Roleplay from Kellan Dodger (20 days, 16 hours ago)
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(a few days ago)
"A hit!" The cry went up, and the hounds ran baying into the undergrowth, each eager to retrieve the pheasant their master had struck from the sky with his arrow. Kellan smiled as he watched them run; it had been a good hunt, and he and his men would eat well tonight.
The ride to the Ravenhold was not a long one. The ancient fortress of grey stone, close to the river that watered the city of Enlod, was only a few leagues from the hunting grounds. They arrived laden with pheasant and a pair of deer, which were taken quickly by the kitchen servants. Well accustomed to the hunt, he and his men had gutted and cleaned their quarry where it fell, to preserve the quality of the meat. The Ravenhold rang with cries announcing a feast in the main hall.
An outrider arrived while Kellan and the Udorians were washing and dressing down their mounts to announce the arrival of the Old Steward, and Kellan waited at the front gate for his arrival. Merec came first, as was his custom, and the boyhood friends embraced as the rest of his company came riding in. Merrit could still ride a hobby with grace and speed, but needed a hand to dismount, which Kellan provided; his old mentor graciously accepted his hand as he came down from his horse, but made no eye contact, pretending as if the assistance were unnecessary. The Lord Protector took Merrit's arm and politely guided him into the main hall.
They took their accustomed seats at the main dais at the head of the assembly. Kellan sat at the head of the table, flanked by old Merrit and his son Merec, with Captain Sieger and various other notables filling out the rest of the seats. They enjoyed a few courses before the meat arrived, fresh greens and potato dumplings and eggs with cheese, and discussed all the relevant topics of the day.
Merrit was unusually quiet this night. Upon Kellan's insistence, he produced a letter from his sleeve and presented it for the Lord Protector's inspection.
Kellan read, and with each word his aspect grew more somber. The letter was from his Khalkar brother, Lord Grathe, and what was contained within filled him with dread.
"Leave his repudiation of the Church for now," Kellan commented at length, "We always knew he was no believer in the southern ways. But to set out against the Remnant alone?"
Merrit gave his liege a long, sad look before responding. "It was not so long ago that a Lord of the Isle set out against the Old Ones alone. We both know how that turned out." The Old Steward looked back to his food, which he played with listlessly; the pain of the shared memory was too much for his aged heart to bear. Little more needed to be said, for both old Merrit and his young Lord knew well who had last set out to cleanse the Isle of their people's ancient and malevolent foe.
Kellan's mind traveled back to its earliest memories: an ugly and warped face, filled despite its malformed features with strength and love. His father, Lord Habbo. A strange man, no doubt, but a heroic one. The kind of man who had shrunk from no challenge, who went into every fight fully confident that he would emerge victorious. The kind of man who believed his ironic nickname, Habbo the Handsome, was true as day, for he knew no irony nor duplicitousness in his heart. A man who had fallen in noble battle, seeking the end of an enemy that had survived a thousand years, by black magic he could not understand.
Kellan's mother was late to the feast, but her entrance was timed to perfection. She kissed the Lord Protector upon his brow as he sat, Merec making room for her at his liege's side. It did not take a moment for her to pick up on the mood of the assembly as she picked at leftovers.
"What troubles you, my son?" She stroked a hand over Kellan's knit brow as he sat in rumination. The Lady Maia of Taop was near as old as Merrit, but her beauty endured over long years; a noblewoman of the fallen realm of Antoza, Kellan's father had saved her from the invading forces of the Grand Alliance during his service to the Commonwealth many years before. Their tale of love was a long and complex one, for as a young maiden it had taken her time to see past Lord Habbo's appearance to appreciate the pure and earnest heart that rested within. Yet they had, in the end, married long enough to produce one son.
Kellan slid her the letter without a word, which her sharp eyes pored over with blazing speed. Nearly thirty years on the Isle had given her ample opportunity to absorb the Darkish language and script. Her brow knitted ever tighter with each word, and by the time she passed the letter back to her son her eyes were filled with sadness and worry.
"You Islanders," she murmured, clucking her tongue. "Always seeking death when it will find you all by itself."
"I should be at his side," Kellan groaned. "He did not inform me of his aim before I left." He dropped his gaze to his food, as old Merrit had done only minutes before. His mother grasped one of his tight-clenched fists in her hand; leaning forward, she attempted to console him.
"My son," she began, bowing her head to attempt to lock her eyes with his, "there is nothing you can do in this matter. Many men have sought the hiding places of the Remnant, even in my short time upon the Isle. None of them returned. Call back Lord Grathe if you can; caution him against seeking that ancient and powerful foe. But do not throw your life away with his. Would you leave your mother bereft of a beloved son, your people bereft of a strong and wise leader?"
Kellan looked up to meet her gaze briefly, but found he could not look long. Her eyes were earnest and filled with love, yet he knew they were as the mermaid's call, a sweet song meant to dash the ship of his honor against the rocks of cowardice. Quickly he looked away, shaking his hand gently from her grip.
"Tell me again of my father's death," he commanded Merrit, who still could not look up from his food.
"We tracked the Remnant over a month," the Old Steward said at length. He played with his eggs like a child, hesitant to draw his mind to memories old and painful. He would not continue except after a long and pregnant pause.
"We found the lairs of the Remnant at last, deep in the woods of Rapael. The way I could tell you not, for I have long since forgotten, and we came upon it more by chance than design. The door to their labyrinth is plain and bare, yet it stands out from the stone of the cliffs to one with keen eyes. Three steel bars one needs to pry that door, for it is ancient and heavy and made from forgotten craft."
He paused a time, and the impatient Lord Protector could not bear the wait. "Tell me of Kaza-Morn," he insisted.
Old Merrit gave a start at the name, and his glare of hatred, leveled at an unseen target, sent sparks flying from his aged eyes. He hissed as the memory came to him, and turned to Kellan with the aspect of a warrior.
"His face is that of death," he said, "half-rotten and falling in strips from his bleach-white skull. It is said he preserves himself by foul necromancy, and it was by black magic, and no weapon of steel or any other worldly matter that he slew your noble father."
"And how did my father fall?"
"The shadows," Merrit murmured, staring into space as one possessed. "The very shadows came to life at his command. I watched helpless as they fell upon your father, and he died bleeding in my arms from mouth and nose, though any wound upon his person I saw not. He was slain by magic, and naught else." With this the Old Steward fell into painful and troubled reverie, and spoke not for a long time.
Kellan would have asked more, but the doors of the hall suddenly flew open, and the pitched cries of the herald announced that there were Ogrocs in Mnalor. The Lord Protector rose, and with a kiss for his mother, he set off on yet another adventure born of duty.
