Life in Stasis — Roleplayer Guild

The Knights

Cut off.

“Ah!” Alonso clung to his saddle and a handful of mane as he pitched violently forward. With a bray of alarm, his horse had locked its legs and skidded to a stop, burying its hooves in sand up to its bony ankles. The mare tossed its head, flashing the whites of its eyes in a furious panic.

The King hadn’t come to a stop as easily as the horse did, and ended up sliding off of the saddle by a few inches. His saving grace was a foot tangled in one stirrup, and for a few embarrassing moments he fought to right himself as he hung partially off to one side. While the dust settled and  the Knight watched,  the standard fluttering slowly in the soft wind, Alonso grunted and pulled himself properly upright. When that was accomplished at last, he twisted to look over his shoulder.

Having taken the direct route, Captain Serona was closing the distance on his own horse, now trotting at an easier pace now that Kolbe had put a stop to this inane chase. Though his means had been questionable.

Feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his brow, Alonso turned forward again, begrudgingly accepting his defeat with a growl.

“Alright, yes!” The King threw up his arms, then wiped his brow. “Saints alive, you have me! I surrender! Did Harking send you all the way out here?” He scoffed. “Man thinks he’s still regent. I’m bloody grown!”

He had, Alonso realized with a sudden stroke of guilt. The standard was stained with dirt and slightly frayed. It wouldn’t have left the castle in anything but pristine condition. The Knight himself looked worse for the wear as well. A man had been taken from whatever life he led to track down an errant manchild. 

Growing uncomfortable in the saddle, especially after his rough stop, the King leaned to the side, swung his leg over, and hopped from the tired mare. He landed on the dry earth in a bit of a stumble, where he bent over and nursed his aching thighs for a moment. Sniffing, Alonso finally straightened, smoothed back his hair, and squared his shoulders.

Captain Serona’s horse trotted into view, stopping at an angle complementary to his fellow Knight.

“Your Highness,” he greeted thinly, bowing from his steed. An aside was hissed in the other Knight’s direction, accompanied by a swipe of his hand. “Kolbe, are you mad? He was nearly thrown.” 

Alonso felt himself pale. Linus Kolbe? So he was still alive. Alonso had only met him face to gruesome face a handful of times, but the first memory of Kolbe his treacherous mind called up was from a nightmare he once had.

“Leave him be,” the King intervened. “I am no novice rider. And I am forced to respect his,” he pushed a breath through his nose, god that saddle had been unkind to him, “effectiveness.” Even if respect sometimes came a bit too close to ‘fear’.

Alonso gathered himself so he could recite one of his many rehearsed excuses for situations like this one, which had been sure to arise eventually.

“I thank you for coming all this way, Sir Knight, but this is not necessary.” Alonso held his arms behind his back, attempting some measure of regality though his body ached and his voice scraped through his dry throat. “I know I must seem very impudent, as the High Magistrate so enjoys painting me, but I have left the castle with good reason this time.”

Alonso closed his eyes in a wince, immediately regretting adding the phrase ‘this time’ and ruining his own credibility.

“Sire—” Serona swallowed his protest when his King silenced him with a gesture. 

“I cannot return yet.” Alonso tucked his hand behind his back again. “I haven’t…” A frustrated breath escaped him. “I have not found what I needed yet. There is something happening outside my borders that I need to better understand, and no one can tell me anything. I became sick of waiting on my padded throne and hearing nothing.”

Preparing himself for an imminent round of exasperated sighs, Alonso swallowed and looked at his feet.

“I know this will not make sense to you, but I believe this might have something to do with my father’s death. He was murdered.” Alonso’s hands closed into fists. Serona’s head sagged when he thought his ruler couldn’t see. “And I do not know who I can trust. If I can even trust either of you.”

The King huffed a laugh in spite of himself and looked up across the valley.

“Grandfather always swore that assassins hid everywhere, especially among the most loyal.” He faced forward, suddenly resolute. “Go home. I will not be coming with you.”

The Ytharien

The village was empty. The Ytharien had accomplished their ends. 

Lothren gazed out at the burning ruins of a local church. The facade had collapsed into a smoking black heap, glowing red with ruin and embers. Charred beams fell crisscrossed over fractured pews and colored banners, once emblazoned with symbols of their faith. Its roof had once offered shelter to the pious and needy. Oversaw nuptials, funerary rituals. Welcomed children and aging old widows. 

And now it was nothing but crumbled hunks of char, just like the dozens of homes and shops around it. Another village saved, Lothren thought bitterly.

The Ytharien were gathering in force around the jailhouse, prepared to set out. Some stragglers will still coming in from the street, their saddlebags filled with  the spoils of war. Lothren did not approve of the practice of actual pillaging, but he seldom did anything to stop it. Claiming to be noble while taking lives and driving innocents from their homes was a dangerous inconsistency in a leader. 

And he could not deny its practicality. The village might well be swallowed up in a matter of days, or hours, so why not take what one could carry?

“Nalendiel is dead, Lothren.” A darked haired elf led two riderless horses into Lothren’s midst, breaking his thoughtful trance. One sniffed the hide of another mount, one of two flanking Lothren patiently,  as it approached. “He was killed viciously, with no mortal weapon. Galemnon suspects another mage lurks here. We must leave.”

“We will.” Lothren assured, staring off down a smoke clouded street. He thought he saw, for a moment, a silhouette? A villager the Ytharien had missed? Or a shadowy mirage of doubt? “We have a prisoner, an Aretan knight. Give me Thundrat.” He indicated the largest stallion. “We must move swiftly, so Sir Knight shall be riding with me.”

As the remaining Ytharien emerged from the jail, Lothren turned to greet them. Empty horses stood in a row, awaiting their riders. Gawain was given an indulgently smug look from the Ytharien leader, watching him silently as he was led between two women smaller than he was. If their desire to kill him did not keep him docile, nineteen Ytharien with weapons ready might offer him further motivation.

“The Knight is not to be harmed!” Lothren announced to his brethren. “Unless a life is threatened. Then make it clean. Juna, Annara, let us quit this place. Aust?”

His elven friend was the last to arrive from the stairs below. The solemn look on his old features told the story of what he had done.

“You and Galemnon gather the Knight’s belongings from the chest inside. If they’re not useful to us, they will be to the merchants in the next village.” He bid them with a final nod.

While both of them went inside to complete their task, Lothren walked to his horse. On the way, he grabbed Gawain by the arm, shoving him ahead toward the animal. Despite the elf’s calm, he possessed his own seed of resentment, detectable by the needle-like grip of his fingers. 

“I trust I need not instruct you on mounting a horse. You’ll ride in front of me.” Lothren waited for compliance. “My name is Lothren e Solis, by the way. Pleasure. Might I know yours, noble Knight?”

While the Ytharien gathered themselves to leave, the prison cell below had grown quiet. The body of Almeri Corellian, Magus of the Viceni Ministry, would begin its decay before the sun reached its highest point.
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