Fable - Ask Bring Down the Tower

[Praetor Ruslan Gildal]

GILD
THE ESTATE OF HOUSE GILDAL​

Ruslan Gildal woke in his bedchambers in the Estate of House Gildal. Soft morning light, born from the freshly risen sun, filtered in through the curtains. He sat up in the bed and ran his hand through his hair and looked to the window. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. To the window sill he went, placing his hands upon it and leaning as he contemplated the day ahead. On his right his axe rested on a table. He looked to it. Thinking.

A familiar knock came at his door.

"Enter," he said.

The door opened. Imman Rynnal, a servant of House Gildal, entered, and she held in one hand a silver platter with a morning meal upon it, freshly prepared. She paid no attention to Ruslan's state of undress, he having only woken up moments ago. Terribly shy was she when first she had been taken on as a servant—not a bad thing, no, not at all. Now it was that she had grown accustomed to these things, the peculiarities of the Nobles whom she served.

"Your breakfast, Ruslan-gazi, as requested," she said, crossing through his chambers and setting the platter down on the central table.

"You have my thanks, Imman."

She placed her hand over her heart, bowed her head slowly and with a courteous smile, and then turned to leave. But Ruslan called her name again before she passed through the door, and she stopped and turned again to face him. "Yes?"

He glanced back over his shoulder. "If you would entertain me, I would ask your opinion."

"Gladly would I give it, Ruslan-gazi."

Ruslan, leaning on the window sill still, thought for a moment more. A gentle breeze from the outside fluttered the open curtains and bid to motion his loose hair. He said, "Today I will stand before the Senate and make a plea that could bring Gild to the brink of war. I believe my cause to be just. Our eastern neighbors the Vestians provoke us with the construction of a Tower, radiating with magic, on our disputed borders. I say that this cannot stand. But I know that it will take Gildan blood to bring that tower down. What say you, Imman? Is this a sacrifice which will please Regel?"

"May I ask you something, Ruslan-gazi?"

"You may, yes."

"If you are granted your motion by the Senate, will this mark your first command in battle?"

"It will."

Imman smiled. "Then I believe men will flock to your side. You are an inheritor of the lineage of Andreas Gildal himself. They will wish to be a part of that legacy as you begin to build your part of it."

"The same could be said of my father Kadir, that he too was one such inheritor." A controversial topic, that. Kadir Gildal had been consul in the war with Omma prior to the Armistice, and it was he who made the decision to surrender to Omma on their terms, bringing peace. Some praised this act as wise and prudent, some condemned it as hasty and born of cowardice. Ruslan more than just knew, he felt that the House of Gildal had to regain some of its lost luster, for regardless of what he and his family thought of his father's actions, the controversy alone tarnished that great legacy of which Imman had spoken.

"Then I say, you must make them believe, then, if not in the name of Gildal, in you. Shine, Ruslan-gazi, and your radiance will reflect upon your House, and upon the men and women who fight at your side. They will die, if they must, to bask in it."

Ruslan returned her smile, and said, "Your father, Imman; he served in the Ommite War, under my father's command, did he not?"

"That he did."

"And he perished in battle."

"Yes, he gave his life for Gild."

"I humbly beseech you, Imman, to answer me, and answer me truly: did he, in your eyes, die well?"

Imman, her gaze unbroken, given to no lingering sorrow, said, "He loved your father Kadir, and the House of Gildal. If he were given the chance to die again in service to his command, and for the good of Gild, I know that he would do so. He basked in the radiance of Kadir's deeds, and he awaits me now with patience in the Fields of Duzen, after I have lived a long and fruitful life."

Ruslan turned from the window and went to Imman, standing before her now. "Then I will dedicate my victory over the Vestians to your father, Imman, to Ahmet Rynnal, for his undying loyalty to House Gildal, and to all Gild."

She blushed, bowed her head and pressed her hand to her heart once more, and said, "I thank you, Ruslan-gazi, for this honor."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "First, I must win it. But today I go to the Senate with you and your father in mind. You have given me more heart than I could have asked for, Imman-gazi."

 

[Letta]

The Senate Hall
Outside the doors to the Council of Praetors​

"I am not interrupting, you idiot, I was invited to attend this session." A groan, filled with frustrations and lazy, minor begging, filled the spacious hall dedicated to the Praetors and their Council. "My name is on the list, right there!"

"Callistal, Letter. Well? Where is this letter, Praetor?" He held a list, as if it were part of his station as Council Guard, and it was that lofty, smugness that irked the young Praetor.

"For the love of the Saints, you prick, my name is Letta."

"That's a made up name!"

A moment of silence as Letta stared at the oaf bewildered at his idiocy.

"Letta, as in Violetta."

An Allirian ancestor's name, but no one ever used it to address her.

"Look, can't let you through unless you hand over the letter."

Fury, untamed, unchecked reckoning boiled in her veins.

But she did not go to the War College and fail. She learned, honed, and fell back to her practices. With a shaky inhale, she loosed it all slowly with some difficulty, but a pallor of peace quickly rearranged her countenance to something more... placating.

"The name was written by mistake, but I assure you, my presence is needed in there. There is no letter, but I was called here today to attend this—"

"Ah!" Her civility went ignored as the Guard beckoned over more of his colleagues. "Over here. Remove her, and don't let her back in for the day. Caused enough nuisance!"

"Oh my f... Saints!"

Praetor Ruslan Gildal

 

[Praetor Irene Savashal]

"I would remind you, Baris," said Praetor Irene Savashal, striding up to the Council doors from the other side of the hall, "that you speak to a holy warrior of Regel."

Where Baris had been rough and uncompromising with Praetor Letta, at the approach of Irene he straightened both his demeanor and his stature considerably, and the other Council Guards whose help he had summoned paused, each waiting to see the resolution of the dispute. He was a diligent man, Baris Uzemal, but perhaps too diligent at times, venturing into obstinance.

With a chastised tone Baris switched his attention—with some difficulty—from Letta to Irene. "My apologies, Praetor. It's just—"

"It is a closed-door session," Irene said, pre-empting Baris's point. "Yet Praetor Ruslan invited all those Praetors 'of a military mind'." What motion Ruslan would be proposing today, no one knew. But clear it was from his wording that battle would come of it. Hence Irene's own presence.

Baris looked, even now, like he wanted to protest Letta's entrance more, so Irene said, "So ask her."

Irene herself looked to Letta, and took that step herself, "Do you have sword or axe to lend?"

Letta

 

[Letta]

Relief and curiosity fought to settle on her expression, her head whipping round to put a face to the voice she had an inkling of recognition. Irene Savashal, someone Letta had idolised in her years at the War College.

She spared a quick moment to direct a smug smile at Baris, lifting her head slightly as she stood taller.

At last, she saw the Council Guard turn red, nervous, and stammered a weak apology.

Perhaps if she had been a touch more patient, a fraction more polite, the veil of protest wouldn't be on Baris' tongue. And yet Praetor Irene cut him off as swiftly as she wielded her seax swords.

Letta held back the prideful smile that wished to pull at the corners of her mouth as Irene regarded her. "I do."

"Let them through, Baris." A Guard behind them sighed, then muttered their own apologies before dispersing and leaving the area. Baris swallowed, the muscles at his neck moving with the effort that did not go unnoticed. It was a small victory for Letta as she watched him shift his weight to either foot before stepping aside.

"Praetors."

That was the title she had worked hard to earn, and in the presence of Irene, Letta cleared her throat and said nothing more as she stepped past and went for the door she had been denied admittance through for some minutes. All she could hope was that Praetor Irene was the only one to witness her moments of unprofessionalism.

 

[Praetor Irene Savashal]

I do.

"Good."

Ever taciturn was Irene's way, and here it was no different. Her mood to many this day might well seem akin to brooding thunderclouds, but it wasn't on account of Baris nor Letta—she merely disliked the Senate Hall, the Council of Praetors included. Irene possessed little tolerance for the "stateswoman" side of being a Praetor. But if it got her into battle, as she suspected Praetor Ruslan was keen to do? Then she would endure it.

She wondered, briefly, how Praetor Violetta wished to conduct herself in her station, newly blessed Praetor as she was.

Into the Council of Praetors they both went. And as the grand door—large enough to accommodate a ten foot tall ogre—opened the chamber lay before them in all its majesty. Large and round, seats descended down in concentric rings to the speaker's floor, while pillars of marble marched along the chamber's top ring, holding up the second floor of seats above, and red banners displaying the white Gildan Crescent hung from the balconies. High above the domed roof seemed a new sky forged by skilled hands of scores of craftsmen. Yet for all its size, the Council of Praetors would struggle to hold the entirety of the body of Praetors should they all come to assemble at once. This day the chamber comfortably sat the Praetors in attendance, and the second floor was not needed; groups of well-acquainted Praetors, friends, and all the like sat or stood about in the rings.

The Council was not yet in session, and the din of conversation graced the air of the Council chamber like silver chimes. Ruslan himself had not yet arrived.

As they stood in the top ring of the chamber, Irene said to Letta, "I missed the Holy Accolades for your class of Quaestors. For that I am sorry. I enjoy seeing the honors and blessings bestowed upon the newest of Regel's chosen."

Letta

 

[Letta]

It was clear Letta was not close with any of the Praetors. In fact, it was her lack of people skills that ensured her service as Praetor was not to serve Gild in politics, but in warfare. She had hoped Praetor Irene would not abandon her as she kept close to the other woman, donning smiles and expressions of awkwardness as they visibly tried to wrack about their minds for a name to put to her face.

Fresh. She was fresh from the College and still the time away from it did not sharpen her into a well rounded Praetor just yet.

She paused just shy of Irene, but cleared her throat as she stepped forward as the woman turned slightly in her direction to speak. "Oh, it wasn't anything of note." Her family had not been able to make it, not even when Letta offered to pay for them to make it there. Her youngest sibling was ill, and Letta had at the time not try to feel too disappointed about it. "The real work is now, as a Praetor."

Do not look back at the past, keep on moving forward.

"I think I was one of the top of my class... but now that I am here, I feel as if I am still learning but I am starting from the bottom once more... I was surprised actually, to receive an invitation from Praetor Ruslan Gildal." Letta tried not to sound so young and inexperienced in her role, but she was yet to leave Gild and serve, blessed by their Saints.

Praetor Irene Savashal

 

[Quaestor Farrell Leguin]

Farrell walked down the hall and tried not to look around lest he got nervous. Instead, the boy focused on his weapon hanging by a belt from his side, the feeling of the leather sheath gently swinging forward and back creating a stimuli to grab onto in order to forget exactly how weird this whole situation was. It felt like a bit of a dream that he could not escape from, in fact. Well, whatever, that was not the point. He began to move a bit faster towards the councilroom, anxious to make sure he could get in without much offense.

Apparently, there was quite the mission to do and there was no sense in creating a bad first impression. He spotted someone he didn’t recall and Praetor Savashal go in, giving them a more than reasonable berth before he stepped any further. Once he himself managed to get to the giant door, he was confronted by guards that reasonably wanted to know what business he had. “I am Quaestor Farrell Leguin, First Penitent. My key is with me and rest assured that I plan not to do anything with it,” he said with a bit of nervousness, watching the guards register what he had said.

“Him. That one magic trainee.” The guard unsuccessfully tried to whisper to one of his buddies. “Right then, go on in, Quaestor.” they finally commented, stepping aside. He walked through with a barely disguised grimace, playing the guard’s sentence again and again in his head. The man’s tone was innocuous enough, but for some reason his brain could not help but warp reality sometimes. Him. The magic trainee freak. He shook his head and tried to just focus on what was up ahead, knowing his inner turmoil was far from helpful.

He walked further and bowed once he noticed others looking at him from higher above, relieved to see that the meeting had not started without him. In fact, it seemed as though everyone was just settling in. He paused for a second and took a breath, calming down enough to think clearly. These were the big leagues he had decided to make himself a part of, and there could be no retreat this far in.

Clambering up the tall set of stairs as fast as he could, he would immediately look for the best place to take notes. In this case, against the railing served his purpose. There was a clear view of the rest of this highly acoustic room. As far as he could tell, this quest was dangerous and top secret, so he settled on shutting his mouth and waiting as the tactic of choice.

(I dunno who to tag lol)

 

[Praetor Irene Savashal]

"Dare to take great risks, as need demands, and you will rise quickly."

She swept her hand out over the descending rings of the Council chamber.

"All these seats should be filled. But they're not." She glanced back to Letta. "Too many of our fellow Praetors have been defeated by comfort and complacence."

Irene wore her bias like a cloak on a winter's day, available for all to see. While she could respect the title which they held, Irene spared little of that respect for Praetors who by habit kept their axes holsters and swords sheathed, who spent an unseemly amount of time in the Senate Hall, in Temples, or working on civil projects. These were the Praetors in her eyes who were warriors in name only. They did not offer themselves to service in the field; they waited to be called upon in times of dire necessity, and likely, so Irene would often think with a wry and disdainful smile, feared the day when it would happen. Irene forgave immediately those Praetors who had military or martial duties elsewhere, and so could not come to Councils like this. But only some of those absent could claim this forgiveness from her.

In came through the doors another entrant to the Council, so Irene noticed with a sidelong glance, and thus in her mind was her point proven. He was a young man, a Quaestor if Irene had to guess, likely not a full Praetor among Letta's recently Accoladed class—yet Irene's point would be proven either way. Here he was, this young Quaestor, coming to this Council, and yet more seasoned and elder Praetors deliberately chose not to. Veterans of the Ommite War, even, chose not to. And so women like Letta and men like this Quaestor had to come in their stead.

Very well. They would become veterans in their own right, and perhaps would return covered in glory, and those "more seasoned and elder" Praetors would be shamed for not having come.

Letta Quaestor Farrell Leguin

 

[Letta]

Her dark eyes followed the motion of Irene's hand, flicking between the gaps in the seats below. Letta's jaw tightened, had known that numbers were abysmally low in recent years, but to see it before her own eyes was driving home the reality of it. From her class alone, only less than a third of them opted to pursue the ranks of the Military. So many gifted and talented had received their Accolades and chosen more peaceful positions in Gild, had claimed they could make a difference yet from behind closed doors.

Letta had always known change could happen on a battlefield. Had the histories not taught them all such a lesson? Had Saint Sofia's sacrifice not inspire so many like it had for her as a child waiting to join the College?

"Well, let us hope we may make an example. Reinvigorate the Praetors and the Quaestors yet to come." Her dark brows knitted together, as if determination was now placed upon her. A shining example. A name to remember.

And for the first time this morning, Letta was looking forward to hearing the nature of the summons here to these Chambers.

 

[Quaestor Farrell Leguin]

As Farrell looked down from his spot on the highest floor, he too noticed that many were absent from this council. There were surely those away on other responsibilities, but for their number to be so few was rather surprising. Politics and such were becoming a rather popular avenue for graduating Quaestors, but even so... Had the ranks truly thinned so terribly? He was familiar with stories from the academy of this room and what a honor it was to stand in it's four walls, however it seemed that about....a hundred or more disagreed.

The battlefield was a quick way to inspire change and such, but it appeared those not present feared more for their lives than it was worth. Secretly, Farrell empathized, having quickly picked up a harsh reality check from his schooling of how frail a body truly is. Still, though, he had felt compelled to come not out of any sort of moral highground but instead simple, pure obligation. How much closer would he be to fitting in if he came back from a quest victorious.

Such thoughts still bouncing around in his head, he simply waited around for information on what exactly all of them were even needed for.

 

[Praetor Irene Savashal]

"Well said."

Irene wished tremendously that the tale of pride, heroism, and valor written in the Westlurch Pass invigorated the spirit of the Jemaat in the way Letta mentioned. Truly it was received well, but not well enough. The shadow of Gild's surrender to Omma in the Ommite War loomed large, so it would seem, and though the Everburning Flame present in the heart of every Gildan burned yet, dim was the light housed in each breast.

Victory.

Victory and more victory still.

This would be the remedy the spirit of the Jemaat needed.

Letta Quaestor Farrell Leguin

 

[Praetor Ruslan Gildal]

Only some few minutes after Letta, Irene, and Farrell's entrance into the Praetor Council chamber did Ruslan himself come. His full battle armor did he wear, as though the proposal he intended to take to the Senate would without question be passed, and he strode with an easy surety which exuded such a notion.

He looked upon entering over the assembled Praetors present in the chamber. Better than expected, he would say! In the years since the Armistice brought an uncharacteristic peace to Campania, more and more had it become the fashion of the times for Praetors, both seasoned and newly Accoladed, to take to the fields of civil, political, and religious service rather than the field of battle. The treaty his father Kadir Gildal signed with Omma siphoned more than merely talents of silver from Gild, it would seem.

Yet if Ruslan had his way, every last measure of silver would be taken back from the Iron Aristocracy and returned to the Jemaat. And to do this, Imman's faithful words would have to be realized; the Gildan spirit of old reawakened; the destiny of Gild—from the Galacon to the Astor—not merely dreamed of, but longed for, and purchased with valor and honor freshly forged.

And here it could start.

Ruslan met eyes with and went straight to Irene and Letta, a warm smile greeting them both. He placed a hand to his heart and bowed his head to Irene, and she in kind returned the Gildan salute. "Praetor Irene," he said, "it's a shame I did not end my Gezi sooner. The honor would have been mine, if you called on me to come to the Westlurch Pass."

Irene smiled. "There are yet gretches, trolls, and filthy Althhaven Curites to slay lurking in the Spine."

"I do not doubt it. What word of Mogrin?"

"He's abroad, and I don't think he will return in time for this."

"Ah. But my axe will join again with his soon enough, I am sure."

And then Ruslan turned to regard Letta, and he placed his hand to his heart and bowed his head, again in greeting, and said, "I am glad you have come, young Praetor! But look at me—I am not so far removed from you in age, nor so much in stature. Glory in the name of Gild and in the service of Jura awaits us both. Tell me your name, and be my sister in this greatest of efforts."

Letta Quaestor Farrell Leguin

 

[Letta]

Letta felt a fool for not recognising the Gildal Praetor sooner than the moment he turned his attention to her.

Her eyes widened slightly, her only indication of her initial surprise before she repeated the traditional greeting of her hand over her heart and bowing her head. For deep respect to his name, to his station, Letta spoke with her head still bowed. "Letta Callistal."

When she straightened, there was pride evident on her expression. This, this was the start of a fruitful career. To be here to hear Ruslan's words, to be here to lend her weapon for Gild...

"Thank you for the opportunity to be here... to hear you address the Senate."

Praetor Ruslan Gildal

 

[Praetor Ruslan Gildal]

"My address to the Fathers would mean little, save for the backing of brave Praetors like yourself, Letta."

Ruslan eyed the descending rows of seats before them and gave a slight nod of his head toward the rest of those who had come.

"Regel willing, with all the host assembled here, we can show the Fathers that there is yet the spirit for just war."







Letta

 

[Letta]

Letta looked to Irene before clearing her throat.

"Whatever you need from me, my sword is yours." Her eyes looked to the gaps in the rows, how they outnumbered those still yet to take their seats just as they were, and brought her dark gaze to Ruslan.

"There is glory in this, a blessed call to arms, and I am here to listen to Jura's herald." She gave him a brief smile, polite and warrior like. Already, she was standing here in representation.

Praetor Ruslan Gildal

 

[Praetor Ruslan Gildal]

Ruslan glanced to Irene, who smiled in her own turn, and then back to Letta, a hearty grin and a genial laugh of affection for her words.

"Had King Andreas Gildal himself commanded an army of Callistals, then long ago would Gild have claimed dominion of all Campania."

Much promise did the young woman hold! While Praetor Irene could be far more severe than Ruslan on Praetors who did not keenly give themselves to military pursuits, in Letta could she find no cause for disappointment. Her smile, quite the rare sight, said it all.

"In this mission I will propose, your swords will not despair of a worthy foe. Trust me."

Letta

 

[Letta]

Never had Letta heard her family's name be graced in the same breath as the powerful name that was King Andread Gildal. It gave her sparks of what could come, the start of a new history where this Callistal Praetor would fight under the command of Andreas' descendant.

To her, it was the highest praise that was worth more than her Holy Accolades.

"Thank you." Her hand moved to her chest again, as if it were without a thought how respected she viewed Ruslan. Was thankful for his kind words to her. After the miscommunication with the Guard outside, she had begun to doubt the weight of her own name, but with Ruslan speaking it, it ignited a fire and pride within the young woman.

Perhaps her family would not quite understand how Letta felt in this moment, to have the attention of someone so famed, and not just of his name carried from ancient times, but someone that held all the right ideals that she had hoped to uphold. Letta was still finding herself, easily driven by the courses others seem to set for her, but this... this summons and mission, she hoped it would set her back on the path she had always worked towards.

A passing Praetor smiled at the trio, lastly landing their attention onto Ruslan. Saluting them each, they paused on the steps to look up at Letta, proud. "You have the Bloodhound on your side, you will see success, Praetor Ruslan."

Praetor Ruslan Gildal

 

[Praetor Ruslan Gildal]

"The Bloodhound!" Ruslan said to Letta as the Praetor commented and passed. "Soon will I see for myself how you've come to such a name!"

Parting from Letta and Irene now Ruslan went down the first of the steps in the chamber and began to go from Praetor to Praetor, group to group, greeting them, speaking with them, clasping the hands of some whom he knew well and pulling them into genial embraces. More than simply desiring their support in his upcoming proposal to the Senate, this foremost was Ruslan's way. Where by and large throughout Arethil it was the custom of nobility to maintain a certain distance from—or lord a certain height of station over—the common man, Ruslan's character from his earliest days shaped him to shirk this trend.

And in this way when Ruslan noticed a sole occupant of the chamber sitting in the upper levels he made his way up there.

Farrell he greeted with another Gildan salute, and he said, "And here I thought I had already met the youngest Praetor to answer my summons. Or perhaps a youthful face belies more years than my reckoning."

Letta Quaestor Farrell Leguin

 

[Quaestor Farrell Leguin]

Farrell was in his own little reverie when Praetor Ruslan approached. It was not intentional, but he had begun to worry as usual: This mission...failure is not an option, not surrounded by everyone I see here. Way to pick a first mission accompanied by even MORE pressure. he noted, a grim look crossing his eyes. Just then in his peripheral vision he noticed someone standing by him, so the boy reacted very maturely. Leaping about two inches into the air in surprise, he then turned in the most dignified way he could once hitting the ground given the situation.

Upon realizing exactly who he had been leaving waiting, his brain kinda just went numb. That's...He's....Damn it. He was face-to-face with Ruslan Gildal and had managed to fuck things up before whatever this was even began. Luckily, he found he had managed to catch just enough of the older Praetor's sentence in the back of his mind to figure out that it was a greeting. He saluted the man in return (or so he assumed it was in return), bowing a bit in reverence. It was only natural to do so for someone so venerated.

"Thank you, Praetor Ruslan. I have not yet earned my accolades, so I am still a Quaestor, but I decided this mission would make for a proving ground good life-experience and such. My teacher has told me that knowledge is not reality until you have put it to use where it counts, and I believe that." he replied, very aware he might have begun rambling and eager for a pause. He suddenly thought back to the barfight where he had met that strange man and his friend and quickly realized why. Perhaps, as he had done then, he could try to make the best out of a bad first impression.

Praetor Ruslan Gildal

 

[Praetor Ruslan Gildal]

"A Quaestor!" Ruslan said, pleasantly surprised by the revelation. "The new Master Instructor's direction of the War College is bearing fruit already."

That direction being, so far as Ruslan had heard, to emphasize field experience—different from Ruslan's day, where field experience was quite minimal until the end. And it seemed Farrell's Instructors embraced the Master Instructor's vision wholeheartedly. Wonderful.

"And we will make it count, your knowledge. Not only will your blade in battle be tested, but your skill as nascent Praetor. All of us, I think, Praetor and Quaestor alike, will have to bring our blessings to bear."

Especially if the scouting reports of the Tower were true.

Quaestor Farrell Leguin