Armored Roses

PRELUDE

THE BEAR-FACED TRAVELER TOOK HIS usual chair at the village's favorite rendezvous, Cache of Night—winter’s hopeful beacon in the Baladona Mountain range. Excited chatter filled the front of house, dispersed towards the kitchen, then amongst the supply couriers at the back, until the narrow, snowy streets of Tordrend Village were aglow in friendly gossip like vibrant petals scattered in the wind.

"He's returned! The one they call Urso!"

"Returned with news!"

     "We cannot forgo it. Hurry!"

Urso took a sip from his regular cup of freshly brewed coffee. Having it black invited the very breath of the mountain's soul to renew his heart and mind. Shutting his eyes in pleasure, he shook his head in disbelief.

     "How do you do it, my friend?" questioned Urso to the burly cafe keeper.

     "Don't thank me. Thank Baladona herself. She sets these hills ablaze with spirit through any blizzard we must endure."

     Urso nodded his understanding. "That she does. There is no doubt."

     He placed a five-lum bill on the table and the cafe keeper calmly slid it back. "On the house, friend. A pressed shot to follow up?"

     "You know me too well, Junmeier."

     He nodded his head assuringly and made his way to the bar to begin working on the next drink. By now the townsfolk had gathered around the bear-faced man until bodies spilled out through the entryway, forcing children to climb upon the surrounding benches and planters to steal a view through the windows. Some of the villagers could not contain their anticipation as Urso took his last sips.

"How fares Sir Hilkaia?"

     "Yes, our noble knight!"

     "Our mighty protector!"

     "Tell us of his journey!"

     Two weeks prior, a significant fee of lum was paid to the bear-faced traveler for his services in prose. In accompanying Sir Hilkaia to the peak of Baladona Mountain Range, his charge was to inscribe a worthy record of the knight's "pivotal trek to higher destiny." Urso had gladly accepted the job on premise alone; the agreeable pay was merely a welcome bonus.

     Fifteen days later, Urso strode back into Tordrend Village slowly, queity, and noticeably down one body compared to the journey's beginning. He resolutely enjoyed his coffee to the very last drop until he decided to reveal any details. As soon as his mug hit the table, an eager child blurted out, "Is Sir Hilkaia on his way back now?"

Urso simply shook his head as he rummaged through his tan satchel. The excited chatter settled slowly at the first bit of news. Countless pairs of eyes burrowed into Urso's masked face. To subside the burning speculation, he said simply, "He has fallen in love."

The revelation was met with stunned silence.

Then hesitant chuckles that evolved into a celebratory consensus from all in attendance.

     "That's just like our champion!"

     "Finding love upon the far-flung mountaintops?"

     "Must be our Hilkaia!"

     "Tell us his lover's name!"

"Baladona," replied Urso.

The villagers descended into silence once again. The only faint sound was Junmeier pouring Urso's shot from behind the bar. They all knew what this must mean, but for fear of speaking this development into tangible existence, they held their tongues. If they could keep their silence, perhaps such a rumor could remain a rumor, and their fearless knight would stroll through the village gates demanding his own pressed shot while adoring fans flocked him for tales of love and heartbreak and heroism. Urso could feel their thoughts rushing to such ends, but he could not perpetuate the fantasies. And so, he confirmed their fears.

     "He has fallen for the Moon."

     Murmurs and gasps filled the room while Junmeier gently pushed through the crowd to set Urso's pressed shot before him.

     "Come now, Bear," whispered Junmeier to the writer. "They need more than that."

     Urso dropped his head and lifted the small half-cup to his mask, shoulders slouched as he took in the rich aroma. It was not easy news to break, so he consumed the shot in one gulp and allowed the warmth to set his honesty ablaze.

     "I attempted to talk him out of it," explained Urso. "Implored him to see reason. Reminded him of the people he was sworn to protect. But when his eyes met the Moon upon the highest peak . . ."

     A village elder with eyes worn by the years breathed, "Baladona herself. She has claimed our brightest soul."

     Urso looked up. "By his words and actions, I could see he had been plotting this task for some time. A final declaration of love."

     Final. The word warped their faces into grave denial. The children looked to their parents for answers, anything to cease the twisting of their favorite bedtime stories about the goddess' bountiful goodness into a conclusion of merciless sacrifice. 

     "Surely our champion still lives," murmured one parent.

     "Yes," agreed another. "Sir Hilkiah would rise above such temptation." 

     "Our Goddess would not deprive us of our sworn protector!"

     The majority of the room exclaimed their agreement. Their generation's faith could only reward them with thousand-flower hillsides, enduring coffee shrubs beyond count, and winters of rebirth that always gave more than they took. The Moon Goddess Baladona was capable of great good, and great good alone. Their precious knight would never leave them at the mercy of the roaming beasts and ghoulies throughout the mountain range. But the elders, with wisened eyes in time's passing, felt the goddess grow distant, biding and plotting with aberrant need. As the younger generation grew enamored with their flawless protector, those in later years knew their Baladona would not accept another icon to inhabit her land. 

An old woman seated in the corner spoke up. "Please, Mister Bear, read us what you've written."

     "Why entertain such lies?!" scoffed one of the parents.

     "Hush," rebuked another elder. "Let the man finish the task he was paid for."

     The standing villagers ceased their chatter. They fixed their eyes upon the seated Urso as he unraveled a bit of parchment from his bag. The ink had barely dried.

POSTLUDE

ONE HEAVY CLASH OF JUNMEIER'S tray upon the table promptly pacified the villagers' clamorous protestations. The burly cafe owner boomed his stern voice to remind them, "Master Urso has done his part in lyrical recollection of our knight's account! There is nothing left for us but to acknowledge his success and send him on his way."

     The crowd rose in objection once again while Junmeier stepped aside to have Urso's ear.

     "Forgive me for the abrupt detachment, but with the state of things—“

     "No quarrels here, friend," Urso replied. "If but a burlap of beans could be my—“

     "You're not leaving until Sir Hilkaia is returned to us!" One of the middle-aged mothers assumed the role of spokesperson for their collective denial. "He's been abandoned by you for certain death!"

     Urso turned away, lifting his mask a bit to press the bridge of his nose. "There's little I can do to aid one that has abandoned himself."

     "By his sword, our knight will return without question."

     "Your knight carried no sword with him," asserted the bear-faced writer. "No blade nor spell-book weighed his person. Only a sheath of roses and the armor on his back reserved for his holy beloved. You speak of protection as his charge, yes? Steady hands against any threat?"

     A low roar of affirmation rose among them. Urso let it subside before continuing.

     "The only threat he combatted was me. Hands to my neck so as to cease my pleas for his return."

     The village stood stunned. Some of the mothers cried while their children stared in fear. Urso furrowed his brows and looked upon the floor. He had spoken the words he had so dearly wished to repress. Now relinquished, he could only reinforce the adjuration. He held up the parchment with his lyrical narrative for them all to see.

     "I have never denounced your faith," he assured, "but recall that I am no practitioner neither. So I leave this short tale to kindle your good judgement. May it be a warning for all who worship the Moon Goddess, Baladona. Enjoy her bounties and blessings, but do not pine for her tangible affection. For she shines in realms above, past our perception."

     With that, Urso departed as silently as he arrived. Junmeier handed him his burlap sack while nodding his thanks. It was friends such as he that fueled the writer's steps.

     In time, the blizzard subsided, and with spring came another bountiful harvest of moon-grown coffee. The Goddess' praises eventually reached their former fervor, while the post of resident knight remained vacant. The reason for such vacancy was not spoken openly amongst the villagers, but upon Cache of Night's walls, the poem called Armored Roses hung unflinching in the far corner for all who wished to learn the tale.

     Junmeier the cafe keeper drew criticism for years to come, but a new generation brought nuanced questions without the fetters of dogma to diminish their curiosity. Thus, the somber poem remained posted in that distant cafe—winter’s very beacon in the Baladona Mountain Range. 

     Coffee beans continued to arrive from the mountains for all to enjoy—much to Urso's delight for his many travels—but the state of their producers remained open-ended to the imagination. Some say the Trials of Tordrend were instituted as a test of willpower, challenging one to bear witness to the armored roses and return home with their sanity intact. Others say that the Goddess grew colder than the mountain's cruelest winters, and the shrubs dwindled to oblivion with every passing twilight. 

The only solid surmise was that none had taken up the post of knight and protector for a long, long time.

///

By C.G. Urso
This is an entry from the Landscape Archive

File under Dark Fantasy / Tragic Romance / Narrative Poetry

Published 03/30/2026

Copyright © 2026 by C.G. Urso
All rights reserved.

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