Autumn Baron Sample

Autumn Baron

It was harvest year of 1021. Fall atmosphere enveloped the countryside’s and parklands of Vaclia. Leaves of all shapes and hues traveled with the wind and blanketed the hardening ground. The midday air was cool and accompanied by gentle gales. The evenings that arrived as the sun prepared for slumber were chilling and bitter by nightfall. The forests of Vaclia appeared as a chromatic motley oil painting that embellished a dismal white sky. Sounds of clattering armor buckles and the galloping patter of iron hooves upon hard packed dirt toured their way up a wintry wooded path. Withered and cracked maple leaves fell simultaneous as their branches swayed with the path of the wind. The sloping pathway came to an end atop a substantially large wooded hill. This gradually rising hill spanned a total of four hundred acres. A fortified manor, glorified by its stonework, stood dominantly atop this headland. The shackles and points of its towers stood high above the red orange canopy as if they were presiding over the features of the landscape. A great sense of strength and fortitude hung heavy on the manor like the intertwining vines that clung to its walls.

Along the hard packed leaf blanketed path rode Baron Rutherford Rainecourt, the seventh of his lineage. He was clothed in the warmest of his scarlet red noble attire. It consisted of a felt down cloak and warm padded doublet, woven together by intricate stitched patterns of roses and other floral plants. Black spotted white furs lined the inside of the great red cloak; a sure sign of high birth. His leggings were cotton and gold embroidered. His fine leather boots once shining were spattered with dried mud and soil. Upon his head rested a red fur lined velvet cap of a prominent Redosian nobleman. A large golden chain bearing an attached medallion portraying the crest of his house rested around his neck. He was in his mid to late forties, and his gray dappled beard was at the moment, poorly groomed. His expression was stern and pompous. Baron Rainecourt was returning from a lengthy ride to the Rhove City, home of the Red Prince and the immense capital of the Kingdom of Redosia. The journey covered one thousand arduous miles of parkland, hills, and forest, so he was required to take a few weeks leave from his personal estate. Lord Ruth was churlish and morose as he and his retinue of guards reached the dirt clearing commonly referred to as the fairgrounds of the manor. The horses were fatigued and degenerate as they were ushered into their stable stalls. The stable hand, Barnsley, approached carrying two hefty squared hay bales toward the stable. He struggled as he spoke.

“Tis a pleasure to see your face milord, how faired your adherence in Rhove if I may ask?”

“It was ever so enlightening as always, our prince hath delivered yet another momentous speech to the lords of the realm, we are most grateful” replied Baron Ruth in a sarcastic tone, eager to rid himself of Barnsley’s presence.

“Well what has he said milord?”

“Oh, eh, well, political policy, as usual…now please tend to the horses they’ve had a long ride”. Barnsley nodded obediently and rested the bales among others. Rutherford wiped his brow of cold sweat and accumulated smut.

A warm blast of air angrily greeted the autumn winds of the fairgrounds as the gates of the great hall swung open. On either side of the great expanse were long shellacked ash wood dining tables, organized in rows. A central hearth crackled and fumed at far end of the space, illuminating and warming the typically chilly stone room. On either side of the hearth were two spiral stone stair cases that lead to the upper living spaces, and the chamber of the Baron. The staff present in the great hall hastily arose from their dining. Placing their fists to their chests with force, they saluted their master. Baron Ruth entered with a walk robust and pompous, but he was clearly enervated by what his staff could see. In his famished and weary condition he failed to address his subjects before entering the doorway of the stairwell that lead directly to his private chambers. Air streamed through his lips in a sigh as he paused for a moment before proceeding up the steps. His guards clad in mail and belted tabards of white and red followed suit. The stairway was cool and breezy, and wide enough for only one man at a time to ascend its steps. The red stain glass windows painted the stone with subtle crimson light. Baron Ruth slammed the iron banded door to his chamber leaving the guards to stand by outside. The guards awaited their lord patient and fearful of some imminent threatening situation.

Baron Ruth slammed his fists on his oaken dresser covered in dusty books and parchment. For only a brief moment the Baron was alone in his chamber. The heavy banded door reopened. The turning of its iron handle echoed in the corridor.

“Enter…quickly” ordered the Baron in a very terse manner. The guardsmen entered with their palms on the hilt of their swords. Their faces were cold and expressionless.