Barony of Slesvig

[JuliusAakerlund 2402]

 

 

The Plains of Kvaz, Duchy of Carnatia, Holy Orenian Empire

14th of Malin’s Welcome, 1540

 

 

Men called this land the ‘Wild and Barren North’, a simple name though it was given by those who had only seen the basin in crudely made Imperial Maps and those heralds who barely understood what they spoke and taught. Birds chirped, squirrel and possum roamed freely, and the great stags and elk pastured with little worry of human interference. It was, in defiance against the learned men of the South, not barren in anyway, but a land of lush life untouched by the hands of man.

There was not many villages of man, or elf for that matter, are within the ‘Barren North’, so mayhaps that is why the scholars called it such. There were logging villages, aye, with the occasional lordling castle of wood and cobble, but nothing like that of the Heartlands, where every twenty miles there was another town, another city, another temple. The roads here were overgrown and made of dirt, compared to the cobbled and worn-down highways of the Imperium; the homes made of spruce and dirt, compared to the brick and mortar homes of Felsen. The Barren North, truly being barren, saw very little activity of man, if any at all. It was peaceful.

However, as horses trotted down the Vieran, the peace was broken.

 

Sunlight shined through the thick evergreens and seasonal trees that covered the canopy in pines and newly-grown spring leaves. It had just reached the cusp of summer, the Northern Forest finally came alive after months of oppression underneath the foots of snow and hail that blanketed the landscape. Sharp sounds of horse hooves striking the gravel road rang throughout the forest, a group of seven steeds and their accompanying riders trickling into the encompassing forest.

‘Oi, Lord Colborn sah, ah hope we t’ere soon, mah cock be hurtin’ sah.’ The first rider spoke, toothless and bearing a heavy accent. He wore mere leather and cotton, paired with cheap fur and meager hides.

‘We shall be there soon Quentyn, another hour ‘till we reach the mouth of the Vieran.’ The Lord Colborn replied, tutting as he refirmed his grip upon the reigns. ‘Have some patience, enjoy the scenery.’

Patience… what a ***** thing.

The Colborn cackled a chuckle, an amused grin erupting his face. How men always expect the future with anxiety, when never looking at the now. To be frank, what is the now? The present, the now, is such a fickle topic. Controversial. Indifferent. Time does not care for the future, it happens and it becomes the past. There is a simplicity to it. The future will become the present which becomes the past, the cycle of time which continues to roll on and on. Men clamor about the past and the future, never about the present. But what is the present? How can one define the present? Is the instance, the now? Or is the span of time, but then it would equate of not just being the present, but the near-future and the near-past.

Thoughts like these always boggled the Colborn’s mind, entered his mind for his labyrinth of a brain to attempt to comprehend. He scribbles in his book, he thinks and prays and thinks more. And why? It was simple, like the ever-motioning time. Simple, to think about life and be able to examine it piece by piece. Analyze. Ponder. Almost an insanity, to think and always think. Always, always thinking. Like time, he motions forward in his thoughts. He writes in his book, thinking of the now, thinking of the past, and thinking of the future. But it is the now, the present which the Colborn worries about. The present is always happening, always finishing yet appearing again and again. It is simple, it is-

‘M’lord, we reach the mouth!’

The Colborn looks up, blinking his eyes in the sunlight, ‘Ah, we are.’ How long had time passed? The Colborn did not know, but he cared little. At least now Quentyn would cease his nagging. ‘Stable the horses, we still have work to do.’

Yes, work. Grandfather Carr always talked of it, work is what sets men free. Work is what determines your rank and elevation in society, not titles or blood. It is the sweat of your brow which you garner the world, take the nectar of life into your hands. It is worrying of the present, not the future, which puts a Colborn apart. To work, to focus upon the now of your duties is what matters.

‘Grab t’ shovels! Ye called t’at harvestin’?! The grind be broken!’ The worries of the present, the simple concerns of the present. To harvest, to grind the flour, and to pasture the livestock. It is what Grandfather always said. Worry about the present, there is always time to worry about the future.

And his present worries was that of his barony. Baron Colborn… the title felt strange, bizarre. A Lord… how ***** it sounded yet it was true.

‘Do not fail me, boy, I have no tolerance for it.’

Baron Colborn worried about the now, and he knew he could fail in the present. For if he failed in the present, he would have failed in the future, and failed those in the past. It was the present that mattered, the current time of his barony and his new found duties.

‘I do not fail, Lord Sarkozic.’

And so far, Lord Colborn had not failed.

 

[yopplwasupxxx 5946]

'Do not falter, young Colborn, do not falter.'

[CheekyNolan 5420]

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