LordLuck
The Wicked Historian
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2011
- Posts
- 2,649
The day was warmth, and life was good into the fiefdom.
Or for most folk it was. Young Geoff, the firstborn son of Lord Morholt, guided his horse through the muddy paths that crossed between the houses and hamlets of the village that grew right before the Castle's mighty walls. Albeit the young man lived up pampered and cared for in the Keep, under constant guard of his Lord Father's men, every once and a while Geoff managed to escape on horseback towards the village, to meet and play with the peasant children and young men he had taken for his friends. It was rather... curious how he managed to become such a liked figure around, even though his father was always distant and seldome appeared if even to ride down the settlement.
There was Frago, the Blacksmith's Apprentice, who had made them swords of metal with blunted edges that they used to train under the Master At Arms over the Castle - even if the Old Ser would probably have his head if he saw himself wasting his moves on peasants. There were the boys of Hoat, the ones that sow the fields and caught apples from the little orchad that had been planted along the little, cozy Inn that dominated most of the village. There was the Elder, Jonah, who always told them the tales about dragons and beasts and knights errant from the times he had adventured around the land himself.
During his little rides through the village, young Geoff would play and talk and chatter to all, hearing their problems and actually relaying them to his Lord Father, even if only the least of those he spoke about were heard and acted upon. Still, even the least of assistance and change was usually enough to make the people jovial and more welcoming to their lordling. Geoff was much loved in the village and the holdfasts of the whereabouts. He took a hand to adjust his black hair, the short young man wearing simply the fineries of his father's collous - a black bull on a green field.
And then... there was the Mill, and one of the few persons he disliked trully in the village. The Miller, a man whose name nobody really knew but perhaps his wife and his children, was a mean little man that loved to demand more for the time to smash down the grain. His family was fine and alright, but the Miller... not so much at all.
Or for most folk it was. Young Geoff, the firstborn son of Lord Morholt, guided his horse through the muddy paths that crossed between the houses and hamlets of the village that grew right before the Castle's mighty walls. Albeit the young man lived up pampered and cared for in the Keep, under constant guard of his Lord Father's men, every once and a while Geoff managed to escape on horseback towards the village, to meet and play with the peasant children and young men he had taken for his friends. It was rather... curious how he managed to become such a liked figure around, even though his father was always distant and seldome appeared if even to ride down the settlement.
There was Frago, the Blacksmith's Apprentice, who had made them swords of metal with blunted edges that they used to train under the Master At Arms over the Castle - even if the Old Ser would probably have his head if he saw himself wasting his moves on peasants. There were the boys of Hoat, the ones that sow the fields and caught apples from the little orchad that had been planted along the little, cozy Inn that dominated most of the village. There was the Elder, Jonah, who always told them the tales about dragons and beasts and knights errant from the times he had adventured around the land himself.
During his little rides through the village, young Geoff would play and talk and chatter to all, hearing their problems and actually relaying them to his Lord Father, even if only the least of those he spoke about were heard and acted upon. Still, even the least of assistance and change was usually enough to make the people jovial and more welcoming to their lordling. Geoff was much loved in the village and the holdfasts of the whereabouts. He took a hand to adjust his black hair, the short young man wearing simply the fineries of his father's collous - a black bull on a green field.
And then... there was the Mill, and one of the few persons he disliked trully in the village. The Miller, a man whose name nobody really knew but perhaps his wife and his children, was a mean little man that loved to demand more for the time to smash down the grain. His family was fine and alright, but the Miller... not so much at all.
