- Pronouns
- He/His/etc
Hmm... we want to make Book. These christians know all about books, they have entire groups of people specialised in making books. Monks wouldn't normally speak to us but maybe he could set us up?
NorseQuest (A Norse Xianxia)
- Thread starter I.F. Ister
- Start date
- Original Fantasy Action
-
- Tags
- norse mythology (mythology) original xianxia cultivation western cultivation ask sirihand did your mother tell you anything? discussion pleases yggdrasil farming gloating gets people killed granary management hubris is a coward's word you will die norsemen do not die when they are killed the qm has a bad memory the qm is bad at math viking courtroom drama (legal drama) vikings
Love how bombastic she is.
And yes, giving her hands will result in interesting things!
Hm.... This becomes more powerful the longer/more world traveled/open minded someone is, huh?
This will be so much bullshit with charred soul....
...
No... Oh nononono...
I missed it...
I missed the birb vote.....
It's over...
Interesting, but we, as a thread, already suffer fro- Oh, Shiny!
Meh, next.
Hm..... I like it.
Not a wrench wench, exactly, but as close as we possibly can, in this time period and culture...
Unless Halla falls in love with gears.....
Not sure if clocks are a thing yet but we would need to go see a mill of some kind, for that, at least, I think....
Also, is there a carpentry/sawdust owl and carving/rockdust and other crafting variants?
...hm....
Is the base wizard owl the rune option?
A vamp-
Oh, whew, no vampire, just a cryptid then.
....gods, would we have gotten the same from flesh crafting and/or skalding?
Hm... Is ther-
Oh well.
Hm... Interesting.... Would this provide a boost for the next evolution or just delay this choice for it? Would it also delay the other evolutions to the next milestone as well?
Now, to the rest of the comments between updates and the second update as well....
[X] Talk to Gabriel about Wessex
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/His
So, is this sort of physical and mental mutation common for an evolved fylgja, @Imperial Fister? Neither Steinarr nor Aki showed any animalistic characteristic either in body or mind.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Didn't they? Steinarr has had whatever his are for as long as we've known him, and Aki's are probably just being...sharper, so to speak, which sounds right, honestly.
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/His
They dont show any animalistic body feature though, no feathers, no claws or sharp teeth.
- Location
- The United States
- Pronouns
- He/They
[X] Talk to Gabriel about Wessex
So to meet the comfort requirements of Cindersnoot Owl it would be rad if for special occasions we cleaned off and then dusted ourselves with ash from incense or fragrant woods.
Cedar, wormwood, that sort of thing.
That way we could show up to court covered in something besides soot without taking a malus.
So to meet the comfort requirements of Cindersnoot Owl it would be rad if for special occasions we cleaned off and then dusted ourselves with ash from incense or fragrant woods.
Cedar, wormwood, that sort of thing.
That way we could show up to court covered in something besides soot without taking a malus.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Steinarr grows spikes if he eats stone. But only two of the options we picked between gave us feathers, so overt animalistic features are not universal by any means.
Sirrocco
Pedantic
Well, Searchingbird wouldn't have shown anything obvious either... and Frenzyfeather only becomes obvious if someone is checkign your hair sharpness while you're annoyed or stressed. We were the ones that picked the obvious transformation fylgia.
Also, hello to Logi Firehair over there. That could easily be a fylgia effect, at least in part.
The Wizard-Owl mantain its previous abilities right? We didn't just lose the Owl Gatcha
Sirrocco
Pedantic
...and now I'm writing a little scene in my head where Abjorn notices our discomfort, finds out about it, and gets us a pretty little ash-box with some sort of particularly nice ash inside as a gift to include with our morning ablutions.
Alectai
Speaks Words of Wisdom... On occasion
Yep, it's still there.
Just that our birb is big enough for a normal person to ride.
CedeTheBees
Probably high right now
- Location
- Somewhere
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Wait can we ride our owl into battle and rain boulderbombs down?
Alectai
Speaks Words of Wisdom... On occasion
Theoretically, yes, it's not our birb's specialty, but they can do it.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alright, because the Command fylgja skill shouldn't exist (because I thought that it needed to have something, but I was wrong), we're just gonna put the successes and odr towards your fylgja attribute and also just hook the standing orders thing up to Rank 7, to bring it in line with Hugr and Hamr in that respect.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Cool. We should also get 1 Odr refunded, but that works out fine.
Not sure the pelt would have similar magic as the shadow bear's "clock of shadows" but possible.
The extra protection is definitely good though.
Whew.
Out of curiosity, what little bonuses would have the others gave?
That double crafting is a strong swing, after all.
...
I mean, current information says the weaker the discloser the easier it is to survive the reprisal with strong friends....
Realm 2 sounds like a multiper to the reprisal, imo.
...just give him beer/mead and some food and ask for the closest market, we are here to trade, after all!
Hm.... Ask advice from Steinarr? A bad teacher he might be, but a bad parent he is NOT.
So, fylgja talk next training session?
[X] Talk to Gabriel about Wessex
Sirrocco
Pedantic
Huh.
I suppose that does expand the range of things that the Wizard-owl might show up with.
Like... random cultivators from other countries? I mean, they'd have to be in the kind of awkward life situation that would make "get on the enormous clearly magical owl that you know nothing about and let it carry you to some distant place you've never heard of" sound like a good idea rather than a bad idea, but it's totally possible now.
Alectai
Speaks Words of Wisdom... On occasion
Birb Gacha doesn't work by literally grabbing something and stealing it, so much as it hangs out in the Fold and occasionally finds stuff that got lost there when someone died and their Fylgja popped, or got in there for some reason or another.
Living things can't hang out in the Fold.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It could bring us very large nonliving things, though.
Sirrocco
Pedantic
Halla is fully capable of picking up things significantly larger than herself.
...but if someone were to, say, throw a desperate plea into the Fold for literally anything to come save it from its pursuers?
Please just let me have this. I just want to imagine how Halla (and Abjorn) would react to the equivalent of "the family pet just showed up with an unsolicited gift" except that it's a living (and somewhat embarrassed) person.
Also that glorious moment of "not prepared for this" that comes when they realize that their rescuer was a viking owl. Like, on the one side, not being fed to the creature's young or whatever? Thumbs up. Big fan. On the other side... vikings.
Last edited:
Alectai
Speaks Words of Wisdom... On occasion
... It'd have to be a pretty weird roll, but it's hypothetically possible I guess?
- Pronouns
- He/His/etc
That sounds like exactly the sort of thing a Cultivator would do. Without any persuasion, even.
What Could Have Been - Gabriel Lazarus Blackmayne (Imperial Fister) (Non-Canon)
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
AN: As it is now my birth month, I present to you the unedited version of Gabriel's origin story from a very early iteration of NorseQuest, where a lot of things had yet to be settled upon. Edited from this early version was where the samurai interlude came from.
Apologies for any weird edginess, I was, like, 16, 17, or 18 when I wrote this.
0~0~0
The Knight
Ser Gabriel Blackmayne — a young Knight only a mere two years out of his Squirehood — was in pain. He felt the lashes of the whip against his back, burning and stinging in the air. Nine lashes in total, nine ragged strips of skin missing from his muscular back. One for every soul stolen away while under his watch.
The hardened leather straps binding his wrists to the wood frame of the rack bit deep into his skin. Those harsh, angry red marks would be left there for months on end, possibly years. Sweat dripped off him, matting his brown hair to his head as the wet trails trickled down his toned body. The only thing keeping his modesty was a linen cloth draped around his waist, and even that was thick enough to conceal yet thin enough to not provide any protection against the elements.
Gabriel had been here — hanging from the rack with his open injuries on display for any passerby in the courtyard of Castle Blackstone to see — for eight days straight, and was currently on his ninth and final day in the sun. And yet his Faith was strong. The soft tones of heartfelt prayer filled his ears as his cracked lips recited prayer after prayer, begging for absolution.
I deserve this, Gabriel's thoughts whispered in the dark recesses of his mind. And Gabriel knew this to be true. He did deserve the lash; in fact, he deserved far worse a fate than something as mundane as mere physical punishment. How could he, a sworn Third-Rate Knight of the Order of the Weeping Rose, allow such a terrible fate to befall the flock supposedly under his protection?
God's Bones! They were demons, Hellspawn! Gabriel could feel it on them the moment he laid eyes on those four hooded travelers emerging from the darkness beyond the campfire's light. He could smell the cloying stench of the unholy misbegotten clinging to them like an inescapable cloak of miasma. He should have pulled steel and cut them down the moment he laid holy eyes on their twisted, foreign forms.
But Gabriel didn't. He sinned, his curiosity getting the best of him, and his flock paid the price.
Demons of a foreign land, of a place where different stars hang in the night sky and heretic gods walk amongst men. The concept intrigued him, stoking the fires of Gabriel's curiosity. The demons were of Cathayian origins. Or, as the hellwrought claimed, they were Jin from the far flung lands of Zhongguo.
The quartet of demons knew what they were doing. They knew how to twist their words and peddle their foul, heretical magicks. They kept Gabriel on the edge of his seat as they recounted their story. The tale of how they traveled so very far had Gabriel hanging off their every word. The campfire's smoke was coerced into serving as a sickly sweet scent that befuddled his mind and dulled his senses.
And then, the Cathayian demons lulled naive Gabriel into a steady slumber, free of any dreams or nightmares. They were not idle in the brief respite their spells and sorceries had bought them and the abominations in human flesh made short work of the sleeping company of unprepared and all too mortal pilgrims.
Nine souls of pilgrims most pious, damned to an eternity of whatever torments the whelps of Hell delighted in dealing. And it was all his fault. It was all on him. Fourteen years of near constant training that began the moment he turned seven, all of it wasted. What was the point of all that work, all that effort, if it was all for him to discard it the moment a creature of the night emerged?
Gabriel could only hope that the Lord of All, God Almighty, saw fit to absolve him of sin.
"Gabriel Lazarus Blackmayne, you are the last person I would expect to bear the Lashes of Absolution. Yet, upon further contemplation, I can't help but think that there isn't a person more deserving of it than you." A familiar voice draws Gabriel from his Faith-born contemplation as a large shadow falls across his almost-naked form. Half-dry hair stuck to Gabriel's skin and face as he slowly, laboriously, lifted his exhausted head to lay eyes on this mysterious speaker.
Gabriel traced the figure of the obvious Knight before him. His eyes crept along the resplendent plate armor of the Order of the Weeping Rose, the shine of the polished steel was iridescent in the light of the harsh sun. It was the armor of a First-Rate Knight, a mere few rungs away from the authority of the nobleman. Gabriel lingered on the symbol of the Order emblazoned onto a basgue — a part of plate armor that protects the armpit — the vibrant red of the wilting rose freshly painted on the round metal. Gabriel could not delay forever, he had to meet eyes with the familiarity casting shadows.
The face of his beloved little sister's husband — Gabriel's senior by sixty years and First-Rate Knight — stared back at Gabriel as his eyes finally revealed the identity of the stranger before him. His brother-in-law was the very image of pious magnaminty as he peered down at him with a stoic expression.
"Oscar Ezekiel Mourngully, have you nothing better to do than to mock a repentant man? Or have you come with alternate purpose in mind?" Gabriel's voice was quiet and dry as he greeted his brother-in-law — oh how it pains him to admit that as true — in kind. His voice croaked with the strain laid upon his vocal cords by simply speaking. After all, it has been almost nine days since Gabriel last exchanged words with someone. And that was simply to consent to the council's ruling of the penance owed.
"I had come with dual intent, dear brother-by-law." Ser Oscar replied with foppish fervor, a subtle smirk breaking through the stoic bulwark. His armor — the glorious shine of the immaculate metal forced Gabriel to squint — made nary a sound as the First-Rate Knight took a knee before the half-naked Gabriel hanging from the rack
Gabriel remained silent, not trusting his voice to work as the senior Knight began to speak. A flicker of mirth flashed across Oscar's green eyes as they met Gabriel's own brown. "The first is very simple. A representative of the Church has reviewed the council's declaration of guilt and has found it wanting." Gabriel felt a spark of hope dance across his Immortal Soul, that he would be freed from the weight of sin. It was resplendent, a light, joyful thing that lit up the world around it. Before it was ruthlessly squashed by Oscar's next words.
"They found the intensity of the penance to be wanting, dear brother of my beloved wife." An involuntary snarl almost escapes across Gabriel's dried face before he quashes it. The subtle reminder of his sister fills his mind, an unwanted image of Anne's wedding day emerging from the mire of his memories. "And have decided that you must undergo a stronger penance as a result."
"What have they in mind?" Gabriel whispered and Oscar tossed the question around, considering it from every angle before responding.
"Execution was thrown around." Gabriel closed his eyes and let his head hang at the news. It wasn't that he was saddened, though he very much was, it was more out of acceptance. After all, far worse penances have happened for far lesser sins. This, by far, was a far more deserved penance for his actions. "Though it was ultimately discarded."
"In favor of…?" Gabriel lifted his head again as Oscar forced him to ask yet again.
"Exile." Oscar said brightly as Gabriel's world crumbled to its foundations as his heart's prayer skipped a beat.
"E-exile?" Gabriel felt faint, like he couldn't truly comprehend the words his ears tell him he's hearing. Exile… The members of House Blackmayne are a cursed line, the foppish nobles of the court often whisper behind hand-covered mouths, where they thought Gabriel couldn't hear them. Not once has a Blackmayne ever deserved the position granted to them, not once has a Blackmayne ever not made a mockery of the traditions of Knightly favor.
His father was in the far north in the hills of dreary Scotland, having spent the last ten years battling the barbaric hordes of the hated highlander clans. Like Gabriel, he was only a Third-Rate Knight and he would likely only ever be a Third-Rate Knight. Even after eighty years of prayer.
His dearest Annebeth was forced to marry down to an unlanded Hedge Knight, as no other noble family wanted anything to do with the 'Blackmayne Curse'. The disrespect showered on Gabriel when the other Squires learned of the impending marriage haunts him to this day. Not to tell of being almost immediately overshadowed by the Hedge Knight's meteoric rise in the Order of the Weeping Rose.
And Gabriel himself… the stinging pain from the wounds on his back are all that he needs to think of to be reminded of his own failures.
The bonds binding his arms to the poles of the rack creaked and groaned as he accidentally flexed. The muscles of his arms strained against the hardened leather straps keeping him in place. A flash of worry leaped across Oscar's face, the sword on his waist gaining a new weight as the First-Rate Knight lays a gauntlet-clad hand on the gaudy gold, gem-encrusted pommel.
The difference between a Knight of the First-Rate and a Knight of the Third may have been the distance between Heaven and Hell, but it is a well-known fact that it only takes a single misstep to fall from Heaven.
"Exile until four acts of virtue are accomplished." A new, more venerable voice joins the near-empty courtyard.
Lord Barnabus of Brackenbury, Knight-Commander of the Blackstone Garrison, emerged from a side door on the other end of the courtyard. Long, gray hair billowed from his wrinkled and sun kissed face, forming a long, well-kept beard that hung about his belly. He spoke softly, his voice like the bells of an Angelic choir, but his words were carried far by the wind.
It is said that the Virtue Rauchel was awed by the skill and talent of Lord Barnabus' singing when he was a child. The angel decided to grant Lord Barnabus dominion over the winds, so that his voice could be heard wherever he went. Even now, hundreds of years later, Lord Barnabus' voice is like that of his youthful, boyish self.
"Ser Gabriel Lazarus Blackmayne, Third-Rate Knight of the Order of the Weeping Rose," Lord Barnabus grew ever louder as his steady steps ate up the distance, "you are guilty of dereliction of duty, consorting with the demonic, and, worst of all, failure to defend the souls of your flock. You are charged with a trial of absolution."
He came to a stop before the wooden rack. With a quiet whisper and a silent whistle, a gust of wind unbound the leather straps keeping Gabriel from falling. The sun-warmed floors of Castle Blackstone's courtyard greeted Gabriel as he met it face-first, his arms unable to support his weight.
Gabriel didn't miss the smirk Oscar sent his way, nor did he miss the scornful look Lord Barnabus sent Oscar's way in response. It felt good to see that pompous, arrogant cur straighten up and standing as straight as an arrow. Too good. Gabriel quietly chastised himself for so easily taking joy from others' suffering. Though he did allow himself a single silent, internal laugh as Oscar felt the sudden need to leave the courtyard.
"Your trial is as such." Lord Barnabus' voice grew in strength as he filled it with his Faith, sounding more like rolling thunder far in the distance than any mortal tongue. "You shall hunt the Hellwrought Cathayians to the ends of the Earth. Until your penance is complete, and all four Demonspawn lay slaughtered like dogs at your feet, you shall know neither the comfort of home nor the love of family."
The Knight-Commander radiated power and authority, even the lowest rung of The Lord possessed undeniable control over their lessers. While the difference between a Knight of the First and a Knight of the Third is akin to the distance between Heaven and Hell, a Knight of the First is only knocking on the Pearly Gates while a Knight-Commander has been welcomed in.
The light of God was draped across his powerful shoulders like a white shroud as he retrieved a long, wrapped package from the folds of the holy cloth. The cloth of divinity faded into white sparkles that lingered for a scant few moments in the wake of Lord Barnabus.
Lord Barnabus laid out the vaguely sword-shaped package before Gabriel, who, with tired arms, began untying the golden rope holding the linen covering together. The sword contained within the cloth was something that Gabriel recognized with dawning horror embracing his mind.
The Sword of the Blackmayne, the Blacksteel Blade, gleamed, sparkles of the sun's ever-present glory glistened in the steel. Ripples of latent, untapped Faith ran over the cutting edge's black steel, the leftover remnants of its former masters. The Sword was a relatively plain affair, especially when compared to the gaudy, bejeweled pommel of Oscar's sword. It had a pommel made of common iron, a wooden grip wrapped in corded, sweat-stained leather, a plain, unadorned crossguard, and a broad, black blade no longer than hip to mid-shin.
It was the sword of Gabriel's father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father passing down the line of the Blackmayne for untold generations. And if the sword was here now… Gabriel strengthened his will as realization clears the fog in his mind. With his will buoyed by his Faith, Gabriel focused entirely on arresting his gorge's rising intent.
Ser Michael Arthur Blackmayne, Third-Rate Knight of the Order of the Weeping Rose and father of Ser Gabriel Lazarus Blackmayne and Lady Annabeth Mourngully née Blackmayne, has died.
"I am… sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Ser Blackmayne." Lord Barnabus whispered gently as he lifted Gabriel to his feet. His voice was soft and soothing to Gabriel's ears. It carried a song of healing Faith to the numb and trembling Knight.
Faith tingled as it ran calming fingers through Gabriel's hair. Far in the back of Gabriel's mind, he recalled the warmth of his mother and the meaningless sounds of her voice lulling a young Gabriel to pleasant, dreamless slumber. Slowly, lifted by the distant memories of almost forgotten childhood, Gabriel's bare shoulders stopped quivering.
"Come now, child." At any other time, in any other place, Gabriel might have recoiled at being called something as demeaning as 'child'. But right now — with his father dead and Gabriel himself near-naked under the arms of the penance rack — Gabriel felt like exactly that: a child. "This is no place to fall apart and collapse in on yourself."
Lord Barnabus pulled Gabriel away from the rack, away from the sword, taking Gabriel towards the door he had emerged from. A flash of determination overtook the young Third-Rate Knight as a wave of strength rushed through Gabriel's weary limbs.
He struggled and fought against the gentle grasp of the Knight-Commander as hard as he could Gabriel struggled weakly in the Knight-Commander's arms, fighting just long enough to wrap a hand around the grip of the Blacksteel Blade. As soon as Gabriel's fingers wrapped around the hilt, the sudden surge of strength left his body and he fell limp in Lord Barnabus' arms.
The sword trailed behind the pair, Gabriel's fingers somehow finding the strength to keep the sword from falling.
All that was left in the courtyard now was square stones, grassy fields, a sandy pit for training purposes.
And the empty arms of a penitent rack patiently awaiting its next occupant.
0~0~0
AN2: For the record, most of this is non-canon.
Apologies for any weird edginess, I was, like, 16, 17, or 18 when I wrote this.
0~0~0
The Knight
Ser Gabriel Blackmayne — a young Knight only a mere two years out of his Squirehood — was in pain. He felt the lashes of the whip against his back, burning and stinging in the air. Nine lashes in total, nine ragged strips of skin missing from his muscular back. One for every soul stolen away while under his watch.
The hardened leather straps binding his wrists to the wood frame of the rack bit deep into his skin. Those harsh, angry red marks would be left there for months on end, possibly years. Sweat dripped off him, matting his brown hair to his head as the wet trails trickled down his toned body. The only thing keeping his modesty was a linen cloth draped around his waist, and even that was thick enough to conceal yet thin enough to not provide any protection against the elements.
Gabriel had been here — hanging from the rack with his open injuries on display for any passerby in the courtyard of Castle Blackstone to see — for eight days straight, and was currently on his ninth and final day in the sun. And yet his Faith was strong. The soft tones of heartfelt prayer filled his ears as his cracked lips recited prayer after prayer, begging for absolution.
I deserve this, Gabriel's thoughts whispered in the dark recesses of his mind. And Gabriel knew this to be true. He did deserve the lash; in fact, he deserved far worse a fate than something as mundane as mere physical punishment. How could he, a sworn Third-Rate Knight of the Order of the Weeping Rose, allow such a terrible fate to befall the flock supposedly under his protection?
God's Bones! They were demons, Hellspawn! Gabriel could feel it on them the moment he laid eyes on those four hooded travelers emerging from the darkness beyond the campfire's light. He could smell the cloying stench of the unholy misbegotten clinging to them like an inescapable cloak of miasma. He should have pulled steel and cut them down the moment he laid holy eyes on their twisted, foreign forms.
But Gabriel didn't. He sinned, his curiosity getting the best of him, and his flock paid the price.
Demons of a foreign land, of a place where different stars hang in the night sky and heretic gods walk amongst men. The concept intrigued him, stoking the fires of Gabriel's curiosity. The demons were of Cathayian origins. Or, as the hellwrought claimed, they were Jin from the far flung lands of Zhongguo.
The quartet of demons knew what they were doing. They knew how to twist their words and peddle their foul, heretical magicks. They kept Gabriel on the edge of his seat as they recounted their story. The tale of how they traveled so very far had Gabriel hanging off their every word. The campfire's smoke was coerced into serving as a sickly sweet scent that befuddled his mind and dulled his senses.
And then, the Cathayian demons lulled naive Gabriel into a steady slumber, free of any dreams or nightmares. They were not idle in the brief respite their spells and sorceries had bought them and the abominations in human flesh made short work of the sleeping company of unprepared and all too mortal pilgrims.
Nine souls of pilgrims most pious, damned to an eternity of whatever torments the whelps of Hell delighted in dealing. And it was all his fault. It was all on him. Fourteen years of near constant training that began the moment he turned seven, all of it wasted. What was the point of all that work, all that effort, if it was all for him to discard it the moment a creature of the night emerged?
Gabriel could only hope that the Lord of All, God Almighty, saw fit to absolve him of sin.
"Gabriel Lazarus Blackmayne, you are the last person I would expect to bear the Lashes of Absolution. Yet, upon further contemplation, I can't help but think that there isn't a person more deserving of it than you." A familiar voice draws Gabriel from his Faith-born contemplation as a large shadow falls across his almost-naked form. Half-dry hair stuck to Gabriel's skin and face as he slowly, laboriously, lifted his exhausted head to lay eyes on this mysterious speaker.
Gabriel traced the figure of the obvious Knight before him. His eyes crept along the resplendent plate armor of the Order of the Weeping Rose, the shine of the polished steel was iridescent in the light of the harsh sun. It was the armor of a First-Rate Knight, a mere few rungs away from the authority of the nobleman. Gabriel lingered on the symbol of the Order emblazoned onto a basgue — a part of plate armor that protects the armpit — the vibrant red of the wilting rose freshly painted on the round metal. Gabriel could not delay forever, he had to meet eyes with the familiarity casting shadows.
The face of his beloved little sister's husband — Gabriel's senior by sixty years and First-Rate Knight — stared back at Gabriel as his eyes finally revealed the identity of the stranger before him. His brother-in-law was the very image of pious magnaminty as he peered down at him with a stoic expression.
"Oscar Ezekiel Mourngully, have you nothing better to do than to mock a repentant man? Or have you come with alternate purpose in mind?" Gabriel's voice was quiet and dry as he greeted his brother-in-law — oh how it pains him to admit that as true — in kind. His voice croaked with the strain laid upon his vocal cords by simply speaking. After all, it has been almost nine days since Gabriel last exchanged words with someone. And that was simply to consent to the council's ruling of the penance owed.
"I had come with dual intent, dear brother-by-law." Ser Oscar replied with foppish fervor, a subtle smirk breaking through the stoic bulwark. His armor — the glorious shine of the immaculate metal forced Gabriel to squint — made nary a sound as the First-Rate Knight took a knee before the half-naked Gabriel hanging from the rack
Gabriel remained silent, not trusting his voice to work as the senior Knight began to speak. A flicker of mirth flashed across Oscar's green eyes as they met Gabriel's own brown. "The first is very simple. A representative of the Church has reviewed the council's declaration of guilt and has found it wanting." Gabriel felt a spark of hope dance across his Immortal Soul, that he would be freed from the weight of sin. It was resplendent, a light, joyful thing that lit up the world around it. Before it was ruthlessly squashed by Oscar's next words.
"They found the intensity of the penance to be wanting, dear brother of my beloved wife." An involuntary snarl almost escapes across Gabriel's dried face before he quashes it. The subtle reminder of his sister fills his mind, an unwanted image of Anne's wedding day emerging from the mire of his memories. "And have decided that you must undergo a stronger penance as a result."
"What have they in mind?" Gabriel whispered and Oscar tossed the question around, considering it from every angle before responding.
"Execution was thrown around." Gabriel closed his eyes and let his head hang at the news. It wasn't that he was saddened, though he very much was, it was more out of acceptance. After all, far worse penances have happened for far lesser sins. This, by far, was a far more deserved penance for his actions. "Though it was ultimately discarded."
"In favor of…?" Gabriel lifted his head again as Oscar forced him to ask yet again.
"Exile." Oscar said brightly as Gabriel's world crumbled to its foundations as his heart's prayer skipped a beat.
"E-exile?" Gabriel felt faint, like he couldn't truly comprehend the words his ears tell him he's hearing. Exile… The members of House Blackmayne are a cursed line, the foppish nobles of the court often whisper behind hand-covered mouths, where they thought Gabriel couldn't hear them. Not once has a Blackmayne ever deserved the position granted to them, not once has a Blackmayne ever not made a mockery of the traditions of Knightly favor.
His father was in the far north in the hills of dreary Scotland, having spent the last ten years battling the barbaric hordes of the hated highlander clans. Like Gabriel, he was only a Third-Rate Knight and he would likely only ever be a Third-Rate Knight. Even after eighty years of prayer.
His dearest Annebeth was forced to marry down to an unlanded Hedge Knight, as no other noble family wanted anything to do with the 'Blackmayne Curse'. The disrespect showered on Gabriel when the other Squires learned of the impending marriage haunts him to this day. Not to tell of being almost immediately overshadowed by the Hedge Knight's meteoric rise in the Order of the Weeping Rose.
And Gabriel himself… the stinging pain from the wounds on his back are all that he needs to think of to be reminded of his own failures.
The bonds binding his arms to the poles of the rack creaked and groaned as he accidentally flexed. The muscles of his arms strained against the hardened leather straps keeping him in place. A flash of worry leaped across Oscar's face, the sword on his waist gaining a new weight as the First-Rate Knight lays a gauntlet-clad hand on the gaudy gold, gem-encrusted pommel.
The difference between a Knight of the First-Rate and a Knight of the Third may have been the distance between Heaven and Hell, but it is a well-known fact that it only takes a single misstep to fall from Heaven.
"Exile until four acts of virtue are accomplished." A new, more venerable voice joins the near-empty courtyard.
Lord Barnabus of Brackenbury, Knight-Commander of the Blackstone Garrison, emerged from a side door on the other end of the courtyard. Long, gray hair billowed from his wrinkled and sun kissed face, forming a long, well-kept beard that hung about his belly. He spoke softly, his voice like the bells of an Angelic choir, but his words were carried far by the wind.
It is said that the Virtue Rauchel was awed by the skill and talent of Lord Barnabus' singing when he was a child. The angel decided to grant Lord Barnabus dominion over the winds, so that his voice could be heard wherever he went. Even now, hundreds of years later, Lord Barnabus' voice is like that of his youthful, boyish self.
"Ser Gabriel Lazarus Blackmayne, Third-Rate Knight of the Order of the Weeping Rose," Lord Barnabus grew ever louder as his steady steps ate up the distance, "you are guilty of dereliction of duty, consorting with the demonic, and, worst of all, failure to defend the souls of your flock. You are charged with a trial of absolution."
He came to a stop before the wooden rack. With a quiet whisper and a silent whistle, a gust of wind unbound the leather straps keeping Gabriel from falling. The sun-warmed floors of Castle Blackstone's courtyard greeted Gabriel as he met it face-first, his arms unable to support his weight.
Gabriel didn't miss the smirk Oscar sent his way, nor did he miss the scornful look Lord Barnabus sent Oscar's way in response. It felt good to see that pompous, arrogant cur straighten up and standing as straight as an arrow. Too good. Gabriel quietly chastised himself for so easily taking joy from others' suffering. Though he did allow himself a single silent, internal laugh as Oscar felt the sudden need to leave the courtyard.
"Your trial is as such." Lord Barnabus' voice grew in strength as he filled it with his Faith, sounding more like rolling thunder far in the distance than any mortal tongue. "You shall hunt the Hellwrought Cathayians to the ends of the Earth. Until your penance is complete, and all four Demonspawn lay slaughtered like dogs at your feet, you shall know neither the comfort of home nor the love of family."
The Knight-Commander radiated power and authority, even the lowest rung of The Lord possessed undeniable control over their lessers. While the difference between a Knight of the First and a Knight of the Third is akin to the distance between Heaven and Hell, a Knight of the First is only knocking on the Pearly Gates while a Knight-Commander has been welcomed in.
The light of God was draped across his powerful shoulders like a white shroud as he retrieved a long, wrapped package from the folds of the holy cloth. The cloth of divinity faded into white sparkles that lingered for a scant few moments in the wake of Lord Barnabus.
Lord Barnabus laid out the vaguely sword-shaped package before Gabriel, who, with tired arms, began untying the golden rope holding the linen covering together. The sword contained within the cloth was something that Gabriel recognized with dawning horror embracing his mind.
The Sword of the Blackmayne, the Blacksteel Blade, gleamed, sparkles of the sun's ever-present glory glistened in the steel. Ripples of latent, untapped Faith ran over the cutting edge's black steel, the leftover remnants of its former masters. The Sword was a relatively plain affair, especially when compared to the gaudy, bejeweled pommel of Oscar's sword. It had a pommel made of common iron, a wooden grip wrapped in corded, sweat-stained leather, a plain, unadorned crossguard, and a broad, black blade no longer than hip to mid-shin.
It was the sword of Gabriel's father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father passing down the line of the Blackmayne for untold generations. And if the sword was here now… Gabriel strengthened his will as realization clears the fog in his mind. With his will buoyed by his Faith, Gabriel focused entirely on arresting his gorge's rising intent.
Ser Michael Arthur Blackmayne, Third-Rate Knight of the Order of the Weeping Rose and father of Ser Gabriel Lazarus Blackmayne and Lady Annabeth Mourngully née Blackmayne, has died.
"I am… sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Ser Blackmayne." Lord Barnabus whispered gently as he lifted Gabriel to his feet. His voice was soft and soothing to Gabriel's ears. It carried a song of healing Faith to the numb and trembling Knight.
Faith tingled as it ran calming fingers through Gabriel's hair. Far in the back of Gabriel's mind, he recalled the warmth of his mother and the meaningless sounds of her voice lulling a young Gabriel to pleasant, dreamless slumber. Slowly, lifted by the distant memories of almost forgotten childhood, Gabriel's bare shoulders stopped quivering.
"Come now, child." At any other time, in any other place, Gabriel might have recoiled at being called something as demeaning as 'child'. But right now — with his father dead and Gabriel himself near-naked under the arms of the penance rack — Gabriel felt like exactly that: a child. "This is no place to fall apart and collapse in on yourself."
Lord Barnabus pulled Gabriel away from the rack, away from the sword, taking Gabriel towards the door he had emerged from. A flash of determination overtook the young Third-Rate Knight as a wave of strength rushed through Gabriel's weary limbs.
He struggled and fought against the gentle grasp of the Knight-Commander as hard as he could Gabriel struggled weakly in the Knight-Commander's arms, fighting just long enough to wrap a hand around the grip of the Blacksteel Blade. As soon as Gabriel's fingers wrapped around the hilt, the sudden surge of strength left his body and he fell limp in Lord Barnabus' arms.
The sword trailed behind the pair, Gabriel's fingers somehow finding the strength to keep the sword from falling.
All that was left in the courtyard now was square stones, grassy fields, a sandy pit for training purposes.
And the empty arms of a penitent rack patiently awaiting its next occupant.
0~0~0
AN2: For the record, most of this is non-canon.
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