ASH & EMBER

[amyselia 2962]

 

 

c.2023

 

 

THE VOYAGE OF THE ASHENFOLK

 

A swarm of gray storm clouds rose high and buried all traces of a blue sky, looming over the men with the threat of a horrible downpour. Pebbled sands crunched beneath their strides, joined by the bustling of creaking wood boxes heaved over encumbered shoulders and their accompanying grunts. The scene was an orchestra of movement, and the sea hummed a baritone with every crash against the dinghy’s hull. 

 

Roger de Rouen’s fingers drummed on the boat’s slender bow, the buzzing hymn of the day impairing any chance for patience in the Ashborn man who had long pondered beyond the tides. There was too much to do and not enough time to revel in the comfort of this small victory, for on this day, the years of silence would finally burst with a welcome song.

 

On the end of the beach, Rosceline de Aryn eyed the restlessness she had known of him since their youth with mirrored angst, this one owed to the discomfort of being so surrounded by strange brawny men who gave not the nicety of averting their suspect glances her way. Roger’s stare travelled to her briefly, and in answer he hailed one such gruff man to aid the young lady aboard the dinghy and away from the prying eyes of his merry new band. . . Discomfited but grateful, the lady boarded, and settled beside Roger.

 

“The captain will deny us board if we don’t hurry it along before this storm catches.” Roger looked back and called to his kin, his attention spent on a particular uncle, who trudged along uncomfortably with the haul of a chest sliding on a makeshift wooden cart behind him.

 

“Perhaps you’d like to carry my things for me?” the old Richold answered, tempered and lax as no other man could be on a day with so much kinetic momentum.

 

“Anytime,” Roger wasted no time propelling himself over the bow, causing a cry from Rosceline and the oarsmen, who waited in anguish after his movement caused the craft to rock against the waves. Bidding them a dismissive hand, he turned to his uncle. “If it speeds this along.” He grinned, hefting the final chest in both arms.

 

“Roger would swim across the ocean if it meant he’d get there faster.” An approaching Bohemond, brother of Roger, snickered as he mounted, joined by the last of the boxes prepared for their departure, followed by his brother, their uncle, and the runts of a sweat-drenched crew.

 

And so they went, soldiers battering oars fiercely against increasingly angered waves, Rosceline shrinking into herself, the boat’s unbridled passengers laughing in conversation, and Bohemond keeling over in pretense of diving into the salt waters. In minutes ticking the tocks of hours, all were finally aboard The Evening Harpy, flagship of three Ashford vessels contracted for the Rouennais’ voyage towards Aevosi shores. 

 

Within minutes, the three Ashford men were made responsible for listening to the warnings told by the barrel-chested captain Farimond of Middelan, the only naval commandant entrusted by the family with the protection of 400-strong Rouennais men and their families across the treacherous ocean dividing this isle from the mainland.

 

Roger, ox-like in his displeasure, commanded: “There is no other day. It is today, or my tongue cut from my mouth as a liar of no honor.” And he had Farimond wave the sails for the squadron to tighten their anchors and, at last, break the waters for home.

 

THE COST OF A SCRAMBLE

 

Roger was restless for a home he had never stepped foot on. He had been ever since his grandfather’s last breath whispered sweet claims to power and birthright, casting a plea for him to step out of his wasteful years of infantility and into the formidable role of a leader. 

 

Seven years had passed, and every step taken since was in his honor. He, his brother, and his uncle had rescued desperate men from the throngs of the noose to cushion their numbers and bargained the very last of their coin on vessels, barrels of nonperishable foodstuffs lasting three month’s voyage, and four hundred ragged leather spun tunics emblazoned with the red sun of Ashford, and this was what it all finally amounted to: the furious roar of a hurricane tossing his men about like a clothesmaid does the day’s laundry.
 

The stumbling crew clung to the wooden railings with might never known to any landlocked dandy, others below deck bracing against walls in hopes that their efforts at nailing down the ropes of the barrels did not go to waste - all while waves pummeled against the three ships, tempting them closer and closer to each other until Farimond began to weep in his breeches, crying, “RAYS OF GOD! We’re going to crash, and it will have been that bumbling idiot’s fault for his- his- his damned impatience!”

With the spark of a lightning strike, Richold’s fist crashed into Farimond’s jaw, sending the man reeling into the ship’s rail, where his chin sank in shock. The blathering confusion had barely escaped the captain’s tongue before Richold’s fury was unleashed, his knuckles tattered with the captain’s blood. “You’ll speak no more of my kin!” he barked, towering over the now whimpering Farimond, who cowered against the edge of the deck.

Without further hesitation, Richold seized control from the impotent captain, barking orders at his men in a voice that cut through the storm's roar. “Man the ropes! Secure the cargo! We ride this out, or we die fools!”

On the other side of the ship, Roger moved like a tempest; his displeasure bested by the termagant of the seas, who pounded the ship from all sides as if she were beating against the door of her husband’s lover. Rain lashed his face like a sheet of sweat, but his focus split through it to survive. He threw himself into the work, hauling the ropes alongside the others, straining against the storm's force. He moved to the oars, joining the men in the grueling task of rowing against the swelling waves, every stroke a fight for survival. “Hold fast! We can ride this out, men!” He hollered, his shouts booming through the rough winds.

Below deck, Bohemond sat beside Rosceline among the women and children, his voice steady and warm despite the ship's creaking timbers and violent sway. “Do you know the tale of Esheveurd?” he asked, a soft smile tugging at his lips as the children huddled closer. “They faced storms tenfold to this one’s size, and they came out laughing with enough spoils to make a king blush!” His words, though playful, calmed their fears, his presence akin to a lighthouse in this storm's fury. Rosceline kindled with amusement, glad to find distraction from the knot building within her. . . But it would not cease for another few hours, for the storm was a hound and they would be its ball.

 

BENEATH TEMPEST AND TIDE

When, in despair, the hound’s bite seemed impossible to escape, the tempest finally began to subside. The woman of the sea’s rage diminished, leaving them with eerie quiet for weeks ahead. 

 

But as the men gathered their wits, a grim discovery was made--one of the ships from their squadron was nowhere to be seen, and not only this, but tragedy found apt to taunt this crew, for on the fourth night, Richold, already suffering aging bones, fell profoundly ill with a malaise that quickly took his lungs. What began as a slight cough quickly worsened into something more grave, causing anguish in the heart of the crewmen. Without a proper medic, they could do little but watch as their uncle, the iron-willed man who had once been the pillar of their house, withered before their eyes. 

 

As the sun dipped below the horizon some days later, Richold, pale and weak, summoned his final strength, “--continue onwards to Aevos…” he rasped, his voice faint, “For the glory of our House..” Roger knelt beside him, silent, as Richold moved a frail hand towards the thick ancestral band that towered over his gangly ring finger. Trembling, he summoned the last crumbs of his strength and surrendered the artifact into Roger’s hands. 

 

Roger slid the elder ring firm onto his finger, and found that its weight was heavy with legacy. He would be one among many men to ever wield it, so he spoke, “I shall wield it well.”

Moments passed until Richold’s eyes closed, and his chest stilled. Bohemond clenched his fists in silent grief while Roger balanced the ring against his wrist, his heart pulsing with unrest as the burden of leadership fell upon him. Rosceline studied him in silence through eyes bitten with tears, a witness to the end of the innocence they had once known, and now left behind.

Breaking the silence, Captain Farimond spoke: “We can’t keep him here, less’ ye’ wish the same fate for us all.”

Though Bohemond resisted, for he knew his uncle deserved honor beyond the indignity of this treacherous sea, he knew that Farimond spoke true. Together, they wrapped the body with makeshift gauze, tied it with crates of the crew’s mounting refuse, and lowered Richold into the sea. Amid their shaman’s prayer, the waves seemed to swallow him with reluctance, for he buoyed above their rhythm, until finally his body sank below the blue reflection of the heavens, where from he now overlooked the boys he had helped grow to men.

“May GOD guide him home,” Bohemond croaked as he turned away, for his voice ached with sorrow.

Whether it be denial or resignation, Roger remained unbroken.

On the dawn of the final day, the shaman began his morning sermon. As his chants echoed over the hull, it was then that suddenly the clouds parted, revealing the first rays of sunlight to bless these men since their departure almost four fortnights ago. 

 

On the horizon, the missing ship crept away from them, battered but afloat, and beyond it, rising like a promise from the depths of legend, were the eastern mountains of Aevos, the land men had whispered was home.

 

 

 

[MRCHENN 4741]

Upon first hearing news of their departure to Aevos from a Savoyard courier, Father Drusco knelt before an altar within Lemon Hill, and vehemently prayed for the safe arrival of his cousins.

 

"O' Lord, hear this prayer of your humble son. Your judgement is penultimate, and Your authority is omnipotent. 

 

Bestow Your divine blessing upon those who steer the vessel carrying my beloved kin, guiding them safely across treacherous seas to Your sacred shores.

 

Grant my family unwavering courage and steadfast hearts, that they may overcome every trial and hardship they

encounter.

 

May they remain resolute and faithful servants, ever vigilant in upholding and enforcing Your divine law within Your holy dominion.

 

Amen."

[mojanghunter 566]

A faint recollection came to Joseph of Österland late into the eve, as he did utter his prayers in the chapel of Saint Catherine. Whilst he knelt in silence, his mind wandered back unto his talks with Robert of Ulmsbottom. He called to mind how greatly the Ashford had spoken of his son, an ambitious lad whose heart did yearn for his lands long lost.

 

Roger.

 

That was the name by which he had called his heir. That name, had he chosen for the child, in whom he had placed his hope, to raise up his people anew. That name, he had chosen for he who would sire a dynasty which might yet endure for centuries to come. That name, the very same which did pass through the thoughts of the Preussens lord, as he bent the knee in silent reverence. Thus did he add it unto the number of the names for whom he prayed, a list that waxed ever greater as the shadow of war began to wane.

 

And it was on that very day, as Joseph did recall these things in quiet prayer, when the sun kissed the vast expanse of the heavens and spread forth bleeding red hues which illuminated the world anew, that the Rouennais returned at last, to reclaim a legacy lost.