Rothenstein Family/Konrad

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The young man sat alone in the darkened study, staring intently at the letter in his hand. He’d read it a dozen times, and yet the shock was only just beginning to lose its freshness. His older sister, Cathrin, lost at sea. “Cath... where were you going?” he murmured. Away from Pian en Luries, clearly. Her most recent letter, sent a month earlier, had been little more than a litany of complaints against the realm.

Had their parents been aware of this? Likely not. He skimmed the last lines of the letter: ... our dearest wish that you should return to Orz immediately... They’d sent gold to secure his passage, and men to guard his person. But return to what, exactly? To rot away at the family estate?

“It was at your insistence that I came to Caerwyn in the first place,” he muttered. To study, to broaden his horizons, and no doubt to make useful contacts for the family – it certainly hadn’t been entirely for his own good. He’d hated it, at first, resentful child that he had been, but now... he could scarcely recall Orz. And now he had gold, and men, at his disposal...

He studied the letter for a moment longer, then crumpled it in his fist and tossed it into the fireplace, where the licking flames blackened, then devoured the parchment. Looking to the doorway, he lifted a finger to attract his page’s attention. “Fetch the scribe.” It was time to compose some letters of his own.


---


(At this time, Earl Jax had been captured by monsters, leaving Demyansk temporarily lordless. It was a difficult time, and so Konrad was often moved to indulge in a great form of entertainment: baiting Viscount Ddiethir - who would later be banned from Caerwyn after attempting to murder two of his fellow nobles. At this time, the true level of Ddiethir's insanity was not yet known, but he rarely missed an opportunity to present himself as frothing and deranged - a trait which brought Konrad no end of secret delight.)

Konrad sat at his desk, thumbing through the report, then nodded absently to the scout before tossing the parchment onto a pile of similar reports. “Send copies to the Military Chamber, as usual,” he murmured to his scribe, while unfolding the next item in the stack of seemingly endless missives and reports. The peasants were still struggling to rebuild after the latest assault on the region, and he paused to let out a weary breath and rub his brow while reading the latest. Bad weather, winter, a poor harvest expected, all coming while Demyansk sat without a Lord. But at least stocks were plentiful. As for the peasants, well, he’d do what he could.

“Get my men back out to the building site,” he told his steward – “Yes, I know they won’t like it.” – and picked up the final item in the pile. And paused, for the letter bore Viscount Setantii’s seal. “Well, whatever it is, it’s bound to be more interesting than those blasted reports,” he muttered. As he read, a little smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Should I?” He drummed his fingers on the desk, then seized his quill. “..eh, why not?”

Greetings, Viscount Ddiethir,

You have written twice now that being opinionated and outspoken are important qualities for a High Magistrate. I confess that I have no experience with the means by which a realm is governed, so for the sake of myself and other inexperienced young nobles, perhaps you could explain your reasoning? It had always seemed to me that it is important that a High Magistrate be able to set his or her feelings aside in order to judge as impartially as possible – but, as I say, I have no practical experience in these matters.


---


Konrad eased himself into the steaming tub and let out an audible groan. A freshly drawn bath, a glass of wine from his own vineyards - there were definite advantages to staying close by one's own estate. Perhaps he'd ride to the winery later; inspect the grapes. It had been a great while since he'd made a personal tour of his own lands, and with the southern border quiet for the moment, he anticipated at least a brief period of peace and relaxation.

The voice of his page broke the momentary stillness: "A missive from Earl Jax, my lord." Konrad glanced up with irritation, then puzzlement - the boy bore an uncommonly nervous expression, downright guilty in fact - and opened the letter. A quick scan, and his eyes widened. "When was this received? I should have been informed immediately!"

The boy's stammered reply was drowned out by the splashing of water, as the young knight vaulted from his bath and stood, dripping, a moment, before cutting the page off with an impatient gesture. "Nevermind that - just fetch me my clothes. And get a message off to Captain Altmar - quickly, now! We march for Golden Farrow!"

Golden Farrow, then Port Nebel and war - or near enough. Glorious! He hurried forth, the glass of wine - like the vineyards - quite forgotten.


---


(The path to Port Nebel did not run smoothly even from the start; the army was outfitted, siege engines were purchased, and then the waiting began. After what seemed like an eternity, a large movement of monsters in the south brought orders for the Southern Knights to return to Demyansk. Konrad, naturally, jumped at the opportunity.)

"Have you ever imagined, Captain, what our ancestors must have felt when they first beheld fire?"

Captain Altmar, unsurprisingly, had not, but he made no reply. He had come into Sir Konrad Rothenstein's service relatively recently, but had had time enough to make a few observations about his commander. Chief among them, that Konrad was a man disinclined towards idleness. In fact, lengthy periods of idleness - such as that which they had been spending, first in Golden Farrow, now in Farrowfield - tended to put the young knight into a decidedly odd mood.

"It must have been terrifying. And yet incredible." Konrad's voice was low, his gaze fixed on the slowly dying campfire. The flames cast twisting patterns of light and shadow across his face. "Such a powerful tool, when properly channeled. We couldn't live without it. But every fire carries the potential for indiscriminate destruction. The same force that lights the torch, that cooks the meat, can also burn your crops, burn down your house, burn you alive. Control, Captain. That is the key. One must remain in control. Lose control, and you risk losing everything."

There had been more to the conversation; primarily the young commander had related thoughts on aspects of the doctrine of Verdis Elementum that he had been mulling over during the period of inactivity. He was talking like a priest, Altmar felt - and had said so. But Konrad had only laughed, saying, "Maybe one day, when I'm old and grey and lack the strength to lift my sword - maybe then I'll consider that line of work."

But it was to the knight's first words that Captain Altmar's thoughts continued to turn, as they raced south towards Demyansk. The lumbering siege engines, intended to batter the walls of some island fortress halfway across the world, slowed the men, but Konrad was ever there, urging them on. His energy seemed boundless, and he appeared completely unperturbed by their utter lack of knowledge as to what awaited them there. That they arrive first - that seemed to be all that mattered.

There were only a handful of men remaining in the Shields of the South who recalled their last race to Demyansk; then, as now, hurrying to confront an unknown foe. Altmar was one of those men, and the resulting slaughter still haunted his dreams. It hadn't surprised him to learn that his commander was a Maester of Fire. All he wanted to know, as the wheels creaked and boots thumped through the night, was whether the fires that drove him would light them through the coming conflicts, or simply burn them all alive.


---


(The monsters were routed, his men did not die, and Konrad managed, at least temporarily, to shrug off his growing reputation as a commander who led his men time and again to slaughter. However, these victories did not diminish the reluctance he felt at the prospect of more waiting at Golden Farrow.)

"Have the men break camp. We're marching to Golden Farrow." Konrad spoke without looking up, his gaze flicking over the latest reports. News of unrest in Asylon caught his eye. What a waste of gold and men: like two beggars fighting over a stale crust of bread. If history was any indication, this will likely spell the doom of that tiny realm. He shook his head, then glanced up at Captain Altmer. "Is there anything else?"

Altmer winced, "My lord, with regards to the march.. I fear that we've delayed too long. What with the time it'll take to get the siege engines moving, particularly in the dark, we're not likely to get far before dawn."

"Oh, simply perfect," Konrad snapped. "Why didn't anyone - " He bit back his words, one hand rising to rub at his brow. "I am sorry, Captain," he continued, after a moment. "It.. it has been a long couple of days." Straightening, he dropped the hand away from his face and gazed off towards the northwestern horizon, its indistinct choppiness hinting at the rocky hills that broke through Demyansk's arid grasslands, leading upwards to the Barrow Peaks. His scouts reported that the surviving monsters had fled in that direction. Likely seeking out fresh holes to hide in.

"Little point in leaving before sunrise, then. But if we are to sit here, we'll not sit idle. Divide the men into companies and send them to search the hills. I want the last of the creatures flushed out."


---


(Unfortunately, a few minor roleplays written during the ill-fated southern expedition were lost. Suffice to say that, after the events which took place in the south, Konrad had never been so happy to return to Caerwyn, and privately swore that he would not willingly leave again, for less than an outstanding cause.)

From the moment that the towers of Golden Farrow came into view on the horizon, the news that their journey had almost reached its end spread like wildfire throughout the ship. The change in atmosphere was immediate: the palpable gloom that had hung over the passengers extinguished, and by the time the vessel pulled into port, all of the soldiers and most of the crew stood on deck, cheering the conclusion of their long voyage.

Their dark-haired, freshly-shaven young commander led the way down the gangplank, only to pause at its foot and – to the sound of ocean waves, seagulls, and thunderous applause from the men – kneel to kiss the ground.

“Was that too much, Captain?” Konrad murmured to the man at his right hand upon rising, only to immediately shrug the question off; the handful of soldiers had hurried down after him onto the docks, and more than one now bent in imitation of his impulsive gesture.

“Get the men some entertainment,” he said, passing Captain Altmar a purse. “Their spirits have been far too low for far too long.”

“And what are your plans, my lord?”

Konrad looked away towards the city, his lips twisted into an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Nothing festive, I fear. A trip to the recruitment center, and then to see if there is any recent news from Demyansk.” He paused, then glanced back to Altmar. “Try not to let them get too out of hand, Captain. I do not know if we will march at dawn, but I would like us to be ready for it, nonetheless.”


---


(A strike on a monster force holed up in Faithill was not the outstanding cause Konrad had been hoping for. But despite his misgivings, the march was made, his men were slaughtered, and his faith in his commander was sorely shaken. Although Konrad was later persuaded of the need for such expeditions, he remained in doubt as to whether they should be undertaken, except with an overwhelming force.)

“Damn it! Damn this pointless, useless, idiotic, bloody waste!”

The others present in the makeshift command tent – Captain Orwin, a scribe, and two healers – exchanged uneasy glances. All had served under Sir Konrad long enough to have become aware that he was a man who labored under the burden of strong emotions – emotions he usually kept tightly in check. Such an outburst was unlike him.

The senior of the healers moved quickly to the young commander’s bedside, hands fluttering. “Please, my lord, you mustn’t strain yourself so. Remember your wounds.”

“Damn my wounds,” Konrad growled, making to rise from the cot. A few moments of struggle later, he groaned and lay back, face paled by the effort. “You’re sure of it?” he asked, gaze fixing on Captain Orwin.

“I’m afraid so, commander,” came the reluctant reply. “We hold out no hope for any of the others.”

Konrad nodded and closed his eyes, trying his best to relax as the healer tended to the freshly opened gash in his side. Sixteen survivors, though there was no telling how many more would yet die of their wounds. Over half of their force, dead on the battlefield. Himself, wounded - as was Marshal Jax, the scouts had reported; his men likewise utterly destroyed.

“What of Sir Auron or Sir Malcolm? Any word of their forces?”

“No, commander.”

“Good,” Konrad muttered. “Fortunate that at least some of us were able to escape this insanity. How long until I will be fit to ride?”

“My lord,” the healer’s voice was an obsequious, nasal whine that set Konrad’s teeth on edge, “You will not be fully healed for some days – though, if you rode carefully, perhaps in, ah, a day?” he added hastily, catching sight of Konrad’s glare.

“Good. See to the men. Prepare them to march as best you can. We return to Caerwyn at the earliest possible opportunity – even if it means that you must drag me.”


---

(Much, much later - sadly, many RPs have been lost between then and now - Konrad was involved in another slaughter, this time as Marshal. A series of unfortunate events had brought the Southern Knights to their lowest point in his memory.)

The stench of blood and rot was in the air, dulled only marginally by the smell of churned earth and mud. It seemed to Marshal Konrad, as he looked out across the battlefield, that a pallor of despair hung across the ground. Small wonder, if it were so. The monsters had withdrawn - as they were often, confusingly, wont to do - at the moment of their victory, granting the few survivors a brief period of respite. It would not last; of that, at least, he was certain. They would return to burn and pillage, and there was nothing that he could do about it.

Captain Gotwin stood at an uneasy distance, unable to meet his commander's eye. It was, perhaps, for the best. It was understandable that the sight of so many monsters could have unnerved the men, but the Captain was a seasoned veteran and yet had completely lost control of himself, ordering a charge into the face of death itself. Konrad had not yet decided what would be the man's fate.

He looked to his squire. "Send word to Sir Malcolm and Dame Kirino. We shall withdraw immediately, and make for the capital." Neither of the knights under his command had suffered wounds or been captured in the frenzied melee. He could thank the Elements for that, if for little else of late. But the greater fault was his own. They had not witnessed such slaughter in some time, and he had grown complacent, inattentive, had let matters slide which should have been addressed. There was no helping it now.

He urged his steed into a canter, crossing the broken ground to the place where the militia archers were regrouping. Some peasants had gathered there, as well, bringing water to the wounded, or merely standing in frightened clusters. They knew that no victory had been won here. They knew what was to come, and he could not begrudge them their fear.

Konrad rose in his stirrups and lifted his voice in a tone of command, his face set like stone. "People of Demyansk! You know who I am. I have lived and worked alongside you; my men have fought and bled and died to defend you, along with the rest of the Southern Knights. We have not and shall never abandon you." The words tasted hollow in his mouth. "We make all haste to the capital to collect reinforcements, and when we return and we shall sweep this plague from our hills and fields." He paused. Banalities about enduring, not losing hope, flitted through his mind. The words seemed empty. He could think only of his vineyards; whether they would be trampled into the ground by the time of his return. How many of the peasants that worked his field would survive this?

The moment passed. He caught the eye of the militia commander; gave the man a grim nod. "Elements preserve you and your men." The words, again, meaningless. Both knew that the militia would be slaughtered at dawn. But there was nothing else to be done.

Konrad spurred his horse onward and, for the first time on Caerwynian soil, quit the field.