GEORGE'S PRANCE

[Mattiii 1663]

 

Spoiler

[!] Posted upon the doors of Newcastle in the Earldom of Dover, a missive hung, fluttering some in the wind.

 

Issued by the Earldom of Dover

On the 22nd of Sigismund’s End, 2033

 

---

It is with heavy hearts and veiled brows that we, the House of Aldersberg, announce the passing of His Excellency, George Charles Aldersberg, Chancellor of the Archduchy of Alba, First Earl of Dover, who met his end in valiant service to Crown and Country.

Let bells toll in the Cathedral and prayers be said across Alba,
for a steward of three decades, now laid to rest.

May GOD receive him in glory, and may his memory endure.

---

 

S I G N E D,

 

HIS LORDSHIP, George Arthur Aldersberg,

 2nd Earl of Dover

 

---

Spoiler

Everything from here on out is George's perspective on this fateful day, do not use this information when roleplaying.

 

Lord Chancellor. That name had clung to him now for some thirty years, and yet still he rose to greet the sun every morn from the mulberry silk quilts that lined his bed, the layers of ceruse and rouge growing with each fine line that appeared upon his face. It was hot that morning, a heat often unfamiliar to Newcastle. Her walls were usually made cold and damp by the rushing Leone that spat across the watery rocks below the tall keep.

 

His wife's ebon vanity, a relic from that God-forsaken Illatian town across the Langkette, sat in the far corner of his comital room. Though her family’s signet was carved into its side, it was seldom ever used by the Lady of Newcastle, for her Lordly-Husband had made better use of it, its polished counter cluttered with perfumes and tinctures of all the shades of the setting sun, each piece was a ceremonial part of the Lord Dover’s morning rituals.

 

The routines continued well into the afternoon: a walk around the gardens, reading the local paper, and high noon tea, which was interrupted by a rather charming servant boy of Newcastle who not only brought tea but news from Elizabeth, as well. George was rather content with his life at his Alban estate, the hours filled with gossip he entertained from the word of his staff who meandered about St. Godwin’s Square in search of a passing insult or secret admiration. Today's interest brought word that the Archduchess, the fat oaf she was, deigned to grace the people with her presence despite her rarely climbing down from the steps of the great tower of Morvelyn to frequent the commons. “By his side?” He quipped to the boy, waving him away with the paper in hand. Bah, another trip to his vanity would assuage any concern that he had lost his charm.

. . .

 

“My Prince! Princess!” Spoke the Chancellor to the group that flocked around the Princely couple in Saint Godwin’s Square, “Young Lord Dover.” Responded the Archduchess with a faint grin taking form upon her aged visage. He blushed, but could not say the same in turn, instead he set his azure gaze on the Archduke. “Edward, mine créme seems to be working wonders for thee, thou dost look magnificent.” Positioning himself in between the pair, his rouged cheeks lifted in a smile that bordered on performance. He moved with the self-assurance of a man who had been adored by his city for so long that he had forgotten any other way of walking. Children ran past him with miniature flags, courtiers whispered in the shadows of the arcades, and peasants grinned toothlessly at the sight of their lords descending to earth. Amongst them was a certain traveller from the east, Sophia, draped in an aquamarine gown and curiosity. She, having arrived in Alba with her boots still dusty from the eastern hills, lingered at the periphery of the gathering, her gaze keen.

“How long have you been Chancellor of Alba?” She asked. George turned toward her, pausing to lift the hem of his glove with delicacy. He regarded her not as a stranger, but as a spectator to his pageant. “Three decades.” he replied, in a voice unhurried, “Since Alba’s conception. I was there when the ink dried ‘pon her first decree. I chose the shade of her first standard. I named her roads ‘pon the map before they were ever traversed.” Sophia tilted her head. “And shall you serve her another three?” He smiled, but it was a wistful thing, more sigh than grin. “Mine time on this plane wanes.” He said, folding his hands behind his back. “But I shall linger long enough to ensure her soul survives mine.”

Mounting his Alban Thoroughbred, aptly named, High Horse, George joined the Alban entourage bound for the festival fields. The stallion’s proud canter carried him across the meadow while pennants snapped in warm wind. He dismounted beside a sunshade where Mirabel von Berkhoven awaited, samples of Waldenic honey filling a basket that clung to her side. “Mistress Mirabel.” he greeted, accepting the gift. Mirabel’s eyes sparkled. “Clemens and I would court, with your blessing.” The Aldersberg elder inclined his head. “I shall ponder it.” Another alliance, he mused, a child sprung from Clemens, Lord Marshal of Alba, and Mirabel, daughter to the Imperial Lord Marshal, might command armies worthy of legend.

Then a trumpet flared. Archduke Edward, velvet cloak tossed rakishly, called out in a voice that carried to every ear. It was the kind of jest that bore teeth. George, too vain to decline and too shrewd to appear afraid, gave a grin that belonged on the stage. High Horse was led to a groom and the Chancellor stripped to linen sleeves. When the steward’s ribbon fell the racers dashed forward, bare-legged through ooze and straw. George slipped, shoved a gawking child out of his path, then found his stride. Mud sprayed his silk-lined stockings, yet he laughed like a boy. By the third lap he felt more alive than at any council meeting. He staggered across the finish first, robes plastered to his frame, arms raised towards the onlookers

The audience cheered, made remarks, and Edward announced “I shall fetch thy prize.” Hands planted on his knees, George breathed hard, letting the world spin back into place. Minutes crawled. Sweat cooled. At length he straightened and called to those gathered, “Where is mine prize?” Uttered he, then, as if were a consequence of his impatience, from the direction of Elizabeth’s eastern gate, a single cry of distress cleaved the summer air, unmistakably the Archduke's.

George did not hesitate. Still smeared with grime, he ran to Elizabeth, rallied the guards and townsfolk alike, and in the marketplace donned full armor of bright steel. Gedeon, a breathless participant of the mud race, reported that a brigand had dragged the Archduke toward the ruins of Stran that brooded just beyond the city walls. Fifteen hundred volunteers mustered, led by Clemens, proudly donning his newly acquired lilac sash. Together they swiftly marched down King’s Road.

Twilight deepened as they entered the square of Sran. A lone crow croaked from a shattered belfry. Before the Chapel, torches revealed a formation of bandits with Edward bound to a tree growing from the chancel within. Their leader stepped forward. “We demand three thousand mina for the safe return of your Archduke.” Clemens’s reply rang like struck iron. “Thou shalt have blood instead.”

Steel sang. The combined Alban, Stirlandic, Urguani, and Imperial forces surged. His mind was a frenzy, hundreds of voices shouting at once, drowning out the sole thought that sank deep within his stomach. Am I too late? His lips parted to call out to Edward, but, High Horse, the great steed beneath George, with a mind of her very own, pranced into the fray. As soon as his mind gripped reality once more, his gauntleted hands tightened upon the leather reins of his mount. A new reality had been thrust upon him. From the chapel steps a spear hurtled downward and struck the charger square in the breast. High Horse shrieked once, toppled, and with it, its rider. 

In the muck lay the Lord Chancellor, breastplate dented, and sword driven absurdly through the back of his chainmail skirt. Horses skirted past him, men clambered around him, his own mind urged him to get up and fight, but no call made by his brain would be heard by his body. “HELP.” he cried, voice thin and avian. Blood pooled in careful symmetry beneath him. With a trembling hand, the aged Lord Chancellor used what little strength within him to slowly, ceremoniously, remove his helm from his brow, revealing a face ghastly pale, highlighting the rouge he had applied earlier that morn. His azure gaze fixated on the aide rushing over to help. "Save Edward." He called out shakily before the swift, merciless stroke from the brigand came. His head was cast from his shoulders, the silver livery chain of the Chancellery falling uselessly to the earth beside him. 

No trumpet sounded, only the hush of wind through shattered rafters and the distant lapping of the Leone far below.

[DuhPuhWuh 1282]

The newly appointed 2nd Earl of Dover, George the Younger, sat within the confines of Newcastle. He was watching over his newborn George Edward, a sense of overprotectiveness overcame him. The loss of his dearest Father had dealt a blow. Though the Count kept appearances publicly, the grief was overwhelming at times.

 

As one soul left for the skies so came another to replace it. A George for a George…

[ErosTea 1084]

Word had reached the Prince of Alstion atop Morvelyn, that the head of his closest confidant had been cut clean from his body. While captured, he had thought of George, a faint whisper of the Aldersberg's sweet lilt that comforted him in his distress.  "George?" His lips tightened then, the finality of his death hitting him all at once. His chambers quickly became a flurry of strewn letters and thrown objects, and when all had been tossed astray, he wept quietly within his halls, which echoed every cry out to the Heavens.

[FireAGN 1207]

Malcolm sat quietly and cried in his house after hearing the news of George's passing. When he first met George, he was 10 or 11, visiting Falcon's Rest in the Holy States, where Edward and his followers were living before the Bloody Diet, and long before Alba. Malcolm first viewed him as simply an arrogant guard, but later came to see him as a gentle mentor and friend. It was under his and Edward's tutelage that Malcolm was well educated in his teen years, as a ward sent to live in Alba. Later, Malcolm decided to move home to Balian instead of staying on and becoming George's Vice-Chancellor, a decision that changed the trajectory of his life forever. Even though Malcolm hadn't been his pupil in a long time, he still considered George a real father figure. After processing the news, Malcolm would send flowers to the Earl of Dover, Archduke of Alba, and Count of Osterland, knowing they were grieving more than he.

[Phoebe202 1057]

Fiorenza wept.

[valecu 2128]

It was an another boring and unfateful day when she got an order to toll the bells, yet grief and sorrow struck her once she realised that the deceased was her brotherly sibling who was now gone, one with the Creator. The Mother Alexandra violently activated the mechanism and the metal met each other hundreds of times, loudly. 

[Olox_ 4318]

Friedrich of Merryweather covered his visage with his palm at the news of George's passing "You have always understood my internal struggles and never turned your back on me, may merciful God grant you eternal rest. Ruhe in Frieden, Kanzler." The Alstreim said before heading to the nearby Reinmaren chaple in order to light a candle for the late Aldersberg