A Call to Arms!
It seems as though the whole nobility of Lyonesse may be found here. Throngs of lords, ladies and knights crowd the throne room of Castle Brentinor. King Doriam has sent invitations throughout Lyonesse and beyond.
Harold makes his way to the area set aside for Monsalvat attened by his squire.
Many eyes - of knights, lords and kings - stray to the Grand Master of the Order of the Knights of the Graal. There is much gossip.
Harold settles in a chair and speaks softly to a few of the Barron's he arrived with, the question on everyones mind is 'Why?'
When the king enters, the throng lowers into hushed whispers. Bows flow through the crowd like water. Some of the Kings of Lyonesse do not bend, but look defiantly upon King Doriam. It is no secret that the question of succession of High King Mark has set many at odds in Lyonesse.
But the crowd is respectful on the whole. When King Doriam reaches his throne, he looks back upon the crowd fondly. A long moment is taken, to allow a settling.
The king's entourage is small, but glorious. His son is in tow, with a score of knights in burnished armour. The blue colours of Brentinor are borne proudly upon their breasts.
Harold watches the entrance of Dorian with intrest motioning a chatty baroness to silence with a wave of his armored hand.
In his passing, the King of Brentinor gives a small nod and smile to Harold - acknowledging him, and a few others along his path.
The nod is returned by Harold. There is nothing like the processions of the royals after all.
King Doriam remains standing before his throne, facing the crowd. A long moment is taken to survey the crowd. His voice is ancient, his accent from a time that Lyonesse has nearly forgotten. But it is certain and clear: "Your Majesties. Lords, ladies, sirs, neighbours and friends, welcome." A gentle smile grows from the king. "I have asked you here to heed the call. The call that is the requirement of every noble-born Lyonne to answer: the call of duty. Of right."
His arm gestures broadly, indicating something unseen in the distance, beyond the room - beyond Brentinor. "A miracle has come. It has risen from the sea that has taken so much. It is a blessing - a gift. But such a gift must be earned. And so this day I declare that my son and sole heir, Prince Grathul, shall lead a force of Brentinor's greatest and most accomplished sons into Albion - to free her from the chains of darkness. And so I ask you, who will join us? Who will fight to free our beleaguered neighbour from its bondage?"
Harold rises "I will, and my Knight, Barons and Order" his voice rings out.
Several other knights call unto the king, pledging their support. They come from far and wide. Some are solitary, yet others represent small orders. King Doriam smiles to them all, particularly to Harold. But when his gaze passes over the kings, their expressions are sour.
King Algswych of Ahnsweir speaks: "And shall we then leave our own lands vulnerable, while the ancient gods wake and wreak havok? How dares His Majesty to call our blood less noble? We serve our people. We serve Lyonesse in protecting them. Allow Albion to have its own concerns! We shall not allow our people to suffer for a land already lost." There are a few 'here heres' of agreement, met quickly by boos and damnations.
"Is Ahnsweir so faint of heart?" Haroild shakes his head in disgust "Would you cower in your castle your Majesty while the hordes of death over take the lands above the waves?"
King Algswych looks to Harold sharply. "We have been king for decades, and our land survives. We keep our traditions and peoples alive! I'll not hear such talk from a raw knight dreaming of kingship, and deserving neither!"
"I call you a coward, decades of living off the sweat of others has made you weak, I call you a coward who deserves neither crown nor spurs" his hands rest upon his hips not moving to his sword hilt "You unman your Knights, so I offer them this, any who wish to show themselves of stout heart and strong arm may ride with the Graal army while their King cowers, this is work for men."
A great ripple of murmuring fills the room, silenced by King Doriam's hand. "Such talk does not become us. Let us show our mettle in battle, not in speechcraft."
King Algswych turns beet red at Harold's challenge, and falls to silence, for some of the crowd appears to side with Harold - his allies silent now.
King Doriam addresses the crowd once more: "We hereby invite all here to stay the eve, and enjoy the hospitality of Brentinor. All are welcome to the great feast. Those who wish to join us shall make themselves known to the steward." A gesture indicates the man. "A meeting on the liberation of noble Albion shall take place this evening. All who lend their arms are welcome."
Harold stares at King Algswych until a Baron whispers in his ear, then the Grand Master turns his back on the King leaving him to his shame as he makes his way to see the Steward.
Harold makes his way to the area set aside for Monsalvat attened by his squire.
Many eyes - of knights, lords and kings - stray to the Grand Master of the Order of the Knights of the Graal. There is much gossip.
Harold settles in a chair and speaks softly to a few of the Barron's he arrived with, the question on everyones mind is 'Why?'
When the king enters, the throng lowers into hushed whispers. Bows flow through the crowd like water. Some of the Kings of Lyonesse do not bend, but look defiantly upon King Doriam. It is no secret that the question of succession of High King Mark has set many at odds in Lyonesse.
But the crowd is respectful on the whole. When King Doriam reaches his throne, he looks back upon the crowd fondly. A long moment is taken, to allow a settling.
The king's entourage is small, but glorious. His son is in tow, with a score of knights in burnished armour. The blue colours of Brentinor are borne proudly upon their breasts.
Harold watches the entrance of Dorian with intrest motioning a chatty baroness to silence with a wave of his armored hand.
In his passing, the King of Brentinor gives a small nod and smile to Harold - acknowledging him, and a few others along his path.
The nod is returned by Harold. There is nothing like the processions of the royals after all.
King Doriam remains standing before his throne, facing the crowd. A long moment is taken to survey the crowd. His voice is ancient, his accent from a time that Lyonesse has nearly forgotten. But it is certain and clear: "Your Majesties. Lords, ladies, sirs, neighbours and friends, welcome." A gentle smile grows from the king. "I have asked you here to heed the call. The call that is the requirement of every noble-born Lyonne to answer: the call of duty. Of right."
His arm gestures broadly, indicating something unseen in the distance, beyond the room - beyond Brentinor. "A miracle has come. It has risen from the sea that has taken so much. It is a blessing - a gift. But such a gift must be earned. And so this day I declare that my son and sole heir, Prince Grathul, shall lead a force of Brentinor's greatest and most accomplished sons into Albion - to free her from the chains of darkness. And so I ask you, who will join us? Who will fight to free our beleaguered neighbour from its bondage?"
Harold rises "I will, and my Knight, Barons and Order" his voice rings out.
Several other knights call unto the king, pledging their support. They come from far and wide. Some are solitary, yet others represent small orders. King Doriam smiles to them all, particularly to Harold. But when his gaze passes over the kings, their expressions are sour.
King Algswych of Ahnsweir speaks: "And shall we then leave our own lands vulnerable, while the ancient gods wake and wreak havok? How dares His Majesty to call our blood less noble? We serve our people. We serve Lyonesse in protecting them. Allow Albion to have its own concerns! We shall not allow our people to suffer for a land already lost." There are a few 'here heres' of agreement, met quickly by boos and damnations.
"Is Ahnsweir so faint of heart?" Haroild shakes his head in disgust "Would you cower in your castle your Majesty while the hordes of death over take the lands above the waves?"
King Algswych looks to Harold sharply. "We have been king for decades, and our land survives. We keep our traditions and peoples alive! I'll not hear such talk from a raw knight dreaming of kingship, and deserving neither!"
"I call you a coward, decades of living off the sweat of others has made you weak, I call you a coward who deserves neither crown nor spurs" his hands rest upon his hips not moving to his sword hilt "You unman your Knights, so I offer them this, any who wish to show themselves of stout heart and strong arm may ride with the Graal army while their King cowers, this is work for men."
A great ripple of murmuring fills the room, silenced by King Doriam's hand. "Such talk does not become us. Let us show our mettle in battle, not in speechcraft."
King Algswych turns beet red at Harold's challenge, and falls to silence, for some of the crowd appears to side with Harold - his allies silent now.
King Doriam addresses the crowd once more: "We hereby invite all here to stay the eve, and enjoy the hospitality of Brentinor. All are welcome to the great feast. Those who wish to join us shall make themselves known to the steward." A gesture indicates the man. "A meeting on the liberation of noble Albion shall take place this evening. All who lend their arms are welcome."
Harold stares at King Algswych until a Baron whispers in his ear, then the Grand Master turns his back on the King leaving him to his shame as he makes his way to see the Steward.