Syr Osytha of Hræfn Leah

[Osytha]

Syr Osytha of Hræfn Leah

Age  ~26

Gender  Female

Origin  Kingdom of Altalusia

Occupation  Knight Sworn of Dusk

I. History​

Be told: an act of violence and a death described herein.​

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Osytha was born on a chilly Noniruth morn in 324 EOD, to Merifrith, the local midwife of Hræfn Leah, in the Kingdom of Altalusia. The girl never knew her father, Syr Grymmund; he had been a brave and daring Knight of Anatheum, who’d felled blighted creatures and battled against rampaging reavers, a man whose courage and charity had protected the good folk of Altalusia. But when a foul monster emerged from the Balewood to steal away hapless souls in the dead of night, Syr Grymmund had sworn to end its reign of terror. He’d sallied forth into that sinister weald… and neither he, nor the devil-beast were ever seen again.

Needless to say that young Osytha loved hearing her mother’s stories about Syr Grymmund. Some other children around the village delighted in taunting her about her absent parent — you know, just the bog-standard viciousness that’s second nature to kids everywhere — but she held her head high. Her father had protected the realm; had slain evil and saved lives. Her father was a hero. Her father was Syr Grymmund.

Her mother was a midwife, though, and tried teaching Osytha to be the same. But the damage was done: Merifrith’s young daughter had no room in her brain for the icky, yucky business of delivering babes (in fact, some would posit she hadn’t much room in her brain in general). She wanted to become a Knight of Anatheum, just like her father. Merifrith kept telling her ‘no,’ but Osytha didn’t have room for that, either. She took to her lessons in medicine like a fish to Death Valley. Meanwhile, girl kept pestering old Mr Pellino down the way to take her on as his squire. No, he wasn’t a knight. But he’d been a soldier, and that was pretty close, right? At first, Caius Pellino would just put one of his atrociously bitter orange lollies in her palm and send her home. But the persistence of youth eventually won out, and, after discussing it with Merifrith, the adults decided to indulge her a little. If Osytha did well enough in her studies, and if she helped Mr Pellino with chores here and there, then sure. He’d teach her a few of the things he’d learned — and only because she seemed headed inevitably toward trouble with or without their intervention. Hopefully, the experience would get this whole silly business out of Osytha’s system, and she’d soon come to her senses.

Time went on, and things changed. Merifrith found a husband, which, you know. Good for her. Hroðgar the smith was a fine fellow. Osytha wanted to hate him, but honestly? She just couldn’t. He was patient and caring to them both, he made her mother very happy, as Merifrith did him, and, well — he was a blacksmith. He could probably forge swords and shit. Not that Osytha ever saw him make much else besides horseshoes (OK, so he was a farrier, not an armourer), but still. It was fascinating to watch him work, seeing everything involved not just in shaping the iron, but changing its very nature to perfectly match its purpose at the end. It was like watching another form of magic. Even so, that wasn’t enough to lure Osytha away from her calling — she kept up her end of the bargain with Caius, and so did he. She learned a bit about grappling, peasant stick, even a pinch of dagger-work for absolute emergencies. She learned a lot more about scrubbing floors and doing laundry. She also got a baby brother after a while there. Lucky little Leofric received a knight’s oath to protect him from danger, no matter how great and terrible. Merifrith said, that’s nice, you can start by protecting him from soiled nappies. Here’s a clean one.

And all the while, Osytha… well, she was trying with her mother’s lessons. Merifrith could at least see she was making an effort like she’d promised. But even with that, it was clear her daughter’s heart wasn’t in it — and that showed. The woman knew she had to make a choice: to raise a middling midwife, or let Osytha find her own path. She also knew it was no choice at all. If she became a midwife and wise woman like her mother, Osytha would have people’s lives in her hands, and mediocre doesn’t cut it then. Not by a long shot.

Hroðgar got talking with a couple of Knights Sworn soon after. They were passing through on their way back to Astenvale Monastery, and needed their horses re-shod. That afternoon, Merifrith came to her daughter and told her: if Osytha really, truly wanted it, if she was still absolutely sure, then Merifrith would present her to some Knights of Anatheum to take on as a prospect. But then, before the screech of joy could quite get past the child’s lips, her mother added a caveat: she must never mention that she is the child of Syr Grymmund. Their tryst, though it were born of true love, had still happened out of wedlock, and revealing such a thing would only besmirch her father’s honour. If Osytha wished to do this, she must make a solemn vow never to reveal this secret, mustn’t even mention his name, no matter what. She agreed — the last thing she wanted to do was sully the memory of Syr Grymmund. He was more than her father; he was her hero. And also, she was all about them solemn vows. They’re just so… so knight-y.

That’s how Osytha found herself standing before two figures at their home early the next day. There was less to it than she’d thought — no daring trials, no sacred ceremony. They were basically just making sure she was in good health and that she was willing (and checking with Merifrith that they actually had her permission, too — kidnappers, the Knights are not). The two syrs seemed satisfied, and just like that, Osytha was on her way to Astenvale Monastery. It was a tearful goodbye; her daughter was a handful, sure, but Merifrith still loved her dearly. And Osytha hadn’t really considered just how scary it would be to leave her home and family so far away, to suddenly live with complete strangers all around her. Yet, she still went.

Osytha thought she’d be fine. She’d learned all about the Knights through mother’s tales, and she’d been taught to fight by Mr Pellino. But she soon learned that she was not, in fact, as hot shit as she’d reckoned. Some of the other children had been there longer, had covered so much more ground than her. Many already knew how to read and write, with those from noble families often having been privately tutored before they even came to the monastery. And Osytha’s own knowledge on the order quickly proved to be a tad incomplete — apparently there was a lot more to becoming a Knight of Anatheum than swinging your sword at evildoers. There was literacy, and numeracy, and history, and philosophy, and boring lectures, and the tenets, and, like with Mr Pellino, chores. So many chores. Osytha was so busy, all the time. Nothing was how she’d imagined it, and every day was like a mad dash to try and close the gap between her and the others. One that usually just left her feeling as though she were scrabbling in place.

She might not have stuck with it if not for Syr Grymmund. Whenever Osytha thought about giving up, she immediately felt so ashamed. She didn’t want to disappoint her father, wherever he might be now. So she persevered.

That gap slowly dwindled. After some time, she even overtook a few of her peers. Never was the top of the class in anything, but she became a capable squire. Hitting rock bottom had been good for her; girl hadn’t broken, she’d bounced. Osytha was a little less headstrong, a little less fanciful. A little more willing to see things for how they really were, and not just how she imagined them to be. She knuckled down, and grew up.

Once she started trying, Osytha was surprised at how not-a-chore some of these things became. Turns out she actually liked reading. Something else she realised is that there’s often more than one story being told by the same words, intentional or not. She liked piecing things together through context, and uncovering the unseen web which connects more things together than people realise… and she also liked figuring out where such connections have been simply imagined. Sometimes it’s as simple as a word. Like, maybe the reason no one’s been able to agree on where one stretch in the Lay of Syr Tembriel took place is because ‘firth’ in this instance doesn’t mean an inlet of the sea, but is in fact a modernised spelling of the unrelated and archaic word ‘fyrhðe’ meaning ‘forest’ — which the author deliberately used because they wanted to liken the Balewood to a great ocean; “… that coal-swarthy meer, which whispering did devour the sun.” Syr Tembriel didn’t violate the laws of magic and teleport to the western coast just so he could enjoy a nice sunset. He lost sight of the sky beneath the thickest, deepest stretches of that forest, a forest as vast and fathomless as any sea. And then the author got a bit clever with some metaphor and wordplay, because poets are allergic to giving a straight answer, apparently.

Well, no one expected that pearl of wisdom when she dropped it on them in class. Seems there was a bit more room in that brain of hers than anyone had realised.

Osytha’s other surprise talent, though, had started to reveal itself even earlier on. She’d found herself gravitating to the monastery’s kennels and stables from the very beginning. It was… easier to make friends with the animals than with all those scary new people, and the hands there didn’t exactly complain about having another squire to put to work, either. Even once she made a few friends amongst her peers, girl still found time for the ones she’d made first in the hounds, the horses, and the hawks. Started to get a knack for handling the animals, which some Knights Sworn noticed, and before long she was being brought with them on a few hunts. Osytha helped wrangle the beasts, and in return they taught her a bit about tracking, how to navigate the wilds, of the things which lived and grew therein — and how one might hide one’s presence from them.

No surprise then that the Pursuits in which she proved strongest were Wild and Loch, and Merifrith’s tutelage had at least given her a head start with that of Life. Not that she was bad when it came to Flame and Death, exactly. But becoming a Pursuant in either probably wasn’t in her future. All in all, she proved competent enough that at the age of twenty-one, Osytha underwent the ceremony of the Twice-Lit Flame, took her oath, and entered into the Sanctum of Dusk. She was Osytha the squire no longer. Now she was Syr Osytha, Knight Sworn. The little girl’s dream had come true, but Osytha was a child no longer. She now knew that becoming a knight was not the end of the road — it was only the very start. Everything before this had just been preparation for the journey.

From then on, she went on missions. Not the low-risk, dry run exercises they let squires tag along for. Syr Osytha of Dusk and many a comrade in Dawn patrolled the Wylds, monitored movements of the Blight, lent aid mundane and magical to the small folk, even worked with the kingdom’s lords and ladies to reach equitable resolutions to their many, trifling disputes before such things came to bloodshed. From time to time, something corrupted by the Blight would emerge as a threat, and then Syr Osytha would draw sword, spear, and bow. Her experience no longer ended at sparring others with federschwerter under the careful supervision of other knights. She was battle-proven, now; had fought when the stakes were life and death. And in doing all that with another knight at her side, the bonds she had with her fellows only deepened. Now, more than friends, it felt like she had actual kin there at the monastery. Yes, for a while… it was good.

Then she killed someone.

They were no one special, really. But disease had taken their family from them, and when they suddenly didn’t have enough hands to work the land they’d leased from the local lord, they were replaced by folks who could. Homeless and deprived of their livelihood, unable to survive the coming winter on what meagre charity had been given to them, they’d resorted to burglary. Something went wrong, and burglary became a murder. Then more murders, as they were driven right to the fringes and resorted to highway robbery in order to survive.

Syr Osytha and Syr Kenneth were dispatched, and after a fortnight of investigation and tracking, they had their quarry cornered. It was clear they weren’t going down without a fight. What was the alternative? Submit to a trial and have to face the families of those they’d killed, just to hang at the end of it regardless? No, better to take their chances while they could, however slim the odds were when pitched against two Knights Sworn.

It wasn’t how she’d imagined it. Yes, this person was a thief and a murderer several times over, and was hell-bent on adding the knights to that tally if it meant they lived. But when the tip of Osytha’s blade opened up their assailant’s neck, as she looked down at the face which lay gasping and choking there on the ground… it didn’t look like evil. It looked like someone who was cold, and starving, and confused at how things had even got to this point, and just so — so scared. Scared they were all alone. Scared by what they’d become. Scared to feel themselves die.

None of it felt very knightly to Osytha. It just felt like a lot of people were dead, who hadn’t at all needed to die.

She continued to feel very un-knightly on their way back to Astenvale Monastery, and in the days which followed. All that purpose she’d taken for granted had evaporated away, and in its place, the question of ‘why?’ kept popping up in her mind, along with the memory of that desperate face. Osytha was even more lost than when she’d first arrived here. She needed help. She needed Syr Grymmund.

Not the mythic figure from her mother’s tall tales, mind you. She’d known for a long time now that Merifrith’s stories were fantasy versions of the truth, designed to keep a rambunctious child occupied. But the real Syr Grymmund must have had to deal with this. How had he managed it? She needed her father now more than ever, to help her understand. She hoped there was some piece of him still left here at the monastery. Maybe it was odd that she’d never gone looking before then, but… she’d taken that vow to her mother so seriously when she was young, had been too scared to do anything which might link her to the man. And in time, as she’d begun to really throw herself into her training, it just slowly disappeared from her mind. Until now. So she went to look through the monastery’s register, and she found something… odd.

Odd, in that she didn’t find anything at all.

No mention at all of a ‘Syr Grymmund’, not from any period of time that would actually make sense. That childhood vow of hers made Osytha hesitant to ask around at first, but something was obviously amiss. She had the feeling there was more going on than what Merifrith had told her, and she needed to know the truth. So, she worked up the courage to approach some of the more senior members of the order to see if any of them remembered him. Imagine how she felt as her query was met with confusion time and time again; there was, and never had been, a knight by that name and description in living memory.

That Syr Grymmund? Turns out he’d been bit of a white lie.

Osytha found out later that her real father had been a petty criminal from Crown’s Hold, some charming scoundrel who’d pulled the wool over Merifrith’s eyes. She’d moved there by herself for a short spell, apparently to try and further her medical training. Well, a naive country lass in the big bad city? She hadn’t stood a chance. The man knew exactly what to say to sweep her off her feet. But when some trouble from his past caught his scent and started making house calls on Merifrith — guilty by association, and all that — she hadn’t wanted to stick around to see if they’d make good on their threats. She’d snuck back out of the city, returning home to Hræfn Leah with her tail between her legs. Oh. And with a bun in the oven, too.

It was all a lie. Osytha had killed someone for a lie.

Oops.

Needless to say, she did not find all this as helpful as she’d hoped. How had she not seen it until now? The children’s taunts back home, the strange oath Merifrith had insisted upon, the way absolutely no one at Astenvale Monastery had ever mentioned his name. Osytha’s relationship with her mother became rather fraught for a while there. She spent a lot more time in thought, too. She wondered how things might have turned out if she’d taken up the family trade as a midwife after all. She also wondered what else she might have become if not a knight, what more peaceable callings might have caught her passion. She started to pay attention to them a lot more because of that — to the bakers, the weavers, the colliers, the farmers; all the ‘mundane’ folk she’d so desperately wanted not to be like when she was young. She began to take a more personal interest in the people with whom she crossed paths. And she quickly found that, everywhere she looked, people were a lot less mundane than she’d realised. Every trade has a bit of that blacksmith’s magic to it once you take a moment to stop and watch. From the hawk-eyed vigilance of a collier over their charcoal kiln, sensitive to the slightest changes in its smoke, to a brewer’s arcane process which turns plain old grain into the perfect pint. She got to see someone work a loom the other day. Who even came up with a thing like that? Well, the answer was just ‘people’. Normal, everyday people had taken a process and perfected it into a machine which weaves countless threads into unified cloth even as it unravels the mind to watch. People were pretty incredible all over, turns out. Then one day the landlord kicks that amazing person to the kerb, and so much talent, all that humanity, is lost.

This new perspective did eventually help Osytha see things from her mother’s point of view. The woman really had done what she thought was best, just, was at her wit’s end at the time and a bit short-sighted for it. Some days it’s easier to be understanding, and Syr Osytha has to admit that maybe that lie gave her a strength of purpose she’d have never found anywhere else. Other days, it’s easier to blame Merifrith for the face which comes back to haunt her in bleak moments, and for the ones which inevitably followed after. But she doesn’t want to lose her mother. There’s too much love between them for that. She stops by whenever she’s up that neck of the woods, to see how they’re all doing. Sometimes has a little souvenir pulled from some beastie to give young Leofric (Merifrith hates those grisly trophies, so of course Osytha always brings them along when she has one). And, slowly, things are getting better.

Syr Osytha thought her true journey had finally begun once she became a Knight of Anatheum. Now, she’s not so sure. She’s spent a long, long, time learning how to wield a sword, and she’d imagined the knight’s path would demand she perfect that art. But after what she’s seen, she’s left wondering: what if that’s wrong?

What if the best way to use a sword, is in learning how one might not wield it at all…?

II. Present Day​

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Syr Osytha continues with her duties as a Knight of Anatheum, much as already described. Within Astenvale Monastery itself, though, she has the further responsibilities in the rearing and training of its beasts, going on hunts, instructing the squires here and there, keeping on top of her martial training with the other knights, and attends the specialised lectures on the Pursuits. She also travels to places such as Cloud’s Keep and White Port from time to time where she can better learn news of current events, recent discoveries regarding the Shroud and the Scar, find other sources to fill gaps in the monastery’s own historical records, and so on. She brings all this back and collates it with the Knights’ extant collections so as to help keep them up-to-date.

She’s got her own horse, too. Forbítter is a fine, grisliard courser, seeming almost silver with his white-dappled grey coat, and sporting black points. He’s a bit of a menace mind you; doesn’t particularly like strangers, but won’t actually show it until those big chompers are suddenly coming down on an unsuspecting hand. Osytha was happy enough to lay claim to the cantankerous young fellow since she has the skills to handle him, and she left those more docile steeds for the ones as needed them. Forbítter has since come around to her, and they have quite an affectionate bond. Just, be aware that friendliness is exclusively reserved for Osytha plus a few trusted stablehands, so don’t go trying to pat him if you value your fingers.

The last member of the gang she picked up quite recently. Made the mistake of feeding a pathetic-looking stray on the streets of Cloud’s Keep, and the thing just sort of followed her everywhere she went after that, even right out the city. Wretched little creature was doing his best to keep up with Forbítter and didn’t stop even when the rain started bucketing down. Well, Osytha found them all some shelter beneath a sprawling old linden to wait it out. No sooner had she sat down when, wet and shivering, this tiny dog crawled into her lap, farted horrendously, and fell asleep. The other knights couldn’t pry little Guffy out her hands after that (and they did try). Thing continues to follow her wherever she goes, never content to be more than a room away. She even made a little basket to sit behind her saddle for when his wee legs get too tired on long trips. He’s also eating a lot better nowadays, so the smell isn’t nearly as bad. But, every now and then, he still lets loose something so utterly vile that other knights have begun wondering if the mongrel carries something of the Blight in those guts of his.