Lord Timaeus Battleborn, Grandmaster.
Timeaus Battleborn earned his knighthood as a young man, fighting in Thurol under the then-elderly King Magnus. He served as squire to the now-deceased Grandmaster, Sieur Severin Kjora, before becoming a full knight himself. He is said to have been first onto the walls at the Siege of Kamerak, and, more recently, to have killed three of the High Boyars of Ambar himself on the field.
Lord Timaeus is a peasant-born knight, slender but whip-hard. He has spent his life fighting, and when Kjellos was not at war, he quested under the banner of the order in foreign lands, adventuring and testing his mettle. There are rumors that he confronted and slew three Solothen sorcerers single-hand on his adventures, and that he hunted down a powerful mirrorkin assassin in Golnia.
Brown of hair, long of limb, thick of jaw, but slight of frame, Lord Timaeus carries himself as a common soldier. He does not wear the gold-sheathed armor afforded by his station, and he carries no ancestral weapon at his side, but rather the sword he forged himself when he was but a boy, which now bears the name Wrath.
Sieur Aras Gorr, Master of the Reach.
Sieur Aras is a lesser scion of the House of Gorr, and often wears his own heraldry of a bull's head upon his tabard, surmounting the gold and blue of the Order. He has served as Master of the Reach for ten years, and was squire to none other than Prince Aegus in his youth. Most of his accomplishments were had in the Reach, fighting hobgoblins, goblin, trolls, and other beasts beyond the Iceflow.
Sieura Livorna Velgar, Chapter Master.
Chapter Master at the fortress of Damaron Rock, Sieura Livorna is the daughter of Greve Lareus Velgar, a house united by favorable marriage with the House of Gorr. There was once a firm belief that Livorna and Aras would marry, but she has since been promoted out of the Reach and become Master of her own Chapterhouse in Kjellos.
Sieur Malvenus Tordest, Chapter Master.
Eighth son of the much-hated Greveman Konradus Tordest, Sieur Malvenus has completely cast aside family and politics to serve as a knight. He is often at the forefront of the kingdom's wars, leading a small contingent of men-at-arms and mercenaries on behalf of the King. He has a very close relationship with Prince Vagyr, the Prince having often been guest at Malvenus' Chapterhouse of Rol.
Sieur Haemorus of Green Water, Chapter Master.
Haemorus of Green Water is another knight elevated from the peasantry, and was recruited in the swamps south of Kjellos. He has proved himself time and again, particularly in his skill as an armorer and swordsmith. He is not well-known for his battle prowess. He serves as Chapter Master of the Fortress on the shores of Thol called Highblade Keep.
Magister Toban, Master of Novices.
The Master of all wizards serving the Order, Magister Toban has tangled with necromancers, demons, and other such horrors. Most recently, he helped slay the Boyar of Paroslav in a battle which took the life of Lord Severin Kjora, the former Chapter Grandmaster.
Sieura Primara of the Hammer, Knight-Master.
Sieur Heimron the Bold, Knight-Master.
Sieur Telegorn Goldenspur, Knight-Sergeant.
THE FIVE
The Five, as they were known, were the bravest, boldest, and most battle-hardened of the knights in the Order. They set out in the spring of X.511 to Sunhome Keep, in the Bay of Ahrain, to reclaim it. Word has since returned that they are dead.
Sieur Morgas Arnmød
Third son of Grevan Kada Arnmød, Morgas is well-known in Kjellos for fighting ogres and trolls. A bold man, who outshone his elder brothers, Morgas slew Ubarish the Vile, a Night Troll Chieftain, in the bordering hills of the Reach, along the sea.
Sieura Ara Karhart
Cousin to Prince Aegus, Ara rejected the tutelage of a lady and pursued service to Haeron. She is daughter of Valyn Karhart, the King's now-dead elder brother. She was also called the Distaff Knight, and slew a manticore in Ambar in single combat, after her sword had shattered.
Sieur Ovirius Tornborg
First son of Lendman Olgriev of Tornborg, Orvirius cut his teeth fighting elf-reavers and serving aboard merchant vessels. He spent a great of his training and younger years in the elvish land of Valcaela, where he was awarded with magical armor by the elves.
Sieur Laedus the Laughing
A common-born Reacher, Laedus was physically enormous, and well-known for his propensity to treat everything as a jest. He jousted wyverns on the far side of the Silverlode Mountains, and destroyed many ghosts and spirits along the Lost Paths for the Gwyderion of Tailimisia.
Sieura Amelia Holmgrinn
Sister to the Greve Varius Holmgrinn, Sieura Amelia was raised on stories of glory. Also called the Deathshead, Sieura Amelia was a fierce opponent, and spent her days questing in the extreme south of the Sun Shores, where she fought alongside mercenary units to help quell the dangers of that wild land.
Ruminations on fiction, roleplaying, and assorted irritants.
Showing posts with label knights. Show all posts
Showing posts with label knights. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Holy Books: The Life of Orlandus -- Part 3
See Part 1 and Part 2.
Our Lord Orlandus sought for a blade with which to slay the Weeping King. He knew there was one place where he could find such a sword for certain: Hârnholme. The ancient kingdom of the dwarves was the one place where a man could earn himself a mighty blade, laid with magics that might slay an immortal tyrant like the King of Tears. For three years he worked and lived as a gestr to the dwarves. He abandoned his goodly works and there our lord of Sunhome shoveled coke and pumped the bellows of a forge. He worked as a drover, a carter, and a woodsman. All these things he did without the comfort of a place in the dwarven halls, a worker without a home.
In the deep winter of the third year, the Mountain Smith Magnr Smokebeard came to the rick wherein our lord slept and said, "For three years you have lived on scraps, as less than an apprentice amongst a people who have no love for you. For three years you have toiled in the workshops of my forge, smelting ore and moving fuel. Something must have brought you here. Why have you come?"
And when Orlandus our Lord told Magnr Smokebeard his quest to slay the Weeping King, Magnr brought him into his most intimate workshops, beyond the secret vaulted doors which only the Master Smiths could open; lo, our Lord was was shown the very heart of the Mountain Smiths' forges, where the ancient and mighty keys that are the patrimony of the dwarves must undo the mightiest locks ever devised. And in this place, Magnr Smokebeard told Orlandus, "You will learn to work steel and gold, balglamr and aedr. Only when this is done will we forge your sword."
For ten years, Orlandus studied under Magnr Smokebeard, and he learned only the most meager of the dwarf's secrets, for the Mountain Smiths rarely share their powerful art, and even in the aid of such a worthy cause this Smokebeard would not reveal to Orlandus the most mighty of arts. Yet even so, when the ten years were complete he spent one final year under Smokebeard's tutelage to forge the blade he would carry for the rest of his life; the holy sword, blessed by Haeron the Hammerer, which is called Angurvidal.
So, too, did Magnr Smokebeard forge for Orlandus our Lord a suit of armor in the old Milean fashion which is called Peaceward; a misericord called Heartpiercer; a hammer named Thalmung; and a spear called Atgir. With these weapons and harness, Roland of Sunhome ventured forth to confront the Weeping King.
North, he went, and northward, until at last he came into the Kingdom of Aedeion, within the mist-girdled forests. With him, too, was his sacral destrier, Lightning. As he went, the Weeping King's people flocked to his banner, eager to, at last, overthrow their awful lord. A great battle was joined before the gates of Lakra, the eternal city. The lieutenants of the Weeping King could not give battle or ride forth beneath the blazing sun. Thus, the armies of the vampire-lord were defeated without their leaders, and the city of Lakra was stormed. Hundreds of vile servants were woken from their enchanted slumber, and hundreds more who served willingly driven to the edge of the Red Lake and executed there until the waves ran with blood.
At last, as the sun set, the Weeping King came forth from his palace, flanked by his vampiric children. But our Lord Roland was a knight pure of heart and mighty of arm; seven of the eldest vampiric princes died by his hand in that bloody sunset, and then, at last, with lance, shield, and blade, he brought low the Weeping King.
Our Lord Orlandus sought for a blade with which to slay the Weeping King. He knew there was one place where he could find such a sword for certain: Hârnholme. The ancient kingdom of the dwarves was the one place where a man could earn himself a mighty blade, laid with magics that might slay an immortal tyrant like the King of Tears. For three years he worked and lived as a gestr to the dwarves. He abandoned his goodly works and there our lord of Sunhome shoveled coke and pumped the bellows of a forge. He worked as a drover, a carter, and a woodsman. All these things he did without the comfort of a place in the dwarven halls, a worker without a home.
In the deep winter of the third year, the Mountain Smith Magnr Smokebeard came to the rick wherein our lord slept and said, "For three years you have lived on scraps, as less than an apprentice amongst a people who have no love for you. For three years you have toiled in the workshops of my forge, smelting ore and moving fuel. Something must have brought you here. Why have you come?"
And when Orlandus our Lord told Magnr Smokebeard his quest to slay the Weeping King, Magnr brought him into his most intimate workshops, beyond the secret vaulted doors which only the Master Smiths could open; lo, our Lord was was shown the very heart of the Mountain Smiths' forges, where the ancient and mighty keys that are the patrimony of the dwarves must undo the mightiest locks ever devised. And in this place, Magnr Smokebeard told Orlandus, "You will learn to work steel and gold, balglamr and aedr. Only when this is done will we forge your sword."
For ten years, Orlandus studied under Magnr Smokebeard, and he learned only the most meager of the dwarf's secrets, for the Mountain Smiths rarely share their powerful art, and even in the aid of such a worthy cause this Smokebeard would not reveal to Orlandus the most mighty of arts. Yet even so, when the ten years were complete he spent one final year under Smokebeard's tutelage to forge the blade he would carry for the rest of his life; the holy sword, blessed by Haeron the Hammerer, which is called Angurvidal.
So, too, did Magnr Smokebeard forge for Orlandus our Lord a suit of armor in the old Milean fashion which is called Peaceward; a misericord called Heartpiercer; a hammer named Thalmung; and a spear called Atgir. With these weapons and harness, Roland of Sunhome ventured forth to confront the Weeping King.
North, he went, and northward, until at last he came into the Kingdom of Aedeion, within the mist-girdled forests. With him, too, was his sacral destrier, Lightning. As he went, the Weeping King's people flocked to his banner, eager to, at last, overthrow their awful lord. A great battle was joined before the gates of Lakra, the eternal city. The lieutenants of the Weeping King could not give battle or ride forth beneath the blazing sun. Thus, the armies of the vampire-lord were defeated without their leaders, and the city of Lakra was stormed. Hundreds of vile servants were woken from their enchanted slumber, and hundreds more who served willingly driven to the edge of the Red Lake and executed there until the waves ran with blood.
At last, as the sun set, the Weeping King came forth from his palace, flanked by his vampiric children. But our Lord Roland was a knight pure of heart and mighty of arm; seven of the eldest vampiric princes died by his hand in that bloody sunset, and then, at last, with lance, shield, and blade, he brought low the Weeping King.
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Holy Books: The Life of Orlandus -- Part 2
Also see Part 1.
At the end of his third year fighting for Metropolitan Timarus, the old man met his end; at last, age claimed what leprosy and the decaying dome of the Vectedréan temple could not. Orlandus went to his bedside dressed in the garb of a temple knight. Timarus spoke to him one last time, reminding our lord of his duty to the Hammerer, who had graced him with such wonders. But the last thing that Timarus said to Orlandus was not to bind him to Vectedréa and the Kingdom of Byrne. Timarus the Leper told our lord "You must spread your light to the places in the world which are the darkest. This is the destiny the Hammerer had in mind for you."
Now, in those days, there were many evils that still haunted the world. The Alchemist had yet to wake from his necromantic slumber, but our lord would fight against that villain in his later years. This was at the end of the Red Age, when Craftsman's Reach was unified under the Lords of Calantheas. No, the great evil of Arunia, when Roland of Wilderlund was a young man, was none other than the Weeping King of the Adeion.
The Weeping King was a figure out of nightmare legend. There were those who claimed he had served Rho'anir the Shapeless One in the Wars of High Sorcery, and those who said he had been a serjent in the armies of Tallëor Twice-Born during the War of Shadows. None, now, can say what the truth was. But amongst those barbaric peoples of the wide open spaces there rose a single power, fusing together the eight warring clan-folk of men and the three nations of wood elves beneath his borders. This man was called The Weeping King.
It was certain that he was long lived. He ruled his kingdom Adeira for five generations of men. The peoples of that land, who knew not how to build like the men of the south, and so tunneled, burrowed, and made their squat towers, were called upon to construct an elaborate castle for the Weeping King, made of stone quarried from the Dragonback range. He made treaty with the Old Soloth, and his nation was flooded with Solothen slaves to do his bidding.
Now, you must also know that our lord did not set out simply to depose a tyrant. There were countless tyrants in his time. No, for there were even greater ills perpetrated by the Weeping King. This monarch made it custom to slay who he would, and there are those accounts which whisper that he would then bathe in their blood. In his might, he challenged even the borders of mighty Tailimisiä, and the elves were forced to make treaty with him to keep his armies at bay. He gave places of high honor to Frost Giants, ogres, and other unclean children of Ulagos' wheel.
Suffice to say, the Weeping King was no mere mortal, but a demon in human form. Orlandus had been told of this monstrous ruler since he was a boy, and he set out now to end the creature's rule once and for all. Indeed, it is set down in his own hand that the Weeping King was a "vampiric spirit of evil humor, puffed up and gorged with blood, and stuffed into the body of an ill-tempered, squat, white-haired man, whose eyes perpetually oozed sickly tears."
To slay the Weeping King, Orlandus knew he would require something more than his native strength and cunning. It was said that an elvish emissary to the king's court had, after being rudely insulted again and again, challenged the foul creature to a duel. There, in the courtyard of the great castle, the king obliged, only to prove that each stroke of the elvish blade made cuts that closed as of their own accord, or else could not even pierce his pale gray flesh.
This, then, was Orlandus' task: our lord must needs seek out a weapon capable of destroying the Weeping King, and bring justice to the north. Though he still nursed a private grudge in his heart against Queen Mir, he could not trouble himself with her reign—though she had seized the throne with violence, she had, in his years abroad, ruled the Wilderlund well.
At the end of his third year fighting for Metropolitan Timarus, the old man met his end; at last, age claimed what leprosy and the decaying dome of the Vectedréan temple could not. Orlandus went to his bedside dressed in the garb of a temple knight. Timarus spoke to him one last time, reminding our lord of his duty to the Hammerer, who had graced him with such wonders. But the last thing that Timarus said to Orlandus was not to bind him to Vectedréa and the Kingdom of Byrne. Timarus the Leper told our lord "You must spread your light to the places in the world which are the darkest. This is the destiny the Hammerer had in mind for you."
Now, in those days, there were many evils that still haunted the world. The Alchemist had yet to wake from his necromantic slumber, but our lord would fight against that villain in his later years. This was at the end of the Red Age, when Craftsman's Reach was unified under the Lords of Calantheas. No, the great evil of Arunia, when Roland of Wilderlund was a young man, was none other than the Weeping King of the Adeion.
The Weeping King was a figure out of nightmare legend. There were those who claimed he had served Rho'anir the Shapeless One in the Wars of High Sorcery, and those who said he had been a serjent in the armies of Tallëor Twice-Born during the War of Shadows. None, now, can say what the truth was. But amongst those barbaric peoples of the wide open spaces there rose a single power, fusing together the eight warring clan-folk of men and the three nations of wood elves beneath his borders. This man was called The Weeping King.
It was certain that he was long lived. He ruled his kingdom Adeira for five generations of men. The peoples of that land, who knew not how to build like the men of the south, and so tunneled, burrowed, and made their squat towers, were called upon to construct an elaborate castle for the Weeping King, made of stone quarried from the Dragonback range. He made treaty with the Old Soloth, and his nation was flooded with Solothen slaves to do his bidding.
Now, you must also know that our lord did not set out simply to depose a tyrant. There were countless tyrants in his time. No, for there were even greater ills perpetrated by the Weeping King. This monarch made it custom to slay who he would, and there are those accounts which whisper that he would then bathe in their blood. In his might, he challenged even the borders of mighty Tailimisiä, and the elves were forced to make treaty with him to keep his armies at bay. He gave places of high honor to Frost Giants, ogres, and other unclean children of Ulagos' wheel.
Suffice to say, the Weeping King was no mere mortal, but a demon in human form. Orlandus had been told of this monstrous ruler since he was a boy, and he set out now to end the creature's rule once and for all. Indeed, it is set down in his own hand that the Weeping King was a "vampiric spirit of evil humor, puffed up and gorged with blood, and stuffed into the body of an ill-tempered, squat, white-haired man, whose eyes perpetually oozed sickly tears."
To slay the Weeping King, Orlandus knew he would require something more than his native strength and cunning. It was said that an elvish emissary to the king's court had, after being rudely insulted again and again, challenged the foul creature to a duel. There, in the courtyard of the great castle, the king obliged, only to prove that each stroke of the elvish blade made cuts that closed as of their own accord, or else could not even pierce his pale gray flesh.
This, then, was Orlandus' task: our lord must needs seek out a weapon capable of destroying the Weeping King, and bring justice to the north. Though he still nursed a private grudge in his heart against Queen Mir, he could not trouble himself with her reign—though she had seized the throne with violence, she had, in his years abroad, ruled the Wilderlund well.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Fiction Friday: Border Wars in the Serpent Baronies
Battle report using Knights and Knaves turned into a little short tale.
Courtney Lord Montrose narrowed his eyes. "Keep your swords loose in their sheathes. There's no telling if Arborenne spotted us." Hadrian wiped his forehead leaving a streak of glistening oil across his brow from the mail glove that sheathed his hand.
"Sieur?" he asked. "Do you think he'll ride to meet us?"
The Magnas of Montrose felt the familiar tickle of anger in the back of his mind, the same invitation to rage that plagued him every time he thought about Conon of Arborenne. What horrific image did he see when his mind pointed to the image of the Magnas of Arborrenne? Olyvia, Olyvia, always Olyvia, waiting cold and lonely in her bower—Olyvia burning when the manor burned because she was locked away. He would feel the bite of lance and sword, would Conon, if it was the last thing Courtney did in the Middle World. I will put the tip of my lance through his jaw and see it come bloody from his skull. Let him go to the Lower World with half a face.
Philippus called out from behind them, "There're slingers across the river! Looks like he's seen us after all, my lord!"
Wheeling his horse, Courtney saw the men at once; a ragged platoon of farmers with sickles and pitchforks all arrayed upon a narrow ridge amongst the brush. They were limbering sling-thongs and searching for rocks, preparing to pelt Courtney and his household soldiers from the supposed safety of the riverside. Lord Montrose let out a whistle and dug his heels into Blackspur's flanks. "Fuck 'em, lads! Turn about and charge!" and then he was flying at a gallop, Blackspur throwing up clods of earth and Hadrian gritting his teeth to follow. Courtney could hear Barliman speed to a trot, to a canter, and then a gallop as Blackspur did. He lowered his lance and plunged into the river.
Sarjeant Adwardus and his men grasped spears and shields firmly in hand and followed, the water sucking and swirling at their long mail byrnies. Let Conon discover that his men at the riverbank were routed. Let Conan feel the terror of battle that cannot be turned aside! As Blackspur climbed the far bank, the farmers began to shake and howl. One threw down his pitchfork and fell into a dead run. "At this rate we won't even have to bloody our swords!" Phillippus hollered.
Within moments the conroi was up on the far side of the river, limbs throbbing with the pain of resisting it in heavy mail. The peasantry simply wouldn't stand before a destrier, and they shouted and took to the wood. Courtney spun to his men who had yet to enter the water, household armigeri all, and shouted across the gap to Sarjeant Theo: "Take your men to the ford and lay into anyone you find there! We advance on the village on this side of the river!"
"Aye, sieur!" Theo said. "Come on, you louts, we've a lordling to spank." His men chuckled as he drew back.
For Courtney's part, he rushed forward to follow the fleeing peasants, Hadrian close at hand. The horses tore through the scrub and undergrowth as though it were made of thickened cream. Courtney bore down on the back of a fleeing levyman when the fellow spun about and launched one of his sling-stones at the lord. Courtney sneered, trusting to his armor to protect him, but the smooth stone hit Blackspur and sent the horse into a rage. "Sieur! SIEUR! I can't control... I can't control Barliman!" Hadrian was screaming through the wood. But Courtney had no time to consider his squire's pleas, for Blackspur surged forward and bore him face to face with the peasant who'd flung the stone. A single thrust through the breast speared the poor bastard and sent him to his grave. Not quickly, no, for by the Gods the man survived only to fall quivering and twitching in the dirt, making little groaning sounds as his blood spilled from the garish wound the spear-head made.
With time to yank his spear out and get a good view of the field, Courtney turned back to Adwardus. He saw Hadrian disappearing through a group of trees, Barliman's mouth frothing blood. "S-s-sieeeeeur!" Hadrian howled as he vanished. Courtney sighed. The rest of his men were in good order and seemed ready to take the battle to Arborenne. "Quickly, then. Let's high north to the village and show the great Magnas Conon what we think of him."
But that was easier said that done, for now Blackspur was mad with his wounds. He leapt and bucked each time he saw one of the slingers through the trees, and often took Courtney far off his path. Adwardus hurried on towards the village, and soon enough the sounds of battle began to carry through the hall of boughs and brush that made up the little Arborenne forest. "Damn it," Courtney huffed, wrestling Blackspur back under control. "Move, you cur!" The horse neighed, turned its head, and then at last began to surge towards the village.
Courtney emerged from the trees and into the one muddy street of the town with briars in his mail and a branch tangled amongst Blackspur's gonfalons. Adwardus and his men were already crossing the ford some yards ahead and beyond them Courtney could see a press of peasantry blocking the road, crammed between two timber-framed houses. Their backs were turned to Adwardus, who would have the drop on them, but beyond that he saw why: the other platoon was dying. Theo and the men who'd accompanied him were waist-deep in gore, doing battle with three mounted knights. Several of them had already fallen.
Then Courtney saw Conon and his vision went black with rage. "Olyvia! OLYVIA! OLYVIAAA!" He struck Blackspur so hard that the destrier had no choice but to thunder forward at a break-neck pace. His own men dove to get out of his way as he came reaving from behind, his lance lowered for the final charge. Conon's helmeted face was not so far away now, and this spear was made to bring him his death! But what...? Lord Conon was withdrawing from the battle, backing his horse away from his foes. The coward! "COWARD!" Courtney bellowed. "Fight me coward!" But even as he did, he slammed his spear into one of the levymen who had been hard pressing Carnas there.
The man staggered, the tip of the spear pierced his shin and slammed against the bone... but somehow he was still standing. "Damn you!" Courtney yelled. "Damn you!" he repeated, for lack of anything better to say, practically hurling his blade from its sheath. He hacked at the peasant he'd struck, cutting through cotton tunic and flesh, driving the killing edge of the sword into his throat. But when he looked up to adjudge the battle he saw Conon had not fled after all—he had merely charged to meet the onrush of new foes, and even now his mace was rising from the crushing blow that had dented Adward's helmet and driven the peak into his brain.
"Withdraw! Carnas! Withdraw! We will be slaughtered here!" Desperate, Courtney fended off the sword-blows of one of Conon's mounted squires. He pulled back with the image of the boy's upper lip pressed into his memory: just the very first hairs of manhood, pale and blonde, upon that trembling blood-spattered face. Carnas listened, but not before cutting the squire's mount down from beneath him with his spear and planting the point at the boy's throat.
"Surrender! I surrender!" Carnas dragged him to his feet and the three men staggered away from the battle. Courtney prayed that Conon would not finish his butchery in time to take them on the road.
Courtney Lord Montrose narrowed his eyes. "Keep your swords loose in their sheathes. There's no telling if Arborenne spotted us." Hadrian wiped his forehead leaving a streak of glistening oil across his brow from the mail glove that sheathed his hand.
"Sieur?" he asked. "Do you think he'll ride to meet us?"
The Magnas of Montrose felt the familiar tickle of anger in the back of his mind, the same invitation to rage that plagued him every time he thought about Conon of Arborenne. What horrific image did he see when his mind pointed to the image of the Magnas of Arborrenne? Olyvia, Olyvia, always Olyvia, waiting cold and lonely in her bower—Olyvia burning when the manor burned because she was locked away. He would feel the bite of lance and sword, would Conon, if it was the last thing Courtney did in the Middle World. I will put the tip of my lance through his jaw and see it come bloody from his skull. Let him go to the Lower World with half a face.
Philippus called out from behind them, "There're slingers across the river! Looks like he's seen us after all, my lord!"
Wheeling his horse, Courtney saw the men at once; a ragged platoon of farmers with sickles and pitchforks all arrayed upon a narrow ridge amongst the brush. They were limbering sling-thongs and searching for rocks, preparing to pelt Courtney and his household soldiers from the supposed safety of the riverside. Lord Montrose let out a whistle and dug his heels into Blackspur's flanks. "Fuck 'em, lads! Turn about and charge!" and then he was flying at a gallop, Blackspur throwing up clods of earth and Hadrian gritting his teeth to follow. Courtney could hear Barliman speed to a trot, to a canter, and then a gallop as Blackspur did. He lowered his lance and plunged into the river.
Sarjeant Adwardus and his men grasped spears and shields firmly in hand and followed, the water sucking and swirling at their long mail byrnies. Let Conon discover that his men at the riverbank were routed. Let Conan feel the terror of battle that cannot be turned aside! As Blackspur climbed the far bank, the farmers began to shake and howl. One threw down his pitchfork and fell into a dead run. "At this rate we won't even have to bloody our swords!" Phillippus hollered.
Within moments the conroi was up on the far side of the river, limbs throbbing with the pain of resisting it in heavy mail. The peasantry simply wouldn't stand before a destrier, and they shouted and took to the wood. Courtney spun to his men who had yet to enter the water, household armigeri all, and shouted across the gap to Sarjeant Theo: "Take your men to the ford and lay into anyone you find there! We advance on the village on this side of the river!"
"Aye, sieur!" Theo said. "Come on, you louts, we've a lordling to spank." His men chuckled as he drew back.
For Courtney's part, he rushed forward to follow the fleeing peasants, Hadrian close at hand. The horses tore through the scrub and undergrowth as though it were made of thickened cream. Courtney bore down on the back of a fleeing levyman when the fellow spun about and launched one of his sling-stones at the lord. Courtney sneered, trusting to his armor to protect him, but the smooth stone hit Blackspur and sent the horse into a rage. "Sieur! SIEUR! I can't control... I can't control Barliman!" Hadrian was screaming through the wood. But Courtney had no time to consider his squire's pleas, for Blackspur surged forward and bore him face to face with the peasant who'd flung the stone. A single thrust through the breast speared the poor bastard and sent him to his grave. Not quickly, no, for by the Gods the man survived only to fall quivering and twitching in the dirt, making little groaning sounds as his blood spilled from the garish wound the spear-head made.
With time to yank his spear out and get a good view of the field, Courtney turned back to Adwardus. He saw Hadrian disappearing through a group of trees, Barliman's mouth frothing blood. "S-s-sieeeeeur!" Hadrian howled as he vanished. Courtney sighed. The rest of his men were in good order and seemed ready to take the battle to Arborenne. "Quickly, then. Let's high north to the village and show the great Magnas Conon what we think of him."
But that was easier said that done, for now Blackspur was mad with his wounds. He leapt and bucked each time he saw one of the slingers through the trees, and often took Courtney far off his path. Adwardus hurried on towards the village, and soon enough the sounds of battle began to carry through the hall of boughs and brush that made up the little Arborenne forest. "Damn it," Courtney huffed, wrestling Blackspur back under control. "Move, you cur!" The horse neighed, turned its head, and then at last began to surge towards the village.
Courtney emerged from the trees and into the one muddy street of the town with briars in his mail and a branch tangled amongst Blackspur's gonfalons. Adwardus and his men were already crossing the ford some yards ahead and beyond them Courtney could see a press of peasantry blocking the road, crammed between two timber-framed houses. Their backs were turned to Adwardus, who would have the drop on them, but beyond that he saw why: the other platoon was dying. Theo and the men who'd accompanied him were waist-deep in gore, doing battle with three mounted knights. Several of them had already fallen.
Then Courtney saw Conon and his vision went black with rage. "Olyvia! OLYVIA! OLYVIAAA!" He struck Blackspur so hard that the destrier had no choice but to thunder forward at a break-neck pace. His own men dove to get out of his way as he came reaving from behind, his lance lowered for the final charge. Conon's helmeted face was not so far away now, and this spear was made to bring him his death! But what...? Lord Conon was withdrawing from the battle, backing his horse away from his foes. The coward! "COWARD!" Courtney bellowed. "Fight me coward!" But even as he did, he slammed his spear into one of the levymen who had been hard pressing Carnas there.
The man staggered, the tip of the spear pierced his shin and slammed against the bone... but somehow he was still standing. "Damn you!" Courtney yelled. "Damn you!" he repeated, for lack of anything better to say, practically hurling his blade from its sheath. He hacked at the peasant he'd struck, cutting through cotton tunic and flesh, driving the killing edge of the sword into his throat. But when he looked up to adjudge the battle he saw Conon had not fled after all—he had merely charged to meet the onrush of new foes, and even now his mace was rising from the crushing blow that had dented Adward's helmet and driven the peak into his brain.
"Withdraw! Carnas! Withdraw! We will be slaughtered here!" Desperate, Courtney fended off the sword-blows of one of Conon's mounted squires. He pulled back with the image of the boy's upper lip pressed into his memory: just the very first hairs of manhood, pale and blonde, upon that trembling blood-spattered face. Carnas listened, but not before cutting the squire's mount down from beneath him with his spear and planting the point at the boy's throat.
"Surrender! I surrender!" Carnas dragged him to his feet and the three men staggered away from the battle. Courtney prayed that Conon would not finish his butchery in time to take them on the road.
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Llyrian Tourney Circuit
The kingdom of Llyris, born from the tribulations at the end of the Eighth Age, has a long history of horsemanship. Originally, Llyris was settled by colonists of the ancient and powerful kingdoms of Llernea and Llynder though it did not gain its own status as a kingdom until the early 7th Age, after the Wars of the East with the Moon Goblins. The free peninsula was forced to unite, and great numbers of Thegnari horse-men crossed the mountains into Llyrian territory, being driven before the goblins.
This marked the foundation of the modern chevalier (Varan, cavalirus, milite) or knight, an ideal developed within Llyris after the arrival of the great Thegnari herdsires. Indeed, the breeding of huge war-mounts (Varan, destrirus) began in the middle 7th Age and resulted in a society devoted to what has been come known as the Llyrian Ideal, i.e. knighthood.
As the years progressed and the notion of knighthood became entrenched in Llyris (and spread throughout the north of Arunia), the tourney circuit began to develop. It was common for Llyrian knights to engage in mock-combats to test their mettle and this eventually became the capital-T Tournament. While other kingdoms hold tournaments (most notably the Three Kingdoms region and the Empire) none do so with such aplomb as the lords and ladies of Llyris.
The tournies of most other nations are seasonal, but in Llyris it is possible to be engaged in tournaments year-round. With some planning, a hopeful knight can arrive in Llyris in Thaw and fight right up until Thaw of the following year, hopefully winning some acclaim and a large purse or two. The imperials have an expression for Llyris: cavalirorum laudica terre, which means the "land of knightly acclaim." A somewhat more cynical expression is common amongst those less inclined towards warm relationships with knights, namely: cavalirorum clamica, "knightly clamor."
This marked the foundation of the modern chevalier (Varan, cavalirus, milite) or knight, an ideal developed within Llyris after the arrival of the great Thegnari herdsires. Indeed, the breeding of huge war-mounts (Varan, destrirus) began in the middle 7th Age and resulted in a society devoted to what has been come known as the Llyrian Ideal, i.e. knighthood.
As the years progressed and the notion of knighthood became entrenched in Llyris (and spread throughout the north of Arunia), the tourney circuit began to develop. It was common for Llyrian knights to engage in mock-combats to test their mettle and this eventually became the capital-T Tournament. While other kingdoms hold tournaments (most notably the Three Kingdoms region and the Empire) none do so with such aplomb as the lords and ladies of Llyris.
The tournies of most other nations are seasonal, but in Llyris it is possible to be engaged in tournaments year-round. With some planning, a hopeful knight can arrive in Llyris in Thaw and fight right up until Thaw of the following year, hopefully winning some acclaim and a large purse or two. The imperials have an expression for Llyris: cavalirorum laudica terre, which means the "land of knightly acclaim." A somewhat more cynical expression is common amongst those less inclined towards warm relationships with knights, namely: cavalirorum clamica, "knightly clamor."
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