A Knight To Remember - 2021-05-18 - Epilogue
Paragraphs (but not the section titles) taken from the following official forum post:
GS4-KENSTROM
Subject: A Knight to Remember - Epilogue on 05/18/2021 07:14 PM EDT
Category: Cities, Towns, and Outposts
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Post: 15090
(Note: This is a sequel to A Knight To Remember - 5121-05-06 - What Lies Ahead.)
Smoke from the cannons obscured the figurehead of the ship. Gone were the waves of Darkstone Bay, instead they were frozen solid and encased in ice. There was nowhere to go.
He squinted from the smoke, it burned his eyes. The booms were deafening and his ears still rang something fierce. He heard the endless twang of bowstrings from all around him. He heard shouting, screaming, and the howl of the icy winds. He should have shot that white falcon in the sky when he had the chance.
When some of the fog cleared his eyes went wide in horror. There were dozens and dozens of them, he couldn’t even keep count. Pushing against the winds, shrugging off the ice, even slipping to only rise quickly again, they came in a mad charge. Humans, giants, dwarves, even Faendryl. They were all so different, yet they pressed on with a unified front. Their eyes burned with rage and purpose, their lips curled in war cries.
This was not the Wehnimer’s Landing he had been told about. This was not some small frontier town with backwater dreams and black art magic. Their eyes betrayed a truth that hit him hard in the chest. They were just like him. Fighting to survive, fighting to provide. Fathers, brothers, mothers, friends.
He heard their roars as they boarded the ship. The arrows and ice did not stop them. They were relentless. Even as the winds carried them off, they were quick to return. He heard men scream near a cannon and it was soon overrun. He wanted no part in any of this. Not anymore, the price was not worth it.
He threw down his blade and ran. Eyes fell on him as he did, but not for long, as he sprinted with all of his might. He dashed for the railings and hurled himself over the edge, quickly getting away from the resistance of Wehnimer’s Landing. He fell and landed with a crack. His wrist shattered, he knew it. Then he heard another crack, but did not feel it. Not at first.
The ice below him bent beneath his fall, beneath his weight. He sighed and gasped, almost refusing to accept his fate. Another cannon echoed in the night as a patch of ice below him broke open and he fell into the icy waters of Darkstone Bay. He grasped uselessly at the edge, trying to pull himself out of the water but the current pulled him quick. Water filled his mouth and lungs as he slid under the ice, scratching at its crystalline surface as if trying to dig out.
He remembered kissing his young bride goodbye before he left Brisker’s Cove at 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.
His heart ached. Not from the water filling his throat, but from the very final thoughts of never seeing the birth of his children, never seeing their lives unfold before his eyes. The last thing he would see is the opaque wall of ice above him, an icy barrier separating him from life.
He closed his hands and suddenly felt a hand grasp his. With tremendous force he was pulled up and out of the ice and water and he coughed, water still gushing out of his mouth. He was dizzy, his head was pounding, his vision was going black. The last thing he saw was a man before him. Young, freckled, blood and dirt on his face. His chest wore a tabard that was torn and frayed but adorned with brass rivets along each side. The young man smiled before he slipped off into unconsciousness.
Larsya Disappointed
“Something the matter?” The soldier asked.
Larsya’s frown did not last long and it bent upward again, not flat, but not quite a smile.
“No, it’s fine. Go prepare for our new arrivals please.”
The soldier saluted the Baron’s daughter and marched off.
The young girl looked down at her letter again and reread it.
“Dearest sister, I miss you. Bourth misses you. The good part of it. I am sorry I could not be there like you asked. I trust your wisdom in all of the matters you are facing currently. My only wisdom is to trust yourself, as I always have. The Lion is majestic, and their roar is loud, but their bite is of equal ferocity. Be cautious and hold as many strings as you can.
I know this letter will sadden you, and I had wished to be there in person, but now is not the time. I will send some of our greatest scouts to aid you in having better eyes on the land. But father is still ill and I am afraid he grows weaker. I cannot be gone in a time like this. If you wish to return home I would welcome it. If you don’t, then I do not fault you. But know I have not abandoned you. I am not him, and I never will be. What I do I do for Bourth. You of all people know this. Send my love to Dawn.”
The Baron’s daughter tucked the note away and went back to stand in front of her mirror. She pulled the eyepatch off of her head and placed it on the desk before her. She straightened her attire and patted down some wrinkles. She went for the door then suddenly stopped. She bolted back to the desk, snatched up the eyepatch, snarled like a salty pirate, then darted out of the room.
Casiphia and Mother
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….”
The mirror was not broken.
But she was.
Her eyes were darker as if stained with the thickness of shadows and blood. Her face almost drooped, more worn, more weathered, more burdened by hardships. She was horrified by her reflection. But then, after a fleeting moment, she was not.
Her lips moved. Mother spoke.
“Your heart is true. There is more of the town in our blood than the rest. You have known this since the golden eyes birthed us. You know who the enemy is. His eyes are not made of gilt, but his tongue is laced with silver. Your way did not work. It did not come close. It’s time for our children to strike.”
She reached deeper into the hole in the floorboards. Her fingers brushed the smooth black steel of a mask etched with blood red sigils. She felt the facet of a red soulstone, then pulled it up to slide the ring upon her finger.
“Freedom takes root.” She whispered and Mother stirred.
Amos Recovers
He winced as he entered his chambers.
The ink of his flesh held true and gave him all he had needed in the moments of that night. But it hadn’t hidden the pain, and even days after his battle with Thadston, it hadn’t yet taken it away. But it was a small price to pay for what he assuredly called a victory. It took everything in him not to finish the job, to not break the man as he had rolled away and ran off. He knew it was justified. He had left him for dead after all, hadn’t he?
Some would call it justice. Others would call it vengeance. But some might even call it unnecessary, and for that, he had pushed down his rage and quieted the lion inside. It certainly did not mean he would do so again if the situation arose. But for now, he had more important matters to occupy his time. After all, the man he left in the streets was battered in ways far beyond the body, and in a sense that was justice enough.
Amos stepped up to a large circular table and unrolled several scrolls, using tiny hammer-shaped weights to hold their corners in place. The business of the Knave was settled. A man would likely hang for such crimes. He smiled at it all. Soon there would be elections, he might even find himself out of favor with some of the town council, but he would navigate those waters when it came time. He had already accomplished much of what he had come to do, and the future looked bright and prosperous.
He looked over the scrolls. Some notes and research on baystone. Some rough sketches and blueprints for some buildings and potential locations in town. Some were messages, important messages he needed to see distributed and delivered properly. As if on cue, a knock came from his door. Just the right pattern. He stomped his foot in return. Just the right pattern.
The door opened and in came his lovely Fireflies, garbed in cloaks the color of morning on the bay, their hair curled and coiled about their slender faces. Orange, green, and blue. He smiled wide at them and one by one he handed each one of them a scroll that he had folded up and resealed. Quietly the Fireflies accepted his messages and one by one they turned and left.
Amos turned and picked up one of the sketches, his eyes studying it carefully. The lines, the size, the locations. He smiled again. The future was indeed bright and prosperous.
Thadston Finds Resolve
Bottles lined the shelf.
They were empty. But not from him.
They sat unfilled, unused, uncleaned. Dust formed a ring around their glass necks. They sat not as temptation, but as a reminder to the demons he conquered twice before and now refused to do battle with again. Once he had lost his wife. The second he almost lost his home.
Home.
What an odd word to describe Wehnimer’s Landing, when it was just years before that he faced shouts and insults when he raised a banner and handed out food in Shanty Town. Now he fought for them as much as they fought for him. He had lost as much as they had, time and again. He thought of his wife, Saraphene, how she had looked when they found her body in the mines of Talador. Lifeless, ruined, drained by Raznel to steal her face. He thought of his son, far away in Atan Irith and how the witch had twisted him apart, over and over. He thought about Casiphia, and how hadn’t dared to stop himself from getting close to her, while his son suffered alone.
He scowled at the thought of Casiphia.
He knew what she did on the long nights. He could almost sense her when he spied the flurry of white on the rooftops. He knew the grace of her movements, the shape of her form. He felt it when his hands touched her flesh and she winced from the bruises she tried to conceal. He knew in the way she spoke, of justice, of might, of avenging the corruption in the town. But Rone served a purpose, not always, but in that time it did.
If only that were his only sin.
How could he have been so blind to Mother?
He scowled at the thought of the parchments left for him in a sack. The scribbled timeline. The detailed observations. It had been thrown in his face. Mother was Casiphia. Why then did he not act? Because it was too far gone? Was he afraid she was right?
Thadston thought then of the middle ground. The center paths. He couldn’t remember a time he had walked it. In life he had been so quick to act, or so crippled by denial. Both swings to either side often left him in more turmoil than before. He conjured up thoughts of Walkar. He was so full of action, but also so full of rage. That road led to death. He thought of Cordarius. He was so confident, but so arrogant, and slow to act. That road led to too much tolerance for his own liking. He knew he had to find the middle ground between breaking bones and breaking bread.
He looked down at his arms and the faint blue-white light flickering in the fragments of kroderine in his very flesh. He looked around the empty chamber. There was no one, and arguably he himself was broken.
But perhaps the path to fixing yourself, he contemplated, was in fixing something else.
Just then a knock came from his door. He swung it open to see a young man with untamed hair but a tight jaw. His attire was pressed as best he could have mustered, but still held stains on the left side, and several frayed strings along the hem. In his hand he held a dented badge with so many scratches that the original name was unrecognizable.
Thadston did not recognize the young man, but accepted the badge.
The young man said, “I do not know who the fallen is it belongs to, but I wanted it returned. It was the right thing to do.”
Thadston nodded his thanks, but the young man did not leave.
“Is there something else?”
The young man clenched his jaw, fighting the sudden onset of nervousness and awkwardly snapped to attention.
“Yes Sir, I want to earn my own.”
In that moment, Thadston knew exactly what the way forward was.
Pylasar Sets Sail
The men worked quietly, determination locked onto their faces.
The sound of hammers echoed in the distance.
The salt of the ocean hung heavy in the air.
The waves crashed in the distance.
The rumble of thunder echoed even further away.
“Is it done yet?” Someone asked.
“No.” One of the men replied, his tone almost scolding the man who asked it.
Moments passed.
“Is it done yet?” The same someone asked again.
“No.” Another of the shipbuilders answered quickly, his voice just as gruff as the one before.
Moments passed.
“Is it done yet?”
“NO!” A half dozen men shouted in unison.
The same someone from before huffed and puffed, almost playfully, then groaned as he pushed on his knees to help himself stand up. He looked off into the distance, his black-speckled eyes of gold squinting to see as far as he might be allowed. He stroked his long white goatee and the plaited golden beads woven into it as he murmured to himself.
Striking a pose in all of his purple grandiose attire, he tilted his tri-cornered hat and shouted, “Well ye best hurry ye scallywags! Thar be a storm a brewin’ and I mean to ride this one!”
The men’s sour faces melted away and they picked up the pace, their movements hurried and frantic as one shouted, “Aye aye Captain Pylasar!”