Inferno_Ougi 1454 Share Posted December 31, 2021 (edited) Spoiler “Hannibal was a bastard. That's what my father told me, that's what his father told him, and now I’m telling you two.” ~ Camilius Helane to his two sons. Hannibal Pertinax was in the twilight of his years. As a young man, he had fought as a mercenary and a merchant of the Nottingham Trading Company. When the company was exiled from Adria, it had eventually been declared a terrorist organization by the Renatian Empire. With their main source of revenue gone, the company would disband, leaving Hannibal a vagrant on the run. By good fortune, he was allowed to stay with and live alongside a small Dark Elven enclave, going under the name Tarkus. Later on, he had sided with Renatus in the War of Two Emperors. Taking command of the army on various occasions, his little mark on history was made on the Battle of the Rivers. Hannibal closed his eyes, straining as sunlight shone on his head from an embrasure on the wall in front of him. “So many at Helena. So few after.” When the war ended, he was legitimized as a Horen. Yet, Hannibal was unhappy. For he had wanted more: he had thought his destiny to be that of inheriting the legend of his father, Antonius, a famed warrior and commander. Furthermore, numerous battles had battered and worn down his mind. Personally witnessing comrades fall, and slaying dozens himself— many he knew before the war— he had become prone to bouts of madness. A sword that does not swing is no sword at all, and so he refused to settle down after the war. He had fought on every battlefield, in every corner of Arcas. Still, Hannibal had yet to be satiated. Taking up arms once more as a mercenary, he had cofounded Ruswick with his fellow highwaymen, in hopes to revive his dream of conquest. Bloody raids against the nations of Arcas had once again labeled him a criminal and a bandit. He sired children with various women— nobles, or peasant women— he cared not. He cast away his eldest, a daughter, to a life of nobility, for he had no use for them in battle. His sons, he would take from their mothers when he learned of their birth, and train them in the mercenary settlement of Ruswick. Those that could not hold their own against another Russ, were beaten harshly until they could. When they were of fighting age, he would send them into the world as highwaymen and mercenaries. With every death in the family, there was no ceremony to be had. At least, not to Hannibal’s knowledge, for Hannibal did not care. There was little love to be had for the man, for he had none for his sons. What feelings there were for Hannibal by his sons were that of fear and contempt, for his temper burnt brightly and his forgiveness was dim. “What was her name…” He leaned back in his chair, placing an inked quill on the table before him. “I can’t seem to recall.” Upon returning to Hangman’s Bridge at the conclusion of the battle, Hannibal searched the battlefield, looting it for valuables. Stepping over a corpse that had been impaled in the chest, he squinted and leaned over. He noticed breathing underneath. “Look at this! The only way you’ll hit someone with your sword is by them falling on it.” Octavian groaned as he opened his eyes. “Bite it, you old bastard.” He spit blood into Hannibal’s eyes. “Right, right. You seem well enough. Get up now, find your brothers, before everyone else takes our share.” Hannibal pushed the corpse off of Octavian, sauntering off to gain his spoils. The youngest, Octavian, was now Hannibal’s sole heir. Hannibal had taken a moment to sit and think in the Ruswick Keep. What had his life been for? He was a dragon— so he told himself in his past. But now, he was aging, and in a brief moment of clarity, he knew that his mind was faltering and his body was failing. The delusion could not stand any longer, unable to pride himself on the leadership and swordsmanship he once stood out for. He knew what he was: a bastard. A bastard who had chased a dream of conquest and yet thrown away what could have made him happy. Any other bastard would have been happy to be legitimate, to have a daughter with a woman he had loved. Now, there was only a sword he could not swing, armor he could not wear, and the nameless graves of his sons. “Octavian!” He shouted abruptly, tensing up. Octavian immediately stood up. “I,” he paused. “No, wait, wait.” Hannibal’s words began to trail off. Octavian knew better than to sit back down, nor cut him off. He would get an earful and extra training, meaning less time to mourn. “Do you like fighting?” He shuffled in his seat. “Of course sir–” “No, you f***ing dog!” Hannibal roared, cutting off Octavian. “I’ve trained you too well,” he sighed. “No, no, no,” he struggled to find the words. “Would you prefer it if— if you stopped fighting? At least, well, I wouldn’t make you anymore.” Octavian knew his father too well. This was a simple test of his loyalty. “Of course not, sir.” Hannibal grimaced and paused. “Good answer, boy. Testing you, of course. Now, begone with you, shoo.” He waved Octavian away, refusing to look at him as he left. When Octavian left the room, Hannibal's breathing was ragged. Looking down, his left hand was covered in blood. His right arm was bleeding. Octavian sat in his cabin. It had all happened so fast, too fast for him to understand. He was returning home from the tavern when multiple Russ mercenaries stopped him. They forcefully brought him onto a ship, into a cabin, which, for all intents and purposes, was as nice as what he had in Ruswick. One handed him a piece of parchment folded in half, shutting the door on him thereafter. Sitting on his bed, he opened it, causing another piece of parchment to fall onto the floor. To my only legitimate son, Octavian Helane Sickness and age plagues me, the power of my body is leaving me and death awaits me. So, I declare that you are my only legitimate male offspring and successor, and that you stand to inherit all of my wealth, which will be soon delivered to you, in Aeldin Signed, Hannibal Helane, Champion of Renatus Octavian scrambled to his knees to find the fallen piece. Whereas the first was neatly written— assumedly done by Hannibal’s scribe— the second was clearly written by his father. The writing was barely legible, with the first half being inked and scratched out. I am sending you to Aeldin, wherever that is. Your brothers are dead, and I will be too. I’ve provided you with enough that you can survive there, or wherever your ass lands. You’re a fool if you thought I’d give you it all. You will serve me better by ingratiating yourself there. Bring glory to our name. And remember, I am not a damn Helane. Damned nobles like that name better. I am a Pertinax. You are too. Best remember that. Fear the Dragon. Octavian crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the other side of the wall. For better or for worse, he was leaving the reins of his father and Ruswick. “Bastard.” OOC: If you've read this far, thanks for reading. If you've only skipped to the end, thanks for viewing it I guess. This isn't a "true" PK post because for all purposes he has been dead for almost a century IRP (I am also banned). Thanks to Valecius for indirectly motivating me to write an end to Hannibal's story. I had a lot of fun writing this. Let me know what you think about the writing and such, I'm always trying to improve. Again, thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone I've RPed with or PvPed with. LOTC was fun. Edited December 31, 2021 by Inferno_Ougi 29 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Axelu 3691 Share Posted December 31, 2021 The late Princess Maria Horen of the Renatian Empire drank a flute of Ardennic champagne alongside her husband and their dear cousin, Hannibal, as they surveyed their descendants from the afterlife. “I foresee them doing well for themselves, Your Imperial Highness,” the Countess of Marsen drawled with dramatic flair. “They survive us yet.” 6 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Reckless Banzai Screamer 11532 Share Posted December 31, 2021 [!] Aeldenic authorities catch Octavian Helene at the border checkpoint and send him back to the realm of the descendants. "Stay out of Aeldin, illegal." 8 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guzr 2049 Share Posted December 31, 2021 8 hours ago, Inferno_Ougi said: Reveal hidden contents “Hannibal was a bastard. That's what my father told me, that's what his father told him, and now I’m telling you two.” ~ Camilius Helane to his two sons. Hannibal Pertinax was in the twilight of his years. As a young man, he had fought as a mercenary and a merchant of the Nottingham Trading Company. When the company was exiled from Adria, it had eventually been declared a terrorist organization by the Renatian Empire. With their main source of revenue gone, the company would disband, leaving Hannibal a vagrant on the run. By good fortune, he was allowed to stay with and live alongside a small Dark Elven enclave, going under the name Tarkus. Later on, he had sided with Renatus in the War of Two Emperors. Taking command of the army on various occasions, his little mark on history was made on the Battle of the Rivers. Hannibal closed his eyes, straining as sunlight shone on his head from an embrasure on the wall in front of him. “So many at Helena. So few after.” When the war ended, he was legitimized as a Horen. Yet, Hannibal was unhappy. For he had wanted more: he had thought his destiny to be that of inheriting the legend of his father, Antonius, a famed warrior and commander. Furthermore, numerous battles had battered and worn down his mind. Personally witnessing comrades fall, and slaying dozens himself— many he knew before the war— he had become prone to bouts of madness. A sword that does not swing is no sword at all, and so he refused to settle down after the war. He had fought on every battlefield, in every corner of Arcas. Still, Hannibal had yet to be satiated. Taking up arms once more as a mercenary, he had cofounded Ruswick with his fellow highwaymen, in hopes to revive his dream of conquest. Bloody raids against the nations of Arcas had once again labeled him a criminal and a bandit. He sired children with various women— nobles, or peasant women— he cared not. He cast away his eldest, a daughter, to a life of nobility, for he had no use for them in battle. His sons, he would take from their mothers when he learned of their birth, and train them in the mercenary settlement of Ruswick. Those that could not hold their own against another Russ, were beaten harshly until they could. When they were of fighting age, he would send them into the world as highwaymen and mercenaries. With every death in the family, there was no ceremony to be had. At least, not to Hannibal’s knowledge, for Hannibal did not care. There was little love to be had for the man, for he had none for his sons. What feelings there were for Hannibal by his sons were that of fear and contempt, for his temper burnt brightly and his forgiveness was dim. “What was her name…” He leaned back in his chair, placing an inked quill on the table before him. “I can’t seem to recall.” Upon returning to Hangman’s Bridge at the conclusion of the battle, Hannibal searched the battlefield, looting it for valuables. Stepping over a corpse that had been impaled in the chest, he squinted and leaned over. He noticed breathing underneath. “Look at this! The only way you’ll hit someone with your sword is by them falling on it.” Octavian groaned as he opened his eyes. “Bite it, you old bastard.” He spit blood into Hannibal’s eyes. “Right, right. You seem well enough. Get up now, find your brothers, before everyone else takes our share.” Hannibal pushed the corpse off of Octavian, sauntering off to gain his spoils. The youngest, Octavian, was now Hannibal’s sole heir. Hannibal had taken a moment to sit and think in the Ruswick Keep. What had his life been for? He was a dragon— so he told himself in his past. But now, he was aging, and in a brief moment of clarity, he knew that his mind was faltering and his body was failing. The delusion could not stand any longer, unable to pride himself on the leadership and swordsmanship he once stood out for. He knew what he was: a bastard. A bastard who had chased a dream of conquest and yet thrown away what could have made him happy. Any other bastard would have been happy to be legitimate, to have a daughter with a woman he had loved. Now, there was only a sword he could not swing, armor he could not wear, and the nameless graves of his sons. “Octavian!” He shouted abruptly, tensing up. Octavian immediately stood up. “I,” he paused. “No, wait, wait.” Hannibal’s words began to trail off. Octavian knew better than to sit back down, nor cut him off. He would get an earful and extra training, meaning less time to mourn. “Do you like fighting?” He shuffled in his seat. “Of course sir–” “No, you f***ing dog!” Hannibal roared, cutting off Octavian. “I’ve trained you too well,” he sighed. “No, no, no,” he struggled to find the words. “Would you prefer it if— if you stopped fighting? At least, well, I wouldn’t make you anymore.” Octavian knew his father too well. This was a simple test of his loyalty. “Of course not, sir.” Hannibal grimaced and paused. “Good answer, boy. Testing you, of course. Now, begone with you, shoo.” He waved Octavian away, refusing to look at him as he left. When Octavian left the room, Hannibal's breathing was ragged. Looking down, his left hand was covered in blood. His right arm was bleeding. Octavian sat in his cabin. It had all happened so fast, too fast for him to understand. He was returning home from the tavern when multiple Russ mercenaries stopped him. They forcefully brought him onto a ship, into a cabin, which, for all intents and purposes, was as nice as what he had in Ruswick. One handed him a piece of parchment folded in half, shutting the door on him thereafter. Sitting on his bed, he opened it, causing another piece of parchment to fall onto the floor. To my only legitimate son, Octavian Helane Sickness and age plagues me, the power of my body is leaving me and death awaits me. So, I declare that you are my only legitimate male offspring and successor, and that you stand to inherit all of my wealth, which will be soon delivered to you, in Aeldin Signed, Hannibal Helane, Champion of Renatus Octavian scrambled to his knees to find the fallen piece. Whereas the first was neatly written— assumedly done by Hannibal’s scribe— the second was clearly written by his father. The writing was barely legible, with the first half being inked and scratched out. I am sending you to Aeldin, wherever that is. Your brothers are dead, and I will be too. I’ve provided you with enough that you can survive there, or wherever your ass lands. You’re a fool if you thought I’d give you it all. You will serve me better by ingratiating yourself there. Bring glory to our name. And remember, I am not a damn Helane. Damned nobles like that name better. I am a Pertinax. You are too. Best remember that. Fear the Dragon. Octavian crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the other side of the wall. For better or for worse, he was leaving the reins of his father and Ruswick. “Bastard.” OOC: If you've read this far, thanks for reading. If you've only skipped to the end, thanks for viewing it I guess. This isn't a "true" PK post because for all purposes he has been dead for almost a century IRP (I am also banned). Thanks to Valecius for indirectly motivating me to write an end to Hannibal's story. I had a lot of fun writing this. Let me know what you think about the writing and such, I'm always trying to improve. Again, thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone I've RPed with or PvPed with. LOTC was fun. Love ya man, hope you've been good 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
herculean_wud 3656 Share Posted January 1, 2022 Leydluk cries in the Spirit Realm for his fallen friend and ally. Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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