A Scyfling's End

[Seuss 1056]

 

 

Spoiler

https://youtu.be/rVN1B-tUpgs?si=rSY1VOlrC-ejUbgh 

Spoiler

The events spoken about in this post occurred before the existing war and are not related to one another

 

 

 

“I am dying…” the large Scyfling stated bluntly. Across from him sat an old friend, an ally, and an opportunity. “My heart has failed me once already. I must extend the life I have left, so that I may fight the gudi fight forevermore.”

“Ah, so this is your request…” came the humble response of the skilled craftsman. “Such is a tall ask. Normally, such outsiders would be barred from such privileges.”

The Scyfling lowered the tea cup he was offered, placing it before him with a bowed head “I would nej come to anyone else… Skrali, my dear companion.”

“Make peace with your flesh, Joakim. Come back to me in two years.”

 

He stood atop the grandest mountain in all of Aevos. The air pure and untainted as he inhaled through his nose and sent wisps of chilling air out from his lungs. The altitude made breathing difficult for some, but a Scyfling who trained on the mountain every day was more than accustomed.   He stood facing the southern front of Haense. With his home of Kazan behind him, his allies of Novkursain behind him, and all he was destined to protect behind him, there was nowhere else for the Scyfling to go but forward. Behind him was the faint aroma of flowers, the subtle mix of pine, and the refreshing breeze across the ponds and lakes.

But in front of him there was no achievement in the scent carried through the air. The stench of burning wood and charcoal as torches were hoisted up and down. The reek of corpses, unwashed orcs, and blood-stained bandits that marched onward to Haense.

Before them, standing amongst the bushes and boulders, was their first and only opponent on Haeseni soil. One they would come to regret meeting atop Aevos’ grandest mountain.

 

 

The Scyfling was a different man after that encounter. His past did not come clearly to him, but he did remember every moment after as if it was yesterday. In the square of New Valdev, he comforted his daughter, Dima, who was recovering from a mental bout of revenge.

“You could have killed her right then and there. Close that chapter of your life, if you so willed it.”

“It didn’t feel right… neit then.” She pressed her forehead into his plate “My kindness was niet mercy, it will happen in time..” The knight-to-be promised herself, albeit a wavering resolution.

“Perhaps. But you did show your humanity in that moment. Monsters like her would stab you in the back when you are at your weakest. But you, the dottir I am proud of, spared her life in her most vulnerable.”

“Vy’re a dobry papej - Ea mean that.”

“You’re a gudi dottir. I wouldn’t dare ask for any other.”

 

 

The war cries ripped through the thin veil of air so high up on the mountain. An approaching band of vile anti-Haense scoundrels made themselves known to any close enough to hear their shouts and cries. Though only one knight heard their ill-tuned symphony, and one knight alone was the perfect crowd. 

 

The Scyfling raised his helmet up in front of him, bringing it down overhead and securing the leather fastens under his chin. In his left hand did he bear the colors of House Colborn on his worn round shield. In his right hand sparked the furies of his mace, coated in lightning and humming a shadowed radiance. Since the days before he donned the Marian armor, these two weapons were a staple of the Scyfling’s armory. Every darkspawn he laid to rest, every castle he brought to ruins, every fiend he brought to justice, all stood opposite to him and his weaponry.

 

He received their attention, and the large force came to a stop. One knight alone stopped a marching army. One knight alone stood between them and his people. There was no waiting for them to continue marching forward. The Scyfling took initiative, and his metallic boots carried him forward. The world behind him faded, and all that laid before him was the future he chose for himself. The path of destiny he paved.

 

 

The depths of midnight were only broken by the twinkling stars scattered about the sky. All of them so far away from one another, and yet the Scyfling felt as if he could reach up and ****** a handful away from the skies - ones to become his own collection.  The beauty of dusk reflected in the dule river that flows westbound. A distant howling of celebration could be heard in the bustling Haeseni city, though he found peace standing beside his younger brother, Davyd, far from the commotion and instead enjoying the harmonic masterpiece of nature.

“I did nej think we’d come this far. But it all feels like a dream when I look back upon our journey.” The much larger knight spoke towards his kid brother.

“That it does, yet the signs are much the same in this place as it was back then. We will face the Great Migration again - But at least this time we won’t face it alone.” The wiser of the two replied. Although they were alike in many ways, Davyd was certainly one to use his brain to its greatest capabilities, and his older brother mimicked the same with his strength and talent.

“I am nej long for another migration, brodir.” A sentence that certainly brought a frown to his kin’s features. “I will die soon.”

“The day I lose eym might truly be the day I go mad. But I will try mik best to persevere. If only to maintain what we have sown and the fruits we’ve toiled for.”

“Which is why I’ve asked you to come here.” His eyes casted upwards towards the starry night sky “I am nej done yet, Davyd. This soul will burn until my goals have reached completion.”

A promise made, a secret kept. One no one else would come to know or learn of.

 

 

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=250I4sg7P9A 

 

The marching Scyfling was clearly not a merchant. He was neither a farmer nor a politician. This was a knight with the fullest intent to battle making his way towards the enemies. Though they did not see him for such, and they laughed. Orcs howled out, bandits snickered between themselves, and undead groaned as orders went ungiven. One sole person cannot stop such a force, and he was a laughing stock for attempting such.

 

They sent one man forward, carrying a longsword in his left hand. One was enough, to the beliefs of the vast majority. Those who lacked skill often were boastful in how they fought, and yet this sole bandit had no chance to display his incapability. The Scyfling raised his mace and brought it down swiftly. What was once laughter erupting from the enemy crowd soon hushed. Did the knight stop at all while he was marching towards them? The bandit who stepped forward now laid on the ground dead, and yet the knight pressed on.

 

 

The Scyfling stood beside the newly anointed Dame Teodora as she carried out the interrogations of Haeseni citizens and foreigners alike. She received word and wisdom from Sigmar Lorik, questioned Amou and those associated alike, and compiled a document accounting the entirety.

“Nej the first thing a Dame is expected to do once knighted, but you are displaying excellent prowess in your ability to lead and gather information.” The senior knight spoke in regards to his niece.

“I was hoping to burn down the castles of daemons and slay bandits. Nej. . . this.” the younger Colborn gestured in front of her, keeping the conversation to hushed whispers between them.

An old bout of laughter escaped the aged Scyfling. “In time, my brodirdottir. You will display greatness far past anything you’ve done up to now.”

 

 

One by one they came charging forward, and each one met the face of the Scyfling’s shield, followed shortly after by the sharpened flanges of the macehead. What was once a small test of might to the orcs became a battle of survival. What was once a quick cash grab for the bandits became a matter of life and death. The undead marched on without doubt, as per their directive, and yet once their heads were done in, no directive kept them up longer.

The seeds of fear made their way through the assembly. Foes in the backlines saw as allies ahead of them toppled over with ease. The thin air atop the mountain was a place only the undead could get accustomed to, and it played a partial role in the trained knight’s capability to maintain his stamina as those around him struggled to maintain their level-headedness. Another cry came from the crowd, and the entirety charged forth after the sole enemy. The Scyfling remained the only obstacle between them and the city they sought to reduce to rubble.

 

 

The basilica of New Valdev  filled quickly with citizens and foreigners alike. The long awaited wedding between Kovachev and Kortrevich was happening, but the bride has yet to show. The Scyfling made his way out of the House of God, following the path down the alleys of the city until he happened upon the Amador shop. He noticed his niece Mikhaila through the window, and as he entered, he saw his daughter in her gown. She was nervous, and on the verge of tears. Emma Kortrevich and Mikhaila were trying to comfort her, to some extent.

The Scyfling came down on a knee in front of his daughter, taking up her hand and crossing a Scyfling ruin about her palm “One fiery blonde warrior of the retinue.” He made a cross along her hand “One wielder of the worm bow. One Scyfling greater than the rest.” he closed her individual fingers into a fist “One Dima Aina Kovachev. Only one dottir of mine. What is there to fear, when you are everything you could ever be?”

An embrace occurred between the two, and he, despite his age, walked her down the aisle and handed his trust to Andrei Kortrevich, to forever care for her and protect her. A beautiful wedding, and the last he would see.

 

It was not a battle meant to last hours, but one was sure to be enough. Half the forces were brought to piles under the raging warrior, littering the once flourishing grassy mountain top with corpses and rotting flesh. Bushes snapped and collapsed under the weight of the individuals that fell on top of them.

The Scyfling was not as immortal as the fear in his enemies painted him to be. Mauls and maces alike dented his armor and broke bones. Blades found their sword path through the thickened leather over his joints, narrowly missing tendons that would render his limbs useless. Knives find passage through flesh as the knight collects trophies buried into his body.

Despite the injuries taken on, the Scyfling could not afford to fall. He could not afford to let himself succumb to age or weakness. If he fell, then Haense was sure to be attacked. His people of Kazan would have ruin brought upon them. His allies and friends  would be harmed as a result of his failure.

 

 

The Scyfling stood back, watching as his companion and the two helpers he brought with him began their construction. There was no talking outside of the orders he gave to them. Piece by piece did the knight witness as constructs were raised, positioned, and secured. With each part of the puzzle, they would look back to the Scyfling, as if waiting for confirmation. None would come as the large man stared forward, simply awaiting completion.

Heavy were the thoughts pressing down on his shoulders. And when the figure came to completion, the Scyfling stepped forward. His face reflecting off the metallic sheen, and he felt himself lose the light of his eyes despite still standing with a beating heart. But for how much longer would he be able to experience this? Will he come to forget the feeling entirely? Questions he would be unable to answer.

 

 

His mace, although remaining as sharp as it did when he first wielded it, felt heavier than an ox. His shield, littered with arrows and breaking along the edges, could no longer defend him. A large orc brought down his warhammer, striking the Scyfling’s knee and causing him to collapse. His right leg could no longer be stood on. Heavy breaths and fading conscience weighed on the knight’s mind. He raised his mace upwards, hoping to take another foe with him, but his body could not follow his resolve.

A spear was thrusted through his broken plate. A gasp of air left his body, and his teeth grit in pain. He brought his shield up to block the spear, but the disconnection between his will and strength increased with each passing second. Another spear found its way into the Scyfling’s left leg, bringing him to both knees as his arms collapsed to his sides. The remaining forces surrounded him, and the knight knelt there before them all, unable to move.

With what little energy he could muster, the Scyfling looked up towards the sky. It was just after noon when he climbed the cliffs; but now dark clouds hang overhead, accompanied by the disgusting yellowish tint of a setting sun. His eyes laid upon no individual around him, but higher sights residing past the clouds. He eyed the Seven Skies, or the direction he believed it settled in.

The remaining orcs and bandits struggled to laugh, forcing themselves to find humor in their victory as the knight remained motionless and disassociated. The sounds of defeated cheers and howling winds deafened around the Scyfling as he retreated into the recess of his mind. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing in his ears and playing an uncanny rhythm he could not ignore.

Badump

Badump

Badump

Ba-

Life faded from the eyes of  Ser Joakim Colborn, and even when surrounded by the forces that brought him to the end of his time, a smile managed its way across his face.  He knew his duty was seen through to the end. No harm would come to his family or his people. The forces that walked onto Haense would not take a step closer, and he found peace in that. 

 

 

Tick

Tick

Tick

 

Tick

Despite the fall of Joakim, the remainder of that group never did descend down Aevos’ grandest mountain. The Scyfling was found surrounded by the bodies of all those who marched on Haense that evening, and by some unnatural force, none of them left.

 

Spoiler

Art of Joakim over the months, I don't have them all unfortunately

 

 

Spoiler

Thanks to @Madyfor helping me out with formatting the post. I was confident in just writing a bunch, but she put it all together proper.

Thanks to a whole bunch of you guys as well. Everyone who helped make Joakim's fleshly journey an amazing one. I'm not one to shy away from mass pinging either.
@JuliusAakerlund @Frawlic @Mady @Smol @krispeechips @PeachLova @Sandman_Plays @erictafoya @sarahbarah @CheekyNolan  @Xarkly @HogoBojo @LuxyLucy @MunaZaldrizoti @Terry @Gandhi @CasChaos @SethWolf @Frostdrop1 @Dinochad @libertyybelle @Dogged @annabanana1014 @garentoft @iris1612 @ItsMisterPip @Legoboy7984 @Koodini @_RoyalCrafter_ @Herod @MercyAzalea  @ReveredOwl @CanadaMatt my memory is starting to fail me here  @Skelepathic @RaijenStars @MadOne  @Tigergiri  @ferdaboy @ContestedSnow @indiana105 @kaylacita @ivery @GhostSHTR @femurlord @Dyl @TheGentleDuck @Reckless Banzai Screamer @Petsch2k @milksoda @PrinceJose270 @Bethinwonderland @Zora_T  @Dramatude @Sladetricity @Parasolii @Sarven @WhatASithuation @ncarr 

And now I can't remember anymore. But thank you everyone I did not @ either, because know that if we roleplayed together, it meant something to Joakim in some way.

Spoiler

OOC Note for Roleplay: Joakim cannot be interacted with in the Seven Skies at this time. He has not ascended yet.

 

[Frawlic 1602]

Spoiler

 

What she did not know couldn't hurt her, what she could assume was worse.

Assumption after assumption, wrong every time.

She had assumed he would never love her as a daughter, wrong. At the beginning of her childhood, Dima had tried to rip the man’s hair from his scalp, dangling from his braid like a dog playing tug ’ o ’ war.  Hatred idled in her bones at his presence alone, and his shadow alone was a threat to the very existence of things she loved. At least until she saw what true shadow did, having been harmed beneath one of malicious intent. Over time, Joakim’s was not so bad, and more often than not, light reflected from his armaments and became guiding. She was his shadow, lingering always in his presence, in his arms, or with his teachings.

She had assumed he would never grow old, also wrong. Age was always a consuming thing, and for a while, the Kovachev thought she would be taken by it early. Sickness and violence were a plague upon life, constantly beating her down. Every time she got back up, though, persistence was key. Stubborn was she, and stubborn was time. Grey ate away at his complexion, and forgiveness was often sought as his heart began to hurt, sometimes, at her fault.

She had assumed he would never leave, wrong again. Last she had seen the man, he was injured at the divide, and she assumed she would meet him at home. It had been five years since Joakim had gone missing, a father who was not hers but gave her the world nonetheless. At first, she could only assume he had been on business, awaiting a writ. Months passed, and nothing arrived. Next came the journeys, taken from every hour of her day, searching every feasible inch of the realm, every nation that was available to enter, at least until tensions rose, and she instead resorted to the wilderness and ruins of the lands, even the tamed existence of the Underdark. Nothing.

His absence had destroyed her routine, and for a time, she was a shell of herself. It was difficult to bounce back from, and she never fully did. So, when his body was found, she would not even see it, the truth of his final fate enough to cast her back into the oblivion she had finally found comfort outside of. Always his daughter, always without a real father.

[HogoBojo 4725]

Hogmund Jakob would find himself waiting for Ser Joakim to return. The Knight had been there for him during the turbulent days when he was a child and lost his parents at an early age, and grew to become a mentor to the Prince. Despite all the time that had passed, and the time that continued to pass, the Knight did not return- he would not return, not alive anyways. Unaware at the recent events, Hogmund would continue his daily activities, waiting for the day when Joakim would return- the day that would unfortunately never come to pass.

[krispeechips 150]

Mikhaila stood before the aviary within Kazan, her knuckles were blotched with bleached hues from her grip on scattered letters. All that was unsent that sat gathered by birds delivering, parchment after parchment. 

Dima. She thought, lips pressed tight into a line as she skimmed over the words, every emotions the Kortrevich felt splayed with messy ink. 

 

"Did I do something wrong?" - "I'm sorry." - "I love you." - "Please come home."

 

Carefully she gathered the letters as the pile grew, setting them neatly and storing them. For him, When he returned.

When.

Not if.

When.

He had to return, He had yet to see her wed, to see her sister wed. Her Father, his Brother. They still had more to do, more to fight for and explore.

It all seemed so unfair, to have an ever-present figure simply... vanish. To leave so many behind, squires and daughters. Nieces. 

King Karl III, Princess Milena, Svetlana Colborn, Dmitry Ruthern.

The list of those lost carries onwards, it drags, it piles. It piles like the letters she must organize. And like those letters she will set them neatly aside, store them in her memory. 

 

For when he returned. 

 

Spoiler

Thanks for making my heart hurt, u suck @Seuss <3

 

[KillerMaid 636]

Malna Loa'chil sat in a small home in Jun Lei. She did not know of Joakim's passing yet, or any other passings in Haense after being told to retire temporarily due to the war. Perhaps when she came back, when the dust had gathered, and no more war was to be seen, she would notice him missing. For now, no tears were shed.

 

 

(I know Malna and Joakim didn't interact much but I always loved his design and character!!! Thank you for playing such a cool guy)

[Frostdrop1 1843]

Reinhard settled himself outside of the village the night he got home. The muddied ground was littered with an array of bright ribbons and the rain poured ever-harder. Distantly, the candle-lights of the huts flickered in the night as if beckoning - and yet, he prefered a solitary rock even if it meant wetting his immaculately tended feathers. There were many things Reinhard was, once upon a time, thankful for and, too, many things he was not. And in this reflective trance, Ser Joakim's name was added in a smear to his book. Penned with more grace than the others, he rested alongside the likes of Karl IV and the scribble of Milena. Perhaps it was funny that he mourned that knight. Once upon a time, he might have thought some semblance of care for the man impossible. However, even in his desolate state, the devil did mourn; he was, afterall, one of the good ones.


The little devil writhed and cried in the grasp of a braided knight - one whom levied a kick at the mother that came to the aid of the child. Around was a tumult of voices at seeing his bright hue and small horns and slitted eyes and, too, the rough manner of his handling. There were kind words, and harsh words, and yet all of it blended and began a blur to such a young boy who had so barely seen the world beyond dense walls and escapes into mind-spaces crafted just for him. He was five in a world that he did not understand - but he did know that he loved his mother, and that man hurt her. He continued to cry as he and his mother were taken to be questioned, before silently gluing to her throughout. And, after, he lost his words for a time. That boy hated Joakim; he hated all knights.

That would not be the end, of course. The devil had excitedly navigated himself to a party with other children. He had no parents to speak of that might guide his safety but in a desperate bid to make friends he had spoken to each and dubbed himself king of the birds. Inevitably, his bubbly excitement dwindled when the other children grew bored. The city, they wanted to go to. Reinhard tried to dissuade and speak of how he was not allowed but they would have none of it. Protection, promised Andrei and Ross. And with that, the group went to play in the city-streets and for the first time the devil was surrounded by what could be friends. Except, it wasn't to last: Joakim. The devil was scoop up, fighting and screaming. Andrei abandoned him; Ross abandoned him but the quiet, unassuming Dima remained to swing from the knight's scalp in defense. Never would the devil have guessed how close Dima and Joakim would become in the next years.

A plot for his murder, attributed to Joakim and later labelled a lie. And then, all was calm. Joakim and the devil grew to have a distant understanding. The ser pulled him aside, and warned him of what would need to be done if Deia's presence was seen again - and this, the devil appreciated. They fought beside each other, knowingly or unknowingly, at the beginning of The Divide. And it was Joakim who, as a real leader and father, broke the terrible news to the devil of his barring from his dearest friend's wedding. For that, too, the devil was grateful.

The last he would hear of Joakim was from Dima. In a passing, re-discovered friendship, he would hear that Joakim had disappeared. And, together, they understood what that meant. For the best, the devil thought, that the ser died in some way he hopefully wished. Surely, thought the devil, he must have died in battle, somewhere, somehow. And then thank you came to his mind as his jagged pupils eyed the fire, and Dima stood at his side.