Lewinn Family/Roleplays/Thers
Contents
The Battle for Paisly
Courage and Glory
Thers wiped the sweat from his brow – at least for a moment, the battle had subsided again. Tremors of adrenaline from the fighting had caused Thers’ armor to be thoroughly soaked from perspiration.
Whatever the young knight may have thought before, he now understood the truth about armed combat. Even in victory, the price paid in human flesh was horrific. Noble conflict was more than pomp and circumstance. It was also brutality and fear and uncertainty. The faces of dead men on the battlefield and ramparts confirmed that truth.
When the first flight of arrows from the D’Haran Guard struck the defending walls, Thers believed the battle would be short. The pride he felt in observing the best of D’Hara approaching the defending soldiers! After three violent altercations, that pride was now tempered by certain knowledge; a lesson that only experience could teach. Good men also die in combat.
Thers’ Black Arrows had survived and redeemed their mediocre performance at the fight’s commencement. The second pass by D’Hara – resulting in a solid victory had re-swelled Thers’ breast with that fledgling pride. The crude mockery of Medina’s local nobility had reinforced Thers’ belief that D’Haran action was needed. Cenarious, the Dragon King – his King – had called those persons true: base, cowardly and without honor.
His reflections turned to thoughts of home, and of recent times, easier and without the complications of killing. Those times are gone, in many ways, Thers realized. After a short time, the sergeant of the Black Arrows arrived with ill news – another man had died of his wounds. That man had been among the first Thers had recruited in Port Nebel. Another charge on the butcher’s bill. Another family to call upon with ill-tidings.
Now the forces of Medina were scattered. Thers stood and straightened himself. There were respects to be paid; orders to be received; soldiers to be marshaled. King and Country. Certainty and resolve. Courage and glory.
The Grove of Honor
Recruitment had gone better than expected. The deep pockets of Port Nebel and the House Lewinn allowed Thers to spend where others may have sworn off. Yes, his unit’s cohesive element would dip, but how could he avoid that? They’ll have to learn to get along, we have a war to win, thought Thers. With a third of his original troop now dead between Raviel and Paisly, the thought of protecting the feelings of his archers now seemed an asinine dream.
While his sergeant was busy with the task of finalizing contracts, Thers made a short trip back to Port Nebel. He avoided his family’s holdings – this visit was business only. His short jaunt to a local blacksmith had borne easy fruit; the elderly man knew what Thers was seeking soon as the young knight entered his shop. He left the smithy clutching a small sword. It was beautiful and intricate, although never destined for the rigor of combat.
Port Nebel’s Grove of Honor had unusual feature which scared Thers as a child. Hundreds of thin swords hung from the many branches of ancient trees which grew within the park. Their chiming in the wind was a haunting melody which carried over the wind. The memorials to the dead normally glinted in the sun, but the overcast clouds only added to the gloom of Thers’ task. Ten generations of dead men. Twenty? There are more stories here than found within a dozen libraries.
The death of Thers’ men in the battle for Paisly had affected him for several days. But losing three men to putrid infection on the voyage back to Port Raviel had added insult to injury. Madinan violence had a long reach and these last deaths had stung Thers’ heart as much as his pride.
Yet, the notion of prolonged combat against Medina excited Thers – the prospects for knightly distinction were never better than in times of war. And it will begin again soon, he thought. But it was also intimidating. Reimagining the wretched sights and sounds of fighting churned Thers’ stomach even as he pondered that recognition only victory could bring.
Thers found a branch with few of the steel memorials. Lashing the ceremonial blade to the tree, he then knelt and murmured a prayer for the D’Harans who perished as a result of Paisly. As he stood, Thers silently admired the lake at the center of the park. He knew he would return to this spot again.
The Wait For Medina
The heavy feel of a taunt longbow string was beginning to feel good in Thers’ hands. He admired the cause and effect nature of the thing, which he considered a tool as much as a weapon. It was loaded, pointed and unloaded. That the tool’s payload could rip a man’s arm off or puncture a breastplate was good for the business of war. It was not flashy like a long sword, but the cheap and reliable bow would be providing cover long after the infantry types had discovered new ways to abuse each other.
It was a day after the return trip from Port Raviel to Paisly. The Black Arrows had hit the shores running – they had arrived late and signals from shore indicated that the takeover of Paisly would be successful.
Surprising news had reached Thers soon after his return. His liege, Lord Mathias, had resigned his lordship over Port Nebel, effective immediately. Mathias’ intention to reclaim his former territory would create a new count or marquis within D’Haran society. Perhaps even a duke. Who will be chosen to lead Port Nebel to its full blossom? Thers pondered. He had no idea who would become his new lord or lady, and for the moment, the knights of Port Nebel were without direct command. Thankfully, the Dragon King’s authority was everlasting and eternal. At least some things are not subject to change.
The sight of friendly war camps positioned around the fortress walls was a welcome one. It seemed the whole of D’Haran military strength, and some (all?) of the Terran army was assembling together. The renewed fighting at Paisly was shaping into something that would be talked about for generations. But what nation’s children will be speaking ill of the days ahead? The young knight had read all of the limited information offered by the leadership. Reports and gossip spoke of massed Madinan soldiers making the slow winter voyage towards the embattled province.
As night crept upon the camp, Thers bedded down in his tent (a recent, tasteful thing acquired in Paisly’s newly re-opened bazaars). As he listened to the men of his company bandying over dice and rum, Thers considered their ages – he was younger than every man under his control. Perhaps it was his age that troubled his unit? Their cohesion was lacking despite his (and his sergeant’s) best effort to the contrary.
The clear night’s blaze of stars peeked in through the tent flap. They glittered like the memorials of honored D’Haran dead at the Grove on Honor. Later that evening, the sergeant of the Black Arrow Guard came with late reports. He found Thers twisted asleep in his regalia, clutching his sword and looking seventeen years young.
Jeckyl's Address
The events of the last several days had been mystifying to Thers Lewinn. The maddening wait for Madina’s attack had caused frustration and impatience to ripple through the allied war camp, and the Black Arrow Guard was not immune.
More troubling was the perverse manner in which Madina controlled, or failed to control, their forces. It seemed that one-by-one, the long wait at sea was causing their nobility to madly charge their men directly into the walls of Paisly. After one lopsided battle, a laughable skirmish and a Madinan defection, it was plain to all that D’Hara’s enemy had more soldiers than discipline. Still, Thers shuddered at the thought of being stuck in a ship for weeks at a time; it might be enough to drive any man insane.
Earlier that day, Thers had watched his Marshall approach the mainland from his trio of warships. The Black Arrow’s sergeant discretely pointed out the other vessel which had departed from the Duke’s vessels. The distance was great, but personal colors told the tale: Lady Eleanor had met with the Duke in private. What intrigue is she spinning? thought Thers. I have no similar talent for political maneuvers and it may be my undoing.
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Now Thers was listening to a speech by Duke Jeckyl. He appreciated the Duke’s powerful words and Thers’ chest swelled at the compliment of the D’Haran Guard. Although Thers could not place it precisely, the Duke’s last comment seemed eerily familiar. The D’Haran Guard’s assembly stood as silent testament to the strength of their country – although their island nation was smaller than most, none could question the martial ability of the Dragon King’s men.
The call to arms steadily beat through the camps; to the ramparts and then to battle, arriving hungry and soon.
The Oath
The night air was light and unimpeded by the humidity that periodically plagued the mainland of Dwilight. A cloudless moon hung in the sky, challenging Thers’ attempts at sleep. The Black Arrow Guard had broken their camp and moved within the confines of the motte which surrounded a portion of the city of Paisly. While the seventeen-year old knight enjoyed playing a bit of camp outside the city walls, attempting to sleep in a dignified fashion while cramped into the shaded corner of a building was beyond him. Stirring restlessly, Thers rose again (to the great chagrin of the Black Arrows’ weary sergeant) and began stalking the ramparts.
Thers rubbed his face, freshly cut from shaving. His attempts to grow a beard were fruitless; in his mind, a man of nobility should be able to sport a beard, even if he chose not to do so. At present, the young knight would merely have to wait. How waiting had begun to dominate his life!
He noticed that he was not alone on the walls. Other nobles, unidentifiable at the distance, were prowling the parapets, likely pondering the coming battle. Today, tomorrow, or some day soon the screams of men would replace the cool tranquility that had settled on Paisly in the past week.
Thers’ thoughts turned to his King: Cenarious, whose correspondence had just reached the assembled D’Harans en masse. The message had spoken of the prudence of waiting; the dignity of defending D’Haran soil; the reality that they were on the defensive for practical reasons. D’Haran nobility was hot for Medinan blood, but the practicalities of war and governance required that they continue their course, and indefinitely if required.
Thers reflected on Cenarious’ plight as Dragon King of D’Hara. A small kingdom already troubled by great conflict from within and without. The nation’s history already had more than its fair share of ne’er-do-wells, questionable loyalties and threats from outside its borders. How did the King manage those competing interests, when each could prove more deadly than the last? Thers returned to the small areas his men and sectioned off as their own and called for his sergeant. Paper, quill and the small writing desk Thers used for correspondence were requested.
Sitting silently for a moment, Thers reflected on his short time as a knight of D’Hara; as a member of the small nation's nobility. The victory of D’Hara culminating in the re-capture of Paisly. The triumphant return to Port Raviel and Port Nebel. His visit to the Grove of Honor and its meaningful silence. Raising his quill, Thers began to write:
I, Thers Lewinn, Knight of Port Nebel and son of D’Hara, son of Milors ab Lewinn, grandson of Cors Lewinn, and subject of Cenarious Stormage, Dragon King of the the Kingdom of D’Hara and all of its territories, do swear my undying fealty to my King.
I give this oath of my own free will, with the understanding that it is binding and everlasting. I will protect his body and territory, and will seek to do justice to all that I encounter in the name of my King. I will forever more seek to hold upright the ideals of D’Hara, the kingdom which I and my family call home, and will holdfast to our traditions, our beliefs and that which makes the Dragon Isles the greatest nation of the Western Continent.
I do swear this upon my honor, sword and soul this day of the eighth year of Dwilight.
Sir Thers Lewinn, Knight of Port Nebel, subject of D’Hara
The oath was rough, but it was all that his learning would allow the quill to produce. Was it meaningful to his King? Thers decided not to decide on that issue. The knight called his sergeant to witness the oath and then sealed it with the wax of the small candle which provided the sole source of unnatural light. On a whim, Thers traced a small ‘L’ in the wax as it cooled. The sergeant promptly took the letter and hurried to the docks. If it made the nightly ship back to D’Hara, Cenarious would receive Thers’ vow before the week was finished.
It felt good to have made official what his original offer of service only suggested: he was D’Hara’s man. A small gesture in light of ongoing events? Perhaps, Thers wondered. But it was heartfelt and sincerely written. Thers returned to his former spot and fell asleep. The rest was better than it had been in weeks.
Return to D'Hara
Courtier on the Coast
Thers stood at the top of Qubel Lighthouse and admired the sun as it completed a daily journey. The young knight was exhausted and mentally drained. His offer to assist the realm in administrative work had turned out to be a mundane, difficult task. The rough and independent folk of D’Hara’s eastern territories were a challenge to keep in line. Although those commoners clearly admired their powerful and charismatic Duke, a seventeen-year old knight from Port Nebel simply did not command the same degree of respect.
Yesterday, a note from Hexic arrived by messenger. Its contents were few; The Duke requested that Thers and his men lead the local militia in policing the city’s streets. Slowly creeping into the region like a monster from the east, unrest was gradually returning to Qubel. Thers’ loyal sergeant Gismar – now promoted to a captain by his liege, would lead one patrol while Thers led the balance of his unit in an attempt to keep peace. Facing his captain, Thers spoke: “Gismar, instruct the men that they’re to avoid using force whenever possible. An unnecessary death would work against our efforts.” The man nodded and left to ready the Black Arrows. Thers’ gaze returned to the ocean, but his mind went further, back towards the battles at Madina.
The fighting had been terrifying and exhilarating. Ferocious and noble. The blood spilt had been for the very future of D’Hara. He was proud to have taken part, and now his volunteering to return to the Isles seemed foolhardy. While the frontier – and D’Hara – grew by the day, Thers remained isolated on the other extreme of his country. Until Hexic returned and brought with him other knights of Qubel, Thers was duty-bound to remain. It is noble to act as one is commanded. My patience and hard work will be noticed in due time, Thers reminded himself – for the third time that week.
The militia commander of Qubel Lighthouse waited in the antechamber of the Ducal Palace, absent-mindedly tapping his hand upon the pommel of his sword. The soldier starred at the intricate tapestries which lined the room’s walls with pictorial descriptions of D’Haran triumphs. Thers entered the chamber and acknowledge the man, noting the soldier’s mediocre salute and indifferent demeanor. The commander explained the nightly patrol routes and handed Thers a short list of frequent trouble-makers. Without so much as a nod toward his better, the man headed toward the exit.
Thers Lewinn, Knight of Port Nebel, oathsworn to Dragon King Cenarious, apparently carried little water with the militia or its commander, a grizzled veteran of uncountable insignificant scuffles.
A fire arose in the Thers’ breast and the words leapt from a hidden place within him: “Commander, stop where you are, this instant.” The soldier paused; the foppish young knight’s tone surprising him with its sharpness. Thers’ continued: “If you ever again turn your back to me, without proper acknowledgement, I will slay thee standing.” The young knight squared himself at the commander and loosened his sword-sheath as an indication of sincerity. The elder man turned and considered Thers for an instant before bowing fully. “I beg your pardon, Sir Lewinn,” the commander replied, a hint of reassessment blossoming in his face.
A Poisonous Plot?
The young knight stood in the street - motionless and silent. After several moments of quiet, he crumpled the note, his clenched fist destroying the cheap parchment. Thers Lewinn, Knight of Port Nebel, had received alarming news: Duchess Sorsha McDowell was poisoned and death approached. The gossip overheard by Gismar, captain of the Black Arrows, suggested that the Duchess had also lost the secret child she carried.
Vials of poison were found at her bedside. Was the illness caused by the Duchess’ own hand? Was this woe the wretched plot of one of D’Hara’s many rivals? The dastardly acts of Madina were legion, and the recent uprising in Giask against Pian en Luries had caused that nation's covetous eye to drift westward yet again. What of an internal plot against his liege? Many nobles, young and aged, were passed over for the ducal seat bequeathed to her by King Cenarious. Perhaps one of her contemporaries had grown tired of waiting for their chance to control land. Until Sorsha was awake – if she awoke – nothing was certain.
He returned to his apartments in the city. A visit to the ducal palace was in order, but timing was everything. If a greater plot against Sorsha or D’Hara was afoot, the next act would not occur there. He had to be prepared.
Thers penned a quick note destined for the militia commanders of Port Nebel. Until the Duchess was awake and in command of herself, they were to stand at emergency readiness; they would report to him every hour; they should prepare to defend the palace, to the man, should a plot for control of the city reveal itself.
A note – equally hasty in its scrawl as the one he received was drafted:
To The Dragon King Cenarious,
My King,
I have information that the Duchess McDowell has been poisoned and will not wake. I know not of an intrigue against her seat or your realm, but I have taken steps to secure the city against hostile influences. I will continue my efforts until she awakens or you instruct me otherwise.
Your humble servant,
Thers Lewinn, knight of Port Nebel
Next, the young knight donned his fighting kit and instructed Gismar to ready the Black Arrows for street fighting. The captain appeared puzzled, but left without questioning his lord. When the militia and the Black Arrows were prepared, when Port Nebel was safe from any threat – then he would seek out his Duchess.
At Beck and Call
Duchess Sorsha’s request for Thers Lewinn to attend to her at the ducal palace was a pleasant, if embarrassing surprise. His abrupt reaction to the Sir Asriel’s message of Sorsha’s poisoning had caused a minor stir among the populace of the city. The doubled presence of guards on the city walls and gates was impossible to conceal, and the heavy human traffic traveling in and out of the city circulated their presence immediately. More than a handful of merchants had closed their shops and began discretely reinforcing their warehouses against phantom marauders. Several members of the city’s prominent commoners had even quietly approached him with questions about the city’s impending demise. But the perceived threat to the city never materialized – Port Nebel remained safe and quiet. Whatever happened to the Duchess, it was not a plot on her life, or the city’s safety.
As he mounted the palace steps, Thers paused to admire the ornate beauty of the structure. The dignity and power of those who ruled the city over the centuries was plainly evident in the building’s decoration. Thers privately hoped to command such a domain one day, however distant. In the short term, the young man would be satisfied with dutiful service.
Upon entering the structure’s fore chamber, an attendant dressed in the colors of Sorsha’s banner greeted him. Thers produced the note written in the Duchess’ scribe’s strong hand.
There would be a short wait. Would he perhaps take some wine – newly arrived from The Guardian – the Duchess’ new flagship?
Thers waived the attendant off – he was not a drinker and consuming the gifts of Duke Hexic, undoubtedly meant for the Duchess, seemed imprudent. As he waited in the forechamber reserved for noble callers, Thers heard Kisharianda, Queen Onyxien, and her retinue depart from the palace. The Duchess truly has many powerful friends within the realm, thought the knight. The attendant returned and led Thers to Sorsha’s audience chamber for their first formal meeting. As he stood, Thers felt a bead of sweat condense and slither down his back.
Risk and Reward
- Duchess Sorsha McDowell compliments Thers on his well-meaning, if unnecessary policing of Port Nebel.
The Duchess’ demeanor was intimidating, and her comments, although plainly in compliment, made Thers uncomfortable. Scrutiny, more than any task or physical threat, was the young knight’s surest weakness. The possibility of a plot against Port Nebel and the Duchess had required action – immediate action, however unnecessary the passage of time showed otherwise. In that, Thers Lewinn had never wavered in his belief. But standing before this woman, second only to the Dragon King in loyalties, provoked a sort of trepidation. His attention snapped to the moment; He had to answer her question before his pause was misinterpreted.
Thers spoke slowly, to prevent a betrayal from his youngish voice: “Milady, to perform any act in service of one’s country and liege is both duty and privilege.”
The Duchess merely observed him twitching; the young man before her was clearly uncomfortable around the older, powerful and influential noble – one whose relationship with the Dragon King was described as near-familial.
“I act only as all good knights of D’Hara would for their homeland. It is my pleasure to serve you and my family’s home,” Thers continued. A moment’s pause, then finally: “In that light, I must ask your leave to travel to the capital. I wish to assist the Queen’s clerks in resolving the recent troubles which have developed.”
- Duchess Sorsha informs Thers of his promotion from the First File to the Black Lions, Dragon King Cenarious' personal guard.
Ordenstaat and Caerwyn
- D'Hara's decision to declare war on Ordenstaat in support of Sir Milmice Vecchio Ratto was met with a declaration of war from Caerwyn.
The Battle at Port Raviel
Atop the battlements of Port Raviel’s stronghold, the twin devils of fear and doubt waged another silent battle with Thers Lewinn. His stomach twisted to knots, Thers prayed for a moment of privacy that he knew would never arrive. Until Caerwyn’s advance was rejected, the men and women of the Black Lions would remain upon the walls, ready to defend their King.
The addition of a new member to the coalition of D'Hara's enemies had surprised the young knight. The hostilities against Ordenstaat were destined to enflame the jingoistic nobility of Dwilight’s southern nations, but news of Caerwyn’s umbrage was unexpected. Characteristically, his peers practiced, or at least feigned, restrained disregard for the host that stood against D’Hara. The new hostilities with Caerwyn were widely regarded as routine; as another impotent attempt at the life of their nation. Privately, however, Caerwyn was recognized as something of a different animal from their sworn enemies in Madina. Their northerly neighbors were stronger, and supposedly less apt to baser acts of carnage.
The defenders assembled in the Capital were thus somewhat surprised when the first day of the new war arrived. Thers’ own scouts had supplied many of the reports – Caerwyn traveled with far too few men to challenge successfully. But those scouts were strangers to Sir Lewinn, and the knight himself had publicly questioned the sincerity of the impending attack.
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The weather – wretched and drenching, matched the spirit of the event to take place that day. What began lop-sided had thusly devolved into rout; into unmitigated destruction of human life. The attacking forces were butchered without ceremony. The waters of the Port were now destined to serve as a charnel house for generations to come.
What good may come to Caerwyn by such a sacrifice? Thers asked himself repeatedly. The faces of several D’Haran nobles deployed near his Black Arrows suggested similar thoughts. Although the attackers had spent the lives of over five hundred of their own, the task force sent against D’Hara was only a fraction of Caerwyn’s complete strength. There will be another meeting – honestly or with guile, but our business is likely unfinished.
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Gismar, the captain of the Black Arrow Guard, barked formation orders to the unit’s burgeoning ranks.
The impending fighting had warranted a rapid expansion of fighting men, and now the Black Arrows were nearly twice as large as ever before. The hardy men of Port Nebel, which Sir Thers and Gismar had recruited together, were all but gone. Death, retirement or consented departure for promotion in other units had left no familiar faces in the Black Arrows. The captain, an experienced veteran by local standards, appreciated the relative freedom of such anonymity. His liege was handling it differently – the knight seemed more distant from his troupe than ever. Thers rarely mingled with his men; instead preferring to brood within his tent upon subjects outside of Gismar’s purview. The knight had become so obsessed with divining the strategies of D’Hara’s enemies that he had forgotten his own birth-day.
As if summoned by thought, Thers Lewinn appeared before Captain Gismar, his dark looks startling. The knight spoke: “Captain, we move to capture and scatter Caerwyn. I will lead half the men; you, the other. Arrest when possible, kill when not.”
As the eighty-odd healthy men of the Black Arrow Guard began their march, the captain snuck a glance at his liege. Thers’ stoic, brooding demeanor seemed to match the scarred black armor he wore. The innocent and fair-hearted young man Gismar had known was quickly disappearing.
