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Story Hour
The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)
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<blockquote data-quote="Funeris" data-source="post: 2222736" data-attributes="member: 22792"><p><strong>Prelude: Cassock</strong></p><p></p><p>This is the first part of Cassock's (a.k.a. Hendric Balsoon's) prelude. Enjoy.</p><p></p><p>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p></p><p>Hendrick Balsoon stormed down the stairs, tossing his father’s worn backpack carelessly by the door. He paused for a quick breath and opened the door. A hooded figure darted in quickly, motioning for the door to the cottage be closed. Hendrick acquiesced to the somatic request and turned to greet the guest.</p><p></p><p>The visitor tossed the hood back revealing silvered hair and a worn face. The man’s eyes were bright blue and lacked the age shown upon his brow.</p><p></p><p>“Baron Tyne,” Hendrick stammered, dropping to his knees.</p><p></p><p>“Oh come now, Master Hendrick. You know I consider your family my own family. Stand up and address me as Dragos.” Hendrick stood, head still slightly bent in respect. “And here,” Dragos removed his traveler’s cloak and tossed it to Hendrick.</p><p></p><p>Hendrick quickly hung the cloak upon a hook, turning to speak with the visitor. “Is my father expecting you, Dragos?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes he knows I was coming tonight. Please, let’s move into the parlor, shall we? My old bones need a warm up and your father’s whiskey should do the trick.” The old Baron smiled a pearly grin and paced toward the interior room.</p><p></p><p>Hendrick went to a cupboard to procure three glasses and once in the parlor, filled all three with a potent whiskey. Dragos quietly sipped for a moment, allowing the warmth to flood back in his cheeks.</p><p></p><p>“Winter seems to come earlier and earlier each year,” Baron Tyne remarked to no one in particular. “My body can’t take much more of this.” The politician burst into a hacking cough as if to emphasize his point.</p><p></p><p>“I’m sure you’ll outlive us all, Baron.” Hendrick downed a healthy bit of the whiskey, a smile covering the burn of the aged drink.</p><p></p><p>“I truly doubt that.” Dragos peered down the hallway, toward the door, his eyes focusing on the rugged pack heaped carelessly. “Going somewhere, Hendrick?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes. My life here in your great city is coming to an end, I think. I’m setting off to find my own way in the world.” Hendrick smiled again, although not to cover the effect of the alcohol.</p><p></p><p>“I remember my own adventures, long ago. The world’s not changed much since then, I’m afraid.” A shadow crossed Dragos’ worn, leathery face before passing into nothingness. “I wish you luck on your journey.”</p><p></p><p>“Thank you, sir.”</p><p></p><p>“I will ask one thing of you now, though. A promise I expect you to keep. You are a man of your word, like your father?” Dragos’ expression now reflected a stern look; still lurking behind his eyes was a kindness incomparable.</p><p></p><p>“Of course, sir. My father and mother have taught me well. They are virtuous.”</p><p></p><p>“That they are, that they are. Your promise is this: you must swear to never enter into politics,” the stern gaze was immediately replaced with a friendly grin. “Whatever horrors you may experience upon your travels, nothing compares to the atrocities of the political arena.” The Baron’s grin only grew larger as he awaited a response.</p><p></p><p>“I have no desire to rule, sir,” Hendrick was quick to reply.</p><p></p><p>“Ah, but neither did I when I was your age. The things I saw though,” his eyes drifted back through time as he spoke, “made me want to change the world. I warn you now: it’s a futile effort in this damnable Empire. With a ruler as old as the Empire, I fear things will never change.”</p><p></p><p>“There is always hope for change, sir.”</p><p></p><p>“Bah. Only if the King were to die could anything ever change. Perhaps that is a lesson you will have to learn yourself. I still need your oath, Hendrick.” Dragos leaned in to pour another glass of fire-water.</p><p></p><p>“You have my word, Baron Tyne. Never will I enter into the political arena, as you so labeled it.” Hendrick smiled, refilling his own empty mug.</p><p></p><p>The front door opened again, this time a good-sized man stepping through. His pitch black hair was cropped close to his head. Two white jets of color stained the man’s temples. The light from a fire, barely reflected from the deep-set black eyes.</p><p></p><p>“Dragos, my friend.” The Baron stood, clasping hands with Hendrick’s father.</p><p></p><p>“Morgan, I hope all is well with you.”</p><p></p><p>Morgan leaned downward to grasp the unclaimed glass of fire-water and decanter. “All is as well as ever, Dragos. If you’d like, we can retire to the library.”</p><p></p><p>“Of course, of course. Hendrick, when do you leave?”</p><p></p><p>“At dawn, sir.”</p><p></p><p>“Well, boy, you should get some sleep. I’m sure you have a long day of travel ahead of you. Besides, you father and I have some business to discuss.” The old man grasped Hendrick’s shoulder. “Remember your oath. And safe journey to you.”</p><p></p><p>“Good night, Baron. Father.” With an informal bow, Hendrick returned to his room for a long night’s rest.</p><p></p><p>“You have a good son, Morgan.” Dragos smiled.</p><p></p><p>“Yes. His fate is upon him now, though. It is good for him to leave and find his own path. Come, old friend.” Morgan led Dragos into the small, comfortable library. Within a few moments, a fire blazed within the confines of the small, stone chimney. Both the fire and the fire-water warmed the veins of the men. Morgan quietly closed the door and settled in a chair opposite the Baron.</p><p></p><p>“Dark times are upon us, Morgan. A war is coming and I don’t just mean with the Elves and Dwarves. Rumors abound that the Orcs and Trolls are going to make a play for power. If the Trolls overrun the Goblin territory, Port Divi’sad will likely fall again. I can only assume the Orcs would push further into the Troll territory when they’re distracted.”</p><p></p><p>“It would be a logical attack. Maybe too logical for those beasts.” Morgan pulled a large map, rough with age. Marks in various colors adorned the map, showing the various boundary changes throughout the years.</p><p></p><p>“My thoughts exactly. It’s whispered that the Orcs are going to turn against the Empire. But how is not known. If I have heard these whispers, then I guarantee so has the King.”</p><p></p><p>Morgan filled both glasses again, settling into his chair. “I have a feeling you did not come just to discuss a possible war or rumors that may or may not be true, Baron.”</p><p></p><p>Dragos sighed, another dry coughing fit welling up through his body. “No, Morgan, I did not. I am old. I can feel Cael’s <1> icy grip on my body. Soon, I fear, I will pass on. And I’ve no heir to leave control of this territory. </p><p></p><p>“You’ve been my faithful advisor for years and years. Never have I found better advice than your own words. I wish for you to take my place when I die.” Morgan looked down to the floor, weighing the Baron’s words.</p><p></p><p>“Dragos, I cannot serve the King. You know this. I cannot and will not. If you leave me in charge, I will secede.”</p><p></p><p>“I know that. As I said, dark times are upon us. You’re the only one with enough strength and experience to pull Legend <2> through the coming wars. I do not ask you to take up this role as Morgan, the secret advisor of Baron Tyne. I ask you to take the role as Morrick, the Hand of Cael.” Dragos paused, to gauge the effect of his words.</p><p></p><p>“On those terms, I will accept the position, although I am no ruler.”</p><p></p><p>“No, my friend, you are no ruler. But, you are a leader and a damn fine tactician.”</p><p></p><p>“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Morrick smiled as he downed another shot of the whiskey.</p><p></p><p>“You did save Port Divi’sad thirty years ago, not to mention my life.” Again, the Baron’s eyes clouded over, consumed by memory.</p><p></p><p>“You were a damn fine sergeant, Tyne. If not for you and the men that sacrificed their lives, the battle would not have been won. Besides, Cael was with us.” </p><p></p><p>“And how is the old God of Death, Morrick?” Dragos refilled his own glass.</p><p></p><p>“I’ve not heard him since that battle. For thirty years I’ve had silence <3>. I think things may change soon though. Very soon. That’s what I pray for at least.” Morrick stirred from his reverie and looked downward at the map. “Shall we plan some strategy for the wars?”</p><p></p><p>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p></p><p><1> - Cael (rhymes with Pail) is one of the old gods (half of the first child of Phoee); specifically the God of Death.</p><p><2> - Legend is the name of one of the thirteen territories in Norum da Salaex. It is named Legend because the majority of the Path of Legends runs across it.</p><p><3> - In case the allusion isn’t very clear, Morrick was a cleric of Cael. But I didn’t want to just come out and say he was a cleric.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Funeris, post: 2222736, member: 22792"] [b]Prelude: Cassock[/b] This is the first part of Cassock's (a.k.a. Hendric Balsoon's) prelude. Enjoy. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hendrick Balsoon stormed down the stairs, tossing his father’s worn backpack carelessly by the door. He paused for a quick breath and opened the door. A hooded figure darted in quickly, motioning for the door to the cottage be closed. Hendrick acquiesced to the somatic request and turned to greet the guest. The visitor tossed the hood back revealing silvered hair and a worn face. The man’s eyes were bright blue and lacked the age shown upon his brow. “Baron Tyne,” Hendrick stammered, dropping to his knees. “Oh come now, Master Hendrick. You know I consider your family my own family. Stand up and address me as Dragos.” Hendrick stood, head still slightly bent in respect. “And here,” Dragos removed his traveler’s cloak and tossed it to Hendrick. Hendrick quickly hung the cloak upon a hook, turning to speak with the visitor. “Is my father expecting you, Dragos?” “Yes he knows I was coming tonight. Please, let’s move into the parlor, shall we? My old bones need a warm up and your father’s whiskey should do the trick.” The old Baron smiled a pearly grin and paced toward the interior room. Hendrick went to a cupboard to procure three glasses and once in the parlor, filled all three with a potent whiskey. Dragos quietly sipped for a moment, allowing the warmth to flood back in his cheeks. “Winter seems to come earlier and earlier each year,” Baron Tyne remarked to no one in particular. “My body can’t take much more of this.” The politician burst into a hacking cough as if to emphasize his point. “I’m sure you’ll outlive us all, Baron.” Hendrick downed a healthy bit of the whiskey, a smile covering the burn of the aged drink. “I truly doubt that.” Dragos peered down the hallway, toward the door, his eyes focusing on the rugged pack heaped carelessly. “Going somewhere, Hendrick?” “Yes. My life here in your great city is coming to an end, I think. I’m setting off to find my own way in the world.” Hendrick smiled again, although not to cover the effect of the alcohol. “I remember my own adventures, long ago. The world’s not changed much since then, I’m afraid.” A shadow crossed Dragos’ worn, leathery face before passing into nothingness. “I wish you luck on your journey.” “Thank you, sir.” “I will ask one thing of you now, though. A promise I expect you to keep. You are a man of your word, like your father?” Dragos’ expression now reflected a stern look; still lurking behind his eyes was a kindness incomparable. “Of course, sir. My father and mother have taught me well. They are virtuous.” “That they are, that they are. Your promise is this: you must swear to never enter into politics,” the stern gaze was immediately replaced with a friendly grin. “Whatever horrors you may experience upon your travels, nothing compares to the atrocities of the political arena.” The Baron’s grin only grew larger as he awaited a response. “I have no desire to rule, sir,” Hendrick was quick to reply. “Ah, but neither did I when I was your age. The things I saw though,” his eyes drifted back through time as he spoke, “made me want to change the world. I warn you now: it’s a futile effort in this damnable Empire. With a ruler as old as the Empire, I fear things will never change.” “There is always hope for change, sir.” “Bah. Only if the King were to die could anything ever change. Perhaps that is a lesson you will have to learn yourself. I still need your oath, Hendrick.” Dragos leaned in to pour another glass of fire-water. “You have my word, Baron Tyne. Never will I enter into the political arena, as you so labeled it.” Hendrick smiled, refilling his own empty mug. The front door opened again, this time a good-sized man stepping through. His pitch black hair was cropped close to his head. Two white jets of color stained the man’s temples. The light from a fire, barely reflected from the deep-set black eyes. “Dragos, my friend.” The Baron stood, clasping hands with Hendrick’s father. “Morgan, I hope all is well with you.” Morgan leaned downward to grasp the unclaimed glass of fire-water and decanter. “All is as well as ever, Dragos. If you’d like, we can retire to the library.” “Of course, of course. Hendrick, when do you leave?” “At dawn, sir.” “Well, boy, you should get some sleep. I’m sure you have a long day of travel ahead of you. Besides, you father and I have some business to discuss.” The old man grasped Hendrick’s shoulder. “Remember your oath. And safe journey to you.” “Good night, Baron. Father.” With an informal bow, Hendrick returned to his room for a long night’s rest. “You have a good son, Morgan.” Dragos smiled. “Yes. His fate is upon him now, though. It is good for him to leave and find his own path. Come, old friend.” Morgan led Dragos into the small, comfortable library. Within a few moments, a fire blazed within the confines of the small, stone chimney. Both the fire and the fire-water warmed the veins of the men. Morgan quietly closed the door and settled in a chair opposite the Baron. “Dark times are upon us, Morgan. A war is coming and I don’t just mean with the Elves and Dwarves. Rumors abound that the Orcs and Trolls are going to make a play for power. If the Trolls overrun the Goblin territory, Port Divi’sad will likely fall again. I can only assume the Orcs would push further into the Troll territory when they’re distracted.” “It would be a logical attack. Maybe too logical for those beasts.” Morgan pulled a large map, rough with age. Marks in various colors adorned the map, showing the various boundary changes throughout the years. “My thoughts exactly. It’s whispered that the Orcs are going to turn against the Empire. But how is not known. If I have heard these whispers, then I guarantee so has the King.” Morgan filled both glasses again, settling into his chair. “I have a feeling you did not come just to discuss a possible war or rumors that may or may not be true, Baron.” Dragos sighed, another dry coughing fit welling up through his body. “No, Morgan, I did not. I am old. I can feel Cael’s <1> icy grip on my body. Soon, I fear, I will pass on. And I’ve no heir to leave control of this territory. “You’ve been my faithful advisor for years and years. Never have I found better advice than your own words. I wish for you to take my place when I die.” Morgan looked down to the floor, weighing the Baron’s words. “Dragos, I cannot serve the King. You know this. I cannot and will not. If you leave me in charge, I will secede.” “I know that. As I said, dark times are upon us. You’re the only one with enough strength and experience to pull Legend <2> through the coming wars. I do not ask you to take up this role as Morgan, the secret advisor of Baron Tyne. I ask you to take the role as Morrick, the Hand of Cael.” Dragos paused, to gauge the effect of his words. “On those terms, I will accept the position, although I am no ruler.” “No, my friend, you are no ruler. But, you are a leader and a damn fine tactician.” “Flattery will get you nowhere.” Morrick smiled as he downed another shot of the whiskey. “You did save Port Divi’sad thirty years ago, not to mention my life.” Again, the Baron’s eyes clouded over, consumed by memory. “You were a damn fine sergeant, Tyne. If not for you and the men that sacrificed their lives, the battle would not have been won. Besides, Cael was with us.” “And how is the old God of Death, Morrick?” Dragos refilled his own glass. “I’ve not heard him since that battle. For thirty years I’ve had silence <3>. I think things may change soon though. Very soon. That’s what I pray for at least.” Morrick stirred from his reverie and looked downward at the map. “Shall we plan some strategy for the wars?” ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- <1> - Cael (rhymes with Pail) is one of the old gods (half of the first child of Phoee); specifically the God of Death. <2> - Legend is the name of one of the thirteen territories in Norum da Salaex. It is named Legend because the majority of the Path of Legends runs across it. <3> - In case the allusion isn’t very clear, Morrick was a cleric of Cael. But I didn’t want to just come out and say he was a cleric. [/QUOTE]
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