Lugubrious — Roleplayer Guild

The Coming of Knighthood

“Order, order!  We shall have order!”

His shouting lost amidst the cacophonous tumult now permeating the Great Hall of the Beacon Knights' Academy, Sir Kuhaku Shiralot banged his gauntleted fist against the railing of the pulpit upon which he stood, before holding a palm to his head in defeat.  Were these childish trainees truly the lot from which His Majesty the King Osthur Condragon, meant to draw his next band of royal knights?  He cast a glance at the other members of King Osthur's delegation.  On such a ceremonious day, his Majesty had thought not only to send his knights Sir Shiralot, Sir Grewain, Sir Abeldivere the Wise, Sir Marcus Golahad the Brave, Lady 'Diamond' Feirefrist, Lady Emorgan le Faylicia, and to declare the tournament itself, Her Grace the Queen 'Sapphire' Rodevere.  At the moment, none of them seemed too enthused about the raucous young knights-to-be down below, particularly the Queen, who threw an exasperated look Shiralot's way as if she wanted to throttle him.  He gave her a wink, and stepped up to take her place at the pulpit's center.  Removing his Tiger Helmet, he banged it against the metal, and the resonance of the impact brought the whole hall to dead silence.

“That's better.”  After replacing his helmet, Sir Shiralot continued.  ”I take it thou lot ist excited much by the words of our Queen, and rightly so!  Thine ist an honor every peasant in the kingdom wouldst revel to be given!  But!  It ist an honor that only the victors in the tourney shall receive!  So sharpen thy blades, wax thy codpieces, and gird thy loins!  The tourney beginest at dawn in two days time!”

New murmurings broke out among the squires below as the queen and her knightly entourage departed.

-=-=-

“Really, thou art a knave and a buffoon, Sir Shirkalot,” the queen bemoaned the knight as they trailed at the procession's end as they left Beacon Knights' Academy.  “Forever making appalling japes, too oafish to even acknowledge thy oafishness.”  

Shiralot laughed, poked the royal lady in the side, and whispered in her ear, “Really, thy tongue ist as cruel as thy infidelity to thine noble husband.”  Queen Rodevere rolled her eyes and made a shooing motion.  “It will be thy tongue that will be sung about after I take a dagger to it, if thy voice creeps any louder,” she warned, eying one of the knights standing still at the edge of the procession before he turned to approach her.  She shushed him, and greeted the knight with as much civility as she could muster for an old friend.  “Abeldivere.  Why doth thou round upon us in such a manner?”

The goatee-wearing man ruffled his blue tunic self-consciously, and rubbed his chin in a manner most didactic.  “Dreadful business in the town, I fear.  The villagers appear to have captured a witch, a wench by the name of Amaranth, and aim to burn her.  I must go forth and seek the truth of the matter.”  He gave a resigned sigh.  “I expect that I'll have to weigh her against ducks again.  Truly, science is a tiresome matter.”

As he rushed off, one of the other knights appeared at Queen Rodevere's side—Lady Feirefrist.  She seemed somewhat more anxious than usual, apparently at Abeldivere's news.   “Pardon me, m'lady, but I must go as well.  Amaranth is my...ah, friend, and I'd hate to see her burned.”  Rodevere nodded her assent, and the behatted knight trundled off toward the village square.

Sir Shiralot, meanwhile, had been accosted by a scruffy gray weasel that had somehow wormed its way into his knapsack.  His eyes alight, he called to Rodevere, “Is this not the most delightful creature that thy beautiful eyes have ever seen?”

A moment slogged by before a response came.  “...Methinks thou would makest a better rug than a knight.  Come now, we head back to Beacamelot Castle.”

-=-=-

Though he sat on the edge of a table, the young squire Robin Fallson could barely contain his excitement.  “A real tourney,” he laughed to Gareyson, Dagoniel, and Priscenet, who themselves seemed enthused enough, “One that we'll compete in, and one that we'll win!  I can picture it in me head: the day of the tourney.  Priscenet with her longsword, Gareyson with his greatsword, and Dagoniel with his burning twinblades.  All the others are gonna get rampaged!”

One table over, a quartet of newcomers to the country looked upon Robin's eagerness with sympathy, for even though they were new, they planned big.  Even now, they were beginning to design a strategy, though given the topic of the current conversation an observer couldn't be blamed for thinking that the subject at hand was nonsense.  “Cheese, I tell you,” insisted Napoli, ”Not only is it nutritious, but thou couldst also use it as a facial cream.”  His teammate, Gratia Morgause, did not find this amusing.  “Keep talking about fucking cheese and it'll be thine face that needs improvement, thou clod.”  She looked at her friends Brangianca Nuit and Vortimega Venetia for support, but neither of the other girls seemed very eager to breach the ongoing argument.  

Meanwhile, at another table but preparing to leave for the training grounds, four more knights-in-training were debating the pros and cons of their various weapons.  Mokurdron, who owned a fine short sword crusted slightly with suspicious substances, pronounced her blade -along with her buckler, the 'Mirror of Yata'- nigh unbeatable when fighting anyone possessed of an axe, mace, or flail.  Jackseph of Arimathea, the group's leader and an adept at using twin daggers, was quick to point out the lack of stopping power such a combination fostered against a well-armored opponent, and cited his own weapons' ability to slip in between armor plates as a perfect counter.  Caelian Kuze, meanwhile, expressed her faith in the ability of her crossbow, Byakko, to both penetrate armor and dart in past weapon defense for the kill.  Over all of them, however, was the lively voice of Luionel Schwarz, who stubbornly insisted that his odd weapon of choice, the wrist mounted cog wheels, possessed the technological and ingenious edge over what he contemptuously labeled conventional weaponry.  

Lastly, one remaining quartet of juveniles remained, having just arrived from the kitchens in time to hear the tail end of the visiting Queen's announcement.  Though they wielded a variety of weapons, from tower shield to spiked boots to quarterstaff to twin sabers, these four were more concerned with building their bonds right now than building a sure-fire strategy to win the upcoming tourney.  Sure, Esclaebon was a little recalcitrant, but the combined efforts of Kayrysanthe, Safirpia, and Skyonesse were enough to rouse him from his reluctance and get him communicating.  If they could work together, perhaps they'd be the ones to rise to the top, after all, they did know the legends of the Knights of the Round Table.

The myths whispered eagerly by Kayry, Esclaebon, Safi, and Sky were ones well known to most kids their age, but no less grand for it.  They talked of Glynda, the fabled Lady of the Lake, the gorgeous water spirit who'd given to King Osthur the blessed sword Trepinxcalibur.  They recalled the deeds of Sir Shiralot, his zany antics and incredible feats of courage.  They spoke of Roman, the Black Knight, a thief, warrior, and insurrectionist all rolled into a single villainous bundle.  They decried the legitimacy of the grim Black Beast of Aagghh.  They spoke in hushed tones of the worrisome tales surrounding Lady Emorgan le Faylicia, which painted her as a sorceress and a traitor to the throne.

As the trainees talked, ate, and left to begin their preparation for the tournament, a single figure watched from the shadows with resentment in his eyes.  He'd been a knight, once...honored, and glorified, and uncontested on the field of battle.  But then he'd been abandoned, forgotten, supplanted, replaced.  His own aging father, Sir Beowolf, had bemoaned his companionship among the Knights of the Round Table, decrying them as 'Casual' and in his eagerness to depart to the realm of Advancedia had left his son completely and utterly alone.  But now, this man had plans.  He had set his eyes on a lofty goal: King Osthur himself.  “Beware, oh king,” he whispered to himself, “For Mordreddius Bellum is come.”

We're playing without gender restrictions based on class, though male healers are monks and female healers are clerics.  Pegasus Knights are open to both.

The system of 'honor' changes between each nation.  In Acarid and Panoply, you'll be held accountable based on the kind of mistakes you make, but you can redeem yourself.  Bravura follows a more strict, knightly code of honor for much of its soldiers, but even the peasants can be ostracized if they bring down shame on their family/nation.  In Augus, dishonor is more of a political/economic problem than a social one.  Though shame-bringers may be distrusted, they'll be allowed to go about their business until they do something seriously harmful, at which point they'll be dealt with strictly.

This is not all set in stone, but it is a good generalization.

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