The Beaumont Legacy

[The Tattered Prince]

[Biography] - [Journal] - [Intro] - [Screenshots]

" It is far better to be alone, than to be in bad company. "
- George Washington

Luther Beaumont III

" Keeper of the Flame "

" Love without fear, it may be the only chance we have..."
- Luther Beaumont

Background

Luther Beaumont, the third of his name, is a young man, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, from the eastern province of Athaerun, where he lived an incredibly sheltered life, and it shows on his youthful countenance. His father was a prominent member of the local church, where he served as a Templar in one of the dozens of Athaerun's established orders. It is for this reason alone that the small family was able to survive the outbreak of war and disease that ravaged Vitaveus. As the Master of the local Chapter, the elder Beaumont had been tasked with preserving the order, and bankrupted in doing so bled the chapter's vaults dry of every available resource. The retinue of aristocratic Templar has long-since dwindled to no more than a handful of aging men, whom, blue blooded as they may be, have not the power or influence in a dying Republic to change the Chapter's fate. As a final effort, Luther looks to his only son, a young boy that may yet have the potential to change the course of history for this particular chapter of devoted Decusians. Selling the last of their farmland to do so, the Templar send the youthful Beaumont to the First Province with no more than an old set of armor, a small pouch of coin, and a chorus of prayers that such an inexperienced man can restore their order to its former glory. His mother, Jaina, a keeper of texts for the Chapter, sends with him the last of the Templar codices to guide the young man through his trials as an aspirant.

More often then not, the young man can be found standing vigil at night, his heart and mind turned toward meditation and prayer for the return of “The Flame Above”.

Description

Luther stands at an average height, somewhere between five-foot-ten and six-foot. The only mark on his body is a brand in the shape of an eight-pointed star, this is on the left side of his chest, close to where one's heart might be approximated by an accessing hand. His hair is blonde, untouched by a blade as is tradition for aspirants of the Beaumont family, and it frames a handsome face that carries no more than a light stubble. His eyes are a light blue-grey which seem, from time to time, to be flecked with bits of green and yellow. His voice, too, carries the tones of youth, not quite armed with the gravitas of his father's command.

[The Tattered Prince]

Lex Aeterna

It was a crisp autumn morning, the kind where you could see your own breath. The leaves had changed colors, painting the forest with a palette of rust, gold, and brown. Smoke drifted lazily from a small village nestled within her sylvan embrace. A stone wall, about three feet tall, ran the perimeter of the village proper. It wasn't much of a defense, but it was all that the priory could afford. Stone had to be hauled in from by wagon, and the roads were not safe as they once were. Still, the small community was sustained by the bounty of the dense forest, and the rivers where freshwater fish could be caught were plentiful. Somehow, this place had been untouched by the darkness which had ravaged much of Vitaveus, whether by divine providence, or the will of the Chapter of Templar which called Ravenwood Vale home. It was, of course, their families that gave life to the village, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, who had some form of relation to the Order itself. Men and women milled about, the open market drawing a small crowd of patrons seeking to buy, sell, and trade goods.

He was moving through the market, towering above even the tallest of men. Bright blue-gray eyes taking in the sight of the Vale's marketplace. Today, the graybeards, as his father liked to call them, joined the rest of the community. Though they served the Church in a most brutal way, these old men carried themselves with a sense of nobility, never acting without deep thought and consideration for both canonical law and abstract interpretation of the Sacred Eight. Their dress was somber, an abyssal black, interrupted only minimally by a dash of brilliant white. More importantly though, at least for a child who loved the stories of the Avatars, and of lesser known heroes during the dawn of the Decusian Kingdom, was the magistrate's retinue. Templar, the acolytes of the One True God, arbiters of the Sacred Eight, and warriors beyond equal. And, it was his father, upon whose shoulders he was perched, that led them.

It was his earliest, and quite frankly, his fondest memory.

= = = = = = = = = = =

An Excerpt from Luther Beaumont's journal

Luther Beaumont II, Master of the Templar, Ravenwood Vale Chapterhouse


Father,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that the people of the Vale look forward to your sermon on the virtue of Justice. I am certain that the Magistrate will be thrilled to review your interpretation of their laws! I thought perhaps, I would share with you some thoughts I had on the road. Forgive my poor penmanship, the people here fear anyone with proper ink and books to be heathens, and so you must endure reading burnt charcoal on coarse paper salvaged from old books.

On the Lex Aeterna, the Eternal Law of the Templar,

It has since been determined that JUSTICE can be broken down into three components: Moral, Divine, and Civil. Whereas it is agreeable that justice without compassion is born of wrath, these three ideals are guided by the very principles which define the Sacred Eight: HONESTY and HUMILITY chief among them.

Futhermore, we can define Moral Justice as the very foundation upon which all interpretations of law and faith must stand. If a deed, righteous in the eyes of the Church, is immoral, then the authority of those who seek to use that power must be questioned. Without lending one's heart to the ethical and noble pursuit of moral judgment, the very roots of civil and divine justice are blighted, and such a corruption will spread until the idea of justice no longer has any meaning in the hearts and minds of those that would benefit from her ardent embrace; and, just as the Eternal Flame purges the sins of life from our flesh, so too must it purify the process of civil and divine justice.

Your Son,

Luther

[The Tattered Prince]

Redemption

[The Enduring Flame]

Redemption was heavy in his hand, her supple leather doing little to lessen the strain on his armored hands. Small motes of light, like so many fireflies, spiraled upward -- cast forth by a small crackling fire at the young man's heavy leather boots. A thick cloak, untouched by dyes, as was traditional for a young aspirant in the Order, protected Luther's frame from the worst of the heat. His eyes, a light blue-grey fog, watered, threatened by the thick smoke which billowed from the ruined village. It was not, as he had originally suspected, a funeral pyre; but, rather, a massacre. The twisted, screaming faces, of the dead charred badly by the flames, spoke of a cruel fate at the hands of a monster. For, it could only have been a monster to purge an entire village in such a way. The bodies appeared staked to the burnt trees, and in many cases, tongues were cut from their opened mouths. Here and there, he saw painted boards hanging from rope around the necks of the damned. Collaborator. Sympathizer. Traitor. It was clear that judgment had been passed here, and come morning, nothing would be left but scorched earth. Redemption's steel reflected the light of the dying flames, her tip having pierced the dark soil so that she stood, like a penitent in silent vigil, whilst Luther Beaumont III buried the ashes of the nameless village's dead. Tears streaking his curved almost childish soot-covered face. They burned, and he wept for their souls.

"Father above, draw from these, the dead, their divine spark. Allow their souls to pass through the Flame, and rejoin you in peace. Forgive them of their sins, whatever they might have been, and purge the horrors of this world from their spirit. I pray these things for the sake of your children, Arch Prelate.

We do not forsake you. Your sacrifice was not in vain. We remember."

The next morning, as the flame above shed new light upon the vale, all that was left of the village was a field of scorched earth where charred pillars reached toward the heavens like some macabre monument. Simple markers, fashioned from the timbers decorated the graves, where upon close inspection one might spot a bit of blood amongst the mounments, shed from the ruins of Luther's young hands.

Afterall, what man could claim he was true

to the Eight if he was not willing

to sacrifice his life for a righteous cause?

[The Tattered Prince]

Dreams of the Past

" Higher…”

His father's voice encouraged. It was stern, but not unpleasantly so. Still, it was almost lost amidst the clashing of the blunted steel. Luther, a boy of twelve at the time, stumbled back at the flurry of powerful blows to sword and shield.

" Higher, boy! “

It came again, this time it was harsher, as heavy as the training sword crashing down on him. This time, the boy moved, pivoting to the left and sweeping his leg back to position himself alongside his father's shield arm. He waa guarded, but at least the elder Beaumont couldn't hit him again.

“ Good! “

The praise was short lived though, as his father lowered his stance and powered through the boy's feeble guard. Luther's next breath was tainted with blood and dirt as he struck the ground in a hurry.

“ Remember, boy, you will not always have the advantage of size or strength. You must keep your wits about you when hunting the ill-sworn, and their masters. “

A large hand, encased in supple leather as dark as the abyss itself, reached down to help the boy regain his feet. His father's solemn face hinted at a suppressed smile, wrinkles forming at the corners of the Knight's eyes. Though the Order was not officially recognized, and the Knights did not hold the status of a Templar, they were seen as equal to many who knew the veiled history of the Lumen Obumbratio. And, the boy could see why. His father, like many of the other Knights, was a true warrior, a soldier of the Faith, and as the Master of the local chapterhouse, the keeper of Veritas -- a blade that was rumored to have been forged by the first of the Lumen, and carried through the betrayal of Amorrn.

Luther, as a boy of twelve, had been a squire to his father, and a postulant to the Faith before that -- taught the story of the Veritas, or Truth, and its significance to the Order by his mother, Jaina, who acted as the Lore-Keeper. It was her task to teach the Faith-Blooded of their birthright as true descendents of the Knights of the Lumen Obumbratio and the Decusian Kingdom before its transition to the Republic. It was during this time that the Order had operated exclusively from the shadows, moving unseen through time, though always influencing what events they could in the Great War, that is, the true conflict, the battle against the Dae.

"Do not forget, you will be called upon to fight this war, and when that time comes, it will take its toll on you. Defeat is not acceptable, and the price for salvation is your life's service to the tenets of the Sacred Eight. You cannot walk lightly down this path. No one can. Corruption of the flesh is assured, and only the Flame can purge this sin from your spirit. But, that day is far from now, and I pray that it is not I who must light your pyre.”

[The Tattered Prince]

A Knight's Oath

" Be loyal of deed and word, and serve your fellow man as best you can. Seek the fellowship of the good; hearken to their words and remember them. Be humble and compassionate wherever you may go...”

The Chapter's master spoke in quiet, but powerful tones, his voice reverberating easily through the solemn gray halls of the Order's chapel. Eight there were, each stationed beneath ornately carved pillars, iron-encased hands draped across the pommels of the ceremonial blades positioned tip-down in front of them. There were four to the left, and four to the right, flanking both Master and Squire -- whereas one wore the great white cloak of their order, the other's shoulders were bare; and, whereas one stood recognized as a Knight of the Order, the other was kneeling in submission.

" Hearken, we beseech thee, the One True God, to our prayers, deign to bless with the your hand this sword with which your servant desires to be girded, that it may be a defense of the Decusian Faith, the Republic, and all of your faithful servants against the scourge of the ill-sworn, that it may be the terror and dread of all evil-doers, and that it may be just in both attack and defense. "

A blade, held reverently in two hands, parallel to the ground, is then placed at the squire's feet. Light, tinted by colored glass, dancing across her gleaming surface, highlighting engraved letters here and there, but never quite fully.

“ Swear now, to accept with a faithful heart this final trial, forged in the fire of our great war! Rise, and be counted among the Faith-Blooded, Ser Beaumont -- your final ascension awaits. “

The Final Ascension, an honor and a terror, was the final test for any aspirant whom sought to gain full membership into the Order of the Lumen Obumbratio. It was a dedication to hunting the ill-sworn, throne-bearers, and dae-kin which stalked Eden. Not only would a newly forged Knight be required to hunt down and slay the Dae, but they had to perform a ceremony by which they consumed the blood of the fallen, proving that their faith far exceeded any corruption that such blood might spread through the physical form. It was an extremely dangerous ritual, and it proved fatal to many. Yet, if the Knight survived, his dedication to the Order was no longer in question, and it is told that such a display provides the host with natural protections against the ill-sworn. Whether that's true or not has never been confirmed, though no one dared to openly question the Order's rituals.

"I so swear.."

Luther's cloth-wrapped digits took up the blade, and slowly gathered himself up from the kneeling position. The Vigil of the Eight broken, his brothers-in-arms moved around him, embracing the young man as one of their own in a sea of stone-gray and snow-white, the colors of the Beaumont family's Faith-Blooded.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Vigil

It was once said, that for darkness to prevail, all that is required is for good men to do nothing. Apathy in this particular battle was near as deadly as the blight which threatened the Republic itself. Often, what is necessary, and what is right are diverging pathways, and one must do a little evil for the greater good. It is with this knowledge in mind, with this understanding that rigid adherence to the pillars of virtue was impossible, that a man could truely become a force for good in a world that has forgotten what that means.

Just as the first Decusian's marched across Vitaveus, bringing the light of the Holy Flame, and the teachings of the Sacred Eight -- so too, now, must a pilgrimage of the faith-blooded take place. In ever corner of the Republic, men and women of the faith must bring the reclamation to places lost to darkness.

Fort Praesidium was such a place, and Ser Luther Beaumont was such a pilgrim.

"If I should fall..." Ser Delavious' voice carried easily through the darkness, breaking Luther's reverie. It was accompanied by the roaring flames which hungrily devoured the newest bodies, that of Lady Victoria Black and the Squire Arthur. ".. you will take up the mantle of Imperator. Our mission must continue." He understood immediately what the Knight-Imperator was refering to. It was the only thing that mattered: the purge of the ill-sworn.

" May that day never come, Ser. "

He offered in return, bowing his head respectfully to the elder Knight. It was simple to see the pain and anger which thrashed within the Imperator's heart. A stranger had come during their vigil, promising to see Marcus join his beloved in the pyre's flame. The man was aggressive and rude, spitting on the dead.

" Temperance, Ser. "

The man has run off, luckily for him, before Marcus' wrath could break free of their bonds. With Victoria dead, there was little holding Marcus back from razing Fort Praesidium to the ground and salting the smoldering ashes. And, who could blame him? The people that once claimed to be Victoria's companions has turned there backs on her memory before her body was even cold.

"I will show them patience... for now."

The Imperator's anger seemed to fade at Luther's guidance, perhaps, if the stars aligned, there would be a path forward that didnt end in the city's death.

Perhaps, there was time for redemption.

[The Tattered Prince]

Trials of Valor

[Theme]

A gentle breeze stirred a few strands of long blonde hair. It seemed to come alive, gleaming like beaten gold, in the lantern's warm light. This framed the Knight's handsome countenance, youthful to be sure, but calm and determined. Beside him, an old man, dressed in purple. Avi as he liked to be called. And, it was they that would stand in opposition to "Asshole-Bastard" and "Titties". A roguish man, with a swarthy cunning, a tricky tongue, and a gift for applying his absurd charm in the most inappropriate ways; and, beside him, a warrior, by the looks of it, that Luther had no interactions with prior to the tournament.

" Ready! "

Luther's stance widened slightly, his hands coming to grasp the crudely fashioned blade's hilt in a high guard. His frame turning ever-so-slightly, allowed Avi to slip behind and almost completely vanish from their opponents' sight.

"Fight!"

He was the first to move, the sound of riveted mail shifting beneath his tunic as heavy leather boots carried him across the arena to engage Asshole-Bastard. The blunted metal glancing ineffectively across a metal-encased forearm. The man wore some form of claw-like device, capable of ensnaring, and breaking one's grip, and he used it with effortless grace -- Avi's own blade skittering uselessly across the arena.

You see, the two had completely ignored the knight, seeing Avi as the true threat -- and, they were right. The man, though old, moved with the speed and grace of a reed cat. Avi, before being disarmed, had opened several small rivulets of blood in their target, and, had he been allowed to continue, would certainly have overwhelmed Asshole-Bastard easily. Alas, the rogue's warrior came crashing in next, breaking Avi's stance and sending him into the ground before advancing on Luther.

The Knight spun to the left, managing to keep a grip on his blade and deliver a stunning blow to the rogue as he attempted to turn Logan's own blade aside. A parry here, a move there, and he was holding the two off for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was likely mere moments. That's when the metallic claws bit into his shield, wrenching it down just enough for Titties to deliver a solid blow and send Luther sailing down into the arena's floorboards.

There would be no victory for Ser Luther Beaumont on this day. But, nor was it a true defeat. He came away with experience, and a drive to push himself harder.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Old Inquisitor

[Theme]

" I have buried too many friends... " The old man's voice carried easily in the twilight hours, unaccompanied by the usual clang and clamor coming from the nearby hall. In contrast, where the old inquisitor was dressed in blacks and reds, the Knight was a tapestry of silver and azure. Yet, the two seemed to speak as though they were old companions, sharing a table on the porch of the Hearth and Hale as dawn approached. " And yet, in the absence of strength, the witchkin grow bold. " Albus slid a leather journal across the table toward the young man. " Who among us remains in good standing ?" Luther's gaze scanned the pages of the Inquisitor's journal. " Few enough, to be sure.. Anavel Gato is marked as an apostate, and the Consortium seeks a cook named Lux for inspection. I have not seen Laszlo, though if rumor has it true, he's run off with some westerner. " He closed the old man's journal and slid it back across. " We are what's left. " The old man nodded, looking away from him, his cloudy gaze falling somewhere along the distant battlements of the fort. " I will look to the outpost in the north. We will meet again in the dawn of the next day, and if not then, the evening. Should I be missed, know that I am dead. " Luther pressed a hand to the table, inclining his head slightly so that a few strands of beaten-gold obscured his handsome features. " The eight guide you. " The departing man offered. " And, may the Flame give you strength. " Yet, that would be the last time that the Old Inquisitor and the Young Knight would speak, for death surely had found him that night -- somewhere, beyond the walls of Fort Praesidium.

Ser Luther Beaumont sat quietly within the exquisite hall of the grand church. His head, covered by a cowl, bowed in reverence. There was a prayer in his heart, but it did not lift from his tongue. Instead, he would dwell in the stillness of the fading light, waiting for the man whose spark had been extinguished by some unknown force. As the final banners of day receded over the horizon, Ser Luther rose from the pew, pressed two hands to his forehead in a faithful display to the altar, and moved quietly through the church's front doors. It would seem, the Order's final days had come, and he had been there to witness it. Yet, there was still an oath to be fulfilled -- he just wasn't sure how to go about doing it. Perhaps, in time, the path would become clear.

[The Tattered Prince]

Through the Flame

[Theme]

Ser Marcus Delavious, Knight-Imperator and Master of the Council.

Master Arthur Gibbs, Squire of Ser Delavious, Pillar of the Eight.

Albus Black, the Old Inquisitor, Master Metallurgist.

Laszlo, scholar and acolyte.


All men of the Faith. All dead.


How many more would lose their lives beneath the solemn grey watchtowers of the First Province? What bones, nameless and forgotten, lay beneath the foundations of this forsaken place? Are the banners of the sacred eight, scorched by the flame of war and blight, still strong enough to rally the hearts of Man? Or, are the pillars of virtue crumbling away, ready to be forgotten by those all that remains?

In the end, though many have tried, there was not one voice that could rise above the others. No clarion call which might unify the various banners sewn against the hearts of the people. And, though an oath had been sworn, the flame had risen to consume those that might have fortified the people against the darkness which threatened to consume them all. Still, not all was lost. Where one fell, another seemed to rise and take their place, emboldened by the sacrifice made by those before them, and by the compassion and spirit of those beside them. The Institute was making increasingly significant gains in their research, and an old soldier was raising the banners of a new military force, one that might be able to protect the people, and making a concentrated effort at reclaiming that which had been lost.

Though it would not be by his hand. The Oath which had been sworn, would be upheld.

A new dawn was breaking. And the young Knight was glad for it.

[The Tattered Prince]

Guardian of the Faith

[Theme]

It is said that various ancient texts can be found within the solemn gray halls of Ravenwood Vale's sanctum. It is within one of these well-tended tomes that it is written, for every Ill that could be felled, ten-fold men fell to their dark powers. On it's own, a cautionary tale, but insignificant when held against the knowledge which might be gleaned from the volumes of ancient Decusian wisdom. Still, it was a verse which, to this day, sticks with young Beaumont, warning him not against the threat of death, but rather, of corruption by the very principles by which any good Decusian might live. Valor, on it's own, without the temperance of Humility and Compassion, was quick to become Wrath. Justice, without Honesty and Humility was bound to become Hatred. And, so on.

No man or woman of true faith could live honestly for as long as they could pick and choose which virtues they will live by, and which they might ignore for the sake of convenience. He had seen that before, in the way Ser Delavious had led the Order. And though he had been a powerful weapon in the war against the Ill-Sworn, the Knight Imperator had failed in his duty to live by the very principles that he claimed to serve. In this, there could be no middle ground. It was a sacrifice that few in this world were capable of making, to separate from themselves, and the lives they had led before. Further still, as Master of the local chapter, and arbiter of the faith where the Council of Knights were concerned, the Knight Imperator had failed to uphold these standards in the men and women who had joined his cause. It was a mistake that he could not repeat. If there were to be a new generation of faith-blooded, they would have to be carefully forged. They must first show a devotion to the Faith, and an understanding of the principles upon which it stands. They must also learn the rituals, traditions, customs, courtesies, and aptitudes of the Order, where at last, they might be prepared to face their true enemy, Dae and Dae-kin.

And so, Luther Beaumont set to work, placing ink and quill to parchment, reproducing the works of the Chapter's archives that had been instilled in him for as long as he could remember. Surely, among the numerous refugees, there was one who might take up the divine call, and bring the Flame's light back to the First Province.