Just One Man...

[SteelMarshall 190]

Night had fallen upon Kalos, covering all in the heavy cloak of darkness. On the human island, lights of all different shapes and sizes could be seen, from the steady glow of the torches at the White Rose encampment, which illuminated countless stabbed upon poles and thrust into the pit that surrounded the fort, to the roaring fires of the gazebo overlooking New Oren. One particularly bright light emanated from The Golden Carrot, the tavern. Many of the inhabitants of the human island came here at night; it was the main point of interest for many because of its homely atmosphere and kind staff, as well as the plethora of drinks and food, both of which were a luxury on this new frontier. All from the lowest of serfs to the High Treasurer himself had enjoyed the quaint place. Yet, this bar and inn, with its multitude of patrons, is not the setting of this story; rather, the hall that stood next to it was.

 

It was unfinished, which was made evident by the weak beams  of the full moon that filtered in. And, despite all the lights twinkling in Kalos that night, only one, small, stuttering flame illuminated the large hall. A candle, its wick enveloped by a small tongue of fire, stood on a table, casting a wavering light on the hall. The candlelight revealed a beautiful rug, made with hues of grey and black, and a spiral staircase, its steps made of the same smooth and cold stone that tiled the floor. Yet that was not all that the candle revealed.

                                                                                                

A man sat on the stairs, clutching in his hand an old, leather-bound book. He was reading the book intently, his eyes narrowed, the furrowing of his brow casting deep shadows upon his stern face. He wore a chainmail hauberk, the finely-wrought iron glinting in the scant lighting. The mail was partially covered by a tabard that cascaded downward, its edges almost reaching to the man's knees. The design it bore was new and unusual in the eyes of almost all who had set eyes upon it, for none had worn such a coat-of-arms in more than a century. The man's belt was laden with a coinpurse, a few waterskins, and several pouches for food. The hide belt also had looped to it a few oddities; An orc tusk, strands of what appeared to be dark elven hair, silvery and white, and a small bag; and no one but the man and The Creator knew what it contained.

                                                                                          

The man's face betrayed nothing, but just below the surface, chaos reigned. His mind swirled, as the dizzying amount of thoughts that flew fleeting through his head bombarded him with questions and doubts. So much had happened to the man recently, and here he sat, trying to make sense of it all. He had become an unoathed of the Order of the White Rose, back in Elysium. He finally had felt accepted in the close-knit brotherhood, felt he had belonged somewhere for the first time since his liege lord and friend Aedric Ulfhaedyn had died on the field of battle. And then, it had happened, so fast.

                                                                         

The man was a bastard, and he had never known his father, but had only heard whisperings of who he could be. He had never imagined their fateful meeting would be so sudden. When he had met the man who had brought him into the world, the very roots of his world were shaken. But this wouldn't be all. His father had revealed the history of his people, a once-mighty clan who had been held in the highest esteem in an age long past. His father, now old and wise, sought to live out his days wandering, and so had given to the man something that changed everything. He passed unto his son the leadership of their people, naming him the Ealdorman of the clan. The man had then been bade to go beg forgiveness of the people they had wronged, so many years ago.

 

 

Amluhan On'Tuathal, for that was the man's name, was brought back to the present by a scream in the tavern. He sat upright, the book held limply in his hand as he listened intently. The scream was followed by raucous laughter, and he slowly lowered himself to his previous position, convinced that it was just another drunk woman doing something she would regret come morning. He soon sank back into his thoughts, which engulfed him like a pond swallows a stone cast into it. He thought of the White Rose, and how they had forced him out once they had learned of his heritage, when they had learned he had went to Torrhen, and and pleaded forgiveness like a disloyal servant pleading his master for mercy. Thomas Chivay himself, when he learned that Amluhan had been made a chieftain and placed among the Adunian clans, had forced him to choose. One, or the other. Amluhan had chosen, though not fully, deciding to carry on the responsibility of the clan's future upon his shoulders while failing to cut ties with the Rose. He had made allies there, friends even, and was loath to leave them. Yet when he had returned, as he often did, to their fort, he had been threatened with his own death by the men garrisoned there. He remembered a young man, almost a boy, loading and pointing a crossbow at him, grinning with cruel satisfaction. Much had changed since that standoff, but that didn't mean Amluhan had forgotten.

 

"Why?" He asked himself. "Why do I still protect their name, seek their friendship?"

 

Yet he knew the answer. A small voice in his head, gnawing on the edge of his conscious, spoke, as it always did, the sad and brutal truth.

 

"Because they are just like you..." The voice said maliciously. "Except that you're even worse than them. You know what you did to those dark elves, under Aedric's rule. And you savored it."

 

No, that wasn't so, it couldn't be! He was a better man now; he had learned so much since then, his eyes opened to the evils he had committed.

 

"Look at yourself. You are pathetic. How do you expect to lead our clan to greatness when you cannot even stand up for yourself, against a sniveling teen with a crossbow he can barely use."

 

Amluhan shook his head as the voice rang out harshly, like a church bell marking news that someone had died. That someone... was his dignity, his pride, his passion, his wits!

 

 

"SILENCE!" He yelled aloud, the animals in the pasture outside looking about fearfully at his shout. The people in the tavern did not notice, too absorbed in their own petty grievances and pleasures, allowing their lives to play out like some cheap melodrama. But Amluhan shook this from his head, relieved to be free of his own thoughts, and his own harsh conscience. And, for a few moments, there was peace and quiet.

 

"Look at yourself." The voice repeated. "You can't even read."

 

 

Amluhan On'Tuathal flung the book, in a fit of fury, against the wall. Everything his conscience whispered was true, down to the last word. He knew only the most basic words in writing, and could barely string a sentence in a book together, let alone write one himself. He snatched the candle with a calloused and shaking hand, uncaring for the searing wax that burned his palm, an even greater fire than the candle's flame burning in the chieftain's hate-crazed eyes His face was wild with anger as he knelt down, preparing to set the tome alight. Suddenly, something caught his eye, something he could understand. A small paragraph, gilded in the gold lettering that was so rare and so prized by kings, nobles, and the highest of nobility, and framed by artwork that was beautiful in simplicity, sat in the middle of the very last page. It was extremely simple, as if written for a child, and Amluhan knew the words, understood them clear as the sun that would soon break over the hills.

 

 

 

 

"Written here is one of the oldest of tales,

 The most ancient of lessons.

  It tells of a man who was mocked by all,

Even his very kin. His own brother laughed at him,

And made him beg for his life.

 But the man was sharp-witted,

And he was unmatched in his unbreakable will,

His lust for power and respect that he so deserved.

And so the man waited, as his brother grew fat and content,

And soft from his life of luxury,

It took many, many nights, winters even.

But the man was patient, and waited

As his power slowly grew.

Until one day, when he rose the brother's servants against him,

And then he forced his brother to beg as he had once begged.

Then he had his brother hung, and took his wife and his lands.

None are safe for the price they must pay, as nothing is free.

And, most important of all... It takes but one man to change the world.

 

 

Amluhan looked up slowly, the candle dead, its wick smoking slowly. His face was as unyielding now as stone, sweat dripping from his long hair, and down his grizzled face. He touched the scar given to him the fateful day dark elf bandits had taken all that had mattered to him, and thrown him down to the lowest of places, to beg for his life. He looked out now as the sun broke upon the horizon, flowing into the hall and onto a new man. He stepped outside, fists clenched at his sides, new purpose flowing through him, his visage deadly in its surety. It did not matter how long it would take, or how many would fall because of it, but he vowed he would take by blood and sweat and sheer determination the power he deserved, the respect he commanded. For he had patience, and he would wait as long as he had to. For he knew what few else did.

 

Just one man could alter the course of history.

 

 

 

((Just the first part of a little series I thought I would write detailing my character's thoughts and conflict! Please don't use the information here to meta, and enjoy!))

 

 

 

[SteelMarshall 190]

((Also, to any wondering, the book Amluhan is reading will become an ingame work as soon as I get my hand on some ink sacs to write it!

[SkyyoBee 249]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.