Pelos. Yes, yes. You Douxes come and go these days to meet his Majesty. Well see, the King is busy at the moment.’’ As the bulging muscled guard spoke these words, Quintus can observe steam pass through the gaps of the shut gate leading into Orso’s throne room, behind whom can be heard the distant giggling of maidens.
‘’I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit till the King is finished.’’ Pelos continues.

Quintus frowned for a moment, looking the guard over for a moment, taking in his oiled and well defined physique, yet absolutely useless militarily, lacking even the dullest sliver of steel. He contemplated the thought for a dangerously long time before he forced himself to speak: “Yes!” He pushed a fake laugh, playing along with the guards small talk. “Douxes do come and go, don’t they? Well… Not as often as guards come and go, hm?” He left the thinly veiled threat hanging in the air before adding in a firmer tone
“Perhaps you might inform Prince Zeno, that I am here? He is expecting me.”.

‘’Hrmpf. Well. I am posted here, you see. You’ll have to uhh. Hey! You there!’’ The most-athletic gate guard beckons at a nearby servant girl. ‘’Get the Prince, will you?’’
‘“Which of the 63 princes? Sebasteas? Nonnonso??’’ The girl stammers.
‘’Zeno!’’
‘’Ah, right away.’’

As Quintus had to bide his time, the servant girl hastened off towards a distant corner of the Balti Palace Complex, returning 10 minutes later with a young 13 year old prince. Quintus recognised him immediately, for he had trained him himself. The youth was tall for his age, with mousy blonde hair, and a wiry frame draped in a bordeaux-red embellished toga with golden outlines, a testament of his princely status. Quintus smiled warmly, opening his arms in greeting towards Zeno.

Recognising his mentor, the Tautan Prince proclaims: ‘’Ah!’’ With a crack in his voice. (puberty) ‘’I’ve been hoping that it was you, Quintus. You’re the only Doux we can trust.’’ Zeno walks towards Quintus and embraces him as a son would a father.

The young prince is a bit soft spoken, but he is studious, diligent and hard working. He understands duty and discipline.
‘’What are you here for? Come to see my fath-- King Orso?’’ The boy sighs. ‘’Why bother? He never has time for anyone, not even his own children...’’

“Yes, nor do the Douxes seeing to his city’s defence commit to the wellbeing of the final bastion of hope in this wretched land. But come, here isn’t the place for the such talk. I can practically see myself in Peblo’s oiled abs. Let’s head inside. I have news.” He skipped over the guard’s name without care, smiling as he lifted an arm towards the gate.

Pelos who was still just uncomfortably standing in front of it this entire time overheard them. ‘’Uh. But I still can’t let you inside. The King’s busy.’’

Quintus then looks at Zeno, expectantly. As if telling him to test his assertivity as a ruler-to-be. Zeno gets the hint and speaks to the guard.

‘’You! In the name of my father, the King! -- let us pass this instant! He invited us!’’

Pelos just grunts at this point. ‘’As you wish, my Prince.’’ Making a bow, he forces open the metallic gate. And an incredible cloud of moist and perfume pours into the hallway.
‘’You may see the King. Your guards will have to wait in the hallway, however.’’

Quintus purposefully ignores the guard for now. But tells his own bodyguard to wait outside. Dropping a hand to his belt he remarks quietly to Zeno under his breath as he walks towards the open gate, his astute gaze looking forward. “Good. Remember though. Make orders under your own authority, not that of others. You are still a Prince.” He looked down to the boy and smiled
“But the news. Eudoxia took it well. Very well. Hesitant at first, but after a few words she seemed rather keen. And yourself?”

‘’Yes, master Quintus. I am prepared. I know it is for the future and security of the realm. Someone has to take control of this chaos, if Orso will not.’’

Walking into Orso’s throne room, the two quickly spot the Tautan King and his seraglio of many wives having a nice spa bath. Apparently the throne-room is rather multi-functional. Celesean technology. The king’s face is covered with an ointment of grounded vegetables to purify his skin, and paired with his nipple piercings and skin paint and hair, he looks rather ‘eccentric’ for a king. All the young women around him also have these strange ointments covering their skin and faces as they enjoy the hot waters.
‘’Hm?’’ King Orso removes the cucumber slice covering his right eye. ‘’Who opened the gate?’’

“Your majesty. My king.” Quintus presses a fist to his breastplate, inclining his head towards the naked monarch, his eyes briefly looking over the women embroiled in the spa treatment.

‘’Oh it’s you again, Qui-ran Vulturius Something Something Amalius, right?
Come and join me! The waters are still hot!’’ Orso says with a laugh, turning to his guest.

Quintus smirks, almost laughing himself. Biting his tongue, nearly hard enough to draw blood he managed to force the laughter back, well aware of the king’s jovial aura, silently hating how it twisted his mind… But surely it wasn’t that bad. Was it a bad thing to laugh? Feeling his mind already straying, he kicked himself.
“The waters look so enticing I find myself hard pressed to refuse, my king. However important matters are at hand, for I bring your esteemed son, Prince Zeno with me.” He places his hands behind his back, tensing his shoulders as he looks down at the king, thankful of the thick steam, an excuse to hide any hint of displeasure he has at the scene in front of him. “With your blessing, your son seeks my beautiful daughter, Eudoxia’s hand in marriage.’’

The King perks up, the cucumber slice covering his other eye falling and hitting the water with a splash.
‘’I love royal marriages! You seek to bring our families closer together? So you did listen to me when I pointed out we should all aspire to be one big family in Tautom. You finally understand, Quiran! I knew you’d see the light eventually.’’

Prince Zeno remains quiet, biting his lip as to not burst out in an indignant tirade at Orso’s platitudes about family, while completely neglecting his own son all his life!

‘’Is that the Prince right there?’’ Orso looks over at Zeno. ‘’I believe your name was Zeno, right? You grow so fast. I am proud of you, my son! Go with my blessing!’’

One of his wives sitting besides the King speaks up, caressing him playfully. ‘’Um, my dear Orso… If I may speak. You should really reconsider. How can you trust this man? Blessing this union might only decrease your hold over the Kingdom, love. Can we afford further division?’’

Quintus brushes her words away with a charismatic air.
“My king, I command 3,000 soldiers, and I have no rightful heir. With your blessing, you will have earned the unquestioning loyalty of every soldier, and brought the loyalty of our Kingdom’s Amalian community even closer than it already was. The celebrations alone will give cause for every citizen to drink to your health!”

Orso turns to his wife: ‘’See? Quiran thought everything out! I don’t see why you have to doubt his good intentions -- we’ve been friends for years! That’s not the mentality to foster solidarity. Why so distrusting of a fellow Tautan officiary? We are all in this together.’’

This wife just looks at Quintus with a sassy glare, cynically aware of Quintus’ true intentions. Orso’s words give no respite, for she represents a different faction in Tautom’s power struggle, one that certainly dreads Quintus’ growing influence.
And for him she’s certainly a fearsome rival to contend with, disregarding that she’s presently completely undressed, exposed and her skin covered with food.

Another woman rose her voice, Kalisto, mother of Theodonus and spider hiding at the center of the webs of intrigue.
“Yes, why so distrusting? Why should the king have to ‘earn’ the unquestioning loyalty of every soldier, does he not have that already? ...Or are you aware of things the court isn’t, Quintus?”

‘’Wow, wow, Kalisto! So you’re saying I am not totally aware of everything that’s going on in my city’s structure? What you are saying!’’ Orso proclaims in drunken indignity, before looking back at Quintus with a goofy grin.
‘’Women! am I right?’’

Quintus glared at the woman with a stone cold glare, but he felt the corners of his lips lifting in a friendly smile a moment later, the words coming forward from a well practised silver tongue
“Men are fickle, some are bought with silver, some with ideas, i’m sure my lady Kalisto is familiar with such practices, it would be foolish to pretend otherwise. The king deserves their respect and admiration, and as I owe my position and life to his good grace, it is my duty to ensure it is so.” he finished speaking by looking at the king, and inclining his head once more.

‘’You are a true friend, Quiran!’’ Then the King of Tautom stands up from the spa in all his undressed glory, having the decency to grab a towel to cover his privates before walking out the waters, and towards his gaudy throne at the back of the large chamber.
Having scaled the steps towards said throne, he grabs the scepter laid thereon, and lifts it up. He then dramatically points it at Quintus.
‘’Very well then! In the name of my ancestor Odovakre, I bless the unbreakable union between your noble daughter and my beloved son!’’

He waves the scepter some more, with nothing seemingly happening. But in effect, the marriage has been sanctified with the King’s divine powers. Really.

The Doux looks down to Zeno to gauge the boy’s reaction, spotting the hint of a smile on his face, Quintus looked back to the king and inclined his head, before raising his voice
“Your words warm my heart, and i’m sure your Son’s as well!’’

‘’Yes, I will do my duty for Tautom, and I can hardly wait to tell Eudoxia the good news!” Zeno said as he straightened up, rather awkwardly avoiding the gaze of the women present, glad that his mother isn’t among them. The prince instead manages a confident smile aimed towards the king “And if I might be permitted to do just that?”

Orso makes himself comfortable in his throne, looking down at the two.
‘’What do you mean, son?’’

“Well… If.. Ma-” Zeno began to flush, struggling to explain his own words, before Quintus stepped in with a confident air “With your leave, my king, we will go give my daughter the good news. Glory to Tautom!” The Doux then pressed a fist to his breastplate, before turning around to leave, gesturing for the Prince to lead him out.

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

@Grijs Not a problem sweetheart. And yes it's entirely your fault for not telling me. I feel like I am vastly unprepared for a new area of RP I have never experienced before and I blame my inevitable demise on your poor training.

The Maimed God - (Dark Age Casual-Advanced Character RP)

Quintus Vitalius of Amal

Quintus Vitalius of Amal



Tall and unyielding, Quintus wears his armour like a second skin, Wearing it as a badge of office to serve his ambitions, be it thick ceremonial leather breastplates hinting at a grand Celesean past, or a more practical Lamellar. Sporting a trimmed brown beard kept in good shape, he makes sure his hair is kept short, keeping his experienced and weary gaze free for all to see, matched by the wrinkles around his lips, giving the impression that his face is always twisted in disapointed expression. He makes sure to wear red, a bold colour, an imperial colour, the colour of ambition.

Kingdom Allegiance: Tautan

Vitalius hailed from the lands of Amalia before the unholy wrath of the Lamperts swept through the territory. What remained of the Celesean state was burned in flame and washed away in the blood of his people. Escaping, running and travelling as a Refugee, he made his way to Tautom, as far away from the Lamperts as he could. In this time of strife, his natural leadership began to shine through. Becoming something of a figurehead for the remnants of the Amalian's, he began to lead them into battle in the name of King Orso, taking land, loot and fame wherever he could. It's here his ambition began to shine through. Soon it wasn't just Amalian refugees under his command, Tautoviigoc's were added. Despite his ambition, he tasted losses among his victories, the taste sour on the tongue of a man who began to see himself as something more. As a fresh Chlotar army smashed through the Tautom frontline, his relatively small force was able to wrestle small comfort from their victories as the entire Tautom lines were rolled up and forced back to the very city of Tautom. To this day he swears if he had been given command of more forces, he alone could have halted the chlotar counter attack. With his General dead at the hands of the barbarians, he found himself unceremoniously promoted into his place, given the title Doux and it's accompanying powers. He swears because of his political and militaristic prestige, but whispers simply say there wasn't anyone else to fill the spot. He cares not, he will prove his worth in time, and bring glory back to the Celesean states.

Prince Zeno of Tautom

Name:

Prince Zeno of Tautom

Appearance:
The young Prince Zeno is exactly that. At the age of 14, he is already a man by the standards of his world. His cheeks are still bare, with only the hints of stubble starting to grow from his skin, which is only recently starting to tan as he makes more and more trips from the palace to train and study. Standing at 5’10, he is tall for his age, but still a head under most adults, the top of his head crowned by deep brown hair. His eyes are a striking blue, but often set in an expression of grim determination unusual for a boy his age, but not for his circumstances. Zeno is often clad in only a simple toga, ornate and well made owed to his royal heritage, however he has been seen wearing armour at the advice of his tutor, Quintus Vitalius, during training sessions, helping to build the Prince’s body from a young boy’s into a man’s.

Kingdom Allegiance: City-state of Tautom

Tribe: None (Baltian Celesean)

Background:
Prince Zeno is among the older of King Orso’s children, the firstborn of his fifth wife. Living his life as a side thought, as an almost passing fancy to his own father, he has grown bitter in his young age in regards his father. While most youths would grow angry and selfish with this upbringing, Zeno to his own credit turned to books, lore and the people, eager to build his character off of his own worth rather than his father's. Growing to be a rather scrawny “runt” of King Orso with this lifestyle, it seemed not much was set to change in his life. That was until the Vitalians, an Amalian noble household fleeing from war and persecution, was granted refuge in the Amalian Quarter of Tautom. One of their nobles, Quintus, took an interest in the Baltian Prince. Zeno was by then already known among the people of the city, and intelligent by his own right was surprised when the noble offered to tutor the boy in politics, warfare and martial arts. It wasn’t long before Zeno was training with the best pit fighters and mercenaries money could buy, studying tactics and strategies with former Captains and Generals.

Soon, the young prince found himself hardening, watching his body change, and the desire to improve. Life is what you make of it, and Zeno intended to make much of his.