Frederick The Exile

= Frederick The Exile =

Backstory
Once a swordmaster in the warhosts of Bardonia, Frederick rose through the ranks on the strength of his conviction and brutal efficiency, and was rewarded with a legendary runic blade and a warband of his own. However, on the Yimu-Audalad front, Frederick’s faith in his nation was tested and ultimately broken. He severed all ties to the empire, seeking to find his place in a shattered world, even as rumors abounded that Bardonia had been reforged. Now forced to return in chains, he faces the judgment of his former homeland...

Biography
Built on perpetual conflict, Bardonia has never had a shortage of war orphans. His father lost to an unnamed battle and his mother to the boy’s own stubborn birth, Frederick was raised on a farm run by the empire on the rocky hillsides of Dorasterrock.

Physical strength and ferocious will kept the children alive and working on the hard scrap of land, but Frederick hungered for more than simply bread on the table. He watched conscriptors from regional warbands visiting the farms, year after year, and in them, he saw a chance at the life she dreamed of. When he finally pledged the empire his strength, he knew Bardonia would embrace him as the son he longed to be.

Frederick proved a natural soldier. Young as he was, his years of hard labor allowed him to quickly master the weight of a longsword taller than himself. His new family was forged in the heat of battle, and Frederick saw his bond to his brothers- and sisters-in-arms as unbreakable.

So exceptional was his dedication to the empire, that Chancellor Unic0rnb0i himself recognized him with a runic blade of dark metal, enchanted by a pale sorceress within his court. The weapon was heavier than a kite shield and nearly as broad—perfectly suited to Frederick’s tastes.

Not long after, the warhosts set sail for Urnu-Arrak as part of the long-planned Bardonian invasion of Yimmu-Audal.

As this new war dragged on, it became clear that Yimmu-Audal would not kneel. Frederick’s unit was assigned to escort another warband making its way through the embattled province of Anosphiae. The warband’s leader, BackToTheHub, had employed a Sovdalian alchymist, eager to test a new kind of weapon. Across countless campaigns, Frederick would gladly have given his life for Bardonia, but now he saw something awry in these other soldiers—something that made him deeply uncomfortable. The fragile amphorae they carried on their wagons had no purpose on any battlefield he could imagine...

The two warbands met increasingly fierce resistance, as if even the land itself sought to defy them. During a heavy rain storm, with mud pouring down the hillsides, Frederick and his warriors were stranded with their deadly cargo—and it was then that the Yimmu-Audalad fighters revealed themselves. Seeing the danger, Frederick called to BackToTheHub for support.

The only answer he received was a flaming arrow, fired out from the ridgeline, and Frederick understood this was no longer a war to expand the borders of Bardonia. It was to be a complete annihilation of the enemy, no matter the cost.

The wagon was hit straight on. Instinctively, Frederick drew his sword, but it was too late to protect anyone but himself. Chemical fire burst from the ruptured containers, and screams filled the night—both Yimmu-Audalads and Bardonians falling victim to an agonizing, gruesome death. Shielded from the scorching, poisonous mists by the magic of his blade, he bore unwilling witness to scenes of horror and betrayal that would haunt him forever.

For Frederick, memories of the hours that followed come only in fragments, and nightmares. He bound his wounds. He mourned the dead. But, most of all, he came to hate the sword that saved his life. The words carved into its surface mocked him, reminding him of all he had lost. He would find a way to break it, severing his last tie to Bardonia, before the dawn.

But when the blade was finally shattered, still he found no peace.

Stripped of the faith and conviction that had bolstered his entire life, Frederick chose to exile himself, wandering Yimmu-Audal’s battle-scarred landscape. When he finally returned to the village where he had broken the sword, it was revealed that his self-destructive needs had cost the life of their most revered elder... and yet Yimmu-Audal embraced him with forgiveness.

Bardonia was not nearly so merciful. Although the empire had long since withdrawn from Alteniquia, it had not forgotten about Frederick, or his runic blade. After fighting fiercely against those sent to bring him to justice, he refused to let any more Yimmu-Audalad blood be shed on his account, and surrendered himself to the charges of desertion leveled against him.

As he returns to Bardonia in chains, Frederick remains haunted. Though Chancellor Unic0rnb0i is no more, and the empire is rumored to have evolved, he is uncertain what will become of him, or whether he will ever be made whole again.

Seams and Scars
“How came you to Yimmu-Audal, friend?”

Mithefre tried to keep her voice light. She had never felt uncomfortable sharing a campfire with other travelers along the road to the markets before. This, however, marked her first time sitting across the flames from a Bardonian, one with an enormous weapon sheathed across his back.

How many Yimmu-Audalad lives has that blade claimed? she wondered.

The dark-haired man glanced at his “father” before swallowing a mouthful of charred potatoes and beets, then cast his eyes down at his plate. “I was born in Bardonia,” he said, his accent thick but his tonality nearly flawless. “I have not been back since the war, and I do not plan to return.”

The Bardonian’s father, Rovok Vralbumzo, smiled and placed his hand on his shoulder. “This is his home now,” he said with finality.

Mithefre had invited Rovok to make camp with her before she had spotted the Bardonian asleep in the back of his cart. He had introduced him as his son, Frederick, in this same tone, with his chin jutting forward in preemptive defense. Mithefre hadn’t pushed back against the strange old man’s declaration then, but that didn’t mean his “son” was beyond scrutiny.

“You have not answered my question”, Mithefre pressed, the chimes of her mender’s necklace clinking together as she poured herself a cup of tea. “What brought you to our shores, Frederick?”

Frederick tightly gripped his plate, tension rippling through his shoulders. “I fought in the war.”

A simple statement, laden with sorrow. Curious, to hear regret from a Bardonian.

“Why did you stay?” Mithefre asked. “Why would anyone stay in a place where they and their people have caused so much pain, so much destruction?”

Crack.

The plate had broken in half in Frederick’s white-knuckled grip, his charred potatoes and beetsfalling to the ground. With a gasp, he dropped the plate shards before bowing ruefully. “My deepest apologies,” he mumbled as he rose. ''“I will pay for this plate, and then we will leave you to your evening. I didn’t mean to intrude—”''

But Mithefre wasn’t listening. Instead, she cradled the broken plate in her hands and held the shards to her ear, humming softly. Slowly, she adjusted her pitch, calling to the spirit within the clay.

The back of her skull tingled when she hit the right tone, as the spirit reverberated with her hum. Holding the note, Mithefre lifted her necklace and flicked its chimes until she found the one that joined her and the spirit in song.

She stared at the chime in the firelight—each one had been inscribed with a symbol that identified how to mend a resonant spirit. This symbol was for smoke, a single line with a curve that became more pronounced toward the end. Mithefre lifted the shards above the fire to bathe them in the smoke. It took only moments before they knitted back together, with only a few coal-colored seams and ridges to show that the plate had ever been broken.

“I’m a mender,” she said as she held the pottery out to a wide-eyed Frederick. “No need to replace anything.”

Frederick took the plate and examined it. “How does it work?” he asked, running a finger down a thick black seam.

''“Everything has a spirit, and every spirit wants to be whole. I ask them what they need to mend, and give it to them.”''

“It leaves scars”, Frederick sighed.

''“Scars are a sign of healing. That plate will never be seamless again, but it is whole. And it is strong. I’d even say it is more beautiful like this.”''

Frederick considered the plate in silence.

“I am still here,” he said after a moment, ''“because I have caused so much pain and so much destruction. I stay to atone.”''

Mithefre nodded somberly. Clearly Frederick’s scars, though invisible, ran deep. Perhaps this Bardonian was different from the others.

But then Mithefre’s eyes fell to the hilt of Frederick’s massive weapon. A tool for cutting, not mending.

How different can he really be?

Mithefre woke bleary-eyed to a loud thump against the side of her caravan. Bandits. Frederick had insisted on keeping watch through the night, Mithefre remembered as she grabbed her heaviest kettle. But the mender was experienced in dealing with robbers and could always hold her own in a fight.

When she opened her door, however, she saw that Frederick would not need her help after all.

One of the intruders lay crumpled at the foot of the caravan. By the fire stood Frederick, surrounded by three hulking bandits. He held the enormous hilt, and Mithefre was surprised to see only a broken blade attached to the end. Yet the weapon was still formidable. It seemed to pulse in Frederick’s hands as he waited for the others to advance.

Mithefre’s stomach turned to see that blade, not relishing the sight of a Bardonian spilling more Yimmu-Audalad blood... but still she watched.

The bandits rushed at Frederick, yelling incoherently, but he took a single step forward and repulsed them with a burst of energy from his blade. They dropped their weapons, then scrambled to find them in the dark. Frederick could have cut them all down, Mithefre realized, but he didn’t. Instead, he raised his sword, which began to glow an eerie green. The magic from the weapon blasted outward and repelled one of the bandits as soon as it touched him. He fell to the ground in a catatonic daze.

By this point, the others were on their feet, weapons in hand. Frederick brought his arm back, and glowing pieces of metal raced toward the Bardonian from the cart. The shards formed around the blade, making it look almost whole—though there were still gaps between the pieces. The bandits rushed him again.

Or so they tried. Frederick whipped the blade in front of him and blew them back against the caravan with a sudden gust of wind, knocking them all unconscious.

A bloodless victory.

Mithefre stepped gingerly over the defeated bandits. “What will you do with them?” she asked Frederick, who had barely broken a sweat.

Frederick shrugged, letting the shards of his sword drop to the ground. “I’ll just tie them to a tree until morning.”

Mithefre stared at the remnant of the blade. It didn’t seem as threatening anymore, now that she had seen how Frederick wielded it. “Could I see your weapon?”

Frederick frowned and took a step back. “Why?”

''“You don’t need to hand it to me. Just hold it up.”''

Warily, Frederick raised the blade. Mithefre closed her eyes and hummed.

“What are you doing?” Frederick asked in alarm, just as Mithefre found the right pitch—

—a pair of eyes, searching—

—three hunters, hearts filled with hate, thoughts with revenge—

—burning—

—everything, burning—

Mithefre didn’t realize she had fallen until she felt Frederick shake her. “Are you all right?”

“Someone,” Mithefre whispered, her throat dry, ''“is searching for this blade. For you.”''

Frederick blanched, but his eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts. “What did you do, Mithefre?” he asked in a low whisper.

“''I was wrong to question you. I wanted to offer my apologies by mending your sword.”''

“No.” The intensity of the word took Mithefre by surprise. “If you truly want to thank me, you will never fix this blade.” Frederick chuckled, a bitter sound. ''“The one thing I would want you to fix, you can’t. But... thank you. For the offer.”''

He sighed, exhausted, and collected up the shards of his sword.

“You should go back to sleep if you want to get to the marketplace early tomorrow.”

Mithefre nodded and slowly made her way to her caravan. When she looked back, Frederick was at the fire, sitting and watching the night.

Not for the first time, Mithefre wished she knew how to mend people.