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The Journal of a Mean Horse
He was foaled in autumn, a pleasant and dry autumn. He stood within the hour he born. He had a happy few days in the meadows with his mother. Soon he was to be trained and sold. He would never see his mother again, not after that first year in the meadow. His first owner was a simple farmer, a drunk farmer. He was made to pull large and heavy carts to town. It was too much for one horse, but the farmer was stupid as well as cruel. The horse was not given a name, unless it was unkind or derogatory verbal barb to get him to move. One day, after he had too much, he broke free of his cart and bridle and threw the farmer off his cart. He stood but a few feet away from the injured drunk, gnawing at his bit as his training forbade him to hurt his owner. He was then sold to the mines, where his mean disposition grew. He became a problem to all who tried to bridle him. He bit, he kicked, he charged. Still, he was unnamed. One day, he was to be sold again. He had finally let his aggression get the better of him, and bit and broke a man's arm. His owners were to try and sell him to a stable, but if no one would buy him then he was o be sold to the butchers. He was bought by Vacca. The stablemaster saw his strong legs and stubborn spirit, and decided to try and save him from his temper. A year went by, the unnamed horse became more approachable. His stubborn spirit remained though. He was known for 'accidentally' stepping on toes, nudging people over, and chewing hair. ---- The First Day He was presented to a girl, a tall girl. The horse was not especially fast, but his spirits made up for it in his endurance. He himself was slightly larger than most other Highland Dales, half a hand larger. He remained still, as he was inspected by the tall girl. He waited patiently, until she stood at his flank and spoke to the stablemaster. He snickered as she yelped in surprise and disgust at his 'presentation' to her. She walked back to his front, asking for a rag to wipe her shoes. He lunged forward to her hair, only for his teeth to find empty air. She had short hair. He huffed in disappointment, as the girl turned around in confusion. -- An bolt buried itself into his rider's arm. As she toppled to the ground, the horse kept running in amusement. She thought him as some tireless automaton, to keep kicking him forward at full speed. He looked back to see his rider prone and trying to stand. He snickered, and stopped at an outcropping of grass. He watched his indignant rider stand and draw her metal branch. He was surprised at her ferocity, despite the wound in her arm. Another of the rider's companions came to take his reins. He felt oddly calm under hand. He didn't know if he accepted it, but he watched as his rider managed to pin a bolt-thrower to a tree. He shook his head calmly. That night, his rider came up to him. He couldn't understand her words, but he could understand what she was saying. His amusement prevailed in all his responses, until she said something. 'Raspberry'. He watched, as his rider walked away triumphantly, and his urge to bite her increased. A part him felt strange though. Not angry, not unhappy. The unnamed horse had gained a name, a infuriatingly terrible name. As his rider went to return to her companions, he blinked, and went back to eating grass. Raspberry it is then... ----- The Second Day He noticed his rider's light touch that morning. Her lack of presence on his back. He was tempted, oh so tempted. He could throw her off in an instance, but he waited. A clearing was reached, and began the preparatory clenching of his flanks. Just before he could, his rider set him off again, and up a hill. To him, every hill was a challenge issued to him by nature. Each hill seemed to taunt him, like he was some foal being hazed by older colt. He surged up the hill, forgetting his rider for the moment as incline seemed to strain to become vertical and defeat him. As he reached the top, he felt a comforting pat along his neck. " £%$*^& $£ apple" He recognised that word, and seemed indignant to his rider's joy. Still, he would not complain with the juicy, sweet treat in his maw. ----- He was tired. The journey had been long, over hills and roads. He fetlocks burned, his flank and haunches were covered in sweat. He was docile as he and his rider came to the next town. Over the ride, he had noticed his rider's grip on his reins and sides became weaker as the journey continued. They were both tired. The Horse felt the gentle hand of it's rider, as she groomed his fur of burs and knots. She left him a trough of cool clean water, and generous helping of hay and oats. He looked up expectantly, remembering the promise his rider had made. His rider looked back and sighed. She brought forth a juicy apple, fed him. He was too tired to bite, and ate it contently. He closed his eyes, and remembered nothing more till the morning. ----- The Third Day
The Quests of Azra Veralaeos (Blackland)
Foremost to Least Do not kill anyone who is not ready to die. Find a way to deal with death, or find a cure for it. Try not to panic while in Clan Faendyr. Try to stop the war, or find a way to get a message out. (In general, find a way to help the right side.) Retrieve Aelfyrd's sword from the Empasse
Notes
Heath's information Heath speaks grimly of War. It seems Bulund has known lots of it. He isn't a scholar, but being among the King's ranks has taught him much of lineage and rule. He tells Azra that Bulund's history is thick with blood and conquest, and while there has been a "King" of Bulund for over 1,700 years, there were periods where that King was either not recognized by the masses or was not of royal blood. Sometimes, it seems, Bulund's leaders had even risen from the Valley itself. The line of Bos Tau, by Heath's estimation, goes back 192 years. Bos Tau I lived to the old age of 78. His son, Bos Tau II ruled and died in combat with the Black Evil in Bulund's first major assault on the darkness at the age of 53. Bos Tau III, he proudly exclaims, is alive and well while a new war against the Evil rages on. Azra, however, knows that Bos Tau III died in battle at the age of 65, approximately 4 years after Heath was stranded in the forest. As she changes the subject, Heath begins speaking of war heroes and the Crusaders, as the two topics go hand in hand. The Crusaders, Azra finds, are/were the first "Royal Guard" of Bulund's Crown, and the line of duty stretches back even beyond the lineage of Bos Tau. The Crusaders are some 900 years old, one of Bulund's oldest factions. Heath speaks of them as verified Heroes. Sir Orstein is one of them. Azra's great - grandfather, while valiant, was not fit for their ranks. "You see, -- he scribbles with a piece of charcoal on the walls of the house -- Bulund rose from the squabbles of feudal thinking nearly 1,800 years ago now. We don't know who the first kings were, but it wasn't long before the Elves from the East came and took over the land. That's where we get some of our alchemy and architecture, believe it or not. Two hundred years of Elven rule before the Great King Fresian the First rose up and smote the wicked Elvish Viceroy, removing them from our land." Heath recalls the line of Fresian ruling for almost 130 years before "The Los", or rise of the Valley Clans happened, ushering in 400 plus years of phony rule and unceasing skirmish amongst the land. Following The Los, the Clans themselves offered up two Kings, or 'Konungrs', as they called them before Bulund once again fell into a nearly 400 year period of squalor, known as "Tregen Los". King Charolais, only one of his line, is the ancient hero who brought the nation together and ripped it away from the Valley's hands some 300 plus years ago, setting up the current age and rule. Mother Hild The Forever Oak by Mother Hild "Goernel is a young Clan. Before the area of the Valley was inhabited by our people, it was one of the Crown's strongholds. There used to be towers of the blue standard dotting the Valley. Over time, our territories grew, and the King's men would fight us back, refusing to give even a step of soil to our nation. This such tower, -- pointing to the spot in Goernel -- fell after the death of its leader, a Knight in the Crown's service. The first of our people who ventured into the area tore down the tower and used the stone to make their homes, but one of the previous buildings stood. A chapel, or temple, tall and stone, with glass windows and paintings inside. And outside the temple, a dying tree, surrounded by graves of those who died in service to the Knight. The Jarl of Clan Goernel was a human then, the father of that Halfling Ulgrum. His claim is that one night, he went to sleep with a dead tree outside, and the next morning, he awoke to find the Forever Oak. Golden leaves and all. That King's man had a pair of them with him at every battle. He loved them. He devoted his life to their safety. Something died with him, and the Forever Oak grew from the blood and Essence of the Mystics." Please log in to add a comment. |
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