Warhammer armies: Bretonnia - The Round Table of Bretonnia
Home arrow Literature arrow Various Stories arrow Journey Into the Unknown
14. November 2018, 06:36 GMT

 

 
 

The Round Table
Home Home
Forums Forums
Gallery Gallery
Knights Knights
About / Help About / Help
Articles
News News
Events Events
Literature Literature
Tactics Tactics
Hobby Hobby
Background Background
User Login
 
 
 
 
Journey Into the Unknown PDF Print E-mail
User Rating: / 5
PoorBest 
Written by stumps2310   
Thursday, 11 November 2010
The tale of one young knight, trying to prove his worth and earn his colours.

He awoke, bleary eyed and fearing for the worst. All he could feel was pain, coursing through his whole body, reaching a climax as it neared his head. Squinting through bloodshot eyes he surveyed his surroundings. “Where am I?” he thought. He appeared to be lying on a hard floor with broken wooden rafters above his head, painfully bright light streaming through. Shutting his eyes he decided it might be best to use another sense to find out what had happened but quickly changed his mind when he noticed he could feel a warm liquid trickling down his chest. “Please, no.” he thought “Not like this.”

Last thing he could remember he was standing in front of his adversaries, a look of consternation flitting across his pale, boyish features as he tried to summon up the courage to face what was to come. “Common lad, you’ll be fine.” Smiled a man next to him, false hope and he knew it. He reached forward, grasping the first of his opponents around the neck and bringing it close, “You first!” he shouted swiftly downing the foe, “Only 9 to go now.” The man next to him slapped him on the back and matched him on wins. “You’ve a lot to learn yet boy!” This continued for another 5 or 6 bouts until finally one worthy opponent got the best of him. He collapsed, wounding his head. He lay on the floor and everything seemed to go distant and blurry until it faded out like the end of a Sierk play.

“Where is he?!” The sound, shattering the blissful silence, alerted Piere to the presence of someone outside. Quickly scrambling to his feet, then almost as quickly falling again, he promised himself he would never touch a drop of filthy Altdorf Ale in his life. Next thing he knew his Father burst into the barn, virulently steaming from the ears and being followed by two of his personal guard. Upon seeing Piere he charged up to him, towering over the poor boy, and asserting all the noble authority of his line in a single glance. “You are supposed to be nobility!” he screamed, “You are supposed to be blood!” his temperature boiling over, “You are supposed to be in the kitchens with the rest of the rabble atoning for your last misadventures!” Piere knew he had really done it this time, but decided to attempt a protest none the less “Bu...”

“No. Not this time boy. You should be old enough now to be wielding a sword in combat, not wielding your sword at the local brothel! I’ve had enough of this insolence, Lady help me.”

“But fa...”

“I’m afraid not, you’ve given me no choice in the matter. You’re are to leave this land, meet Hugo by the armoury for suitable supplies and don’t expect a warm welcome from me until you’re proven yourself worthy of those silk leggings that are by your ankles, let alone worthy of your heritage.”

 

With that Piere was dismissed. Pulling up his cacks he stumbled outside into the blinding sunlight of midday. “Sure,” he thought “I know how to fight but what in the Lady’s name am I suppose to do now?” Without any divine direction to guide him, he guessed he’d have to do as he was told. Ambling through the gardens he looked up to see his rightful inheritance, his father’s castle. It wasn’t a large castle as castles go, it wasn’t a wealthy castle as wealth goes, but it was his castle, or at least it would be; someday. “How on earth do I get into these situations?” he thought aloud, “Because you listen to fools like that peasant last night,” Replied Hugo, his father’s sergeant of arms, catching Piere off guard. “Follow me, you’re equipment is packed and ready and I have ya horse saddled and good for the road. By the sound of it you’ve quite the journey ahead of ya.” Piere didn’t know what to think, for once. All of a sudden his easy life of good wine and debauchery had vanished and now he was being packed off to Lady knows what chaos forsaken corner of the land.

“It’ll do ya good ya know, being on the open road. It’s where a knight belongs, not cramped up in some seedy tavern”

“I feel sick...” the first full sentence Piere had said all morning and it was swiftly followed by him absolving himself of that ‘filthy Altdorf Ale’ from the night before. “That’s it lad, you don’t want that stuff in ya pits before travellin’. Good bit of gruel is what ya want,” said the Sergeant, grinning as Piere continued to throw up.

 

Upon arriving at the Armoury Hugo pulled down Piere’s plate mail and helped him to strap in. “Right y’are then,” he said pulling the last leather strap tight, “You’re as fit as you’re ever gonna’ be, just find ya horse and ya can be on ya way.” Piere got the strange sense that the good sergeant was enjoying this and said as much, “Ah, I wouldn’t say I was enjoyin’ it, just wish I could be commin’ along with ya is all,” Replied Hugo “Jus’ reminds me of my younger days, Adventurin’ n’ all that.” He sat down with a distant look on his face as he reminisced his ‘younger days’. Piere stumped out of the armoury to find the stables and his horse, a sturdy young mare he named Rouge, due to a small red patch between the her eyes. “Looks like we’ll be leaving girl.” Was all he said before jumping up into the saddle and setting off without so much as a farewell or good luck from his father.

 

It was only a few hours after leaving the only home he’d ever known and he was plodding steadily through a wood, the last dregs of a hangover still exploding within his head. “What am I doing?” he said to his horse, “I’m supposed to be tucked up in bed not gallivanting through some blasted forest.” Rouge whinnied in response. “What was that?” said Piere, hearing a rustling in the bushes up ahead. Sure he’d been out hunting with his father before, but never alone. Suddenly a dear broke out of the trees and leapt across his path, startling him. Rouge eyed the deer’s entrance into the woods suspiciously, being properly battle trained as Brettonian horses were it took a lot to startle horse, if not the rider. Piere cursed the deer under his breath for worrying him in his fragile state. Too busy damning the deer he failed to notice the rope that had been pulled taut across his path. Rouge reared up, throwing Piere on the ground, stunning him. Next thing he knew he was surrounded by the sharp points of arrow heads not a foot away from his face. “What have we got here then?” said one disembodied voice.

“Look like a little rich boy goin’ for a stroll to me” said a second

“Thank you master of the obvious, I’d have never known that one. Have you never heard of a rhetorical question?” replied the first again.

“A reetoori...see, that’s why you’re boss...boss”

“Of course it is, now stop your flapping and concentrate on what we’re doing.” Through this Piere had come to and was slightly confused at what he saw. The first man, the ‘boss’, was tall and well dressed, and looked as if he’d spend most of his life looking down his nose. The second, shorter, and wearing the scraps and rags common of the peasant rabble. There were 3 others looking similar to the second but looking even more ragged and rugged, all looked Brettonian. “What are you looking at rich boy?” said the richer man, “sort him out.” For the second time that day everything faded out as one of the muggers struck him.

Last Updated ( Thursday, 11 November 2010 )
 
< Prev   Next >
 

Warhammer, Warmaster, Games Workshop (and more) are registered trademarks of Games Workshop Ltd. This site is not affiliated with Games Workshop Ltd. and no claim of ownership is made to any of these trademarks.
Design by Earl Cadfael and Guillaume le Courageux, responsible for the content (Admins) are: Etien de Rochefort, Guillaume le Courageux, Robert de Giselles (see "Staff").