A DUKE'S GRACE

[Sarmadonn 652]

A DUKE’S GRACE

 

Spoiler

 

 

With great elation from the Duchy of Valwyck, does the announcement of His Grace, Duke Ruslan Baruch triumphing over the dunce Orenian man come. From the wreckage and ruins of Lichtestadt came the strength from the Lorded duel combatant. Though this tale is not just of steel meeting the steel of another, for there was much peculiarity behind it. An ungodly presence was at play, only being akin to the profane, protectors of the undead hailing from Haelun’or. Through the eyes of others, shall this story be told, one of a god-fearing humble man besting the Iblees spawn that stood at his front. Which took place within the heart of Hanseti-Ruska, the stridently patriotic square of Karosgrad.

 

A thud and the resounding jeers of Haeseni men and women, situated at the square stirred the Lord to light. His Grace, Ruslan had exhausted the majority of his day sitting between the pews of the church of Heinzreich, hands of his had been glued together in prayer. His utterance reached out for Godan;

 

“Holy God, I have sinned in thought and in flesh. Thou art mercy, Thou art goodness, Thou art charity. With my own weeping spirit do I acknowledge that I have offended Thee. I know my sin, and do in Thy Name enact righteous penance as did Exalted Owyn. Forgive Thou me, O Fount of mercy, and accept my penance, that my spirit might return to a place of purity, and that I may strive to love Thee and do Thy will in all things. Amen.”

Those boos soon turned to cheers as the stirred Duke rose from the pews and through the church doors. The crowds applauded, yet his eyes never once faltered, remaining sedate and glowering on the Othoman; his rival for three rounds of bloodshed. Minatory boots dragged along the cardinal grounds of Karosgrad, to the very center and heart of the square. A blaring voice, echoed from the Lord Marshal, sounding that the duel-watchers back away as to form a circle around the combatants. Glazing a look down the metal of his blade, only the command of the Marshal saw the Duke’s gaze drift over to the man. The Marshal who had been thinking;

 

He is a natural, nie mere Orenian man could stand toe-to-toe with him.

 

Scrutinizing the form of Ruslan, His Lordship, Ailred Ruthern stood proudly and firm on his very spot. His form lowered as the duel commenced, the intuition of Ruslan took straight to the weasley and scared facade of the Othoman. He had disassembled the quaking-of-foot Orenian exactly like how a child would dissemble a stack of toy building blocks. It was an easy first round and victory for the Duke. Though it was truly what everybody had expected, Ailred’s guard was loose and his boots planted less firm. His interest panned elsewhere, but as he circled off, the Duke caught unworldly incantations seeping from the bloodied lip of the Othaman.

 

It was startling but he had no time to think about it as the second round was called into play. Rorislav who had previously donned a timid expression now heralded only aplomb, each and every strike to come from his blade was precise and completely in contrast to his first round. 

 

“What ill-will did he spew from his lips?”

 

Pondered the Duke as the crowd broke their cheers, in place of an eerie tangible silence. The second round was all over, Ruslan had wobbled down onto a knee after the seemingly ethereal blade of Rorislav pierced immaculately to the armpit of himself. It felt off; strange. Only fleeting seconds of recovery were granted to the Baruch duelist, who had meekly returned back over to his starting position. Each and every eye in that square were placed on the man. His northern honour was at stake, his dignity, after all, it had been him who had called out the Othoman and not vice-versa. To oppose his caution of the peculiar man, at the go of the third round, another prayer parted his cracked lips;

 

“My God; I love Thee, make me love Thee more.”

 

Knowing something was astray, Ruslan allowed himself not to concede even any thought of defeat, his mind was pure and clear. But- the hands of Rorislav seemed deft and if not unordinary. No man could muster the way his hands moved around the hilt and handle of his blade. Precise to a tee and even against the resolved mind and form of Ruslan, the evidently preternatural Othaman brought his might in a chaotic swing to the helmet of Ruslan. It cracked under the immense and anomalous weight of the blow, splitting exactly in two. Fortunately not a scratch was visible on the exposed head of Ruslan, but it did pose a dangerous threat. It was first to blood, but his opponent’s intent was clearly something else. Of Murderous intent.

 

Worried eyes scoured Ruslan, a nearly perpetual and terrified expression plastered the faces of his family. His daughter hid behind her mother’s skirts and his son peered through clammy fingers. A spark ignited as Ruslan amidst stumbling back caught sight of his family’s sheer fright. He had gathered all the strength he still had left, every muscle in his body twanged with a newfound vigour. Even an unshakeable remark passed;

 

”Nae helmet, nae problem. Godan prevails!”

 

Having always been a pious man, since birth and baptism, daily penance; prayer, all of it. Godan was on the side of Ruslan. And when one has Godan on their side, to falter would be to disprove the will of God, or to show it was meant to be. Bearing a last herculean pass of his blade across the head of the man, Rorislav collapsed to the floor. Not a single conscious thought was bore from the man, though. . .

 

“SPAWN OF IBLEES!”

 

Bellowed out the only individual who had not been praising and huddling around Ruslan, but instead he had kept his eyes on the fallen duelist. The duelist who despite being rendered to darkness, moved his hands, arms and legs - whoosh - he had still been swinging about with his blade! His eyes cracked open, glanced at those gawking and then rolled to the back of his head. Something evil had overcome him, something which he had brought upon himself. Ruslan had seen the man’s lips incant after his defeat in their first bout. Screams rang like the bell of the gatehouse, the crowds backed away from what they thought was the devil.

 

But not Patriarch Yaromir. A man of Godan approached the now frozen and unconscious man. Abruptly, Rorislav began swinging his sword upwards in a frail, but certainly unholy arc towards the pious man. Yaromir thudded onto his behind as Rorislav’s unconscious body clambered to the ground. The Patriarch needed not to say what it was, what he was, for the entire crowd knew; it was the evil work of Iblees. His spawn.

 

The crowds dispersed and the unconscious unholy man was dealt with. Talks of the leaving crowd were heard through the air;

 

“Ruslan bested the spawn of Iblees!” 

“The Duke has Godan on his side.” 

“He is a remarkable swordsman!”

 

Might Godan continue to bless the household of Baruch, for they have surely done the world a good ridding this devil and hell-spawn.

Iv Joveo Maan 

 

[1_Language_1 1671]

     Sofyania cheers wildly upon seeing Ruslan beat the spawn of Iblees. "Oren sends this man who turns out to have sold their soul to Iblees! What does that say about the rest of Oren?" She smashes her bottle of ale in celebration. "Nie even Iblees can-nie stand before Godan without surrendering to his righteous and overwhelming power! How GREAT is our God that he empowered Ruslan to triumph over the enemy."

[Javert 5567]

"Damn good show!" Henry Bishop remarks after remembering the duel that day, proud that Haeseni steel prevailed over the Orenian.

[TreeSmoothie 4895]

Lord Viathan Othaman scowled at a parchment, pressing a furled tip down with his thumb. He muttered something beneath his breath - and then, spoke aloud - "Propaganda, it must be. Rorislav can nie even read . . . Niet offense to him, but I believe his brain would implode at the mere thought of magick. It was simply brawn vs. brain, and brain always vins." The to-be Count turned toward his aide, nodding to the man as he settled in his chair. "Send the mighty victor a bird for me, vill vy?"

 

--

 

Dame Viktoriya watched the duel from afar, kept safe and far from the blistering sun. She rubbed her eyes, looking down with a frown. "The Othaman didn't die? If only. Perhaps he would've joined that rat bastard, Sergei, in hell - being that he is spawn of Iblees."  

[erictafoya 2308]

Igor Kort hangs out in the Seven Skies with Her Majesty, The Dancing Koenas, Isabel of Valwyck as they watch his successor dominate the Orenian in a one-sided duel. "Now I am convinced he can get the Duma to ORDER!"

 

[Drew2_dude 2130]

Andrik Jan Baruch would chuckle, “seems the othaman had the poor fightin’ skills and lack o’ intelligence tha’ runs through all orenians. Glad ye put him in his place, yer Grace.” He’d toast a cup of Carrion to Ruslan as he reclined in his study chair in Valwyck.

 

[libertyybelle 5476]

Princess Amelia rolled her eyes as she read the missive in front of her by the Duke. "Rori has more heart! That is all that matters." With that she continued her private piano lesson, though she hit the keys a bit angrier now.

[Juli 1340]

Isabel of Valwyck raised her glass to toast to her victorious nephew as she sat with her new found friend, Igor Kort, in the seven skies!

 

[garentoft 8353]

Eirik Baruch erupts into incoherent screams of pride and excitement.