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Post by Nepty on Feb 24, 2015 14:19:45 GMT
“Some say it began with Yonstone. Others say it began with the anarchy. Still others say that it began in the final days of the 50-day war, or the mid-13th century border skirmishes. I believe that it was, to be truthful, a single event that spurred the gargantuan events of so many years ago, of which we write still today, the story that has echoed throughout history for decades, and will endure for a thousand years more. On the morning of Rain’s Height, 1277, Sir Harry Fitzmalden executed Jane of Ghent on the orders of the Clergy. The charge was un-recanted heresy.” -from "The Poem of Rudaur" by contemporary Rudolf of Rydesnow
Ghent, Greymark, Rudaur Thirdaag, 12th of Rain's Height, Deiu Annua, 1277 It was around midday when Sir Harry Fitzmalden came out of his castle with the heretic in tow and put her to death. Henry had only been a man-at-arms for two years, and so far he had not yet blooded his blade. Nor would he today, barring some heathen devilry, but he still wanted a good view. The apostate girl was bound hand and foot by ropes. Many lords bound and gagged heretics, so as not to pollute the air with their profane utterances. Sir Harry had neglected to do so, perhaps out of respect for the girl’s dignity. No woman looked decent while drooling all over herself. Sir Harry rode before of the miserable prisoner, high atop his horse, clad in fine mail and a tabard with his own personal coat of arms, a red bear, snarling its anger out upon his chest. He was seated upon his best warhorse, and a sword hung at his side. The heretic’s ropes were bound to the halter of his steed. Henry did not know her name. She had full lips and a squirrel’s round cheeks, and black hair down past her shoulders. She was ushered into the town square and led to the pyre. They had put it up earlier this morning. The men at arms had woken up in the black of the dawn and driven the long stake into the ground, and piled the wood. A horrid way to die, surely, but such was the lot of the heretic. Henry glanced at her again. She did not look like a creature of Asmodai, but perhaps her beauty was to tempt men to misdeeds and heresy. He disregarded the fact and looked at the assembled citizenry. All curious, from the traders dressed in fine clothes, to the peasants in farming attire. He spied a cutpurse threading his way through the crowd, a small child, but before he could raise his voice, the child disappeared into the forest of legs once more and Henry paid it no mind. Then, sir Harry barked the order to bind the girl. At the command, he stepped forwards and took the arm of the young girl, not unkindly. One of his companions took her other arm, and they both marched her to the pile of bracken. Sir Harry looked on with cold eyes. As Henry helped her up onto the wood, Sir Harry adressed the assembled yeomanry and peasantry. “The women you see before you stands guilty of heresy and has not recanted” he said, reading it off of a scroll. “As commanded in the Scriptures, she are to be put to death ,” he paused and looked at the girl. “By burning at the stake until she is naught but blackened bones.” He spoke again, this time addressing the girl herself. “You claim to be the Holy Maiden reborn,” he said. “Will you not recant this heresy?” If she recanted, she would be expected to join a nunnery, but if all the ministrations of the clerical confessors, the hot knife and the less than loving handling by an entire squad of foul-tempered clerical guards could not make her recant her heresy, Henry doubted a woodenly read askance would do anything at all. And it did not. The girl simply closed her eyes and repeated her claims of earlier. “Sir Harry Fitzmalden, you are a good man, and I hold you no ill will, nor to your soldiers, for what they have done. You are men, and men of God, and for that, I love you. But I say what I will. I was spoken to by God to be the vessel for change in the world, and in my dream, He showed me the resting place of the Holy Sword.” Henry glanced at her, and felt pity. She was comely, and would die in pain and horror. Confessors said she spoke heresy, however. For a small, blasphemous moment, he wondered if it were not. The Holy Sword, found once more…he wondered at the possibilities, and thought for a moment about if he found it himself. It was said in the scriptures that who found the sword would rule all of Rudaur. Such a discovery would throw the world into chaos, he knew. That was why she must die. He had heard many heresies in his life, but none of them executed. This direct challenge to the supreme authority of the Clergy however, could not stand. The cutting voice of Sir Harry drew him back to the world. “You refuse to recant your heresies, and thus, I am forced to condemn and execute you.” He looked around. “Would you like a priest?” The girl nodded serenely, and Sir Harry nodded to a man in his entourage, the local cleric. He hurried forwards. Sir Harry pursed his lips. “Stake her.” Someone gave Henry rope, and he wound it about the girl, He paid her enough respect to not sully her modesty, and fastened the rope about her waist that he would not have to touch her breasts. His comrade tied off the rope and they both stepped off the pyre. The priest held up a long pole upon which a golden nail was affixed. He held it up to the heretic’s face and she touched her lips to the cold metal. Henry sighed and shook his head. Then, a man-at-arms came up with a pitcher of mixed oil, wine and pitch and sloshed it over the lower logs. Another one approached with a torch. “May you find peace in the afterlife,” the priest said, as the soldier applied the torch, and the flames sprung up. The girl did not reply. Her eyes were closed and she was whispering a silent prayer. Henry wondered which one it was. The flames grew in size, and soon, they were lighting the logs at her feet. One tongue of flame licked at her feet she closed her eyes and spoke. “It is said that he who wields the blade of the Eternal Lord in truthfulness shall rule over all the land, for a hundred years of peace and prosperity, for when the dominion of men comes crashing down, and the Kingdom of Heaven comes to earth, and men let go of their false gods. Go, true knights, to find my sword in Rudaur, and he who draws it shall rule.” Henry turned his eyes up to look at her, and so, to his shock, that she was wreathed in fire, yet composed as before, and the fires themselves surrounded her, but did not burn her hair, nor her face. When he saw the corposant fire flickering about the nail that the priest held before here, he dropped to his knees in wonder. AVENON
ADELAIDE
It was late in Avenon . Adelaide had always loved the summer, and warm, happy things. The cold dark of the north came early in Avenon. The monks said it had to do with the currents coming from the Starry Sea inland, up the river and onto the Lake of Eagles. She had been born in Eastmark, and there she had lived her childhood in Tiberias on the open plains. There, even in winter, it was often warm, though it was north of the Imperial City. There, the fortress-home of the house of Tiberias was old, but homey, with old square towers and huge arching walls and crenellations, not besieged in two hundred years, where the forests came up to the walls themselves. The halls were filled with song and laughter and the walls hung with tapestries of the hunt. The land itself was alive with joy. In Avenon, hard by the mountains, on its five high hills, the houses were timber, with towers, keeps, storehouses and granaries by the hundreds, few of stone, most of wood. The long walls that encircled Avenon were dark, hard palisade, fortified by stone on the inner face. Her footsteps, ever light, echoed in the halls. Spring always came late here, and it had just arrived. A light rain fell outside, onto the city. Come the morning, it would be bright and sunny once more, no doubt, but now, the city felt much as it must have in the days of Variel, when it was still a mere town, home and capital to the disparate Rudii people before the Uniter brought the land together. It was an old city, and proud. Here, the halls echoed to silent footsteps as the ghosts of emperors long dead haunted the wynds and alcoves, or else they rang with the tramp of armored feet. Here, the walls were hung with tapestries of the Anarchy, of Yonstone, of emperors long gone and wars long over, and battle-honors hung from the vast ceilings. She knew she would find her father in the West Garden. He always went there, to the solitude of the small temple among the trees, whenever he debated on great matters of state. She kepthis council, and knew what must be weighing heavily on his mind. There was death in the north and south. The Caliphate was striking at their borders once more, and in Ridemark, the ritters there took over-many liberties. In the north, raiders preyed on the sea-lanes. The west gardens were large and expansive. Untrimmed, yet cultivated, they were a hold of the wilds within Avenon’s Imperial Palace. Weeds grew in these gardens, and flowers in their thousands. Lack-alacks and white roses and blue iris all pressed close against each other like lovers, and huge gnarled trees that grew in the shade of the castle. She followed the stone steps to the small temple. It was tiny, not enough for four men, let alone an entire service, but it was gilded and painted in bright, gaudy colors and a long window of colored glass painted images across the grass. A long nail was driven into the roof in the center. She saw a shrouded figure hunched nearby, seated on a stone bench looking out over the pond in the garden’s center, his back to her. “Father,” she called out softly. The man did not stir. She called his name again, louder this time, and he straightened. Perhaps the leprosy was beginning to take a toll on his hearing, she thought sadly. “Adelaide?” he called, turning his head. His face was covered in a silver mask. A death mask. She kept down a shudder. “Father, I have brought you news,” she said. She felt the tears well up behind her eyes. She had read the message when it had been given to her, two hours ago it had given her no end of greif. Then she had wiped away her tears and buried her sorrow, as a princess must do, and gone to deliver the letter to Father. The Emperor. This man, who looked so regal and stately, even in his leprosy while sitting in judgment on the imperial throne, now looked small. He hunched as he took the letter, as if afraid of what it would contain. “I am afraid of this letter,” he said, but opened it nonetheless. Father never balked from his fears. When he had finished reading, she saw his eyes close behind his mask, and heard the drawing of a long, rattling breath. “So it is true then. My son is dead.” Slain, she thought. The story had broken her heart when she had read it. Bound home from Arundel with the Marshall, Sir John of Morrow, they had been waylaid by men on the road to the port, bandits or assassins, none knew which. They had shot Sir John with arrows first, then slain her brother Thomas with swords. Sir John had been thirty three. Her brother only seventeen. “King William must know what this means,” said Father. “He must come to Avenon himself, and answer for such a callous murder in his own lands. In his demesne no less!” The wroth was on him. The anger of a father coping with the loss of a son. He stood. Larger, healthier men might stand abruptly and begin pacing, shouting vengeance. Not father. He slowly got to his feat and, leaning on his cane, shambled to the pool, and looked into its depths. “And then,” he said, slowly, the weight of a lifetime of reigning as emperor upon him. “When amends have been made and weregeld has been paid and the killers hung, drawn, burned and quartered will he return home, and my line shall founder and die with me.” Adelaide went to join him by the poolside. She looked in as she went to stand by him and saw herself in the water. Seventeen years of age, with long, wavy rust-brown hair and large brown eyes. Many called her a beauty. Now, her eyes were red from crying, and her nose too. Her hair, often kept so tidy was tangled and strands of it stuck out at odd angles. She had not seen to her appearance in her sorrow. “You have your daughters,” she said softly, laying a hand on her father’s shrouded shoulder. She realised with a start, that she was taller than him now. She was not a tall woman, but her father had always been short and thin, and now, hunched, he was even shorter than her. “I have you, you mean” said Emperor Godfrey, his voice sardonic through the pain. “Leisel is twelve, and living with the Rodder woman. No doubt she will pick up her slovenly habits. I will be expected to send her to a nunnery. Elinore is eight years old. Perhaps she marry to a count or a ritter somewhere when she comes of age.” He looked at her. “And you may marry a high duke, and I have no brothers, so my lands of Eastmark shall be given over to some other Duke, who will swell his power and so the ranks of the Four High Lords will become five, or perhaps one will become yet greater.” She knew the danger. One reason that the Emperor was elected was to keep the power of the entire realm out of the hands of any single family. Even so, lords found their ways against it. The Four High Families were the pet name-titles many sardonically used to refer to the most powerful lords in the realm. First of course was the proud Von Blackes, who had swollen their lands greatly after the defeat of the Maeirs in the early days of the empire, before men even built castles. Then again, they had swollen their lands after the Blacke Rebellion, with Emperor Otto III taking so much land that they dwarfed Arundel and Eryne put together. The second most powerful were the Reinholds, who had taken most of their current lands in the early days of the empire, in the days of the first Otto, then again in their many wars against Havermere and Seamark, they had swollen yet further, becoming the greatest military power on the continent by some accounts. There was Highmark, small, but wealthy, owed debt by every house in the Empire, and famous for the lavish tournaments they could afford, that boosted their reputation even more, and put scarce a dent in their coffers. Last there was petulant Marchfold, so troubled, but huge, with the hundreds of families of Norscen and Dacics all marrying one another and outer lords and inheriting and losing lands at the speed of a longbow’s arrow, borders constantly changing. And when her father died, house Tiberias would lose control of the Eastmark they had ruled for a century and a half. Her great great grandfather, Morcar, had inherited it, and now, her father, Godfrey would lose it, despite the pains he had taken to secure it. Godfrey’s shoulders slumped under the weight of the Empire. “You will now become far more than a mere pretty face to lust for,” he said. “More than allowing a family to claim the honor of having wedded their blood to the firstborn blood of an emperor. You are the key to Eastmark.” He looked at her, and she saw her father smile. “Eastmark will not pass onto the Rodder woman,” he said. “The clergy would never stand for a slattern like her ruling. She has no husband, and beds any man bold enough to ask, spends her days inhaling Uesegi smoke and scabbarrite snuff. She is no ruler, and none of the other lords of Eastmark are powerful enough to enforce what claims they might have. Not for hundreds of years has a ducal house gone without a male heir, or another house in the Mark poised to inherit.” He paused then looked her right in the eye. “Who you marry, beloved daughter, will decide the fate of this realm. Whosoever takes you will take Eastmark, and they will become more powerful than” any other lord.” “Even von Blacke?” she asked, in wonder at her own sudden importance. “Even Von Blacke, and Reinhold too.” He took a pause. “Perhaps…” he said. “Perhaps it would be better for you to choose for yourself.” She almost laughed. “It’ll be a chill day in hell,” she said. “When a woman can choose her husband. Do not make such jests father.” Her father looked her straight in the eyes again. “You’re serious?” she asked. Adelaide could feel her eyes growing wide. Her father leaned down and took something off the ground. When he rose, she saw that he had picked one of Ortha’s flowers, one of the White Roses that grew everywhere in the west gardens. Covered wrapped hands, rough and clumsy with lack of feeling pressed the flower into the palm her own soft hand and closed her fingers over it. “You must choose for yourself,” he said. “And choose well, for I will not live past the next few years. I can feel it. Feeling in my limbs has become dull. My eyes are losing their sight, my mind is slowing too much for me to make rational decisions. Soon enough I shall be in Heaven, and you will decide the fate of the realm.” “Father…” she began. “ Deiu li Veut. By God’s will…choose well.”
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Post by The Glass Ninja on Feb 24, 2015 22:55:21 GMT
EZEKIEL TALAIN
The sun was shining down on Lord Ezekiel as he took his midday meal in his solar. The room was walled in expensive glass, overlooking the edge of the cliff at the most open side of Cliff-spyre; it used to be a bed chamber, before his father had converted it into a private sitting room. The huge castle, defended on three sides by walls and the fourth by nature, was his home - the solar his favoured room when he had to think. On the table before him,amidst the bones of a devoured chicken and a cup of watered wine, lay a letter of summons.
The short, thickly built man sat considering the paper. His red hair shone in the light, his hand slowly stroking his beard as the meal he had consumed digested in his belly. It would not do to ignore it, no. Not at a time like this. In fact, he was certain that such an act would cause a great deal of trouble for his plans.
It was no great secret that Ezekiel was planning a crusade into the Dacic lands to the east. His warriors had been gathering for many weeks, and the border with the lands of the Heathens had seen a great deal of unusual attention; rude mottes erected in defensive positions, patrols increased tenfold, warriors preparing themselves for battle all along the line. He had yet to properly rally them for war, but his subordinate lords and knights knew it was coming soon.
Then this letter had arrived.
Ezekiel harrumphed, standing and grabbing up the piece of paper once more. They were certainly a summons...from the Archbishop of Alinor no less. The holy man wished for Ezekiel's attendance to an audience, to argue the case for a crusade against the Dacic tribes. "Are they not heathen? Are they not barbarian? Why do the Alinorans insist on this foolish need to faff about?" The lord was not angry, at least not outwardly; his voice was a contained expression of consternation. It had always been his habit to maintain his composure in the face of all thing, even those things that put a wall in his path. He began to pace as he considered the letter once more - he would need to go post haste to Alinor. He couldn't delay the crusade for too long.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft rapping on the chamber door. It was very small, and as he opened it the short form of his ward, Meghan and his daughter, Keela. The lord found himself involuntarily smiling at the two girls, and dropped down onto his knee so he was level with his little eight year old girl. "My little sunlight, should you not be at lessons?" He muttered, ruffling her hair softly. "Papa...captain Gardan...he said that you may be leaving soon" Damn that soldier for an honest fool, telling my daughter of what's going on... "Perhaps...perhaps little one. That may happen" He let his smile soften, and pulled her into a quick hug. "Now, go. Your lessons await little mistress, and your father expects you to take to them with great care"
Keela scampered off and Ezekiel was almost turned away and back towards his table when a hand brushed on his arm. "Father..." Meghan said, her voice low. He turned to look at his ward's downcast face, concern slowly writng itself across his features. "Yes, Meghan?" She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before looking him in the eye "Locke...and Tan...they're fighting in the courtyard. Some of the serving boys and a squire were speaking badly of me - saying I" her voice turned venomous "Saying I let that knight who visited last week bed me"
She had barely finished talking before her adoptive father was out of the room, a storm upon his face.
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LOCKE TALAIN
The squire's nose squished beneath Locke's balled fist as he sat on the older boy's chest, fists raining down a pummelling hail of blows. He was red faced, anger pulsing through him. Meghan was not blood family, but she was still his sister, and this scum had the audacity to LIE about her! He was yelling into the squire's bloodied face when he felt strong hands vice around his arms and a harsh command barked in his ear
"Calm yourself, boy! Now!" That was his father. He immediately stopped struggling, standing off to the side. Already, at only fourteen, he was an inch or two taller than his father - but that didn't stop a great deal of shame replacing the anger that had filled him a moment before. Blood still dripping onto the dirt of the courtyard beneath his feet, he cast his eyes down as Ezekiel helped the bloodied squire to his feet. Over in the corner, Locke's Twin, Tan, was nursing a burst nose while the two serving boys who'd taken up the rumour were laying with their backs against a wall. Tan was a court-trained squire and knight to be. They'd not stood a chance.
"What" Began their father, his face impassive but neck taut with anger "Is the meaning of this foolishness?" Tan was the first to stand, walking towards his father, crimson gently streaming down his face. "Ish wash a mattuh of honuh" He slurred, his broken nose giving his voice a comical dint.
"As he says, father. A matter of honour" Locke grunted. The courtyard had gone silent, guardsmen watching the discussion with interest, servants keeping their voices low as the scuttled to and fro. "And, pray tell, what sparked this 'matter of honour'?" It was always terrifying when father let his voice go so low...so threatening.
"They were insulting Meghans honour, father. They were...saying things that besmirch her good name and her purity as a lady!" Locke was expecting his father to cuff him across the ear, or to grab him by the front of his shirt, but the older man simply sighed and looked his son over "Go get cleaned up, the both of you! If I hear of anyone else speaking about my ward in such a vulgar way, I'll see them treated far rougher than my sons have seen fit to dish out!"
The boys looked at their father, then one another. With quick nods they rushed off to get cleaned and find new, less blood stained clothing. They could hear the gate-guard yelling down about approaching riders, and captain Gardan speaking with their father.
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ROBIN TALAIN The column rode quickly towards Cliff-spyre, their horses fresh from an outlying stable. Robin, clad in mail and tabard, was at the head of them, the star, swords and scales of Talain plain upon his chest. Several of the household guard and knights riding behind the young warrior were injured, but they were all able to sit their mounts. Robin reached down to his side, patting the bag of ears that hung at his belt - the trophy of their conquest over the last few days.
They'd been riding out along the trade routes, finding bandit nests that had been nettling the silver caravans and local villagers, and putting them to the sword. He'd been gone from the Spyre for most of a month, and it was good to see its mighty towers rising high once more. The road continued on for a little while, before jinking to the left - designed that way to stop rams from having a straight, smooth run for the gate that was at that very moment being pulled open by household guardsmen. They were hailed by a man atop the gatehouse as they rode inside, the soldier raising his hand high.
When he rode in, he found his father waiting for him. The lord looked tired and drawn, but a slight smile curved his lips as his eldest son leapt down from his grey Garron and presented his trophy. "As you commanded, my lord, we have cleared the western roads of bandits for another while. My men are haggard and in need of food and rest" "And they shall have it, Robin. And you too" His father seemed to think for a moment "I must make for Alinor if our ambition in the east is to go through. You must be ready as well to command the mark when I am gone - though it won't be for long...I trust you to take the initiative if anything comes up. For now, go get some food in your belly" Ezekiel clapped Robin on the shoulder, and propelled the knight off towards rest.
Robin went gladly, nodding his thanks and throwing the reigns of his horse at a stable boy - a boy with a suspiciously swollen nose. He knew his father would be planning meticulously now, for the next few weeks in which he'd be travelling to Alinor.
He hoped the old man found the support he was looking for when he got there.
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Post by admiral9 on Feb 25, 2015 16:06:04 GMT
VAN DER MEERE FAMILY
The sun was shining far above Ironwald castle. the sounds of a castle coming back to life from its nocturnal rest were resounding throughout the keep, there were two people walking through the long hall leading to the dining room.
“The navy is ready to strike brother, I have ensured that my best man will be in command, the men are well rested and prepared for the coming events. This winter was well used in training our men for the expedition.” The older man of the pair spoke, he was clad in chainmail armour and a blade was loosely hanging from his thigh. He gave the younger one of the pair a scrutinizing look and continued speaking “It’s rare to see you in a dishevelled state like this, did you not get a good night’s rest, is it because you haven’t touched a women for over a year?”
The younger one of the pair shrugged “You and I both know there is too much money at stake here to be fooling around with women, just make sure to keep proper communications with the fleet as you will not be there to lead them, this is a big endeavour and I would rather this not turn into a failed investment.”
It was at this time that the door to the dining room was opened by a servant and they took their seats, Wilhelm had taken a seat at the head of the table with his brother next to him, they were still awaiting the final member of the Van der Meere family to arrive and after a 5 minute wait Adele Van der Meere had finally arrived, escorted by a maidservant she took her seat on the opposite side of the older brother, Guy Van der Meere.
While food was in the process of being served and the siblings had engaged in morning pleasantries the door that would lead to the courtyard was opened, one of the household guards entered and proceeded to speak, “My lord we have received a message from a man going by the name of Robert, he claims to have been the one responsible for the raiding of our trade from Avenor and he also says he has captured a knight and demands a ransom.” The man finished speaking, he had served under Wilhelm since he became duke and he was aware that while some might consider it rude to barge into his lords breakfast, these actions were exactly what his lord desired.
“Gather a group of our household knights; they aren't doing anything useful with their time anyways. Hand them a bag filled with a weight relatively equal to the weight of the gold asked for and order them to contact the local warriors guild, have them then proceed to capture the enemies with assistance from the guild and find out where their leader is hiding.” Wilhelm took a bite of the now prepared bread and when his mouth was empty he continued speaking. “And make this very clear to them, I won’t allow them back in this castle until they have cleaned up those bandits, the captured knight is a secondary priority but if they can save him for no loss then allow them to do so” The guard bowed and left, he would most likely have someone write it down for him and then bring the message to the knights.
Wilhelm sighed and turned towards his family once more, his sister had a gentle smile on her face, although it might very well just have been her sleepiness and his brother was already helping himself to a third serving.
Wilhelm turned towards his own breakfast now, there the bread he had already taken a bite out of laid in front of him, in addition to this there were a couple of slices of cheese and assorted meats, Wilhelm preferred bread with various condiments over the soups most lords seemed to like. And so he too proceeded to start eating, a long week was in front of him and he had to be prepared if he wanted to turn a profit from the whole ordeal.
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Castiel
Rising Legend
Lord of the West
Forth Eorlingas!
Posts: 644
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Post by Castiel on Feb 25, 2015 19:35:49 GMT
Castle Drekkar Duke Harald Drekkar’s council was gathered in the great hall of Castle Drekkar. At the head of the table sat Duke Harald himself. The Duke well-built man just into his 40s he was still hale and healthy with a vigorous sense of presence about him. He had blond hair and a short beard kept well trimmed, a thin-lipped mouth and a nose that had been broken at some point in the past. However, his most noted feature was his eyes. They were a clear and piercing amber colour, like honey with a fire behind it that seemed to move mercurially. For now the betrayed relaxation and contentment, but there was a core of determination to them that never quite left them. To his right sat Lady Margot, his beloved wife and sister to the Duke of Westmark. She was nearly 6 years younger than him, still slender despite having borne three children, her face careworn, the lines betraying a jovial temperament matched in the glitter of her green eyes or the toss of her brown hair. To the Duke’s left sat his eldest son, Ranulph. He was only 18, but had already been knighted by no less a hand than that of the Emperor himself and had made a name for himself as the most formidable duellist in the Marks, if not all of Rudaur. He shared the blond hair and amber eyes of his father, although he eschewed the beard. He seldom spoke in the councils, his primary purpose to listen and learn how the mark was run. 3 others made up the council, General Aron Gulbard, commander of the Marks land based military forces, Sir Boris Ectar, commander of the Familios Milite and the aged Bishop Drangel. “The first order of business we have is the piracy issue on the southern trade routes.” Harald announced. “I am sending the Variel’s Pride with ten other dromonds to quell the issue. Capture or sink the pirate vessels and hand the crews. The presence of the Pride will show that the mission bears my authority and that Seamark will not tolerate these scum predating on our vessels.” There were nods of assent; naval warfare was the Duke’s particular strength. “The next issue, however, is more troubling.” he paused. “Reports have reached me that Raymond Orielle’s brother, Trayce, recently got inebriated and made some choice remarks about Helena.” Lady Margot went red in the face, while Ranulph jumped to his feet, knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. “The swine,” he growled, “I’ll have his head!” “Sit down, Ranulph. We will not do that, as it would only give credence to the rumours and fan the flames of scandal more. We shall draft a letter to Raymond and instruct him to put a leash on his brother’s tongue and that I will be greatly... displeased if I have to do it myself.” Bishop Drangel cleared his throat. He was an ancient man of uncertain age, although well into his 70s. Hiss head was bald, but he had a great white beard that fell to his waist. His eyes had the misting of cataracts, but his mind was still sharp. “If I may my Lord,” he continued as the Duke nodded. “Perhaps it should be suggested that he make some form of offering to the church to salve his soul, or perhaps undertake a pilgrimage to clear his mind of such thoughts?” “A fine suggestion, your grace” the Duke replied, “I shall mention that a contribution to the church would do much to salve our annoyance as well as quelling wagging tongues.” “There is another issue I would bring before you, my lord. Several wandering friars have been reporting a rumour which may be of interest to you. The friars are wandering around giving conflicting stories about a girl who was either martyred or saved by God. They all talk about her prophecy of a holy sword however. It sounds like heresy in my opinion.” “Gather them up and question them, see if we can tease the truth of the matter out.” Duke Harald answered. “Bring your findings to me. Are there any other issues?” General Gulbard signalled his wish to speak. “It seems Duke Talain intends to launch a crusade soon against the Dacic. Do you wish to call the banners and join with him, my lord?” The duke pondered this for a moment. “No, don’t call the banners. The harvest looks to be one of the best we have ever had, and I will not risk it on a war half the world away. However, spread the word to the chivalric and hedge knights and prepare as many of them for the crusade as we can gather. I would not have it said that Seamark sends no aid. Also send a message to Lord Talain assuring him that when it comes to the vote for Casus belli he has my support. If there are no other issues then that will be it for this week.” he said, nodding his thanks. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Duke Harald sat in his throne at the top of the great hall, adjudicating on the disputes and issues brought before him at this petition session. A knight from the Slate Shore entered. “My lord,” he said bowing deeply “I seek the right to duel a knight of East Lay, and my rival for the hand of my love.” “And are you betrothed to this maiden?” the Duke asked. “I am not, my lord.” came the response. “Tell me; are you familiar with the lay of Mathilda of Kirdonal?” Duke Harald replied. “I do not know it, my lord.” Duke Harald nodded “Mathilda of Kirdonal also had to rivals for her love, Sir Caran and Sir Bartanas both knights of some renown. However she herself had eyes only for Sir Caran. One day as she and her love courted Sir Bartanas sprang from behind a wall and made to run Sir Caran through while he was unprepared, thus removing his rival and claiming the fair Mathilda all to himself. But as he lunged Mathilda saw him, and pushed Sir Caran out of the way, but was mortally wounded for her trouble. Incensed by this shameful act, Sir Caran flew at Bartanas and hacked him into pieces, but it was too late for Mathilda. In grief and shame he went on crusade and pilgrimage to try and atone for what he saw as his failure to protect his love, but was killed in a far off land away from home. His body was returned to Kirdonal to be buried alongside his love.” “I do not understand the meaning of this, my lord.” The knight replied, looking confused. “The message this tale teaches us is this: affairs to the heart cannot be won at the point of the sword for only grief will follow. The lady must choose between you in this case and as such I will not grant you permission to duel. You must use soft words to win the day, my friend. I wish you luck in your courtship.” “Thank you for the audience, my lord” the Slate Shore knight replied, turning to leave as the next petitioners were ushered in. Duke Harald straightened as he recognised the garb of the Uesegi. “This will be interesting,” he thought. “Noble Lord,” they began “We have come to you seeking protection. We have been chased from our business in other marks, branded infidels and moneylenders and pursued to your borders. We ask that you offer us your protection, for which we will pay well.” “Interesting, I shall need to look into this further.” Duke Harald thought, before raising his voice to answer. “Men of Uesegi, I shall offer you hospitality and board within these walls, and my own family guard will watch over you. We shall speak on this matter more in private, so I may better understand the nature of your plight. I would ask that you hand your weapons to our guards at gatehouse for safe-keeping, you shall find no need for them within these walls. Please, be welcomed.” He said smiling warmly. “Guards, escort these men to the guest quarters and ensure they are safe and comfortable.” He waited as the relieved looking Uesegi were ushered from the hall, holding up a hand to stall the entrance of the next petitioners. Once they had left he leant over to Sir Ectar, who was stood at his right shoulder. “I suspect there is more to this than meets the eye. I will speak with them and find out more about where they came from. In the meantime have them searched and keep a close eye on them. Have messages sent to the other Dukes to find out if they know of these men and the reason for their flight. It may prove fruitful to hand them to their pursuers.” “Very good my Lord,” Sir Ectar replied. “Thank you, old friend.” The Duke replied, before raising his voice “Send in the next petition!”
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Post by Nepty on Feb 27, 2015 2:52:20 GMT
“Vicountount James Ferny, Lord of Dragondell, Regent of Yonstone,” the steward called. The fierce-eyed man strode down the length of the hall and bowed.
Emperor Godfrey leaned ever so slightly in his seat. “You may speak.”
Count James bowed low and began.
“My lord, as much of the trade in the Empire comes through Dragondell, I feel moved to inform you of recent complaints. Robber Ritters in the south of Ridemark, in the Kavalry Plains have been raiding caravans and making off with the goods untaxed to swell their own coffers. Something must be done about this, if it suits your eminence.”
Godfrey kept his sighs to himself. He had heard this same song from a dozen different lords all over the Empire. The Lord of Karkhyve had been identified as the man responsible for robbing caravans, and it was beginning to get out of hand. “I have already sent a missive to Duke Pater,” he explained again. “He has been ordered to take the lord of Kharkyv into custody and seize his lands and incomes.”
Vicount James bowed low and strode out of the great hall. Godfrey turned to his steward to tell him to send in the next petitioner –there was always a huge string of them, as well as the half a hundred courtiers who crowded around in the hall. They were there now, filling the room with their muttering and the sound of their shuffling feet. Gowns rustled and silk slithered.
Before the command could leave his mouth though, he felt suddenly dizzy and his head sagged. He groaned and held his head in his hands, leaning forward in his seat.
“Your eminence?” asked the steward, worried.
With effort, Godfrey regained some of his composure. “Clear the room,” he moaned. “Now. And send for the chirurgeon-witches.” The Steward hurriedly thumped his staff, and the knights of the Tiberias familos milite ushered the petitioners and courtiers from the hall. He called after his steward weakly. “And summon the scribe!”
When the hall had been cleared, he lurched forwards, retching. One of his knights rushed up and reached for his mask. He took it off himself, and tried to ignore the averted eyes and quickly hidden looks of disgust from around the room. A bowl near his throne was grabbed and placed in his arms, and he vomited his midday meal up into it, retching and heaving until he was gasping dryly.
He opened his eyes and saw his reflection in the bowl’s silver sides. A ruin of a face stared back at him. A leathery complexion , a torn and tattered nose, fringed lips, a cheek with a spattering of holes, missing teeth from a mouth drooling bile. Not even his eyes had been spared. They were still the same deep blue of his youth, but stared back sadly at him, the blue of the iris misted over with the cataracts that would soon blind him.
He tore his vision away from his horrifying face and reached for his silvered mask. It was wrought into an angelic face, with wrought designs snaking across it. He fastened it over his face and leaned back on his throne, taking deep breaths.
Soon, the chirurgeons arrived. None were so foolish to claim that he had an imbalance of any humors, but they administered the teas and salves to calm his weakness and nausea for the foreseeable future.
After they were gone, he lay in his throne, recuperating. He moved his jaw. The empty holes in his mouth where teeth should be still troubled him. Soon enough, the scribe entered.
The Imperial Scribe was a slight man named Alistair, of no particular birth. He had dark hair and a long nose and wore his hair in the longer, Dacic fashion, as opposed to the more common norscen and erynese fashion. Godfrey had no hair, but knew how even this could show if someone was more prideful than sensible. The norscen style was to wear your hair short in the front and shave it completely to the skin in the back. It prevented hair from entangling with mail hoods. Evidently the scribe worried little about mail.
“Your eminence?”
“Take a letter,” said Godfrey slowly. He considered. “And make two hundred copies. I want two copies sent off to every lord in the realm.”
The scribe nodded and his quill pen and a stiff sheet of vellum were out in moments.
“To the honorable lord…” he paused. “Leave that blank and fill it in later.” The scribe nodded and jotted down a note “I summon all my leal dukes and as many lords that can be spared to journey to Avenor…” he paused. “My Council is in need of replacements, and those who number among its ranks must convene, as well as the elector-dukes and aforementioned lords…” He searched for the right words. “This is a matter of Imperial Succession, and the hand of my…” he broke off into coughing for a moment. “Beloved daughter, Adelaide Tiberias, heir to Eastmark, with the death of my son, God rest his soul.”
“Is that all, your eminence?”
“No,” said Godfrey. “Of course it isn’t.” He straightened from his dizzied slouch. “Let it be known that I shall hold a grand feast, and of course, a hunt.” He watched as a man took away the bowlful of his vomit to be scrutinized by the chirurgeons. “Alistair?”
“Yes, your eminence?”
“Better put a tournament melee in there” he said. “If one entertains half the lords of the realm, they will expect it to be done well.”
“Of course, your eminence.”
Godfrey stood and hobbled, leaning heavily on his cane as he slowly made for the exit. A pair of his Familios Milite fell into step behind him, slowing their pace greatly to match his own ill stagger, and for that he was grateful.
“Where to your eminence?” asked one of them. He shot the man a look. “To my daughter’s chambers, and if you call me Your Eminence once more Manfredd, I’ll have your tongue out. The sycophanticy of it is sickening.”
The knight nodded respectfully with the ghost of a smile. “Is that why you vomited?”
“Only partially,” said Godfrey. This earned a dutiful laugh from both men. As they walked, Godfrey asked Sir Manfredd about the goings on in the castle he was not privy to on a regular basis. The man could talk for hours, but mostly about whatever woman he longed for with all of his heart this week, and when he wasn’t talking about women, it was about new kernels of information he had unearthed about his forefathers, or pining for battle. The man was talkative company. His partner was not. Brown-skinned sir Karling of Redessa had always been quiet, though he had restless eyes and fingers that twisted one another frequently. Born Ail-Nibn-Ar-Fir, now with the Orthian name of Karling, he was devoutly religious, and a drusic convert from the lands of The Caliphate. His dark skin, scented perfumes, literacy, soft spoken nature and custom of oiling his beard into a long point had made him an exotic fixture of the court. Godfrey himself had given him his knighthood on the battlefield when the man, a lowly man at arms in service to a Clerical company at the time, had dismounted and given him his only horse during a battle in the Marches. He had served Godfrey faithfully for seven years since then.
The walk was slow, and Godfrey spent most of it talking with Manfredd, but even so, he was nearly out of breath by the time he reached Adelaide’s chambers. Sir Karling had offered to find him a litter once, a year ago, but Godfrey had had none of it. Now, he considered, but he kept silent. Litters were for wounded men and saints, not Godfrey Tiberias.
He rapped on the door and straightened.
“Hello?” asked his daughter.
“It is me, Adelaide,” he said.
“Father!” There was a clattering from within and sounds as if someone were moving about hastily. “I’m coming!” After a moment his daughter opened the door. It was only two hours past midday, but her face was flushed and her hair was disheveled and it looked like she had just gotten out of bed.
Godfrey entered with Sir Karling. Sir Manfredd stood guard outside. He crossed to the open window. A spring breeze was blowing the curtains into the room and he looked outside over Avenon. The great city sprawled before him. The Goldengull river flowed alongside it and actual gulls wheeled above towers. He could hear the noise of the city from here. “You slept with the window open?” he asked. “In spring? That’s a sure way to catch a chill.”
“I like the breeze father,” said Adelaide, sitting on the bed. “It smells like the city.”
Godfrey turned towards her. “You could inhale deeply from your chamber pot for a smell of the city,”
She smiled. “I meant the good smells. The bakers, the spicers, the candlestick makers…”
“You are a lady of the city,” conceded Godfrey. “Have you thought of your marriage?”
“Yes,” said Adelaide. “But I don’t know who yet. I want to meet them all first. I suppose a long trip is in order.”
Godfrey shook his hooded head. “I’ve called all leal lords who can come to Avenon…though Pater Kuldinya may be busy with pacifying his vassals.”
She looked curious. “It can’t be just to marry me. Why then?”
He shrugged and turned back to the window. The sun was high in the sky and there were fishing sloops out on the Lake of Eagles. “Succession. I will not have the end of my reign be marked by bloodshed and death. We will have a new emperor-elect before this rot takes me. And when it does, I shall go to my God fulfilled.” In truth, there was far more to it than that, but he often suspected Adelaide listened and gossiped more than was appropriate. She was his confidant in many things, but matters of state were for him and his council alone. “I need to call the council in any case,” he said.
“Why call the council?”
Smiling, he turned to Adelaide. “I would die on the point of a sword, not a slow rot, and as I near the end of my life, my mind turns to the state of my soul, and the legacy I will leave.”
“Legacy?”
He nodded. “I’ve always looked back with fondness on the stories of old. I may be too frail to go on lone pilgrimage, but there are other ways of finding Ortha in this world.”
“You mean to give money then.”
Godfrey shook his head. “Long ago I made a promise. That would a certain event come to pass, I would take up the holy sword. It came, and I have not yet gone on the Crusade I promised. I have a scarce few years left, and I mean to make them count.”
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Feb 27, 2015 6:31:37 GMT
Lowmark: 12th of Rains Height
It was well before dawn when his guards banged on the bed chamber doors of Robert Kath, with a quiet oath he awoke, glancing at his wife Sara he rose and opened the door, "What in the name of all that is holy is the problem?" He asked. "It's Sir Alec Lord Kath, he demanded we awake you." Robert sighed heavily, if his Commander of the House ordered him awoken at this hour it must have been important, "Give me a moment." He said closing the door. "What is it dear?" Lady Sara asked sleepily, "Something important no doubt." he said throwing aside his sleep robe and quickly changing into a simple brown pants and tunic. "I shall return shortly my love." He said kissing Lady Sara upon the forehead, "I hope so." She replied with a yawn. He exited the room and quietly shut the door. "Lead on." He instructed the guards.
The trio made their way through the empty halls of Assen Fortress, winding through the stone halls until they came to a small meeting room. Inside the room he found his advisers already waiting for him, his brother-in-law Andrew Raaf, the Steward of Pagen-Arquens, stood off to the side struggling to stay awake, the young brother of Sara Kath was not known for early rising. Sir Alec Hond turned to greet his Lord as Robert entered, his short grey hair looked markedly grayer as of late. "Greetings Lord Kath." He said tiredly. "What in Ortha's name is it Alec?" Robert asked. The older man sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair, "It's those damn Norscen again, they've looted some village up in Noordzee, the Zalm boy is up in arms about it." Robert was taken back by this news, "The Norscen along our border haven't been this brazen since before the days of my Grandfather." "Aye." Sir Alec agreed, "I couldn't tell you the last time they've been so blatant as too attack our lands. I've heard the balance of power up their has shifted recently, I fear they may be planning an invasion."
"Let's not be so hasty Sir Alec." Andrew cautioned, "We don't know that for sure and by God we can not afford to provoke an attack right now." Sir Alec scoffed, "They've already provoked an attack, and we are in no shape to repel an invasion." "Enough, both of you." Robert said, "Alec you have long lobbied for reformations, I will hear you out on it later tonight, for now send out a message to the barons telling them to be prepared in the event of a Norscen attack. Andrew, draft a letter and send it to the major Norscen chiefs, tell them we want whoever was behind the attack punished, and if they bring him and his men to us we shall drop the issue, if they do not then we shall respond in kind."
"Yes Lord Kath." They said in unison.
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Trolly
Recruit
Probably absent
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Post by Trolly on Feb 28, 2015 22:52:34 GMT
Laidon
The wide doors swung shut with an echoing clatter, wood sliding against stone. “You stand before Laidon of House Aderic, Earl of Adershire and Duke of Marchfold.” Laidon raised a hand from the arm of his raised seat and waved the crier on; best not to look too concerned with ostentations when dealing with other Lords. By his side the stout figure of Harnel Greenshield stood, mailed and clutching his namesake. Two men strode across the hall abreast of each other, exchanging glances, taking the place in. It was wide and well-lit; limestone pillars hugged the sides of room, obscuring the doors that fed in the rest of the castle. Streamers of daylight and warm summer air seeped in through windows high up the walls.
“So,” Laidon began. “The matter of the town of Stonemoss. Sir Longbridge quits the town, and when your claims to succession class, Lord Dartfin raids Lord Veret’s land and Lord Veret calls for Lord Dartfin’s excommunication. Am I correct?” He found himself brushing black hair out of his eyes; he would need it cut, soon. “You forgot the part when three of my knights found themselves murdered in a winesink,” Jehan de Veret said coldly. A tall, fair-haired man, veteran in combat and ten years Laidon’s senior; it would be unwise to expect courtesy. “I had not forgotten. All will be discussed in due time. Now, Lord Veret, as you have presumed to speak first, you can tell me first why it is you’re stood here now.” Again his hair fell into his eyes. He felt not a bit ridiculous, staring through an over-long fringe, but then to call attention to it by brushing it away might look less dignified still. Especially when dealing with an older man who no doubt wanted to be in his seat. Laidon had been dealing with those for a long time now. “Sir Varult Longbridge was my own cousin. Not second cousin. Stonemoss is mine by law, and that is the end of the matter. I have done nothing but defend myself against Dartfin’s wanton aggression.” A plain-spoken man, so it seems. “And you, Lord Dartfin?” Reynauld Dartfin was a young man, lean, proud, dark-haired- every feature told him of Dacic ancestry. His clothing was thick velvet bedecked in jewellery; all bronze and silver, no gold. “My claim goes beyond mere family ties. Sir Longbridge was not only family but friend, too. Always he confided in me and I’m sure he would have named me his successor had he the chance. Indeed, my own ancestors founded the city in the days of the First Imperium, nurtured it from a mere border hut to the grandeur it is today”- Lord Veret scoffed but Lord Dartfin continued, louder – “and it is as it has always been a good Dartfin place, a Dacic place, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t remain so no matter what thin Norscen blood Lord Veret may have in it. The land of my ancestors will not suffer the rule of savages from the north!” “This savage is not the one who’s been murdering men in their cups for the sake”- Laidon stood from his seat abruptly. “Enough,” he demanded. From the look on Jehan de Veret’s face, Laidon feared he might reach for his sword, but the man kept his peace. At any rate he had heard enough. Veret seems to disagree with Dartfin’s claim of the place’s “grandeur”; I suppose he wants it least, of the pair of them. He’s here for revenge. He sank back to his chair, covertly pushing hair back behind his ears. It was annoying him more than these two men combined. “By law, Reynauld, what you’ve done is criminal. Raiding villages and putting men to the sword is no way to keep a Lordship, and I’d have hoped this would’ve been obvious. When next you want to stake a claim in disputed lands, perhaps you should confront your Duke first.” There. Don’t let him leave here with a doubt of who his master is. “But, nonetheless, I have heard that your retribution, Lord Veret, was similarly brutal. At any rate, Dartfin’s historical claim stands”- “My Lord, do you honestly”- “And I would think that a man of Norscen stock might find a Dacic town ungovernable. For convenience as well as tradition, the town should go to Lord Reynauld.” Lord Veret opened and closed his mouth, eyes creased in anger, but seemed to hold back whatever he wished to say. “As to the violence Dartfin has began, for that he’ll not go unpunished. Though I know what the hot blood of youth can drive a man to, a crime is a crime. Suitable reparations must be paid if Lord Dartfin wishes to take possession of the town.” In truth, while Laidon was only three years senior to Reynauld Dartfin, he’d never known much of the “hot blood of youth”. “Eleven chests of gold,” said Veret. “Five in reparation of the raids, one for each of the good knights murdered in a winesink, and one for each of their families.” “Absurd!” Reynauld declared. “I couldn’t possibly be expected to pay for deaths in war”- “Three assassinations in a tavern is not a war, you pompous”- “Enough!” Harnel Greenshield yelled; the first sound he had made, and it filled the hall, deep and thick. Laidon had no voice for shouting, and his Captain of Guards knew this. This was their arrangement, when the Lord’s audience grew unruly. “He will pay,” said Laidon. “Seven chests. One for each of the good knights killed. Four for the raids. But no blood money; it was a war, after all. A small one, at least, and be glad that it won’t now grow any larger. Now leave here and sort the details out for yourself. I suggest you take wards, to ensure all agreements are met. And if they aren't... Both of your houses are married into mine. An attack by either of you constitutes an attack on me.” A hollow threat, perhaps, but he wouldn't let them leave thinking him weak.
Promptly they did depart, Veret simmering and muttering about a “string of unlawful murders”, Dartfin inflated with smugness. "That one'll be trouble later on," Harnel said, when they had departed. "You should've been harsher on him. That kind respond best to a good boot in the arse." "He'll only have become indignant had I given him less. Dartfin's loyal, and I'd like him to stay that way. Still..." Laidon was uncertain. "If I have made a mistake, we'll take the consequences. For Marchfold this is a drop in the ocean."
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Post by arandombloke on Mar 1, 2015 23:15:09 GMT
AUTHURAIL II AUTHUARN
The young lad walked through the largely empty halls, on his way towards the library for another few days of studying. Mad, they called him, obsessive, cried others. Authurail preferred to think himself as an enlightened man, one above the average intelligence of a courtier or ward. He gave a courteous nod to Meghan as he passed by, "M'lady," he noted after walking on. He was about to invite her to come and enjoy the fruits of knowledge but then through fear decided against it, thinking he'd be blinded, castrated and thrown off of the highest peak Highmark had to offer if he dared utter any invitation she may mistake for flirting. He had heard of what happened to the people who had dared to insult her earlier, shuddering at the thought. Dark circles loomed under his eyes as he walked on. He gazed up to look at the beautiful stars that had fascinated him since youth, then smiled with glee as he knew his studies today would bring him closer to understanding them, and maybe an enjoyable discussion of theology with a chaplain around in the wee hours. As he walked past a window, he stared at his portly figure in the reflection. "I should do something about that." He muttered, walking onwards towards the library. After a few more minutes he reached his destination, noticing that a few of his colleagues were gathered around a table. One of them smiled as he saw them, gesturing to a keg of ale, proceeding to gesture to a seat. Authurail gave a nod of acknowledgement, smiling afterwards. pissed reading, this would be a good night.
Authurail sat down, then filled his flagon with ale, opening a book by a well known Philosopher Setarcos of Alinor. The two Squires near him were rough lads, probably looking into something about maining, slaughtering and raping. Authurail drunk deep from his flagon, looking up to his compatriots, who were significantly drunk to become a bit loose in terms of conversation.
Many irrelevant things were said, until, "Y'know it'sh queer how Meghan get'sh shpecial treatment in termsh of wardship. D'y think she'sh Ezekial'sh private concubine?" The squire Derek chuckled as he drunkly uttered the words, as Authurail looked around for anyone's view. "Do you have some sort of death-wish?" Authurail uttered, turning the page of Setarcos' 'Otalp : A Man For Our Times'. It was an interesting read about the life of Setarcos' mentor Otalp, his philosophies about State Power and Religion plus many other things about him. Authurail quickly jumped up as he saw some courtiers approaching, feeling fairly uncomfortable around the two Squires that may no longer be alive come daylight. He bookmarked the book he was currently reading and took out several books on astronomy, proceeding to put them in a leather satchel then sprinting out. Many thoughts rushed through his head, what he'd talk to the chaplain about, how his involvement in the conversation may be concealed. Finally about how he'd finally find a likeminded intellectual and not a pair of hairy barbarians. In his thought he ran into Meghan, knocking her and himself off balance, slamming his head into the floor, blacking out for a few seconds. When he came to, he saw her staring over him with an enraged expression. "Watch where you're going, foolish madman." she spoke, cold and calculating at him as Authurail scrambled to his feet quickly picking up his books. "My sincerest of apologies, M'lady." He maintained a polite tone, trying to seem calm, whilst on the inside he held inexorable fear that he would die due to Ezekiel's wrath after hearing of the encounter. He continued to jog towards the area where the Chaiplain was located, opening the door then walking inside.
"Well. I've had some deadly encounters this evening," Authurail said as he closed the door behind him, "I have a few topics for conversation, should you wish to discuss them."
Father Maritus, his wizened old head half nodded beneath the lip of the pew in front of him in the old chapel, tilted his regal skull towards the young man who had just entered his chapel. The old man had been praying. "What is it you wish to talk about, young Aythurail?" "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to talk about the Schism of the two sects of Orthainism. "And what of it? The Alinorans are warriors; they bring fire and sword to the heathen. The Avenonians are more peaceful, more comtemplative" The old priest himself belonged to a more nuetral sect, though he knew that his Duke Ezekiel subscribed to the Alinoran faith.
"I speak of unification, Father. A church with a more established hierarchy and overall, more unified. A church like this would have the ability to establish official places of learning and bring a deeper understanding of Orthainism to the populace."
And at what expense?" The father shook his head "The people know to believe, and that God will protect them. Why must they know more? It is the duty of the peasant to serve, for the lord to rule, and the church to protect their souls - not to teach them"
Authurail sighed "The people know that they must believe and that god will protect them, but they're more clever than we give them credit for. Most of their beliefs are shallow and I'd gamble not very true. Peasants who are literate can serve better, record trade and instructions. I'd assume that you'd agree that this is much better than oral tradition."
"Most peasants, dear boy, do not need to record their trade or stories. It is through the word of mouth that their beleif is passed from parent to child, and throughout the community; they trust in their clergy. The only ones who need education are the merchants, and the nobility"
"With a mostly illiterate populace that hold a shallow belief, what seperates us from the Dacics? Those Barbarians over yonder hills? Oral tradition isn't efficient, they may misinterpret parts of the belief, giving birth to heretical sects. If every peasant owned and could read the Orthian bible, our populace would be much more intelligent, giving rise to new innovations, more production and more devout worship."
"They hear the word of our god from the Holy books, from us - the clergy. It is we who shepard the peasantry in faith ahd virtue" The old man harrumphed, and shook his head "You have some very strange notions, lad. "
"The Dacics hear the word of their god from Oral Tradition, from their Priests. They would argue that they shepard them in faith and virtue. You ignore the benefits to their enlightenment. A happier populace is easier to control, produces more and worships more devoutly." Authurail then smiled "One man's strange is another man's brilliance. It depends on perspective."
"What you just said, my boy, was heresy." He priest raised an eyebrow "And I will forget I heard it. To compare our religion with the heathen beliefs whom, even now, your lord goes to crush...such a dishnonour upon yourself and your house is sickening"
"Forgive me, Father. I was too bold. When I head to Alinor I will request absolution of any sins. But nonetheless my point still stands. A more enlightened populace is happier, produced more and is more devout is worth the cost."
Once more, the preist made a noise deep in his throat; he was angry with the foolish words of the young man "The cost is rebellion. They begin to believe they know better than their rightful lords and rulers - and you will pray tonight, no supper. That is absolution enough for such a small sin...don't do it agian, or with someone who knows you not"
"Rebellion will not occur if we treat them fairly and decentralize things a little. I often forget to eat anyways Father. I'll lash myself a few times with a whip."
"You wish to give power to peasants? That's not heretical now, boy, that's near treason." Father Maritus stared at the boy, before smiling and letting slip a short bark of laughter "No need for whipping, either. Penitence of that sort is for greater sins than yours. You simply suffer the foolishness of youth"
Authurail smiled "You misunderstand me Father, I wish to give them knowledge, and by decentralization, I mean allowing the Lord to know the peasantry better, so they trust him. Anyway, onto another matter, I have planned some upcoming research and wish to know if it is heretical."
"They know their lord well enough, my boy. He protects them, and that is his duty from god. He gives them land, as it is his...and the fact that you must ask if something is heretical does not fill me with confidence"
"I only ask to make sure. I wish to study the mysteries of the universe, to gaze through the enlightening glass of an observatory to the heavens, to discover more about our positioning in it all."
Maritus pondered for a moment, his chin resting on his fist. "I think, young Authrail, that you will find your own path. Your reasearch is not heresy; take it where you will"
Authurail chuckled, smiling "Thank you father," he turned to get up and leave "Oh, and one last thing, it's Authurail, not Aythurail or Authrail."
"I have no idea what you're talking about, lad. Off you trott, and don't forget your penitence. Wouldn't want to have the lord's guard burn you now" The preist nodded and smiled kindly, but Authurail had little doubt that he wasn't joking.
Authurail shook Father Maritus' hand and left, heading towards his chambers, where he read for a while and slept, starving himself of any food for the third day in a row.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2015 6:22:31 GMT
Lowmark: 12th of Rains Height
Robert Kath the Younger sighed heavily and ran an hand through his unruly blonde hair, nearly 17 his appearance was a near mirror of his father, his behavior though was very much that of his grandfather. It was no secret he often enjoyed the company of various peasant girls who worked around the castle, as he had been planning to do when his father had summoned him to a late night meeting with various members of the court. He gazed around the room, observing the collection of older men, at the head of the table stood his father, Robert the First was wearing a simple red tunic, he looked quite stressed as he often did these days. To his father's right stood Sir Alec, the aging knight struck an imposing figure in his polished armor, the young heir of Lowmark couldn't recall seeing the man wear anything other than that suit of mail and plate. Opposite Sir Alec stood the unassuming form of Andrew Raaf dressed in an embroidered green shirt, as always his uncle looked worried about some occurrence or another. At the other end of the table dressed in his clerical robes, sat Bishop Koen, the eldest man in the room the Bishop was permitted to sit whilst everyone else stood. Finally standing opposite himself was a young bard named Mathew, dressed in plain green clothing the dark haired court bard was badly in need of a shave.
"Alright Alec." Robert the First said, "Speak your mind." The knight cleared his throat before speaking, "The Norscen have attacked us, we have feared this event for some time, if indeed this is not just an isolated incident and is the start of something bigger then we shall need every soldier we can muster. We need an army, an not just an army of farmers and blacksmiths, we need an army of soldiers, trained and drilled to fight in war. War is coming, we all know this to be true, how long now before the emperor dies? A year? Five? Ten? When he dies there won't be a peaceful transition to a new emperor, we all know there will be war, and Lowmark can ill afford to be mustering peasants when the Blackes and Reinholds go marching."
"You want to raise a standing army?" Andrew Raaf asked incredulously, "Have you gone mad? You could be dragged before the emperor for this." "It's the only way to keep Lowmark safe!" Sir Alec said angrily. "He has a point." Mathew said quietly. Bishop Koen sat silent, his face neutral. "Even if we could get permission to do so, where are we going to get the funds?" Raaf demanded, "Soldiers aren't cheap, and they tend to rebel when they aren't paid." "If they have a foe to fight there'll be plenty of loot to pay them with." Robert the Younger said.
"Enough." Robert the First said interrupting the argument, he sighed heavily and rubbed his brow, "I don't want war." He said leaning on the table, "But it is coming, the transition to the next emperor will not be peaceful. For the good of us all we must be ready. I shall travel to Avenon and speak with the emperor about this before the end of Sun's Planting, for now this discussion is over."
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Post by admiral9 on Mar 3, 2015 21:33:50 GMT
24th of rain’s height, noon “It is decided, we sail at noon!” A man bellowed as the decision rang through the seaside tavern. “I want 30 crossbowmen on 5 of the 6 galleys, have the remaining 50 board the flagship, the deployment of the guilds men can be decided at the discretion the captains, remember your training, keep the signal flags at the ready and make sure fire arrows can be fired at all times if one of the ships strays from its path.” The man continued. He was known as Michiel Anderzoon, captain of the household guard of Havermere. He was sharing a table with men who were all representing many different guilds and the captains of the Haverish navy. Most of them too had undoubtedly been pirates or mercenaries before swearing allegiance to Havermere though. “We have struck a deal with the trade league and so we will use the trade fleet we are sailing with as bait, we will follow them under the guise of being trade ships too until the Norscen raiders find us. We have ensured that information of this convoy launching is well known and so we shall not have to worry about them not finding us.” Michiel chugged down his mug of ale in one go and continued speaking, “Now this is where it gets hard, we don’t want to kill the raiders. The plan is to either destroy or capture only a large enough part of their raiding force for the remaining ships to retreat, we then follow their trail back to their home villages, and that is where we strike. We will wait until nightfall and raze the villages, it is of the utmost importance that not a single life but for those that know the location of other villages be spared and that not a single person will get to run away, we have the element of surprise so let’s not waste it here. After making landfall we will decide if it is best to continue the raiding through sea or land but we will act on the information that we will receive after landfall for that decision.” Michiel was aware that the men were worried, this was one of the biggest endeavors in recent years for Havermere militarily speaking and their leader was not present.
Upon receiving an invitation to travel to the capital the miser whom carried the title of duke of Havermere had decided to take his family with him, what his plans were no one knew. But that especially was why Michiel had to show leadership now. He would not bring shame to his friend and leader.
26th of rain’s height, early morning The fleet had left port without issue and was approaching Kirkholm, after their stop there they would follow the trade route leading towards Arundel, at least that is what the official documents said, the fleet was intending to clash with pirates and so if no engagements had happened they would circle around the northern seas multiple times before continuing on.
It appeared though, that the planning was not needed.
“Enemy ships, starboard side!” One of the far-eyes shouted from atop the crow’s nest of the flagship
Michiel had only woken up a scant 30 minutes and he was having a small breakfast intending to go on lookout himself when the message came, he was already clad in his chainmail armour thankfully and so he only had to quickly grab his blade before dashing outside, there he could see the ship in ordered busyness, sailors were running to and fro manning mounted weaponry or preparing for intensive rowing, on the other side of things the guildsmen were refusing to wake up, waking up the crossbowmen was prioritized as they were the first line of defense, Michiel cursed and kicked the closest sleeping body he could find.
The man he kicked shrugged and started cursing until he realized it was his commander he was angered at. Michiel shouted to the man, “Go wake your comrades up before I throw all of you overboard!” and he promptly collected his equipment and ran into the deck, Michiel continued to the bow of the ship where the sailor in charge of the signal flags was positioned. “I want you to signal the ships on the outermost right and left side of our formation to flank the Norscen.” Michiel hoped that his men would understand his intention to have them flank the inward crescent formation the Norscen were using.
Luckily after barely 10 minutes it all went superbly, the galleys moved into perfect position to strike at the norscen flank when they would be in range and the crossbowmen on Michiel’s and from the looks of it the two ships on his side had woken up and were now taking positions. This could be described as the quiet before the storm, but luck was not on the side of the Haverish.
Michiel had ordered the 4 ships that had remained in the centre to form up into a diamond formation to withstand the norscen inward crescent, this was a faint hope that backfired though as the last ship to form up spectacularly rammed straight into its neighbour locking the two ships together and forming what if one were to be optimistic could be considered a static fire support platform, and if one were to be pessimistic a complete disaster. Michiel once more cursed but did not have the time to recuperate from the heavy blow as arrows from norscen archers had already started raining down, thankfully doing no to limited damage.
Once Michiel managed to get a grasp on the situation he made up that the current attacking force towards Michiel’s forces consisted of 3 norscen vessels, another one rammed through a trading ship and the remainders were in the process of encircling the Haverish forces.
“Crossbowmen fire, fire the catapults and the scorpions too! We fight for Havermere and the empire!” Michiel bellowed, the scorpions which were firing flaming bolts managed to set the sails of a Norscen ship on fire leaving it dead in the water. Michiel spotted a second vessel moving at ramming speed towards his ship “Ramming speed, crush the Norscen scum under our bow!” Michiel once more ordered, the two ships were moving at ramming speed intent on crushing one another in a spectacular display of bursting wood and splashing water. The crew started to brace for impact as the two ships closed, Michiel had closed his eyes preparing for heavy rocking and the sound of a dying ship but instead he was met with a soft *thud* followed by Norscen war cries.
The ships appeared to have only lightly bumped into each other and the Norscen were quick to recover and immediately started boarding actions, they most likely thought that the majority of the crew consisted of crossbowmen and that they would be easy slaughter for the seasoned Norscen warriors. Michiel laughed and unsheathed his sword.
“Men, grab your spikes and blades, have the crossbowmen retreat to the port side of the ship, we shall face them here and beat the scoundrels back to the rotten hole they call home!” The men followed suit and yelled insults at their foes of whom the first had climbed on top of the galley’s deck, he raised his axe preparing let out his war cry but instead he coughed blood and collapsed, crossbow bolts in his chest and neck. This warrior was followed by many of his brethren all carrying axes and blades of varying sizes, some with a shield or helmet and some with war tattoos on their bodies.
A couple more were felled by the crossbow bolts but most charged through, they clashed into the formation of guilds men, clad in heavy chain mail armour and each carrying a spike, some pierced their foes head on while others caved skulls in or broke their enemies rib cage using the blunt side of the spike.
Michiel was in the heat of combat now, he was facing a pair of Norscen warriors, the largest of the two warriors struck first, with a large battle axe in hand he swung down with all his force intending to crush Michiel under the sheer force of his massive weapon. Michiel only smiled and proceeded to roll to the side of his foe “Is that the best you got you sc-!” Michiel was interrupted by a slash that came from the other Norscen warrior, he had only barely recovered from his dodge and the emergency block knocked him on the floor, the larger of the pair immediately took over again, his face wearing a large grin that was fed by the adrenaline of battle, he raised his axe preparing to strike, only instead of proving the final blow the point of a spike pointed out of his neck and blood started gurgling out of his mouth. He dropped his axe and fell to the ground, behind him appeared a man that Michiel identified as captain Einar, leader of the guild known as the brotherhood of the shield, the battle had appeared to have gone heavily in the Haverish favour on the ship and all that was left to do was the mop up job, that was when Einar and a group of three guilds men came to Michiel’s aid.
“You’re not doing too well there are you now vice admiral?” Einar spoke in a mocking tone.
“I don’t see you fighting two people on your own Einar, now shut up and tell me our losses.” Michiel spit back at the captain.
“But of course sir, it’s not like you are good at anything else then ordering us around, we have lost 17 men in total and have killed or wounded a total of 48 norscen, in addition to this we have captured both the captain and the navigator of this ship and they are being locked up as we speak.” Einar explained.
“Do you want me to throw you off the ship myself? You can join the Norscen scum on their trip to the bottom of the ocean if you so wish, you are about as civilized as a Norscen so I'm sure you would fit right in” Michiel jested.
He straightened his posture and got a good overview of the battlefield, he remembered seeing the other operational centre galley plough a Norscen vessel under its ram but he was not sure what had happened afterwards as the battle swept him along, after getting a good look he saw a Norscen ship being left behind by the galley which was now moving to form up with Michiel, he assumed that they had suffered a boarding action too. But the fact that they were still sailing meant the ship was still operational.
He ordered the signal flag for a regroup to be raised and awaited the return of the flanking ships, those had decided that the best choice would be to us ramming speed to break through the Norscen ships and reach the main Haverish line, the Norscen easily dodged the ram and used their superb speed and agility to counter ram the galleys, one of the galleys creaked and shuddered before splitting open and being completely destroyed, the other shrugged the hit off and continued sailing.
Through concentrated catapult fire and scorpion fire a last Norscen ship was sunk before the Norscen decided to give up, after some short negotiations the trade ships agreed to take the survivors from the sunken ship back to port along with those of the now unusable ship, of the two galleys that were locked together the fleet succeeded in salvaging one.
“There is no time to be spared men, we will follow the Norscen raiders and find their hideout, now row!” Michiel ordered the sailors to continue on, the guildsmen would rest during the chase as the norscen were too fast for the Haverish ships to catch up but following the general direction along with the instructions of the prisoners would lead them to the norscen village, and then they would exact their revenge, the three remaining ships had formed up in a vertical line following Michiel’s ship, they would need to hold out until they could manage to receive reinforcements so this expedition would only get harder now.
Losses:
Havermere: 42 light guildsmen wounded or killed 2 Galleys lost or unrecoverable
Norscen: 98 norscen warriors murdered 52 norscen captured 7 norscen ships sunk
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