The Black Sheep's Curse

[Altiak 1648]

THE BLACK SHEEP’S CURSE

 

 

  

 The King awoke with a start in a room he once remembered well.

 

    Dust and soot coated the timber floor of the dark chamber, heavy flakes of ash drifting through the air around him. The thick grime whispered past the desolate contents of the room; trailing over discarded tomes, olden castoffs, the weathered belongings of a boy long grown. A rectangle of pale light shone in from a cracked window set against one of the walls, gracing the seated man’s long-forgotten quarters with a faint glow of sunlight.

 

    Guy de Bar sat rooted into a heavy oaken chair at the head of a grime-covered table, glancing around with bewilderment at his familiar surroundings. Incredulity played over the grizzled man’s features as he came to his senses, looking around in soundless protest. The room was smaller than when he had last seen it - a time when he was vulnerable, uncertain, fearful. And now, for the first time in years, he was awash with the very same sentiments.

 

Once more he was the unimportant boy from Aldersberg, and as he gazed out through the window wistfully, he could not help but feel a pang of dismay at the thought.

 

    “You’ve your father's eyes, Guy.”

 

    Flinching at the sudden remark, the monarch’s head whirled about, becoming overtly aware of  a long-commonplace presence in the room with him. His elder brother sat across from him, his inky hair streaked with the grey tones of a turbulent life. Palms laid flat upon the table’s surface, the man regarded his kindred with a downcast countenance. Guy swallowed tersely under Adrian’s stare, a hand reaching up to the unsightly scar besmirching the skin over his left eye.

 

    “My father… he passed on to me his ambition, Adrian,” he retorted, an odd uncertainty audible in his voice as he uttered the words. Guy’s response elicited a short and dry bark of laughter from his brother, who shook his head and smiled grimly.

 

    “You’ve always had his ambition. Perhaps he passed on to you his hubris as well.”

 

    Adrian’s hand moved slowly to his cloak, rooting around momentarily before he produced a lustrous and shimmering band of gold. His eyes weighed the monarch as he set the circlet down on the table, pushing it forth. Guy hesitated for a moment as he beset his eyes on the crown - his father’s crown, his crown - and he looked to his brother expectantly.

 

    “Adrian… what is this place?”

    “I know not, little brother. You were here first.”

 

    Guy at last reached across the table, the chair he had settled into giving a loud and invasive creak as he grasped his father’s crown. The simple band of metal was cold heavy in the man’s hands, but he dispatched his doubts and looked back up to his ever-watching kinsman while drawing in a breath. Richard’s crown was grasped firmly in his hand, a talisman against the skepticism that plagued him.

 

    “I cannot see the path ahead, Adrian. The sun is gone… all is dark.”

 

    Adrian glimpsed his younger brother with a knowing frown, bringing up a hand to his graying beard and sighing resignedly.

 

    “Everything is dark when your eyes are closed, Guy.”

 

    The king’s eyes met his brother’s with indecision, but after a long moment’s deliberation he glanced downwards to sight the ruin that had become of him. Blood soaked his dusky tabard, his chest bestrewn with deep bleeding gashes. Bewitched by the surreal sight, Guy’s eyes trailed towards the circlet in his hand. The once-shimmering band of gold that had brought his family great renown was a ring of crimson-smeared iron now, stained with what the defeated man knew was his very own lifeblood.

 

    “Open your eyes.”

 

---

 

    Blood wept from Guy de Bar’s numerous wounds as he sat slumped in a heavy oaken chair, the king attempting to haul himself to his feet in fruitless resilience even when faced with his own demise. To his side the monarch’s assassin loomed over him, a cruel and reptilian smirk on his gaunt features as he pulled the knife from the king’s torso. Guy’s mouth opened to utter some final defiance, to spit in the face of his murderer - but only a thin rivulet of blood escaped his dying lips. In his final moments, for all he was worth, the brazen King answered to his end soundlessly, rid of the sardonic wit that had for so long characterized him.

 

    From all around him the dying man heard the clamor of a great confrontation: the clash of one hundred blades locked in combat, the sweet steel song of his partisans. The men he had stood alongside, the bearers of his father’s legacy - they had come to his stead in his final moments, but they were too late. At the corner of his vision, Guy was aware of an indomitable flurry of steel. His brother stood at his side, even as Guy perished, defending him from a host of dissenters with an audacious bellow of contempt.

 

    The fading vision of the expiring monarch was not beset on the chaos around him, but instead on the calm and placid heavens that drifted invitingly overhead. The edge drew nearer with each of his ragged breaths - the edge of everything, the horizon that would soon reach him - but the man was not afraid. Guy de Bar met the horizon with a final, insubmissive rasp, sinking into the seat with pale orbs condemned to search the stars for all of eternity.

 

    The King closed his eyes at last, finding solace in his last moments as the world he knew blinked from existence.

 

 

 

 

Edited September 26, 2015 by Altiak

[Norman 492]

NO MATTER THE COST

 

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

 

Adrian de Bar towered over the corpse of his brother’s murderer, chest rising and falling at a dogged pace as he struggled to regain his breath. A sheen of sweat clung to the man’s brow from the resilient chase, the sable cloak that oft fluttered behind him tattered and frayed from his sprint through the Crownland’s woods. Loosening his grip on the bloodied sword in his hand, Adrian fell to his knees cumbersomely alongside it, drawing in a shaky breath.

 

He had pursued the man that slew his brother from the walls of the palace and through the burghs of Dour Watch and Peremont in a chase that would brook but one conclusion. It had been hours into the relentless hunt that the assassin’s stride had faltered before Adrian’s, and he had turned to accost the prince with a cruel smirk, arms akimbo as though accepting his demise.

 

A few chance words were exchanged, but Adrian remembered them not; solely beset on recapturing the moment he disemboweled the traitorous bishop. “In all my dreams I’ll kill you,” he had promised the man as he ran him through with his sword, teeth gritted in dogged resolve. “A hundred thousand deaths are no less than what you deserve.”

 

“Look at me, interloper.”

 

With his passionate words echoing through his head, the man’s haunted mind was put to peace as he knelt beside the man’s corpse. The assassin lay in a pool of his fleshtone, intestines splayed out across the grass like a macabre arrangement of eels. Adrian could not have saved his brother, for all of his strength - but to see the man who slew him dead himself brought forth fleeting a semblance of satisfaction. It was a final victory for the patriarch of House de Bar, a parting triumph.

 

From somewhere deeper into the brush, a familiar voice called out for the slain assassin, the discernable sound bringing a pained grimace to the prince’s face. The dissenter approached from somewhere behind him, but Adrian did not move for his blade, rise to his feet, hurl a bold imprecation.

 

He had had his vengeance.

 

Adrian de Bar closed his eyes with a reconciled smile as his nephew approached, at last putting to rest the grief that bewitched him for all his life. The dying sun drew a long and daunting shadow over the kneeling man before it ducked below the treeline, favoring the prince with a last, ardent glow of deep orange before it took its leave.

 

He would see his brother again, some day.

He knew he would.

Edited September 26, 2015 by Norman

[bungo 3965]

Within the dead of night, a young Edmond Cross wakes up in fright as he experiences night terrors of the regicide.

[Ark 2835]

Karl Barbanov looks to the gates, frowning as his old friend Guy accompanies him in the Seven Skies. He would then kick back and share old war stories with his old friend and mentor.

[_Stigwig 1510]

Denis' expression hardens as a soft trickle of tears bite into his cheeks, cold and dark gaze shifting forwards.

"To the bitter end.."

[Savoyard 263]

Sergius Ashford de Bar's normal cold and stoic demeanor fails him this day as he quietly lets a gentle stream of tears trickle down his cheeks. Throughout the lonesome day he sat in his Castle, brushing a thumb over a small arming sword given to him as a child.. 

[Endovelicus 613]

Kristoff frowns from the fifth skie as he watches the regicide. "The Ashen Sun as set in Oren, he may have not been the most pious of men, but, he did what was needed. No words but deeds."

[Scipp3r 451]

Packard scoffs

"These Kings rise and fall, but there will only be one true Emperor of Carpathia."

[thesmellypocket 1859]

"Elective monarchy has and always will be more effective than primogeniture." Francois declares.

[lawnmowerman 3040]

 

Ser Athirius Roke's jaw clenched sharply as the news strike him at his old fort within Kaedrin, orbs slowly peering shut, a few clear tear-drops sliding down his prominent cheek-bones, grasp around his longsword's pommel tightening. He would slowly clamber onto his trusty steed, taking a hold of the reins, slapping them downwards, feet settled comfortably in the saddle's stirrups. He heads to Peremont, stating raspily as he rides.

 

"Ought to speak to the Duke of Drusco."

 

 

 

 

[IngrownToenail 7]

Elric would tremble at the news of his old Grandmaster's death. He would descend into the dungeon of the citadel, heading to the small table where he once enjoyed his books. "You will be missed, old friend." He would say as he pulls out a piece of parchment and a quill, writing the simple phrase: Non gratis mortuus est. He folds the parchment, stuffing it into a pocket saying "May he rest in piece."

Edited September 26, 2015 by IngrownToenail

[Stump 709]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S53EBdZ0Iks

Shuffling, the clatter of metal, leather and cloth- That was what was heard by the stray individuals who passed by the former royal bedchambers labeled 'Ceriwyn de Savoie.'
The sign was still rather new in appearance, having been replaced within the last few years it seemed.

"I have to hurry- There it is.." Ceriwyn's thoughts rung through her head quickly, the internal monologue almost passing to inaudible murmurs under her breath.

Movement still sounded out from the room, before eventually the straw-haired Queen Dowager drew forth onto the stairwell, practically racing down the steps despite the large pack over her shoulder. Brushing past doors, through hallways and finally out into the cool evening air; it was almost relieving to be outside.
Ceriwyn's eyes suddenly widened, her breath quickening as she heard the shouts, cries of the townsfolk into the early night sky coupled with the clang of metal upon metal as the whole city was in uproar.

"This way, down the bridge. The gates aren't safe, Creator get me out of here.."

The pack fell into the sand, and soon the former monarch followed, giving a strained grunt under her breath as she climbed down the uneven rocks to the riverbed. Ceriwyn took up the heavy leather pack once more, slinking warily up the hill once she'd made sure the area was clear.
Then she turned, peering back to the Felsen Palace which was outlined against the sky as a looming shadow. She heard laughter and song echo in her mind, the older woman drifting back to times where she sat upon the thrones of Oren with pride and energy glinting in her eyes- It didn't last long. Guards paced the walls mere hours after their King's death, giving Ceriwyn little time to reflect as she fled further into the night.

"Nikolaus, Visant, Amélie. I will see you soon. Please take care of them."

From there it was a blur- Paying the wagon driver, riding, rest.. Running.
All Ceriwyn could do was run, until she entered a place she knew little of. Wandering the dusty streets, Ceriwyn's heart still pounded as she took to a corner, collapsing from exhaustion with her pack providing what little comfort she could gain from the situation.

"Ave Savoie, Ave Bar, Ave Orenia- Ave Humanity."

The thoughts stopped, and everything went black.

[bumblefina 2766]

Annabelle sits, her body slumped back into the chair in a fashion much unlike her usual stance. Her wrist rests on the desk before her, a piece of parchment, covered in black ink writing, flickers in the wind coming in from the window while clasped in between her fingers. Staring at the stones in the walls before her, the expression on her face sits blank. Her natural frown rests on her lips, her near black eyes glazed over. The paper slips from her fingers then, sliding across the table as the wind carries it from her hand.

The weak sounds of sobbing begin to echo down the hall, the wind carrying the woman's agony across the keep and out into the warm sun's light. 

Edited September 27, 2015 by shannoninks

[Snake Plissken 637]

And it was so that Vulpes discovered another King he served was dead.

[CheekyNolan 5420]

The young Baron houses a faint sorrowful bearing, dismissing the messenger with a wave of a plated hand airily. "Let us hope the Savoy hegemony lives on." The Fournier stripling would murmur, occupying himself with other tedious tasks, pausing every once in a while to free a dash sigh. His hand finding his father's luteous cross, holding it tightly within his palm. "May the Creator treat you well."