On the topic of romance, no matter what I do I'm never able to set up real romantic tension between characters. It did happen once accidentally last year between a pair of characters, but I was never able to settle that since there was never a time when a kiss scene wouldn't have been completely out of place.
The vision I have of my characters from when I begin to write tends to be radically different from when I begin. This seems to be affect me without fail. This year I had planned a side character who had a fiery, even rude personality. She's now turned a trickster whose pretty kind, and has turned into the main character. The fact that I am even able to surprise myself is undoubtedly the best part of pantsing for me.
Riza looked to the row of bottles that the Field Supervisor had all set up. Riza knew that they must have been far from homogenous, since the Field Supervisor had ordered them to a bottle from the left first. Riza was not much a drinker, but he had could hold his own on that front well enough. As long as he didn't have to outdrink some Erubescian drunk he suspected he should be fine. Riza approached the drinks and took one off the table.
"Cheers," Riza said.
Then Riza, rising the drink to his mouth, took a gulp of it.
It took me forty pages to actually get to a point where something happens. And I'm still not satisfied with the imagery.
I have the same problem. For Nanawrimo I generally try fast-paced, action-packed writing, but I don't think I can really write a flesh-outed story that can be written in 50,000 words.
Rhodanthe had just about arrived at the city of Nyhem, and could already see its proud stone walls. She was not a normal girl. Since the age of twelve Rhodanthe had suffered from a strange ailment. Sometimes she would black out, and when she awoke people told her that instead of blacking out she spoke strange, oracular prophecies and forewarnings. Fenick had claimed that it was divine possession. Rhodanthe could scarcely believe it, and even now she could hardly understand it, but she could only accept the will of the divine, whatever that was. These episodes were disruptive to her, however. They came at random, and when they came hours would often pass until Rhodanthe was herself again The visions had been acting up abnormally recently, and twice already she was sure she would have had a harder fate had not a kindly family of villagers taken her in.
She had now departed for a second time from such a family of villagers, and now headed to the city of Nyhem. Born a subject of the Manshrews, she would have reason to hold the capital with a certain amount of disdain. To some extent this was true. On her way here the war between the Manshrews and the De Reimers seemed to have reached its peak. She had seen a city besieged by the Concordant’s forces, and decided that it would have been best not to go that way. She did not know if her city was already burned, and if Fenick too had perished along with it. Yet still the city looked to be a glorious sight, and she wanted to see it.
She saw that even in days of such strife the gates remained opened, and were not barred to visitors, though it obviously was not unguarded. She entered alone, with no possessions on her save her backpack. As she entered into the city she knew that she should first find a place to stay, but she could not put her mind to it, for as she entered Nyhem she could only look around with wonder. This place was bigger than anywhere else she had ever seen. She believed that there could be no bigger place in the world. And there seemed to be excitement and bustle around every corner.
-------------------------------------
As she had travelled around the city, Rhodanthe discovered how disagreeable the merchants really were. Because of her disheveled appearance, they treated her with contempt, thinking she was nothing but a beggar. When they learned she was a traveler, they become more agreeable. She would admit she did look more like a beggar than an adventurer. Yet because they had been so unpleasant, Rhodanthe had taken herself away from the hubbub of the market, and into the deeper sections of the city. At some point she was half lost, half wandering aimlessly, the fatigue of travel starting to hit her. She should have just gone to an inn like she had planned. It was then that she came across a group of men, armed clubs, and a deep chill struck through her. She did not need any special intuition to know that there was something wrong with that appearance.
“Hello there, ma’am. You look lost, and cold.” one of them said. “Why don’t you take a seat with us? That’ll keep you out of the cold.”
“That’s alright,” Rhodanthe said. “I’m no beggar or vagrant. Just a traveler. I get that I don’t look it, but it’s the truth.”
“A traveler, eh,” he said. “Well, it was fancy meeting you here, though I reckon this’ll be where we depart soon. As I suppose what we’re doing don’t concern an outsider such as yourself, but any good, godly person’s invited to join.”
Rhodanthe’s interest was not peaked, though her worry increased. They had clubs, after all. “And what is that you’ve been doing?”
Another one of them spoke in a serious and somber tone. “There’ve been many outsider’s who’ve been coming recently, but they haven’t been like you. They wear the cloth, but they haven’t been holy. It’s the heretics I speak of, of course. Johannia’s priests, and all their ilk. There’s one in particular that we got our eye on. Caro, that preacher that’s been around.”
“And what are the clubs for?” Rhodanthe said.
“For him, and anyone with him,” one of the men said. “Father Henriks organized it all. He’s a true holy man, unlike that Caro. We’ll go to him soon.”
“I see. I’ll take my leave of you,” Rhodanthe said. “Do what you will.”
Rhodanthe did not wish to stay there for another moment. She quickly ran off, after these words had been spoken. They didn’t know what to make of it, but they didn’t have enough reason to pursue her. From their words, preachers spreading the messaging of Johannia had arrived in Nyhem before her, one of the main ones being one named Caro, and tensions between them and those who would cling to the ways of the bishops had already spiraled out of control. One such traditionalist, a priest named Henriks, was already planning on violence. Rhodanthe had not come to Nyhem for war, though perhaps she should have known better. After all, this seemed to be a time for war. She thought now that perhaps she shouldn’t have ran so far from those men, though they unnerved her, as now she had no idea where to find Caro. There was no helping it now. Perhaps if she followed a crowd she’d find the man she was looking for.
Uncharacteristically, Bernarda was running through the streets, her hands pulling her robes up somewhat so as to not drag it across the filthy stone. She was heading towards the local headquarters of the Order of Saint Elenor.
“Take me to the highest ranked person here!” she said to the two knights who were on guard duty. “It’s vastly important!”
“State your business,” one of the guards said with complete calmness.
“Shut up! I have urgent of the most urgent kind!” Bernarda said. “So urgent that your little head could not hope to understand! Lycaon’s very life is in danger! I am no ordinary Friar. The synod itself hears my voice whenever it gathers. If you do not let me through I can have you excommunicated in at least three different ways!”
Eventually they decided her cause may have been true, and that there was no harm in letting her see Sir Daeleth. They escorted her to the top floor of the Order of Saint Elenor’s headquarters, and led her to a room. Bernarda slammed open the door, and saw Sir Daeleth inside, where he was looking over some papers. She knew him well enough to know his name, but not more. Unlike Lycaon, this Daeleth did not seem to have much care for participating in Church politics, and as far as she knew she was only Lycaon’s lieutenant in the Order, and nothing more.
“Sir Daeleth, I believe?” Bernarda said.
“And you are?” Sir Daeleth said.
“Bernarda Avicebrol, priest and theologian. I shall have you know I always have the ears of the bishops.” Bernarda said. “But that is of no importance now! I bring important news, Sir Daeleth. Lycaon’s life is in great danger! It is because of that Bishop Marko. It turns it he was far more vicious than I thought. He once had told he would contact me when the time was right, though I now know what he meant was far more sinister than I had originally thought. Today he did summon me, and so I came to his estate. There were several other clergymen with him; I did not know them. But that does not matter. He then told me his horrible and impious plan. The Church is taking the wrong direction because of that Lycaon, he declared, and in order to solve this problem he simply needed to get rid of Lycaon. Assassinate him! I was horrified! I do not know if I was the only one who was feigning agreement, though I said very little myself, but they agreed that it would be done in three days’ time. That was three days ago. I am sorry it took me so long to get here, but it was not easy to sneak away from the Bishop’s estate.”
“And you rushed here because you were afraid you’d be implicated yourself,” Sir Daeleth said. “It was race, really, between the two of you. If you got here before they carried out their plan then you saved your skin, but if you got here too late then you’d be implicated, and be as good as dead. Little better than Johannia, in fact.”
“How dare you!” Bernarda said. “These words are poison! I simply came here because I care for the well-being of my dear friend, Lycaon.”
“Whatever you say,” Sir Daeleth said. “Well, Lycaon’s neither here nor at home right now. He went to visit Bishop Irenaeus.”
“So no one is home, then?”
“I didn’t say that,” Sir Daeleth said. “All his servants and his wife Felise will be there. But that means they’ll be the ones in danger. What sort of men will be behind this attack?”
“It seems that Bishop Marko has mercenaries,” Bernarda said. “But they did not sound like they were anything special.”
“Then we should make short work of them,” Sir Daeleth said. “You said it was today? In that case I’d better hurry.”
“Indeed,” Bernarda said.
“Not you, though,” Sir Daeleth said. “We don’t need a priest to pray for us. You just stay here, I suppose.”
“Very well. That is for the best.” Bernarda said. “I pray for your success, of course.”
Yet Daeleth had just said he would not need it. Whatever the case, Sir Daeleth soon exited his office, with the two knights who had escorted Bernarda in looking at him.
“Get a platoon ready as soon as possible,” Sir Daeleth said. “I’ll tell you the situation as we ride.”
The day had been quiet for Felise. Lycaon had returned several days ago and had been with her for most of the time. He had put aside his world of intrigue and power for the time, and allowed himself rest while in her company. She did not enjoy his long journeys away from home, though she understood why Lycaon had to go through with such undertaking, and knew that he was pained from departure from her just as she was pained with departure from him. When he was away she read and composed, she spun and weaved, and she brewed. She had spent the last few days with Lycaon, but today was slightly different. For now he was away, meeting with Bishop Irenaeus. Yet she knew that he would not be long, and that he would soon be with her again. Today she was at her spinster’s wheel at a room in the first floor, weaving carefully as her fingers were around the circle. Yet as she was there, alone with her thoughts in the room, a servant came into the room with heavy breath.
“Milady!” the servant said, not even bothering the curtsy. “The house is under attacked!
The gentle smile Felise had disappeared, and was replaced by a stern and strong expression. She always knew that this was a possibility. Though she was surprised, she was shocked, and she did not let herself become overwhelmed by pointless questions. “Have they broken in already?”
“N-no, milady!” the servant said. “But soon. Very soon, they will.”
“Calm yourself,” Felise said. “There is much to do, and we’ve little time to do it.”
Then she quickly ran out of the room into a full sprint, quickly going past the servant, who, taken by surprise, soon followed her lady. As Felise ran to the front of the house she heard the clanking footsteps of men in armor, and the sound of her ladies in waiting being slaughtered. Never had she heard a more terrible sound. They were closer than she had hoped. She avoided the main hallway for the time, and took another route. Yet she quickly ran down to the entrance, where she saw a number of servants standing, one of which was the head maid, Yolande Vigeriche.
“Milady!” Yolande said.
“Yolande,” Felise said. “Aena told me what happened, generally. But tell me, what happened on your end, as shortly as you can.”
“We were attacked, but I suppose Aena told you that,” Yolande said. “When we saw a group of armed men trying to get in, we piled as much in front of the door as we could, but they broke through, and we could not stop them. I barely escaped up.”
“Do not give up hope,” Felise said. “I have an idea, and it should work. Gather all the servants, and have them meet in my bedroom.”
Her plan would never come to fruition. The men charged for them before they had time to react. They said no words to her and or to any of them. One of them struck Yolande through the chest, and Aena was next. Before Felise knew it, both of her servants were struck down to the ground, their blood wetting the ground.
“So, it seems my time has come,” Felise said. “But with this act you have shown yourselves to be fools. This will not stop Lycaon. He will come for you, and none of you will survive.”
“Lycaon is next,” said the one who seemed to be their leader.
“Hmph, such arrogance,” Felise said. “I wonder, Lycaon, will this help you? You always seemed like you were being held back, you were too cautious. Yet perhaps with this, maybe you shall become what the gods wanted you to be.”
The one that seemed to be their leader stabbed Felise through the chest. Oddly enough, the first thing she noticed was how it soiled her dress. Yet that was a triviality. These fools could not soil her, no matter what they did. For a moment she thought of how she would never be remembered, or at most she would be remembered wrong. They would always think of her as just the lovely flower who served as Lycaon’s pretty wife. No one but Lycaon would ever know who she really had been. Yet the praise of fools was meaningless, and personal glory always faded with time. Now she was dying by a sword wound through the chest. Her grandfather would be proud. For one last time, she thought of Lycaon.
“This, too, was implied in our contract, Lycaon,” Felise said. “Gods…”
Caro came off to people as a powerful and austere man, and whether this was the case or not was not of importance. He, in a black robe, with long black hair and a long black beard, stood firm and tall over the people on a podium, and so while he gave his sermons, said in a mystic and enigmatic style in imitation of Saint Elenor, his listeners were enchanted and invigorated at every word and phrase. Indeed, it was a fitting sight, for it was Saint Elenor herself who had uttered that famous aphorism, “the fool is fluttered at every word.” His sermon denounced the Church of the bishops, their wealth and their corruption. Yet there was also a darker side to his speech. He spoke of mages, practitioners of black magic and evil spells and spreaders of evil curses, as he called them. There were a few Knights from the Order of Saint Elenor watching, unaffected and unamused by Caro’s rhetoric. Lycaon had ordered his knights to keep an eye on the local heretics in Nyhem, though he had not yet commanded anything more. Rhodanthe arrived just as he was making his speech on the supposed vileness of the mages, of their evilness of their incantations and their secret influence. Rhodanthe wondered of the validity of this teaching, for Fenick had never mentioned to her before, and she wondered if the subject was even appropriate for a sermon. Yet this was not why she had come here. She slowly pushed herself to the front of the crowd, and approached Caro.
“Father Caro?” Rhodanthe said. “Sorry ‘bout interruption, but there’s somethin’ I need to say, for everyone’s safety.”
“What is it, child?” Caro said. “I can see by the look in your eyes is that what you say is of some importance. So speak.”
“It’s another priest, a Father Henriks,” Rhodanthe said. “He’s not with us; his hearts still with the bishops. And he’s got some men with him, men with clubs. They know your name and they know you’re here.”
“I know Father Henriks,” Caro said. “Once we were friends, but since then he has denounced me personally and publically. Yet however profane his tongue was, I would never have suspected him to have gone so far. Yet I believe you. With his every action you can see portents of such a vile act.”
“What shall we do?” asked a man in the audience.
“We must stay strong!” Caro said.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to fight them,” Rhodanthe said. She could tell from the man’s words that was just what he was planning to do.
“It is written that one must never instigate the enemy, and act in murder,” Caro said. “But to fight for the sake of self-defense, to defend one’s self against the wicked, there is nothing which the gods extoll more!”
“What? Father, you can’t be serious?” Rhodanthe said.
“Do not doubt me, child!” Caro said. “Or are you one of them? You are, aren’t you? You were sent in an attempt to frighten, to disperse us? Well, we will not frightened, nor shall we disperse. How I wish I could send you crawling back to your master and tell him that we have no fear of him. Yet, my child, I cannot send you back. It is a shame.”
Rhodanthe suddenly saw suspicious eyes all around her. She had never really felt afraid before. At least, not like how she now felt. She now felt she knew the real meaning of that phrase, “alone in a crowd.” She was quite a fast runner, so she decided now was the time to test out how practical that ability of hers was. Yet before she had time than give more than a step her sprint was cut off, and she was thrown to the ground. She was terrified, and her previous feared seemed nothing in comparison. Yet nothing happened further to her, at least for the time. As a man held her down, and Rhodanthe was too terrified to resist, Caro continued to talk the crowd, firing up the crowd with rhetoric which grew more and more inflammatory and combative. The phrase “holy war” was used more than once. Then Caro spoke suddenly, in words without the artificial charm of his half-baked oratory, and ordered the crowd to bring as many likeminded believers with them to increase their numbers, and plenty of weapons. They did as their leader said, and as time passed they returned bolstered and more aggressive. The Knights of the Order of Saint Elenor were at a loss.
“Shouldn’t we be tryin’ to stop this?” Herona said.
“Yep, that we should,” Hakon said. “But really, look at the lot of ‘em. Not a thing we can do, ‘lest ya’ know some way we can knock down hundreds at a time.”
“I see your point,” Herona said. “And headquarters said that this’d be an easy job. Just right for someone just back from the fight.”
“That was a fool to say,” Hakon said. “Who’d ever heard a’ fanatic tha’ was easy to handle.”
“Well, even so, we must try,” Herona said. “It’s our job, after all.”
Soon the traditionalists, those who still aligned themselves with the Church, arrived, a fair number of them with clubs in their hands, and were being led by the priest named Henriks. Yet they were surprised when the heretics were boisterous and brave when they met them. Caro ordered his mob not to attack, not to instigate, but no one could doubt that the heretics were ready to fight, and would attack ravenously at the first sign of trouble. The Knights of the Order of Saint Elenor, thin though their numbers were, stood in front of the two groups and prevented them from clashing. Then there suddenly came a man who came shouting news.
“Lord Lycaon’s estate has been attacked. An attempt at assassination!” the man cried.
This was followed by much whispering and gossip. It was not surprising that such news had come. Lycaon was well-known among the people of the city, especially among the most religious. Considering the situation, it wouldn’t have taken long for someone to have reported it to these two crowds.
“Lord Lycaon was attacked?”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Who indeed?”
“The heretics?”
“The heretics attacked Lord Lycaon!”
“The heretics tried to kill Lord Lycaon!”
“It was the bishops that tried to kill Lycaon!”
“We were framed!”
“This is a vile conspiracy!”
“The heretics have assaulted Lord Lycaon.”
“There is no forgiveness or mercy now.”
Everything was lost in the whispers, and now the rowdiness of the crowd made what they had been before seem calm in comparison. All hesitation from them was now gone, and Henriks and Caro no longer bothered trying to control their respective mobs. And when the news came that Lord Lycaon had been assaulted or even killed, the Knights of Saint Elenor’s efforts to hold back the traditionalists became half-hearted, except for Herona who genuinely wanted to keep fighting from breaking out. No one knew who struck first. Later those there would be haunted by Herona’s words.
“By the gods, what are you doing?” Herona said. “Someone could die!”
Yet for now none were moved by these words of warning, for they were currently too occupied with their own passions, rage, and bloodlust. Rhodanthe felt the hands which held her down fall away from her. As soon as that happened Rhodanthe went running off. For now she cared for nothing other than getting out of there as fast as she could. Yet she did take one look before she left, and saw that the fighting was now be done without any hesitation. Henriks and Caro were egging on their respective mobs with words of authority, but neither had any real control over them. The Knights of Lycaon had begun to withdraw, and it was not hard to see why. Herona was the last of the knights to try to stay, for she was clinging to the hope that they might be able to do something to stop the fighting, and Hakon had to practically drag her away.
“We can’t really just leave, can we?” Herona said.
“Ain’t no point in tryin’ to stop ‘em when they get like that,” Hakon said. “We’ll be back, I swear on it. And when we do we’ll be a proper force.”
Now the two sides were left to themselves, and they were free to fight and kill to their heart’s content. Punches were being thrown, people were being thrown, pushed, and tossed. Both sides drew their clubs and beat their opposition in submission, while others, on the heretics side mostly, drew knifes, quickly stepping forth a giving a stab, their unlucky opponents falling to the ground bleeding, where they felt the weight of a plethora of kicks from a plurality of bodies. Both sides were beginning to withdraw from each other. There were too many dead and injured, and the mobs, no matter how impassioned, could not bear that. It was then that Henriks was stabbed three times in the chest. The stabber was pushed and beaten way soon after, but it was too late for Henriks. He tried to utter some encourage words, but most of it was lost as he coughed up blood and life began to fade from him, and all they caught was, “serve the gods, remain straight-pathed,” though he said other things. The traditionalists began to flee, though not before giving some strikes with their clubs to save face. So the heretics shouted triumphantly, with Caro serving as their leader who egged them on, if such a crowd could be said to have a leader. And this was only the beginning.
Rhodanthe was glad to be rid of that bastard priest. It turns out that the old man was right that you can’t trust everyone in the Church. Still, she was hoping that at least those who were on her side she would be able to trust. She had to put all that behind her for now. Things had only gotten worse. That priest’s men had started a riot, and it had spread more rapidly than she could believe. Now it seemed like the whole city was aflame. Rhodanthe could run or hide, but there was no way she would. She could hear the sounds of distress in the distance, and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to face the old man again if she did nothing.
She would be careful to stay away from those rioters, but she’d do what she could to keep as many as she could safe. She headed towards a church, which was covered in flames. A few townsman and a priest were still trying to put the flames out with the few buckets of water they could gather, but Rhodanthe could see that it was useless. She was about to do what she could to stop them when she saw a man heavily injured lying on the street. He had his hand on his stomach, covering what looked like a knife wound. Rhodanthe ripped off a part of her shirt, and lifting up his arm from the wound covered the wound properly, creating a tourniquet for the wound. She smiled at him. She didn’t know why. She thought it might give him a little comfort, but she must’ve been a fool to think that a smile could bring any joy to someone whose stomach was bleeding out of them.
“Thank you…” he managed.
“Anytime,” she said. “Though I suppose ya’ don’t want that to happen again.”
Rhodanthe approached the men who were trying to put out the fire, but Rhodanthe saw that it was useless. She knew that water wasn’t cheap, and what they were doing with theirs was really a shame.
“Don’t waste your time with it,” Rhodanthe said. “That fire’s not going out, not like that. I hate to say it, but you need to just let it burn.”
“This is my church!” the priest said. “I can’t just let it burn!”
“Oh, just listen to her,” an old woman said. “What’s the use wasting all the water. What good has it done you so far.”
“If I can just-” he began.
“I’ve lived up north, in Uzgob,” Rhodanthe said. “I know fire. If you don’t have the water for this, better to just let it burn. Better to gather up all your stuff, and get on out of here.”
“So who are you, miss?” the old woman said. “First ya’ help a random dying man on the street, and now yer’ tryin’ to get us all away to safety. Are ya’ a saint, come to life?”
“Nah,” Rhodanthe said. “Just some passerby.”
“Damn it all,” the priest said. “This is my church! We were on the same side! Both of this heard the good news, both of us approved of Johannia! So why’d they have to go and burn down my church?”
“Ya’ met the rioters then,” Rhodanthe said. “I was there when it happened. No one’s goin’ to stop them, not even their own leader. Right now they’re just a mob, runnin’ on pure anger and greed.”
“Oh they’ll be stopped, alright,” the priest said. “The King’ll stop ‘em.”
Her words seemed to come at an opportune time. A number of men, in a very disorganized fashion, began to come in their direction. Rhodanthe could tell that they didn’t come to help, they had come to loot. As if there was anything to loot from here. Rhodanthe thought they might have better luck if they went towards one of the districts where the rich folks were. Yet she knew that if these folks didn’t find enough here that was to their liking, then maybe they might just straight up take the women and children instead. Well, Rhodanthe wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight.
“Get away from here!” Rhodanthe said. “I’ll distract them.”
“Are you insane?” the old woman said.
Rhodanthe was not listening.
“Stop!” Rhodanthe said. “Don’t come this way! Not unless you put those clubs o’ yours away!”
At that moment the worst thing that could have occurred happened to her. She blacked out, like she did sometimes. It was a habit, no, an illness of hers. She didn’t even know if she’d be alive when she was herself again.
“Come now, you bastards!” Sir Sayer said. “I’ve got all day! I’m here because of you, after all. So come on, which one which of you fools wants to lose their head first? I’ll show you what it means to fight a warrior. You will regret that your impudence ever entered into your foolish minds.”
Yet at his fierce words the heretics were not turned. One came at him with a club, and Sayer was happy. Times were rare when he had the opportunity to face unarmored opponents and could hack and kill at his leisure. Long before the heretic had time to finish his swing Sir Sayer fleetly struck at the heretic’s arm, severing his arm. Then as the heretic began to scream Sir Sayer struck his blade through his neck in an instant.
“Another!” Sir Sayer said.
Their rage was not yet quelled. The Knights stood side-by-side on the bridge, their shields up as they faced the charge of the rioters. Though only four ranks strong, they were strong and disciplined. They kept steady and strong as the rioters came to them. All the Knights struck out their swords, each of the vanguard striking down one of the rioters. Sir Gwladus struck with great speed, far greater than these rioters had ever had the opportunity to see. She hacked through them, and soon a total of five fell down to the ground below herself. The rioters were not soldiers, not even a militia, and they had no organization or motivation. They were merely a mob that wished to loot and destroy. So they were quickly routed, and easily forced into retreat.
“Pursue!” Sir Sayer said. “They are on the run now! We must not let them destroy them anymore. Until their hands are up continue to kill at will!”
The whole of headquarters of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor was in an uproar. Informants and scouts were constantly going in and out, relaying new information and quickly leaving to discover more. Some were lost in the riot, but their names were forgotten. All the while, Knights and militiamen of the Holy Order were steadily reinforcing. Lycaon stood seated in his office, a spacious yet unelaborate room filled with a few books and a great many of scrolls. He did not sit behind his desk now, however, but had moved his wooden chair to the center of the room, where he stood fully armor save his helmet, holding his sheath in his hand, the bottom touching the floor as he held it. A number of intelligence officers were in there with him, telling him what events had unfolded according to their latest information. As they were relaying on what street a large contingency of rioters were last seen on after leaving the street they were previously seen on, Sir Daeleth entered the room with several other knights at his back, and his expression was grim.
“You bear a rare expression, my friend, or at least it is rare for you,” Lycaon said. “In this mayhem I wonder what it could be that could stir you.”
“I come reporting bad news,” Sir Daeleth said. “There was an attack on your estate, my lord. Though you weren’t there…”
Lycaon slammed his sheath hard against the ground. “Felise!”
“My lord,,” Sir Daeleth said. “Oh, guess I should’ve been a bit more gentle. Your wife, Felise of Dagensburg, did not survive. Men with swords and spears overwhelmed and stormed the place. There were no survivors.”
Lycaon had no words, but his rage was seen and felt by all. He drew forth his sword with lightning speed and quickly raised himself from his seat. Grabbing his helmet from his desk he ordered the nearby squire-scribe to mount it on to his head, and he did so.
“Not one will survive,” Lycaon said. “Every heretic down to the man will be slain. If I have to bloody my own sword with every last one of these hell-bound souls, so be it! Make no mistake, Daeleth, I have not gone mad with vengeance. At least, I am not mad yet. But this is not vengeance, this is justice. The books say, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ and so shall it be. For this act of murder I shall see to it that these heretics shall not draw breath! All of you, grab a sword. I will head down to the militia. Daeleth, meet with Oswyn and gather as many knights as you can. I will meet up with you later. When I am ready, I will have a mage signal you to my location. You’ll see it.”
“And what of Sayer?” Sir Daeleth said.
“He went to protect Halthroth Bridge,” Lycaon said. “When the time is right I will gather him with me, and he shall join us.”
A great many of the rioters now stood outside the Grand Temple, shifting and shouting angrily, cursing its wealth, and the wealth of the Church in general. They chanted for Bishop Irenaeus to come out. Then they began to pound against the doors with their clubs and broke the stained-glass windows. Yet just before they would have gone pouring inside, someone kicked opened the doors from the inside, throwing down the men with the clubs. It was Lycaon, who came out in his shining plate.
“Lycaon!” they all shouted. They were surprised. They thought he had been killed.
“Calm yourselves, children of Nyhem!” Lycaon said. “Do you not know what it is that you do? Would your wives and daughters approve of you smashing through windows and doors? Would your priest? I understand why you are angry, why there is such turbulence in your hearts. I have seen your poverty and misery firsthand. I stood among you, and did what I could to help you. Food, money, housing, and goods of all I kinds I gave to you not out of some whim, but because I thought it might plant goodness and relieve suffering. Yet you know this already. So I know why you quiver at the sight of wealth, and are filled with anger at the sight of it. This is only natural, and I do not blame any of you for it. But do not aim your anger at the Grand Temple. This world is full of sin, and thus of misery. Everywhere you see the mire of greed and gluttony, and this Divine Temple is the only light which comes shining through the filth of the world. Do not hate its beauty; rather, revel in it, it is a sanctuary for all of you. It is the rich and powerful that has created your misery, not this great and holy temple of the gods.”
Some indeed did withdraw at his words. They were gladdened by them, and were already relieved to see that their beloved Lycaon was alive. Others, however, were too egged on to be dispelled.
“Go home, my children,” Lycaon said. “Tell no one what you have done, and abandon all those false passions you fell to today, and your lives may continue on.”
Some indeed did do as he said, all the while wishing Lycaon well and professing their intense gladness that he was alright after all. Yet there were those who would not give up the cause and riot so easily.
“You’re just one of the rich and powerful after all, Lycaon!” a man said. “You’d side with them over us, anyway. If you aren’t with us, you’re against us!”
“For a man who is in a state of sin it is best for him to be punished rather to follow his appetite,” Lycaon said. “If you think that I shall allow you to tear down the Church on some evil whim, then I shall be forced to teach you of your error. I and my knights shall turn back any who would dare to try and assault this holy place!”
When the man came forward with his club Lycaon came up with his sword and struck the man’s hand, blood being drawn and the club being dropped. Those who had been convinced by Lycaon already quickly went into a sprint, running away from the place. Men of the Order of Saint Elenor came pouring out. They were the militia clad in leather and wielding spears and axes. Herona was one of these many, incidentally standing right by Lycaon. She wasn’t sure if they could hold their own here – they weren’t as reliable as the knights, she thought herself – but she saw that Lycaon had no fear or doubt in his eyes, from the little she could discern from his unreadable face. The militiamen stood in formation, quickly organizing themselves into a group that could withstand the incoming stampede.
They came with clubs and with fists, but now the militia was ready for them. Lycaon stood at the front, and hacked through the chest of a rioter with a slash of his sword as he came forward. Herona stood up, and did not falter as the rioters charged up to her. It wasn’t like the strength last time, though the weight was still fierce, but Herona managed to keep herself firm. The militiamen held out their spears and struck as the rioters came, and many of them were felled. Herona struck her spear, striking through until she hit the rib, and then quickly withdrew her weapon. There was another Herona struck too, through the chin, the spear going through his skull, and then quickly withdrawn. Who they were, what they were fighting for, what she was doing; these were questions that she had quickly learned she was not to ask. She’d focus on the task at hand, at following orders, and most of all on surviving. Their strikes and piercings of their spear did not cease, and when one’s spear was broken they quickly drew up a mace, axe, and short-sword. The rioters were now retreating. They had been broken, and could not fight anymore. They were not soldiers, and their courage was not courage at all, but merely rage and anger born of passion, and that was quickly destroyed when the fear of death came swarming in.
“Onward men!” Lycaon said. “Unruly men, surrender now if you wish to live! Your lives will not be spared by running! Soldiers, warriors, do not spare them! These men have rebelled against the gods, and now they dare to try to escape the fate that awaits those who seek apostasy! Put all those who dare to run to the sword!”
“And with that the crowns debt has finally been paid back” Isabel exclaimed proudly to Duncan. They were currently inside her personal chambers. The room had a fireplace in the corner of the and a large luxurious bed in the middle. On one side of the room was massive armoire accompanied with a mirror. On the other was a table at which both Duncan and Isabel were sitting at. An array of books and parchments were neatly stacked on either side of it. “I must say the Ironbarks were not happy when I told them that the debt has been liquified”
“Indeed, I imagine they have grown very rich of the crowns debt” Duncan said with a smile as he sat back in his chair “It’s nice to know that I can finally put this problem behind us. Still I imagine that this was expensive, even for us” at this Isabel’s face turned to a grimace
“Yes, between paying back our debts and funding the war are profits have taken turn for the worst. This is the first time in decades our monthly expenditures have outweighed our profits. Still, if Patrick is correct the war will be over soon. With the payments from the Blackwells and the taxes from our new territories, our income will be higher than ever before” Isabel finished smugly. Her expression hardened before she turned to face her brother “has there been any word on the origins of this ‘mysterious’ mace” She said, a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice “and have you decided whether you’re going to tell me what this is about”. Duncan face turned stern. He had chosen not to tell Isabel about why the weapon interested him so much. It wasn’t something she needed to be concern herself about, a decision that hadn’t made her happy.
“Yes, we found the blacksmith and it turns out his trademark symbol is very similar to another blacksmith I knew. The answer turned out to be rather anti climatic I must say” Duncan said with a fake smile. This was of course a lie, the true was he had found no trace of the mace’s smith nor the forge in which it was made. Isabel raised her eyebrow, she knew her brother was lying but she choice not to question it.
“Very well brother. Now all we need to do is- “Isabel was cut off by a panicked knocking on the door “My king” shouted the voice of Alenius “The is a serious matter that requires your attention” At this Duncan immediately jumped to his feet and headed towards the door. He opened it to a very red faced and sweaty Alenius, it was clear she had been running around the castle to find him
“Your grace there is a major riot in the city, we currently don’t know what is the cause but it spread like wildfire through the entire city”. Duncan barely had enough time to process what was being said. How could a riot start so quickly? Eventually Duncan responded simply with “Show me”
Lycaon stood atop his white horse, which now had its steel harness and armor laid upon it, and rode with a company of fellow knights, riding alongside Sir Daeleth, Sir Sayer, and Sir Oswyn. Many of the heretics had been captured and slain, but many others had remained throughout the city. Now the great remainder of them gathered in the center of the city, wreaking havoc through the marketplace and purposefully approaching ever closer to the royal palace. These souls sinned impiously against the gods and the Church, and they were behaving quite unfilially to the state. Therefore they would be given the ultimate punishment.
“Today, men, you become holy warriors unequaled in all of Formarath,” Lycaon said. “There is no greater virtue for a warrior than to put a heretic to the sword. Sir Sayer, your platoon shall take the left. Sir Oswyn, yours shall take the right. Sir Daeleth, you will ride around and attack from the rear. I shall take the recruits and charge the center. Show no mercy.”
“These men are no soldiers,” Sir Oswyn said. “They shall surrender quickly if we surround them.”
“These are heretics, practically beyond saving at this point,” Lycaon said. “You are to show no mercy to them, and no hesitation in their utmost slaughter. Yet I will not have the Church stained by any whispers of atrocity. If you see them surrender, by all means allow themselves to give them up to our courts. Yet in the din of war against such a mob I do not see how we can see such a supposed surrender. So unless you are certain of their surrender do not allow your steel to let up.”
What the Order meant was clear. If a complete slaughter of these heretics ensued it was no problem for him. They all quickly departed with their respective units, but as Sir Oswyn left there was a shadow over his heart.
As the heretics were there looting, burning, and causing havoc as they marched ever closer to the gates of the palace the Knights of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor marched charged forward. Lycaon led the militia near the front, ordering them to charge forward, and they did, as they pressed forward in square formation, forming a menacing wall of spears and shields. They charged forward, the riots steadily turning to them, and their rocks and clubs fell deaf among the steady shields of their ranks, as the militiamen’s spear steadily cut down the heretics. So the militiamen steadily went ahead and advanced over the corpses of heretics, and as the rioters angrily tried to overwhelm their enemies they were stopped in their tracks.
On both the right and left there came ranks of knights mounted atop armored horses slamming into the ranks of the heretics, their hooves trampling over them and the lances of the knights piercing through the thin linen of the heretics’ garments. The heretics fought for their lives, many of them seeing no escape. Some did try to escape, running from their brethren who were but pigs for the slaughter, but as they did they saw that they were being cut off. From behind came Sir Daeleth’s unit, who charged forward, piercing through the ranks of the heretics. The heretics were hysterical, and went into a rage, and were spurred in a terrified and terrifying surge of heroic energy. A beast, they say, will become strong when cornered. So they finally decided to act like warriors. So the battle was far elongated. Yet the heretics could not win the day, not when they were surrounded by elite knights on three sides. One by one the heretics fell, and there was no way out.
The street was so bloodied that it ran through the streets, creating a sanguine river. Many of the new recruits, though they had seen some of the fiercest battle the Kingdom had seen in recent years already, could not help but puke at the sight of it. Both the knights and recruits were ordered by Lycaon to search the battlefield thoroughly. They were take each corpse and stabbed it to make sure that all the heretics were truly dead, and then they were gathered in a pile in front of the palace gates.
“It is done,” Lycaon said. “Now all that remains is for Johannia’s head to be delivered to me for Felise’s spirit may be satisfied.”
Duncan was currently standing atop the keep walls alongside Alenius. From bellow he could hear Alice barking orders to the various members of the city watch who were grabbing their shields and weapons. Duncan had ordered that the majority of the keeps host leave to restore order to the city. The rioters were now looting the marketplace and were slowly making their way towards the keep. Even from this distance he could clearly make out the chaos. This was a disaster, if he didn’t restore control then Nyhem would view him as a weak king. However if his men started killing civilians he would lose all support from the people of Nyhem, sully his family name and he would become no better than the tyrant Heylot.
“Your grace, look” Alenius said as she pointed towards the market. Duncan’s face turned to joy as he saw Lycaon’s brigade surround the rioters to maintain order. However, his joy soon turned to anger as he watched Lycaon butcher the numerous men and women who had fallen into his trap.
“That fucking idiot” Duncan growled under his breath. Though he hadn’t acted under Duncan’s orders, Lycaon was his representative in the church and the people would surely blame him for this. “Bring Lycaon to me. NOW!” Duncan yelled at Alenius.
“Yes, my King,” Alenius said.
Alenius made her way past the pile of bodies and made her way through to Lycaon. They could tell that she was with the King, and paved her way to Lycaon said.
“Grandmaster Lycaon?” Alenius said. “The King requests your presence. Immediately.”
“Sir Daeleth, keep order here,” Lycaon said. “His Majesty requests my presence.”
Lycaon followed Alenius as she led him to atop the walls, where Duncan was. So the King had been watching. He was unsure whether the King approved or not. Regardless, Lycaon had to ensure that the King was on his side. More than any other time, Lycaon needed Duncan’s approval. As they approached Lycaon bowed.
“My King,” Lycaon said.
Upon hearing his name Duncan spun round in fury, a burning rage in his eyes
"Sir Lycaon" he growled spitefully "I demand you explain yourself. Explain to me this-" he said as he pointed towards the market square "massacre that just took place before my own eyes"
Massacre? Was that what Duncan saw? Perhaps it was. He could not imagine that a De Reimer was worried about how this would look? Lycaon was not worried about that, however.
"My King," Lycaon said. "These men were nothing but heretics. They have caused chaos through your city, and have set the proud city of Nyhem ablaze, and have resorted to looting and killing to their twisted hearts' content. They were even so brazen as to assault the stronghold of your beloved majesty, but as your subject I could not bare to see it. These men have thrown away their virtue by throwing themselves away from our Holy Church. They are a disease which will engulf the land in fire, madness, and anarchy, and like any plague nothing is more abhorred by the people than these heretics. Thus for the sake of the land I have slain. Yet, with unending deference to his Majesty's impeccable wisdom, I call it not a massacre, for these men were not innocents, but ravenous beasts."
"You have just made us an enemy to the people of Nyhem. How many people will support the concord after they find out what happened here" Duncan shouted
"Their support will be unwavering, my king," Lycaon said. "As it was the heretics who were at fault here. They dared to attack the very home of your Beloved Majesty. These heretics do not speak for the people, my King. They were a plague on them. However many times they retreated, they would continue to loot and burn. They needed to be eliminated. The people shall applaud us for subduing those who looted and burned their homes, my King."
Duncan raised an eyebrow, he remained sceptical of Lycaon's claim. While it was true the rioters had started the conflict, the heretics would no doubt make these rioters as martyrs. However Lycaon did have a point, while the heretics would no doubt paint him as a villain, he could do the same. While he had preferred to remain unassociated with matters involving the church, making the heretics enemies of the Concord would be the best way to shift the blame off him. Duncan's face softened as he tried to calm himself
"I see" He finally managed "in which case sir Lycaon see too it that the bodies are cleared from the market immediately" Duncan said as he turned away. The less of the massacre the people of Nyhem saw the better. Though he hid it better than before, his fury for Lycaon had not reseeded and he wanted him out of his sight as quickly as possible.
"Yes, my King," Lycaon said.
Lycaon gave Duncan another bow before he left. Then he quickly walked away. Their words had not been of a tone that Lycaon had desired. The King was angry with him, and he no doubt still was. He simply did not understand. This was the way it had to be. There could be no other way to get rid of this heretical menace that complete extermination. Yet he could see that the King was angry, and he made his way back to army as quickly as he could.
"So how'd it go?" Sir Daeleth said.
"Not well," Lycaon said. "But that is of little consequence. We are to clear the bodies of the heretics from the marketplace immediately."
"It would be better to pile them up and burn them," Sir Sayer said. "It would send a better message."
"Perhaps," Lycaon said. "But these are the king's orders. And we shall follow our monarch's commands."
Riza let out a smile as Beretta entered the room, to try to help her become at ease, if that was possible. It was naturally for one to be nervous for one’s first assignment, but Beretta was far too nervous. She was unfortunately far too nervous. Then he saw Agent Lesauvage enter. It was quite the sight to behold, he dressed fully in Erubesco attire. If he had seen a civilian dressed in such a manner he would have brought them in for question.
“Agent Lesauvage,” Khan replied. “You’re sure on top of things.”
Truth be told, Riza had said it as a joke. He simply could not help himself. Riza thought of himself as someone who was punctual and did the things he was ordered to, but he would never have thought to dress himself as an Erubescian before they had even left the country. Yet if Agent Lesauvage wanted to dress early, that was fine too, he supposed. Such thoughts were not important. The Field Supervisor, Canvas Fajaar, was addressing him now, though she seemed oddly enthusiastic about Agent Lesauvage’s outfit. Yet perhaps all the officers of this sector were silly.
“Agent Khan, I presume? I've heard good things. I think you'll be a great asset to this mission," Canvas said.
“Thank you, sir,” Riza said, in complete accordance with military discipline.
As the sun rose to greet the new day Riza was already rising. He lived in a small apartment on the 11th floor of an apartment building. All of it might have been nondescript to the uttermost to someone who lived in Erubesco, but Riza lived in Liberty. This was the way of Liberty, simple, uniform, united, and no one could convince Riza that there could be any other way. As he looked over the sea of pristine white buildings that littered this great city Riza could not help but think that the city looked absolutely beautiful amongst the light the rising sun as it illuminated and shined off its buildings. Riza dressed himself in his uniform. The plain black suit of the Homeland Protection Sector was nothing fancy, but it was practical and easily made. After a quick breakfast of nothing but some butterless toast with some eggs and a glass of milk he went on his way.
As he went on his way to work he was greeted by the janitor on his way out. The people here knew what his job was, roughly. They were always amiable to him, greeting him as he went out to work and came back from work. Whether it was a true friendliness or a show to not offend a loyal governmental did not matter Riza. If you acted friendly towards someone for long enough you became their friend, whether you meant to or not. The pristine steel elevator was crowded, as it so typically was. Just now was the time when pretty much everyone was heading out to work.
As Riza made his way out of the building he stood on the street he had only to wait a moment, long enough to look at his watch and wonder whether his ride was late – he wasn’t – when he pulled up. A thick and long black car pulled up to the street. Riza quickly opened up the back door and entered as usual, and as he fastened his seatbelt the car went off. Justin was sitting in the front as usual, and as they continued driving Riza waited for his orders.
“The Sector thanks you for your service,” Justin said. “In the meantime, you’ve got some new orders. You’ve been assigned to an espionage assignment. Head of the [redacted] branch is leading an infiltration to an Erubesco Ball. You’ll be informed of the details later. You are to report to [redacted] immediately and await further orders. Councilor Heather Laxton is now your commanding officer. At least for the time being.”
“Aye aye,” Riza said. “So it’s an inter-branch mission, then? And with Councilor Laxton leading. But why I am being assigned to it? I could understand Defense sending an agent, but Homeland Protection?”
“I’ve been informed that this mission involves a national security issue,” Justin said. “And remember Riza, loyalty is key. Agents who ask too many question end behind an office desk.”
“Right, right,” Riza said. “I was just curious. But [redacted] is my commanding officer, and I will fulfill her command completely. You don’t need to worry on that end. After all, when have I ever questioned Liberty?”
“Never,” he said. “And now’s no time to start.”
Councilor Laxton. Riza had never had the pleasure to meet her, but he was already well aware of who she was. At the age of twenty-nine she was already the head of the Espionage Sector. Yet Riza was not impressed by her. He knew she was a slovenly woman who lacked propriety. She was not the kind of woman that belong in Liberty, yet she had somehow climbed so high so fast. Riza would not look forward to serving under her. He could not imagine that she would be the ideal commander. Justin continued to tell Riza more details, specifically where he was supposed to meet the Councilor.
When he was dropped off at the headquarters of the Espionage Sector he removed himself from the car, and Justin drove off. Riza walked into the headquarters. Showing his badge and telling him just enough about his business here without telling him too much to endanger him, Riza was allowed to go up. He entered into a fairly small room, which was fairly plain and nodescript, where he saw that a woman who could have used a comb was sitting. Riza had a gentle smile on his face as he approached her, and went into a salute.
“Councilor Laxton,” Riza said. “It is an honor. I trust you have been properly informed that I shall be assisting you for the duration of the mission.”
Cecily
Cecily stood in front of the entrance of the Erubescian cathedral, doing her best to stand tall with her rifle by her side, though as time wore on it became increasingly difficult to look like she was looking attentive. She was now on guard duty. This meant nothing else than that she stood guard, making sure that no one made any trouble. Who would dare to cause trouble here? No one that she was aware of, and that was perhaps what made the whole thing so dull. To be sure there were people coming and going, and things to do and things to see, but these had nothing to do with her. She had her orders, and was to stay put right here. It might’ve been all well and good to say that you had a position at the cathedral, but there was no glory to be gained as someone who had merely guarded a gate. A mere dog could do the same, and as long as she remained here she was nothing but a dog.
Yet she understood why she was here. Her uniform hid it, but she could not hide from herself her what lay beneath her wound. On her leg was a huge gash, a wound from the war. It still hurt, though Cecily would never admit it; she had lied about that part. It was no longer the bother it once was, it was healing, but that wound she could still feel, and she supposed that it would never really disappear. It brought back had memories. Whenever she looked at it she felt as though she had returned to the battlefield fought when the sun was at dusk. After marching on to Liberty territory they dug in. They knew that retribution would be swift, but command was convinced that could win. They underestimated Liberty. They had to withdraw, but before that Cecily had to fight. The battle had been hard, and she received this wound to the leg from a bullet from long-range. It turned out that not even a gift would bring her down, but a bullet, something a mere human could’ve managed.
She had been noted for distinguished conduct, but had not been given a promotion. Now she was sent here, away from the fighting, to recover. She could at least do guard duty now. The memories bothered her more than the pain ever did. But she did not think much more of that. She had become lost in thought for a second, but the thought now passed from her. She yawned, already tired of her guard duty. She hoped that it would be ending soon. At last another conscript came up to him.
“I’m here to relieve you,” he said.
“Good. My feet are killing me,” Cecily said.
As Cecily saw her leave she saw some fool running past her in a hurry. What surprise her was that he had the bade of a Knight Commander. Cecily made sure to salute as he went by, but he didn’t really notice her. He seemed to be in a hurry. He certainly didn’t seem like a Knight Commander. Yet that didn’t have anything to do with her. She wondered if she’d find anything to do here. She was free for now. Many places here were locked away to a mere conscript like her, but if she was careful she just might find something here that caught her eye.