I wrote something =3

read it already

To Grandmaster Neoth Lockenheart,
13th day of Winter, 104th year of the Griffon

I beg your forgiveness for my absence. Our Lord, the Duke of Bandum, assigned me to escort Diplomat Haneth to the Duchy of Ist’win, where we were sent to discuss mutual trade rights. You will not find this printed on imperial maps as it resides in Elvish territory. Haneth has conversed with the Elvish Duke’s court for favourable trading terms for all parties involved. As of this writing, the negotiations have lasted nine weeks. Haneth has only begun speaking with the Elvish Duke to secure the deal. As it stands, we will need to wait for our Lord's second-born child, John, to marry the Elvish Duke’s daughter, Cecie, to seal whichever deal has been negotiated. However, this is not why I write to you. I was not permitted to leave the castle, so I began to wander the halls. Whenever I passed chambers, I overheard things. Economic interests are not the only factor in play. Troop count, armoury stock, even mercenary companies. Military interests are involved. I fear for what our Lord might be doing. I desire to converse with you over this upon my return, preferably at our church.

Sincerely,
Sir Knight Malculmus

—

The ship rocks beneath me, and the crew bustles above. I find my mind adrift in fog. Many moons have passed since I last wrote to Neoth, and the seasons have changed in my absence. The ocean has stolen my sleep and dreams, with the spite of a personal vendetta. Above, the crew try to create a chorus of noise, with no rhythm or rhyme, more like a wolf howling. Is this my true wish? Do I still believe in the Order, or have I grown accustomed to it? Surrounding me are the discarded trappings of travel, worn, forgotten, and all too familiar. I find myself sympathising with them. To my lord, I’m just a blade to lend to a diplomat. Nothing more. Denying me any grander purpose I might dream of. As a fourth-generation, non-noble sergeant, I’ll remain. Shouted orders from deck officers stir memories of my childhood training, begun before I even understood the weight of a sword. Before I knew this burden, I was alone down here. I am alone in my order. Neoth Lockenheart is why I stay, my soul's guide. I may well have drifted away long ago without his example. Yet is this the life I want, a life I’d fight for?

Another crash from the waves leads me to rise. What I need is fresh air. After climbing the deck, I can see the reason for the ruckus. We’re docking, finally, at the Larwick Harbour. The captain is berthing the boat; the bosun shouts for the sailors to hurl marooning lines. Across from us, I recognise the sail of the first Elvish trade ship to reach our ports. A bringer of trade or sinister intention. Spices, among their cargo, intoxicate the air, leaving me to wonder what else lies within and what is traded in return. A grey cloaked merchant appears to be already buying stock, conversing with their captain. We share a fleeting moment of eye contact, yet the intensity in his gaze compels me to look away. Dock workers haul the line in, filling every square inch of the dock. With every frenetic shout from the bosun, with all the goods and people who’ve arrived. What may happen during the Ascension Day festivals, his holiest day? Day of the first Emperor.
I trudge down the dock board and join along the quay; the tight press of bodies was an assault on the senses. The air stinks with the foul smell of bodies pressed from all sides. This isn’t the Larwick I remember. As if memory itself has turned against me. The building's architecture also appears foreign, favouring limestone over the original sandstone and poster I can’t make out. Was I away that long? What’s with all these military recruitment posters? It’s strange how much the town has changed over 9 moons. As I cast one last glance at the Elvish trade ship, those whispered words return: troop count, armoury stock... I cannot help but wonder what truly lies in their hold? I turn toward the spice market and slip through a side alley to reach a small Emperor’s shrine. Faith endures here. An unfamiliar portrait adorns the walls, signalling the rise of a new emperor. The poor offer early gifts of stale bread, prioritising their faith over their own needs. Scholars debate the origin of the term, wondering whether it refers to the first emperor's ascent to the throne or his divine union with the Gods. Regardless, the legacy of emperors continues to be reflected in his image.

As I navigate the bustling streets, memories flood my mind, intertwining the past with the present. The scent of fresh bread and echoes of laughter remind me of better times, starkly contrasting with the weight of my current thoughts. Something in that merchant’s eyes lingers in my memory. I've seen that look before, a warning that often precedes the flash of a blade. I feel myself getting lost in one distraction after another. Rubbing my eyes, I try to banish the heaviness of sleep that clings to me. It’s been many months since I last prayed, so sneaking a quiet moment while waiting for Neoth can’t hurt, can it? I halt without meaning to. I’ve arrived where the best bakery in the Empire once thrived with life and warmth. Now, a tailor’s workshop occupies its former glory, and I can hardly believe the change. How could they? Staring into the window, something unexpected catches my eye. A peculiar fellow has emerged from the same alley I traversed, donning the same cloak as that merchant who met my eye. My senses recoiled at his presence, compelling my feet back into motion. Instinctively pushing the chaotic thoughts aside, I forced my thoughts down as I hurried through the streets, feeling the need to find solace.

Some things won’t ever change. The streets and alleys I used to frequent, leading to the church, are short. Pressing past city bustle, from avenues into crooked veins, the smell told of wretched poverty. The narrow lanes of the slums are bitter, rotting and damp, with the tang of something sharp I never forgot. Passing stray dogs that never dared bark, abandoned buildings whose rickety boards threatened internal squatters, and shattered windows that reflected a grey, dark sky. From instinct or memories of more foolish years, I navigated the turns. Down every alley, a flicker of grey, always near, never close. Soon, the central spire cracked the sky’s dome, leading to a place of light and sanctuary once, now stripped of sanctity by soot-covered darkness. Scanning the end of the previous corridor, the lack of grey was a comfort. This place still held sacredness. Climbing the stairs, I felt the coldness of a memory of divinity. One can’t easily remove the presence of Gods. Placing my hand on the door, the fungal growth had splintered and warped the wood over time, shifting with a soft creak. Inside, a silence fell heavy. I began crossing the nave to sit in the front pew, noticing the dust that swirled in the shafts of light cutting through from the stained glass.

I leaned forward to pray, but memories of Neoth consumed me. The thrill of my graduation, becoming his squire, and our fencing lessons brought warmth, yet the weight of unspoken words pressed down. The clink of a locking bar froze me
“I wondered if you’d show yourself,” I knowingly said without looking back. Few people have come here since the temple opened. The strangers' footsteps sounded across the stone until they stopped where I estimated the nave to be. Turning to their continued silence, I saw that unhooded grey merchant. He was younger than I expected. Smiling without his distant eyes. A steady hand that brushed his cloak, I saw a concealed hilt. “Long journey from the wharf?” I continued causally. He’s no merchant, he’s not Neoth, nor is he a paper pusher.
“For some, longer for others.”
“Been following me?”
“I observed you. Tailed you, there’s a difference. Elves aren’t much help.” I didn’t move, his gaze on the altar. “This church hasn’t seen a congregation in years. Yet the Gods care little for the crowd. Always listening to where they're remembered. You're here to pray, admirable. I wish to speak.” The light from stained windows refracted against his face, making him look almost angelic.

“On yours or another's behalf?” His voice was still as I rose. “But then what requires my specific attention?”
His head bowed. “You must be blissfully ignorant. However, the traitor Neoth Lockenheart has been rotting in a cell. Our Grandcross Able is his replacement.”
Those words kicked harder than any horse, and winded me more than any blow. As his head lifted for a reaction, I refused that pleasure. Only fungle Rot filled my lungs. How? Noeth, the one I owe everything to, the man who’d abandon his very soul for the empire. I do not believe lies. Before I could hold myself, my fist clenched.
“Neoth, no longer holds influence,” he said, eyes creasing with quiet satisfaction. He showed that none can side with the false emperor without consequence. You shared a mind and that…”
Silence filled those tailed off gaps, broken only by the creak of a settling roof above. “I suppose you imply I’m to be condemned,” I spoke
“No,” he rebutted. “You’ve been offered to choose freely. Swear to the true Emperor and continue as you are. Or vanish with the old guard as it stands.”
“By vanish, you meant perish?” A statement left uncorrected, faint echoes began whispering to my ear. Boots on cobblestone drew my attention. “You're stalling! There is no choice!”

His face shifted. Is that pity? “You're not the first I’ve visited. Most of your Order chose reservedness. Others had more noble reasons than you to not. Had.”
More of his lies. I ignored and began. “Tell me this, here, alone. Why not strike?”
“Because you need to choose. It matters. One leads horses to water and all that. You think me some common church assassin? Ouch. It doesn’t matter, it's deconsacrated. Our lord of protection, Solaris, won’t take kindly to it. Even on a forgotten domain.”
He didn’t move. Outside, the footsteps stopped.
He didn’t move. Outside, the steps stopped, and a chill crept into the room, tightening around my chest. “They’re here,” he said, his voice steady, though I sensed the weight of what was about to unfold. “You can still change your mind.”
I turned toward the window, the fractured light bathing me in a kaleidoscope of colours. My reflection stared back blurred and distorted. I thought I knew myself honour-bound, Order-made, but doubt gnawed at me as soon as I touched Larwick’s stone.
He looked at me, regret flickering across his face. “Don’t run. That would be... unwise,” he warned, his eyes pleading for reconsideration.
“I wasn’t planning to.” My fingers brushed the sill, trembling in anticipation of his next move. “You said the wrong Emperor. Neoth is never wrong.” My voice wavered, cracking under the pressure.
“What is this?” I asked, “A civil war?”
His silence was my answer, heavy with truth. “I will find his allegiance,” I said, my resolve hardening. “And I will fight not for myself, but for what is right.” The words clawed their way out of me, laden with defiance and sorrow.
As he unlocked the door, soldiers stepped in, their boots a drumbeat of fate. They bore no duke’s sigil, only the austere black and gold of the Barons' Collective, an acknowledgment that choice was an illusion. Neoth didn’t fall. I would prove it.

theres no way on earth i can read allat

=<

i mean i can try

Nice job! :O

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=3

silly sis

^w^

Ye