A Sword for Auvergne

[cruzazul 2815]

 

 

The evening had been long and unrelenting. Within a drab, carved stone office sat two men, opposite each other, a thick desk adorned with leaflets of parchment and old scrolls parting them just barely. The man behind the desk, recognizable as a newfound Count in Adria, Gawain d’Auvergne, removed his intricate round spectacles from his face methodically, placing them on the table, his hands steady and calm. The man sitting in the seat in front of it, a naive and young figure, possessing an optimistic gaze and warm, bright-eyed visage, observed him in silence as he spoke in soft and hushed tones. Standing up from his seat and clasping his gloved left hand around a particular writ bearing his wax seal, G.d.A, he walked around the desk as the other man rose to his feet.

 

Gawain extended his right hand for the young man to shake, the gesture being reciprocated quickly. His hand gripping onto the visitor’s, he extended the writ for him to take. Swiftly, almost eagerly, the young man took the parchment as Gawain quickly leaned in closer in a kind of emotionless half-embrace, whispering something to him. They both gave nods of affirmation and the boy stepped back, beginning to move towards the door to his office. Gawain waved ever so slightly as the stranger left the room and his seat in Auvergne.

 

Lingering in the doorway for a few moments, staring into space, Gawain began to remember...

 

He did not remember his childhood, nor his failed marriage, nor the lands in which he was birthed. That was all past him. He remembered those whom he held close; his children, Augustin and Bastien. He remembered the look in his father’s eyes as he left the docks of Aeldin aboard a small dingy. Although he’d never come to see his father again, he looked back on that expression every day as the turning point in his once decrepit life. He privately hoped in his mind in that moment, that his boys would mature to be  just, noble men, like he had once expected of himself.

 

He had begun as little more than an adolescent of seventeen seeking employment in a foreign land, Aeldin. He had heard the glories of his ancestors. That of the once esteemed houses of Valois and de Sarkozy. He had read about the great tales of intrigue his Grandfather Hadrien de Sarkozy had partook in, and in truth Gawain wanted to mirror the hero in every aspect. Back home he had little opportunity and even less respect. Gawain was determined to prove all the naysayers wrong, and Ratibor ‘Red’ Carrion proved to be his saviour, inducting him into the Duchy of Adria upon his first few years in Atlas.

 

There he met many important figures, who oft required his counsel on affairs of state. Back when he was young, he was a good shot with a crossbow, and would seldom go a day without going on an adventure with his father’s bannermen. Now he was a member of Parliament as Deputy Officer and a Count in his own right. People seemed to finally listen to him, to heed his honeyed words and act on them. That was a feeling Gawain liked, and he wanted more of.

 

He recalled the first days alone, away from the watchful eye of his father, and his ever expanding court in Aeldin. Before he had been made a noble, he was a simple man under the ever changing influences of the far off provinces riddled along Aeldin. The day he left those lands, in an attempt to rise to prominence in the peerage of Atlas, proved to be the most important in his still young life. This was a moment he was so very proud of, and one of the scarce incidents in which a genuine smile adorned his usually solemn or smug visage. His journey to Atlas did not come without hindrances, no. There were those who saw him and his family as snakes and a liars, they were always prevalent, watching him and waiting for the moment of his weakness so they might strike him down from his perch. But his innate competence as a statesman was well-documented and so the Carrion Duke entrusted him with vassalage. He had even formed his own doctrines adhered to by an entire culture.

 

 

His failures had been many. A poor plotter, a poor husband and an even worse father. But he had not failed Auvergne, he thought to himself. He had always given his all for his country whether through diplomacy or dossiers, and the chance he was given to leave the land of Aeldin was all that he had cared for despite the fact that it meant he was abandoning his own family, with just his two sons and his brother in his care. He wanted to save Auvergne from darkness, from the realms of obscurity. Its once lush and fertile land had fallen to ruin in Aeldin. He had seen such in his dreams the darkness that would fall upon his people if he continued in the life of ambiguities, and knew he had to act, to save not only his family, but his culture. The dreams that the Creator had given him every night were not just a message but a prophecy. This darkness could no doubt be averted with his guidance.

 

Gawain d’Auvergne snapped out his trance, looking downwards to the wall where a gilded golden shortsword of middling size was leaning, hilted on the wall. A gift from his grandfather - a ceremonial blade predominantly used for show. He sauntered over to the sword, gripping it firmly. After a moment of silence the seasoned Count fell to his knees. Tracing the sign of the lorraine cross on his burgundy doublet, he began to pray aloud in the doorway, his voice quiet and solemn but calm.

 

“Lord,

 

I have not been as pious nor as faithful to You as I should have been throughout my life. I have often been about my business, serving great and noble men whether it be honorably or dishonorably. I shall not ask for forgiveness, for I know that for all that I have done, I deserve none. I have neglected my family and my people. I have sinned and betrayed You for the sake of my own profits, and for those of the realm. I have twisted Your Holy words to serve my own advances, but worst of all I have failed Your command.

 

But I know that I am not an evil man. Evil men do not come to You for counsel. They care not for Your attention, but only for their own self advances. Evil men seek penance and do nothing but sin again, claiming that they are holier than I am.

 

I know myself for what I am, Lord, and I throw my soul into Your arms of salvation in the full knowledge that I am not worthy of it.”

 

Rising to his feet ever so slowly, his left arm shaking in anticipation, Gawain glanced to the sword for another moment, grimacing at the sight of a small amount of the gold blade lying naked, protruding from the sheath. The grimace quickly became a sardonic smirk as he began to speak, his tone hopeful and proud.

 

“That sword...is for Auvergne.”

 

After he mumbled the simple words the gangly Count rose from his seat, calling upon his brother Marcel as he sheathed the ceremonial blade.

 

“Brother… we break ground on the morrow, Auvergne is home.”

[B 173]

Within the Auvergnophone troupe one of such had been the presumptive heir- Augustin, as he went by in all things, a kindred spirit to Adrian and Auvergnian cause alike. 

 

Adjusting the burgundy silks donning him elegantly so, they washed down his adolescent frame as they crested hillside, a walk not so far from Belvitz, standing atop the incline which lay rest to the dormant foundations of a County. Of home.

 

“It will do.”

[StokedOff 456]

Bastien, the youngest son of Gaiwan would make his way from Belvits to Auvergne at a swift pace, filled with joy and curiosity. The boy sixteen years of age would have a chip on his shoulder and a will to begin this new endeavor his family has started. As he entered Auvergne territory he'd take in the green landscape focusing mostly on the small hill he knew the keep would sit upon. "It's.. perfect." The young teenager would mutter to himself. "One day I'll defend these lands. One day." the lad would withdraw his sword from it's sheathe pointing it outward toward Belvits "Oui, this will do!" he said as he turned to Augustin with a smile on his face. 

[Galendar 631]

The young knight would march up the path towards their newly acquired lands, standing aside his two nephews as they would marvel over the hills stretching before them. Slowly he would ease himself down into a seated position, drawing out Blackbriar which he would begin to clean with a rag. 

”Take it in, Bastien, these are your lands to defend.”

[osumanduas 1442]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

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