<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <html xmlns:v="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:vml" xmlns:o="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" xmlns:w="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" xmlns:m="http://schemas.microsoft.com/office/2004/12/omml" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"><head><meta name=Generator content="Microsoft Word 12 (filtered medium)"><style></style></head><body lang=EN-US link=blue vlink=purple><div class=WordSection1>Very cool fight scene. <o:p></o:p><o:p> </o:p> Never mess with a Taur!<o:p></o:p><o:p> </o:p> Chris<o:p></o:p><o:p> </o:p><div><div style='border:none;border-top:solid #B5C4DF 1.0pt;padding:3.0pt 0in 0in 0in'>From: mkguild-bounces@lists.integral.org [mailto:mkguild-bounces@lists.integral.org] On Behalf Of C. Matthias Sent: Wednesday, May 27, 2015 5:32 PM To: Metamor Keep Subject: [Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars V. Ascensum (f)<o:p></o:p></div></div><o:p> </o:p>Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars V: Ascensum (f) Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR - Morning In the shadows below the stands Charlie found the King's retinue standing about the stables in a rough circle around Pelaeth, now in his full armor, and the skunk mage Murikeer. While the steppes king held out his steel and black sword the skunk traced the tips of his fingers lightly along the blade, head bowed in concentration. After a few moments he raised his hands and his one-eyed gaze. “It is done, your Majesty. For the next handful of hours your mighty weapon will harm none, beyond the bruise of its weight knocking them on their rump.” The skunk smiled warmly. Charlie rather doubted, having seen Goldmark, that even that sizable blade would sit him on his rump. Pelaeth raised his weapon and gazed upon it dubiously, for there was nothing to indicate that the mage had done anything. The group gathered as, above, they could hear the muffled shout of the crier calling forth the next combatants. Murikeer passed Charlie as he left, catching the youth's quizzical gaze. The magic of making weapons safe was usually left to lower ranked mages. “It's big, it's ancient, and a family heirloom,” the skunk offered while Horvig saw to the last adjustments to the King's intimidating wolf armor. “I thought it best to make a show of having Thomas' own court mage do the work.” “Just because its size, hmm?” Charlie asked laconically. Murikeer laughed brightly. “I would expect that your father might have something to say about comparing swords among men, but, well...” He leaned in closer and said in a lower voice, “It is a strange metal, that black, and did not take easily to magical blunting; perhaps it was safest that I tend this task in the first place. And...” he leaned back and resumed his usual voice, “perhaps it is best we retired and watch how he uses it.” His remaining eye glinted in the muted light as he slipped past the rat. Charlie watched him go while the King's retainers fell in behind him and they moved as a well-coordinated group toward the exit of the stables; men-at-arms leading and bracketing, King Pelaeth and Horving shoulder to shoulder, squires bringing up the rear carrying the King's banner. Since there was no mounted component of the contest of foot no grooms or steeds were needed, though the golden-hued steppes steeds looked on with intelligent curiosity from their corral behind the stands. “Your Majesty,” Charlie called, walking swiftly to fall in alongside the group, though outside the perimeter defined by the alter men-at-arms. “May I walk with you to the field?” “Ah, young Charlie, aye! Come, come, let us walk.” Peleath held out an inviting arm, the open visor of his helm tilting the snarling wolf visage skyward. The guards let Charlie slip through them to fall into step beside the steppes King. “Tell me, lad, what be this ill will thou didst show the baron yesterday? His is thy blood, am I mistaken?” Charlie winced at the blunt, direct question, ears and whiskers drooping for a moment. “It is... ahh, your lordship, it is not so much bad blood as... the confusion of youth.” He shrugged. At the King's opposite shoulder Horvig kept his gaze forward, only turning his head enough to scan the surrounding crowds for possible problems. “My sire and my father are fair friends, but... the issue of my adoption weighs heavily upon my heart.” Pelaeth nodded his head slowly, the polished silver of the snarling wolf atop his head glinting in the sun. “Ahh, aye. Thou dost know both sire and father and the why of the choice doth rear its ugly head to chew upon thy spirit.” “Yes, Majesty,” Charlie admitted. Ahead the pavilion at the end of the tournament field came into view around the brightly colored awnings and tents of other families and shops. “Moreso of recent than in the past.” “Thou art upon the cusp of true manhood, lad, and hath a mighty name upon thy shoulder to account for thy noble station. But thy blood be of lesser station, and thou feel unworthy of the title given by thy adoptive father? He has blood of his own, unless the winsome red-furred lass be another so taken into thy House?” Charlie snorted at the thought of the very human, very down-to-earth King, would look at his wolfish sister as 'winsome'. It took another wolf to see that, or one well used to the variety that was Metamor's animorphed population. “No, Majesty, she is truly of his lineage, whereas I am not.” At the pavilion Horvig and the men-at-arms stopped, while the King continued onto the tournament field. “Thou art lineage of the title given, lad. Count thyself fortunate that thou can know thy sire and dam as well, and by all appearances before thou didst trounce him, art well loved there.” The broad shoulders rose and fell beneath the upturned wolf's snarl. “Be it for whatever cause, it doth appear just to my outlander eyes. Satisfy thyself for having two families that offer their love. Most hath not e'en one. My own brother didst leave my family to join the Magyars many years ago. He hath become great amongst them, bosom friend to the scarred mage in my retinue, and between him, yon mage, and others of their ilk, hath done great deeds to heal the worst of their people that there might be peace on the steppes. Their band, thou dost see, hast not stolen a single mite in a dozen years.” The King paused and then laughed. “Well, at least not without returning said mite with a stern warning to careless townfolk on how to keep their wares!” Charlie now regretted his foolishness from yesterday for a new reason as it had kept him from learning more of this foreign king and the many fascinating stories he could tell. “I wish I could hear that story, your Majesty. Do you ever see your brother again?” “Every time their band returns to Cheskych. And a very happy time it be for all in our families.” With that the king raised his gauntleted fist and slapped down the visor of his helm. Abruptly the steppelands human became a snarling silver and steel beast, as much wolf as the Keepers of that species standing at the rail of the tournament field cheering him on. Charlie accompanied the King out onto the tournament field, shoulder to shoulder, and none said aught of his unexpected presence. Upon reaching the center of the field Charlie looked up at the Marshal of the Field at his podium. The man looked down at Charlie and offered nothing more than a nod to acknowledge him. Turning, the rat made his way toward the far end of the field from where he had entered, approaching Goldmark as he went. The rat 'taur stood nearly two feet taller than he did, taller than the King himself, and looked at Charlie with both surprise and trepidation. In his hands he carried a staff as thick and stout as a wagon tongue, and almost as long. “Why'd you let him stand in for you?” The rat, garbed in nothing heavier than minimally tooled boiled leather armor, looked past Charlie to the impressive – and daunting – human in his heavy armor and snarling wolf helm. “Go easy on him, Goldmark. You're bigger than he is, and heavier. You have an extra set of hands, too,” Charlie chided as they drew abreast, tilting his gaze briefly down at the 'taur's large forepaws. Like all rats they were quite flexible, intended for pouncing and holding or clawing at walls. Had they thumbs they would have been proper hands. “Just... think like a rat, not a soldier. He'll never expect it.” Goldmark chittered apprehensively and clutched his huge staff. “Go easy on him, he says,” the frightened rat quavered, continuing onto the field while Charlie turned toward the stands nearby. “But what about me?” Walking along the inside of the rails defining the tournament field Charlie made his way to the front of the shaded stands set aside for the use of the aristocracy and lower nobility. House Matthias had a small section cordoned off and, at that moment, they were crowded with Matthias rats young and old. The Baron and Baroness sat in the center, just high enough to see above the common folk standing in the narrow space between the stands and the railing. Charlie ducked under the uppermost rail and the commoners quickly parted to let him through. Mounting the stands he smiled at the gathered mob of Matthias and the retainers seated with them, but Erick's scowl spoke volumes. His brother and littermate was clearly still displeased with his actions the day before and Charlie did not blame him at all. Charles and Kimberly, however, smiled and waved him to come join them. Charles moved over a seat so that his son could sit between them. “Hi Mom, Dad,” Charlie said, pausing to lean down and give the Lady Kimberly a warm hug. “I saw that willow switch, Mom. Thank you for sparing me.” Kimberly tittered and wagged a finger at him, only to produce the same willow branch he had seen in their pavilion earlier. It had been propped against the side of her seat where he could not see it when he approached. “Oh, I'm still more than willing,” she chided, lightly tapping his hip with it. With a laugh Charlie sat down. “You and Misanthe both, Mom, never fear. I may not escape its application, even yet.” “Then behave,” Charles groused humorously as the Marshal of the Tournament took his podium to look down at Goldmark and King Pelaeth. “What brings you, son?” Charles asked in a quiet aside while the two combatants shook hands. In his current 'taur shape, Goldmark's huge hand engulfed the human's. “Politics.” Charles turned his attention to his son with a quirk of his ears and whiskers. “Politics?” Charlie shifted his attended as well, nodding. “All witnessed what transpired yesterday, so it's expected that the rumors of friction in the Matthias clan will be spreading rampantly.” Leaning back in his chair, his tail curling about the legs beneath, Charlie rested his hands in his lap. “It's best to put the rumors to rest before they become problematic, let them see that there is no acrimony between you and I, or with the family.” He tipped his chin toward Erick, who had turned his irritated scowl back toward the field. “Though I have much work ahead of me to assuage the anger of my siblings.” “And your parents, young man,” Kimberly offered, though with a smile. Charlie bobbed his head to that and reached over to set his hand upon his mother's. “With you two most importantly, yes, mother.” “Hear ye, hear ye! Before us stand the final combatants of the Summer Tourney, to vie for the Crown!” A hearty cheer rose up from the crowd until the Marshal held a hand up for some restraint so he could continue. “His lordship, the young Sutt heir, has chosen to stand out for reasons of Honor. In his place the King of the Steppes, Pelaeth of Vysehrad, has graciously stepped in. Though he is a stranger to our lands, he is no stranger to contests of arms, and we of Metamor will show him our best.” A snicker went through the crowd at that, for Goldmark was far from the best warrior Metamor had to offer. Nor, to be truthful, was he the worst, Charlie had to admit. He would not have wanted to face the rat 'taur with his daunting wagon tongue cudgel. While the crowd roared another hearty, deafening cheer Charlie leaned toward his sire. “Are you well?” Charlie touched a hand to his own breast as he spoke over the tumult. His sire had donned a high collar and long sleeves so that no suggestion of any of his scars could be seen. “I would have fared better without the trouncing, son, but I fare well enough for all that,” Charles admitted with a warm smile. “Your sleep was peaceful?” “For the nonce, though I have not braced Her, yet.” Meaning Nocturna, whom he had carefully avoided since their last fractious meeting. “I do not envy you that, Son. Her countenance is daunting.” “At times.” Charlie turned his attention to the field as rat and human separated and moved to their respective posts in preparation for the Marshal's flag to begin. Peleath drew the huge black-streaked steel blade from its scabbard upon his back and made a few practice swings with the huge thing easily in one hand. Goldmark clutched his stave fearfully and looked on, his long tail lashing side to side in agitation. Raising one arm the Marshal spared each of them a glance and swept the pennant he held in one hand downward. Pelaeth let out a mighty roar and launched himself across the intervening distance at a sprint, sword held high over one shoulder with both hands. Goldmark fell back a pace, visibly steeled himself, and met the clearly telegraphed sweep of the mighty sword with his stave. The reverberating crack of sword meeting stout wood rent the expectant silence like a thunderclap but the sword was halted in its swing. Peleath let it rebound and danced to one side smoothly to dodge the downward sweep that Goldmark offered in riposte. The crowd let out a gasping cheer and lapsed into a hushed silence as the two squared off again. Goldmark certainly had reach on the King with his massive weapon, keeping the feints of his blade well away from himself with short sweeps, each time wood and blade coming together with the sound of a giant chopping trees. The stave was certainly stout enough to weather the abuse without snapping as a normal quarterstaff may have, but the heavy swings made the entire 'taur's body shudder. “He may last him on stamina alone,” Charles opined as the two circled, each looking for an opening to score a hit. Goldmakr was not slow on the parries but he could not follow up his blocks with any strikes of his own for the human danced out of reach. “With all of that armor on I daresay the King is at a disadvantage.” “With that sword only adding to the exertion,” Charlie added, attention focused upon the battle. “But he's a warrior born and raised to the weight of sword and armor, just as I have been. I can carry both against Bryn for almost as long as he had strength to counter me, and he's got size and strength and stamina on me.” “How do you ever win, then?” “Prick him like a mosquito until he loses a bit of his strength, just as I hope Goldmark can do.” But the rat had other ideas, for the King was pressing him inexorably back. Due to the size of the 'taur he could not circle effectively so he simply pressed directly into the rat's wooden defense, whacking away at the stave sending splinters flying. The impacts were telling and, after over a minute of repeated strikes, the vibrations so numbed Goldmark's grip that he dropped the staff at his feet. Pelaeth barked a victorious word and waded in, but Goldmark swept the stave up in his forepaws, which did have some manner of grasping ability, and reared up to his full height. Towering almost twice the height of the human, with the staff grasped before him, he strode awkwardly forward bringing the King up short. The rat dropped down and leaned his upper body forward, scoring a quick swat at the snarling visage of the steel wolf's helm before Pelaeth could retreat. Taking a couple of quick strides, dragging the stave with his forepaws, Goldmark reared up again. And charged forward upon his rear paws with the awkward gait of a charger en'pesade, forcing Pelaeth back at a swift trot, his sword out to parry the awkward swings of the staff. The crowd roared its approval and stood, the Matthias clan joining in. Goldmark continued to press his charge forward with short steps and hops, quickly outpacing the King's retreat. And then he simply fell forward, his forelegs and save bearing the sword down while his hands came down upon the human's shoulders. With the massive 'taur's greater weight suddenly falling upon him, Pelaeth lost his footing and fell backward to the explosive cheer of the spectators. The tumult was so unbridled Charlie backed his ears and gaped in astonishment as Goldmark sprawled his entire body down onto the King, pinning him ignominiously to the ground. He cast the stave aside before it became a bar across the man's breast and used one hand to swat at the awkward, ineffective swings of the sword that did nothing more than slap at the barding of his barrel and flanks. Underneath him Pelaeth squirmed and kicked but could not marshal enough leverage to make any of his assaults effective against the bulk of beast sprawled upon him like a hunting hound upon a toddler. The crowd roared and, in the High Box across from them, Charlie could see the entire retinue of Metamor's nobility and Pelaeth's sister standing at the rail looking down in awed shock. Sig's jaws were open so wide a flock of birds could have nested on his tongue and rented out his fangs to their friends. “Oh, by Yahshua!” Charles gaped, somewhere between aghast horror at the ignominy and laughter. After a long count the Marshal took up the pennant and raised it above his head, calling the match complete. Charlie could not have expected the crowd to become any louder, but had to slap his hands over his ears before the roaring, whooping, howling cacophony rendered him truly deaf. Noting the raised pennant Goldmark raised himself to his legs and backed up, extending a hand toward the King. Pelaeth slapped the hand aside irritably and bounced up, pacing in circles for a moment clearly in a fit of pique. The crowd slowly began to quiet wondering if the visiting Kind was about to become dangerous. Raising a hand Pelaeth flipped the wolf visor of his helm up and dropped his hands to his hips to glare at Goldmark for several seconds, the wary rat watching him with concern. And then Pelaeth abruptly laughed, loud enough to be heard over the susurrus of the crowd. “I want him!” The King roared, striding to Goldmark and slapped him loudly upon the shoulder. “Never before have I been so soundly defeated! Truly, the peoples of this fine Kingdom are warriors to be respected!” The crowd resumed its cheer, rattling the stands and kicking up a cloud of dust. Grasping Goldmark's hand he raised it high. “To victory! To...” He glanced at the rat who muttered something. “To your champion, Goldmark!” Charlie could only laugh along with those around him as the crowd took up the chant, “Goldmark, Goldmark, Gold – Mark!” The Marshal waved his pennant and tried to regain some semblance of order but failed entirely. Even as Duke Thomas and the rest from the High Box made their way down onto the field the roaring acclaim continued, much to Goldmark's clear chagrin. He truly never expected to win, or even make it beyond the first bouts, yet there he stood with a foreign King holding his hand aloft to proclaim him champion. Only when Thomas raised an arm for quiet did the spectators accede, falling quiet after a few breaths. As the horse lord began a stirring congratulatory speech, Charlie chuckled lightly to himself and looked over the rest of the Matthias clan – his family. His litter-sisters, Bernadette and Baerle, were both seated on the other side of Kimberly. Bernadette, the bride-to-be, sat nearest their mother and caught his glance. While Erick was angry with him, his first sister appeared to harbor him no ill-will, offering him a warm, whisker-filled smile in return. His second sister Baerle had her eyes closed and appeared to be praying her beads besides so did not notice her brother's attention. His eyes returned to Erick who sat forward a row and off to one side with some of their younger siblings. The scowl he'd offered Charlie on his brother's arrival had vanished in the thrill of the surprising battle and his ears were turned forward to catch every congratulatory word from the Duke. If there was any in his family he hated hurting more than any other it was Erick. But Charlie waited while Duke Thomas gave a stirring speech congratulating not only Goldmark but the winners of the other contests as well. Just as Sir Dupré had been awarded the Golden Lance, Duchess Alberta came down to the field, and with King Pelaeth's assistance, presented the Summer Crown to the overwhelmed rat 'taur. Goldmak stood awkwardly with his round ears jutting out to the side beneath the circlet of faux leaves, berries, and golden ivy. Another round of thunderous applause, hoof-stomping, hooting, and howling ensued when the Duke's accolades were complete. Both his wife and the foreign king made their way from the field and back to the high box as Goldmark, his grin triumphant, marched a victory lap around the field even as laborers rushed out to tend the grounds. He finally took his leave near the stands where the Matthias family sat and was immediately pounced by the younger rats, both his own children and those of the Matthias family and a few other rat families living at Metamor. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias <o:p></o:p><o:p> </o:p></div></body></html>