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The Life of a Bastard - Assorted RPs of Hrafn Skovgaard

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Eduardo Almighty:
Lead the charge, you idiot!
The truth about the latest new strategy

Hrafn reclined under the shade of a tree in the woods of Oporto, his agile hands passing over the documents and the last battle reports. More than mere reports, he had led one of these charges. He had felt willed and heroic, a sense of importance... which unfortunately was a lie. This was the honey his superiors used to lure young flies into their traps. That's why they chose only young Knights with few troops, because they were expendable, because they were willful... and idiots.

Hrafn: "So, some time ago someone discovered that the best way to dodge enemy archers was to send some poor Knights to the front line as bait while the rest of the army advances. Which kind of military genius did you need to guess it? I can imagine... I just didn't imagine it would become a trend that other leaders would use without shame, even in Sirion, where they claim to be so honored! In addition to letting their own regions revolt, now this... what a !@#$ty place Sirion has become..."

The young crow finally chuckled. What would be better than a young Knight with thirty untrained soldiers waiting to be shot fiercely, wounded, left behind at the risk of ending up in a prison, with no competent Judge who has spent five minutes on a trading plan to recue him? Exactly... one of those old and fat Sirionite Lords with 150 men leading the charge. To get wounded. To be left behind. To be arrested and robbed of their gold, to lose their cities and their positions.

That would be something worth seeing.

Eduardo Almighty:
Serpent(i)s in Paradise
The night before the wedding

The ship slid through the murky waters of the Sirion River, ripping through the mist. The ripped sails dancing with the wind, the oars in their perfect timing led by men of beautiful brown skin, much like the mud of Abilotiel. They rowed and sang with a clumsy voice, a sacred and profane mantra.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Iku-Turso R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Ghor Ault R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."

The chant strengthened the Great Maharshi, his body now strong again, his unwavering will shining in his blue eyes. If there was some Elvish magic protecting Avamar, it had been broken long ago, for only the frogs croaked as the ship slid to the less guarded banks of Montijo. When the first curious peasants arrived, the High Priest took his hand out of the robe and poured silver coins to them; he would need good horses to reach Krimml in time. It was not his wish to interrupt the ceremony and steal all attention, but he needed to see his son. The right time would be shown to him, just as the crow above him would show the way.

Traveling with the stars, he entered Krimml in the evening. More silver coins guaranteed few questions. Besides, there was something disturbing about him. The men were naturally intimidated by that grey hair and those ancient blue eyes. His age revealed the rise and fall of kingdoms and empires. There was an impression that where he passed, children cried, the milk soured and the dogs growled with fear. He was the personification of the Old Gods, of ancient terrors and bloody sacrifices. He dragged his black and crimson robe along the streets like a plague spreading its pestilence through the festive city. His eight servants followed him, always repeating the mantra. For a moment he stared at the crowd waiting for the wedding and he had a glimpse, a feeling of someone familiar. Nesrah hid quickly in the mob, impressed by seeing a Serpentis again. Not someone without importance like the bastards, but one who, in comparison, eclipsed his gifts and made him look just like a child learning his first tricks. The Maharshi finally approached the guards at the doors of the great hall.

Guard: “The wedding is over, old man. There is nothing else here for you.”

The servants stopped singing and Yeux raised his face to face the guard, making him shiver under his armor.

Yeux: “I’m Yeux Serpentis, Last King of Melhed and Great Maharshi of the Bloodspeakers. Let me in, blood-sack. I’m here to see my son.”

The marriage was over, the night had already thrown its darkness on Krimml and the couple must have been enjoying a sweet embrace. Yeux didn’t want to disturb. He could scarcely remember the warm touch of his Queen or any other woman, but he knew how important that was to his lineage. Also, for someone given as dead, he wanted to see the surprise in the eyes of the young Wolf Prince. So, in a library or dark office, he waited, for there was not a man brave enough to say no to the older Serpentis alive, especially in Krimml, where Erik had exerted the pinnacle of his power.

Eduardo Almighty:
Corvus Inquietus

Hrafn shook his head from side to side like a restless crow in search of a flickering gleam between the planks of the floor. He was pretending to hear his scribe read the very few letters available to him, sitting there at the Thousand Bastard's headquarters in Krimml. The tavern was empty, a little dirty and messy from the last party. For a moment he heard Erik's voice in his mind, whispering, "Let me out, son... let me out!!!" -- Then a letter caught his attention, an interesting confusion. Hrafn laughed a cheerful, childlike laugh.

Hrafn: "So, am I being confused with the Margrave of Krimml!? The Alfather would be glad to hear this. Hrafn Eyolf Serpentis, Priceps of Krimml, the Last Son of Avamar’s Golden Age. The new Black Dragon of Sirion…”

A man could dream, obviously, but not in Sirion. A Knight who looked long into the sun would be blinded seconds before being sifted by thousand arrows. The era of the great dreamers who dreamed Sirion had long passed away and all that remained was the coma of those old men who never died, who did not even bother to look for beautiful women to leave prodigious heirs in their places. Think about blind ambition. They were like old, blind dogs, afraid to lose their already gnawed bone in fear that they would not find another damn bone to gnaw at. Erik had suffered through betrayals, and perhaps even he did not realize that it had been Sirion who created those traitors, men and women who sold and corrupted themselves in the process of trying to divide the realm. Men and women who only wanted a chance to get away from all the bad things they had experienced at Sirion's hands.

Hrafn got up and walked to the window, looking towards Trinbar as the moon rose on the horizon. His older brother would be glad to march there again, set fire to the damn recruitment centers and temples erected by a false prophet. And then, finally, in a long and delicious torture, cut off his delicate skin from head to toe until turn him into a cloak to cover himself and parade under the storm. The young Knight took his death mask and covered himself with his black cape adorned with crow's feathers and left the scribe talking alone, going down the stairs toward the street. Captain Rita was dozing there, pretending to keep the place safe. She awoke startled as Hrafn walked alone.

Captain Rita: “Milord… Sir Hrafn… where are you going in the dark”

Hrafn: “I’m going to see my wife to-be. I heard that Lady Sigrid is in town... did you know that I have a sister with the same name? It reminds me of when the Alfather married his own daughter. Good times.”

He smiled and went down the street singing, his good humor returning as he bent over to steal a wild flower that was born in the cracks of the stones.

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Pretending I'm doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no one can tell

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game but to my real shame
You've left me to dream all alone

Eduardo Almighty:
Beehive

Since that month in which he had been chosen to represent the Alfather at the great annual festival, Hrafn was a little disturbed. Maybe it was the huge amount of wine, beer and ale; or all those herbs... and the worst, the Bloodmoon Fruit infusions. Sometimes his head was just a buzzing sound of voices and memories, some of his own, others totally invented to perfection by his own unconscious perception of the world. Sometimes the clarity came like a lightning striking a dead tree in a desert of silence. So he would rather sing to keep everything away, every piece of mind in its proper place. But one voice was louder than all.

"Don't be shy, son. Tell her you're going to plow her field like the last bloody farmer of Blaastambar in search of something to quench his hunger before dying in peace. That you're going to drink her to the last drop and quench your thirst like I(we) did with that last drop of wine from a bottle that I(we) take from that Fontanese bitch. Are you singing? Let me sing to her. Let me out, son!!!"

Hrafn shook his head and stopped singing to daze the voices. He was approaching the Bridge of the Fallen, a dark silhouette appearing in his black vest and his cape with feathers. He was not in his armor, but the short sword was resting at the belt. Already visible, he had not listened to the voices, engrossed in his own beehive. He was afraid to stutter as he spoke, so he first bowed in a beautiful and educated reverence, in reality, as imperfect and awkward as his own proper experience with the nobility. Only when he straightened his body did he dare look at her, just for an instant. It had to be her. Otherwise, he would be doomed to throw himself off the bridge and die in shame. They had sent letters to each other, but obviously it was not the same. He felt needles in his skin, a remind of those damn arrows. "You barely looked at her. Lucky you if she is not one-eyed as I am, smiling a toothless mouth at you like a sailor. Har Har Harrrr!"... He ignored the obscene part of the previous speech and the stupidity (but terrifying) truth of the last and filled his voice with an almost foolish courage inherited from those old dragons; almost.

Hrafn, looking almost exclusively at Ferdinand, feeling miserable for not having brought his own representative: "I am Sir Hrafn of the House Skovgaard. I am here to plead the right to court Lady Sigrid..."

He tried to keep his eyes on the servant, not knowing if that was the most respectful thing to do, but like a good raven, he tried to peek Lady Sigrid. Does she even look like a sailor? Damn voices. Luckily, his cape concealed the dead face of a poor Westmorian who had been skinned by Dürion. It would be terrible to break the ice. Little did he know.

Eduardo Almighty:
Sordidus strategies in Sordidus.

Hrafn heard the ravens crowing, filling the night while a shiver ran down his spine. Hours later he would receive the scribe with reports that magic was being used before the battle. While he surveyed the wounded and tried to cheer up a little the ones who would fight again in a few moments, he thought about how many lies he would have to swallow. How much stupidity and cheap talk had been thrown down the throats of simple Knights who thought that obeying stupid orders was honorable and glorious. They wouldn't need to be giving their lives and that of their soldiers unnecessarily, but for them that was the ultimate honor: obeying a stupid order and dying for it. Mistakes happens, they say... how to ignore the fact that there was as a damn moat and a palisade on their way!?

They had said that if it were not for the use of magic, Garas would never be kicked out of Oligarch. Well, Garas was no longer in Oligarch, but magic was still being used systematically against him. Not that a traitor did not deserve, but what's the merit in being a liar!? What is the merit of using freeman to do your dirty work when your incompetence does not allow you to win battles even in greater numbers? Garas not only betrayed Sirion, but also killed any trace of honor that had remained in the Sirionites in the process. Only one man had been able to expose who they truly were willing to be to keep their positions of power.

Hrafn: "Fortunately the General has Trinbar to go back in. It may be useful for him to visit the false prophet and ask for a good ritual to help him in the next battles, at least he has a parasite with whom to advise himself."

Captain Rita: "I hope for you and your marriage, Sire. We have to get out of here while we can... whatever your father did, we obviously do not live in the paradise he built..."

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