Penny

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Mildreth woke Theophanna early. Sigfried had not returned until the early hours and had not troubled her with his attentions. The fact that he had not smelled of wine told her that his meeting with Baron Hletrig had not been a social one. There was a tension in her lord that she did not like, something was afoot and she didn’t understand what it was. Why had he summoned her here? Perhaps to dress his arm and show off to other lords but perhaps for other reasons. In the past he had sought her advice, sometimes taking it, other times not and she wondered if she was to be brought into his confidence. That was for later, for now Mildreth sponged her off with cool water and helped her into her stays, then laced her into a gown of deep green silk. Then she sat while the maid performed a hundred strokes with an ivory comb, then braided and coiled her hair before securing it with a caul of gold chains fastened with pearls. Finally she affixed a wimple of lace that would have been invisible if it wasn’t such a pristine white. Mildreth produced a mirror of polished silver so Theophanna could inspect herself then provided her with a simple breakfast of dry bread and a glass of watered wine.

“Do you have plans for the day mistress?” Mildreth asked as she took the empty goblet away for the scullery maid to clean. The Orbai party must include a score of servants as well as it’s complement of knights and armsmen and most of them were up and moving around quietly. Theophanna considered it. There were things that needed doing: letters to be written to the Reverend Mother and to her Themearch, she needed to read the book of the heavens also if Aristophanna’s claim of trouble in Vence was true, calls to make on other noble women who were in attendance. She thought of the things she had lost when the carriage had been smashed. Many of those things would be difficult to replace, at least without setting more tongues wagging than she was willing to risk. None of those options immediately appealed.

“Perhaps I should watch some of the fighting?” Theophanna pondered. Though the question was not directed at her, Mildreth nodded enthusiastically.

“Squire Gilroy is to compete at the brass arena at noon, perhaps if you will not need me?” the maid wheedled. Theophanna did not roll her eyes. If Mildreth was sweet on Gilroy she was bound to be disappointed. His father was one of her husband's vassals and a grasping ambitious man determined to thrust his son forward where he himself had been denied what he fondly imagined was his due. Gilroy of Loronel would not be marrying some servant girl, no matter how many bastards he might get on her.

“Very well Mildreth,” Theophanna relented. If the girl wanted to moon after Gilroy, who was she to stand in the way? The thought brought Torm to her mind.

“What of our new squire, Torm?” she asked. Mildreth nodded her head enthusiastically.

“He is to compete in the soldiers' melee this morning,” Mildreth informed her, “did he truly save you from bandits?”

“We will attend then,” Theophanna decided, ignoring the second part of the question. If the silly chit could ask the question then she already knew the answer. No doubt everyone in the household and probably half the city had heard the tale by now, rumor was winged and truth was lamed, as Saint Jacinta had said.

“At the Sourdough arena, is it… entirely proper m’lady?” Mildred balked.

“And why should it not be?” Theophanna demanded. The girl shifted uncomfortably.
“It might be considered beneath you my lady,” Mildreth said, wringing her hands slightly. It was true that higher nobility tended to restrict themselves to the jousting and the arena of champions where elaborate stands and boxes had been created where they could watch in comfort but Theophanna doubted that such strictures were in any way formal. Perhaps for a Duchess the idea of sitting on her bottom without the intercession of a dozen pillows was a problem, but Theophanna who had spent the last few days on a coach bouncing across the rutted roads of western Avrin suspected she would be able to handle it.
“Fetch my cloak, the ermine trimmed one,” Theophanna directed and then slid into satin slippers. She would have to wear the wooden clogs while in the street to avoid mud and dust of course or should she ride? Riding would necessitate the grooms finding a horse for her and before she knew it half the household would be roused. The clogs would be fine.

The melee had not started by the time Theophanna and Mildreth reached the field. A pair of liveried armsmen had joined them proclaiming the need to protect the countess though Theophanna suspected they were more interested in getting to see the fight rather than standing around the tents bored out of their brains. Men were beginning to rank up for the fight as she approached the rail and bets were furiously being placed. A few men gasped when they saw her and scrambled out of her way tugging their forelocks. Theophanna ignored them disdainfully and surveyed the Orbai contingent. She could not pick Torm out by his armor but his logos was bright in her eyes. The leader of the Orbai team saw her and snapped out an order, the men coming to a rough kind of attention.

“My Lady, you honor us with your presence,” he told her. His name was Corban? Corden? Something like that.

“Thank you sergeant Cordan,” Theophanna told him, dredging the name up from her memory just in time. He stood a little straighter when he realised he knew her name. It was an old Convent trick, nothing built rapport with people like remembering who they were and reminding them that you did so.

“Has squire Draufkrieg reported?” she asked. Cordan nodded and cast an eye over his shoulder to an armored form in an antique helm.

“Barely, just got here, would have been late if the fight hadn’t been delayed,” Cordan grumped. Theophanna nodded.

“Good luck to you Sergeant, I know you will do us proud,” Theophanna told him, then climbed up into the stand where a few lesser nobles hastily made space for her. She settled in to watch the show.

Silver & Gold: A Warhammer Roleplay

“Emmaline!”

Emmaline sighed and clambered out of bed and reached for the wine decanter beside her bed. It lifted with the peculiar sticky feeling one got when lifting an unexpectedly empty vessel. The curtains glowed with the effort of holding back the morning light and the clammy interior of the tower was beginning to warm. Emmaline sighed and set down the decanter before climbing out of bed.

“Emmaline!” Albrecht roared from upstairs. Emmaline threw open a chest and dragged out a soft robe of white fur that she had stolen from a noble she had helped Albrect scam. She slipped it on enjoying the soft feel of it against her skin. After a moment's thought she tugged the golden ring from her finger and placed it in the chest. A smile tugged at her lips, there was no question it had brought her luck the previous night. The ring would need to be exposed to the sky, particularly the night sky, in order to maintain the enchantment but she could handle that later.

Her somewhat threadbare modesty covered with luxurious fur she ambled up the stairs to her master's chamber. Albrect was laying in his vast four poster bed glaring balefully at her. He was naked beneath his blanket save for a silken night cap. The old wizard had been a handsome man once and was still surprisingly muscular, perhaps the better to run when his various schemes invariably went awry.

“What do you have to say for yourself?!” he demanded. Emmaline’s stomach dropped but thanks to Albrect’s lessons she had plenty of practice at concealing her emotions. He knew about Malcador. He was going to tear a strip off her hide at the very least and while she didn’t think he would expel her she didn’t want to imagine what other punishments he might come up with. She vacillated for a few seconds, trying to come up with some kind of excuse.

“Where is my breakfast girl! Are you trying to starve me?” the old wizard demanded. A wave of relief flooded through her and made her feel giddy. He didn’t know anything, Myrmydia’s tits it was a miracle he hadn’t tumbled her last night. Or was it? Had the luck ring protected her then too? Emboldened her even?

“I’ll get right to it,” Emmaline told him and all but skipped out of the room.

There were several kitchens scattered throughout the college. While there had been some efforts to centralize things over the years, competition and rivalry between the colleges and even individual wizards meant that each college had at least one kitchen. The Gold college had three each named after the head chef. Marcel’s was both the best and the closest to Albrect’s tower and was nestled in a trio of large sub basements, one of which had been converted to a bakery and another to a cold store. The public facing room was the working kitchen. It was a cheerful place with a trio of ovens along one wall. The opposite wall was dominated by a row of copper bound oak barrels. Metal taps had been driven into the wood dispensing ale, oil, and wine. Above the barrels were shelf after shelf of spices and condiments carefully labeled with scraps of parchment describing their contents. Bundles of dried herbs hung beside smoked and dried meats. Wheels of cheese wrapped in wax paper were stacked beside sacks of salt and flour, giving the whole place a unique and pungent scent. As might be expected the place was a flurry of activity as the underchefs tired to conduct both the normal business of the place as well as meet the demands of pie week. A dozen pies sat on a central table while Alisha, the pastry chef, brushed them with lemon juice and sprinkled them with generous helpings of granulated sugar. Another underchef was rolling out pastry while simultaneously trying to keep control of half a dozen pots that simmered various fruit compotes to create fillings.

“Emma?” Marcel called as he emerged from the cold store carrying a haunch of bacon. He was a handsome man with salt and pepper hair and he took some pains to keep himself fit despite the constant need to taste his own cooking. The chef looked her up and down and arched an eyebrow. Emmaline arched any eyebrow and then realised that a thigh length fur coat and not much else was probably not the best choice for running errands. She didn’t quite blush but plowed ahead anyway.

“Breakfast for two please,” she told him. Marcel nodded, he set down the haunch of bacon and then picked up a stick of chalk which he used to mark two tallies on a large slate.

“For you and Magister Albrect?” he asked over his shoulder as he began piling sausages, stewed tomatoes, bacon, and fried strips of potato onto a pair of wooden plates. Emmaline crossed to a brass jug and poured coffee into large ceramic mugs before adding sugar and cream.

“Of course, who else would it be for?” she asked. Marcel shrugged and set the plates onto a wooden carrying tray which he set on the bench for Emmaline to pick up.
“Oh I don’t know, one of the scullery maids reported a half naked apprentice wandering the halls last night?” Marcel suggested. Emmaline felt her stomach lurch again and managed to dump half of the sugar bowl into her mug.

“I don’t know anything about that, sounds like I missed a show,” she covered, cursing herself for a fool for the second time in what was still a very young day.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Theophanna watched Torm go and realised she was smiling. Once she realised it she quickly wiped the expression from her face. Siegfried was already hurrying off to his meeting and hadn’t noticed but it was still sloppy. It was unlikely the count would return quickly from his meeting, as he tended to draw out such things with drink and gambling. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and the priests of Il would shortly be sounding their pipes to call the lay folk to prayer. Ordinarily this would mean the end of the day’s sport but Yattar, uniquely among tournaments, lit torches and conducted jousts by their flickering illumination. The priesthood decried this of course, cursing it with the usual charges of waste, vainglory, and sinfulness, but these nocturnal bouts always drew a crowd. They were the realm of hedgeknights and bastard sons and had a reputation for trickery and flamboyance that would have been frowned upon under the light of day. Theophanna spent a few moments considering attending and had just decided against it when the tent flap opened and a squire in Orbai livery entered. He was a narrow faced man with dark hair and a mustache that was carefully trimmed and oiled. Gilroy of Kandric considered himself to be a handsome man though Theophanna had always found his pinched face somewhat offputting.

“I am relieved to hear that you are safe my lady,” he said with an extravagant bow. Theophanna nodded and performed a smile.

“Perhaps you might allow me to provide you with escort if you leave the tents? If these knaves have struck once, they may do so again,” he continued. There was a slight waggle in his eyebrows that he no doubt thought was subtly suggestive. Among the many things the convent taught its pupils was an appreciation for body language and while there were some differences between Easterners and Westerners, men, in general, were pretty easy to read.

“I shall keep that in mind,” she replied then allowed the slightest hint of a seductive smile to tug at her lips.

“There is something you can do for me Gilroy,” she cooed. Light kindled in the squires eye and he took a step towards her.

“Anything my Lady,” he declared grandly.

“There is something I need very badly…” He was almost improperly close now and she could see the flush in his cheeks.

“What is that,” he asked breathlessly.

“A bath,” Theophanna declared, “if you would be so good as to fetch my maid?” The deflation was almost priceless and the following darkening of anger almost more so. It wasn’t wise but she was still emotionally wrung out from her speaking. Angry or not Gilroy had no options when presented with a direction from his liege’s wife.

“At once my lady.”

The copper bathtub was a luxury. It took the servants twenty minutes to fill it with steaming water but it was well worth it when Theophanna was able to lower herself into the warm water and sooth away the aches and pains of the day. She ran through her meditations, something she always found easier in the presence of water, and restored her understanding of the words she had Spoken. Later she would offer prayers to Il whose voice had shaken the heavens and perhaps direct her maids to distribute arms to the poor. Her thoughts drifted to Torm and she was pondering the newly minuted squire when the canvas partition was drawn back. Theophanna looked up in shock, amazed that anyone had the effrontery to disturb her while she bathed. Mildreth, her maid, bowed her head and then another woman entered. Like Theophanna she was Basalian, with the same smooth complexion and brown hair, though she was somewhat thinner and a few years older.

“You haven’t lost the taste for luxury I see?” Aristophanna asked, speaking in Old Attic which was the code language of the Convent.

“Aristie, what a pleasure to see you,” Theophanna replied with genuine enthusiasm. The pair of them had been friends at the Convent though Theophanna hadn’t seen the other woman since she had been married off to one of the Merchant Lords in northern Tarlia. Arisophanna crossed and took a seat on the stool by the bath, smoothing her skirts of midnight dark silk that contrasted so fetchingly with the almost shimmering white head coverings she wore. There were sapphire studded bracelets at her wrists and fine gold chain woven through her hair. Clearly her husband had prospered, possibly due to her advice and support.

“And you sister,” Aristophanna responded, “though I hear you had some trouble earlier?” Theophanna filled her in on her adventures. It was good to speak Old Attic again, it was never used by any save the Convent and felt like slipping into an old and comfortable pair of shoes.

“Any idea who was behind it?” Aristophanna asked when Theophanna concluded her tale. She shook her head.

“It might have been almost anyone one, Vencel nobles looking for land concessions, Reformers looking to eliminate foreigners, Imperials trying to start trouble with Tiriche while their boy Emperor is too weak to reign them in. It could even just be simple banditry,” she admitted.

“But you don’t think so?” Aristophanna asked. Theophanna shook her head.

“That many armed men don’t need to way lay travellers, if they wanted plunder, there are plenty of wealthy villages, for that matter their are Abbeys filled with gold plate and devotional icons, why risk a fight at all?”

“A well made point,” Aristophanna conceded.

“The Reverend Mother may have foreseen this, she mentioned in her last letter that she was concerned about Vence,” Aristophanna said. Theophanna frowned.

“I have not received a letter in some time, she hasn’t mentioned it to me,” she objected. Aristophanna shrugged uncomfortably.
“It may be that our correspondence is being interfered with, there is much support for the Reformers in Tarlia, all wish to see the Arch-Prelate return to Carce.”

“King Quent would never allow it,” Theophanna scoffed. Everyone knew that so long as the Arch-Prelate remained at Gevione he was a creature of Tiriche.

“Maybe, but not even clerics can defy the people forever. If that fool in Gevione would show SOME restraint…”

“This is what you get for following Bishops,” Theophanna responded, getting a chuckle from her friend.

“Careful Sister, that is heresy to these Westerners,” she cautioned.

“If a Westerner is hiding under my bath tub AND can speak Old Attic, then I am indeed at great risk,” Theophanna admitted, earning another chuckle from her friend. Aristophanna withdrew several letters from her gown and set them down beside the tub.

“Latest news from home, from the Reverend Mother, and the Themearch,” Aristophanna told her and then rose.

“I must away, Garibaldi wants me to attend the night jousts with him but perhaps we may see each other again?”

“Il-shalah Sister,” Theophanna responded in the ritualistic style of the Convent.

“Il-shalah,” Aristophanna replied, then leaned over to kiss Theophanna’s cheek. Theophanna returned the gesture then playfully flicked her fingers as though to splash the other woman.

“You witch, if you spot my silk…” Aristophanna scolded.

“Then your husband will have to buy you some more?” Theophanna asked.

“Goodnight Countess,” Aristophanna replied, switching back to Vencal.

“Bonna notte Marquessa,” Theophanna responded in Tarlian, then settled back in her bath and began to read.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Notable Nobles

Terriché

King Quent II - Young and ambitious king who wants to take on the Empire to recover eastern provinces and possibly to move into Imperial possessions in northern Tarlia. He has recently come to the throne after his fathers death and is overconfident due to the conclusion of a long war that has brought Breton rebels to heel.

Goals: Extend his power over the Five Sisters, foment and take advantage of trouble in the Eisenkrieg to retake the territories of BLANK and BLANK.

Jean du Cleson - Count of Mommerae - Constable of Terriché - The military mind behind the suppression of the Breton rebels and a close confidant of the previous king. He has been pushed aside by the new king and his royal favorites.

Goals: Protect Terriche from becoming embroiled in a war it cant win. He tries to follow royal policy where he can.

Five Sisters

Orbai -
Count Sigfried Falkenrath

Gasgois

Trevoi
Duke Godwin of Trevoi
Goals: Stop the king from expanding while keeping the other four counties loyalish

Marne

Longdou


_______________________________________________

Unaligned

The Arch Prelate - ? - The Arch-prelate is based at Giverone (an Avingon equivalent) rather than in Carce (Rome)
Goals: Try to control the reform movement in the church and use it to help limit Imperial control over the church.

_______________________________________________

Imperial:

Rudolf Readhair - Emperor of Eisenriek - Rudolf is a young and sickly boy king who is controlled by regents vying for power.
Goals: Frustrate the Terriché. Launch an invasion of Tarlia to bring several rebellious city states to heel. Dislodged the Arch-Prelate from Arvin so that he is forced to return to Carce where he will be less susceptible to Terriché pressure.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

As they cut across the field to join the road once more, Theophanna was sure that Torm had spoken correctly, Yattar was not a place one was likely to forget. It was an entire city of colorful tents that stretched out in a broad arc around the northern shore of Lake Fonde. Perhaps tents was too common a word, pavilions might have been closer to the mark. Great silk and linen edifices were erected on poles in a riotous assault of color. Some were gorgeous embroidered things, other simple linens painted with clashing patterns of color, their tops formed a varicolor wall of peaks that gave the impression of an enormous castle built by a mad man or a mountain range that had been decorated by a particularly garish tinker. The air seemed to constantly ripple and crack with the snap of pennons, some flew from the pavilions, countless more from lances in racks or driven butt first into the ground in front of tents. A forest of guy wires and ropes snaked down, desperate to hold the canvas carnival to the ground. It had a plan to it, simple streets marked out by mutual agreement mostly dirt but a few of the larger ones had acquired paving stones in the years since it had been established. Yattar had started a hundred years ago when the then Arch-Prelate had been driven from the malarial city of Carce to make a new capital at Gevione. The duchy of Avrin had been his fief and the Duke had been happy to welcome his spiritual overlord. That was until the Arch-prelate decreed that because they were great occasions for sin and a vainglorious foolishness in which men imperiled their mortal souls, that no tournaments would henceforth be held in the duchy. Duke Francois, a famous tournament champion, had been distraught, and begged his Holiness to relent. The Arch-Prelate had refused and furthermore produced a Synodical Decree that until the end of time, no new tournaments might be held within the territory of Avrin. It was said that Francois had been close to suicide at the decree, until his wife, a Basalian woman as it happened, pointed out that the Decree specifically stated no ‘new’ tournaments might be held. At the time a small local tournament had been underway at Yattar and Francois ordered that it must continue indefinitely, thus neatly evading the Holy Father’s stricture. And continue it had. Yattar had functioned as a continual tournament for over a century, growing from a modest fair to a temporary city. The clergy continually denounced it as a wicked abomination but Theophanna suspected that many of them, less pious than that original Arch-Prelate were just as much a part of the game as everyone else. People loved to hear thundering denounciations of the sinfulness of Yattar, almost as much as they loved attending.

Today it was a city, on the eastern side of the lake more permanent buildings had sprung up: blacksmith shops, coopers, wainrights, vintners and a great port to welcome the ships and barges which bought the food, wine, and spectators up the river Tae from the wealthy cities of Tarlia and the Central Sea. Tanners and more fragrant trades were forbidden, though there was a settlement of them on the south side of the lake to provide the leather required to outfit so many armed men. Yattar even smelled better than most cities, wagons laden with horse manure left the encampment constantly, driven by happy peasants who bartered for it as manure for their fields. Human excreta was also deftly handled by an ingenious covered canal maintained by the ironically named Guild of Flowers which used water from the lake to flush the noxious burden of so many men to the south side of the lake where the Tae carried it to the sea. That was not to say it was without scent. Cookfires and cooking meat were heavy on the air as a thousand stew pots and bake ovens competed. There was the smell of perfume, sweat, and pomanders, as well as the damp smell of the lake and the dust kicked up by tramping feat. It was a noisy bustling place, knights and men at arms clattered, horses thundered at the list, the roar of crowds all but covered up the impact of lances against shields and breastplates. Troubadours stood on gaudily decorated platforms at street corners, striking instruments and lifting their voices in song. Cattle lowed, carts clattered, and the muffled voices of thousands of people seemed to fill the air with a constant susurrance that seemed to press on the skin.

“Have you ever seen the like?” Torm asked his voice hushed at the sight.

“When I was a girl the… my father took me to the Hippodrome in the Imperial city for the chariot races,” Theophanna replied. That teeming multitude, screaming for their themes would have overmatched even this, but it was the only such sight she could recall that might be competition. She felt a similar sense of fear and exhilaration. Torm nudged his horse into motion and the great beast trotted to the low stone fence by the road and leaped over it to join the steady stream of men and women heading into the permanently temporary town. There were nobles on horseback, priests walking barefoot, and peasants driving wagons or carrying produce on their shoulders or balanced on their heads. Boys ran along with buckets full of wine tied to their necks with miniature halters,, trading ladles full for a copper piece and enduring the more or less good natured cuffs and curses from those who claimed this was no better than banditry. A minstrel strutted along commanding the attention of pimply faced peasant girls of dubious virtue, there was even a coach, not too dissimilar from Theophanna’s bearing some noblewoman or canonness to business or pleasure.

“My Lady,” Torm whispered urgently, and gestured with a nod of his chin to where a group of knights was heading back out of town. They wore no surcoats and their shields were hung against their saddles so as to conceal their devices. Their armor was scuffed and road worn and both men and horses looked dirty and tired. Theophanna thought she saw a leather cover protruding from a saddlebag. Their eyes met and the group of knights stiffened and came to a halt, earning them curses from those behind them. The scene was too public though, and they could do nothing but glower at Torm and Theophanna as they passed not thirty feet away. Theophanna smiled at them and then was seized with daring.

“Sir Knight!” she called to the leader of the party, “Sir Knight might I beg the pleasure of your name!”
“My Lady…” Torm asked in a strangled voice aghast at her affrontory.

“My Goodman, can you ask that knight his name, he has done me a great service and the Countess d’Orbai would feign die as not repay a debt,” she called to a young squire on foot. They boy gawped at her like a landed fish but then nodded and strode toward the knot of stalled knights.

“Please Sir Knight, don’t deprive me of your name, am I to be forever in debt of a mysterious knight?” she demanded. By now the crowd was murmuring and eyes were turning towards them. The leader of the knights snarled and kicked his horse into motion, leading his men away before the crowd could become fully engaged in the drama.

“Was that wise?” Torm asked, letting out a breath and removing his hand from his weapon.

“Wise or not,” Theophanna replied, “the story will spread and by nightfall people will be desperate to know who that mysterious knight was. If he knows what is good for him he will stay away, and if he comes back, I’m sure someone will be just breathless to tell me about it.”

“Clever,” Torm admired, and Theophanna let out a silvery laugh.

“My Lady!” a voice called, and Theophanna turned to see a pimply faced boy of perhaps twelve summers, quite overwhelmed by his newly acquired duty as a squire.

“Osric!” Theophanna replied, “my husbands page.” she explained to Torm sotto voche.

“His lordship is waiting in his tent, he told me to take you to him as soon as you arrived,” the boy called, then opened his eyes wide as though shocked.

“What happened to the carriage?”

____________

“They what!” Sigfried Falkenrath, Count of Orbai, thundered. He was a powerful man in late middle age, though good wine and good living had put more layers of fat over his musculature than was welcome. He wore a red and gold doublet with white hose and long cavalry boots in the fashion of Imperial Eisenriek. His face had bluff but hands some features, somewhat spoiled by a broken nose and the interesting shade of red it was turning as Theophanna explained what had befallen her.

“Dearest, be calm or you shall be carried off by apoplexy," Theophanna cautioned. Sigfried glared at her for a moment, then turned to snatch up a goblet of wine from a sideboard which he tossed back without hesitation before slamming it back down.

“Attack my wife? On the King’s Highway? By the bleeding balls of Il I will hang them with their own bloody entrails!”

As calming exercises went, Theophanna was not convinced this one was effective. She reminded herself to make a potion for his humors when time allowed, that at least might stop him from dropping dead on the Ranian rug.

“The Castellan’s boy was killed and Brother Albrecht too I think, compared to that a few cuts and bruises is a small price,” Theophanna cajoled. Sigfried’s face grew melancholy, though it did lose some of its anger.

“Poor Ruprecht, whatever will I tell his father,” Sigfried lamented.

“That he died bravely doing his duty, and perhaps that in dear Ruprect’s memory we might commute two years rent on the wine press,” Theophanna suggested. The Castellean had five sons and Theophanna suspected that he might easily sustain the loss of Ruprect in such a good cause. It was a shame though, they boy had been brave.

“Yes, perhaps so, it is good to be generous to those who serve you, and their penny pinching fathers also,” Sigfried decided, apparently sharing Theophanna’s opinion of the Castellan more completely than she had imagined. The Count ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair and sighed before turning to Torm.

“And you Draufkrieg, I owe you more than a few years discount on crushed grapes,” Sigfried admitted, sizing up the young man with a searching look.

“He saved my life and slew two of my attackers,” Theophanna put in.

“More likely he saved me from ransoming you at Il alone knows what price,” Sigfried corrected, “but I am still in his debt.” A careful observer might have noticed Theophanna’s jaw tighten infinitesimally at the correction but she smoothed it away with practiced Convent self control.

“Im sure we can find a suitable figure…”

“Husband,” Theophanna interrupted, her previously flawless Vencal developing a touch of Basalian accent in a few short syllables. “Torm is a trained squire and without a master of his own… perhaps with Ruprect dead we might reward his gallantry more chivalrously?”

“Yes… we might at that, if that is what he wants,” Sigfried mused, he pressed his fingers to his temples for a moment before nodding his head.

“What do you say boy, I can promise you no fief or lands, but if you want to serve as my squire… well Orbai is a good place for a capable man. What do you say?”

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

France - Terriché

Provence - Vence

HRE - Eisenriek

Italy - Basalian Tarlia (or just Tarlia)

Byzantine lands - Basalia

Factions

The Renewal - A pious movement that wants to free the Archprelate from secular influence. Broadly analogous to the reform movements of the church but with more of a focus on empowering the Archprelate/Pope. It is anti-Basalian as the Basalian Emperor claims to be the head of the Church of Il and technically claims the right to appoint Bishops. The are also angry that there are still Basalian garrisons in the south and west of Tarlia.

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

I may be one of the few people on the site who completely understands ghosting and is more or less ok with it.

My pet peeve is when people are all precious about control of their character. Look, I get that you are attached to your special little guy or whatever but I am in no way going to stop writing a scene because I need some minor action from them. If it seems in character I'm just going to write it and move on. I don't mean some huge thing, I won't make your character kill anyone but if I just need a nod or a few words I don't see any reason to stop writing. Worse, if I do stop, it often leaves a scene at a point where there isn't that much for you to logically do other than whatever small action it is I require and I hate it when people do that to me. Of course it goes without saying that all of this is reciprocal, although tbh I'm much more permissive with my own characters. If we are going to write a story together, we might as well write it TOGETHER.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

The river didn't have a name that Theophanna knew. It was one of dozens of tributaries that ran down from the mountain to feed the River Tae and fill Lake Fonde. Most likely the locals simply called it the river. To someone like Theophanna the idea that something didn't have a properly articulated name was troubling. She sucked at her teeth, relieved to find that the coppery taste of blood had abated. The speaking she had used had been a major one and could have been much worse. For all it lacked a name the river made a pleasant picture. The forest thinned as they entered the more arable lands and became interspersed with fields of dark tilled earth turned green with the first blush of spring growth. Compared to the view of the land from the top of the ridge, a subjective lifetime ago, it felt like sinking into a calm pond. Prosperous looking peasants looked up from their labors as they passed with interest but not alarm. Travellers were the norm near Yattar and many a peasant had probably made a handsome profit when he was asked to reshoe a horse or replace a broken axle.

A stone three piling bridge crossed the river at a bend where it narrowed to a chuckling rapid. An unshaven tollman shambled from a bark and twine lean too, clutching at an ancient and rusty polearm. His brutish face fell as he realized that the travelers were apparently nobles and thus immune to the toll he might otherwise have demanded. To his surprise and delight, Theophanna drew a silver penny from a velvet purse at her belt and pressed it into his hand. Basalian's as a people were much more used to dealing in coin than westerners and it always surprised Theophanna at the impact it could have. The tollman's eyes widened as his palm closed around the penny and then he bowed obsequiously.

"Thank-yee marm," he all but gasped, bowing his head and touching his forelock.

"You are welcome goodman," Theophanna told the fellow and favored him with a dazzling smile.

"My man and I need to rest our steed, might you be able to find some oats for the noble beast?" she asked pleasantly, drawing another silver penny from her purse and passing it to the surprised man. Theophanna felt Torm open his mouth to object but she squeezed his leg out of sight of the tollman to keep him silent.

"Yes marm, I'll run to Les Sonet and be back before the Sext bell," he declared, tugging his forelock so furiously it must have hurt. She favored him with a smile and a nod that sent him scrambling off down a trail that ran along the riverbank. Torm and Theophanna dismounted and led Lykurg down the bank so that the beast could slake it's thirst in the cool water and crop at the lush grass which grew on the bank.

"I am Theophanna Countess d'Orbai," she introduced herself. Torm's eyes widened slightly. While they were technically vassals of the Duke of Vencal, the lords of the five counties had been pursuing their own policies more or less unchallenged for generations, rallying behind the Duke only when compelled to do so by the threat of invasion or under pressure from the Arch-Prelate of Il. Torm made as though to kneel but Theophanna shook her head and gripped him to prevent the action. Basilean courtiers did not kneel to each other, though all were expected to prostrate themselves before the Emperor. No courtier would be comfortable receiving that kind of obeisance, which was both embarrassing and likely to attract negative attention from the Emperor. She opened her mouth to explain this when the sound of pounding hooves sounded from the west.

"Under the bridge," Theophanna ordered and they took shelter beneath the curving moss covered masonry. The approaching horses grew louder and louder and then thundered overhead unchallenged. Theophanna found herself holding her breath, although there was no way anyone could hear it over the hammering of ironshod hooves on stone. The horses raced away toward the east heading for Yattar as fast as their riders could drive them. Theophanna let out a slow breath.

"Your attackers My Lady," Torm said, "No one else would be driving horses so hard."

"Yes," Theophanna agreed. At that rate they would be at Yattar within an hour or so, if they did not overtake her on the road, there would be no way for them to quickly verify that she had not already arrived.

"Who are they?" Torm pressed unexpectedly. Theophanna frowned not at the effrontery of the question but in genuine puzzlement. It seemed impossible that the men were simple bandits, or the kind of hedgeknights who were removed from banditry only by opportunity.

"I do not know," Theophanna replied honestly, "enemies of my husband, Brothers of Renewal?" Torm arched an eyebrow at that term. Theophanna again ran through her mental register of noble families. The name Draufkrieg was unfamiliar to her but no one, no matter how well educated, could retain the names of every member of the petty nobility. The Renewal was a growing religious movement which was reacting against the Anointed Emperor's historical role as arbiter of the Western Church. They believed that the Arch-Prelate was the ultimate spiritual authority and that the Empire had no business meddling in Church affairs. They had an antipathy for the Basalians and the Eastern Church as a result of their religious differences and the fact that large parts of Tarlia remained under the control of Basalian garrissons. The Renewal was hostile to any Baslian influence, and particularly to the practice of intermarraige at the levels of the high nobility which they viewed as some kind of conspiracy by the Basileus to infiltrate the west.

"They set upon my coach and slew my escort," Theophanna told him, then explained the attempted abduction, neglecting to mention the role her Speaking had played in the whole event.

"And so the only safety to be found is in reaching Yattar where no one will dare to touch me," she concluded.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

It all happened so fast. The two knights appeared behind her, calling out to the others to join the pursuit. They crashed through the forest Theophanna’s slender frame allowed her to slip through the trees more easily, but the armored mass of her pursuers allowed them to plow through brambles and light brush, making it an uneven and frustrating race for all concerned. They were nearly upon her when she stumbled out onto what was either a bad road or a good game trail. Steel whistled and blood flew and within moments two knights had been sent to final judgement before the throne of Il. With her mind cloudy with panic her brain screamed at her that the newcomer was another of her pursuers but the logic of it cracked the icy grip of her thundering fear. Theophanna forced herself to slow down, slipping into the cycles of mental mantras and conditioning that the Convent had drilled into her. Time seemed to slow for a second and the fog of fear slid from her eyes. More than that her perceptions seemed to sharpen, suddenly she could taste blood in her mouth and feel the dozens of scratches she had picked up during her panicked flight. She could perceive the widening of the horse’s nostrils as it scented blood, followed each rippling muscle in its flank. She could hear the beating of bird wings as her pursuers crashed through the forest behind her, make out the clanking of male and the slap of leather scabbards on running thighs.

“Yes,” she responded, a logical report rather than an emotional denial. This man was not richly caparisoned but his shield and devices were not covered. He had killed two of her attackers without compunction, ergo whoever he was he was not with her would be captors. She opened her mouth to say more but thought the better of it, reaching out her hand to clasp his. He yanked her up onto the saddle, tossing her across it like a sack of grain. Four men burst from the woods, crying out in chagrin to see their fallen comrades and their prey on the verge of escape. Two of them, heedless of their task or confident in their marksmanship, lifted their crossbows and triggered them. Crossbow bolts burred past, one buried itself to the vanes in an oak tree. Her mysterious rescue bent forward over her, covering as much of her body as he could and kicking his horse to a gallop. The great warhorse churned up sprays of dirt as it leaped forward, clearing one of the dead bodies and racing off down the trail. Theophanna made an effort to sit up but gave it up, the risk of falling off too high. Shouts rang through the woods and suddenly a trio of horsemen burst onto the trail a hundred yards ahead of them. The mysterious knight wrenched on his reigns and the horse turned down another, even narrower path, this really might have been a game trail but the horse charged down it a reckless speed. Trees and woods whipped past her in a blur and she smelt the ammoniac scent of horse sweat.

“Do you know where this goes?” the knight demanded. Theophanna finally managed to struggle upwards, twisting awkwardly to sit in front of the night, her arms wrapped around the horse’s neck. The rough terrain dove the saddle painfully against her thighs she shook her head, then realised that he probably couldn’t see that.

“No… no I don’t know where we are,” she confessed. Once they were off the Yattar road, she had little idea of the country side. A horn sounded somewhere behind them as their pursuers began to rally to the hunt.

“Can we escape… with your horse carrying two?” she asked, though the answer seemed painfully obvious.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

The White Stag was an omen, that much was beyond question. Whether it augured well or heralded doom remained to be seen. In the center of the road, where the track crested the forested hill, 18 hands tall and silhouetted by the brilliant blue sky. The coach rattled to a stop on the up slope, the four horse team unwilling to challenge the beast. Fortunately the incline was not so great that this resulted in anything other than stamping and snorting from the four brown coach horses. The forest of Vertz was beautiful in the warm spring air. Birds sang and called to each other and a soft breeze blue through the ancient forest.

The coach seemed a grotesque intrusion in such a natural scene. It was a deep burgundy with embellishments painted a cheery gold. On each side it bore a coat of arms, gules an paired chevrons or surmounted by six martlets argent, the proud symbol of the Count of d’Orbais. The matched chestnut mares were fine horses, though they sweated and swatted with their tales to displace the dust which was slowly staining them grey with the dust of the long road. Three armsmen and a minor knight, the son of the castellan, were spread around the coach as an escort, their surcoats and mail equally diminished by several hours in the saddle. Painted lances stood in leather tubes attached to their stirrups, and their pennants flapped lazily in the air.
Theophana thrust her head from the coach to ask why the ostler had stopped but froze in place as her eyes met those of the stag. Its eyes, like hers, were a dark liquid brown. They seemed ancient and knowing, like the statues of Il they carved from smooth desert rock on the coast of Vantia. It shook its head as though displacing an annoying fly and then walked, quite calmly, off the road and into the woods, brushing against an elm and disturbing a nest of bees which buzzed energetically, though apparently their stings were not enough to disturb the stag's equanimity.

“Shall we proceed M’lady?” the ostler asked, twisting from the drivers bench to look back at his mistress. Unlike her Vencel retainers, Theophana had the olive complexion of far Basalaea with glossy brown hair and dark, almond shaped eyes. Noble Basalian wives, those with blood connections to the Emperor were prized in the west. Those blood connections were necessarily remote, no princess of the purple would ever be sent into these barbarous lands, but they were still valuable. A blood connection to the Imperial house was necessary for a family to hold a fief in the rich land of Tarlia, the former heartland of the Empire and much more developed than these lands across the Alps. It also exempted a lord from certain tithes to the Church as he could claim that a part of his fief was technically held in readiness for the Emperor. This was a legal nonsense, no Basalian Emperor had walked these lands in over five hundred years, but few laws were ever thrown away where they touched the Church of Il whose obsession with the transmitted words of their prophet spilled over into a general mania for keeping ancient wisdom alive.

“Yes, yes, we must reach Yattar by nightfall,” Theophana urged. Seven years in the Convent had given her the tools to erase her accent, so that she sounded every bit the Vencal when she spoke. That was far from the only skill they taught at that ancient mountain top edifice but it was the one she used most frequently.
“Plenty of time yet m’lady,” the ostler replied, a touch of irritation in his voice. Theophanna let it go. Doubtless he was no more pleased that he had to convey her to the tournament at Yattar than she was to be going. Baldwin, Count of Orbai, had sent for his wife Theophanna, and in this, as well as all things, she was compelled to obey. That being said, she could think of more pleasant ways to spend a week than jouncing over rough roads in poor company. At least it was only a few more hours. Theophanna sat back and opened her book of hours, reading the elegantly scribed prayer inscribed in the small book and enjoying the colorful illumination. That was another skill they taught at the Convent. The ability to read and write was not widespread outside of the priesthood, which was why so many nobles employed clerics as administrators. Theophanna lifted her eyes to glance at Brother Albrecht. The tonsured priest sat across from her, staring out into the forest and moving his fingers over the string of polished knucklebone prayer beads. He was rotten company, but it would have been improper for a young lady to travel without a chaperone. In theory priests of Il were celebate, though given the number of priestly bastards that seemed to pop up, that either wasn’t true or was yet more evidence of the miracles of Il.

“Shall we pray for safe passage Lady D’Orbai?” Albrecht asked, his voice nasal and superior. He didn’t look at her, it was possible he believed looking at women in general to be a sin, though this somehow did not prevent Theophanna from feeling his judgement and disapproval.

“We have already done so, I would not presume further on Lord Il, upon whose shoulders the world rides,” she replied sweetly, her index and pointer finger sketching a stylized I in the air. Brother Albrecht stiffened at the gesture. The Imperial and Universal Church worshiped the same god and professed the same beliefs, but over the centuries differences had emerged. Brother Albrecht, like many clerics, viewed the Imperial Faith as bordering on a heretical sect and Theophanna’s observance of it filled him with disgust. Which of course was why she had done it. She thumped the side of the coach with the heel of her hand and the ostler snapped his reins. After a few seconds the coach jolted upwards and over the ridge.

The view was well worth the wait. The forests fell down the ridge and raced away towards the Atlee mountains that rose, vast and snow capped in the distance. The great silver ribbon of the River Tae ran along their feet, drinking in the runoff from the near permanent snow melt as well as the rains which gathered against their imposing bulk after midsummer. Along the banks of the river the spires of little villages could be seen, the smoke from their cook fires mere heat shimmering in the air from this lofty vantage point. The Abbey of Milliac was easily identifiable by the long rows of vines that covered the surrounding hillside, lush and overgrown before the fruit had set. An impressive windmill, so distant it looked like a child’s toy turned in lazy rotation. Theophanna fancied she could pick out tiny ant like figures, though in truth they were too far away for such detail. Further to the south she found her destination. Yattar was not a true city, but rather a permanent camp which engulfed the northern shores of Lake Fondre. Tents in every color imaginable were grouped around more permanent structures in a riot of conflicting colors. Tall wooden stands were raised to create several oval shaped parks in which knights and men at arms could compete for Glory and the not inconsiderable prizes distributed to the winners. Here again Theophanna thought she could make out movement, but it was more like watching lice than people, a general crawling motion rather than anything particular. At any given time there were tens of thousands of people at the tournament, fighters, merchants, healers, preachers, apothecaries, the families and hangers on of them all. There was also a community of smiths who made and repaired armor, their quarter distinguishable even from here by the smoke rising from their forges. Cattle were being driven in, wagons brought bread, wine, cheese and every other kind of foodstuff in from the surrounding villages and abbeys. It was surprising that the clink of coin changing hands wasn’t visible from here, twenty miles distant.

“Whoa,” the ostler called and Theophanna felt her irritation spike. Once again she thrust her head out the window. There was no stag this time. Ten men astride powerful horses stood in a line across the path. Four of them had lances and the rest held crossbows. All had scabbarded swords near to hand. Were these bandits? Knights who had lost everything in the tournament turned to brigandage? Such things were not unheard off, but these men seemed clean and well armed, their plate mail in good order. They had shields but leather coverings had been fastened over their devices to hide their identities. Theophanna felt a chill steal through her body. Perhaps not bandits afterall.

“We have come to escort the lady d’Orbai,” their leader, a powerfully built man with a sallet concealing his face declared. His voice was haughty and tinged with cruelty.
“She already has an escort,” Castellan's son declared, his teenage voice all but breaking under the strain. His horse danced slightly, sensing its riders unease. The remaining armsmen began to close, hands gripping their lances tight. Albrecht had stopped praying, apparently unwilling to do anything remotely useful.

“This is the order of Count Baldwin,” the knight with the sallet wheedled. Theophanna could tell by his voice that he was toying with the boy, amused to find defiance against his superior numbers. She could taste the steel on the souls of them, whatever else they were, these men were killers. The Castellean’s son had none of Theophanna’s gifts but he none the less reached the same conclusion. Which made what he did next all the more inexcusable.

“Charge!” he roared. He had already spurred his horse before he spoke, wrenching the reigns with one hand as the other snatched his shield from his saddle bow. Crossbows twanged and metal rang off metal. There was a dull thunk as one bolt buried itself into the coach. One of her escorts was struck from his saddle, screaming with a quarrel buried in his breast plate. The other three charged home in a thunderous clamor of steel and horses. The Castellan’s son thrust his lance into the bandit chief’s shield, half driving the other man from the saddle but his sturdy horse wobbled and fell, blood flecking its lips from the bolt that had struck it in the chest. Theophanna heard his leg snap as the horse pinned him. The remaining two knights cast away their lances and drew their swords but it was obvious they had but moments to life.

“We surrender in the name of Il! Spare us and we will…” ALbrecht was screeching. The stench of blood and dust was choking and the sound of men and horses screaming all but unendurable. One of the escorting knights lost three fingers when a sword blade struck his un-gauntleted hand. The old ostler fell from the coach seat with a boneless thump, a quarrel through his forehead and blood dribbling from his lips and nose. The man in the sallet helm was laughing like a demon.

Theophanna spoke. It wasn’t a word as regular people understood it. In truth even among the learned few people could or would have understood it. It was not some simple piece of language. It was a Word. The exact meaning of the Word was as difficult to describe as it was to Annunciate but it would have meant something like ‘a description of the way the sound of thunder peels off cliff during a violent storm’ though it also carried subtext about the taste of salt, the feeling in one’s stomach of vibration, and the flash of light against eyes straining in the dark’. It roared out of her, not physically loud, but so accurately capturing reality that it seemed to impose itself on the scene with more authority than anything as prosaic as steel or flesh. Everyone reeled back, two knights fell from their horses, clutching their eyes against light that was only theoretical. One horse reared and tossed it’s rider before bolting over the ridge. The carriage team panicked and lurched into a full sprint to try and distance themselves from what they thought they had heard. So furiously did they charge that clods of dirt clattered against the coach as it lurched forward, scattering the attackers. Theophanna was hurled against Albrecht who was screaming and clutching his ears, his knucklebone necklace gone. There was a disconcerting crunch as the ironshod wheels went over something and Theophanna could only hope it wasn’t one of her own escort.

“Blasphemy! Heresy!” Albrecht screamed, clawing at Theophanna as though she were a demon from the very pit. She struck him hard with her book of hours then tumbled away as the coach careened down the hill at incredible speed. The road was rough and every bump tossed them into the air and assailed them with the queasy feeling of weightlessness. The horses were screaming they had run too fast and had no option other than to keep running to avoid being crushed by the weight they had so loyally dragged these last few days. The forest whizzed by so fast it was little more than a green blur. Theophanna dragged herself to the window and risked a look out that nearly got her decapitated by a low hanging branch. To her horror she saw a gentle bend ahead racing towards them like the Sign of Doom Itself. There was no hope of the undirected team making the turn, even if there was a driver the sheer momentum of the runaway coach would make that impossible.

“We need to get out of here!” she shouted at Albrecht, then cursed herself, in her panic she had spoken in Basalian. She repeated the words in the local Vencal tongue and made a desperate gesture ahead of them. Albrecht was screaming out what seemed to be a combination of prayer to Il and curse against her, so hopelessly intermingled that she knew she would never get through to him in time. Screaming her own frustration she pulled open the door, the rushing wind of their passage all but ripping it from her finger. She cast one final look back at Albrecht and leaped clear, her gown flapping and trailing like the tearing mast of a doomed ship. She landed and rolled, slamming hard into the bushes which lined the road. The world spun and she tried to right herself and crawl into cover. There was a tremendous sound that combined screaming horses and splintering timber and bone as the coach missed the turn and crashed into the trees, mighty oaks which had clung to the rocky mountainside for generations resisted the coach and it exploded into shattered splinters of wood, bone and horse. Theophanna didn’t want to think about what it did to Albrecht still cowering in his seat.

“Lord Il, He How Hung the Stars, forgive your servant,” she murmured to herself, finally managing to get up onto all fours. The sound of hooves was pounding down the road and she squirmed through the bushes and out of sight a moment before the unidentified knights thundered past, already yelling and trying to reign in their mounts as they approached the crash. It would only be a moment before the realized she wasn’t in the coach. Theophanna crawled under the root of a larch tree, then pulled herself up and began to run blindingly into the forest, blood leaking from her lips, heart hammering in terror.