Radzig

"The Empire falls not through force, but through the right moves. . ." Johann explains, stroking his chin.

Down the slope of Mont Collier he rode with the Östlunders at his flank, the earth trembling beneath the thunder of hooves. The rout had already begun, men breaking, casting aside what little order they held, their cries lost to the wind and the iron roar behind them. Johann leaned forward in the saddle, gauntleted hand tight upon the reins, the other lowering his lance. His destrier surged beneath him, foam at the bit. Ahead, a man stumbled, turning once, wide-eyed, as if to plead, or curse, or pray. He bore a rough gambeson, matted hair, and by the looks of it he was no older than sixteen. The lance struck true. The force of it carried through bone and cloth alike, hurling the boy from his feet and into the dirt where he lay still. Johann wrenched the shaft free as he passed, already turning his gaze upon the next. To his right, an Östlunder rider brought his steed crashing into two fleeing figures, scattering them like chaff. To his left, another cast a spear into a man’s back, sending him sprawling face-first down the incline. "Drive them!" Johann called. "Let none break past the hill!" At last, as the final straggler fell beneath Östlunder and Alban steel, Johann drew his horse to a halt. The beast stamped and snorted beneath him, streaked with sweat and blood. Then, without a word, Johann von Preussens turned his steed and rode back to the host.

George hauled the porcelain vessel through the mud of the road, his boots sinking into the tracks his father’s carriage had once smoothed over. He felt small beneath the towering oaks of the estate, a pale shadow following the ghost of a giant. He reached the family crypt and set the urn upon the cold stone plinth. Now, even in death, the old man seemed to loom over him from the ashes. George stood in the damp silence of the tomb, his hands stained with the grit of the road, knowing that while he had brought the Chancellor home, he would never truly fill the void his death left behind.

G eorge, distinguished from the elder and younger by stature alone, signed upon himself, a sigh of relief marking the end George William's arrival. His prayers had been answered and a lordling was soon to survey the halls of Highbury.

G eorge folded the missive carefully, smoothing the crease with his thumb, and let his gaze drift over the hall where it had been read. He smiled, straightened his posture, and tucked the letter away, already aware that what had been written was instruction for a life about to begin.

Geoffrey did not flinch when Roger fell, nor when the Imperials jeered, for he knew that to weep was to give them mastery over his spirit. “I will not forget,” he murmured, low enough that only the night heard him. “Not him, nor what was done."

“If God wills Drusco to suffer, then let us bear the lash. If He wills us to triumph, then let us not grow proud in victory.” With that, Geoffrey pressed his palm against the seal of the Empire, feeling the wax crumble faintly beneath his skin.

The dawn spilled its red across the horizon, a color not unlike the memory of blood upon the field. In that moment Geoffrey did not speak, only watched, as if the young heir might find an answer in the rising light cast upon a waning continent.

He sat alone in the upper fields where the grass grew tall and stiff, overlooking the black silhouette of Waldemer. His knees were drawn up, his cloak tight around his frame, though he did not feel the cold. The upper fields were where the boys played at swords, where they'd fled chores and spied on hunts, where Raymond had once pulled him from a hornet's nest. Raymond had lingered for a week, fevered and shrinking, the color drained from his face like dye from wet cloth. He had not spoken much, only breathed through his teeth and clutched the bedding in fits of pain. He thought of how the chamber had smelled, foul with sweat and the staleness of flesh not yet dead but already giving in. And then one morning, there was no breath at all. That shallow, wet hiss. That noise filled the night more than any wind. Raymond lay in the cellars now, wrapped in cloth, at least oilcloth the morning after the boy's passing. Geoffrey had stood there too long, mother in tow, staring down, the flicker of torches on his brother's face making it seem like he might shift or blink. He'd signed a two-barred cross, a rosary, at his chest. The ladder of de Rouen bore one less rung.

RP: Name: John of Balamena Age: 18 Race: Human Reason for Enlisting: Manifest Destiny Past Experience (if any): Wardship under Roger de Rouen OOC: MC Name: RadzigOP Discord Tag: radzig_2011

The road was choked by brittle thickets and the carcasses of once-rich olive trees, branches twisted against a still shining Balian sky. The scent of mud and charred timber clung to the morning mist, and beneath it, something fouler still. The distant silhouette of Balian’s walls was long behind him now. His horse’s hooves thudded against the earth, rhythm steady, though the animal’s ears flicked and nostrils flared as they neared the shallow ditch that bordered the road. John slowed, commanding an armored Pate, with a horse of his own, to do the same. Before him, the earth had been torn by war’s hand, an open wound in the land, half-filled with an assortment of men. Helms, tattered gambeson, and an amalgamation of fixtures acted as grave markers amid the heap of muddied faces. John sat in his saddle, watching. The wind stirred a loose standard caught upon a broken spear, its edge frayed to ribbons. "They chose defiance when we offered them absolution," he uttered, a hand wafting itself towards Pate, his tone doing little mask some brewing commiseration. Pate grunted a response. His gaze lingered on a boy half-submerged in the ditch, no older than sixteen. The boy's face was slack, one hand still grasping a dagger whose blade was dark with the inlay of the earth. John’s hand tightened around the reins. "GOD have mercy on the Arkents," he mused, his expression unreadable, at least from Pate's circumscribed perspective. "For none here shall."

Name: John Alstion Affiliation: Alba