The Seinrill House Guard

The Shadow of the Baron

"If they stand before you, it means Lord Seinrill is watching. If they speak, it means his patience has limits. If they move—pray you are not the reason why."

— Last known words of Lord Escher Zail

It begins with silence, and ends much the same. No announcement, no grand arrival. No horns at the gate, no messengers rushing ahead to clear the way. One moment, you are alone. And then, you are not. They do not break down doors or shout demands; they do not have to. Their presence alone is enough to halt conversations mid-word, to steal the breath from a room. There are other House Guards in Areeott—visible extensions of noble power, enforcers of law, retainers of wealth and influence. Their presence can be expected, anticipated, even countered. But His House Guard is different. Their arrival is not protocol. It is not diplomacy. It is the weight of an unseen hand pressing down upon the world, the silent affirmation that Lord Seinrill is watching.

It does not matter how powerful you are. When His House Guard steps into the light, you have already lost. They do not operate like the Akkara House Guard, the kingdom’s enforcers of law, nor do they function like the Anrose House Guard, who deal in debts and economic ruin. They are not bound to the sanctity of the land like the Garsenda House Guard. They do not station themselves at city gates, nor do they concern themselves with the dealings of merchants and minor lords. Their presence does not mean law has been broken—it means something far more absolute. A decision has been made. The Baron’s attention has turned toward you, and that alone is enough to unravel the most powerful ambitions.

There is no shame in fear, not when they walk into the room. Fear is the only natural response. These are not men who bark orders, who strike their enemies down in the streets, who make grand spectacles of their work. Their presence alone is enough to unmake the confidence of kings. A noble who holds court in arrogance one night may find himself unable to hold his tea the next morning, his hands shaking too violently to lift the cup. A merchant whose wealth was once thought untouchable may suddenly find his ledgers empty, his partners gone, his entire fortune vanished without a trace. And in the worst cases, there is simply no one left to find.

And yet, for all the terror they inspire, they do not always move in shadow. They are seen just enough to remind the world that they exist. Their ceremonial guard stands in open view at processions, at state gatherings, at the edges of parades. To the people, they are merely another display of the kingdom’s proud heritage, a reminder of its long-standing traditions. Their armor, the regalia of warriors long past, is viewed with admiration, respect. But those who have seen what they truly are, what they can do, know that the ceremonial display is just a mask. Twelve of them in a parade could cut through an army like fire through dry fields. The ones who know do not mistake them for relics of an old tradition. They know that when these men and women appear outside of expected moments—something terrible is already in motion.

Their work is not war. War is blunt, imprecise, wasteful. Their work is correction. Wars are prevented before they begin. Problems are solved before they become problems at all. They do not arrive with soldiers. They do not march in force. Two. Three. Four at most. That is all it takes. Their movements are methodical, deliberate. The first sign might be a letter—sealed, placed where only you would find it. A suggestion, a correction, a chance to make the right choice before a worse one is made for you. The second might be a visit. Not rushed. Not violent. Never unplanned. The third sign is the last one you will ever receive.

It is not their weapons that inspire fear—though you know they have them. It is not the stories of their skill—though you have heard the whispers. It is not even the certainty that they could unmake you before your body ever hit the floor. It is that they are here. And if they are here, it is because Lord Seinrill has willed it.

They are neither executioners nor assassins, at least not in the traditional sense. Their function is not to punish. It is to ensure Areeott remains what it must be. Some are given one warning, a rare mercy, a privilege afforded only to those who have somehow earned it. Most do not warrant such generosity. There is no need for violence, no need for threats. A simple glance from The Voice is enough to let a man know his fate. A quiet gesture from The Constant is enough to freeze a room in place. The masked guards that accompany them—always masked, always silent—need never draw a blade. Their mere presence is enough. And yet, should the moment call for it, there is no force in Areeott, perhaps in the world, that can match them.

Some are not killed. Some break instead. Some are permitted to live, though not as they once were. Those who stand tall one night may find themselves hunched, whispering, unable to meet the gaze of their peers by morning. A man who once boasted of his power may wake to find that it was never his to begin with. Some vanish, some obey, and some… some never wake up at all.

The House Guard of Seinrill does not exist for war, nor conquest, nor personal ambition. They are not soldiers. They are not spies. They are the instrument of Lord Seinrill’s will. And his will is absolute. They have placed kings on thrones and stolen men from their beds. They have ended conflicts that never had the chance to begin. They have shaped the world in ways that most will never understand, and most will never realize.

There are other House Guards in Areeott, each with their own function, their own purpose. But when His House Guard arrives, even the greatest of lords lower their gaze. Even the boldest men tremble. And those who have glimpsed what they are capable of—those who have seen them before—do not speak of it.

Not because they are warned. Not because they are threatened.

But because there is nothing to say.

Structure

"You don’t see them, not really. Not unless you’re meant to. But you feel them. A door left slightly open that you swore you locked. A letter on your desk you don’t remember placing. A shadow where no one should be standing. And then, one day, someone you know is gone. Just… gone. No body, no blood, no funeral. And no one asks where they went. Because if they’re gone, it means they were meant to be."

— Willok Margrave, final letter to his editor before vanishing in Venlin, presumed lost

They do not wear rank upon their sleeves, nor do they weigh themselves down with medals and formal titles. Their hierarchy is one of function, not of ceremony. Every piece has a place. Every hand has a purpose. No wasted motion. No unnecessary weight. At the center of it all stands Lord Corvyn Seinrill. Those who believe he governs the House Guard as a king would his knights, or an emperor his legions, fundamentally misunderstand its nature. He does not summon them to council chambers or scrawl directives upon parchment. His will is the current, the tide that shapes the course of rivers. By the time the Guard moves, it is because the decision was made long ago. But no tide moves without force. No river carves stone without something greater behind it. That force is the Princeps.

The Princeps

The Princeps of the Guard is not merely its spymaster. He is its voice. Its architect. Its final say. Corvyn’s will is absolute, but it is the Princeps who ensures that will is carried out. He places operatives where they need to be, ensures they have what they need, and retrieves them when their purpose is complete. He is the only one who speaks to Corvyn directly. Others may glimpse the Baron, may stand in his presence at court, but it is the Princeps who moves at his side when necessary—and who disappears entirely when not.

Beneath him, there is no rigid chain of command, no generals or lieutenants. A House Guard operative does not need to be told their place. They are where they are meant to be. When the moment comes, they act—not because an order was given, but because the move was inevitable. And when they move, they move in fours. Each team is composed of The Voice, The Right Hand, The Left Hand, and The Constant. These are not ranks, nor are they positions that can be granted or taken away. They are roles—functions within an inevitable design. Each serves a purpose, and together, they ensure that when the Guard moves, the outcome is already decided.

The Left Hand & The Right Hand

The Left Hand is the unseen force, the answer to a question that no one realized had been asked. When necessary, they end things cleanly, efficiently, without spectacle. They do not simply kill—they infiltrate, manipulate, and control. When a noble suddenly recants a position, when an army withdraws before a battle can be fought, when a king hesitates at the critical moment, the Left Hand has already done its work. Their presence is never known until long after it is too late to act against them. They are the shadow behind the curtain, the force that ensures no blade is ever needed at all.

The Right Hand ensures that what must be done is seen. Sometimes, a message must be clear. Fear is a weapon, just as much as steel. A single act, executed with perfect timing, can prevent the need for a hundred more. The Right Hand operates in calculated spectacle, in carefully orchestrated violence. A warlord wakes to find his entire guard slain in the night, left in perfect formation. A magistrate is dragged from his court in front of those who would follow his treason. A merchant who thought himself untouchable finds his wealth and his bloodline erased in a single stroke. They are the reminder that Lord Seinrill’s reach is infinite, and that defiance has consequences.

The Voice & The Constant

The Voice speaks. They are the emissary, the one who delivers the message, whose words end wars before they begin, whose quiet whisper can unmake alliances and unravel dynasties. Their tongue is as sharp as their blade, and their presence in a room is not an offer of negotiation, but a prelude to what has already been decided. It is the Voice who does the talking, who ensures that the terms are heard, who allows those before them to believe they have a choice. They do not.

The Constant is the immovable force, the silent presence in the room. They are the inevitability. They do not flinch. They do not rush. They do not act until the moment demands it. And when they do, there is no stopping them. Some say the Constant is the most dangerous of the four—not because they strike first, but because they are the last thing you will ever see. The Constant is the weight in the room, the silent warning. Their presence alone is a sentence waiting to be passed.

Shadows & Ghosts

The arrival of the House Guard is never an idle event, never a moment left to interpretation. Their presence in a room signals more than an outcome—it signifies the path that has already been chosen. When all four step into the light—the Voice, the Right Hand, the Left Hand, and the Constant—there is still time to maneuver, still choices left to be made. Their presence does not offer mercy, but it does suggest that resolution has not yet been fully shaped. When

only three arrive, when the Voice stands flanked by the Left Hand and the Constant, the moment for negotiation has already passed, and whatever fate has been decided is simply awaiting its final movements. When only two appear—the Voice and the Constant—there is nothing left to be done. No arguments will be heard. No explanations will be accepted. The moment has already collapsed into inevitability. And when only the Voice arrives, alone and unguarded, it is not a warning. It is not a message. It is a pronouncement. The decision was never yours to make in the first place..

Few make it long enough to outlast their usefulness in the field. Those who do are not cast aside. Some take on the role of trainers, passing their knowledge to the next generation. Others step into more delicate positions—diplomats, advisors, or even, when necessary, the illusion of power. The world sees a ruler, steady and unwavering, and only those who know the truth understand that he is yet another piece in Corvyn’s endless design. There is no retirement in the conventional sense. A few, those who have given everything, are permitted to disappear into lives of quiet wealth, but they never truly leave. Their past service means they will always be watched, always accounted for, even if they no longer move in the dark. The rest find their way into the Catacombs, their names recorded not as fallen warriors, but as proof of their service. They are not mourned. They are remembered.

The House Guard does not operate for conquest or the defense of a kingdom. It is not an army, nor is it a governing force. It exists solely because Corvyn Seinrill wills it to exist, and it moves only when he has already decided that it must. When the House Guard is set into motion, the world rarely understands what is happening—only that something has already changed. It is an unerring machine, a force without hesitation or flaw. And when they arrive, there is no mistaking their purpose.

Culture

"He does not seek servants. He does not request allegiance. He demands obedience. Those who serve him do so because there is no other path. Not for them. Not anymore. He takes those too dangerous to be trusted, too broken to be left unchecked, and he makes them his. Not through kindness. Not through trust. Through control. A sword does not decide when to cut. It is raised. It is swung. And it finds its mark."

— Simon Lockhart, person journal

The Seinrill House Guard does not see the world as others do. To a soldier, a battlefield is a clash of steel and blood. To a king, a throne is a seat of power. To a merchant, the flow of gold dictates the rise and fall of empires. But to the House Guard, the world is none of these things. It is a vast, interwoven machine of causes and effects—a great, shifting tapestry in which each thread must be carefully guided, adjusted, and, when necessary, severed. They are not protectors of a kingdom, nor champions of an ideal. They do not swear loyalty to Areeott, nor to its laws, nor even to the people who unknowingly benefit from their work. They serve one will. One vision. One absolute. To move in opposition to that will is to defy the natural course of history itself.

This conviction is not merely instilled—it is carved into them, stripped of all pretense and weakness. When an operative is inducted, they are not merely trained. They are broken down, rebuilt, reshaped into something that can no longer conceive of life beyond service. Their initiation is more than physical hardship; it is a test of perception, of understanding. They do not ask questions. They do not hesitate. They do not waver. To be in the House Guard is to be inevitable. And yet, for all their uniformity, they do not act as mindless zealots. They are not fanatics. They do not march in blind faith. The difference between them and the devout is simple: the House Guard does not believe. They know. They have seen enough of the design, glimpsed enough of Corvyn’s hand in the shaping of events, that they move without the need for orders. A man does not need to be told to breathe. Among themselves, they do not greet one another. They do not embrace, do not exchange pleasantries. And yet, when two operatives cross paths, recognition passes in an instant—a flicker of the eyes, a measured silence, a glance held half a second longer than necessary. It is not camaraderie, nor is it friendship. It is acknowledgment. A silent understanding that they are part of the same great work. To the outside world, they are a mystery wrapped in fear. Their presence is rare, but when they appear, even the greatest lords forget their own arrogance. A single whisper from the House Guard can unravel a kingdom. A single step into the light can shift the course of history. To see them is to know that the moment for decisions has already passed—that the outcome has already been decided, and all that remains is to watch it unfold. And yet, for all their precision, all their control, there are whispers—whispers that even among the House Guard, there are those who have begun to wonder. To question. To ask what it is, exactly, that they are shaping. What it is they are moving toward. What it is, in the end, that Corvyn truly intends. But they do not ask these questions aloud. Because the House Guard does not question. The House Guard does not doubt. And those who do? They do not last.

Public Agenda

"They stand at your side, and you feel safe. They stand behind you, and you feel doomed. They are both—shield and blade, hand and noose, salvation and silence. You do not know which they will be until they have already decided. And by then, it no longer matters."

— Chancellor Aedric Kain, "Hidden Powers of the Shattered Kingdoms"

To the outside world, the House Guard of Seinrill is simply another noble retinue, an elite company bound by duty to the Baron of Areeott. They are seen on rare but public occasions—standing in formation at processions, flanking Corvyn Seinrill at state functions, and patrolling the grounds of Castle Seinrill with the quiet dignity expected of royal bodyguards. To the lay citizen, they are an expected part of the grand pageantry of Areeott’s nobility, no different than the gold-plated guards of House Akkara or the ever-vigilant wardens of Anrose. But those who move within the circles of power understand the truth.

The House Guard exists not for show, nor for ceremony, nor even for the personal protection of the Baron himself. Their purpose is not law enforcement, nor do they settle feuds between noble houses. Their duty is singular: to enforce the will of Lord Seinrill—and his will alone. Unlike other baronial guards, they do not operate within a recognized system of justice. They do not make arrests or present evidence in court. When the House Guard appears, the time for debate is over. If they arrive unannounced, if their presence is neither ceremonial nor expected, it means something far greater than justice is at play. It means a decision has already been made, and what follows is not negotiation, but correction. Among the nobility, their presence alone carries weight greater than any decree. A whispered mention of them is enough to stop conversations mid-sentence. When a rival noble speaks too boldly, another may simply raise an eyebrow and remark, "Be careful. Lord Seinrill may send his Ghosts." A joke, on the surface. A warning in truth. In the rare instances where they move publicly, the reaction is immediate. Court meetings that moments before brimmed with arguments and bold declarations suddenly shift to hushed murmurs. Merchants, once so eager to negotiate new deals, find themselves reconsidering the risks of angering unseen forces. Even among the other noble house guards—forces of trained warriors, spies, and enforcers—there is a level of uncertainty, a ripple of unease that spreads through their ranks when His Guard enters a room. Akkara's enforcers, Anrose's bankers, Garsenda's wardens—each is accustomed to wielding influence in their own way. Yet even they falter when the Voice of Seinrill speaks, when the Constant lingers just behind the moment.

The nobility understands what the common people do not: when the House Guard appears, the future has already been decided. Despite this, the average citizen of Areeott remains blissfully unaware of the true scope of their work. They see only the ceremonial guards in their traditional armor, standing watch at festivals and parades, lending the Baron an air of prestige and history. To them, they are relics of Areeott’s noble past, living symbols of honor and tradition. They do not know the rumors whispered in noble halls. They do not hear the stories of those who vanished, the deals undone before they were ever spoken aloud, the battles ended before swords could ever be drawn. And this, perhaps, is the greatest strength of the House Guard—the illusion of normalcy, the carefully curated image that keeps the people at ease even as the unseen hand of Seinrill moves, shaping the kingdom from the shadows. His Ghosts do not exist in the public eye. And yet, in the halls of power, they are the only thing that truly matters.

Assets

"A secret is a weapon, but only in the hands of one who knows when to wield it. To some, knowledge is power. To us, knowledge is currency—worthless unless spent at the right moment."

— Ethan Thorne, Princeps of the Seinrill House Guard, "The Codex of the Guard"

The House Guard of Seinrill does not possess legions, nor does it parade its strength behind castle walls or upon open battlefields. There are no sprawling barracks where soldiers drill in neat formations, no standing regiments of cavalry awaiting the next call to arms. To outsiders, it would appear that the Guard is little more than a personal retinue, a collection of elite operatives who move at Corvyn Seinrill’s behest. But to assume that the House Guard lacks resources is to fundamentally misunderstand the nature of its power. Its greatest wealth is not in gold or armies, but in influence. It is measured not in battalions, but in the placement of key individuals, in the careful arrangement of debts owed and favors earned. The House Guard does not hoard its assets—it moves them. Money flows unseen, redirected through shadowed transactions, shifting hands in a way that no ledger will ever record. A merchant prince who was untouchable yesterday finds his resources inexplicably frozen today. A noble’s ancestral estate changes ownership overnight through a legal loophole no one knew existed. An entire fleet of ships alters course because one unseen hand tipped the scales of commerce.

The Guard is an army of phantoms, each woven into the economic and political frameworks of Areeott and beyond. Some agents operate within foreign guilds, holding sway over trade agreements and supply lines without ever revealing their true allegiance. Others exist as ghosts in the ledgers of banking houses, controlling vast sums through intermediaries, ensuring that wealth flows precisely where it must and that no kingdom, no matter how distant, remains beyond reach. Though they do not maintain traditional armories, their operatives wield weapons unlike any forged for common war. Some blades are relics of forgotten ages, heirlooms of civilizations lost to time. Others bear enchantments that have no known source, artifacts of such potency that their very existence is kept from the world. It is said that among the most senior of the Guard, there are those who carry weapons that do not merely kill, but erase—tools that sever not just flesh, but memory, history, even the fabric of reality itself. Beyond weapons, there are the things that should not be possessed. There are vaults, hidden in places that do not exist on any map, where knowledge too dangerous to be read is kept sealed away. Cursed tomes, artifacts that bend the will of those who wield them, relics pulled from the depths of ancient ruins where no man should have ever walked—these things do not sit in display cases or the grand treasuries of kings. They are locked away, studied only when necessary, and, if deemed too dangerous, destroyed before they can become a threat. Unlike noble houses that build their power upon fortresses, the House Guard’s stronghold is the absence of visibility. Their control is not displayed through banners or war machines, but through the quiet certainty that when they choose to move, the world will shift accordingly. They do not need battalions when a single agent, placed in the right court, can tilt the balance of nations. They do not need fleets when the right whisper can send a fleet into ruin. And they do not need to garrison troops when their very presence, the knowledge that they could appear, is enough to enforce compliance. Yet when the time for subtlety ends, when something greater must be done, they do not march in force. There is no army bearing their standard, no grand host assembled upon the horizon. Instead, they arrive. Quietly, without fanfare, without warning. There will be no horns, no cries of war—only the silence left in their wake. The House Guard does not need to win wars. It ensures that wars never truly begin. And if they do, then they ensure they do not last.

Armor of the Guard by SolomonJack

History

The House Guard does not have a history—it has a series of corrections. Erased names, silenced voices, events that never came to pass because we ensured they wouldn’t. That is what we were. That is what he made us. And if you think that means we were nothing more than shadows, then you have never understood the weight of what we carried."

— Anson Seinrill, former Constant of the Seinrill House Guard

No records mark the beginning of the House Guard. There is no date etched into stone, no declaration proclaiming its existence, no noble lineage tying it to the great houses of Areeott. It was never meant to be known. The House Guard did not emerge from tradition or duty, but from necessity. It did not form in a moment of triumph but in the cold, bitter years after a war that had already been lost. In the aftermath of the Battle of Bastion, those who survived did not return as victors. They marched across a ruined land with no magic, no certainty of home, no gods to answer their prayers. A year passed before they reached Areeott again, and by then, they understood that the world had changed. They had changed. Some of them disappeared into history. The others did not. They remained, drawn together by something greater than oaths or loyalty. They understood what Corvyn Seinrill understood—that war was not won on battlefields but in the moments before swords were ever drawn. That power did not belong to kings or conquerors, but to those who decided what the future would look like before anyone else even realized the game had begun.

There was no formal initiation, no grand unveiling. The House Guard simply took shape, nameless and unseen, and the world shifted in ways no one would ever trace back to them. They became the architects of stability, ensuring that Areeott did not merely endure but remained untouched. Wars that should have happened never did. Rebellions failed before they began. Rivals fell before they could rise. It was not magic or might that made Areeott strong—it was control. For centuries, the House Guard operated as a collection of operatives, trained for precision, manipulation, and silence. There were no standing armies, no banners, no ranks for the outside world to recognize. They moved where they were needed, became who they needed to be, and never left a trace of their presence behind. But control, as absolute as it may seem, is never perfect. Even the most loyal can falter. Even the most disciplined can fail. Corvyn does not believe in chance. The introduction of the Mote of the Fallen Phoenix was not simply an evolution of the House Guard. It was its final transformation. No longer a network of skilled operatives, the House Guard became something more. Each chosen operative was bound to Corvyn through an arcane tether, their abilities amplified, their connection to him absolute. No more risk. No more uncertainty. No more questioning loyalty. They were still individuals, still capable of thought and action, but in the moments that mattered most, Corvyn could reach them. Could speak through them. Could, if needed, take them back. Whether they realized this was irrelevant. The power was a gift. The price was never explained. Over time, the House Guard expanded far beyond Areeott, placing its operatives deep within foreign courts, guilds, and war councils. They influenced trade, controlled information, and dictated the outcomes of conflicts that no one even realized had begun. They were not enforcers. They were not soldiers. They were the reason Areeott did not falter while the rest of the world struggled. But their purpose was never the kingdom itself. It was never about land, or law, or the noble houses that ruled on paper but never in practice. The House Guard was built for one reason—to serve him. To ensure that his war could continue. To ensure that nothing, not gods nor rulers nor time itself, could stand in his way. And if the world believed they would fall when Corvyn fell—if it thought that without him, the House Guard would simply vanish—then it never understood them to begin with. Because the House Guard was never just an extension of his will. It was an inevitability. A force set in motion that would not stop, not even if the man who created it was erased. If Corvyn is lost, they will find him. If he is erased, they will restore him. If his war is over, they will continue it. Because he built them to endure. And they always will.