If things go as planned then it'll start making sense once we get to the end of the chapter (part 2.)
Another thing that will likely make the whole thing make more sense would be the short story I ended up writing for English. I will try to use these assignments as opportunities to make pseudo-updates as long as I can contrive it to be so.
Three sharp knocks from the deck above and the loud shuffling of a great amount of forsaken feet begun ringing throughout the hold of a humbly proportioned boat. Slowly the shuffling faded into the distance although not before rising to its height once again then disappearing forever. Thereafter rose the weathered shape of an ancient man who had not left with them, a shame for him perhaps; you would be surprised as to what nobles permit of lepers at masquerades. Fortunately and unfortunately he was known as the Baron in New Hadrian, the Honorary Viscount in Malta, the Grey Eminence in Avalon, and the Tsar in Bohemia. He was also known as the Fumbler in Old Hadrian, the Faltering Fool in Malta, the Charlatan in Avalon, the Misruler in Bohemia, and the Witless Ravager in the Little County. While just as many words could be used to describe his curse, the words of a certain omen-filled mystic we shall name "Oberon" are likely the kindest: "Despite the claims of many others his immortal and likely divine purpose is, as far as I'm concerned, not to be the ax which culls the majestic at their height, but to be the pendulum that gives things rise and then gives them fall."
It had been many a year since he had been exiled by Count Beldem, or at the very least both the paper he received from a friend shortly afterwards and the dock of the Little County had both aged extremely poorly and swiftly. Perhaps it was not the wisest of ideas to send the bandit-king known as the "Beastmaster," a antediluvian sabre-tiger, and some sort of drake from the Orient into a ambush designed to end them all, but how could he have known they were all sapient and multilingual?
The co-mingling smells of ale, fire, and fur would likely never leave him. Regardless, it seemed that those smells had left the roads, houses, market-bridges of the Little County; perhaps not because of time but because it was a Little County no longer! From where he stood on the pier he saw only the creations of man and the somewhat man-made hills, both of which likely concealed larger constructions beneath and behind them. If one's fascination above all fascinations was that of imprudence (of which it had not been his for quite some time) it likely could have been called a Little Kingdom without being utterly and indefensibly offensive.
However as he realized then, and you have likely realized now, the ancient letter he carried was likely worth reading - and likely worth cherishing too. The letter began with a familar scrawl before delving into the less familiar:
"To Dearest Budic:
Whilst I'm certain that you would rather continue enjoying your buffoonery in Caledonia without interrupt, a troubling matter has festered into a urgent matter and some sort of assistance from you or another is required: the august Emperor has taken upon himself to sally into Koln by the turn of the year unless suitable recompense is collected. Whilst the recompense itself has already been collected, a suitable courier has not. The steps to said recompense are as follows:
Firstly take the swiftest path from New Hadrian (or wherever you are now) to the swiftest port then take the swiftest boat of which you know (or of which the local merchants know) and then sail unto..." it was here where stains begin to muddle the message "...when in the Little County go to the... [...] ...a place teetering upon the precipice of good taste, and when there ask for... [...] a vial of the Purest Oath, which... [...]...to the most fated and solemn place you know of... [...] ...and there you will find the recompense the august Emperor requires. After securing it you are to... [...]"
Despite its antiquated and sparse nature, Budic had been assured by its author many a time, even upon the eve of their death, that it was still relevant and possibly even vital. There was little risk in following its instructions it seemed, if they lied then they must've had some grand reason to do so and if it was truly vital then it was truly worthwhile to follow it!
No matter how vital it was, searching alone through something that was commonly regarded as a County was a futile task. This meant Budic had to speak to the common and uncommon something he, at the time at least, did not relish to do.
Firstly he assessed the laborers in felt trousers and little else, participating in their briny games and in their just as briny work until the stars fell from the sky. It was when the stars first began to revive when their 'leader's' craft returned and docked. Its captain was a heavily scarred man by the name of Alaric the Salted. Named as such because he used his payment in salt not to purchase more easily applied luxuries but to use as a adaptable item in all aspects of life - "being able to blame the cruel sea even at home" gave him a sense of security that simply could not be found elsewhere. At the very least, that is what he offered as explanation to Budic as he emptied a bag of salt into the man's bowl. "Then, having thoroughly secured you now, can you tell me what lies on the precipice of good taste and can provide me a vial of the purest oath?" was Budic's explanation of purpose and it gave The Salted quite the off look. "I've never been into either the riddler's or sage's work but it sounds like the herald's square to me, lotta oaths of off taste going about there from what I've heard." he pointed to the towering mills, "Follow those towards their end then go up the first hillock you see, the place is hard to miss from there."
Thereafter he said farewell to The Salted (although he was unable to convince Alaric's salt to depart) and moved to commune with the merchants of the dock, for a little security in Alaric's words beyond his disdain for the brine was a welcome thing. The clothing, games, and work of the merchants were all a bit more extravagant than the laborers, but in the end it turned out far easier to find the name of their leader, if not find it itself. Through the scrutiny of twenty apprentice scribes, a half dozen councilors, and the communion of one and a half juries (the other half having left for recess in Brunswick) Budic had to pass before he was allowed entrance to the magnanimous Commissar of Civil Disturbance Resolution's waiting room and permitted to uncomfortably sit and read the waiver a shaky-handed apprentice gave him.
"ALL SANCTIONED SCRIBES FROM THE TOWN HALL TO THE CUSTOMS OFFICE TO THE UNIVERSITY ENGULFED IN A DELERIUM OF GREED, ALL SUBMITTERS OF CIVIL QUERIES MUST WAIVE RIGHT TO QUALITY RECORDS OF SERVICE."
"PLEASE WRITE SIGNATURE WITH THE PROPERLY STRIPPED QUILL ENCLOSED, IT EASES THE PROCESS FOR ALL INVOLVED."
When he had signed the waiver and had given it away, a slightly less shaky apprentice stuffed into his hand a application of query, filled to the brim with queries of its own. After some time the document returned to the scribe and after a very long collection of minutes returned to Budic once again.
"CANNOT GIVE CONCLUSIVE ANSWER, HOWEVER ACCORDING TO REPORTS OATHS AND POOR TASTE MINGLE AT THE HERALD'S SQUARE AND THE REPOSITORY OF EXCESS SANGUINE AND OTHER PROMINENT ESSENCES LIES NEAR THERE SO YOU CAN LIKELY FIND A WAY TO MAKE A VIAL IF NOT PROCURE ONE OF THE PUREST OATH."
As Budic bade farewell to the underpaid and began his journey to the square, the answers he was given filled him with concern. Perhaps it need not necessarily mean a time of troubles, but likelihood was that Budic was about to have to converse with a herald of doom and gloom to continue. Although his certainty in this thought was shaken a bit when he passed the vaporous ironworks and the miscellany odorous tool shops around it, perhaps they really were trying to imply it was just an unfortunately placed square.
Or they were implying nothing and were instead simply stating the literal; beyond the herald's square was an expanse of buildings that can only be described as grotesque: aggressive yellows and greens lathered onto the doors, pasty silvers on the arches and columns, and some sort of demented color of emerald ilk for the eaves and roofs. The doors themselves had all the imposing qualities of a mummers troupe, the columns likely learnt their posture from a scribe, and the roofs imparted both a feeling of homely respite and impending peril.
The overwhelming inadequacy of it all put Budic into a stupor that was only able to be broken by a conclusive flourish atop the herald's stage, of which he was unknowingly adjacent to now. "-to which I propose as an end to strife between wretched firstborn sons. Any questions? Any objections?" Above him stood the speaker, his garb was of a delicate pearl temperament and his hair was dim in tone. To his left stood a conclave of similarly dressed men, although some seemed to be dressed in black instead of white, and to their left stood a woman in black garb of similar tailoring, yet her hair was of a distinctly lighter sort.
Behind the speaker stood the herald and since both ramps leading onto the stage were blocked by guards of both the obtusely aristocratic and the opaquely mercenary variety, Budic decided then that the best course of action would be to climb onto it. The 'heir' did not move as he arose, although the guards certainly did. "What is it that you desire, overeager friend?" he said, to which Budic could only respond with "To find that which lies on the precipice of good taste and conceals a vial of the purest oath." The 'heir' made a truly wicked face before speaking again, "Really? Then I know exactly where you must go! Walk into there," he pointed to the grotesque mass, "until you see a distinct mixing of red, green, and orange."
So with some degree of uncertainty Budic set into the ambiguous place. When he reached the red, the green, and the blue he looked around himself and saw the bizarre in every direction: dancing shapes and singing shapes leaping out of a gash in some ancient stately house, lepers in jeweled masks and sundries reciting the Song of Roland, and men gambling with vials of blood as prizes. The latter easily being the most relevant and interesting (or at the very least the least likely to grievously injure him) he approached them firstly and only. "Why exactly is it that coins will not suffice?" Budic asked of them, to which they responded "The King in Denmark said that the mines aren't worth bailing out of the trouble that they've been in lately so no more coins or the like, we've got to use things with adequate surplus and adequate value. Do you know how many vials of blood Count Beldem filled and stowed away before he died? Quite a few, some going all the way back to the..." And so he went on for quite a time, until Budic could detach himself from him and leave for, well, wherever this repository was.
Not far from the comingling red, green, and blue it turned out - only required him to travel through the open doors and windows of five or so houses! The Repository's itself had little above-ground impact so the locals had taken it upon themselves to jam a sign into the road in front of the cellar door and write something vaguely resembling a Latinized name on it
When he stopped admiring the exterior and entered the Repository itself, he saw what one would expect of a Repository of Excess Sanguine and Other Prominent Fluids: a large room with two slabs in its center, one storing vials and the other the desk of the owner and upon the walls shelves upon shelves of ambiguous fluids of distinct coloration. In the far right corner, however, was something odd, a little chair upon which sat another man who did not have the look of an employee.
Budic approached the owner and asked for a vial of the purest oath at whatever cost it may require, a request he granted gladly for only an ounce of Budic's blood. The vial of the purest oath, it turns out, was a vial of Count Beldem's blood, likely named a such because of his oath to create an archive of noble bloodlines, something he succeeding and excelled in doing. At least that is what the man in the corner thought of it, the owner seemed to cherish his own work on a living subject more.
All the while Budic stood there waiting for his blood to be collected, perhaps he had been a bit too eager to get it over with as the owner took quite a while to acquire the appropriate container, giving his blood plenty of time to stain the stone slab in fluorescent hues. The man in the corner began to chastise the owner for his absent-minded behavior which, once his blood had been taken, gave Budic the perfect opportunity to escape without any further banter.
He already knew where the fated and solemn place he was to go to was, for he had been there before many a time. Swiftly and surely he stepped through the open houses and shops towards his goal.
The cemetery of the Little County was separated into sections by names. Each section had its own gateway shaped in the form of whatever numeral its creator’s deigned it to represent for all times. The place he desired to go was beyond the C, so through there he went without too much effort required. A bit lucky for him as the C had a habit of falling, its architecture a bit inadequate.
Old Count Cador's tomb was mostly unembellished, just a simple stone room with a simple stone coffin, however, the mural in its back was far from unembellished or simple. It, in less than modest fashion, depicted Old Count Cador doing what he loved best: hunting and slaying rogue elephants left over from Greek campaigns. Inscribed under it, presumably as a epitaph, was the statement "In life there are times when something so tragic occurs that you cannot properly convey your sympathy and simply laugh in contorted joy; I would hope this is one of those times."
Despite pulling and pushing all the levers that should have revealed he knew to be there, Budic efforts resulted in nothing However, in the process of doing so he did notice that the letters of the epitath were hollow and could be filled like a bowl. If this here was not where he needed to use his vial of the purest oath, then where indeed did the fates desire it to be?
The corridors of the knight's compound were filled to the brim with the expecting eyes of statues, portraits, and engravings. All of which came upon Budic at one time or another as he descended the spiral staircase from Cador's tomb into the main hall and only hall of the compound.
The place was barren besides a table upon which laid Cador’s rifle and a letter. The letter began with a familiar scrawl, and was in its whole familiar to him, not a bit forgotten. It was a small thing to say, sure, but it need not lessen its importance.
"To be delivered before April of After the Death 1257 lest its courier be shamed forever"
"Dearest Budic,
"Everything you tell me suggests that you are in need of a degree of guidance, and while we both know I cannot give that to you at this point I can still provide you with my opinion on your situation: you can either continue wandering and delaying the inevitable as you are currently doing, you can slowly push yourself back into your normal state of affairs, or you can return to them immediately. I know the recent string of failures have hit you harder than most failures do, but they do not change the fact that you will return to councillorship whether you truly desire to or not.
I don't believe you enjoyed being a tax collector at the beck and call of men that worshipped the marble head of an Emperor ("Too much harassment for too little of just about everything” if I remember your words right) nor do I remember you particularly enjoying the daily requirements of being a knight (even if you did enjoy being justifiably able to pull off the skull of old Cador) so I think it safe to say that the role of the simple and diligent worker is not for you.
You despised being the Tsar of Bohemia, did you not? You wish for the position now but I cannot recall you ever telling me of a day where you simply enjoyed ruling. In fact, I can't remember you speaking much of the wonders of Old Hadrian while you ruled there either. I could likely write and recite a saga concerning the many petitions of Berdic the goatherd simply out of the information you have passively given me about him over the years, but using the same passive information I would fail to give even a brief overview of the Old Hadrian's merits in geography, history, or in trade goods."
What positive things I do remember from the letters you've sent me were from letters you sent me during your brief time as an adviser in Avalon (although I still have my doubts as to the authenticity of those letters even now) and from the time when you were the castellan of Mediolanum's citadel.
I am not claiming that your only interest is in advising and governing under another, however I am claiming that it is likely the only type of work you can stand for an extended period of time and as such it is the only type of work I can sincerely suggest you. Perhaps I am wrong and you truly do enjoy being the high judge of the candle maker’s guild now, however I doubt your opinions on such things would change so quickly.
Regardless of what you may or may not like you must choose something eventually lest your curse choose for you. Wandering aimlessly works for a time yet someone will take you in always; whether it is the guild of candle makers or the august Emperor I know you so adore. It probably seems an obvious thing to you as you read this but I feel as if you need the reminder sometimes. Beyond that I also feel the need to remind you that if you forgo wandering and find a position immediately the time you have to spend in the state of distress you are currently in will be greatly reduced.
Whatever it might be that you decide to be the correct course of action for the current set of circumstances, do not fret, I will still be here to remind you why I know your intentions better than you.
Sincerely if not kindly, Dina."
After the end of the letter in a brighter shade of black was written, "Do not forget that you will, even if you desire not to, renew the decrepit and withering and that you will sometimes when facing blooming things end them earlier than expected. It is simply your way, even if you do not endorse it yourself."
The letter was ancient and did not have had anything that Budic had not heard or read before, but the rifle gave him an idea. It was an imprudent and ill-advised plan, but also quite the exhilarating one and also one that Dina would likely be fond of!
"You have been chosen," he said to the 'heir,' climbing onto the stage once again "with this artifact I find in me the power to grant you the county and the power to change succession. You wished for an end to strife in-between wretched firstborn sons, yes? I believe it best then that I change succession to favor lastborn daughters of the fairest quality."
The ‘heir’ took the artifact without regrets at first, although once he heard the new laws he got a questionable look. “Then what of my rule am I an exception? What of my sons? Are they subject to laws or are those only not of my line subject to it?” It was then that Budic wholly felt commitment to the plan and imprudence of a type he had not known for quite some time flowed out of him. “No, you are no exception. In fact, I believe it time for you to select your heir already. As for your sons, well, I’m sure they can find purpose in Cathay or Caledonia.”
Then the ‘count’ went through the crowd and selected a number who could be his heir, and Budic rejected them all. “Not quite right, not of lastborn type” he said. “Then what is of lastborn type?” the ‘count’ asked, unable to retreat from his choice at this point. “I would say a woman with hair of a lighter disposition, and a dress of a dim mood.” The ‘count’ realized what these words meant looked over and began to regret all the oaths of honor he had made over the years. “Then I suppose it be that you’re a countess, half-sister.” “No, I’m afraid you’re the last of the counts and countesses, ‘count’. She’s a queen now.”
By that time the ‘count’ had already resigned himself to his fate, so the words did not faze him and he simply gave her the rifle and spent the rest of the procession in a stupor. After she had said her words of lucky subjects and lucky rulers and other such things new queens tell their new subjects, she turned to Budic and offered him a place of high chancellorship, if he would desire it. Before possibly resigning himself to fate too, he looked around and saw the grotesque houses and the ironworks spewing vapors and said, “It’s not a place of majesty like Mediolanum nor is it as stalwart and New Hadrian, but I suppose it is of sufficient value to renew. I accept.”
A number of years later in a palace a bit rugged, the queen was taking the word of her council and when her eyes came to Budic he offered a plan, a imprudent and ill-advised one, but quite the exhilarating one too. “These sons of the ‘count,’ this Danish king, and this august Emperor cannot truly love each other that much. I suggest that we take the three and set them against each other. With the command of you and the marshal and the force of our armies, I see this leading likely to the most fortuitous outcome.”
I think it worth mentioning that I'm not going to be doing an update this weekend, kinda want to actually be able to rest on a weekend for once.
Edit: changed second letter a lot.
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Topic: Let's Eventually Play Darklands Part 2: Catholic-Consuming, Cranky, Cathars (Read 22361 times)