T I M E
The 4th of Harren's Folly 1862 It was nearing the aged Viscount’s 85th name day. It has been ever more apparent to the man that death was creeping slowly towards his door. As one of the last members of the ISA’s old guard the Major had bore witness to the ever fleeting numbers of his original comrades. The men who developed the man into his final state were long, long gone and the world around him has all but left him behind in the wake of radical change. The elderly man most commonly found refuge in the company of his ever growing family. Finding hermitage within the upper wings of his estate it had appeared the Major had grown far-distant from his men in the Helena Dragoons, distanced and subject to his own isolation the Major was clearly not what he once was. A shell of his former self, a near mockery of the man who he was in his prime. As a victim of his elderly body he was no longer able to lead the charges that he once had. No longer was he able to do what he so very wished he could accomplish. The man was no doubt discontent with his existence.
Robert Galbraith, a man of solemn state of being, sat silently secluded, bound to his study within the Viscounty of Rivia. In a state of contemplation, conscious yet seemingly out of it. In this period of detachment, appearing to slip unnoticed, a figure, a shadow, an entity shifted between the backdrop of Rivian architecture. The Viscount continued staring blankly at the tasks before him, a staff Officer’s duty, all he could interpret of the dense military notes and movements were mere markings upon paper. They meant nothing to him anymore. Time had not been kind to the peer. In this atmosphere of silent contemplation the shadow neared, closer and closer it crept. The elderly Major, unaware, confined to his own bubble of thought and perception. Slowly but surely death seemed to near, moving betwixt the towering walls of bookcases scattered uniformly across the room. Many books have fallen into disrepair as a result of either complete lack of use or perhaps reading of a more thorough nature. The candlelight dimmed for a moment in the already murky room, it was nearing midnight and the aged man had failed to catch any sleep thus far. Searching for nothing but the time he had already wasted in his life the Major continued, flicking through page after page, though he read nothing.
It was most apparent now that death was creeping closer and closer to the Viscount with every second he wasted. Time was not on his side. Memories of his now distant past haunted him, like ravaging specters they would not leave the Major alone. The very men who once populated the Major’s most prosperous Brigade were long gone, the Crowly twins, the Ein Sark boys, Ezekiel Moores, Samuel Gendik, Josephus, Kelhus Othaman, Josef Var Ruthern, Mata Leslie, Tristan Pedriz, Leon D’Azor, Edwin De Sarkozy, Arthur Galbraith, Mika Uialben; these are the names the aged Officer would never forget. The death of Elizabeth Raven never failed to doom the elderly man to a bout of sorrow whenever the memory pierced his consciousness. It was now when a cacophony of these so distant memories assaulted the Major, once more binding him to the very chair in which he sat, to the despondency he secluded himself to.
It was self-evident now that death was upon the Major, there was no escape. The figure had neared. The shadow of damnation peered down the Viscount’s neck. It was too late to act now, the Major stood and turned only to face a dagger to the gut. Twisting and turning before plunging it once more into the elderly man the shadow hacked away at Robert, soon he fell, though there was no blood to be seen. The Major grasping at his chest in his final moments did not speak a word, the Viscount simply laid silent upon the floor of his study.
In an act of sheer mockery, the aged man had lived. Gasping for air, awaking from a period of comatosis, the Viscount lay in a slump against the bookshelf behind him. As soon as Robert had shown an inkling of acceptance of death he was robbed of his perceived tranquillity of such a certainty. He had been derided by death.
At the crack of dawn the next morning the elderly man mounted his steed for a final time. Linking up with a small retinue of men with the objective of disruption. First he rode to the narrow passes of Urguan, setting up a checkpoint upon a gap on the ever winding road to their Capital. Not a soul was found. With the expected blow to morale that such a lack of combat may bring harrowing above the Viscount’s head he carried on. Onto the snowy wilderness of the Haenseti Northern frontier. Heading South from the snowy peaks of Rimveld the Major trekked Southwards to the Capital. Once More not a soul to be found.
After countless hours of searching the barren lands surrounding Karosgrad the Officer finally spotted a target. Alongside one of his trusted Scouts they narrowed in on the individual. The call to Halt and subsequent clashing ensued, the sound of steel upon steel rang out in the surrounding hills for a skirmish had begun between the men. Driving the Haenseti back to their keep the Rivian men followed, the Major in an action of sheer arrogance and pomposity, charged alone unto the breach. It was here where the trap was sprung. A loud metal clang rang out into the Major’s ear. The door behind him had been sealed shut. The elderly man had no other choice than to engage the much younger Haeseti in a duel. Longsword crashed against war axe as the two men fought for their lives. In what seemed like a flash of the moment the Major managed to manoeuvre behind the Haeseti combatant slashing rapidly against the man’s armour. As the Viscount moved to make what he thought would be the killing blow he collapsed. The elderly man was struck with the blunt edge of the war axe falling to the floor unconscious. His men watched in horror as Haeseti poured into the area seemingly out of nowhere to aid their Lord Marshall and transport the unconscious Major to Karosgrad.
The Major awoke to find himself in a foreign place surrounded by foreign people. To him they spoke an indistinguishable barbaric tongue in which he could barely decipher; he was in a Haenseti court. Unable to move anything but his elbows, the man sat in silence awaiting the arrival of his grandson, Nikolai Vladislav Othaman. After what seemingly appeared to be hours of waiting he finally arrived, and the trial had begun. Unwilling to allow for what would amount to a mockery of justice to occur the elderly man swiped the dagger off of his grandson’s belt and to the boy's horror plunged it deep into his own throat. An expression of utter disappointment played across the Viscount’s face as he locked eyes with his grandson. Spluttering upon a fast growing pool of blood which found itself filling the Major’s throat the elderly man fell to the floor. Seemingly death had finally allowed the man respite.
The Viscomital Household of Galbraith is saddened to announce the death of it's 1st Viscount and 3rd Patriarch, Sir Robert Galbraith, Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Lion.
The 1st Viscount shall be held in the highest honour by his close family and friends and his ashes shall be placed within the family crypt in Rivia. His oldest son and heir Philip Galbraith shall assume the title of Viscount of Rivia and Patriarch of Galbraith and be named 2nd Viscount of Rivia and 4th Patriarch of the Galbraith Family with his son George Octavius being the new Viscount's heir as right by the oldest son.
Signed, Philip Rupert Archibald Galbraith
Viscount of Rivia
Patriarch of House Galbraith
Deputy - Secretary of the Foreign Office
Viscount Rivia Robert Galbraith 1778- 1862