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[PK] Karl III: A Crown of Scars


GMRO
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Ser Coin of Haense could be seen visiting the grave of Karl III from dawn to dusk every day, often times with a bottle in his hands. He never shed a tear, just sat and lamented. Those that would speak with him would be met with silence and occasional head movements. A life time of aging seemed to manifest itself in just a few days during this time.

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Upon reaching home and finally having a moment to think, Atilan Bishop crashes down on his office seat. He recollects day and then grabs his best botte of Ser Erwin's and pours himself a glass of the scotch. Looking out the window he sees his nieces playing outisde and then he looking back to the fireplace, his memories move and shift in his mind and all of a sudden he remembers a fireplace from years earlier. The fireplace near in the King's court. A young Atilan stands there watching it, excitedly awaiting his father and to attend his first King's court. He remember sitting next to his father, the 11-year old boy gazes up and sees the King in all his glory stand on that throne. He sees the congregants of the court hush their chatters once the man speaks. He hears the boom in his voice and the 11-year old thinks "Zhis Koeng ist so cool". His father Thomund tells him "Ja, mein son und one day du vill serve under him too und follow in dur vatter's footsteps as du serve in his majesty's army!". The Present day Atilan smiles softly thinking of when he had first met the King.

 

He thinks about the childhood conversations he had with the King after. Atilan looks around his room with a sigh and his eyes make gaze with the sword hanging on his room and he sees his old childhood sword. He remembers following through and joining the army. He remembers the conversations he had with the King near the Duma halls and outside the palace. Atilan thinks "Godan... Ich really did have ein gutte Koeng und he vas ein gutte man to mich... even vhen Ich vas just ein lad". Atilan suddenly realizes that Karl III was like that with everyone and he smiles and a small tear forms in his eye that he quickly wipes down. 

 

Atilan remembers speaking with the King about Norland and how impressed the King had been by his understanding of weighing the risk and benefits of going to war with them as a teenager. He remembers proudly standing guard during court. Cartrying that same sword childhood sword in his sheathe but always ready to protect his Kingdom. He smiles fondly thinking of those days and the conversations he had with the King. Both his tears well up, but Atillan quickly brushes that aside. 

 

Atilan averts his gaze from his sword and looks over to the closet in his room and walks up into it observing the clothing there. Atilan smiles as he then observes his older red jacket that he wore during his time in Lifstala. Atilan remembers the men's presentations during that event. He chuckles to himself as he remembers his nervousness walking into that arena. He remembers how he had told the King that he wished to a trial of wit for his presentation. He sighs as he remembers being unable to answer the first question the one about the national fruit of Haense. He smiles then as he remembers getting the second question and then the third. He smiles remembering how his family had cheered him as he won the squireship. 

 

A single tear falls down Atilan's face as he remembers the joy and happiness in being awarded the squireship. He remembers his many failings in life too such as his flirtacious manners of his past and how it nearly cost him everything. But then he thinks of the how the King had still stood by Atilan and instead of removing him of his privileges, Atilan remembers how despite all that the King had still put his trust in him and how from then on Atilan would knew that he was still worthy and capable of redemption. Two tears from from his face this time, as he remembers fighting with the King in the battles against the Inferi. He remembers the joy he felt in knowing that he had served well and fought with all he could for his King... but now the King he fought so hard for is dead. 

 

Atilan goes back to his office and pours himself another of Ser Erwin's scotch and smiles and sighs looking out to see his nieces playing. Atilan looks out to the clear day ahead and looks to the sky out the window and says "Godan be...  King Karl Godan be... du changed mein life for zhe better und made much zhe man zhat Ich am today. Und now it ist time to continue as du vould alvays vant mich too. Rest vell dur majesy". He smiiles and sighs placing the bottle down and thinking of the man who had done so much for his Kingdom that he ruled and for the small little Waldenian Bishop that had once sat down at one the lad's first ever courts. 

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Spoiler

 

 

moonlit-forest-steph-moraca.jpg

 

The Ash-Knight murmured a quiet prayer to the dead King.

Let him keep his mind in the afterlife. Paradise is cruel, O King, so steel your nerves. Your true war begins now.

The Knight creakily rose, his prayer finished, and the elf looked upon the lowering sun.

That Haense should have a young King, though.. that is good. After all, it is an Age of Gods and Heroes, one that will be remembered for centuries to come. Usually, individuals make the slightest of differences to Fate - yet now, such is not the case.

His eyes flashed with an eager, optimistic light - some great hope filling his worn husk.

I look forward to speaking with you, Prince Georg. I've an Oath to fulfil, and you will be my Second.

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For the late Koeng, The Master of the Hunt knew all too well the meaning of some of his own mortality, but pondered on the integrity of Karl's understanding. Though his research came up with things to prolong the Koeng's life, but he denied them. And Vladrik understood why, unable to help it as he grimaced,. . . bells tolled in his ears once more announcing the death of a distant uncle. The King has fallen for another to rise.

 

                  Lord Vladrik Kortrevich-O'Rourke a man of his gospel, and even more testaments. He found some peace in how the late Koeng entered the seven skies, he even polished his Longsword of the Seven Skies under the portrait of Karl Sigmar in the main room of his Hunting Lodge, one that the two had put into construction in Karl's later years, though his wife, Koenas-Consort Amadea had most of the say in the funding.

 

The hunter regrets his absence of holding just one more hunt for the Koeng.

Now, raising his knife to the light, another portrait came into vision in that pristine sheen

-

Georg Sigusmund of Kusoraev

 

The hunter smiled. . .

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Many years ago in her youth, a red (yet pinkish) haired girl sat by a roaring fire within the crystal and glamour of Castle Stassion. The first snow of the winter began to trickle down from the sky, although the snowflakes would certainly not stick. These realities certainly were of no bother to young Arabella of Carolustadt at the time, who listened carefully to the stories told by a collection of Orenian courtiers who too were fascinated by the beautiful snowstorm - yet spoke of another place where it was always this colorful and beautiful, with a vibrant culture unmatched in much of humankind. These ladies spoke of Haense, their travels there, and the sights of the red city of Karosgrad with its ambitious new king and imperial wife, Karl III and Amadea of Susa. The year was 1875. 

 

Six years later, the flames were not contained within a fireplace of that same castle. A roaring fire reached far above the castle walls, taking anything and all with it that it could. Her first home had been dissolved - the empire - through external and internal divisions and turmoil. And now her second, destroyed. The lands of Haense were all that remained in her mind, and the story-like place that she remembered hearing about time and time again. 

 

The realities of the Orenian ladies' descriptions were true - that is, regarding King Karl III. When she entered the Haeseni palace with only a patched-up bag on her back and feet blistered and bloodied from endless days of walking, she nearly fell to the floor from her exhaustion. Yet seeing a man who clearly distinguished himself as the king by his attire, she managed to upkeep some strength to present herself. She spent the evening in the feast hall, discussing her hopes to settle in Haense and finally be at rest with a stable home.

 

She would not see him again, until her days as a Petran Ambassador to Haense in her brief service in foreign diplomacy and the Petran government after the fall of the Acre. He had not changed besides his age and perhaps grey hair, which she no doubt expected from years of leadership. His ambition did not waver, nor did his clear vision for his country or aspirations to continuously work amidst what Arabella saw as a perpetually growing golden age for Haense as a world hegemon. 

 

In Branhavn, in the Duchy of Vidaus, an aging imperial lady lit a candle at her window sill. She lived out a life of stability now, a life of relative happiness, where she knew that her sovereign would look after her well-being and those around her. Although Karl would undoubtedly be remembered in history for his ambitious, relentless behavior - she would remember him for his kindness and passion towards his people. 

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@GMRO

A final promise was made, by a figure forgotten by many, though remembered dearly by the monarch. The parting words, exchanges and final thoughts of a pair culminated where they all started. The domains of the Ruskan realm helped in shaping a most legendary friendship, virtues and traits of exemplar; a noble King, surrounded by noble kin.

 

"Your legacy will never end. You will do well to watch upon it from the Seven Skies."

 

The aged men exchanged looks, there was no similarity to the ages gone by, the concern. Anxious thoughts of the future were replaced by joy, respite of the journey that had just ended. They knew their heirs, their sons would do well, and so long as there was air within their lungs, they would aid them - if not from the azureous night above the Rimeveld.

 

"Soar now, Karl Sigma(r) - may we meet again above."

 

And so the afamed swordsman donned his plate once more, aged yet not unbound, for broken promises were not familiar of his accolades. He remained within the household of his deceased kinsman's ilk, a silent protector, a mentor; a watcher. . .

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In the midst of the dark night, a thin figure roamed into the memorial field for King Sigismund III, his hands in his sleeves. "Thine heir was an interesting one, to be sure, my master." They spoke to the still statue of stone, his weathered eyes not bothering to peer down upon his visitor. "I will leave this here," He said, those emerald hands pulling out of his robes to rest Karl's ivory flask of Carrion Black upon the ground. "So that thee and thine son may share a drink together." Backing away from the statue, the elf managed a slow bow before aiming to wander back towards the palace. 

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