The Horse Hair Rope (Dead)

[Anowa]

The Horse Hair Rope

{Theme}
>>OOC<<
OP: Anowa
CO-OP(s): TBD

---

Royal Palace, Whiterock, Black Hold
King Harold I
Thursday, 10th of Sunwind, E2:Y762

Upon an old, cushioned throne, at the end of a hall lined with guards, sat an elderly man. His back bowed from age and decades of mad posture, his eyes dull and untuned to his surroundings, and with his face cast into a miserable gaze.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened, and a shape started moving towards the King.It wasn't until they got within ten feet that Harold could actually discern who they were outside a blob of color. His vision had long since failed, one eye had gone blind, it's pupil permanently dilated, while the other eyes was starting to go cloudy with cataracts. But even he knew what his son looked like... at least in passing.

"Hostedes, is that you my son?"

Distant mumbling was all that came out of his son's mouth. Harold raised his hand for a moment, reaching over to his head, a horn placed into his hand. Giving a small thanks he pressed it against his ear, "Please continue Hostedes."

Hostedes closed his eyes, sighing before repeating what he said, "Father, your advisers are all recommending that you call for the leaders of the Noble Houses for a parlay here in the capital."

Harold had to think for a moment, who were his advisers again? Bah, whatever, they likely didn't know how to rule a kingdom. So their advice was nothing but bollocks to him. Harold waved his hand away, "Bah, no need, everything's under control." Harold then laid the horn down on his arm rest, signifying that nothing else was to be discussed.

Hostedes simply shook his head and started walking out. The fact that his father couldn't remember the assassination attempt from yesterday was damning. The Old Man just wouldn't die. The few doctors they had in the palace even said that he should've died several years ago from the growths he has, and the fact that his heart isn't beating as it should.

And there wasn't a damn thing to be done.

---

Hollow Rock Pub, Ironport, Black Hold
Duchess Ingrid Black
Thursday, 10th of Sunwind, E2:Y762

Like usual, the black and raven feathered armor of the black sheep of the royal family was found in a tavern. Though for once in a blue moon, she wasn't in Whiterock.

Due to her tenure with her young Elven squire, Ingrid was required to take the girl along with her for 'cultural lessons'. Ingird, to her credit, was doing a decent job of it as well. Eurielle had already spent enough time around nobility, so spending time around the commoners was quite the must. And what better place to find commoners than the local taverns? And so there the duo were, the teetotaller of an elf, Eurielle, sat next to the massive form of Ingrid Black, both taking sips from their respective drinks. Eurielle a modest glass of water, and Ingrid, midway through her second bottle of sack. A good time for both, though they remained evidently silent. That was, until Eurielle's elven ears picked up something from across the tavern.

"She's been drinking poisoned wine for nearly an hour now, are you sure it's not dated?" came a man's soft voice in a low tone.

A reply came in a gruff tone, "Of course, I made it this morning. I made it for a person, not whatever the hells beast she happens to be."

"By the five above. She's just finished the second godsdamned bottle. Are we just gonna stab her now? No way she's in a fighting condition given the amount of booze in her. I doubt that elven whore with her is any better a fighter."

Eurielle was about to warn her liege, when she noticed the elder woman staring up at the clock. A pause, "M'lady?"

Instead of a reply, Ingrid simply started to sing, "Rex tremendae majestatis, qui salvando salvas gratis," the notes became tinny as she unclipped her helmet from her belt and donned it to her head, "Salve me, fons pietatis. Salve me, fons pietatis." she stood to her full height, towering over every man and woman in the bar by at least a full foot. Staring down the men who previously spoke in the corner. "Quantus tremor est futurus, quando judex et venturus." She drew steel, the blade as it was alone was nearly as long as Eurielle was tall. "Damnata, invisus ubique, ab omnibus, ad infinitum."

Eurielle was quick to dawn her helmet as her mind caught up to what was about to happen. Though as she tried to draw her sword, it remained steadfastly in it's sheath. She paused as she swiftly remembered why, she'd overwaxed it that morning, "Fuck." for a moment she regretted being Ingrid's charge, given how accustomed to vulgarity she had become. But Ingrid was a good teacher, despite common opinion. Turning to her left, she grabbed a bottle from the bartop. Giving a glance to the very confused and rotund barkeep, "You may wish to remain unseen for the moment."

He gave a nod as he slowly ducked under the top of the bar, "Yup."

With that out of the way, it seemed like the assassins seemed to stand up. Constituting at least half the bar.

Ingrid groaned, "Well that's not fair." a pause, "You're gonna need about eight more heads."

One of the assassins quipped, "I'd like to see you say something cheeky when your coughing up blood." and with that they charged, all 11 of them. Despite previous discussions, it was clear to Eurielle that such 'assassins' weren't much more than thugs. As they charged, the rest of the pub fled.

Ingrid immediately met the charge head on, full platemail and chainmail offering enough protection from the poorly crafted shivs she faced. And with a single swipe the first in line lost his head and shoulders, the strength of the giantess and chiseled edge of her blade proving more than a match for the man's arms, ribs, and spine. He dropped to the floor as gore spattered the ground, lungs and heart seeping out of the now open hole.

She moved to the next, a now soiled man with untold fear in his eyes, stood stock still as he too was cut down. Following him came the screaming form of either stupid or brave man from her left, opposite her sword. The man had a ball peen hammer in hand, which Ingrid noted was only a marginally better weapon than those of his compatriots. But it was still a hammer, and if her armor got dented again the palace's armorer would have a conniption fit. So Ingrid used her reach, and jutted her hand out into the man's face, the snap crackle and pop of teeth and mandible giving way under the woman's unnatural strength resounded across the bar.

As that man dropped with a case of permanent disfigurement, the duo of others who faced Ingrid got the message and turned tail. Though Ingrid wasn't having it. With the goal in mind that any weapon could become a projectile at least once, she threw her sword like one would a throwing knife or a war axe from the north west.

Of course, in her drunken state she whiffed the fuck out of it as the duo escaped out the door. Her sword flying across the room and bouncing off the wall hilt first. "Godsdammit."

With Eurielle, a different story unfolded. Instead of the reckless, drunken hack and slash that Ingrid played. Eurielle had a more refined and pragmatic approach, granted she was the only knight present that happened to be sober. Her first move was much like Ingrid's last, she threw a bottle straight at the lead assassin's face. It shattered, and the man dropped to the floor, screaming as he tried to claw fragments of glass from his eyes. The next two were armed with what many knights would discount as shivs. But seeing as Eurielle only found it fitting to wear her gambeson out, said shivs turned into rather deadly weapons. tetanus and disease ridden ones.

As the next took his swing, Eurielle side stepped, making the man's over-exaggerated blow glide past. napping forward, the elf seized both the man's shoulder and wrist,before driving the taught arm down into her knee. Snapping the elbow with a sickening crack, and seizing the man's weapon for herself. With a grip still on his shoulder she wheeled about, just as another bladed attack came down near her. Instead, being driven into the still seized man, his body went limp, and Eurielle ceased using him as a meat shield. At that point she jutted forward jamming the jagged spike of metal into the next man's throat and pulling back. Leaving him to flail about as he drowned in his own blood.

The last member of the assassins managed to wrap the elf in a bear hug. Something he obviously didn't think about as now he had no way to really harm her besides hugging too hard.

Besides, Eurielle still had a makeshift dagger in her hand, and with it level at groin height, she swung he hand backwards. Within that moment the kingdom had gained another eunuch. Despite being a woman, Eurielle couldn't help but wince as he dropped.

As the eunuch assassin continued to scream and flop around in agony, Ingrid meandered over, "Well that's a shitty display."

"I'm aware my'lady, I really should've brought all my gear, and lessened up on the blade wax."

Ingrid gave a confused face, looking over the the much smaller girl with a piqued brow, "No, not that, you left two of them alive! That's the shoddiest thing I've seen you do for the past three months."

Eurielle couldn't help but notice the duo left alive, the eunuch was openly sobbing, either in pain or shame she didn't know, but the pool of blood spreading from his crotch made it clear he didn't have long. While the one who was blinded was left silently sobbing in pain as he tried to blink, glass and blood scattered across his face still. "We could probably ask the blind one who sent them?"

Ingrid seemed thoughtful for a moment, "Or we could keep drinking at let the guards handle it."

Eurielle's view switched between the faces of the two wounded men, and the dumb fucking grin on Ingrid's rather red face. With a sigh, she started back towards the bar. "Fine."

"Thatta girl!"

[Ormata]

Nouvel House, Whiterock
Annika Nouvel
Thursday, 10th of Sunwind, E2:Y762

The smell of the ocean was in the air. A lot of people who like to talk about the smell of the ocean think of it like a beautiful thing, a thing full of majesty and magnificence, a thing that was a feeder of the people, a provider, in some ways a parent and never as an enemy. A lot of people who like to talk of the smell of the ocean thing on it as a romantic endeavor, something to smell whilist with a close lover. A lot of people who like to talk on that smell don’t have to smell it every damn day. Annika’s eyes fluttered, back and forth, and the window was open. The light shone-in, little particles of dust perhaps caught in it and looking as though they were suspended in the very air, though if one looked just a bit differently one could see them falling, falling down and down.

The bed was so comfortable, like one was laying in feathers and in the very clouds, like heaven itself had granted one thing, and the pure and seamless sheets were no longer pure or seamless. It was warm like a furnace just from body heat and radiated luxury and calm and her eyes fluttered, open and closed, open and closed, the sleep about her eyes encrusted. One hand dislodged itself, rubbing-away at the stuff, and her other kept near her stomach. The sheets became, as one would expect it, undone, and a chilled breeze lead itself into the heart of the bed. Annika shivered at this; Whiterock was cold enough in the morning, that was for sure.

A gentle sea breeze came-through the room, lifting-up ends of the curtains ever so and bringing with it a smell, along with a cold wind. Lords did it feel cold. Annika breathed-in and she got that smell, head-on. She hated fish and, of course, fish was what was outside. Fishmongers were hawking their wares, fishermen dragging those great, slippery, slobbering beasts up from their boats, other hanging them in the breeze to cure, and all of them thought that fish smelled good. Well. Perhaps the fishermen didn’t, but they were a depressing lot in Annika’s opinion. Her nose wrinkled-up at the smell and turned sour; yes, she really did dislike fish of all kinds. Her family depressingly enjoyed fish when Annika was young. She could recall eating it, day in, day out, and it got very old very fast for the young girl.

The door creaked-open, it needed to be oiled, and a servant stepped-out into view. He was of the slender sort, a rail-thin young man whose standards in being hired were such that Annika’s parents did not at all fear any such misconduct between the servant and their daughter. They had, after all, come into the information that he was not of the interest in female company, and so had little to fear for such matters. A queer individual was, in their minds after all, a safe individual. He stood, straight-up as though at military attention, black hair gleaming in the light as the young man held a chemise in his little hands.

“Oh, close the window,” Annika complained, in the midst of a yawn, the servant laying the chemise down upon the bed as he strode over to the offending bit of the room, clicking shutters shut and turning the well-lit room a good deal lesser lit. Rubbing the last of the sleep away, the young noblewoman sat-up in her bed, exposing a greater ordeal of the upper body. The servant, as would be expected from his demeanor, did not really react towards this. She frowned, her right hand still near her stomach and clenched. Little pinpricks of pain stabbed at her hand, stabbed along the area of it and along the palm and she dared not scratch at those pinpricks. It would simply irritate those pinpricks further, irritate the broken bits and turn a frown to tears. She’d done that before.

“Does your hand hurt?” The servant’s voice was soft and clipped, like one would expect a noble’s son to be, the sort of voice which held little rancor in it at all. He was of that sort of class in society and frowned in-turn; the young man disliked it when her hand acted-up. It was a problem and he was used to being capable of dealing with problems. This, however? This eluded him and eluded the doctors. It was an annoyance to him as well.

She nodded, and the servant approached, thin little fingers rolling about her outstretched hand, lightly brushing in some areas and pressing down harder in others. Her face, for that perhaps minute, alternated from the great joys of pleasure and release to sheer anger and pain, her feelings underneath much the same as the shoulders clenched and relaxed and clenched again. After such a joyous thing, the young man produced from his pocket a roll of fabric, encasing her hand with the stuff. It was put-on once in the morning, again at noon, and then taken-off at dinner. He, and she, were both well-worn to the ordeal on the whole.

Slipping on the chemise, the light fabric feeling like, truly, nothing before donning a light kirtle with the aid of the servant, Annika dismissed him. Exiting the place, she came through the smaller home to a dining room. It was nearly midday, to be honest, and most had already finished eating and such things. It was a smaller room, by noble standards, richly decorated with a few paintings upon the walls, a smaller desk in the corner. An open window, facing away from the ocean, brought-in the smells of the city, things like horse manure and other such stenches. Sometimes Annika wished they owned an estate in the countryside, yet her parents wouldn’t hear of it.

Dining on a meal of bacon and soft bread, along with a cup of tea, she went down to her study, another smaller room with absolutely no windows. The sides of the place were lined with bookshelves, up to the very top of the low roof, and in the center was a table. A tallow candle was there, already lit as per instructions, and a pot. About it was a copper plate, rounded in a cut-out cylinder and rather thin, and an iron rod. A plug laid beside the larger pieces. At the table’s leg were two pots, one being prune juice and the other being saltwater. She’d taken the guess, some time prior, that perhaps the brine in saltwater would conduct whatever energy was in the substance and whatever energy was generated.

Constructing the entire event with some rapidity, filling the amount with the briny water before plugging it, she waited for the reaction to take-place. Annika had developed a rather simple manner by which to test how much energy would be developed; upon one shelf was a young guinea pig, a tiny little thing that was fat enough and docile enough that upon the touch of a person or rod it would genuinely do nothing. Tapping an enclosed wipe upon it, that is to state a two wires, each connected to the device, on the creature startled it before. Perhaps it would do more.

Waiting for an hour, frowning as she waited and lightly brushing against the wrap about her hand, she took the two metal wires from the item and placed the two between the bars of the pig’s cage. The animal was sleeping, as normally, right up until it was touched by the copper wires. The reaction from the animal was one of extreme confusion, getting-up for a rare time to go and sit-down on the far side of the cage. It’s eyes were open, the beady little things, and it was watching. On the plus side, Annika decided that it had a more severe reaction than before. Last time it merely shifted, more than the norm. Yet...yet she needed more power.

Disconnecting the wires carefully, the opened-up the device. The saltwater had nearly eaten-away the iron rod, the copper turning pallid green ever so mildly. Well, salt was a corrosive thing, that was for sure. Perhaps different materials would be needed, yes, perhaps that. She set her mind of purchasing some materials, from the merchant from Ironport.

---

Jorgen Keep, Needle
Mina Suoba
Thursday, 10th of Sunwind, E2:Y762

The sounds and smells of the ocean came in through the window, and the Lord Marshal was enjoying it less so than most. It was hot, blasted hot, damned hot, and the heat came in waves from the ocean and from the desert. A cooling breeze was, essentially, not something which existed at all. As a result of this, the Lord Marshal took a deportation from her usual route and wore a thin, silk dress along with her woven sandals. She stood in her own study, among a half-dozen older men in similarly light attires.

“And so, we can see here…” One man was stating along, a large book open upon the table, pointing-out different numbers upon the table, “And so, we can see here that the numbers from Ironport has begun to decrease somewhat, about 400 gold less than last quarter, though that slack is being picked-up by House Imeris from Whiterock. The ocean trade is being quite steady.”

Another man, black hair with strands of white and the measure of an old-style noble, a native of the region, coughed, nudging the first and motioning briefly with his head. He had the hawk-like features of the most, though his eyes were starting to glaze-over ever so and the man wielded a cane. He swayed, somewhat, from the exertion of nudging the first man, steadying himself on the table with his other cragged and veined hand.

“Ah, yes, yes. Unfortunately, the situation on the road has been less so.” His eyes turned downwards, his fingers pointing-out the numbers and pieces slowing a great deal as though the man expected some form of chastisement.

“How so? Spit it out.” Raiders, Mina thought, that’s what it has to be. The roads hadn’t degraded any massive amount and the economy hadn’t drastically changed since the last report. It had to be someone intercepting the damn shipments. Her voice was harsh, the sort that approached a person and startled them, the type that was commanding.

“Unfortunately, some of the shipments were taken by highwaymen, Lord Marshal. We’ve begun escorting them, but a good deal was lost in transit.”

“Good.” It was better than she hoped. At least these people knew what they were doing, knew that escorting the commerce was a necessary thing in these troubled times. Yet something irritated her. “How many have you assigned?”

“Some forty Light Horse from the 4rd Regiment, Lord Marshal.” He had the stance of a cavalryman, that one, a straighter back and straighter pose, and his faded uniform marked him as such. He was one of Mina’s military advisors, a man from the native nobility, someone she could recall from her days in being taught by those people. His call was the right one, she had to admit, not too many and not too little.

“Good. Dismissed.”

Five of the six exited the room, bowing their way out, leaving one person behind. He was of the sort one could expect, an elf of old age whose back was crooked and hands shook just enough. A thin beard, like a little cloud, hung from his chin, and the man’s eyes had nearly been closed shut by age. He had been, during the meeting, sitting in the back of the room, listening. Despite everything his hearing had not yet gone.

“What do you think of the event?”

“He’s past his time. You know what I’ve said before.”

“That you smelled trickery, yes.”

“He’s past his time. Sooner or later he will fall, by one hand or another. You know how old kings are. The next is a poor choice, not prepared for the events that are ahead yet angered by the pause. The one after is not the correct choice. The line which follows is poorer still. You know this. You have met him, after all.”

She had. He was of the more interesting sorts, a person whose loyalty was strained. A brief nod came from her. The old elf was right, after all. “What paths do you see?”

“Inaction. Action for one side or another. You know the paths.”

She did. The old man was a smart one. There was a reason why she kept him about. They talked for a while, not prodded the subject ever directly and not defining anything for the other to know. It was a little game, whoever could say the most with the least assured nature, and one that lead to nowhere. They talked for a while, and by the end, Mina was assured of the correct path.

---

Courtyard, Three Peaks Citadel
Heribert Wiedemann
Thursday, 10th of Sunwind, E2:Y762

The room was full of the noise of practice. In pairs, each of the Reichsgarde went at it, in full armor and armed with wooden swords, blunted and weighted to ensure that they were heavier than anything they might wear in the field. One such person, Heribert, was enjoying the event so very much. His breath came heavy, the very atmosphere seeming to be thick and hot and humid and dammit was his armor feeling a good deal more weighty.

He felt the sword-stroke come down upon his shield, a larger thing that was wooden just as the sword was, and the hit vibrated up and down his arm as though he’d been hit with a rider and lance. His opponent, the veritable Adelheid Schaeffer, was not one for subtlety, wielding a wooden voulge against him with the sort of strength and energy that would normally imply that someone had personally pissed her off. In all reality and in all honesty, though, that was simply how she was. Well. That was how Heribert hoped she just was. If it wasn’t then he’d pissed her off consistently.

Swinging her handle at him, spinning the weapon about, Heribert angled his shield at it, the handle’s hit feeling like a little hammer strike as his right hand brought-down his sword on her in a downward arc. She blocked it, easily enough, though then the Knight brought his kite shield in as though it were a knuckle duster, forward facing up in-case she would decide to try her own downward swing, and pushing forwards. A few claps from the sidelines signalled that the combat was done, that it had either reached stalemate or another pair were eager to get on with it, and the two broke off.

And so, Heribert found another opponent, and continued it all.

[Imperialisium]

Three Peaks Citadel

"Reichsgarde Knights! Do you want to live forever! To the breach!"-Grand Master von Ravensborg at the Fall of Schazzenar Keep during the annexation of the desert hold.

Three Peaks citadel was to say the least, massive, imposing, and awe inspiring. Built up over several centuries, numerous generations, and had grown from a simple keep and curtain wall to a massive fortress straddling across three peak. The fortress proper looking like it was carved from the mountain face and cliff sides. Its walls and battlements having impossibly smooth surfaces. As if hewn from the very stone of the mountains rather than built out of stone bricks. Built up in several concentric layers, each level ascending higher up the mountain's till one reached the top which held the last holdfast, Grand Masters quarters, and Tower of Nephermael. The Tower being the barracks for the rare Coldfyre Knightly Order. The Orders of the Reichsgarde have their own quarters about the citadel. The Order of the Blessed Lady had their Convent Primaria in the second level. A large church like building. The Order of the White Wolf occupied a Fourth level barracks and Northern style built complex. The list went on. The rank and file of the Reichsgarde's non-knightly men at arms paced the many walls, gatehouses, and streets. All ordered and clean. It was a military society. Everything was devoted to the running of the Reichsgarde in some way. But even then it was rather lenient to live under. If a peasant could not pay a tax or tithe foodstuff from a harvest then they would serve a tenure in physical labor or vice versa. Crime was practically non-existent thanks to the draconian, military style, punishments on the books of the Lex Ordenalis. The Book of Laws that complimented the Kingdom of Kalgar's own law code.

The Grand Master, Adolf von Ravensborg, was sitting in his quarters. Relatively Spartan, having removed the lavish trappings of his processor into a vault when he moved in long ago. Behind him expansive windows gave way to a majestic vista. Only the towers in the top most level where higher than his quarters. He was over 5,000 feet up as is. Before him where numerous dispatches, reports, logs, and inventory lists compiled for him by all of his subordinates. He sat back and turned around in his chair. Looking out at the expansive vista before him.

Courtyard

There where many courtyards in Three Peaks, dozens, but there where a few training yards specifically given over to Reichsgarde training. Stone walls demarcated the ends of the courtyards allowing viewers on top to see. Simple wooden doors allowed access and sand covered the floor. To allow individuals to work on their footing on infirm ground. On the walls, Amarya, a Knight of the Order of the Blessed Lady, watched the sparing. She glanced over and saw Heribert dueling his opponent. Along with other pairs squaring off, kicking up sand with their feet, and the sun glinting off their kit.

She herself was not sparing today, having done so the day prior in the courtyard of her Order's own training space adjacent their convent, but she liked to peruse the training fields. Passively learning techniques, faces, and watching the skill of others at work. After all every edge would be needed in combat. Few had the natural talent for killing in her experience. But all could become killers. So she leaned on her elbows as she watched Heribert. Her eyes moving back to his duel. Watching him parry and strike, his feet moving, and the placement of his weapon for guard or attacking.