The Sanguine Arts
Created
Status
Ongoing
Watchers
5
Recent readers
0


For reasons unknown, James—a deceased, possibly psychopathic, expert in the field of Polemology and the History of Human Conflict—is recruited by a shadowy individual for… indeterminate purposes.
Meanwhile, in Udoris, another Great War looms on the horizon; one borne of greed, vengeance and a warmongering reincarnator's seemingly petulant whims.​
PROLOGUE: A Kingdom Ablaze

Ravenaelwood

The Mortal Dreamer
Location
Nigeria
Pronouns
He
[IMG]


-A Kingdom Ablaze-​


[07.13.1623]​

Bycrest.

The clamour of bloodied beasts, the thunderous rasp of iron upon iron, the roar of cannons and the barbarous shouts of war echoed throughout the capital. Inhuman discord filled the air. All around was nothing but a whirlwind of violence, confusion and disorder, a blur of despairing colour and vicious motion.

War; A bloody brawl of men clashing savagely in alleyways, on muddy roads and cobblestone streets. Their blades cut through flesh like a reaper's scythe in a field of harvest. Their throats, parched and panting, inhaled the dust-laden air mingled with the bitter tang of iron and copper. Deafening—blood pounded in their ears, drumming to a ferocious beat beneath their helmets.

Hertalean invaders, marked by the draconic emblems of their lineages, breached the fortress of Maira with the aid of treachery, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake as they sought the downfall of the Algrian royal stronghold. Yet, the defenders of Algria fought back with valour, though the prolonged battles and the weight of their arms began to wear upon their mortal frames. Still, they pressed on, determined to reclaim what was lost, their spirits unyielding against the onslaught of their enemies.

Far off in the distance, perched upon the ramparts of another bastion, stood the commanding duke. Clad in bloodstained armour the colour of night, his steely gaze fixed upon the battlefield. He sat astride a majestic black steed, the late autumn breeze tousling his hair as sweat traced lines down his face, stinging at his eyes like tiny vipers.

"It seems we continue to lose ground, Your Majesty," Duke Aden spoke with a gruffness that matched the harshness of the conflict, his voice cold and unyielding as he surveyed the rising smoke in the distance. "The city watch, even bolstered by the King's Guard and my finest men, cannot hold Bastion Trost. The same fate awaits Sina and Rose. Reports speak of scant powder remaining in the armoury, our cannons soon to fall silent. It is but a matter of time before our enemies breach our defences."

Beside the duke, a younger man, likely in his thirties, sat upon a white steed, his weariness evident as he gazed upon the battleground before him. King Leonard, his armour gleaming like silver, turned his gaze from the grim scenery to meet the duke's, a sense of resignation settling upon his features.

"Indeed," the king agreed solemnly. "I never envisioned such a dire outcome, brother."

"Nor I, Your Majesty," the duke concurred.

A silence, heavy with contemplation, hung between them.

"Aden."

"Speak your thoughts, Sire."

Another pause, briefer this time, before the king spoke again, his tone laced with resignation.

"Flee," he commanded. "Take my heir and Queen and flee. The tunnels to the west; my beloved knows of them. She will guide you."

"This? Your Majesty-"

"Aden. Please."

The sovereign turned away, a pained smile touching his lips as he faced the onslaught once more. A gust of wind stirred his hair, and for the briefest of moments, time appeared frozen in place.

"This is the consequence of my folly, a trial I must face alone, bound by oath and duty," Leonard sighed heavily. "There is no merit in dragging those I hold dear into this turmoil. This burden is mine to bear alone."

Aden met the king's gaze, his resolve unwavering.

"If this is your decree, Your Majesty, then I shall obey," the duke affirmed, nudging his steed as he prepared to depart.

"But remember this, Leonard..." With his back still to the king, Aden spoke again, his words heavy with meaning.

"What is it?" the king inquired, facing his loyal companion once more.

"Stay alive. Should you fall―"

"Fear not," Leonard interrupted with a rueful chuckle. "This king is not so easily vanquished. Go now, brother. May the ancestors be with you."

With that Duke Aden left his liege and sworn brother behind to his fate.







Disclosable information:

  • 07.13.1623S.T. (The seventh day of the thirteenth month, Aten, of the Year 1623. Symfora Telos.)
  • Bastion wall/fort- The Bastion Fort is a fortification in a style that evolved during the early modern period of gunpowder when the cannon came to dominate the battlefield. It was first seen in the first half of the century shortly after the introduction of gunpowder weapons in Verum, Anno.
 
001 - Rebirth


001 - Rebirth​

To scorn death.​



{Excerpt}​
It is with heavy hearts that we announce the passing of James T. Earl, who bravely fought cancer until his final moments at the hospital on July 14, 2025. Though he has left this world, his legacy will endure in the hearts of those who knew and loved him. He is survived by his Aunt Mary Wilson, cousins Karen, Talon, and Madison, and grandparents Jeanette and Douggie.

A young yet renowned historian in the field of polemology, James will be remembered by his family, friends and colleagues for the loving passion and regard he held towards his career. His zest for wargaming, wildfowling and mountaineering, and even less known, his secret, ardent affection towards sweets and sugary pastries will also not be forgotten.

While we mourn his loss here on Earth, we take solace in knowing that James is reunited with his parents, Joan and Mia Earl, in the loving embrace of heaven. A private funeral service was held at St. Mary's Catholic Church on Sunday, August 16, 2025, and a memorial service will be announced for a later date.

Please do not send flowers. Remembrances may be made to...

...

In Loving Memory: Excerpt from James Earl's Obituary, written and published by his surviving maternal aunt, Mary Wilson, in XXXX, on the 30th of July, 2027.

{END}



11.13.1623​

Faywyn.

STRANGE as it was, in a state betwixt consciousness and slumber, James recalled a verse he once read penned by an English bard long gone: "Busy old fool," it said, unruly sun, "Why dost thou thus, through windows, and through curtains call on us?" The morn's sun, as ever, was a pettish mistress. Her golden fingers reached for his sleeping form as a dusty beam, seeking to probe him from a restful slumber. Petulant.

The air hung heavy with the scent of myrrh, vinegar and honey. James felt the cool touch of a damp cloth glide across his chest, its sudden chill jolting him from his slumber. He gasped. Pain wracked his body, a throbbing ache coursing through his veins, gripping muscles and bones alike. Groaning, he reached for his head, fingers encountering the crisp edges of bandages swathed around his throbbing skull. With effort, his eyelids fluttered open, breaking the seal of sleep's embrace. Pupils contracting against the sudden brightness, James gazed at the ceiling, confusion etching his features.

What happened?

"My lord?" A voice trembled at his side.

Turning to the speaker, James met the gaze of a woman in her prime. She sat beside him, a wet cloth suspended in her hand. Realization dawned upon him in the next moment; he was unclothed, save for a modest covering over his loins.

The woman, likely a nurse or caretaker, James surmised, though her attire puzzled him. Clad in a cream-hued linen gown beneath a brown tunic, her mature figure was modestly veiled. Locks of dark brown hair, longer than his own, cascaded beneath a cream wimple. Silently, he regarded her, her initial worry giving way to joy.

"My Lord, you awaken!" the nurse exclaimed.

James surveyed the unfamiliar chamber, its décor modest yet comforting; ancient bookshelves flanked his bed, alongside a study table. Unlit candles adorned ornate stands, casting soft shadows. To his left, a polished copper pane reflected the room, framed by ivy and stone. Comfortable yet unfamiliar... before familiarity flooded back.

Confusion swirled within him.

James glanced down, noting clean bandages encircling his torso. Discarded gauze and salves lay nearby, evidence of recent care. Hissing as he shifted, he attempted to sit upright.

"Take heed, my lord," another voice cautioned from across the room, hoarse yet authoritative. "Rest, for your wounds are still raw." James turned to see a man rise from the shadows, dressed in dark attire that blended seamlessly with the shadows. Dark brown tunic and arming coat draped a figure with chiselled features, dark hair, and sloe-like eyes.

Suspicion flickered within James, his eyes narrowing warily; he did not recognise the man. Nor the nurse for that matter.

"My Lord… how fare you?" the stranger inquired, joining the nurse at his side.

"What happened to me?" James queried, struggling to parse his thoughts. Then it all came to him at once; a disorientating mess of memory and emotions:

A violent clash.

Confusion.

Spilt gold from a chest.

Betrayal.

A blinding fire, smoke billowing. Dead bodies with vaguely familiar faces.

Rage. Self Loathing.

A rather antiquated crossbow aimed at another figure,

Terror
.

And James himself, tumbling down a flight of stairs amidst pain as a bolt found its mark in his lower torso.

Resignation intermixed with relief.

"Who are you!?" James demanded, heaving. The sound of his laboured breathing abruptly reached his ears. Startled, he let go of the bedsheets he had been gripping onto in shock.

"...ung lord! Young lord! Levi! What ails you?"

"Who are you?!" James asked again, reeling away from the stranger even as a bolt of pain lanced through his ribs.

The man faltered, his expression paling. His outstretched arm hung in mid-air before stiffly withdrawing. "Young lord, do you not recall me? It is I, Lancelot, your father's Viscount."

James paused, memories coalescing.

"Lancelot… Lancelot von Dragoon?" he ventured, a memory sliding into place.

"Aye," the man affirmed, relief colouring his features.

Turning to the nurse, James spoke, "Sarah?"

"Yes, My lord," she replied with a smile.

"Yet... who am I?" he murmured, uncertainty clouding his mind.

Silence gripped the room, unbroken even as the strangers exchanged worried glances.

"Levi, My Lord," Lancelot ventured, "You are Levi von Greifenburg. Earl of Faywyn, son of His Grace, Aden von Greifenburg, Duke of Faywyn and Governor-protector of Souville Province."

"No," James shook his head, confusion deepening. "No, I am not."

A memory surged within him, awakening realization.

"I am not dead?" he whispered, panic lacing his words.

"Am I?"
 
002 - Rebirth


002 - Rebirth​

To scorn her loving embrace.​

[NULL]​

THE void to James was the silent exhale of a raging storm; turbulent, murky. It was the taste of shadows on snow; cold. Wintry. It was the gap between consciousness and unconsciousness; a soft touch—the finale after the climax of mortal liveness. In it everything was meaningful and meaningless, through ups and downs; in the hazy fog of awareness—neither strong nor supple. Unified as a single haunt.

The Silence.

The void interested him no more, the once curiously overwhelming stillness now calming. Boring. A dull ringing in his head. An echo. A forgotten ache. It was an everlasting cycle, in which sound had no path, and light, the weight of a star, but seldom espied.

…it hurts.

Through these ponderously hollow days of postmortem nostalgia, under the weight of boundless desolation, James walked. Once upon a time, he would weep in ambivalent longing, a pair of misty, ethereal eyes, emblems of his grief. An aching void in his chest; a barren heart in the evanescent stillness. Then he wept no more. It was pointless. The futility drowned out his hopes, garotting his yearnings with a rather relentless zest.

Why?

Before him was a trail of bone-white cobblestones, forming a floating pathway through the great barren expanse. With each step he took, his bare feet tapped inaudibly on the unstable rocks; the manifestation of his Johnny gown rustling mutedly as it trailed along with his ethereal form. Once upon a time, James would ponder, sometimes serenely, sometimes not, upon the unnerving implications borne as a result of his current existence. He no longer cared though, not even as the remnants of other lost souls lingering in the void caressed him in a rather disturbing manner—the numbing obscurity tainted by their ghastly remains. He could still sense it, the unease that permeated this plane; the resentment and discontent that imbued the very essence of this existence. Even so, he walked his path, in silence.

James knew not how far he had travelled. Or how long; for it could have been a mere moment, stretched beyond belief, or an eternity. It was disconsolate how little the difference mattered here. How insignificant all he once held dear was in the face of a timeless continuance.

He stopped—bobbing almost comically on a single, teetering foothold—to stare curiously at a flaring orb of light suspended in the void to his right: In the near-perpetually barren emptiness, it was a rather rare, if odd, sight indeed. Strange it was, being able to see it without truly seeing; able to feel its consoling warmth, an assuring certainty that it was there, without truly feeling. Familiar in ways James could not recall. Hazy, but familiar.

Beneath this miniature star was another separate… space. A wormhole. One akin to a gate to another state of existence. An emptiness within another, whose very existence defied all conventional logic. And floating within this said void were several phantasmal figures intermittently phasing in and out of perception. They were restrained at the feet by ethereal tethers that extended back beyond the rim of the 'gate'. Though they floated around blindly, they never wandered. Seemingly…

Afraid.

Curious, James lightly hopped forward, leaving the surety of the stone path to stop by the uncertainty that was the rim of the gate. Peering in, he eagerly extended a finger into the void to touch one of the smoky spectres within before, just as quickly, retracting the appendage. With a suppressed wince, his fascinated gaze panned from his slightly faded finger to the stygian beings trapped beneath the orb of light.

"I would be more careful if I were you," a voice drawled, breaking the solemn, seemingly nigh-impregnable silence that surrounded him. "They are called voidlings; intriguing, yes, but given they subsist entirely on transmatter they would be quite lethal to a being such as yourself."

James looked up, stunned. "Who?" he asked.

"The name's Hue Dwyn but you can refer to me as the Ordinator—" A burst of static"—hat's yours, stranger?"

"...James. James Earl."

"Lovely to make your acquaintance Mr Earl," the one referred to as Hue replied. "Though I am aware how sudden my appearance here might seem, so as not to waste both our time—a very precious resource these days—I am here to offer you a contract; one in which a return trip to the physical plane would be arranged for you as well as a physical vessel to house your unbound soul upon arrival. In exchange, you would be consenting to participate in a privately funded experimental program after which, upon completion, your soul would be recovered and stored in stasis for future research."

Silence.

"...What?"

"Is there a problem, Mr Earl?"

James was confused, his gaze flickering about in search of the disembodied voice. "Is this a joke?" he asked, brows furrowed curiously.

"No, I am very much serious, Mr Earl."

More silence.

"...Are you aware of what you just asked of me?" James asked, confused. "Did you expect me to accept this… contract?"

"Indeed, I did," Hue replied, humming sagely. "Though I detect refusal in your tone. That might prove a tad... problematic. Moving this anchor point here cost the Company a lot of resources, and given my calculations already showed that you fulfilled three of the most important criteria—amorality, opportunism and adaptability—I would find it hard to explain to top brass why I failed to recruit you. There's also the moral dilemma of leaving a rare, valuable asset like yourself to waste away and be digested by the void. We can't have that, can we now?"

"I will be… digested?"

"Eventually," Hue replied in a disturbingly dismissive manner. "While your innate resistance and impressive perception of self might offer some protection to your transmatter core from the twilight sea's corrosion, you only have another three dozen lightspans or so before you are fully assimilated and recycled."

Another burst of static.

James fell silent as his inscrutable gaze wandered from the orb to the void behind him; the cold sensation of remnant souls caressing his skin intensifying.

"How am I sure you aren't gaslighting me into agreeing to something I would come to regret later down the line? Also, you haven't even explained to me how being a lab rat for presumably all of eternity is a better alternative to letting nature take its course," James replied, turning around to face the orb. "Surely, you did not expect I would agree without knowing what it is I would be agreeing to, did you?"

"Of course not! If you could give me a moment," Hue replied before murmuring faintly, seemingly to himself. "Now where did I drop that brochure? ... Ah! Found it. Ahem. I could enlighten you on our sustainability goals for the next two hundred lightspans, as well as the positively cosmos-friendly, relatively safe and harmless nature of the program if that would assuage some of your doubts."

A pregnant pause filled the void.

More static.

"No, no! Please, go ahead! Enlighten me on how that might help assuage my many, many doubts?" James said, his tone taking on a guise of polite curiosity, irritated.

"It worked once before," Hue replied, his shrug palpable from his tone alone.

"It did? Whatever. Could I at least get more information? Like, what the program is about? Or what the end goals of the organisation you represent are?"

"Mostly, experimentation and data collection," came Hue's non-answer.

"OK?"

"As I said, I am sorry, Mr Earl, but any additional information is considered classified, hence, I am required by my NDA to enforce its secrecy."

"Sure…" James replied, doubtful, "But can I at least know the name of the entity offering to me what I assume should be a legal agreement?'

"Absolutely… not, Sir James. Classified."

Silence.

"I could enlighten you further on our sustainability goals for the next two hundred lightspans if you are still interested," the disembodied voice offered again.

"This is one very shady deal,"

"But you are interested, or, at the very least, curious. So, do we have an agreement?" Hue asked, clearly unperturbed.

There was another pause. A beat of hesitation. Then…

"Fine," James shrugged, letting his crossed arms fall back to his sides, "where do I sign?"

"I approve of that decision, Mr Earl!"

James tsked in response. "I'm sure you do."

"What would I be doing anyway?" He asked, his gaze wandering back towards the wormhole beneath his feet. "Are there any specific instructions I need to follow or―"

"Very well," Hue lilted, interrupting him. "Your Transdimensional ID has been issued, approved and added to the database. Please standby for transfer; temporal link established; transferring … now."

The Ordinator fell silent for a moment before adding. "Lovely working with you, Mr Earl. Safe travels. And good luck; you are going to be needing it where you are going."

'...Huh? Wait, what is that supposed to―'

***
Later.

James sat at Lord Aden's desk, shirtless as he stared out at the moonlit night. The beautiful starry sky was unpolluted by city lights, and his fair skin was adorned with glistening beads of sweat. To his side rested a mirror of copper; with but a glance, he beheld his starlit reflection—a tangled mass of slick obsidian locks, concealed partly by bandages, encircled his fair and smooth countenance. Delicate, rosy lips, more suited to a maid's face, graced his features. And within his gaze, limpid orbs of blue-green of a seemingly timeless hue whispered tales of azure skies, tranquil lakes, and steadfast woods.

It was a captivating sight indeed. The reflection that met his eyes was fair.

Exceedingly so.

James, burdened by a touch of self-awareness, deemed himself somewhat vain, believing his former appearance to be nigh perfect, if not the very closest. Yet now, he harboured doubts. Gone was his endearing mane of light brown, vanished were his bewitching emerald eyes, faded were the charming freckles he cherished dearly... Yet, this transformation was not wholly dire.

Amidst the open fields, the autumn chorus of katydids resounded faintly, whilst eerie shadows danced upon the stone walls, swaying to the silent tune of a flickering flame. The spectral performance persisted even as the not-youth turned his gaze once more to the argent crescent above. Larger it seemed than the moon of his remembrance, ensconced behind a drifting cloud as it graced the heavens. Nostalgia seized the transmigrator's heart, his thoughts distant, his eyes unfocused and his mind adrift as a sense of calm permeated the atmosphere.

With a sigh laden with finality, James brushed his lower lip with tender fingers. "Home..." he murmured to himself, his gaze vacant, seemingly adrift in a world unknown.

"My Lord," came a rap from behind the door, rousing him from his ponderous state

"Enter," James replied without casting a glance backwards. Lancelot stepped into the chamber.

"Young Lord," the viscount began with a tone of concern as he approached, "the maids have informed me of your wakefulness. You ought to be resting."

"Where is Sean?" James asked, dismissing the viscount's concern entirely, "And the men who fought alongside him?"

"Sean..." came a hesitant reply.

"Where is he?"

"...He has deserted. Your brother―"

"He is no kin of mine!" Levi growled, unable to contain the surge of emotion that swelled within him. Lancelot froze at this unexpected outburst, and the air hung heavy with silence.

"...Forgive me," James said with a furrowed brow, gazing down at his palm, "my emotions at the moment appear to be somewhat… beyond me."

Silence.

"...I still ponder why he did what he did," Levi said with a weary sigh as he looked back to the starry sky, confusion etched upon his countenance. "Does he not care for the consequences that await him upon Father's return? There shall be a handsome bounty upon his head when the duke hears of this."

Lancelot tensed briefly, his reaction not going unnoticed by James.

"Is there something amiss, Ser Viscount?" James inquired, turning toward the older man.

Lancelot hesitated, then sighed. "Your father had dispatched missives. They arrived via carrier pigeon two days hence, speaking of the fall of Bycrest and the possible capture of His Majesty, the king. The missive mentions His Grace's intent to escort the Queen and Princess to safety, though their destination remains undisclosed. The details of the situation remain obscure, yet we have received corroborating messages from other sources."

"'Tis impossible," James scoffed dismissively. "It would require years—nay, decades—for any force to lay siege upon Bycrest to completion."

"I dare not jest about such matters, Levi," Lancelot sighed, shaking his head. "According to the missive, misinformation led our second fleet astray, allowing a coalition fleet of Hertalean and Verumitte ships to decimate our first fleet anchored in the Ignis Basin. Ciden Island's fall came swiftly after; treachery within the bastions and mutiny among the defenders hastened its capture. Ser Tone hath surrendered Bastion Mina to Hertalean occupation after imprisoning his sire. Viscount Pedro also turned against the Crown, setting alight the capital's arsenals after setting the northern gates wide open."

"Bycrest has fallen," Lancelot repeated. "I sought to withhold these tidings until the lord's return, but your bro—Apologies—Sean, aided by Barons Blumoon and Ralph, seized upon the despair this news brought to sow discord among our ranks."

James fell silent.

"Is there aught else you have kept from me?" he asked after a tense pause.

"Aye," Lancelot said, "The grain stores were set ablaze during Sean's raid on the treasury; we failed to quench the flames in time. And the Heras... They too have renounced their oaths, having learned of the invasion and Sean's mutiny. Methinks Sean had played a hand in this; their swift betrayal serves to divert our attention from him."

"Hence, the Heras have sent..." Lancelot paused as if the words choked him. "A notice."

"What?" James inquired.

"An eviction notice. We have but five days to vacate the duchy before they resort to force."

"Oh? How civilized," James chuckled softly, his countenance tinged with amusement.

"Lancelot," he called.

"Yes?"

"Leave me."

"Very well," Lancelot replied hesitantly. He turned to depart but paused as James spoke again.

"Lancelot,"

"Yes?"

"...Regardless of what transpires, henceforth, I must be kept informed first. Do you understand?" Levi said, making eye contact. In the viscount's gaze, James perceived traces of hidden concern and self-reproach, and to his relief, an absence of suspicion.

"Thank you, Levi," Lancelot finally said. "If you had not intervened during the mutiny and moved to my aid, I might have—"

"I require a comprehensive report on the Heras within the hour, sparing no detail," James interjected monotonously, feigning disappointment as he ignored the viscount's words. "Their holdings, forces, kin, allies, whereabouts—all of it. Within the hour."

"...Aye. My lord."

"You may leave. We will discuss what to make of the Heras' notice when you return with what I asked for."

James waited till the door shut behind him before turning back to the open window. "Levi," he whispered, the name rolling off his tongue as if tasting it. Despite his weariness, he laughed, a line of tears tracing his cheeks. His eyes slid shut, eyelids shuddering as he let the katydids' song seep deep into his psyche. With another exhale, he leaned into a relaxed recline, mind adrift.

Within moments, he was fast asleep.
 
003 - Trimming weed


003 - Trimming weed​



Housekeeping.​



{Excerpt}​

In the annals of time, amidst the year 1409 S.T., there arose a stirring tale of strife and conquest, woven within the fabric of Ivonne's realm. King Stefans Zoroaster, bearing the mantle of sovereignty, marshalled his forces, embarking on a daring campaign southward, piercing through the formidable barrier of the Alps to lay claim to the lands of Syrii. Thus dawned a pivotal epoch in the annals of Udorian governance, wherein the twelve crowned heads of Udoris, consumed by a fervent desire for dominion, waged war upon each other—with the lost tribes as their reluctant pawns—in a delusional bid to unify Udoris under one crown.

For four decades henceforth, the flames of ambition engulfed the hearts of Udorian monarchs, each ensnared by the illusion of effortless triumphs adorning the path to supremacy. Adhering to the stringent tenets of chivalry, they honed novel stratagems of diplomacy and warfare, driven by an insatiable thirst for renown and dynastic ascendancy. Their dominions burgeoned with an abundance of men and resources, emancipating themselves from the fetters imposed by the Faith of the Six. The ensuing conflict bathed the realm in blood, claiming the lives of myriad souls, as Udoris languished in a protracted state of enfeeblement destined to endure for generations.

Yet, amidst the crucible of strife, emerged a duality of tradition and innovation, melded in the forge of war's relentless fury. The tapestry of conflict bore witness to a metamorphosis in Udorian governance, as erstwhile adversaries embraced novel modalities of diplomacy, free from the shackles of the Band of the Six. Borrowing from the sagacity of Algrian envoys and the Tequilan art of resident ambassadors, they augmented their arsenal with intelligence garnered through both fair means and foul. In the theatre of war, the Verumittes distinguished themselves as pioneers, harnessing the prowess of mercenary legions, siege engines, naval blockades, and formidable fortifications. Their martial prowess found a worthy adversary in the Ariens of the northeast, who birthed the Immortals—a venerated cadre of elite warriors, melding the finest stratagems and armaments of Udorian ilk with unyielding fealty.

Thus, the annals of history enshrine the Great War as a harrowing crucible, wherein antiquity and innovation converged in a maelstrom of bloodshed, sculpting the contours of Udorian destiny. In the throes of conflict, the hegemony of Udorian politics lay rent asunder, birthing a new order that continues to shape the realm's ethos to this day. As the final embers of war smouldered to ash, the tapestry of Udorian sovereignty dwindled from twelve sovereign states to a mere seven, marking the demise and absorption of Crotha, Lunao, Syrii, Hogan, and Witeron, thereby concluding the great conflict.

...

Excerpt from the remnants of Ahoth Dan's notes regarding the Great War.


{END}





[12.13.1623]​

Windy Fir Woodlands.

A SPLATTER of crimson and a lofted blade. A head soared, tracing a bloody arc through the air. With a dull thud, the beheaded form collapsed, crimson rivulets swiftly staining the parched autumn leaves. Vlad stood transfixed as the sinister assailant, a knight of imposing stature, lowered his blade, now glistening with viscous gore.

"Pl-please, have mercy," Vlad implored, his voice trembling with fear. His eyes darted towards two ladies astride noble mounts a short distance away, realization dawning grimly upon him that he alone remained among the living. His retinue of guards and confederates lay strewn about, their lifeblood mingling with the earth in dark pools. Panic seized him, and he turned to flee, only to slip on the decaying foliage. The steady tread of boots drew closer, and as he rose, he stumbled once more. In an instant, searing agony ripped through his chest. He glanced down to behold the cruel tip of a blade piercing his torso.

Before the pain could fully engulf him, the sword withdrew, and Vlad, writhing in anguish, turned to confront his assailant. Yet, the fiend's eyes betrayed no emotion as Vlad felt his lifeblood ebbing away, his futile attempts to staunch the flow met with futility. The thick crimson flooded his lungs, drowning him upon the forest floor. The fiend nonchalantly sheathed his blade, wiping it clean with a stray leaf, a flicker of emotion finally crossing his gaze.

Disdain.

The demon surveyed Vlad's fallen comrades before addressing the ladies with a courteous bow. "Forgive the unsightly scene, Your Majesty, Your Highness," he offered, his tone respectful.

"Hmm..." one of the ladies murmured, averting her gaze from the gruesome spectacle, her disgust palpable.

"And who were they?" inquired the other, exuding regal composure. To the former, she appeared as an elder kin, sharing akin features of fair complexion, blond tresses, and ice-blue eyes.

"Merely common bandits," the demon replied dismissively. "They foolishly sought sport in hunting us. Come, Your Majesties. We must not tarry here. Let us seek shelter elsewhere for the night."

And thus, Vlad watched as the dark-clad figure, mounted upon his steed, rode off into the night, leaving him to languish in a pool of his own blood, abandoned to his fate.

***

Five hours later.

Beneath the waning glow of the sun's farewell, Aden tended a fire, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows upon the forest floor. The woodlands teemed with the hushed symphony of twilight; the distant melody of birds settling for the eve, the rhythmic chorus of katydids, and the rustle of creatures in the verdant canopy. Roots entwined, ferns decayed, and fallen leaves whispered beneath his feet as the duke arranged makeshift shelters for himself and his companions; the encroaching night hastening their preparations.

"Lord Aden," Princess Iris beckoned, her voice a mere whisper.

"Aye, Your Highness?"

"My sire," she spoke softly, a trace of anguish colouring her words, "what fate awaits him now?"

"His Majesty shall endure," the duke replied, his gaze fixed upon the flames, seemingly impervious to the princess's emotional undercurrent. "Though they may seek to starve, humble, or torment him, he shall endure." Aden knelt by the fire, prodding the embers with a dry branch, his steely eyes reflecting the fiery glow. "His Majesty is a prize to be preserved; his living flesh worth more than its weight in gold. They shall take care to ensure his survival. A dead king is of no value to anyone."

A foreboding silence befell the camp.

Aden looked up to see the princess glaring at him.

"Such levity ill befits discussion of His Majesty," the princess cautioned, her tone devoid of humour. Aden merely shrugged in response.

"Leonard is kin ere he is king in my heart. My levity attests to my loyalty and faith in his fortitude."

Iris fell silent, lost in contemplation, before conceding with a sigh.

"So, where are we heading now?" she asked.

"To my holdings on the border," Aden answered. "There we shall seek refuge until a means to rectify this predicament presents itself."

"Faywyn?"

"Aye."

"Can we ransom him?" she ventured.

"Mayhap," Aden replied. "Given time, we may secure his release," he added, a note of uncertainty colouring his words, "yet a king's ransom may exceed my means. I shall petition some of his more noble vassals in the south for aid before matters worsen beyond remedy."

Another silence ensued.

"...Thank you," Iris spoke at last.

"For what?" Aden chuckled dryly. "My duty as a vassal, friend, and brother is not worthy of gratitude. If you seek to thank me, then strive to endure and safeguard your mother," he gestured towards Queen Irina, who slumbered fitfully nearby, her silent tears a testament to her distress.

"Nevertheless," Iris persisted, "I am grateful."

"I shall keep vigil. Rest now, Your Highness, for the morn heralds a gruelling journey ahead."

***​

The next day

Faywyn.

The Kaya, a luscious fruit borne from the Kaya tree, had graced the gardens of smallfolk in Northern Aries and the northeastern reaches of Verum for generations before Ivonian traders spread its cultivation across Udoris. They were typically round and ranging in size between two to three inches in diameter with dense, sweet, purple flesh; one would be forgiven for mistaking the fruit for an unidentified apple cultivar. James surely did, munching contently on one, before remembering that apples, like many other things he remembered from Earth, also existed in Udoris.

A loaf of bread with a large cup of milk lay on a tray by his side. His thoughts wandered, contemplating the possibility that he was never incorrect in assuming the fruit was an apple cultivar in the first place; it could be and Udoris' crude imitation of a scientific community just hadn't stumbled on the fact yet. Biting into the fruit's crisp, succulent flesh, he observed Lancelot who sat staring back at him; dark circles adorned the viscount's eyes, having barely had any sleep at all.

James turned to stare out the window, watching squirrels dart about in a tree not far from his window; a serene quietness, unbefitting of the ambient tension hung in the air.

"...Do you truly deem this wise, Young Lord?" queried Lancelot, his voice tinged with doubt. "I hold reservations."

"It shall suffice," James retorted dully, his attention refocusing on the matter at hand as he delved into his Kaya once more.

"Our ranks number a mere seventy-four, My Liege. His Grace withdrew the bulk of our forces at the war's onset to aid the king, leaving scant remnants. More than two-thirds of our meagre contingent now lie dead or have forsaken us following Sean's insurrection. The Heras presently outnumber us nearly threefold."

Lancelot's gaze bore a trace of trepidation as he sat opposite James. "A single misstep could spell our undoing," he cautioned.

"Thus, I entrust you with this task. I have faith in your capability to navigate these matters with precision."

Lancelot sighed again. "This plan harbours no simplicity, My Lord."

"And what alternative do you propose?" James inquired, punctuating his query with another audible bite of the Kaya. "The Heras shall harry us relentlessly should we heed their summons and forsake the haven of this keep. Count Josh and his ilk, I surmise, shall not honour noble surrender with chivalrous regard. We have no allies close enough to intervene promptly: In light of all that's happened, the Timels cannot be trusted to hour their oaths either. There is no one coming to rescue us. If concerns regarding the success of my plan weigh that heavily on you, relocate your kin to safer confines. Yet, my resolve remains unswayed."

Lancelot hesitated, his resolve wavering before James's steadfast gaze.

"Do you not trust me, Lancelot?" James pressed, fixing him with an unyielding stare.

Silence.

"Lancelot?" James repeated, leaning forward as he steepled his fingers.

Lancelot met James's gaze for a moment before yielding.

"When do we depart?" he asked wearily, surrendering to his Lord's resolve.

"Today." James declared. "It's high time I paid these pesky neighbours of mine a visit."
 
004 - Dead or Alive


004 - Dead or Alive​

Blood. Lust.​


{Excerpt}​
...This was a period of vigorous economic expansion. This surge, akin to a tempestuous wind, bore significant influence upon sundry other metamorphoses—be they of a social, political, or cultural nature—within the nascent era. As the year 1560 loomed on the horizon, the populace across the Kingdoms of Udoris witnessed a modest augmentation following a span of tranquillity spanning over a century. The sinews binding the kingdoms grew taut, while the wheels of trade whirled ever faster.

Novel commodities, often ushered forth by the esteemed members of the Sanctuary of Scrolls, imbued material existence with newfound opulence. Not merely did commerce flourish, but also the production of wares burgeoned under novel modes of organization. Merchants amassed and wielded capital in unprecedented measure; many scholars situate this as the maturing, or at the very least the inception, of Eastern capitalism, wherein capital assumed paramount significance not solely in economic edifices but also in the fabric of political dynamics.

Culturally, fresh ethos—many entwined with the Reformation and the denouement of the Great War—permeated Udoris, reshaping comportment and altering the lenses through which denizens perceived themselves and the state. Yet, even as capitalism made strides from the Orient, the erstwhile liberated peasantry of Udoris found themselves inexorably ensnared by the shackles of serfdom. The ostensible prosperity of the epoch gradually ceded ground, in its midmost and latter epochs, to a "general crisis" manifesting in myriad regions of Udoris.

Politically, the burgeoning centralized states exacted novel levels of cultural homogeneity from their subjects; for instance, Aries spurned the presence of prominent religious sects, namely the Wanderers of Radafis, the Band of the Six Divinities—referred to colloquially as the "Band" or the "Faith of the Six" respectively—and the Creed of the Twins. Moreover, dissenters found the employment of the common tongue, Morgar, proscribed, thereby effectuating a state of isolation from the wider world. Understandably, scholars grappled with the exact genesis of this intricate century in Udorian evolution.

The economic expansion of the era owed much to potent transformations already in motion by the zenith of the Great War. Subsequent events wrought radical alterations upon the social structures of Udorian society—pertaining to its agrarian practices, distribution of wealth, societal organization, and treatment of dissidents. This revolution engendered an environment wherein entities like the Sanctuary of Scrolls and the Board of Commerce flourished, birthing seminal discoveries such as the advent of gunpowder siege engines, endowing armies with greater martial prowess and thereby bestowing nations with a heightened sense of security.

Upon the century's denouement, Udoris attained a zenith hitherto unattained over a century prior: an unparalleled leap in technological prowess, curiously juxtaposed with an extended epoch of peace and political stability.

...



Excerpt from Jonas Diane's book on Udorian History- 'Our Origins'
{END}

[14.13.1623]​
Mallowston.

MUCH like Faywyn, Mallowston could be considered an old town with a rather illustrious past. It had its genesis near a century gone, fashioned from the remnants of Fort Addens, an ancient bastion charged with the solemn duty of safeguarding Algrim's northern marches from Quiltonnian encroachments via the Strega should Faywyn fall. The former fort, ill-suited to withstand the onslaught of cannon fire, had long crumbled to ruin at the hands of Verummite artillery clandestinely smuggled into Quilton by contracted Luscan buccaneers. In the wake of the war's end, a sturdier, more resolute fort—dubbed the Citadel of The North—was erected, from which sprouted the nascent roots of the rather flourishing township.

James sat by an open window, gazing upon the bustle of commoners partaking in their daily toils below. He sighed, his eyes glazed with disdain as he beheld the bustling masses. "Nary a wit amongst the vast majority of them," he mused. "Sheeplike and malleable. Not unlike the insensate masses of my memories, they are but simple, blissfully ignorant creatures with a collective awareness equivalent to that of a doorknob." The earl regarded them with contempt, their lowly state a source of ire. He had always harboured a disdain for the common rabble, despising them and how they so easily let their betters flare their anger and herd their thoughts.

Behind him, the door creaked open, disrupting his reverie as Ser Lancelot entered. "And so?" queried James, his countenance unmoving, identifying the man by nought but the cadence of his footfall.

"Better than anticipated, My Lord," replied the viscount as he joined him by the window, his gaze fixed upon the bustling thoroughfare below. "The Heras and their vassals remain convinced of your seclusion within the Keep. Mayhap they shall remain ignorant of our timely departure a while longer."

James nodded, inquiring further, "And what of our company?"

"Ser Carter encounters difficulty in their extrication without arousing undue suspicion," rejoined the viscount. "He had seen fit to detain several of our peasant folk whose loyalty remains in doubt. Nonetheless, he and his men should arrive shortly, barring ill-fortune. As for the Heras, preparations for their western campaign near completion. A retinue of merchants, strumpets, jesters, chirurgeons, and sappers, accompanied by a fortnight's provender and gunpowder, has been marshalled. Plans to sustain a siege through winter via the Strega also appear set. The landed knights governing the environs of the township shall soon convene at the Keep for a feast before embarking upon their 'conquest.' They set sail for Faywyn come morrow's noon."

"A revelry, you say?"

"Aye, my lord," responded Lancelot with a wry grin. "It appears the conquest of Faywyn is deemed a fait accompli. And who can fault them for such presumption?"

"And are you steadfast in this course, my lord?" ventured the viscount, his uncertainty palpable. "Should this venture falter, we shall be picked us off like crippled pheasants in an open field."

James turned to face Lancelot, his gaze resolute. "We face two paths: to fight and risk death in the attempt, or to flee and pray the ambitious yet circumspect Heras grant us a chance for retribution. Our choices are scant, and I but choose the course that sits most comfortably upon my conscience. I am no fool, Lancelot. There are times when retreat proves the wiser course. Alas, this is not one of them. Do you wish for your wife and daughter to flee like quarry pursued by wild dogs, holding nought but a slender hope of escape whilst the Heras hound us?"

Turning once more to the window, James continued, "I once read that the key to a lasting peace lies in possessing either a deterrent of fearsome aspect, one ruthlessly terrifying and horrible enough to cow one's adversaries into submission"—he cast his gaze upon the ancient Keep atop yonder hill, his visage impassive—"or the means to quell one's foes at first notice with swift and insurmountable violence and destruction. True peace is only possible with magnanimity on one hand and the promise of swiftly delivered annihilation on the other."

"So, to your query, Lancelot," concluded James...

"Aye, I am steadfast."

***​
Bycrest.

Beneath the stone floors of the subjugated Algrian castle, amidst the dank recesses of the castle dungeons, lay a torch-lit cell where faint sounds of lashing and stifled groans reverberated in the otherwise desolate chamber. Seated at one end of this grim enclosure was a fair-haired, stocky youth of middling stature clad in regal garb. Though possessing striking azure eyes and unblemished countenance, his perennially furrowed brow betrayed a lack of the noble charm one might expect of a scion of his station. Adorned upon his attire—just above his heart—was an insignia depicting a crowned, crimson-scaled dragon, emblematic of his lofty status as a scion of Hertalean royalty. With his eyes shut as if in the throes of slumber, an air of ennui and vexation emanated from his motionless frame.

Everhard opened his eyes to regard the deposed king kneeling before him. Within the depths of his cerulean gaze lurked traces of cruelty and frenzied paranoia. The ousted sovereign, Leonard, returned the gaze with a vacant stare even as a Hertalean knight administered lashes upon his bare flesh with a supple leather whip. After a pause of contemplation, the prince extended his hand to halt the soldier's handiwork.

"Where… is she?" Everhard asked, his dull voice conveying much frustration.

The king remained mute, steadfastly ignoring him. His countenance was impassive, and nought but the rasp of his laboured breaths escaped his parched lips.

"Where. Is. She?" The prince asked again.

Yet received he nought but silence and an impassive gaze. Everhard tarried a moment longer before emitting a weary sigh and closing his eyes.

"...Reports allege sightings of disbanded retinues and courtly dames of your court fleeing southeastward. Were I not better informed, I would deem your most loyal subjects to have forsaken you."

Silence persisted.

"Your silence is foolish, Leonard. I am privy to Iris's whereabouts—she does travel with one of your loyalists, aiming for the domain of a remaining vassal, does she not? Or perchance one of the southern ports, seeking passage beyond the kingdom?"

A flicker of emotion briefly passed across the king's visage, imperceptible to most save for the astute observer. The prince discerned it, his heart quickening with hope as a smug smirk played upon his lips. "Am I not correct?" he probed.

Yet Leonard met him with further silence.

Everhard sighed anew, his countenance hardening as he regarded the king with a cold stare. With a languid gesture, he indicated to the knight standing behind the deposed monarch. "Proceed."

"Yes, Your Highness," the man intoned.

"Iris…" Everhard muttered softly as the sounds of lashing and the king's pained utterances resumed within the confines of the cell.

"...Where do you think you can hide from me now?"

***​
Windy Fir Woodlands.

Amongst the yellowing trees, decked in aristocratic garments faded due to one too many washes, Lord Reamus, a stout figure of middle years, tread through the woods. His eyes gleamed with an icy lustre, bespeaking of ruthlessness and methodical calculation.

Beside him strode his aide, a tall, sinewy man, garbed in worn yet clean raiments and gambeson. His composed countenance bore an air of condescension, marking him as one of the most dangerous breeds of miscreants to grace any realm—an educated one.

"Have you found out who killed him yet?" Reamus inquired, his voice a study in impassivity. Though a fervent desire for retribution burned within his gaze, he maintained a semblance of composure befitting a leader before his subordinate.

"Nay, My Lord, the trail of the slayers has grown cold. One amongst them has a skilful hand in eluding pursuit," replied Outhor calmly. "Nevertheless, we have recovered the remains of Lord Vlad, as you commanded, sire."

A period of brief silence ensued. Even the forest seemed to quieten, its usual cacophony of creatures stilled by an eerie quiet punctuated only by the chill wind whispering through the boughs overhead.

"Outhor, did I ever divulge my past as a noble Count?" the bandit lord mused, hands clasped behind his back.

Outhor, naturally, remained silent.

"I harboured ambition," the bandit lord continued, "yet 'twas my undoing. I lost all—my riches, my title, my kin—all due to my folly. Only my nephew, Vlad, and I escaped when the Dark Gryphon came to exact payment for my missteps. My poor nephew's sire, mine own brother, sacrificed himself that we might flee. That we might endure…"

Reamus' countenance remained stoic as he recounted these words, advancing towards a clearing at the path's end, with Outhor trailing in silence.

"Years hence, here I stand. The leader and progenitor of the Forest Wolves, the preeminent and most dreaded bandit band throughout the realm. A terror to wayfarers and townsfolk alike. 'Tis mayhap not the loftiest title in the annals, yet in these woodlands, I am monarch. An unchallenged sovereign… And yet, in the very heart of mine demesne. In. Mine. Own. Fucking. Backyard! A felon has slain my nephew—my sole kin remaining—and fled, evading capture despite my every exertion?"

In the clearing lay six shrouded cadavers. Five lay in orderly repose, while the sixth lay apart, almost reverently so.

Silently, Reamus approached the sixth corpse. As he uncovered the swathes enveloping it, a fetid stench pervaded the air, accompanied by the drone of flies taking flight. Yet, as if impervious to the malodor and repugnant buzzing, Reamus beheld the cadaver's eyes—an expression of abject terror yet etched upon its countenance. His fingers traced the cheek of the corpse, its blanched skin yielding beneath his touch. A faint resemblance between them could be discerned upon closer inspection.

Gazing into the vacant orbs with a gaze tinged with remorse, Reamus' eyes momentarily welled with tears before he blinked them away, his icy stare returning.

"Rest well, my son," he murmured, re-enfolding the body in its shroud. The stout figure stood erect, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the forest with a cold gaze.

"Find them. Find the wretches responsible for his demise. And deliver them unto me…

"Dead…

Or alive."

Last​
 
005 - The Debut


005 - The Debut​

His first masterpiece…​

{Excerpts}

…there exists a sinister faction of agents within the Creed of the Twins known as the Nameless Ones—a cult of religious executioners nurtured, honed, and ruled with a singular purpose: enforcing the will of the Lord of Death, a deity reverently known as the Father by his agents, and the Groom within the circles of the Creed's governance.

Having endured a cryptic regimen of instruction and rite of passage initiates of the Nameless emerge as exceedingly adept assassins; their allegiance sworn solely to priestesses, abbesses, and other hierarchical dignitaries of the Creed—women esteemed as divine emissaries of the twin deities and bearers of their divine will.

Although whispers abound concerning the existence of an ostensible coastal enclave within the southwestern reaches of Verum serving as the clandestine bastion of the Nameless, agents of the Creed are infamous for traversing far and wide, extending their shadowy influence across the principal metropolises of Udoris and beyond. At the bidding of a governess of its Court, the services of the Nameless may be secured for discrete tasks aimed at safeguarding the interests of select patrons. Though renowned for demanding princely sums, the Creed enjoys a repute for unparalleled efficacy in executing their assigned tasks.

Much veils the Creed of the Twins and its dread Nameless acolytes; however, despite their enigmatic origins, they hold a prominent station within the intricate web of Udorian Politics…

...

Excerpt from Jonas Diane's fourth book on Udorian powers- 'Religious Fallacies'.

{END}



[14.13.1623]​

Mallowston.

TONIGHT, the Keep deepened into a peculiar kind of blackness; the kind that told tales of gallant knights, beastly men and nubile princesses around bonfires. The black from which the lonely sought the forbidden passions of the flesh; moaning whispers lost to the citadel's walls. From the east, a tempestuous gust smothered a few torches. There, in the bailey, benign fairies stalked; a soft shimmering on the darkened grounds tell-tale signs of their passage. The clear sky and the endless shadows, the roguish laughter of drunken men in cahoots; how Gilbert yearned to linger a while longer, but woe to him, bearer of the burdens of a dutiful scion.

I grip the bottle o' so tight; another night gone by the drop. I pray to the forefathers of the night, help thy son stop. Gilbert whispered under his breath, bemoaning the onus of his post. An ever-conscientious man, the young earl meticulously perused the slender parchment scroll clutched in his hand; the dim candlelight illuminating his neatly trimmed stubble as it twitched subtly; a pleasant hum from his lips even as he diligently revised the content of the letter.

[Greetings Father,] the slip read, [how goes the preparations for your return? Mother, Malina and little Titi send their greetings. As for Faywyn, the annexation proceeds apace. Regrettably, the von Greifenburgs show reluctance to vacate their hold. Nevertheless, I assure you, we shall seize the lands within the year. Though it may cost us valiant men, a feast hath been arranged in their honour, exalting their reckoned sacrifices and our imminent triumph, as thou hast commanded.

At the break of dawn, we shall set forth. May the ancestors guide us well.]

He perused the message again, and once more for good measure: Content, Gilbert rolled the parchment slip into a tiny scroll before sealing it with a pint-sized wax stamp. The thought of writing more crossed his mind as he stood up from the table, yet the modest scroll could contain but so much. Seizing a plump pigeon from a nearby cage, he affixed the letter to a pouch upon its back before releasing the bird into the night. Mayhap 'twas the anticipation of his inaugural conflict or the intoxicating buzz born of indulgence in one libation too many. Perchance 'twas simply the apprehension that the missive might never reach his father; the native goshawk population had long proven a relentless nuisance, after all. Should the worst come to pass, he resolved to dispatch another copy or two come morn before their departure.

Yet Gilbert felt drained, a tad inebriated. With a stretch and a weary yawn, he rose from his seat, his movements slightly unsteady as he ambled toward his bed. Stumbling slightly, he languidly settled into its embrace, turning to gaze upon the vaulted ceiling as another yawn escaped his lips. Eyelids heavy, he listened to the jovial clamour of his comrades below, their revelry failing to assuage the weariness besieging his mind; slowly, he surrendered to a fitful slumber—until a piercing sound rent the fort, shrill screams echoing through the keep.

Gilbert jolted upright, his ears assailed by a cacophony of discordant noises—the clanging of steel upon steel and stone, the splintering of timber, the anguished cries of butchered men. A symphony of bloodlust and despair. The earl rushed to his window, his countenance draining of colour at the scene unfolding before him.

The stables lay deserted, their equine denizens fleeing through the open gates. The guesthouse north of the Citadel—engulfed in flames, its fiery glow illuminating the keep in a ghastly hue. A skirmish erupted at the armoury, cloaked figures rampaging, hurling torches upon all that would burn. Archers and crossbowmen stationed upon the portcullis and bastioned walls unleashed volleys of projectiles, decimating those who sought escape. Chaos reigned supreme, merciless flames consuming all in their path, churning a pall of thick smoke into the starlit sky.

"No," Gilbert muttered in disbelief, his gaze catching sight of a knight bearing the von Greifenburg sigil amidst the crimson conflagration of his ancestral home. His blood ran cold, his heart pounding within his breast; hyperventilating, he tore his gaze from the inferno, stumbling backwards as he drew in a sharp breath. Ashen-faced, he staggered toward his table, clutching its edge with trembling fists. There, amidst the disarray, he fumbled for another parchment, hastily penning a missive, his hands trembling with fear.

[Father,] It pled, [Mallowston is under siege. By the time this missive reaches you, we may be captives or worse. If not, we shall flee to Towleigh and await word of your return]

The note was hastily scrawled, lacking Gilbert's usual flourish and flamboyant script. In haste, he heated a small pan of sealing wax, dipping a coin-sized stamp into the molten liquid. Yet in his urgency—or perhaps inebriation—the stamp slipped from his grasp, rolling beneath the furniture. Panic seized him as he fell to his knees in pursuit, scattering the contents of the table in his frantic search. Then, freezing, he heard a noise outside his chamber—a door torn from its hinges.

No. No. Please no.

Summoning his resolve, Gilbert retrieved the wayward stamp, only to find the wax on it had been rubbed off. Glancing around, he saw the heated pan on the floor, its contents spilt across the wooden floorboards.

"Blast it all!" he cursed, his gaze darting about frantically. Then, he froze as he stared at the mess on the floor. His vision swam, his mind collapsing under the sheer weight of his fear and confusion: The door in the next room wailed as it was forcibly ripped open. The vexed growls of men echoed in the hallway.

"He is not here!" one growled, his tone thickly laden with bloodlust and frustration.

Gilbert's fears ballooned, his head jerking to look behind him in the direction of his door which was now being kicked open at the hinges. Three loud bangs and a strained whine later the oakwood barrier was torn down as several armed men barged into the room.

A hush descended as Gilbert beheld the shrouded figures before him. The throng parted, and a figure, seemingly the commander, strode forth, his footfalls resounding with a grim resolve. Clad in a cuirass and gambeson beneath a cloak stained with blood, he brandished a crimson-soaked blade in one hand and a torch ablaze in the other. His gaze swept across the chamber, taking stock of the scene—the seal clutched by Gilbert, the missive upon the table, and the spilt wax upon the floor—before settling upon Gilbert, who knelt in trepidation beneath his table. Soft coos from the caged pigeons echoed in the background.

Desperation gripped Gilbert's heart as he regarded the cloaked figure before him. To him, it seemed as though the very devil had manifested—the sinister spectre of his childhood tales, embodied in flesh and blood.

Puhbeer!

"It is over, Gilbert," the leader intoned, drawing back his shawl to reveal his countenance.

"You've lost."

***

Earlier.

Same starry sky; same lonely moon.
Lancelot mused, staring at the crescent above as he trudged along a sequestered dirt path. As he approached his destination—an unassuming glade nestled within the woods north of Mallowston Fort—he could not stop his mind from wandering; conjuring vivid images of the gruesome death that was destined for him tonight. Still, despite the unease that flourished in the depths of his mind, he trudged bravely.

As he drew nearer, shadows shifting within the thickets ahead heralded the presence of others. Silhouettes stood sentinel around a modest campfire, a cache of arrows, bolts, and unlit torches nearby. Clad in armour beneath cloaks that shrouded their figures, each man bore the weight of anticipation etched upon his countenance. Tension hung heavy in the air, palpable as Lancelot approached, eliciting wary glances and the subtle stirrings of weapons.

Cautious. Dangerous. "Good. They understood the severity of tonight's task."

"Stand down," Lancelot commanded, palms raised in a gesture of peace as he entered the clearing.

"Well, I'll be damned," remarked a grizzled knight, offering a salute tinged with jest. "I half expected the Lady herself to have flayed you alive by now, lad, for agreeing to such a foolhardy scheme."

"Good to see you too, Ser Carter," Lancelot retorted, his expression unreadable as he returned the salute. Though inwardly, he acknowledged the truth in the older man's words; his lady's wrath was a formidable force, even if veiled beneath her grace.

"Is all accounted for?" Lancelot inquired, addressing Carter directly.

"Mostly," came the reply. "Two fellows opted to remain behind, indulging in their vices. Doubt we'd see hide nor hair of 'em near Faywyn, even if we waited a fortnight."

"Even now, we have deserters?" Lancelot sighed, then nodded, understanding the nature of such matters. "And the forester at the Fort's pass?"

"He and his kin have been detained," Carter confirmed.

"Very well," Lancelot said, positioning himself at the forefront of the assembly. "I am assuming everyone present is clear on the purpose of our endeavour?"

Receiving silent affirmation, Lancelot unrolled a scroll upon the earth, its contours illuminated by the flickering flames nearby.

"This…" he began, tracing the outlines upon the parchment, as the knights gathered—murmuring—around his crouched form, "...is Mallowston Fort."

***​

Twelve minutes later.

"May the guiding light of our Forefathers illuminate our path," Ser Lancelot whispered, his gaze fixed upon Mallowston Fort crowning the hill ahead. Above, the argent crescent adorned the heavens, casting a pallid glow upon the looming citadel—a silhouette of menace against the silver night. Glancing back at the four figures skulking in his wake, Lancelot then turned his attention back to the fortress and—with a determined breath—pressed forward.

The portcullis of the Fort, standing tall at five meters, lay open, flanked by four guards: two stationed outside, their forms slumped lethargically against the stone wall, and two perched above, torches illuminating their watch. Lancelot signalled to his comrades behind him, and with the faint groan of bowstrings, followed by two dull reports, the targets both slumped out of sight; dead, an arrow to each man.

Without pause, Lancelot surged forward, pouncing upon one guard with a swift and silent assault. His hand clamped over the man's mouth, muffling any outcry as his dagger found its mark, silencing the unfortunate sentry forever. With practised efficiency, the body was concealed from view, and Lancelot strained his ears for any alarm.

None came.

Sighing with relief, he surveyed the bailey, noting the drunken revelry of a distant group gathered around a bonfire. His gaze then turned to the section of the wall facing the forest, where two more guards stood watch about a hundred meters away. He glanced back at his companions, addressing the archers among them.

"Can you make the shot?" he queried.

"Hopefully," one replied, the other remaining silent. "Athri could, but he's likely halfway to Towleigh by now."

"Forget Athri," Lancelot commanded, gesturing towards the guards. "Our success hinges on your aim. No pressure. Just do not disappoint."

With practised precision, the archers let fly their arrows, felling the guards with deadly accuracy. Lancelot glanced at the Citadel ahead, anxiously rubbing his gloved palm as one of his companions left to pry the torches off the wall before exiting the keep. Lancelot followed him out to see him waving one of the lit torches above his head, signalling their comrades in the woods to advance.

A tense minute later, cloaked figures emerged from the shadowy thicket, like infernal beings rising from hell, stalking towards the Fort. Lancelot released the breath he did not realise he had been holding. His palms felt cold under his gloves, and the fabric on his back soaked through with sweat: A cool breeze blew over sending a small shiver down his spine. Turning back to face the Citadel he let his expression harden again as he began to tread forward across the open bailey, his steps gaining a bit of speed with each stride. Behind him, men poured into the Keep before moving towards various structures—designated targets—with longswords, messers and unlit torches in hand. Archers and arbalists began manoeuvring to scale the earthen fortification to provide covering fire as they advanced.

Lancelot crossed the bailey undetected, avoiding the group he spotted earlier around the bonfire as he snuck towards the Citadel's gate. Reaching there, a small contingent gathered behind him as he prepared to breach the barrier. With deft skill, one of the knights pried open the door with his dagger. As he entered, his blade found its mark, dispatching a drunken sentry who had been sleeping behind the door.

Ascending a flight of stairs, they encountered another door, which yielded easily to their advance. Beyond this door, however, was a woman, a maid perhaps, with her back pressed against the wall as she hung by the knees in the arms of a man whose breeches were strung curiously across the hallway—a couple lost in a moment of passion, oblivious to the intruders in their midst. Lancelot wasted no time, swiftly impaling the man on his blade. The maid screamed but the shrill noise immediately stopped as she too was immediately cut down.

"Bloody wench," The viscount hissed before turning around to face the men behind him, "Well shit, to think we would be had by a maid. What are you lot dallying about for, kill anyone that resists and bring me that bastard scion of the Heras; cripple him if you have to, just make sure he is captured alive."

With a surge of movement, the knights charged forth, the hallways echoing with the clash of steel and cries of struggle. As the slaughter unfolded, Lancelot led his men deeper into the heart of the fortress, intent on completing their mission.

Ascending another set of stairs, they came upon five women and a female child huddled together in a corner of the room. Lancelot didn't know the first three, most probably lady's maids given the quality of their attires, but he did recognise the others as core members of the Hera household. The Count's wife, daughter and lastborn.

Ordering a knight to stand guard, Lancelot pressed on, kicking open another door to reveal a familiar figure cowering beneath a table—Gilbert, the scion of the Heras.

Surveying the scene—a letter, spilt wax, and startled birds—Lancelot met the earl's gaze with steely resolve.

"It is over, Gilbert," he declared. "You have lost."

***​

Morning, the next day.

Levi sat beside the windowsill, his gaze fixed upon the plume of smoke ascending from the stronghold upon the hill. Below, a crowd had gathered upon the thoroughfare, their murmurs and mutterings mingling in the air, ripe with uncertainty and unrest. Commoners and tradesfolk alike congregated, drawn by the spectacle unfolding before them, unaware, as the rabble are wont to be.

Behind him, the chamber door creaked open, admitting another presence into the room.

"Lancelot?" Levi inquired.

"Aye, My Lord, it is I," the viscount affirmed, sinking to one knee in deference. "Your bidding has been executed, My Liege. As commanded, we have seized Mallowston: its fortress, its passages, and its harbour—all under your dominion. None may depart this township sans your explicit leave. The recalcitrant Heras and their retinue have been detained; those who defied us met the edge of the blade. We commence scouring for spies, while our knights quell any murmurs of dissent amidst the populace and tradesmen."

"Very well," Levi responded impassively, his countenance betraying little emotion, save for a glimmer in his eyes that spoke volumes. After a moment of solemn silence, the earl spoke once more.

"Bid Ser Carter attend to the remainder. Our task here is complete."

"As you command, My Lord." Lancelot rose to take his leave; the door closed behind him with a muted thud.

…Yet, despite his words, Levi's gaze lingered, fixated upon the tableau of his inaugural conquest; to him, it was a masterfully crafted scene, replete with hues and grandeur; a symphony of the sanguine, resounding in its primal cadence. Truly!

…magnificent, the earl, lost in the morbid beauty of it all, whispered to himself.
 
Back
Top