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GoodGuyMatt
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THE QUEST OF LOST BALIAN
SpoilerPrevious Posts:
Part 1:
Part 2:
He found Reinmar just as he had left it. Birds chirped and the domestic animals performed their usual musical routine. The sun was still high up in the sky, white clouds dotting the atmosphere. It was warmer here too, much warmer than the northern capital. Yet, Leon felt cold. It was a cold that ran through his entire body. No. Through his entire existence. Still catching his breath from the long run, the lad sat on the wooden docks with a teary face. He’d stare into the distance, void of motion or words. His head was too occupied for him to do anything. Thoughts of guilt and shame engulfed him. “Knights don’t cry!” were his last concrete thoughts. The ones that ran through his mind now were a mess. He thought about his father and grandfather, both strong, brave men. He thought of the knights he had so imagined in his fantasies. Gallant and honorable, determined and unwavering. Tears didn’t fit these pictures at all, at least not in his mind. He could then see himself back in the Duma hall, crying and yelling, his face was that of a coward.
So long and hard was he thinking that he couldn’t hear the footsteps behind him. He only noticed the other’s presence once his shoulder was touched. This caught him off guard, and the lad jumped from his place with a yelp. Unlucky for him, he had jumped towards the lake in front of him, it wasn’t the most ideal situation. It was a moment of panic, and Leon was unable to do anything about it. The other’s hand reached for him then, tugging at his wrist just in time before he was too far gone. A familiar face appeared in front of Barclay as he turned his head to see both his frightener and savior. It was Johanna. With slight struggle, she pulled him back and onto dry land. It seemed she had chased him all the way from Karosgrad to comfort him. And so she did.
As they sat by the Reinmaren docks, the sun appeared to become progressively more intense. The few clouds that blocked it had dispersed, and the children’s faces were hit by slight heat waves, coupled with the northern breeze traveling down from the mountains nearby. So they discussed.
“Vur ok now. You can stop crying” she would gently pat the boy’s head comfortingly. A handkerchief was then pulled from her pockets. It was white as they got, and appeared exceptionally clean.
“En-entschuldigung” he said mid-sniffs, apologizing in Waldenian as he shook his head at the offered handkerchief “N-nein, es ist gut.” silence befell them, though Leon broke the silence soon after “Ritter weinen nicht.” Knights don’t cry, he added, taking yet another sniff, his skin still somewhat red from his weeping. His gaze traveled around the scenery. First towards the still lake below, then the wooden docks, the legs of which had been covered by moss, and lastly the clear blue sky above. He seemed to inspect just about everything, save for Johanna’s gaze. It was as if the shame he felt was visibly radiating around him.
“Hey. There's nie reason to be ashamed. Ea fall over all the time. Ea once fell off the chandelier at the keep. Badly sprained mea ankle.” replied the lass, her gaze following Leon’s as it jumped around the landscape.
Leon somehow asked if she had cried then, mostly using gestures and single words from Common to communicate. The Ludovar lass confirmed that she had indeed cried, and cried lots too. The heavy aura of shame and guilt began easing around Leon, he was put at ease somewhat, though then repeated what he had said before “Ritter weinen nicht.”
“Trust me Leon. Everyone cries. It’s human nature. Emotion.”
It took him a moment of processing, but he finally gave in and agreed. He smiled as he finally turned to Johanna with a nod. He felt at ease now, his mind wondering whether or not his father or grandfather cried. Even if they had, Leon had definitely not seen them. The rest of their time was filled with idle chatting, mostly so by Johanna as she’d carry the conversation, and Leon asking questions and trying to express himself through fingers and gestures. Time passed more quickly now, and before they knew it, the sun was nearing the horizon. It was time for them to part ways, and Leon opened his mouth, ready to say something. “Can we be friends?” he wanted to ask, but the words couldn’t escape him. He had no friends other than his younger brother, Herman. So, his mouth closed shut, unable to seek friendship. He huffed, and after greeting one another, the two cousins went about their separate ways.
Spoiler“Cling! Cling, cling, cling!” the air was filled with dark smoke, the smell of burning moss and seaweed spread around the small bridge. Steel clinged with steel to the right, and the crackling of fire emitted from the left. Leon was crouched up like a turtle protecting itself, his head lowered and his tears dripping on the oldened stone beneath him. He had not been injured, but his surroundings had overwhelmed it.
Four dark figures were positioned all around him. Three to his right and one to his left. The moon shone brightly, lighting up what would have otherwise been an area only lit by the still-burning flames engulfing the moss. He wasn’t in Reinmar, or in Karosgard. He was far from home, a place he had never seen before, a region he had never traveled to. Three of the four figures were covered in steel, and yielded steel. The fourth, even he was unsure what the fourth was covered in and yielded, but it was clearly putting up a fight. A dagger stood not far from him, resting on the ground unprotected, but no one was paying any attention to it. The figures covered in steel could perhaps hear him mumbling in Waldenian as he cried “Knights don’t cry, knights don’t cry.” Yet, he was down and crouched crying. But his words were true. None of the three soon-to-be-knights around him were crying. They were battling valiantly. The two dames, Marie Ruthern and Emelya Kortrevich fought the fourth figure to the right, whilst his father had just laid flame on the previously attacking tendrils of moss and seaweed. It was indeed rather chaotic.
Emil saw tongues of bright fire through the smoke. The seaweed had caught aflame properly at last, and in a few seconds, they became nothing but darkened ashes. Leon’s mind was elsewhere, he was unaware of the specifics of the ongoings, but he knew the knights would emerge victorious… they always did. After many curses, grunts, slashes and stabs, the noise surrounding the boy quietened down. His eyes opened, watery as ever, and he directed them towards the knights. The trio now stood above their enemy, a figure made of more moss and seaweed. It laid motionless.
“Lad, it's alright - it's over for now,” one of the dames called over, her voice was mature. Over her shoulder rested the hand of the other dame, the younger one, Emelya, as she was helped up after their struggles.
The younger Barclay sniffed as he raised his head up. He gritted his teeth, and with a deep breath, stood up without uttering a word. He reached for the fallen dagger and stared at it. His father was just in front of him, but Leon was unable to see him in the eyes. He had cowered and cried once more… What good of a knight could he become?
Emil was brief as ever, “Come on, then-” he murmured a few comforting words in Waldenian before ushering the boy forth with another sweep of his gaze towards the moss. Brief as he was, his father's words were warm, but his son’s youthful pride was violated once again.
He had followed them to show himself. Just the other day, he had found himself in Karosgrad, preparing to greet his questing father as he prepared to depart for his last trial before becoming a knight. Mindlessly determined as ever, Leon had to follow behind. What if his father needed help during the dangers? How else was he going to show himself as a knight? It was clear that he did not understand that he was only six years of age, his imagination and knightly fascination had become his entire existence.
So he followed, to a region unknown, trailing his father and his companions behind on his pony. He was young, but even those younger than him in the house of Barclay were introduced to the basics of horse riding. He had watched the knights from a distance approaching the ancient ruins of Lost Balian, a city half-emerged into the sea. The crumbling, eerie fort was the only standing monument nearby. The knights had begun their journey, climbing through the fallen houses surrounding the fort, and so had Leon. He had struggled greatly, his age was a terrible disadvantage, though his desire and resolve had him going. “I will be a knight” he thought “This is what knights do!”
The warriors of the kingdom had seen it before Leon. It was barely noticeable at first, but the moss and seaweed crawling around the ruins was moving. It didn’t take long before the magic had taken a rougher, more hostile stance. The plant wrapped around itself in a tendril, functioning as a whip to get a hold of the knights’ feet as they ventured atop what used to be residences of the people of Lost Balian. The sun was still visible, just above the horizon. Dusk was a few hours away. As the stalking young Barclay followed behind the struggling knights, it appeared that whoever was controlling the magic had little regard for him. Perhaps his size or look contrasted greatly with that of the tall, armored knights. He had only been whipped lightly by a tendril as he watched the knights fight against their own struggles with admiration. He ran away, losing sight of those he was stalking.
This proved to be an advantage. He was disregarded completely by whatever was controlling the moss, now free to explore around to his heart’s content. He first explored around the ruins, trying to find a way in. There appeared to be some potential entrances, though they were too far for him to climb. Round and about he went, before he found it, a formation of stone easy enough for him to climb, leading right to the palisades of the fortress. So he got to work, his feelings, which were a mix of fear, wanderlust, and duty had engulfed him entirely. His steps were uneasy, but confident; indifferent, but persistent. And so he climbed up, and finally saw a hole on the wall big enough for him to go through.
The persistent ruins of the fortress of Lost Balian stood in front of him. Carpets of moss had taken hold around the cobblestone floor of bailey. Yet, it didn’t seem to attack it, and so he ventured. He checked every corner and every tower in his proximity, though was unable to find anything useful. That’s when he saw the bridge, leading to the tall, main fort. As he was passing the bridge, his eyes caught a glimpse of black figures to his left. He turned, and looked down, just to see the knights struggling with even more seaweed. They had crossed the oldened ruins, now seemingly scouting around the castle.
One of them was being pulled down into the sand by the seaweed, whilst the other two had their own tendrils to worry about. It was hard for Leon to distinguish who was who, at this distance their armors all looked the same. Nevertheless, he remained hidden still, watching the handy knights at work as each of them fought with their planty aggressors. Slash, slash, slash. In no time they had gotten rid of the many tendrils surrounding them, but it was clear that wasn’t the last of what was to come.
“****-” cursed Emelya as she slid through the sand, coming to a stop as she raised herself to her feet once more. Beneath her helmet, her pupils dilated, the potion of acuity she had drank previously taking effect in through her veins, her reflexes heightening, “We need to get to higher ground!”At that, Leon glanced at the bridge’s surroundings. That’s when he noticed a slope leading straight to where the knights were. It seemed climbable, a way for them to reach inside the castle. Without hesitation, Leon decided to make his presence known, and let out a childish shout “Papa, up here!”
All of the knights were caught by surprise, their helmets turning towards Leon in synchronized motions. Their faces were hidden, but their body language alone seemed much too confused at what they had just heard, especially Emil. His heart dropped as Leon's voice rang out, his hidden expression one of terror as his eyes lighted upon the boy.
“Who the ****?” Marie’s muffled voice inquired to no one in particular. She was as shocked as any of her companions
“My- my son- he-” mumbled Emil as he stumbled. Clearly, his panic had overtaken any notion that what he was seeing was a magic trick.
“This is why yam niet having kids.” commented Emelya in frustration. Soon, the trio began making their way up the rocky slope leading to Leon. In turn, the lad would continue shouting in Waldenian for them to come, his voice ringing quite loudly. Unfortunately for him, the three Haeseni were not the only ones who had taken note of him. Behind him, yet another tendril formed, one which he did not notice until it was too late.
A single whip sound was heard as Leon was attacked by the splashing tendril, it was a hard hit, especially for a small child his size. It was the first time Barclay had ever felt like he was gone flying. He was launched straight towards the trio, who stumbled back, but got a hold of him. After making their way up to the bridge, with the child in tow, the group of the Haeseni had found themselves in the sticky situation above the bridge. Surrounded by a magic knight from one side, and attacking moss from the other.
The father-son duo focused on the sea of moss enclosing around them. Whip. Yet another tendril had wrapped itself around Emil’s left hand, as the senior Barclay attempted to grab his dagger with his free hand. The moss was quick at noticing, and sent yet another whip to immobilize him. As such unfolded before him, Leon clenched his teeth, adrenaline had begun rushing through his body ever since he was struck and sent flying some minutes ago. Without second thought, he launched towards the tendril attacking his father, successfully preventing it from immobilizing Emil, who made quick handiwork to cut it off, handing Leon the dagger soon after.
It was that same dagger that the Reinmaren lad stared at now. His eyes traveled between his father’s weapon and the downed magic knight, its posture composed of more moss, seaweed and tendrils. It was obvious to the Haeseni that this was the work of a druid, and so they proceeded forth. The deep dark of the night had settled in by now, and the area was only luminated by the reflecting moonlight. So to not waste any time, the group of the Haeseni made their way into the main building. The only visible entrance appeared to be a set of ladders leading up to the roofs. They climbed in one by one. Despite the age of the ruins, the quality of the ladders seemed to have persisted. Weird…
Once at the top, scaffoldings appeared in front of them, raised just to the sides of the roof. It was unclear whether it was always there, but it definitely wasn’t strong enough to hold the weight of the three fully-armored warriors. They had to go one by one, and so they did. As they went around the roofs, Leon had gone on his own once more, his mobility allowing him to see and move more easily than his companions. He began climbing the roofs, an activity somewhat familiar to him already. He had practiced lots of it atop the many roofs of Whileburg, even though he probably would not want his mother to be aware of it. Eventually, his climbing proved fruitful. He found a way to climb onto the window of a tower, and, upon inspection, he saw an opening leading straight into the building.
He called for the three to approach, and so they did. “Papa, can I go in? It’s easier for me” he requested as he eyed Emil. Indeed, the opening leading inside was rather small, and full of cobwebs. Either way, Leon wanted to be useful now, his previous weeping had caused him great shame, one that he had to repay. After consideration, he was allowed to go in, and so he did. Upon entering, he took a couple of zig zags, and finally found himself in a room. It was an aviary tower, some birds still flew around, and the place was surprisingly well kept, especially for some abandoned ruins.
“I am not telling Kaytlyn about this.” admitted Emil as he awaited for his son to report back.
“We're niet telling Kaytlyn about any of this.” responded Marie, the two of them seemed rather on the edge already, considering the previous fight, though in contrast, Leon was as enthusiastic as he’d ever been. He wanted to be useful, and this was his chance. With no armor on him, the lad had it easy to move around, and so he found some letters. The writing on them was foreign, nothing like any of the knights would’ve encountered, or likely anyone in Haense for that matter. As the young Barclay explored, Emelya had found another way into the room.
After handing the writing to the to-be Dame, Leon decided to push his usefulness, and perhaps even his luck, to another level. He went to explore on his own. The armored trio was left behind, having to figure out another way to get in. The young one amongst the group had used this opportunity to go further in. He passed rooms and halls, going lower and lower into the keep. Finally, he entered a particular room, bigger than any he had encountered before. To his surprise, lit chandeliers and torches provided proper lighting into what’d otherwise be a pitch black hall. Stairs led down to an open area, many paintings remained hung on the walls. He looked about, now completely on his own, the others were still some way off.
Then he heard it, from ahead, a narrow tendril of moss quietly - but quickly - whipped out from the shadows, going to wrap around Leon's neck. It had come out of the dark, but the lad had been quick on his feet. Despite going in alone and quickly, he had been cautious. His eyes caught a glimpse of the oncoming tendril before he pushed himself backwards. In turn, the green whip moved far quicker than the ones outside; as the young one moved, so too did it, tracking him as it continued to try and snare him.
Leon reached for the dagger his father had given him, trying to protect himself, his fear of the tendrils had escaped him. Perhaps watching them burnt so easily by his father had calmed his fear down. After all, he was here on a quest, he couldn’t back down. He swung the dagger in the most unkempt manner imaginable. It went left and right without aim, as if he was giving a last fighting attempt.
It struck him again, this time rather speedily. The whip had become much thinner, it bent around easily, whilst maintaining its strength composure. Had it hit the boy, he wouldn’t have made it out easily.The whip was cut down as soon as it launched itself from an attack… but it wasn’t Leon’s blade that had accomplished the task…
SpoilerLuckily for the lad, Emelya had been closer than the Barclay and Ruthern behind them. She peered from the railing down on Leon, and, as soon as the lad was about to be snared by the incoming attack, she had jumped valiantly to his defense. So she had succeeded. The end of the tendril fell to the ground right in front of Leon, devoid of any life or magic that was once controlling it.
Soon enough, the entire party had entered the large room and descended the stairs. The area around was maintained nicely, as if being used as a residence. Yet, thick cobwebs dotted the walls and corners, it was as if they were allowed to grow despite the hall’s otherwise orderly appearance. That’s when they saw it.
From the doorway, a shape stepped out.
“Please, let us talk this out instead of more fighting.” Emelya was quick to resort to peace, as she had even before during the quest. Their task was to collect ancient maps, after all.
In the dim light that luminated the room, the shape was … odd. It was robbed in a long coat, and it wore an ornate mask of wood and metal. What was most bizarre, though, was that tiny strings of moss and weed seemed attached to every inch of its body, connecting to some other part of the castle. Was this the true magic caster? “ … Heugh,” came a grunt from under the mask.
The Kortrevich raised an eyebrow at the grunt, “We merely come for the maps, to spread the knowledge they contain. We seek positions of servitude in our Kongzem, as Knights, and this is our quest.”
The figure slowly tilted its head. There was a … plant-like quality about it, as if weeds had long since replaced flesh. “Cvasa Flexia?” It murmured in some odd tongue, but when it spoke again, the words, though dry and terse, were Common. “Who told you … there was a Stone here …?”
Whilst exchange continued, Emil's eyes roamed the room in suspicion. As its voice rang out in common, however, his head whipped back to face the keeper. “A stone..?” He murmured with furrowed brows.
“You won't … have it,” the figure - it seemed to be male - rasped. Silence befell the room for a brief moment, before the shape spoke once more “Who told you,” he repeated, more harshly. The figure's cognitive functions were unclear, but it seemed capable of understanding most of what they said. “Tell me. Oviradal? Aska?” it mentioned strange, unknown names even to the Haeseni. They admitted such.
The figure spoke slowly, though seemed to listen intently as the Haeseni conversed. They had inquired to receive masks, something that caught the figure off guard. It had spoken of a stone, and appeared to be fixated on such. “… M … maps?”
“Of the lost city-” added Emil.
“You … come for … maps …?”
“We do.” confirmed Emelya as Marie affirmed with a nod. Leon didn’t speak anymore, and simply watched.
The entire hall seemed to creak as one of the moss lines vibrated. “ … Heugh …. Where …?”
“That's what we are trying to, ah, figure out.” replied the older, Ruthern dame.
“ … You are … Temple … Knights?” It was apparent the figure seemed very disoriented, or … sleepy, even.
“We come from the Kongzem of Hanseti-Ruska and merely seek these maps.” informed Kortrevich before replying to the question “Close enough, yes.”
“Kong …. Zem …” The word was clearly unfamiliar. “Is that … Oviradal? He … knows there is a Stone here …” there was no doubt about it. The figure was as old as it seemed. It spoke of strange names, and was unaware of neither the current politics or entities. Whatever it was guiding, it was indeed something old enough to be found in such ancient ruins.
Back and forth they went, and the to-be knights explained their origins, but it was in vain, the figure neither seemed to understand nor care, for such information aided none of its goals and tasks. It was clearly uneasy around them, almost scared now that it was facing them head on.
“ … So you … only … want … maps?” it uttered yet again, its voice deep, almost mystic.
“Yes,”
“How do I know … Oviradal did not send … you? I will not let you have … the Stone.” None of them knew what stone he was referring to, neither did they seem bothered enough to ask.
“Your stone is your business.”
“ … Heugh …” The figure, however odd, did not seem crazy. It was clear from the power he wielded that he was protecting something here. “If you … take a map … you will … go?” He seemed apprehensive. “No, no … Oviradal would not … the Rimeveld … he … his own stone is … Heugh ….” the figure began mumbling. He seemed … overwhelmed. At least it was clear the fellow was only aggressive out of a sense of territory, but he seemed … difficult to place.
“Rimeveld, the region of snow… how long have v- you been here?” it seemed Emelya wanted to dig in more.
“TAKE THE MAP” the figure snarled abruptly, suddenly impatient. So the knights’ attention turned to their left, towards the wall filled with many paintings. They had noticed that maps laid atop the counter, and so Marie walked towards them. “WAIT!” the strange voice beaconed. “ … Not that one ….” At that, the questers stopped.
Narrow moss strings suddenly sprouted from the roof and walls, pulling down certain maps. In the brief moments before that, they might notice all those maps had dots in certain locations. One of the dots seemed to be on this place, and another in the Rimeveld, amongst others they did not have time to place. It was clear to the trio that those were the locations of the stones, but they didn’t make much of it. They were there for other knowledge, after all.
So, the quest was nearing its end, so far rather anti-climatically so, as some would comment.
“If you … lie, I will … kill you, and Oviradal ….” it had warned them, and it seemed serious.
Only then was Leon’s voice heard again. “Papa, can he pull out a book about knights too?” inquired the lad as he looked to Emil “I want to read about the temple knights!”
The older Barclay glanced to the keeper for a moment, as if debating. It took him a while, but he finally asked “..Knight books.. Know anything about knights?” he paused once asking, as if hoping he weren’t about to regret the decision and have them all die there.
“Temple Knights? You … you ARE … Temple Knights?” inquired the figure back as the nooses above quivered. At that, Leon smiled widely as he moved to eye the Keeper, tilting his head a bit, hoping he were to get his hands on some more knightly stories.
“We aren't.” insisted Emil “We belong to the Order of the Crow.”
“Not … heugh … not … to keep, to contain, to hide ….” without really answering the Barclay, the guardian only muttered to himself in a half-crazed way, the eyeholes staring straight at Marie. It simply stared, as if being locked in a debate on whether to kill them or not.
“Let us leave him be.” insisted the younger Dame, already preparing to leave in an instant.
“Never return,” he blurted at last, as if he had to force the words out. “Never. Balian … Balian sleeps. Yes, yes.”
“Take this venture as your lesson, lad-” Emil turned to his son as he received neither books nor answers. The younger Reinmaren nodded singularly at that, and heeded the words.
He then turned to the figure, and, still enthused by the thrill of the quest, waved as the lot prepared to take their leave. “Good night Balian! Sleep well!” greeted Leon in Waldenian.
As they exited the castle, they found the rays of sun pouring onto the bailey. The night had passed, and so had their struggles. They had acquired the maps they came for, and did so without a scratch. As was customary for any occasion, everyone checked on one-another, if anyone was harmed or not. No signs of harm appeared, and they made their way out without a second thought, already greatly tired, the Haeseni party departed back on their stallions, taking their leave back to the Kingdom they served. So tired were they in fact, that Leon wasn’t questioned or scolded until after they were back home.
SpoilerThis one was a hella long one, but a pleasure to write. As always, any feedback is appreciated, and I hope the writing is enjoyed :)
HUUUUGE thanks to @Xarklyfor hosting the event and letting me stick along. Also big thanks to @Lmcfc, @sarahbarah, @jaymock7 and @Liokvfor the very fun RP!
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"A KNIGHT DOESN'T CRY"
SpoilerPrevious Post:
He entered the hall as the city’s bells were still ringing, calling to the Haeseni populace to attend the yearly Duma. As the golden-haired lad entered the room, he immediately felt out of place. There were adults all over, with Lord Rhys sat at the Speaker’s chair in the middle. Leon blinked a few, his eyes looking around. Trying to find a better suited place, he’d try his luck at fitting in at the second floor. After climbing the stairs, more adults became visible, some even older. His eyes caught a smaller human however, she seemed to be his age, or at least just about his height. Nodding to himself lightly, Leon made his way to sit by the railing of the second floor, next to the lass, though he remained quiet. He was rarely the one to start a conversation, but he waved towards her nevertheless. His smile was rather awkward and his wave even more so.
Her eyes turned to Barclay “Privej! Eam Johanna Josefina Ludovar!” she introduced himself rather readily, catching the young Reinmaren by surprise. His head tilted somewhat, his eyes looking down as always, though the awkward, yet friendly smile persisted. “Hallo" he replied with a typical Reinmaren accent “Ich bin Leon” he’d introduce himself briefly as he could
“Vu look like Aedypapej Emil. Are vu his son?” she asked, the Naumarian accent different from Leon, but not by a lot, they were both somewhat rugged and harsh, much like their respective languages. Leon widened his eyes at the reply in slight relaxation, though his crouched, shy demeanor remained “Bist du ein Barklei?” He asked then, eyeing towards the Lord Speaker.
She wasn’t, and so she admitted. However, Leon was informed the two of them were cousins. As Johanna explained the knowledge she had of their family tree, the young Barclay was unable to make any sense of it. Perhaps it was too complicated for him, or perhaps he couldn’t make sense of some of the Neumarian terms, Aedypapej in particular. Either way, he acted like he understood, and simply accepted the fact he had found a new cousin.
“Das ist nett” he replied rather dryly. It was unclear whether he was trying to be rude, end the conversation, or if he was simply socially inept.
“Was ist nett?” another voice could be heard, this time to his right. It was a much deeper, aged voice, one of maturity, yet of relative softness and warmth. Leon tilted his head, and eyed the Waldenian speaker to his right. His eyes brightened somewhat, hearing his native language be spoken to him. The old man proceeded to communicate in Waldenian “I don’t think she speaks Waldenian.” Leon was aware of this, yet, he could barely do much to fix the problem. His Common vocabulary was too narrow.
As the duo conversed in the rough, unknown language, Johanna was left somewhat confused. “Nett ist… nice” translated Leon, taking a while to remember the word as he pondered. Johanna simply accepted that, and then appeared to space out, her attention caught by the complex ongoing of the Duma.
Captivated by the Waldenian-speaker, Leon’s posture shifted somewhat towards him. He was a fine gentleman, as some would describe him. Around his 50s, his hair had begun to gray slowly, and his attire was made of quality material. The man looked like no peasant, or at least so Leon guessed.
And so the two continued conversing, Leon’s speech and posture shy as ever, he had not yet seen the man in the eyes, deciding instead to keep his head down and fidget his hands about. As they’d dialogue in low volume, so as not to disturb the Duma, the Barclay’s speech was particularly hard to hear, his voice low and sheepish. So far, nothing out of the ordinary.
The gentleman introduced himself to be Feodor May, the Aulic Envoy. “Hm, he actually is a peasant!” noted the young Leon in his mind, though in no way was the remark condescending. Far from it. It was a remark of admiration. He didn’t know what an Envoy was exactly, something to be expected of his age, but he had heard the term Aulic before.
“Ah, and Aulic! Like uncle Johann?” as the conversation carried on, Leon’s posture seemed to shift little by little. It was a very slight, gradual change, hard for someone to notice unless they were paying close attention. He’d begin playing with his fingers more, and shoot glances towards Feodor every now and then.
“I'm basically in charge of the country's diplomatic service. Da, Lord Johann is my colleague.”
“Do you have an army too?” Leon looked at the man as he eyed him up and down, looking for any armor or anything for him to identify a marshal, or at the very least a soldier. He found none.
“In these times of war his job is far more important than mine, I don't have an army. I've a group of diplomats who answer to me instead.” replied the Envoy, who then had to explain to Leon what a diplomat was. He explained how diplomats are sent on behalf of the King to communicate with other leaders. So the young mind of the Reinmaren wondered why the King could not discuss with the other Kings himself. After all, as he was raised within the Reinmaren culture, such a practice appeared to make sense. Back in the day of the Reinmaren tribes, the clan leaders used to settle scores and talk to themselves, so as to show power and presence. It was simply a Reinmaren tradition. One that Leon was taught about since his noble education in Whileburg began. As Leon inquired such, he received an answer.
“Because he's a busy man of course.” Feodor explained patiently “If he needed to travel to other Kingdoms all the time, he wouldn't have any time to do things in his own kingdom.
Leon offered a few thoughtful nods “That is true.” he chuckled a bit at the revelation then before shrugging.
“Besides, diplomats also go to other Kingdoms when they don't have an agreement to make. They just go there to keep up with our contacts abroad, see how things are going there, and report that back to Haense.”
“Ooooh, so like Knights?” The lad put clear emphasis on the last word. “Knights travel to other Kingdoms when the king tells them!”
A few more lines of explanation proceeded then, and Leon was taught the difference between a knight and a diplomat, how diplomats are not intended to fight, and are instead used to make friends.
“Oooh, I see. I'm not good at talking” Leon looked down, then let silence set before turning back to Feodor, finally looking him in the eyes with a wide smile on his face, his pupils seem to dilate “But I want to be a knight!” it was the hundredth-something time he had spoken these same words by now.
He then heard movement to his left. With a quick glance, he noticed Johanna falling backwards. She was trying to lean on the wall just behind her, but there was none. Trying to save her in time, Leon extended his hand to catch her, but it was too late. He only ended up getting carried by his cousin’s falling momentum, and fell as well, rather awkwardly so. His body rotated somewhat, his extended hand reaching towards Johanna. So he fell with his head unprotected, bashing it hard on the wooden floors of the Duma hall. Anyone who'd witnessed the scene, or heard it, would know that the fall wasn’t graceful in the slightest. If anything, it must’ve hurt a bit.
Faint words would be heard emitting from the crouched-down Leon “A knight doesn’t cry! A knight doesn’t cry!” his eyes had shut and his teeth gritted. As he was facing down, he was fighting the pain with all he could, but it was in vain.
So it began.
The complex and mature voices of the members of the Royal Duma found themselves outdone. “AAAAAAAAH!” echoed around the room. No. It didn’t echo. It simply blasted and continued. Youthful cries followed suit. “Tut weh, TUT WEH, TUT WEH!” he cried out in Waldenian. It hurts! It didn’t take long for whoever was near to take note of the ruckus, even if they tried to. A few people gathered about, the familiar face of Vèréne amongst them as she tried to examine the crying toddler, though Leon could neither hear or see anyone now. The young Ludovar lass kneeled down, hoping to comfort her sobbing cousin as she pulled out a pack filled with frostvine, trying to put it on his head “Vur good cousin?”
“Ea think he mostly got startled, can't have hurt himself too much.” commented the oldened Envoy. Could he be right? After all, it was only a short fall. It was a wonder indeed. Whether the pain was justifiable or not, Leon had already reached a point where he couldn’t forgive himself. Guilt and shame had overlapped in with the pain of the fall, his feelings and senses now suffering even more greatly. The crying persisted, but the Barclay got on his knees and stood up. Not wasting any time, he simply began running, his red, watery eyes emitting tears down on the Duma floor on which he had fallen. The adults about him decided it was best to let him run off. After all, if he was alright enough to run, surely his pain wasn’t that great. Leon, however, would disagree. The pain of doing something so unknightly, showing weakness and vulnerability, crying like a toddler was nothing glorious. This was the pain that hurt him most, and so he ran.
The debates of the Duma had paused for a bit, they could hear the child crying, though after a while they could hear the crying fading out as Barclay ran away. He ran towards Reinmar, his home, his heaven.
“A knight doesn’t cry!”
“A knight doesn’t cry!”
“A knight doesn’t cry!”
His thought didn’t leave him alone as he tried to run away from them, his shame following him on his escape. It was the first time he’d experienced such emotions, and he didn’t take it too well, especially his pride. He fled to Reinmar, with no one but his guilt tailing him. Or so he thought, the footsteps of a young girl made haste behind.
Spoiler21 -
Leon Barclay as he was told of the news. Unable to understand what had happened exactly, he went up to his grandfather, Ser Reinhardt @Capt_Chief26 "Are you like uncle Johann and the old man Feodor now?" he asked rather enthusiastically in Waldenian, referencing the only two Aulic members he had ever met.
6 -
Leon Barclay would be playing with his knight toys inside his room as he heard of the Prince Johann's return. He smiled somewhat as he kept enjoying his entertainment, picking up the figurine of the Marshal as he enjoyed his playtime "Uncle Johann is coming back!" he celebrated in Waldenian "I hope he has good stories to tell me!"
1 -
-
YET ANOTHER BARCLAY
SpoilerSharp sun rays engulfed the land around the Duchy of Reinmar. The weather here felt somewhat warmer than that of Karosgrad, granted the Reinmaren land stretched south of the capital. The castle of Whileburg stood high and proud as always, overlooking the surrounding countryside. Horses within the stables neighed occasionally, the chicken clucked, and the sheep bleated constantly. The noises of the animals surrounded the area similarly to how the sun did, they stretched far and wide, rather intensely so every now and then. Yet, it felt peaceful, not many a man would anger or be irritated by such ambience, despite the sounds, which were faintly heard all the way inside the castle.
Whileburg remained quiet as usual during the day, children played and servants served, all following the natural order of the day. Prince Johann’s children would occasionally sit and converse within the dining hall, or so had Leon noticed. He was still young, though as Barclay-looking as any Barclay has ever been. He was just another Reinmaren noble. The characteristic blonde hair rested on his head rather lazily, mostly a bowl-cut, his bangs pointed forward, the traditional fade ever present. Despite being Emil’s son, his hair adorned a noticeably more saturated shade of yellow, his eyes reflecting a dampened emerald color. He was neither chubby or skinny, a feature that could be, surprisingly so, distinguished by the noise of his footsteps. They carried a distinctive pattern and noise, not loud, but still noticeable.
Leon was an observer, since he was born, he barely made any noise or sound. His eyes simply widened and looked, trying to make the most out of what was going on around him. So quiet was he, in fact, that he didn’t begin talking until the age of two and a half. Even when acquiring such basic skill, it felt as if he didn’t use it much. Although to his own writing, he could only talk in Waldenian. Though able to understand most of Common speech, he could only speak a few words. “Knight” was one of his favorites. He used the word when asking for one of his first toys, and then again when asked about his father’s and grandfather’s occupations. He was rather fascinated by the prospect of Knighthood, or at least what his very young mind could make out of it. Leon’s fascination persisted for most of his early years, despite his ancestors having close ties to knighthood, the lad was awed by it as much as a peasant child would be. He was taught about the tales of Ser Wilheim, the first Barclay knight and baron, and Ser Brandt, the progenitor of the Brandtian line within the vast noble house, in which he was the firstborn.
With such youthful fascinations, the life and prospect of a knight began growing stronger and stronger in Leon’s mind. Much like he was an observer, he was also an imaginer. It took a few sentences from a story to draw him in, leading his mind through vivid imagination. Perhaps such features in his character lead to yet another trait, shyness. By all means, Leon was an energetic child. He ran and jumped, sang and laughed, however, he’d mostly do so when alone. Whenever he was in the presence of anyone but his younger brother or parents, his posture would visibly change. It was as though he’d become a new child completely. He’d become slouched and his eyes would be fixed on either the ground or his fidgeting fingers, he’d smile awkwardly and only reply briefly, if at all. This was upheld for even his cousins, with whom Leon would rarely have much conversation. In fairness, they were just about twice his age by now, most of them in their 15th year.
Despite having few to no friends, he didn’t feel lonely. He read and played, sometimes with the servants, though mostly on his own. Every now and then he’d leave the Duchy to visit the capital up north, a servant always accompanying him. Or so he’d like his family to think. It was not uncommon for the young Brandtian to go on his own explorations and travels, sneaking out of the castle in ways he’d have figured out. It was rather unusual for his age, being only 6 and sneaking out. Many would wonder what drove him to do such. It was the thrill. He imagined he was a knight, departing from his castle alone to pursue a quest. Fortunately, Reinmar was but an hour or so away from Karosgrad, and, in the few times he’d snuck out, no harm came to him.
The land encompassing the Duchy of Reinmar
He had done it again yesterday, and it was his proudest achievement. When he went to Karosgrad, he came by a white armored figure. As if being a giant in comparison to the Barclay youth, the warrior stood at 6’7”, his bright armor reflecting the dim sunshine here in the capital. So Leon approached, shy as ever, awed by the man’s appearance.
The figure would note Leon's existence, by now he'd recognize a Barclay from a mile away. “Another Barclay?” were probably the thoughts traveling through his mind. Who could blame him? They all looked the same. Leon’s brows widened as he tried to make sense of the tall giant he was seeing “Was bist du?” he inquired in Waldenian.
“I’m just an adventurer.” replied the white armored man.
“Adventurer?” echoed the Barclay, he was still unable to speak Common, but he could understand it.
“Yes, I visit places, far and wide.” as they conversed, the sounds of Karosgrad surrounded the two, the overlapping dialogues of merchants and customers, children strolling around, footsteps galore. It was just another day at the capital, but Leon’s attention was purely focused on the adventurer.
“O-outside…” the Waldenian replied in the little common he knew, though it was rather broken. He then paused a bit, and pointed a finger towards the city gates “Outside des Königreichs?"
“Yes, outside the city,” admitted the adventurer, and then offered “I could share some adventures with you if you like.” Leon’s fascination was just that obvious.
His eyes widened and his mouth formed an “o” shape, his interest highly piqued. So piqued that his posture changed, some of the shyness leaving him. He smiled widely at that, and nodded readily. “Ja, ja, bitte. Du bist wie ein Ritter!” he exclaimed “Ein knight!”
“I'm not a knight. But what adventures would you like to hear? The one when I went to the dangerous volcanic mountains? Or my first trip to Haelun'or?”
With a cheeky smile on his face, Leon put out his index finger, asking to hear the first story. He was visibly excited, as if offered candy, and some good candy at that.
“Alright then, would you want to go somewhere to sit?” offered the storyteller. Leon nodded, and at that, they sat on the newly constructed tavern. They sat by the fireplace, and the youth put out his hands to warm them up. The white figure lost no time to start his narration. He spoke of his travels, starting from Norland, his curiosity telling him to explore the scorched mountains of the South. He spoke of increasing temperatures as he got higher, and Leon listened intently. So intently in fact, that his imagination had already started working. He visualized himself in the same situation, and suddenly, the hands he was warming on the fireplace backed away, the temperature around him increasing, similarly to how it did in the story.
So they talked and talked, and the man explained his travels. Little action accompanied him through his journey, he had encountered no enemies and had fought no foes, despite coming across a crumbling fortress. “I did not approach there since there were… things that weren't human, maybe they were dragon people, not sure…” Now communicating mostly with fingers and gesturing, Leon had asked why.
Leon's visualization of the crumbling fortress.
“Well… I did not have my armor at the time I found them, and I was alone,” he'd nod, “I may be big, but I am still human.” The Barclay accepted the explanation and nodded. He was not one to judge, despite the Knightly ideologies of honor and bravery he was raised with. The man then spoke of more locations he had visited, the one that stuck with his listener was that of an island platform, chained above lava. At that, the listener’s jaw dropped, his mind wandering to GOD knows where.
“It was floating, and would easily be as big at this tavern. It was hotter than ever when climbing up the chain that was connecting it to the ground, but when I reached its top I only found an empty platform and some dried blood, so I assumed that it was an abandoned ritual site…”
Leon did not waver at the words, he was not scared, on the contrary, his wanderlust had reached its climax. He wanted to see such for himself, he wanted to travel and explore, fight and quest, have stories to tell and achievements to be proud of. “Kein dragon?” he inquired.
The stranger would shake his head, “If there was, I don't think I'd be here telling you this story.” an explanation that the Barclay accepted once again.
“And that's the end of my story, so little one, what do you plan on doing in the future?” He'd ask the little Barclay, who was caught by surprise at the question. His eyes averted back to the table, his posture changed now, his shyness coming back as he crouched lightly. The lad started playing with his fingers and hummed. “Ein Ritter!” He replied with a surprising amount of confidence. He seemed quite set at it “Wie mein Vater und Grossvater!” and indeed both his father, Ser Emil and his grandfather, Ser Reinhardt wished the same for him.
The figure, who had not revealed his name, simply nodded. Soon, the two greeted one another and departed. Yet, for the rest of the day Leon’s mind was still wandering around the stories he was told. The next day he sat on the landscape of Reinmar, looking at the crops, sky, and the castle. The animal noises surrounding him, peaceful and calming as ever. He dipped his head, and with a wide smile, he confirmed his resolve. “Ja!” he exclaimed lightly to no one “Ein Ritter!”
SpoilerThought I'd try my hand at creative writing based on the RP I'll go through on my character. Any feedback is much appreciated, and I hope the writing is pleasant to read :)
PS: Thanks to @AlexMKPXfor the fun first RP on Leon (his character was the adventurer)
21 -
Hieromonk Ernst Barclay weeps for Bishop Viktor within his abode.
7 -
Ser Brandt Barclay smiles in the Seven Skies as he reads through the updated Atlas. As he goes through the list, the man bursts into chuckles. He had once again encountered the Moniker of Dame Maria, laughing like he had the first time he read it during his studies.
2 hours ago, The Knights Table said:DAME MARIA PREUSSENS
THE VOLUPTOUS
5 -
"I wish I was like Lord Johann" ponders a Barclay monk who had abandoned his children to find GOD deep in the northern mountains.
3 -
i love danny <3
1 -
Brandt Bashar al Barclay, the founder of Barclay Bargains smiles as he catches wind of his descendants continuing the paper chase. He then went back to managing his oil empire in the Seven Skies.
13 -
Hieromonk Ernst smiled the Tylos' smile as he made the landser salute of old.
2 -
"The Fidei Defensor has failed..." Hieromonk Ernst cried out "... How could they allow this!"
4 -
"How could the Fidei Defensor and His Princely Grace allow this!" complains Hieromonk Ernst
5 -
Up high in the seven skies, Ser Brandt Barclay offered a light smile to his good friend Fionn, offering him a pat on the shoulder as he saw him approach "Got a Haeseni's end, eh?"
3 -
Wiping dirty imperial blood from his eyes, Rovyk von Reinmar huffs as he hears of the Field Commander's death, weeping alongside the Marshal of the BSK, Johann, many bruises and cuts about his body. He'd then teach himself how to write his first words, then listing out the adjectives that would come to mind when thinking of the man. RIP, it wrote first, the continued "The bold, outstanding, zealous, optimistic man." wrote the tribesman in a crude handwriting.
4 -
Still unaware of the old man's death, Rovyk remembers having met him during a previous visit in Oren. He recalled when the Vuiller took him in his manor to welcome him, though their meeting had to he cut short. As the lad reminisced, he'd ponder "Wonder what happened to the old man. He still owes me that story."
5 -
Rovyk stumbled on the hung parchments during his next stroll through Karosgrad. He huffed in annoyance, and, unable to read, he'd go find his good pal Karl @Remaclusto read it to him.
1 -
"Elf good?" ponders Rovyk as he hears of the ordeals during his next visit in the taverns, unable to read the declarations himself still.
4 -
Hieromonk Ernst smiles at his son's writings, reading them idly in his monastic cell during his free time.
5 -
Rovyk, a Reinmaren lad is told he will be the Hauptmann amongst the Reinmaren during the ceremony just hours before it takes place. With clear confusion about him, the man takes a moment to process. He then smiles as he accepts his position.
1 -
Hieromonk Ernst, the former Count of Freimark smiles the son's smile as he sees his two homelands come to such a pact. "This is what brotherhood in GOTT truly looks like"
5 -
THE LEGACY OF THE REINMAREN
CHAPTER III: THE REINMAREN INDIVIDUAL
Penned on the
4th of Wzuvar and Byvca, 417 E.S
SpoilerWilheim Baron Freising, A Reinmaren leader.
It is difficult to discern how an individual might behave in certain settings and conduct themselves based on the subgroup they belong to. Yet, there are traditional aspects and Reinmaren values that are bound to be reflected by an individual who has been raised within that paradigm which are of noteworthy relevance to document. Instead of outlining specific practices and acted traditions utilized by the Reinmaren, this document instead explores the shared ideals and broad concepts that most Reinmaren apply through their lives.
Much like how the foundation stones set up the base of a complex castle, so too do these Reinmaren ideals work as foundations to a Reinmaren’s life. It unites them under a similar way of life in the modern days much like it did many centuries before.
"GENERATIONAL MILITARISM"
Their forefathers’ raiding traditions and transactional warfare have preserved a strong military tradition within the households of the Reinmaren. With such tradition persisting even through the modern age, it is no wonder that a fair count of Reinmaren men and women find themselves serving in the armies of their respective lieges. It is also not uncommon for the Reinmaren individual to strive for high ranking positions within their respective militaristic regiments, an ambition that is passed from parent to child within the Household.
Such tradition became especially relevant in recent Reinmaren history after the ascending of Sir Wilheim Barclay, the founder of House Barclay, into the rank of Marshalship in the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska.
Indeed, Sir Wilheim’s service as Marshal of Haense is considered by many to be the era in which Reinmaren militarism rekindled, a claim supported by the three next Marshals of the Kingdom, all of Reinmaren descent, and all patriarchs of House Barclay. Notable also were the many army leaders who filled higher positions within the Haeseni Army during the “Centuria Barclaeis”, the period between 1725 and 1825, during which all Haeseni Marshals descended from House Barclay, including Baron Wilheim, and Dukes Erwin, Manfred, and Friedrich.
As such precedent was set in the recent age, every child fathered within the Reinmaren household began going through a specific education, one that imposes a regimented lifestyle on the child during their youth.
Hunting trips for the young became commonplace, as did riding trips to get them used to sitting on a stallion’s saddle, much like their ancestors before them. Trials were established in many a Reinmaren household, where the youth was to go through physical hardship during hunts to grow strong, and pledging into military service to grow loyal, both trials named Die einsame Jagd (The Lone Hunt) and Die Prüfung der Loyalität (The Trial of Loyalty) respectively.
"WHO RESTS, RUSTS"
Since their genesis, the Reinmaren have valued competence and hard work above all. They were grown to be hard workers, diligent and competent, so as to progress their tribes and clans, assuring survival and prosperity throughout their communities.
Amongst the Reinmaren tribes, all work was given its due value, no matter its nature. The farmer held similar prestige to the warrior, the smith possessing similar value to the Rechtssprecher (the Lawspeaker), who assumed the role of a judge between cross-clan disputes.
Such traditions have persisted to modern age, where the Reinmaren individual is taught the value of diligence and love of their occupation. These Waldenians tend to hold no prejudice towards those of lower-ranking professions, for they understand that all work is important. Without farmers there would be no harvests, without Lawspeakers no justice, without warriors no protection, without builders no home to protect.
Such significance had the role of hard work within the Reinmaren society, that the hard workers and craftsmen of the tribes donned the name of Shqiptars, a practice continued to the modern day. Similarly, so too has the phrase “Wer Rastet, der Rostet” echoed through the Reinmaren generations, translating to “Who rests, rusts”
WARHORSES AND WARBANDS
Taking pride in their long and standing equestrian tradition since their pagan days, the Reinmaren continue their practices in the art of horse riding. Since their youth, the members of a Reinmaren house or clan are raised up to grow comfortable and reliant upon a stallion. So paramount is the skill of horse riding among the people of Reinmar, that most undergo trials to show themselves capable riders.
These beasts are not only used for utility’s purpose by their riders, but they are considered animals of prestige and symbolize the Reinmaren spirit. Thus, the steed is held to high esteem and respect, it is not to be disrespected, but instead taken care of to the best of one’s abilities. In the eyes of a Reinmaren, the steed is the embodiment of its rider’s spirit, of their pride and of their soul. For this reason the appearances and types of steeds raised and used throughout these people tends to differ depending on the riders themselves.
The warhorse, however, is the most common. Steeds raised for utility and warfare, proving themselves most useful in times of War. Much like they did during the many raids of the Reinmaren during their conversion, and even by the many members of House Barclay in recent history, who fought for homeland and kingdom atop their stallions.
Raiders on horses and warmongers, these were the Reinmaren of old. They prospered in battle and war, despite their autonomy to live by their own work and land. During these times of war, however, the Reinmaren learned how to rely on one-another, their struggle and fight binded them together.
Whilst such can be said for many cultures and peoples, the Reinmaren raider placed great value and trust in their fellow warriors. They did not see one another as simply men of similar ambitions, but instead as brothers. This isn’t to mean a figurative sense of the word brother. It meant quite literally to act and become brothers through oaths and blood after and during their raids.
Eventually, this tradition became widespread in the territorial Reinmaren lands, especially amongst the younglings, who were raised in the steps of their predecessors. This tradition has remained the same these days as it was back then. Boys and girls of the same generation are raised together, especially those of extended family, though those not related by blood as well, depending on the social connections. They hunt together, train together, and complete their trials together, helping one another grow as they become older, eventually learning to be self-reliant, though knowing that they could count on their brothers nevertheless.
These generational groups formed what are called Warbands. Much like many of the Reinmaren ideals, the specifics on how different clans and tribes went about cementing and organizing their Warbands varied. Many were known to take oaths to one another after reaching an age of majority, whilst others would also partake in a blood-bond ritual. The practices varied, yet the idea of a Warband and the way that the Reinmaren readily relied on one another is common amongst these people.
"REMEMBER YOUR ROOTS"
Like a domesticated eagle upholds its instincts, so too have the Reinmaren adapted to modern society upheld their traditions and values. Feudal titles have not broken nor changed their identity and way of life; on the contrary, they have added value to them. So has the modern Reinmaren remained true to his roots, be their noble or peasant, royal or gentry.
As feverishly preached by the first Reinmaren lord in Haense, Ser Wilheim Barclay, “Remember your roots”, were the words taught to the young nobles of House Barclay. Thus, raising them not to think themselves higher than their commoner peers, but instead see them as equals.
Erwin Barclay happened to be a prime example of such practice. A marshal of many men within the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, the first duke of Reinmar was known for his informality amongst his men, calling them all brothers, and treating them all with respect.
The Reinmaren ideal consists of recognizing men not through the birth of their class, but their brightness of hearts, their competence and their conduct. A lowborn man whose heart is pure, in Reinmaren idealism, is in nature nobler than a highborn with a blackened soul. To garner respect from the Reinmaren does not mean to hold vast titles and sprawling bloodlines, but to conduct oneself with honor, dignity and power. Thus, the Reinmaren make little distinction between socially stratified classes, for all are equal among them, and those who have corrupted themselves are lesser than those who have a lack of sin.
This culture of semi egalitarianism has evolved from the tribal structures that preceded them, in which noble titles and courtly ranks were far and in between, making their way for traditional tribal distinctions of practicality. This culture, coupled with the doctrine of remembering one’s roots - the roots of fishermen and warriors who established their own Duchy would establish certain behavioral patterns.
Dismissive of exaggerated show of formalities, parades and etiquette, the Reinmaren believe that it is not titles and stylings that make up a man, but their display of how they have earned it. Thus, right by birth seems alien to some, and raises eyebrows about what a title-holder has done to earn the right of holding titular prestige. In the same vein, many do not like the extravagance of addressing men in their formal styling in casual settings, and opt to refer to the man as the title they hold, such as referring to a Count as ‘Count’ instead of ‘Your Lordship’ as their peasant and informal ancestors have done centuries before them.
UNYIELDING REINMAREN FAITH
Originally prospering as devout pagans to their old gods, the Reinmaren found themselves, like most of humanity, converted under the righteous banner of Canonism. Finally able to see the light of GOD, or GOTT as their Waldenian language has them refer to Him, the Reinmaren made for as devout Canonists as they were pagans.
Most dropped their old and false idols as the conversion spread, and to this day virtually all civilized Reinmaren have done so, with the exception of a few isolated tribes that may uphold the old ways.
Nevertheless, the Reinmaren as a people have shown great devotion to the faith to be part of their nature, be it paganism or Canonism. Many times throughout their history has this made itself clear, with great examples of great spiritual Canonist achievement being found in the likes of Saint Tylos, Cardinals Anton, Ailred, Adelric and Alfred Barclay, who later became Pontiff Tylos I.
Not long ago did all Reinmaren show their devotion to the faith, turning their back to the pretender anti-Pontiff Michael I, a born Reinmaren, who attempted to dethrone Pontiff Everard VI. During these events, did all the Reinmaren chiefs and lords gather to condemn Michael I, remaining true to their church and to their faith.
SCHWUR, THE WORD OF HONOR
Throughout the many tribes of Reinmar before their introduction to feudalism, clan chiefs held a good portion of the power, being representatives and high leaders of their people. These tribes spanned far and wide through large areas of land, making good use of what nature provided. Nevertheless, it was common that different tribes came into contact with one another, be it to aid one another, or to go to war.
In our current days, parchments, documents and official declarations have been the common way for rules to shape their diplomatic relations, binding them to their written words. In comparison, the chieftains of Reinmar had no such means, the art of writing in that age was foreign to these peoples, and most deals had to be done by word of mouth. Thus came to be the concept of the Reinmaren Schwur, roughly translating to word of honor.
To give one’s Schwur, means to make a vow, an oath that binds the Reinmaren to their word. The word doesn’t bind with the individual’s honor, it instead is believed to bind with the individual’s own being. They are their word, their Schwur, thus, straying from it means to stray from oneself, to commit treason against your own self. Within the Reinmaren culture at the time, this ideal proved rather effective, for the people appeared to indeed hold onto their words, only rarely straying from it, and when they did, they would be persecuted and punished by their peers, seen as criminals.
Throughout the many tribes of Reinmar, the specific practices of the Shwur are known to have differed, some tying it with due ceremonies and rituals before a proper Shwur was given, whilst others would also give, with their word, a symbolic item to show for it. Nevertheless, the broader concept remained the same.
It started with the chieftains and leaders of people, but the idea of a word binding one to their own being quickly spread throughout the many tribes and all their members, becoming a shared cultural phenomena. It persists to the modern day, albeit not as commonly used as in the old days, the Reinmaren of this day and age who know how to give their Schwur, are taught to stick by it until the end of their days, lest they commit treason to their own being.
IM NAMEN GOTTES,
His Excellency, Johann Erich Barclay, Lord Marshal of Hanseti-Ruska, Prince of Sutica, Duke of Reinmar, Count of Kretzen, Baron of Sigradz and Freising, Lord of Wilheburg and Freisburg
Ser Osvald Barclay KML KC
Ernst Hieromonk
24 -
Two Swords
in The Grand Principality of Minitz
Posted
TWO SWORDS
Previous Posts:
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He was unsure as to how, but he found himself amidst many gazes. His eyelids laid open more than usual, his heart pumping like it never had before, not even during his first quest. A figure - a tall one - stood by his side, fully armored in darkened Haeseni steel. They had both waited patiently, and their turn had finally come.
Leon’s eyes were glued to the ground, unwilling to peer at any of the many gazes directed at him, he simply waited in his own confusion. “What is happening?” he asked himself “Why did papa bring us here?” he thought long and hard, and he had all the time to. His usual nervousness was nothing compared to this, it was as if time had stopped, and he was given all the time in the world to deduce what was about to happen.
A dim voice echoed about him. It was The voice, the one that the many around him had gathered to hear. It spoke plainly, yet boldly. “Is that my favorite holyman I see behind vy?” asked the voice, yet Leon did not flinch or depart his gaze from the decorated, clean carpets of the courtroom. The speaker wasn’t talking to him anyway. “ … Because knight's are holy,” he coughed, laid-back and relaxed as ever. Still, his voice and authority were taken with any kind of regard but a light one. It echoed once again, filling the courtroom, making it sound as if there were no side-talks within the hall. “Welcome, Guardian.”
The figure standing by Leon replied, it was his father’s familiar, deep voice “Your majesty,” the knight dipped his head into a low nod of respect. He then spoke loudly, it was now his voice that overtook the petty conversations of the court “My son, Leon-” he laid a gauntleted hand upon the boy's shoulder “I see in him a passion- determination to pursue knighthood like no other.”
He spoke the truth, his mind recalling the boy's unforeseen participation in his own knight's quest… “He seeks to follow the path of his forefathers- Ser Brandt, Ser Cedric, and Ser Reinhardt.” he failed to mention his own name amongst the listed. Casting a short glance to the ground, he paused then, before returning his gaze to Sigismund with determination shining in his eyes. It was awfully similar to Leon’s own determined eyes, the boy had taken after his old man “..Should it please you, I ask that you take Leon as your page- to be taught both the stories and the realities of knighthood.”
At that, silence fell around the courtroom. The atmosphere became numb, and no other voices emitted. Or at least so it seemed to Leon. He was overwhelmed by the surprise. So much so that he was unsure of what to do. His eyes widened further, his thoughts raced faster, overtaking his own mind. His posture remained somewhat crouched, as it always did. On his back laid a sheathed blade. It was forged by Ser Reinhardt himself, intended to be yielded single-handedly. Yet, in comparison to Leon, it appeared similar to a claymore, spanning but nearly fifteen centimeters shorter than the Barclay’s height. He was still unused to it, only yielding it for a few moments whilst they waited in line before the King.
“Leon?” mused the king above the podium, his eyes sliding to the boy. “Hm. Let's have a good look at vy, then. Stand straight.”
Unsure as he was, further confusion washed over Leon, but he was able to snap out of his rushing thoughts. He eyed his father with furrowed, indifferent, yet somehow proud eyes, and then looked towards the king, his head finally tilting up. His pupils dilated as he stared at Sigismund , unsure of what to do. He cleared his throat, and straightened his posture, following orders.
“Hm. And what makes vy think vy are up for this role, Leon?” the king spoke plainly.
The Reinmaren lad looked Sigismund straight in the eyes for the first time. Shy and indifferent of a boy as he was, he understood what he had to do. He'd then answer the question instantly, almost as if having prepared for it somehow. However, as he spoke, the words were all in Waldenian “I have been told of many knights and have seen many knights, Your Majesty! I have wanted to become one for two years now… and…” he hesitated somewhat “Some days ago I went on my first knightly quest!” he uttered rather proudly, a smirk creeping on his face. His gaze glided to Emil then, who appeared to have forgotten of his son’s inability to communicate in Common. So, he translated word for word.
Sigismund’s eyes narrowed on Emil. “ … Is there a reason he does niet speak Common?”
“..Both of my children are rather.. Antisocial, your majesty. All the books he reads about knights are in Waldenian.” He admits, dipping his head a bit in regret. Behind him, Leon could hear Konstanz Barclay’s voice mumble “They're being translated!”
The King then proceeded “I know some Waldenian, but I canniet have a page I canniet speak to plainly. “Does he know common or Naumariav?”
“He understands Common well enough, and he was able to communicate just fine with Dame Emelya and Dame Marie.” Once again, Leon was reminded of his first quest. Yet another smile creeped on his face, easing him up somehow
Sigismund’s eyes rolled, and he squatted down to be closer to an eye level with Leon, staring at the lad as he in turn stared back “Can vy answer me vyrself, Leon?”
The lad huffed a bit at that before nodding “Y-yes” he said with as much of a Waldenian accent as it got… he seemed to understand just fine.
“ … Dobry. With confidence, my lord. Do niet stutter. Now. Do vy have vyr own sword, Leon?”
Leon’s smirk grew even bolder as he nodded singularly towards the King. He then turned to unsheathe the sword resting on his back, yielding it with both hands “My papa…” he paused a bit, trying hard to remember the Common words so as to communicate. “My papa gave it to me!” by the accent alone, anyone could tell Common wasn’t his first language by a long shot.
At that, another voice emerged, a higher pitched, yet pleasant one. The new knighted dame in front of Leon spoke, it was Emelya Kortrevich “Vyr Majesty? Ea actually had an idea for such, if vy would allow.” both Leon’s, Emil’s and Sigismund’s eyes averted towards her.
“Hm? What is it, Dame?”
“Well, where Lord Leon is standing now, ea was gifted a glimmering sword of starsteel that carried eam through mea training as a squire. Ea thought that maybe ea should pass it on to Lord Leon, as he reminds eam quite a lot of mea younger self, both his determination, and nervousness.” the Dame chuckled slightly. In her words, especially the last ones, Leon was caught off guard. He had held himself rather confidently for the last few minutes, but then it was almost as if his shyness kicked in once more. He fought it, and kept his posture despite his lack of confidence.
He smiled at Emelya, and dipped his head “Ich will yield it like der best knight there is!” he replied rather abruptly in an unkempt Common.
“A generous gift for a boy so young.” spoke Sigismund, and Leon seemed to agree. Surprise after surprise, today was in no way an ordinary day for the youth. Actually, none of the last few days had been.
Nevertheless, he smiled once more, his posture somewhat more confident now. Perhaps so from Sigismund’s orders, or maybe because he was enjoying himself…
“Two swords now, lad- wield them well.” whispered the newly-knighted Emil, his lips forming a smile much similar to that of his son, who now sheathed the sword he was given beforehand.
“Pass it to him, then. I want to see how he holds it.” ordered the Royal atop the high podium. “Vy can tell a great deal about someone from the way they hold a sword.” So the Dame obliged. She unsheathed the sword. It was beautiful. The metal that composed the blade was nothing like Leon had ever seen, or ever imagined seeing. It had a bright tint to it, the little light that came from the windows behind Sigismund reflected in a rather unusual manner. It was Lunarite. Leon grabbed it with both hands, it was shorter than the sword his father had given him, definitely more convenient for a child his age to yield.
If anyone were to pay close attention to the kid, it'd be obvious that he wasn't feeling his best. His legs shook very lightly, though he extended his hand rather stiffly, and nodded once again as he received the pretty blade. The King watched closely.
“Raise it on high, let the sunlight touch it's blade.” spoke the Kortrevich dame softly with a gentle smile, tranquil smile.
As Emelya let go of the sword, it recoiled down as it landed on Leon’s hand. It was quite heavier than he anticipated, but then he picked it back up. There was nothing special about his handling. It was neither good nor bad, neither talented nor hopeless. He simply kept it up, like anyone would. He then huffed, and attempted to do as he was told. Despite his blooming determination, the lad lacked in physical strength, his age was not an advantage to him, especially now. He simply raised it up, the motion was shaky, barely anything that anyone would call 'exquisite' about it. Yielding it with both hands, the sword appeared to be just about taller than half the boy’s height. Strong rays of the sunlight penetrating through the complex windows behind the podium touched it. So the blade reflected back a dim silvery glow, one so pretty that some would describe it as majestic.
Sigismund peered intently, seeing the way he held it with his shaking legs and nerves. The middle-aged king appeared to see through the lad's lacking abilities. His lips seemed to be forcing themselves off a smirk. With years of experience and wisdom on his shoulders, the King appeared to have been satisfied by the showcase of his young noble. As Leon held the sword up, the Royal gave a satisfied nod. “Very well. Vy start tomorrow.”
The young noble inhaled greatly. The sound of his teeth gritting just before Sigismund spoke. He smiled then, a smile so wide even his mother hadn't seen it before. In his youthful excitement, the lad offered to bring the sword down in a childish slash “I… I will nicht dissapoint!”
Amongst the gathered, a few head bobs were shared in synchronization as the lot looked towards the boy. Ser Reinhardt, standing by Sigismund’s side, let a smile appear on his face as he glanced at his grandson. His son did the same, and so did the Kortrevich dame.
“We will see, then,” Sigismund said firmly, and gave one last stern nod, his gaze watchful and wise as ever.
“Thank you, Dame” Leon bowed his head ahead towards Emelya, still holding the sword with one hand, and placed a fist on his heart, pounding it singularly as he uttered the famous Naumariav words even he knew… the accent however, was anything but Naumariav
“KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM!”
Big thanks to @Xarkly, @Liokv,@jaymock7, and @Capt_Chief26for the RP provided on this one. It's not really as epic of a post but this bit felt really satisfying to RP out. Looking forward to more quality times :)