An Emperor's Gambit

[Ark 2835]

A man, no older than thirty moons, bends at the knee. Of course, to a young boy he appeared much older, though it made no difference as the man grabbed his chin in a forceful, yet non-threatening manner. The boy’s eyes pierced blue, his hair black an obvious Crow’s plume. On the boy’s chin laid a large bruise, as though he had received the injuring recently. The man squinted his weathered eyes, letting out a low grunt,  “How did you get this?” The boy’s brow furrowed, as in shame, and looked away, “... I-I got into a fi-fight with one of the other boys..” he said with clear difficulty, as if expecting a fierce scolding or even a beating. However, prideful the young boy is, he added with gleaming pride, “I won though!” The older man gave a snort of approval, standing up in straight posture as his mail rustled from the sudden movement. He let out a sigh before placing a hand on the child’s head, he ruffling the boy’s head as a father would do to his son. He looked to his bald compatriot, a rough looking man with his bald dome for a head shining in the open sun. He had not a single hair, expect for his trimmed blonde beard which he sport, in contrary to the Waldenian’s young age. This man, despite once being his enemy, had become one of his closest allies.

 

That boy- his son as he should say, though it did not feel as such- was a constant reminder to the man, not of the happy joys that a father should share with his son, or the pride of watching a boy become a man. No, it was a dreaded reminder of his failures. He had been a man who stood higher than all others, upon the podium of his sacred blood, of the expanse of titles he once called his. He lost his own kin, his brothers- Fyodor and Boris, why did you leave me with nothing?-, his wife, that damned daughter of a *****, the empire that should have been his, and even his own children! His name and legacy, once told by the wetnurse that he, Aleksandr Tuvic Carrion, blood of the Exalted, was to become great in the annals of history, was now slandered and mocked, a stain upon the history of humanity. Though, now as he looked back, it meant nearly nothing to him. He, for all intents and purposes, was a simple man, many of his companions knew him as Aleksandr, not Emperor Alexander. He cared not of titles nor birth, to the nether with his Karovic blood, for he was a man to judge by merit, not the encumbrance bloodlines that corrupt the thinking of many a man.

 

His greatest fault, though as he looked back, was his kindness. He was a joyous man - being the last son of an Emperor had its benefits, of course- and in conflict to his brothers and other princes, showed pleasantries and kindness to those not in favor of the great noble game. His enemies, he had plenty, were treated with respect and his people he treated with compassion. He served his people rarely the other way around. However today, today was very different, for he fought amongst the many who rebelled against him. He cared little though, as much as a wandering thought, for he had the rhyme and reason, perhaps to save his fellow friends -for he knew half of them couldn’t fight for ****, the Waldenian especially- or even the Akovian peoples which he still felt a binding duty to protect. There were the Vanirs, Harald, Vasili, and even Arik, the Vladovs (more than he could count), and the other assortment of knights and soldiers that once stood on both sides of the battlefield.. The majority of his zealotry, however, came from the two children within the castle, a young boy and a sickly girl.

 

 

Soon the legions of dwarves, the hundreds of Waldenian footmen, and the orcish warbands marched towards the Akovian battlements. Arrows whizzed by, swords clashed, but it seemed all in vain for the Akovian men. Minutes dragged on to hours as the fighting, according to Aleksandr, seemed to never halt, his sword arm becoming weak and his fellow fighters being pushed back into the bastion of Mount Letholdus. Though, as if divine intervention. there appeared hope. Horns blew, and Aleksandr, wary of the mass amount of arrows flinged nearly a centimeter from his head, peaked up through the arrow slit. Savoyard banners, that of House Ashford, House de Bar, and all the minor lordlings which dotted the political landscape of Savoie, masked the horizon ahead. Was it Schismist reinforcements? No, it couldn’t be, he knew for a fact that the Duke de Savoie did not join into Godfrey’s prying grip. Another horn sounded, coming from the center of the Savoyard line. Guy de Bar, or what Aleksandr thought was the Lord of Norfolk, waved his lance in the air, beginning a quick trot which broke into an all out charge. He had never truly liked the Savoyards, though did not dislike then either (an indifference, he supposed), but after what Guy de Bar, had done, perhaps his opinion would change.

 

 

[The Savoyard Charge]

 

Orders began to ring through the keep, a feminine voice (Emma Vladovic, of course) yelling louder than all the men in the keep. Aleksandr knew what he had to do. Aleksandr, with the Vanir named Harald- who waved his mace around like a butter knife- charged the flank, having the left the keep, though he never remembered leaving it. Together they cut through the ranks of the fleeing enemies, before a Waldenian spearmen, with fear in his blood-stained eyes, charged straight at Aleksandr. There was no time to raise his shield, the spearhead entering his side with little to no hinderance. It felt surreal- was this how dying felt like?-, as he felt no emotion, no feeling of pain or exhaustion. Even noise was blotted out of his mind, the only sense appearing to work was his dirt-covered eyes. The next thing he saw was the Vanir’s mace crushing deep into the spearman’s cranium. A sickening crush was the next thing Aleksandr heard, though quickly muffled, the young Waldenian, no older than nineteen. However, it was little to late, as the pain began to surge quickly throughout his body, a pain which no man could ever describe through spoken words.

 

Aleksandr fell, his descent not a pleasant one, as the weakly gripped with spear which dug into his heart.. Harald swiftly fell to a knee, placing his hand underneath his chin as he lifted his old emperor’s chin to face Harald’s gaze. The Vanir’s eyes brimmed with tears, and as a last thought, Aleksandr never knew the man for crying. With a loud roar, Harald had charged forward, fighting for a fallen emperor, his emperor, and his friend. “I-It was a ride, my friend..”, those were the words which Aleksandr, once Emperor of Mankind and Grand Prince of the Third Raev, last heard before his conscience slipped into the Seven Skies.

 

The battle was soon over, the cheering of the Canonist forces echoing throughout the Karovian valley. Harald had drudged his way back into the bloody abyss, finding the now cold body of the man he called friend. Harald knew that Aleksandr wanted no ceremony, funeral, or anything of the like. Hours later, while celebrations still rang throughout Karovia, Harald stood before a grave, a peasant’s grave. Saying his final goodbyes, he kissed the newly-buried dirt and made his way slowly back to the parades. Though it was not a grave fit for the once Emperor of Oren, it was a grave fit for Aleksandr.

[yopplwasupxxx 5946]

The County of Ayr, 1495

 

Otto had been shuffling through the books, for nothing specific of course, but in the sense that he appeared, well, busy. Today was not the day he expected to do much, or explain much for that matter, so that is when the young Karl's question threw him off-guard.

 

"What happened to my father?"

 

The bald man gulped. Why today? And why was it the one time when he was sober?! Giving a low, barely audible grunt, he looked behind him. Karl had grown, grown a lot since those days of hiding in the Orenic Heartland. Nearly the height of him, Otto figured, and still had room to grow. He even matured into the spitting image of Aleksandr himself, something which tore at his inner-heart.

 

"He..."

 

He what? Surely this is not the day to explain to a boy his father's been dead for what? Ten years now? And that he met the man was entirely out of the question.

 

"... he's out and about, somewhere boy, mayhaps he'll come by when he finished ******* wenches and sucking ****."

 

Otto had always hid behind profanities, it was the way he got through situations, such as these. There was no time for deep emotions or profound talks, and hopefully the boy took this as a message as now was not the day.

 

"Hrm, alright uncle."

 

Otto sighed in relief.

[Urahra 5777]

((-1 for no mention of beloved darling sister Lorina.))

[Robae 15]

Lorin, the oblivious girl whom was still suffering from the horrid illness she had, was not aware of this all. She was often informed about her father and brother's health during the Schism war, yet only hoped for them to safely return.

[Fireheart 2777]

Franz nods

[Birdnerdy 1539]

  Ecthallion sits by the fire in his small room in the Siegrad keep, his long form bent over the leather tabard of one of his Company's men. His fingers run over the piece of leatherworking, fastening several small iron studs into it's surface for added protection. A cold wind blows through the metal grate that qualifies as a window, chilling him to the bone. A sharp twinge on his left arm brings an old wound to the forefront of his mind, temporarily distracting him from his work. He sets the tabard down, and unrolls his left sleeve, revealing a long, thin scar running down the length of his arm, from his wrist to his elbow. He closes his eyes for a moment, grimacing as he remembers the day he received it. 

 

  He had watched in horror as the Savoyard line had advanced with grim certainty upon the ranks of Waldenian soldiers. His fellow Ordermen gave a cheer as their commander, the schismatic Konig Arn Rovin raised his arm, signaling for a volley. The projectiles had nearly no effect on the ranks of Canonist troops as they crashed into the Waldenian ranks, their sturdy iron plate protecting them from any serious damage. He had drawn his saber, desperately parrying a Akovian soldier's longsword, before his left arm ignited in pain. Another enemy soldier had cut through the thin chain mail protecting his arm, and reached the flesh underneath. Falling back from the vicious assault, he had rallied along with a few other Waldenian troops to fend off a vicious onslaught of Adrian troops. Somehow, he managed to escape the battle with his life, but it had been yet another defeat in a long war of similar ones.

 

   A shout originating from the courtyard outside of his room brings him back to the present. A Mallister sergeant was drilling the men of the Brotherhood in a sparring match. He rolls his sleeve back over the scar, his mind still lingering on days gone by. As he jogs down the keep's stairs to join them, a surge of pride fills his chest as he sees the brave men of the Crow, going about their training with energy and enthusiasm. With luck, the same fate would not befall them. 

[Publius 4098]

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