Category:Born of Bourth

Creating placeholder category for Born of Bourth, a storyline announced by GM Kenstrom for 2022.

He remembered Aurmont’s decree.

It had felt like a lifetime ago. 5116. So much had changed in that year. So much had changed since then. The corruption of a mad Prelate, the tendrils of a vengeful witch, and the complete destruction of Talador had set the Emperor onto a path that was to spark a new era in the Empire, one that had been long overdue, and been wrong in its conception.

His father had been many things, but in this, he was not wrong. His mother had always firmly despised Chaston’s Edict and the precedent it created. His father was just as passionate in his heart, but slow to move with his feet. Were they not all human, after all? Action required swiftness. The flesh did not hold thousands of years of time like the elves. Their existence in all of life would be a blink in comparison. He never hated his father for his lack of courage, but he knew when the time came, he’d raise the banner where those before him could not.

He walked the grand boulevard, which stretched far and wide, the cobbled roads masterfully crafted and pristine. To the far western end rose the Grand Imperial Plaza, where stood the very palace of the majestic Sun Throne itself. It was so polished, so grandiose, and its walls gleamed in the light. Just beyond it, rising above nearby rooftops of imperial homes, was the high domed ceiling of the Hall of Mages, its top crowned by sunlit statues of golden hawks.

So pretentious, all of it. What was the value of each marbled pillar and pebbled walkway, if words were empty and value was absent? Chaston’s Way. The long, magnificent road that connected the plaza with the Church in the distance. What an ironic name. What a wrong name. He felt wrong even walking it. But he knew it was foolish to try to erase the past. But it was just as naïve not to learn from it. The soldiers of home were not far from him. Even in the heart of Tamzzyr, they worried. He looked at his father’s personal guards and nodded reassuringly to them. No, not his father’s anymore.

The ground was still fresh where the Deep had taken his father. He remembered long moments of panic when the primordial spirits were displeased and turned in judgment. Goosebumps spread along his arms as he recalled the moment his sister’s voice broke the night and commanded the forest. He was as proud of her in that moment as he was terrified. She wasn’t ready for the burdens of court, even in Bourth. To be honest, he wasn’t sure he was either.

He wasn’t even crowned yet. It was still days away. He wasn’t going to ask for something beyond the scope of the throne. He wasn’t going to ask for something that the Emperor himself hadn’t already committed to accomplishing. But even the brightest fire can settle to embers, and without the proper kindling reapplied, that spark can go out.

He knew what it would mean for all involved. There would be resistance, abroad and at home. To think otherwise would be foolish. But to do nothing? Unacceptable.

Gleaming marble facades and decorated buildings stretched out before him like a rising and falling stonework sea. He exhaled heavily as he approached the tall tower that held the Council of Lords. Would they scoff at his boldness, or embrace it? Would he be seen meddling in imperial affairs and outcomes already set in motion? No, he reminded himself. 5116 had passed long ago, and every year met with more silence only made it more acceptable to stay the course.

Soldiers in their glistening armor and crimson sunbursts stood before him, barring his entrance. A fitting depiction of the Empire’s deepest irony. How often were humans their own worst enemies? Their own worst barriers to a way forward? He knew the answer.

He declared himself and his intentions. The Bourthian squadron behind him all but confirmed his truth. The tower guards stepped aside and without a second thought, he entered. He navigated the long halls, rehearsing every word he had written the night before. 5116. 5116. He would be vigilant in reminding them. Words had set the fire, silence had created embers. He had brought the kindling.

He strode into the chamber of the Council of Lords, immediately drawing attention as he interrupted the daily affairs already underway. He felt the heat of dozens of eyes upon him. He steeled his nerves and cleared his throat. He began.

"I am Lord Breshon Caulfield, Born of Bourth..."