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thatsmyswordSleeplessness was a curse and a blessing. It bled into every waking second, turning the world sluggish, like mud pulling on his legs. It was fine. It blunted the edges of the pain the nightmares kept dragging up to the light: the mud and the blood, the calculating eyes set in a bald man’s face, the light receding from Ma and Pa as they fell. Over and over again, whenever Henry closed his eyes.
The burning husk of Silver Skalitz.
So it was better, Henry reflected, that he were not to close them. That helped him haul himself through his first guard shift: the time spent taking care of minor disputes, patrolling pointlessly across the cobbled streets, trying not to be bothered by the sight of his fellow Skalitzmen and women begging on the street, watching them be judged and shoved around. Rattay was so much bigger than Skalitz had ever been, with its large houses and well-dressed burghers, and yet: there was nothing in him that could muster the wonder he would have once felt.
Then his guide - Nightingale, the guardsman was called, that was it, it was so hard to hold on to anything - called it good for the day.
They played dice. How many groschen he’d won or lost? Hard to say. Perhaps it didn't matter.
“Just one more thing and we’re done for the day,” Nightingale was saying, when the sky grew darker and the tavern keeper lit the first fires. The guardsman rose from behind the table. “Ringing the bell and closing the taverns for the day.”
“Isn’t it still early?” Henry asked, as he lifted his heavy body up and to its feet.
“I don’t know how it was in Skalitz, but here in Rattay we close up at this hour. Except of course during fairs and big festivals, then we don’t close at all.”
“I see,” Henry said. He didn't, but it didn't truly matter. “Shall I go ring the bell?”
The bell was a heavy thing in and of itself, hanging just outside the Rathaus. Just a short walk away, and yet Henry could feel his legs about to betray him as he dragged his feet down the street and to Rattay's city square. The torch in his hand was warm, the light drawing his wandering attention for the brief journey, fuzzing over in the edges of his vision. With a grunt and a sigh, he reached for the bell and rung it - three times, as asked - and then turned to find the tavern.
Ask the tavernkeeper at the market’s square to close while Nightingale closed the other one. Simple enough.
It was still somewhat busy there. He could hear at least one voice - loud, nasal, pitched high - drifting in from very far away.
“And the Canon of St. Wenceslas in Olomouc was so drunk, he dragged the pig to the market square, saddled it up and rode it out of the town square! Now… now we could see…”
Three men, two dark, one blond and familiar. They were laughing. Right. Just this one thing, Henry thought, and then he could get to bed, and hope he was tired enough to sleep without disruption this time.
“...We could see this wasn’t going to end well, so Sir Peter and I rode off to look for the good Canon on his pig.”
Yes. Henry definitely knew that man. Wasn’t it– ah, it was Lord Capon, the heir to Rattay, and the absolute arsehole that had menaced Henry at his formal training with Captain Bernard. He’d been at the meeting yesterday, when Henry had invited himself into Sir Radzig’s service. He’d squawked something. What had it been?
Didn't matter.
“Did you find him?” one of Sir Capon’s friends asked him.
“We tracked the filthy beast down to a sty beyond Kronau,” Sir Hans Capon said, eyes bright. “I mean the beast with a tonsure on its head.” He laughed, and then amended, as if he was afraid his friends might not get the obvious joke: “We never found the real pig, but the reverend was sound asleep in the pigsty!”
His other friend let out a bark of a laugh. “Birds of a feather stick together! It seems the same goes for pigs and prelates!” He lifted his drink. “A toast, gentlemen! To pigs and prelates!”
“God save their bacon!” cried the man to Sir Capon’s left.
They were clearly quite drunk.
Henry stepped forward, and cleared his throat. “Sir Hans,” he began. “Forgive my intrusion, but I need…”
“But what?” Lord Hans Capon interrupted him. Loud, irritated and entitled. Something twisted in Henry’s stomach. “You want to join us?” the nobleman jeered. “Want to buy us a round? I’m afraid we don’t drink with peasants. You’re not in your village now, boy!”
Ah, that’s what that thing in his stomach was. He almost hadn’t recognized it: a real, visceral flare of anger.
Funny. He’d almost forgotten that was a feeling that existed.
“No, sir. Curfew’s been rung. The alehouse is closing.”
The two men to Capon’s side burst out laughing. Sir Hans’s own high-pitched giggles followed them. The noble sank back into his seat, and spoke, with very pointed enunciation, “Nothing closes while I’m sitting here. If that’s all, you’re dismissed.” He gestured at Henry, as if to tell him to get lost.
Well, Henry wasn’t going to bloody well do that. He had been given a task, and he was going to do it. He opened his mouth–
“Are you out of your mind, lad?” The tavernkeeper closed the door slowly behind him. He hissed, “You can’t cross His Lordship. He’s got a temper like a bear with gut ache. If I were you I’d get lost before he shows it.”
Henry didn’t even look at him. He raised his voice. “The bailiff instructed me to close the tavern at the proper hour. He doesn’t want anyone disturbing the peace after curfew.”
It was loud enough for Sir Hans to hear him. He could tell by the way the noble arsehole crossed his arms. And the spit... “The bailiff?” Sir Hans said incredulously. “The bailiff can kiss my arse! I trust you haven’t forgotten who’s the rightful lord of Rattay!”
“No,” Henry said evenly. “It’s Sir Hanush.”
Something in Sir Hans’s bearing changed. He moved abruptly, like lightning, clasping his mate’s shoulder first. “Oh, is he here?” he said, and then pulled himself upright. “Or is he… hiding under the table, maybe?” He ducked below the table. “No?” He clasped the table and pushed himself up. “Then what he wants is worth a fart in a bathhouse. And besides, he’s only in charge until I grow up.”
Theatrics. The anger in Henry’s gut boiled sharply.
“Which clearly hasn’t happened yet,” he said flatly.
Sir Hans’s eyes flared open. “Enough!” he snarled, pointing at Henry. “You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a nobleman!”
Oh, a nobleman? Henry thought wildly. Did he think being noble gave him the right to do as he pleased? That nobles didn't bleed the way regular folk did? He took a step forward, roughly at the same time as the tavernkeeper.
The latter had his hands up in desperate placation. “Come now, sirs,” he tried. “You aren’t going to fight here, are you?”
“We most definitely are,” Sir Hans snapped, as he straightened himself to his full height. “This yokel needs to be taught his place!”
And with a start forward, he threw a punch– flying right past Henry, who needed just a single step to let the drunken bastard go through. Sir Hans twisted ‘round, but he wasn’t fast enough, and Henry’s fist found his face, and then blows were going everywhere–
The next punch did hit, and the pain hit Henry like thunder breaking through the clouds. He swung, and Sir Hans swung, and suddenly he had fabric clenched in one fist and someone else’s hand grabbing his elbow. He was going to get the little fuck–
“Krucifix!”
That voice, like gravel. It struck Henry immediately, the same as it did Sir Hans. They burst apart, hands up high. Henry’s head swivelled, nearly gave his neck an unhealthy crick.
Heavy and full of beard, Sir Hanush was hard to miss. He strode in with his retinue beside him, his face a mask of anger. “What in the name of Christ is happening here?” he snapped, advancing on Sir Hans with fire spitting out of his eyes. “Well?! Answer me, damn you!”
And just like that, the great Sir Hans bloody Capon was pointing at Henry like he was a six year old being asked about who stole the last sweet. “This peasant insulted me!” he whined. “I had to teach him a lesson!”
“By rolling around in the mud like a hog?” Sir Hanush asked incredulously. Sir Hans shrunk visibly before him. “That’s a fine example of noble conduct!”
Thank God. Reasonable minds prevailed. “Sir Hanush,” Henry began. “The bailiff ordered me to close–”
“Silence!” Sir Hanush barked. And suddenly all that terrifying command was aimed straight at Henry. He blanched, but the noble Lord of Leipa and Rattay wasn’t done with him yet. “You shut your mouth and thank your lucky stars that you are Sir Radzig’s ward! Have you gone out of your mind, raising your hand to a nobleman?!”
Henry wanted to sink through the ground and into the depths of Hell.
Fortunately, he wasn’t the subject of Sir Hanush’s attention for long, because the man swung back towards Sir Hans. “And you, Hans! How many times have I told you that drinking with your subjects might be good for their morale, but it’s bad for your honour? You spend all your days drinking and chasing wenches. Which wouldn’t matter, if you paid any attention at all to your duties! And now we see what that leads to!”
He shook his head, pacing in front of them. Like… some kind of terrifying creature, waiting to strike. God, but Henry hoped he wouldn’t have to endure Sir Hanush’s attention again.
“Tomorrow, you will go with me to a hearing,” Sir Hanush was saying, his eyes still firmly on his young ward. “Some landowners have asked me to settle a dispute. It will be an excellent lesson for you.”
But Sir Hans had clearly recovered his balls. He’d righted himself, and now his chin was lifted. “I had planned to go hunting,” he said irritably. “But if you think listening to the pointless gripes of a bunch of old fools will benefit me, so be it.”
“Oh, hunting?” Sir Hanush echoed. He bowed in a mock-courtesy. “Well, then, your Grace, I’ll tell you what: you can go hunting.”
Clearly Sir Hans hadn’t expected the argument to be won so easily. “Really?” he chirped, blinking.
“Oh, naturally,” Sir Hanush said, his hands flying everywhere– gesturing at himself, then at the wider world. “Who am I to deprive the young Lord Capon of his sport?” Whatever the trap Sir Hanush was setting, Henry was glad he wasn’t–
“...And… you can take Henry here as your page.”
Snap. Henry felt the wire at his throat.
“Him?!” Sir Hans exploded, his eyes whipping to Henry as if he - bleeding, dying, dangling like bait - could do anything about it. “Absolutely not!”
“You’ll do as I command!” Sir Hanush snapped. “It’s time you learned how to lead people, and not just in drinking and brawling. Now get out of my sight!”
Was there more argument forthcoming? Apparently not, because Sir Hans just made a jerking motion of his head, and his two goons followed him out of the tavern. Stomping, likely.
Whatever air was left in Henry’s lungs, he pushed it out of them in a fast burst of words. “Sir, I have responsibilities to the bailiff–”
But Sir Hanush cut him off. “Not anymore!” he declared. “Your responsibilities now are to Lord Capon. It’s time you learned how to behave in the presence of nobility.”
He whipped around, an immediate dismissal. “Let’s go,” he snapped at his retinue. “Tell the kitchen I’m hungry. It’s been a long journey!”
It took the entire walk back to Pirkstein Castle for Henry's blood to cool. For his limbs to stop aching, to drain until they were heavy again, but now heavy with spent rage. To his own surprise, he slept well that night. His only dreams were of a punchable face and his fist, hitting it over and over and over again.
[[ nfb/nfi/ooc-ok/and so on. adapted from the game Kingdom Come: Deliverance (2018) by Warhorse Studios. ]]
The burning husk of Silver Skalitz.
So it was better, Henry reflected, that he were not to close them. That helped him haul himself through his first guard shift: the time spent taking care of minor disputes, patrolling pointlessly across the cobbled streets, trying not to be bothered by the sight of his fellow Skalitzmen and women begging on the street, watching them be judged and shoved around. Rattay was so much bigger than Skalitz had ever been, with its large houses and well-dressed burghers, and yet: there was nothing in him that could muster the wonder he would have once felt.
Then his guide - Nightingale, the guardsman was called, that was it, it was so hard to hold on to anything - called it good for the day.
They played dice. How many groschen he’d won or lost? Hard to say. Perhaps it didn't matter.
“Just one more thing and we’re done for the day,” Nightingale was saying, when the sky grew darker and the tavern keeper lit the first fires. The guardsman rose from behind the table. “Ringing the bell and closing the taverns for the day.”
“Isn’t it still early?” Henry asked, as he lifted his heavy body up and to its feet.
“I don’t know how it was in Skalitz, but here in Rattay we close up at this hour. Except of course during fairs and big festivals, then we don’t close at all.”
“I see,” Henry said. He didn't, but it didn't truly matter. “Shall I go ring the bell?”
The bell was a heavy thing in and of itself, hanging just outside the Rathaus. Just a short walk away, and yet Henry could feel his legs about to betray him as he dragged his feet down the street and to Rattay's city square. The torch in his hand was warm, the light drawing his wandering attention for the brief journey, fuzzing over in the edges of his vision. With a grunt and a sigh, he reached for the bell and rung it - three times, as asked - and then turned to find the tavern.
Ask the tavernkeeper at the market’s square to close while Nightingale closed the other one. Simple enough.
It was still somewhat busy there. He could hear at least one voice - loud, nasal, pitched high - drifting in from very far away.
“And the Canon of St. Wenceslas in Olomouc was so drunk, he dragged the pig to the market square, saddled it up and rode it out of the town square! Now… now we could see…”
Three men, two dark, one blond and familiar. They were laughing. Right. Just this one thing, Henry thought, and then he could get to bed, and hope he was tired enough to sleep without disruption this time.
“...We could see this wasn’t going to end well, so Sir Peter and I rode off to look for the good Canon on his pig.”
Yes. Henry definitely knew that man. Wasn’t it– ah, it was Lord Capon, the heir to Rattay, and the absolute arsehole that had menaced Henry at his formal training with Captain Bernard. He’d been at the meeting yesterday, when Henry had invited himself into Sir Radzig’s service. He’d squawked something. What had it been?
Didn't matter.
“Did you find him?” one of Sir Capon’s friends asked him.
“We tracked the filthy beast down to a sty beyond Kronau,” Sir Hans Capon said, eyes bright. “I mean the beast with a tonsure on its head.” He laughed, and then amended, as if he was afraid his friends might not get the obvious joke: “We never found the real pig, but the reverend was sound asleep in the pigsty!”
His other friend let out a bark of a laugh. “Birds of a feather stick together! It seems the same goes for pigs and prelates!” He lifted his drink. “A toast, gentlemen! To pigs and prelates!”
“God save their bacon!” cried the man to Sir Capon’s left.
They were clearly quite drunk.
Henry stepped forward, and cleared his throat. “Sir Hans,” he began. “Forgive my intrusion, but I need…”
“But what?” Lord Hans Capon interrupted him. Loud, irritated and entitled. Something twisted in Henry’s stomach. “You want to join us?” the nobleman jeered. “Want to buy us a round? I’m afraid we don’t drink with peasants. You’re not in your village now, boy!”
Ah, that’s what that thing in his stomach was. He almost hadn’t recognized it: a real, visceral flare of anger.
Funny. He’d almost forgotten that was a feeling that existed.
“No, sir. Curfew’s been rung. The alehouse is closing.”
The two men to Capon’s side burst out laughing. Sir Hans’s own high-pitched giggles followed them. The noble sank back into his seat, and spoke, with very pointed enunciation, “Nothing closes while I’m sitting here. If that’s all, you’re dismissed.” He gestured at Henry, as if to tell him to get lost.
Well, Henry wasn’t going to bloody well do that. He had been given a task, and he was going to do it. He opened his mouth–
“Are you out of your mind, lad?” The tavernkeeper closed the door slowly behind him. He hissed, “You can’t cross His Lordship. He’s got a temper like a bear with gut ache. If I were you I’d get lost before he shows it.”
Henry didn’t even look at him. He raised his voice. “The bailiff instructed me to close the tavern at the proper hour. He doesn’t want anyone disturbing the peace after curfew.”
It was loud enough for Sir Hans to hear him. He could tell by the way the noble arsehole crossed his arms. And the spit... “The bailiff?” Sir Hans said incredulously. “The bailiff can kiss my arse! I trust you haven’t forgotten who’s the rightful lord of Rattay!”
“No,” Henry said evenly. “It’s Sir Hanush.”
Something in Sir Hans’s bearing changed. He moved abruptly, like lightning, clasping his mate’s shoulder first. “Oh, is he here?” he said, and then pulled himself upright. “Or is he… hiding under the table, maybe?” He ducked below the table. “No?” He clasped the table and pushed himself up. “Then what he wants is worth a fart in a bathhouse. And besides, he’s only in charge until I grow up.”
Theatrics. The anger in Henry’s gut boiled sharply.
“Which clearly hasn’t happened yet,” he said flatly.
Sir Hans’s eyes flared open. “Enough!” he snarled, pointing at Henry. “You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a nobleman!”
Oh, a nobleman? Henry thought wildly. Did he think being noble gave him the right to do as he pleased? That nobles didn't bleed the way regular folk did? He took a step forward, roughly at the same time as the tavernkeeper.
The latter had his hands up in desperate placation. “Come now, sirs,” he tried. “You aren’t going to fight here, are you?”
“We most definitely are,” Sir Hans snapped, as he straightened himself to his full height. “This yokel needs to be taught his place!”
And with a start forward, he threw a punch– flying right past Henry, who needed just a single step to let the drunken bastard go through. Sir Hans twisted ‘round, but he wasn’t fast enough, and Henry’s fist found his face, and then blows were going everywhere–
The next punch did hit, and the pain hit Henry like thunder breaking through the clouds. He swung, and Sir Hans swung, and suddenly he had fabric clenched in one fist and someone else’s hand grabbing his elbow. He was going to get the little fuck–
“Krucifix!”
That voice, like gravel. It struck Henry immediately, the same as it did Sir Hans. They burst apart, hands up high. Henry’s head swivelled, nearly gave his neck an unhealthy crick.
Heavy and full of beard, Sir Hanush was hard to miss. He strode in with his retinue beside him, his face a mask of anger. “What in the name of Christ is happening here?” he snapped, advancing on Sir Hans with fire spitting out of his eyes. “Well?! Answer me, damn you!”
And just like that, the great Sir Hans bloody Capon was pointing at Henry like he was a six year old being asked about who stole the last sweet. “This peasant insulted me!” he whined. “I had to teach him a lesson!”
“By rolling around in the mud like a hog?” Sir Hanush asked incredulously. Sir Hans shrunk visibly before him. “That’s a fine example of noble conduct!”
Thank God. Reasonable minds prevailed. “Sir Hanush,” Henry began. “The bailiff ordered me to close–”
“Silence!” Sir Hanush barked. And suddenly all that terrifying command was aimed straight at Henry. He blanched, but the noble Lord of Leipa and Rattay wasn’t done with him yet. “You shut your mouth and thank your lucky stars that you are Sir Radzig’s ward! Have you gone out of your mind, raising your hand to a nobleman?!”
Henry wanted to sink through the ground and into the depths of Hell.
Fortunately, he wasn’t the subject of Sir Hanush’s attention for long, because the man swung back towards Sir Hans. “And you, Hans! How many times have I told you that drinking with your subjects might be good for their morale, but it’s bad for your honour? You spend all your days drinking and chasing wenches. Which wouldn’t matter, if you paid any attention at all to your duties! And now we see what that leads to!”
He shook his head, pacing in front of them. Like… some kind of terrifying creature, waiting to strike. God, but Henry hoped he wouldn’t have to endure Sir Hanush’s attention again.
“Tomorrow, you will go with me to a hearing,” Sir Hanush was saying, his eyes still firmly on his young ward. “Some landowners have asked me to settle a dispute. It will be an excellent lesson for you.”
But Sir Hans had clearly recovered his balls. He’d righted himself, and now his chin was lifted. “I had planned to go hunting,” he said irritably. “But if you think listening to the pointless gripes of a bunch of old fools will benefit me, so be it.”
“Oh, hunting?” Sir Hanush echoed. He bowed in a mock-courtesy. “Well, then, your Grace, I’ll tell you what: you can go hunting.”
Clearly Sir Hans hadn’t expected the argument to be won so easily. “Really?” he chirped, blinking.
“Oh, naturally,” Sir Hanush said, his hands flying everywhere– gesturing at himself, then at the wider world. “Who am I to deprive the young Lord Capon of his sport?” Whatever the trap Sir Hanush was setting, Henry was glad he wasn’t–
“...And… you can take Henry here as your page.”
Snap. Henry felt the wire at his throat.
“Him?!” Sir Hans exploded, his eyes whipping to Henry as if he - bleeding, dying, dangling like bait - could do anything about it. “Absolutely not!”
“You’ll do as I command!” Sir Hanush snapped. “It’s time you learned how to lead people, and not just in drinking and brawling. Now get out of my sight!”
Was there more argument forthcoming? Apparently not, because Sir Hans just made a jerking motion of his head, and his two goons followed him out of the tavern. Stomping, likely.
Whatever air was left in Henry’s lungs, he pushed it out of them in a fast burst of words. “Sir, I have responsibilities to the bailiff–”
But Sir Hanush cut him off. “Not anymore!” he declared. “Your responsibilities now are to Lord Capon. It’s time you learned how to behave in the presence of nobility.”
He whipped around, an immediate dismissal. “Let’s go,” he snapped at his retinue. “Tell the kitchen I’m hungry. It’s been a long journey!”
It took the entire walk back to Pirkstein Castle for Henry's blood to cool. For his limbs to stop aching, to drain until they were heavy again, but now heavy with spent rage. To his own surprise, he slept well that night. His only dreams were of a punchable face and his fist, hitting it over and over and over again.
[[ nfb/nfi/ooc-ok/and so on. adapted from the game Kingdom Come: Deliverance (2018) by Warhorse Studios. ]]
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Date: 2025-05-07 08:34 pm (UTC)