The land of Omois, a lively tapestry of rolling hills and thriving hamlets, was cradled in nature's embrace, gracefully nestled by the winding Marne; Its beauty frequently understated, but undeniable as soon as witnessed. For centuries, the counts of the House of Omois had steered those lands with a gentle and equitable hand. Their rule, marked by an extremely rare blend of justice and kindness, garnered an enduring loyalty that transcended class and creed, binding nobles, peasants, and clergymen in a rare shared devotion to their land and lords.
About seven years ago, the rulership in Omois fell to Robert, the sole progeny of Herbert. At the tender age of twenty-two, Robert's ascension was of course expected, but filled with initial concerns. Known more for his daring escapades beyond his father's dominions than for any aptitude in governance, Robert was famous for his adventurous recklessness, a clear contrast to the traditional rulers of Omois, his father included. His antics, however, were not without charm: With a natural hero's charisma, an alluring silver tongue, and a swordsman's grace and skill, he earned the begrudging admiration from everyone.
Despite his apparent unsuitability for leadership, it was widely believed that Robert would eventually scale down his wanderlust, trading the thrill of adventure for the stability of court life and a suitable, beautiful bride, before his father, strong like a bull, passed away. Thus, the people of Omois watched the young lad with a mixture of amusement and anticipation, waiting for their future count to emerge from the cocoon of his youthful self.
Fate, as it every so often does, however, dealt a swift and unforeseen blow to the House of Omois: Herbert, the stout and seemingly invincible count, passed away under causes unknown, leaving his realm in a state of quiet shock. This sudden demise thrust the young and intrepid Robert into a role he was barely prepared for, forcing him to exchange his light cloak of adventure for the heavy mantle of rulership far sooner than anyone had anticipated.
The untimely demise of Herbert marked a profound turning point for his son. In the wake of his father's death, a remarkable transformation began to develop within the young count: Gone was the reckless adventurer, replaced by a figure of earnest intent. In a move that surprised many, Robert almost immediately convened the small council, a gesture symbolising his readiness to embrace the full weight of his duties. Displaying a keen desire to learn, absorbing the wisdom of his advisors, delving into the intricacies of governance, and even showing a genuine interest in the welfare of his people, the people of Omois began to see in Robert a reflection of his ancestors, a potential return to the just and fair rule they had grown used to.
Merely two months into his unexpected reign, Robert took the decision that would define his early tenure as count: Finally displaying the impulsiveness everyone was expecting, he chose to align himself with the even more impetuous Count Ebles of Roucy, joining him on a noble expedition to the Iberian Peninsula. This venture, sanctified by Pope Gregory himself, was not just a crusade for the souls of the Christian faithful, but also a golden opportunity to claim untold riches hidden within the now more than ever fragmented taifas. With the morale strengthened by the recent triumph at Barbastro, the assembled nobility brimmed with a fervent and almost blind zeal, driven by both spiritual purpose and the allure of conquest. Thus, Count Robert of Omois, fresh from his chrysalis, flew away on a journey that would not only test his mettle as a ruler but also shape the destiny of his faith.
It was not long before news of its catastrophic failure swept back to Omois, however: The survivors now returning to their homelands, few and far between, carried with them stories of a campaign that had unravelled with bloody swiftness. The grand expedition to Iberia, initially launched with high hopes and fervent zeal, soon turned into a haunting tale of defeat. Robert's approach to leadership, honed by a life of wild adventure and leading bands of mercenaries and misfits, proved to be extremely ill-suited for the complexities of commanding an army. His style, marked by a headstrong and impulsive bravado, was clearly a mismatch for the strategic demands of large-scale military operations. Leading the vanguard, brandishing his sword in the air, shouting charming but ultimately empty lines, always followed by his valiant squire, he led his troops straight into the abattoir.
A couple of months after the ill-fated expedition, a scene of quiet solemnity unfolded at the castle grounds. In the dead of night, two figures emerged from the darkness like apparitions: Count Robert and his young squire, Julien, the only known survivors from the Omois cohort, a cruel testament to the devastating outcome of the campaign. Weary and worn, they shared a single, meek horse, its pace as tired as their spirits. Their armour, once a proud display of strength, now bore the scars of battle, rusted and dented. Their arrival, under the shroud of night, was a poignant reminder of the expedition's high cost and the heavy burden that now would be resting on Robert's shoulders.
In a letter penned to his wife, Isabeau, Gerard Durand, the castellan at the time, captured this haunting return: "Count Robert was weary, silent, pale like a ghost, staring daggers at the void," he wrote. "The young squire was grim and laconic. They both looked and smelled like death itself, but the squire was at least able to mumble a few short sentences, and that is why I know what I know."
The transformation of Robert and Julien, as observed by the populace upon their return, was profound and deeply unsettling. The once cheerful young page had become a bleak, weakened squire, barely able to speak full sentences, but it was the change in Count Robert that truly stunned the everyone: From an adventurous, spirited leader, he had returned as a mere shell of his former self, haunted and withdrawn, never seen uttering words.
"Whatever happened in Iberia," the castellan wrote, "it will curse them for the rest of their lives." His words somehow echoed the sentiment of the people of Omois, who could not help but feel deep sadness and a sense of apprehension about the lasting impact of the failed Iberian campaign on their count. The shadow of their experience in Zaragoza loomed large, hinting at deep scars both seen and unseen.
In the years following their harrowing return, the relationship between Count Robert and his squire evolved into a distinctive, if not extremely odd, bond, clearly created by shared trauma. Their connection, while peculiar, became a defining aspect of court life in Omois. Gerard, in another of his letters, described this unusual dynamic: "The emotionless count would not stand up from his bed before knowing that Julien was standing by, nor hold court without him in the room! He only truly communicated through whispers in the squire’s ear, who then would convey the count’s words to us." This method of communication was met with distrust by nearly everyone, but Gerard still held deep sympathy for both Robert and Julien: “I cannot help but feel extremely sorry for their poor souls… The horrors they must have seen… God damn those infidels!” he wrote.
Understanding the gravity of the situation, Gerard assumed a more active role in the administration of the county, at least for the time being; For six years, he governed with unwavering esteem and loyalty to Count Robert, refusing to question further the strange but evidently necessary arrangements that had arisen from the count and his squire's shared trauma. Gerard's devoted leadership and empathy ensured the relative prosperity and stability of Omois, even as its count remained a ghastly figure.
The passing of Gerard, though peaceful, left an obvious void in the leadership of Omois. His calm demise in sleep marked the end of an era of steady governance under his vigilant eye. In the wake of his funeral, a significant decision awaited Count Robert – the appointment of a new castellan.
In a move that surprised absolutely no one, Count Robert whispered the name of Julien Mazars, now a knight, as Gerard’s successor. Julien, once the young squire who had returned from Iberia alongside the count, now stepped into a role of considerable authority and responsibility. This marked a new chapter in the governance of Omois, with a figure shaped by the same harrowing experiences as the count himself at the helm of the county.
Over the next few months, the distrust towards Julien became even more intensified, and unlike the previous years, he could not count on Gerard’s prestige to protect him from the rest of the court. Their extremely odd bond grew even more bizarre; He was now known as the “count’s shadow”, or simply the “shadow”.
“Are we going to keep pretending that this kind of behaviour is not completely bizarre? We haven’t heard the voice of our lord in ages!” Wrote Hugh Durand, son of Gerard, to several members of the court, “my father, a good but naïve man, could easily turn a blind eye to these abhorrent behaviours, but I strongly suggest we do something about it!”
Julien’s first big decision as a castellan was arranging a marriage between Robert and a minor noblewoman from the neighbouring county of the Ardennes, named Hedwig: Not even two months after the initial conversations on the arrangement, they were both married. As every courtier from Omois expected, the wedding ceremony was a terribly bleak affair, with Robert going through the whole affair with a depressive, sombre expression. His new castellan, always by the count’s side, was even the one to read the vows to the increasingly discomforted bride.
The wedding feast, on the other hand, was a fairly enjoyable occasion, with some of the best wines in the region flowing like the Marne, festive celebratory dances and music filling the room with joy, and delicacies being served nonstop. The end of the festivities approached quickly, and soon the most important of the nuptial traditions was to be taken: With no warning whatsoever, the drunken mob merrily carried the newlyweds to their chamber, singing songs and raising their goblets to the roof; For no one’s surprise, however, the castellan loomed close, always quietly observing from the situation. Even during this joyful moment, the count could not bother to even pretend to smile. Nobody is truly sure of what happened afterwards, and nobody truly cared as long as the wine kept flowing; And Julien made sure that every goblet but his was constantly filled to the brim.
Hedwig was a young and comely lass, with bright innocent azure eyes and a shy but captivating smile; According to her parents in the Ardennes, her excitement with both the marriage and leaving her lands were palpable. In no time, however, she has adapted to her new reality in Omois: Her already pale skin grew paler, her vivacious eyes now looked tired, dull blue in colour, and her ever-so-common grins now were a rarity. As she sat by her husband’s side during audiences, she seemed more like another part of the furniture than a countess, her interactions with the count being very limited if not just inexistent, her voice was only heard when talking with the castellan.
“What is this relentless need the Shadow seems to have of taking control of absolutely everything and everyone in this court?” Phillipe, an older minor courtier, wrote, “now even the beautiful countess is falling victim to his evil plots! When will it stop?”
“Maybe it is past time we investigated this matter further,” Hugh Durand wrote to Phillipe, “contrary to my father, who pitied them, I feel nothing but disgust; I can only imagine all the kinds of sordid deviancies we will find out once we delve through this cesspool they call a relationship.”
The deterioration of the countess’ mood seemed to be the last drop to an ever-growing party of dissatisfied courtiers, who finally decided to act on their doubts: at the behest of Hugh Durand, a chambermaid called Mathilde decided to linger on the count’s chambers for a while more after her duties, well hidden inside a chest.
“What the chambermaid saw will be the cause of utmost disgust, my dear friends!” Wrote Hugh to his future conspirators, “what I am about to tell you is the pure and unadulterated truth, as seen by Mathilde, our most trusted friend, who risked her position, integrity and Heaven knows, even her life, to provide us with her honest testimony!”
He, then, continued: “Not soon after she hid herself, the countess entered the room with a gloomy face, and right behind her, to Mathilde’s surprise, was the Shadow, with the count dragging himself to room afterwards. With the chamber door closed, the countess immediately sat on the bed, while the count rested on a nearby chair: In no time, he was already deep asleep, it seems. Julien, then, commenced a rather long discourse about their obligations towards the count and Omois, poisoning her innocent ears, emphasising her duties to her and husband and his domains as a whole. After a moment’s pause, they both rose and treaded heavily towards the count’s side. The Shadow, then, stripped the countess of her left glove and unsheathed a sharp dagger, its blade glinting in the dim light. With a scary precision, he proceeded to slice across her palm.”
Hugh’s script grew increasingly tremulous from this part onwards: “I must remind you all, my dear friends, that Mathilde is a soul of integrity and devout faith, incapable of deceit. Bearing this in mind, let us proceed: As the countess’ blood began to trickle down from the countess’ wounded hand, the Shadow cold-heartedly pressed it against the slumbering count’s lips. This astonishingly abhorrent act lasted for near ten agonising minutes, in which the malevolent castellan compelled a sobbing countess to partake in this foul, vile deed. Brethren, what sort of demonic rite is the Shadow enacting upon our dear but hapless count and countess? How can we possibly place our trust in such man? The time has come for us to adopt a more assertive stance against this fiend!”
The contents of the letter spread through the court with the ferocity of a wildfire, unfurling the shadow castellan’s dark secrets to all. What was once a quiet, simmering dissatisfaction amongst a small part of the courtiers soon erupted into complete rage, and the once disgruntled nobles now formed a cabal of active conspirators. Meetings that were once sparse and hushed in dim-lit chambers became increasingly frequent and fervent: The plotters would no longer be mere spectators to the perversion of their beloved Omois. Secret letters were now commonplace, exchanged under the cloak of night, the conspirators waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
In the ensuing days, a palpable tension enveloped the court, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface of courtly decorum. Yet, the conspirators competently masked their true intentions, blending their plots with the daily rhythm of court life, all while vigilantly seeking the perfect opportunity to confront the shadow castellan from an advantageous position.
The already charged atmosphere, however, took a truly unexpected turn with the arrival of an unforeseen guest.
