A Father's Madness. (rp closed to po ayla)
Moderator: Gamemasters
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Sundo Raca
- Posts: 487
- Joined: Tue Jan 01, 2008 3:23 pm
- Location: Conflict inc.
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Gregory Hardcast
- Posts: 152
- Joined: Tue May 06, 2008 9:01 pm
The hall was cold. The entrance, a large, curved marble archway towered behind him, the familiar long oak doors held open by two stiff looking footmen. It had always been chilly in here, he thought. Cold, and with false, cloying light, not unlike father himself. The Duke of Albar’s Central hall stretched out in front of him, huge canvases and stain-glass flecking the stone walls, with several expensive glass chandeliers hanging low, half lit, flames flickering in the draft. Long dining tables, expansively decorated, lined the sides, with various foreign looking statues placed at strategic intervals, each possessing a stony looking guard.
Blue, tired looking eyes took these images in, only to have his left shoulder gripped, forcing a diversion of attention, and a stepping onto the soft blue carpet stretching out in front of him. He turned slowly to look at the person who carried this out, a tall, steel-clad soldier, with face and head covered by an expensive, traditionally winged albarian helm. He nodded at the man, and stepped onto the carpet in front of him, letting his eyes travel slowly in front, finally halting at the end of the carpet. With some effort, he straightened himself, regained some pose, and began walking forwards.
Andrew Hardcast sat on the lord’s chair, a magnificent piece of architecture made of bronze and gold, with gynk cushions and headrest. The man was smiling triumphantly, chewing on the nail of a ringed finger, while his other hand rested easily on the armrest of his throne. By the throne stood what appeared to be the man walking towards them in miniature, the only true difference being a few recent signs of puberty, and a slightly less pointed nose. Several metres in front of them stood two massive dark-skinned bodyguards, each holding a massive halberd in a rockhard pose, their faces hidden by gynkesian helmets.
Gregory Smiled at Alester, whose young face was fixed in a trained expression of contempt, before his gaze came to a halt a few yards from the two bodyguards, the soldier behind him gripping as tight as ever. Greg wondered why he bothered. His hands were tied anyway, for bragon’s sake. After experiencing no change in his little brother’s expression, or even receiving words, Greg switched to his father, breaking the silence with greeting.
‘Hail Father. I see these halls are as welcoming as before.’
‘You look awful.’
The words came back slowly yet deliberately, dripping with concealed disgust. Greg glanced down at himself. He had seen better days. His clothes were ripped and discoloured from dust, seawater and various other substances over the last few months. One leg of his leather trousers had completely disappeared, a jagged, ugly gash colouring his thigh, and going a worryingly green colour. His face had fared little better. Dirty, smudged cheeks, grimy, thick stubble apparently everywhere, with dark rings under his eyes. His lower lip was swollen from being punched earlier in the day, and his normally perfect hair was thick with grease, plastered over one side of his head. Greg shrugged, as best he could with a man’s paw on his shoulder.
‘Being captured by pirates and half-killed by your men doesn’t agree with me. Though.. Ill wager I feel more alive than alester and his fake expression over there.’
The boy’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes widened, and Andrew’s pale face grew purple with rage, apparently snapping.
‘You are a disgrace. You have brought us shame, dishonour, insults and ignorance. Your mind has been corrupted, your tongue poisoned, your beliefs, culture and family forgotten. By all rights, I should have you killed for your treachery. However..’
The duke takes a breath, apparently calming himself, standing up from his throne.
‘Know that you are still my son, and I refuse to give up on you.’He nodded to the soldier, who turned Greg round in a single motion and buried his fist into Greg’s stomach, causing him to fold. A clubbing fist sent him to his knees, smashing into his spine, before a steel-tipped boot crashed into his chest, causing Greg to collapse in a heap, pain etched on his face, barely moving. Andrew moved past his body guards, striding towards his prone son, lowering his head to look him over.
‘Your inheritance now belongs to Alester. You will remain in custody until you learn to obey once more. Everytime you displease me, this shall occur.’ The older man stared down at his son, his cold blue eyes boring into him, mouth curled into an image of triumphant success. Greg raised his head, a hand finding his father’s boot, using it to lift him up slightly. He forced himself to look at the man, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
‘I’d rather die.. than live as your son ever again.. you disgusting piece of..’
His words were cut out by his father’s boot, which thudded into the side of his head. Everything went black, and Andrew sighed.
‘Lock him up. And close the city gates too. The bitch who seduced my son is one of the desert gypsies, and that ‘squid’ fool may easily have been followed. Have the guards patrol the walls, and re-summon the city garrison. I want us water-tight.’
Bran cursed, tossing the rotten piece of salmon over the side, and taking hold of the oars once more, pulling them in strong, long strokes, in the way he had been forced to learn through years at sea. But damn was it hot, he thought to himself, turning bloodshot eyes up onto the massive sun staring down at him, surrounded by a sea of blue sky. He had forsaken his leather shirt, finding it easier to row without it. He wondered how long his sweat-drenched, aching body would last. They had been on the move for two days, and the rowboat had barely any food or water left. Admittedly, the noble girl had been better than he’d expected. She seemed to grudgingly accept the situation with an air unusual for someone supposedly born into comfort, not complaining about the conditions or taking more than her fair share of food and drink. When asked where they were going, the dark-skinned soldier would shrug and say,
‘Away from that lot of course.’
In truth, he wasn’t certain himself. He knew Falmarha lay to the east, but he had no idea how far they were from it or even if they were going in the right direction. They would have to land the boat today, it did not matter where. He would find supplies, regroup and work out how best to get this girl to her family, and Ann-Korr. He subconsciously told himself that any ransom was hardly worth all this, but he had come this far, and seemed destined to carry on. In truth, he actually liked the girl, despite her birth. She seemed easy to talk to, sharp-witted, and easy on the eyes.
They landed the boat later that afternoon, at a small inlet. Bran emptied the water gourd down his parched throat, before throwing weeds and bits of undergrowth over the vessel. You never knew in Albar. He turned to the woman, and spoke in a steady, military tone.
‘Heres how things go. We’re a married couple, travelling to Ann-Korr, if anyone asks. We will stop at the nearest village from here for food and directions. You do all this, without playing games, and you’ll see your family again. Am I understood?’
He patted the small knife at his belt, the only weapon he’d retained during the fleeing from the port-slaughter, awaiting her answer.
Blue, tired looking eyes took these images in, only to have his left shoulder gripped, forcing a diversion of attention, and a stepping onto the soft blue carpet stretching out in front of him. He turned slowly to look at the person who carried this out, a tall, steel-clad soldier, with face and head covered by an expensive, traditionally winged albarian helm. He nodded at the man, and stepped onto the carpet in front of him, letting his eyes travel slowly in front, finally halting at the end of the carpet. With some effort, he straightened himself, regained some pose, and began walking forwards.
Andrew Hardcast sat on the lord’s chair, a magnificent piece of architecture made of bronze and gold, with gynk cushions and headrest. The man was smiling triumphantly, chewing on the nail of a ringed finger, while his other hand rested easily on the armrest of his throne. By the throne stood what appeared to be the man walking towards them in miniature, the only true difference being a few recent signs of puberty, and a slightly less pointed nose. Several metres in front of them stood two massive dark-skinned bodyguards, each holding a massive halberd in a rockhard pose, their faces hidden by gynkesian helmets.
Gregory Smiled at Alester, whose young face was fixed in a trained expression of contempt, before his gaze came to a halt a few yards from the two bodyguards, the soldier behind him gripping as tight as ever. Greg wondered why he bothered. His hands were tied anyway, for bragon’s sake. After experiencing no change in his little brother’s expression, or even receiving words, Greg switched to his father, breaking the silence with greeting.
‘Hail Father. I see these halls are as welcoming as before.’
‘You look awful.’
The words came back slowly yet deliberately, dripping with concealed disgust. Greg glanced down at himself. He had seen better days. His clothes were ripped and discoloured from dust, seawater and various other substances over the last few months. One leg of his leather trousers had completely disappeared, a jagged, ugly gash colouring his thigh, and going a worryingly green colour. His face had fared little better. Dirty, smudged cheeks, grimy, thick stubble apparently everywhere, with dark rings under his eyes. His lower lip was swollen from being punched earlier in the day, and his normally perfect hair was thick with grease, plastered over one side of his head. Greg shrugged, as best he could with a man’s paw on his shoulder.
‘Being captured by pirates and half-killed by your men doesn’t agree with me. Though.. Ill wager I feel more alive than alester and his fake expression over there.’
The boy’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes widened, and Andrew’s pale face grew purple with rage, apparently snapping.
‘You are a disgrace. You have brought us shame, dishonour, insults and ignorance. Your mind has been corrupted, your tongue poisoned, your beliefs, culture and family forgotten. By all rights, I should have you killed for your treachery. However..’
The duke takes a breath, apparently calming himself, standing up from his throne.
‘Know that you are still my son, and I refuse to give up on you.’He nodded to the soldier, who turned Greg round in a single motion and buried his fist into Greg’s stomach, causing him to fold. A clubbing fist sent him to his knees, smashing into his spine, before a steel-tipped boot crashed into his chest, causing Greg to collapse in a heap, pain etched on his face, barely moving. Andrew moved past his body guards, striding towards his prone son, lowering his head to look him over.
‘Your inheritance now belongs to Alester. You will remain in custody until you learn to obey once more. Everytime you displease me, this shall occur.’ The older man stared down at his son, his cold blue eyes boring into him, mouth curled into an image of triumphant success. Greg raised his head, a hand finding his father’s boot, using it to lift him up slightly. He forced himself to look at the man, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
‘I’d rather die.. than live as your son ever again.. you disgusting piece of..’
His words were cut out by his father’s boot, which thudded into the side of his head. Everything went black, and Andrew sighed.
‘Lock him up. And close the city gates too. The bitch who seduced my son is one of the desert gypsies, and that ‘squid’ fool may easily have been followed. Have the guards patrol the walls, and re-summon the city garrison. I want us water-tight.’
Bran cursed, tossing the rotten piece of salmon over the side, and taking hold of the oars once more, pulling them in strong, long strokes, in the way he had been forced to learn through years at sea. But damn was it hot, he thought to himself, turning bloodshot eyes up onto the massive sun staring down at him, surrounded by a sea of blue sky. He had forsaken his leather shirt, finding it easier to row without it. He wondered how long his sweat-drenched, aching body would last. They had been on the move for two days, and the rowboat had barely any food or water left. Admittedly, the noble girl had been better than he’d expected. She seemed to grudgingly accept the situation with an air unusual for someone supposedly born into comfort, not complaining about the conditions or taking more than her fair share of food and drink. When asked where they were going, the dark-skinned soldier would shrug and say,
‘Away from that lot of course.’
In truth, he wasn’t certain himself. He knew Falmarha lay to the east, but he had no idea how far they were from it or even if they were going in the right direction. They would have to land the boat today, it did not matter where. He would find supplies, regroup and work out how best to get this girl to her family, and Ann-Korr. He subconsciously told himself that any ransom was hardly worth all this, but he had come this far, and seemed destined to carry on. In truth, he actually liked the girl, despite her birth. She seemed easy to talk to, sharp-witted, and easy on the eyes.
They landed the boat later that afternoon, at a small inlet. Bran emptied the water gourd down his parched throat, before throwing weeds and bits of undergrowth over the vessel. You never knew in Albar. He turned to the woman, and spoke in a steady, military tone.
‘Heres how things go. We’re a married couple, travelling to Ann-Korr, if anyone asks. We will stop at the nearest village from here for food and directions. You do all this, without playing games, and you’ll see your family again. Am I understood?’
He patted the small knife at his belt, the only weapon he’d retained during the fleeing from the port-slaughter, awaiting her answer.