Post by Swith on Jan 19, 2016 14:41:04 GMT -4
NOMINATION 2: Requiem | Sir Gefrei de Bataille
Nominated by: Swith Witherward
Notes by Swith Witherward: "Tightly written, beautifully detailed, exquisite."
Thunderous drums carried through the ancient Saxon thicket as iron-clad hooves pounded the forgotten Roman road into submission- the chase was on. Two destriers -monstrous mounts of war bred to bear their noble lords into the fray with the greatest force possible- tore through the underbrush with violent force as they galloped on. Muscles visibly rippled under their thinly furred hide as their legs hammered away at root, stone, and brush with equal ferocity; primordial timber groaning in protest in their forgotten tongue as the two beasts trod upon their roots with abandon. The two steeds held opposed goals in their hearts- a great black stallion bore its knightly master down upon his traitorous quarry while a dappled mare sought to bring her hounded master to safety thanks to the stirrups embedded in her flesh. Both were flowers of nobility stemmed from peerless domestic mastery over the Equus genus. Both were paid for by a handsome ransom fit for the life of a Knight.
And both were fated to brutally die in mere seconds.
Lord Baldwin finally came to the grim realization- he wasn't escaping his pursuer. The game was up, and while he could potentially push his steed a little further, the mare would soon collapse from exhaustion. The berserk Knight had cut off his attempt to flee his besieged keep and hounded his Lordship in dogged pursuit for several hours now. There was no escape to be had, Baldwin's stamina had been claimed by advancement into middle age and now he was hemmed in by his own lack of the quality. His Lordship gritted his teeth behind his embossed conical helmet and tightened the grip on his lance; either he was to be cut down like an exhausted Deer in the hunt or stand like a cornered Boar, and he had no attention to be labeled a coward.
His Lordship spun his horse about to face the direction of his pursuer and charged... and that was when he broke through the brush bordering the old Roman road. The Knight exploded from the foliage, bearing down on his quarry with limitless fury; the Norman Knight failing to even note his prey's sudden act of bravery. Both parties leveled their lances and began the final charge, their steeds thundering across the ancient paved road as they sought to spear the other through the heart. Both Nobles were skilled in the art of equine mastery, trained from their youth to fight in this very exact manner. At the last possible second both riders jinked in opposite directions, twisting barely an inch out of the reach of their lances. Failing to strike their intended target both men instinctively lowered their lances and instead tore into their opposing mounts. The massive wooden pikes performed their lethal art well, steel tipped heads tore into horse-flesh and shredded both muscle and organ, the fine dagger-blades cutting deep into the pelvis and spines of both destriers. Both lances then shattered- showering the Nobles in splinters of wood while internally the Ash shafts exploded from kinetic force and perforated the organs of each loyal steed.
Wracked by pain, both destriers crumbled to the old cobbled road and pitched their riders into the forest floor. The Knight, spry from relative youth compared to the Lord, recovered swiftly and rolled with the fall to avoid injury. The aging Lord Baldwin was less fortunate- a sickening crunch was audible both to the Knight and the pair of gurgling horses as his ankle twisted at a painful angle. Still, a testament to the Lordship's strength of will, the old man fought through the pain and stood upon the contorted foot to face his foe as a man. Wrenching himself fully erect in noble stature, Baldwin drew his sword and gestured for parlay from his assailant.
"Why this lust for my destruction? Why must you dog my every move since attempting to seek solace in my estate? My head will bring you little reward when my ransom will grant you vast riches. I can surrender Wards from my estate, replace your destrier with a breeding pair, even commission my household blacksmith to fashion you a wondrous prosthetic. Yes, I know who you are Sir Knight. Sir Gefrei de Bataille, owner of the fortress in Ivry, a veteran of the wars in Italy. You are lauded as a man of Chivalry, a noble man burdened by a heavy past. Will you not see reason? Will you not spare me as a man of God? I have done no harm upon you Sir Knight, and more than grateful to forgive this transgression. Please, I beg of the, see reason!"
Sir Gefrei de Bataille stood motionless for a full minute with the moonlit Roman road behind him, contemplating the Nobleman's words. His response decided, Gefrei marched several paces forward, speaking as he prepared to set upon Lord Baldwin with every intent of slaying him.
"A man of God? You call yourself such after the actions in Winchester? You may have forgotten your misdeeds Baldwin, but I have not; not until I can hear your screams in the eternal flames below as you pay for your crimes upon this Earth. You are a traitor to your true Queen and a murderer Baldwin, and while these unholy crimes may have slipped your mind as you grew fat on venison of the false-king and drunk from ale, you must be sent to the Divine court to answer for them. The Siege Baldwin, do you remember? Not this one old man, but the fall of Winchester to your bastard King's forces. I remember it because the sight is burned into my memory. Along with thirty men you took prisoner during the siege of Winchester, you captured one who was but a young lad. Innocent, his hands had yet to be stained with the blood of any man. My squire. My cousin. MY WARD. WHO YOU THEN CUT DOWN LIKE A DOG WITH THE REST OF THE PRISONERS SEIZED FOR NO OTHER PURPOSE THAN TO DEMORALIZE THE GARRISON. REASON? REASON WAS GONE THE DAY YOU TOOK THAT PATH. THAT BOY WAS GOING TO BE MY HEIR UNLESS MY WIFE BEARS ME A SON. FOR AS MUCH AS I WILL EVER CARE, THAT BOY, WILHELM, WAS MY SON. ONLY GOD CAN DELIVER THE RIGHTEOUS PUNISHMENT YOU DESERVE WORM, AND I HAVE EVERY INTENTION OF ARRANGING SUCH A MEETING! DEUS VULT!"
Gefrei bellowed out a feverish cry of war before throwing himself upon the cowardly nobleman with complete abandon. Baldwin was immediately overwhelmed, the old man utterly lacking any ability to counter the unrestrained fury of a man nearly two decades younger hellbent on caving in his face. Gefrei paid no attention to any defensive strategy, trusting his hauberk and Italo helm for protection as he hammered his kite shield into the old man's body and throwing the lord off balance. Baldwin however was also clothed in the same quality of armor, any assault by a blade would do little to their armor and utterly fail to land lethal wounds upon their flesh. It was only as Gefrei hammered the extended quillons of his broadsword into Baldwin's spangenhelm that his lordship realized the Knight's plan of attack.
Momentarily stunned from the light concussion sustained, Baldwin stumbled several more paces back as he attempted to gather his wits and stop his head from spinning. Gefrei held no intent to allow this, and charged at the puffed up nobleman again. Gripping his sword by the blade in his left hand, Gefrei twirled the sword to gain more concussive force before bringing the crossguard on the lord's helmet once more. And again. And again. By the fifth strike a visible dent had formed in Baldwin's nasal helmet; by the sixth an audible crack was heard as a hairline fracture was formed in Baldwin's skull as his own helmet was driven like a wedge between the bone plates. Blood welled up in the man's skull and leaked out from the helmet, spilling across his coif as the old fool collapsed against a nearby tree. Delirious from fear, Baldwin futilely tried to push the Knight away from his person with weakening limbs, resistance Gefrei casually powered through. Swiftly dropping his sword and drawing a dagger in what seemed to be a single, fluid motion, Gefrei struck the killing blow. Through watering, clouding eyes Baldwin looked down to see a dagger rammed down to the hilt sticking from his jugular as ichor gushed from his rent neck.
Desperately clinging on to life, the dying man clutched at his neck to close the wound in vain as his arteries spurt blood and lost pressure. His circulatory system began to fail entirely as blood ceased to travel to his brain and instead gushed across his chest and stained the ground. In his final seconds of consciousness Baldwin stared at Gefrei's primitive enclosed helmet and looked at its details through swiftly blurring eyes. A crown of metal thorns wreathed it like a crown while over the location of the mouth, the leering teeth of a skull were etched into the steel. But what caught his attention in the final second of conscious life were the eyes. Peering through the small curved slots in the face-plate were brown human eyes, glaring at Baldwin with the utmost contempt for his life. His last thought before slipping away into unconsciousness and hastily following death was just how much anger the copper orbs seemed to convey.
Gefrei tore his gaze from the bleeding corpse, content with having seen the life drain from the old man's eyes. He had claimed vengeance for his slain ward. The anger and lust for revenge he had bottled up was finally released and would trouble his choler no longer. The Knight could finally live in peace having avenged his fallen squire- return to his wife and soon-to-be-born child in Normandy. While he may yet stay in the fight for a few years longer out of loyalty to the rightful heir to the throne of England, he felt that he had earned at least some retirement from the field for now. His main motivation to stay in the fight was finished now with the death of Baldwin. Yes. Now was the time to live in happiness and revel in the glorious future that awaited the gestating Angevin Empire. Gefrei turned back to face the slumping corpse of the dead lord, deciding there was a final act to be done.
"Requiescat in pace, Wilhelm. You are avenged." Gefrei spoke in a hushed voice as he performed one final act of humiliation upon his lordship. Kicking the corpse to lie prone upon the forest floor in a pool of its cooling blood, Gefrei rammed his sword through the corpse's mouth and draped a crucifix necklace. It felt fitting to both slay and deface Wilhelm's killer with the sword he had intended to use to knight the lad upon reaching his nineteenth birthday.
The Knight turned to the two crumpled mounts on the ancient road and sighed. Destriers were ludicrously expensive, a single horse of their breeding would cost enough money to buy a thousand heads of sheep- to replace his mount would bite into his coffers. Worse yet he had chased after Baldwin alone and without a palfrey in tow, meaning he now had to walk back to the Angevin Camp.
+
Thankfully the old road was illuminated by moonlight and the light of the galaxy itself, creating what appeared to be an almost heavenly path as the silver light of space bounced off the cobblestone. The weather was also well suited to a long march in heavy, insulated armor that would make such a trip in the heat outright hellish. Hours passed as the lone Knight marched down the ancient road and began to tire. His shoes were simply pathetic in structure and little more than leather socks tied to his feet; debris on the road poked into the soles and rubbed painfully against his feet with each step taken. His energy was already drained by the several hour chase on horseback, the short but violent duel, and finally wandering in the late evening on this ill-maintained road. The forest flanking the cobblestone road looked so pleasant now, offering banks of moss to retire upon with mild comfort.
Longing for some well-deserved rest, the Knight abandoned the cobbled moonlit path and wandered into the forest; seeking a bed of moss to lay his heavy head upon. The further he wandered into the forest, the stranger the woods seemed. Gnarled trunks twisted upwards from the forest floor painted in the rusted shades of Autumn- seeming to groan in protest of his passing. Gefrei shook off the strange noises similar to the creaking of oak and ash floorboards as merely the wind tugging the old flora against their roots. It was nothing to be concerned about- to be anxious over such minor oddities was a waste of energy that would only further tire him.
Finally after nearly twenty minutes of aimless exploration, Gefrei spied a pleasant spot to rest on. An old tree sat in the center of a modest clearing, encrusted in lichen with roots draped in a sea of moss and ferns. Not even bothering to shed his helm, let alone his armor, the Knight collapsed in a corner formed by two great roots splitting the ground under them and rising up to form small walls. Gefrei's eyes grey heavy immediately upon relaxing into the natural bedding. He only bothered to remove the buckles that held the sanguine robe gifted to him by Roger of Sicily's house to his neck. Using it as a blanket, he tucked it around his armor to preserve warmth in what would be a cold British night.
The knight drifted off to sleep, slipping away into fantasies of killer rabbits and besieging Jerusalem on pegasi- ignorant of the world around him. As he slumbered Gefrei ceased to age with the world around him; forgotten by his people as his body grew covered by the overgrowth of surrounding plants. Roots twisted about his body as the years passed as bushes sprouted and wilted with the passing seasons. Over decades planets grew, died, and decomposed, leaving Gefrei buried under an increasing pile of dirt. Centuries past and the days of his status as a knight waxed and waned into oblivion with the invention of full plate armor and the subsequent spread of gunpowder. His wife was long dead, his castle had passed through countless hands of ownership until it too was forgotten, and Sir Gefrei de Bataille’s very existence was soon forgotten. Later aircraft would dance upon the wings of Mercury in the skies of Britain a full seven hundred and ninety-three years after his death; sundered German bombers screaming down into the channel as the canons of Spitfires unleashed righteous English fury.
But he was oblivious to it all. The wars, the kings, even his own legacy being swiftly ground to dust by entropy. Still sleeping in that ancient Saxon forrest, Gefrei was ignorant of all the world’s happenings. Buried under the ancient Oak tree he sought shelter under, the Knight was not even there for the mutually lethal birth of his stillborn son.
Eight Hundred and Sixty-Eight Years Later
It was the crack of dawn. Swallows fluttered through the air in flocks, chirping as they jumped between the trees in flight. The heavenly rays of Sol cracked over the eastern horizon,their slow rise was upon the western world as they left the east in shadow. The forests in the outskirts of Bielefeld were stirring from their rest, or what they had attempted to achieve during the previous day’s and night’s events. Nocturnal predators sulked through the undergrowth, seeking a peaceful den for retreat until the next night. Worms poked their indistinguishable heads from the surface of the dirt as they were naturally drawn to the dew coating blades of grass and moss.
A thick hiking-boot soon crushed the aspirations for the day (if non-sentient invertebrates could have aspirations) of an unlucky worm. The black leather and rubber footwear mashed the miserable invertebrate into paste before picking up and taking another step, ruining the existence of some insufferable insect. Its owner, a gardener, was blissfully ignorant of the life he ended with each step- although he likely would have done so anyway if conscious of his actions out of spite. They were good for the health of his plants- but in his opinion the gardener preferred everything spotless of life the squeamish might find objectionable- specifically in this plot of land.
Risen early to maximize the cool hours of the morning (and shake the memory of some rather embarrassing actions he had woken to find himself involved in), the man had called to find one of his menial laborers having similar thoughts. This was not the exclusive source of the gardeners motivation however, in truth his desire to get to work early was the object said work involved. It was a tree. Not just any tree, but an ancient great Oak plucked from a forest in Britain that sprouted in the days before Christ. While the gardener was not a religious man, the sheer age of the tree made it a relic of history in his eyes. The aging man stared at the great gnarled thing with watery eyes upon entering the workplace; it was a gift to do this job. He was grateful for such an opportunity to be passed his way by the mysterious benefactor of this plant “museum” being assembled on the edge of Bielefeld- who, come to think of it, had never spoken to the gardener outside of physical letter.
Then the gardener remembered the events of last night and the “colorful” characters who inhabited this city and honestly. In comparison your boss communicating with your purely through hand-written letters dumped in your mailbox wasn’t even the tenth strangest thing to happen in this odd place. Forgetting the observation, the gardener took his eyes off the Oak tree suspended in the air from a great crane and waved at the driver. Spotting the signal from his boss, the menial wrenched one of the levers in the crane’s cab- sending the oak tree plummeting into the ground and the holes excavated for its roots. The gardener cringed in sympathetic pain as he witnessed the ancient tree crash into the ground without grace or control, potentially risking the death of the oak itself. Fuming at the menial’s apathetic incompetence, the gardener rolled up his sleeves and marched over to the crane’s cabin to give the cheap labor a lengthy monologue on the subject of his stupidity. When passing the dropped Oak the gardener tripped however- his balance lost on some infernal root and leading to his face becoming embedded in the muddy ground.
Changing his opinion of the ancient tree in the instant he blamed it for his fall, the Gardener’s monologue of curses switched targets from the menial to the oak. If this was a sign of how the rest of the day was going to unfold he was going to run up an enormous tab at the local pub. Continuing to curse, the gardener rolled his face out of the mud and pivoted on his hip to see what in the seven rings of hell had arrested his motion and sent him tumbling into the muck. The action was pointless though- he knew very well it was a root that had tripped him. Or at least the gardener was confident in that sentiment until he saw the true cause; his blood chilling at the sight. It wasn’t frightening in the same sense as the “abbies” that roamed around this city, but it was wrong. Out of place, too perfectly preserved to be natural.
Punching through the mud and roots was a single perfectly preserved steel gauntlet, its fingers wrapped tightly around the gardener’s leg. While a historical piece of armor may not be entirely unusual to be found wrapped up in the matter of a plant so ancient… one of this perfect quality was wholly unnatural. It looked unblemished by entropic forces of time- free of any rust or weathering. In fact it looked like it had been maintained by an artificer for how many centuries it was entombed by the oak tree, the only flaw was caked mud from the surrounding dirt pit. He could have kept his senses at this point and waved it off as some unnatural, but not unfathomable preserved corpse of an old knight, at least until the arm twitched and began to move. A left arm ripped from the mud and began to carve away that kept its owner trapped underground, the gardener looking on in shock as a man hauled himself out of the ground.
Dirt and blobs of mud sloughed from the man’s armor as he wrestled himself from the ground. Beneath a phrygian conical helmet, the man gasped for air while audibly spitting muck from his mouth against the liner of his helmet’s faceplate. The knight of yore stood tall for only a brief period after wrenching himself from the earth- falling to his knees in exhaustion in a metallic chime as maille links jingled like bells from the impact. This mysterious man risen from the ground was wholly ignorant of the gardener’s existence for the time being; he was consumed with the basal functions of life as his brain demanded oxygen from his stasis. Only after taking numerous great gulps of air did the knight turn to see the aging gardener sprawled across the ground before him- eyes still wide in shock. Realizing the strange knight was not gazing upon him, the gardener scrambled backwards from his position in fear, unsure of the stranger’s intentions. The knight however had no intention of malice, but his advance looked frightening irregardless due to the nature of his armor. His helmet was phrygian in fashion, meaning its top curved forward and due to personal adornment, was topped with a “topknot” made of horsehair. Spikes ran about the crown of the helm to signify his christian piety and the forging process of the face-guard left indentations that could be mistaken for a skull’s leer. Understandably all these elements factored together could pose quite a horrifying sight for a startled man on the edge of hysteria.
Sensing the man’s fear from his own experience in war, the knight removed his leather-maille gauntlets and let them hang from the ties that affixed them to the armor on his forearm; holding bare hands to calm him. The knight repeated the word “Pes” to the startled gardener, unfortunately unaware that the early Anglo-Norman french language was all but extinct- the only true remnant spoken by a small population in modern Normandy. But the accent and the word sounded close enough to Pais, which was something the gardener understood from french lessons taken in childhood. Recovering from his state of terror, the gardener stuttered “Oui” multiple times in response as he picked himself up from the mud.
The apparently Norman Knight began to babble in his forgotten tongue, mistaking the gardener’s response for affirmation of his understanding (Oui sounding terribly similar to his word for yes) and thus allowing for a discussion to be held. The gardener shook his head the knight continued to talk, attempting to convey his ignorance of what the medieval man spoke of. The point eventually was delivered by sign-language, and the knight shook his helm bearing head in frustration. He tried the filthy tongue of the Saxons and even the little Italian he knew to no avail. Furious at this language barrier he had stumbled into during his great slumber, a lightbulb went off and the Norman immediately grabbed the shoulders of the gardener, fervently repeating a single phrase.
“Anno Domini!”
Nominated by: Swith Witherward
Notes by Swith Witherward: "Tightly written, beautifully detailed, exquisite."
ENTRY BEST ACTION OR FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT SINGLE POST
Thunderous drums carried through the ancient Saxon thicket as iron-clad hooves pounded the forgotten Roman road into submission- the chase was on. Two destriers -monstrous mounts of war bred to bear their noble lords into the fray with the greatest force possible- tore through the underbrush with violent force as they galloped on. Muscles visibly rippled under their thinly furred hide as their legs hammered away at root, stone, and brush with equal ferocity; primordial timber groaning in protest in their forgotten tongue as the two beasts trod upon their roots with abandon. The two steeds held opposed goals in their hearts- a great black stallion bore its knightly master down upon his traitorous quarry while a dappled mare sought to bring her hounded master to safety thanks to the stirrups embedded in her flesh. Both were flowers of nobility stemmed from peerless domestic mastery over the Equus genus. Both were paid for by a handsome ransom fit for the life of a Knight.
And both were fated to brutally die in mere seconds.
Lord Baldwin finally came to the grim realization- he wasn't escaping his pursuer. The game was up, and while he could potentially push his steed a little further, the mare would soon collapse from exhaustion. The berserk Knight had cut off his attempt to flee his besieged keep and hounded his Lordship in dogged pursuit for several hours now. There was no escape to be had, Baldwin's stamina had been claimed by advancement into middle age and now he was hemmed in by his own lack of the quality. His Lordship gritted his teeth behind his embossed conical helmet and tightened the grip on his lance; either he was to be cut down like an exhausted Deer in the hunt or stand like a cornered Boar, and he had no attention to be labeled a coward.
His Lordship spun his horse about to face the direction of his pursuer and charged... and that was when he broke through the brush bordering the old Roman road. The Knight exploded from the foliage, bearing down on his quarry with limitless fury; the Norman Knight failing to even note his prey's sudden act of bravery. Both parties leveled their lances and began the final charge, their steeds thundering across the ancient paved road as they sought to spear the other through the heart. Both Nobles were skilled in the art of equine mastery, trained from their youth to fight in this very exact manner. At the last possible second both riders jinked in opposite directions, twisting barely an inch out of the reach of their lances. Failing to strike their intended target both men instinctively lowered their lances and instead tore into their opposing mounts. The massive wooden pikes performed their lethal art well, steel tipped heads tore into horse-flesh and shredded both muscle and organ, the fine dagger-blades cutting deep into the pelvis and spines of both destriers. Both lances then shattered- showering the Nobles in splinters of wood while internally the Ash shafts exploded from kinetic force and perforated the organs of each loyal steed.
Wracked by pain, both destriers crumbled to the old cobbled road and pitched their riders into the forest floor. The Knight, spry from relative youth compared to the Lord, recovered swiftly and rolled with the fall to avoid injury. The aging Lord Baldwin was less fortunate- a sickening crunch was audible both to the Knight and the pair of gurgling horses as his ankle twisted at a painful angle. Still, a testament to the Lordship's strength of will, the old man fought through the pain and stood upon the contorted foot to face his foe as a man. Wrenching himself fully erect in noble stature, Baldwin drew his sword and gestured for parlay from his assailant.
"Why this lust for my destruction? Why must you dog my every move since attempting to seek solace in my estate? My head will bring you little reward when my ransom will grant you vast riches. I can surrender Wards from my estate, replace your destrier with a breeding pair, even commission my household blacksmith to fashion you a wondrous prosthetic. Yes, I know who you are Sir Knight. Sir Gefrei de Bataille, owner of the fortress in Ivry, a veteran of the wars in Italy. You are lauded as a man of Chivalry, a noble man burdened by a heavy past. Will you not see reason? Will you not spare me as a man of God? I have done no harm upon you Sir Knight, and more than grateful to forgive this transgression. Please, I beg of the, see reason!"
Sir Gefrei de Bataille stood motionless for a full minute with the moonlit Roman road behind him, contemplating the Nobleman's words. His response decided, Gefrei marched several paces forward, speaking as he prepared to set upon Lord Baldwin with every intent of slaying him.
"A man of God? You call yourself such after the actions in Winchester? You may have forgotten your misdeeds Baldwin, but I have not; not until I can hear your screams in the eternal flames below as you pay for your crimes upon this Earth. You are a traitor to your true Queen and a murderer Baldwin, and while these unholy crimes may have slipped your mind as you grew fat on venison of the false-king and drunk from ale, you must be sent to the Divine court to answer for them. The Siege Baldwin, do you remember? Not this one old man, but the fall of Winchester to your bastard King's forces. I remember it because the sight is burned into my memory. Along with thirty men you took prisoner during the siege of Winchester, you captured one who was but a young lad. Innocent, his hands had yet to be stained with the blood of any man. My squire. My cousin. MY WARD. WHO YOU THEN CUT DOWN LIKE A DOG WITH THE REST OF THE PRISONERS SEIZED FOR NO OTHER PURPOSE THAN TO DEMORALIZE THE GARRISON. REASON? REASON WAS GONE THE DAY YOU TOOK THAT PATH. THAT BOY WAS GOING TO BE MY HEIR UNLESS MY WIFE BEARS ME A SON. FOR AS MUCH AS I WILL EVER CARE, THAT BOY, WILHELM, WAS MY SON. ONLY GOD CAN DELIVER THE RIGHTEOUS PUNISHMENT YOU DESERVE WORM, AND I HAVE EVERY INTENTION OF ARRANGING SUCH A MEETING! DEUS VULT!"
Gefrei bellowed out a feverish cry of war before throwing himself upon the cowardly nobleman with complete abandon. Baldwin was immediately overwhelmed, the old man utterly lacking any ability to counter the unrestrained fury of a man nearly two decades younger hellbent on caving in his face. Gefrei paid no attention to any defensive strategy, trusting his hauberk and Italo helm for protection as he hammered his kite shield into the old man's body and throwing the lord off balance. Baldwin however was also clothed in the same quality of armor, any assault by a blade would do little to their armor and utterly fail to land lethal wounds upon their flesh. It was only as Gefrei hammered the extended quillons of his broadsword into Baldwin's spangenhelm that his lordship realized the Knight's plan of attack.
Momentarily stunned from the light concussion sustained, Baldwin stumbled several more paces back as he attempted to gather his wits and stop his head from spinning. Gefrei held no intent to allow this, and charged at the puffed up nobleman again. Gripping his sword by the blade in his left hand, Gefrei twirled the sword to gain more concussive force before bringing the crossguard on the lord's helmet once more. And again. And again. By the fifth strike a visible dent had formed in Baldwin's nasal helmet; by the sixth an audible crack was heard as a hairline fracture was formed in Baldwin's skull as his own helmet was driven like a wedge between the bone plates. Blood welled up in the man's skull and leaked out from the helmet, spilling across his coif as the old fool collapsed against a nearby tree. Delirious from fear, Baldwin futilely tried to push the Knight away from his person with weakening limbs, resistance Gefrei casually powered through. Swiftly dropping his sword and drawing a dagger in what seemed to be a single, fluid motion, Gefrei struck the killing blow. Through watering, clouding eyes Baldwin looked down to see a dagger rammed down to the hilt sticking from his jugular as ichor gushed from his rent neck.
Desperately clinging on to life, the dying man clutched at his neck to close the wound in vain as his arteries spurt blood and lost pressure. His circulatory system began to fail entirely as blood ceased to travel to his brain and instead gushed across his chest and stained the ground. In his final seconds of consciousness Baldwin stared at Gefrei's primitive enclosed helmet and looked at its details through swiftly blurring eyes. A crown of metal thorns wreathed it like a crown while over the location of the mouth, the leering teeth of a skull were etched into the steel. But what caught his attention in the final second of conscious life were the eyes. Peering through the small curved slots in the face-plate were brown human eyes, glaring at Baldwin with the utmost contempt for his life. His last thought before slipping away into unconsciousness and hastily following death was just how much anger the copper orbs seemed to convey.
Gefrei tore his gaze from the bleeding corpse, content with having seen the life drain from the old man's eyes. He had claimed vengeance for his slain ward. The anger and lust for revenge he had bottled up was finally released and would trouble his choler no longer. The Knight could finally live in peace having avenged his fallen squire- return to his wife and soon-to-be-born child in Normandy. While he may yet stay in the fight for a few years longer out of loyalty to the rightful heir to the throne of England, he felt that he had earned at least some retirement from the field for now. His main motivation to stay in the fight was finished now with the death of Baldwin. Yes. Now was the time to live in happiness and revel in the glorious future that awaited the gestating Angevin Empire. Gefrei turned back to face the slumping corpse of the dead lord, deciding there was a final act to be done.
"Requiescat in pace, Wilhelm. You are avenged." Gefrei spoke in a hushed voice as he performed one final act of humiliation upon his lordship. Kicking the corpse to lie prone upon the forest floor in a pool of its cooling blood, Gefrei rammed his sword through the corpse's mouth and draped a crucifix necklace. It felt fitting to both slay and deface Wilhelm's killer with the sword he had intended to use to knight the lad upon reaching his nineteenth birthday.
The Knight turned to the two crumpled mounts on the ancient road and sighed. Destriers were ludicrously expensive, a single horse of their breeding would cost enough money to buy a thousand heads of sheep- to replace his mount would bite into his coffers. Worse yet he had chased after Baldwin alone and without a palfrey in tow, meaning he now had to walk back to the Angevin Camp.
+
Thankfully the old road was illuminated by moonlight and the light of the galaxy itself, creating what appeared to be an almost heavenly path as the silver light of space bounced off the cobblestone. The weather was also well suited to a long march in heavy, insulated armor that would make such a trip in the heat outright hellish. Hours passed as the lone Knight marched down the ancient road and began to tire. His shoes were simply pathetic in structure and little more than leather socks tied to his feet; debris on the road poked into the soles and rubbed painfully against his feet with each step taken. His energy was already drained by the several hour chase on horseback, the short but violent duel, and finally wandering in the late evening on this ill-maintained road. The forest flanking the cobblestone road looked so pleasant now, offering banks of moss to retire upon with mild comfort.
Longing for some well-deserved rest, the Knight abandoned the cobbled moonlit path and wandered into the forest; seeking a bed of moss to lay his heavy head upon. The further he wandered into the forest, the stranger the woods seemed. Gnarled trunks twisted upwards from the forest floor painted in the rusted shades of Autumn- seeming to groan in protest of his passing. Gefrei shook off the strange noises similar to the creaking of oak and ash floorboards as merely the wind tugging the old flora against their roots. It was nothing to be concerned about- to be anxious over such minor oddities was a waste of energy that would only further tire him.
Finally after nearly twenty minutes of aimless exploration, Gefrei spied a pleasant spot to rest on. An old tree sat in the center of a modest clearing, encrusted in lichen with roots draped in a sea of moss and ferns. Not even bothering to shed his helm, let alone his armor, the Knight collapsed in a corner formed by two great roots splitting the ground under them and rising up to form small walls. Gefrei's eyes grey heavy immediately upon relaxing into the natural bedding. He only bothered to remove the buckles that held the sanguine robe gifted to him by Roger of Sicily's house to his neck. Using it as a blanket, he tucked it around his armor to preserve warmth in what would be a cold British night.
The knight drifted off to sleep, slipping away into fantasies of killer rabbits and besieging Jerusalem on pegasi- ignorant of the world around him. As he slumbered Gefrei ceased to age with the world around him; forgotten by his people as his body grew covered by the overgrowth of surrounding plants. Roots twisted about his body as the years passed as bushes sprouted and wilted with the passing seasons. Over decades planets grew, died, and decomposed, leaving Gefrei buried under an increasing pile of dirt. Centuries past and the days of his status as a knight waxed and waned into oblivion with the invention of full plate armor and the subsequent spread of gunpowder. His wife was long dead, his castle had passed through countless hands of ownership until it too was forgotten, and Sir Gefrei de Bataille’s very existence was soon forgotten. Later aircraft would dance upon the wings of Mercury in the skies of Britain a full seven hundred and ninety-three years after his death; sundered German bombers screaming down into the channel as the canons of Spitfires unleashed righteous English fury.
But he was oblivious to it all. The wars, the kings, even his own legacy being swiftly ground to dust by entropy. Still sleeping in that ancient Saxon forrest, Gefrei was ignorant of all the world’s happenings. Buried under the ancient Oak tree he sought shelter under, the Knight was not even there for the mutually lethal birth of his stillborn son.
Eight Hundred and Sixty-Eight Years Later
It was the crack of dawn. Swallows fluttered through the air in flocks, chirping as they jumped between the trees in flight. The heavenly rays of Sol cracked over the eastern horizon,their slow rise was upon the western world as they left the east in shadow. The forests in the outskirts of Bielefeld were stirring from their rest, or what they had attempted to achieve during the previous day’s and night’s events. Nocturnal predators sulked through the undergrowth, seeking a peaceful den for retreat until the next night. Worms poked their indistinguishable heads from the surface of the dirt as they were naturally drawn to the dew coating blades of grass and moss.
A thick hiking-boot soon crushed the aspirations for the day (if non-sentient invertebrates could have aspirations) of an unlucky worm. The black leather and rubber footwear mashed the miserable invertebrate into paste before picking up and taking another step, ruining the existence of some insufferable insect. Its owner, a gardener, was blissfully ignorant of the life he ended with each step- although he likely would have done so anyway if conscious of his actions out of spite. They were good for the health of his plants- but in his opinion the gardener preferred everything spotless of life the squeamish might find objectionable- specifically in this plot of land.
Risen early to maximize the cool hours of the morning (and shake the memory of some rather embarrassing actions he had woken to find himself involved in), the man had called to find one of his menial laborers having similar thoughts. This was not the exclusive source of the gardeners motivation however, in truth his desire to get to work early was the object said work involved. It was a tree. Not just any tree, but an ancient great Oak plucked from a forest in Britain that sprouted in the days before Christ. While the gardener was not a religious man, the sheer age of the tree made it a relic of history in his eyes. The aging man stared at the great gnarled thing with watery eyes upon entering the workplace; it was a gift to do this job. He was grateful for such an opportunity to be passed his way by the mysterious benefactor of this plant “museum” being assembled on the edge of Bielefeld- who, come to think of it, had never spoken to the gardener outside of physical letter.
Then the gardener remembered the events of last night and the “colorful” characters who inhabited this city and honestly. In comparison your boss communicating with your purely through hand-written letters dumped in your mailbox wasn’t even the tenth strangest thing to happen in this odd place. Forgetting the observation, the gardener took his eyes off the Oak tree suspended in the air from a great crane and waved at the driver. Spotting the signal from his boss, the menial wrenched one of the levers in the crane’s cab- sending the oak tree plummeting into the ground and the holes excavated for its roots. The gardener cringed in sympathetic pain as he witnessed the ancient tree crash into the ground without grace or control, potentially risking the death of the oak itself. Fuming at the menial’s apathetic incompetence, the gardener rolled up his sleeves and marched over to the crane’s cabin to give the cheap labor a lengthy monologue on the subject of his stupidity. When passing the dropped Oak the gardener tripped however- his balance lost on some infernal root and leading to his face becoming embedded in the muddy ground.
Changing his opinion of the ancient tree in the instant he blamed it for his fall, the Gardener’s monologue of curses switched targets from the menial to the oak. If this was a sign of how the rest of the day was going to unfold he was going to run up an enormous tab at the local pub. Continuing to curse, the gardener rolled his face out of the mud and pivoted on his hip to see what in the seven rings of hell had arrested his motion and sent him tumbling into the muck. The action was pointless though- he knew very well it was a root that had tripped him. Or at least the gardener was confident in that sentiment until he saw the true cause; his blood chilling at the sight. It wasn’t frightening in the same sense as the “abbies” that roamed around this city, but it was wrong. Out of place, too perfectly preserved to be natural.
Punching through the mud and roots was a single perfectly preserved steel gauntlet, its fingers wrapped tightly around the gardener’s leg. While a historical piece of armor may not be entirely unusual to be found wrapped up in the matter of a plant so ancient… one of this perfect quality was wholly unnatural. It looked unblemished by entropic forces of time- free of any rust or weathering. In fact it looked like it had been maintained by an artificer for how many centuries it was entombed by the oak tree, the only flaw was caked mud from the surrounding dirt pit. He could have kept his senses at this point and waved it off as some unnatural, but not unfathomable preserved corpse of an old knight, at least until the arm twitched and began to move. A left arm ripped from the mud and began to carve away that kept its owner trapped underground, the gardener looking on in shock as a man hauled himself out of the ground.
Dirt and blobs of mud sloughed from the man’s armor as he wrestled himself from the ground. Beneath a phrygian conical helmet, the man gasped for air while audibly spitting muck from his mouth against the liner of his helmet’s faceplate. The knight of yore stood tall for only a brief period after wrenching himself from the earth- falling to his knees in exhaustion in a metallic chime as maille links jingled like bells from the impact. This mysterious man risen from the ground was wholly ignorant of the gardener’s existence for the time being; he was consumed with the basal functions of life as his brain demanded oxygen from his stasis. Only after taking numerous great gulps of air did the knight turn to see the aging gardener sprawled across the ground before him- eyes still wide in shock. Realizing the strange knight was not gazing upon him, the gardener scrambled backwards from his position in fear, unsure of the stranger’s intentions. The knight however had no intention of malice, but his advance looked frightening irregardless due to the nature of his armor. His helmet was phrygian in fashion, meaning its top curved forward and due to personal adornment, was topped with a “topknot” made of horsehair. Spikes ran about the crown of the helm to signify his christian piety and the forging process of the face-guard left indentations that could be mistaken for a skull’s leer. Understandably all these elements factored together could pose quite a horrifying sight for a startled man on the edge of hysteria.
Sensing the man’s fear from his own experience in war, the knight removed his leather-maille gauntlets and let them hang from the ties that affixed them to the armor on his forearm; holding bare hands to calm him. The knight repeated the word “Pes” to the startled gardener, unfortunately unaware that the early Anglo-Norman french language was all but extinct- the only true remnant spoken by a small population in modern Normandy. But the accent and the word sounded close enough to Pais, which was something the gardener understood from french lessons taken in childhood. Recovering from his state of terror, the gardener stuttered “Oui” multiple times in response as he picked himself up from the mud.
The apparently Norman Knight began to babble in his forgotten tongue, mistaking the gardener’s response for affirmation of his understanding (Oui sounding terribly similar to his word for yes) and thus allowing for a discussion to be held. The gardener shook his head the knight continued to talk, attempting to convey his ignorance of what the medieval man spoke of. The point eventually was delivered by sign-language, and the knight shook his helm bearing head in frustration. He tried the filthy tongue of the Saxons and even the little Italian he knew to no avail. Furious at this language barrier he had stumbled into during his great slumber, a lightbulb went off and the Norman immediately grabbed the shoulders of the gardener, fervently repeating a single phrase.
“Anno Domini!”
