"The Last Savoie" | Louis PK

[Jihnyny 5233]

 

Spoiler

 

 

The tavern was quiet, save for the crackle of a hearth and the faint echo of a piano; a tune half remembered, half forgotten. The wine was untouched. Louis stood at the tavern’s entrance, where the boards creaked beneath his boots. Through the glimpse of an arch did he notice the sky, it was coloured with the pink and warm gold of a setting sun, spilling its last light over the oasis beyond. 

 

 

He opened a bottle with trembling fingers. He was cold, and he knew why.

 

At the table nearest the counter, his sisters sat, as they had once in life, they would forever in his memory. Rhianwen, ever the distant star of the Númedein, gazed past the laughter, her eyes catching chase of the shadows only she could see. 

 

Beside her, Iúliwen leaned closer to Constance, their hands waving in the space between; stories and sips of wine being shared. Laughter like winter bells, soft and short.

 

And dear, wild Valarie - barely more than a girl, still youthful in her years; was reaching, as always, for mischief. Her small fingers dipped into Constance’s coat, fumbling for a pack of cigerretes tucked deeply like treasure.

 

The wine in his hands was poured into a cup.

 

Like a table prepared for war, it stood adorned in Northern festivity - jugs of ale and golden mead set between plates. Steel sat amongst the drinkware, gleaming as though the day might be interrupted by blood. 

 

At the head sat Dragomir - formidable, immovable. His laughter rang like a war-drum and a heartbeat struck with joy. He had not taken off his armour; the plate clung to him like a second skin - as always.

 

At his flank, Morgana and Vestariel traded jests like the others did blades. Morgana, flushed and defeated by wine, had fallen to slouch. Vestariel, ever merciless, mimicked her and with a dramatic flair - drawing laughter from those close enough to hear.

 

And there, illuminated by candlelight, Gunnleifr sat with his flute. Fingers dancing a tune from the strings, - he played not for coin or for praise, but for the mortal spirits that listened. A wink flashed from Gunnleifrs’ eye. 

 

With his brown lock of hair and unattended beard - Boromir stood with a glass of gin, limes atop his glass instead of lemons. He listened to Seojin - the lady of the east that casted wisdom to all that had even cared to listen. Her hands unmoving as she bestowed a tale and riddle. 

 

The cup of wine met his scarred lip, eyes trailing toward the right;

 the cold had left him.

 

Not among the seated - Francisca and Pepe danced. Hand in hand, they spun through the flickering candlelight. Her dress catching air like wings, his boots striking the floor with the imitation of a soldier claiming a battlefield. 

 

Watching them from the shadows sat Sabrina, her face nearly as forgotten as theirs. Time had softened her features - taken to blur the lines of memory. But her hair, still a bold blonde, shun like a relic of their sunlit days in Balian. Beside her sat a boy - young, though weariness clung to him like ash. Hazel's eyes watched the dancers with a distant curiosity. Loose hair tied in a ponytail.

 

The piano still sang, and Louis followed.

 

As Louis climbed the worn steps; they creaked under his weight. The voices below murmured like echoes from another life. At the counter stood Viago - the warrior turned salesmen - bartering with ease. Horses, materials, whispered promises exchanged with men draped in black and white. Familiar. Theódore, Edmound, Gasperd… Owyn. His kin by blood. Beside the two stood Jan - who took focus on pigeons that flew by the window, throwing peanuts at each and the good Auris; who pondered whether to stop him.

 

But Louis’ eyes were drawn elsewhere. Above them all, beyond the candlelight and the cold wine, he saw her. A smile curled on his lips. He approached and set his glass down beside her, a gesture of offering - of remembrance in their days within the Ivory Tower. She turned to him, her silver eyes catching the light. Her bangs swept across her face, revealing the warmth behind her gaze.

 

The keys of ivory fell to silence.

“I have failed you.” He whispered,
voice breaking like an old stone.

 

She did not respond. She took his hand and guided it to her shoulder, drawing him into her rhythm - her head resting softly against him, just as it had the night at the paddock. No judgement, no bitterness. Only the quiet, royal grace of forgiveness left unspoken.

 

They then; for the first time, danced.

 

And as they did, the world around them began to fall away - crumbled like ash. The cold returned to Louis’ skin, biting away like frostbite - like the darkspawn that once fell beneath Louis’ blade. But here, in this moment, there was no war. Only death and memory.

The Templar’s soul burning away to nothing.

 

 

 

OOC:

Spoiler

Louis’ struggles in life have left him to be a self-centred, arrogant fool. But with the guidance of others, he was about to change - and yet he was unable to. I really loved these past 7 weeks that I was able to play Louis, thank you all for welcoming me into the human communities, into the Norns, Númendil and so on! Thank you lots toward Balian aswell, without you guys or the de Savoie’s I probably wouldnt have the same first-time experience with Humans :) (Shout out to de Rouens for providing good RP to the death btw)

https://imgur.com/a/emag3Ht
^ grabbed a couple screenies and threw them in here ^


Louis' last wave to everyone o7

 

[confusedjester 811]

Her brother.

 

Valarie was known to be crude, calloused- apathetic, accepting of some and renouncing others.

 

When Louis first arrived to Numendil, Valarie treated him coolly- but he merely grinned at her, lofting a wave upon her passing.

 

He didn’t care that she was temperamental- a small, unruly ball of wild emotions and even wilder actions. 

 

He tolterated her antics- and even encouraged them. She felt welcome as she was.

 

Valarie wanted nothing more than to be just like him.- to make him proud- her big brother, who her heart adored.

 

She told Lou of her hopes and dreams and insanely impossible life goals- yet he met them with a, 

 

“I believe you can do it.”

 

And she retorted then, guaranteeing him that he would have a new vineyard, and they, together, would sell the greatest wines. Yet, Lou told her that was not his truest dream for his life.

 

Valarie never found out what lingered behind his veiled hopes.

 

Grief was a stranger to the young Vourkehardt. Her grandfather had passed a mere year ago, but it was different this time.

 

Her grief for her grandfather had been shrouded by confusion. Valarie didn’t understand back then.

 

Now she did. It hurt all the worse. Like a dagger had been stabbed through her heart. It was painful, and it ached.

 

Valarie Vourkehardt swore she would never cry, yet that day, she wept in her fathers arms, mournful, anguished sobs catching in her throat. 

 

What was once rigid, now turned fragile. The slightest look, the quietest murmur, would break her.

 

[Navigator 4260]

We grow old, Owyn.

 

A gaze across pearly fields, of ivory towers they did not belong to, of golden pastures they didn't think they'd reach. The Skies were beautiful, truthfully, for the two men who met once more.

 

Owyn's gaze never left the slowly opening gates, his hands folded behind his waist. Once he came through, Owyn smiled. A sad smile. A slow exhale, followed by a pained sob. He didn't want to see his brother so soon. No. He was meant to thrive, he was meant to conquer darkness & light alike. He was meant to be a voice for the weak and a sword for the righteous. Yet there he stood, before him in those golden pastures, in the shadow of those looming ivory towers. Owyn had no weight on his shoulders anymore, yet his presence seemed overbearing. He wasn't meant to be here. Not yet. He fell to his knees, his hands gripping at the aurum grass beneath his body.

 

"We were meant to grow old, Louis." He uttered into the ground, his voice experiencing a pain he'd never felt before. A pain that had been alien to him since he'd decided to leave that world behind. But this time, he welcomed that pain. He knew that through it, there would be happiness, and realisation. Slowly, he stood up, and extended a hand towards his brother; not by blood, but by bond. That not even Owyn's wrong choices could break. That not even Louis' arrogance could shatter. No. Nothing could shatter something so genuine.

 

"Welcome, brother."

[xo31 3979]

Lazarus rolled his neck, and then his shoulders. A whisper, unto himself,

 

"Despite your malefic tendencies, you were a good man. Perhaps there is redemption in death. Perhaps it does not need to be the end."

[Seva 624]

Seojin sat, cross-legged, her eyes gently shut against the warmth of the sun. Perched near the crystal clear pond where blue and pink axolotl fluttered through the reeds. The softest of sighs filled her, the spirits swirling around her clear in her mind. She felt the memories, recent and pure. Of Louis standing beside her, sword in hand as her spear bit the flesh of an errant ghoul. Of his weight beside hers as she incinerated a field of Minotaur. Of his hand on her shoulder as she lamented the plight of her Abeoji.

For the moment, there was peace. She knew that he was one with the Great Spirit, with the Aengul of Courage. Perhaps soon there would yet be anger, malice in its purest form. But now there was only mourning, the deeply sweet sort that one could also call Life.

[Cryothane 809]

As the news would reach Vestariel- the Knight's crimson hues narrowed. It was folded. A whistle resounding. 

 

The echo of heavy hooves resounded, and she scooped herself up unto her stead by its leather. The entirety of her upper form would lean with the stead, as it tore through the dirt and grass pathings- all the way to Numendil. Where her gauntlet hooked at her helm- and roughly removed it from her head. 

"DRAGOMIR!" 

 

The ker' shouted, and should she find him there. Her brows furrowed into that dark crimson visage with great grief, and sorrow.

"Tell me it is not true."

 

"Tell me."

 

Spoiler

@M1919

 

[milkyi 1985]

 

úliwen met Louis when she was thirteen, and he, fifteen. In those early years of her girlhood, Louis had been like a second brother—louder, brasher, and more insufferable than her own, yet always there. He had not been born into her family, but he had made a place within it all the same. A boy burdened by a name he rarely uttered, proud beyond reason, too stubborn to be anything less than himself.

Disowned by his kin, condemned by the laws of men, dishonour had met him at his end. Even then, Iúliwen had feared that his pride would be the very thing to undo him, and in the end, it was that same pride he clung to as it led him to ruin.    Louis, the warrior. The Templar. Untaught, untempered, always reaching to be more than he had been given. Iúliwen had thought, perhaps foolishly, that he might outgrow it—but it stood taller than him, and so he died beneath it, his dignity intact as the blade came down. She imagined him in those last moments: unmoved, obstinate as ever.    The elders of Númendil had no love for him, no patience for his defiance. But Iúliwen had defended him at every turn. He was untaught, yes—but not incapable. Even that was a lie she told herself. Louis would always do as he pleased, and some part of her had known that would end in blood.   When the word of his death reached her, the grief she felt was not for him alone. It was for Ardirnien, who loved him without caution. For Seojin, who called him brother in everything but name. For those of his blood who remained—slaughtered, maimed, or chained—who might never know he was gone.   And most of all, it was for his soul. Though the blessing of Malchadiael had once touched him, Louis would never rise to join his true kin.    She donned her mourning smock again—the second year in near succession—and withdrew to the confines of Minas Aranath.   HOW STUPID.    HOW CRUEL.    HOW UTTERLY SENSELESS.

 

[Unwillingly 18096]

It was difficult for Lorien to describe he and Louis' relationship as anything more than superficial, but the loss of who he considered to be among his first friend in youth made his lip tremble.

[Tainga 521]

Athaenis Vourkehardt lay in the quiet embrace of the earth, her eyes fixed upon a sky indifferent to sorrow. She knew Ardirnien and Louis had wandered off into the wide world, just as she had urged the saint day prior. Go, laugh. Go, live. Their youth deserved freedom, and she had smiled when she saw the two of them ride on past her only hours prior—Ardirnien took her advice.

She remained there in silence, eyes tracing the clouds as they drifted overhead—slow and aimless. "I wonder where they are..." She whispered, the words barely more than a breath, swallowed by the sky.

She did not wonder long.

The stillness shattered—hooves against the earth, a prince's voice called out to her: "Ardirnien might have been taken by Burgundy."

The words carved dread into her chest like a knife.
No. They wouldn't.
Why?
Where was Ardirnien?
Where was Louis?

By twilight, the palace of Númendil had grown cold. Valarie wept. Louis was dead. Ardirnien brought home. Athaenis did not weep—not then. Rage surged, hot and wild, burning against the corners of her mind. Her thoughts spiraled. 

She should never have said go.
She should have followed.
She should have fought—GOD, why hadn't they fought harder that morning?

But no matter how she rewrote the day in her mind, it always ended the same. Louis, dead.

So she returned home, hands trembling as they reached for a bottle of wine—the one Louis had created and given her to taste. It had become her favourite. 
Live, Laugh, Love.

A bitter mockery now. She drank beneath the quiet stars, the bottle in her grasp. They had shared so much: whispers of gossip passed like secrets on the wind, laughter that had once echoed through the tavern, solemn advice exchanged in quiet corners, and even grief.

All of Númendil grieved. But Athaenis—
Athaenis burned.
She had failed again.

[sam33497 7356]

Siôn Marsyr, upon learning of Louis' death, exhaled lightly. Dull eyes sat in ponderance for a while, before a quiet mutterance was made by him.

 

"In spite of everything, I hope GOD judges you virtuous, and that you rest in a kinder place now."

[MonteGiant 891]

Pepe Fontesar would be strumming his guitar as he found the missive, traveling with his Fiance to Numendil, it is here he spotted it and here where he dropped to his knees and cried. He would recount the many times with his friend of childhood, the many times they fought together, the many times they had fun together, all gone in the blink of an eye. "Louis de Savoie, the last of his blood, a profound warrior and excellent friend... Vaya con Dios amigo mio..."

Edited April 20, 2025 by MonteGiant

[Ryanark 2738]

It was a dark, and long night. Restless sleep troubled Isleífr once again.

Tossing and turning. It was usual, but this night was different.

The Norn knew something had gone deeply awry,

And in his dreams he was assured of vengeance.

[xDisarray 552]

News travelled across the realm of Louis death. The news had finally reached the war-torn nation of Balian. "Louis is dead?" The Balianese Knight slammed his fist upon his desk. "First Owyn, now Louis? How many more do we need to lose." He clinched his fist even harder before reaching for a bottle nearby, he popped the cork and began to take large swigs. "For the de Savoies. My friends, I pray you rest in peace. I will honour you somehow..." He shook his head and wiped his mouth of the alcohol that laid just upon his upper lip before closing the bottle back up.

[Fishy 2709]

Frederick of Lemon Hill pours one out for his drinking pal Louis, may he rest in peace.

[esotericas 2674]

After Ardirnien was returned home, pyres lit, farewells bidden, Gunnleifr wandered the hills of the Heartlands with an aimless abandon. Sometimes walking, sometimes astride his loyal mount, Gunn watched the stars fade and the sun rise, and he battled against all his instincts to get lost. But the compass in his heart or his soul or his gut led him northward, back to the Vjardengrad tavern.

 

Gunnleifr stood before the corner table in the wee hours of the morning, staring at the seat where Louis had sat, the bitter taste of his last lie to his lost friend still lingering on his tongue. "It was a joke." That was what he had said, sitting behind the bar, desperate not to let their friendship fray. A pointless lie to a man who was now dead. A man Gunnleifr had loved. 

 

Gunn sat, facing the fire, where Louis had only hours before. He traced calloused fingers over the raw wood grain of the table. And there, finally alone, Gunnleifr wept.