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Two Kings


Margrave

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It started in a time long past human memory; a tribe, born of the marriage of two disparate lovers (or so long disputed legend had it); in a place, and possibly a land mass, long lost to the ravages of the ages, an obscure collection of bloodlines nominally celtic began to travel together. These families, descendents of that ancient tribe, were said to be its last remnants after a terrible calamnity forced the survivors of an unknown event to flee for a new home.

Over the long ages, they gained a reputation for being wanderers, fierce combatants, vagabonds and rabble rousers, but also for a penchant of gathering in others left behind by the shattering of nations and empires, collecting them under their family banner. In time, they gained a name, one gained while dwelling in the border lands of two great states: The Marchar.

Many are the stories of that now diminished clan.  The heroes of recent eras (though none for an unknown number of years, thanks to the Great Collapse), bore names like Khendon and De Luit; the first, the last King of Camberlain and Lord of the Marchar, the last true Throne to hold the Wandering Isles as its home. The second, a young noble in exile along with his people after the fall of the last Home of the Marchar, gained fame for service, loyal and faithful to a nation which at one time transversed the Globe from the Baltic to the Pacific territories; a soldier, a diplomat, an aristocrat, and a philosopher all at once, He held the title of Keeper, one of the last to do so credibly in the days of the last Gathering, the last time a large number of the Marchar lived together.

Forced into disparate exile and near extinction, the Marchar wandered for many years, before returning to their sacred island, fighting in whatever armies would take them, seeking no loyalty but that of coin and comrades. They became a myth, a dream, and then a whisper. It had seemed that they had been lost to the obscurity of ages.

And yet...they remained, a slow gathering of the remaining families and kinsman forming in the southern Island of Camberlain, what outsiders called New Zealand.  And in a small village in the mountains, a conference gathered, the sons of the resurgent Marchar.

 

 

They were soldiers, travelers, far wanderers by trade; each of them had gathered here for a purpose: To reclaim the lands of Camberlain. Though all remained masked, and came and went in secrecy, one man, wearing the blank masque, held sway: The Keeper. Behind that mask was a youthful face, a ruddy complexion, and eyes that had seen the struggles of his people through an age of suffering and degradation.

 

His name had been subsumed by rite and ritual. Instead, he only bore the name of his forebear, and the heirdom to the Kingdom lost in time:

 

His name was Margrave Khendon.

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It started in a brothel.
Born screaming and mewling to a cold and desperate, Luey (formally, Luis) was born into the arms of one of the comfort women in the namless town she hailed from. It was a cold, and bitter land; so to was his early life, raised among the street walkers and the working women of Barrows-In-Furness. Kindness was fleeting in those days; both whores and their hanger ons suffered, especially the lowly children of Barrows. It was there that Luey first learned to fight.
He started off the same as any of the other "rats" of Barrows: around the age of seven, boys were recruited, willingly or no, into street gangs. These terrible crucibles of human experience were the recruit farms for older, more established criminal enterprises. Like most, his first few months consisted of getting his teeth knocked in by any street tough who thought it was amusing to beat children. The crimes he was privy to, party to, and suffered by became too many to name very quickly. As he came into his own, however, helped along by the viscious beatings, it was he who found victims and made them suffer. By the time he was 14, he'd helped kill a man in a brawl, stolen a few hundred quid, drank, smoked riot weed, acted as a mule and a messenger. It was in that fourteenth year of his life that his mother, climbing finally from the pit of despair and having been quit of the business for some time,  pulled Luey out of Barrows, to a better, cleaner life.

Alas, it was not to be.  After years of hoarding every penny away, Luey and his mother were finally out; living to the south, when a knock came to the door. Agents at the service of the government seized the young boy, removing him from the home, whisking him away. DNA tests were performed by men in pale white labcoats. In dull monotone, it was explained to him that he, Luey, was a Windsor, a real royal! He was whisked away to a country estate, like something out of a dream. Spending his days in relative luxury, Luey counted himself fortunate; so what if he still had to go and talk to those doctor's who'd unveiled his bloodline, or be subjected to hours of strange tests he couldn't remember or classes taught in a strange way. Finally, it seemed he was safe.
Years passed, and though the Royal Family never publically acknowledged him or reached out privately to show they were aware of his existence, Luey held out hope. The country estate faded in the dim rear view, and the men in lab coats slowly dissapeared from his life; at the age of 17, he fled it to join the Army. When he joined the Army, serving as a poor dumb grunt along with all the rest of the "commoner filth", as he initially thought of them, he thought for sure it would gain him fame. When four years and as many deployments failed to make them notice him. Finding himself discharged and living in the Nordisk Rike he sought gainful employment again, and found it.

The years since have been a mystery to the public record until his triumphant seizure of what is left of the British Throne. Acknowledged only in New Zealand, he has set his sights on Empire building, and will not rest until he has spread the name of Luis Windsor in awe and terror to the rest of the world.

 

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