Harsh Realities (Open to Humans)

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Solomon and Sir Horus were being lead by a wretched specimen of a Peasant, the poor soul had come to the Knights as they were making their way to the Capital along the trade road, the main route through Leostonnia which lead from the South of the Realm through to the Capital and into the countries Northern Dukedoms. The Peasant apparently was part of a group of fleeing peasants who had been hunting within the Kings wood, the largest forest nearest the Capital and seeing it as their duty, Solomon and his companion rallied several men at arms at a nearby watchtower and went into the forest to find these illegal poachers. The Peasant sold out his brethren merely to save himself from the law, he named their crimes. Poaching, avoiding taxes, and killing a yeoman along with stealing a truffle swine.

They approached the location where these serfs had encamped, beneath an upturned rotting wagon, upturned into a makeshift shelter, the heavy early morning fog had hidden their approach and the many of the Peasants no doubt still slept within the early hours of the morn, yet the signs of the makeshift encampment was there, along with a fire pit, its embers still flickering, one of the simpletons what stood relieving himself unknownst with his back turned as the two knights with their cadre of Men-at-arms appeared, turning the hunchback’s uneven eyes bulged in their sockets as he focused on the pair of Knights sitting astride their massive warhorses, swallowing hard it was clear his heart lurched as he looked up in shock. “Sam, you sod, you sold us out!” the Peasant cried as he noticed the commoner betside Solomon and Horus who had brought them to the location. “Silence!”, snapped Horus who was bedecked in black and red, the colours and heraldry of his Household, his voice cultured and noble with each word clearly enunciated and far from the crude accent of the lower classes.

“Lower your gaze wretch”, Snarled Horus as he glared down upon the peasant, and as the commoner lowered himself to his knees he’d call out again “Lower!”, the Peasant then prostrated himself on the ground, pushing his face into the mud. It was a pitiful sight thought Solomon but he could not disagree with Sir Horus that he was far to harsh, instead he merely sighed. The Third Born Prince of Leostonnia, who bore his Black and gold heraldry called out in a loud enough regal voice across the clearing “I am, Sir Solomon Wyrmfyre, Duke of Candor Keep, and Prince to our fair Leostonnia”. At that the peasant upon the ground pushed his face deeper into the mud. “You peasants are trespassing on the Castellan of Brighthaven’s Forest, the vassal of the King himself!.

Solomon’s face was dark as he surveyed the effect of his words. Panicked voices rose from beneath the rotting wagon, accompanied by a frantic scrabbling. A dull wooden thump was followed by a curse, as one of the peasants sat up too quickly and struck his head. A putrid, dank blanket was thrown aside, and Solomon’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he watched the wretched peasant outlaws begin to crawl out from beneath their crude shelter, their eyes wide with fear. Sir Horus gave a snort of disbelief, “By the Light, look at the number of them, huddled together under there like vermin”. Solomon while he thought the comment was unsavoury had to agree with his companion. The peasants must of been practically sleeping on top of each other to have all sheltered beneath the wagon. They stood up, glancing nervously at each other, scratching themselves. Solomon thought that they truly were a pathetic looking bunch of individuals, encrusted with filth, they were uniformly scrawny, malformed and retched. Several had pronounced limps and twisted legs, while others had grotesque protruding foreheads, lazy eyes, and teeth that stuck out at all angles from lips blackened with dirt. As far as Solomon could make out, at least one of their number was a woman, though she was no less filthy than the others.

The peasants squinted around themselves with slack-jawed nervousness. Solomon’s gaze swept around the makeshift encampment, and fell on the blackened, skeletal carcass spitted over the fire pit. It was clearly the remnants of a young deer, which it was illegal for a commoner to hunt and kill, let alone eat. Sighing he turned back towards the rabble. “You are illegally encamped on the Kings own land. You are accused of poaching, the Castellan of Brighthaven’s stock. The proof of this claim is there in front of me. More than this, you are accused of avoiding taxed levied by the Castellan, a vassal of his majesty the King. It is also claimed that one of your number killed a yeoman in the service of the castellan and stole his truffle swine. As such, you are outlawed, and will be accompanied to the hamlet of Brighthaven, where you will face the penalty for such crimes”.

Several of the peasants broke into tears at the pronouncement, while others dropped to their knees. They all knew that the pronouncement was as good as a death sentence. Shouts of protest and despair erupted from coarse throats. A scuffle erupted, and two of the peasants fell on another, grabbing him forcefully “It was Benno, here mi’lord what done the yeoman in! It was him! We done nothin’!”. Horus, who had circled around behind the wagon, gave a derisive snort, and answered before Solomon could even respond. “Did he force you to flee the service of your Lord? Did he force you to poach, and eat of Lord Brighthaven’s venison? No, I think not. You will all hang”. “Have mercy, young lords!” one of the peasants cried, before collapsing, sobbing into the mud. “Sergeant! Take them into your custody” Solomon ordered before releasing yet enough sigh. The small detachment of men-at-arms walked out of the mist, carrying tall shields painted in red and yellow of the Castellan of Brighthaven. They carried simple staves, topped with curved blades and hooks. One of them held an old sword proudly in his hand and nodded his head at Solomon’s command.

The men-at-arms began trudging towards the peasants. Lowborn themselves, the men-at-arms were only a little less pathetic in appearance than the outlaws. They were peasants too, after all though Solomon. “You there!” shouted Cantor Horus, seeing movement beneath the wagon. His warhorse snorted and stamped its hooves, sensing the tension in its rider. “Come out now!”. Solomon stood in the stirrups, trying to see what was happening. There was a flash of movement, and Horus' steed reared. A sharp crack resounded as the flailing hooves connected, and a body fell heavily to the ground. Shouting erupted anew from the peasants, and they broke into movement. “Hold!”, Solomon shouted, attempting to be as regal and dignified as he could in the chaos in an attempt to maintain authority. “Any man that runs will be assumed guilty and cut down! Sergeant! Take them!”.

The men-at-arms tried to restore order, pushing several of the peasants roughly to their knees with the butts of their polearms. “They’ve killed Guff!” shouted one particular filthy man, who had clumps of hair missing from his head. He slammed his fist into the face of one of the soldiers, and Solomon cursed. Others cried out, either in protest or fear, and Solomon could hear Horus swearing in the foreground. “Stupid *****! Shouted Horus. “The Vermin came at me!” His voice was incredulous. A peasant outlaw grabbed one of the men-at-arms’ weapons, struggling against him. At a barked order from the Sergeant, the other soldiers began laying about them with impunity, knocking peasants down into the mud with fierce blows. Solomon swore again--this wasn't how he desired events to turn--and muscled his massive warhorse into the fray. He slammed the butt of his lance onto the head of one of the struggling peasants, and the man collapsed unconscious in the mud. Benno, the man accused by his comrades of murdering the yeoman, broke free of the restraining grip of him and bolted for the trees.

Kicking his spurs into the side of his mount, Solomon broke free of the scuffle in pursuit, forcing men to leap out of his way, lest they be trampled. Hooves pounded up the muddy ground as he closed quickly on Benno. Solomon thundered past him and pulled his steed sharply into his path. Benno, breathing hard, halted, eyed the Prince warily, and holding his hands up in from of himself. “I warned you not to run”, Solomon spoke with a harshness in his tone of voice while glowering with outrage, “But I wish to see no more blood spilt here today. Get back with the others before I change my mind”, Solomon then indicated sharply with his chin. The man’s shoulders slumped, and he turned back to where the men-at-arms were finally restoring order. A flicker of movement attracted Solomon’s attention, and he saw a roughly clothed shape clamber atop the rotting wagon, a bow in his hands. “Ware the wagon!” he shouted, even as the man drew back the bowstring, an arrow nocked. Solomon could not believe what he was seeing, for a peasant to draw arms against one of noble born or one of his retainers was almost beyond comprehension.

Solomon Wyrmfyre kicked his horse forward, shouting. The bowman spun around at Solomon’s cry, his bow swinging in the Prince’s direction, and loosed his arrow. It slammed into Solomon’s shoulder, and he reeled in his saddle. It felt like he had been kicked by a stallion, but he did not fall. He felt no pain, merely the shock of the impact, and he looked down incredulously at the shaft of the arrow protruding from the hole it had punched in his steel armoured attire. The bowman lowered his weapon, his mouth gaping wide as he registered the foolish, hasty act that had certainly doomed him. There was a shout of outrage and disbelief from Sir Horus and the men-at-arms. The Bowman half-jumped, half-fell from his position on the wagon, and began racing away towards the trees, panic lending him speed.

Solomon touched a hand to the arrow, still in shock at the peasant’s action. Cantor Horus pounded across the ground upon his stead, quickly closing the gap with the fleeing bowman, his lance lowering expertly before him. Several men-at-arms also broke into a run in pursuit of the fleeing man. The lance took the peasant in the lower back, punching through his body, and with that he fell with a cry. Cantor rode past him and pulled his steed around sharply. The Man’s piteous cries were ended as the men-at-arms reached him and slammed their polearms down onto his head, smashing his skull and silencing him for good. “Your Grace, are you hurt?”, asked a voice at Solomon’s side, he looked down into the concerned, coarse face of the Sergeant at his side. “I have an arrow in my shoulder, Hugues…”, stated Solomon dryly. The man reddened, but Solomon nonetheless waves him away, “I’m fine”.

Swinging his shield over his back, he gripped the shaft of the arrow tightly, it had punched under his pauldron, breaking several of the chainmail links beneath, before sinking into the thick padding he wore beneath his armour, though it had not reached his skin. Thankfully, the shot had been taken in haste, a fully drawn longbow fired at such close range could easily have killed him. He pulled the arrow free, tossing it to the ground. The other peasants had ceased their struffles, and knelt compliantly in the mud while the men-at-arms stood over them grimly. Several of them were whimpering, and all looked blankly around, their faces pale, shocked by the actions of their comrade.

Sir Cantor, his face thunderous, rode back to the peasants, his steed stamping and snorting, sensing its riders fury. He reversed the grip on his lance, and thrust its point forcefully into the ground before sliding from the saddle. He drew his arming sword from its scabbard with a metallic hiss, and advanced on the closest of the kneeling peasants, who stared up at him in numb horror. The men-at-arms flicked glances between them, but none of them would dare to step in the path of the enraged noble. “Cantor!”, said Solomon, a warning tone in his voice, his companion ignored him, striding purposefully towards the peasants, the sword held firmly in his hand. “Horus!” he said more forcefully, finally giving Cantor pause. The Knight swung his head towards Solomon, his wavy red fair flickering. “I said stop, hold your arm. I will not see these people killed in cold blood”. Cantor gaped at Solomon in bewildered astonishment, as if he had suddenly sprouted horns.

“Your Grace”, Cantor gasped, “You have been struck by a cowardly arrow fired by one of their number, you, not only a noble son of Leostonnia, but the seed of his majesty himself! An example must be made of these wretches”. “Just punishment had been meted out to the offender, sheath your blade”, spoke Solomon matter-of-factly. “But-” began Cantor. “Sheath your sword, Cantor, as the sire of his majesty, I demand it,'' said Solomon forcefully, cutting Cantor off. Reluctantly, Cantor did so. He stormed away from the peasants, giving a glare to Solomon as he remounted. He pulled his lance free from the earth. “Are you alright, your Grace?”, he asked, his scowl fading. “My heart skipped a beat when I saw that fool loose that shaft”, “Tis’ nothing”, replied Solomon. “It didn't even break the skin”, he smiled broadly and shook his head, exhaling slowly. The years slipped away as his strong face relaxed.  

“Sergeant”, Solomon began, “We are done here, Sir Cantor on myself will ride ahead to Brighthaven, where we will await you and yours, for the trail and execution within the Square”. The grim Sergeant touched the brim of his Helm respectfully “I will bind ‘em, mi’lord, just un case any of’em try to make a run for it”. “Do as you must”, Solomon replied, waving a hand dismissively. He turned his steed away, his heart still racing. A wretched, squinting peasant stood before him, clutching a cloth cap in his hands. It was the man who had guided the Prince to the outlaws. He was a weasel but at least he knew his place. Solomon raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Well?” He asked. “Mi’lord”, the peasant began, “Since I led ye’ ‘ere faithfully, I was hopin’ that, if it ain’t tae’ much of trouble, that perhaps I could… My family is poor, Mi’lord, and I have no food fer’ ‘oor little ‘ens. That is tae’ say, I…”. The Greed of the lower classes was without bounds, thought Solomon, as he continued to stare in silent scrutiny as the man before him, they tilled the lands of their lord faithfully, and in return were allowed to keep a share of their produce, and were protected from harm. “You will be recompensed for this duty, peasant”, Solomon cut in.

The man dropped to his knees in the mud, bowing and scraping. “Ye’re too kind, Mi’Lord”, said the peasant, though Solomon found it almost impossible to understand his words, spoken out of the side of his mouth and thickly accented. “Sergeant” said Solomon, “See that this man is recompensed I think a half copper would be more than generous”, “Far more than generous” said Cantor darkly. “Thank you, Lord! Thank you” said the peasant, lowering his head to the ground once again. “I’m sorry to detain you, my Lord” started the Sergeant “But the truffle swine? Shall I have it returned to the Castellan?”, “Have it given to this man here” stated Solomon feeling rather generous, “In lieu of his payment. If that suits you, peasant?”. The kneeling Peasants eyes widened in shock as a lopsided grin spread across his face “Oh yes, Lord! You are most generous indeed”. Sighing to himself under his breath Solomon then nodded back at the Sergeant “See it done then”. Wheeling his horse around Solomon exchanged a glance with Cantor before they both turned back in the direction of Brighthaven.

“Come now Grandeur, you can beat him this time”, Solomon whispered to his steed as he leaned forward in the saddle, patting her dapple grey neck. With one final grin to his companion Cantor, he shouted and kicked his destrier Grandeur into a gallop. Giving their powerful steeds' their heads, the pair of young Knights raced through the mist-shrouded trees, rejoicing in the feeling of freedom and power. The icy wind pulled at the caparisons of their steeds, the wonderful array of colours dancing in the wind which seemed to urge the horses on ever faster. Both Solomon and Cantor rode well, completely at ease in the saddle, from their time as children, like all youths of the nobility they had been placed in the saddle before they even learnt to walk, like most Knights of Leostonnia it was as natural as breathing to them. As they made their way through the forest, sighting the small town of Brighthaven, a vassal Lord of the King’s own central Dukedom at the heart of Leostonnia the two knights eased, reining in their steeds. All in all it was only around three miles from the occurence in the woods to the town yet due to the protected thick layers of plate barding, the caparisons the the fully armoured knights what rode atop them, the two warhorses were lathered in sweat, and their massive chests heaved in great gulps of air. Solomon would pat Grandeur’s neck fondly, he had raised the destrier from a foal and she was a fine strong noble beast.

The town was on a rise, overlooking the verdant rolling hills of grassland, where clustered in fluffy white clumps across the hills were peasant shepherds and some of their small hamlets. The sun was now breaking free of the clouds, making the whole region glow with light and beyond on the horizon one could just make out the outline of the gleaming Capital City of Leostonnia. Brighthaven stood as a motte and bailey, an old fortification which was originally created to protect the roads, however since the years that the Capital became the seat of the King and Leostonnia, the small defensive structure has become a trading community, the castle itself was aged yet not particularly strong, the stone keep sits on a hill with a flattened top, along with a watchtower rising fifty feet higher. Below the hill is a bailey containing stables, paddock, smithy, well, defended by a ditch, earthen dikes, and a palisade of logs. Stalwart's mossy outer walls are protected by two square towers and wallwalks. Outside of the Bailey however is the rest of the town, almost seemingly having been burst from the walls, cobblestone streets and an array of houses in varying wealth make a square like shape which served as the centre with the main road to the capital leading right through it, here market stalls stood and tradesmen ply their works.

In the very centre of the market square stood a gallows, it was there that the peasants would be executed and where both Solomon and Cantor would await for the Sergeant and the men-at-arms. Still catching their breath the two Knights would make for a sight, still collecting their breaths from the ride and yet to dismount, the two made their way through into the centre. Solomon would then remove his Helm, by grasping it by the plume pulling it free from his visage, his chainmail coif falling to his shoulders allowing his silvery blonde hair to be caught freely by the mild breeze which seemed to be permeating around the area. A crowd would already begin to form as men and women turned from the market stalls to see why these two Knights of the Crown had rushed into the town so eagerly.

Soshi smiled a bit at how happy Solomon seemed with the idea, a smile that would turn into a smirk as the prince would note leaving sooner to avoid more lectures.

"Well if that's the case maybe we can head out after dinner." She chuckled a bit, though she wouldn't mind leaving sooner honestly if she didn't need to have to hold back for another lesson.... Honestly if he tried again she might reveal herself there and then.... But she still needed time.

"Or at least when we're both ready."