Crow's Flight

[3andD 1722]

The Crow’s Flight

A Book of Ostromir Sarkozic Carrion

 

 

Written by: Borsa-Rabbi Reptvr Barskolik

15th of Grand Harvest, 1548 in the Town of Kvaz

 

Listen to while reading

 

 

The setting sun of Kvaz lit the night perfectly, the endless sight of the Fringe caught him off guard. The aged crow looked out over his hamlet, his face twisting into an appearance of happiness. The night would take him to the heights of the seven skies, where he would be with his father, wife, and children.

 

Now 45, Ostromir lay in his bed. As his mind began to fade into blackness, Otto II took his hand and held it tightly. “Otto, son.” he mutters, looking over the boy who was now 20 odd. He wanted to tell his only son that with Godfriek’s passing that he loved him, with all his heart; and that he wished he could of raised his children.  He wanted to beg forgiveness, and ask him not to think of him wrongly, and to cherish the memories he shared of him.

 

He couldn't. His heart held his mouth, and he lay silently begging the Creator not to take him. For he wished not to die, he wished to stay in the world he fought so hard to change.

 

Now, he lay alone in the room. The single candle flickering in the corner, and endless darkness outside the window. He came to the realization that he was alone, for the last time in his life he was alone.

 

“Isabelle….” whispered the wind, extinguishing the jumping flame of the candle. Darkness now overcame the Crow, and for the last few moments he cried.

 

“Franz! Franz….” yelled the boy, “...Franz, brother.” he says, smiling brightly. “It has been years, where did you go? Don’t tell me! I really missed you, you know that? After you left on the ship, I, well I didn't know what to do. Tuvya was gone, and so was Papa. Franz? Please don’t leave…”

 

“Isabella…” he whispered, taking her gown off. “Godanistan has blessed my life. You bring me happiness which shines brighter than the fire of the sky. With you at my side, I will take Oren and her titles. As you told me our first night, do you remember? I was to fall asleep, but you told me that regardless of the Dragon’s strength the Crow has Will, and for this the Crow will beat the Dragon. Isabelle?

 

“Maric. I've been meaning to tell you. I accept your offer, and I wish you to always be by my side. You know how to hold yer sword, and I could use that with they come for me.” says the young-prince, “All my life you were good to me, Goddard made you promise that. But you still meant everything you did, and you served me well. Maric, with you my only friend I trust with the secret of the Crow. You must never tell anyone what you have seen, you understand this Maric? Well do you? Maric?”

 

“Papa.” beams the boy, his smile as big as his face. “I did it, everything you asked! I met with Tuvya in the tavern in ‘bresi… He told me of your plans. I will do it, but if we don’t sit on the throne of the Empire you will remember that I tried my best, right Papa? Papa…?"

 

The blackness took hold, and as the Crow ascends to the sky. His old and shriveled body stays.

 

The body of the man who slayed the Dragon.

 

Rest in Peace

 

Ostromir Sarkozic Carrion

(1414-1458)

 

[TheBareSheet 194]

((good read. a more emotional side of the Ostromir I know of.

[Esterlen 4499]

((Please listen))

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-6dKVNt1C4

 

The inky blackness of time had claimed Ostromir, and while he may not have welcomed his death, the actuality was that a true crow never died in full. The curling tendrils of the epochs of time may have inflicted upon him a final end, but in their throes they had revealed much and more of the truth. A hard truth and a cold truth but a truth all the same had become apparent in the former king's final moments.

 

The visions were disjointed and seemed if anything to manifest from naught but a grey mist, but their meaning was undeniable. Two boys sat upon rolling green hills, a girl standing over the smaller and weaker one as fiercely as she could. All three had ashen, coal-black hair - the Crow's Plume, some called it, but others would have called it the product of the inbreeding of an insular society.

 

"You're just a stupid bore! I'm telling father!" The girl shouted, her tones biting acid.

 

"Leave him alone, Milena," said the larger boy. He would have been eleven at the most, strong and robust for his age and handsome, but his skin was pallid and his eyes sunken. The smaller boy, who would have been around seven or eight, said nothing at all, his gaze transfixed sullenly on the dirt beneath his boots. "Don't make him cry."

 

"A girl beat up Franjo! Poor baby Franjo! Is he going to cry to mother like a little baby?" Proclaimed the girl, a smirk writ upon her unsullied face. The larger boy frowned deeply, staring at her with an almost tranquil anger. "Leave him be. Or else I'll show you what it means to cry to mother."

 

Intimidated by him, the girl turned about-face on her heel and promptly left, hiking up her skirts furiously as she did so. At last, the younger son spoke up, his eyes practically watering. "W-why is she so m-mean to m-me?"

 

The older one shook his head. "She's jealous because you're a boy and she's not. One day father will marry her to some old man and you'll be free to do whatever you want."

 

---

 

The slate greyness flashed through the void. Two men, this time, sitting across an oaken desk from one another. The one seated at the master of the desk's position wore a golden crown atop his head, the man opposite him donning a cuirass of linked armor covering his white and gold robes. They stared at one another, their steely conviction equally matched.

 

"Da. I want you by my side, Franz," said the king. "Our work together, with borsa Tuv, Lane and Lord Maric, is unparalleled. We can rule this realm however we see fit! The world is our oyster, Franjo!"

 

The robed man shook his head, looking downwards at the abundance of ledgers atop the table. "If it is your wish, I will follow. What of father?"

 

"Papa is old," responded the monarch. "It would do old heart good to see baby Franjo achieve something, da. Or perhaps even wed." The younger man in robes smirked broadly at that, lifting his gaze to meet his brother and speaking.

 

"Lady Amber is most fair to look upon, of noble birth and most clever. A suitable match, do you think?"

 

"Suitable or unsuitable, I will have your desire done good, Franjo! Whatever it may be, you are a prince now and princes will have what they want." He gave him a toothy grin.

 

---

 

It shot forth, this time to a pitch dark passageway, the stones lining its walls dank and dripping wet. A hooded monk bore the only source of light in the corridor, a heavy lantern that he held up to illuminate his surrounds. A regal-looking elder man stood opposite him, the cap of a Raevir boyar upright upon his head, a thick and spindly grey beard falling down to his waist. He spat out his words at the monk, disdain and disappointment mixed amongst them, his voice richly accented with the tones of Kralta.

 

"You failed. Hopefully the Cross boy will atone for your mistakes."

 

"He will. You must protect him."

 

"I won't. You are heir to throne, but you will not take it. Nor will the boy. Good-nephew Heinrik will take it and do what you cannot and will not. My line has ended, and you abandon me, fool boy, you and your brothers. Tuvya flees and you make flee like coward."

 

He continued, the words furious. "The last words your mother's father said to me were that 'The family is all, now'. He was a scheming rat, and even he had enough sense to see truth. You do not. You make me look like idiot, scourging Stafyr whelp like that. I saved the people, I killed the soft dragon-hatchlings, I won the war."

 

The monk paused for a moment, contemplating his words carefully. "The war's not won."

 

"The rebels are broken. Ostromir is dead, Milena a *****, Fyodor a cripple, you a coward. We will die, you and I, but you do not understand that the name must live on. The family is all!"

 

The monk scowled, staring at his father with sullen, hateful eyes. "Whenever have you truly been concerned about the family and not yourself? You gave me a scepter but never taught me how to use it. You only gave me your word, and no man can rule without fear or gold or love. That is what the people give you with your every breath, what the people have never given me. Not one piece of it. And when I take it as when I scourged the Stafyr, you chastise me like some sullen child. Nay, I say that you are the fool."

 

With that, the old man struck him across the face, sending him reeling back. His stern gaze settled upon the monk, his words hissed through clenched teeth. "Go. Flee. Otto is hiding, not dead. He will be king no longer under me."

 

With that the monk and his lantern disappeared, plummeting the passage into utter darkness.

 

---

 

The view changed yet again, as it had done so many times before. They were now on the deck of a ship, where a tall man stood next to the thick mast. A well-dressed little boy approached him full of confidence and ardor, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

 

"Uncle, can you tell me about my father?"

 

The tall man turned to him and paused, seemingly contemplating what he would proceed to say. "Your father was a traitor and an evil man. But we must not speak ill of the dead. When you're older, I will tell you more of him."

 

What enthusiasm the boy had vanished and he turned around, walking away disappointed and cowed. With a flick of darkness, the position changed again.

 

---

 

At some high lord's lavish feast, roast swan and peacock, boiled apples and partridge pie were all laid out on a long table. The food was eaten-at and what leftovers remained were claimed by the smallfolk who worked in the kitchens. The feast was over and none remained in the great hall but two middle-aged men at the end of the table. One of them was handsome, though maimed with only one eye, and had a mane of thick black hair with a few streaks of silver in it. The other was rugged in a way, broad and almost bald with but a fringe of black hair. He had the ruddy complexion of an excessive drinker. The handsome one began to speak.

 

"You must do it, Sigi. You would be a good king. A true king. Heinrik...Heinrik is a drunk, and a-"

 

"That makes two drunk crows, Baz." The other man lifted his goblet of deep red, pouring the liquid down his parched throat.

 

"The nobility would support you. Briarwood, Bedevere, Othaman would all rally to your cause. And me."

 

The bald man lost his jesting smile, his eyes shooting daggers at his friend. "I will not raise my blade against my kin. I will not. The throne is poisoned."

 

"The realm is lost in injustice, Sigi...you have to. For your family. For humanity. What law states that kingship must be the realm of the craven, the dishonest or the gullible anyway?" The balding man looked downwards, falling silent and raising a ponderous hand to his unshaven face.

 

---

 

 

"Get these banners out of my keep."

 

He did not have enough hair to grab at, so the soldiers had to restrain him by his arms. His crown was on the tiled floor, the ancient sword he bore in the same place. The crowd before him was wild in a mixture of fury and eagerness, screaming and jeering with hate not at his captors but at him.

 

"If you want to do it, do it properly, damn you. Get a block and a greatsword." He had struggled with them, defiant to the end, his own blood splattered upon his face.

 

"You don't deserve such an honour," said the man who had been sworn by every oath known to humanity to protect him.

 

"Deliver the death blow, then. Kill me and be cursed, kinslayer." He spat at their feet and the cool edge of the knife ran across his throat. His limp body fell to the ground as the life ebbed out of it, and his last thought was of his homeland and his brother as he saw the one-eyed lord and the chancellor perish in front of him.

 

Ostromir would never have failed like I have failed.

 

And then he felt nothing.

 

---

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sThef08DBAE

 

By the great hearth of Dragonsmark, the flaxen-haired justiciar tossed a raven-feathered scabbard into the flames. The weapon that the sheath had belonged to rested across his lap, straight until its point where it became wickedly curved. A hybrid between a knight's greatsword and a horseman's curved sabre, if he ever saw one. Lifting the blade aloft so he might inspect it better, Lothar Horen took note of the impeccable craftsmanship that had gone into the weapon. It was some of the finest steel he had ever seen, impossibly light and heavy at the same time, and its pommel was simple but of a beautiful design.

 

He ran his index finger along the naked blade, smiling sadly.

[Knox213 10]

[snip]

((Worth noting Heinrik never used to drink.))

[Esterlen 4499]

((Worth noting Heinrik never used to drink.))

 

((excuses excuses you pub crawler))

[Knox213 10]

 

((Now we're going off topic))

 

Roy Carrion cries for a bit, Siegmund Carrion II cries for longer.

[TheBareSheet 194]

Amber shifts in her makeshift grave.

[Raptorious 1899]

Looking down at the dying crow, Maric extends an arm and gently beckons to the King. He was a young man once again, the abhorrent scar no longer on his face, the silver hairs had receded and his body was once again youthful.

 

A tear rolled down his bearded face, as he looked upon the shell that was once the legendary King Ostromir, "I understand... I would have followed you until the ends of the earth, my King. Come, my brother. Join me at the Maker's side, so that I may pledge my sword to you once more, so that I may follow you for eternity in the Kingdom of Heaven."

 

[[Teared up.]]

[Cracker 4570]

 

Ostromir's baseborn boy, Siguine Barrow, had heard of his father's passing days later. They had met once, the briefest of encounters, before duty and time severed any fostering between kin. To the young Barrow, Franz was the only father he knew but Sig's chest swelled with a silent sadness nonetheless.

 

Losing his ward-father to murder only to afterwards find his true-father on his dying deathbed, too delirious to speak, rendered a sharp pain in the boy's heart; a pain that would take years to resolve. He would never learn of his father's exploits outside of texts which condemned his impunity, never learn the art of swordplay from his own blood, and would never bond over banter as all good fathers and sons do.

 

Instead, clenched teeth and misty eyes were all that he was left with as he hunched over the graves of Franz-Josef and Ostromir Carrion.

 

_____

 

 

In the Seven Skies, a father finally mends a strained relationship with his son.

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.