A Sword For Monsters

[Esterlen 4499]

 

 

The evening had been long and restless. Within a dour, carved stone office sat two men, opposite each other, a thick desk adorned with leaflets of parchment and old scrolls parting them just barely. The man behind the desk, noticeably recognizable as the Lord Chancellor of Kaedrin, Hadrien de Sarkozy, removed his small round spectacles from his face methodically, placing them on the table, his hands steady and calm. The man sitting in the seat in front of it, a pale and grey figure possessing of a steely gaze and stony, one-eyed visage, observed him in silence as he spoke in soft and hushed tones. Standing up from his seat and clasping his gloved left hand around a particular writ bearing his wax seal, H.d.S, he walked around the desk as the other man rose to his feet.

Hadrien extended his right hand for the pale man to shake, the gesture being reciprocated quickly. His right hand gripping onto the visitor’s, he extended the writ for him to take. Swiftly, almost eagerly, the grey man took the parchment as Hadrien quickly leaned in closer in a kind of emotionless half-embrace, whispering something to him. They both gave nods of affirmation and the Lord Chancellor stepped back, beginning to move towards the door to his office as the intruder followed. Hadrien waved ever so slightly as the stranger left his office and Ard Kerrack.

Lingering in the doorway for a few moments, staring into space, Hadrien remembered.

He did not remember his childhood, nor his marriages, nor the birth of his children. That was all too cliché. He remembered those he would come to call friend - Velwyn, Thomas, Bran, Siegmund, Adeon, Jullius, Toveah, Bradislav, O'd'or. He remembered his nephew, Arjen, who had been as good a son to him as any. He privately hoped that the boy would mature to be a just, noble man.

He had begun as little more than an adolescent of seventeen seeking employment in a foreign land, Asulon. Back home he had little opportunity and even less respect - for nobody could respect the authority of a cuckold. He who could not govern his wife had gone as far as he could ever go in government, they would say. Hadrien was determined to prove them wrong, and Velwyn Ashford proved to be his saviour, inducting him into the Order of the White Rose as a political advisor and theorist.

There he met his lord and dearest friend, Thomas Chivay, who oft required his counsel on affairs of state. Back when he was young, he was a good shot with a crossbow, and would seldom go a day without going on an adventure with Adeon the half-caste. Both Velwyn and Thomas seemed to listen to him, to heed his honeyed words and act on them. That was a feeling Hadrien liked, and he wanted more of it.

He recalled when he had been made a noble, a simple baron under House Chivay. The day the Emperor sent out his approval of Hadrien’s rise to the peerage was a moment he was so very proud of, and one of the scarce incidents in which a genuine smile adorned his usually solemn or smug visage. His rise to power did not come without hindrances, no. Those who saw him as a snake and a liar were always prevalent, watching him and waiting for the moment of his weakness so they might strike him down from the side of his lord. But his innate competence as a statesman was well-documented and so the Emperor made him his Lord Privy Seal. He had even formed his own doctrines adhered to by an entire kingdom.

 

His failures had been many. A poor liege, a poor husband and an even worse father. But he had not failed Kaedrin, he thought to himself. He had always given his all for his country whether through diplomacy or dossiers, and the fatherland was all that he had cared for despite the fact of its perceived irredeemability. He wanted to save Kaedrin from the darkness. The dreams that the Creator had given him every night were not just a message but a prophecy. This apocalypse could no doubt be averted with his guidance, given that the correct changes were made. But he could not change it. No matter what he did, he could not change it. His eyes seemingly glazed over with despair at the mere thought, and he swiftly broke out into a sweat.

 

Hadrien de Sarkozy snapped out his trance, looking downwards to the wall where a gilded golden shortsword of middling size was leaning, hilted on the wall. A gift from Adeon - a ceremonial blade predominantly used for show. He fell to his knees slowly. Tracing the sign of the lorraine cross on his burgundy doublet, he began to pray aloud in the doorway, his voice quiet and solemn but calm.

“Lord,

 

I have not been as pious nor as faithful to You as I should have been throughout my life. I have often been about my business, serving great and noble men whether it be honorably or dishonorably. I shall not ask for forgiveness, for I know that for all that I have done, I deserve none. I have neglected my family and my people. I have sinned and betrayed You for the sake of my own profits, and for those of the realm. I have twisted Your holy words to serve my own causes, but worst of all I have failed Your command.

But I know that I am not an evil man. Evil men pray louder so as to attract Your attention and that of their peers. Evil men seek penance and do nothing but sin again, claiming that they are holier than I am.

I know myself for what I am, Lord, and I throw my soul into Your arms of salvation in the full knowledge that I am not worthy of it.”
 

Rising to his feet ever so slowly, his left arm shaking in anticipation, Hadrien glanced to the sword for another moment, grimacing at the sight of a small amount of the gold blade lying naked, protruding from the sheath. The grimace quickly became a sardonic smirk as he began to speak, his tone disdainful and cold.

“That sword...is for monsters.”

Hadrien de Sarkozy, Lord Chancellor of Kaedrin, Lord Norfolk, Baron of Aldersberg, grabbed his office door’s barred handle and pulled, the heavy door swinging shut.

 

 

((To clarify, this is not in fact a troll post, and Hadrien de Sarkozy is dead and permakilled. The next person that enters his office in Ard Kerrack will find his dead body sitting at his usual seat at his desk, his throat cut by a golden shortsword. The lord of 'House de Sarkozy' and of his various feudatories is now his son-in-law, Siegmund Carrion (As he had no living sons), who is also the sole executor of his will and the only individual in possession of it.

 

All who need official documents as to the matter of inheritance can ask Cracker or I.))

[Jarkarll 314]

Bran Volsung had been at work for the past few weeks, busy with the current state of Auvergne, helping strategise for the imminent battle against the dwarves, and he had been drafting a new set of laws for the great Kingdom of Kaedrin.

 

He held the fine vellum in front of him as he placed the quill back into its ink pot, nodding with affirmation he laid it down to dry. There had been so much on his mind in the recent weeks; all manner of things from Thomas' infirmity, the war, idiotic knights that don't even follow the code. It always came back to that some, some form of disappointment and it was mostly for petty reasons. The ink had a slight bluish hue, the vellum was a little wrinkled in the edge, someone had left his book open, and his studies made him weary from reading under candlelight. But he should be proud, he was a member of the glorious Order of the White Rose and a Lord of Kaedrin, there was nothing for him to be so concerned with, he was untouchable, absolutely no one could injure him in any shape or form.

 

The ink had finally set in, and the day was winding to an end, all he needed now was to have the Lord Chancellor's approval.

 

Gathering up the scroll and anything else he might need he headed toward Hadrien's office. Hadrien and him and been friends since Krak du Rhoswen, and that was where he had met him. Although most of his memories in Krak were regretful, he did find some memorable. Such as the time when he and Hadrien scorned Mordie for trying to steal one of his inventions. There was a great respect for him, and although some found Hadrien's advice to be nothing more but for his own gain, he was actually normally write on things. The thing he regretted the most was not taking his advice in Krak, and going through with possibly the most embarrassing thing he had ever done. But that was all in the past now and he liked to think he had atoned for that already, he was a fool before, but now he was different.

 

Finally reaching Hadrien's study he knocked on the door beckoning for Hadrien's response. After no response he opened the door.

 

He dropped the vellum and all his belongings. Bran had always been rather reserved and kept most things to himself, so he turned and closed the door. Bran paced toward the now deceased Hadrien de Sarkozy, with a wrinkle of his nose from the unbearable smell.

 

Bran felt something deep within him, a pang of something he had not felt in quite a while. He withdrew the bloodied sword and laid it on the table. Reaching into the frill of his coat he found a white handkerchief. Bran for once was unsure of what to do, so he wiped the blood off Hadrien's neck and sat him upright. Reluctantly he found a napkin on Hadrien's desk, and with as a woeful gesture he closed Hadrien's eyes and place the napkin over his face.

 

Bran gathered up his belongings and opened the door, walking out to announce to all that Hadrien de Sarkozy, his old friend had passed away.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Shortly after announcing the news Bran withdrew himself to his chambers and locked the door behind him. His friend had died and like the usual him, he wanted to be alone and grieve by himself.

[Leric 1097]

  Leric Tresery had been sitting out near the fountain at the front of Ard Kerrack by himself, staring out into the blue sky that day as it had been one of his only chances to rest due to the war. He snapped out of his day dream when Bran's announcement which soon turned the whole keep announcing the death of the Sarkozy. He emitted an expression of confusion when he heard of the shoutings of how he befell himself, wondering how a man such as Hadrien would end his own life. As he moved up to his room in his barracks, his memories flashed back to all the time's he argued with Hadrien, when they first met, they had hated each other in Lerics opinion. He sighed, knowing all of those arguments would've never happened if he wasn't an elf. 

 

   Though as time progressed they left Asulon and came to the lands of Anthos, Leric thought their friendship slightly improved, instead of being called 'Elf' or 'Tree plougher' Hadrien soon began to call Leric by his proper name. Leric smiled slightly at the thought of that, knowing that him and Hadrien hadn't ended their relationship in hating each other, but as simple 'acquaintances' in his own mind.

 

    He let out another sigh, going through the several White Rose tabard in his wardrobe until coming upon a nice piece of clothing, or what Leric thought was and began to fold it upon his desk to await when the time came for Hadrien's  funeral. He then sat upon his bed, twiddling his thumbs and looking at the many fine pieces of art he had placed in various places of his room, still recalling some of his encounters with Hadrien and chuckling at parts.

[wealthypiano 394]

Arjen de Sarkozy had, would, and planned to work like a dog for the organization he loved. He'd been in the same tower, the unoathed tower for almost the entire day, briefing classes, organizing wall patrols, organizing, and writing. The lack of assistants was a pain at times though the alone time it gave him was often a blessing in disguise.

 

The news came rather abruptly. Mere moments from his sleep there was a knock at the office door. The unoathed at the door had to go through Arjen's normal paranoid process and he was allowed entry into the large office. For a moment Arjen opened his mouth, merely for nothing to escape. He wanted to scold the unoathed for messing with him at first, even kill him as he began to think about it, but a larger realization came when he remembered that he'd not even spotted his uncle wandering about Ard Kerrack for a few days.

 

He ordered the unoathed out, screamed at him. It'd been a good long while since he was this angry. Various items around the room were thrown; tumbling down went chairs, his desk, even his precious drink table, which has a fresh bottle of ale on it. As the fermented liquids began to spill around the room, he was met with a recipe for disaster. He charged across the room to overturn his bed and rip it apart with whatever weapon he could find first. He slipped, tripped, and hit his head. As he began to tumble on the slippery surface, he tried to catch himself on the bed only to trip on that very object. He sent himself crashing down, knocking his head on one of the wooden panes in the room.

 

Arjen awoke a few hours later to some rain splashing in through the cloth which hung on the window. He had a large bump on his head and a good amount of pain as well. He was calm, however, and this much was well. He slowly sat up, crawling to his desk. He slowly opened one of the drawers. Within laid a pipe, gifted from an unoathed who was quite good at whittling; whether this man was alive or not, Arjen did not know.

 

Arjen stuffed whatever need be within, picked up his chair, and moved it to face window. He tore off all of the cloth in order to see the apparently incoming storm. He put the pipe to his lips, almost smiling as his eyes began to tear...

 

 

"Dominus Vobiscum uncle, may you rest in peace."

[Urahra 5780]

The faint silhouette of a woman flickers into visibility above Hadrien's corpse. Giving off a faint, hazy luminance - as pale and delicate as moonlight - she regards the body with the same cool indifference as she regarded most things.

 

She didn't tend to feel strongly about things. Not so much anymore, anyway.

 

"Hopefully, you will go to a different place than me, Hadrien," she mutters, her voice soft, distant - as if heard in a dream.

[calculusdesola 1658]

Vibius spits the brew of the morning everywhere, tossing diplomatic and ministerial documents everywhere.
 

The papers were thinned, burned in an alchemical approach on the sides to highlight certain pigments of text, pushed into his hands by one of the many royal privy's couriers.  The death note of a Sarkozy; his masters' death, one too recent for his own appointment.  Who would now head the Chancery?  Vibius' diplomatic successes had not reached the Lord Chancellor's ears, were it his now eternal sleep in stone to prevent the words of Kaedreni success from flowing into his ears.

 

Vibius leaned against one of the many columns of the massive stone chamber, sighing, his inner manliness deflating quickly as a forge press pump.  

[ACanadianCraft (Nate) 682]

The news reached Jullius, as most news does. In the form of a letter; Via bird delivery. As per his usual routine, as he heard the flapping of wings he reeled back his fist as he stood up from his desk. He turned to see the bird coming through the window, strait toward him. As it drew closer, he shot his fist forward, punching the creature square in the beak. The force of Jullius' fist colliding with the birds beak stunned it, and it was sent sprawling to the floor. Jullius' expression: indifferent.

With a contented sigh, he sat down at his desk. He disregarded the birds twitching form on the floor, and reached across his desk, and grabbing a letter opener made of brass. He promptly went about unsealing the letter, and scanning over it. As the letter informed his eyes, Jullius did what he usually did, and began talking to himself. He rolled his eyes in great annoyance as a grimace spread across his face, and waved his hand whimsily through the air in intense aggravation.

"Nyaaawh-- ****! Hadrien stabbed himself? Aeriels ****. What a melodramatic lump he has always been. Probably got it in his head that everyone was out to get him. And finally took his own life so as not to give them the satisfaction. Bloody fool!"

Jullius leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak loudly as he shifted his weight  He continued to regard his paper with an expression which suggested disdain  with a tinge of disappointment  Although these many years in service of The White Rose had made him incredibly jaded and callous  Hadrien had been there from the very start of his career.  The two had met when Jullius was brought on as a footmen by Velwyn Ashford. They were fast friends, sharing many of the same views, ranging from racist, to political. No memories in particular stood out in Jullius' memory concerning Hadrien. The two had gotten on fairly well. though to observers, it may have seemed as if they despised each other. When it came down to it, this may have been true. Hadrien was no doubt a far more skilled politician than Jullius, though success came easy to him, as he put little to no effort into it. And though Jullius was known for being a womanising bastard, Hadrien managed to marry Chrestienne Valois; a sentiment which Jullius was endlessly envious of.

Jullius ceased his chattering and looked up from the letter to see a woman in the door. One of the elven whores from earlier that week had been watching him. He imagined the scene must have been quite bizarre  watching Jullius chatter incessantly to the air around him, waving his hands about, with a dishevelled looking pigeon twitching on the floor.
"May I help you?"
Jullius asked. The scantily clad elven woman shrugged apathetically and said
"Jus' lookin'."
Jullius shrugged in return and turned his attention back to the letter waving her off.

The two of them were good friends. Though secretly, they hated one another. Though even more secretly, they were like brothers. Though even MORE secretly, they each thought themselves more intelligent then the other.

"I guess we'll never know..."






"...Just how much smarter than him I really was."

[Altiak 1648]

Jason sits within the the confines of his study, dipping his quill into the depths of an ink pot, and scribbling away on a piece of parchment. Then, a knock was heard from the entrance of Jason's manor. With a grunt escaping his lips, he rises from his seat, strolling down the stairs, and opening the ligneous door. A black-haired woman becomes apparent, her hand outstretched, as she offers Jason a sealed letter. Nodding in thanks, he dismisses the courier with a flick of his hand, shutting the door promptly. He proceeds to rips the envelope open, extracting the contents from it. His dark-brown eyes flicker across the parchment, scanning it over. As he concludes, Jason's eyes halt, widening, his mouth agape. He glances over the letter again, and again, in a state of shock.

 

Memories begin to run through his mind. He recalls the time, when he first encountered Hadrien, and regarded him as an intelligent, wise, and politically capable figure. A man who knew what he desired, striving to accomplish it, at any cost. He recollected the passion Hadrien had in his earlier days, bringing sense to even the most imbecilic of people. Jason had begun to respect the man, befriending him. He was granted an estate, as a result of the acquaintanceship. The estate that provided him comfortable living, and the mina that he had in his possession. Time passed by, as it always does, and Hadrien had bestowed the title of "Minister of Security" unto him, deeming his worthy to be a part of the Royal Chancery of Kaedrin. This occasion had been recent, occurring just a few days ago. Jason had made progress on the tasks he was given, eager to notify Hadrien of his progression. But now, it was too late, the statesman was now with the Creator, gone forever.

 

Jason blinks, grimacing, and sighing. Hefting up his chin, and stiffening his posture, he mutters a silent prayer, and traces the lorraine cross on his chest. He finally nods, speaking, "Farewell, Hadrien."

[Gunner 775]

Chet limps into the Dining hall, where all the men are discussing his death. Without hesitation, he jumps onto the table, raising his hands.

 

"Does this mean I take his spot?" He says, getting everyone's attention.

[Bashar al-Assad 120]

Edward greets Hadrien in the nether.

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It was a quiet day for the neglected younger nephew of Hadrien de Sarkozy. He sat in a lounge chair in the countryside of Auvergne listening to the birds chirp and watching the Auvergnian serfs prune the grape vines to make wine. He felt genuinely at peace at that moment. He looked up to to see the shining sun casting it's rays down upon the grape vines, the shadows dancing on the ground.

 

Then a squawk broke his peace, and the worst bird in the Kaedreni homing pigeon force flew down at him, smacking straight into the building whose shade was providing ample cover from the sun. He fell of his chair with the loud noise breaking the peace. He stares at the limp bird, gathering a stick to poke it. It lets another loud squawk before falling dead. He slowly and cautiously takes the letter from the bird's leg. He unrolls it and reads it very slowly.

 

"Mkay."
 

[Korth :-) 52]

Duncan is sat by the river when he hears the news. He ponders for a bit, until he starts grinning and looking up at the Krelmstad. Step after step, he ascends the staircase of the looming castle, and as he reaches the keep, he looks up at the throne, before running up yet more stairs, to the very top of the castle. He looks past the small town of Kralta, past the march of Raev, into the horizon where he can see the distant silhuette of Aldersberg. Duncan grins, as the borders of Raev would finally expand.

[Moot 1719]

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