09-27-2022, 01:25 AM
The sound of traditional Loravian folk music fills the air around an old, dilapidated manor located away from most sources of civilization. Men and women dressed in their ancestors' colorful, flowing clothes dance with one another while children play in the grass and food roasts over a large fire. Today is an important day - when initiates officially join the ranks of the cadres.
The manor had once been the estate of a Vertanskan noble family tasked with administrating the March of Loravia. Centuries ago, it was confiscated and given to its current inhabitants as a reward for loyal service to the Czar. The dragoons of the cadres, originally a knightly order tasked with defending against Otikan marauders in the 12th century, had acquired a fearsome reputation for personally guarding the royal family and harshly repressing revolts under the Dual Monarchy. The cadres had sided against the revolution and lost many of their rights and autonomy as punishment.
Today, however, old grudges were not on their mind. Dressed in ceremonial outfits, sporting large plumes of feathers from their hats, and carrying the saber-and-carbine of old, the men of the cadres compete against one another in martial showmanship. Horseback riding, wrestling, and sharpshooting competitions are all a way for one to prove one's sect as superior to another. The banners of each cadre dance in the wind, and from a balcony overlooking the courtyard, the most famous man in all Loravia emerges.
Valters Freimanis, the Wolfhound, cut an imposing figure silhouetted against the setting sun. Wearing an ornate cuirass and the pelt of a giant bear around his neck, the man leading the cadres waved to the crowd below. Myths and legends surrounded the Wolfhound, claiming he got the nickname after being raised in the wild or killing one with his bare hands. Many claimed he was the reincarnation of the cadre's past heroes. Although much of his past was murky, Freimanis was the personal bodyguard of Prince Ambros before the revolution and had proven more than capable of leading the cadres in the decades following.
As the crowd below marvels at him, a rusty pick-up truck approaches the back gate to the manor. A guard walks towards the man driving the car, waving at him. "What do you have there, Stepas?" He's speaking casually, rifle slung over his shoulder as he lifts a tarp concealing several unmarked crates.
"Another homecoming gift from our mysterious benefactor. The boss got the coordinates a few days ago - we found it hidden in a cave off the coast.." The driver replies.
The guard nods slowly before motioning to the manor. "Alright, go and park outside. The boss will want to know it got here safely, but he's entertaining the others right now. Go and grab a drink, and enjoy the celebration. We'll put it in the armory with the rest of the packages."
The driver grunts in acknowledgment. "Be careful. It's heavy. I had to load the damn thing myself and ferry it over here, so I think you guys are getting the easy job here." His companion laughs, waving him off.
The manor had once been the estate of a Vertanskan noble family tasked with administrating the March of Loravia. Centuries ago, it was confiscated and given to its current inhabitants as a reward for loyal service to the Czar. The dragoons of the cadres, originally a knightly order tasked with defending against Otikan marauders in the 12th century, had acquired a fearsome reputation for personally guarding the royal family and harshly repressing revolts under the Dual Monarchy. The cadres had sided against the revolution and lost many of their rights and autonomy as punishment.
Today, however, old grudges were not on their mind. Dressed in ceremonial outfits, sporting large plumes of feathers from their hats, and carrying the saber-and-carbine of old, the men of the cadres compete against one another in martial showmanship. Horseback riding, wrestling, and sharpshooting competitions are all a way for one to prove one's sect as superior to another. The banners of each cadre dance in the wind, and from a balcony overlooking the courtyard, the most famous man in all Loravia emerges.
Valters Freimanis, the Wolfhound, cut an imposing figure silhouetted against the setting sun. Wearing an ornate cuirass and the pelt of a giant bear around his neck, the man leading the cadres waved to the crowd below. Myths and legends surrounded the Wolfhound, claiming he got the nickname after being raised in the wild or killing one with his bare hands. Many claimed he was the reincarnation of the cadre's past heroes. Although much of his past was murky, Freimanis was the personal bodyguard of Prince Ambros before the revolution and had proven more than capable of leading the cadres in the decades following.
As the crowd below marvels at him, a rusty pick-up truck approaches the back gate to the manor. A guard walks towards the man driving the car, waving at him. "What do you have there, Stepas?" He's speaking casually, rifle slung over his shoulder as he lifts a tarp concealing several unmarked crates.
"Another homecoming gift from our mysterious benefactor. The boss got the coordinates a few days ago - we found it hidden in a cave off the coast.." The driver replies.
The guard nods slowly before motioning to the manor. "Alright, go and park outside. The boss will want to know it got here safely, but he's entertaining the others right now. Go and grab a drink, and enjoy the celebration. We'll put it in the armory with the rest of the packages."
The driver grunts in acknowledgment. "Be careful. It's heavy. I had to load the damn thing myself and ferry it over here, so I think you guys are getting the easy job here." His companion laughs, waving him off.
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