“Those eagles, like angels, don't distinguish between work and play. To them, it is all one and the same.” ― Rebecca Wells, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Inperiala Palace
Ghish, Ghant
It was inevitable that during the course of so many nobleman gathered in one place, that some sort of tournament would be held. It was only a matter of time, and that time had come. Such as it was that the great expanse comprising the rear courtyard was filled with eager lordlings ready to prove themselves to their elders, their peers, the ladies and to their emperor.
Beneath a hot sun on a bright and unusually warm autumn day, men donned suits of armor and their weapons of choice to take part in a melee tournament organized by the Lords Paramount of southern Ghant with the Emperor’s blessing, or rather, the blessings of Nathan’s council, as he was too aloof to grant such blessings himself, slugabed that he was of late.
Eventually however, he did arise, bathing and changing in his usually feckless pace before finding his way to the courtyard turned tournament grounds. It would not be the first time that the palace courtyard played host to a tournament of arms. It was certainly large enough to accommodate melee tournaments, archery competitions, squire’s tourneys, and the like. Jousts were prohibited on account of there not being adequate grounds for it, hence such events were held in the city common grounds further to the north. No joust would be taking place this day, however. There would be only the melee tournament, and a field of 64 at that.
The Emperor knew how his lords viewed him…they think I’m some fool. Though to be fair to them, many of his actions since becoming Emperor almost twenty years ago affirmed their suspicions. He saw the way that they looked at him, speaking to one another with smirks and sniggers. Even the musicians with their lutes played ballads to commemorate their Emperor, and he listened to their words, hanging on each one.
Ghish, Ghant
It was inevitable that during the course of so many nobleman gathered in one place, that some sort of tournament would be held. It was only a matter of time, and that time had come. Such as it was that the great expanse comprising the rear courtyard was filled with eager lordlings ready to prove themselves to their elders, their peers, the ladies and to their emperor.
Beneath a hot sun on a bright and unusually warm autumn day, men donned suits of armor and their weapons of choice to take part in a melee tournament organized by the Lords Paramount of southern Ghant with the Emperor’s blessing, or rather, the blessings of Nathan’s council, as he was too aloof to grant such blessings himself, slugabed that he was of late.
Eventually however, he did arise, bathing and changing in his usually feckless pace before finding his way to the courtyard turned tournament grounds. It would not be the first time that the palace courtyard played host to a tournament of arms. It was certainly large enough to accommodate melee tournaments, archery competitions, squire’s tourneys, and the like. Jousts were prohibited on account of there not being adequate grounds for it, hence such events were held in the city common grounds further to the north. No joust would be taking place this day, however. There would be only the melee tournament, and a field of 64 at that.
The Emperor knew how his lords viewed him…they think I’m some fool. Though to be fair to them, many of his actions since becoming Emperor almost twenty years ago affirmed their suspicions. He saw the way that they looked at him, speaking to one another with smirks and sniggers. Even the musicians with their lutes played ballads to commemorate their Emperor, and he listened to their words, hanging on each one.
“Prodigal Son they call him, Prodigal Son indeed.
Alone he moves through the world.
For Honor, For Empire
An eagle of the north that flies somberly,
In plain sight one moment, obscured the next.
Many faces, many names.
Yet still he remains a man.
He looks Roman, he thinks Ghantish.
Greater than many a man.
A tower of virtue, a pillar of principle.
Young flesh over an old mind.
Emperor Nathan is his name.
'Nathan' they call him, 'Given' it means.
Mountain, snow and forest offer little comfort
Glory calls him. The battlefields cry his name.
And he cries for renown.
Warrior to some and lover to others.
A proud man, a loyal friend.
A gentleman wrapped in armor with weapon in hand.
Honesty flows him, never lying, no deception.
Honor and courage light him like a beacon in the eyes of his peers.
Perfectly imperfect.
The Prodigal Son.”
Alone he moves through the world.
For Honor, For Empire
An eagle of the north that flies somberly,
In plain sight one moment, obscured the next.
Many faces, many names.
Yet still he remains a man.
He looks Roman, he thinks Ghantish.
Greater than many a man.
A tower of virtue, a pillar of principle.
Young flesh over an old mind.
Emperor Nathan is his name.
'Nathan' they call him, 'Given' it means.
Mountain, snow and forest offer little comfort
Glory calls him. The battlefields cry his name.
And he cries for renown.
Warrior to some and lover to others.
A proud man, a loyal friend.
A gentleman wrapped in armor with weapon in hand.
Honesty flows him, never lying, no deception.
Honor and courage light him like a beacon in the eyes of his peers.
Perfectly imperfect.
The Prodigal Son.”
Nathan narrowed his eyes at them, but paid them little mind. Through the sounds of music and polite conversation, the smell of cooking food and the feeling of warm air upon his skin, he could see the shields of many of the combatants. The leopards of the Voors, the green snakes of the Ordosas, the red lions of the Lianus, the swords on purple of the Moros, and of course the bleeding white roses of the Dakmarans.
It’s time to suit up, the Emperor thought as he called for one of his guards to fetch his squire. It didn’t take long for Marcus Haro to show himself. The boy had stoney blue eyes and dirty blonde hair peppered with brown, and though they were first cousins, they didn’t look especially alike. “Your Majesty,” Marcus said with a bow.
“Fetch my armor, sword and shield,” Nathan commanded as casually as he was dressed, in his dark grey tunic and shoes. “I intend on joining the list. Be quick about it now, and don’t hesitate to get help if you need it.” Marcus inclined his head and ran off back into the palace, in the direction of the armory no doubt.
Alexia was upon him next, bearing letters that the Emperor had already looked over with his council. “Hello brother, have you given anymore thought to these here?” she showed him the letters.
“I have, and I have responses in mind,” he told her. “Though I’m more concerned about this melee coming up.”
The willowy princess with raven hair and deep blue eyes smiled. “Most of them are young and eager, for adventure and renown. You would not let them go to war…this is the next best thing. A chance to serve their lord and prove their prowess. They have come, even northerlings.”
“Good, because I am as well,” he answered while stretching his back. “I’d like to win, in order to remind everyone here that I am no wastrel.”
Alexia opened her mouth as though she was going to speak, but then closed it, as if the words caught in her throat. Then she said, “…would you like for me to enter you into the list?”
“Yes please sister, that would be good of you.” She curtsied and went off to do that, and while she did, the Emperor continued to walk along the edges of where people had gathered. Viewing stands had been erected around where the melees were to take place, with the stands of honor occupying an elevated position for optimal spectating. It was there that the likes of the Empress, Nathan’s sisters Diana, Theodora and Alexia, cousins Cassandra and Anastasia as well as Princess Ava and other high ranking females of court would be seated.
Marcus Haro returned to his cousin the Emperor with some helpers, bearing pieces of his armor. Nathan bid that they follow him to a secluded part of the courtyard to suit up. It was the same armor that he wore in Jehenna, though it had to be repaired since its last use. The armor enameled white plate with gold inlaid, the helm had wings like an eagle and the shield was gold with a white eagle. His weapon of choice would be his Arragarran steel sword, Inperioa.
The Emperor kept a low profile while he waited for the melee tournament to begin. It would last all day, that much he knew, and the following three days, no doubt. The way they usually went, to Nathan’s knowledge, was the round of 128 on the first day, the round of 64 on the following day, then on the third day the rounds of 32 and 16, and then on the fourth and final day, the rounds of 8, 4 and the final fight, spread apart with adequate breaks between.
Rather than spar with a practice dummy, the Emperor meditated, clearing his mind of all distractions before the day’s events were to begin. It was some time into the first round that the Emperor’s first fight was announced, against an old nobleman by the name of Terrance Tronpa, a marcher house from Lurberdea who wore the sewer green colors of his house upon his tattered surcoat.
A few cheered for the Emperor, mostly his family and close friends, while the rest were mostly mum. When the match began, the two combatants circled around each other before exchanging a few blows of their swords, sending out a ringing noise that reverberated across the courtyard amidst some cheers. Instinct took over then, honed by training with the caress of steel.
Tronpa was an older man, and couldn’t keep up with the Emperor nor match his blows. Eventually he fell to one knee and yielded, and it was done. And under five minutes at that. Nathan helped the man up, and the two clasped each other on the shoulders before seeing themselves off the grass of the field of combat. In routine fashion he removed his armor with the help of his cousin and squire, and put his tunic back on.
As was customary, Nathan assumed the seat upon the stands of honor beside the Empress, who smiled at him and squeezed his hand. He took her hand and kissed it, feeling its smooth coolness against his face. That was the extent of his pleasures, as he would not sate himself during the tournament, finding that the energy was best preserved. Just wait until after the tournament…
Indeed, at the end of the first day’s events, he retired to his chambers to bathe and relax. He went to sleep early, and upon waking up the following morning, went about his day in the same fashion as he did the previous. The second day’s melee would start at the same hour, so there was just enough time to bathe once more, get dressed and eat, which he did in the courtyard.
Nathan ate sparingly of the mutton chops and cream of broccoli stew, not so much that he would get full. His next match was against a more formidable opponent, that being Lord Manfred Urdina, one of the Seven Lords of Ghant, and of distant kinship to the Empress. Like most of the Seven Lords, Manfred Urdina was a haughty and arrogant man full of conceit and self-worth. His armor was as fanciful as the Emperor’s, platemail tinted blue and with wave patterns engraved upon it.
The clashed steel against one another, and this man was certainly of greater prowess than Lord Tronpa, Nathan could tell. Yet, Nathan was taller and had a longer reach, which he used to great effect. After enough hits to the man’s helm, he staggered back, and yielded. Once again, the Emperor was gracious in victory and helped his downed opponent up, and followed the same routine as the day before.
The third day would see the Emperor fight two different opponents. The first was young Marcel Voor, cousin of Lord Voor. The youth was said to be the best fighter of the entire expanse of House Voor, though Nathan wouldn’t have guessed it by looking at him. He was pretty boy, with long, flowing blondish-brown hair and gold-green eyes. The cheers for him were loud, especially from the ladies present, and Marcel looked smugly at the Emperor as he grabbed his morningstar and lowered the visor on his leopard-head themed helm.
Unlike the Emperor’s first two bouts, Marcel delivered the first strike with a precise blow of his morningstar against Nathan’s side. The weapon gave Voor more reach than the Emperor could match, forcing him to try to get closer than he’d usually care to. After more than ten minutes of fighting, the Emperor did a spin move to get in close to Voor’s side, and proceeded to wrestle him to the ground. The tumbled around in the grass for a minute, until Nathan’s sword was pointed at Voor’s face.
Begrudgingly, Marcel Voor yielded, sending the Emperor to the round of 16. It’s certainly not going to get any easier, he thought as he composed himself upon helping Voor to his feet. Nathan riled upon speed, guile and cunning in order to best his opponents, but against raw power and pure skill, that would only get him so far. His next opponent would prove the measure of that.
Lord Banadar Bogardan from the Kingdom of Arrautsa was a large, physically opposing man, built like a bear and as mean as one in a fight. His weapon of choice was a massive two-handed maul, his armor a smoky grey color. He was polite at least, inclining his head to the Emperor before assuming his position at his end of the field of combat, Nathan doing the same on his.
Bogardan was careful, deliberate in his steps, advancing methodically with his maul in his hands. He wins with a single swing of that maul, Nathan knew from watching him the previous two days. All it took was one hit. As the two closed in on each other, Banadar swung his maul from side to side, causing the Emperor to jump back. On the next swing, Nathan dove beneath the arc. That was how the fight went for the next twenty minutes, with Bogardan swinging his maul and Nathan dodging it, and landing any blows in that he could when the opportunities arose.
This went on for some twenty minutes or so, with both men growing tired. Bogardan tired first, allowing the Emperor to deliver a few strong hits that sent the Arrautsan into submission. Come the end of the day, there were only eight combatants left, those being Martin and Michael of Dakmoor, King Taboro of Arrautsa, Arthur Estilon, Basil Moro, Alaric Dain, Zara Thrall and Nathan. An impressive list indeed.
On the last day of the melee, the Emperor found himself fortunate in that he drew Basil Moro, who was in Nathan’s opinion the weakest of the final eight, but still superior to the rest of the entrants. Basil was a seasoned warrior, with ornate violet armor and a long spear with a knob on the end opposite the blade. Dakmoor so far proved the most successful province in the tournament, featuring four of its sons in the final eight.
When the first started fighting, Nathan noticed the incredible reach of Basil’s weapon, as well as his great speed. The Emperor was on the defensive for most of the bout, trying to block the strikes with his shield. Yet in spite of his efforts, Nathan felt as though he was being worn down by Basil Moro and his sturdy spear, rapping against his armor, here and there.
Once again, Nathan realized that in order to prevail, he had to get in close, where Basil’s weapon would be far less effective. So it was that after fending off the Dakmooran’s fierce blows, Nathan got in close and went for the man’s legs in an attempt to get him on the ground. This proved effective, and Basil was ill-prepared for such an attack. A few minutes later, and Basil yielded, propelling the Emperor to the final four, against some of the greatest fighters in all of Ghant.
The final four took form over the course of the next hour or so. Alaric Dain defeated Martin of Dakmoor in a close contest, Zara Thrall made quick work of King Taboro of Arrautsa, and Michael of Dakmoor bested Arthur Estilon in a savage bout. The final two matches were revealed to be between Alaric Dain and Zara Thrall, and Nathan against Michael. Certainly a fight I’m not looking forward to…
Fortunately, he had time to recover between fights, and Alaric and Zara were going first. Alaric was arguably the best swordsman in Ghant, fighting with a two-handed greatsword, and dressed in beautiful violet platemail armor with the sword and shooting star of his house patterned into the plate. Not only was he gallant but he was handsome as well, and it was said that a thousand maidens wept when he married Countess Claudia Zecharias, the daughter of a prominent Edomite religious leader.
Zara Thrall was a study in contrasts. Unlike the tall and strapping black hair and violet eyed Alaric, Zara was a scrappy looking woman with platinum hair and forest green eyes with a scowling face. Her armor was gaudy, consisting of a highly detailed suit of dark green and black platemail armor styled after a gorgon, and her helm was custom made to fit that theme, featuring stylized snakes. Her shield bore her personal sigil of the cold blue spider, and her sword was none other than the cursed Arragaran steel longsword Mazadar, inherited from her tragic ancestors.
The two of them clashed their swords together, sending out a loud ring across the melee grounds and to much raucous applause. Few fared better against Zara than Alaric Dain, though in the end even he proved no match for the famed northern lady, for her technique was flawless, and she wielded her sword as though it were some mere stick. Alaric submitted within five minutes, and Zara saw herself off the grounds to await the championship bout.
Michael of Dakmoor had new armor for his match against the Emperor, freshly made just for him by his sister the Empress. It was a slick suit of black platemail armor, with stylized eagle’s wings on the shoulders, and a griffin’s head shaped helm with the maw forming the visor. Elsewhere were rose patterns upon the armor pieces, and a bleeding rose upon a black shield to boot.
There was nothing polite or courteous in Michael’s expression to his brother-in-law either, as there was no love lost between the two men. Nothing will stop him from crowning his Jocasta the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Emperor knew, and so he had to steel himself against his determined opponent. Both men wielded Arragaran steel swords, with Michael having Grifoatzapar at the ready.
When the fight commenced and the two clashed their swords, it let out the sweet, yet haunting whistle of Arragaran steel crashing together. Nathan was fast, but Michael was faster, and while the former was an experienced fighter, he was scrappy and improvising, as opposed to Michael who was expertly trained and finessed. There was no doubting that during the course of that bout, Michael wanted it more, because like Nathan the Dakmaran had something to prove, but also had a larger chip on his shoulder.
It went on for roughly ten minutes, or so the Emperor thought, as they slogged out a series of blows against each other’s armor causing them to groan and grunt. It all happened so fast, and ended with one mighty blow to Nathan’s helmet, causing him to crash to the ground upon his back. As quickly as he tried to stand up, Michael was upon him, tackling him and wrestling with him on the ground.
Nathan was too delirious from the encounter to properly yield, and so Michael won by default. Marcus and Desmond came and pulled the Emperor off the grounds and got him to an area where he could be changed and cleaned. It didn’t go unnoticed by Marcus or Desmond that the Emperor had several bruises all over his body from that last fight, as well as a bloody, busted lip and a few cuts where the skin broke on his face and body.
“You just got knocked the fuck out,” Desmond observed to his cousins. “I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s as though Michael was granted a boon from God to whoop your ass.”
It all goes back to Rosa of Garza, Nathan thought in his stupor. “He’s a great fighter, he deserved it. Try to get me ready to go back to the stands so I can watch the final fight.” His handlers did just that, getting him properly cleaned and dressed in comfortable clothes after eating and taking a bath. Eventually he was helped back to the stands to sit beside his wife, who seemed a mixture of disappointed and pleased, for while her husband was defeated in spectacular fashion, her brother was in the final fight.
There was some irony in that the final fight featured a Ghantish prince who was now Edomite royalty by marriage and dressed in griffin themed armor squaring off against a Ghantish noblelady of Imperial Deadoran descent dressed in gorgon themed armor, both wielding Arragaran steel swords. They said nothing to each other, and when the bout commenced, they walked in circles around each other as they stared each other down through their fashionable visors.
Zara struck first, the blow parried by Michael. Zara was fast on her feet and moved fluidly like water, maneuvering in and out, back and forth away from her opponent as she probed for weaknesses and flaws in his technique. Michael did the same, though it was apparent that he wasn’t used to a foe of this caliber. When they started fighting in earnest, their swords rang together in rapid succession, moving as quick as lightning to the eyes of the uninitiated. Nathan had a hard time keeping up, so swift and precise were their swings.
Michael was good at dodging blows, but Zara was better. Indeed not only was she accurate, but she was hard to hit, and while in the beginning she took limited shots at her opponent, she gradually increased intensity until he was becoming overwhelmed. This time it took over seven minutes, but in the end Michael was on his back and Zara’s sword was over his eye. He yielded, and Zara was champion, albeit to very little fanfare.
She approached the main stands and plunged her sword into the dirt before removing her helm, as Michael was helped off the field by some of his father’s bannermen. She said nothing, though her mean green eyes flashed over the group of them, before smiling a mouth full of crooked whitish teeth.
It was the Empress that spoke. “Lady Zara Thrall, by might, prowess and force of arms, you have prevailed in this tournament and so have been named Melee Champion. As is customary, you shall receive prizes commensurate to your accomplishment, including the honor of bestowing your favors upon anyone present. At this time, you may do just that, in addition to saying whatever you wish to say.”
With a slight nod, Zara looked about the crowd of honor as she was handed a wreath crown of white and red roses. “Tis a great honor to be the champion,” she said in her northern accent, “which is owed to my training and to the great challenge posed by all my opponents this day and the days previous. None have faired better against me in single combat than Prince Michael of Dakmoor, and I know that which compelled him to the final match against me, and inspired him to last as long as he did.”
Carefully, Zara made her way up into the stands, and gently placed the crown of roses upon Jocasta’s head. “So it is that I shall name Jocasta Obed, Princess of New Edom, as the Queen of Love and Beauty this day.”
The irony is complete, Nathan thought as a round of applause broke out, at the sight of a Thrall honoring an Obed in such a way. Though, Nathan’s appreciation for this spectacle was interrupted once more by his half-sister Alexia, who tapped him on the shoulder in a bid to get his attention.
“Brother, these letters require your attention,” she insisted. “You’ve put them off for days, and now the tournament is over. Please, I beseech thee to read them posthaste.”
It’s time to suit up, the Emperor thought as he called for one of his guards to fetch his squire. It didn’t take long for Marcus Haro to show himself. The boy had stoney blue eyes and dirty blonde hair peppered with brown, and though they were first cousins, they didn’t look especially alike. “Your Majesty,” Marcus said with a bow.
“Fetch my armor, sword and shield,” Nathan commanded as casually as he was dressed, in his dark grey tunic and shoes. “I intend on joining the list. Be quick about it now, and don’t hesitate to get help if you need it.” Marcus inclined his head and ran off back into the palace, in the direction of the armory no doubt.
Alexia was upon him next, bearing letters that the Emperor had already looked over with his council. “Hello brother, have you given anymore thought to these here?” she showed him the letters.
“I have, and I have responses in mind,” he told her. “Though I’m more concerned about this melee coming up.”
The willowy princess with raven hair and deep blue eyes smiled. “Most of them are young and eager, for adventure and renown. You would not let them go to war…this is the next best thing. A chance to serve their lord and prove their prowess. They have come, even northerlings.”
“Good, because I am as well,” he answered while stretching his back. “I’d like to win, in order to remind everyone here that I am no wastrel.”
Alexia opened her mouth as though she was going to speak, but then closed it, as if the words caught in her throat. Then she said, “…would you like for me to enter you into the list?”
“Yes please sister, that would be good of you.” She curtsied and went off to do that, and while she did, the Emperor continued to walk along the edges of where people had gathered. Viewing stands had been erected around where the melees were to take place, with the stands of honor occupying an elevated position for optimal spectating. It was there that the likes of the Empress, Nathan’s sisters Diana, Theodora and Alexia, cousins Cassandra and Anastasia as well as Princess Ava and other high ranking females of court would be seated.
Marcus Haro returned to his cousin the Emperor with some helpers, bearing pieces of his armor. Nathan bid that they follow him to a secluded part of the courtyard to suit up. It was the same armor that he wore in Jehenna, though it had to be repaired since its last use. The armor enameled white plate with gold inlaid, the helm had wings like an eagle and the shield was gold with a white eagle. His weapon of choice would be his Arragarran steel sword, Inperioa.
The Emperor kept a low profile while he waited for the melee tournament to begin. It would last all day, that much he knew, and the following three days, no doubt. The way they usually went, to Nathan’s knowledge, was the round of 128 on the first day, the round of 64 on the following day, then on the third day the rounds of 32 and 16, and then on the fourth and final day, the rounds of 8, 4 and the final fight, spread apart with adequate breaks between.
Rather than spar with a practice dummy, the Emperor meditated, clearing his mind of all distractions before the day’s events were to begin. It was some time into the first round that the Emperor’s first fight was announced, against an old nobleman by the name of Terrance Tronpa, a marcher house from Lurberdea who wore the sewer green colors of his house upon his tattered surcoat.
A few cheered for the Emperor, mostly his family and close friends, while the rest were mostly mum. When the match began, the two combatants circled around each other before exchanging a few blows of their swords, sending out a ringing noise that reverberated across the courtyard amidst some cheers. Instinct took over then, honed by training with the caress of steel.
Tronpa was an older man, and couldn’t keep up with the Emperor nor match his blows. Eventually he fell to one knee and yielded, and it was done. And under five minutes at that. Nathan helped the man up, and the two clasped each other on the shoulders before seeing themselves off the grass of the field of combat. In routine fashion he removed his armor with the help of his cousin and squire, and put his tunic back on.
As was customary, Nathan assumed the seat upon the stands of honor beside the Empress, who smiled at him and squeezed his hand. He took her hand and kissed it, feeling its smooth coolness against his face. That was the extent of his pleasures, as he would not sate himself during the tournament, finding that the energy was best preserved. Just wait until after the tournament…
Indeed, at the end of the first day’s events, he retired to his chambers to bathe and relax. He went to sleep early, and upon waking up the following morning, went about his day in the same fashion as he did the previous. The second day’s melee would start at the same hour, so there was just enough time to bathe once more, get dressed and eat, which he did in the courtyard.
Nathan ate sparingly of the mutton chops and cream of broccoli stew, not so much that he would get full. His next match was against a more formidable opponent, that being Lord Manfred Urdina, one of the Seven Lords of Ghant, and of distant kinship to the Empress. Like most of the Seven Lords, Manfred Urdina was a haughty and arrogant man full of conceit and self-worth. His armor was as fanciful as the Emperor’s, platemail tinted blue and with wave patterns engraved upon it.
The clashed steel against one another, and this man was certainly of greater prowess than Lord Tronpa, Nathan could tell. Yet, Nathan was taller and had a longer reach, which he used to great effect. After enough hits to the man’s helm, he staggered back, and yielded. Once again, the Emperor was gracious in victory and helped his downed opponent up, and followed the same routine as the day before.
The third day would see the Emperor fight two different opponents. The first was young Marcel Voor, cousin of Lord Voor. The youth was said to be the best fighter of the entire expanse of House Voor, though Nathan wouldn’t have guessed it by looking at him. He was pretty boy, with long, flowing blondish-brown hair and gold-green eyes. The cheers for him were loud, especially from the ladies present, and Marcel looked smugly at the Emperor as he grabbed his morningstar and lowered the visor on his leopard-head themed helm.
Unlike the Emperor’s first two bouts, Marcel delivered the first strike with a precise blow of his morningstar against Nathan’s side. The weapon gave Voor more reach than the Emperor could match, forcing him to try to get closer than he’d usually care to. After more than ten minutes of fighting, the Emperor did a spin move to get in close to Voor’s side, and proceeded to wrestle him to the ground. The tumbled around in the grass for a minute, until Nathan’s sword was pointed at Voor’s face.
Begrudgingly, Marcel Voor yielded, sending the Emperor to the round of 16. It’s certainly not going to get any easier, he thought as he composed himself upon helping Voor to his feet. Nathan riled upon speed, guile and cunning in order to best his opponents, but against raw power and pure skill, that would only get him so far. His next opponent would prove the measure of that.
Lord Banadar Bogardan from the Kingdom of Arrautsa was a large, physically opposing man, built like a bear and as mean as one in a fight. His weapon of choice was a massive two-handed maul, his armor a smoky grey color. He was polite at least, inclining his head to the Emperor before assuming his position at his end of the field of combat, Nathan doing the same on his.
Bogardan was careful, deliberate in his steps, advancing methodically with his maul in his hands. He wins with a single swing of that maul, Nathan knew from watching him the previous two days. All it took was one hit. As the two closed in on each other, Banadar swung his maul from side to side, causing the Emperor to jump back. On the next swing, Nathan dove beneath the arc. That was how the fight went for the next twenty minutes, with Bogardan swinging his maul and Nathan dodging it, and landing any blows in that he could when the opportunities arose.
This went on for some twenty minutes or so, with both men growing tired. Bogardan tired first, allowing the Emperor to deliver a few strong hits that sent the Arrautsan into submission. Come the end of the day, there were only eight combatants left, those being Martin and Michael of Dakmoor, King Taboro of Arrautsa, Arthur Estilon, Basil Moro, Alaric Dain, Zara Thrall and Nathan. An impressive list indeed.
On the last day of the melee, the Emperor found himself fortunate in that he drew Basil Moro, who was in Nathan’s opinion the weakest of the final eight, but still superior to the rest of the entrants. Basil was a seasoned warrior, with ornate violet armor and a long spear with a knob on the end opposite the blade. Dakmoor so far proved the most successful province in the tournament, featuring four of its sons in the final eight.
When the first started fighting, Nathan noticed the incredible reach of Basil’s weapon, as well as his great speed. The Emperor was on the defensive for most of the bout, trying to block the strikes with his shield. Yet in spite of his efforts, Nathan felt as though he was being worn down by Basil Moro and his sturdy spear, rapping against his armor, here and there.
Once again, Nathan realized that in order to prevail, he had to get in close, where Basil’s weapon would be far less effective. So it was that after fending off the Dakmooran’s fierce blows, Nathan got in close and went for the man’s legs in an attempt to get him on the ground. This proved effective, and Basil was ill-prepared for such an attack. A few minutes later, and Basil yielded, propelling the Emperor to the final four, against some of the greatest fighters in all of Ghant.
The final four took form over the course of the next hour or so. Alaric Dain defeated Martin of Dakmoor in a close contest, Zara Thrall made quick work of King Taboro of Arrautsa, and Michael of Dakmoor bested Arthur Estilon in a savage bout. The final two matches were revealed to be between Alaric Dain and Zara Thrall, and Nathan against Michael. Certainly a fight I’m not looking forward to…
Fortunately, he had time to recover between fights, and Alaric and Zara were going first. Alaric was arguably the best swordsman in Ghant, fighting with a two-handed greatsword, and dressed in beautiful violet platemail armor with the sword and shooting star of his house patterned into the plate. Not only was he gallant but he was handsome as well, and it was said that a thousand maidens wept when he married Countess Claudia Zecharias, the daughter of a prominent Edomite religious leader.
Zara Thrall was a study in contrasts. Unlike the tall and strapping black hair and violet eyed Alaric, Zara was a scrappy looking woman with platinum hair and forest green eyes with a scowling face. Her armor was gaudy, consisting of a highly detailed suit of dark green and black platemail armor styled after a gorgon, and her helm was custom made to fit that theme, featuring stylized snakes. Her shield bore her personal sigil of the cold blue spider, and her sword was none other than the cursed Arragaran steel longsword Mazadar, inherited from her tragic ancestors.
The two of them clashed their swords together, sending out a loud ring across the melee grounds and to much raucous applause. Few fared better against Zara than Alaric Dain, though in the end even he proved no match for the famed northern lady, for her technique was flawless, and she wielded her sword as though it were some mere stick. Alaric submitted within five minutes, and Zara saw herself off the grounds to await the championship bout.
Michael of Dakmoor had new armor for his match against the Emperor, freshly made just for him by his sister the Empress. It was a slick suit of black platemail armor, with stylized eagle’s wings on the shoulders, and a griffin’s head shaped helm with the maw forming the visor. Elsewhere were rose patterns upon the armor pieces, and a bleeding rose upon a black shield to boot.
There was nothing polite or courteous in Michael’s expression to his brother-in-law either, as there was no love lost between the two men. Nothing will stop him from crowning his Jocasta the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Emperor knew, and so he had to steel himself against his determined opponent. Both men wielded Arragaran steel swords, with Michael having Grifoatzapar at the ready.
When the fight commenced and the two clashed their swords, it let out the sweet, yet haunting whistle of Arragaran steel crashing together. Nathan was fast, but Michael was faster, and while the former was an experienced fighter, he was scrappy and improvising, as opposed to Michael who was expertly trained and finessed. There was no doubting that during the course of that bout, Michael wanted it more, because like Nathan the Dakmaran had something to prove, but also had a larger chip on his shoulder.
It went on for roughly ten minutes, or so the Emperor thought, as they slogged out a series of blows against each other’s armor causing them to groan and grunt. It all happened so fast, and ended with one mighty blow to Nathan’s helmet, causing him to crash to the ground upon his back. As quickly as he tried to stand up, Michael was upon him, tackling him and wrestling with him on the ground.
Nathan was too delirious from the encounter to properly yield, and so Michael won by default. Marcus and Desmond came and pulled the Emperor off the grounds and got him to an area where he could be changed and cleaned. It didn’t go unnoticed by Marcus or Desmond that the Emperor had several bruises all over his body from that last fight, as well as a bloody, busted lip and a few cuts where the skin broke on his face and body.
“You just got knocked the fuck out,” Desmond observed to his cousins. “I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s as though Michael was granted a boon from God to whoop your ass.”
It all goes back to Rosa of Garza, Nathan thought in his stupor. “He’s a great fighter, he deserved it. Try to get me ready to go back to the stands so I can watch the final fight.” His handlers did just that, getting him properly cleaned and dressed in comfortable clothes after eating and taking a bath. Eventually he was helped back to the stands to sit beside his wife, who seemed a mixture of disappointed and pleased, for while her husband was defeated in spectacular fashion, her brother was in the final fight.
There was some irony in that the final fight featured a Ghantish prince who was now Edomite royalty by marriage and dressed in griffin themed armor squaring off against a Ghantish noblelady of Imperial Deadoran descent dressed in gorgon themed armor, both wielding Arragaran steel swords. They said nothing to each other, and when the bout commenced, they walked in circles around each other as they stared each other down through their fashionable visors.
Zara struck first, the blow parried by Michael. Zara was fast on her feet and moved fluidly like water, maneuvering in and out, back and forth away from her opponent as she probed for weaknesses and flaws in his technique. Michael did the same, though it was apparent that he wasn’t used to a foe of this caliber. When they started fighting in earnest, their swords rang together in rapid succession, moving as quick as lightning to the eyes of the uninitiated. Nathan had a hard time keeping up, so swift and precise were their swings.
Michael was good at dodging blows, but Zara was better. Indeed not only was she accurate, but she was hard to hit, and while in the beginning she took limited shots at her opponent, she gradually increased intensity until he was becoming overwhelmed. This time it took over seven minutes, but in the end Michael was on his back and Zara’s sword was over his eye. He yielded, and Zara was champion, albeit to very little fanfare.
She approached the main stands and plunged her sword into the dirt before removing her helm, as Michael was helped off the field by some of his father’s bannermen. She said nothing, though her mean green eyes flashed over the group of them, before smiling a mouth full of crooked whitish teeth.
It was the Empress that spoke. “Lady Zara Thrall, by might, prowess and force of arms, you have prevailed in this tournament and so have been named Melee Champion. As is customary, you shall receive prizes commensurate to your accomplishment, including the honor of bestowing your favors upon anyone present. At this time, you may do just that, in addition to saying whatever you wish to say.”
With a slight nod, Zara looked about the crowd of honor as she was handed a wreath crown of white and red roses. “Tis a great honor to be the champion,” she said in her northern accent, “which is owed to my training and to the great challenge posed by all my opponents this day and the days previous. None have faired better against me in single combat than Prince Michael of Dakmoor, and I know that which compelled him to the final match against me, and inspired him to last as long as he did.”
Carefully, Zara made her way up into the stands, and gently placed the crown of roses upon Jocasta’s head. “So it is that I shall name Jocasta Obed, Princess of New Edom, as the Queen of Love and Beauty this day.”
The irony is complete, Nathan thought as a round of applause broke out, at the sight of a Thrall honoring an Obed in such a way. Though, Nathan’s appreciation for this spectacle was interrupted once more by his half-sister Alexia, who tapped him on the shoulder in a bid to get his attention.
“Brother, these letters require your attention,” she insisted. “You’ve put them off for days, and now the tournament is over. Please, I beseech thee to read them posthaste.”
The Emperor yawned, and scratched the back of his head. “Alright…so there’s that one, and those ones from Constantine…has anyone said anything about who they’d recommend represent us at Constantine’s negotiations?”
“…Marsella, actually,” Alexia answered. “That would be mine as well.”
“Good, make it so then. Write to Marsella and inform her that she is representing our government at Constantine’s negotiations with the Edomites. Wish them good luck…they’ll need it.”
“Yes of course brother…by the way there is one more letter.” Alexia handed him a letter that was addressed to Cassandra from Teresa. “From Teresa.”
Nathan examined it carefully to see what it had to say.
“…Marsella, actually,” Alexia answered. “That would be mine as well.”
“Good, make it so then. Write to Marsella and inform her that she is representing our government at Constantine’s negotiations with the Edomites. Wish them good luck…they’ll need it.”
“Yes of course brother…by the way there is one more letter.” Alexia handed him a letter that was addressed to Cassandra from Teresa. “From Teresa.”
Nathan examined it carefully to see what it had to say.
The Emperor’s face lit up as his eyes grew wide. “Oh, my dear Great-aunt Teresa, such a clever old lady isn’t she? I’m sure all of my noble friends would love to go to Vannois for a…wine and cheese tasting adventure in the countryside.” With that said the Emperor sprung up from his seat and rushed off to go back into the palace. “Letters to write, Alexia…letters to write.”
ooooooo
Vorindeum Palace
Vorindeumstadt, Vorindeum
Count Hans Girnef lurched through the macabre hallways of the Palace of the Emperor of Vorindeum, contemplating its dour architecture. It was a building built in a classic gothic style, made more profound by the presence of the Iron Eagle himself. He was a man that preferred plainness, aside from the occasional portrait that hung from the wall or bust that sat perfectly upon a table in the hallways.
The man that came just before Albert was one Septimus Lexus, a strange man if Hans ever knew one. Strictly religious but not dogmatic, a proper soldier but no warrior, and a true sovereign if not a tyrant, Septimus married Princess Kristin of Vorindun and was said to neglect her, if only because he was strict in his religious observations regarding sex. No wonder she ran off to northern Ghant and got with a pagan prince, Hans thought with a scowl. She’s probably getting fucked bow-legged now.
Hans didn’t think much of Kristin, finding her to be a stupid and vain young woman too eager to pursue her pleasures. Likewise, Septimus was a lobster of a man that had too few accomplishments to grant him such an austere disposition. The Iron Eagle, on the other hand cast a wide shadow indeed. Unlike Septimus, Albert was neither religious nor dogmatic, a warrior and a soldier, and a true sovereign who ruled with a steady and fair hand. Harsh, but fair.
Featured on the walls of the palace halls were portraits of Albert’s mother Empress Grace, with a look of caprice upon her fair, freckly face, and red hair as burning as a great fire. Even on canvas, her amber eyes were searing, as though she scrutinized every move that Hans took. He had never known the woman in life, but even having been dead for over sixteen years, he could feel her presence merely through her guise in art.
There was also a portrait of Albert’s older brother John. He appeared a gentle-looking man, but also sad in a way, like a man haunted by his mistakes, too many to rectify in one lifetime. He was tall, with black hair and blue eyes and a long face. Albert didn’t speak of his brother often, but when he did, it was nothing but the utmost admiration and respect, though not without a tinge of resentment and bitterness too.
Another choice that was most curious, and no doubt infuriating to Empress Isabel was the painting of Elizabeth Mutu near the palace gardens. In it was a haunting, though beautiful woman with dark brown hair and soft blue eyes, a lovely face that yearned for true romance. Albert didn’t even attempt to hide his adoration for the woman…it was in plain sight. There were nights too…long, rainy nights when the lightning struck and the thunder roared, that Albert would gaze upon it in solitude.
Hans turned his gaze to the hall in front of him, and to the double doors at their end. Guards flanked them, but stood aside as Hans made his final approach. With a subtle push of the doors, he entered Albert’s solar, and found the Emperor sitting at his desk, and the young Crown Princess Adela, heir to half a dozen thrones, playing on a large, fluffy blanket nearby.
“I take it you have news,” Albert asked bitingly as he looked up from his desk.
Hans bowed with lowered eyes and answered, “Admiral Beatus Gerlach and the fleet are nearing the west coast of Latium.”
“Good, very good,” replied the Emperor. “Admiral Gerlach has done well, and the hour of action is upon us. My contacts in Ghant have informed me of negotiations to take place in Adrianople…all I need is for the boy Constantine to make a fool of himself, and then things will be set in motion.”
“…You really want to see Michael on the Latin throne?” Hans asked curiously.
At this, Albert snorted, almost seeming a laugh. “No, of course not. Michael is a fool and a madman, a truly dangerous combination. That, and he is no friend of my family. He is the enemy of our house, and therefore he must be destroyed. Though it will not be by own hand, but by his own. As for Constantine, he is milktoast, and arrogant.”
Hans was truly confused, and looked at Albert with a cocked head. “So what is it exactly that you wish to do, your Majesty?”
“…My true intention is to seat my nephew Leo upon the Latin throne,” Albert admitted. “For political as well as dynastic reasons. The sons of Jason have proven themselves unfit for the throne.” Having said that, Albert slid a letter across his desk towards Hans. “I wrote and sent that out this morning. Go ahead, read it.”
Looking at it for a moment, Hans picked up the copy of the sent letter and began to read it.
Vorindeumstadt, Vorindeum
Count Hans Girnef lurched through the macabre hallways of the Palace of the Emperor of Vorindeum, contemplating its dour architecture. It was a building built in a classic gothic style, made more profound by the presence of the Iron Eagle himself. He was a man that preferred plainness, aside from the occasional portrait that hung from the wall or bust that sat perfectly upon a table in the hallways.
The man that came just before Albert was one Septimus Lexus, a strange man if Hans ever knew one. Strictly religious but not dogmatic, a proper soldier but no warrior, and a true sovereign if not a tyrant, Septimus married Princess Kristin of Vorindun and was said to neglect her, if only because he was strict in his religious observations regarding sex. No wonder she ran off to northern Ghant and got with a pagan prince, Hans thought with a scowl. She’s probably getting fucked bow-legged now.
Hans didn’t think much of Kristin, finding her to be a stupid and vain young woman too eager to pursue her pleasures. Likewise, Septimus was a lobster of a man that had too few accomplishments to grant him such an austere disposition. The Iron Eagle, on the other hand cast a wide shadow indeed. Unlike Septimus, Albert was neither religious nor dogmatic, a warrior and a soldier, and a true sovereign who ruled with a steady and fair hand. Harsh, but fair.
Featured on the walls of the palace halls were portraits of Albert’s mother Empress Grace, with a look of caprice upon her fair, freckly face, and red hair as burning as a great fire. Even on canvas, her amber eyes were searing, as though she scrutinized every move that Hans took. He had never known the woman in life, but even having been dead for over sixteen years, he could feel her presence merely through her guise in art.
There was also a portrait of Albert’s older brother John. He appeared a gentle-looking man, but also sad in a way, like a man haunted by his mistakes, too many to rectify in one lifetime. He was tall, with black hair and blue eyes and a long face. Albert didn’t speak of his brother often, but when he did, it was nothing but the utmost admiration and respect, though not without a tinge of resentment and bitterness too.
Another choice that was most curious, and no doubt infuriating to Empress Isabel was the painting of Elizabeth Mutu near the palace gardens. In it was a haunting, though beautiful woman with dark brown hair and soft blue eyes, a lovely face that yearned for true romance. Albert didn’t even attempt to hide his adoration for the woman…it was in plain sight. There were nights too…long, rainy nights when the lightning struck and the thunder roared, that Albert would gaze upon it in solitude.
Hans turned his gaze to the hall in front of him, and to the double doors at their end. Guards flanked them, but stood aside as Hans made his final approach. With a subtle push of the doors, he entered Albert’s solar, and found the Emperor sitting at his desk, and the young Crown Princess Adela, heir to half a dozen thrones, playing on a large, fluffy blanket nearby.
“I take it you have news,” Albert asked bitingly as he looked up from his desk.
Hans bowed with lowered eyes and answered, “Admiral Beatus Gerlach and the fleet are nearing the west coast of Latium.”
“Good, very good,” replied the Emperor. “Admiral Gerlach has done well, and the hour of action is upon us. My contacts in Ghant have informed me of negotiations to take place in Adrianople…all I need is for the boy Constantine to make a fool of himself, and then things will be set in motion.”
“…You really want to see Michael on the Latin throne?” Hans asked curiously.
At this, Albert snorted, almost seeming a laugh. “No, of course not. Michael is a fool and a madman, a truly dangerous combination. That, and he is no friend of my family. He is the enemy of our house, and therefore he must be destroyed. Though it will not be by own hand, but by his own. As for Constantine, he is milktoast, and arrogant.”
Hans was truly confused, and looked at Albert with a cocked head. “So what is it exactly that you wish to do, your Majesty?”
“…My true intention is to seat my nephew Leo upon the Latin throne,” Albert admitted. “For political as well as dynastic reasons. The sons of Jason have proven themselves unfit for the throne.” Having said that, Albert slid a letter across his desk towards Hans. “I wrote and sent that out this morning. Go ahead, read it.”
Looking at it for a moment, Hans picked up the copy of the sent letter and began to read it.
“You underestimate your nephew’s support for Constantine,” Hans said frankly. “Leo will not abandon his cousin’s cause.”
“Perhaps not, but I shall try all the same to persuade him,” the Emperor spoke just as bluntly, and pushed himself up from his chair behind the desk. “If there’s anything the boy is dedicated to more than Constantine, it’s to Latium itself. Once he realizes he’s the best thing that could happen to his country, he will come around. He has the army, he has the position, all he has to do now is reach out and take the capital, and the rest will fall into place.”
Princess Adela mewled as began to crawl away from her father’s desk, making her away across the floor in a determined fashion. Hans watched her out of the corner or her eye, as did Albert. “You know him better than I do…but doesn’t he despise you for what you did to him and his sisters and mother? Exiling them from Ghant when you became Prince Regent?”
“Aye, he does, and so do they, but they are ignorant of the facts. If needs be, I will clarify them, if that’s what it will take to sway him towards my point of view…” Albert watched as Adela climbed up onto an end table staked tall with letters, envelopes and papers. She began to bob up and down and make loud baby noises.
Albert wheeled around the desk and grabbed his daughter, scooping her up and pulling her away from the small teetering table as it fell over. The stack of papers and envelopes tumbled over unto the carpet, laying in a heaping mess. So it was that the envelope at the bottom of the stack, now near the top of the pile upon the floor, slid out and away, towards Hans’s feet.
…What’s this? Hans picked it up, and stared at it for a few moments. “Your Majesty…have you seen this?”
The Vorindese Emperor was gritting his teeth at his young daughter’s adventurism and holding her under his arm like a gridiron ball when he looked at Hans coldly. “What is it?”
“…It’s a message from Emperor Jason of Latium,” Hans answered. “It’s yet unopened, and it bears his seal…”
For the first time that Hans could remember, he saw a look of surprise on Albert’s face, the man nearly taken aback. “Nonsense…that cannot be.” With Adela tucked under one arm, Albert reached out with his opposite large, long-fingered hand and snatched the envelope away from Hans. “Let me see that…this is strange. Jason cared little for me, that was evident upon our first meeting, many many years ago. I didn’t care for the man either…so what is this about?”
Hans carefully walked around to stand beside the Emperor as the latter set the little girl back down on the blanket, and then used both of his hands to break the seal and open the envelope to read its contents.
“Perhaps not, but I shall try all the same to persuade him,” the Emperor spoke just as bluntly, and pushed himself up from his chair behind the desk. “If there’s anything the boy is dedicated to more than Constantine, it’s to Latium itself. Once he realizes he’s the best thing that could happen to his country, he will come around. He has the army, he has the position, all he has to do now is reach out and take the capital, and the rest will fall into place.”
Princess Adela mewled as began to crawl away from her father’s desk, making her away across the floor in a determined fashion. Hans watched her out of the corner or her eye, as did Albert. “You know him better than I do…but doesn’t he despise you for what you did to him and his sisters and mother? Exiling them from Ghant when you became Prince Regent?”
“Aye, he does, and so do they, but they are ignorant of the facts. If needs be, I will clarify them, if that’s what it will take to sway him towards my point of view…” Albert watched as Adela climbed up onto an end table staked tall with letters, envelopes and papers. She began to bob up and down and make loud baby noises.
Albert wheeled around the desk and grabbed his daughter, scooping her up and pulling her away from the small teetering table as it fell over. The stack of papers and envelopes tumbled over unto the carpet, laying in a heaping mess. So it was that the envelope at the bottom of the stack, now near the top of the pile upon the floor, slid out and away, towards Hans’s feet.
…What’s this? Hans picked it up, and stared at it for a few moments. “Your Majesty…have you seen this?”
The Vorindese Emperor was gritting his teeth at his young daughter’s adventurism and holding her under his arm like a gridiron ball when he looked at Hans coldly. “What is it?”
“…It’s a message from Emperor Jason of Latium,” Hans answered. “It’s yet unopened, and it bears his seal…”
For the first time that Hans could remember, he saw a look of surprise on Albert’s face, the man nearly taken aback. “Nonsense…that cannot be.” With Adela tucked under one arm, Albert reached out with his opposite large, long-fingered hand and snatched the envelope away from Hans. “Let me see that…this is strange. Jason cared little for me, that was evident upon our first meeting, many many years ago. I didn’t care for the man either…so what is this about?”
Hans carefully walked around to stand beside the Emperor as the latter set the little girl back down on the blanket, and then used both of his hands to break the seal and open the envelope to read its contents.
Albert stood still and held the envelope in his hands, mentally digesting the contents of the letter. Then without looking, he addressed Hans who likewise stood still and quiet. “This is Jason’s will.”
“…Why would Jason have sent you a copy of that?” Hans asked. “If the man disliked you so…”
“Because he knew I was a man of honor,” the Emperor answered solemnly. “And because he knew I was a man of the law.”
“So now that you have seen the one true will, what will you do with it?” the Vorindese count had the feeling he was asking questions that he shouldn’t ask, but at this point, Albert didn’t seem to mind.
The Emperor on the other hand seemed at a loss for words. “…I don’t know yet, but things have already been set in motion. The Edomites support Michael without caring much for his legitimacy it seems, and I’ve already made my position clear on Leo.”
“You confuse me,” Hans suddenly blurted out. “…You speak of the law, of honor, yet you wish to seat your nephew Leo upon the Latin throne…the same Leo that you yourself attainted and exiled from Ghant and left for dead. Wasn’t it you that said that it is every man’s duty to remain loyal to his rightful king, especially in the face of usurpation?”
Albert looked at Hans furiously, and practically yelled “It was, and alas, it is.” He took a deep breath and added, “And here is the truth of it. Truth is a bitter draught at times. Leo and his sisters? If you only knew…if only they know…that was a hard choosing. As for now, my blood or the true Emperor. My nephew or Constantine.” He grimaced. “It is as my mother said. Blood comes first, and then the law. I have a duty to my daughter, to my brothers and sister, to my nieces and nephews…all of them. To protect them, to advance their positions, to destroy their enemies. Leo is John’s son. John loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother, my mother’s child. I did what I did in those days to save him, and I will do so again, against any that would wish him harm. And so help me God, if he wishes to be Emperor of Latium, he need but reach out and take it, and I shall do my part to deliver it swiftly upon him.”
“…I understand, your Majesty,” Hans nodded, not sure what else to say, and more confused than he was before.
“No you don’t,” Albert snapped. “Leave me now, and send a message on my behalf to Admiral Gerlach to hold his position west of the Latin coast until further notice. I will not have it said that I interrupt negotiations. He will await further instructions from me. Also, you will convey this development regarding Jason’s will to the Edomite ambassador. Is that understood?”
Hans lowered his eyes. “Yes your Majesty…it shall be done.” With that, Hans turned and walked away, leaving Albert to contemplate the Latin will and his dynastic ambitions. Then a strange thought came to Hans…of an Iron Eagle with a heart as black as ash, capable of great feats for those that he truly loved. Like his dear precious Adela…does he sing melodies to her by night, when the lightning cracks and the thunder roars?
“…Why would Jason have sent you a copy of that?” Hans asked. “If the man disliked you so…”
“Because he knew I was a man of honor,” the Emperor answered solemnly. “And because he knew I was a man of the law.”
“So now that you have seen the one true will, what will you do with it?” the Vorindese count had the feeling he was asking questions that he shouldn’t ask, but at this point, Albert didn’t seem to mind.
The Emperor on the other hand seemed at a loss for words. “…I don’t know yet, but things have already been set in motion. The Edomites support Michael without caring much for his legitimacy it seems, and I’ve already made my position clear on Leo.”
“You confuse me,” Hans suddenly blurted out. “…You speak of the law, of honor, yet you wish to seat your nephew Leo upon the Latin throne…the same Leo that you yourself attainted and exiled from Ghant and left for dead. Wasn’t it you that said that it is every man’s duty to remain loyal to his rightful king, especially in the face of usurpation?”
Albert looked at Hans furiously, and practically yelled “It was, and alas, it is.” He took a deep breath and added, “And here is the truth of it. Truth is a bitter draught at times. Leo and his sisters? If you only knew…if only they know…that was a hard choosing. As for now, my blood or the true Emperor. My nephew or Constantine.” He grimaced. “It is as my mother said. Blood comes first, and then the law. I have a duty to my daughter, to my brothers and sister, to my nieces and nephews…all of them. To protect them, to advance their positions, to destroy their enemies. Leo is John’s son. John loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother, my mother’s child. I did what I did in those days to save him, and I will do so again, against any that would wish him harm. And so help me God, if he wishes to be Emperor of Latium, he need but reach out and take it, and I shall do my part to deliver it swiftly upon him.”
“…I understand, your Majesty,” Hans nodded, not sure what else to say, and more confused than he was before.
“No you don’t,” Albert snapped. “Leave me now, and send a message on my behalf to Admiral Gerlach to hold his position west of the Latin coast until further notice. I will not have it said that I interrupt negotiations. He will await further instructions from me. Also, you will convey this development regarding Jason’s will to the Edomite ambassador. Is that understood?”
Hans lowered his eyes. “Yes your Majesty…it shall be done.” With that, Hans turned and walked away, leaving Albert to contemplate the Latin will and his dynastic ambitions. Then a strange thought came to Hans…of an Iron Eagle with a heart as black as ash, capable of great feats for those that he truly loved. Like his dear precious Adela…does he sing melodies to her by night, when the lightning cracks and the thunder roars?
Sleep well now my love
for I stand by your bed,
Walk safe my love
for I watch over your shoulder.
A shadow to take comfort in,
no matter what they said.
With these wings of Iron I protect
and with this blackened heart
I make a shield thicker than lead,
to protect you from this dreaded world,
to protect you from all that
could never see you as perfect.
For you have been mine since our first meeting,
you knew it somewhere deep in that heart
which I hold in my hand beating.
I am no angel that people pray to at night,
I am fear and wrath for all to see.
I can keep you safe from all that be
except.. for me.
But fear me not too much, my love,
for as you will find,
this shred of a heart
still beats for you,
and only you..
I swear it's true
for I stand by your bed,
Walk safe my love
for I watch over your shoulder.
A shadow to take comfort in,
no matter what they said.
With these wings of Iron I protect
and with this blackened heart
I make a shield thicker than lead,
to protect you from this dreaded world,
to protect you from all that
could never see you as perfect.
For you have been mine since our first meeting,
you knew it somewhere deep in that heart
which I hold in my hand beating.
I am no angel that people pray to at night,
I am fear and wrath for all to see.
I can keep you safe from all that be
except.. for me.
But fear me not too much, my love,
for as you will find,
this shred of a heart
still beats for you,
and only you..
I swear it's true
ooooooo
The Vorindese Fleet
Tempesta Ocean
West of the Latin coast
Tempesta Ocean
West of the Latin coast
Every subject's duty is the King's; but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore, should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were no sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive the day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.
Henry V was the favorite play of Admiral Beatus Gerlach. The old Vorindese Admiral read it from beginning to end every time he found himself at sea, and drew inspiration from the verses within. The journey across the Tempesta had been a long one, but at last they were drawing near the west coast of Latium, and to their ultimate destination, the nature of which was known to few. The Emperor plays his cards close to the vest, Beatus thought of Albert, the so called Iron Eagle of Ghant, and the successor of Septimus Lexus chosen by the Vorindese Senate for reasons that Beatus wasn’t entirely clear of. Though that matters little now…
Beatus had made sure his men were prepared to seek out a viable landing point to commence ground operations, and to prepare for possible naval operations. The more Beatus thought about it, the more he began to suspect that this was all some sort of ploy that he didn’t understand. Albert is a crafty man indeed…
His ruminations over Shakespeare were interrupted when a knock came upon the door. This was no triviality…Beatus gave specific orders to only disturb him when there were important developments that he needed to be made aware of. Such as it was, Beatus sighed and said “come in.”
A rangy communications officer entered the Admiral’s cabin and brought his boots together in a thud, and saluted. “Admiral sir.”
“At ease, officer.” Once the communications officer came to stand still in an easing fashion, Beatus leaned forward over his desk. “What is it?”
“We’ve received word from the palace,” the officer explained confidently. “The Emperor wishes for us to stall our operation and await further instruction.”
And we were so close. “…And did he say why?” Beatus asked bluntly.
The officer didn’t hesitate in his response. “The Edomites, Ghantish and Constantine’s government are entering into negotiations in Adrianople, he said citing reliable sources. We are to proceed no further until after they have concluded, and until after a ceasefire has been determined.”
“A ceasefire…I see.” The Admiral took a sip of his white wine and rubbed the cleft of his chin. “And if there’s a ceasefire…we are to do what, exactly?”
“…His Majesty said that should that be the case, he will inform of what we are to do next.”
The Admiral narrowed his eyes and subsequently asked, “and if there is no ceasefire?”
“…Then we are to proceed as planned, unless told otherwise.”
Beatus pushed himself up from his chair and hit the desk with a clenched fist. “I don’t like sitting around on my ass while so many potential enemies are around us. I want the initiative…I don’t want to give anyone time to plan against us. We are far from home, Zahn, and we are vulnerable. No matter how mighty our ships, or their capabilities, we are at a disadvantage. And the longer we must wait, the more disadvantaged we shall become.”
Office Zahn wasn’t sure what to say in response to that, apparently, so he just nodded and stammered out, “…these are the orders, sir.”
“Bah,” said the admiral with a wave of his hand. “Leave me. I must think.” Officer Zahn was quickly gone, leaving Beatus alone once more. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices that we are here and tries to communicate to us. What will I tell them? Albert was a much maligned man in Cornellia, and the fact that he sent a fleet of carriers and warships deep into the Tempesta to intervene in a local Civil War was sure to be poorly received.
Still, I have my orders, and I must follow them. To be fair to the Emperor, he had led Vorindeum to glory in Cornellia already in the Tempesta during the height of tensions involving Gloria Regis. Beatus had been skeptical going into that excursion as well, though his mistrust would prove poorly placed, as the Vorindese fleet prevailed in stunning fashion against the enemy, far greater in number.
In the stillness of his solitude, Beatus thought long and hard about what was to come. Death lurked around every corner for all, eagle and man alike. From that, there is no escape. Not even the eagles can break free from that. It dawned on the admiral that perhaps they shouldn’t be there, and that doom awaited them. If it came, what he would think about when his time came? Would it be regret, or pride perhaps? No…it will be of the choice. The choice that every soldier makes.
Beatus had made sure his men were prepared to seek out a viable landing point to commence ground operations, and to prepare for possible naval operations. The more Beatus thought about it, the more he began to suspect that this was all some sort of ploy that he didn’t understand. Albert is a crafty man indeed…
His ruminations over Shakespeare were interrupted when a knock came upon the door. This was no triviality…Beatus gave specific orders to only disturb him when there were important developments that he needed to be made aware of. Such as it was, Beatus sighed and said “come in.”
A rangy communications officer entered the Admiral’s cabin and brought his boots together in a thud, and saluted. “Admiral sir.”
“At ease, officer.” Once the communications officer came to stand still in an easing fashion, Beatus leaned forward over his desk. “What is it?”
“We’ve received word from the palace,” the officer explained confidently. “The Emperor wishes for us to stall our operation and await further instruction.”
And we were so close. “…And did he say why?” Beatus asked bluntly.
The officer didn’t hesitate in his response. “The Edomites, Ghantish and Constantine’s government are entering into negotiations in Adrianople, he said citing reliable sources. We are to proceed no further until after they have concluded, and until after a ceasefire has been determined.”
“A ceasefire…I see.” The Admiral took a sip of his white wine and rubbed the cleft of his chin. “And if there’s a ceasefire…we are to do what, exactly?”
“…His Majesty said that should that be the case, he will inform of what we are to do next.”
The Admiral narrowed his eyes and subsequently asked, “and if there is no ceasefire?”
“…Then we are to proceed as planned, unless told otherwise.”
Beatus pushed himself up from his chair and hit the desk with a clenched fist. “I don’t like sitting around on my ass while so many potential enemies are around us. I want the initiative…I don’t want to give anyone time to plan against us. We are far from home, Zahn, and we are vulnerable. No matter how mighty our ships, or their capabilities, we are at a disadvantage. And the longer we must wait, the more disadvantaged we shall become.”
Office Zahn wasn’t sure what to say in response to that, apparently, so he just nodded and stammered out, “…these are the orders, sir.”
“Bah,” said the admiral with a wave of his hand. “Leave me. I must think.” Officer Zahn was quickly gone, leaving Beatus alone once more. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices that we are here and tries to communicate to us. What will I tell them? Albert was a much maligned man in Cornellia, and the fact that he sent a fleet of carriers and warships deep into the Tempesta to intervene in a local Civil War was sure to be poorly received.
Still, I have my orders, and I must follow them. To be fair to the Emperor, he had led Vorindeum to glory in Cornellia already in the Tempesta during the height of tensions involving Gloria Regis. Beatus had been skeptical going into that excursion as well, though his mistrust would prove poorly placed, as the Vorindese fleet prevailed in stunning fashion against the enemy, far greater in number.
In the stillness of his solitude, Beatus thought long and hard about what was to come. Death lurked around every corner for all, eagle and man alike. From that, there is no escape. Not even the eagles can break free from that. It dawned on the admiral that perhaps they shouldn’t be there, and that doom awaited them. If it came, what he would think about when his time came? Would it be regret, or pride perhaps? No…it will be of the choice. The choice that every soldier makes.
I stand in a hallway
between two rooms
the first room
has nothing but death and pain and gore
People who scream in their dying agony
People who beg for me to spare them
With Death standing in the middle of the room
Standing like the Ominous Figure that he is,
Beckoning me to join him
I look into the other room
Full of so much Love and Warmth
Familiar smiles and warm hugs
Laughter and jokes
They beg of me not go
But across the hallway
The calling is just to strong
As I stand and walk towards the first room
And enter the jaws of hell.
between two rooms
the first room
has nothing but death and pain and gore
People who scream in their dying agony
People who beg for me to spare them
With Death standing in the middle of the room
Standing like the Ominous Figure that he is,
Beckoning me to join him
I look into the other room
Full of so much Love and Warmth
Familiar smiles and warm hugs
Laughter and jokes
They beg of me not go
But across the hallway
The calling is just to strong
As I stand and walk towards the first room
And enter the jaws of hell.
