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Temeria
At the Southern edge of Temeria, marking its borders with Aedirn and Kaedwen, raged the great Pontar River. Built upon an island in the middle of its murky waters, connected only to the mainland by a set of stone bridges, was Blackstone Castle.
Following the Empire's sound defeat at Sodden, the legend of Sir Reyncourt of Cintra had spread across the entire Continent. The faithful of the Church of Eternal Fire attributed the great victory at the Yarugan Crossing to divine intervention, with the saintly knight as its herald. When the war ended, Reyncourt didn't return to his homeland, for he felt a greater calling that brought him further up North. The visions in the flame, that same mysterious voice in the crackle of burning kindling- they pressed upon him a glorious purpose that he could never ignore. And so he made the journey, bringing with him a multitude of followers who recognized his power and were drawn to his cause.
Having been excommunicated by the Church, Reyncourt settled into Temeria and formed his own religious order within the walls of Blackstone. He named it the Order of the Firesworn and used his influence to mark the land as a safe haven for non-humans and persecuted mages.
The principles from which his new order was founded on clashed against the Church's xenophobic and anti-magic practices- which naturally placed him at odds with the Church's militant arm, the Order of the Flaming Rose. This did little to sway Reyncourt from his purpose to safeguard the lives of the persecuted, particularly the non-humans, to whom he felt had no other friend to turn to. If anything, it only spurred him to further commit to his cause. And while his congregation was yet at its infancy and small in number, it became clear that it wouldn't stay small as hundreds converted to Reyncourt's new faith- a fact that unnerved the local powers and created no small amount of problems for the fledgling ordo. An organization, beholden unto no king nor heirarch was a dangerous thing.
And likened unto a flickering candlelight in a dark room, the shadows moved from all sides to strangle its dim glow.
One day, as the morning rain blanketed the Pontar in thick rolls of white mist, a cloaked figure emerged from the road. It was a woman, an elf and a vagabond- a sight that had become all too common at Blackstone. The sentries at the bridges commanded her to stop when she approached the main gate. She looked to them, terrified and wet with the morning shower. From her exhausted state, they could only assume that she had been traveling for quite some time, perhaps drawn to the castle by the promise of safety as all others who came to its gates.
Each of the sentries wore a light canvas of brigandine armor, which enveloped a sturdy hauberk of steel mail, and carried spears. Some were armed with curved bows fitted with deadly barbed arrows while they peered from the safety of the ramparts.
The lack of uniformity in their ensemble was made up for by a recurring symbol- the Firesworn tongue of flame burning in the open palms of two outstretched hands. It was everywhere in Blackstone. The elven vagabond could see it. From the fluttering banners which hung from the walls, the emblems stitched into their shirts, to the tattoos on the bared arms of the archers, and even on the steel lattice grille of the gatehouse portcullis. It was on their shields, and on their armor.
"Hold." The senior ranking man on the bridge said as he raised his hand towards her. "What business have you in Blackstone?"
She replied, "I was told that I would find refuge here. That... that you would not turn away non-humans."
Like most elves, she was a pretty thing. Lithe and elegant in form, curvaceous in all the right places, with only the pointed ears to remind folk that she was every bit as otherworldly as a dwarf. To the indiscriminate mind, it boggles one to think that people would hate something or someone like her. However, one must be vigilant at all times, for not every non-human had the purest intentions.
"That is true." The man crossed his arms and studied the elf closely. "Why? What are you running from?"
There was a noise of thundering hooves in the distance. The elven woman turned her frantic gaze back in the direction from which she came and saw a group of mounted figures riding up from the main road. The sentries readied themselves as the party of armed men showed up at Blackstone Castle, apparently hot on the heels of the elven fugitive. The woman immediately fell to her knees and desperately threw herself at the sentry's feet, begging for his help. Her hood fell back over her shoulders, revealing a pretty crown of flaxen hair. "My lord, I implore you, do not let them take me!"
"Mornin' gents!" A tall wiry man, with a crooked nose and a shock of unkempt black locks matting the top half of his large forehead, addressed the men of Blackstone. "My name's Tam. And that there pointy-eared lass is a wanted fugitive- a murderer and a thief. Kindly hand her over and we'll be right on our way."
The sentry commander glanced down and looked into the elf's eyes. He said nothing, allowing the woman to say have her say. "Please sir, I-I am no murderer! Tis a lie, every bit o' it."
After a moment of tense silence, he motioned for one of his men to come close. The elf heard him whisper, "Call up the Prior. He'll know what to do."
Then, as his man went inside the castle, the commander hoisted the woman to her feet and bade her to stand beside him. His fellow guardsmen took up positions and tilted their spears in a manner that invited trouble. Tam didn't like that, not one bit. He dismounted, putting a hand on his sword hilt as he boldly strutted forward. The mercenary called the men of Blackstone out, issuing an ultimatum as he held up a piece of paper with the seal of the local provincial governor.
"See this? This mark? That makes this arrest official- not some lynchin' hunt or somesuch! Interference means you all are outlaws!"
"That seal holds no weight in Blackstone!"
All eyes turned to a dark figure emerging from the gates of the castle. He came dressed in full-plate, bedecked by black strips of cloth marked by odd religious symbols, and wore a hood crowned by an iron circlet resembling barbed thorns. He carried a sword with an undulating blade that looked like the blacksmith captured the fire of his forge and hammered it into the metal, trapping it like water frozen in a blizzard. And in the other hand, he carried a lantern with a brass visage of a weeping blindfolded woman.
Vortiger Blackflame, First Prior of the Firesworn, took command of the situation and addressed Tam and his fellow mercenaries.
Behind him stood two other knights, also in full-plate and bearing steel kite shields upon which the intricate iconography of their faith were etched. Their armor was wrapped in surcoats of dull yellow and they wore bucket-helms as thick as the pauldrons on their shoulders, making them look like siege-towers with legs. They were the Firesworn Oathblades, knights of Reyncourt's ordo and bearers of the godsblood.
The Prior's piercing gaze seemed to lay Tam's soul bare, and the mercenary captain took a step back. Vortiger held up the lantern in the elven woman's face, from which a smokeless black fire suddenly flared up. She shrank back, but the sentry commander put a firm hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. Vortiger sternly barked at her, "Be still. If your soul is stained with guilt, you will be judged. But if not... only then will our doors be opened to you."
"What are you-" Tam began, only to be cut short as the two Oathblades barred his path.
The magic in the lantern allowed Vortiger to peer into the elf's memories, and he verified her innocence. Soon, she was judged. "You are Sastra, of the town of Lusholm. You worked as a tender for an innkeeper. Your wages were unjust, but you were a faithful servant. Your employer was no saint... and neither was his son. Three days prior, in a drunken state, he tried to force himself upon you. This was not the first time he'd done it, and whenever he did, in order to keep your job- you sacrificed your dignity."
Sastra's gaze fell. She held no pride in what came next.
"But this time you couldn't bear it, so you killed him." Vortiger lowered his lantern and turned to Tam, "Your laws do not protect this elf, a victim of such ignobility. And you move to bring her before the mob to be executed for defending her honor? Where, pray tell, is the justice in that?"
Tam shrugged, making the Prior angry. "So? His Lordship's justice means little for the likes o' her. She ain't human."
As an answer, Vortiger raised his lantern one last time and read Tam's past. What he saw therein made his blood boil- so much so that he dropped the lantern, drew his flambard, then cleaved him in two. The Prior growled, "Neither were you..."
Sastra watched in amazement as the man in black ordered the archers on the walls to fire at the mercenaries, filling both them and their horses with arrow shafts until they piled up in a bloody heap on the bridge. The
Vortiger retrieved his lantern, wiped it clean of mud and soot, then returned to the castle. "Come along, child. You are safe behind these walls."
Sastra quickly followed, and the great portcullis fell with a loud grating noise shut behind her. Inside Blackstone, she was met with a curious sight.
The castle looked a lot bigger from the inside. It was surrounded by three rings of black, obsidian-like stone whose crenellated curtain walls increased in height. Between the outer and middle walls was a briar labyrinth which served to entertain the denizens of Blackstone as well as slow invaders. The oldest towers, squat and square, date from the Continent's bygone age of heroes. Newer towers were tall and slender, round fortifications- most of which had just recently been finished.
The outer courtyard extended into a wide and spacious patch of land where sturdy stone dwellings of granite were stacked against each other like a layered brick wall. Gardens, tended by both men and elves, stretched across the soil bare of cobblestone. A little market sat in the square, with a sizable congregation of refugees and followers gathered. The water here was piped through walls and chambers to heat them, making Blackstone more comfortable than other castles during the harsh Northern winters. Inside the walls, the complex was composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces. Weapons training and practice took place in those yards. Other Firesworn knights trained with initiates along the walls, striking at wooden dummies or sparring with one another. The inner ward was a second, much older open space in the castle where archery and horseback riding practices took place. And to the rear section of this bastion, facing South, stood the keep which also acted as the order's temple.
Vortiger was leading Sastra towards it, and the daunting sight of that obsidian stronghold made her legs weak. She could feel something strange permeating the air, much like the smokeless blackfire in the Prior's lantern.
"Be at peace." Vortiger reassured her, "You're going to meet the Grandmaster. He's inside, waiting for you. Enter."
The doors of the keep, heavy hand-carved mahogany masterpieces that depicted hooded figures with their hands outstretched invitingly to all who would enter, swung with a loud groan. Sastra swallowed nervously as she put one foot through the threshold and tentatively found her pace. The keep wasn't as large as the Great Picket of Novigrad, or of the impressive ancient Aen Sidhe temples buried beneath the Continent, but it nevertheless evoked awe in all who stepped through its portals. The antechamber had pews lining up the floor for the faithful to come and pray. A few Oathblade knights were hunched over the seats, absorbed in their invocations with their god. They didn't notice the Prior and his elven companion.
The ceiling arched gracefully into a great canopy, supported by crisscrossed arch-pillars that stretched elegantly across each opposing wall. Before each window hung the offerings of converted artists, who spun the legend of the Grandmaster's rise into the threads of each banner. They depicted Saint Vandal, the birth of his sons, the voice in the flame amidst the massacred folk of New Amendale, and then the battle of the Yarugan Crossing.
Finally, at the head of the formation of pews, stood a great brazier from which a parody of the Eternal Flame of Novigrad burned.
But perhaps 'parody' was the wrong word to describe what Sastra was seeing. Unlike the opulent altar of the Church, this fire burned without fuel nor kindling. It burned with a life of its own. It danced along the rims, calm like the flickering flame on the humblest of candles. And when Sastra gazed into it, she felt an inexplicable feeling of serenity... a warmth like no other.
A man stood before the fire, dressed in a simple green gambeson and trousers chapped with leather. He was busy talking in a hushed tone, conversing with two priestesses garbed in dark crimson robes. When Sastra drew close, she stared with astonishment at the state of their attire. The upper halves of the women's faces were covered by the hoods of their robes, but as Sastra's gaze traveled even lower, she couldn't help but notice that the robes parted suggestively from the cusp of their hips and cascaded sensually between their legs. And by all that was good- their hips, their legs, were absolutely divine!
"Ah, there she is!" The man in green greeted the newcomer and dismissed the two priestesses. Sastra kept staring at them as they sauntered off. That same man in green, who turned out to be the Grandmaster of the Firesworn, evoked the same warmth as the fire burning on the brazier.
He was taller than Sastra. And where most humans were formed with the constitution of a bull, fierce and broad with a typical scowl to match their disposition, he was not. Rather, he was built like a lion, handsome but nonetheless warranted caution. For unlike the raging bull, he was a beast ruled by calculating logic- not passion. His golden mane of hair, and his beard, swept into clean well-trimmed locks. From beneath that simple green gambeson, Sastra could see the muscles of his arms threatening to burst out of the cloth as he reached out to embrace her. "I am Reyncourt. You are safe here."
Sastra stiffened, but gradually relaxed. The warmth of his embrace registered no malice in her thoughts. Rather, it felt like the hug of some close relative she hadn't seen in years. The elf melted into Reyncourt's arms and shed a tear. At last, after going for days fearing for her life, she could relax.
"Welcome to Blackstone." Reyncourt said, cracking a genuine smile that made the fugitive forget her troubles for a moment. "I hope your first step through our gates hasn't been too rough?"
"Grandmaster, this is Sastra. She was being pursued by mercenaries from Lusholm." Vortiger reported, "We slew them to a man."
"Oh." Reyncourt was visibly troubled, "Oh dear. It came to that?"
The Prior nodded, "Yes."
Reyncourt's brow furrowed, but he smiled reassuringly as he addressed Sastra's needs first. "My dear, you must be hungry and exhausted from your journey. I will send one of the deacons to take you to the kitchens. They will feed you, give you some clothes to change in, and a room amongst the other refugees. I do hope you don't mind sharing one with a dozen others? It is, after all, a bunkhouse."
"I am not particular, my lord." Sastra kissed his hand, "Thank you."
Reyncourt had one of his knights escort her to the back of the keep, where the ordo deacons were shelving the many books their scribes had finished putting together. The library was small, and the collection of tomes even smaller. Nevertheless, the Grandmaster felt it necessary to preserve as many artifacts of the sciences as the ordo could- particularly those that the Church deemed heretical or forbidden. One of the deacons led her to the castle kitchens, and out of Reyncourt's sight. The Grandmaster took a moment to speak with the Prior, who brought news from the outside world.
Lusholm brewed up more trouble than just a fugitive elf and some mercenaries.
"Grandmaster." Vortiger whispered, "They've found her. They've found Lytta Neyd."
Reyncourt frowned, "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Yes. One of our missionaries in town saw a conclave of devotees from the Flaming Rose preparing a burning pyre in the pauper fields. The wagon of captured mages just rolled in last night."
"Where are they keeping them?"
"In a makeshift cell, bound in dimeritium shackles."
"Do we have a presence in Lusholm?" Reyncourt asked, heading upstairs to get his armor and weapon. "Besides our missionary I mean?"
Vortiger fell in step with his liege, "Just a few Oathblades. But they are outnumbered ten to one. I sent a message, telling them to keep watch and wait for reinforcements... which we are going to provide, correct?"
"Of course." The Grandmaster opened the door to his personal chambers and removed his armor from its stand.
Vortiger helped him get suited up, having done the task many times before Reyncourt had enough willing followers to do the job for him. His brass armor was new, an apt replacement for the battered one he'd worn through the First Nilfgaardian War and the exodus to Blackstone. The blacksmiths he'd saved from the Scoia'tael had shown their gratitude by crafting him a worthy set, including a fine addition to match his suit.
Reyncourt was made a flanged mace affixed on a long shaft of iron. This modified quarterstaff, imbued with magical properties, was as much a symbol of his position in the ordo as a formidable weapon. It had the reach, the balanced weight, and the power of a little fireball trapped in its head which caused powerful bursts of energy whenever it struck something. The people of Blackstone called it Daybreaker. Reyncourt didn't have a better one for it, so the name stuck.
"My lord." Vortiger handed him his helm, but Reyncourt refused it.
"No, my friend. For the task before us, they must see my face."
The gates of Blackstone opened once more, and out rode two dozen Oathblades with the Firesworn Grandmaster at the helm.
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