Soot-Steeped Knight (LN)
Two winters have wheeled by since the day we recaptured the Godrika Minery; five from the day of my enlistment here at the 5th. At twenty years of age, my charge yet remained as Emilie’s swain.
From the time of her promotion to mareschal and onwards, Emilie had been taking the liberty of nominating me for the rites of investiture. A gracious gesture, to be sure, but ultimately a futile one, for it seemed the Marquis Norden was no man to wax philanthropic for an ungraced.
Thus has my daily routine changed little over the last two years, whether it be in the daily plying of the sword or my menial duties as a swain. Yet the same could not be said of the world around me, wuthering as it was against the winds of change.
There was no doubt in any mind that Godrika hid within its bowels a bounty of silver ore. More doubtless again, however, was that none amongst them could have expected so colossal a yield.
The argent boon was subsequently meted out to all members of every Order in the form of silver gear. Rank had little say in the matter: whether he be a seasoned officer or a fresh swain, each and every member of the Order was armed and dressed in that garish metal.
Save, of course, for the lone ungraced.
As such, I was the drab dot in a sea of silver, fitted as I was in banal iron. The reasoning was simple. Why bequeath to an odylless soul the greatest odyllic conductor of all materials? Obvious again was the answer, and so too was my unsightly presence—more so than ever before.
“Well, if it ain’t our good ol’ alga. Next sword-waggin’ session’s with me, lad!” the knights would often gaggle, as they raised their feders at me. And at the end of each training session, I would be found down on the ground, laid low, brought low, and thoroughly beaten.
There was a time when I could handily hand the common knight his defeat in our play of swords. But those days have long since dusked. With silver armour aplenty to deploy their palings with, the knights were now forever beyond the reach of my blade. No longer was there a single opponent to whom I could bare any teeth.
“Oi alga. Alga! Have these feders filed and tucked away, will you?”
“We’ve some more here as well, Ser Alga.”
New jeers have joined the jesting these days. The second voice: that of a springtide swain. And in those jeers, there prevailed the pinching term.
Alga.
The “soot-steeped”.
It was not long after my enlistment that I was branded with the nefarious byname, conceived as it was from my soot-stained appearance as I emerged from the newly cleaned hearth, upon that cold eventide years ago. But now was it eagerly and openly aired in full disdain against my person. Indeed, even from the lips of the greenest swains came mouthings of much scorn.
Emilie was quick and thorough in her reprimanding of such discrimination. By her quill was signed the command that forbade the ill behaviour, an unprecedented motion, most certainly. Yet for however unprecedented or imbued with goodwill that it was, the motion was one made in vain.
But that was not to say that the knights themselves had it easy. No longer could their days be whiled away in daydreams or petty pursuits. To our misfortune, my fears have flowered: Londosius’ lions of war have been let loose, for our sovereign sought battles more than ever before. The battlefields grew in both number and proximity, and many of the soldiers of the Orders soon found themselves practically living on the frontlines.
The days before Godrika seemed almost halcyon by comparison.
“Y’heard what’s happened to Victor, eh? Went and got his right leg lopped off proper. And not more than two days ago, either.”
“Yea… the poor lad. ‘Twas from his thigh on down that got butchered. Took it and ran off, the Nafilim did.”
“Well he’s alive, at least. Not like Lucas—got his whole heart ripped out of him, that sorry bastard. Yoná have mercy on us all…”
A conversation not uncommon within the tired mess hall.
Roused was the once-sleeping sword of war, trained now upon battlefields of burgeoning ferocity. The Orders could do little else but oblige, and so sent their great number to certain death. Officers—all of them—wore their fatigued faces with a constant dread.
And there was Mt. Godrika. Yes, dreaded Godrika, woeful site of our dear sacrifices two years past; Central apparently took heed of our enumerated dead, and ordered that adjustments be made to the 5th’s organisational structure. Likely an attempt at distancing the precious offspring of the aristocracy from the most belligerent of battlefields. But by now, it was evident enough that those pampered princes and princesses could only remain sheltered from the flames of war for so long.
And so it was that the 5th lost its lustre as a calm strait, through which the more careerist-minded recruits found safe passage to the waters of opportunity, once upon a time. Indeed, the nobles have all but lost their haven. The battles numbered overmany, stretched overfar, and craved overmuch.
Or perhaps it was even before Godrika that the signs were scrawled in the sand. Yes… Erbelde—at its foundation, that battle was little more than a foray into the lands of our foe, all to seize the fertile basin flowing therein. The kindling for the great war-fire was already smouldering by that point. And now we stood, witnessing before us its full ardour. These days, nary a year wheels by that an officer finds himself unsent to the frontlines.
Little wonder, then, that on the daily, the soldiery of the Order was so spent of spirit and burdened of body.
The stress, the anger, the frustration—who better to take it out on than an ungraced?
“Want-witted wastrel! What’s your business, ah!? Weakest of us all, an’ here you’ve the nerve to yet draw breath! Whilst our mates file out and make battle!”
Another scene, one upon the training grounds: a knight berating me with both voice and fist.
“They come back to us in coffins, I’ll have you know! Coffins! Samuel gave his life, he did! All that you might housekeep behind the comfort of these walls!”
It would seem he lost a comrade in a prior battle. The anger it roused proved too great a burden on his heart, and so he sought to share the load, as it were. A tiring bout of violence, all but for a moment of precious equilibrium.
“Sinning scum!” he spat, kicking my back as I lay in the dirt. And as the strike landed, so too did the noontide bell.
“Training’s over, lads and lasses. Hurry up and get your lunches over with, yea?” ordered the instructor.
“Ey, alga,” he looked down to me. “Make yourself useful, at least, eh? Keep getting laid low right quick like that, and soon even the shite under my shoe will fetch a finer reugol than you.”
With those cutting words, the instructor himself quit the training grounds. The only soul left was I, spread upon the dirt like an old rag.
♰
Noon passed on an ordinary day. There, I was met with a most unordinary visitor.
“Lord Rolf,” she greeted brightly. Maria—the young maidservant of House Mernesse. I was merely sat in a corner of the mess hall when I found myself in her company. “I am pleased to find you well after all these winters.”
Long has it been since I’ve last been addressed so highly, must less spoken to with such deference. It was almost enough to whisk me off my chair.
“Likewise, dear Maria,” I returned. “You’ve grown—how old are you now?”
“I’ve turned fourteen not a long while ago.”
She carried herself with the air and conduct of an adult, yet retained a juvenile vestige upon her face. Indeed, though she had waited upon Emilie since her tinier days, those accumulated years still found Maria to be a child at her present age.
If memory serves, the last I’ve seen of her was on the day I departed the Buckmann barony for good. She stood there at Emilie’s side amidst a gathering crowd, clasping dearly to her mistress’ hands. The look upon her little face told of an innocent sorrow at seeing off her beloved Emilie, so ready as the latter was to embark upon a new path at the Order.
The two were precious to one another. Maria adored Emilie with the whole of her heart, while for her part, Emilie lovingly doted upon the little girl.
“You’ve come here on business, I take it?” I asked, cognizant of the conspicuous timing.
“I have, m’lord, as complice to a herald from Master Mernesse. He meets with the Lady Emilie at present,” Maria answered eloquently.
“I see. To discuss the engagement, no doubt.”
“…Yes, m’lord.”
The past few days have found our young mareschal to be torn of spirit. Emilie was fracted, brooding—a bird beset by skies of rain, as it were. What’s more, she’d given me leave of two days from my swainly duties.
For what reason? Hard to say. Something about wishing to hole up in her chamber and devote more of her energies to her obligations.
Not too straining a stretch to say that her engagement was the culprit of her recent character, what with a herald flying here straight from the perch that was the Mernesse estate itself. After all, her betrothed, Kenneth of Albeck, was to turn sixteen this year.
The hourglass had finally run its course, it seemed.
My formerly betrothed, now off into the arms of another.
The mere thought of it was as thorns wound tightly about my heart.
“Very kind of you to come and congratulate Emilie, Maria,” I said, in the midst of such ruminations. “You always were the one smitten with her.”
“Your words are ever warm,” Maria smiled faintly, now sat across from me. “Though I am come today not for m’lady, but for you, Lord Rolf.”
“For me?” I blinked.
“Yes…” fell Maria’s voice.
Her words then ceased, a flow seemingly dammed up in her own heart, for moments passed before she could gather the courage to speak further.
“…The Lady Emilie…” Maria began again, shaking her head, “…she must not… she must not be made to marry… Not to the young lord of Albeck.”
──── Notes ────
Alga
(Language: Latin; plural: algae) Something worthless. Originally a word referring to seaweed and other freshwater plants.
Reugol
(plural: reugoles) A standard currency of Londosius.
Chapter 31: Volume 1 - CH 5.1
From the time of her promotion to mareschal and onwards, Emilie had been taking the liberty of nominating me for the rites of investiture. A gracious gesture, to be sure, but ultimately a futile one, for it seemed the Marquis Norden was no man to wax philanthropic for an ungraced.
Thus has my daily routine changed little over the last two years, whether it be in the daily plying of the sword or my menial duties as a swain. Yet the same could not be said of the world around me, wuthering as it was against the winds of change.
There was no doubt in any mind that Godrika hid within its bowels a bounty of silver ore. More doubtless again, however, was that none amongst them could have expected so colossal a yield.
The argent boon was subsequently meted out to all members of every Order in the form of silver gear. Rank had little say in the matter: whether he be a seasoned officer or a fresh swain, each and every member of the Order was armed and dressed in that garish metal.
Save, of course, for the lone ungraced.
As such, I was the drab dot in a sea of silver, fitted as I was in banal iron. The reasoning was simple. Why bequeath to an odylless soul the greatest odyllic conductor of all materials? Obvious again was the answer, and so too was my unsightly presence—more so than ever before.
“Well, if it ain’t our good ol’ alga. Next sword-waggin’ session’s with me, lad!” the knights would often gaggle, as they raised their feders at me. And at the end of each training session, I would be found down on the ground, laid low, brought low, and thoroughly beaten.
There was a time when I could handily hand the common knight his defeat in our play of swords. But those days have long since dusked. With silver armour aplenty to deploy their palings with, the knights were now forever beyond the reach of my blade. No longer was there a single opponent to whom I could bare any teeth.
“Oi alga. Alga! Have these feders filed and tucked away, will you?”
“We’ve some more here as well, Ser Alga.”
New jeers have joined the jesting these days. The second voice: that of a springtide swain. And in those jeers, there prevailed the pinching term.
Alga.
The “soot-steeped”.
It was not long after my enlistment that I was branded with the nefarious byname, conceived as it was from my soot-stained appearance as I emerged from the newly cleaned hearth, upon that cold eventide years ago. But now was it eagerly and openly aired in full disdain against my person. Indeed, even from the lips of the greenest swains came mouthings of much scorn.
Emilie was quick and thorough in her reprimanding of such discrimination. By her quill was signed the command that forbade the ill behaviour, an unprecedented motion, most certainly. Yet for however unprecedented or imbued with goodwill that it was, the motion was one made in vain.
But that was not to say that the knights themselves had it easy. No longer could their days be whiled away in daydreams or petty pursuits. To our misfortune, my fears have flowered: Londosius’ lions of war have been let loose, for our sovereign sought battles more than ever before. The battlefields grew in both number and proximity, and many of the soldiers of the Orders soon found themselves practically living on the frontlines.
The days before Godrika seemed almost halcyon by comparison.
“Y’heard what’s happened to Victor, eh? Went and got his right leg lopped off proper. And not more than two days ago, either.”
“Yea… the poor lad. ‘Twas from his thigh on down that got butchered. Took it and ran off, the Nafilim did.”
A conversation not uncommon within the tired mess hall.
Roused was the once-sleeping sword of war, trained now upon battlefields of burgeoning ferocity. The Orders could do little else but oblige, and so sent their great number to certain death. Officers—all of them—wore their fatigued faces with a constant dread.
And there was Mt. Godrika. Yes, dreaded Godrika, woeful site of our dear sacrifices two years past; Central apparently took heed of our enumerated dead, and ordered that adjustments be made to the 5th’s organisational structure. Likely an attempt at distancing the precious offspring of the aristocracy from the most belligerent of battlefields. But by now, it was evident enough that those pampered princes and princesses could only remain sheltered from the flames of war for so long.
And so it was that the 5th lost its lustre as a calm strait, through which the more careerist-minded recruits found safe passage to the waters of opportunity, once upon a time. Indeed, the nobles have all but lost their haven. The battles numbered overmany, stretched overfar, and craved overmuch.
Or perhaps it was even before Godrika that the signs were scrawled in the sand. Yes… Erbelde—at its foundation, that battle was little more than a foray into the lands of our foe, all to seize the fertile basin flowing therein. The kindling for the great war-fire was already smouldering by that point. And now we stood, witnessing before us its full ardour. These days, nary a year wheels by that an officer finds himself unsent to the frontlines.
Little wonder, then, that on the daily, the soldiery of the Order was so spent of spirit and burdened of body.
The stress, the anger, the frustration—who better to take it out on than an ungraced?
“Want-witted wastrel! What’s your business, ah!? Weakest of us all, an’ here you’ve the nerve to yet draw breath! Whilst our mates file out and make battle!”
Another scene, one upon the training grounds: a knight berating me with both voice and fist.
“They come back to us in coffins, I’ll have you know! Coffins! Samuel gave his life, he did! All that you might housekeep behind the comfort of these walls!”
It would seem he lost a comrade in a prior battle. The anger it roused proved too great a burden on his heart, and so he sought to share the load, as it were. A tiring bout of violence, all but for a moment of precious equilibrium.
“Sinning scum!” he spat, kicking my back as I lay in the dirt. And as the strike landed, so too did the noontide bell.
“Training’s over, lads and lasses. Hurry up and get your lunches over with, yea?” ordered the instructor.
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A member of the leadership in his own right—brigadier to the Cavalry Brigade. The other officers heeded him well, for they then dispersed in droves.“Ey, alga,” he looked down to me. “Make yourself useful, at least, eh? Keep getting laid low right quick like that, and soon even the shite under my shoe will fetch a finer reugol than you.”
With those cutting words, the instructor himself quit the training grounds. The only soul left was I, spread upon the dirt like an old rag.
♰
Noon passed on an ordinary day. There, I was met with a most unordinary visitor.
“Lord Rolf,” she greeted brightly. Maria—the young maidservant of House Mernesse. I was merely sat in a corner of the mess hall when I found myself in her company. “I am pleased to find you well after all these winters.”
“Likewise, dear Maria,” I returned. “You’ve grown—how old are you now?”
“I’ve turned fourteen not a long while ago.”
She carried herself with the air and conduct of an adult, yet retained a juvenile vestige upon her face. Indeed, though she had waited upon Emilie since her tinier days, those accumulated years still found Maria to be a child at her present age.
If memory serves, the last I’ve seen of her was on the day I departed the Buckmann barony for good. She stood there at Emilie’s side amidst a gathering crowd, clasping dearly to her mistress’ hands. The look upon her little face told of an innocent sorrow at seeing off her beloved Emilie, so ready as the latter was to embark upon a new path at the Order.
The two were precious to one another. Maria adored Emilie with the whole of her heart, while for her part, Emilie lovingly doted upon the little girl.
“You’ve come here on business, I take it?” I asked, cognizant of the conspicuous timing.
“I have, m’lord, as complice to a herald from Master Mernesse. He meets with the Lady Emilie at present,” Maria answered eloquently.
“I see. To discuss the engagement, no doubt.”
“…Yes, m’lord.”
The past few days have found our young mareschal to be torn of spirit. Emilie was fracted, brooding—a bird beset by skies of rain, as it were. What’s more, she’d given me leave of two days from my swainly duties.
For what reason? Hard to say. Something about wishing to hole up in her chamber and devote more of her energies to her obligations.
Not too straining a stretch to say that her engagement was the culprit of her recent character, what with a herald flying here straight from the perch that was the Mernesse estate itself. After all, her betrothed, Kenneth of Albeck, was to turn sixteen this year.
The hourglass had finally run its course, it seemed.
My formerly betrothed, now off into the arms of another.
The mere thought of it was as thorns wound tightly about my heart.
“Very kind of you to come and congratulate Emilie, Maria,” I said, in the midst of such ruminations. “You always were the one smitten with her.”
“Your words are ever warm,” Maria smiled faintly, now sat across from me. “Though I am come today not for m’lady, but for you, Lord Rolf.”
“For me?” I blinked.
“Yes…” fell Maria’s voice.
“…The Lady Emilie…” Maria began again, shaking her head, “…she must not… she must not be made to marry… Not to the young lord of Albeck.”
──── Notes ────
Alga
(Language: Latin; plural: algae) Something worthless. Originally a word referring to seaweed and other freshwater plants.
Reugol
(plural: reugoles) A standard currency of Londosius.
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