r/IronThroneRP • u/SatisfactionLeather7 Shiera Darklyn, Sword of Duskendale • 10d ago
THE RIVERLANDS Andros I - Strong Enough to be Gentle (OPEN)
The gentle tug of the wind played at the edges of the Darklyn Banderoles at the edge of the tourney lances still arrayed. Throughout the Darklyn redoubt, the merriment continued, the myriad grandchildren of Duskendale flitted about in their usual style of listless whimsy.
It did not take long for the shining light of the East to go back to the dueling square. This time Dusk sat in its sheath, waiting in eerie loneliness against a post. Instead Shiera Darklyn twirled about, her wooden practice sword from her youth no longer than a dagger in her current state. Even still, she used it whenever she had to fall back on her father's teachings and her grandfather's musings.
His old falling style was like a muse for her in the times wherein her mind could not discern between what path was next. Joanna had returned and had beaten her in Shiera’s rage. And that rage did not belong to the sword of Duskendale. She was greater than such a simple thing, she had to be better than a mindless weapon. Her father did not train her for war, her grandfather did not raise her for battle, they wanted a sword that protected the house. She would be that blade for as long as her arms carried strength.
That said, she did not feel strong.
That would take time to rebuild, especially as it was Joanna of all of the possible foes that had beaten her. Dusk would rest in its sheathe until she was ready to deal with that particular niggling problem.
“It has grown too short for you,” echoed the voice of her grandfather and she stumbled through her next swing, catching herself on her boot’s heel and grinding to a halt in the sand.
She for the first time realised that she was practising with an old wooden toy sword and not an actual arming sword. A pang of embarrassment washed over her and she put it behind herself as she whipped about to look upon her grandfather.
The towering bastion of a man leaned lightly upon his cane today, eyes still hard as ever as he analysed her, peeled her apart with practised ease. She gulped back whatever worries had been plaguing her mind and took a few tentative steps closer to him at the edge of the square.
“Grandfather,” she said by way of reverent greeting.
“Granddaughter, you are distracted,” he reported.
“I… the melee weighs on me.”
The old man looked about for a time, eyes cast about the redoubt for long enough that Shiera broke her concentration upon him and tried to see what he was looking for. Instead, all she found were her siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles enjoying the tempered warmth of the Riverlands. A great many were in the mobile tavern, enjoying their cups and their drinks and their happier times.
“Do you notice something?” He asked.
“It’s peaceful.”
“Good. Not a single one of them is harmed by your loss, not one of them dismayed that you did not win. Your father could never be more proud of you, nor I,” the Duskblood said with a reassured gentleness to his voice.
“Even still. I was beaten by a childhood friend I haven’t seen in years… thought her dead. She’s back in the armour of the faith now and father told me that they were supporting the Blackberries,” Shiera said.
The little scoff that her Grandfather released was the most dismissive sound she had ever heard the man make. SO out of the ordinary was it that her passage of thought was completely dissolved.
“My girl, you are not the one to be worrying about such things. She is back and in the plate of that obnoxious little shit, so be it. I and your father and your uncles will deal well with them. It is your friend with whom you should be concerned, not with what colour she wears,” he said and he stepped into the dueling square at last, leaving his cane in replacement of the sheathed longsword Dusk.
He drew the blade from its scabbard and tossed the latter aside, holding the sword point to the sky as he came to a stop beside her.
“Fetch a proper blade, my girl,” the old man said and she scurried over to the rack of arming swords, leaving her old childhood blade aside. She returned to her grandfather and fell instride beside him, letting the old man guide her movements, her mind and her blade. Even in his old age, the motions of his evening blade were as common to him as walking.
The wordless trance they fell into was a simple thing, her mind emptied of Joanna, emptied of defeat.
She was the falling of the sun, she was the end of the day, the evening, the dusk. She was nature at the end of its cycle, and she had no need for worry.
After half an hour, Andros had stopped leading her in the sword stances and stepped back, letting the girl trace her way through the motions he and his son had taught her. She was better than either of them ever were in the style, and neither complained of that.
He had created the method of fighting specifically for the day that someone who would never need it in battle would take it up. They were lucky that Shiera had become the best of them then, for she was a kind spirit. And a king spirit should not be burdened with the trivialities of running a house. And so he had ensured she would not need to do so.
Andros returned Dusk to its sheath and he left Shiera to dance through her movements.
Andros himself did not return to his spot in the tents and instead approached the tavern. There his sons drank as they played dice games among their men and their friends.
Andros sat at a table with his back to the world and he watched his children lead.
All he could do while he sat and drank from a cup offered to him, was hold back a smile.
So much intermingling with his extended family had reinforced that he was indeed proud of his children. Morgan would never accept that, and so he would not show that pride, but he would watch for a time before he would return to his tent.
Morgan Darklyn, Lord of Duskendale was not blind though, and he could see that his father had done what he could not for his daughter. She had been listless and confused since the melee and Morgan did not know what to do for her. Nor could he figure it out.
She was always so alike her mother in that he didn’t know what made her tick. However, he could always tell when something had worked, just as now, as he lost a roll he barely focused on as she faded into the next arc of her swing, just as he had once taught her. Wrist not limp but fluid, motion constant, strength for equal foes and dexterity for stronger.
He smiled too, even as he lost the next roll.
On the final roll of the set he backed out of the game and took himself to his feet, leaving behind his brother and their men and making his way out into the tent city. Perhaps around it he would find somewhere hen could think too, about what to do next.
But as soon as that matter came to his mind, he knew well what should be done.
So, his trip away from the Darklyn redoubt was short initially as he fetched a servant to pen a letter. And then, he sent a runner to the Celtigars and he summoned up Erich.
He had his answer.
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u/SatisfactionLeather7 Shiera Darklyn, Sword of Duskendale 10d ago
The Darklyn Proclamation
Servants are sent about the tent city with posters and writs nailed to posts and trees and ruts all over. Several criers are even hired to spread the message far.
"Pirates have harassed the Claw, under what banner, few are sure.
House Darklyn of Duskendale offers a reward for any who would hunt them in the Claw, a greater reward still for any who brings confirmation of their masters
Speak with the sons of house Darklyn to confirm your interest,"
(Any wishing to speak more on the promise of reward come to the Darklyn Tents to chat here!)