Rival Captains | Godfrey & Alaric
They'd been boys together. And, somehow as Alaric marched out of his military tend after the second to last day of the games, it was the child Godfrey saw briefly in his face, again.
Alaric had been a mere five years of age, and Godfrey a wizened seven, when they'd first met all those years ago. After the amicable surrender of Kolchis, and the grand welcome the people who had overthrown the god-king had given the emperor -- Amira, herself, presenting the dead monarch's severed head to Roderick on one of the god-king's own silver platters -- Roderick had seen fit to bring the Calainons to his court. Amira -- though she claimed to be four years older -- was a mere thirteen years of age at the time, Godfrey seven, and little Tristan only two. Godfrey's sister had made a fine show of toting around her baby brother with one arm, her other hand clutching Godfrey's: last vestiges of an ancient, storied royal House, and full of healthy sons to contrast Roderick's own childlessness. All he had to show for his marriage was a buried child. The first expression Godfrey had ever seen on Empress Elaine's face had been a false smile; the second -- a scowl. Amira had been beaming, and Roderick...Roderick hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her. Godfrey's own glance had shifted to the others at the table.
He could still remember the first moment he'd clapped eyes on Alaric, close at the Emperor's side. How big his eyes had appeared in his face at that age, wide and watchful, and Godfrey had smiled. He'd broken free of Amira's hold, and hurried up to the child, remembering to bow, before telling him that he thought they had very serious business, indeed, to conduct: Alaric simply had to show him all the very best spots to play hide and seek. It had been a bit of a game-within-a-game. Amira had made it clear that she expected her brother to befriend Roderick's, but it hadn't proven a difficult or odious task -- it had, in fact, proven great fun, and within only a few minutes he'd forgotten that he'd first approached him out of a sense of duty moreso than one of entertainment.
Yet, it had proven the trajectory of their entire lives, really, that strange conflict of duty and affection. And, upon the morrow, such was to be made manifest by the games, themselves. They'd drawn their names some time ago, and Godfrey and Alaric were to go toe-to-toe. That Roderick would undoubtedly prevail -- Godfrey, for one, did not mean to beat him even if he could -- in the group melee was a matter beyond question, but the conflict between Alaric's team and Godfrey's would doubtless prove real enough, and each of the two men had been named captain of his own group.
"Lords Stafford and Malconaire," began Godfrey, grinning, as he clapped Alaric on the back. "And who can say what your mystery knight might offer with all those antlers...I do not envy your task upon the morrow."
Godfrey's own Astairan contingent was not much more promising (and perhaps, in truth, worse), featuring the smallest, skinniest boy he had ever seen outside of starving beggars, his apparently invulnerable horse (that was something, at least, if a touch unnerving in its own way), and a man who looked like he had possibly never bathed but who did, decidedly, give his all, having once bitten Arthur to get the upperhand, on a previous day. Still, to even out his odds, Godfrey could boast Tristan and Sebastian, both young and redoubtable knights in their own right. Alaric, on the other hand, filled out his ranks with Bartholomew who, though undeniably a doughty warrior in his day, was also the oldest man to have entered in the tournament that year.
"Still, to an accomplished general such as yourself, doubtless these obstacles will prove as nothing." He winked, with an encouraging grin, hoping to wring the hint of a smile from his ever-serious friend. Such expressions he always viewed as little triumphs, greatly to be prized -- more so than any trophy he might garner tomorrow...particularly given that such might prove to complicate matters regarding a certain act of thievery tomorrow.
He paused, mischief glittering in his eyes. "Do you imagine a single night will prove sufficient to teach my Astairans to speardance?"
Kolchis was known for its so-called Speardancers, legions trained with specialized weapons made from a particular wood that grew only in Kolchis, which enabled their spears to be used as such, as well as enabling them to be used as quarterstaffs and javelins and everything of the kind, when needed -- even famously utilized for pole vaulting in a particular battle, a century ago. It was said that the method of fighting looked much like a dance, when performed skillfully (and thus swiftly and flexibly), with fighters whirling and bounding, which was the origin of the name. It was a weapon, and a method of fighting, that had once led the god-kings' legions to conquering near as much as Roderick now had, centuries later, and it was a martial art known to take a lifetime to achieve. Godfrey was an accomplished Speardancer, and Tristan could creditably perform the basics (though he had chosen, largely, to focus his training more in standard Varmont knightly practices), but they were alone on their team proficient in this art.
"The Astairan horse," he deadpanned. "Strikes me as particularly promising, I think...Though, admittedly, the inability to grip a spear may prove challenging. But no doubt we shall amaze you all, come the morn. The spear-vaulting should prove particularly impressive. What do you think? Perhaps I shall leave off all this lord-ing business and join a circus with an Astairan equine, instead, if all goes well. I think I've acquired showmanship, enough, to pull it off, don't you?"
