He reaches for the spoor, picking a piece and rolling it in his fingers, watching as it crumbles, remembering the lessons from Julian about how to track a target, learn where they've been, and where they're going. A few days he thinks, as the old memories filter back to conscious perception.
"Why a tribal culture?" Eric asks.
"It's the most basic organizational structure." Jerod replies. "It pre-dates the development of simple concepts of the state and nations. Most are based on kinship and strong familial loyalty. They are homogenous, have a clear ranking structure...and focus on stability for their survival...tradition over invention."
"That's the technical answer." Eric says, his ghost persistent as always in Jerod's thoughts. "Now, apply it. Why a tribe for the Weir?"
Jerod drops the crumbling mass, wiping his hands as he remains crouched, listening to the sounds of the woods around him, ignoring for the moment the smell of the slaughtered ewe close by. A fresh kill, but no tracks and spoor too old to be from the creature who's claws struck the killing blow.
No sound...yes...no sound, he realizes. The birds are quiet, the small prey mammals hidden and frozen in this patch of the northern forest...just outside the range of the shepherds and their usual haunts...only the insects buzz and play, too small and oblivious to care about the predators that move in their midst.
"The Weir are all the same...regardless of their origin, their color, their language." Jerod says to his father's ghost. "They are shifters...isolated, feared, hated. But they are intelligent. Their curiosity driven by their intellect The tribe is security, to limit the dangers of that intellect with counsel and wisdom. To help in the hunt or to fight those who would harm them. They will band together to join to decide...are they threatened? Or is there something greater amongst them."
The ghost is silent, the memory satisfied as Jerod rises from the crouch, turning slowly in a circle, watching the foliage, sniffing...listening.
Hunters wait...patient...watching the lone prey in their midst.
His turn completed, Jerod smiles slightly. No sign. Good. Do they perhaps realize who they have been following...and what that means. He draws Eric's sword as he approaches a tree and flips his wrist back, striking the trunk with the pommel once, twice, thrice...the bass sound of each impact echoing amongst the trees before the next rings out. Then he waits patiently...to see which will win out...Weir curiosity of something new...or their fear of the predator in their midst.
Because Jerod is a prince of Amber, with the keen senses and acute perceptions of that line, he hears the movements in the foliage first, before he hears anything. There is rustling, and then there is presence: one alone, but Jerod knows better than to believe that is the only one close by.
It is late afternoon; the shadows cast by the trees are long, attenuated. The newcomer--or the oldcomer--steps out of the trees, and comes into view.
"Who are you, stranger," he asks with a thick accent whose cadences are familiar to Jerod, "and why have you come here?" He is tall and broad and thick, not unlike Gerard in terms of build, but his hair is longer and a bit matted, and his arms, what Jerod can see of them beneath the rough costume that he affects, are far hairier.
This, Jerod knows, is a weir.
Jerod is silent as the weir makes himself visible, studying the signs and movements on display. Language is not the forte of most weir, Eric was fond of saying, but rather it was their posture, their actions that spoke volumes to the one who could see it. The turn of the head, whether the arms hung low or were crooked at the elbow, or the bend of a knee in readiness to fight or flee. It was intrinsic to their being, and to their social behaviour as well. Language served it purpose for certain and many were their tongues, but the body revealed volumes compared to the dribs and drabs of the spoken word.
"I am looking for Seeker of Men's Hearts." Jerod says, remembering the name of the weir that Eric introduced him to long ago. No simple brute that one. Lean and stealthy, a hunter with intelligence and grace. Not a pack leader, but indispensable for the good of the clan and tribe. Smart enough to attract Eric's attention and tough enough to keep it. One fit to be in the presence of Eric's offspring, Jerod considers as the social hierarchy filters again in the background. He adjusts his position slightly, remaining in a dominant stance as befits one who is at the top of the pack hierarchy.
"I would have words with him and his pack master. Tales of old hunts and old masters, for the tribe that served Eric of Amber."
The weir Jerod is speaking to is, he believes, not a leader or a master, because none such would be sent to speak with a man-shape who has only the single form. He has a prideful enough stance to be in the upper tiers of the pack, but not the natural dominance of a leader that commands respect and deference effortlessly. He is young enough that Jerod thinks he might obtain such in due time; the fine network of scars that crisscross his skin--the parts that Jerod can see--tell Jerod that he is unafraid to fight, at the very least.
Jerod's request echoes for a moment, and the weir nods. "And who should I say would speak with Seeker of Men's Hearts? For he is wise and many seek him." It's not quite what right have you got here, two-legger? or something equally insulting, but it's not a deferential I will take you to my leader either.
Jerod does not nod, though his internal thoughts recognize that he would do it were he not suppressing the behaviour to respond subconsciously. The pack would never send someone important to deal with a stranger... too many risks, too little to gain. This one would be a fighter, strong, quick and experienced. Tough enough to defeat an opponent or to escape to return and warn the pack.
"We will see if he remembers me, though many years have passed." Jerod replies. "I am Jerod Eric-Son, Prince of Amber."
"Your sire is known to us, Ericsson," the Weir says, blending the name into a single word. "But he is dead and no longer leads the pack of two-leggers. By what right would you speak to Seeker of Men's Hearts?"
"By the offspring's right to claim what was his sire's." Jerod replies. "By blood and blade, by tongues and by deed. By the offer of kinship, which surpasses even blood-ties to those who are worthy."
"I will lead you to him, then, and if he wishes to speak with you, he shall." It is not yet night and the moon is not high in the sky, but he takes the form of a wolf, his shape blurring from that of a man and falling to the ground and into that of an animal. Then he takes off into the brush again, not waiting for Jerod's presumed assent.
Jerod follows, grateful for the heritage that grants him speed and endurance to keep up with a wolf. His sword remains sheathed and tied close to the body, the better for travel but the spear remains in his hands, a balance for a fast pace, or for whatever may arise in the distance.
The path is not easy for Jerod to travel, and were he not a Prince of Amber with the speed implied by that state, Jerod would lose his way. As he passes among brush and scrub, between trees, he hears the howling of wolves, close by, and then further ahead. He and the weir he follows have an honor guard. They run like the wind for what seems to Jerod like miles, and he's glad that he's his father's son again, for otherwise he couldn't keep up and on at this pace.
Eventually they come to an open, cleared area of land, where by some magic or effort of man or weir, the grass is low and flat. Perhaps some of the herd-beasts Folly loved keep it open. In the middle of the open area sits a grey wolf, one that Jerod might guess is the weir he seeks. Jerod's guide comes to this wolf and bows, really, in submission, before running off into the high grass again. The wolves around them have fallen silent; it is left to Jerod to break it.
Jerod puts the butt of the spear onto the ground, looking over the ground and grass for a long moment. Then he smiles, mindful to keep his teeth hidden.
Court remains Court, no matter the changes in Reality or Shadow, Prince or Weir. And Jerod recognizes a Court when he sees one, his first and only home.
"Court is Court son..." Eric's ghost says. "Forms will change for that is the nature of Shadow, but the rules are always the same."
Jerod nods at the memory, his gaze sweeping the grass and distance. Courtiers and sycophants, strong soldiers and weak followers will all find their places around this court. He notes where in the grass he would expect to see them, sometimes spotting movement here and there for the less skillful amongst the clan, noting the stealth of those who would be the guards.
Too distant to see for visual cues, Jerod thinks. Too far for scent as well. Which means sound is how the Court expresses itself, he thinks, considering the distance that a low throat sound can reach above the waves, the subtle shift of currents beneath.
All is Court.
He approaches at a slow step, the spear butt a silent cadence as it touches the ground in time with his boot. He uses the spot where his guide stopped to give his obeisance to the silver one as his guide, halting his approach several paces prior to that point. A trusted member would be permitted only so close, a stranger...to be kept further away. A rule Jerod has followed a thousand times before as he drops his left knee, placing the spear to his right side as he settles to make his bow. It is respectful and deep, recognition to one in their Court by another of rank, and at the same level.
Then he settles back onto his back leg, the right leg up and slightly forward as he gets comfortable. He says nothing, letting the Court speak first, as it always should.
The Court, in the form of Seeker of Men's Hearts (if that is he, and as best as Jerod recollects matters, it likely is) accepts Jerod's acknowledgement to the guide and his obesiance to the Court. He waits for some long time, regarding Jerod, but remains in his wolf form.
Around them, the wolves shift and, Jerod realizes over the next several minutes that they are still moving, settling into their places as Jerod expected they would. The lowest and least are the loudest, and soon enough even they are silent, having found their places and settled in.
Once all the wolves--the weir--are properly accounted for by their own methods, the silver wolf regards Jerod again. Still in his canine form, he speaks to Jerod, a single, loud bark, commanding. The import, Jerod might guess, is "speak".
"I have come with a request and a question." Jerod says. "There is need of the weir in the service of the offspring of Oberon, but Eric lives no longer. The bond to service is severed and I would seek to know what is needed to remake it that I might have the weir by my side once more. That is the request.
"My question is simpler. Since my father no longer lives, why have the weir not returned to their home?"
The transformation of wolf into man occurs before Jerod's eyes again, and he recognizes the human. It is indeed Seeker of Men's Hearts, whom he recollects from the weir's service with Eric. His hair is as silver in man-form as his pelt is as a wolf. "The answer to the question is simple, Ericsson, and freely given, as a sign of respect to your sire and his place in our pack. We do not return to Weirmonken because the way is barred to us. It closed in the storm lo these many years ago, and has not re-opened since.
"As for the request: surely you know that your father's place among us was won by valor." He looks piercingly at Jerod. "We would expect no less from you."
"I would ask how he won it." Jerod asks. "His life was long and he had many deeds to his name...it was not one he spoke of.
"As for the way, that can be opened again. A sign of respect for those my father would have considered worthy of his trust."
Seeker of Men's Hearts had reformed as a man in a kneeling crouch, one that looks less than comfortable to Jerod's eyes. On hearing Jerod's offer, he rises to his feet. "You would do that?" he asks, clearly suspicious. "What oath would you ask us to make? What service would you seek from us in return? For a return to Weirmonken would be a great boon, and surely it would come with a price."
For the moment, the question of Eric's deeds have been set aside in favor of the more pressing matter.
"What price do you think appropriate?" Jerod asks.
Seeker's eyes narrow as he considers. His "Hmmm," sounds not dissimilar from a growl, but it has no menace behind it. "We are not a complex people, and we have no land or peasants to generate wealth in this barren place. Your Greatwood is closed to us by decree, so we do not go there. We have but ourselves to offer in service.
"It must not be unending, this service. And it must be survivable. And we go together. And we return armed to Weirmonken."
"And all predicated on one simple requirement." Jerod replies. "Trust.
"Trust that the Weir will serve to their word. Trust that the Prince will not abuse it and that he will carry out his word as well. Always it comes back to that, in all things.
"My father may have gained your service through valor, but how did he gain your trust?"
Seeker of Men's Hearts takes a few steps towards Jerod. "Valor and trust are two claws on the same paw, Man. Weirmonken is a dark place, dangerous and full of sudden death. Like unto the Greatwood during the monster invasion. Mankind only prospers there when led by those few of us who are Weir. Ours was a remote county, far from the heartland of our people. It had fallen to an evil wizard, and what was left of the pack of leaders had been expelled from our lands and holdings.
"Prince Eric led us against the wizard's sorcerous troops and personally slew the Red Wizard. He restored the Count's heir to the seat of his ancestors. He only asked one boon, which was for a force to help him protect his homeland against his sorcerous enemies, who menaced the people of his world.
His chest thrusts out, and his eyes are shining. "It was an honor to serve."
Jerod rises as Seeker speaks, listening to him and the Court, the words and the deeds, and his father's shadow ever-present even in death.
"And that is the service that I ask of you now." Jerod says. "To aid me against those who might threaten my home and those I call my people. This service would not be eternal for the land of my father fades and his people travel to new lands. This, for the path to the Weirmonken and your return home."
Seeker of Men's Hearts wants, Jerod thinks, to accept. Jerod could convince him, or so it seems. Still, the large man hesitates. "Eric's son, I must ask. Your sister swore us to your father's brother. Even for what we want for ourselves, we cannot shirk that duty, even if we have not been called upon as yet. Is this task his or yours?"
"Both." Jerod replies. "My uncle, now King, has bidden that action be taken to defend the new home he builds. It is my choice of the form of action to be taken, and I will be the one to ensure that way is opened for your return.
"I would ask under what conditions your service was sworn by my sister, for she is no more."
At the news, the nearby woods ring with deep echoing howls from at least a dozen wolves' throats. Seeker drops to his haunches and joins them.
Seeker takes several deep breaths, and stands. "Your sister, was like us, touched by the arrows of the moon goddess. Her mother was Weir. How was she killed?"
Jerod turns slowly as the howls echo through the Court, knowing better than to let the surprise of the information register on his face. He files it for future use, filtering it with knowledge of his father and his behaviour, wondering what alliances were struck in exchange for the offspring of a Prince.
"She died when attempting to reach Tir-na Nog'th...Amber of the moonlight reflection." Jerod replies to Seeker's question. "It appears that she fell from a great height, though we cannot be certain. Whether she died by accident, or intent, is still being determined.
"What were the conditions of service that my sister swore you to?" he asks again.
Seeker seems angry, but not surprised, as if he expected that answer. "The Queen of Air and Darkness has another death to answer for, then. Your sister swore us to two bindings. First, we swore not to breach the King's Peace while in his lands. Second we swore to defend the realm in case of invasion. We have honored both oaths."
"And the service did not include a time frame?" Jerod asks.
Seeker shrugs, slightly, as if time mattered little to him. "Implicitly, 'until you take direct service of the King or until you leave'. It did not matter, because we trusted your sister to do right. And we will not forget the debt incurred." He rolls his rrs like he's growling.
Jerod frowns. "You mentioned the Queen, and the another death. What does the Queen have to answer to on prior accounts?"
The Weir leader frowns. "We live under her curse. She created and discarded us, leaving us to die in the land of Monk. Many died, but enough lived. She is the Weir's greatest enemy, and her destruction is our people's greatest aim."
"And how would you propose to go about doing so?" Jerod asks.
Seeker crouches again, and Jerod can see several of his pack-mates moving in closer. "I know not. Your sister hoped to learn more in the city of traitors above us, and followed it when left. You could have many follow your banner, Prince Jerod, if you were to return to Weirmonken with a plan to attack the Queen of Air and Darkness."
Jerod is silent for a long moment, watching as the pack-mates move closer. He turns slowly in a circle, looking at each in turn until his gaze returns to Seeker.
"Tir and its path are closed, by order of the King." Jerod replies. "That order I will obey and all those who hear my words will obey it, for I know not for certain that the Queen was responsible for my sister's death. And my vengeance for that death will be given to the one responsible, when the truth is known and not clouded.
"Listen well, Seeker of Men's Hearts when I say that vengeance will be had." Jerod says, summoning the rage buried within, making it real. "Listen for all your people and those who would hear my words, for when you speak of banners to be followed and enemies to be fought, one day that moment will come."
The shadows do not lengthen and the wind does not change, yet everything becomes more real as he speaks. There is fury in his voice, a wave that ripples out, touching all that hear it, be they Weir or man or animal. The birds and insects fall silent and freeze, the better to hide as the rage of the Prince manifests. The oath that carries from his lips whispers forth on the silent wind, beyond the ears of those sit and crouch, upon the winds of Shadow and beyond.
"The one who took from me what is most precious, will answer to me for that. A day, a year, a century...they will answer, and I will end them.
"I will end their life, that they will no longer threaten that which I hold most dear.
"I will end their existence, that those who serve them no longer have succor and fall into dust.
"I will take their name and wipe it from Shadow, that none would know it, or have cause to even dream of knowing it.
"I will take their essence and shatter it, that none could feel it and that it may never come forth again.
"I will take everything that they are...and make it no more. And for all their defiance, I will visit wrath upon them a thousand fold."
He closes his fist, the knuckles cracking in the silence as the oath disappears on the wind.
"I will open the way to the Weirmonken, Seeker. And when you speak to your kindred of the Prince and the banner he would unfurl, speak first of vengeance. For they should know that those who would follow should not do so lightly. There will be no glory in this, no justice, only extinction for those who have wronged. If they can find solace in such as that, then their choice is already made."
Jerod's words fall into a deep silent space, ringing out as if they are the only thing in all the world. Every Weyr within earshot is totally focused on Jerod, and the pack seems to be breathing in unison with him.
There's a heartbeat, then another, then a Weyr howls in response, loud and long. Another follows, and then the woods echo with the voices of the wolves who are men.
Seeker also howls, and somehow it's the full-throated howl of a wolf, not of a man. "We mark your oath and will tell your legend for all time, Jerod Ericsson. We are yours to command."
Jerod nods slowly once. "Approach then, children of Weirmonken, for you are the key that opens the door." he says, kneeling once more to sit, the left leg bent under and the shin touching the ground.
He waits patiently as they approach, looking over each as they do, studying them carefully, nothing their colour, their smell, the way they move and breathe...each a piece of a greater whole. Once they are settled, he returns his gaze to Seeker.
"Within each of you is the seed of your homeland. It is unique, an ember that sits patiently in the fires of your soul. It gives you strength when your need is most dire for then it burns with passion and fury. Now, you need it to burn, brighter than you have ever needed it.
"Sing to me of your home." he says, turning his gaze to look upon them in turn. "All of you...sing of the land and wind, of waters and skies beautiful and terrible. Sing of prey, and of hunts long passed and of hunts yet to come. Sing of mighty forests and homes and family, of those you long to once more see and know to be yours once more."
And as he finishes, he summons the Pattern to mind.
One by one, the large, ferocious creatures of the woods come forward, circling Jerod, sniffing him, letting him get their scent. They fill Jerod's nostrils: he can smell the oils in their fur, he can sense their closeness, he can hear their breathing. Things start to come together for Jerod: details about what range of shadows they might come from, how time and gravity work there, and atmosphere and water and light.
Some of what he learns won't help him find the shadow, but he's got enough to move in the right direction.
The Weir don't stop moving, but circle around Jerod several times. It takes a few laps, but Jerod hears their song. The wolves howls aren't random, and have seem directed. Some of the Weir are neither men nor wolves, but some sort of in-between creature. Their singing is slow rhythmic beats. Seeker adds his own fully human sounds.
After some minutes, the song dies down, but does not stop.
Seeker looks at Jerod, but declines to interrupt him. The silence is vast and intense, as if every living thing is focused on the Weir and the Weir are focused on Jerod.
And as he finishes, he summons the Pattern to mind.
Jerod holds the Great Pattern before him, the image that is burned into his very self now firmly before him in his mind.
He holds the Pattern but does not extend it, lest its natural influence crush the randomness of Shadow that is before it. Instead he lets its power reflect upon the pieces of Shadow that are before him like light upon the silvered surface of water, reflecting stars and moon but also that which moves within the view like trees and animals and cloud...he looks upon the reflections that are Weir and Man and Neither, song and scent and wind and earth. He watches as the Pattern reflects upon the pieces of Shadow that are the Weir...that of which they are truly made of, looking now not just for the core of the Weir, but the distortion against which their reality is defined, that which makes them unique amongst all of Shadow.
"The core?" Eric muses, the voice of the ghost as strong in death as in life, the memory of a forgotten lesson. "Tell me again how Shadow works."
"Amber is the center." Jerod says, his Patternwalk still fresh in his memory. "All Shadows are reflections."
"True. The reflections are distorted truths of a single seed." Eric says. "But that is not the whole truth. Shadow is more than just a seed...it is the seed AND the distortion through which the seed is viewed that makes up Shadow."
"To find a Shadow, or something particular is not just to find a thing or a place...you must know both the seed that is its center, but also the distortion which wraps around it. The filter against which it is viewed by the universe."
"What is the seed?" Eric asks.
"Amber." Jerod says, then shakes his head. "No, more precisely...the essence of Amber, the reality of the life that is here. Not the city or place...but the being of Amber"
The ghost nods. "You already know that...it is a part of you for all time. Now, you need to know the distortions that are around you. The Golden Circle is an easy distortion to understand. It follows a linear progression, logical and rational in its extension."
"But the further we go, the more distorted the Shadow and its contents...the more...fragmented." Jerod says, catching upon the insight. "Until it is so wild that the distortion itself seems to be the reality."
"Indeed." replies the ghost, fading once more as the lesson is recalled.
He sits, patient, holding the Pattern as the wisps of Shadow move through his awareness, filtering and watching, looking for the final piece to the puzzle, the distortion that defines the Weir, and that defines their home.
Jerod learns what he could learn from this exercise. First, he has many clues that will help him zero in on the home shadow of the Weir although he'll need to question them as he approaches, looking for details about the color of the sky and the smell of the forest and such. Jerod's task is daunting.
In addition, he senses what was implied by Seeker's speech: that the Weir are not originally from Weirmonken. That will complicate his search.
"Ready?" Jerod asks Seeker.
Seeker dips his head, not quite a nod. "We are assembled, and agreed. We can find all we need as we travel. We are ready."
[OOC: What's the plan? They're perfectly willing to abandon those few things they have that aren't on their persons, but you may need to figure out how to feed them if the trip takes more than a day. Pehaps you could travel through The Shadow Of the Slow Moving Tasty Herd Animals...]
Jerod will not be hellriding for this trip. He'd lose too many of the Weir, assuming any could even try to keep up with him and he would not be able to adjust effectively for travel to the location based on feedback. He needs to be able to sniff out the changes, as it were and to have the pack available as a collective in order to use them as his baseline...their senses, their memories, their comments on what they find.
That means he's going to acquire a horse first off, so that he can travel at a moderate speed (walking is too slow, but hellriding is too fast), and still be able to concentrate on changes. And he's already considered the requirements for keeping the Weir fed, so that shouldn't be a problem.
On that note, it would be time to depart.
Jerod has little trouble acquiring a horse, once he begins to travel. The shadows near Amber are very similar to the true earth and a stables is easy to find. The price seems quite good to the stableman, and Jerod pays with a random assortment of suddenly-appropriate coins.
He returns to the Weir, and after the horse has spent some time becoming accustomed to the smell of predators (with help from Jerod's skill as both a rider and a pattern user), the expedition is ready to depart.
Having spent enough time amongst the Weir, Jerod will have committed each of them to memory...sight and smell and names where appropriate. He fixes each into a special compartment of his mind, setting their identity as a unique marker in the way that only the offspring of Oberon can. And when that is done, he sets off.
The pace is steady, enough for the horse to carry him without needing to be constantly controlled, the Weir in a formation around him and flanking but close enough to be seen, close enough to be in his pattern sense and affected by any changes that he undertakes, starting with the earth and the essence of Shadow that he pulled from the Weir during his examination. Normally, were he to go to a place he knew, he would change the sky, as Eric taught him to. It gives the fastest change possible and lets one cross Shadows as if in a blink of the eye.
But such will not work here, not yet. Until the land and its essence is close enough to what he has sensed can he ask for guidance from Seeker and the others for sky and smell. In this ride, patience is the watchword.
The ride is long and Jerod's shifting makes it essentially timeless. The time of day varies to suit Jerod's shadow-walking needs. Jerod slows when the horse tires. He and his weir are on or about a woodland trail. It's a step up from an animal path, but only just. If the horse needs food and rest, then the weir may also need to rest or eat.
[OOC: Unless Jerod has specific plans or actions on rest-breaks, they pass uneventfully. If Jerod changes things, this will wait until he does arrive.]
The night air is brisk, although Jerod and his horse are both warm from the extended ride they've just completed. The full moon is shrouded in fog and the air smells of fear. The forest is tall and ancient and doesn't seem to care if Jerod and his weir are there.
Some distance away, a wolf howls. Seeker looks at Jerod. He seems more animalistic than he did in Amber. "We shoud reply. Out of respect."
Jerod nods an affirmative. "Do you recognize them?"
Seeker indicates that he has not. "We have been gone too long, my Prince."
The pack howls, not in unison, but with enough commonality that others can tell they have returned. The responding howls seem more urgent.
"They need help!" translates Seeker, and takes off to the south. The pack follows.
[Jerod can either go with or stay behind. The pack is moving at wolfpack speeds ... ]
And Jerod can move at horse speeds...which he does. He remains close enough to the pack to see what they are coming upon, to give himself a moment or two to be able to respond. But he does decide that he doesn't like the fog and wants more moonlight, so he tries to adjust it a bit, to see if it can be adjusted or if there are other things at work here.
The fog clears everywhere except in the direction that Jerod and company are running. To be more precise, it clears, but more seems to be magically generated as soon as Jerod's working is done.
Up ahead Jerod can clearly hear a pack of wolves. They've got something cornered. The flashes of red light and the smell of fire tell Jerod that it's not something that can't fight back. Jerod's pack's howls are met with some urgency from the southern pack. It looks like they'll be readily welcomed to the fight.
His spear is at the ready as Jerod adjusts for the nature of the Shadow, deciding that Magic will flicker momentarily as the pack arrives at the fight, a jolt to reality...just for a moment, but enough to disrupt anything that is magically occurring...enough to let an enemy come into focus.
There is a brief drop in the red flashing, and Jerod comes over a small rise and sees the battle scene in front of him. The Weir are coordinated, fighting two creatures. They look only somewhat like people with the heads of beasts. They stand over 9 feet. One looks to be a bull and the other seems to be crossed with a horse. The horse has a staff, and is using it like a club. The end is lit with some sort of red magical glow and the Weir avoid it as if it were on fire.
There's a large, greying Weir on the ground, wounded. The rest of the pack is protecting him.
Seeker charges straight at the bull-headed one, his battle cry echoing across the woods.
Jerod takes the other one, using his horse's speed and the range of his spear to advantage, deciding it improbable that the staff's magical effect will function for the few seconds that Jerod is within it's range. The size of the creatures will matter only if they can strike a target, and an attack on all sides by wolves will tend to negate the strength of size if done properly.
Given the close proximity for the wolves, Jerod will go for slashing attacks to draw the horse-headed beast's attention, letting the wolves use flanking moves to attack it. If he can land blows, unless a quick shot allows for a clean stab, or if an option to slash at the arm/hand holding the staff presents itself. Slashing blows that connect will inflict pain and blood loss, slowing the creature with luck and aiding the Weir in bringing it down.
He will adjust as he needs to should this not proof to be effective.
Jerod parries the staff and gets the mounted equivalent of a riposte in on the horse-man, cutting its arm. He notices blood on his blade as he turns his horse for a return pass. The wolves are harrying the horseman, and he isn't able to use his staff effectively.
To his left Jerod sees the Bull-man running away, pursued by a pack of the largest, meanest-looking wolves who ever contested with wolf-hounds for supremacy. If Jerod were the type, he would think they were joyful at the prospect of chasing down the bull-headed creature.
Jerod spots a man, dark, hirsute and heavyset, standing above the battle on a rise. He must have been in it or another fight recently, because he is bleeding. He doesn't seem to notice. He's taking it all in and hasn't done anything Jerod can tell.
If either of the two beasts are a threat, then Jerod does whatever is needed to neutralize the threat, but if the packs have the advantage over them then he will turn his attention to the man on the rise, watching him in response.
The beasts are dispatched by the combined pack quickly and messily. The man on the rise is, on closer inspection, wounded, and has rough bandages wrapped around his right arm. "Thank you, Prince Ericsson. I am Count Valis. I knew your father. These are the children of my father's soldiers he led to his home?"
Seeker appears, his face bloody, and bows to the Count. "We are, Your Grace. Prince Jerod has fulfilled his father's promise. I am Andries son of Sir Vargr, called the Heartseeker. My father died with King Eric."
The Count nods. "You shall have to tell us of it at the fire tonight, Sir Andries." He turns to Jerod and gestures at the Weir, who have gathered in a circle around the pair. "I thank you, Prince Jerod. If you will return with me to my compound, we can toast the return of the long-departed."
Seeker looks at Jerod. The story is Jerod's to tell.
Jerod replies simply. "He died for his people and gave them hope so they would prevail against their enemy. And they did. If you would know more of his last day then that is a longer tale, one for food and drink and fire."
Valis nods approvingly. "It is a good way to die. I wish for no more myself." He smiles, and bares his prominent canine teeth. "I almost had that tonight, were it not for your return. Valistaad owes you for your timely arrival. Come, we will feast."
The Count steps behind a tree and a large grey wolf emerges from the far side. He starts to run to the west, chasing into the evening's gloaming. The combined packs set off, stopping only to howl with joy. Jerod could follow mounted or on foot and keep up; the wolves are fast but so is Jerod..
Before very long, Jerod sees a timber castle. It's across a moat, which seems more like a lake. There's no bridge, but there are flatboats at the shore, and men and wolves beside them.
A groom offers to take Jerod's horse. They all seem to know already that the battle was won.
Jerod pauses for a moment to re-assure his mount before handing it over, using a trick from Uncle Julian from years back. While taking the flatboat across the moat, he takes the time to study the castle and the surrounding lands, letting the feel of it sink into him, make itself present in his bones and the back of his thoughts, marking it for future reference and travel. The same is done for each of the people he travels with, just as it was done with Valis.
While cleaning up in his room, Jerod will summon the image of the Pattern and use it to get the sense of the land here, the people and the magic that may drive this place.
Jerod can use the pattern to determine enough of the place to be able to come back to it and to tell that it is not driven by chaos-based sorcery. Beyond that, magic clearly exists (Jerod has seen it), but is not of a level to make it apparent to a pattern-wielder.
He looks into the basin, letting his thoughts swirl like its contents. Eric and his Weir, was always the phrase that was used, Jerod remembers being bandied about by his uncles. He begins now to understand why...
Because there is something seductive about animal loyalty...it still has all the give and take of politics and hierarchy but in the same instance it can toss that aside in an instant to do what is best for the pack, without loss of honor or pride...sort of "grass is greener" look at things...
A short time later, Jerod makes his way to the main hall. He leaves the spear in the room while wearing his sword, thus he is quiet when he enters, taking a moment to view the scene.
The grand hall is lit by fire. Torches and candles shine light and mirrors and crystals reflect it back into the room, which is decorated with martial banners. The hall is full of raucous warriors celebrating their victory. There must be two score men and women feasting, who have the heavy features of the Weir. Some are wounded, but people seem in good spirits.
What Jerod immediately notices is there are two classes of people -- servants and warriors. He might consider it caste-like. The servants are happy, too, but more for their superiors being happy than for themselves.
The count rises when Jerod enters, and his vassals do as well, greeting him with a roar. The count comes across the floor to meet Jerod near the door. He embraces Jerod heartily. [OOC: Unless Jerod doesn't allow it, in which case he won't]
Jerod will permit it, both for the courtesy of it as well as to get a sense of the count and his strength.
Jerod can tell he is a strong man. He's still favoring one arm. The other was wounded in battle. It's not a bad wound, or it isn't anymore.
"Prince Jerod! It is indeed an auspicious day. You have fulfilled the promise of your noble father and your timely arrival was critical to our defeat of the minions of the Vile One. " He looks back at his men. "And we look forward to more shared accomplishments."
Seeker looks embarrassed. "I am sorry, Prince Jerod. Too many of us know of your plans for word of them not to have spread to our cousins."
"Indeed." Jerod replies, just the faintest hint of dryness in his voice. "I'm curious as to just how far this word has spread, and how much it will have changed from the original message."
The count shakes his head. "While a rumor can travel around the world while the truth is still putting on its boots, it has only been a short time. I would not expect it to have gone beyond this castle. And we are a practical people. We may have hopes, but we will listen to what you say, not what we hope you say. Let us sit and discuss your purpose in the land of the Monks while we dine."
He points towards the table, where there is an obvious pair of chairs. They are not ornate or specially decorated, or even isolated from the rest by distance. They don't have special food or beverages in front of them. Nonetheless, the revelers seem to treat them with respect.
Jerod accepts, taking the lead of the Count as to which chair will be his to use. Throughout the meal, subject to whatever protocols may arise that Jerod is certain to notice and emulate as needed, he will eat as one would expect a Prince to eat, and at an appropriate time he broaches conversation points.
"You asked after my purpose. For the moment, it was the return of the Weir to their home, to honour their service to my father that is now ended and to learn more of them as fits my own curiosity."
The Count nods. "Two of your goals you have accomplished, and the third you are in the right place to achieve. There is no seat in all of the Lands of the Monk that are older than this County. There have been Weir here since we were abandoned by our Queen. If I or any of my people can assist, the aid is yours for the asking."
"Then I would hear your words about your Queen and your history. I would learn of this abandonment and its cause." Jerod says. "I would hear of your people and your lives and what they mean, for should I ask to put them at risk, I would know who they are and why I would want them to join in my fight."
He summons a court scholar, who looks as dangerous a fighter as any of the rest. The man has a harp with him. The man sings the history of the tribe, from the betrayals of the Queen to the lunar curse put on those who were too honorable to accept her absolute rule. The curse and the banishment are, apparently, a worse fate than the many who plunged from the sky into Amber's harbor, but better than the twisted life of their comrades who became moonriders.
The Queen lived by the letter of oath not to harm them, but violated it by leaving them to die in this isolated hell. They are the ones who insisted on the letter of the feudal contract.
Jerod listens to the song without interruption, focusing on the song and how those around him react to it, how much they believe it, or just acknowledge it.
"And the contract?" Jerod asks. "What of its letter, and the spirit of the contract that Weir agreed to?"
"Broken, by her actions. She did not protect us and sent her riders to kill us, once she knew we lived. The Laws of the Land of Youth release a man from his oaths if his master tries to kill him. We are masterless men, except for those masters and peers were choose.
"Your father could not have taken our oaths had we not felt free to give them." He waves his arms to encompass everyone in the room. "We have adapted to our curse, and use the gifts it brings us, but we are the oddest of things; a people with a great feudal tradition that have rebelled without finding a new king."
He looks at Jerod, not asking the obvious question.
"And why would you need a King?" Jerod asks, the question wafting throughout the room though his attention remains focused on the Count.
He grins, painfully. "I am not an uneducated man. I have heard of kingless lands. They sound horrible, but they must work, somehow.
"We are a traditional people, and the first place below the gods is the king, who is over the dukes and the counts, the barons and clergy, the gentry and the people. To be kingless is to be without an intercessor before the great thrones of Heaven. We have the law, without mercy."
"Tell me of the law and of Heaven." he asks, "...and why you would need one to intercede before them."
The Count grunts. "I can answer the first for you. Imagine a man must come before court and not knowing the rules of that court, does not know when to appear or whom to ask to speak. A king is our intercessor, our translator. He speaks to the Heavens for us, and bridges the gulf between peoples who are subject to the laws and those who made them.
"As to the other, I freely admit that I am not the best scholar in my own court." The count waves over a robed man, even more grizzled and old than the Count himself. "Tell the Prince of Amber the Lore of Heaven, Knower-of-Things."
The man nods and begins what is clearly a recitation. "The Four Great Thrones, each with a King or Queen, ruled for ages uncountable over the people of all the lands, and most blessed were those who lived in one of the Four Heavens. In the first age of the Gods, the wars against Chaos roiled the Great Thrones, but they prevailed and banished the elder evils beyond all the Earths.
"Ages passed in peace, but in the peace grew striving and strife amongst the Heavens, for in those days they had no road and were isolated one from another. None know the cause of the start of the Wars of the Heavens. Some say jealousy, some say pride, and some say love was the cause. When it ended The Heaven of Paris was no more and her King, Cathaldus the Great, was lost and gone.
"The remaining Heavens were bound by the Road of the Queen, but The Queen of Youth had become bitter. She changed her aspect to Air and Darkness and isolated her people and the Land of Youth from the her brother the Earth and her Sister the Water.
"It was into the air and the darkness that the Weir were created from her people."
The Count nods. "Is that what you wished to hear, Prince Jerod? He can go on at length."
Jerod is silent as elements fit into place, his emotions still as the words of the scholar filter through his mind. He does not seem to hear the Count's question and the pause stretches for moments before he finally replies.
"Tell me of the Earth and the Water. Did they have names?"
The scholar, Knower-of-Things, nods. "They did. We learned them from your own father, Your Highness. Amber and Oberon were the True Earth which was at risk of failing and needed to be renewed. Water was Moire's Kingdom of Rebma, and was a twisted and lesser vision of Amber itself. Like the Land of Youth, it was usurped by a woman twisted by her weakness into evil, but some brave people fought for their rights. They have their own version of the Weir; half-fish/half-men who they keep as slaves.
"The rebirth of your father as King of the Earth Heaven was vital, for without Paris, it was the only bastion against the two evil Queens."
"In your tales, is there mention of a Dragon?" Jerod asks.
The priestly man shakes his head. "Not in any of the major tales. In some few, it is a metaphor for the land. 'The Dragon Sleeps' is a fragment of verse from a lost song of many years ago."
"Tell me of this fragment." Jerod says, nodding to himself.
The man blinks. "It is a lost song, Your Highness. The name is in a list of songs sung at a wedding feast in the epic of Whitebreast. In the song 'The God of the Forest', those three words are the mentioned."
Jerod nods once more, then looks to the Count. "You would have me as King?"
The Count looks back at Jerod, meeting his eyes. "If you fulfill the prophesy, then we will have no other, but it will be a perilous road."
The Count's priest replies. "Like unto a sword on an anvil, the True King will be forged by lighting, blood, and lyre. If you undertake this you may die and your toils may still then not be done."
"Mmm...." Jerod replies, though mostly to himself. "We'll discuss this prophesy in a bit. First, I will tell you why I am here.
"Besides returning the Weir for fulfilling their oath to my father, I find I have need of your talents. Do you know of Gateway?"
The Count looks blank, but Seeker speaks up. "It's the place where Amber's trading partners can contact Rebma's, is it not? Sort of the intersection of two circles..."
"An apt analogy." Jerod replies, nodding. "They have been found to be supporting an exiled uncle. He brought a misplaced vendetta to Amber and marched an army on Rebma.
"The uncle is being dealt with. My task is Gateway and I am charged with determining whether they are to be merely chastised for their actions, or if I'm permitted to burn their cities to ash." and he adds drily. "...and since they aided in supporting one who threatened my mother's homeland, I've decided to take it personally."
The Count nods. "This is an honorable undertaking, and one the Weyrmonken will gladly follow." He shifts in his seat. "We were saddened to hear of the deaths of our kinswoman Whisper-of-Death and her daughter, your sister. Tell me Prince Jerod, is your succession secure?"
"There will be no succession." Jerod says flatly, letting a pause settle itself upon his words.
"The Unicorn of Amber, the emblem of Oberon, appeared at the great battle of Amber's army in the moment of their victory over the forces that had opposed my father and caused his death. She anointed Random as King and all Family have taken the oath to him as sovereign..."
Jerod looks directly at the Count. "...including myself. I now forge my own destiny."
The court becomes quiet as Jerod speaks. The Count nods, gravely. "No offense was meant, Prince Jerod. Even amongst the greatest packs, the leader may be the one chosen by the senior female, and packs of men are so much more complex. One hopes not to lose the great bloodlines, from which future leaders may arise. That is all I meant."
"My father's death, and the coronation of Random has provided me with insights into my future. The former event, though not something I desired, has given me freedom to choose my own path...to forge destinies unhindered by the past." Jerod says, the flat tone disappearing. "My father taught me to seize such opportunities when they presented themselves...and I would not turn from those teachings now, even if they are difficult at times.
"The Weir under my father are home now, and I would hope they would also follow such teachings and make their own path. Mine is now for Gateway, and I would find those who would be willing to walk that path. I would see what such people are made of, and they could decide if I am such as they would find suitable to follow. A test for both, and a chance to learn from each other.
"I would have your thoughts on this, Count. First steps are the most difficult, but the most exciting as well."
The count relaxes, and sits back in his chair. "My people fight, your highness, when honor or need dictate, for the good of the community. We pay debts. You have an opportunity to strike at the foes of Amber. Amber is our natural ally against the Queen of Air and Darkness, so our help strengthens you against our mutual foe.
"This is the natural calculation my people and my neighbors will make. My advice to you is to make a point to tell us how many troops you need and how you will choose them, because you will find many recruits. Strike an oath with your newfound recruits and they will follow you into any hazard.
"I volunteer already. I wish to take this test on myself."
"Then let me tell you what I know and what troops I think I will need." Jerod says.
"Gateway is a place of mages and sorcery. They are fractious by nature, ruling by force of will and sorcerous means to vie for power amongst their peers, though they are loath to admit such titles between themselves. Yet they will unite when a common purpose exists. One faction gained power to aid our long lost uncle and brought others of their own low as part of the struggle, though they may not have destroyed them all. Those losing factions include one that may be sympathetic to overtures from us. That same faction will now be worried...a response from Random and his kingdom is certain, though they will not know what it will be or when it will come.
"Fear of that response may unite those factions, and Gateway aroused would be a formidable opponent. It is not one that I want to face if I do not have to, and it may not be necessary to destroy them all. If the leaders responsible for the outrage to Amber could be dealt with, the common folk and other mages who were either too weak to intervene, or perhaps chose to remain in the background, would be more amenable to contrition. Peace is preferable to slaughter, if the means of obtaining it are honourable.
"I intend to enter Gateway quietly, using a trading ship as cover and see about making contact with those who I think are receptive. I would need those who are skilled at infiltration and stealth, able to blend in and keep quiet, though who can hold their tempers when prodded by those they may see as their lessers. But also able to fight on a moment's notice, mercilessly and efficiently and to do so without bloodlust. And enough of them to go against a small group of mages and their supporters.
"I have means of neutralizing their magic for short periods....long enough to cause confusion and disruption to them. I would need those who can exploit such opportunities."
Jerod pauses at this moment, using his dagger to stab a piece of blood-red meat from a plate to eat while awaiting the Count's reply.
The Count nods along with the plan. "I think this is an achievable plan. You have seen us fight, both here and in Amber. Wolves fight in ways that are not always subtle, but we are excellent trackers and hunters. I think your plan can benefit from our forces as long as your ability to nullify their magic does not prevent us from changing form.
"We can even provide a merchant ship, if you do not have one with you."
"A ship has already been procured, but I would ask after your ship. One can always find better opportunities if one asks the right questions." Jerod says.
"The magic of Gateway would be disrupted momentarily if my plan works as it is required to. I do not believe it would affect your ability to change form. I would ask though under what conditions you have encountered problems with shifting."
"It is easiest for us when we can see the moon, but that is not necessary. I am told that we could not change easily in the city of Amber, which is why your father kept us away from that place. Whisper-of-Death must not have needed to change in her day-to-day activities."
"Tell me of Whisper." Jerod asks.
The Count looks out at his men, reveling across the hall. "She was a magnificent warrior and leader. It was she who stopped the war between ourselves and Prince Eric when he arrived here, looking for Moonriders. It was she who negotiated the peace and forged the personal alliances. I was young, this was during my grandfather's time as Count. There was a wedding between Raptor and Whisper to cement the alliance, and she went to Amber.
"It was a feat of greatest optimism and hope, for we had assumed for some time that no one would come to aid. Seeker can probably tell you more of her life in Amber, or you may know of it yourself. She lived for many years in Amber and had a child, your sister."
There's some noise from the front of the hall, but the Count hasn't decided to pay attention to it yet.
Jerod is of the opinion that many things demand his attention, though whether acts on them is another matter. In this instance, he devotes part of his attention to the noise to determine if it is worth acting upon.
There are some people at the door, making a fuss. Peasants, by the look of them. Not warriors like the Weir. With his superior Amber hearing, Jerod can tell they're upset that their crops were ruined by the animal-men and they want to know if the Count will do anything about it. They're escorted from the hall quickly. Too quickly to tell what will be done.
If all the farmers are like those two, then the Weir are not of the same racial stock as the peasants.
Jerod nods absently, filing away a detail for future reference. "Then I think we should plan for the morrow and your merchantman. Perhaps a viewing of your lands might also be insightful."
The Count nods. "Of course! I have some of the best-run lands in all of Monkland. Capable of supporting many men at arms. We will ride through them to the port."
The revelry seems inclined to die out, or move in small groups out of the main hall.
The count's lands are entirely as he described them; an agricultural machine for supporting a small army. The vast majority of the field workers are peasants and it doesn't look like they are closely related to the Weir at all. The work they do is hard, but no harder than most agricultural laborers in pre-industrial societies.
The count is much more interested in showing off his town, which has a number of advanced industries like weaponsmiths and shipbuilders. The count knows a number of his key workers by name and inquires after their families. It's a functional society, but one geared to more-or-less support permanent war.
The count's merchantman is armed and might actually be a warship with some cargo capacity. It could be sailed into Gatwegian waters, but no one would ever think this crew was unarmed.
Jerod's inspection of both town and rural areas is thorough, as befits one trained to notice the smallest hints and details around him, a trait necessary for survival in a royal court. Simple details like farm labour can hide the interactions of Weir and peasant and Jerod is quick to note where there is tension or irritation beyond the norm that one might expect to see in a feudal society.
The peasants are subservient to the Weir. Class and Race and Social Role seem tightly tied. The society might be caste-driven, if class is hereditary.
And the more that Jerod sees of the Count and the Weir and the county, the more he absorbs and filters, looking for signs outside the physical and towards the cultural to see if this state of permanent warfare is evident in those as well.
There are signs of it. Men who clearly lost limbs many years ago, industry designed to support warfare, soldiers in quantity. The county also seems to be quite seeped in a martial tradition, at least in the leaders.
After a review of the merchantman, Jerod looks over at the count. "Are all the counties built along the same lines as yours?"
The count nods, placidly. "Not all as advanced; some of my cousins don't have as fine a town as I do, but yes. Our ways were passed down to us from our ancestors."
"And all are devoted to the same focus...victory against the Queen." Jerod says, looking at the Count for confirmation.
The count nods again, then qualifies his response. "We are not a complex people, but we are not so simple as that, Prince Jerod. A Weir has many motivations on many levels. A crusade against her would be immensely popular, but some would decline, claiming ill-health or inexperience or somesuch.
"It should not be difficult to find enough, but not every man, woman, and child of us." He smiles. "Enough, though, would join, I wager."
"And once such a crusade was done, be it for good or ill...what then?" Jerod asks. "What destiny awaits? What dreams fire the people?"
The Count takes a moment to answer this. "What dreams fire any people? Dreams each Weirman has in his heart, Prince Jerod. Some would wish to retire from a life of war to peace in the kingdoms of Men, if they were no longer cursed to change. Some would never be able to stop being warriors. Some might never be able to overcome the taint of blood. Do not underestimate the challenge after.
"But an uncertain future will not stop us from changing our world if we can. We are not a timid people." His smile may not be as large as Conner's but it is very bright, and not very nice.
A smile for a predator is to release the teeth for fighting, not to express affection, Jerod recalls.
Jerod smiles in response.
"And a Prince who could be King might lead them." Jerod says, stopping by a tree planted near the town center. He kneels for a moment and then rises, a large clump of fresh earth in his hand. His hand works the soil slowly, crumbling it into smaller and smaller pieces, filtering them through his fingers as he might filter the fabric of Shadow.
"Princes and Princesses of Amber are more than Kings or Queens. Many are the lands that would eagerly seek to have one of my family be their ruler, anticipating what they think to be greatness just waiting for them, like a mythical fruit plucked from a tree. My father spoke to me of those who had left before I was born, who had gone to Shadow to become as such and of the lands that they ruled. Those that failed in some way became one with the lands they sought, losing themselves even as they become part of those lands, letting the lands and their prophecies rule them until their dying days. Many became mighty indeed...but all failed."
The last of the soil crumbles from his hand and he reaches down once more, digging deep and rising once more with a large handful. His expression changes, sharpens as he sifts Shadow now, imposing his will upon it as easily as his fingers upon the soil, shifting the probabilities, letting the reality he desires come to fruition as it should.
"Those who do not fail do not lose themselves to the land." Jerod muses. "They impose themselves upon the land. They become the image that the land will be molded into and that the people will become as he sees fit. It is inexorable, a force that cannot be stopped once it starts, that knows neither pity or remorse. It cares not for the dreams of men or the cries of the weak in need of mercy. It is a force that is beyond nature, that bends the world to its whim. Many would not see this danger, for what could become of their people should such a King sit upon the throne they might offer."
Fingers sift, soil crumbles and something begins to emerge from the core of the soil, the size of a robin's egg, a faint glittering blue in the sunshine.
"Some would see only the prize before them and clutch for it. A wise people consider the risks that such a prize offers." he says, letting his fingers wipe away the remaining dirt from the sapphire. "I would dishonour my father's lessons were I to consider lordship over those who did not consider such risks. Such a place deserves an empty throne, with a bright glittering crown sitting upon it with no brow upon which to rest." and he looks up at the Count.
"Your ship is adequate, though I think we will not need it...at the moment. My Captain Raven I think will be better suited to the task at hand and the ship and crew that he commands. The Weir however, I think are exactly what I need. Do you agree?" Jerod says, his hand forward now a little, close enough for one to pluck the sapphire from his hand, should one choose to.
The count eyes the sapphire, a gem that clearly would pay to outfit and equip many troops. "The stuff of legends, Prince Jerod, does not speak much of what happens to the legendary after they achieve their goal, if they indeed do. Do not discount our lineage as Men and Warriors who were the elite of the Land of Youth, sister-city of Amber the eternal. If we are triumphant, if we walk the streets of our ancestral homeland free from the twisted grip of the Queen of Air and Darkness, we would face the challenge of the unknown as we face the challenge of the known.
"We refused to bend and thus were cast out from paradise, which became hell. Even generations later, the descendants of those stubborn, honorable men honor and strive to live up to their legacy."
"The Weir are yours for the asking, probably more than you need. I, myself, will take your service as example to my men and peers, and because I believe in you. It will be a good fight against your enemies."
Jerod offers his hand, the sapphire still in his palm. "Then summon the Weir, Count. Gateway awaits us."
"You are most generous. The clans gather in 2 nights at Tra' na, our sacred hill, the seat of Kings. I will present you there and you can tell all what you have told me. My weir will prepare troops and put in supplies here. How many can your Captain Raven carry, and how soon can it be here?"
He will happily devolve into technicalities of supply and armaments.
"There is risk from this course of action." Eric says.
"There's always risk." Jerod replies, looking out from the rise at the Weir assembling below at the foot of the small hill. He watches for a moment as the Count speaks to one of his men, Seeker close by with a number of the Weir. He squints briefly as the sun breaks through broken clouds, a vague dullness in the gray mass that alternates between threats of rain and more sunshine. His fingers idly play with the new ring on his finger, moonstone set on silver, purchased from the shopkeeper in the market. How simply it fit with his new colours, yet nothing is coincidence he thinks.
"What makes you think you won't fail as your brethren did who followed the path of godhood in Shadow?" Eric asks.
Jerod smiles slightly as the Count turns to him, nodding now that the assembled Weir are ready. "I'm not a god. I'm a Prince. I will leave godhood to my lessers and they are welcome to it." he says, stepping forward. He watches as the Weir settle themselves to listen, the chaos of the mob subsiding as the moments pass, as each observes the other.
"You know who I am, and you know why I am here. To seek those who would aid me against Gateway, to bring retribution to those who deserve it, to seek justice for those who cannot seek it, and balance amongst the kingdoms which I call home.
"To this I would pose the question...why would you become involved? This is the fight of others...other lands, other people, other troubles and trials. They are not yours, so why would I seek you?
"Why you? Why the Weir?" he asks, pausing to let the question be heard before he begins.
"When I was a young boy, my father summoned many men to meet with him, for he had an important task for one of them.
"Each of these men were skilled and talented in their own way and had won renown for their name and their family. And to each of them, he asked a question...what is it to be noble? What makes a man or woman to be considered worthy of that word?
"I remember listening as each answered, and my father would listen, and when that man was done he would dismiss him. There were many answers to the question, about moral character and great deeds in battle, of chivalry to the weak and courage in the face of adversity and I thought each one that came after the last had a better answer, but my father still dismissed them.
"Then my father asked the last man, what is it to be noble? And the man looked at him and answered.
"To be a thorn to the proud who see principles as a convenience.
"To choose friends who will tell you hard truths and trust you to accept those truths as the gift that they are.
"To accept hard things in life because those are what define you, even when temptation shows you a safer and easier path.
"To do the right thing, when there are none to see you do it, none to record it for history, and where you may not even know if what you did was successful should you fall in the venture.
"My father listened to him and nodded at the end. And he said, you shall teach my son the meaning of nobility.
"There are those who would see loyalty to the Weir as a convenience of the moment, and to be forgotten when they are no longer needed. I am not one of them.
"The Count has spoken to me of your lives, your past and future, hopes and fears, of history and prophecy and family that some might not want to hear but which must be heard. And those words are gifts.
"I have seen what your people have suffered from your choice of defiance to the Queen, she who will not be named here, for you accepted a hard choice for your honour and it has made you what you are today. And what I see is good.
"I know that you seek the turning of the Curse from the Queen, which may never be achieved and even then may never be sung by bards in songs of the future, but which you seek nonetheless. And I look upon that, and I see honour manifest in those before me.
"I have need of those with such honour, of men and women whose hearts are filled with courage and fire, to do what is right...and what needs to be done. And you have need of one to lead on your quest for the turning...one whose heart is filled with fire and courage, who will do what is right...and what needs to be done.
"What say you on this?"
The cheer in response is spontaneous, full throated, and comes out as a howl. They are with you.
Jerod nods once, looking over at the Count as he does. "And so it begins..."
Last modified: 11 September 2013