Darkos

Darkos Warkannon - Initiate of Urox

Like Kirwin, Darkos is from Geroini lands in Tarsh. Darkos had a very privileged upbringing – his father was a Provost and Elector in the city of Dunstop with a large estate and sable paddock in the countryside.

        From a young age Darkos proved to be a good sable-rider and archer and regularly took part in the Dunstop Games, where he won many laurel wreaths. In 1610ST he joined the Lunar army and received a commission as a junior officer in a mounted reconnaissance squadron – his father paying for the priests on his estate to cast protective spells on his son, and gifting him with a magnificent jet-black sable, Sasha.

And now the tears come...

 Carthaynon had been a cruel teacher, a far cry from the wet nurses and scholars that had tutored me until then. Not for him the gentle and patient encouragement allowed by my father thus far.

I remember with warmth, even now, the chiding and gentle mocking I received from my sister Sereena, who had taught me my letters. How I had longed for one tenth of the patience she had shown me when I formed the symbols backwards or upside down. How she had smiled kindly, full of love for her younger brother. How she had thrown her arms around me at the smallest of victories over my dyslexia.

None of that for Carthaynon, that was not his way.

When my thirteenth birthday came, the women were banished from my teaching; I was to become a man. In the Geroini lands of Tarsh this meant to ride, to hunt, to shoot and to fight in the service of our Lunar masters.

Seven generations of my ancestors had led The Vanguard in Lunar cavalry units. The most famous of these being Sirius Warkannon, the Wing commander who led the ill-fated charge at Beggars Rift, dying along with seventy four of his Wing but enabling the entire Ninth cavalry division to escape decimating crossfire.

But Sereena was gone, only the voice of Carthaynon remained, cold and uncompromising.

"Straight back! Grip with the legs! Grip harder! Rise in the saddle! Extend with the left! Draw the string smoothly! Smoothly! Release!" How many times I heard this I cannot count.

How many times did I feel his cane on my thigh as I passed at full gallop, loosing my shaft too late, firing high and right?

Now I am here and the teachings of Carthaynon burn like fire in my mind. I swear I can feel the lash of that cane on my thigh once again.

"Stay low over the neck" This is the key to hanging on to Sable in full gallop. Not hunched in the way the horse lords ride, but straight backed and taut. This favours the lancers, but that is not my weapon.

My bow, shaped by the master fletcher, Garrion of Korbros city, sits at arms length in its war cradle.

I lean my heals into Sasha’s flanks and she responds with an enthusiastic leap, she loves the chase almost as much as I. But this is no flight of fancy. At times I swear Sasha can read my mind, knows when I need her extra speed and gives it to me willingly. She has never failed me.

We are closing now, the river on my left crackles like lightning under the driving rain. I do not feel it’s sting on my face, my quarry is in sight. Focus.

At first a blur through the downpour, he takes form, riding hard, unaware of my approach. I can make out the hard outline of an armoured man, distinctive even in this torrent.

As the gap closes I can make out the bulk of a well-built man. The horse he rides is sturdy, a plains beast of the northern steppes, full of stamina but not bred for speed.

At one hundred yards I ease Sasha to the right, dropping down the steep riverbank to elevate the hunted one’s position. Sasha doesn’t even break stride.

I close to forty yards. My body and mind in unison. My muscle memory and thoughts in tune from a thousand hours on the practice ground. Carthaynon, you bastard.

I feel Sasha beneath me and we are one. I rise and fall with the rhythm of her hooves, man and beast melded together as one being. My breathing is in time, my pulse slow, at odds with the speed of our pursuit.

As Sasha rises I dip to the left and take up the bow. Now is the critical time. She is set and maintains her speed at a constant familiar to only the most well trained war mounts.

I release the reins from my right hand and squeeze firmly with my calves. Reaching back I draw a short heavy arrow (known well to all Lunar cavalrymen) from it’s quiver and smoothly set it in place. Notching the arrow to the string is a talent based on instinct rather the touch. The arrow slides home.

I turn my gaze to the left, to the figure galloping above me. He is breathing hard. Even through the rain I can see the steam of hot breath pulsing from him. The same hot breath that Sereena would have felt and been repulsed by. Do not think on it now.

In open warfare one always seeks the high ground. But this is no battlefield, I need a clean kill. He is bigger, stronger and more heavily armoured than I.

From this lower position I have a greater chance of finding a gap in that armour. Armour is made to protect primarily from the front and above, not from below. If my aim is not true, there is a greater chance the arrow will deflect upwards from the breastplate or shoulder guard and lodge beneath the helm.

"Smoothly! Draw the string smoothly!" Carthaynon’s words ring in my ears.

At the last second, the man turns. He sees me but it is too late.

They say that in such moments one’s life passes before their eyes. I do not know. But in that look did I see his life. In the same look did he comprehend his end. Of ambition unfulfilled, of places never visited, of a child never seen as an adult.

I slow Sasha to a halt and slide from the saddle. The ground oozes beneath my boots and I sink to my knees.

"You taught me well, old bastard".

Finally it is over. The last one. And now the tears come.

Darkos Warkannon’s musing on companionship

Grant McKielson

From the very beginning Grant has been the steadying hand at the tiller. He brings reason to the group when occasionally hot-heads threaten to tip us over the edge into recklessness.

‘Reliable and dependable’ have often been used to describe Grant but this does not do him justice. His input into the planning and direction of the group has very often been invaluable; especially when it comes to looking after the small details that may otherwise be overlooked in the rush for action and glory.

He is the quiet man of our party and goes about his business with the head of a scholar rather than that of the excellent warrior that I know he has become. This is his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

It is prudent to be cautious and approach certain circumstances with due diligence, ‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread’. However, Grant is at times prone to fanaticising over the tiniest details in a way that can lead to frustration, indecision and inaction. In dangerous situations there is a time to put aside talk and trust to wit, strength in arms and the man beside you. This procrastination comes I think from his fealty to The Path of Imminent Mastery. To walk such a path must be a thankless and often directionless task. With no clear purpose and a lack of any perceivable direction is what in my view overflows into day to day aimlessness and a need to focus on the minutiae rather than the bigger picture.  We cannot foresee all possible outcomes all of the time and hindsight is a perfect view on a clear day.

For all that, there is nobody else I would rather have at my back. He is modest, selfless and has saved my life on more than one occasion.

Despite his seeming reticence to get bloody, when the moment for action comes he packs away his words and unfurls his death banner with his brothers.

An accomplished fighter, he has made many vital kills in our travels together, while continuing to be the first to any fallen friend to administer the healing magic he masters.

Grant encompasses much that is worthy in the human spirit. Trustworthy to last, it is his humility that shines a lantern into the darker recesses of my own soul and humbles me. Most likely this is why I often speak harsher words to him than he deserves; nobody likes to be confronted by their own shortcomings.

I am honoured to call him ‘friend’.

Cleombrotus

Cleombrotus; I cannot but feel that one day the whole world will know the name. The man has greatness in him beyond that of his mortal shell; I think that we are only at the beginning of the tale of Cleombrotus.

There is a surety of purpose in him that I have rarely encountered. Even the epic times in which we are playing a role seem but a training ground for him. This is a beguiling but uneasy feeling. With Cleombrotus one feels almost in the presence of a young god at play; confident, capable and iron-willed.

His knowledge of the world has been invaluable to us on occasions innumerable. It is as if he has seen it all before and calls on the knowledge of a host of ancestors to bring him wisdom in times of need.

Unlike Grant however, his wisdom is of a practical nature rather than one of moral or humane intent. His knowledge is of how to get things done; sometimes for his own benefit above that of the group. That is not to say that he is selfish or greedy (although I have seen this in him also), but rather that others are supporting players to his lead. There are no sour grapes here though, for his leadership qualities are strong. Were he to command men I think he would have their respect rather than their love and would want it no other way.

At times this can leave the feeling that there is an ulterior motive or purpose to his actions; something more self-centred going on beneath the surface. I am not convinced of my own feelings here; it is possible that I am misinterpreting the practicality of a soldier who has spent his life at war, in one way or another.

Nevertheless, the bonds run deep between us. We have travelled far and long together and I would have the courage to ride in to hell itself with Cleombrotus at my side, sure in the knowledge he would hold a flank until the last breath left his body. The man is carved from stone.

I do not understand his cultural affiliation and his leaning to the dark troubles me. When we were trussed up in the blackness and captured by trolls Cleombrotus’ spirit seemed to revel in it, while my own yearned for the light and the wind on my face. I ask myself, what manner of man yearns to walk in shadow?

Gramper Soulmarsh

May the Bull trample me beneath his hooves if Gramper is not an enigma to me. Seeming to walk between worlds with as much attention paid to the spirits as to the physical seems somehow unnatural to me. Though the spirits in the form of elementals play their part in my own life, I think it best to let them weave and manipulate on the spirit plane as they see fit. “Carve for yourself what you can from that which presents itself” as my weapon instructor used to say. Let beast or man come forward and offer either hand of friendship or sword of enemy and I will know how to treat with him; but no bargaining should be done with these ethereal hangers-on. They have their purpose of course, but that should be one of servant and not of friend or confident – this is not the way in Gramper’s thinking.

To my mind this dabbling in things unseen and trifling in the affairs of the dead seems to me only a skip and a jump away from having one foot in the camp chaos; as long as none of his ghostly friends get up from their cold graves and walk by my side though, we will have no argument.

Gramper seems to me a jolly fellow of stout heart mind you, and is certainly not one to shirk a task. If he were, I dare say we we’d of parted company long before now.

He is loyal; recently standing sentry over Cleombrotus while he performed a lengthy ritual. Whether Cleombrotus undertook such a ritual following some of Gramper’s coercion I don’t know. This kind of thing seems to me to be more Gramper’s bag than Cleombrotus’s. Still, Cleo is nobody’s fool so I am sure anything done was of his own mind.

For all my apparent disapproval I am happy to call Gramper friend. He is a valued member of our group, doing great work in our assault on the Jonstown Lunar villa and I can only see that his role in our shared future will grow and grow.

I look forward to our paths being intertwined so that I can learn more of the ways of this strange man and hopefully in time come to trust in ghoulie-fiddling as others do. F’narr!

The day began warm and clear. A gentle summer breeze drifting languidly in from the West bringing scents of delicate Peonies, pungent Meadow Hawthorn and delicious, wild Sulac berries. A day for wandering the sweet grasslands, a day for exploring leafy vales, a day for deep draughts from cool, crystal-clear pools. But by the end of this day, I would be dead.

Long have we travelled together my master and I. Since I was a young-un he was there. Often he would shun the music and company of the ‘big house’ to visit on us, bringing sweet treats and fruit.

The barn that was home to my brothers and I was nice enough I suppose, but how I longed for the freedom of the outdoors. The wind ruffling my hair, the moist earth beneath my feet and the cold mountain springs to quench a thirst; that’s where I’d put myself given the choice.

But such choices are not mine to make. Not mine or any other of my family, for we are property; possessions of a wealthy family. Wealthy, at least, by the standards of what they consider valuable. To a slave the only thing of value is his freedom.

I could have run; escaped their fences and bolted away into the night. They might not have found me. Then again they’ve men that’d follow, reading the footfalls in the turf and the odd broken twig. They can follow foxes! What chance would I have had?

They’d have found me alright. Then it’d have been the cold metal round the neck and a short life, straining at the plough ‘til my strong back broke or my heart burst in my body. No glory in that.

In spite of all that, I’d have run. Maybe I’d have made it. I would have run. See my spirits not broken by the whip like so many of the others. My sprit still burns like fire inside and at times carries me on so I feel like I’m barely touching the ground. If I’d have run I‘d have lead them a merry chase before they caught me up that’s for sure. But I stayed for him. I stayed for my master.

Such kindness in one so young is rare, and us with nothing between us. No debt owed, him master, me slave.

More than once did he throw himself over me as protection when the whip was about to fall. They laughed at him and mocked of course; his father even scalding him as “closer to us than to his kin”.

Once, I was left bound to a stake as punishment for lashing out at one of the stable-hands. Outside I was, in the middle of winter! No blanket to protect me from the bite of the snow. A punishment indeed! He’d had it coming for many a season.

Well there I was shivering to my bones and starting to fade, when what do I hear but the soft patter of the master’s feet. Naked and shoeless he was tip-toeing across the yard in the dead of night, and still only a nipper at that.

Unshackling me, he helps me to the barn, bids me lay down and covers me with hay and blankets. There he stands all night and lets no-one within a wagon's length.

I can see him now, stood in the door, pitch-fork in hand and as naked as the day he was born. Not ten years old and not one of the servants would come near him. Those that tried their luck got snarled at and poked for their trouble. Proper wild he was! Eventually the Lord was sent for to calm him. I feared a terrible scene, but strike me down if the ol’ fella didn’t just fall about laughin’ and order hot broth to be fetched. For the both of us!

Well it was after that I was gifted to him. It was obvious to all that there was a bond between us. So it was, and that day I swore that I’d spend the rest of my days serving the little master how best I could.

Some years passed from that time and many an adventure we had. Always would we ride out together as inseparable as two peas in a pod.

Even rode to war together we did. That was a fearful time I don’t mind admitting now. Blood was on the wind, and lots more beside. There was many such as me close to panic, but my master just laid his calming hand on my head, looked in my eyes and said “I have no plans to leave you this day old friend, and I’d take it as a courtesy if you’d do likewise”. And that was that.

Many are the tales I could tell of our travels and scrapes; perhaps another time.

At the end it was as it had always been; him and me charging across the open ground at a full tilt. Bearing down on that Tower of Lead with a hail of arrows and javelins falling all around us; thunder and lightening leaping from the sky and them Red Moon worshiping filth on the battlements with ‘em. It was one of their priests that had the final say. No clean death for me, no lance through the heart or arrow through the lungs. Devil magic! Red magic, sent forth from some demon to pluck my life from me as easy as plucking berries from a bush.

What will they say of me? Was I the greatest or noblest? I fear not. Was I fastest or strongest? Alas none of these. Was I loyal? Aye, that I was. Did I do all that I could to serve my master well? That I did too, and saved his life on more than one occasion. Will I be remembered?   I will. Master will bare my name in his heart for all the days of his life. The name of Sasha will live on!