A GOOD DAY

[Pureimp10 5691]

A GOOD DAY

 

Spoiler

 

---

 

“Good day to die.”

 

The southern wind gently caressed Duncan’s face as he turned to his side. “What?”

 

“Good weather, clear sky, fertile land, this,” the sergeant coolly continued. The man seemed like a veteran; his armor did not appear new and dappled across it were dents where steel had struck it. “If I had to pick a spot, this’d be it. Perhaps a tree would sprout from me.”

 

Duncan could do little more than blink at the man’s words as he reached down to pat and calm his horse beneath him. “Ye should know better than tha’, lad. It’s bad luck to speak o’ death before a battle. Scares the horses, ‘n a scared horse brings death to its rider.”

 

“You northerners and your superstitions,” the man scoffed as he urged his own horse forward. “You could do with a bit of humor, old man. Not every old wives’ tale has a lesson.”

 

The Baruch did not respond, watching silently as the sergeant rode away. He was superstitious - he couldn’t deny that. He’d made sure to pin white heather to his chest for good luck, and whenever he walked past the hospital tent he scratched his jewels to pass a little fortune to those being treated inside. He never taunted Death, remembering well how his friend Dmitry once claimed no “enemy” could kill him, only to be found stabbed in the back by a “friend”.

 

He was old too; there was no hiding the toll time had taken on his body. His once-thick brown hair had grown thin and white, his forehead broader than it had been in his youth. His hearing had dulled, and his fingers ached when he held a sword too long. Sigismund’s mark - crow’s feet as the southerners called it - spread from the corners of his eyes, joining the many other wrinkles that lined his face.

 

Eighty years, he thought to himself as the wind dandled his few remaining hairs. Nearly three times what Karl got. I wonder what he’d have looked like if he got to this age.

 

His thoughts of his old king were quickly cut short as the war horns sounded through the Imperial lines, men shouted orders and boots thundered across the grass below. Darren - his oldest comrade and captain of his guard - pointed with an armored gauntlet out to the golden field before them. “There, yer grace. Th’ dwarves are advancin’. Seems th’ time has come.”

 

Duncan nodded; there was little use for words at this point. He glanced at the faces of his men - cold, unamused, veterans of many battles and sieges - and to his son, Duncan ‘the Younger’. He had not been the father the boy deserved in his youth, yet he quietly hoped the years ahead  would grant him a chance for atonement. In silence he slipped his helmet upon his head and brought his visor down. The wind rose suddenly, pushing back against him and through the slit in his helmet as it cut across the field, tugging faintly at his armor.

 

“Best get to it, then.”

 

---

 

 

The battle was quick.

 

An imperial victory was never in doubt - the dwarves had neither the manpower nor the equipment for a winning defense - but the proximity to their capital made them fight all the harder. An unexpected rain had turned the field to mud, softening the imperial charge and drawing out the melee. The mire did little to change the day’s outcome however, and the imperials still took the ground. Engineers set to work near instantly, ordering nearby trees felled for trebuchets and battleworks dug for the cannons. 

 

Distants blasts echoed through the camp as Darren guided a limping Duncan back to his tent, but the old man’s thoughts were not on the bombardment. “Ah loved tha’ damn horse, Darren.” Duncan grunted with each word, his boot sloshing with each step in the mud that the pair took. “Sigismund curse the dwarf tha’ killed ‘er.”

 

“They had t’ kill it, yer grace. Bringin’ ye down t’ their height was the only way the bastards could try t’ kill ye.” The old man chuckled softly at that, as much as his aching ribs would allow. A lucky pikeman had stuck his horse in the muddy brawl and brought the Duke low, the weight of his armor and the force of the fall bruising his chest and arms and trapping him in the mud. He shuddered as he remembered how close he’d come to death and tried to push the memory aside.

 

“‘ere we are, yer grace.” Darren lowered his voice as they reached the tent, where a servant stood ready to doff the Baruch’s armor. “Ah’ll go check on the other men, but ah didnae see any o’ them fall.” He lingered near the entrance as the servant struggled with the buckles on Duncan’s armor. “Dinnae be so rough lad, er ye’ll rip the lord’s arm off,” Darren snapped. Startled, the servant jerked his hands away and abruptly removed Duncan’s pauldron from his shoulder.

A grunt escaped Duncan’s lips as a small steel-tipped shaft struck the floor with a dull thump. The servant picked up it then - a half-broken quarrel, most of its wooden length snapped off, leaving only the sharp head that had lodged itself in Duncan. Of course the halfmen use half a bolt. There was little time to inspect the projectile. Blood began to flow from the hole in his underarm and stained the grass below.

 

The calm of the tent shattered at once. “Yer grace! Ah’ll fetch a physician, ye run ‘n fetch Lord Duncan - the younger!” Darren and the servant shouted over one another as they rushed out of the tent, nearly slipping in the mud outside in their haste. Duncan, meanwhile, brought his hand against the wound as best he could, though his breastplate made the motion awkward, and he could not remove it alone.

 

He sank slowly onto his straw mattress with quiet acceptance, keeping his hand clamped over the wound in a vain attempt to hold in his life's blood. You old fool. He hadn’t felt the bolt when it struck him, and the pain had now dulled to something distant. Outside, the boom of the cannons rolled across the fields like thunder, reminding him of the rainy hills of his home. His blood quenched the thirst of the grass beneath him, spared the rain until now by the shelter of the tent.

 

His mind wandered, as though it knew the path ahead better than he did. He thought first of his sons, Amos and Hamish, how happy he’d been at their birth. Hamish was the first, with his fiery red hair; then came Amos with his dark spruce-brown locks. Duncan remembered how he held them, one babe in each arm, how he sang to them in their youth when thunder frightened them in the night. He thought of the last time he had seen them before coming south, and how he would not see them again.

 

Next came his namesake and heir, Duncan. He thought of his son’s birth and how near it had come to killing his mother. He thought of the lad’s wedding day, nearly ruined by his arriving drunk. A faint chuckle escaped his pallid lips then, costing him a trickle of blood. He’d seen the boy become a man and, more recently, a father. He thought of his daughter-in-law Constantina, whom he had come to see as his own daughter. The poor woman carried many burdens; he hoped he had done something, at least once, to ease them.

 

His thoughts drifted to his grandchildren - Garen the beast, Henry the gentleman, and Duncan the glutton, third of his name. Then to the youngest, little Brianna, whose golden hair he’d grown to love. With the last of his breath, he whispered a quiet prayer for their wellbeing. His vision dimmed. His breaths grew shallow and close together. His hands and legs felt numb. Somewhere outside the tent, he could faintly hear the sound of a lute being played, and of soldiers laughing and dancing to celebrate their victory.

 

A good day after all.

 

---

 

REQUIESCAT IN PACE

Duke Duncan Eirik Baruch

1992 - 2072

 

 

 

[Cheese 8874]

 

Within the Castle Barden, one Constantina waited for the return of Valwyck’s levies. She was not particularly unhappy about missing the battle–she had never been particularly martial, after all. But when the Grey Guard returned, instead of cheers of victory, they greeted the woman with solemnity. She looked between them, confused. “What has you all looking like that?” She asked sharply. “Do not tell me we have lost a battle against the half men.”

 

One particularly unlucky soldier approached her, and fell to a knee, which only confused the Lady more. But then it came. “...Your Grace.” The unfamiliar addressment caused Constantina’s stomach to drop. No, she thought, it can’t be– “The Elder Lord Duncan did not return.”

 

Everything crashed. Constantina’s face lost all color. A man of such great martial renown, slain in battle? Gone? Impossible! 

 

Duncan, even in the few years Constantina truly knew him, had grown to be more of a father to her than her own. He was warm, he had welcomed her. He gave her a voice when she believed she had none–given her the family she had been robbed of in childhood.

 

Words didn’t come, but neither did tears. Constantina’s grief was stoic, and it was silent. Duncan would never meet his fifth grandchild now, the one he wished for so desperately. Would he have Margrait to keep him company in the Skies? Was Constantina ready for the weight of being Valwyck’s next Consort? How was she supposed to plan a funeral? Did the Sigismundites have different traditions?

A hand rose to her mouth; suppressing a sudden bout of nausea. She was quick to turn to storm through the rest of the castle halls. She hated this feeling–the bad one that she could hardly name. But what else could it be, save for the awful sadness that accompanied the death of a family she was so close to accepting?

Spoiler

Thank you so so much for being such a great head of house kevin <3 i will miss my favorite bald scottish man

 

[iSmooch 124]

Darren returns to the tent to see the slumped Duke, a field medic in tow. The greyguard reaches out to the shoulder of his liege lord, "We've returned yer gra. .", his words stopped short, for as soon as his fingers made contact with the shoulder, the duke began to fall.

 

Darren quickly fell to catch the weight of the man and prevent him from hitting the floor. "Don' jus' stand there! Bloodeh 'elp 'im!" Darren would shout to the medic, who then hurriedly joined to aid. Together they laid the man flat and the medic began tending to the wounds. It was then Darren saw the old man's graying green eyes. Distant. Empty. He knew before the physician told him. He's not even sure if he ever heard the words. 

 

"Eh great man 'as died. . ."

[kuerbis 3802]

Valentiná of Asturias spoke a prayer for the late Duke that night. To her husband, she simply commented, "Our champion has left for the Skies." @pkdon

[MotherLay 926]

Briana Aileen Baruch has not yet developed object permanence- did her grandfather ever actually exist?

 

Anastasya Galahar sighs, "I guess I'll have to find someone else to introduce me to people."

[Sir_omni 151]

High in heaven a old friend greeted Duncan” ye took yer time lad” he chuckeld” but tell me what happened after I bitten into te grass” angus Mac reed then took Duncan into a hug “ hope ye didn’t miss me”

[Riot 743]

Dorin Starbreaker and a Sanguine Archer stood at the top of the mountains watching as Men were thrown off the hills, their vollies of arrows would reach a few men at the bottom climbing their way up the slippery hill.

 

The battle was chaotic and the dwarven numbers fell fast.

 

He would watch as a bolt hit the elderly human before listening to his brothers in arms holding off the fight as long as possible.

 

He would look out to the field seeing many dead from both sides. As the dwarves were getting overrun he would begin ushering his men back down the hill and back into the Grand Kingdoms caverns.

 

Shutting the gates behind them.

 

The men on both sides had fought with the end of the war nearby on their minds. 

 

"Prepaire teh golems! Arm teh ballista! Shut the focken gates." 

 

Dorin nervously looked around. Taking a final peak thru the gates as he climbed down the ladders and dragging dwarves orcs and elves back into the clinic. 

 

This would not be easy but the dwarves would indeed fight to their last breath.

 

Spoiler

Fire post btw

 

[garentoft 9265]

Duncan (who apparently were a glutton according to his grandfather) William Baruch excitedly ran down from Castle Barden, to approach the returning soldiers of Tarnavon. He had hoped that his grandfather would, when he were older, take to teaching him how to use a lance and a sword. "Grandpa? Grandpa?" He called as he scurried through the Ayrikiv, though he were unable to find him.

When he was delivered the news, likely by his parents, he was inconsolable for over a week. If Duncan the Elder were not there to teach him how, how Duncan the Youngest ever amount to anything?

Though the tides changed, Duncan the Elder were no more, Duncan the Younger were now the Elder, and Duncan the Youngest? He became William.