A Ballad of Storms and Stars

[Nutmeg The Squirrel]

“Oh Archon true of heart
Let courage be your guide
To not fall pray to weakness
Lest your strength be forced to hide.” - The opening of a stanza in the Vyaskaran poem, Deliver Us Unto The Stars, written by an unknown author, circa. 500 A.V



“He is weak. Swayed by the meddling of the Seneschals. Carnilur is no longer fit to serve.” Lochnin Aleksandar slammed his fist on the table. This was the third time in a week his Sepatchna had been dispatched to deal with bandits. Several bandits had wielded crests of House Lychnillsta, known for their black-market dealings. However, when he and his Cihlnuls reported the development to the Magistrate, he had been informed that there was simply nothing to be concerned about.

There were five people sitting around the small table. It was cramped in the tent, space wasn’t a key concern in the military encampment. The Lochnin, two Fyrluns, a Pænir and a Cihnul. They had been going back and forth on developments in their postings. So far, they had reached a simple consensus.

“I must concur, Lochnin.” The Pærnir spoke. “His handling of these “bandit groups” has been most unimpressive. The Vëlor have been unable to deal with them, and so he pulls us out to do simple policing duty. Then, he refuses to listen to us.”
“It simply disgusts me. He is clearly being puppeted by these good-for-nothing “Seneschals”. Heh, they are meagre pretenders of Order. We need someone else on that throne!” One of the Fyrluns exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table.
“But who would serve?” The other Fyrlun questioned.

It was well known that Archon Carnilur had two children. Cael and Mylara. Cael was older by a year, but he was unfit to rule. By tradition, any child of an Archon who has been permanently scarred in a way that impedes function, such as losing a limb, cannot serve, as they are deemed a Dryccelle, an impure vessel.
Vysara only graces those who are pure, and those who have been permanently scarred are not.

“But only the little one can serve. The son is a Dryccelle.” The Cihnul spoke up.
They all bowed their heads.

Six Furlins ago, the Archoness had fallen to the blade of an assassin. In the assassin’s escape, Cael had jumped on them, allowing for the assassin to be captured. Cael would be scarred though, with a thin black line running directly across his left eye, rendering it useless.
Renouncing his claim to the throne, he was instead appointed a Knight of Syr. He renounced the golden crown, and instead took the winged one.

“But will she be easily puppeted?” Aleksandar asked, looking at the other four members of the table. They had all given their lives to the Archon, and although they knew such talk was treasonous, a replacement was necessary. “She is, after all, just a child.”

The cloth was flung open, as a sixth figure walked in.
“My sister is many things, but she is not a “mere child”, Lochnin.” The arrival spoke those words with annoyance. “She is more than fit. I would like to see these traitorous Seneschals attempt to manipulate her.”
The other five stood up rushed, offering small bows.
“Our greatest apologies, Syr-Called, we did not mean such offence.” The Pærnir offered.
Cael scoffed. “Your buttered words mean nothing to me. You forget, I am not a member of Father’s Court.” He smiled. “That also means I know how to be critical of his reign.”
They breathed small sighs of relief.
“If the rest of the Knights of Syr agree with me, then it will be my sister who ascends to the throne. She is not weak of heart, unlike my father.”
“What do you propose, Syr-Called?” the Cihnul questioned.
“I propose, my friend, that we declare my father unfit. If the fourteen other Knights support me, then I wield the support of the Silver Legions. We will stand unopposed, and Mylara will lead us to an age of prosperity.”
The gathered military men smiled. They had never expected such statements to come from a Knight of Syr, let alone the Archon’s own son, but they were happy nonetheless.
“So, when must we march?” Aleksandar asked. His own sister was a Knight of Syr, and this had peaked his interest.
“Soon. We must bide our time. The Knights gather for a Conflux in three moons. Until then, I expect this brigade to resume training. We must be prepared.” Cael offered a bow, before leaving.
Four of them snickered. “Foolish child. One of the Fyrluns whispered.

Aleksandar stared at the door. This would be his chance, to finally move up in the world.



“They say that the stars are the current of time. The past, the present, and the future. Why then, is the Shepherd slumbering. For too long we have been complacent in Vysara’s Order. We must change. A new Age must fall. Not an Age of Gold, but and Age of Stars. An Age of tumultuous storms, but also an Age of Reforging.
To glory, and to the Shepherd.” – A Proclamation of the Fringe-Monks of the Shepherd, stalwart believers and caretakers of Fate.

 

[Nutmeg The Squirrel]

"Constructed in 397 A.V by Archon Brilnür, there is no city in our dear Archonium that could rival the beauty of our Royal Capital.
The only city that could come close lies south, in the Orvur Plains on the Southern Island. Syrlurnia Citadel, named after Syrlurnia, first Servant of Syr.” – Vyaskaran Geography Studies, First Unit



The golden spires of Astueria rose high over the lower levels of the city, overlooking the Peaks of Murnol.
The view would be outstanding, but Carnilur Ryskarla, Ninety-Second Archon of Vyaskar, had grown tired of the view.
He had given thirty-two of his Furlins on this land to its people, and he grew ever tired. “I am but a mere puppet.” He scoffed, quietly, lest someone was listening. His own Council, minus the Seneschals in service to the Shepherd, the Lady of Light, the Lord of Neutrality and She Who Walks With Death, were actively undermining his rule. Of course, he couldn’t openly admit it. His Binding Oath of Service would burn him apart if he tried.
“A message for you, my Lord.” A messenger burst into the room, a letter emblazoned in the seal of the Knights of Syr in his right hand. He bowed before placing the letter on a small table beside the desk, then departed.
He let loose a small smile. The letter had been trimmed with gold, and had been sent by his dear son, Cael. The letter wasn’t overly long, but it made the aged man smile.

Dearest Father,
The Conflux of the Knights of Syr begins soon, and I write to you simply to inform you that I will be visiting our grand Capital afterwards.
I am sure that those Golden Halls still ring with mirthful glee, but Mylara and I thought you may be lonely, with Vysara’s Day rapidly approaching.
I also wish to inspect the Golden Host, but that will be after our visit to you.
We miss you dearly, and can’t wait to meet with you again.
Your forever loving son,
Cael

Carnilur rested the letter on his desk, unaware of its deeper meaning.

Far away, in the Orvur Plains, the silvery spires of the Syrlurnia Citadel glistened in the sun. A bastion of strength, it overlooked the Southern Coast of the Southern Island.
Cael spun a small ring in between his fingers. It was made of silver, with an Arturian Stone embedded in it. As per the request of his great-grandfather, he had been saving it for his “one true love”.
Staring at a small painting from a few years ago, he focused in on the blonde boy that had been standing next to him
“One day.” He whispered. “Together, we can bring so much. With Mylara at the helm, we could bring the army into prosperity.” He slid the ring back into a velvet box and put it on the desk.

Three gongs rang out, and a Herald politely entered.
“Lady Mylara, Princess of Vyaskar, Stewardess of Fort Liursa, Order of the Silver Mirror to see Sir Cael, Knight of Syr, Prince of Vyaskar, Lord of Syrlurnia Citadel, Order of the Golden Star!” The Herald called.
Cael smiled, standing from his chair. He gave a reverential now, and his sister returned the sign of respect. One the Herald left, he pulled a chair up for Mylara, and they both took a seat at the corner table.
“Rumour has it, dear brother, you seek to replace Father with me as Archon.” She broke the silence, staring at Cael.
“Yes, I seek his replacement. Our dear Father has fallen prey to the trappings of the Seneschals. You, dear sister, are not so easily corruptible.” He smiled as he spoke, remembering a time when they were younger, when he had use of both of his eyes. Mylara had caught him trying to steal a slice of strethberry pastry. When he tried to bribe her, she stood fast, refusing to be swayed.

The pair talked long into the night. Cael promised that he would gain the support of the rest of the Knights, and with that, Mylara could take the crown. She eventually agreed.
“I will take the throne. But prose me one thing.” She said.
“Hmm? Of course.” Cael responded.
She giggled. “Propose to Wyll. He’s such a lovely person, and you two would make a perfect couple.”
A red blush painting his cheeks, Cael sheepishly led Mylara to the door.
“Goodnight Mylara. To a glorious future.”
“To a glorious future.”
They parted ways. Cael to his quarters and Mylara to her carriage. She was bound for the Port City, home to Seneschal Quirnen, of House Mulnur.
A revolution needs followers, and several Seneschals were willing to pledge their support. She would just need to reach them.



“Seek the lost prince without a fate. Seek the princess who turns no blind eye. Seek the soldier who pulls the prince’s string. Seek the ones who will gladly say goodbye.” – A cryptic poem found in the Books of Those Who Read Fate, 453 A.V.