10,342 words
The Grand Funeral for King Martin
You wake up this morning with a skip in your step.
Your father's funeral is today. It has been a month in the making. Messengers to all the human kingdoms of Tartessia were sent out informing them of the king's passing and warning them of the treachery of Saraqusta who poisoned him with Bloody Nettle. They are invited to the funeral to attend and give their condolences. Unfortunately, despite your father's vaunted reputation, your neighbors only sent the dregs. Duke Diege of Castellon sent a nephew whose name you've already forgotten. King Salvador of Montemayor sent a gift of some kind of incense and apologized for not being able to attend. Torreblanca didn't even reply.
The worst of the lot is undoubtedly the Asturian """prince""". You really can't put prince in enough quotes. He's a lowly second son of a second son of a lowly cadet branch of the vaunted Asturian dynasty. Yet because he's patrilineally descended from an Asturian king, he can go around calling himself prince. But that's not what's so annoying about him. What is truly annoying is that he keeps disappearing into Alfida city (where you have to spare men to protect him) to 'sample the local cuisine' of Alfida's sacred temples of Life and then comes back stinking of perfume and sex and complaining about the quality!
The nerve!
Anyway, compared to him, the Wyvern Knight Antonio from the Wyvern Kingdom is a downright joy even if he is a bore who refuses to drink your wine.
So that's how your week has been. At least it will end today. Your father's body has been laid out in a great casket. A team of priests and clerics have been maintaining it in a state of perfect preservation through a variety of magical rituals, and the late king is dressed in his full ceremonial armor, the crown atop his head and the royal scepter and sword lying at his side. His eyes are closed and his hands folded together, his lips sewn shut with golden thread and his cheeks are sunken and his skin has become pallid, almost ghostly.
The corpse is ready and you and your family and all the great dignitaries, nobles, and important clergy of the realm must dress in your finest mourning attire. Your mother and sister wear monotone black dresses with sheer black veils covering their faces as is custom while you and your brother are in more subdued black tunics.
The entire day has been planned around an elaborate burial rite. The chief Prelate of Death for Alfida will lead a procession of sacred sisters of Death through the streets. The Prelate will bear the coffin in a palanquin followed by the king's family and the highest ranking dignitaries. Behind the palanquin, the rest of the attendees will be led through the city, their procession winding all the way from the cathedral of the First Man in the heart of the city down to the Mausoleum of Waiting Souls. All along the way, the sisters will sing their hymns while you and your brother swing the incense bells.
It's all very trite and it's going to take all goddamn day.
But alas you're the king. You must be seen performing the proper sacred rituals.
Before all that anyway, you have to attend the prayer service at the cathedral. The great hall is filled with people. Priests and nuns, noblemen and peasants, merchants and mages, soldiers and scholars, and everyone else of any import in your kingdom has been invited and they are expected to attend.
So they have. The room is packed beyond capacity and you and your family have a reserved spot at the front. Your brother sits at your right and your mother sits on the other side, a veil over her face as she silently mourns the late king. She has barely left her room in a month. Hopefully, putting the old bastard to rest will liven her up a bit. You already pinned the blame for his death of Saraqusta and fortunately, she bought it. Now, she rants about an impending invasion constantly.
... you really don't know what you did to deserve being cursed with such a neurotic mother.
The prelate rises from his chair. He's a gaunt man with a hooked nose and long greying hair tied in a tail behind his back. He is dressed in a dark black robe trimmed in gold thread and a great golden stole hangs around his neck, the symbol of the United Church of the Tritheos displayed proudly on the front. He raises his hands, palms upward, and calls the faithful to prayer. The Prelate of the Church of the First Man stands at his right while the Prelate of the Church of Life stands at his left in the most conservative dress the woman has probably ever worn.
"Hark, ye children of men! Let not thy hearts be troubled. Let not thy spirits be dismayed. For Death is not the end. Our second Mother calls all to her warm embrace. Death so loved our king that she could not wait any longer to meet him in the afterlife and so hastened his departure. Our first mother, blessed be her name, loved him dearly and so her children shall bury him with the honor due him and mourn his passing," the Prelate begins.
Then he continues his speech. He talks of the late king's virtues and his great contributions to the faith and the faithful. He speaks of his military achievements, the wars he waged, and the enemies he defeated. The whole thing is a rather long winded speech with the occasional verse from the holy books thrown in for good measure comparing him to the Son. Seems a bit presumptuous to you. The Son conquered much of the known world. Your father launched a successful rebellion and got a 'kingdom' the size of a single county.
The ceremony drones on for over an hour. Finally, the Prelate reaches the conclusion, "And now we shall pass his soul on. Our king is dead. Our king will live again!"
Everyone in the congregation cries out the same words, "Our king is dead. Our king will live again."
"Let us now depart in his procession."
Everyone rises and you take your place at the head of the procession. Your father's coffin is carried by a pair of palanquin bearers who are flanked by a dozen soldiers from the Order of the Knights of Death. You take up the incense bells and you and your brother begin to swing them in rhythm with the hymns sung by the sisters of Death. The sweet aroma wafts through the air and you make your way to the doors where you are greeted by the common folk who line the street.
Your retinue winds its way through the streets of the city and down toward the mausoleum where a crowd of commoners wait.
You swing your incense bells and the Prelate recites verses from the holy books while the sisters sing. It is a long winding journey through the city with several instances of circling around a block or backtracking. It's supposed to symbolize how life isn't straight forward. Sometimes we spin in circles, sometimes we regress, but ultimately, it leads us toward the same end. Death.
It's supposed to be triumphant, but you find it all very morose.
At least you get a good look at the city during all of this. It is... not nearly as impressive as the Free and Sovereign City, that is for sure. You have no sewer system so the peasants dump their waste in ditches which are cleaned out every night and emptied into the river. Only the main thoroughfare is paved. The rest is just a mishmash of hard packed dirt and stones.
There is not much in the way of statues or art either. Your father did not waste money on cultural public works. It is a stark contrast to the wealthier parts of Emporia where marble and granite is commonplace. There, a person can walk down the street and see beautiful frescoes and statues and mosaics everywhere. Here, well, it's just not there. It isn't as if Alfida is too poor. Your silversmiths are famous throughout the peninsula and your silver mine produces tremendous wealth. Albeit, that wealth does not flow down the classes.
It's not a very pretty city is what you're saying and that's a shame. Perhaps you should relax some of the sumptuary laws so people can liven the place up a bit...
Eventually, you reach the mausoleum, an impressive structure of red stone in the shape of a great pyramid with the base of it being square and rising in four sloped sides toward the tip. The gates are cast open ready and waiting for you to arrive.
You walk inside, following the palanquin bearers and the coffin toward the stairs. Your entourage trails in behind you and the crowds remain outside as is the custom. It is only close kin and the necessary religious official allowed inside while the body is interred. You are not looking forward to climbing those stairs. If only they'd allow you to levitate instead. It's so much easier.
You follow the palanquin bearers through a door and up a wide set of steps leading into the belly of the pyramid. Dozens of lit braziers light the way into the heart of the complex. Rows upon rows of shelves are embedded in the walls where the dead are placed in caskets, the bodies and bones sealed away with a layer of alchemical cement to keep it closed. Don't want any necromancers thinking they've got an easy target for drawing an army.
The palanquin is lowered to the ground and the casket lifted. King Martin will be placed in just another shelf the same as everyone else for all are equal in death. It is the creed of the faith.
You watch the proceedings silently, swinging the incense bells slowly and quietly.
You watch the proceedings silently, swinging the incense bells slowly and quietly.
It's not a long process. The Prelate says a few words, blesses the grave, and then the casket is moved into place. He then hands you the knapped stone to carve your father's return date. "December 31st, 1099. Hah. Isn't that something. What a way to start off the new century, hm?" You hand it to your brother and he takes his time chiseling the letters.
He returns it to the Prelate who holds it above the shelf and then strikes it against the stone. "And so he will be reborn."
'Gods, I hope not. Can you see me from up there, father? I have half a mind to marry an elfblood just to delight in the image of you screaming in apoplectic rage over it.'
Well, at least all this is over with. Time to party.
Queen Dowager Isabel collapses when you and your brother finish chiseling the letters, wailing like a banshee as tears stream down her face. Her veil falls down revealing her gaunt and haggard appearance. She really hasn't been doing well since your father's death. You've heard whispers among the servants about how she's been acting.
"I know, mama, but you'll get to see him again," Maria kneels down trying to comfort her.
"We should've gone together! It's not fair!" the old woman laments.
"Mama, you have to accept the will of the Gods," Maria insists, patting her back.
"Come on, mother," Ramon swallows his anger and reaches down to comfort her, "You still have all of us."
The queen sobs as her two children try to soothe her, her eyes locked on the tombstone. "I loved him. I loved him so much. We were supposed to go together."
You clench your fists and try not to lose your patience.
"Come, mother, you need some rest," Maria helps her to her feet, "Don't worry about the celebration. I'll stay with you."
"They'll poison us there too! I know they will! They're not going to stop until the whole family is dead! You need to do something!" the woman's voice cracks with terror and desperation as she pleads with you.
"I am preparing, mother. I promise. I won't let them get away with this," you lie straight to her face. Well, you are making some preparation for war, but the commoners are out sowing the fields right now. Can't exactly prepare for war with so much work to be done. "Now please get up. You're disturbing the rest of the other deceased."
She whimpers and sobs and lets Maria help her away. Ramon glares at them the entire time as their backs disappear into the fading light and the echoes of their footsteps grow more distant until only the flickering embers of the braziers can be heard. The Prelate and the other pallbearers don't dare make a sound while you and your brother (and your uncle now that you think about it) stand there silently as ghosts.
Uncle Ansur speaks up for the first time. He took a ceremonial positions along with the Knights of Death during the procession guarding the casket, only rejoining you once you entered the mausoleum. He sniffs disdainfully and literally thumbs his nose in the direction of the entrance, "Disgraceful behavior in a hallowed place such as this."
"If Death was so insulted by weeping widows, she would not call us to her realm, uncle," you respond.
"Hmph," he scoffs.
Ramon looks down at the stone slab and kicks it hard, "I have had my fill of this place."
"As have I," you agree. This macabre environment is souring your mood. All these stone slabs with their dates written on them. It's all a harsh reminder that even death won't ease your burdens. Death swaddles the faithful in her bosom for just as much time as they tasted the fruit of life. No more, no less. Then they must return, constantly cycling between the care of their two Divine mothers. Constantly bouncing back and forth without meaning or purpose beyond entertaining the idiosyncrasies on their creators.
The Gods are cruel.
"I am feeling a fly back to the royal keep. Do you wish to fly with me brother, uncle?" you ask.
Ramon shakes his head, "No. I feel like riding back with my men, and flight... does not agree with me."
Tch, you took him out for a flight once while visiting a few years ago and he evacuated his lunch and now he's too skittish to try it again. You've gotten much better control since then!
"Suit yourself," you shrug and turn your gaze to your Uncle, "What about you?"
"I would walk," he replies.
"As you wish."
"See you at the feast, Ramon," you tell him, clapping him on the back.
"Good flying, brother."
The Prelate and the pallbearers finally relax as the three of you exit the mausoleum. Crowds of commoners wait outside the building. Some have come to pay their respects. Others are merely curious. Most are here because there is no work on the day of the king's funeral. These people are your subjects. The beating heart of Alfida.
You look over the faces of the masses, scanning them for some kind of insight. A glimpse into their minds and their lives. You see... apprehension. Your father's rule was violent and even capricious on occasion, but he kept things stable. Stability, beyond anything else, is what the commoners crave. Stability and safety. They fear the unknown and your father was a known quantity. Now that he's gone, who will hold the reins?
Perhaps a display of power will allay their concerns?
You chant the spell for flying and then leap up into the air, floating a hundred feet above the city. Wind rushes around you and you spread your arms, taking in the view. The crowds below watch in awe. Your uncle and the Prelate stare up at you. You're certainly making a scene. But, of course, flying isn't so difficult. Any mage worth their salt can do it.
Hm, what will impress some commoners. Oh, you could encase yourself in illusionary fire and then blast off toward your castle. Yes, the commoners will love that!
You conjure the illusion of flames surrounding you and then shoot off at your maximum speed. The crowd gasps, a few shriek, and children point and exclaim. You weave a path between buildings and arc up and down before landing gracefully in the courtyard of the castle. Your knights rush to surround you, swords drawn, but relax when they see it's just their king.
"At ease, men. It's just me," you laugh.
The commander of the guard takes a moment to collect himself and then salutes you with his fist clasped over his chest. "Good day, your majesty."
"Thank you, commander," you respond as you adjust your clothes. "Please have the herald announce that the celebrations may commence."
"Yes, my king."
The commander turns and relays your order. Within a few minutes, the horns blow and the people begin to enter the main hall.
Let the celebrations begin. King Martin is dead but he lived a long and storied life. Now you have to smile in front of everyone and pretend like you'll miss and tell stories of all the wonderful things he accomplished. It's exhausting.
Already, you can hear the revelers singing songs of him. You're going to need a lot of wine.
"My king!" Cristobal, your brother in law, sprints up to you as you walk toward the royal keep, "Thank goodness I found you. It could've been a disaster if I hadn't. We've received an unexpected guest. Princess of the Blood Andrea of the house Asturias-Leon."
"Another distant cousin of the king? What of it?" you ask as you reach the doors and enter the keep. Cristobal walks quickly to keep up with you, desperate not to lose you in the growing throng of people occupying your main hall. He has to shove several people out of the way, apologizing all the while which interrupts his explanation.
"Yes, my king. Apologies, good sir. Ahem. Yes, but from a different cadet branch to Prince of the Blood Mateo of house Asturias-Valero," Cristobal explains, placing emphasis on the cadet branches of the two very distant Asturian nobles.
"I see," you lie.
"See you at the feast, Ramon," you tell him, clapping him on the back.
"Good flying, brother."
The Prelate and the pallbearers finally relax as the three of you exit the mausoleum. Crowds of commoners wait outside the building. Some have come to pay their respects. Others are merely curious. Most are here because there is no work on the day of the king's funeral. These people are your subjects. The beating heart of Alfida.
You look over the faces of the masses, scanning them for some kind of insight. A glimpse into their minds and their lives. You see... apprehension. Your father's rule was violent and even capricious on occasion, but he kept things stable. Stability, beyond anything else, is what the commoners crave. Stability and safety. They fear the unknown and your father was a known quantity. Now that he's gone, who will hold the reins?
Perhaps a display of power will allay their concerns?
You chant the spell for flying and then leap up into the air, floating a hundred feet above the city. Wind rushes around you and you spread your arms, taking in the view. The crowds below watch in awe. Your uncle and the Prelate stare up at you. You're certainly making a scene. But, of course, flying isn't so difficult. Any mage worth their salt can do it.
Hm, what will impress some commoners. Oh, you could encase yourself in illusionary fire and then blast off toward your castle. Yes, the commoners will love that!
You conjure the illusion of flames surrounding you and then shoot off at your maximum speed. The crowd gasps, a few shriek, and children point and exclaim. You weave a path between buildings and arc up and down before landing gracefully in the courtyard of the castle. Your knights rush to surround you, swords drawn, but relax when they see it's just their king.
"At ease, men. It's just me," you laugh.
The commander of the guard takes a moment to collect himself and then salutes you with his fist clasped over his chest. "Good day, your majesty."
"Thank you, commander," you respond as you adjust your clothes. "Please have the herald announce that the celebrations may commence."
"Yes, my king."
The commander turns and relays your order. Within a few minutes, the horns blow and the people begin to enter the main hall.
Let the celebrations begin. King Martin is dead but he lived a long and storied life. Now you have to smile in front of everyone and pretend like you'll miss and tell stories of all the wonderful things he accomplished. It's exhausting.
Already, you can hear the revelers singing songs of him. You're going to need a lot of wine.
"My king!" Cristobal, your brother in law, sprints up to you as you walk toward the royal keep, "Thank goodness I found you. It could've been a disaster if I hadn't. We've received an unexpected guest. Princess of the Blood Andrea of the house Asturias-Leon."
"Another distant cousin of the king? What of it?" you ask as you reach the doors and enter the keep. Cristobal walks quickly to keep up with you, desperate not to lose you in the growing throng of people occupying your main hall. He has to shove several people out of the way, apologizing all the while which interrupts his explanation.
"Yes, my king. Apologies, good sir. Ahem. Yes, but from a different cadet branch to Prince of the Blood Mateo of house Asturias-Valero," Cristobal explains, placing emphasis on the cadet branches of the two very distant Asturian nobles.
"I see," you lie.
"My lord, it is paramount you understand the differences. They are here to court you for your favor, petty representatives though they might be. The old king Felipe III is quickly aging and he is without male heirs. By law the crown passes to Prince of the Blood Felipe of Asturias-Valero, but the wise King Felipe has instead chosen his successor based on merit and selected Prince of the Blood Enrique of Asturias-Leon," Cristobal explains as quickly as he can, condensing a large amount of delicate political information concisely as he can. "Both factions are courting favor within and without Asturias to gain an edge in the coming war."
"Interesting," you hum to yourself, "What an intriguing proposition. Are the two sides equally matched?"
Cristobal winces apologetically and shakes his head, "I do not know, my liege. These things are not spoken of in polite company. Only someone deeply embedded in the Asturian court would be privy to such details."
Annoying. You don't actually want to back anyone if there's a clear winner. Better then to stay out of it. If you join the losing side, you obviously lose and could die. If you join the clear winner, you will have added your strength to secure an even easier win for a regional hegemon. If there must be a hegemonic Asturias, you'd prefer it to bleed as much as possible before uniting once more. But if they are roughly evenly matched? Well then, you have the opportunity to play kingmaker and extract incredibly disproportionate concessions for your support.
"What is the Princess of the Blood Andrea's status within the hierarchy?" you ask.
"She is the younger sister of Prince of the Blood Enrique," Cristobal replies, "Forgive me, your majesty. I have not yet explained everything."
"There's more?"
Cristobal nods grimly and wipes his clammy hands on a handkerchief. "Yes, your majesty. The old king has taken a new wife. He hopes to sire a new heir to ward off this entire succession crisis if he should find himself blessed with another ten years of life. If he should succeed, there may yet be a third faction in the succession war."
"A third player in the game, hm? A young and weak king sitting upon Asturias would be best for us. Let the giant sleep while we build our strength," you pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. This is a complex political situation to be plopped onto your lap right after a funeral.
Cristobal senses your frustration and bows, "My apologies, my liege, for springing such a matter on you at the worst possible moment."
"No. No, you have done well. Without you, I would be walking into this entire mess without a clue," you pat Cristobal's shoulder, "Thank you."
"You're most welcome, my liege."
"Now," you take a look around the great hall, "Where are they?"
"I've given them both seats of honor at the high table along with the representative of the Little Wyvern Kingdom," Cristobal gestures to the high table.
"Well then. Let's see how they measure up."
You and Cristobal weave your way through the growing crowd. The great hall is becoming packed, the heat rising as the mass of bodies presses against each other and the air thickens with the scent of sweat and wine.
The hall is decorated with the colors of Alfida and your banners are everywhere, your crest displayed proudly— a black background with a silver griffin. Mother is nowhere to be seen. Ramon and Uncle Ansur will be arriving shortly. You got here much quicker on account of flying. Uncle Enrique, Alfonso, Fernando, and some of your other important nobiles are here too. One of them, an older 'retired' man, Horatio de San Juan, is telling sensationalist stories about your father's exploits in the wars they fought together in.
Horatio used to be your father's chief military advisor before he grew too old and retired to the countryside. His sons are not really up to the task of providing help for anything. The eldest is an idiot and the youngest a drunkard. He also has a pair of daughters. One is a sacred sister of Life which must have been a HELL of teenage rebellion and the other is married to... someone or another.
"Three thousand elfblood spearmen, another two thousand archers, and a complement of a thousand elfblood knights. I was sure we were doomed. Positive of it, in fact. When he gave the order to sally out of the fortress, I thought he'd gone mad. I'm still not entirely sure he wasn't. And yet, there we were, three hundred knights, two thousand infantry, and a handful of mages charging across the plains into the teeth of the enemy army. You could've heard the clash a mile away, that's how loud it was," the man booms, his voice filling the hall.
He's quite a charismatic speaker.
"We smashed into their right flank, trampled them, and cut them down. They weren't prepared. They thought we'd stay holed up in that damned fortress for months longer. Martin scrambled their cavalry while their archers couldn't fire into the melee without killing their own men along with ours. There was some confusion in their ranks because we left the some illusory archers on the battlements of the fortress so they thought the force suddenly charging into them was a relief force and our main force would be sallying out to join us in due time. That shattered their morale and sent them running. The knights stuck around, seeing through the ruse but once the foot soldiers broke, they couldn't do anything. We raided their camp for food and then ran straight back into the fort and they had to give up. The elfbloods didn't have the stones for another six months of sieging."
Horatio wipes a tear from his eye and downs his mug. "The man was a damn genius. Rest well in the arms of Mother Death, old friend."
"Here, here!" a chorus of voices call out.
With the story finished, you take your seat at the table. You didn't want to interrupt him. The man has a talent for storytelling.
Your guests are all seated as well. Prince Mateo and his distant cousin Princess Andrea are seated opposite each other near the head of the table where the guests of the highest honor sit. Unfortunately, since they're technically royals (in the pettiest sense) of Asturias, you have to give them that respect.
Mateo greets you cheerfully as you approach. His speech already has a mild slur to it and his cheeks are stained red. The man has gotten deep into his cups already, "King Alonso! I was starting to worry you wouldn't arrive before the party got started. I hope you don't mind. I took it upon myself to invite some additional entertainment," he gestures with his neck toward a group of scantily clad sacred sisters of Life who are pouring drinks for guests and batting their eyelashes at the men. One walks past Prince Mateo and he gives her a playful swat on the behind. The sacred sister yelps cutely and turns around to shoot him a coy smile before she sashays away.
"How kind of you, prince. Thank you," you reply neutrally.
"It's a celebration of the great King Martin's life, no? Who better to celebrate it with than the daughters of Life?" he further explains himself with a lascivious smile.
"A fine point, yes," you take your seat. The servants place the dishes in front of you and you begin eating. You're famished. You've spent the whole damn day parading around the town and skipping lunch as a result. Your first dish is freshly roasted pork garnished with onions and garlic and glazed with honey mixed with a kind of berry. It's delicious.
"So," you turn to Prince Mateo, "Are you enjoying Alfida so far, Prince Mateo?"
"Indeed!" he pops an olive into his mouth and hums in delight, "Your olives are a treat. They grow so terribly in Pradoalto. The winters get too cold. The poor things wither and die."
"Is that so? We're very lucky to have the warmer climate I suppose," you respond.
"Yes, and the warm people," the prince winks with his whole face causing his thick mustache to ruffle. You suspect he thinks it makes him look older and more mature, but in his late twenties he shouldn't need such a thing. He keeps in good shape and is reportedly a knight of some decent renown. Appearance wise, he has the usual Asturian features. Dark hair, brown eyes, and a long and aquiline nose though his skin tone is on the paler side like many of the Asturian royal family. His clothes are made of a glossy linen dyed a dark green with a houndstooth pattern dark yellow atop it. It looks to have been woven carefully and then polished with glass, a time consuming process that shows off his means.
"And Princess Andrea," you turn toward his cousin before she feels too neglected. She is much the opposite of her distant kin. Whereas Mateo radiates the energy and exuberance of youth, Andrea is reserved and calm despite being several years younger. She wears a subdued black and white fine linen dress with a long muted grey skirt, sporting no fancy patterns. Her skin is even paler than her cousins and her hair even darker, reaching all the way down her back. The sharp contrast brings out the color in her warm brown eyes making for a fetching sight. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"
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"Quite, your majesty," she responds, "And please, I am no princess. King Felipe is my fourth cousin twice removed. Such a thing hardly warrants such a lofty title."
"But the customary courtesy does," you insist.
"Thank you," she smiles demurely and sips from her golden goblet, matching the golden chain holding a ruby pendant dangling across her chest and resting gently atop the swells of her breasts.
"How have you found Alfida so far?" you ask.
"We did not get a chance to stop and appreciate the sights on the journey over, but from what little I have seen, I am surprised. For a city on the borderlands, your prosperity is impressive. I only wish I could have visited sooner. It was always my wish to play the greatest chess masters of the peninsula and your father was vaunted as among the best," Princess Andrea replies.
"Chess?" you intone, "That is not a game I expected a princess to play."
"I find I care little what games princesses are expected to play," Andrea takes another sip of wine, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip.
"A woman of unusual tastes, I see. Tell me, how is your game?"
"I am no master, but I play decently. Do you?" she asks.
"I've dabbled. It was a popular activity in the Grand University. I could never match my professor however. He had a true talent for it," you sigh wistfully at the memory. Professor Jimeno is a brilliant mage. You apprenticed under him during the last four years of your time in the Grand University. He was an avid chess player and often bullied you into playing and losing to him in between assignments.
"The Grand University, eh?" Prince Mateo chimes in, "I've heard it's a marvel. People from all around the world go to study there. I envy you, King Alonso. I would have loved to study there. Alas, I was destined for the knighthood from the moment I could hold a sword."
Princess Andrea hums in agreement, "The entrance examination is remarkably difficult."
That's by design. The Grand University employs an esoteric and strange test designed to determine the raw intelligence of the applicant absent all other factors like knowledge of math or even reading. If you are a genius, they will accept you. Of course, if you're a genius with money, they'll still charge you for it like they did your father.
"So it is," you agree.
Sir Antonio of Little Wyvern speaks up. He is the commander of a garrison for the Little Wyvern Kingdom. One of their many forts dotting the mountains that maintain their hold over them. That means he's quite good at what he does and he's got a keen mind for strategy and logistics. Apparently, not much an eye for the sacred sisters of Life though given how he shies away from their advances. "Ahem," he clears his throat, "Its teachings can't be underestimated. I saw you flying on the way here. You are fast."
You smile and nod, "Yes. Flight is among the lower tiers of magic so I've long had time to sharpen my skills. Though I doubt I could best your wyverns in a race."
"It would certainly be an interesting test! I think my men would enjoy it," Sir Antonio laughs, "If you grow weary of the festivities, I should like to suit up and have a friendly competition!"
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You have the option to spend some time with someone at this event. Your options will be:
1) Lord Horatio. He is old but he was your father's right hand man. If you can strike up a rapport, you might be able to drag him out of retirement.
2) Prince of the Blood Mateo de Asturias-Valero. He wants to spend some time being entertained by some sacred sisters of Life with you. This will improve your relations with the Asturias-Valero faction of Asturias
3) Princess of the Blood Andrea de Asturias-Leon. She would like to play you in a match of chess and converse over the game. This will improve your relations with the Asturias-Leon faction of Asturias
4) Sir Antonio of Little Wyvern. Go racing against his wyvern and hang out a bit with him and his men. This will improve your relations with Wyvern Pequeño.
( you can guess the answer...)
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"I may just have to take you up on that offer," you chuckle.
"Hah! Then, consider it a challenge," Sir Antonio leans back in his chair and strokes his beard, his fingers trailing through the curly dark red locks. He has the look of the mountain folk like many wyvern riders with their wiry dark red hair and strong brow ridges and flat noses.
The servants around the table begin to clear out of the way and you spot a familiar head of hair marching toward the high table. Prince Ramon cuts his way through the throng of partygoers and servants and takes his place at your side.
"Brother," you greet him with a nod.
"Brother," Ramon replies as he plops down in his chair. He gives a polite nod to all the table and then descends upon his food like a starving beast. Uncle Enrique and Cristobal wince at his gruff behavior, but no one dares comment. You know how much Ramon hates these gatherings and you're sure he'll get to the alcohol soon enough.
"Prince Ramon," Lord Horatio laughs heartily. His voice wheezes ever so slightly with old age giving a crispy, crackling sound to his laugh and a grandfatherly quality to it. "It is good to see you. Now here's a soldier, I tell you. I've known these boys since they were swaddled in their cribs. One was born to hold a wand and the other a sword. Not a man in the kingdom I would've given up my beloved Almanzor to besides him. How fares the castle these days, my boy?"
Ramon swallows his food and gives the old lord a tight smile. "It fares well, my lord. I received a fine batch of lieutenants and a disciplined company of men because of your leadership. I dare say the castle could run without me some days."
"Hah! Good. Good," Horatio nods along.
"Hahaha. Yes, indeed my nephews were both blessed with talent," Uncle Enrique boasts, "Good stock, if I may say."
Sir Antonio laughs along, "Good stock indeed. I share a table with so many heroes of the liberation. I must hear from these men who lived through such storied times. Tell me of the Devil of the Central Plateau in his prime!"
"Well, I was only his squire," Uncle Enrique admits, "But I was there to witness it all first hand. My brother-in-law was a colossus on the battlefield."
Horatio adds, "The only human to ever achieve the rank of general in the damn elfbloods' army. The first and I'd reckon the last to do it!"
Prince Mateo leans in with keen interest to hear this tale. You've heard it dozens of times but the two knights are only happy to relive their memories. They are quite the crowd favorites after all. Uncle Ansur arrives not a moment too soon to lend a third eye witness account. He was nineteen when the fitna occurred and was a fresh soldier under your father's command.
"The elves needed us, you see," Horatio continues, "Couldn't defend the frontier against Vermonde with just ten thousand odd elfbloods and hold the interior and stave off Asturias. They needed to recruit humans, still do too, but they know better than to let us be generals again. It all began with the tournament of fifty..."
Horatio, Uncle Ansur, and Uncle Enrique take turns tell the story, but you've heard it a hundred times before. The tale of how your father and forty nine other human men shocked the elfbloods by winning the tournament of fifty, named for the size of its teams rather than the number of teams, and was award a hundred man commander post for it in the army. Then he went on to have an amazing and storied career taking command of the battle of the Docien pass after his commanding officer was slain and then managed to organize a retreat only to retain command afterward and dare to fight another battle against the Vermondois with his depleted force.
It was a smashing victory that forced an end to the war. For his heroics he was promoted to general and wed to a half-elf of the traitor House Al Q'ala which according to him was never consummated. Given your father's ire toward elfbloods, you believe it. 'I refused to be a prize to be won by some elfblood whoredaughter. I am a man, not a horse.'
He was relegated to a frontier posting because of his presumptuous behavior and found himself in a prime position to assert his independence when the fitna broke out. The rest, as they say, is history.
Uncle Enrique, Uncle Ansur, and Horatio, of course, never tire of telling it. You wonder how much is actually embellished and how much is true. Your father wasn't much for talking about the past in any great detail. He would tell you about his victories, the ones that won him the favor of his commanders, and his campaigns in the field. But he always carried a deep anger within him that belied some traumatic experiences suffered during those years. Perhaps you could have come to understand him better, maybe even start to forgive him, if he opened up about them and showed some kind of humanity.
Too late for that now.
Your focus drifts away from the raucous storytelling on your uncles and you scan the rest of the table. Lord Fernando is chatting with the nephew of Duke Diego who you had no choice but to receive as a guest. Lord Alfonso and Mayor Bernardo are engaged in a lively debate with Prelate Angela of the Church of Life mediating between the two about some kind of urban planning policy. Archon Sancho is drooling like a man a quarter of his age over the Sacred Sisters of Life milling about.
Princess Andrea notices your attention drifting away from the stories and gives a soft chuckle, "Old men do so love to hear themselves talk, do they not? And as their memory fails them, perhaps they forget their stories become repetitious. For this to be so soon after such a repetitive procession, you have my sympathies. I'm sure you've heard this tale more than you could possibly wish. Perhaps we could have a different conversation?"
"That would be a relief. Thank you, Princess Andrea," you reply, "What did you have in mind?"
"Something near and dear to your heart to stoke your passions and lift your spirit. Tell me of your magic, King Alonso," she rests her chin on her hands and stares at you intently.
"My magic? You flatter me, princess. There are much more exciting topics," you respond modestly.
"On the contrary, I am a woman of unusual tastes. Tell me of your magic and your experiences with it. I have heard many tales of your remarkable prowess," the princess insists.
"... what do you wish to know?" you ask.
Princess Andrea smiles. She has a subtle, calm smile. The corners of lips just barely tug upward and her eyelids droop ever so slightly. "It is said a True Magus is one who can slip through the fabric of space and reach the beacons tethered to our world which the people call teleportation circles. I will not bother you for the technical details for I fear I would not understand them, but I am endlessly curious— what does such an experience feel like?"
Hm, how to describe that feeling?
"It feels... it's like an exhale," you begin, trying to explain the sensation of leaving reality and then entering another. "An exhale with your entire body. The entire world melts away, your body vanishes, and the weightlessness comes. It's as if you are nothing. As if you are less than the dust particles dancing in the light. Your mind fractures and frays, coming apart at the seams from your nonexistence. It is like..." you click your tongue as you struggle to find the words to describe it. Sensations are not so easily given unto words. The classical example given in the university was 'explaining color to a blind man'. To understand some things, you need experience them.
"It is like... the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, perhaps. I cannot say for certain. The world shifts, the colors blur, the sounds warp. Half dreams claw at your brain, whispering words you can barely hear or comprehend. A kaleidoscope of visions flood your mind in that space, a jumble of meaningless images. Some people are able to control their dreaming. Some fail and get lost forever. A True Magus is one who can resist the fraying long enough to find a beacon in the dark which is like... hmmm... Have you ever walked within your room without a light?"
"Who has not?" Princess Andrea replies.
"Right. When all you see is darkness, but you are in a place familiar to you, it is almost as if you can feel the room around you and know how to navigate it. That is how it is with the teleportation circles. They act as beacons that you can feel even in the dark and you instinctively move toward them like the path has been tread a thousand times," you explain.
"Fascinating," Princess Andrea breathes.
"It truly is. My fascination with teleportation was what drew me to the University in the first place," you explain, "That and flying. I often dreamed of being able to go somewhere far away with magic so no one could stop me."
"Oh?" Princess Andrea's eyebrows rise.
"A foolish fantasy," you state dismissively, "Duty binds us stronger than any force of nature."
"Indeed," the princess agrees without elaboration.
The servants bring out the final course of the meal, a dessert of honey and almond pastries. You're glad to see it. You're not much of a fan of sweets, but this will make for a nice cap on the meal and provide an easy transition into the festivities.
You pick up a piece with a fork and bite into it. It's soft, moist, and delicious. The sweet honey is tempered with a hint of tart lemon which contrasts well with the rich cream. You hum in approval and Princess Andrea's eyes sparkle.
"Mmm. Almonds do not grow well in my home city but they are my favorite," she licks the cream from her lips.
"I'm glad you like it. Buy as many as you like before returning home. If you keep them dry, they keep well," you tell her.
"I shall," the princess grins and then takes a sip of wine.
The musicians and bards take their cue and begin playing as the tables are cleared away and the hall is rearranged. You can spot a few sacred sisters slipping through the crowd and the guests are already dancing and drinking. Prince Mateo is already deep into his cups and Sir Antonio and his wyvern rider are comparing scars and war stories with your knights, your bastard brother Luis among them. Ramon is dragged away by an insistent sacred sister of Life who whispers in his ear while he gulps down the wine, his cheeks a bright crimson.
You rise from the table, "Shall we join the dance, Princess Andrea? Or would you perhaps prefer a game of chess?"
"I should very much enjoy a game of chess, if you don't mind, King Alonso," the princess smiles.
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Dice: 1d50+14
22 + 14 = 36
Destroyed
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"Please, just call me Alonso," you extend your arm and the princess accepts it, placing her hand daintily on your forearm. You walk together toward a private alcove where you and your guest can have some privacy. It is no big ordeal to drag a small table and two chairs over to give you a space to play.
"Only if you will call me Andrea," the princess responds.
"I shall. Now, please wait here, Andrea, while I fetch a chess board. I shall be but a moment," you promise.
"I will count the seconds until you return," Andrea replies, taking a seat.
You leave her in the alcove and hurry back to the table. You know father kept a few chess sets around. He thought the game was a useful way to teach the broad strokes of battle stratagems and always had a chess board in his study and one in his bedroom. You opt for the one in his study because it is closer, but Gods above is it heavier. King Martin was ever proud of his silver mine and had the 'white' pieces made of casted silver and the black from casted bronze. The set must be worth a fortune and it is heavy to boot. You have to levitate the whole thing so as to make good time.
You must strike an odd figure descending the hall in a hurry with a floating chess set behind you, cutting your way through guests in your hurry to rejoin Andrea.
"Ah, there you are. I was starting to worry," the princess teases lightly.
"Forgive me. This thing is heavy," you gesture with your chin at the floating chess set and place it down on the table. You set the pieces out carefully. Not out of any concern for them, but they could very well damage the laminated hardwood board!
Princess Andrea's eyes light up with interest at the strange choice of materials for the pieces. She lifts the silver queen and turns it over in her hands. "A most unusual choice of material though perhaps fitting for the King of Alfida. A touch too heavy for my taste, however."
"It is nothing if not quintessentially my father. Will you be playing as silver?" you ask.
She shakes her head and holds out the silver queen for you to take, "Far be it from me to rob a man of his house color for our first match. I will take the bronze."
"How generous of you," you accept the piece and set it in its proper place. White, as the first to move, is known to have an advantage in the game. As a polite host, you were of course going to offer her white for your first game, but if she insists, you will not rebuff her courtesy.
You each set up your side of the board carefully so as not to leave any dents on the board. When the final piece is set, you reach out and move your queenside bishop pawn to open the game. The move catches her off guard already. She raises her eyebrows and looks at you curiously, "A most unusual opening. Do you not care to take the center directly?"
She moves her kingside pawn forward and you immediately play your second move, placing your knight behind the pawn you moved on your first turn. "My aim is to create space on the mageside while my sovereign remains protected in a tight sovereignside formation," you explain.
"Mageside and sovereignside?" Princess Andrea intones curiously as she takes her second move, developing her kingside bishop and attacking your knight.
"Ah, it is a habit picked up from the Grand University. We called the most powerful piece the mage and the elfbloods within insisted on giving a neutral name to the king, thus 'sovereign'. Sovereign and mage side."
"You mages are ever a proud bunch to rename the most powerful piece after yourselves," she chuckles softly.
"Perhaps," you admit.
Your play continues. Andrea is a skilled player, but she fails to adequately develop in the first ten moves and ends up with a suffocating position with you controlling most of the mageside while contesting the sovereignside evenly. From there, it is a simple matter of exploiting your space advantage and keeping the center locked up so her kingside bishop can never move again. De facto down an entire piece due to the position, it isn't long before you start overloading pressure on important squares and forcing even worse trades on her resulting in a cascading effect of ever worse positions forcing ever worse trades. In twenty five moves, the game is done and Andrea resigns.
At the end, Andrea chews her lip while staring deeply at the board, replaying the opening moves in her mind and trying to discern where exactly she went wrong. "That was an... interesting game," she says slowly. "I would like another."
"Of course."
You reset the board with Andrea playing white this time. She attempts to copy your opening from the previous game, but you immediately put a stop to any copycat moves by playing a symmetrical move of c5. "Tch," Andrea clicks her tongue in frustration, "Do you always play the mageside?"
"It is where the greater power lies, so I suppose it would follow," you reply.
"Hmmm..." Andrea considers her next move. After a moment, she reaches for the pawn on e2, moving it two space forward. You shake your head gently. It's clear she's unfamiliar with this type of game. Already making a suboptimal move on the second turn. This game will be easy. So you decide to make some conversation.
"I hear all is not well in Asturias. I pray these rumors are false for the good and faithful men of Tartessia depend on the protectors of the faith in Asturias," you begin, baiting her to give more information.
"These rumors are indeed poorly founded, I am pleased to inform you, Alonso," Andrea replies confidently. "The Valeros speak of a crisis to sew discord to their own advantage, but any wise man of the realm will know the truth that there is no crisis. The King has the love of his vassals and he has chosen his heir. It is as simple as that."
"And if the Valeros should the push the issue to war?" you ask.
Andrea places her knight down with a small smile appearing on her lips. She believes she has you fooled leaving out a piece as bait while she threatens a fork. You are not nearly so amateurish, however. You ignore the bait and defend the fork while simultaneously attacking another piece, forcing her off tempo to defend. "Damn..." she mutters under her breath before returning her focus to the conversation at hand, "If the Valeros defy us then they will be brought to heel by force if necessary, and make no mistake, they will lose despite what their crowing overtures may have you believe."
You haven't spoken with any diplomats from the Valeros but you suppose you have no reason to let Andrea know that. Information is a most valuable resource in negotiations. Intentions, desires, loyalties. These are the knights and archers of diplomacy.
"You seem very sure. I confess that is a relief for I do not wish for instability in the North. Such things always have a way of trickling down and causing trouble," you reply, "Though I may feel even greater relief should I know the source of your confidence."
Andrea moves her queen across the board and captures a pawn and you know the game has been won. You now have a forced sequence of checkmate in seven moves.
"The regions of Valduna, Acanta, and Leon are firmly behind us. That alone equals the Valeros strength. Yet in addition, we enjoy the favor of the king giving us the southern plains lords who love him so dearly. The Valeros will be crushed and they know it," Andrea explains with a small self satisfied grin.
"And what if," you capture her bishop with your knight and then the game is as good as over, "Check. What if the king succeeds in having a son?"
Andrea's grin disappears and she stares at the board. The game is over. She is cornered. She could prolong the game with her rook, but the checkmate is inevitable. She can resign or play on a futile sequence of two moves. "Then I suppose... the Gods truly work in mysteriously cruel ways."
She resigns.
You take up the captured pieces and place them back on their proper squares while Andrea takes a moment to stare at the board, thinking about the game. You've played her twice and won twice, but her talent is clearly not lacking. She's simply outmatched.
"Another?" she asks.
"It would be my pleasure, Andrea," you answer.
The two of you play several more games. In every one, you come out the victor. By the seventh game, Andrea is visibly frustrated. The woman's cheeks are flush and her brow is creased.
"Damn," she curses as you capture her queen or mage. The term is starting to get scrambled around in your brain by now with the two of you referring to the same piece b y two different names.
"Check," you say.
"Resign," Andrea grumbles.
"You did well, Andrea," you try to console her.
"No, I didn't," she pouts, her shoulders slumping, "Not that well. You've played me into a corner like a child with a toy. Mayhaps I will distract you this game," she states her intentions plainly as you set the pieces up for a final game. As much as you'd like to, you can't spend all night playing chess. You have to mingle with your guests and be seen. You are the king after all.
"And how will you do that?" you ask curiously.
"By asking probing questions of your realm, of course. What is it you intend to do about Saraqusta? They poisoned your father, did they not?" Andrea asks as she plays the opening moves of the game.
"They did," you lie, "And the perpetrators will face judgment for it after I have conquered the queendom."
"Thus doubling your realm in size and drawing the ire of the other elfblood queendoms. I wonder..." Andrea's voice trails off as she elects not to say out loud whatever is on her mind.
"Wonder what?" you ask, taking your turn.
She leans forward to deliver her question more quietly. You don't see anyone around eavesdropping, but one can never be too careful. "Do you enjoy being king, Alonso?" she asks.
"What?"
"Do you enjoy being a king?" Andrea repeats the question.
A strange question, one you've pondered before. Do you enjoy it? Not particularly. The day to day minutiae is tiresome and repetitive. It distracts you from the things you actually enjoy. The crown weighs you down with burdensome expectations.
And yet... you can't deny the romantic appeal of being a 'sovereign' man. You answer to no one. You can do what you please. No one will gainsay your will. All the land from horizon to horizon is yours. Your people are your own. The only person in the entire kingdom who can even come close to stopping you is your Archon by invoking the will of the Gods. No man is ever truly free, but you are as close as can be and it not something you would give up willingly.
"I suppose it has its merits," you evade answering her question directly, "Why do you ask?"
Andrea's hand hovers over a pawn. Her eyes scan the board intently. She purses her lips and her thumb brushes the side of the bronze piece. "You appear to have a great love for magic. If magic is what you wish to pursue, you would have a place in the Asturias as our court mage and if you should conquer Saraqusta, you would surely be named a duke. A fine title, no? You would have the protection of Asturias for your gains, and the king would be happy to patronize a promising talent such as yourself, embellishing your study with riches beyond what you could feasibly spend as king."
You're not quite sure how you should respond to that. Andrea is suggesting you the chance to become a duke? It's a tempting proposition. The responsibilities are great and the pleasures few for a king. However...
"Your logic, I cannot fault. Yet men are not moved by logic alone. I am a king. A sovereign. I am unruled. A man should not give up such a thing without a fight," you explain as you execute your stratagem. This game will be quick. Pieces begin falling in quick succession as the stifled strategic position you've cultivated is blown open and you are left with an unlosable advantage.
Contrary to your expectations, Princess Andrea is not the least bit upset by your response or the sudden collapse of her strategy. Her calm pools of dark brown eyes are filled with amusement. She takes a sip of wine from her silver goblet before replying. "An interesting, if imprudent point of view."
"I am sure the same was said of my father when he refused his marriage and rebelled against the elfbloods. His acclaim could have seen him a trophy husband king-consort. Instead he chose to fight for the right to be his own man," you counter, "My father and I rarely saw eye to eye, but of his many decisions, I do not begrudge him one bit for that one."
Andrea's subtle smile widens slightly. The corners of her eyes crinkle and the corners of her lips stretch upward, showing off her straight white teeth for the first time. "Of this, I understand completely. If I were in your position, I too would wish to be Queen of Alfida rather than a Duchess of Asturias. And it seems this is my loss as well. I resign."
You stand up and bow to Andrea. She bows her head, "I thank you for the games, Alonso. It was a learning experience."
"The pleasure was all mine. It is always a treat to play with a skilled opponent," you reply, "It is a shame we cannot play longer, but I must be off. Duty calls."
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Spending time with Andrea de Asturias-Leon has given you some insights into her personality
Personality: Calm, Diligent, Cynical
Education: ???
Misc. Traits: Quick— Andrea is no genius but she is noticeably smarter than average.
Also you've improved your relations with the Asturias-Leon Faction of Asturias
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