Dubhaine Family/Moira/Roleplays/2008/July
10th July - Oporto
The ruins of the Courthouse were still burning as Moira sat cradling the dying man, her doublet folded under his head to form a crude pillow. It was all she could do under the circumstances, hiding as they were from the Perdanese raiders who still picked through the debris.
It had been a long road they'd travelled together, Heinman the experienced old commander and Moira his headstrong charge. She remembered the cold winter's day when their ship had set sail from Calis, that splendid haven of the mighty Cagilan Empire. How proud she had been as she looked upon that flawless harbour, waving her farewell to the land of her youth and the two sisters from whom she had until that moment been inseparable.
Hers was the right by trial of skill and cunning to venture to the East Continent, to raise there her banner for Fontan and learn all there was to know of this radical idea they called Democracy. A realm where the nobles came together as equals, recognising no king, alike in kind regardless of distinctions of prestige and wealth, each giving voice to their feelings and in so do achieving a higher form of wisdom. Or so the travellers' told the tale. So unlike the quiet, thoughtful politics of the Old Lady, the glorious Empire which eclipsed all other realms of Atamara in her blissful majesty.
And by her side on that gently heaving deck stood her childhood mentor Carl Heinman, Captain of Lady Sorcha Dubhaine's personal guard. Carl was a veteran of the Great War against Abington who had taught the sisters every art and stratagem of battle, the swift flight of the arrow, the deft tilt of the lance and the brutal slice of axe and sword.
Tears streaked Moira's cheeks as she remembered the dutiful guardian of her teens, dragging her from the overcroft where she was enjoying an assignation with one of the stable lads, the flat of his sword driving the poor youth before him as he delivered a lecture on the duty of the nobility. No one else had ever treated her like that, not even the roguish Yfain for whom the dignity of class had never been a barrier. Carl Heinman was a man apart. The finest and bravest of soldiers. Her dearest friend.
"Lady Sorcha will have my hide for this Ma'am," his voice was a heavy rasp, the humour betrayed as his lungs struggled for breath, his sharp eyes were glassy and distant. A rough bandage held his shattered ribs in place, the shaft of a Perdanese lance still buried in the skewered flesh, too deeply set to remove.
"You did your duty old friend, and more than your duty. She could have asked, and you could have given, no more than you have," she fought back the croak in her voice. The Captain had lived his life with utmost dignity, she would not rob him of that in death.
"Keep your guard up lass!" he shuddered, lost in who knew what memory, and was no more.
She sat there for a long while, clinging hard to the cooling, vacant flesh as her tears ran without limit. Moira had always believed herself inured to death, hardened by the many who had fallen in battle to the bite of her steel. Close. Personal. Visceral. Slaughter had become her trade and today she'd been paid with interest.
No longer would the proud Imperial Cagilan Guard march where they pleased, the circle of their steel and courage more kingdom than any gilded throne could command. The men and women who'd crested the walls of Akesh Temple, who'd stood proudly in the front line as the Lions raided Ashforth, who'd thrice battled Sirion in the fields of Oberndorf and storming the walls of Tokat held the cream of Perdan at bay whilst Moira herself laid Sven the Usurper in his stolen earth. So numerous were the battles between that they'd merged into one bloody backdrop, fractured by a casual joke or a fireside grin.
The night was deepening and the flames guttered limply in the wan moonlight. Moira knew she must soon slip away and attend to her own duty. The people of Oporto looked to her to guide them through these troubled. Lifting her fallen friend's body she laid him to rest on the justice bench, covering his body with the ragged colours of the Guards and resting his notched and splintered axe lengthways atop it.
"I'll miss you old friend," and turning Moira walked from that place and she cared not whether the dogs of Perdan saw her passing, for she was in a perilous mood and all who saw her trembled and fled.
