The Green-Tide pt. 11
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Green-Tide pt.11
The streets of Montfort are stuck in grim malaise. The chain and spear you took from your men-at-arms is distributed to all, man and woman alike, who wish to form militia and act as the last line of defense in case of breach, even as those too old and young to fight are evacuated to your own castle proper.
As you watch your yeomen drill their new charges. They run through the basics of spear strike, and marching in swaggering formation; their moves are jerky, slow, stiff, but they must be enough.
But even in these darkest times, there are those who lack wisdom.
--
La Route Rouge.
A home of sin, and debauchery, and lewdity. But more than that, it is home to people.
People Father Thomas doesn't much like.
He watches with a smile as two of his Disciples in the August Knight drag forward a Tilean in scandalous cut, pulling her through the shadowed streets and bringing her to stand to account before him, and through him the good Knight.
"And you, Tilean whore! Our good Saint of the Lady the August Knight-"
There is a beating of wings, mighty and powerful and glorious. Father Thomas looks up-
And is struck by rapturous awe as his Knight, who he has followed from Courrone, descends upon his noble steed. Distantly he hears his servants fleeing, but he cares not-
For his knight is hear.
Éclatant roars in his face and pins him to the wall by his great bulk even as the August Lord dismounts and walks to the prostitute, who was herself struck in fear, of the great, pure beast.
"Fair lady, are you injured?"
"Myrmidia above!...I mean, er. No, lord. No, I am well."
The Knight nods, smiles under his helmet before tossing her a bag of gold- and then another?
"One for your troubles, good Lady. The other because I have a request: Could you please tell Mistress that I have considered her request, and placed her son as guard over the bowmen?"
"I... I, yes. Yes, my lord." The whore runs into the foul shadows, no doubt to spread-
"As for you." The Knight speaks, and his voice is fiery red wrath, all the anger he can must-- and it is considerable. "Harassing women, press-ganging men, kidnapping children; for you to call your my disciple is foul indeed."
Thomas exults to receive attention from his Lord. "Indeed-"
"Do not speak." Éclatant roars, right in Thomas' face. "Here is what is going to happen: You are going to take your men-- and I do mean men, not the children-- and then you are going to stand and help protect the walls of this city from the evil that would inflict it."
"Oh yes, my Lord!"
Phillip mounts his beast and glares even through his helmet, before flying away.
(+1000 Battle Pilgrims in battle to come)
--
You stand before the monastery. It is silent, dead silent; all the Knight who would be here, and talking, are gone instead to the army forming outside, to take their places; tomorrow the hobgoblins come.
Inside the city proper, Sisters of Shallya, Daughters of Rhya, and Daimoiselles du Grail alike rush about, preparing healing poultices and crafting wholesome herbs to heal the wounds that shall be sore felt amongst your men and your soldiers.
Stepping inside, you immediately feel a sense of peace. The already extant Mosaic of the Lady has been joined by a goodly image of Giles, standing triumphant over the armies of rat and orc alike. Upon the walls well crafted images of the Companions, save one, stand, and rested upon tables alternating with them are sculptures of the Dukes of Montfort, heading back to the greatest of them.
The statue of Martrud yet stands, though now his armor, once of steel, has been replaced with great, festooned plates of platinum and gold.
You walk to the pristine altar of white and red and gold, where the chalice of the Lady-- an imitation of the Grail, though far lesser than that great vessel-- and taking it within your ungloved hand, you place it before the statue.
It fills, slowly, with the healing waters, even as you sit, and kneel, and lay your blade beside you, still held in its scabbard.
The stone is good and cold as you bend the knee before your queen.
I do my honor,
my soul,
my courage
give unto thee who is best.
I ask you Du Lac,
give unto we who are base
victory in your name
over these fell things.
You take up the chalice, now filled, and drink, slowly, your eyes closed to the world around you.
And when you open them, you are no longer in the chapel.
There is a great, pure lake before you, and all around you there are trees, might oaks of vibrant, glorious greens planted in the mists. Sweet, melodious music fills the air, and in your heart you can see the great stories that inspired them; the honor, the chivalry, the goodliness. Sweet scents play upon your nose-- wine, sweet sweet wine; honeyed rolls fresh as the sun at first dawn; savory meats, spiced to perfection. A feast.
Many spirits, nyads and nymphs and sprites alike, make merry together. Young damsels bring wine and foods to these good spirits.
"Grandpa!"
One, younger than most, run to you and throws her arms around your legs. She looks the splitting image of her father.
"Eleanor?"
"The nice Lady said you'd be here!"
You hoist your granddaughter up, bringing her to eye level. "Yes, she is rather nice, isn't she?"
Then the music intensifies, and the few shadows that once existed are banished.
"She is a good child, my Knight. You should be proud, as should your son."
You turn, and there the Lady stands, she of impossible grace and beauty alike. Her hair is nothing less than sunlight given form, her dress is a pristine white artifact, and on her brow rests a crown. She smiles, kindly, softly.
To her right stands the Green Knight. His form blazes with holy power, and on his belt rests his blade.
To her left stands the Fae Enchantress, sans weapons but yet with the frog'd form of Malydax the Sorceror.
What Do?
[] Kneel
[] Speak, try and find the words and look not like a fool
The streets of Montfort are stuck in grim malaise. The chain and spear you took from your men-at-arms is distributed to all, man and woman alike, who wish to form militia and act as the last line of defense in case of breach, even as those too old and young to fight are evacuated to your own castle proper.
As you watch your yeomen drill their new charges. They run through the basics of spear strike, and marching in swaggering formation; their moves are jerky, slow, stiff, but they must be enough.
But even in these darkest times, there are those who lack wisdom.
--
La Route Rouge.
A home of sin, and debauchery, and lewdity. But more than that, it is home to people.
People Father Thomas doesn't much like.
He watches with a smile as two of his Disciples in the August Knight drag forward a Tilean in scandalous cut, pulling her through the shadowed streets and bringing her to stand to account before him, and through him the good Knight.
"And you, Tilean whore! Our good Saint of the Lady the August Knight-"
There is a beating of wings, mighty and powerful and glorious. Father Thomas looks up-
And is struck by rapturous awe as his Knight, who he has followed from Courrone, descends upon his noble steed. Distantly he hears his servants fleeing, but he cares not-
For his knight is hear.
Éclatant roars in his face and pins him to the wall by his great bulk even as the August Lord dismounts and walks to the prostitute, who was herself struck in fear, of the great, pure beast.
"Fair lady, are you injured?"
"Myrmidia above!...I mean, er. No, lord. No, I am well."
The Knight nods, smiles under his helmet before tossing her a bag of gold- and then another?
"One for your troubles, good Lady. The other because I have a request: Could you please tell Mistress that I have considered her request, and placed her son as guard over the bowmen?"
"I... I, yes. Yes, my lord." The whore runs into the foul shadows, no doubt to spread-
"As for you." The Knight speaks, and his voice is fiery red wrath, all the anger he can must-- and it is considerable. "Harassing women, press-ganging men, kidnapping children; for you to call your my disciple is foul indeed."
Thomas exults to receive attention from his Lord. "Indeed-"
"Do not speak." Éclatant roars, right in Thomas' face. "Here is what is going to happen: You are going to take your men-- and I do mean men, not the children-- and then you are going to stand and help protect the walls of this city from the evil that would inflict it."
"Oh yes, my Lord!"
Phillip mounts his beast and glares even through his helmet, before flying away.
(+1000 Battle Pilgrims in battle to come)
--
You stand before the monastery. It is silent, dead silent; all the Knight who would be here, and talking, are gone instead to the army forming outside, to take their places; tomorrow the hobgoblins come.
Inside the city proper, Sisters of Shallya, Daughters of Rhya, and Daimoiselles du Grail alike rush about, preparing healing poultices and crafting wholesome herbs to heal the wounds that shall be sore felt amongst your men and your soldiers.
Stepping inside, you immediately feel a sense of peace. The already extant Mosaic of the Lady has been joined by a goodly image of Giles, standing triumphant over the armies of rat and orc alike. Upon the walls well crafted images of the Companions, save one, stand, and rested upon tables alternating with them are sculptures of the Dukes of Montfort, heading back to the greatest of them.
The statue of Martrud yet stands, though now his armor, once of steel, has been replaced with great, festooned plates of platinum and gold.
You walk to the pristine altar of white and red and gold, where the chalice of the Lady-- an imitation of the Grail, though far lesser than that great vessel-- and taking it within your ungloved hand, you place it before the statue.
It fills, slowly, with the healing waters, even as you sit, and kneel, and lay your blade beside you, still held in its scabbard.
The stone is good and cold as you bend the knee before your queen.
I do my honor,
my soul,
my courage
give unto thee who is best.
I ask you Du Lac,
give unto we who are base
victory in your name
over these fell things.
You take up the chalice, now filled, and drink, slowly, your eyes closed to the world around you.
And when you open them, you are no longer in the chapel.
There is a great, pure lake before you, and all around you there are trees, might oaks of vibrant, glorious greens planted in the mists. Sweet, melodious music fills the air, and in your heart you can see the great stories that inspired them; the honor, the chivalry, the goodliness. Sweet scents play upon your nose-- wine, sweet sweet wine; honeyed rolls fresh as the sun at first dawn; savory meats, spiced to perfection. A feast.
Many spirits, nyads and nymphs and sprites alike, make merry together. Young damsels bring wine and foods to these good spirits.
"Grandpa!"
One, younger than most, run to you and throws her arms around your legs. She looks the splitting image of her father.
"Eleanor?"
"The nice Lady said you'd be here!"
You hoist your granddaughter up, bringing her to eye level. "Yes, she is rather nice, isn't she?"
Then the music intensifies, and the few shadows that once existed are banished.
"She is a good child, my Knight. You should be proud, as should your son."
You turn, and there the Lady stands, she of impossible grace and beauty alike. Her hair is nothing less than sunlight given form, her dress is a pristine white artifact, and on her brow rests a crown. She smiles, kindly, softly.
To her right stands the Green Knight. His form blazes with holy power, and on his belt rests his blade.
To her left stands the Fae Enchantress, sans weapons but yet with the frog'd form of Malydax the Sorceror.
What Do?
[] Kneel
[] Speak, try and find the words and look not like a fool
