[STORY] | Pursuits



  • His shining brown eyes stared into the far, dark-green woods; his plated hand resting on his sword’s robust pommel. The sandstone balcony proved a delicate place, its aura exercising calm winds and spiritual peace; its remarkably crafted edges filled with old, painted Agathian symbols and presentations, showcasing Argon’s war of unification and the battles that led to it and followed it. At times, the balcony seemed like the only place left in the Agathian lands which had not yet been informed of the war, kept and contained in blissful ignorance of the horrors entertained beyond its borders. The paintings reminded him of the old king - his friend, perhaps even the best one he had. Tempered, sure. Ambitious, definitely. But behind the scenes, when the crown did not weigh as heavy as it did during his royal responsibilities, Alfonso Argon was the merriest man to spend time with. A bottle of Parodinian wine, some Arathanian boar, and the two could not have wished for a better day or night.

    But alas - he was gone now. And here he was, protecting and upholding his work - his nation.

    Feydrid would be lying if he said he’d never yearned for kingship. He had, sometimes, dreamed of how it’d be, a crown on his head. Given his adored reputation amongst the army, he’d already had a taste of the smiles and support a king would receive, and his close friendship with Alfonso had gained him more information about ruling than most. But governing a nation came with more than just pleasures and positives - he discovered that just fine without Argon’s help. With betrayal being the Kingdom’s primary time-spender this year, the weight of cleaning up the Mason mess was now located upon his shoulders - and what a weight it had been thus far.

    After Argon’s death was confirmed and Malric Terrowin’s betrayal (and that of his men) alongside it, the remaining loyalists had looked towards him for military guidance. Danum Argon, seemingly the only heir by bloodline left in Agatha, was young, and physically frail - not fit to lead an army, keep order, plan assaults - destroy a rebellion. And maybe not even fit to rule Argon’s lands - but that was a query better kept for later. Terrowin, mentally deranged psychopath or not, was one of the best strategists the realm had ever seen, and matching his skills of maps and minds would be a great challenge than Feydrid Kearn had preferred. Nevertheless, Feydrid was known for his courage, his boundless bravery, and the day he’d lay down arms would be the day men fill skies and women fill armies - or so his men expected. And he was not planning on disappointing them. “Kneel before honour”, the words of House Kearn sounded.

    And kneel before honour, the Order would.



  • Beautiful.



  • @Vlad:

    Beautiful.

    Thanks, greatly appreciate it.



  • Bump.



  • Story’s been featured in the most recent newsletter! Thanks again.


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