[Story] A Southern Pilgrim

[Tarjei Einhornsson]

An old man, clad in robes of sky-blue climbed The Great Stair - the stairway leading to the front gate of Kvitfjellen. A breeze gently swayed his sprawling white beard, but wasn't enough to disturb his wide-brimmed conical hat as he rose higher and higher up the mountain. It wasn't long, however, before several men of The White Guard met him as he approached the three-quarters mark of the ever-rising stairs. A curious blend of old and new, they wore the ancient armors of polished silver and mithril-winged helmets, while also carying the menacing, high-caliber machine guns of the current age. The guards' armor glinted in the pale Autumn sun, before a loud voice rang in the crisp air -

"Stop!" one of the guards said, "I am Captain Bjørn Yngvesen, Warden of the Gate. State your business in Kvitfjellen."

"Business? Do I appear as a merchant would, Captain Bjørn son of Yngve?" quipped the old man, who's acerbic nature struck the Captain off guard.

"Wh---? What is it you want, then, eh?" asked the Captain, walking further down the step, having no patience for such antics, "I'll throw you back down these damned stairs if you don't serious up!"

"You'd do such a thing? Be it out of anger or loyalty to whatever title the clan of Einhorn heaps onto themselves now?" responded the old man, who's comments now visibly angered the Captain.

"Now see here!" exclaimed Captain Yngvesen, "State your business or I really will have you escorted off this mountain!"

The Captain was quite serious about this threat, however - signaling his guards to advance forward and join him.

"Very well, I am... a pilgrim. I seek speech with Tarjei Einhornsson," the old man stated, having felt the charm of harassing the strutting captain evaporate with the sound of the guards' armor clinking towards him.

"That is Grand Marshal to you, old man," the Captain rebuked him, clutching his belt in an authoritative and posturing manner, "But none may see him, not without his summons. So if you do not have a letter of invitation, my guards will be seeing you back down the mountain now."

A few seconds passed and no such letter was produced by the old man. However, before the Captain's guards could secure the man to be escorted back down the stairs, he produced something astounding - a signet ring bearing a unicorn's head. Such a signet ring was given only to those of direct lineage from the line of Kings and Grand Kings of Normark. For some wandering old man who had spent the last five minutes amusing himself with the harassment of a pompous guard to have such a trinket was, to say the least, incredulous.

Meanwhile, the Grand Marshal was alerted of the old man's presence, as was customary for any situation where uninvited guests were involved. The head of State Security had also just happened to be present, who was convening with the Grand Marshal on matters of the intrusion of subversive foreign media.

“Your Great Excellency, I am... concerned,” stated High Marshal Øyeborg, “Some old codger in off the streets? Reeks of trouble.”

“That's paranoia talking. However, that is what you're paid for,” Grand Marshal Einhornsson said, sitting back in his chair.

“Indeed, and random visitors are, if anything, a cause for at least a degree of paranoia – signet ring or no,” Øyeborg expounded, “A ring is a ring, you know. Any CNC machine could replicate such a thing to exacting detail. It need only appear the genuine article long enough for something bad to happen.”

The Grand Marshal sat contemplatively in his chair, striking a match on the bottom of his shoe – one could immediately tell that this was a regular habit from the oddly shaped mark of wear. Gently waving the flame over his favorite tobacco in the pipe his father had given him decades ago, he let out a billowing puff of smoke into the air. The blend was a homogenous one of Væringheim Cavendish, named so for the sole region which produced the spicy sweet tobacco. Considering it was one of the lost provinces, it was an exceedingly rare and pricey commodity. Even with Einhornsson's far-reaching authority, it was one of the few things beyond his reach, relying on the rather large reserve his father had stock-piled before The Great Troubles.

“I will see him, I think” Einhornsson finally said, motioning to call several aides over, “Prepare the Secure Meeting Room and show him in – we will see what he has to say.”

“Yes, Your Great Excellency, as you command,” his chief aide stated.

The Secure Meeting Room was a room specifically designed for meetings between the Grand Marshal and those which aren't trusted to be in his presence unrestrained. It was a fairly small room, somewhat arranged like a prison's meeting room. The room itself was partitioned by a ten centimeter thick wall of a special rolled and hardened resin – it could withstand even a 12.5 millimeter round at least once. Communication was facilitated by means of a linked telephone which passed through a digital recorder, ensuring that the conversation was recorded in high fidelity. And of course the visitor's room was never unguarded two guards and unmonitored by video recorders.
In the meantime, one of the guards with the old man had just received word of the Grand Marshal's wishes. He was told that he was to be shown in under heavy guard and escorted to a meeting room. His signet ring was also confiscated to be inspected by Einhornsson himself. Oddly enough, however, the old man was quite cooperative at this point, offering no resistance or even an acerbic remark. They walked down the path of gray-white square stones for several yards, finally coming to the main entrance to Kvitfjellen. The ornate mithril gilded oak wood door swung upon, where they were greeted by a second contingent of guards, who would take over the escort of the old man so that the others could return to their duties.

Arriving in the Secure Meeting Room, the old man was met with the sight of the Grand Marshal himself on the other side of the pane, sitting in a chair. Einhornsson motioned to pick up the receiver of the other phone. Picking it up, the old man waited for the Grand Marshal to speak first. He was carefully inspecting the ring which had been confiscated.

“This looks to be genuine, it seems,” he stated, “I find it... astounding that someone apparently in off the streets to have such a treasure – a real signet ring of Einhorn.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” chuckled the old man, finally choosing to speak.

“The ring, or you?” Einhornsson asked, laying it down onto the small table beside his chair.

“I will not confound you with riddles or games. The ring, I assure you, is indeed genuine,” the old man expounded, taking off his large wool hat, revealing his face, “I refer, of course, to me. Do you not recognize me? I have aged considerably since our last meeting, but I can honestly say I don't look terribly different. I would be offended had our contact remained constant.”

The Grand Marshal froze in his chair, for indeed the face was quite recognizable – it was that of his Uncle's, the Duke of Hamarrfell Bernhard Einhornsson. Strange as it may be, it was him, as though a ghost had welled up out of the past, the finer days of Normark.

“I have traveled quite far to reach you, actually,” he continued, “Only by the charity of many have I actually reached you. I've come to inquire as to why the better portion of our realm is in shambles and yet... it seems you have time to cultivate a merger with a nation on the other side of this damnable planet.”

“We were failing! We were able to stand on our own for quite some time but if we wanted to regain anything further south, we would need help,” Einhornsson explained, being confronted by his Uncle, “I foresaw no other means to facilitate the regaining of our territories following the civil war. I realize that it's left a lot out but, it is an agonizingly slow process.”
“Agonizing, yes. Impossible on our own? No, hardly” his Uncle retorted, “You had made a small push south but it wasn't far enough it seems. Many wish to return to the banner of this realm. They put this responsibility on you.”

“Indeed, it is my responsibility, but I am no miracle worker,” Einhornsson agreed, leaning back into his chair a little, “We're regaining our strength, we have more aid now. Soon we'll push south again to regain land.”

“You know, a month ago I was walking through the bombed out streets of my city, which was once a shining metropolis of the south,” Bernhard began, “Mortar carters, buildings burned out, what is left is barely usable by the families which still reside there. You aren't going after empty, wiped-clean land – people still live there, your people! You inherited that responsibility from your father, no matter what form of government you are a part of. You have a responsibility to every Norse man, woman and child whether they are within your borders or outside of them.
The Grand Marshal was once again silent, unable to respond to such words. He gently scratched his chin and sat straight up in his chair.

“And what of Cerulean insurgents? They still roam free south of our borders,” stated Tarjei, “Some years ago, when we had our first stretch back southward, we encountered a few pockets of Ceruleans.”

“Dead and dying!” exclaimed Bernhard, “They haven't been a force to recon with since the war. Your father was right, we provided those people with stability and now that that era is over, they far too busy fighting each other for power. I literally drove or walked from Hamarrfell to here without incident – they aren't a threat.

“They're damned savages,” Tarjei proclaimed, sighing heavily, “Three ages of stability we game them, but that isn't relevant anymore.”

The two continued conversing for another hour before Tarjei arranged for his uncle to be housed in a manner befitting any of the former royal family members. His arrival was indeed a ghost from the past, the brother of his father, a former Duke, has traveled far to plead with the Grand Marshal to again push further southward. It seemed as though the south wasn't as abandon as anyone had thought, especially if any of the Einhorn family still dwelt there. If many of the cities were still populated, it was most certainly the duty of the Grand Marshal to ensure that all Norse people are brought back under their rightful banner. Anything else would be nothing short of one of the world's largest cases of willful negligence.

[Emir of Raspur]

(I hadn't noticed this until now but an interesting story nonetheless. Shall we muster a force for an expedition southwards?)

[Tarjei Einhornsson]

Yes indeed. I am thinking the following small force from the Normarksgarde should be able to handle whatever little resistance any misguided Ceruleans might offer.

2nd Panzer Battalion
2nd Pansergrenader Battalion
1st Shocktrooper Battalion
1st Air Assault Battalion
1st Airlift Battalion

I feel that being heavy on the air units will be necessary due to the fact that dealing with a civilian population that may have pressing medical needs as well as general relief aid. As such, the 1st Airlift Battalion will actually be carrying medical supplies and medical personnel. If the intelligence provided by the former Duke is correct, then this force will simply be mopping things up and reestablishing our governance over such historical territories.