Sometimes things don't work out well. Other times you have a bad day. And sometimes? Sometimes the world comes crashing down around you, a burning wreckage from which you can't escape.
In Clypeus' case, that last one was very much true, in the literal sense. He urged Lady Vecklor forward, through the burning rooms and smoke-filled air as they rushed to the cellar. In her hands she clutched her child, a little boy wrapped tight in blankets which kept out the deathly black miasma, but only just.
Clypeus turned, shoving Emma forward while turning to catch a burning wooden beam that plowed down the staircase towards them. He grunted under its weight, the air inside his suit burning as he shoved the flaming piece of debris aside.
He didn't take off the armour, no matter how hot it got. It burned hotter than any flame against his flesh, but it was a necessity. He rushed back to Emma a moment later and hastily blocked a sword swing which sliced through the black fog towards her. There was no time to draw his blade in the adrenaline fueled mess of fire, smoke and death, so he simply stepped into the swing’s path, allowing his armour to take the hit. The blade clanged off his steel shell with a deafening ring, which he silenced a moment later by punching the smoke-shrouded figure square in the jaw, sending them stumbling back into the flames.
He grabbed Lady Vecklor by the arm, guiding her forward through the collapsing kitchen. Around them, metal and wood plummeted as the structure's integrity was burned away, a flaming downpour of certain death which they narrowly avoided. Through gaps in the crumbling walls he could see soldiers like the one he'd just punched, waiting to get them the second they tried to flee the burning manor.
They were soldiers bearing the gold and white colours of House Alcrae. He knew Tirran Alcrae wouldn't honour the results of War.
They had come in the night, defeating the guards easily with their overwhelming numbers before setting the manor aflame. Clypeus had rushed to protect the ones he served, charging through the flames and invading soldiers alike to reach their chambers. Without mercy he cut down the two soldiers trying to break down the noble couple’s door, calling them out and leading them away through the fiery wreckage the manor was quickly becoming.
He'd guided them out to the main hall, aiming to bring them to the escape tunnel in the cellar. But the attackers weren't content with waiting for them to perish in the flames, they sent forces in after them, protected by the magic of numerous fire mages. It was ironic, in a sense. The church denounced the use of magic yet the noble house which ran it used fire mages for sinful purposes. The invading soldiers strode through the flames and smoke like demons, cutting down any fleeing servant they came across as they pursued the nobles.
There were simply too many. As they descended to the ground floor of the manor, Alcrae’s troops were waiting for them. If they had attempted to make a break through the back rooms to the cellar, they certainly would’ve been caught. The moment Lord Vecklor’s eyes met his own, Clypeus’ heart sank. That determined look was inevitable, indomitable, unwavering. He knew exactly what the lord was about to do.
Alistair had turned to him, placed a hand on his pauldron, thanked him for his service and requested one last task. To get Emma to safety.
Then he turned around.
He strode into battle through the smoke not as a man, but as Lord Vecklor, cutting down the soldiers which pursued them with ferocious intent. His light attunement formed the firelight into blades that flew through the air and into armour which clung to his form, a warrior of light against the devils of the flame.
Lady Vecklor had screamed, begged, cried, but Clypeus did not let her return to her husband who was eventually cut down by the onslaught of soldiers and mages. He dragged her away, heart heavy. He may have failed in his duty once, but he would not again. He was determined that she would survive. He would honor Alistair’s last request. He would fulfill his duty, no matter the cost.
Eventually the pair made their way to the wine cellar, descending down the wooden steps into the cool air of the basement room. Though smoke poured down the hatch into the place, it was mostly untouched, the rows of wine racks undisturbed by fire as of yet.
Clypeus stormed up to the back wall, muscling aside a large wooden table and pressed his armoured palms into the bricks he'd fervently memorised. They gave way beneath the firm presses of his gauntlets and with a subtle click the hidden passage began to slide open. It was a dark hallway leading through the earth which Clypeus knew would bring Emma to safety in the nearby village, where she would hire a boat and flee to her relatives up north.
As the stone grinded open, Clypeus heard the dreaded sound of bootsteps and shouted orders. They were coming.
Slowly, he turned from the cellar's entrance to the Lady he loved so dearly, to the kind woman that had treated him more like a son than a servant.
"It has been an honour, my lady. Now go." He spoke in hushed tones, tearing his eyes away from her grief-stricken face and drawing his blade. They would catch up to her if he allowed them. He would not.
Emma looked tearfully between her baby son, him and the escape which awaited them. She didn't say anything, but the haunted look in her beautiful eyes said more than words ever could.
She hurried down the hallway into survival as he turned to face death.
They came soon after. Blood-soaked and flame-licked fighters who followed the deathly smoke descending into the cellar. Eight of them in total, seven warriors and a mage.
Clypeus stood silent, head bowed, both hands on the longsword he had wielded for so long in the name of House Vecklor. Would the house even survive this? He hoped so. He prayed that Lady Vecklor and her son would make it away and rebuild the house. They would live on in the light, while Clypeus burned in the dark.
It was a grim wish. And an ironic one at that. To be praying for death in combat against forces under the Church’s control. Who was he even praying to? Surely the Goddess would ignore him, she would be on their side.
His eyes were dry, mouth parched, skin burning with the heat his armour retained even in the cool basement. It did not matter. Calmy, he turned his dark eyes up to face the pursuers, feeling nothing but determination.
Before the mage could open his mouth to interrogate him, Clypeus moved. Faster than he ever had before he charged, leaping over a small wine rack and cleaving a shocked woman in two.
There was enough room in the cellar for him to maneuver his long blade, but enough obstacles to stop the mage getting a clear shot. He brought the full length of violent steel down, slashing brutally into a hastily raised shield, blade sinking deep into the wood. Wrenching, he twisted the shield from the man's grasp, pummelling him in the face with his hilt a moment later. Blood gushed from the shattered nose along with the man’s scream.
Clypeus grunted, a blade impaling his leg through a gap in the platemail. Swinging, he attempted to decapitate the woman but was stopped as a gout of fire rushed over him. The flame poured through the gaps in his visor, searing his flesh like sizzling bacon.
He stumbled back as the onslaught of flame continued. The fire mage stood, arms held forward as a barrage of flame flew from the tiny candle he held.
Clypeus ducked behind a row of wine caskets which began to burst and spill their contents as the heat overpowered and expanded the wood. Between the smoke and rushing liquid, he was able to move around the rack unseen.
Emerging, he attacked a soldier with a brutal overhead, his blade crashing down on their hastily raised axe. The man tried to be sneaky, kicking at him from beneath the clashing blades. Clypeus was no amateur, though. He knew full well the man's gambit as he'd done it himself many times. Luckily, he was never stupid enough to try it on a guy wearing platemail. He allowed the ineffectual kick to clang against his waist and swiftly dropped an elbow, breaking the man's knee with a heavy blow from his vambrace.
Suddenly he was forced on the defensive as he was again bombarded by the fire as four men circled him, preventing him from ducking away. They slashed at him from all sides, making him panic and flail in place as the fire began to boil him within the suit.
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That heat. An infernal, searing pain which smothered any reasonable thought. As he flailed his sword around and tried desperately to escape the encircling soldiers, a primal instinct overtook him. He opened his eyes and growled as they settled upon the fire mage, visible through a gap in the soldier’s formation.
In one last desperate move, the knight charged. The heat grew ever more intense but he ignored it, roaring a battlecry as the flames scolded his tongue and throat. Panicked, the mage backpedalled but could do nothing to prevent the sword from impaling him. As he fell to the ground, Clypeus followed as the other soldiers dogpiled him.
As the trauma of their blows and the searing burns finally stole away his consciousness, Clypeus blearily saw the escape passage door slide close.
He smiled. Job complete.
-
Hurriedly, she ascended the weathered stone steps, clutching her child tight to her chest. Tears ran down her cheeks as she knew exactly what was transpiring at the end of the tunnel she escaped from. Clypeus was a knight, and a damn good one at that but even he could not defeat however many soldiers would have pursued them into the cellar.
First her husband, then her loyal knight. Both committing the ultimate sacrifice to get her and her son to safety.
In one nightmarish night she’d lost two men she held close to her heart.
There wasn’t time to grieve, though. That could come later. It would only be a matter of time before the soldiers figured out where she had gone and followed. She’d need to be long gone and on a boat by the time they reached the village.
Her feet carried her swiftly down the short path through the forest. It would only take her minutes to get to Greenwood. It was a simple village with an industry rooted in lumber, but one that her and her husband had helped in the past. They’d had a goblin infestation in their forests, one which would take a lot of time and manpower to put down. One their own, it would have taken years. With their help? Well, it was over quickly once they sent a dozen adventurer mages to purge the tunnels with magic.
As was customary, the village gates were closed to keep out monsters. But after calling up to get a guard's attention, she was quickly let in once the men on watch duty saw she was both alone and carrying a baby. The two armoured men gave her a light scolding for being outside the village in such a vulnerable state, especially with a baby, clearly not recognising her as Lady Vecklor. On a better day, it might have amused her. But it wasn’t, and her miserable expression matched the shoddy impression her night clothes and bare feet gave.
She hurried down a gravel path, heading for the meager port as the small stones dug into her feet. She winced with every step, trying to ignore the pain. At that time of the night very few people were about, and those that were were either on their way to, or from, the tavern. As she rounded a corner and went to pass said tavern, she suddenly froze and darted into a side alley between the buildings. Standing outside the tavern were a group of four armoured people wearing white and gold outfits, alongside a large man wearing an apron. She pressed herself against the wall of the building and listened.
“Look, we’re not guaranteeing anyone will pass through. But if either of them do, you gotta tell us. House Vecklor is dying. Tonight. And if the Church finds out that one or both of the nobles escaped through Greenwood, well, you might have some issues with forest fires. Understand?”
“Yes, yes, I understand…” She heard a nervous man say, presumably the tavern keeper.
“But…”
“But what?” She heard a soldier growl.
“I-it’s just that they’ve been good to us, you know? I’m willing to keep an eye out for you guys but even if I spread news that you want everyone on lookout, most of the people in Greenwood would never go behind their backs like that. They don’t deserve it.”
It warmed her heart slightly. She shifted slightly closer, hugging her baby firmly.
“Then you make them do it. As I said Albert, things are gonna go badly round here. Whether you believe that’s on you or not is up to you.”
At the sound of approaching footsteps she ducked back, crouching behind a barrel. Peaking out, she saw the soldiers pass the alley’s mouth, chatting as they scanned the area.
To be hunted, such a new experience. In the past, she’d simply trust that Clypeus would have it handled, her ever-vigilant protector. But now? Her baby’s safety was up to her and her alone.
Quickly, she emerged from the alley and hurried past the tavern. As she passed its door she stopped, glanced in and saw the innkeeper already watching her through the door from the bar. The man nodded at her with a soft smile, turning and tending to another patron.
She sighed in relief, hurrying onwards. She pulled her gown tight around her, the garment so black from soot and dust it looked indistinguishable from a common cloak at this point.
The small port at the village edge was quiet, save for the lapping of waves against the few docked ship’s hulls. She made her way to the harbourmaster's house nearby, knocking at the wooden door as she nervously scanned the area for soldiers.
Silence. She knocked again.
Silence. Was he a deep sleeper?
She pounded the door more firmly and this time it swung open slightly. She frowned. It wasn’t locked?
Ducking her head inside, she froze. Then quickly retreated.
Apparently the soldiers weren’t taking any chances that the old sailor would side with them. His mangled corpse wouldn’t be taking her anywhere.
“Agh… What to do? Where…” She trailed off, eyes settling on a small fishing ship coming into port. Slowly, she walked towards it.
The small wooden ship came to a stop as the sailor rolled up the sail and grabbed the dock’s edge, halting its momentum. After a moment of struggling against its momentum and weight, he grunted as it finally came to rest. He hopped out and quickly tied the ship up, giving her only an idle glance as she stood nearby. When both ends of the ship were secured, the man pulled a bucket of squirming shellfish out from the vessel and moved to leave the port.
“G’day mam.” He grunted quietly, trying to move past her.
“Wait, wait!” She moved to block his path. The fisherman squinted down at her, eyebrows furrowing.
“I ain’t looking for a good time, miss. You should try the tavern, that lot’d take you up on it. Might need to leave the baby somewhere though.”
“No, no! I… I need you to take me somewhere, prithee. I have a boat, that one over there.” She pointed at the vessel they’d long ago brung into port. The old harbourmaster had taken care of it but it was clearly disused. The fisherman squinted and eyed her again, raising an bushy eyebrow as she said ‘prithee’.
“And why would I do that, miss? It’s night, sailing’s rough. I only do it to get the creel’s up before any of the lazy bastards round here waiting till morning.” He set down his bucket and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. The night wind was certainly cold and she envied the man’s… well, actual clothes.
“I’ll…” She looked at the ship and wondered what she could offer him. She had nothing! The agreement they had with the harbourmaster meant nothing to the man, and she didn’t own anything except… “You can keep the boat.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. The fisherman took a long look at her, a long look at her decent sized ship and a long look at his own smaller one. He sighed.
“Where ya heading to?” She grinned at his reply.
“Porthome. Up north.” She moved to stand before her vessel, the grizzled fisherman followed her then set down his bucket in it with a sigh. Undoing what he’d just done to his own ship, he untied the ropes holding it in place and got in, motioning for her to join him.
“Porthome’s a long way from here. Could this not wait till morning?”
She glanced nervously back at the town, seeing a pair of soldiers slowly coming their way. “No, definitely not. In fact, I’d appreciate it if we could hurry on our way.”
He grunted, rowing the boat a short distance before unfurling the sail. The wind was fast, and quickly billowed in the sails and propelled them onwards. They made distance quickly as the fisherman hurried about while she sat the bow and clung to its edge with the unsteadiness of one who had never sailed before. As the man worked, she glanced back, seeing the two soldiers now on the docks. They pointed at the ship and seemingly conversed before hurrying back into the village.
She wasn’t worried. Under the cover of night and without a light on board she doubted they would be able to follow, even if they did muster a ship quickly. Though if they suspected it was indeed her that was escaping, then the soldiers might make good on their threats. She muttered a small prayer for Greenwood, a surge of guilt swelling up in her. She distracted herself by watching the sailor work and soon frowned at just how dark everything was without much moonlight shining through the clouds.
“Why don’t we have a lantern on?” She asked out of curiosity. The man grunted as he adjusted the sails, peering intently out into the darkness. She saw nothing, only a dark void of presumably water.
“I know this area like the back of my hand, but you can never be too careful. Gotta keep my night vision, watch for rocks; a light would blind me.”
She hummed. If her husband were here he would have simply created a ball of glorious light over the boat, lighting the way even in the dark night. But he wasn’t. She hugged her baby, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Well, get comfortable miss. Gonna be a long night.” She squirmed on the hard wooden bench at the prow of the ship. Not likely. “Since we’re gonna be with each other a while, it’s probably about time I asked your name. I’m Scott Farman.”
“It’s a pleasure, Scott. I am Emma. Emma Ve-” She cut off. The man didn’t know who she was, and could have heard about the hunt for her. What if he turned her in?
In fact, her name was no longer a mark of pride and lineage. It was a target on her back. But to discard her name, it felt… dirty. Alas, it was necessary. Maybe one day if the Alcrae’s lost control of the Church she could take it back. But for now, a fake one would do. She breathed shakily then faked a cough, before continuing.
“I am Emma Vesuvae. Pleasure to meet you.”