An Old Knights Story.

[Knox213 10]

The Fall of Franz Carrion

 

Part One.

 

Ser Dederick Varodyr looks upon the masses assembled down at his fortress. A small fire is lit as the followers gather around.

 

“Gather ‘round, gather ‘round my children. For I have accounts I wish to share with all on my first loss in childhood.”

 

“As many of you know, as a young boy I grew up in the town of Vekaro, at age six. I was placed as Boris Carrion’s wardboy, at age seven. We lost our King in the war now known as the Zionist war. Many of us fell into grief, as a young boy my King was a man to idolise, a man whom I believed not to die until his old days. I remember the day the former High Pontiff, Franz, called Radomir, of House Carrion was coronated…” he pauses. “-And the day his men descended upon him like wraiths.”

 

 

A young boy peers through a window through a door, glancing to the King sitting upon his throne whilst he tried to bring peace up to the land. Only mumbling could be heard, as Decterum swords were unsheathed from their scabbards, as they descended upon their king. The king briefly rose from his seat, moving down the steps shouting something unintelligible. The young Dederick looked with confusion upon his face as Ailred Ruthern stabbed his king half-a-hundred times, whilst the other conspirators begin viciously attacking the king as he fell limp upon the steps that made up the dais, his  lifeblood spilling out of him like water. The young boy goes to grip the knob of the door, but fear had overcome him, what was this feeling? Fear? he thought to himself as his body froze in awe. In a moment he is grabbed by hooded Fredek Royce, and lead outside, the raevir people fleeing the town in the hundreds towards Mount Augustus, where Tuvya Carrion and Boris Carrion watched from afar on a balcony.

“Get inside, get inside!” A raevir man exclaimed as the people fled from the city, few heading into the fortress of Mount Augustus.

 

Dederick stopped for a moment, looking around shouting for his brother. “Maric!? Maric!? Where are you?! Maric?!” he says with a frightened tone in his voice. Fredek Royce had hurried the child into the fortress mounting his horse, heading to his camp.

 

As the last of the Raevir men and citizens enter the city Tuvya Carrion shouts in his thick accent. “Close the gates.”

 

 

As the sun set, the sound of horses trampling the ground could be heard. An exclamation of “The Stranniks lead the charge!” Was heard. Dederick peered out from the balcony, rushing down the steps stumbling slightly, falling to his knees as he reaches Boris. “My lord! My lord! It’s Fredek Royce and the Stranniks! They ride out against the foe!” Boris at that point rushes to the balcony, peering out for a moment before shouting as loud as he can. “Rally! Rally! Today is good day to join our comrades and show enemy what is like to piss on mother Ruska.” Dederick quickly hurries to his feet, rushing out of the door to the armoury, having an abnormally large helmet plonked on his head, chainmail which clearly did not fit such a young boy placed over him and a rusted sword shoved to his hand.

 

The screams and shouts of “Godan jest wielki!” can be heard. As the remaining garrison of Mount August reach the gate, the screams and shouts fall silent. The garrison fall to a stand still, confused and muttering.

 

The sound of catapult fire could be heard as severed heads are flung through the air and to the mountain and gate.

 

The young boy Dederick falls to collapses in fright and dismay. It would be a while before

 

“You alright?” asked the figure looking down at the boy’s prostrate form, the blinding sun just obscuring Dederick from surveying him closely. He had the deep voice of a man, and Dederick took his extended hand, allowing the stranger to help him to his feet. He was plainly dressed, like a common soldier, bearing no heraldry or ornate armoring. He wore chainmail gloves on his hands, high leather boots on his feet and a coat-of-plates dyed a light brown adorned his chest. His head was shaved clean, and his eyes were a piercing sky blue - a long, flaxen moustache adorned his face, and with his lined face it was impossible to guess his age accurately. “What’s your name, boy?”

 

“D-Dedrick,” he said nervously, sizing up the soldier. “W-who are you? What side do you fight for?”

The man smiled bemusedly, folding his burly arms across his chest. “Ser Lothar Horen, formerly Jrent, son of Count Bill. I fight for Oren.”

 

((A big thanks to Esterlen whose gone over this to ensure this is as accurate as it can be.))

[Vanir 693]

Somewhere, an old, grizzled Knight of House Carrion lives peacefully along some foreign beach. His red tabard and pulsing long-sword hang beneath a pristine black Crow, which sits on a field of red, black and yellow.

 

Nice little read. Can't wait to see any further writings

[Knox213 10]

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