A Knight To Remember - 2021-05-06 - What Lies Ahead
Paragraphs (but not the section titles) taken from the following official forum post:
GS4-KENSTROM
Subject: What Lies Ahead on 05/06/2021 02:24 AM EDT
Category: Cities, Towns, and Outposts
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Post: 15068
The spear-shaped figurehead stretched out over the waters as the massive frigate rose and fell along the waves of Darkstone Bay.
Much of the upper deck was quiet, save for the faint thunder rumbling in the distance and the occasional howl of the wind as it pulled at the large masts above. He tightened the belt of his breeches and shifted slightly in the grey leather of his armor. He remembered kissing his young bride goodbye before he left Brisker’s Cove before dawn’s light. He could still see her round face, her swollen eyes from tears, and the curve of her stomach peeking out beneath her gossamer robe.
Twins, his grandmother had sworn upon Cholen. He was beyond excited and equally nervous to be a father, to help shape the future of his children. But part of him was hopeful she was wrong, two was so much more work than one. More time, more money. Still he hoped that this trip, this venture, this mission would see him rewarded enough to not have to worry for years to come. He did not know this Knave, or even if he existed beyond just a name to rally blades, but he welcomed the chance to earn a generous reward for his hard work. He had lied to his wife of where he was sailing for, and why. She would have told him not to board that ship, she would have asked him what did Wehnimer’s Landing ever do to deserve it. He wouldn’t have had an answer for her, he didn’t even have an answer for himself.
But he was a husband, and he was going to be a father. And his children deserved it all.
Larsya Disappointed
“One.”
She giggled.
“Sixteen.”
She playfully smirked.
“One Hundred. Close enough!” She chuckled to herself as she tossed her hairbrush aside, after truly only three brush strokes. Larsya wasn’t one to groom much, because, what dread pirate did? But even she knew some occasions called for some manner or preparedness and presentation. She had been told her brother received her letter weeks ago and he would be arriving soon with everything she had asked for. She hadn’t seen him in well over a year and so she had done her best to scrub her face, find an unstained shirt, even wore real boots. But she still had a dagger in the sole. Because, dread pirate.
She paused for a long moment in front of her chamber’s mirror. She squinted and chewed on her bottom lip. Something was not right. Something needed to be done. Something needed to be changed. There was no more time for indecisiveness, she could no longer even look at own reflection.
The little Baron’s daughter scowled, then grabbed the black leather eyepatch on her face and slid it from her left eye to her right eye. She giggled and smiled. Much better.
A knock came from the door. She almost did a full leap across the room and fumbled trying to open the door. She was so hopeful, so excited, she only wished he would approve of all she had done so far.
A Bourthian soldier stood on the other side, a sealed scroll in his hand. Larsya took it, broke the seal and read. The little Baron’s daughter frowned.
Rook Readies
The tunnels were his roads, but the streets above were his home.
He remembered being in the crowd the day Baron Kuligar was assassinated in Talador. Or really, the shape changing man who pretended to be him. He remembered his mother grabbing his arms and pulling him away from the grounds of Doggoroth Keep, pushing so forcefully to shove him through the portal and back to Wehnimer’s Landing. He heard the silence, the shock, the screams, he could never forget the death that sparked his spiral.
He remembered hating Walkar. He remembered hating Davard. He remembered trying to avoid the whole siege. When he heard the warhorns of Talador and saw the dust in the sky of their pending approach, he tried to get his mother to flee. She refused. She scolded him and even called him a coward. She could not believe he would ever try to abandon their home, the very town that gave them life, that gave them history, that gave them their story.
He remembered when she died. When Walkar and Davard battled in the streets of Wehnimer’s, when sheer power of their might, armor, and weapons tore so many things to pieces, and so many people apart. He had held his mother in his arms, her body broken and still. He looked at her bruised and swollen face, still wizened and stately, even when her eyes were vacant and cold. But she had no parting words for him in her final moments before her death rattle. She had no ageless insight to impart upon him to carry on in her passing.
Only her rebuke hung heavy on his mind and his heart. “We fight for our home. Danger is everywhere you go. Freedom does not roam. Freedom takes root.”
He pulled the dark mask over his face, the torchlight of the Burrow Way dancing along the grey beak. He pulled open the knapsack at his side and spied the red glass of the orbs within, tucked away like glistening apples in a bed of shadows. He heard others approaching, as trapdoors flipped open, or the very earthen walls slid aside. His brothers in arms approached, beaks aglow, masks hiding their faces. He nodded, and they did the same in return.
“Freedom takes root.” He whispered and the Brotherhood of Rooks stirred.
Octaven Waiting
The young squire had finally gotten used to the cold winters of Hendor, just as he got the sealed note calling him to the northwest, to beyond the Empire to help stand watch over her protectorate.
He fought it at first. He enjoyed the warm hearths, the hot ciders, the bitter ales. Truth be told, there was not much for him to do in Hendor. Much of the great Lolle had been rebuilt since the Blameless brought it to its heel, and there had been endless comforts afforded to him during a time of peace and rebirth. Yes, he trained long into the day, and his mind was constantly overwhelmed learning about imperial heraldry and the difference between errants and bannerets. His lungs quite enjoyed the crisp night air as he marched along the parapets, counting stars above instead of armies below.
But Wehnimer’s Landing, as it turns out, had provided him the same amount of home and hearth he had come accustomed to in Lolle. Taverns on every corner, a wide sampling of warm ales and strong liquors, even colorful haired women to catch his eye and make him feel less a squire. It wasn’t so bad after all.
In fact, he was looking forward to enjoying a warm hearth after he delivered his last message for the night. He could feel the wax on his finger, it was still somewhat warm and made his hand sticky. He climbed up the steel ladder and pushed the trapdoor to the roof open. He was instantly greeted by a blue phoenix on a crisp silver flag as he reached the top. He could almost feel the ice winds of home scrape his skin, the sting of winter almost freezing his veins. He shuddered for a moment and swore when he exhaled he saw the mist of his breath.
A woman stood on the other side of the rooftop. Her hands touched the stone of the ramparts and her chest leaned forward as she watched the horizon of Darkstone Bay in the distance. Lines of straight silver-blue hair fell sharply to her shoulders. A cerulean gown flowed about her frame and it was hemmed with a pattern of blackworked tulips and sigils.
“Cruelty…” He whispered to himself when he recognized the flower. What he failed to realize was how loudly he had spoken.
The woman turned and the air grew cooler. She was haunting with her deep violet eyes that seemed to almost look beyond him.
He cleared his throat. “Grand Magister, a note for you.” He awkwardly stepped forward and handed it to her. His fingers brushed her palm. Even her skin was cold. The violet eyed woman nodded and turned back to the stone edge, her face to the sea.
“Do you, um, need anything else Grand Magister?”
Never turning to face him, the woman shook her head, “Not yet. You will know when I do.”
He half-shrugged and half-shivered. Nothing reminded him more of the bite of Hendor’s winter than this woman. He did not waste anytime scrambling back down the ladder and moving hurriedly out of the Outpost, seeking one of those plentiful warm hearths to call home for the night.
Casiphia Surprised
She paced the weathered boards of the room.
The least he could have done was provided a measure of more luxury for her. They had shared many things of course, and in truth, he knew just as much as she knew that none of the extravagancies of life was something she sought, or even enjoyed. She was simple, just like him. She was raw, just like him. She had made mistakes, just like him. But they were further apart than ever. Not just by distance, but by circumstance. He had demanded she hang up her gauntlets. Easy enough for him to dictate, given his were burned into his flesh.
She was just agitated being told to stay away. She hadn’t needed his protection when they faced the wilds and hunted Raznel. She hadn’t needed his protection when she roamed the rooftops of town, meting out justice with the shroud of Rone. No, not since she had fallen victim to Chaston’s enthrallment had she ever allowed herself to need someone again. She was capable of so many things and the town and its people needed her more than ever. Which is why she paced. Which is why she cursed his name. She should be there. She should have left with him. She should be manning the towers when the ships come in. She should be shouting commands at the pylons and helping to fill the bay with the Knave’s men.
But instead she was sent off and tucked away like some hidden treasure. Like some helpless princess in a tower waiting for her heroic knight’s return. Except he was more blemished than most and had even lowered his own banner and tossed aside his spurs. She knew his last few years had been so prevalent with mistakes and hotheaded decisions that she couldn’t believe he had such the audacity to try to decide her own fate for her.
She placed her foot at the edge of a floorboard and pried it up. She grabbed a bandolier of daggers from the concealed compartment below. Wehnimer’s Landing was in her blood more than his. She wasn’t about to let the Knave and Rooks bleed anyone without getting through her first.
But then she heard movement behind her. A shadow, something stirring. She flipped around and clenched a dagger in her hand. Her eyes went wide. “You….”
Amos Prepares
He was a giant among the town.
Not only in his shape, but in everything he knew he could accomplish. The people clung to his words, the merchants gleaned at his promise. The very earth delivered him gifts. From where he stood, atop a great bulwark tower, the untamable wind even stroked his burgundy mane. His green eyes were ringed with gold and as far as he could see there was only opportunity for him, and of course opportunity for those willing to take the journey with him.
He looked out over the bay. He looked out over the town. He looked south to the Outpost, to a sleek white falcon soaring in the sky above it. He looked to the river, he looked to the great glacier rising far beyond. He did not fancy himself a god, he was not so naïve, but he did marvel at the beauty of the world around him and for a moment he wondered if that is how the Arkati must have felt too when they painted the skies, birthed the grass, and sparked the breath of every man. Did they too stand back and appreciate the endless potential?
He saw the armigers moving about the streets like black ants, working hard to patrol the streets and try to return some measure of order. After all, while chaos can bring progression, it hardly ever brings profit. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a smooth stone swirled with shades of cerulean and light blue. He held it up before his eye, tilting it, turning in, enraptured in its color just as he had viewed the world around him.
Amos grinned and stowed the baystone back into his pouch. He turned to leave, knowing he would need his rest for the long nights and many developments ahead.
Thadston Reflects
The cobblestones were still black.
Maybe scorched from fire, maybe permanently stained from blood. He wasn’t sure. But he did know a lot of it was his fault. In fact, all of it was. He chased the witch. He broke the portal. He was afraid to die and so clung to the bleak. He fell to the bottle and he let the town and militia down. Khylon died trying to fill the void he left.
He knelt and placed a miniature onyx axe on the ground next to some blasted rocks that remained in the aftermath of the barrack’s destruction. The Knave’s men had claimed much of the northern part of town, so no one had dared tried to fully clean the rubble, or even try to rebuild yet. It was too dangerous to even try. For now.
He wandered town. He saw a hint of grey beaks in the shadows. But no one moved against him. He passed an alleyway and briefly glimpsed a scruffy man in grey armor, sharpening a blade. The thug slipped out of sight. Even walking alone, no one dared to raise a hand or blade against him. He did not blame them. No one knew yet if he was still all man, or still had some monster left in him. The blood red glow of the kroderine in his arms would indicate some of the latter.
He passed uneventfully through the gates and back to the Outpost. It was there that soldiers, both of Hendor and Bourth, greeted him like an old friend. Some even saluted him like their commander. He didn’t bother to correct them. Part of him liked it. Part of him was reminded that regardless of every trial he had faced, he was not broken, he was not unrepairable, and he was still just a man. It was hard to grasp sometimes, when the flow of the Faendryl language swirled in his mind. When the intensity and pull of kroderine coursed through his veins. Maybe he was not quite a monster, but still not quite fully a man anymore either.
He retired to his quarters. A squire had nearly bumped into him on his way, muttering about the cold. He closed the door and released a sigh. He was surrounded by only silence. It was peaceful, and it frightened him. Much of his life had been conflict after conflict. His rise in Hendor. His fall in Wehnimer’s. His rebirth in the Bleaklands. Even his latest attempt at redemption. Everything was born out of war. He never stopped to appreciate Saraphene for long. Not until she was gone from the world. He never stopped to teach his son and shape him into a man. He never stopped to allow Casiphia to get as close as she deserved. Even when given the chance to accept death, alone and broken in the wasteland that was once Talador, he still fought it. He chose to fight, instead of accepting his final rest.
He walked back into the hall and went straight to the war room. The strategy table dominated the center of the room, beckoning to him, the carved wooden miniatures and sketches of the environs almost taunting him. Fix it all, he heard their mockery. Make a plan, fix it all. He shook his head, and he knew that wasn’t even possible. He wasn’t even sure he wanted it to be possible. With a roar he swept his arms across the table, sending every wooden miniature scattering away and falling to the floor. Nothing was guaranteed to go according to any plan, he had been around long enough to know that now.
Thadston bent and picked up a wooden miniature and placed it back on the table, directly in the center of the map. He stared at the carved figurine of a burly giantman with a face framed by a mane of hair. He snarled. He knew no matter what lies ahead, it would certainly be a night to remember.