Private Tales She Who Commands the Laurel Crown

[VigiloConfido]

See now the Kingdom of Garacross, perched on the turbulent shores of the Gulf of Ryt.

Thanks is given to the Mother—Metisa—and to the Father—Nykios—for it is by their divine hands that Garacross prospers.

Here in Garacross, emerged from the obscuring mists of time long ago, there is a relic. Ancient, magical, by pious belief having descended down through the ages as a gift from the Mother and the Father. This relic is known as the Laurel Crown, and through it are the Kings of Garacross chosen. Praise the Mother, praise the Father, for in this manner is the succession of the throne secure and stable.

The Crown, this item infused by the touch of the Mother and the Father, is no mere inert object. It chooses. When comes the time to crown a new king, select Garacrossan men of noble blood, called Princes, don the Crown in a formal ceremony, and it is then that he is either accepted or rejected. Acceptance is the Crown resting gently upon the Prince's head, emitting a brief, soft glow. Rejection is the Crown sprouting painful thorns which persist until it is removed. What is known for certain is that if a Prince is to have any hope of being chosen, he must be young and he must be Pure, having had no relations; only when he is King, when he is bound by wedlock to his Queen, is he then allowed to continue his lineage. And so it is that any prospective nobleman takes an Oath of Purity, swearing to his chastity until chosen as King, and adorning himself with a Royal Wreath—a symbolic representation of the Crown and an open display of his Oath and status as a Prince. For many this a sacrifice too great to bear. But to be chosen as King is the highest honor a Garacrossan nobleman can possibly achieve.

Yet.

Sometimes, it is not the Crown which chooses.

For the Crown, as though aided explicitly by fate, or, perhaps, by a divine hand, sometimes sees itself through means both inexplicable and ordinary into the most unlikely, and un-Princely, of hands. Sometimes into a shepherd boy's hands. Sometimes into a wounded soldier's hands.

And, sometimes, into the hands of a maiden.

Here is where the tradition takes a turn. For when a woman dons the Laurel Crown as might any of the prospective Princes, she too can be accepted or rejected. If rejected, thorns, all the same. But if accepted, then the Crown has chosen her to make the decision of who shall be the next King, and she his Queen. In her hands now rests the course of the Kingdom, for she has very much been made by the Crown into a Kingmaker, and by Garacrossan belief has she been entrusted by the Mother and the Father to command so grand a choice. Here through all means—sincere or otherwise—do the Princes vie for her favor, and upon her decision will history be written.

This is the tale of one such turn of fate. At a time of great need and great peril for Garacross, threatened as they are by the orcs and giants of Molthal across the Gulf, does the Crown fall into the possession of a woman who knows not at first the true meaning of what she holds. Yet destiny has decreed all the same:

It will be she who commands the Laurel Crown.​

Saffia

 

[Cicero Veda]

"How could I not have heard?"

Cicero stood in front of full mirror, arms held out to his sides. The mousy servant girl silently and dutifully slipped his fine white undershirt on through one arm and then through the other. His brother, Radan, was also in his room, sitting by the open window, locks of his long hair waving in tandem with the curtains whensoever a gentle breeze welcomed itself in.

"Try not to sound too excited," said Radan. "You might give off the wrong impression."

"Oh," Cicero said with a hint of dismissal, unconcerned. Then he looked over his shoulder and said with a ambiguous smile. "Long live the King."

"Do you think this time his age has finally caught up with him? King Jerrick seems to have the blessing of the Mother, if you ask me. First his wound from the assassination attempt, then the pox, then the lightning strike of all things, ha, gods, look at me, I haven't even gotten to his ailments borne of old age yet. The King has luck from the Father and a robust health from the Mother."

"Yet time takes us all, whether we live for a hundred years or twenty-thousand; the hour always arrives." The servant girl came back from the closet with one of his favorite red doublets, he tried it on, then reconsidered and said to her, "No, let us go with the black this time." She nodded and took off the doublet from him and returned to the closet. Then Cicero said, "In either case, Radan, I must remain ready. I must not falter now. Recall the tale of Prince Lucius."

Radan chuckled with a light scornful tone. Prince Lucius. What a waste! Lucius Veda had within him such promise! But then when the previous King was on his deathbed, he, absolutely certain that the Crown would choose him no matter what, indulged in the beds of several women on a wanton escapade of lust. Jerrick Cantor was chosen by the Crown, and Lucius lived out the rest of his days in disgrace when his secret came to light.

"Have you heard?"

"What?"

"There's some band of gypsies outside the city walls. I hear they put on a quaint little fair, full of exotic wonders and amusements."

"Is that where you're going?"

"I have time."

Radan's brow narrowed quizzically. "I thought our dearest Uncle practically forced you into agreeing to participate in the well-wishing for King Jerrick."

Cicero glanced back at him. Said matter-of-factly, "Will my spoken words mend his aging body? No. He is in the Mother's hands now."

Saffia

 

[Garios Faindel]

Garios armed some sweat from his brow and then kept shoveling dirt out of the site of construction.

He had been walking down the streets of Garacross, as he often liked to do in the mornings. He liked to greet familiar faces and make acquaintances with unfamiliar ones—though those were becoming more and more rare as these walks increased in number. Today he had happened by a particular district in Garacross that had in recent years been undergoing much expansion after the re-structuring of the city's walls. Garios saw a plot of land and just two men digging in it, barely having gotten past the surface. He asked them what they were doing. Turned out, the two men—brothers—were building a new house, and they first had to dig out space for the planned basement, but, rotten luck, nearly the whole band of workers had all come down with the same illness and were bedridden.

So Garios asked one of the brothers to throw him a shovel, as there was a pile of them by the plot. Puzzled, the two brothers glanced to each other, unsure if they understood the nobleman right. Yet one of them did as he asked, fetching a shovel and tossing it to Garios after he doffed his coat.

Then the three of them got to work, filling up wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow with dirt.

Eventually, Garios's little nephew Martiel came by and exclaimed, "Hey, Garios!"

Garios planted the blade of the shovel into the dirt and turned around. "Martiel. Good to see you."

"You should come!"

Garios smiled. "And what excitement has so gripped you, Martiel?"

"There's a fair outside the front gate!"

Garios thought about it for a moment. Since King Jerrick's collapse at the banquet a couple nights ago, Garios had a lot on his mind. He wasn't fearful nor worried necessarily, but merely it was that he had a lot to consider. Could it be that the fateful day, the entire reason that he wore a Royal Wreath upon his head, would soon be upon him? Could the immensity of so grand a responsibility soon rest its entire weight upon his shoulders?

This humble work with the two brothers, digging in the dirt, was reward enough in and of itself, yet it also helped to alleviate the flaring activity of his restless mind. Mayhap this fair Martiel mentioned might do the same?

Saffia

 

[Saffia]

The sun hung high in the early afternoon sky, casting a golden glow upon the fair that had sprung to life just beyond the walls of Garacross. The visiting troupe's wagons, adorned with vibrant tapestries, created a lively backdrop to the festivities. They stood proudly, each telling a tale of the nomadic life they led, a life painted with the hues of dance, music, and the allure of the open road. The gypsy fair was a transient world, a celebration where stories were woven, laughter echoed, and the nomadic spirit thrived, enchanting all who stepped into its magical embrace. The kaleidoscope of colours and sounds, stood as a testament to the magic that unfolded whenever this tight-knit community gathered to share the essence of their migrant existence with the city dwellers.

As the rhythmic dance of the gypsy girls cast its spell, other corners of the fair buzzed with diverse activities; A mysterious magician, clad in flamboyant robes, held spectators captive with illusions and sleight of hand. A makeshift theater resonated with the lively performances of gypsy actors, while puppeteers brought marionettes to life in a whimsical ballet. Performers flipped and juggled, and fortune-tellers, tucked beneath canopies adorned with mysterious symbols, unfolded destinies for curious seekers.

The air was alive with the tantalising aroma of street food, a fusion of spices and sizzling delicacies that beckoned fairgoers to indulge. Children ran between stalls, their laughter blending with the melodies, while vendors peddled their artisanal wares, showcasing a myriad of handmade treasures, colourful fabrics and mysterious artefacts that hinted at faraway lands.

Upon a makeshift platform, three women danced with a joy that resonated with the crowd. Saffia led the dance with a captivating grace that seemed to flow from the depths of her spirit. Each dancer's attire was a masterpiece, a testament to their gypsy spirits and the rich tapestry of their cultural heritage. The skirts, in shades of crimson, emerald, and gold, fanned out like the petals of exotic flowers in full bloom, and as they moved, the fabric whispered stories of distant lands, of caravans crossing moonlit deserts, and of the ever-changing landscapes that defined their wandering ways.

Barefoot and free, the gypsy girls' feet traced intricate patterns on their stage. Their anklets jingled with every step, adding a melodic punctuation to the rhythm of the dance that blended seamlessly with the lively beats of drums and the harmonious melodies of lutes and flutes, creating a symphony that seemed to echo the very heartbeat of the earth. Their wrists, adorned with spangling bracelets and bangles, caught the sunlight as their hands wove in the air above them with the fluidity of a story unfolding. With every spin, they became a harmonious counterpoint to the music, an embellishment that enriched the auditory tapestry of the fair.

And yet, despite the festivities, a subtle unease tugged at the edges of Saffia's joy. Many of the troupe's men were conspicuously absent. Hours had slipped away since she had last saw her father and brother, and a flicker of worry shadowed her expressive eyes. As she danced, her gaze swept across the fairground, searching for the familiar faces, and the rhythm of the dance nor the lively tunes could drown out the lingering sense of concern that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness.