The Founding Of The Guards Of Order, Pt. II
From Atlantic Roleplay Wiki
Title: The Founding of the Guards of Order, Pt. II
Author: Sherry the Mouse
Blackthorn inclined his head. "I have heard the rumors."
"Nystul told me it is no rumor, for he hath received a letter." "Indeed," Blackthorn said neutrally, not giving an inch.
"And there are the strange prophecies that are muttered by madmen, and scribed upon graves and columns of stone," Britannia's ruler continued doggedly. "These are troubled times, Blackthorn."
"They are," Blackthorn said, still standing at the door.
Lord British waited for his friend to give an inch; but the dark-clad mage did not. "So be it," British said grimly. "I toss thee a bone, Blackthorn. Make thy own virtue guard to guard thy virtue of Chaos. Let them wear thy emblem, and we shall earnestly hope they are indeed good and honest men. And let me proclaim with the law tomorrow that thy guards and mine may co-exist, but none may join both; and they may quarrel freely, and yes, even shed blood. And perhaps then shall we see whose virtues stand in a trial of combat."
Blackthorn's eyes narrowed. "Now thou dost indeed speak of raising armies, my liege. Art thou moving the chess game to a different field? This bodes not well for the safety of the land..."
"Do not presume on our friendship!" Lord British said, throwing Lord Blackthorn's words back at him. "I have said."
Blackthorn nodded once curtly, then slammed the door behind him. Only then did Lord British sag into his chair, to trace his hands across the parchment of the map.
His fingers lingered lovingly over the browned ink, until they came across the desert left by his warring with Lord Robere, the desert where brothers shed each other's blood and nothing now can grow. The desert whence sprang the seed of Britannia. And there they rested, and the man who would rule a troubled land sat quiet whilst the winter storm raged without, and processions wended their way to cold graveyards.
He did not see, but I did; the figure dark and glowering, fangs sharp and eyes catlike and metallic that glinted from without the casement, floating 'round the stony walls: a daemon that had listened at the window for its own reasons. It flapped away on mighty wings, concealed by the storm, carrying its knowledge of a rift at the highest levels of the Court away into the darkness of the now-gathering night.
A scribe came knocking tentatively at the door, and British bade him enter. "Take this down to the Council," the lord instructed, handing him the new laws after making a few notations upon the scroll. The lad ran off, and soon there came from the open door the first shouts of argument from the Council chambers as men chose camps and argued across a trestle table.
"'Tis war!" some shouted. "Nay, 'tis peace!" said others, and as I sat upon the mantel and shivered by candlelight and the reddish glow of the harvest moon, I realized that a poor and lonely mouse such as I could not discern the difference.
"Upon a day when snow doth fall
A gathering will form of noblemen
Among them some who quarrel still
Between free will and the civil man
Whilst watched by mice and monsters both
A challenge shall be made
That breaketh lances and severs growth
And stains fair grass with hate
Someday perhaps shall reconcile
Two men whose hearts were once the same
Till then the world shall tremble dire
And none shall fix the blame "