[DEATH] BROKEN ANTLERS

[Barbarus 1232]

 

BROKEN ANTLERS

 

 

Spoiler

 

“I, Robert von Minitz, do so swear a Schwur to serve Viscount Leon of House Barclay and his family hereafter.” 

 

“I, Sir Robert Stroheim, do so uphold my Schwur to serve Duke Brandt of House Barclay, and his family faithfully.” 

 

“I, Baron Robert Stroheim, do so uphold my Schwur to serve Prince Ferdinand of House Barclay, and his family steadfastly.” 

 

“I, Lord Robert Stroheim, do so uphold my Schwur to serve Prince Leon and Prince Alfred of House Barclay, until the day I die.” 

 

“Break your Schwur and it will break you.”

 

---

He had been two and twenty when The Black Swordsman had taken him under his wing. They rode through the mountains, stopping once they had reached a clearing, where a bonfire had laid in the center, crackling with power. They spoke then, of the past, of the present, of the future.

 

“Why me?” He had asked, when the warrior gave him his offer. Him, a nobody, not even Reinmaren yet, still bound by his first surname. Oijin had narrowed his gaze on the youngster, and laughed, in that unique way of his, like the rattling of bones.

 

“Why you? The Lectors are gone. If you want to go be a hero, go fill those shoes. I’m an old man. I don’t wanna do it no more. I wanna fish and drink!”

 

He had thought of that moment, when he added the stick in his hand to the Shugo's funeral pyre, when he said his final goodbyes to his father, nearly a century later. It never seemed to Robert that Oijin ever got his wish, his life marked by endless conflict and the upholding of his duties as a Templar. Now the youngster was an old man, his frame ravaged by age, his hardships matching his mentor’s. Each step was a waking agony, and each swing of his sword was punishment. 

 

---

 

Robert had never expected to live so long. He had tasted the promise of death many times over, yet still he remained, outliving friends and kin alike. He had made a name for himself. He had studied fields of alchemy, become an orator, a keeper of laws, a physician, a nobleman, and finally a priest. Yet for all of this, he was ultimately an unsheathed blade. Everything else was just an adornment on the hilt.

 

It was this fact that aggravated him so. The years ticked on, he faded into obscurity, then returned from it, and fell back into it once again, like a never-ending cycle. And throughout it all, he never fell in battle. He lived to see wrinkles carve their way along his features, liver-spots blotch his skin, and watched as his hair frosted white. Alchemy had tended to those, but the cause of those symptoms could not be gotten rid of- not truly. And still, he never fell. He was doomed to die in bed, his frame withered. That thought cut worse than any blade could. Robert was tired of thinking, of planning, of fretting over unworthy heirs and absent children, of every shame that the lowest of his family would inflict upon his legacy, his house.

 

And so he wandered.

 

He had nothing to tie him to the home he had made for himself anymore. His duties were fulfilled, unburdened by past responsibilities. No one could question his loyalty, his dedication. It was not a matter of that anymore. He took his armaments- not the polished armor of his Ritterhood, those would be left to his successor- but the one he had worn when he bore the title Warchief of Theoderic’s Warband, and set off.

 

A glorious end, one marked by the song of swords. That is what he sought, and he knew just the place. With nothing but the sword at his waist, and his long-time friend, the Templar Sebastian @Boom_steel, he made his way to the place he would fall, Tor-Praeth. The home of the Nephilim. 

 

He had dismounted from his horse with his ally, and called out at the locked gates- demanding an audience. It was only a matter of time before something had answered, a creature who had ascended to Azdrazihood @ToddTheArchitect, and his companion @ellielove15. Despite the foulness -in his eyes- that had taken root in the hearts of the Nephilim, Robert owed them a debt of gratitude, for they had saved his niece. Yet that did not stop him from demanding a duel, and the Nephilim had never been one to shy away from a challenge.

 

The fight could have never been called fair. An immortal against a mortal. An entity bearing unreal-draconic vitality against a man who was at death’s door. Yet Robert was a seasoned warrior, having led men into battle, having bested the worst of the Mori’s machinations, having taken up arms along his brethren against the undead Cloudbreaker, and having fought against the Lich Gashadokuro and his designs.

 

Again and again did their swords clash. His limbs moved by instinct alone, the product of a century of battle, repeated training, and beaten-in muscle memory. His vision split into a web of fragments: the glint of a bluesteel blade, the edge of a pauldron, the meat of draconic muscle.

 

But for every hit Robert dealt, he received one in turn. Every block made by his foe gave the old Stroheim a sort of desperate weariness as his energy was spent and wouldn’t return. His armor was ruined from powerful attacks, his antlers were broken, wrenching off his useless helmet and casting it aside. He was no longer a Templar. He could not rely on the pinnacle of his blessing, to put him at the prime of his life, to restore his vitality so that he may revenge himself upon the one graced by Azdromoth. And still he was losing strength, losing speed, losing energy. Robert was old, too old, too weak. The tried and true question lingered in the air, unspoken: 

 

Why do you need the blessing? Why can’t you do what you want to do without it?

 

Robert sneered, drawing breath through weary lungs. 

 

Templarism was but a tool. You could do without a tool. It would just be harder.

 

---

 

“Robert.” His father said, beckoning him close. The Stag joined the Samurai watching the statuesque figure of the Boar-mech in the distance, in the throes of its rebirth. “Few lessons remain to you. I will impart upon you one this day. A means to seize victory, and best a grave foe.”

 

“You speak of how Svuli Metalfist perished?” The Templar had asked. The Shugo shook his head, slowly, “That… is different. No. I speak of the forbidden technique. It is to consign yourself to death, so that you may take your enemy to jigoku. Listen well my son.”

 

---

 

His tired legs still propelled him, his injured arms still bore his blade, his old body gave just enough power, and he moved in close, aiming for a thrust. Yet it was slow, and the unreal strength of his foe easily battered it aside, and slammed him in the head with his fist. His body reeled, nearly giving way, held firm only by the positioning of his legs. His foe snarled, and thrust his Bluesteel blade at Robert’s neck, to end their bout. Robert, too weak to parry, too slow to strike, stepped off to the side, and the blade struck deep into his shoulder.

 

But that didn't stop him. 

 

The attack had been seen, planned for, and so he just kept coming. He dragged himself. Dragged himself until the length of the blade had embedded thoroughly into his body, and until Robert was close enough, close enough that his blade was against the Azdrazi’s neck. To take a mortal wound, to invite it into his corpus and use it as an opening to kill his foe. This is what Oijin had taught him. Robert used the last vestiges of his strength to swipe the blade along the Nephilim’s neck, to die, and to have condemned another to the same fate.

 

Yet it didn’t work. His foe left the blade abandoned in his body, used his immortal and overwhelmingly superior strength to push the old man down, repositioned himself to let the blade deflect across his armor, and Robert’s gambit failed. He fell onto his knees, coughing blood now from his perforated heart, and drew hard breaths.

 

“Sebastian. . .” He croaked. The Templar with him, having finished his own fight, rushed towards Robert, kneeling before him, listening intently:

 

 

His friend offered him a cocktail of alchemicals, and Robert downed it, feeling the satisfying numbing of his wounds. He spoke no more, his body going slack before he fell backwards. Robert breathed his last breath, and it rattled out of him, taking his soul with it.

 

---

 

Robert Stroheim

Ordained as Father Gregor

 Burgrave of Langenkirch

Lawspeaker of Reinmar

 Chefarzt of Reinmar

 Warchief of Theoderic’s Warband

 Ritter of the Order of Saint Tylos

 Templar of Malchadiael

 Founder of House Stroheim

The Stag

 1878 - 1992
 

---

LETTERS

 

 

Otto Stroheim @HugoAntero

 

Spoiler

It’s in your hands now. I will not lie, I did not wish it so. I tried and tried to make something out of my children, to take the reins after my death. They were all either unwilling, unworthy, or absent. So now I entrust this to you. My laboratory(and all that resides inside), my title, and my secrets are yours. If you follow into Ritterhood, so will be my armor. Good luck, kin of mine, I trust you to take care of my legacy, when my children could not. See our Burgrave’s construction to completion, and see to our family's advancement.

 

To the Stroheim Family

 

Spoiler

I have known many of you for a long time, through each of your trials and tribulations. I may only wish you luck in your endeavors as you continue to make something out of yourselves. To my children and descendents: Franz, I only wish I could have seen you more, you had so much potential. Robert, it saddens me that you did not take the role I had planned for you, especially when you sought to honor me by taking my name. To my firstborn, Luther, delivered to me clutched by a stork at my wedding: I wish for you to die in a ditch somewhere. To Saxton’s line: Though you have had your fair share of troubles, I believe Saxton has left a strong legacy. Stanton, you have his heart, and his strengths. Chi, though you were an unlikely candidate, I am honored to call you kin. To Ivona: I had my reservations about you. Rafael has had much bad luck in the past, and has made many, many bad choices. Choosing you was not one of them. Help good Otto as he takes my position, I ask of you. Let him not become weak, pathetic, and shameful like Luther did. God be with you, all.

 

To the Barclay Family

 

Spoiler

Long have I served and words cannot express how proud I am to have done so. I have watched your line of Minitz ascend, and have been there for nigh every step of the way. To unite with your cousin branch and see Reinmar complete, it fills me with an immense sense of pride. I only wish for you to go higher, higher than before, for my purpose has only ever been to serve and to be of service. Flame guide you.

 

To Honma Kosuke @tasty_cheesecake

 

Spoiler

I was a Lector for two days and you ruined it. I hope your afro turns coarse and rough and dry. And that dandruff falls into all of your food and drink.

 

To Quentin Brae @Shorsand

 

Spoiler

Defer to Otto Stroheim when discussing our arrangement.

 

 

---

 

Spoiler

 

It's been a long journey. Robert was my first character, the product of a shameless Game of Thrones larp that eventually evolved into something I'm proud of. I owe a lot of thanks to a lot of people. Namely, the Reinmaren and Oyashiman community, and my ride or dies that helped me make Stroheim into something more than a distant dream.

 

To those who I've interacted with as Robert, for better or worse, it's been a pleasure, thanks for the experience.

 

---

 

[HugoAntero 1962]

Peter, in the hyper-war, was confused not to see his brother, "RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH?"

[Morphine 823]

Roland watched his old friend from the skies, glad that he did his duty with honor.

[tasty_cheesecake 2298]

Kosuke receives a note from the estate of Robert Stroheim. He frames it on his wall, publically.

 

Spoiler

lol. lmao.

 

[fetty bridgers 4492]

Franz Stroheim walked the streets of Reinmar after hearing the news, he spoke nothing as the silence of the darkened night consumed him. First his Uncle, and now his very Father. The world claimed his family, perhaps the time would soon come for him to claim something from it in return. "Rest easy Father." 

[Sarven 2619]

Sir Yvian looked on to Robert as he joined him, 

his former squire, comrade, battle brother and dearest friend,

repeating the oath they had swore all those years ago, he drew his Cross for his brother.

"Until the light is gone,
Until the water is gone,
Until my life is gone..."

he'd speak then with a soft sense of pride as he'd raise the a second Cross for his comrade and hand it to him.

"...Wielding my sword in valour until my breath is gone."

 

"You did well friend."

[Boom_steel 538]

Templar Sebastian walked through the gates of Reinmar, bearing the body of his good friend. “HE USED TO BE A LECTOR.”

[TheShinyHodzic 239]

t

[Ramon 5186]

Gottfried lamented the passing of his mentor. A few votive candles lit in Robert Baratheon Stroheim's memory. 

[MercyAzalea 405]

Ivona Stroheim had admittedly held some concern for the Burgrave of Langenkirch following his stark absence at court. Perhaps it had only been stark to her, for she found herself stood alongside only that of the Heir, Otto Stroheim before Princess Frederica. She was a noble woman but not a noblewoman, left rather embarrassed in her scrape to find the appropriate words to offer in that moment. Her only thought was that Robert should have been there. Not only for the tribe, but for her. She was Knighted, but he was not present. She had felt alone in her achievement; though, such blame did not set upon the shoulders of the Burgrave, but of another.

She was not as close with him as she had wished to be. Admittedly, she'd been rather reserved following his confrontation of having certain Vourkehardts in the Manor. She'd never elaborated why they had been present, nor would she ever. It was only upon her trials that she had saw another side of him. More -- not vulnerable, but caring. She had never considered him one to show much of it, though perhaps the distance she had put between them was to blame. Pleasant, she would describe their relationship. Simply, pleasant. They shared a roof, and occasionally bumped into each other, but that was all there was to it. She could only apologise for choosing to place her children in the room beside his.

And thus, his death had not come as a shock to her. It was, from her perspective, very unlike the man to be absent if he knew that the tribe he founded would be summoned forth. But just because it was not a shock, did not make it any less unpleasant. Though little had they interacted, he had brought her some much needed comfort in her concerns in her marriage. He had supported her when Rafael could not, and for that she would be forever grateful. A single tear shed. No more, no less. A noble man had been felled, and the world was a little darker now.

"I had always extended my offer of aid, or.. training; anything, towards any of your kin... why must you die before you accept it, Robert?" She sighed, gently setting the letter back down upon the dining table for the others to peruse at will. "... Regardless, it will be done."

[juliaINC 592]

Isolde lit a candle for Robert’s soul. She remembered him as a complicated and senile, but worthy man.

[Apotolofo 2204]

 

Another candle was lit upon Hera's alter of the fallen.

 

[FadedMoonlight 450]

Mariola, watched as one of her final remaining friends of Minitz was delivered unto the hand of God. As the word of his passing had spread to her, she couldn't help but shed tears once more. Deeply did she care for the one who assisted in her journey of self-discovery, and deeply did she weep for the passing of another friend. For the longest time, she rested upon the wall of her basement, her copy of the Scroll of Creation clutched closely to her chest. 

"They're in the skies now... with Peter, and Roland, Leutwin..." 
Her eyes shuttered, tears staining her cheeks.

[ookipi 74]

Gertrude wept for the bygone senile, not understanding why she lamented him who treated her so cruelly! 

[Conqueror 424]

KAAZVÂLIKAR watches as Sebastian carries off the Stroheim's fabled corpse, the look of regret plastered still upon his face.

 

"I didn't know..." Begins the Nephilim, the tool the Legend had used to kill himself. "I didn't know he was... serious." He'd say, to his nearby ally. He had more words to say, but not yet.

 

Liquid Fire stains the ground, and it was not blood.