6th of Saun, 716
“… and if so my heart
Is to be torn in two
One half for the Kingdom
The other one’s for you.”
Is to be torn in two
One half for the Kingdom
The other one’s for you.”
It was beautiful.
That was Peake’s official conclusion every single time he read the Veteran of Venora’s poetry. Having stumbled upon his literature all the way back in his university years, Peake had grown very fond of the author’s work, perhaps even obsessing with it. Baron Blackbeard had read the entire bibliography of said mysterious figure at least thrice, which was not really a great achievement as there were only two books with his name – a book of rhymes, and a book of short stories. Both he enjoyed again and again, and kept re-reading throughout the arcs. Despite not considering himself a romantic, or a sentimentalist, something in that author’s work drew him to it, nibbling at his heart and causing melancholy and romanticism to arise within him.
The Veteran of Venora was a rather hidden author, whose identity was never really discovered as they were always signed with the same pseudonym. His two books were published posthumously, and so the hints towards his true identity were forever lost. It was believed that the morose rhymes and sad sceneries painted with that individual’s words were product of a former lord of Venora, as a common theme in his work involved the unfairness of the caste system towards the second and third sons of a ruler. Peake agreed with said thoughts, as he was extremely lucky not only to be a part of a noble house, but be the one man with the exclusive right to claim Andaris’ duchy.
Of course, Peake’s liking of said author, one who used the name Venora to sign his work, was kept secret. A personal distaste had grown against the Venora by Peake’s part, be it because of their pompous attitudes or their unearned arrogance. After all… they were nothing but artists. Art meant nothing in a world shaped by war, and despite everyone trying to tell him otherwise, Peake was obviously biased towards House Andaris’ brutal and merciless occupations. Rallying slaves, collecting taxes and forming strategies would always be more important than paintings, sculptures, or whatever shite the Venoras liked to do with their lady-like hands.
The arid Saun day had barely started, and Peake already felt tired. As he closed his small book of rhymes, his bearded features looked around at the ablaze skins of the peasants as they marched miserably down the street. If all the horses, voices, and footsteps were to cease, and everyone froze in their spots for just a mere moment, Peake was certain he would hear the loud sound of the flesh twitching and searing, scorching almost the work force of this great city. Despite the heat, Peake had no chance to remove his armor, as his shift was going to begin in less than half a break, and the war-time crisis had to be resolved by him – the most competent man in the entire political force, apparently. The lack of a Lord Commander meant a distribution of his function to everyone else that held a piece of the King’s trust, which meant Peake had to have pretty steady hands in order to carry all the tasks the Boy King threw at him. Peake still looked older than he was because of the stress, and his sleep schedule was alarmingly scarce, which only made him question his decision to directly serve the King. Even if it was hard, Peake would endure it.
A lot of dirty looks flew towards Peake, the only man sitting outside the pastry and refreshments shop no matter how many free chairs and tables were available. Perhaps the only difference between his seat and the others was that Peake’s had an umbrella, thus sitting in the shade while everyone else had to endure the sun’s rays if they chose to sit. The alternative was to enter the shop itself, where the heat was even greater as, at least out in the street, the breeze that came from the sea could be felt for an increased ability to cool down. Being not only the Commander of the Ouroboro Guard, but also holding the port-side Barony of Andaris city immediately granted him more privileges – or rights, as Peake would call them – which the peasants did not really appreciated. Not because of that any of these peasants would dare say something to Peake, or even dare meet his own gazes. The power Peake wielded was seen by the invisible barrier that separated the common men from the extraordinary men. There was no need to guess to which belonged Peake, as his beard itself was a visual representation of grandeur.
Intermittently sipping either his glass of white wine – needed to quench his need for alcohol to avoid withdrawal – or his glass of water, Peake yawned as he enjoyed… well, his own company. It was then when his eyes, sneaky knaves with an evil agenda, began closing ever-so-slowly. Leaning back on the chair and extending his oversized legs below the table was certainly not very proper, but it was very relaxing. The sounds of the day served as the lullaby that gently guided Peake into the temptation of sleep, which the tired nobleman had no intention to chase away.
Thanks to Lazuli for this amazing template!