forwhatpvrpose 1062 Share Posted September 4, 2014 Chapter I: Touring the country Sylvestre was born twenty seven years ago in the seat of House Halcourt, Vasile. He was the youngest of sons, even from birth. Second sons, in any other land, would be treated quite differently. They were backups, closely guarded to replace the eldest child if need be. However, Relouria was not any other land. From birth, Sylvestre was treated as an equal of his sibling on a social level. Despite this, however, obstacles stood in his way. Whilst any of the three eldest Royals were candidates for High Princedom, this did not mean that they would become such. Cecil, his older brother, was known well amongst the common folk by now, whilst Sylvestre was but a newborn. Days passed, days turned to months, and months turned to years. At an early age, as is usual with royalty of any ilk, Sylvestre was taught the basics of his House’s lineage, and the history of Relouria, along with some simple arithmetic and basic swordplay. What he looked forward the most, however, was the literature. Sylvestre grew fond of old stories passed down throughout the ages, and tales from across the sea. His imagination ran rampant, and he sought out any form of literature that he could find. By the age of twelve, Sylvestre developed a somewhat strict moral code and, as all Halcourts were at the time, he was a skeptical follower of the True Faith of Oren. He cared little of religion, however, although he would hardly say that to anyone. His interests lay, at the time, in seeing the world in its full, unfiltered brilliance. A few years passed, and in this time, Sylvestre did little more than tour the country. He was a quiet admirer of nature, of feats of architecture, and of beauty in any and all forms. His life was that of the nonchalant royal. He was polite and courteous to all who spoke to him, and had opinions on many things, yet he was afraid to reveal his true self to anyone… that is, besides his tutor, Francois. “The tides are something you will hear our folk speak of often, young one, “ Francois would often tell Sylvestre. “They are but a metaphor. A representation of the unrelenting, torrential destruction that will strike us all at some point in our lives.” Sylvestre, interpreting the diction used with ease, hardly understood the meaning behind what his tutor reminded him of. He grasped the concept, but not what it meant. At this early stage of his life, his schedule, on a day to day basis, consisted of but a few things. Primarily, he would wait in his carriage, listening as the cobblestones under his carriage were tap-tap-tapped by the horses, reading this aged tome or that. When they arrived somewhere, he would make a show for the commoners, possibly say some witty thing to appease Francois, and then study relentlessly. It was a rather dull life, to him. There were many interesting things along the way, such as seeing his homeland, or learning as much as he could humanly learn… yet he yearned for more. Another thing Francois commonly told him was that every man, at some point in his life, would have a call to arms. A cause to which he would surrender his soul, and pour his very being into. Sylvestre wished for that call to come quick. Chapter II: Tiresome labor When Sylvestre turned sixteen, his father recalled him from touring the country. Quickly, he was thrown into a harsh regiment consisting primarily of physical labor. Charles, the current High Prince of Relouria and Sylvestre's father, was ungodly fat. He did not want his children to end up like him. The apothecaries warned Charles that he might pass as a result of his obesity, although none dared to suggest he altered his habits, for fear of execution. Sylvestre was introduced to the master at arms, when this regimen began. This adept swordsman, whom was named Lucius, berated the young prince with exhausting work he had never before experienced. This Lucius was the captain of the Royal Guard, and thus, he was extremely strict and did not allow for any lack of discipline. Sylvestre was tasked with hours of transporting things about the keep like a common child, and had to train with an arsenal of weapons daily. However, this did not result in him becoming muscular, or even skilled with arms. From an early age, Sylvestre lived an easy life, and as a result, he was not the most fit of men when introduced to this. He painstakingly made his way through much of the training, albeit with much distaste. Lucius had express permission from Charles himself, and therefore was allowed to do anything he reasoned to be necessary to make Sylvestre fit. Such a lifestyle continued for two or so years. The prince came out of this with much more strength than before, but he was still a weakling in relation to even the most simple of Relouria's soldiers. Lucius, still unsatisfied with his training, once demanded for Charles to double the time that Sylvestre spent training and working. The High Prince, deeply offended, stated that Sylvestre had put enough effort into this, and that he was more than fit enough. Needless to say, Lucius faced a major demotion. Chapter III: Another royal It was some months after Sylvestre’s name day when his mother, Viviene, gave birth to a third child. Eliza, she was named, and quickly garnered the nickname Ellie. The years preceding such were peaceful. The realm was prosperous and, for once, Charles was satisfied with his children. Cecil, the eldest brother, was off training; Sylvestre himself was still at home in Vasile; and Ellie appeared to be healthy. Then came the all too dreaded day. Although none told Sylvestre how it happened, Charles, High Prince of Relouria, was found dead in his bed. After examination by his most trusted apothecary, it was ruled that he died of natural causes. Thus began the election for a new High Priest. Following Relourian tradition, the eldest three children of the last High Prince were entered as candidates into the election… Sylvestre spent his next three years gathering as much support as he possibly could. Whilst Cecil did not intend to take the title of High Prince, he grudgingly decided to run regardless, if only to do as Charles would have wished. Ellie, being an infant, was obviously not going to garner much support. Many war-like lords, or those versed in combat, believed Cecil would be the optimal choice, for he was an exceptional fighter… yet other, more scholarly types believed in Sylvestre. There was no real conflict between the two, however. Since the beginning, there was always a sense of closeness betwixt the brothers. As a result, it was little more than a battle of wit between them. Their time was spent, back then, touring large cities across the realm, meeting prominent nobles and commoners alike, and further establishing their political platforms. Sylvestre enjoyed himself thoroughly during the campaigning, for he was able to meet with many intelligent folk. Around Sylvestre’s twenty sixth name day came the dreaded moment. A date was scheduled, and the High Steward was to announce the newly elected High Prince. Suspense filled the air like a stench and, while some had theories as to which brother would win, no one truly knew. Bets were made, and jokes exchanged. That was when it all began… Chapter IV: Chaos in Vasile The High Steward of Relouria was within the keep in Vasile, the capital. A large crowd was amassed in the feasting hall before him, and he coughed a few times. Squinting, he scanned the crowd, all but demanding silence from those present. The two princes, Cecil and Sylvestre, stood to either side of him… and so he spoke. “Brothers and sisters of Relouria, a new, esteemed High Prince has been duly chosen by those most noble. In accordance with tradition, I, the High Steward, hereby announce the winner of the election. Our new H--...” There was a whiz, then a thud, and then a gasp. The High Steward fell to the floor, dead. Next, the chandelier in the middle of the room, directly above the longtable, crashed down, and shards of glass exploded about the room. Swords, spears, and axes were unholstered. Amidst all this chaos, two guards and one ornately dressed, old man rushed to Sylvestre’s side. Some folk in the hall were trying to re-establish some form of order, and to stop the apparently random bloodshed. Others were throwing insults about, accusing this lord or that for what had happened. They all appeared to have forgotten what they came here for; the coronation of the new High Prince… Sylvestre was moments away from speaking up, attempting to stop this all, when he felt something hard hit him across the back of the head. The world began to spin, the edges of his vision started to blur, and then darkness covered him like a blanket as he fell unconscious. --- When he awoke, it felt like an eternity had passed. After blinking a few times, he realized something: he was in complete, utter darkness. Instinctively, he began to feel about, and realized that the floor beneath him was stone. Reaching forward, he quickly found a wall less than a foot away. He shakily stood, and his stomach growled. Feeling about some more revealed that the room was not too large, and that it had a wooden door on one side. He leaned against the cold, stone wall, and slowly slid down it. “Anyone?” he shouted, for the first time, almost desperately. He took a deep breath and released it, reminding himself that wit alone could easily get him out of this situation; he was not doomed. Rubbing his head revealed a large bump, and he winced. Tired even still and in pain, Sylvestre closed his eyes and fell quickly asleep. Chapter V: Captured... by who? When Sylvestre’s eyes flicked open, and he rubbed the sleep from them, his world was shaken. His bones ached beyond belief, and he groaned, rolling over. Yellow-orange morning light shined through some blinds on a window to his left. He saw nothing through it; only the white-blue sky… Then a seagull flew right past the window at what he thought to be a breakneck pace. “CAW! Caw, caw, caw…” went the seagull, and Sylvestre rolled over instinctively. He fell off of the small bed, hitting the ground with a thump. As he went to stand, his legs shaking, he heard someone… someone shouting. As he stopped for a second, standing deathly still in an attempt to focus his ears and listen to what he barely heard, the world shook again. He fell over, hitting the ground and shouting. He then realized something: he was no longer on land. The walls all around him, the roof above him, and the floor below him were all of the same wood; the window before his minute bed was obviously only for fresh air, not to see outside; and… as he squinted out the window, resuming his stance, he realized that the white-blue sky was in fact the ocean, with a bit of the sky peaking up atop the view. He was obviously very low on the ship, perhaps five or ten feet from sea level. “Shoo! Get gone, ya damn birds…” he heard, the same shout from earlier. It was assumedly what had made the seagull fly before his window and stir him. He grunted, making his way toward the door slowly, still feeling that bone-deep ache. He reached for the door handle… but it was locked. He jiggled it angrily for a few moments before plopping back down on the bed with a loud, deep sigh. For the third time in so many days, Sylvestre - uprooted from his home, which had been thrown into chaos by greedy nobility, with a painful ache in his back - lay down, clutching the paper-thin blanket left to him. It was not for many hours that he fell asleep. He thought a few times of yelling, to attempt to get someone’s attention, but he knew such was futile and pointless. Whoever had captured him, for whatever end, would come, sooner or later; they did not need his motivation. --- Sylvestre blinked a few times, and then he heard voices. Voices… not five, ten feet away, he heard two men talking, making no attempt to hide it. One sounded pompous, almost… lordly, noble. The other, he spoke like a scholar; eloquently, with much implied nodding. He strained to hear them, shivering. It had become much colder since the last time he had awakened. Slowly lifting his head from his pillow, he finally heard them. “A bone in his left arm may be displaced, at least. I am unsure of any other injuries, but there is that, at the very least, sir. His back, ‘owevah, is fine! That’s a relief, is it not?” There was a swift reply from the other, lordly sounding man, and they launched into a brief conversation. “It is. Put him on the ship when he is awake.” “As you wish, sir.” “And… ensure that he does not recall his stay here.” “I will do just that.” Sylvestre quietly rested his head on his pillow again. Calmly, he gulped, almost scared for his life. That… that voice was familiar, but he just couldn’t pinpoint who it was… Footsteps receded from the room, and the man who was assumedly an apothecary approached the bed. He put a hand on Sylvestre’s shoulder, shaking gently. To hide the fact that he was already awake, he did not stir for ten or so seconds, mumbling something inaudibly as he did… He lifted his head, blinking a few times and trying to see who the apothecary was. He then was told, “Stand completely still.” Hesitantly, he obeyed, and he felt a blindfold being wrapped around his head. He was then ordered out of bed, and he obliged, grunting from the aching pain. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then it was moving forward, leading him… somewhere. They walked for at least five, ten minutes before he stopped. He smelled fresh air, now. No longer was he below the deck, somewhere deep in the maze that is a ship’s hold. Hungrily, he gulped down the air, revelling in the sun’s warm shine upon him. It was the first time he was outside for a long while, he thought. Just as he was about to speak, to ask the unknown healer ‘what next?’, he felt a push on his shoulder… And he fell. He fell straight, screaming insanely, grasping for anything solid… He then hit something hard with a thud, immediately falling unconscious. --- When he awoke, he noted that he was on a much smaller boat. Its cabin was no large underbelly, but instead just one, perhaps two or three rooms at the stern of the ship. As he stood, looking around, he saw that the water was but a few yards from him. The ship was small. Remembering what had happened before he fell unconscious, he tensed. On edge, he looked about the ship for anyone… but there was no one. The small ship was completely empty of other passengers. However, in the cabin, there was a nice bedroom, with a soft, comfortable bed and food for a few days. After extensively checking for hidden rooms or anything else on the ship, he sighed and ate. After that, he laid down uneasily, sleeping for the first time in a long while comfortably. Chapter VI: Sailing away Sylvestre woke up quite early in the morning, heading outside and scanning the horizon. He noticed, now, in the light of day, that the gigantic vessel which had previously held him prisoner was sailing east, which he determined by the location of the sun. As he was turning, he… noticed another ship, not a nautical mile away, and slowly riding closer. It was perhaps two or three times the size of his. He squinted, attempting to see what banner the large vessel which held him previously flew, but to no avail. Turning, he noted easily that the other ship flew the blue-green banner of Halcourt… He squinted, trying to see anyone on its decks, and noticed no one. However, atop the ship’s crow’s nest, he spotted someone watching him intently. He shook his head in disbelief, waiting. It took some time before they got close, but then they did. He heard shouts from the deck, and then someone threw a ladder down from it, which was a good twenty feet above the ship he was on’s deck. He grabbed it, testing its stability and starting to climb… but to no avail. He did not make it three rungs up before he almost fell back, having to jump back down with a groan of pain. He then saw an all too familiar face. Lucius, his childhood trainer in the martial arts, peaked over the railing. Grinning, he asked, “Can’t climb up, eh?” Sylvestre smirked subtly, shaking his head. His trainer quickly climbed down, offering a hand to Sylvestre as he reached the bottom rung. He accepted it, and Lucius helped him to climb up the ladder. When he reached the top, he blinked. His brother, Cecil, was at the helm of the ship, spinning the wheel to turn away from the small shop Sylvestre was on. He saw Augustus Fournier, a Relourian noble who was a leal vassal of the Halcourts prior to the country’s fall, along with his brothers and sister. They were gathered on the far end of the deck, chattering amongst themselves. He also saw Maxim, a renowned architect, along with a good friend of his, Gaston Auclair… Friends, family… he was home, or as close to home as he would ever be again. Relouria was done; destroyed, lost forever to the annals of time. Yet here they were, refugees of endless civil wars, bound together only by their shared culture. Where life would take them, Sylvestre did not know, but he did hope that his kin remained together when they got there. [i’ll be writing about how they land in Thales, some of the roleplay that happened there, and now the things going on in Athera some other time. Finally finished this, so… I’m out of creative powah, for now.] Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
forwhatpvrpose 1062 Author Share Posted September 4, 2014 [...blargh. Could a FM change the title "Syvlestre Halcourt, the Iron Seneschal"?] Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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