A Soldier's Diary

[roleplayerr]

It's been six weeks since we passed the Albarian Boarder towards the west. I even recognized one of the men posted there, from the Battle of Breindor, further up north. Many of the remaining forces have been ordered to hold their ground untill further notice, and have since then not seen their families in years. So i guess i should consider myself lucky, to be always on the move, always riding on into the horizon searching for new challenges on the field, is this life many a dream in the eyes of Soldiers, fighting under the banner of a liege they've never met. The Warriors life of fame and fortune, and the other lucidities that are put into young and old, the myth of glory in blood. But there is only one glory in blood, and that you're ought to be born with. It is names that are remembered that bath in the blood of soldiers, worthy to them not more then soap, used and left for its puropose, untill it is done.

But not for much longer. I've been granted passage to Cadomyr. Where your Valour will find value so they say. Where a young name has still room in her tub, for the blood sweat and tears, that she can handle to reward. Many......"

Without a sound the parchment slid from his fingers, embraced into the cracking and hissing rythm orchesta of the fireplace in their midst. He leant back a bit so the heat would not force his eyes to squint, as he watched the ink eaten away by the fire. The two other figures beside the fireplace didn't move, nor did they make a sound. One was the writer of the note, the other his servant. The writer did not get to finish the note before he was struck down, still their killer wondered about the words he had just erased from its rememberance in this world.

"Many Lord's were born on the battlefield, and even more of wish they could die on it."

He repeated the last words to himself, before he killed the light, like he took theirs, quick and with a sharp noises fading into the dark night.

[roleplayerr]

It was the dawn of the 24th Ronas in Rogvaroth, Albar. A morning, hard to distinguish from any other, the sunrise shining upon wet grass and dry roads, that slowly but most certainly would become alive with townsfolk, following their daily procedures. Farmers and Herdsmen, and also Miners would gather at the town gate to be let in by the guards, while different merchants and crafters would already be setting up shop on the other side. Free folk and slaves would fill the streets beneath the brick and wooden houses, under the watchful eyes of the town guard, that patrols the walls and the city streets with twice the men than at night time. Yet, away from their eyes, Beggars and a few thieves, only to distinguish by their conduct, rather than the appearance would lurk in the crowds and back alleys of a normal town, alongside the northern road of the King.
Nevertheless, The town’s real point of interest for travellers wasn’t its market place, but it’s castle. Not the architecture, not the riches in its treasury, not even the blades and equipment in its armory, even though there were many good pieces to be found. It was the knowledge that was taught in its halls and it’s courtyards.
Rogvaroth was a royal military academy, were mostly highborn, but also commoners of valor, and a few outsiders were trained in the art of combat, military tactics as well as conflict and diplomacy policies after Albarian custom. Lords from all over Albar would send their boys and girls here as potential field generals and knights.

At this hour, the courtyard was already filled with young soldiers, doing exercises and marching over the fields. The sounds of yelling voices of the sword masters, the ringing of steel hitting against steel, and the rhythm of marching boots, embraced him as he stepped on the field in order to cross the yard. He looked at the young men and women, their concentrated face, trying to do right in front of their superiors, trying to earn their respect in order to gain their rank or even overcome them one day. He watched them and saw himself for a moment, so many winters ago it seemed an eternity. He browsed the crowd for a moment for the man he was looking for. When he couldn’t find him he shook his head and headed for the living quarters of the senior recruits.

“Wake up, kid.” The young man, which chambers he had entered without even knocking, startled out of his sleep and jerked upright, reaching for his sword leaning against the night table. But before he could touch it a leathern fist threw him right back onto his mattress. “Nice try, son. But still much too slow!”
The boy held his face for few moments of agony. “Sir Sertimer .. ?” Trying to wipe the sleep, and the pain of his face he rose again, slowly this time. “That’s, because I was sleeping, Sir... And stop calling me ‘son..’ Ahrr, what do you want here?”
“What do I want here? Is this a way to greet your uncle? I guess I didn’t hit you hard enough. And what are you doing asleep at this time of the morning, anyway.”
The young men grumbled. “I was on night-shift….” – “What was that?!” Sertimer barked and he repeated more firmly this time “I was on nightshift!” -“The hell you were!” retorted, glaring at him with his dark brown eyes. “You were drinking wine and smoking Sibanac at Pargon’ s Farm, together with three other recruits, assigned to your command!” For a short second the boy attempted a “How did you..?”, but then thought otherwise of it. “I was already off-duty at that time. The recruits, and me we were just.. bonding as a unit.” The old warrior smirked. “Is that why one of them is hiding in your closet, right now?” The boy grimaced for a moment of concentration – it all came back to him slowly… “Oh sh.. Sara!”
“Come out of there, girl!” –“Don’t you listen to him, Sara.” – “Leave the closet at once that’s an order!” The closet doors opened and, trying to cover her nakedness with her arms, Sara left the closet. “Pulling rank to catch a blink at my joys, uncle?” Sertimer went from a rather mesmerized glance over the voluptuous woman soldier, to an insulted glare at his nephew. “How dar-“ He looked back at the woman, hesitating for a moment and then flicking his hand in her direction. “Alright, you can go back in the closet, now!” He didn’t wait for her to carry out her orders and turned right back at his nephew. “I want you to be on your feet and in full gear outside of the castle – at once! Don’t!“ – he barked right into his face, “leave me waiting, Son.” – “Stop calling me that!” “Fine!” Sertimer shouted. Then he added more quiet but still with menace, “Don’t leave me waiting, Jaron.”

[roleplayerr]

The door shut behind Sertimer, and almost in the same moment the closet swung open again. Sara was furious - if Jaron couldn't have seen it in her face, as she was coming at him, he would feel after she delivered the first blow in his face. “I told you, it wasn’t a good idea. Now, I can go wear a collar for the rest of my life, being some old southern lords sex slave.” Jaron tried to catch her hands to pin her down on the mattress, but the smile he had on his lips infuriated her even more. “This is not funny, Jaron!”
‘Northern women’ he thought to himself. “Will you let me say something, too?” but she continued struggling until he let go off her, so she could give him a last punch on his shoulder. He grimaced and rubbed it, and then he got up to put on his garments and gear. “Look…” he spoke while stepping into his pants. “This is my uncle, all right? And even though it would make him look really bad, if anybody would know that he turned a blind eye on me again – it’s not that he never took advantage of the fact that we are the only place in Albar where men train together with women. If you ask me, sex is the reason why they let that happen n the first place.” –“That’s because you are a chauvinistic asshole just like the rest of your people.”
Sara was Norodaj, from across the northern boarders where they would frown upon the way the Albarian would treat their women. In fact, it was really the closeness to the lands of the Norodaj, which allowed Rogvaroth to train womenfolk into becoming Soldiers. Even though this policy was just applied less then two decades ago, it was already highly frowned upon among the Albarian Royalty. The only political justification that upholds ‘the Rogvaroth’s Experiment’ , as the Nobles would refer to it in their gossip, was the claim, that if the Norodaj should ever decide to attack Albar, the north would be outnumbered, against Norodaj, where almost every one of these savages was trained for war. In Albar usually only nobles were truly trained in the arts of combat. Rogvaroth was a rare exception, and from political view already on his way down.
“Seriously, Jaron. With your rank you should..”- “Should what?” he interrupted her, as his head popped out of the shirt he just pulled over him. “Be a good Lord and lead a strict regiment? Beat you, twice as hard in the training because you are a woman? Wouldn’t that really make me –how did you put it?” He looked up from tying his greaves to her face and raises a brow.
“A chauvinistic asshole like the rest of your people.” She replied, still angry. Then she got up and helped him into the harness “You know we are all glad that you don’t take things as serious as the rest of them. But I wonder if you take anything serious at all? A lot of women in Albar are getting a chance here, to earn a different place in the society. Don’t you think your actions will affect us, if they find me here, diminishing your discipline?” – “Well, you weren’t complaining last night, were you?” He turned and leaned in for kiss. She slapped his face instead. “Your such an asshole!”

It was true, Jaron cared little about politics. He was sent to this academy, when he was still a child, and in spite of al attempts to discipline him, he always tried to never stop being one. Besides his attitude problems, he was still very respected as a Warrior and strategist. The worst difficult students, are the talented difficult students, many a teacher would mumble to himself or herself as they watch Jaron pass down the halls. For many of the Sword masters, training in the academy, obedience was more important than skill. But being born unto nobility as well, there was little they could do against Jaron, as it was his family bloodline that had once helped to build the castle of Rogvaroth.
Being in the academy since a little boy, he held little ties to his family that had their lands more in the south. So it was still a surprise to him to see his family banner flying above the carriage that stood outside of the castle gate to pick him up. His uncle usually travelled under the banners of Rogvaroth. When he stepped inside the carriage he awaited him already with a stern look. “Your half-brother is here to see you.” He opened, cutting further chastisement about this morning, straight to the matter, as usual. Still something seemed odd about the way he avoided eye contact. “I know why he is here, and even though I know he wants to be the one to tell you, I know you’d prefer to hear it from me.” And as he turned to look in Jaron’s eyes to tell him, Jaron already knew it before his uncle uttered the words. “Your father is dead.”