Writing Upon the Wall

[Halt 3021]

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

Ser Martinus is seen receiving a troubling report detailing monster sightings in a small village just beyond the Crownlands.

 

 

O’ does the eye of the sun oft gaze down ‘pon the realm of Arcas. As the skies drifted across the lands, they left in their wake the brightest sunlight, which staves away the darkness of mankind and creatures of darkness alike. The rays of said light reached all, from the lowest valleys of the south, to the mountainous terrain of the north. Some such radiance was known to have reached the land on which Hollyhold was built atop—the keep of Ser Martinus Horen, or Márton. T’was the 10th day of Harren’s Folley, a day wherein the sky was painted a misty gray, void of the usual light it so regularly graced the land with. Heavy rains pattered down atop Ser Martinus’ plate while forming puddles, which patterned the walkway adjacent to Carolus’ Bridge. His warhorse, among others, cantered forward, splashing peasants and other bystanders in their wake. Over his shoulder, the sight of the capital was fleeting. Slowly shrinking behind him as he moved further down the bridge, one which he had crossed a thousand times before.

 

Every time but one, he rode with his blade at his hip. Many trips were quick, gritty reminders of mortality—the cut threads of brigand lives. His favorite outings were the ones with long hours spent with the love of his life, dancing in the warmth of the summer seasons, or exploring faraway lands. As he rode far and yonder, he’d dip his head one last time in reminiscence of the one fair lady who had been beside him from the moment he first arrived in Helena until now. He could not bid her farewell, for he knew she would scream bloody murder; for his journey north would be his last, and he knew such, but she could not. His love for Octavia was bewildering; she would come to learn of his fate in due time.

 

He had left a journal bidding his own love and joy. Expressing both his regrets and joyous occasions, he reveled in the youth he spent in Aeldin and the time he was knighted before the entirety of the Empire. From his time as regent, his service as a Dragon Knight, and his successful skirmishes and battles up until the day of his trial. He left no detail hindered, no stone unturned, and all that would come to read his journal would come to understand the heart and soul of the man who wrote it. To his dearly beloved, Octavia, he would bid her farewell, leaving her a poem to pair with his poetic departure from the realm. He would express his dismay in the task at hand and for his general line of work. But alas, without servitude to those above us, we are naught but creatures befuddled by chaos with no order to contain our darkened hearts.

 

“Ser Martinus!” Hailed a brother, not by blood, but by way of the sword. Martinus abruptly came back to reality and returned to his senses. Time had passed, passed indeed, for the sun had set behind the veil of clouds. They were no more than an hour’s ride from their destination. The terrain had all but gone rugged and wet; marshland was in the distance, wild, and animalistic. Fog had begun to roll in, rendering their visions thin and short.

 

Martinus, whose golden hand had his horses reigns grasped ever tightly, would take the lead and advance forth into the unknown. His kin, igniting the way, with flickering torchlight barely poking through the dense fog as they neared the village. They were beginning to think they had rode all this way for naught, for it had been a quiet and quaint journey thus far. There was not a single beast or demon in sight. Some of the knights and legionnaires spoke amongst each other: “Whatever it was must’ve fled,” chuckled one from behind a visor. Their banter was hastily dismissed by Martinus.

 

A thick stench of rot and decay would soon begin to fill their nostrils, making their eyes water and causing their faces to tug back in sheer disgust. Martinus knew, then and there, that this was no fool’s errand or senseless misadventure. He glanced back within his group, his eyes upon a youth in particular, who had recently joined his brigand of knights and squires.

 

“Careful and quiet,” he began to say, though before he could finish his sentence, a horrific screech was heard originating from somewhere off in the distance. The screech of a banshee or ghoul, no doubt. As this unseen beast’s momentary terror came to an end, the fog partially gave way, and the brigands now found themselves within the heart of the devil’s frame. A village stood before them, with obviously ransacked houses partially enclosed by blood-laden walls. Promptly, Prince Martinus would turn to his kin, with his good hand sat upon the pommel of his blade. He glanced briefly at the sight ahead once more before drifting his gaze toward the youngest of the group.

 

“Home! Ride fiercely, and do not look back, Adalbert! Ride home and inform the others of our findings. All of you, return to the place from where we came.” As Martinus spoke, his brethren, strengthened by war and bloodshed, faltered for but a moment. Surely he did not intend to walk in there by himself? Had the prince ordered his own death? These were questions he could not answer.

 

As Martinus spoke, the sounds of not one but many foul creatures would be heard encroaching upon their position. At the behest of the prince, the youthful squire and his escort slowly withdrew, surely doubting the integrity of the order that was given. Right or wrong, an order is an order, and perhaps against their better judgment, they adhered to it.

 

So, the Dragon Knight drew his blade one final time and stood beside his men, offering them a final nod so as to usher them off. They rode forth and forth into the fog, partially lit by torchlight, which, in turn, would diminish. One by one, as they continued down the path, the torches faded away. Accompanied by horror and torment, a lone man was reduced to bloodcurdling screams and then silence.

 

 

Written by Adalbert de Villeneuve and dubbed “Writing Upon the Wall," this was all that was left in young Adalbert’s household when it was repossessed by the Imperial Government.

[Ajax 335]

Solaire Salutes

[Hedonism 254]

A Vallberg son sat atop his steed in a steady downpour. He lowered his head in a solemn silence upon receiving the news. It had seemed so recent that the two entreated. 

 

“Rest easy, good man.”

 

With a spur of his heels the horse reared, the rider maneuvering through the elven ruins.

[Guest]

“Some fates are written besmirched in the blood rather than smudged ink.” 

 

 

[squakhawk 14038]

Illythia would sigh deeply, going to write a memoire of such to herself.
”He was a man, fiery in his fury and thoughtful in his tactics. He was smart, careful, and strong – As a true son of Horen, we worry not for we will see his likes again, stronger in bloodline.”
Illythia would then sit back in the chair of her unused, damp office and look around, pondering fleeting thoughts and ideas, before seeming to settle upon something.

[BardMainHere 310]

Gregor Thorne reads the missive, a somber look on his face as he learns of the death of his friend. “’E was a good man,” He’d say to James. 

[MarkFoundGOD 602]

Janos Jrent stops reading this post, as he sheds a tear "Oh dear brother, What have you got yourself into..." Janos torns one of the posts, keeping it in his pocket.

[bickando 3967]

William Jrent, standing vigilant behind his grand-niece at the banquet hall, reads the story, learns of the death of that distant relation. His countenance grows solemn as he gazes towards the Horens, and the clacking of armored boots against stone signal his departure from the dining room. In the fading light of a Renatian sunset, he bids a quiet farewell to the greatest commander the realm had seen in a century.

[jdesarno 381]

Thorvn peeled off the parchment that landed on his visor from foreign entry, only to squint, raise slight brow, and promptly toss it into the firepit, he’s not very surprised anymore. 

 

Back to sleep he went. 

[Aeus 2653]

Marco sat in his room within Hollyhold. The castle that was once filled the lively noises of her residents now sat quiet and abandoned. There were no servants preparing for dinner, no maids or groundskeeper shuffling through the rooms or the gardens- there was only Marco. The summer sun pierced through his window yet he felt as if the entirety of the home was engulfed in eternal darkness. “We will meet again someday, my good friend.” Marco whispers to himself, pocketing the letter. 

[Vege 4804]

Godfrey utters a quiet prayer for the fallen Knight.

[TankM1A2 840]

“Rest in peace, brother. The ranks of the Dragonknights thin by the day,” Ser Carlovac sighs, penning a chivalric record. “Yet there is still hope for the Order. Optimistic youth such as Ser Rodric shall lead us to new heights.”

[trinn 5128]

Amelia Philippa lit a candle for Martón “The Lover” Horen, the aged woman reclining back in her seat afterwards with a wearied and ragged sigh.  “You have lived your life so devotedly by the ways of the sword, but you have loved your wife just as fiercely. The city will mourn for you, for your tragic loss, but they will always celebrate to remember your triumphs and victories.”

[Babadooks 566]

Ser John Ballard weeps as he hears of Martinus’ death.