Norrel Family/William/Duel With Ciann Fraoch
A preamble: while this scribe does not know the exact specifics of the context of this situation, he will do his best to describe it. Lady Selene Octavius of the Sartanist faith and Lady Ciann Fraoch of the Adgharist faith were long-term enemies for much time before this duel. After Lady Ciann hurled a public insult at Lady Selene, for what appeared to be no reason, Count William Norrel volunteered himself as champion of Selene. What follows is an account of the prelude to that duel, the duel itself, and some of the aftermath.
| Letter from Selene Octavius | |
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| Lady Ciann,
I have found a champion to fight on my behalf. I suggest you do the same, or fight yourself, unless you wish to be branded a coward forever. My own kinsman, never did anything in Pesol. He suggested doing something in Pesol and, for that, he was justly banished from the realm. As for NeoSartania I deny your accusations completely - never did I have even dozens of peasants slaughtered, let alone hundreds. So, in short, you are wrong entirely in your allegations and are either a crack-brained fool or an out and out liar. As for daimons, I note that this is the first time you have mentioned them either. So, if I am guilty of lifting "not a voice nor a word to such a thing", then so must you be. And, let me remind you, I did not start this quarrel. I was staying quite happily silent until you wrote your series of shrill letters, culminating in insulting me. I will let the nobles of the realm judge for themselves what to make of that. | |
| Selene Octavius (Priestess of The Church of Sartan) | |
| Letter from Ciann Fraoch | |
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| MiLady Selene,
I need no champion. Inform yours that I await in Topenah. This must end however, so let us make it a clear thing. The battle shall be unto death and if your champion lies in broken pieces upon the ground you shall agree to open your own belly in sympathy. If he or shewins I shall be dead and the matter settled. In faith, | |
| Ciann Fraoch (Dame of Pesol) | |
| Letter from Henzo Kuriga | |
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| Ah, so it escalates. Because one noble didn't have thick enough skin to endure petty words from another, they're going to have a duel to the death. What a farce. Wasting a noble's life over petty insults is beyond ridiculous, especially coming from those who should know better, but religious zealotry once again wins the day. | |
| Henzo Kuriga (Knight of Taop) | |
| Letter from Taylin Indirick | |
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| Sir Henzo, "Petty insults" must be righted lest they turn into something much worse. Incivility and strife cannot be allowed to run rampant. Such disregard for honor and civility is fitting only for commonfolk. Nobles must be held to higher standards. Insults demand satisfaction. The degree of satisfaction is a matter of personal choice between those involved. | |
| Taylin Indirick (Duchess of Akanos) | |
There is some argumentation about the nature and honor of this particular duel that this document will not delve into.
| Letter from Ciann Fraoch | |
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| MiLord Henzo,
Of what value is a life without honour? The smallfolk look to us and follow us for our honour, the heavens grant us rights and privledge because of honour. A noble without honour holds no oaths sacred and can never be trusted in war or peace. To not defend honour shames family and faith. I am proud to have borrowed my family name and my family honour, and I will return it to my nieces in the best of shape. My ward hunted sea dragons upon a time with their great flukes and ram-prow heads, sometimes even such a mighty beast would find itself washed upon the beaches, billowing air and steam as it died. A noble can no more live without honour then a sea dragon can live without the sea. In faith, | |
| Ciann Fraoch (Dame Of Pesol) | |
| Letter from Selene Octavius | |
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| Lady Ciann,
Since you finally have shown steel to match your words then Count Zarimel, for it is he who is my champion, will meet you in Topenah, I imagine, as soon as he is able. But any duel fought will be fought according to customs and tradition. There is not, to my knowledge, any custom requiring me to kill myself if my champion loses so if you expect me to do so then you will be sorely disappointed. It is a moot point, however, for if you are still breathing next time next week then I will bw very surprised. | |
| Selene Octavius (Priestess of The Church of Sartan) | |
| Letter from William Norrel | |
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| Nobles of Toupellon,
My lady of Octavius speaks sooth. I champion her, her house, and her honor, in the name of the Aenil. All ladies, especially those of scholarly inclination, deserve a valiant defender. My lady of Fraoch, please know that I bear you no ill will, and it is my hope that this duel be fought in a civil manner and with honor. If you are willing to accept Lady Selene's terms, issue me a formal challenge and we will have at it. Yours, | |
| William Norrel (Count of Zarimel) | |
| Roleplay from William Norrel | |
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| After William had finished dictating his latest letter, his squire, Erik, turned to him with an expression that was equal parts curiosity, shock, and frustration. William turned back to him, his face entirely deadpan, periodically taking a few sips of wine from a silver chalice.
"My Lord?" "Yes?" "So this is why we've been headed to Topenah, all this time?" "Yes." "To risk life and limb over a petty quarrel, on the behalf of a priestess you've never met?" "Yes." "I'm not especially versed in such matters, my lord, but even I know that House Fraoch is, to the last, well-versed with the blade." "I know." "Might I ask why you're doing this?" "Why, was my explanation not good enough? Do I not seem enough the gallant knight, set out to protect a helpless damsel's honor from slander?" "... No?" "Smart boy. Aye, there's more than meets the eye... As is the case in all things, to be sure. Suffice it to say that if I'm willing to kill over an insult to a priestess I've never met, nobody will dare to find out what I'm willing to do over a grievance sent my way. The rest, I'm sure, you can figure out yourself. Now, fetch our swords. I'm sure we both need the practice." | |
| William Norrel (Count of Zarimel) | |
| Letter from Ciann Fraoch | |
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| MiLord William,
'tis interesting that you defend her in the name of the Aenil, I would have thought her champion would be a Sartanian, or perhaps she has become so reviled in her own church that they will not stand. Whichever, yea stand for an evil woman, and for such yea shall fall. MiLady Selene, So yea will risk nothing and wish only to try your hand at assassination? So be it. You can find none of your own faith to stand beside you and can only weep and cower while warriors walk. You are already beaten, and I shall lament having to kill your man as well. In faith, | |
| Ciann Fraoch (Dame Of Pesol) | |
| Roleplay from Ciann Fraoch | |
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| Pulling the war cleaver from it's hooks Ciann grunted and stared at the flat of the blade, the boy couldn't have been more then ten and he had stood there bravely as she had kicked his shield, pressed him to the ground, and stomped him to death.
She saw him more and more every day now, the Man-who-was-a-Raven. Sometimes he would appear as in her window as she laid out to prayer. She knew he was there now, watching through his flocks as she adjusted the black pauldrons with the red circles on them. She sighed, the sword felt heavier each day, she felt less just in it's use. "Morrighan?" one of the volunteer militiamen piped up, "Morrighan?" "That is not my name, that is my title, and I would beg you not to use it." she half whsipered. "But why Morrighan?" "Do you know what it means?" She muttered, he shook his head, of course he didn't. "It means murderer." turning away she walked into the courtyard and felt the sun pound down on her, judging her, she could feel the lawgiver in the distance, feel his disapproval. "Ka-Kaw!" She met eyes with the Man-who-was-a-raven once more, as he sat in the tree and smiled to herself, suddenly seeing the joke of it all. The Sartanians didn't even know Tark's true name. She laughed, but it was an awful sound. | |
| Ciann Fraoch (Dame Of Pesol) | |
Challenged to a duel
Lady Ciann Fraoch (Dame of Pesol) has challenged you to a duel of honour till death. You have 3 days to answer the challenge. In order to resolve the duel, both of you have to be in the same region.
Her challenge was accompanied by these words:
See that I am buried in Tuhpos.
You should answer her challenge and either accept or reject it.
| Roleplay from Selene Octavius | |
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| Selene stood before the Flame of Sartan in the temple of Akanos, the smell of incense hanging in the air around her.
"Lord Sartan," she prayed "I beseech thee, grant your blessings upon William, scion of House Norrel. Make his blade swift and his eye sharp that he may defeat Your enemy. Make him agile and fast that he might escape from harm. And make him brave that he does not falter so that he may meet his fate, victory or defeat, as a man and not as a whimpering child. "I beseech thee, grant him the spirit of the warrior this day and grant him victory in his battle." Taking a sharp stone knife, Selene cut open her palm and let the blood drip into a cup before pouring it into the flames. "Lord Sartan! Take my strength and grant it to him! Grant my champion victory! Grant me the satisfaction of the death of one who has ever been an enemy to Your Church and to Your people! GRANT ME HER DEATH!" | |
| Selene Octavius (Priestess of the Church of Sartan) | |
| Roleplay from William Norrel | |
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| A sliver of dawn crept up the horizon, lighting up the desolate sky, and a yet more desolate city below it. William scarcely paid it a mind, focusing instead on his conversation with a few minor nobles who had decided to watch the coming spectacle. It was scarcely engaging; people are seldom willing to empathize with the potentially dead. Still, they supported him, and the pleasantries only served to steel his resolve.
The peasantry steeled him even further. He was a popular favorite among the denizens of Topenah, it seemed. As he acted both as the champion of a priestess of Sartan, and of the Aenil themselves, it was no wonder that the peasantry of both faiths were no less than storming the edges of the courtyard to have a look and to cheer on their shining champion. In spite of, or perhaps because of the times of starvation and rioting, the people of Topenah seemed all too eager to have a brief respite from their woes. He had even heard that tickets were being sold to see the display; he could only hope to put on a good show. Besides the conversation, William had two more concerns; the discomfort of his plate mail, and his opponent on the other side of the courtyard. The mail was a beautiful thing, fit more for an art gallery than a battlefield. Indeed, a gallery was where it spent most of its time; with the exception of public ceremonies and duels, William kept it at his estate, where it served only to impress those easily impressed. Here, though, it positively gleamed. The golden leaf, gilded to the mail, wound itself in intricate patterns, mostly abstractly with the exception of the center of his chest, where the tiger of his house, in gold, roared furiously. Even with only a single sliver of light, the armor was resplendent. Once the sun had taken its leave of the earth in full, however, he was sure that he would positively shine... Both impressing the crowd and, potentially, blinding his opponent. That same opponent he always kept watch on, out of the corner of his eye. The slightest tick as she spoke, the way she moved across the floor, the balance of her sword arm, even her reaction to a sudden movement in the corner of her own eye; all these were things worth studying that could mean life or death, and study he did, every little movement noticed, contemplated, filed away. It was only when he turned back to his companions that he noticed the sun. Apparently, he had spent more time on idle chatter than he had noticed; the tendrils of the dawn crept steadily upwards, filling the night sky with a red the shade of blood. He rolled his palm about the hilt of his sword, glancing over to his squire and then to the helm of his suit. “It's time, child.” The Count kneeled, his squire fastening the helm. With the sealing of the buckles, William also felt the sealing of his fate; what it entailed, he would not know until the dawn had risen in truth. All he knew was that soon, the courtyard would match the sky, and the bloodied city itself. | |
| William Norrel (Count of Zarimel) | |
Duel
Sir William Norrel, Count of Zarimel meets his challenger Lady Ciann Fraoch (Dame of Pesol) for the agreed duel till death.
Ciann has decided to use the 'overrun' strategy while William has choosen the 'trick moves' strategy, giving William the advantage.
The duel goes back and forth for a while, then in a quick exchange, both participants get wounded slightly, but enough that neither is able to deliver the killing blow.
Ciann Fraoch found victory, giving Sir William a serious wound which lasted for around three days, while suffering only a superficial wound.
| Report from Ciann Fraoch | |
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| Fellows,
My Healers tell me William will live though his wounds are quite severe indeed. He is a mighty warrior and fought me with great grace to exhaustion. It gives me no pleasure to see the man so injured, but great hope to see such bravery and honour. My wounds are but passing things of no great concern, though as yea may notice it has not improved my clumsy skill with words. In faith, | |
| Ciann Fraoch (Dame of Pesol) | |
| Letter from Selene Octavius | |
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| (...)
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| Selene Octavius (Priestess of the Church of Sartan) | |
| Roleplay from William Norrel | |
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| Flashes of white pain, briefly interspersed with yet more pain, and temporary lucidity.
Mumbled voices- healers, or gods? A pile of letters, the words blurring together in surges of pain. A wound that smells of death, one which by most definitions should have been mortal. Waiting for death. Death never came. An act of the gods, or sheer luck? He had heard his healers talk about the mortality of the wound before, about how no man should survive such a thing, how the blade had turned his midriff into red ribbons, when they thought he was too close to the end to hear. The end never came. Instead, he dreamed. He dreamed of the fight. He was a skilled fighter, but never truly a talented one. Every feint, every parry, every flash of his blade was a result of careful thought and calculation, but never could he rely on his instinct and intuition. When she came running at him, blade thrusting wildly... Calculation was not enough. He needed speed and reflex, and he lacked in both. No amount of study on footwork, no amount of careful precision could have prepared him. In the dream, as in life, he had not noticed the wound until a woman screamed. The gash dripped his life onto the cobblestones. He had tried to murmur his last words, but felt himself dying too quickly for mere breath. In life, there came only blackness, the brief respite of the false death. In the dream, however, he saw only light, an angelic presence, mending his wound and breathing fresh life into his body. Waking with a startle, William checked on his wound, and found it sealed, stitched up expertly. He could no longer smell the festering pus that had lingered in the room. With a grunt of pain, he pushed himself up from the bed, leant his arm on the wall, and walked with the living once more. | |
| William Norrel (Count of Zarimel) | |
