[RP on Set] Tales of the Horse

The stories posted here are not made by me, but a fellow guildie during my time with Invicta.
The tale tell of some people dear to me and maybe known to some of you.

This tale I post as a tribute to Telemacus (the author), Niro (Invicta guild leader), Gornon and Lleilwin. I hope they will forgive me for posting these tales from the past we shared.

Enjoy the long read. It is awesome and deserves to be saved for posterity.
Please note that the tales are all based on world-RP on Set, which took place at that time.
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The Horse Abroad: Telemacus, Part I

Mist swirls in mystic eddies as the unnatural breeze carries the wailing chants of old, worn out throats to every corner of the ancient bog. The moonless night lends no aid to sight, but the stars shinebrighter in a contrary effort to light the path ahead. A lone stallion, tall and royal, white as fine marble, passes through the mists until he comes to a stop before the crones’ fire. He bends a knee in courtly bow, and waits.

Laughing Fate: His time has come. His journey starts.
Stallion: Where will he go? Will he go far? What must he find?
Blind Fate: The end is not, the goal he seeks.
Stallion: What of his kin? Will his strength last? Will he come home?
Crying Fate: No home with kin, awaits his time.
Stallion: Will none befriend? Must he be lost? Can aid be his?
Fates: Stay now your words, and hear our part.
A homeless king, will give him heart,
A Legion lost, will shield his back,
A northern wolf, will be his pack.
His path is rough, to temper might,
He’ll need to face, a ruthless knight.
Stallion: When will he go?
Fates: He leaves this night.

The afternoon is scarcely done, and the townsfolk are still far afield tending their crops. But the Aquilonian night approaches and so the tavern in the small town of Tesso prepares for the evening crowd. There is a wild boar upon the spit, turning and dropping fatty juices to pop on the fire below. The smell of fresh baking mingles with the sweet smell of wine-soaked roast. The tavern staff are busy with last minute cleaning and scrubbing.

A man wearing the armor of the Dragon Legion approaches the tavern’s stables. He dismounts with practiced ease, but his strength nearly fails him; he staggers a moment before steadying with the help of one hand upon the saddle horn. He walks towards the grey horse’s face and caresses him, pressing his own helmed face against the mount’s and whispering to him in a strange tongue. He offers him a fruit from his pack before trusting him to a stable boy’s care.

The commander of Legion Invicta watches all this with the detachment of one who has seen many come and go, but finds his attention drawn to the armor. A king’s messenger perhaps? The Guard seldom comes to Tesso. Nironarr remains leaning on the balcony rail as the stranger enters the building and immediately his thoughts carry elsewhere. The logistics of Invicta take too much of his time as of late, where he’d rather be abroad hunting. Time enough, perhaps.

Nironarr is shaken out of his revelrie by the approach of the armor-clad stranger. He turns towards him, seemingly at ease. The stranger clears dust from his throat.
“Greetings, lord. I’d have a word, if I may?” The stranger’s speech pattern is odd, and there’s a certain sing-song quality to the way he finishes phrases. What is that, Argosian? “I am Telemacus, the Corinthian. I have traveled far in a quest, and I confess to be lost. Will you kindly help?”

Nironarr sizes the stranger once more. Corinthian, is it? That explains the odd speech. “Be welcome stranger, and take comfort. Invicta treats tonight, and all who travel to Tesso may eat and drink of our hospitality.” The commander dismisses the man with a wave towards the inner room, and looks out once more to the distant hills.
The Corinthian removes his helm, running a scarred hand through curly blonde locks. His face is marked with sword cuts, his left eye marked with an old bruise. But for all that, his sparkling eyes light up as he parts his face in an easy smile. “I thank you, and since my own purse is rather light, I will take up your offer. But my need is for information, more than victuals. May I press you further?”
Nironarr nods without turning towards the man, distracted by the commotion he spies near the Tesso docks. “Go ahead, ask.”
The Corinthian hesitates briefly. “I seek a name.”
The Tesso guard approaches the docks en-masse, something that disturbs Nironarr. He maintains his vigil. “A name? I thought you had onealready. What did you call yourself… Telesomething.”
With another smile, the soldier bows his head. “Telemacus. In the language of my people, it means “far from battle.” But I’ve come of age, and so I seek my father in order to get my true man’s name.”
Nironarr snorts, shifting his weight and turning to see the man once more. “Watch your tongue. I’ve never been to Corinth, and you’re too old to be any offspring of mine.”
The Corinthian laughs, shaking his head. “My father is an Aquilonian, I hear tell; a noble, a man in the King’s favor. He married into my mother’s family but left one day, leaving only this… “ he motions with one hand over his Dragon Guard armor, “as my inheritance. I have traveled far to find him, looking from Aquilonian war contingent to contingent and asking for him.”
Nironarr’s eyes narrow, taking in the story and thinking. The armor is a ceremonial set, not worth much in battle. “And how will you know this man then, among all the soldiers of the kingdom?”
Telemacus leans on the rail, callused hands gripping the wood tightly. “It is the custom of my people to get a wedding tattoo. His would match my mother’s, a lion’s face centered on eagle’s wings. I am looking for the Far Ranges, I am told there’s a contingent there fending off attacks from the Nemedians.”
Nironarr nods, unconvinced. “That sounds likely. More Nemedians than you can kill and bury these days. But I have no time to take you there. Enjoy your food.” With that, he turns away towards the docks once more. The guard seem to be outnumbered by a party of armored men leaving a ship.
Telemacus places a hand on the commander’s forearm. “Lord, if you would. I do not need to be escorted. Merely point the way from here, and I will count myself enriched.”
With a scathing look at the hand, Nironarr sees it removed. The Corinthian lifts his hands in apology. A Dragon, is it? Perhaps the Pointians should sort this out. “Very well. Travel north from here, until you see a mountain pass. Go through, and inquire of the knights there. Now, does that satisfy you?”
The Corinthian smiles, and taking a step back, gives a closed fist salute. “Indeed it does. My thanks go with you. Fair grounds and strength of arm.”
The docks seem to have sorted themselves out. The newcomers are marching two abreast, flanked with Tesso guards. Already several Invictan veterans are pouring out of the inn to intercept them. Below, the Corinthian mounts his magnificent stallion and takes the northern path at an easy pace.

The Horse Finds a Home, Telemacus Part II

Sargeant Pollitus sat at his desk with the Book of Orders, filling the page before him with meticulously drawn lines of text. Each name in the right order, each hour as it passes, each order as it is given. Attention to detail and a passion for order had gotten the sergeant elevated from patrol duty in Zelata to his current post, the daytime duty officer for the Knights of Poitain, the king’s Dragon Guards.

As he was blotting the page, he was interrupted by the sounds of a heavy stride on the stone stairway behind him. A lone figure, tall and imposing in Black Dragon armor, entered the room without comment and leaned on the window sill overlooking the courtyard. “What transpires below? I can hear the commotion from my chambers.”
Sargeant Pollitus continued the task of blotting to its completion, then carefully left the open book before him to dry. Looking up at Pallantides, Commander of Knights, he answered with great certainty- “Commander. I do not know.” Having spent all the words he thought necessary in reply, he sat back to wait out this interruption.
Pallantides continued to lean upon the stone still, silent for awhile. “Something about that man below seems familiar. Could it be… no, not this far away. “ He stood thus, watching him. “But that magnificent steed, has to be a Corinthian horse. Look at the chest on that noble beast, Polly. What I wouldn’t give for a hundred such as him.” As he filed out of the room, he spoke to the duty officer as if an aside. “See to that man, Sargeant. And make sure that horse comes to no harm.”
Sargeant Pollitus listened for the sounds of the retreating boots upon the stone staircase, counting until the official ten strides had been fulfilled. He adjusted the Book of Orders closer to him, and examined the tip of the quill critically. The sounds of running feet pounding up the stairs made him halt, jaw clenching at the renewed interruption.
A young knight came to a close imitation of a parade stop before the desk, and threw up a hasty salute. “Sargeant! A man in the courtyard, wearing the armor of the Dragon Guard… a foreigner sir.”
The sergeant rolled the thought through his mind, nodding to encourage more details. “And…” he offered. The younger knight, flustered, blurred out more. “No orders sir. No messenger from the King. “ Then, as the sergeant remained quiet, “He’s looking for his father, claims he’s a knight here in the town, maybe a high officer… doesn’t even have a name. What do we do, sir?”
The sergeant mulled his orders and his options. With laconic custom, he reached a hand to the lone candle upon his desk and, closing thumb and forefinger over the wick, extinguished its flame. He looked up to the soldier in emphasis. “Yes sir!”
As the steps retreated hastily behind him, he took up the quill and began a new inscription. “Third watch. Disturbance in the courtyard settled. Accoutrements secured.”

An unexpected breeze blew through the eastern window, turning the page. As the sergeant cursed and fought to save the fresh ink, a single spark fizzed unnoticed upon the blackened wick and awoke the flame.

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Lleilwin leaned back comfortably on the bench, enjoying the shade in the noon heat. The upper room of Tesso might have become the unofficial Invicta Legion headquarters, but it was lazy afternoons such as these when the room stood empty that Lleilwin and her wolf companion Growler enjoyed most. Pulling idly at a warm tankard of ale, she put her booted feet up on the table and gave a sight of contentment.
Her revelrie was interrupted by the sight of a man limping up the stairs. Wearing ragtag armor and a broken sword, he hesitated as he reached the upper landing and looked cautiously around the room. He was covered in bruises, and bloodied rags covered a leg and much of his head. As he lingered, he tottered on his feet; but something fiercly stubborn about the man rallied his strength and, head held high, he took a few more steps into the room. Llei was fascinated by the man’s spirit, and smiled a welcome with a raised tankard; Growler, less inclined to be so trusting, shook off her turpitude and stood between her mistress and the stranger, issuing warning.
“Pay no mind ter the she-wolf, and come join me in a glass.” Growler stood defiant, head lowering and jaws agape. The tattered man put an instinctive hand upon his sword and stood still, considering the offer… then a magnificent smile lit his countenance. “I would.. “ he winced “.. indeed enjoy your offer, but I prefer my skin to remain un-perforated. Well, at least, the parts that remain so.” With great effort, he bowed from the waist, an action that drew the blood from his face and left him blanched. Lleiwelin pointed to the bench opposite but did not rise to aid him closer, respecting a warrior’s rights to the honor of his wounds. “Sit just the same. Ye have a story about ye, I can tell by the wounds ye carry. Consider ale and food payment fer the tale.”

The man circled the table, wearily avoiding the wolf bitch’s reach. Growler watched, unrelenting; a piece of meat thrown by Llei caused her attention to become divided. With a glance back at her friend, Growler took the offering and settled down to gnaw on it- albeit with ears straight up. The tattered man had reached the bench by then, and he offered a forearm to the redhead in greeting. “I am Telemacus, the Corinthian. I offer you gratitude for your hospitality, and pledge the same.”
Llei guffawed. “Aw, no need ter be so formal. Eat. I am called Lleilwin, of old a Vanir, and this be Growler me friend and companion. Pleased ter meet ye.” She grasped the proffered arm and squeezed, sensing the muscle chord of the sword arm and nodding approvingly. “What happened to ye, waylaid by robbers?”
Telemacus took a nearby wine boot and lifted it for a squeeze, managing to spill none. He wiped his beardless face with the back of his arm and sighed in approval as the alcohol made its way through his system. “Bandits perhaps, and robbed just the same. But it was knights that did this to me and left me for dead, although I do not grasp the motivation.”
Lleil sat back, content to hear a new tale and encouraged the warrior with a smile. He continued. “I am a Corinthian, as I have mentioned. I was born to a noble family in Kamalla, rich in herds and grape. My mother was the sole daughter of her family and I, the heir; my father was a foreigner and a noble by his telling, a steward to the King of his land. He gave me my child name, Telemacus.. which means far from battle.” Here he paused and grimaced, rubbing the wounds of his belly and adjusting the bandages. “A tragic joke, that. As my mother’s health failed, I set out to find my father- it is the tradition of my people that, having come of age, he is to give me my adult name.”
He paused again, long enough to take another pull from the wine boot. “So I have traveled through three kingdoms in search of him. All I had of him was his set of armor, which I wore; it marked him for an Aquilonian so I came here. I began searching the battlefields for men who might match the armor, but never found one. I was at the end of my funds when I met a man at this very inn who set me on the path to a city called Poitain, where I might find the truth of that armor. I rode further then, to this Poitain, and presented myself to the guard there.”
Lleil nodded, her battle honed senses catching the knotting of his shoulders as he told this last. She passed a tray of bread his way by means of encouragement, and he continued. “They asked my name, which I gladly gave; then they asked if I bore a message. I told them I did not, except a quest of my own, that is, to find a man who might be my father. They asked whence I came by my armor, and I said it was my only inheritance of him; I should have noticed they were growing angry at my answers but I took it to be the common distrust of strangers. They sent a messenger for orders, and on his return, the set upon me without the curtesy of a challenge! I beat as much of a retreat as I could but their numbers told, and I fell at the bridge fording the entrance to the city. I woke that night, broken and wounded, bare as the day I was born. What I wear now I have won from bandits by fist and tooth, and that is my tale.”
He was visibly angry by then, his arms tightening and his demeanor changed so that Growler caught a whiff of it and issued a renewed warning. Llei shushed her with a motion, and remained searching the man’s composure. He grinned ruefully to the she-wolf and stood, hurt and all, and bowed to her as if to an equal! “My apologies, Growler; I mean you and your friend no harm.” Growler stood her ground, but remained watching. Telemacus sat once more and played with the wine boot. “I have little coin left, and no understanding of what has transpired. I am no closer to finding my father than I was three moons past.”
Lleilwin had taken a liking to the stoic warrior, and she made up her mind. “What will ye do now then?” He shrugged, still looking down at the wine boot. “I will sell my arm for coin, and continue looking for my father and my name. Although I swear by the Horse I have no idea which way to go from here.”
Lleil stretched out a hand and touched the warrior’s knuckles until he looked up again. “Listen ter me, warrior. Ye have no need of a name, Telemacus fits ye fine. It’s not yer name that matters, but what ye carry here.” She patted her own breast. “And I see by the fire in yer heart that ye have name enough ter last ye a life time. Be proud of who ye are, and abandon yer search.”
He listened, and nodded, leaning back upon his bench and resting his injured back against the cool surface of the tavern’s wall. Llei continued. “I asked ye what would ye do ter make yer life have meaning, and ye have not answered. What will it be, warrior Telemacus?”
The Corinthian straightened at the challenge, his jaw clenching. She continued pressing him, knowing he needed it. “Will ye sell yer arm fer a few tin, then? Will ye take up with slavers, or will ye beat the weak fer their coin at some command? What is the measure of yer worth?” Her eyes remained fixed on his, seeking to pierce the fog of his self-professed defeat. Telemacus rose to the bait, fists clenching; but as he seemed on the brink of fighting he suddenly grew still, and that open smile returned to his face. “By the Horse, you know I won’t. I am a man.”
She nodded, happy to find her measure of the man to run true. “Then stand fer the weak. Fight fer the ones who can’t. Will you do that, Telemacus? Will ye let warriors like yerself stand beside ye and join the wall of steel?” He stood then, teetering on wounded legs but full of the fire of his pride. “Aye!” She smiled again. “Then join the Legion Invicta. And stand with the King! Invicta!” He joined her in the shout, and Growler howled… breaking the moment and making them both laugh in their excitement.

She passed a bag across the table, which he tried to push back. “Na, keep that. Yer gonna need ter outfit yerself if yer gonna watch my back. When ye do, go to Fort Conviction and report ter the Chief, Nironarr.” He pocketed the bag, and nodded assent. “Where is that?” She gave him an evil grin, and replied “Poitain.”
He hung his head and groaned, making her laugh anew. “Take this stone necklace, and this cloak pin. If yer challenged, show them this, and tell them ter take it up with the Legion. Yer Invicta now, and we watch fer our own.”
He took both, and stood, saluting her. “Fair ground and strength of arm to you, warrior. And you as well, Growler.” The she-wolf favoured him with her favorite snarl as he walked out of the tavern, and Lleilwin chuckled. “There’s much ter that one, Growler, ye mark my words. I can’t wait ter see it play out.” The Vanir used her own stone necklace’s magic to report the new recruit, and then resumed her interrupted ale and relaxed afternoon.

The Wolf at the Gate - Telemacus Part III

For nine of days and eight of nights the snowy peak had been sole witness to their titanic struggle. But now, on the ninth night, the Moon at last arose from slumber and so the Wolf and the Horse paused to lick their wounds. They circled the fire, thundering hooves and terrible paws crunching the ever-falling snow while plumes of breath conveyed their conversation.

The Wolf spoke first, and the fire gave out. “You earn the right. What do you ask?”
The Horse shook his mane, and the stars shone brighter. “I seek a boon for mine. Will you grant it?”
The Wolf crouched low, and the wind bit through fur. “I take all I want. What offering do you bring?”
The Horse snorted once, and the trees closed about. “I ride to glory, and offer you half.”
The Wolf howled thrice, and the leaves fell around. “I thrive on fear. What offering do you bring?”
The Horse neighed once, and the wind died out. “I have many friends.”
The Wolf shook his head, and the snow froze firm. “I ate all of mine. What offering do you bring?”
The Horse swished his tail, and the fireflies swarmed. “I have many enemies.”
The Wolf stood still. “Are they soft?”
The Horse still pranced. “They are treacherous and strong.”
The Wolf lied down. “I accept your offering.”

As Telemacus walked down the road to the wharf, Lleiwin noticed a strange bird following him. The warrior shook his fist at it, then tried to shoo it away by banging sword on shield, but the bird kept its distance and hopped to a tree, still watching. Leilwin snorted in amusement, a sentiment echoed in Growler’s lolling tongue. “Telemacus, what exactly be that thing?”
The Corinthian gave up on the bird and approached the Vanir, raising fist to chest in salute. “Hoi, Lleilwin! In truth, I do not know. It’s been following me since Poitain.” Then, as if in afterthought, he turned once more to the bird. “I’m not nearly dead yet! Go away” He made dismissing gestures again, causing Leilwin to guffaw with laughter.
“Yer a strange one, Telemacus. But I thank ye for coming ter meet me as asked,” she said between bites of an apple.
“Oh, that reminds me! I brought you something..” said the Corinthian as he reached for a bag he’d carried slung. Producing an oil-wrapped package, he passed it over, “here.” Lleilwin opened it, her excitement turning to a look of confusion as the unwrapping revealed a large cut of red meat. “Meat? I don’t… “ Telemacus pointed at the she-wolf. “It’s for your companion. I figured I owed her.”
Lleilwin’s eyes brightened, and handed the package back. “Here. Toss it to her.” Telemacus did, standing as far from Growler as he could. She ‘d been eyeing and sniffing at the package for awhile, and now seeing it fly she jumped and snapped it cleanly from the air and settled to eat, oblivious to all else. Telemacus counted the fingers on his hand, making sure they were all still there. “Well, yer gotta friend fer life. Now, ter me purpose. Yer time of trial has come, warrior. We’ll see what yer made of. Follow me to the arena.”

Telemacus nodded, following. They took a staircase near the wharf, from which several sailors and a courtesan were just emerging, full of alcohol and rowdiness. They sobered quickly and let the two pass by, into a smoke-filled cavern oozing with the dregs of humanity, with an odor to match. The Vanir stepped purposedly through the morass of people, shoving as needed, and Telemacus almost tripped over her as she came to a sudden stop.
There, in a bowl-shaped, rope-enclosed basalt arena stood a single man. He was naked from the waist up, except some metal and leather helm. His head was dark red, his eyes clear as a mountain spring, his body hirsute and framed by chorded muscle. He was swinging a heavy claymore with the grace of a dancer, playing with the empty air over five fallen opponents. The crowd of sailors roared and raised their tankards while money quickly changed hands.
Lleilwin stepped over the rope and into the arena, with Telemacus following. The soldier’s attention became consumed with studying the barbarian. Sure footed, leads with the right. Good balance. Out of long habit he rolled his shoulder muscles, loosening in anticipation. The barbarian, in turn, caught sight of the soldier and with the instinct of a hunter began to circle him while puffing out his chest. “Oi… yer all so afraid ye gots ta start sendin yer champions inside a suit o’ metal?” The crowd laughed at that, and the barbarian encouraged it by laughing fiercely and pumping his fists. “Wha do ye all be thinkin’… Be it sum sort o’ turtle-man from Tortage?” The crowd roared their laughter, and someone pelted the soldier with a piece of fruit- he ignored it, observing the barbarian.
Lleilwin stood in the center of the two circling fighters. She held up her hands, and the crowd quieted. “Hold! Gornon, be yer man enough ter hold yer ground?” The barbarian snorted, eyes locked with the soldier. “Let yer little metal toy out an we’ll find out, will we” Lleilwin nodded, and turned to the other. “Telemacus, be yer man enough ter hold yer ground?” The soldier donned his helmet and nodded, setting his sword loose on its scabbard. “Aye.”
As the air between the two grew tense in anticipation, Lleilwin unstrapped her own sword. “Very well.. when yer ready, come at me” The two halted, looking confusedly at each other then back to the red-head, who laughed as her eyes gleamed with malice. “What, yer afraid ter fight a maid? Doncher worry, I’ll try not ter damage yer… too much.” And as her two-hander sword cleft the air towards the two, the melee was joined.

Once the cascade of blows had slowed down, Telemacus leaned back and waited for the ringing in his head to stop. A quick glance of the barbarian bruised and bleeding down on one knee gave him strange comfort- misery loves company. Battered, armor dented in many places, he gasped for breath and tried to fight down his embarrassment. The barbarian likewise sought breath, one eye so bruised it was fully closed; and by the sound of his curses furious as a wet tiger. To add insult to injury, the Vanir was hardly scratched. She leaned in close to the two, and laughed. “Yer not bad, yer two… but it be a long day before yer ready ter take me on. But yer both pass yer trial.”
The words bit Telemacus hard on his pride. He turned to Gornon, who was spitting blood between his curses. And as his own fury rose, the soldier grew strangely and dangerously calm.
“Tell me, wolf.” He offered one hand to help the barbarian, who slapped it out of the way and tottered back upright. “How long is a Cimmerian day?”
Gornon was caught off guard, and he held the soldier’s gaze. His broken lips twisted into a sneer of a smile as he answered. “As long as it takes!” And with a roar, they both leapt back into the frey.

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For half a day the two had fought off waves of cannibal picts as they searched the icy caverns of the Eighlopian Mountains for signs of the missing patrol. Telemacus’s helm had been lost sometime back in the first hour. His shield was down to one strap, and dicey to hold; there was a huge dent marking the place where the mammoth had broken its charge.
But the picts had died by the hundred. The two knew each other’s fighting style so well they seemed like one man with four arms. An enemy would dart towards the barbarian’s exposed back, only to find himself dashing face first into an immovable shield. To be stunned by such impact would be deadly, as the two sword brothers shifted and wove their deadly trap- and a gigantic sword would leap out of nowhere, barbarian strength cleaving arm from torso and head from neck. And the dance went on.
Gornon was in full battle frenzy. His preference for wearing no armor and the fact that he was covered from head to toe in blood made it difficult to tell him apart from the picts. Telemacus wondered how much of that blood was his own.

They paused to draw breath, and rub battle-sore muscles. They had reached the innermost cavern, an ice-covered abyss; they stood upon a rocky outcrop before a network of criss-crossing catwalks tying together bands of cannibal camps over the floor below. And as they took advantage of the lull to rest, their familiar banter returned.
“Oi, ye look like a goat's reamed arse.” Gornon cleaned his blade before paying attention to any of his wounds. Telemacus, for his part, tore a fresh piece of leather from a fallen pict’s kilt to make a makeshift binding for his battered shield. “You look no better, you misbegotten son of a wolf bitch. You need me to bandage you?” The barbarian spat on a headless corpse and took two practice swings with his immense sword. “Na, doncher worry ‘bout me. I’m hungry as all hells though… ye didnae tell me this would take a day or I’d have roasted ye a moose ta carry.” The soldier hefted the shield to test the hasty field repair. “I have many enemies.” Telemacus shielded his eyes and scanned the cavern, but nearly fell off the lofty perch as he was clapped hard in the back by the coarse barbarian. “Hah! That be me favorite thing about ye!”
The yell had drawn the attention of a nearby camp of cannibals. As the picts raced towards them on the catwalk, Gornon spat on his hands and set his feet firm. “How much strength ye got left, horse boy?”
Telemacus took his place in front, shield ready. “As much as it takes.”