Blood from a Stone

[ Mateus - FFXIV RP Blog - Oberic Brighteroar ]

[knight-in-voeburt]

(XIV||20): 4. Clinch.

“So...” there is a pause from the voice sitting across from him. A voice made of both grinding metal and velvet, a gentle tone filled with warmth that never seems to escape any word to the rapidly growing child that sits at the table, his legs kicking nervously as they dangle off the chair. “...your Father tells me that you wish to speak with me, Obie?” she asks warmly, the same sapphire eyes that he holds countenance with gazing upon him lovingly. 

“Y-yes, Mother.” the child stammers nervously as his gaze falls to the plate in front of him. The bacon laced salad being pushed around by his fork echoes the sentiment of fragile confidence he holds so dearly to. “...I want to..well, th-that is...” he mumbles as he shifts in his seat. Overcome with his emotions, the child sniffles, a pair of tears streaking welling in his eyes and streaking down his face. 

A thick, broad hand reaches over and begins rubbing his back. “Go on, Obie. Nobody here is upset with you. Speak your heart, son.” comes the voice of the Father, a deep, rumbling voice that seems to touch every wall of the dining area as he comforts his son.

A young Oberic swallows hard, wiping at his eyes and nose with the dark green sleeve of his linen shirt before he takes a breath and begins again. “...Mother. I d-don’t w-w...” he stammers out, pausing again to gather his thoughts, emotions and feelings into one, rushed statement. 

“You don’t want to be a blacksmith, as I am. Nor do you wish to be a jeweler, as your Father is.” the woman says with the same, gentle voice, her own eyes seeking Oberics’ in a compassionate smile and raising of brows. 

“Yes. Mother, how did you know?” he asks quietly, amazed at the apparent telepathy that his Mother has developed in secrecy. “I want to be a Knight. Like in the stories that you and Father read to me!” he says excitedly. “...I want to help people and protect them from...from...bandits! And...Monsters! Yea! Big, scary Monsters! But they won’t scare me! I’m a KNIGHT!” he proclaims, causing his parents to chuckle. 

His father chuckles, as does his Mother. “Then we’ll see about finding you a Mentor. Someone who will take you on as a Squire.” says his Mother, a smile reaching her face as amused, happy tears fill her eyes. 

“You might be disappointed though, Obie...” says his Father, reaching over to ruffle the child’s hair. “...everyone knows. There’s no such thing as monsters.” 

[knight-in-voeburt]

(XIV||20): 3. Muster.

The solid, rhythmic sound of a blacksmiths’ hammer can be heard filling the interior of the building, a steady, rapid pair of strikes to the metal followed by a sharper noise as the hammer is brought down on the anvil and slipped off to remove impurities from the surface of the tool and more importantly, the metal that is being shaped to fit it’s function. Strong, thick corded muscle rains measured, practiced blows onto the metal, literally bending it to the will of the smith. 

An apprentice nearby works the bellows, maintaining the roaring fire and by proxy, the sweltering heat of the forge. Nearby, a young boy, no older than eight or nine years old can be seen peeking around the corner, a small, finely carved sword in one hand and a tin bucket over his head, the handle brought down around his chin as a makeshift helmet. 

Sapphire blue eyes watch the blacksmith and the apprentice from his hiding place, every detail being taken in and absorbed as his eyes follow the strikes of the hammer, the flow of the metal and the vibrations that the strikes cause to reach him through the nearly smothering, humid air. 

“The only way she will listen, is if you speak with conviction, Oberic. If you can muster the courage to bring your heart, to her ears.” the voice comes from behind the child. “...we’ve one life, little one. What is it you wish with yours?” 

The brilliant sapphire eyes of the child looks down to the wooden sword in his hand, his voice so soft, so gentle that it is nearly a whisper that is suffocated by the strikes of the hammer. 

“...a knight.” 

[knight-in-voeburt]

[knight-in-voeburt]

(XIV||20): 2. Sway

“Be without fear in the face of thine enemies.”

“Remain steadfast with conviction, that the King may love thee.” 

“Speak truth, even upon the penalty of death.” 

“Safeguard the weak and woe betide the wicked; that is your oath.” 

“Rise now, a Knight and Protector of Voeburt.”

Upon the command the cadre of individuals rose from a kneeling position, among them were seven Galdjent, five Drahn and a single Hume, complexion dark and tanned, shoulders broad and face clean shaven with a prominent square jaw. Sapphire eyes shining in the robust colors that danced across the room from the tall stained glass windows, each of them depicting a scene of gallantry and martial prowess in some form or another. 

The Hume, hair pulled back and tied with the sides shaved close allows a small, nearly undetectable smile to touch the corners of his mouth. The moment it seems does not go unnoticed as the King, a massive Drahn with ivory scales adorning sharp, angular features speaks. 

“Are you proud of yourself, Ser Oberic?” he asks, the question directed towards the single Hume in the line of thirteen, an eyebrow cocking as if to make this particular individual question the one, single hint of pride that has graced his features as he remains seated at his throne, one long leg bent over the other. 

“Yes, Sire...” Oberic says, pausing for a moment in hesitation. “...n-no...Sire?” 

The shuffle of feet and the heavy atmosphere begins to settle on the newly Sworn Knights of Voeburt as they fight the urge to look down the line to the last in their number, each pair of eyes affording a glance out of their right corner to the increasingly growing nervous Hume. 

The Drahn remains seated upon his throne even as his head cocks slightly to the side, his gaze growing ever more intense at the young Knight before him. A single finger begins tapping at the arm of his throne as if to say “Well?”. 

“Speak truth, even upon the penalty of death.”  the young Knight, now identified as Oberic recites quietly to himself, even though the words had just reached his ears. “Yes, Sire. Proud I am. Proud of what I have accomplished, of what I have strived and fought for. At times for my comrades, and at times to prove them false.” the young man says as he returns to a kneeling position. 

“And proud to have done so, so that I may protect my Liege and my Kingdom, as it is my home and my heart resides within.” he states not in defiance but with the conviction of which he has been charged to hold to. The others remain silent for a moment, waiting for a reaction from the King, as if to take their cue. As he begins to applaud, the others follow suit, some even going so far as to cheer openly the words of their comrade.

“My conviction and my blade is yours to command, Sire.” Oberic says over the din of the crowd as he pulls the cobalt colored zweihander from its harness and offers it to him, the blade resting across the outstretched hands of the kneeling Knight. “...so say we all!” he adds, leading to the others to follow suit without hesitation and following his example, offer their weapons in an identical gesture.

“So say we all...” the words echoing from the lips of the slumbering Knight, his head now resting on a sack of grain as a makeshift pillow. 

[knight-in-voeburt]

(XIV||20) Prompt 1: Crux

“Light guide my hand. Blessed blade, give me conviction.” the familiar words left the Hume as he bowed his head in contemplation. The nearby cascade of water behind him calming his ever racing thoughts, finding solace in the noise as he had all these years. 

Standing slowly, the broad shouldered man rises, hands pulling at the gauntlets that protect his hands in an all too familiar ritual. A quiet rumble vibrates in his throat as he thinks, eyes scanning the ridge line at the sound of screaming. Moving with purpose, the zweihander leaves its sheath as he charges into the screaming and panic before he is consumed by the Light.  

Raising up with a sharp intake of air and a forehead dripping with sweat, he reaches instinctively for the same blade, the dark cobalt blade resting peacefully along a long emptied bookshelf. In the darkness of the library he sits, knees drawn up to his chest. A series of hard, shuddering sobs rack his chest and shoulders as his arms pull his legs tighter, face burying in the borrowed and tattered robes that he slumbered fitfully in only a moment ago. 

“Light guide my hand. Blessed blade give me conviction...” the words come from shaken faith. “...why am I still here?” he asks the darkness around him.