[center][h1][color=6ecff6]CLARENT[/color][/h1][/center]

[center][img]http://i46.tinypic.com/29he0w.jpg[/img][/center]

[center][h2][color=6ecff6]The Kingmaker
Knight Commander Coquelicot[/color][/h2][/center]

[center][img]http://orig07.deviantart.net/5808/f/2011/332/a/7/a785d8bbf26170192769c6950fc0b54a-d4hn3ht.png[/img][/center]

[h2][color=6ecff6]M Y T H O L O G Y[/color][/h2]
[hider=The Song of Clarent]On the coming of the morrow
And as the dawning light catches in small places
I shall thank my Liege for my long and happy days.
Yet I see not the same Liege whose voice greets the sons of my sons.
For in grace and horror I had seen Him long decades ago
And lingers his strength revealed across my memory as I go towards the Well.
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some great and grand and wonders that call to young fools,
And I, principal among such in my youth,
Did but stray over the paths through the peaks of Sangfroid.
Haughty and proud but soon to find
The warnings upon the ancient maps were but true:
"Here there be dragons".
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some unhappy, broken, and rife with strife and war.
Under the gaze of the dark tower beyond wherein lie the Witches
Trespass many things that would soon end the life of a fool.
To me came chief of such fates as the ground 'round me shook,
As whispers of wind grew great,
And around me the pines rocked.
Great was Fafnir of the world beyond the mountains.
Terrible was the dragon lord, great among his kind,
Rumors of whom even found purchase in Ynys Mons fair.
How many walls had fallen in the lands over the hills,
Torn asunder at the shock of his tail?
How many creatures run through on his talons?
How many ripped asunder by the teeth tall and white?
As the dragon crested the pass I hid,
Sheltered shivering among the rocks, barely finding a place.
My hands across my mouth to muffle my breath
Less the scent of my fear catch in his muzzle,
Less I scream aloud as his claws crushed the rocks around me.
Sat I in dread as he stood over me unknowingly,
Looking down from the high rocks to Flanders beyond.
Hissed like acid did his drool and spit,
The rocks foaming as his hungry maw opened above me.
Panned his vast greedy eyes, alight, over the lands beyond,
And shook I with fear as he laughed.
Yet even his greed was not the end of what I was made to witness,
For even as I pulled deeper within the rocks he lifted himself,
And with a deafening roar summoned more horrors.
Seven sons had Fafnir, and seven sons came at his call.
Up they came, sliding over the rocks like vast serpents.
Soon they enveloped my place of hiding,
And my fear was consuming, and I dared scarce to breathe.
For though slight were they in stance under their sire,
Over each hung the same power,
And their eyes blazed with malice.
"My sons!" called the drake,
His voice like rumbling thunder far across distant hills,
"Tis' Ynys Mons below us, fair for the taking!
Their armies have burned,
And who fears the She-King?
Come, we go forth to take for our own
These fat lands, fit for the harvest."
New fears through me flew,
For I knew it t'was not fields of grain
Or apples shining in the summer sun,
Which they set their eyes upon as a harvest.
Nay, t'was not shining gem upon which they sought to slake their hunger
And shuddered I in fear for loved ones below,
And in horror at what awaited Ynys Mons fair.
About me they pawed at the rocks,
Their talons clawing away the layers of slate and shale
As though it were just grass upon the earth,
As they pondered the feast before them
And laughed in horrible pleasure.
Round about me pooled the acid, powerful vapor,
That dripped from hungry lips.
Yet, even as I shuddered in terror,
As I felt faint from the vapor,
I saw them lift their heads
And sniff at the air as does a hound
At a scent that floats upon the breeze.
So it was that the sons of Fafnir turned to him
And his head lifted in wonder at it.
"What could be so scented?"
Pondered aloud the beast, pawing at the earth,
Making rubble of the mountainside.
"D'jac, eldest of my scion," called Fafnir
"Make down these paths
And find what it is that catches as scent
And what it is that drifts about on the breeze."
So went the eldest of the sons
And as they waited they sat sunning themselves,
Laid out across the vast tables of rock
Until D'jac returned.
As he returned to them
His eyes thereon sat uncertainty,
Puzzlement was there cast.
"Father" spoke the eldest,
"There lies in these woods not far away a temople,
One of stone, yet overgrown with vine,
The rocks cast asunder.
There upon the hewn stones caught I the scent of that which approaches.
A flame burned within the halls, as if newly lit
And as such it seemed since long before my birth!"
From where I laid hidden,
Wrapped in worry and doubt,
I saw the dragon lord tilt his head
And long ponder these words.
"Sivek," called the drake,
"Most powerful of my scion,
Lift yourself and seek."
With that up rose Sivek,
Shrouded in power and might.
Down the mountain he crashed
Throwing trees before him,
Birds and beasts of the wood
Fleeing before him in fear for their lives
And in terror at his passing.
The dragons rolled there, scratching themselves
Ruining the rocks, shattering them as they awaited
The return of their brother and son.
As I waited in fear I heard his coming,
And did the dragons as well, for he bellowed
His pain carried on the air, reaching high,
And he fell among them wounded and bleeding.
"Father!" called Sivek, thrashing about,
the diamond spears deep in his leg and side,
"What approaches, it rises to this place not alone!
An army marches with it, can you not see the dust
That grows in the western sky?
Though I trampled, bit, and thundered
Had that army stood, and what comes on us now
Leads it such that we cast it not to fear but resolution!"
Listened then did I as Sivek pulled the spears from his wounds,
As he simpered and spoke of the men with cloaks of black.
Fafnir looked across his child unmoved,
"How is it you were undone by the Tuath?
By those who drink wine and and eat oat, those who sing and play?
"Jahken, most sly of my sons! Go now down this mountain,
Whisper until you find what rises against your kin!"
With that they sat and pulled at the spears,
Licked the wounds of their brother as he cursed
And promised that it was upon his teeth
That Ynys Mons would be broken.
Yet not long could he invoke such wrath
For returned did Jahken, wailing in pain
For he was less an eye.
"Father!" called the dragon that crashed to the earth,
Body tearing at the mountain as he flailed,
"Sly and clever have you named me,
yet what comes for us now
Is devious beyond any doubt!
For a trap was laid where the river enters these woods,
And as a fool I was ensnared, and an eye it has cost me!"
Rage was growing within the drake,
Fafnir, his face raw and twisting.
"How has my line come to this?
Where are my strong sons?
What has reduced my scion to wurms?
What has vexed them,
And made them as whelps that mewl and cry?"
With this I shuddered anew
And darkness itself draped o'er the rocks wherein I hid.
"Father," spoke a voice as a chorus of ghosts,
"Rhesk, I who over darkness and evil hang,
Let my blanket of loss float over the Tausi
And fear itself will fill them
And name that which vexes us."
With that he sent forth Rhesk
And as his sons licked their wounds
He paced, and watched I from my hidden place
As the old drake did crack the rocks in his talons
As though worry followed him.
Not long did the dragon lord go thusly
For a voice unfamiliar reached to him weakly.
"Father," called a voice small and beset,
And Fafnir let out a roar of disbelief.
His eyes stared over Rhesk,
The body trembling and shorn of darkness,
As forward came the broken form.
Aghast stood Fafnir, fighting to believe what he beheld,
His son thin and crushed.
"Cast I sheets of fear over them,"
Came the dragon's voice
As though spread thin over the stones of a river,
"Yet, no sooner had I done so than there was light
And in it was a presence
Of one devoted to their She-King
And I was undone, my darkness stolen on knives of light!"
Laughed then did Bomlas, arrogant and haughy.
Proud was this son of Fafnir, and he bowed to his brothers
And mockery was in it.
"Father, would my dear brothers consent to it,
I should be the one to end this menace.
For if fear, strength, and slyness shall not prevail
It is poisoned words that would make best the issue."
Off then went Bomlas, head held high,
And as the dragons awaited his return I looked on,
Watching in horror and awe as their slight motions shifted the river,
Even those wounded still wiping away with ease the ancient trees
As they rolled, moaned, and worked their wounds.
And there I saw rage tempered by concern and doubt
Living upon the face of the dragon lord.
With head held low came Bomlas
And the eyes of judgement were upon him.
"Father," came the dragon's voice, "I am beaten.
No sooner had I reached the edge of these woods
When I saw we were encircled
And though we can easily break an army
No force is there that could break that which assailed me."
"A voice echoed to me through the woods,
A million voices made of one,
And it spoke of giving its life
So the She-King would live.
It comes here, and before I could poison it with words
It laid me low, denounced me utterly in harsh speech.
It comes here, dreading not death if even one mortal to save."
"Return your craven tongue to within your disgraced head!"
Roared the father, crashing his claws across the face of his son.
"Lay here now your brothers, one less an eye,
One pierced through, another shorn and trembling.
Words beat you?
Are you not my son?
Lacon, my wise son, heed your sire and speak with me."
Now came another son of Fafnir,
One who had sat quietly pondering.
Though terrible and vast, there was in this one
Something of a thoughtful grace.
"Lacon," called the drake, "Wisest of my scion.
Go you now down the mountain
And find what you will."
Not long did Fafnir wait, for as the day grew bright
Returned to them did Lacon, and upon his face sat doubt
As deep and as powerful as the sea.
"Father, know I what has befallen us.
Though scarce can I believe what I have seen.
It must be made real to another, lest I know it true.
Send forth my brother Hylon, that he may see it too.
Now came the smallest of the seven sons,
One not so imposing, and Lacon whispered to him,
Yet from my sheltered place I did hear.
"Sit quietly and speak not. Listen and soon you will know."
Softly and uncertainly from the mountain went Hylon
And his brothers did wonder at it.
Yet Lacon spoke not and Fafnir fumed and paced.
As the day moved on my body grew weak.
Cramped was I in my earthen shelter
And yet even though I sat high above them on the mountain,
Still did the vapors of the dragons reach me
And filled me with dread whenever one would cast his gaze over the pass.
I sat there in fear, and knowing no aid would find me.
Yet my deliverance drew near.
Returned then did Hylon, his eyes wide in amazement.
"Lacon," he asked his brother in awestruck tone,
"Was it a Man that revealed himself to you?
Was it a Man in robe of black,
His words sweet and his promise sincere?"
"This is what I saw," answered the wisest,
"And in his such magic flows that ne'er I have seen."
Nearly called out did I in joy, yet I stifled my hope
As harsh eyes drew up their ire.
Began then a rumbling laugh,
One that seemed born of thunder across young mountains.
Yet not long did it last,
For soon he was berating them,
Shaming his sons.
"One Man has done all of this to my scion?
One Man hath made them crawl as wurms?
And why should this be so?
I know of the Kingmaker, and yet I know too what has been lost!
Where is his youth, in which he slew Grael?
Even now the snow creeps upon his flower.
Were you too enchanted by the pretty stones he carries?
Did he kneel and bartered, my sons, to draw you down?"
"Father," spoke Lacon, wisest of the sons,
"Doubt not that in the Man there still rests power.
The Man is the Word, the Land, the Castle.
He will suffer us not and we are already undone."
"We may go to the East!" called Hylon,
"This he promised me as I lay among the ferns,
let us make that our path, and peace here may lay."
"What has become of my sons?
Where are the dragons who laid out kingdoms?
Where are my scion who bathed continents in flame?
Come, rise! One Man shall not keep us from this land
And the mortals below will learn fear.
I am Fafnir! What can long stand against these teeth?
Who would try to stand before my scion and I?"
With that the light did draw down,
And as a Man slid down the broken shale
Rising to reveal a form of grace
And beauty in the very midst of the dragon and his kin.
Reeled did they the seven sons of Fafnir, yet stood he firm
And gazed did the dragon into the eyes of the one there revealed,
He staring back at the dragon lord from beyond ages.
"I am Clarent of Coquelicot, and this is Ynys Mons over which I reign,"
Came the voice of my prince, beautiful and terrifying at once.
Not had I heard it so in my young life,
And I pulled myself deeper into my hidden place in fear of it.
"Your sons have one and all known my presence,
Fafnir of the land beyond the Tear,
And each has felt my judgment and promise."
"Speak not to me so proudly, Kingmaker,"
Laughed the drake as he eyed him
"For I know many things.
Where are your knights?
Dare you face us alone?
How do you expect your She-King to keep her realm
When seven sons have I to make my claim?"
"Seven sons have you Fafnir,"
Came the voice of the sovereign,
"Yet only five stand near.
And as many sons as you may have
It matters not in the reckoning.
For you may have fathered sons
Yet mine is not the line 
That will end upon the sunrise.
"Father!" called Lacon and Hylon,
"Listen to the words he speaks,
There is a power in this man,
One beyond us all to overcome!
He has made to us a promise,
To go to the East in peace,
Let us go now there and drop our claim!"
"Blood traitors!" called the drake,
His voice shaking the mountain,
"No sons of mine are you,
Who are so scared by a single Man!
Come, those of you who would still be my sons!
Rise, rise against the mortal here standing!
Rise, rise, now is the time to cast him down!"
At that rose the five sons,
Each looking to avenge their loss upon the man.
Darted they at he, slashed with claw,
Bit with tooth, whipped with tail.
Yet none could land a blow upon him.
Fire they spilled in long whipping cords,
Yet the sovereign slipped their wrath.
Fafnir, the great vast drake himself,
Nearly caught him, made him flash and slide,
His dark eyes coming alight at the thought of a kill,
Of divine meat across his lips.
Great was my fear for him as the drake spoke,
"Powerful are you Clarent,
Yet I know that the flower is wilting."
With small smirk
And smile upon his face
Did the Prince of Coquelicot
Flash among them,
Spoiling their motions.
With a laugh did he take to the air
And erupt as brilliant daggers.
"Do you think yourselves even half the might of those heathen devils,
From whom I wrested back our people?
Do you think yourselves even half in power and magic
As the Witches, mother and daughters, who now sleep in deathly sleep
In their towers over these mountains?
Dare you name yourself as better of your Brother
That lively wretch, Grael, yet now fallen, whom I slew?"
With that came a rumbling roar from Fafnir
One both horrible
Yet something less than what had been heard before.
"Gather to me, my sons!
The man doubts our strength?
Shall we light now our own deep and powerful magic?
Let our fires coalesce, and let it flow forth and steal out his sly tongue!"
With that Clarent was surrounded
And they growled and sought him with fierce eyes.
At once their eyes alit with light of pale grey
And from within their gaping maws,
Where stood teeth tall and horrible as stands of swords,
Flowed dark fire that did wrap and twist
Until as orbs of unholy flame it sat waiting to steal his life.
Move did I to cry to him, beg him to flee.
Yet within a moment that which has sat in my eyes ever after was revealed.
It was then that my Lord dropped his pretense of flesh
And rose the Monile in white torrent of flame.
A horrible light was in his eyes,
Light glittering from the sovereign as ten thousand spears falling to the earth
Or erupting in crackling arcs high into the skies.
Wavered did the sons of Fafnir,
And turned they to his might.
Yet he brought forth the magic within,
And with that they joined him in his assault.
Set they the pale light upon the sovereign,
Seeking his destruction and death,
And I feared for Him as it rose into the darkened skies.
Then erupted magic from the sovereign,
Great waves of it that shuddered and shook the mountain,
Threatened to collapse the sheltered place where I had but hidden.
Became he so brilliant that no longer could I look upon him,
And his voice filled the valley that the river had cut over ages,
Where the dragons looked up in amazement
And it was as though the voice radiated from him, unspoken.
"Oh, you fools!" came the voice of the sovereign,
Flying from within the prism,
"Know you not from which my power flows,
That which gives me my very name?
Know this now and despair,
And Death claim you in this moment,
For who should slay a dragon but a Knight?"
With that did the power of mountain erupted
Cascading as a stream through rapids, pouring as a waterfall
Over the valley, mountain, and river below.
Reflected was the magic of the dragons,
Returning back to them, yet greater by multitudes
And fear was in their eyes as the fire crushed them,
As his light weighed down upon them.
Oh, that I should never see such a sight again!
As the sons of Fafnir were overwhelmed
Their jaws creaked and were peeled back.
The flesh of their faces torn away,
Their eyes made as water and streaming down their faces.
Not long enough did they live to scream,
Merciful in that regard was the judgement of the Monile.
Yet still stood did Fafnir,
His magic greater than that of his sons.
Yet even he could not long stand in the face of the Kingmaker.
And he wavered and was cast down in ruin
As the very mountainside began to become molten
As the rocks glowed red and my place of hiding
Became as an oven.
"Sovereign, Majesty!" called I, lifting my voice
From where I had hidden all of that long day.
"One of your Acolytes lies here,
Awash with fear and in hiding!
I beg you, withdraw your judgement,
Less I too should be killed,
Overcome by my sovereign's might!"
At once the light lifted, and once again
Clarent of ancient face and fatherly countenance was there,
Looking to where I had beseeched him.
Yet at once did Fafnir call out to him,
Heaving in pain and wincing with each breath.
Defeated was the dragon lord, his flesh charred,
The scales flaking away, the limbs shriveled.
Slowly he lowered himself to the bowl of the mountain,
Where the fire river now hissed and steamed across the boiled rocks.
And as the earth hardened as he danced upon it
Came he before Fafnir, his enemy and that of his people,
And listened as he fought to speak.
"Do any of my sons live," asked the drake through stammers of grief,
"Do any of my scion still walk, do I still have a line?"
"The two whom you cast aside sit nearby," he spoke,
"Weeping for their father and brothers."
"Lacon! Hylon! Wisest and fairest of my sons!" called the drake,
Pain racing through him as his lips bled and he pawed at the earth,
"Go to the East! Wiser and humbler than your father are you,
For you knew what I would not hear, which I refused to believe,
You now are all that remains of my line, for your father dies here."
As I lifted myself from my shelter I watched
As the dragon lord lay dying,
As his charred flesh cracked and flowed from him his blood.
"Knew these things," he spoke softly as his eyes watered,
"From the lips of my kin, that all the Knights,
And my Brothers, and more foes,
Had you felled in times now long passed."
"As a whelp I mocked them in silence,
How could a Man, a prince who knelt before a She-King,
And cast aside steel and armor for stones
Cause such fear in vast great dragon lords of old?
When word came over the mountains
That the Knight Morgant had been killed
And we saw him as the Bane of our kind
I thought you reduced by half, and Ynys Mons mine for the taking."
"Here now I lay, a broken lord,
And before me a horror I'd spare any father,
Is before me laid bare and open.
My sons. My sons! Dead they are, and twisted in death,
Burnt by the earth itself!
Would you not tell me, I beg,
Clarent, how it is that you are still so strong?"
"Oh Fafnir," spoke my sovereign softly,
"Not you, your sons, or your Brother,
Whom I slew in equal combat
When the War of the Seven reached an end,
In pain and loss are equal to Man and Drake
In these long years much has changed,
And the Flower has wilted."
"You can not know what I have suffered,
What I would suffer still,
To give my little grandchildren who are dear to me,
Even a day without fear and pain.
You can know not what I've been made to do,
Yet my strength is now lost, and flows my magic vexed.
And 'tis not only my heart torn in twain at my enemy's fall."
"I am a fool," said he as the pain grew in him,
As his body trembled, rocked with the hurts that multiplied,
"The victory is yours, and I ask your favor,
Send me to be with my sons,
Sooner now than later, if that mercy you would grant.
For Regent is named both your sword and your throne,
And the heart of a dragon lord easily can it pierce."
"This I will grant you," spoke Clarent as he rolled to his side,
And as Fafnir wept, both from his pain and the loss of his scion,
Did my prince lay one small kiss upon his head
And place a shard of Regent to his chest.
With one heave, one push
Did the stone slide betwixt scale and flesh and deep within
And quell the fire that burned within
And there on the mountainside died the dragon lord.
Noble form dressed in the blood of their kin,
 Turned He to Lacon and Hylon who wept nearby.
Bowed they in fear of his might and caught in his beauty,
And with his blessing he dismissed them.
Promised they not to eat of Man,
And to their word they must have held true,
For not again in my life have I heard their names whispered.
Stood I on that high place,
Looking across the ruins of the mountain,
The great bowl carved there by dragon claw and dragon's fire.
Yet it was the one radiant Man that stood there among the litter
And ruin of his foes
That put the most fear in me, made me tremble,
As he lifted his hand to me, calling me to him.
Laid his head across me did, my Liege
Made soft sounds of reassurance as a father would,
The mountain crashed around us, drove down the ruins.
He bade me flee, and bequethed the Shards of Regent
His magesty and words lifted me above the mountain, drew out my fear,
As the bodies of the dragon lord and his scion were entombed,
Laid beneath the crushed mountain, and the river flowed over the place,
And with a whisper of magic did crash the waters o'er the graves.
To the home of my father I returned
And scarce would any of my family believe my words.
Yet I would not retract them,
And a great bowl filled as a clear lake in the mountains beyond
The shimmering shards of my Liege
Prove these words true.
For in all the years since that day
Has no Knight, as true as Clarent
Guarded the throne of Coquelicot[/hider]


[hider=The Man Behind the Myth]
Clarent was powerful.
        He sat in the center of the orphanage’s main hall, bathed in the light of his newly awakened magic. Around him orbited several dozen books. He had one of them open and was reading all about bladecasting when they came to collect him.
        Two guards, lightly armored and bearing a red poppy crest, strode into the room. Between them was a tight faced man with a weathered face, garbed in fine clothes. Clarent had never seen an noble before. He recognized the symbol well, however. “You’re King Solom,” he said.
        Solom regarded him for only a moment, his face expressionless. “Kneel,” he said at last.
        Clarent considered his words. “Why should I?” he said. “If you’re here to execute me, I die if I kneel and I die if I don’t. If you’ve decided to conscript me, then will my bad manners really change your mind?”
        Again, the king’s face did not betray his thoughts. “Leave us,” he said.
        Nobody spoke. The matron as well as Solom’s guards both left immediately. The King continued to regard Clarent with his cold stare, and Clarent began to feel like a child for the first time in years. Suddenly, sitting in the center of the room seemed silly.   
"Clarent,” Solom said. “You killed a boy.”
        “He wasn’t a boy,” Clarent said. “He was older than me.”
        “He was a boy, and you are a boy. Children both. You will tell me why he is dead.”
        Clarent was amazed at how Solom could make such a deep and rich voice sound bland and lifeless. “He tried to kill me,” she said, “so I stabbed him in the neck with a rock.”
        “You killed him with magic.”
        “I did,” Clarent said. “He survived when I stabbed him in the neck, but I broke his voice somehow. When he came back to the orphanage, he tried to kill me again. He was choking me in the kitchens and I couldn’t stop him this time. And then I felt all warm inside, and suddenly I felt all good.”
        Solom nodded. “An awakening.”
        “He backed away,” Clarent said. “But I knew that he’d try again. He’d come for me in my sleep or stab me with a knife. So I grabbed him with my magic,” he said, remembering. “I pulled him in all different directions. He came apart.” There had been blood everywhere.
        “Yes, Clarent, you broke it. You are an extremely special young boy.”
        “Valuable,” Clarent said. Solom cocked her head. “I’m valuable. You want me to fight in your army. And if I don’t you’re going to kill me. That’s why you’re here.”
        Solom began to step closer. “Essentially, yes. Magical talents are extremely valuable, and you are the most valuable magical talent. I had come here prepared to appeal to you as an orphan. I was going to tell you that everything would be okay and that I was going to care for you now. I had intended to make you feel wanted and to offer you a home.”
Clarent swallowed. “You aren’t?”
        “I am,” Solom said. “But now that I have met you, I see that I can make what you will find to be a far more compelling offer, one even more true. It was in the way you refused to kneel, the way you sit before a king instead of rise, the way you described killing the boy. This will make you less inclined to rebel.”
        He stepped inside Clarent’s bubble of books and leaned down. “Power, Clarent. If you come with me, become my servant, and do exactly as I say, you will become the strongest mortal man to have ever lived. I will teach you to kill your enemies, and you will make my enemies yours. You will never want for food, shelter, or attention, and you will be respected by your allies and feared by your rivals.”
        Clarent looked up at him. The offer wasn’t something he had to think about. “I accept,” he said. “But I have a question.”
        “Refer to me as ‘Your Highness’.”
        “I have one question, Your Highness.”
        Solom nodded in approval. “Ask.”
        “You weren’t clear. Is this a conscription, or an adoption?”

[center][img]http://orig07.deviantart.net/5808/f/2011/332/a/7/a785d8bbf26170192769c6950fc0b54a-d4hn3ht.png[/img][/center]

“Name?” One of the guards asked.
        “My name is Lucille,” she said. “I’d like to speak with Major Comol.”
        The guard looked her over. Lucille wore no uniform, instead preferring a deep crimson gown. “No,” he said.
        “I urge you to reconsider your response,” Lucille said. “I’m very important, you see.”
        “What I see,” the guard said. “Is a rankless child attempting to interrupt an important meeting being held by the acting head of the army. Get out of here.”
        Lucille turned her head towards down the hall. “Clarent!” she called out.
        Clarent had been speaking with a soldier of the army. He appeared to excuse himself from the conversation before striding towards Lucille and the guard.
        “Get us in,” Lucille said to him.
        “And who’s this?” the guard asked, looking Clarent over. His eyes took in a black-robed youth somewhere close to Lucille’s age of sixteen.
        Clarent gave a polite half-nod, half-bow. “I am sir Clarent, Knight of the Natural Order. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
        The guard laughed. “You?” he asked, “a Knight of the Natural Order? I suggest you take that robe back to its owner before he gives you a whipping, boy.”
        Clarent did not appear offended in the slightest. “The Natural Order does not consider age a substitute for experience or skill. I request that you allow Lady Lucille and I into the inner ring to speak with Major Comol.”
        At this, the guard’s laughter redoubled. “Is that so? Tell, me, Sir Clarent, what kind of knight of the Natural Order requests anything from a lowly guard like me?”
        “A well-mannered one,” Clarent said.
        “Just my luck!” the guard shouted. “I got the only polite knight out of the whole order. Any of the others would have killed me by now, right? But not you. Oh you are too kind, Sir Clarent.”
        “Thank you,” Clarent said with a nod. Lucille appeared to grow impatient.
        “Scram,” the guard said. “I know for a fact that the Major doesn’t have any Knight Commander with the army.”
        Clarent nodded again. “I am not with the army. I have been assigned as Lucille Coquelicot’s knight protector, so that she may continue to hold no rank during her stay here.”
        “Look, kid,” the guard said. “I don’t care what story you two have cooked up. You keep running your mouth and I’ll have you both strung up by your ears. Understand?”
        Clarent regarded him coolly. “How stupid,” he said quietly, “can you possibly be?"
        The guard’s jaw fell open. “What did you just say to me?”
        Clarent continued to speak, his voice calm and level. “No man would dare impersonate a Knight of the Natural Order. I am young, yes; and so your doubts as to my rank are not entirely unfounded. But if you were to consider for even a moment that there is the slightest chance that I am who I say I am, you would have treated me with a little more respect. Just in case.
        “You could have excused yourself, checked my identity on the ledger, then returned informed; and yet you did not. Do you understand that while in this camp I am the word of King Solom?”
        The guard looked from Clarent to Lucille, uncertainty showing on his face. “I’ll check the ledger,” he said, “but if—”
        “No,” Clarent interrupted him. “You will not. You will decide here and now whether or not you believe what I am saying is true. If you allow me through and I am an imposter, you will be punished by your superiors. If you turn me away and I am not an imposter, I will invoke the wrath of Solom.”
        “That means he kills you,” Lucille said. 
        “That’s exactly what an imposter would say,” the guard said. “You don’t want me checking the ledger.” Clarent noticed a bead of sweat glistening on his forehead.
        “It is,” Clarent said. “But it is also a pointless cruelty, if I am who I say I am. Doesn’t that fit the descriptions of a knight of the Natural Order that you’ve heard?”
        “I...” the guard looked around frantically. “You can’t expect me to...”
        “Three seconds,” Clarent said.
        “Okay!” the guard shouted. “Just go! Major is going to have my ass for this regardless.”
        “Thank you,” Clarent said as both he and Lucille strode past the guard. “You will undoubtedly wish to check my weapon.” His robe fluttered, and nine sharpened pieces of metal neatly stacked themselves onto the ground. “Nine pieces of iron.”
        The guard looked down at the metal, and Clarent knew exactly what thought ran through his head: only the owner of the blade could manipulate it with magic.
        “Consider it a rare kindness,” Clarent said as he turned to move deeper into the inner circle. “That I will refrain from shedding blood before the daughter of our king.”
The guard gaped at them as Lucille turned to give him a cheeky wave.
        “Well,” Lucille said once they were well on their way to Major Comol. “That was almost mean of you, Clarent. I’m surprised.”
        Clarent raised an eyebrow. “I was doing him a kindness,” he said. “Any other member of the order will kill him if he shows that much disrespect. I taught him a much-needed lesson. Still, I would like to use my power for something other than being your bully for once.”
        “I hear Grael is getting restless again,” Lucille said. “How does slaying one of the strongest dragons in the world sound?”
        “Impossible, even for you and me. I was thinking more along the lines of rescuing a damsel. Something that makes the world a better place.”
        “And instead you’re stuck opening all the doors I can’t kick down,” Lucille said. “Perhaps I should ask Father for a rank.”
        “King Solom,” Clarent corrected. “Titles are important.”
        “All knights say that,” Lucille countered with a smile.
        “Tell me,” Clarent said. “Why are we about to interrupt a meeting between Major Comol and all his most trusted officers?”
        “You hadn’t already guessed? And here I thought you were suppose to be teaching me these things...”
        “I have my suspicions,” Clarent said. “The greatest of which comes from the fact that you don’t wear jewelry.”
        Lucille fiddled with the gemstone earrings that dangled from her ears. “You’re so observant,” she remarked. “But this is just for the worst case scenario. I’m just going to tell the major that I’m taking command of the army.”
        Clarent stopped in his tracks. “You have got to—no, you know what? I know you enough to know that you aren’t joking.”
        “Well,” Lucille said, stopping to face him. “Let’s hear your objections.”
        “You can’t,” Clarent said. “It’s insane! King Solom put you here so you’d learn how the army works, not tear it apart from the inside out!”
        “Father doesn’t ever do something for just one reason,” Lucille said. “And I have learned how Men make war, Clarent. I’m going to make some improvements.”
        “By staging a coup? Can you hear yourself speaking right now?”
        “I can,” Lucille said, growing irritated. “Father gave Comol this army so he could take the Tear. He has failed to take the Tear. I’ve deemed it necessary to step in.”
        “You’re doing this to impress him.”
        “Why else do I do anything?” Lucille asked him. “You are my knight protector and you will do as I tell you. And right now I am telling you to stand idly by while I seize command from Major Comol. You can do that, yes?”
        “When your father learns of this—”
        “Don’t presume to know the Princess better than I do, Clarent. Now come.” She turned and swiftly began to walk away.
        “This is crazy,” Clarent muttered before following her. “I don’t have my blade, Lucille.”
        “You won’t be needing it. Your job is to stand idle, remember? You’re a Knight, and if you stand near me I look important by proxy.”
        “You can’t take whatever you want just through looking important, Lucille.”
        “I know that,” she said. “But I can take the rest through power, intelligence, or sex appeal.”
        “Sex appeal?” Clarent asked. “Is that why you walk the way you do?”
        “Yes,” Lucille answered. “You’d be amazed at how easy it is to get a man to do what you want when their sole interest is taking you to bed. Back there you got us through the guard because he thought you were a Knight of the Natural Order.”
        “I am a Knight of the Natural Order.”
        “Irrelevant,” Lucille said. “The position is not something real; like your magic, it is an invention. The rules of bladecasting, which were selected in a fashion that is seemingly arbitrary, cause Men to look upon you with respect simply because of the color of your robe.”
        “What are you getting at?” Clarent asked.
        “I am the most influential woman alive in the kingdom, and yet I hold no rank, and so in many ways I am powerless. Comol is a major, and this imaginary position gives him a very real store of influence. But he’s proven he can’t use it anymore, so I’m going to take it away from him.”
        “And then you’re going to win the Tear?”
        “Yes,” Lucille said. “If a single man can influence others by the way they dress, and the way they act, and the way they are spoken of, cannot an army? Where is the robe that demands our enemies reconsider? Where is the title that will bring them to their knees without a drop of blood shed? I propose that an army is not unlike a man.”
        “You sound like you’re a book all of a sudden.” Lucille ignored him.
        The inner ring of Comol’s camp was constructed around the ruins of an ancient town that had apparently been burned to the ground by Grael in one of his more active years. The result was a collection of barely-habitable stone ruins that served as housing for the army’s commanders.
        The central structure, the bare remnants of what had once been a keep, was where Major Comol held his war talks. Nobody was allowed in or out while they were ongoing. 
Clarent threw the doors open with an excessive amount of noise and magical flare. Inside, over a dozen men stood around a large round table. At their center was Major Comol, an aging man with a green uniform and blue sash.
        “Major Comol,” Lucille called out as every pair of eyes in the room turned to her. “Your failure to consult me before making the decision to retreat was about as ill-advised as the decision itself. King Solom will be most displeased.”
Clarent blinked in surprise. It seems he had taught the Princess a thing or two.
        [i]Establish yourself as a being of power and authority; let the disparity between the princess they see and the princess you act like intrigue them.
[/i]       
 “Coquelicot,” Comol growled. “I told you I’m not interested in teaching a woman the intricacies of battle. Get out of here before I have your ears beaten.”
        [i]An effective counter; he made you appear little while ignoring your claim to authority. If only he had challenged it. Ah, well, nothing to do but make him appear childish as well and drive the Princess bit home.[/i]
        “You act childish, Comol. Attempt to harm me and I will have you hung for treason and then quartered for incompetence.”
        [i]Enough time has passed that they will all have noticed the bladecaster standing at your side. Let them ask, who is this woman who threatens the major with death?[/i]
        The major stared at her, mouth agape. Clarent didn’t blame him: she had, up to that point, played the simpering princess. “You dare,” he said at last. “You dare accuse me of betraying the crown?”
        [i]And now, answer their question.[/i]
        “I am the blood of Solom himself, and I speak with his voice,” Lucille  announced. “I do not accuse you of betraying the crown. I convict you of it.”
       [i] If you’re lucky, he’ll argue against the treason and not the authority.[/i]
        “I have done nothing to betray my King and Princess! You speak nonsense, Coquelicot!”
       [i] That was easy. Let’s make him angry.[/i]
        “My Father instructed you to take the Tear. You are about to order a retreat.”
        “Staying in the Tear will result in a loss!” Comol cried.
        “Retreat guarantees one!” Lucille shouted. “Or have you forgotten that, Comol?! Do I need to remind you that when you retreat, it means you lose!”
        [i]Unless you win, in the end. But we won’t let him in on that.[/i]
        The major’s face was growing red. “You dare talk to me that way?” he bellowed. “I am the veteran of a decade of war! I commanded decisive victories at Hockensgrade and Middenland!”
        [i]Belittle him.[/i]
        “Neither of which were won by retreating, if I recall.”
        “Bitch,” was all the major whispered.
        [i]Time for the most potent weapon of all: blatant lies.[/i]
        “King Solom suspected your incompetence,” Lucille said. “But even he did not think it would be this bad. Four defeats in two months. Three villages lost to Prince Theon. Your failure is indefensible and drastic actions must be taken to ensure you do not hinder the crown’s aims any longer.”
        “You have no authority,” Comol said, fuming.
        “On the contrary,” Lucille said. “You have no authority. I am stripping you of your rank and its privileges. You are to return to the capitol immediately. If you do not follow this order, I will invoke the wrath of Solom. Clarent, take the major and confine him to the barracks.”
                Major Comol snarled and drew his sword, the tip coming to rest just at Lucille's throat. “I’d like to see you try, well-born bitch!”
        Displaced air swished around Lucille as her knight came alongside her, only inches away from the major. Comol's mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a soft gurgle before his eyes glazed over. He collapsed into three neatly sliced pieces of meat, and a torrent of blood rushed out around Clarent’s boots as they hit the floor with a meaty thud.
Lucille's earing hung empty
               Clarent dismissed the blade, and the gemstones clattered to the floor. The knight had used them to cut away from his charge, and as a result the officers' faces and hair had been splattered with blood. They table looked on, motionless.
        "Not all power is imaginary, princess," he told her aloud.
        “I am going to tell you exactly what I want to happen,” Lucille said to her new underlings. “And you are going to make it happen. It is through this method that we will win the Tear. If that isn’t how it worked before, that’s how it works now. But please, feel free to make suggestions; my doors are always open.”
        The men around the table were silent. Lucille could feel Comol’s blood soaking into her gown. She licked her lips.
        “The engineers will begin clearing trees for an enforced camp three times as large as needed. The squires will begin lighting triple the current amount of campfires at night. They will set up every tent we have rather than only the amount we need, and they will space them such that they fill the new area.”
        Noone spoke, so Lucille continued. “They will do this as we move towards Salvos Valley , as if to attack Bridleburg.” Lucille looked up at the table of officers again and waited.
        A nearby officer took the bait. “Bridleburg appears—”
        “To be an easy target, yes,” Lucille said. “The enemy wishes us to engage there so they can flank us with a surprise contingent from the south. Elementary, really; but we aren’t going to attack Bridleburg, we’re just going to make it look like that’s what we’re doing. And our foes will hesitate to attack us when scouts report an army three times its previous size is camped at their doorstep. They will assume we got reinforcements from the capitol, then wait for us to engage.
        “But we won’t. By moving into position to attack us from the south, they will leave the main stretch of the Tear lightly defended. We will then send our two hundred best bladecasters, and a courier for each, to take the river south. They will operate in teams of twenty and, starting from the north, they will scorch and desolate every piece of fertile land in the Tear.”
        “You can’t be serious,” a officer said.
        “I am. The enemy has demonstrated that they are committed to the Tear, and they will split their contingent to deal with our guerrillas rather than attempt to force an engagement, especially when they think our numbers have tripled. They will fail, however, and every piece of edible food between here and the the end of the Tear will be consumed within the space of two months.
        “Prince Theon controls an aqueduct. This means that with a committed force of engineers, they could re-sow the land. To that end we will also dam the river.”
        “You’re going to turn the Tear into a wasteland,” an officer said.
        “I am. Over the course of the next four months the enemy will suffer starvation, desertion, and poor morale. We will convince them we have a strong foothold here while forcing them to spread their forces thin. With our backs to a supply line, we will be relatively unhindered.”
        “This is vicious,” the same officer said. “Nobody makes war like this.”
        “Exactly,” Lucille said. “They won’t expect it, and they won’t know how to react. They’ll still control the Tear, and they’ll still have the larger army, so standard practice dictates that they wait for us to make our move. But we won’t. We’ll starve them out and then strike when they begin limping back to safer territory.”
        “If they think we’ve reinforced,” he said. “They’ll think the King has taken a larger interest in the Tear. They may respond in kind.”
        “They won’t be able to feed an army on scorched earth,” Lucille said.
        “I didn’t mean soldiers,” he said. “What do we do if Sir Morgant takes the field?”
        Another man barked out a humorless laugh. “What any army does when The Dragon Slayer takes the field,” he said. “Die.”
        “I will kill him,” Clarent said.
        The officer stopped to look at him. “You’re not serious?”
        “I can best King Solom in single combat,” Clarent said. “My ultimate purpose in this war is to kill his nephew. If Morgant takes the field—” Clarent looked down at the blood he stood in. He wanted more. “—he dies.”

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“Good news,” Lucille said as she entered Clarent’s chambers. “I outrank you now. Lieutenant Coquelicot.”
        Valiant sat in the center of his room, sharpening a shard of his blade. “You don’t outrank me,” he said, his eyes focused on the iron shard in front of him. “I’m a knight and you’re a soldier. Different castes entirely.”
        “But,” Lucille said. “I’m officially the right hand of Father himself, now.”
        “King—”
        Lucille waved a hand. “Whatever. He’s Master General King Solom to me now anyway.”
        “And do you actually call him that?” Clarent asked.
        “In public, yes. Father tolerates a great many things from me, but undermining his authority while he is present isn’t one of them. I’m a good little bastard.”
        Without looking up, Clarent switched the piece of his blade for another one. “You heard about that?” he asked.
        “Lucille Coquelicot!” she cried with a chuckle. “Solom's little  bastard. A fine nickname to be given by your enemies, I think.”
        “I disagree,” Clarent said. “But I don’t think you care. I take it our stay in the capitol is almost finished?”
        “After my triumph in the Tear I’m getting my own army to conquer the North. What’s that big stretch of land north of the Tear called?”
        “The Heart,” Clarent answered. “We’ll be getting closer to Grael. And his brother, Fafnir.”
        “And I should care why?”
        “Because they’re brothers, and the two strongest dragons in the world. Each of them can reduce an army to ash, Lucy. And they stay out of one another’s territory, which is the friendliest relationship between two dragons I’ve ever heard of. The last time Grael was seen was a month ago, when we were pulling out of the Tear. He levelled an entire village of almost a thousand men.”
        “I’m not a knight, Clarent. I don’t care about dragons.”
        “Oh?” Clarent said. “The last time anyone saw Morgant, he was driving Fafnir back into his lair. He is The Dragon Slayer, after all.”
        Lucille frowned. “I always thought that was just a catch-all term.”
        Clarent shook his head. “Even among Solom's knights, Morgant is legendary. I play chess. Morgant slays dragons. Still, he hasn’t managed to kill Grael of Fafnir yet.”
        “So Morgant may still be in the Heart,” Lucille said. Killing her cousin would make her uncle end of the war. She would fulfill her purpose. Father would be proud.
        “He may,” Clarent said, “But either of the dragons could make your life extremely difficult. And they’re far more likely to target us than Morgant, seeing as they know he’s a threat.”
        “If they do,” Lucille said, “then we kill them. Simple enough.”
        “Hardly,” Clarent said. “Still, it’s said that Grael’s hoard could buy a kingdom, and that it contains the purest gemstones known to man. The blade a caster could make out of those stones would have no equal.”
        “Money and power,” Lucille said. “I never took you for the type, Clarent. Aren’t you always talking about making the world a better place?”
        Clarent laughed. “The only reason I seem like such a good man is because every time someone see me I’m next to you, Lucille. I like the uniform, by the way.”
        “Really?” Lucille said, looking down at her pure white button-up coat and cloak. “I think the gold trim might be a bit much.”

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Clarent broke through the knights' guards with ease, leaving corpses in his wake. He roughly grabbed Lucille, forcing her against the wall. A line of iron shards crossed her neck, their tips drawing blood.
“Tell me again!” growled the knight as blood burned against his face. “That I'm dismissed!”
        Lucille shut her eyes. “Clarent...”
        “[i]Knight Commander[/i],” he corrected her. “And you won’t do this to me. You can’t just throw back everything I thought you. You can’t just undo what you and your father made me. I’m your knight protector, [i]Your Highness[/i], and I’ll win this war and kill your father even if I have to drown all of Ynys Mons in its own blood.
        “And you,” he said, pressing his blades into Lucille’s neck. “You are going to rule when I am done. I will give you the world. And you, Lucy. You’re going to be a Queen.”

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"Grael was seen again," she whispered from the door.
        From the looks of things, Clarent had been packing. He was no longer the youth who acted as the shadow and her body guard. His shaven face had been gone for nearly ten winters now, a tight black beard hugging his chin. 
He was no longer a young man.
Then again, she supposed she wasn't a flowering maiden herself.
He stood when Lucille entered. “Your Highness?” he asked. “Are you crying?”
        Lucille realized that she was. “I can't do this,” she said, turning away. “I called the army away from the Tear.”
                “You didn’t,” Clarent's eyes widened. He began to pace. “You have to send them back back. You have to reinforce those towns, and tell them to look to the skies.”
        “No, Clarent. They're... they're gone. That dragon would have burned all of our men... all of our defenses. But I won’t let him. I won’t be remembered as the Queen who lost her kingdom.”
        “What happened to doing whatever you thought was right?”
        Lucille put a hand to her temple. “I don’t know what I'm doing!” she shouted. “This war will go on for decades! I need you,” she said to Valiant. “Bring me a list of the ten wealthiest nobles. They need to have at least a hundred banners to call upon.”
        “Lucy,” Clarent said. “What are you talking about?”
        “I... I need to marry. We need to have an ally to call upon. I have to have a child,” she said. “I need to—” She swallowed. “Get pregnant. My suitor will have to be a noble of considerable influence.”
        “You leave a dozen villages to burn,” Clarent swore, “and you expect me to find a man for you to take to bed? You’re out of your mind.”
        “What was I supposed to do, Clarent? Turn the entire army around and lose the Heart. Fail the kingdom? I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot. Do you think that any part of my position requires me to value so few lives? Does it surprise you so much that I am what I am?”
        “I know you,” he said. “You aren’t a monster. Stop talking about children and go to sleep, Lucille. I’m not making you any list.”
        “Why not?” Lucille asked. “Jealous?”
      Clarent froze  “What?"
        “Come now, Knight Commander. I know what you want. So did my father—or did you think it was a coincidence that he put us together? Yes, Clarent Coquelicot, you would make me powerful children indeed,” he mocked, his voice dripping with poison.
        Clarent gritted his teeth. “I am the strongest bladecaster in this army, Lucy. You know that. You wouldn’t need a list, you won't need an army, and you won't need any of this nonsense.”
        “You think so?” Lucille said. “I’ve never seen you fight a real foe. Have you ever even killed anyone that wasn't on my orders? All you ever do is go on about making the world a better place. But you never will.”
        “I don’t want that,” Clarent said. “Not anymore.”
        “Whether you run away to your new Order's little monastery or not, this is going to happen."
        “Don’t do this, Lucy. You’re acting insane.”
        “You want me,” the Queen said. “You’ve followed me for years, Clarent. You don’t want to make the world a better place, you want to make me a better person. Better than father. You want to fix me. Well this is your chance. You’re a knight, so prove yourself—slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.” Queen Coquelicot turned towards the door. “Except you can’t,” she said as she left. “That's for the real knights.”

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Lucille woke up the next morning and decided that she was crazy.
        She was a staunch advocate of using logic; and her actions the previous day truly had no logical explanation. She’d left dozens of villages to burn in dragonfire. That made sense; it was easy to defend her decision from a tactical viewpoint. It was even easier to blame her father: the King had never taught her any sort of ethical code. It was, and had always been, victory at any cost.
        Still, Lucille knew that by almost anyone's standards what she had done was evil. Indefensible, even. How would her soldiers think of her when they learned what she had done? Coupled with the heavy losses they’d sustained in battle, Lucille doubted she’d be their favorite commander for long.
        Clarent despised her. Clarent, who had taught her everything her father hadn't. Clarent had done everything the Princess Lucille wanted and more, but apparently Clarent no longer wanted a Queen to serve. Lucille wondered what Clarent did want, if not her.
To run away to his temple, and train those acolytes. A Knight Commander, the head of his own personal Order.
        Still, he had threatened to kill her once. In hindsight, his actions weren’t so surprising. It had been a stressful day. Clarent had cracked.
        But now she was left to pick up the pieces. He would need an apology. Displaying humility would almost definitely win him back over to her side; it would bring her more in line with the Queen he wished her to be. It would mean they were winning. No doubt after she had taunted him he had gone off to sulk someplace within the camp.
        She tried not to think about the baby as she got out of bed. Above all other things, it bothered her the most that she had been willing to give marry so easily. What would Princess Lucille have thought, to see her so willingly grasp for straws? Something along the lines of a coward, to be sure.
        Lucille was a monster; there were nine thousand people dead in the Tear to attest to that. But without her father, that was all that she was. A masterless monster. What was the point anymore?
        Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. A glance at the sun told Lucille that she had slept in almost two hours. She didn’t mind; she’d earned it. “Enter,” she said, swinging open.
        “Ma’am!” the runner said, standing at attention. “Sir Clarent has returned to the army. He has requested your presence outside.”
        Lucille began to dress. “Clarent left the army?”
        The runner raised his eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am. He said he was carrying out your orders. We did not think to question a Knight Commander of Coquelicot.”
        “My orders,” Astor said. Prove yourself. Slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.
        Lucille ran out to the center of the camp in her night clothes and began to look around frantically for Clarent. A large group of soliders was crowded around something, and she reasoned that was her best bet. “Clarent!” she shouted as tried to push her way through the crowd. “Clarent!” The soldiers around her weren’t budging.
        The let out an exasperated sigh. “I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot!” she shouted.
        Every one close by immediately turned to face her, then backed away. Silence descended over the crowd as Lucille slowly strode to their center. The crowd broke to reveal her knight.
        He was covered in blood. Burns ran along one side of his face and down his neck. He had removed his cloak and turned it into a rope, which he was using to drag a massive red dragon’s head.
        He’d slain the dragon Grael. Alone.
        Lucille shook her head. “Not possible,” she said. “You told me only Morgant could fight Grael or Fafnir.”
        The knight nodded. “When two beings come into conflict, Princess,” he said. “It is more than power that determines who lives and who dies.”
        “How?” Lucille said.
        The knight shrugged. “It’s a secret. One you wouldn’t want to hear anyway. Now,” he said. “You know the old language. What is the word for ‘king?’”
        Lucille stared at him. “Regent,” she whispered at last. “Sir Clarent Regent.”
        Twenty shard of what she could only assume were diamonds by the way they shone tore their way from Grael’s severed head and assembled before Clarent. “Regent can be the name of my blade,” he said. “I would rather be Clarent Coquelicot.” He fell to a knee.
        Lucille could scarcely understand what was happening. Clarent was supposed to be weak. He was suppose to be her knife. Yet he’d slain a dragon that even Morgant hesitated to meet in combat. And now...
        Held aloft by Clarent’s magic, a single red garnet floated towards her. When it was halfway between them, several shards of Regent shot through the air, and pieces of the gem fell away to reveal a five-petaled poppy. The sigil of Coquelicot.
	Clarent looked past the gem and into Lucille’s eyes. “Marry me.”
[/hider]

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[center][h2][color=6ecff6]A P P E A R A N C E[/color][/h2][/center]

[quote=Brother Regulus, Hierophant of the Knightly Harmonic Order of Coquelicot]"The theme of the Clarent myths has always been a subject shrouded in mystery and conflict. In most children's stories, he plays the archetype of the "Magician Hero", valiant in all knightly endeavors. He is both trickster and hero, lover and sage, usually guiding his charge through the many perils her quest takes her through. Some historical texts, however, paint a different picture; that the daughter of a murdered king ascended the throne up a mountain of corpses, carried by an assassin named Clarent. A man who fought with monsters because his fellow man could pose no such challenge. While our Order has many recorded instances of our mythical founder, especially during the later years of the Red Queen's reign, to date we have discovered only possible illumination from that time period that could be attributed to him. Knight Scribe Calles, a brother of our Order's predecessor who lived during the days of the Red Queen, was one of the authors of the "Morte D' Roi," which chronicled the life of the Black King Solom. The illustrations and ornamentation of the book surpass that of other insular books in extravagance and complexity. The decoration combines traditional Bevalian iconography with the ornate swirling motifs typical of insular art. Figures of humans, animals and mythical beasts, together with poppies and interlacing patterns in vibrant colors, enliven the manuscript's pages. No mention of the Knight Commander is specifically mentioned within the book, but he can still be found. One of the illumination depicts a day in the court of King Solom. At the right hand of the throne stands a young maiden in crimson. Behind her, her shadow; a tall fresh faced youth garbed in a black robe. A shock of unruly black hair crowns his face, and to credit Brother Calles's skill, particular detail gifted for those closest to the throne. To date, one can still see the blue ink vibrant against the pages of the vellum, peeking out from beneath the shade of the black robe of our Order."[/quote]

[quote= A children's rhyme still sung today in the Tear]“Knight in Black. Went to the Spaid.
Burned all the homes that the farmers made.
First came the sword.  Then came the flame.
Then he cursed the Red Queen's name.”[/quote]

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[center][h2][color=6ecff6]A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T[/color][/h2][/center]
[quote= Dame Nightshade, martial trainer of the Knightly Harmonic Order of Coquelicot]"A lot of those stories, the ones they tell to children... we all know they aren't real. Ansur never wrestled three dragons, Norco Khan was most likely a group of barbarian warriors whose collective name became grouped under one identity, and Volkimir is simply a story to tell naughty children at bed time. So no, Clarent never singely handedly fought off an army of trolls, plucked a star out of the sky to give to the Red Queen, or is spending all eternity protecting some magical cup.

That doesn't mean the myth is greater than the man.

The art of bladecasting has been the heart of our Order since its founding. We know that its origins predate Clarent, but it was he who perfected many of the techniques we now use. At its core, bladecasting is all about the blade - or more specifically, blade shards. Having more components or shards than an opponent gives you a major edge. Most blades are made of steel, but a few, like the Knight Commander's, use gems. Every one of these pieces respond individually to a Knight's magic. Together, encapsulated by a single moment field, they form a whole blade. They can split the blade apart into projectiles, lock together, make them deflect other projectiles, or just flail it around and use it to cut through things. At its core, bladecasting is all about versatility.

Well, and I guess not getting hit.

We train our knights must be as swift as the wind, and as flexible as a reed. Our draw must be faster than our opponents, for our speed, reflexes, and dexterity are the only things that will protect us. While the cloaks we wear posses some degree of enchantments such as to keep us warm or dry, the only thing we have is ourselves. Thick heavy armor just guarantees death when your opponent can fling metal piercing gemstones into.

The average knight can handle nine shards. Hierophant can do ten, but that bastard has been at it his entire life. The Knight Commander Arcon can do about thirteen, but he's Knight Commander for a reason.

Knight Commander Clarent lived during one of the most violent times in history. He was present at three sieges, twenty-seven field battles, commander of nine and led the vanguard in at least four of those. He was the personal teacher in martial arts to the Red Queen herself, whose savagery cemented her in the annals of history. Strategic geniuses, the both of them. They changed almost everything we know about warfare today. He survived all of those, and lived to found our Order. And I trust you've heard 'The Song of Clarent'?

I believe every word of it. When you've lived through all that, just how else are you suppose to die? 

What I can tell, without a doubt, is that Grand Knight Commander Clarent Coquelicot was the greatest blade caster who ever lived. How do we know this? Just look at his sword, [i]Regent[/i]. The Order still keeps it at Clarent's shrine, near the lake where he fell.

Twenty shards of diamond. That's how you know Clarent was real. [/quote] 

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[center][h2][color=6ecff6]A G E  O F  L E G E N D [/color][/h2][/center]

[center][h3][color=6ecff6]2523 YEARS[/color][/h3][/center]