The Death of a Marbrand

[whiteferrarii 123]

Jory Roland Marbrand

1526 - 1556

The ball was lively with melodic tunes, cheery laughter, and the clangour of steel against steel. The river count had arrived at the ball early, his sickly hands hidden within the pockets of his new doublet. His daughter trailed behind, river blue eyes wide with concern for her father.

 

As the food was brought out, the river count drowned out his pain with the many goblets of wine and bourbon. He spent his last night with mirth, dancing away his worries with a rather elegant and lithe partner. As the dancing concluded lavishly, the Marbrand made his way, threading throughout the massing crowds of guests. He greeted a few, refused a many, all in time for the esteemed melee outside.

 

He watched and he cheered. He fought and he lost.

 

Near the end of the melee, his hands began to shake. His gaze went bleary, and the vicinity about him began to spin and twirl. Jostling through the crowd, he made his way to the throne room. Atop the crude throne, he gasped with utter disbelief. A lean figure sat obscured by ash upon the monstrous seat. His limbs were charred and thin. His face - the river count shook with violent shivers. Atop the blackened face, sat a crown of molten iron.

 

The sickly nobleman fled from the stone throne, making for the flight of steps carved into the nearest tower. A few guests tossed him sideward glances, yet no one dared halt him. His quivering hands fervently pressed themselves against the smooth walls about him, racing up the staircase two steps at a time.

 

Then there it was. A face - carved into the stone of the stairwell, two icy blue chips of ice gazing solemnly back into the riverman’s own. Pale blonde hair ran freely from the cracks in the stone, it pooling at the riverman’s feet like a lake of beaten gold. He shrieked with fear, collapsing back upon the gnarled steps. His startled gaze met with the stony, gaunt face in the stone. It’s mouth was a thin line cut into the rock, smaller strokes engraved vertically across. As if the mouth had been sewn shut.

 

The riverman then knew and he clambered to his feet, fleeing. They were haunting him. All of them. He screamed once more, a raw shriek that shook even the impregnable keep of Ghorrock.

 

Falling to his knees upon the balcony overlooking the melee yard, he began to sob. His lean frame quaked with his sudden cries, his skin beginning to be drained of its colour. A sickly milk white was what remained.

 

As he uplifted his bleary gaze, he saw. He saw the woman with skin paler than his own, eyes as blue as the ice that froze in her inky, curly locks. Her cheeks were flushed with a deep rose, lips curled upward in one of her brave, snarky smiles. Streams of dark blood trickled down from her deep and prominent eyes.

 

A thunderous roar emitted from below. The sound of a thousand swords being slid free from their scabbards of stone and wood echoed throughout the castle. The river count rose weakly to his feet, his figure heavily pressed against the closest parapet.

 

She was so close. A beautiful face elevated up high in the overcast sky. He could touch her. He would touch her, just once more. He extended forth a hand, and he took a shallow step forward.

 

His quivering fingers stroked the woman’s bloody cheek as he plummeted to his death, body slamming against the cold stone floor of Ard Ghorrock. Blood pooled about his limp body, his head severely cracked and smashed. Faces flashed before his eyes as he began to die.

 

Aixa von Herrick. Jory felt tears stinging at his empty eyes.

 

Emery. Jory felt the torrents of tears begin to swell.

 

Charles Horen. Jory felt the streams make their courses down his bloody cheeks.

 

Fakhri Kharadeen. Jory felt the tears drip from his smashed chin like droplets of dew.

 

Sigjira Faolain. Jory felt the tears cease, and his eyes close.

 

His children. And Jory felt no more.

 

(Thanks to all for the great journey of RP I was able to take with Jory as a character. He has been a great character to play, my most favoured by far, and I am saddened by the fact I will play him no more. I would like to thank HappyShackles, Darksainthood, and YouKnowItsJuno for all the great RP you guys had to offer. I look forward to our RP in the future.)

 

[Angmarzku 1251]

And so the noble family, Marbrand, is slowly crumbling to dust and ash as  each member drops down with a bloody fate~

[Killmatronix 103]

Lucas would come out of the wild just to be greeted by the poster, still wearing his armour of house Marbrand, it being rugged and weary now, as it hasn't been take care of. "Well... ****!" he'd exclaim.

[Elad™ 560]

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