Apocrypha

A Crisis of Faith

Samson's spirit ebbed.

He had remained in the pavilion. The last hour had drained him. He had spent the time standing, attentive, encouraging discourse, allowing others their say; now, he sat, slumped in a chair, alone with nighted thoughts. The armor he wore weighed heavily upon him, adding to his brooding disposition.

The meeting had not gone well.

When he had summoned Mademoiselle Breen, his purpose had been straight and true: Theirs was simply a matter of restoring a Hermetic maga to her rightful Tribunal. Now, ambivalence has entered his heart. No, not quite ambivalence. That was not right. He still held true to his conviction, but the road he walked seemed more perilous than it had once been. It was no longer "simply" anything.

He could not admit that he was surprised at Sander's position. He was, after all, apprenticed here in Ireland, and had taken part in a tradition that he admitted was not agreeable to him but nearly killed him in the process. His Irish roots were strong. As per Sir Blane... His approach seemed timid. While he was a skilled man-at-arms -- of which Samson knew all too well -- there was a... gentleness that gave way to reluctance.

No, those two were new; their opinions, while valid, mattered less to him than Gustov's did.

The truth was that Gustov -- his first and most stalwart friend -- had succeeded where the likes of the Kindershrecker, where even Nemesis had failed: He made Rene feel small. Smaller than "Little Rene" even, the wooden chevalier that had once been given to him by his oncle, Robert, and that Rene had in turn given to Gustov for his courageousness during their initial encounter with the Shadow Magi that brought them all together; it was Gustov, in his youthful exuberance, who had christened him so.

And Gustov had made had made him small, without steel or flame, but his words. Samson knew all too well that although he had been speaking to those gathered, Gustov's words were targeted at him, striking their mark -- hard.

Samson sighed.

For some reason unbeknownst to him, his gaze wandered upward. He took in the pavilion's structure. Directly above him two wooden beams met, creating a cross at the heart of the pavilion.

At this, his mind wandered. He was no longer seated, disheartened, in Hibernia. Instead, he was standing on another hill, the dust strewn slopes of Golgotha. He watched as Roman soldiers whipped his Lord through the streets, upon his shoulders was a cross not unlike the pavilion's. He stared at the soldiers and wondered, Were they ever conflicted at what they were doing? Or did they merely carry out their orders without question? If they were conflicted, and they carried out their orders anyway... what did that say of their character?

Gustov, imbued with well intention as he was, was still wrong.

While Samson agreed that all life was precious, and had intrinsic value by virtue of the fact that they were all God's children, not all life should be valued equally. There were kings -- blessed by God, Himself and protected by His Domain -- to rule. Underneath them were knights, who served; and beneath them, peasants to labor. None sane would value the life of a peasant over that of his lord; it was preposterous! By extension, magi were no different in this. A hedge wizard was not an equal to a Hermetic wizard. Regardless of what this Tribunal has done to mollify the Code and pacify the local populace, it was not right. Hedge wizards were not members of the Order, and therefore should not enjoy the same protections thereof.

After all, he thought sullenly, we had all sworn oaths to the Order first and foremost, before ever landing in Hibernia and no Peripheral Code or binding pact should negate the Code. If one was found doing so, then one needed to be revised accordingly.

His vote would stand.

He would respect his sodales' vote, of course, assuming no malice toward him in his heart, though his words had stung. Each man would have to vote their conscious. He had to trust that this vote would not rend asunder their friendship.

He arose then, staring up at the cross as he did so, then aloud he asked no one in particular, "Am I like Christ then, bearing the weight of the cross in service of a greater good...? Or am I the conflicted soldier, following an unjust order, whipping the lamb with each step?"

On the Road to Iberia

His horse whinnied in protest, lathering her exhaustion as she went.

Ahorsed Bathild, ever leading their procession southward, was Master Hugh. Dutifully, Rene rode in their wake. The day grew dim. A well deserved rest was soon in the coming, Rene knew.

The apprentice reached down, stroking his mare’s mane of midnight. The gentle touch was accompanied with a word of encouragement. As he did thus, he moved the reins to one side. His horse obliged, cantering in that direction. He would see this day’s ride end abreast his master. The path was more than ride enough.

The road since dawn had been hard traveled. The Alps were to their backs now, ever receding to the horizon. The road south would be long still and Master Hugh wanted to make certain that not a moment was lost. After all, theirs was an errand of grave import. They would see the Flaming Shadow doused for their trespasses against House Flambeau. Honor demanded nothing less.

Once Master Hugh had outlined the justice in their quest, Rene was more than willing to swear Dawnkeeper to their cause. Though, in truth, he knew all too well that he had little say in the matter regardless. Hugh was the master, and Rene, the apprentice. It was his lot to do as instructed.

In spite his righteous zeal, his heart could not help wandering back home to Icy North, where his lady continued her studies without him.

When word had reached Rene that Eva would be arriving to continue work under Doctor Azzo Carducci, he was thrilled. Sadly, Master Hugh did not partake in his enthusiasms. “I suppose this means you’ll be making moon-eyes at her all season,” he had grunted; his derisive tone booming louder than was needed. During moments such as those, Rene had to make an effort in reminding himself that his Master was partially deaf. Sometimes the effort was Herculean. "Again. And forsaking your other duties. Again!"

At that last pronouncement, Rene flushed in anger; the muscles in his jaw were working over; his stance, rigid. He kept his tongue sheathed. Rene took pride in the work he did under his master. He tended to all his chores and his studies in equal measure. Moreover, not long ago, he had led the charge of his fellow apprentices to Hugh’s rescue, risking life and limb to see his master returned home. Hell, prior to his departure, Master Hugh had written to Rene to demand his Gauntlet if Athena Alpina saw fit to remove Rene from House Flambeau. And now he finds his apprentice’s work lacking; his duties, forsaken?

For Hugh’s part, he rested a hand on his apprentices shoulder. His tone was laden with an emotion Rene could not quite name. "When a magus allows himself to love, his heart has already broken. He just doesn't know it yet. Learn from my mistakes, Rene. Do not follow the path of your dominus into folly."

That was when Master Hugh told him of the direness in Iberia. Once he was done, Master Hugh ordered his apprentice’s leave, telling him to go make preparations at once. The procession was to leave at dawn.

Ever a good soldier, Rene saw to his duties in short order. Master and apprentice had made several long treks throughout Mythic Europe over the years; he was well-versed in what needed to be done.

Once that was done, he made towards his room. From the wooden shelf over his cot, Rene took down a well-worn leather bound book, the same one that he had taken with him on his travels. With book in hand, he took to his writing desk and by candlelight wrote the following missive:

My Dearest Eva,

Come the dawn, Master Hugh and I will be traveling south to Iberia. I fear I will not be on hand for your return to Icy North as I had hoped. Sadly, the garden of Flambeau is replete with serpents, serpents that require a gardener’s tending.

I have naught much to give save this modest text. Inside, you will find various etchings I have made since commencement of our apprenticeships, mainly of plants, including some notes here and there and a collection of various musings that ought to prove some small measure of comfort in my stead.

Please, this one would beg forgiveness of milady for the yeoman efforts in capturing your likeness in the last several pages.

I know not when I shall return, but return I shall. I promise. I leave Icy North shielded with your love, against which no blade shall pierce.

Rene

When he signed his name, he waited a few moments for the ink to settle, closed the book then, and settled it in the one place he was certain that she would find it: Square in the middle of his cot. He had toyed with the notion of leaving the book in the girl’s dormitory, but feared it might have landed in the wrong hands. (Heaven forbid if Cassiday were to find it.) Sooner or later, Eva would come, whether her footfalls were compelled by curiosity or longing it mattered little to Rene. She would come and this small kindness would warm her.

His horse whinnied once more drawing Rene from his wanderings. Bathild came to a stop and Master Hugh was dismounting. He looked around. This was as good a place as any to make camp for the night.

Dismounting, he tended to his horse. Once she was good and fed, Rene settled in for the night. Mercifully, sleep was soon in the coming, complete with visions of his lady love and that radiant smile of hers.

A Year of Romance (Summer 1214-Summer 1215)

Summer

The hour was late when there came a knocking on his door.

Shirtless, Rene had been in mid floor-dip when the gentle rasp had come. Beside him, on the floor, candles burned bright in an iron cacandelabrum, illuminating his scriptures, which he had laid beneath him. It was slow reading. In truth, Rene found the Epistle to the Romans a tad too dense for his liking. Candlelight flickered as he arose.

From his cot, he removed a towel he had set out. He was wiping down the perspiration that had gathered behind his neck, when he opened the door. He smiled.

“Eva,” he said in greeting. The two had been friends for a decade now and Rene could not help recall the little girl she had been then, collecting rocks along the road as the apprentices traveled with the late Arnulf. Since then the two, alongside their fellow tiros, had shared in numerous misadventures together throughout Mythic Europe. He could tell something was amiss.

Without a word, she entered his room. Her visage was clouded in thought. She was concerned, Rene thought. “What’s wrong?”

Bathed in candlelight, Eva stood there. She wore the same dress she had worn earlier that day for the wedding of Alys and Samuel. She looked at him and without preamble said, “I love you. You loved me before, love me again.” Then Eva undid her dress right there in his room.

Rene was taken aback. For his part, he could not help but flush crimson. Painfully aware of his own state of undress, the squire-who-would-be-a-magus fretted about the suffocating small quarters, fumbling with his words. “Eva!” he chocked out in exasperation. His voice broke.

In German, she said, “Von Verhärten Erde, Schönheit.” Her voice was calm, assertive. In all their time together, Rene had never seen her quite like this—save those instances when she came to her domina’s defense, of course. He did not understand, and said as much. “‘From Harden Earth, Beauty,’” she translated. “That wasn’t in German for Profundus’ benefit, my love.”

Recognition took hold. His gaze went up to the wooden shelf mounted on the wall over his cot. There he could see the well-worn leather binding of his notebook. The same notebook he carried alongside him when he and Master Hugh went on their excursions, cataloging various flora that struck his fancy on their travels together. He made several detailed drawings. In the back, he had been drawing a young woman… She took up more than a few sketches, each were work in progresses, each bearing a striking resemblance to Eva that he had never quite consciously known.

Rene turned back to Eva. She was naked. She was no longer the little girl collecting rocks and keeping to herself. She was a woman. She was the young woman.

He approached. He reached out and raised her chip up until she met her gaze. He repeated her name. This time his voice was strong, reassuring in tone. Then he kissed her.

On the floor, lit by candlelight, was Romans 12:9: “Let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good.”

Autumn

Back in school together, Rene makes a point to sit beside Eva. Attentive students nearby espy the occasional warm glance he tosses her during their lulls in instruction. Armed and armored in his chivalrous upbringing, he can be seen holding open doors for Eva and is always quick to carry her school supplies to and fro.

Never one to neglect his predawn exercises, Rene rises all the more earlier than usual. He is quick to run through his routines with much haste—all in the hope of breaking his fast with Eva prior to the commencement of lecture.

Once class ends, he and Eva part ways, whereupon he spends a few hours with Profundus in his garden. It is good to be toiling the earth alongside the profound doctor once more.

Rene and Eva would be amongst friends for their evening meal. During these larger gatherings, he tries to keep a "respectable" distance between them, as he is loathe to be seen as rude to the others. But, more often than naught, his eyes betray him. He is seen falling in and out of conversation wistfully.

Afterwards, if the two are alone in a common area, Rene draws her close, regaling her with tall tales of his homeland, Normandy. The stories he shares are the same stories his oncle, Robert, once told him long ago replete "with virtuous maids beset by dastardly villains and the pious knights who would never fail in their rescue." The stories never fail to bring a smile to Rene.

If the two are alone in an uncommon area... Well, there is this garden Rene tends to.

If there is an afterwards after that, Rene would try to steal a few minutes to read by candlelight Master Profundus' copy of The Sword of Moses as he completes his nightly exercise routine. This is slow going work, and he tires easily.

Winter

With Eva gone and his hours spent with a mended Master Hugh learning the secrets of corpus, Rene has taken quill to parchment.

Each night at his evening meal, Rene writes to Eva. When taken as a whole, there is neither rhyme nor reason to the entries he pens. Their topics range the gauntlet from the ins-&-outs of his studies, to the recent happenings of Icy North, to Norman poetry, to his gardening enthusiasm, to heartfelt longings of missing her. Truth be told, it warms his heart to write to her and helps to pass the time until spring dawns anew and he can see her.

As each month draws to a close, he sends the manuscript via Redcap off to Sinews of Knowledge.

Spring

When springs arrives, Rene is elated. On the morning of her arrival, he is seen at the Portal Arc with the last of winter's Iceland poppies well in hand. He gives no hindrance to the diverse looks tossed his direction as grogs lug up the spiral staircase with personal belongings in tow and gives little attention to anyone coming through who is not named Eva Wiebke discipula Balbina.

In class, Rene is enthused to hear that the season will be spent on lab work. Try as he might to steel his heart against such hubris, he cannot help but feel a modicum of pride with the subject matter. He might not be as well learned as his peers, but he did invent a spell. Though he is first to admit, he has much to learn and his interests in the topic wanes as it gravitates toward other shores.

In the margins, he starts drawing up the mechanics of a spell inspired by one of the children stories his oncle once told him. The tale, admittedly one of his sillier yarns, saw a wizard stuck in a tree hurling acorns that were set ablaze at a pack of talking wolves.

When the season ends, comfort is taken in the fact that next season is Tribunal, and he would see Eva once more. That comfort is short lived, however, when Eva reminds him that her domina, Balbina scholae Verditius, would also be coming also.

Summer

After beseeching Master Hugh's advice on the matter -- to no avail -- Rene is left to his own devices. He is on hand to greet Balbina personally. Approaching the matter as a knight would the fairest of ladies, he drops to one knee as she steps through the Portal Arc and greets her in all the honor a lady of her standing should be afforded.

When his duties to Master Hugh is complete, Rene makes a point to see that all the needs of Mistress Balbina are cared for. Ever courteous, Rene bows as he enters and leaves with not an unkind word on his lips.

Try as he might, Rene's intentions are plain. He wishes Balbina's approval. Eva holds a special place in his heart, and he wishes to prove himself worthy.

Lastly, as the Tribunal comes to an end, Rene poses a simple question to Eva's domina. "Would your tailsman be able to peer through the mystery of Tarragon's Vale? Surely if the covenant has descended into Twilight, as many suspect," he goes on, "then the greatest artisan of the Greater Alps Tribunal could easily peel back that veil of secrecy." He expects no answer when the question is posed, but leaves the matter at that. He bids her good travels and departs with a most heartfelt bow of respect.

The Song of Dawnkeeper (April 1213)

Dear Profoundus,

I trust this missive finds you well, Master. For me, this missive marks the near completion of a long road hard traveled.

‘Tis late as I write. The witching hour has long since passed and dawn is coming. I will greet the sun upon the highest battlement, whereupon I will learn whether this morning will serve as the culmination of several months hard labor—not to mention, many years of longing—or the condemnation of my efforts.

For I have—with the Lord’s willing grace—invented a spell.

I fear I cannot help but take some measure of pride in this… admittedly trivial accomplishment. I am all too aware that that is the path of original sin. I will endeavor to do better steeling my heart against such flights of hubris in the future.

Returning to the matter at hand, the spell is designed to restore the great sword found at the Tower of Solomon during one of our more childish misadventures.

You will be heartened to hear that I have done as you instructed. I have checked and rechecked all my calculations. The spell is sound. If I fail now, it will be an error with the spell-caster, not the spell. After all, the gardener ought not to curse the trowel for work that bares little fruit.

Dawn is near and the candle is almost at its end. There is still work to do.

May the Good Lord light your path,

Rene

PS: Your garden is well cared for. The cistaceae have taken root and started to bloom marvelously. I am still at a loss as to why I planted so many of them, but they are pleasant enough, I suppose.

With sealed letter in hand, Rene gathered up the rest of his belongings.

Prior to his Master’s most recent departure of Icy North, Hugh had been kind enough in securing his apprentice with a space to work, not to mention the Terram vis required to see that work through to its end.

As Rene cleaned out that work space for what could be the last time, he could not help but think longingly of Hugh. While most would not think so, Rene’s Master was a warm enough man—after his own fashion, of course. A strict taskmaster and good soldier, Hugh demanded naught but the best from his apprentice. Rene feared he had bitterly missed that mark from time-to-time.

He gathered up his notes within the leather satchel that hung round one shoulder.

Then, he raised the great sword aloft for one last inspection. It had long since rusted over in that wizard’s tower. The metal was brittle, pitted like no other. There were plenty of swords downstairs in the armory that could outpace this sad excuse for a weapon. Rene knew that the Grogs had started questioning his love of what could easily have been discarded as little more than junk.

But it was not the sword itself that he loved. Rather, it was what it had defended that was so dear to him. It was Gustov and his courage. It was Breandan and his cunning. It was... It was Eva and her kind heartedness. It was his friends that Rene loved so dearly. With this sword, he had protected them and, in turn, they him. Perhaps, some day, he may do so again.

Though he never spoke of this, Rene liked to think that Hugh had understood.

With the utmost care, he tucked the sword into the crook of his arm and took one last look around. The lab was as it had been when Hugh had pushed open that door and showed him in. Rene smiled. His Master was acerbic, yes, but he was not without his tenderness, too.

Yes, Rene concluded, Hugh had understood.

Rene took the steps. Through the openings, he could see night was brightening. He had not much time.

Midway to the highest battlement, Rene caught sight of the nearest redcap. A portly man of poor posture, the redcap took the missive and the apprentice told him the destination. “To Valnastium—best possible speed.” The redcap nodded, and Rene continued upward with renewed vigor.

Upon reaching his destination, he pushed open the wooden door. It groaned in protest. Squaring his shoulders, he heaved once more. The door gave. The ice that had settled in the groove and hinges now lay at his feet.

Rene surveyed Icy North as his Master had taught him. All was quiet. The guard was going about their patrols. Soon, the dawn would come. He had little over an hour to work. He laid down the great sword, and took his notes out. The ritual required precision. He then took his seat opposite his work.

Reviewing his notes one last time, he starts to readjust the modest gold ring he wears. The ring allowed Rene to work magic within the aegis.

The ring was Master Hugh’s last gift to him. He could not help but mark his Master’s gloomed pallor upon receiving this final boon. There was a foreboding sense of finality to his words. His mannerisms were distracted. Hugh spoke with some measure of—dare he say it?—regret.

Whether it was regret for past sins or roads not yet taken, Rene could not say. All he knew was that, each night, he prayed that the Good Lord would see fit to take care of his Master, that perhaps the two might resume their studies together and Rene would have a chance to prove his mettle as an apprentice.

The morning light was starting to break across the Alpine horizon.

It was time.

Rene worked the muscles in his jaw, steeling himself for the task at hand, and set to work. His motions were exact; his Latin, clear, precise. When it was time, he placed a hand upon the rusted worn blade and began in earnest.

The sun rose ever higher.

Soon, the sun was upon them and a second dawn happens against Rene’s touch. The blade takes on a light all its own. The rust melts into so much nothingness, leaving behind…

“Dawnkeeper.”

The word comes to him, whispers through him.

On the most tentative ground, Rene is slow to rise. He holds aloft Dawnkeeper and marvels at his own reflection to be had thereupon. Holding the hilt with renewed strength, he takes a couple of practice strokes in that crisp morning air.

Dawnkeeper sings to him and he laughs. Master Hugh would be proud, he thinks delighted.

The Ballad of René de la Croix (1191-1205)

The ballad of René de la Croix begins with a simple kindness.

That kindness came in the form of a modest, wooden chevalier. While one might call into question the workmanship, the carving was a present, given freely to him by his oncle, Robert (ro-BER). Robert was a queer sort. Robert never married, and held no interest in grapes. In fact, his appreciation for winery went no further the wineskin. As consequence, Robert was shunned the same privileges that were bestowed upon his elder brother, Auréle. No, his heart lay not on the vine, but was ceased with wanderlust. Robert often took to traveling hither and thither, even venturing well beyond Norman borders. A traveling monk by calling, Robert sought to spread God’s word to all fellow travelers He sought fit to place along his path.

On those rarest of occasions when his travels would return him home to his father’s chateau, Robert would often be seen by candlelight regaling any who might listen his tales of adventures from parts unknown. The tales were harrowing epics, replete with virtuous maids beset by dastardly villains and the pious knights who would never fail in their rescue.

René was enthralled.

Unlike his older brother, Josse, Rene admired his oncle, and loved him dearly. He wished nothing more than to travel far and wide as oncle did and partake in setting right the wrongs that plagued Mythic Europe. Neveu and oncle were inseparable—much to Auréle’s chagrin.

Auréle was a shrewd man, calculating and cunning. Some might even dare say prone to cruelness, though none in his presence. He was his father’s son. Naught else mattered save duty to familial traditions. When father passed of cholera, the caretaking of the chateau fell to him as it will to Josse when he, too, must pass. Auréle’s heart was too shallow to love two sons: Josse was his heir; René, a replacement. Auréle could not be troubled with showing his second the same warmth as he showed his first. Attention was reserved for discipline, and even then it was more an excuse to take out his anger. He bequeath all other fatherly duties to his attendants as he took Josse under his wing.

However, René’s taking of his brother Robert did not go unnoticed. Aurele let known that his father’s greatest mistake was his tolerance of Robert’s foolishness. He would be damned if he let another de la Croix, and his son at that, follow suit. A plan was hatch.

When René turned seven he was taken from his father’s house and given as page to Sir Estinenne Armell the Dawn Knight. A widower, Sir Estinenne was an aged knight, well within the autumn of his life. Heartbroken following the death of his lady love, he forsook taking another. As a consequence, he had no living heir to either his titles or lands. Auréle could see the benefits to those possessions. René would serve Sir Estinenne as page, then as squire. Given luck (and, perhaps, some spoiled wine if need be), the aged knight would meet his Marker at around the time René would be bestow his own knighthood. Then the de la Croix household stood a chance of reaping the inheritance.

René was blithely ignorant of his father’s machinations. Instead, he saw this as the first step of a grand adventure. Words could not do justice to the delight that coursed through him. He, René de la Croix, was to be a pious knight—just like in oncle’s stories! His lot was not to toil in the vineyards of home, but to travel all Europe redressing wrongs in the name of the Lord Almighty.

That night when Sir Estinenne came to Chateu de la Croix to claim his page, Robert was there. There was a deep sadness to his gait that night. His was a weathered expression. He looked down upon his loving neveu with great pity for, sadly, he was all too aware of his brother’s ambitions, though he spoke naught a word of his own misgivings. Instead, Robert presented Rene the wooden chevalier, swearing his neveu to be a good and pious man, forswearing all those that would seek to lead him from righteousness.

Shortly thereafter, word reached Sir Estinenne’s traveling camp that Robert de la Croix died, the victim of highwaymen he was attempting to save.

Once he had arrived in his patron’s court, René was given to the care of a governess, Jocelyne Du Bois. Du Bois instructed René in the first articles of religion, reverence for his patron, and initiated in the ceremonies of the court. For the next seven years, he would afford himself the reputation of an apt pupil. In addition to his studies, he attended his patron’s table, performing all tasks assigned with resounding gusto. In his leisure hours, he was trained in the art of falconry and game hawking. In the practice yard, his sheer size lent him towards an aptitude with the great sword.

Then came the day when he was to be sworn as his patron’s esquire. To commemorate the occasion there was to be a tourney held. The day that had started with such pageantry, ended in ashes. For René de la Croix was gifted.

That night in the Great Hall the page was brought to the patron. Sir Estinenne loved René as if he was his own, and this development brought such sadness to his heart. In attendance was Sir Rotgiers. He was present the joust in the tourney, now his duties was much more solemn. With little recourse, the Dawn Knight passed his page to Sir Rotgiers and his airs of the infernal. The knight, said to ride a magical steed and wield weapons blessed by the Devil, gravely questioned Rene about his past, cast some spells on him, and then wrote a long letter, which he placed in a leather envelope and then sealed with his Sigil.

From Sir Rotgiers, René was given Germanic redcap, Arnulf.

Following their run in with the Shadow Magi in the Alps, René gave his oncle’s wooden chevalier, the sole possession he kept from his patron’s keep, to fellow tiro Gustov. In his glee, Gustov christened the chevalier “Little René.”