The End Of A Lion

[Galendar 631]

The morning was still in the old man's manor to the north of Petrus. Alexander was 93 years old and it had finally caught up to him, he was too old to carry on as he was used to. Did it stop him? No.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrsKJ0KUyJw

 

The old knight rose from his bed that fateful day and donned his plate armor given to him by Maric Varodyr in the Storm Rebellion. He descended his home's staircase one final time, taking a seat in his chair at the head of the family table. His fingers curled around the handle of his mug, dipping it into a nearby bucket full of water to enjoy for his morning wake up. Alexander tilted back the large mug and drank every bit of liquid within it before letting go of it. A revelation passed over the old Lion, sending him easing back into his chair with a shallow grunt followed by a gurgle.

 

A small note would be left at his death scene,

 

"Thomas Delaney,

 

Take care of my daughter, old friend. I am to pass from this world in my sleep., I will see you soon.

 

Ser Alexander Valois."

 

Charles would enter the hall after a long hunt, looking upon his deceased father. The young man's eyes would fill with a sorrow not seen in a long time. Alexander was dead and he recognized this, and with that, Charles departed from the manor, heading north into the wilds over the red canyons.

 

Alexander Henry Valois

 

 

OOC:

I wish my writing was better so as to do these two characters justice, but it isn't.

 

Charles is off on a random adventure once more and Alexander is Perma Killed. His body can be burried by any priest if anyone bothers with it, I don't really mind. It's been two years of playing the old goat and I saw it fit to retire him. Thanks to everyone who I rp'd with and I look forward to perhaps returning or departing the server in a few months but we'll see.

 

Galendar out.

[Porko 397]

o7

[ozeveo 87]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVI-DRMZW_8

 

((please listen))

The pit-patter of heavy rain torrented down upon the grey stones which made up the castle of Southpoint. It was the middle of winter, and though the keep was perched upon a mountainside it was not so high as to warrant the downfall of snow that was characteristic of the season. There was much history behind this castle - Uthor of the Silverblades had built it when he and the rest of Godfrey’s empire had been forced from Asulon to Anthos, and the castle had been abandoned entirely when Uthor left on the great exodus, along with the largest part of the Empire, to Aeldin and beyond. The castle had remained dead, still and devoid of life until relatively recently, when a squadron of priests who donned armor over their robes led by a prelate in black had taken residence in the ruin. I ought to turn back, thought Alexander, his flinty eyes surveying the haggard, dead castle. They called me here, but how am I to know that they won’t kill me where I stand? He had lingered in the courtyard for long enough, in the frigid rain, waiting evermore for one of the clergyman’s retainers to leave their new temple and usher him inside. His boots protected him from much of the downpour - they were a fine leather. Sophia had given them to him.

My poor, sweet lady, the Auvergnian thought. Her charms had me befuddled for so long. Her claim is good and true, aye, and these Carrions are tyrants all the same. But a woman can never rule Oren. Without my own help, or Darfey’s, she will get nowhere. Sophia Horen, the empress-in-exile, was counselled by lackwits. A self-proclaimed king, an elven terrorist and the scion of a long dead, tainted dynasty made up her innermost circle. Her rebellion against the crow’s crown was doomed to fail, especially now that Alexander had left her side. At least publicly, he thought.

‘Ser Alexander,’ rasped a voice from beneath the arch of the postern gate, ‘HIs Holiness is ready to see you now.’

It was a hooded monk, clad in the red robes of the new church of Oren. Platemail armor rested on the outside of his vestments, and in his hands he hefted a heavy warhammer. Beneath his hood, he frowned deeply at the Auvergnian knight, though the portcullis of the gate was slowly drawn up by an unseen abbot. The monk ushered him forwards, and the knight obeyed, walking with him as the pair entered the shadowy corridors of Southpoint castle.

‘What is your name and role, priest?’ asked Alexander rather petulantly, trailing the retainer.

‘Signus Cross,’ he responded sourly, ‘I watch the door.’

Seeing the conversation would not thrive, Alexander withdrew to his thoughts as they made their way down the long hall. Part of him regretted not going on the Exodus with Godfrey. The prospect of Aeldin meant a new life and a fresh start. None of the old prejudices and judgements he had been forced to face in both old and new Oren. They laughed at him, all of them, and none of them had ever treated him with any respect. From Hadrien de Sarkozy, the Count of Norfolk, who had wed his cousin and supplanted him as the inheritor of the Valois’ lands - to King Mirtok of Hanseti, who had wed his first love and left him without a wife, lands or an heir. Besides, if he didn’t like life in Aeldin, he could have easily returned, or so he thought. But that ship had since sailed, literally and figuratively, and Ser Alexander Guivret, formerly Valois, was stuck in Anthos - this wretched land, torn by civil war and ethnic tension.

‘His Holiness awaits you inside,’ said the usher, interrupting his thoughts as they stopped before a great, wooden double door. The castle had thus far been ruinous and empty, though the sounds of activity drummed from behind this door. When the usher swung it open, the knight entered pensively.

The main hall was once grand and richly adorned, with immense glass windows and opulent carpets. Alexander remembered as it was under the Silverblades - bustling and full of life. Now, it was just as large, though significantly darker. The windows had been smashed and shards coated the lifeless grey floor, the chamber exposed to the open storm outside. It was freezing in there, and where the throne room had once been littered with braziers and torches, it was now dark and shadowy, most light having escaped the room like some dark grotto. Directly ahead of him, about twenty metres in front of the knight, sat the massive steel throne which the Dukes of Furnestock once sat. Upon it presently rested a twisted figure in immaculate white robes, in heated conversation with a man in a similar cassock of black who stood upon the steps of the throne.

‘I will not allow the Iron Wench to escape justice,’ sat the figure upon his throne, his voice deeply accented with the tones of Savoie. ‘She had my brother killed. She attempted to have my father killed. Next, it will be me, Mosquera, and then what?’ They continued their verbal debate as Alexander edged closer. He could tell they were talking about Sophia Horen.

‘Such people deserve nothing less than death, I agree with Your Holiness on that point! But you will not give this woman what she deserves by refusing to accept Imperial supremacy over the Church, that is folly,’ responded the black-donning Mosquera.

‘And what if the Emperor sanctions it? What then of your precious Imperial supremacy? Throwing off my father’s yoke will give us the recognition we need to make decisions for the good of the realm, Zacarias, trust me on that...but I’ll hear no more about it. My guest has arrived. You will leave us.’ The white figure waved his hand dismissively, and the one labelled Mosquera delivered a neat bow, descending from the stony dias and exiting the room with his gaze averted.

‘Approach,’ pronounced the ivory-clad figure, beckoning forth with a withered hand. The knight obeyed, slowly edging his way towards the elevated dias as the storm raged outside, the icy winds of Furnestock shooting through the hall and sending chills through the Auvergnian’s bones. The hierophant, as he had been called, looked rather plain upon his grand seat. He was tanned and swarthy, with a hooked nose and a head of slicked-back, ebony hair in direct contrast to his immaculate cassock. His right eye was dull and listless, part of the right side of his face blotchy and malformed, as if it had been burnt. He could have been no older than thirty, all the same. There is little but an eerie familiarity to this priest, Alexander thought as he ascended the steps of the throne, taking the cleric’s hand in his and kissing his signet ring. Realization sunk in quickly as the hierophant drew back his hand, gesturing for Alexander to descend from the dias once more so he could be addressed as custom dictated.

‘Franz,’ said the knight acridly, ‘Franz Joseph Carrion.’

‘Not anymore, Ser Alexander,’ retorted the priest rather sharply, ‘Men call me Radomir, now, and they address me as Your Holiness.’

‘Your Holiness,’ he said, biting his tongue in his cheek.

---

What they had discussed in the cavernous chamber of the former castle of Southpoint would remain their knowledge alone until the end of time. Alexander would not speak of the matters they had negotiated with anyone - the Auvergnian had made a pledge to himself to not even think about it if he could avoid it. Even his own mind was no longer a refuge for those who sought to draw his secrets from him. He was always pursued, always followed, so why should his innermost thoughts have been any different? Guivret didn’t even know why he continued as he was, why any of this mattered to him.

Every time they called him craven, weakling, fool and social climber, a part of his mind conceded to his adversaries. But there was something that they could never break, a flame that would not go out. There was something driving Alexander Guivret, the knight of Corazon, and it only just eluded him. On occasion his mind wandered beyond the confines of his existence as the last true Valois, and he quite forgot who he was.

He remembered who he was now. But more importantly, he remembered what the ecclesiarch had told him as he departed the chamber.

 

‘Ser Alexander, I shall prove that I have the conviction to fill this office and claim my true destiny,’ proclaimed the hierophant upon his throne, ‘And failing to do so, may God strike me down.’

[Galendar 631]

-snip-

((Thank you, ol' pal.))

[Raptorious 1899]

Sitting atop the throne of the High Prophet, the Eternal King of Dras Angral looked out to his Kingdom. It would forever be his now, forever cursed. The Stormcrown rested atop his pale brow, his face gaunt and sickly, forever bound to the hell that resided within him. An armored man ran up the winding black staircase, to the very peak of the Citadel that was once a beacon of rebellion, a monument of defiance. The thrall came before the throne, hunched over and quivering before the cursed Herald of Ruin's might.

 

"A-another of your knights has fallen. A-Alexander Valois the Lion of Auvergne." he quivered, backing away slightly in his hunched stance.

 

Blackened snow began to fall on the black fortress, drifting slowly down. The once King Maric let out a sharp breath, the fog clearly visible. He snarls suddenly, his head twitching a bit as the thrall quickly descends the empty Citadel again. But was it anger? Sadness at the loss? Frustration at the disruption of his plans? Not even the King knew.

 

His brother, his friend, his most loyal knight had passed into the Seven Skies.

 

 

But I will never see him again. I will never join him in the house of my forefathers, in the halls of my ancestors...

 

 

 

 

He was cursed forever.

[Birdnerdy 1539]

Eric Halmund dons his own set of armor issued to him by Ser Valois himself. Quietly slipping out of the Briarwood mansion near Leuvaardeen, he begins his journey to Petrus. Arriving at the home of his old commander, he entered, knowing that there was nobody to stop him. Upon seeing Alexander's corpse, he lets a small gasp escape. Walking over to the chair where the body lays, he pulls up his own chair, and straightens himself as he did when the old knight would inspect the line of Renatus's loyal soldiers. And there he sat for a long time, lost in thought. As the first rays of sunlight creep over the tops of Petrus' tallest buildings, Eric stands up. Taking out a quill and parchment, he writes a quick letter. He places it on the table next to Alexander, hoping that a member of the Valois family would find it.

 

The letter would read: 

I, Eric Halmund, former soldier of Renatus and friend to Alexander Valois, will offer my service and skills to any members of the Valois family who might have need of it. 

 

Before departing the home, Eric salutes the body of his former commander. He then takes his leave, and sets off back towards Leuvaardeen.

[Lita 677]

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