The Firstborn's Curse

[Norman 492]

THE FIRST BORN’S CURSE

 

 

    The young knight cursed through the knee-deep snow in a hasty, determined gait, the discordant shouts of his pursuers urging him forward even as the blizzard surged up from all around him. He dared not glance over his shoulder, but he knew that they still chased him into the storm by the dull crunching thud of arbalest bolts and other projectiles as they buried themselves into the soft crust of the snowdrift mere feet behind him.

 

There had been an altercation in the stark fields outside Westmark wherein a band of rowdy levies, the dragon of Horen emblazoned upon their gambesons, hurled their denouncements at the young man as he passed. Ever bold, the knight met the imprecations with audacious words of his own, and in consequence ten blades hissed from their scabbards and there was a short and tumultuous clash of steel.

 

The knight remembered how he fought like a man bedeviled against the host of bannermen, how he left a pair of them on the roadside rasping for breath, but a grimace crowned his gaunt face in bitter reflection as he remembered the surprise of a mislayed parry, the painful bite of a sword as it pierced his side, the shame as his blade slipped from his grasp in a hasty retreat into the mountains of the Northlands, into the white squall that enveloped the terrain ahead and rendered a seeing man blind with its ire.

 

The knight’s fingers brushed his side, and he groaned as his hand came away soaked red. Crimson welled through the slash in his jerkin, drops of his blood steaming in the frigid air and falling to the snow underfoot as he staggered onwards. The men behind him had slowed in their chase, unwilling to advance any deeper into the snowstorm, but his feverish eyes weighed the haze ahead without a trace of hesitation. The knight armored his heart and pressed himself beyond the wall of white, into what would be his last fight.

 

Not one step back.

 

Keep moving forward.

Plough you all.

 

---

 

 

He did not make it far.

 

The knight lay facedown, half-buried by the frost that whipped around him mercilessly. Blood, red as summerwine, pooled under his lifeless form, absorbed by the snow on which he lay. Behind him, his even footsteps had deteriorated to heavy drag marks, the bloodied snow he left in his wake thickening as it drew closer to his final resting place.

 

In the heedlessness of his escape he had run into the unforgiving snowstorm, stubbornly refusing his fate, willing himself forth even as his strength waned and his legs gave out - but for his final heartbeats the boy had lowered himself earthwards with a harsh acceptance of the end, destined never to rise again. He would sooner die than surrender to the men he fought, but yet the storm was there to take him when he slumped into the snow and conceded defeat.

Carden de Bar, unyielding and headstrong in life, died in a place the sun seldom favored, where nothing grew - with none to bear witness to his last moments safe for the cruel storm that embraced him warmly as the life ebbed from his body.

 

 

 

Edited September 29, 2015 by Norman

[Birdnerdy 1539]

Marius frowns. 

[Heff 2460]

Rorislav embraces the 'little lord' quickly and affectionately before the boy ascends to the Seven Skies, leaving Rorislav and Dederick in hell.

[Zarsies 6795]

[[Just want to say that was very well written and pleasant to read. Nice job.]]

[Altiak 1648]

 

A nameless bard recounts the tragic tale of the House de Bar's eldest son of the eldest son.

 

Just one cut, 
During the night, 
Crimson red that feels so right.

Drops that last all through the night,
Your only friend,
A shiny knife. 

The ones you love, 
Only judge, 
so no one knows, 
The horrible curse. 

You start out young, 
Then move on,  
The marks are deep, 
The scars are long. 

The ones that stop you,
Care the most, 
The ones that don't,
Just let you go...

You try to stop,
But thoughts come back, 
You mark again, 
It's not your last. 

You are the smart, 
You hide the marks, 
Beneath layers of cloth,
In hidden spots. 

The very next day,
the thoughts come back,
It starts all again,
the marks are back,
that forever last

Only some, 
Who truly know, 
The life of having a horrible curse....

[Cracker 4570]

It had been the mercenary captain's finest moment.

 

A minor sellsword who lorded over a band of twelve, Milos Gradic was a tracker of little renown in his homeland of Feingard. Cruel, spineless, and grossly overweight, Gradic's contracts consisted of ill-more than escorting Banardian trade caravans to and fro. He could claim no glory, no honors, but only a routine and middling sum at the end of his trite missions. Yet all mercenaries have their gilded contract, their opportunity for success, and for the swarthy Gradic, his was in the hands of John Horen. 

 

His duties were simple; perform reconnaissance in the North and learn it by heart. If the young Dragon were to be forced to invade, knowledge of the barren tundra and thick forests that made up the lands of Courland and Haense would be crucial to his success. The North exhibited discontent with the Savoyard rule and would make an excellent stronghold for John's armies. Yet when Gradic was given this command, he seethed in anger, disappointed in his charge.

 

Milos' foul temper made him a poor guest in Port Vydrik. Oft quick to anger and quicker to drink, his merry dozen would find themselves stirring trouble in the town. Three days in their stay, a milkman was slain by Gradic's own lieutenant, Anton Rezik, and on the fifth, the band grew tired of drunken brawls and longed for the company of women. Given there were no brothels in the northern capital, the men made do preying on the daughters of local paupers. Gradic himself had fancied a cobbler's sister, an unwed girl of fifteen. Lurching for her aside a band of nine, he was stopped by a youth in black. Two of Gradics men came to defend their captain's 'honor', but were subdued by the trained warrior; the other seven avowed their honor and lunged after the knight, seeking blood. Carden stood no chance.

 

When Milos discovered who the bold knight was, he thanked the saints and embalmed his remains. A partisan prince would win him over bounty and prestige. He rode south as swift as he could, though as he neared Felsen, the fluttering of the black and purple standard gave him fright. Had they taken the city without bloodshed? No, there must've been a coup, some sort of violent affair that would warrant his killing.

 

Yet as he presented the head to the Crown's Seneschal, he was met with disgust and disdain. Peace was made, Oren was mended, and his bounty became a crime. Milos was hanged and his band imprisoned for their ignoble treatment of the noble. It had weighed the Seneschal's heart heavy whether to deliver what was left of Carden to his kindred. Against his better judgement, he did, and by the fortnight, the bones of Carden de Bar were delivered in Peremont, sturdy and strong as the man who bore them..

[_Stigwig 1510]

The road to Peremont was long, but not long enough. The nascent Duke had not seen his twin in many a month, not since that night in Felsen when they had fought the Frost Witch together and he had saved Carden from her icy embrace. The years had not been kind to either since, nor their family. Enough tragedy had struck the Ashfords - Guy and Sergius, Edmond, Adrian had gone.. Yet Denis had known deep within that his twin still drew breath - that the hedonist he would have given his life for ten thousand times over still whored his way around the north and still suffered not an insult to his dignity. 

 

The carriage had arrived as dawn broke, the crimson tendrils of that rosy hand wrapping around a keep that slumbered - a sleep that had once been so peaceful yet now so full of unease and fear. The wagon was tough and wooden, covered by a cloth that had shielded the bones, now stripped of the lively youth's flesh and blood, from the elements and howling winds that had accompanied it from Felsen to Istria to Drusco. Denis had known, known as soon as he had risen that day and left the warm embrace of his wife, as soon as he had clambered up onto the battlements and seen the weary procession; known that it was ill news.

 

They had paused before the gates, iron-wrought portcullises that had been shut for days, nay - weeks. There was no purple dragon, fluttering in the breeze, signalling that these men were those of the new Emperor - but it was clear enough that they had been travelling east. No one travelled east this way now, not unless they were Kaedreni or Lorraine men. The gates had been forced upwards, armoured men heaving and sweating until there was space enough for the carriage to pass through - two horsemen abreast of it and with the dragon on their breastplates. Sullen eyes met the men, Vindicators whom still mourned their fallen hero, Guy, and would have called for revenge were they not held in by the calmer Duke. The first horseman had dismounted, scroll stretched forwards for Denis to catch.

 

"His Excellency sends his condolences, mi'lord."

 

The simple words had rung out; Denis knew the truth of the matter then. No interest was given from the Ashford in the scroll, leaving it to fall and rest in the muddy rivulets that formed betwixt cracked cobbles and iron bars. Mail boots had slammed onto the ground as he had rounded the side of the wagon, mailed fist tugging at the cloth before simply ripping it aside - cold grey gaze fixing on the contents. Just as swiftly as he had looked in did he look back out, angry gaze swivelling amongst those gathered, searching - desperate for someone to blame.

 

Denis' own eyes softly swung upwards, time itself slowing for the de Bar as his knees fell from beneath him, crunching as his shins hit the gravel ground and the melancholic figure addressed his God.

 

"Why me - Father? Why me..?"

Edited September 29, 2015 by Stigwig.

[lawnmowerman 3040]

Ser Roke would hear of Carden's tragedy within one of the taverns in Felsen, a scowl spread across his rigorous features.

[James 425]

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