A Setting Sun

[Principality of Savoy 915]

A Setting Sun

 

My time has come, but the time of Ashford is just beginning.  

 

 

“I am not ashamed.” The words, spoken without cause, rasped out of the cracked and parched lips of a husk of a man - his ever pale eyes now sunken orbs within gaunt sockets. The prone figure weakly raised a hand, hand scratching for the circlet that lay by his bedside. The brittle nails of his bony hand closed around the crown, tugging it from the side and onto his wheezing chest.

 

“My father was a mad-man.” He managed another puff of breath, before his trembling voice resonated through his empty bedchambers once more. “H-he told me..” Another cough, this one from the chest, loose spittle flung across the room as his morose tone cracked and broke.

 

He tugged himself upwards with a haggard sigh, gaze shifting over the cluttered contents of a King’s chambers before resting on the helm that faced him, one made famous through all lands as the helm of a great king, one who united Man and Elf under one banner, whom defeated the dwarves and restored his Kingdom to greatness.

 

With a surprising strength for a man on the cusp of death he tugged himself to his own feet, steps steady as he hobbled to the helmet - hands lifting the iron plate armour closer to him as he set about, for once unaided, strapping on the iconic armour that had marked the figure out as Olivier, grandson of Lucien I Ashford, dynast of the House Ashford de Savoie.

 

The sun, already low in the sky, had dipped beneath the horizon by the time he had finished in his task, struggling to his feet beneath the cumbersome weight of the full suit; gaze twisting to look over the raging storms battering the coastline of the grand city he had built. Once again he licked his dry lips, "He told me that it is in moments of decision that one's destiny is shaped."

 

The waves crashed forebodingly against the rocks cresting the shoreline of the palace, and the frail figure strode with a prideful step towards the sea. Coming to a halt before the raging waters ahead, his characteristic greathelm slick and glistening in the downpour. A memory crossed the King’s mind as he contemplated the churning waves- a conversation held the day prior, with a man he had long regarded as closer than kin.

 

The dim glow of the candles lining his study flickered with a pale glow, illuminating the grizzled combatant before him. The man’s pale eyes studied Olivier’s intently, ever-watchful. “A Savoyard century - that is what I promise you,” He vowed solemnly.

 

The aged monarch’s parched lips took on the form of a smile, nodding wearily as he continued on, “So be it. The tempest has evanesced and the sun yet sets. You must lead our kinfolk through this time of peril - this time of dark, miserable gloaming.”

 

“I made you a promise, did I not? The Ashford sun will reign supreme. None shall escape it. Our people will bask in its warmth; our enemies will be burnt by its rays; and those of our dynasty will be forever illuminated by its glowing luminescence.”

 

The recollection of their exchange stirred the King from his brief reverie, and once more the helmet pivoted to regard the raging waves that crested the shoreline a scant few paces from where he stood. Oren’s renown would persist with the successor he had chosen; he was sure of it. With renewed vigor, the man paced forth slowly and planted an ironclad boot in the ground, heel crunching into the loose shingle underfoot.

 

He took another step, seawater invading his armored boots as the pace of his footfalls increased, a cresting wave striking his plated chest - yet he did not halt. His pale blue eyes bored out of the helmet, focused upon some destination unknown, as the squall raged around him - a clap of thunder booming overhead in the turbulent skies.

 

Water now enveloped his arms, the incessant swinging slowed along with his pace, water pushing down upon the armour as his still-determined eyes gazed at a surging wave that was quickly approaching. The daunting swell threatened to engulf the monarch, but he did not falter in his pace, instead bearing into it with a vehement final stride. The man who had risen from the son of a lunatic to King, who had subjected the dwed to his iron fist and driven them from the northern highlands, disappeared - never to be seen again.

 

A man who had through tact and guile rather than an iron blade subjugated the people of Malin beneath his banner - who had seen the sun of Ashford set over Athera just as it rose over Vailor. A King who had taken a realm newly-forged and tempered it for his heir.

The wave broke, the sun set, the king was lost.

 

Edited September 5, 2015 by Kingdom of Oren

[Halsi 381]

Camile de Savoie smiles warmly as her brother enters the Seven Skies, joining her.

[Kim 1328]

Celia mourns at the loss of a great king.

[lawnmowerman 3040]

Athirius mourns for the fallen Ashford, locking himself in the Thornewood fort.

[osumanduas 1442]

Adelric mourns.

Edmond ponders

[Publius 4098]

Publius sits distraught, having served against his fellow countrymen to ensure the success of his kingdom in Olivier's name. Many days pass before he returns to public life, and even then, his characteristic broad smile is far more rare than before.

[Jonificus 2741]

 Caspar and his fellow huntsmen return from the forest, bringing along merry moods and a newly slain deer. As they enter the Peremont keep they see an ensemble of ordermen, courtiers and servants standing out in the courtyard listening to a courier from Felsen "Our great King Olivier is dead." The words were like crossbow bolts, causing grief and misery amongst the good folk.

[Jachnun 566]

 

Branaford mutters in heaven, "Death by misadventure.."

[Leric 1097]

"We would not be here without him." Tristin would murmur to himself and those around him as a courier gives him the words. Swiveling on his heels to spend the remaining day within his workshop, taking up a draw knife to begin working on another bow.

[Legoboy7984 3155]

As Richard sits inside the barracks within Summerhall as he hears the news of the kings death

"Ave Savoie."

[thesmellypocket 1859]

Francois d'Argon makes the sign of the Lorriane Cross on his chest. "God may have you rest in heaven, great king. Praise be to his name, may his aventail, his coif, his surcoat, his lance and sword be weapons of great renown. A king of virtue and valour, no doubt!"

[Savoyard 263]

Sergius sighs upon hearing the death of such a resilient man, he trudges back to his quarters, spending the rest of his day reminiscing of his childhood and the interactions they shared.

 

[argonian 14254]

Tylos mutters, "Coup in 3...2...1..."

[Endovelicus 613]

Jürgen does the sign of lorraine. "Gott save his soul."

[Your Favorite Impure 736]

Aenor nods solemnly as Tristin finishes speaking. He ponders in silence for a few moments, before striding off. One of the only humans this grizzled elf could respect, now gone "A shame." He simply murmurs, going about his usual business.