Knife [CKII oneshot]

LsT_G · Dec 1, 2014

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So... the ck2 writting contest has come and gone, and while I do congratulate the 5 winners, it did leave me with 5.500 words of text.

Please enjoy.

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Knife
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“I lost count.” She said, wishing her voice had been a touch more grown as it flew from her lips.

Beside her was a man, long brown hair caught in a rough string, a tunic blackened in mourning. From him came only a humming sound. She could not figure out how his throat played it: pleasant, almost musical. So unlike her own squeaks. The girl felt the rough stone wall touch her nose as she tried to keep her eyes from sight, her cheeks from flowering red.

“Try separating the camp into equal parts.” Her brother’s voice had its usual softness. “Count the heads in one part and add that number once for each separate part.” It had never disturbed her before, the control he had over his timbre. “You will find that in some occasions it is much more useful to have a rough but fast estimate of a force than an exact sum.” But there had never been a reason to question it.

Wait. Had he asked for her to try again? The girl would much rather not, but could she disappoint him?

No. She did not think she had it in her.

Three deep breaths to calm those that would follow; and she brought her face back over the wall, tiptoeing for a better look over the brim.

For as long as she had lived those walls had been her home: high stone over high stone, forging together a manmade mountain. They had always been there, just a part of her world. Unshakable. They might as well have been sculpted by God.

Not then, though.

Then they felt as too slim an overcoat to cover her from the coming storm. From the largest bulk of humanity she had ever laid eyes on.

She would still not name the crowd below her a camp, however.

True, there were tents and in quite a number, if rough, dirty and makeshift even from a distance. But something was amiss. Perhaps because it had none of the order she had anticipated an enemy force to take. Or maybe she had expected flags, poles, some ribbons in the least. No: only muddy cloth, muddy dirt, sharp sticks and sharp stones.

Maddening.

And the number, the men! How can so many men even exist?

So yes, the whole affair frightened her. Enough to have her voice quiver into a squeak and her mind try its best to do what the body could not: run.

It would never run far though; only so as to find her room, loitered with pillows and cloths, and the lessons she had had inside it. There she would lay on the bed, open book under her nose and her sibling at the bed’s feet.

He had shone with pride as she commanded both Moorish sums and Latin letters under her ink. And pride well earned, for the man had laboured away many a night’s sleep to help her master them.

It was an image that made her think that it was perhaps not the room her mind looked for when it ran from the walls. Just might have been the warmth that sprouted from the end of her chest, feeding unabashedly from his shine. A feeling she was unaccustomed to. One she wanted back.

That need was what convinced her eyes to leave the stone, swallow the fear, look over. As best as she would manage.

Just so long as she would not have to admit to her brother that most of his explanation had gone well above her head.

Try she would: one, two, four, seven, easy to see as they were sited. The rest gave her no such comfort.

She found her numbers lost to the chaos before she could reach the second dozen.

Her teeth rasped through her tongue, left it flaming behind: “I lost count.” She hid again, crouching against the wall. Damn. Do not cry. Breathe. If you can not pull yourself enough to look at him at least do not cry!

He kept quiet and she would not dare to look at him. She could not be sure how he would take the failure.

Until she felt his fingers making a mess of her already rough hair.

Her sleeves passed through her face, trying as gracefully as they could to clean the snot she felt running.

The girl’s eyes met the man’s, to find him sitting on the walls, his back against his enemies. Madness, the kind of which where an enemy army mattered very little.

“There are around one hundred and ten men. Most are serfs from the surrounding fields, but there are at least twenty gentles, our brother’s caballero companions.”

Too many.

They might as well be ten thousand. The number was too big for her to picture.

Her fingers made sure her hair covered her right eye. Brown blocked the sunlight. She cleared her throat, wishing her voice flawless, knowing it to be not: “How did you count them so fast?”

It was terrifying the magic his throat used to turn the chuckles into music.

“I did not count them; I knew how many they were before they marched.”

She felt a spike of anger, felt cheated. So she bit her lower lip to stop a childish complaint from escaping. She knew what he would say.

If you could cheat then you should.

So, what was a better question? A simple one wormed out of her mouth: “Why do they not attack? He must have archers. We have been at the walls for a while now.”

Why was not his back nailed with one hundred and ten arrows?

“Because our brother dearest expects to rule from these walls soon. And we do not have enough serfs that we can kill some for no gain.”

Gain? He was a bolt away from inheriting those walls.

“I know that look”

He was studying her face, forcing her eyes down. Her hand came to her right temple, made sure her locks covered her right vision, made sure it was hidden. The sight made his lips quirk. Please stop. “Well...” Please do not mock her. “Half look at least…” She wasn’t sure she could take it.

But he gave up the prey: “Our brother knows me well: he is convinced I will open him the gates as soon as I find myself without an answer to his attack.”

The relief was almost enough to have her toes curl.

“He does not know you at all: you would never surrender to him.”

“Oh, but I would. I would give him these stones and these people. It would cost me less than you imagine. But only if I thought our case desperate.” There was something hungry in the way he smiled: “He does not need to know I’m not desperate. Not quite yet.”

His words cut the tears straight into a barking, desperate laugh.

“How are you to defeat one hundred men?”

“Ah, there will be a few more than one hundred, of course. Our uncle moves his force here to join them. Around eighty more from my last estimate.”

Her stomach was lead, heavy and stopping her breath; because how could there still be more when… “There are already so many of them…”

“Two hundred is hardly that many.” She did not expect her thought to turn to whisper. “When the moors force the King to call his banners two hundred would not be enough to hold a flank of His Highness’ army.”

She tried to ignore the flush of embarrassment; a child amazed at a mill. Because still, still:

“Still! They are too many! And how many men do you have?” almost a slip… almost a we. Think before you speak girl.

He did take to pause: “Around forty, but it could be stretched to fifty if I were to arm every able body.” He smiled at her then, all honey, one of his best, so she knew she was smiling back. “Fifty-one if you were to take a spear yourself.”

“I will as soon as needed.” His smile could kill any of her self-preservation.

He kneeled to her height.

“But no, senhora, I quite think you would be much more useful to me as a sharp mind than with a sharp stick.”

And cleared her hairs from her face, until she could see his form from both her eyes. She tried to look down, cover her sight once more, but he was quick to stop her, a finger under her chin forced their eyes to lock.

She did not want him to see her face, did not want him to see her as anything but as close to perfection as she could manage. Fought tears again. She did not want him to see.

Fingertips crossed the rugged mass that claimed her right eyebrow. She did not want his touch there.

When his face got nearer, she bit her tongue to stop her legs from running away.

His lips felt strange against the plaquelike mess of red. Not better nor worse, simply different.

She knew he meant it as a sign of respect, love even. But there was only shame left when he took his lips away. A few unshed tears that she tried to swallow.

He turned so as to make his leave.

Quickly, her hair was set back into place, masking her wickedness from the world.

For once she was not sure if she rather have him with her or to hide herself from sight.

Loneliness won at the end: “When will our brother make his move?” Loneliness did not want him gone.

“From what I’ve been told as soon as our uncle arrives.”

Her pained tongue made the words hard to speak.

“You have spies between our brother’s friends?”

There was nothing sweet about his smile: “As he has spies just inside our court.”

Had he said what she heard? Spies? Inside their walls? Who? Who?

Could he know? He must! Hell, how could he not?

She took his hand. Awkwardly. Mostly a grip of his fingers. It was not a gesture she had much experience with. She thanked being too scared to blush.

Should she not be used to the fear by now? After the last few minutes?

But she needed him to tell her she was safe, they were safe, he was safe. She needed stupid nothings said in a way she could believe them.

He grasped her hand a touch more firmly.

“Even if our brother was to win his battles he would not hurt you. You are blood.”

“He loves me not.” Much of an understatement in fact. He rejected and blamed and despised her.

The older man gave her no reassuring smile.

“He does not. But he would make sure you were fed and sheltered. A nunnery, most likely.”

She could feel the corners of her lips rising; they were miserable: “God is the only husband that would take me.” And she did not touch her face. Denying the instinct to do so made her muscles cramp.

Deviltouched.

“I would rather no one takes you at all.”

Nicely done, had her smile deepen.

“And you? Would he not kill you had he the chance?”

His tongue came out in thought, played with his lower lip. It was not a gesture he did often.

“No. I do not think he would.” His pause made it seem he had ended his sentence. Enough time for a breath, perhaps a heartbeat or two. “He fears the stain that kinslaying would leave on him.”

On his immortal soul or on his earthly ambitions?

“Does he fear hell?”

“Of course,” sounded preposterous to her ears “but he might fear heaven in the same measure.”

And that made so little sense she felt her laugh turn true: “Why would he not wish to see our dead parents, our dead siblings?”

“Because he loved them. Very much so in fact.” His tone had that magic again, soft as a caress. Her fingers moved up to his knuckles.

“More than you had loved them?”

“Much more. Insanely more.”

Who did he love then? Her hand climbed to the black fabric he wore.

“Do you wish to see her again? Your intended I mean.”

His eyebrows shot up, theatrically, fake.

“I thought you hated her” She did. She had. Hated her more than anyone, despite having never met her. Feared her. Because the woman would take her brother, her true brother, and she would have no one.

Envied her.

He said: “I barely knew her.” And then she died.

And she envied her still, for he wore mourning.

He turned to leave once more, but made sure her hand was firmly enveloped by his own. “Supper is surely ready, we should go.”

Her eyes went back to the wall.

“They will not leave just because we are not here.” His voice was teasing. Sweet despite it. The girl let him guide her back inside.

She had never once questioned that sweetness. Or calm behind his demeanour, the lethargy behind his motions.

There had never been a reason to question it.

LsT_G · Dec 1, 2014

Her soup was cold.

It looked appetizing enough and she was sure there was at least a small morsel of meat between the cabbage leaves. Not enough to tempt her into taking a second spoon.

She should have been hungry. And, perhaps, some of her was. But she was unsure if she could keep down whatever she might eat. She felt full by a nervousness of some sort. It was probably fear what swatted in her belly.

She looked to her side. Her brother had long since finished his bowl and was spending his time with small nibbles on a piece of dark bread. His eyes were set on the table, unfocused.

He might have been thinking, his mind did not seem to be there at all. More than a small part of her resented that.

The girl set her soup aside, knowing she would not eat it unless ordered. Made sure her face was securely hidden before thinking a way to bring him back to her from whatever lands he may be seeing.

Exhaled and cleared her throat.

“What kind of man is our uncle?”

His eyes focused back and they looked tired from whatever trip they had just made.

“What brought this on?”

“You always say one should know one’s enemies” He might have said it once, at most, in passing. “But I never knew our uncle.” Nor had she ever felt the need. She had the essentials: from her mother’s side, some years her elder, had one son and three daughters, all older than herself.

The girl did not care about her uncle. She just wanted her brother back to her.

The man beside her picked another breadcrumb, played with it between fingers.

“A boring old bastard, for the most part.” He had met him on more than one occasion, she knew. “Smart. Rides, perhaps too often. Prefers listening to speaking.” Small breath “He enjoys stories, I suppose. Even has a few worth listening.”

She could not feign interest in an old man’s stories. But she did not need to feign want for her sibling’s voice: “Do you remember any?”

He smiled at her, and she could not be sure she hadn’t blushed.

Took a small gulp of wine and started: “In an old kingdom, long ago, even before the franks came knocking, there was a king. Not a particularly fine king; he was young, gluttonous, his back crooked into a constant hump and had a lisp that made all but the simplest words hard to understand. To anyone’s eyes: a defect.”

The youngest felt her face freeze. Made sure she could see nothing from her right eye.

“He is not fit to lead, his vassals would whisper. He is an ugly monster that masquerades himself as a legitimate son, loud enough for all to hear. They were unafraid, but why not? No king of mine! No king for this land! For the way he spoke made clear to all that the king could but be a simpleton.”

He would not do so on purpose? Mock her so?

“The vassals dined together, on a great feast for all too see. They plotted and they argued. Found a bishop who would proclaim the king no king at all. For the monster dared to spend gold that was theirs by right! The monster had to be slain!”

No.

“They all so agreed, but something was amiss: they needed a man to do it. A good man, yes. Had to be a great man, one who would unite the kingdom after the monster was dead, quartered, burned.”

He loved her.

“For seven days they feasted and for seven nights they argued. Until a man was chosen. Wise without being old, powerful without being vain, handsome without being feeble. Truly the best among them. Truly someone fit for a crown.”

He must.

“And soon thereafter they saw their chance: the king – the monster! – invited all the great man to a banquet, a celebration of his ungodly coronation.”

No one else would.

“But something they did not expect happened. Perhaps the monster feared for his life, for its guards collected all the weapons before the great man could enter the castle. Every blade to their dinner daggers.”

Would it matter?

“They were wary, far from their castles and weapons and armies, but a look at the monster steeled their nerves: he was drinking copiously, carelessly, fumbling over his words as he welcomed them. The evening passed in merriment between pork, wine and song. But no opening came, no clear shot at the monsters throat. The evening simply passed.”

Let it pass. Let it live. Let her live.

“The greatest of the great men knew he had to slay the monster then. He feared that waiting would upset the men who were still his peers, would kill the chance he had to a rightful throne. He would be a great king, he was sure, just but firm. So much better than the monster he had bowed to at evening’s start. The greatest of men looked at the defect’s table. A huge pig roasted, still uncarved, only a tall knife sheathed in it. His king’s goblet had just been emptied, he saw. The man picked his cup.”

Her brother mimicked the motion.

“And shouted: Senhores! Men of much renown! I stand before you much troubled for we have been amiss in our duties as guests this fine night! Slowly, ever so carefully, he got closer. For we have yet to drink in the glory of our host! Close enough to face the monster from the other side of its table. And worse yet, more humiliating still, we find his cup empty! Servants rushed to fill the defect’s chalice. Rise my grace, drink with us merrily. It stood, walking in uncertain steps but cheering with its wine held high, stopping just next to the greatest of the great men.”

She knew what came next. The walls, stones, chairs and tables knew what came next.

“Quickly, like lightning, the great man took the knife from the pig and thrust it into the monster’s flank. The beast let a howl free as it fell on top of the man. And the man rejoiced! He had slain the beast! As he had to, as God would surely intend!”

What did God know?

“He felt euphoria. Oh, sweet euphoria. Misplaced. Because the knife was no knife at all. Nothing but a dud, a tin trinket, a worthless bauble.”

Wait.

“Euphoria blanched into cold. Something cold pierced him. He felt only cold as cold iron tasted his belly. And the greatest of man fell, cold and dead.”

There was no more swatting in her belly.

“And the young king said, voice pristine, even as he licked the blood of his fingers as it were grease: anymore of you, oh great man, wish for a knife?”

What?

Instead she said: “Did the king not have a lisp?”

“Would ruin the moment I believe. You should eat.”

She broke eye contact, looked at the soup as if it had offended her: “I ate.”

He exhaled, more resigned than amused and seemed ready to press the issue when someone knocked at the door.

“You will eat” his voice ringing with finality, before turning louder to the door “You may enter.”

A man in his thirties came inside. She did recognise him, but no name came to mind: a soldier, looking anxious, rough beard and a leather vest that had seen better days. Behind him a second, blonde and his face speckled in adolescent spots.

The eldest started: “Senhor, senhora, I wish you a good evening. The quartermaster has asked to speak with you, senhor.” He gave a pause, strange, longer than a breath, as if he had forgotten the rest of the missive. “About the siege, senhor.”

Her kin made no move to rise. He nibbled again on his bread.

Why was he not getting up?

“If one of my man means to trade words with me, should he not be the one to search for me?”

The bearded soldier open his mouth to reply. Exhaled instead.

What are you doing?

He produced a blade from somewhere in his form - What are you doing? - howled as he rushed her brother.

What are you doing?

The girl threw herself against the wall, as far from them as she could.

All the while, her brother was already on his feet, seizing the man’s grip, pushed him against the table.

Stop.

His free hand caught the bowl he had just been using. Peacefully, just eating, with her.

Stop.

The bowl came down on the man, hard, once, twice, broke and fell down again.

His fingers were bloody, his blood, the traitor’s and Stop.

There had been a second one, she faintly remembered.

The blonde looked more scared than menacing. Clutching his dagger as a dying priest would a crucifix.

Her brother got closer and there was something hungry in his gait. Stop. Please don’t.

Swatted the blade away, it’s done, stop, grabbed the boy, God he was only a boy, by his hairs, such fine golden threads, sent his head against the table. Again. She feared it might break under the abuse. Again.

Her brother - was that her brother? – sited the boy in his chair. His head lolled, red stained hairs hid his eyes.

“Please senhor” He was babbling “I know nothing, senhor.”

The man cleared the curls from his face

“I am aware.” His hand was cupping the boy’s cheek, his thumb caressing the boy’s eyelid. “I am not even angry.” Lies, she had never seen him so. “Not at you at least.” His thumb stopped. Don’t. “It’s at myself, really. I did not anticipate my brother would try and have me killed.” His thumb pressed against the boy’s orb.

Hard.

The boy bellowed.

“Stop.” She was as surprised as anyone to find that the words had come from her throat.

“Stop? You know what fate awaits him.”

She knew: “He must die.” Her voice a croak. The boy tried to scream but her sibling was faster, forcing a rag inside his mouth, before looking at her. What he searched for the girl did not know, but she got closer.

He cleared the hairs that hid her face. She did not want him to. He had surely left a red trail behind them. “There is skill in everything. Even in the killing of a defenceless man.”

His voice was a mockery of the calm tone he would use to teach her. There was none of the sweetness she was used to in his voice. That she loved. The girl felt her hands shiver and hid them behind her back.

“You might be tempted to think that it would be an easy feat. He can, after all, barely protest.”

The boy was crying. They should stop.

“And there is where the challenge lies. Oh, you need skill to kill in a fight, no doubt, no doubt, but there it’s your lust that moves your limbs as if you were a puppet.”

Let it be strings controlling his mouth, forcing it to say such horrible things.

“But you see, the lust is but a whisper when your breath is not at stake. In its stead there needs to be skill to kill a helpless man.”

He took his dinner knife, until then discarded at the table.

“Positioning the blade is a simple matter: the neck has many important vessels but a nick away.”

Her fingers traced her own neck long before her mind could keep them in check. Don’t.

“Easy to learn, easy to find, you can feel them despite the skin, it’s the rhythmic drum that dances under the fingers.”

There was no rhythm she could envision in the madding drums just on her fingertips. She loved him so why wouldn’t he stop?

“But it is not a man that you cut.”

No?

“Because he is no one, not anymore. Not a man, not a son, not a brother.”

But he loved her, right?

“You look at the skin until it stops being skin, until it is just something.”

There was a warmness flowing from her thighs, drenching her leg.

“Your blade will just find something. You are just cutting something.”

She wished it to be sweat, knowing it to be not.

“Imagine it as you wish. Personally, I make the skin an apple.”

Under his touch was a nauseating red colour.

“It is firm beneath my fingers, just about ripe.”

No apple should look that repellent.

“And you slice.”

Fast.

“What leaves is syrup.”

Sickening crimson, falling from the cut in rhythmic waves.

He loved her. He must.

If he didn’t who would?

LsT_G · Dec 1, 2014

The girl couldn’t remember getting up that morning. She had been awaken early, that much she knew. Early even considering how quickly sleep took her the night before.

Her uncle’s army had arrived as soon as dawn settled. Probably. And her brother had come moments after. Perhaps, hard to be certain.

There must be something wrong with the sky, she pondered lazily. It felt unfocused. As did walls, woods, cloths, faces.

She felt drowsy, her mind wool.

Craved her bed.

But her sibling had been adamant. He wanted her to speak to the army below. Wanted her to hear their brother’s demands. Wanted her to surrender the castle. Maybe he had wanted something more, but most of his words had been lost in a high-pitched buzzing.

She had no recollection of getting dressed, taking the stairs, leaving her gate.

And even then, as she was escorted through the chaotic camp, she could not be sure if those sent to her were even man.

Their faces were a featureless hazy pink.

“We are here, senhora.” They said. Or at least something akin; their voice mimicking a cricket’s screech.

A tent. Blue or white or close enough.

It was surprisingly pretty.

Her hands combed her hair so as to cover her eye. A reflex for the most part, but she couldn’t be sure she had hid the right one.

Its entrance flashed open and she got inside without a summons.

The tent looked bigger on the inside. Misty.

Her middle brother looked at her intently. He was sited in a simple chair, a soft chin, a juvenile face made adult. He had his hand supporting his head, two fingers over the forehead, others over the bridge of his nose.

He wore a leather jacket, expertly patterned with an assortment of worked metal. It was nothing like what she knew caballeros to use, but impressive all in all. Handsome.

She could not recognise him.

It had to be her brother. The only other soul inside was too old, greys and whites decorating a shaggy beard, most hairs long gone from his head. Looked strong regardless.

The older man could only be her uncle.

Which left the stranger. Her brother. Whose face was broken into a frown.

“So he sends you.” She half-remembered making lists and lists of questions to ask to that stranger in front of her then. Pages of whys covering every inch of the sheets. She could not recall a single one.

In their place: “Senhor, our eldest brother will give you our father’s walls peacefully, as long as you promise to shed no blood as you take them.”

“What else does he ask for?”

Had he asked for something more? There had only been that buzzing sound.

“Nothing.”

“When does he plan to offer his surrender?”

That she knew: “As soon as you, senhores, are ready to have it.”

The middle brother pressed his eyes in thought. Made an image flash of a red stained blonde boy, head lolling.

She blinked it away.

“He is planning something.” That was her uncle. His voice was bored.

“You do not trust him?”

“I trust none of you little mongrels, but I know him best and trust him least.” The old man rose. “We will go and take his walls, but with my men close behind.” He did nothing to conceal the resentment in his tone. “After he does whatever he plans, I will cut off his legs.”

The younger man exhaled, the sound closer to a growl, before eyeing back at her. He was not looking at her face.

“You shall go with us. If he does have something planed he’s likely to not wish you harm.” He rose as well. An unspoken dismissal floated in the air.

But she couldn’t go. Not yet. Wait! She barely knew him if at all. She needed to know more! She didn’t remember the questions, but she would!

At least one, the most important: did he love her?

He left the tent. Not a smile or greeting.

No.

Not a single glance spared.

No. He rejected and blamed and despised her.

She only had one person.

And he must love her.

...

She was under the walls before she took notice. They had been her walls once. Not all that long ago. And that day she crossed the gates surrounded by her enemies, intent on stealing her home. Which her brother, her true brother, all but gave away.

Was it his care all but an act? During those nights lost to numbers and ink? Should she count how many man stole her house away? Was that his intent? How did one - separate, count, then?

She doubted she could, even without the disadvantage of her height, but she lost little with the try: one, two, four, seven-

“Good tidings, senhores?” That tone. A spell that made all the haze fade away, leaving in its wake only a low burn on her stomach.

It was her eldest sibling. His figure coming soon into view. He commanded five of his guards, all weapons laid on the dirt. He wore his mourning and he smiled.

The girl had to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling back.

The youngest man looked taken back once faced with that voice, so near a song. She could hardly blame him. It was her uncle who recovered first: “No and I don’t care for your pleasantries, boy.” He spat “Two thirds for ten years?” What?

A confirming nod: “Two thirds for ten years.”

Of what?

“What is -” Her younger brother’s voice, trying to raise some protest, failing as he was overwhelmed by two man, burly, who had him by the neck. He was delivered to her brother, as if a sack of tribute.

“I expect my payments made in time and I expect this mess fixed, boy.”

Her brother sighed, theatrically. And he looked almost sad. Not a look that suited him.

“At least one I can give you before you leave, uncle.”

Her brother, her heart, came closer, dropped to a knee and she knew. No. Stop. She did not want to see it again.

Stop. Was it needed? Stop!

He had his blade.

Was he to one day do the same to her? Suddenly deciding he had had enough of the monster that paraded as his sister?

Using her as an example for the skill to kill a helpless man?

Could she take being killed by him?

“No.”

He must love her.

“I will do it.”

She took the knife, surprised at his lack of protest and at how close she was.

Her second brother’s eyes grew bigger. They were the same brown and amber she had. She hadn’t recalled that. She could ignore that.

Fingers traced his neck. Easy to learn, easy to find. The rhythm was beneath them before her mind could finish. Regular. Warmness ran from her thighs: sweat. Her fingers stretched, revealing a nauseating reddened apple.

He would love her.

Trembling.

And she sliced.

Syrup.

LsT_G · Dec 1, 2014

Well, that was probably a longer read (and heavier) read that you might be used to on this forum... but hey hope you got some enjoyment out of it

If perchance you wish some more of this particular style, I have a longer AAR (with actual screenshots and so on) in Applause. Be warned it's an AGOT story. I will be posting an update there sometime this month.

Quick tidbit: Infantile hemangiomas are benign vascular neoplasms and the most common tumors of infancy. As a rule they are medically insignificant if potentially disfiguring. They suffer a natural involutional phase and by the age of nine 90% have disappeared.

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Knife [CKII oneshot]

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First Lieutenant

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First Lieutenant

LsT_G

First Lieutenant

LsT_G

First Lieutenant