Torn Asunder: The Tale of the Le Drakes

[House le Drake]

Hopefully, this is going to turn into an ongoing story about the three Le Drake children: Melot, Jocelin and Rue.  I tend to write a lot, and I hope to give the impression of three distinct personalities as I move ahead with this project.  Sometimes I'll have more to say about one character than I will another, but I'll do my damnedest to try to give them equal time in the spotlight.  Please feel free to leave comments; my posts tend to be huge and I don't think they'll be lost easily, given that I also title them.  If you're looking for the next named chapter hit Ctrl+F and type in one of the chapter titles listed below.

Chapter 1: A House Divided
Chapter 2: The Consequences of Pride
Chapter 3: The Challenges We Face
Chapter 4: New Beginnings


For more background information about the family please feel free to visit my Wiki Page for them.

[House le Drake]

The spray of the sea spotted the letter he held, blurring the ink.  Desperately he scanned it again, willing the words to change.  But it was no use; no matter how much he may wish it, the letter remained the same.  His trembling hands had nothing to do with the chill of the early morning air by the docks.

His mother's words were sparse but full of feeling.

My Dearest Son,

I wish I had learned of your inclination to leave us before you were beyond our reach.  Though I have implored your father to allow for your return, he has not taken your departure lightly.  Mayhaps in the years to come you might seek his forgiveness, but I know my lord husband well, and he does not take grievances against his person lightly.  He has disowned you as his heir and determined you must remain in Tara, to forge a new life as best you can.  You will receive no assistance from this House for as long as he draws breath.  I implore you not grieve your loss, my son, but to remain strong and seek out the cousin of our liege lord in Barad Gardor.  He might very well have the influence to see you kept comfortably in that foreign land.

Your Loving Mother,

Teresa

Grimly he tore the letter and allowed the two halves to fall into the sea.  Though the ship that had carried him there remained moored at his back, he knew he could not afford passage home.  But did you really expect anything different?  He thought bitterly, angry with himself over his own impulsiveness.  He had left home suddenly to avoid being stopped, thinking to withdraw funds in his family's name here in port.  By now a letter would have arrived there as well, warning them of allowing him to withdraw anything.  It was exactly as he would have done, were he in his father's shoes.

Melot cursed again, and then took a deep breath.  He willed his pulse to slow and the pounding in his temples to ease, searching desperately for anything to take his mind off his current situation.  At least I'm not completely destitute, He was thankful for what silver he'd managed to hang onto on the passage over; the sailors had parted him of all but a few silvers, and thanked him for the pleasure of taking his money.  Briefly he considered demanding back the coin he'd lost... but no.  Melot refused to stoop to that.  He may well be considered common now, but he came from a noble family, and he would endure.

Reassured by his convictions to carry onward in this strange land, Melot gathered his meager possessions and struck out in search of adventure.

Jocelin had to repeat her father's words to be certain she understood them.  "Melot's gone?"  She'd been aware of her brother's absence the past few days, but that was nothing new; Melot often visited the far corners of their realm, meager as it may be.  Once he'd even made it down to Candiels, before being ordered to return home by father.  To hear he'd boarded a ship to Tara... her poor impression of the scale of the world failed to comprehend the distance.  "When will he come home?"

The old lord sighed and rubbed his temples, a habit all of the Le Drake children had adopted from him.  He had been a great man in his youth, unfathomably patient and slow to anger.  But age had turned that patience into a unyielding demand for discipline and adherence to tradition.  None of his House had ever shown a wandering spirit before, and it had damaged his pride to find his son had disappeared in the night.  Such a thing was not to be taken lightly, and he told his daughter so.  Jocelin did not seem convinced, "But he's only just left.  Surely--"

"-- I will not be argued with."

She bit her bottom lip, fighting back the urge to retort.  Her father appraised her and, finding no sign of rebellion in his daughter, continued, "That boy is dead to me.  You're my eldest now, and my heir.  I expect you to take command of your brother's men and prove to me you're ready to lead this House."

Rue dug through the heavy pack she'd been carrying the whole of the day, "Damn it; where is it?"  The sun was starting to slip behind the trees, and she knew she wasn't going to make it into town before the light was gone completely.  She cursed her misfortune, unwittingly mirroring her brother half a world away.  If only she could find that damn flint... her grasping hand closed around something hard: Rue drew it out, thinking it was her flint.  Her face went red with anger when she found herself holding a potato instead.  She cursed again and threw it into the forest, oblivious to the sound of it crashing through the dense foliage only to strike something hard.

As an outsider herself, Rue had been the only one Melot trusted with the secret of his intent to leave home.  She'd been determined to travel with him before he'd told her where he was going.  Tara.  So not just away, but away away.  For days she'd weighed the distance in her mind, and even now she just couldn't picture a life for herself outside of Barca.  For all the pain living in Thysan had caused her, she wouldn't trade it for anything.

A second hard object bumped her hand.  This time it was her flint, and she silently thanked whatever force was looking out for her here in the woods.  Rue had traveled through them many times, but rarely at night, and never without light.  She leaned over the pile of sticks that would serve as her campfire and struck the flint with her knife.  A shower of sparks exploded from her hand but didn't catch.  A second try yielded the same results.  She frowned in concentration and kept trying, oblivious to the noise of something moving in the woods toward her until it was nearly upon her.  Rue froze, her knife clenched tight in her fist.  How could I forget?  Monsters.  Monster activity was all the locals could talk about the last time she visited town.  Normally not the type to dismiss them out of hand, she'd still thought their tales exaggerated.

Some of the sparks had caught.  A fire was growing in front of her, its flickering light casting long shadows.  She tensed, preparing to attack whatever thought it was sneaking up behind her.  I guess I'll get to see for myself. The rustling drew closer...

"YAAAAAAAAGH!" Her war cry was shrill and piercing, her fear raising it high in her throat.  She rose to her feet and turned as she did, prepared to fight for her life. 

To her surprise she found herself not staring into the face of a bloodthirsty monster, but blinking in confusion at a sad-eyed dog with a potato in its mouth.  His tail wagged slowly when he saw she'd seen him too.  Rue eyeballed the dog with an appraising eye: in the firelight his fur was a lovely red the color of rust, and his eyes were as dark as hers were light.  His ears were soft and feathered; his face long and lean.  He wasn't a large dog nor particularly small, and it didn't take her long to place him.  Rue let the knife fall from her hand and dropped to one knee, holding her arms open wide for him, "How did I ever forget to bring you, Ollie?"  The red setter dropped the potato and bounded into her arms, trying to lick her face.  Rue wrestled playfully with Oliver to keep him from licking her and failed; he was just too damn quick for her.  After a minute she finally got enough of a hold on him that he stopped squirming and just sat leaning against her, panting.  His mouth was open in an doggy grin.

I can't believe I allowed myself to forget him. She wasn't alone, not with her Father's prized setter beside her.  Rue allowed herself a rebellious smirk as she prepared the potato over the fire for the both of them.  Who's the favorite now, father?

[House le Drake]

Melot went through his gear again to be certain he hadn't missed anything.  He'd been in port a few days now and had whittled down his meager possessions to a respectable adventurer's kit.  The first to go had been his clothes: good linen was comfortable but hardly suitable for the wilds outside of town.  Next had gone his deer bone amulet, a gift from his half-sister Rue that hadn't fetched as much as he'd hoped.  The last to go had also been the hardest to part with: a silver ring engraved with the head of an antelope, his family's heraldic animal.  The past few days had been difficult but ultimately good for him, and he was ready to strike out into the wilderness.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and climbed down from the loft, his whole body stiff.  He'd managed to find shelter with an elderly fisherman and his two sons; though the whole house stunk of fish and he'd hardly been able to sleep the first night, Melot had come to respect the fishermen as he toiled alongside them.  Used to giving orders, it'd been decidedly different finding himself on the receiving end of them (and from a commoner, no less... though he supposed he was common now too). 

The others were already sitting down to breakfast when he joined them.  The oldest son didn't look up from his plate, but the youngest smiled and waved for him to be seated.  Melot dropped his pack beside his chair and sat; the elder son pushed a plate of smoked fish and hard cheese his way.  "Thank you."  His words were met with a solemn nod.  If there was one thing that he would remember of that family in the years to come, it would be their reticent nature: not a one of them spoke unless they had reason to speak.  Melot almost preferred it to the meaningless conversation he was so accustomed to: members of the noble class tended to love the sound of their own voice.

He followed their example of silence until he'd finished his share of breakfast.  Melot grabbed his pack again and followed them out the door; he stopped the head of the household with a gentle touch.  The old fisherman turned and peered intently at him with eyes narrowed from a life under the sun and on the sea.  Melot pressed the gold coin he'd earned by selling his ring into his gnarled hand.  "For your generosity."  The old man blinked owlishly at him and handed it back, mumbling, "Keep your coin.  It was the neighborly thing to do."  Before Melot could protest he'd gone.  The youngest son stopped beside Melot, his eyes on his Father's back as he limped down to the docks, "Father is a proud man; I'll take that for him and slip it into his coin purse later."  Melot shrugged and handed the gold piece over, "Thank you for your family's hospitality.  I won't soon forget it."

They made their farewells, and when the fishermen were gone Melot started the opposite direction up the street.  He found a comfortable pace down the road out of town and set his eyes forward, eager to leave the port city far behind him.

Oh Gods, no!  Jocelin fought to suppress her fear and failed.  The monsters advanced over the bodies of her fallen comrades: the men her brother had commanded, and whose command had fallen to her with his departure.  Now all but a handful lay dead, and those who remained fell under the advancing horde.  They'd been assailed on the way to Rettleville, where her father had said she might hire more troops.  The small contingent of archers had taken the change of command poorly, complaining loudly.  Melot had been much loved, and it embarrassed them to now find themselves under the command of his younger sister.  Jocelin had remained strong in spite of that fact, and ordered the march to Rettleville with hardly any time spent to earn their respect.  She'd expected it to come over time... though now it seemed she might never get that chance.

Her hands shook so badly that she was having trouble holding onto her sword.  Why can't I move?  What had she done wrong, that her first attempt at command had taken this bad of a turn?  Jocelin stared in horror as an Orc clad in rippling black chainmail kicked one of her injured men onto his back; it put its boot on his face and crushed his skull under its weight, the sickening crunch audible over the screams of the dying and the warcries of the monster's comrades.  A second Orc put its rusty blade through the heart of an archer who had dropped his weapon and held up his hands in surrender.  Yet a third on her left caught and cut out the throat of a man who had turned to flee back into the forest.

And then their eyes turned to her.

Jocelin dropped her sword and shield and staggered back, her hands raising in surrender.  "I didn't want this," She pleaded, hating herself for having led her men into this slaughter.  Her fear nearly paralyzed her again as she realized the end had come.  "Please."  I don't want to die.  Jocelin was too inexperienced to be concerned with dying a coward's death.  Her thoughts had ceased beyond the mantra that repeated itself in her head.  Please don't kill me not today not now please don't please please...

The Orc who had crushed the man's skull under its boot approached her casually, assured of its victory.  It had the audacity to lick its blade clean of human blood as it advanced, its eyes fixed on her own.  Jocelin felt her water cut loose.  She almost screamed when something latched onto her ankle; a man with black-feathered arrows peppering his body had reached out and grabbed her.  Jocelin stared into his eyes as the light left them; she vaguely recognized him as one of the men who had taken the change in command the easiest.  She even thought he'd smiled at her once, though perhaps she'd been mistaken.  His mouth was ringed with blood, and his rasping voice was almost inaudible.  "Run," He gasped, his hand pushing on her ankle as if to urge her to move, "Run!"

She didn't need any more urging: Jocelin turned and bolted for the forest.  Behind her the Orc bellowed and gave chase; she could hear his armor crashing against his body as he charged after her.  An arrow hissed out of the darkness from behind and missed by a narrow margin on her right; another followed, and another, until she was under a hail of enemy fire.  Miraculously they all missed, and she passed under the protective canopy of the trees.  The Orc came crashing through the dense underbrush behind her.  The sound, terrifyingly close, urged her to greater speed.  Freedom seemed at hand before she stumbled onto one of the many streams that coursed through these woods to the Draco River.  Thinking to cross it, her foot slipped on a moss-covered stone, and she went crashing down into the water.  Pain shot up her arm as she landed hard in the shallow water.  She desperately scrambled to her feet as the Orc chased her in, its sword held high.  Instinct overcame reason: Jocelin raised her arm to block, forgetting she had abandoned her shield on the battleground.  The bracelet she wore saved her from losing her arm entirely; the jagged blade screamed against the rounded metal and slid down her forearm, cutting through boiled leather armor and flesh with ease.  Her adrenaline was running too high to notice the pain.  Fight.  Fight or die.  Fight!  Her martial instructor's words echoed in her ears.  Jocelin put her shoulder into the Orc's chest and pushed with all her might.  Over even terrain she would have quickly found her end after a stunt like that; the Gods, however, must have had different plans for Jocelin le Drake.  Calf-deep in icy water, Jocelin had somehow found good footing; the Orc, on the other hand, had not.  Her shove sent it toppling over with a splash.  She didn't stick around and wait for it to recover, and ran for her life into the forest.

The other monsters did not give chase.

Oliver barked excitedly at her from further up the road, urging her to follow.  Rue yawned and rubbed her sore neck: she'd been sleeping on hard ground for a week now, and still wasn't any more used to it than she'd been on the first night.  At least her dog seemed to be enjoying himself: the hunting hound had really found himself on the trail and spent a great deal of time sniffing for rabbits along the hedges or barking at other travelers on the road.  There were a surprising number of the latter, always accompanied by rumors of monsters.  She'd come to take them seriously the more she heard, though she still hadn't seen anything.  A blessing, she would come to find in the days to come.

A cart rattled up the road behind her; it'd been steadily gaining for the past hour, growing from a speck in the distance to a team of four.  The driver slowed the horses to fall in beside her, looking down at her from his high seat.  Rue raised her hand in greeting.  The man did not return the gesture, "Where are you heading, girl?"

"Forward." Oliver had seen the cart and bounded back to rejoin her.  The driver eyeballed the dog with an appraising eye, "That's a fine animal for a lowly traveler."  Rue bristled at that, "And what makes you think I'm lowly?"

"Because a fat lord would've hired a carriage for you otherwise."  They were quiet for a long time, Rue seething internally while the man looked on, unconcerned.  "Did you steal him?"  Oliver cocked his head to one side and barked quizzically; Rue put her hand on his head and flashed the man a toothy grin, "Yes.  I'm a bandit and I'll steal every damn thing in your cart if you don't hurry along now."  She pointed further up the road, indicating to him that he should be on his way.  But still he persisted in speaking to her, "You want to climb up?  Would you like a ride?"

"You don't know where I'm going."

"You don't look like you know either."

Rue stopped at that.  The driver reined in his team, the cart coming to a halt.  One of the horses tossed its head in protest; the others stood there placidly, waiting.  She was acutely aware of the weight of the pack across her back, of the soreness in her legs and the ache of her sleep-deprived body.  Sitting for a spell would be such a treat...

"'Course, I'd have to charge you."

Oliver barked.  She rolled her eyes and kept on walking.

[House le Drake]

The tracks were fresh; of that much he was certain.  Melot gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, scanning the plains for anything that would give away his enemy's position.  A dense stand of trees on the otherwise flat terrain caught his eyes; if there was anyplace a pack of monsters could hide, that would be it.  He remained low to the ground as he advanced, thankful that the moon was only a small sliver in the sky.  The chill in the air tasted of winter; it had not yet begun to snow, and he dreaded to think of what sort of living he could expect to make tracking monsters and undead through snow in an unfamiliar land.  Maybe it wouldn't fall at all: Melot still had much to learn of his new home in Tara.

Light through the trees.  Melot could smell smoke and see a crackling fire through the dense brush.  He scanned the crowns of the trees for archers, not really expecting to find any: so far, the goblins he'd grown accustomed to fighting hadn't shown the foresight to mount a watch, and he'd grown confident enough in his own abilities to try more aggressive approaches.  This felt like one of those times: the tracks had been sparse, indicating a small group.  Smaller, surely, than those he'd routed before.

So why was his gut twisting nervously?

Melot shook the feeling off.  He crept as close as he could without being spotted, now able to overhear the clipped speech of his quarry.  Crude English and Goblinspeak fell on his ears.  He shifted like a cat readying to pounce...

A dark shape rushed him from a bush on the left, chattering angrily in Goblin.  Melot hardly had time to parry its first attack before it was on him; the smell of rotten meat and sweat filled his nostrils as the small, wiry body bowled him over.  The monster was surprisingly strong for its size, and he had to fight to keep his sword as it tried to wrestle the weapon out of his grip. Others came rushing out of the trees as he rolled free of his attacker and regained his feet.  An ambush?

And immediately on the heels of that thought, They're organized!

A Goblin ran at him with an axe raised above its head: Melot caught the haft of the weapon with one hand and ran it through.  He withdrew his sword from the creature's gut in time to ward off a blow from another, hacking into the Goblin with an overhead chop.  An arrow bounced off a buckle on his armor and ricochetted into the darkness; Melot charged the culprit and put his sword through its chest for its troubles.  Overall, the fight was decidedly in his favor, even after being ambushed.

Until It appeared.

Melot was vaguely aware of a great, black shape striding forth from the cover of the trees.  The Orc was gigantic, it walk full of the confidence of an experienced slayer of men.  The other Goblins retreated as this monster came forward, gibbering excitedly in their harsh tongue.  It stopped just a few yards from him and growled a command; the lesser monsters fanned out to encircle them.  All at once Melot came to realize just how such a small contingent of monsters could be so organized.

The Orc pointed its sword at him and issued a challenge in its growling tongue.  Melot returned the favor: he touched the flat of his blade to his forehead in salute and dropped low into a guarded stance behind his shield.  It was a poor thing; a center-mounted round made of heavy wood bound with iron, scarred from use by a previous owner.  In comparison his opponent carried tower shield almost as large as itself, and it disappeared behind it with only its eyes peaking out over the top.  He couldn't see its sword behind such an overwhelming defense, and prayed to the gods that it was slower than he.  Melot could already see he was outclassed in strength.

The two circled one another, staying out of each other's range at first.  Melot came in a little closer and struck at the edge of the tower shield; the Orc didn't so much as flinch, its eyes burning with intensity and hatred.  He tried again on its right: the Orc's arm lashed out like a whip, lightning-quick, and he hardly blocked it in time to prevent the monster from cleaving his head from his body.  It's fast!  His arm hurt all the way down to his shoulder, but he'd managed to block the blow without giving an inch to his opponent.  The Orc followed through with a second snap that he ducked, trying to get behind the monster's guard.  It seemed aware of what he was trying to accomplish and stepped back, presenting him with that towering defense again.

This time Melot tried to circle around its left, the side it held the shield on.  The Orc was slow to turn and snapped at him with the right again, having to move the shield out of its way to do so.  It's only got the one attack.  It might be stronger and faster with its strikes than he, but that limited repertoire would prove its downfall... or so he hoped.  Melot went for the left again to see if he could get it to open its defense once more; the Orc barked an order.  From behind he heard the rapid footsteps of a Goblin charging and turned just in time to turn aside its thrust; the Orc took the opportunity to step forward and try to catch him in a downward chop.  Melot rolled out of the way in the nick of time and rose to meet its second attack with his shield: this time his whole arm went numb, and his defense nearly collapsed under the weight of the blow.  !@#$! The round shield splintered but held, and he retreated faster than the Orc could follow.  Yet he remained keenly aware of the smaller Goblins that ringed him in and checked behind himself to be sure they weren't charging.  The chattering monsters pounded the ground with their fists and hopped about excitedly, positively beaming their frog-mouthed grins at him. 

"I get the feeling you've seen this before."

The Orc bellowed for his attention; Melot gave it to him.  He rolled his shoulder to test it; though it hurt badly from rolling on it and warding off the two blows that had managed to connect, it was still usable.  But thinking of it gave him an idea.  Melot approached his opponent again on its right; this time when it battered his defenses he allowed his shield to drop.  It lifted its arm for a second blow...

Melot stepped into the attack, nearly in the Orc's armpit.  This time he was behind its tower shield, where it could do nothing to ward off his blows.  The end of his sword whipped around behind his head; with a turn of his wrist he sent the momentum-driven swing into the back of the monster's skull, popping out his elbow to drive it home.  For good measure he struck twice, lightning-fast, his sword like a scorpion's stinger on the end of his arm.

The second blow split open his enemy's thick skull.  Not a lot, but enough to kill.  Melot would swear in later retellings of this fight that the ground had shook when the Orc fell to the ground.  He stood shaking over his dead opponent as he eyeballed the remaining monsters, his expression grim.  But with their leader dead the Goblins lost heart and fled in all directions, shouting to one another in their hellish language.  Soon enough he was alone on the plains, the Goblins nothing more than dark specks still fleeing in the distance.

He collapsed to the ground, shaking and panting from the adrenaline that now left him in a rush.

Melot lay there on the ground for several minutes, willing his body to move.  As his breath slowed to normal rate and his limbs stopped shaking he finally felt ready to stand.  He regained his feet and shuffled stiffly into the protection of the trees.  The small grove had been deceptive: at its heart he found a cave entrance at which a bonfire burned cheerily.  The reek of unwashed animals filled his nostrils from the piles of dirty furs arranged around the fire, obviously sitting, eating and sleeping arrangements for the monsters he'd routed.  Melot stood outside the small cave entrance and debated going inside; after all, he didn't know if that was the only Orc in the party, or if the others would find their courage again and try to assail him.  The glinting of gold from deeper inside made the decision for him.  Melot ducked his head to enter the cave, passing by a massive pile of furs that could only have belonged to the Orc he'd just killed.  Beyond the sleeping furs he found a small chest on its side; coins had spilled from it, which is what he'd seen glinting in the flickering light of the fire without.  He filled his pockets and started to leave the tiny cave shelter when something else caught his eye.  Near the entrance a sword sat leaning against the stone, half-hidden in shadow.  He gazed enviously upon the fine steel, keenly aware of the poor, dented thing he carried in his hand.  He saw the pommel was shaped into a dragon's head with garnets for eyes as he reached for it; the crossguard a pair of wings.  Appropriate for a Drake.  He mused, his hand closing around the hilt.  The instant he touched it fire erupted along the blade, and he dropped it with an exclamation of surprise.  The fire went out again, there and gone so quickly that Melot at first doubted what he'd seen.  But no: when he gingerly went to pick it up again fire poured down the blade from the hilt with a gentle whooshing sound.  Melot turned the blade this way and that, studying it in the light the blade's fire cast.

Drake's Fire.  The name came to him as if whispered in his ear, and he smiled.  "What a clever thing."  His voice was full of affection, but his smile was soon dampened.  Melot weighed the weapon in his hand and found it... wanting.  It was finally made: light and fast and obviously strong, the craftsmanship apparent in the ripples throughout from the steel being folded and folded again... but it just didn't feel right.  He tried to place what was wrong and couldn't: all he knew was that it made him feel vaguely uneasy.

"I don't think you're meant for me," He almost didn't trust the sword, and knew by that that he wouldn't get far fighting with it.  With a sigh Melot set it down and began searching among the refuse and other stolen treasures for the scabbard.  It was almost the last thing he found, buried under a suspicious pile of women's clothing.  He didn't dare consider why it was there, as touching it made him feel vaguely ill.

He slipped the sword into its sheath and slung it across his back, keeping his beaten sword out.  "Just a little while longer,"  He promised the damaged weapon, "I'll sell this thing, and you and I will part ways."

He knew exactly who to sell it to, too.

The Jocelin that rode into Rettleville that morning was not the same woman who had set out for it more than a week prior.  Her usual smile had been replaced with the tiniest of frowns, and her amber eyes bore the haunted look of someone who had faced their own death.  The young knight carried a burden now she might never be rid of: the knowledge of her own cowardice.

She'd escaped from the slaughter of her entire unit, the lone survivor of twenty-two men.  Since then her dreams had been haunted with memories of that desperate flight to safety, of never stopping for fear of the monsters at her back.  She had heard before that such survivors didn't remember much of the battle they'd been part of: if Jocelin ever met such a person she felt she would shake them by the collar and call their bluff.  Every death was fixed firmly in her mind, and she recalled them whenever she saw a similar face.  For the first few days the young knight had even reconsidered her future as a warrior.  But the more she thought back on the attack the angrier she became with the monsters at large throughout Barca.  That anger had turned to undiluted hatred: she had managed to escape and return to her family, but what of her men?  What of the common people who had even less martial training than herself?  It had boiled her blood to think of the unnecessary deaths attributed to the fiends... until the solution came to her.  Two mornings ago Jocelin had made the determination to hire a new unit and join the Wardens.  Not archers: she'd lost faith in bowmen, and thought a well-equipped infantry unit might have a better chance of survival.

(Under Construction)

[House le Drake]

(Coming Soon)