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Poet of the Deed
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Discussion Starter · #1 · (Edited)
Well, I've lost track of the deadline so its probably already been two weeks, and if it hasn't it'll arrive before this is finished, but I thought I'd post up the limited amount of work I'd done for the theme just to show I'm not completely lazy and useless all the time.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” – Juvenal, Satire VI, lines 347–8, Satires
(“Who guards the guardsmen themselves?”)

The rider came at dawn.

Clad in heavy mail and swaddled in a threadbare grey robe as he rode hunched over his mount, the new arrival staggered through the scything horizontal rain towards the gate. Ahead, the grey form of Castle de Montfort stood indifferent to the falling water, its towers rising defiantly into the grey clouds that hung menacingly overhead with the threat of yet more rain.

The Bastard’s Tower was an impressive edifice: atop the curtain walls surrounding it, Sir Denys de Rousseau could see as far as the Imperial bastion of Helmgart on a clear day.

Not that today was one of those, he thought bitterly. Rain splashed off the heavy flagstones that paved the walkway and soaked the blue robes of office that denoted him as the Lord-Captain of the Swan Guard. Further rivulets of water streamed down his breastplate and seeped into the gaps in the armour.

The rider slowed as he approached, lowering his hood to reveal pale features drawn with pain and effort framed by a mane of black hair.


Denys spat the expletive violently, startling the guardsman stood a few paces away. Denys ignored him and strode towards the tower gatehouse.

“My lord?” queried a guardsman, but Denys silenced him.

"Open the gates, damn you!" he roared. "Steward!"

The frail and aged form of Steward Baudin de Partel emerged from the keep, bent over and wrapped in the dripping mass of cloth that had been his robes of office.

"My lord?"

"Don't 'my lord' me, Steward, and get on with saving that poor bugger down there." Denys jabbed a plated gauntlet in the direction of the rider as the main gate slowly opened to accommodate his passage.

"Yes my lord. Of course, my lord," muttered the elderly man as he hobbled away, rain running off his bald pate.
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