Duchy of SIBOD
Duchy of SIBOD
Per bend sinister argent and ermine, a bend sinister and in dexter chief a skeletal hand fesswise reversed sable.
The household was created in the mid 90's by Craven & Ismenia as a fighting household. The device's inspiration came from a trip to Pennsic and the host, the Barony of Settmour Swamp, which is the Sinister Icy Black Hand of Death name and skeletal hand charge. Throughout the years and help of many members, the household has grown to be more than a fighting unit. The goal of the household is to make a fun place for others to do the SCA together and make a cool camp at war.
The Duchy of SIBOD has members on many different Baronies and Kingdoms.
Story of the Duchy of SIBOD
Herein lies an account of the days before the darkness. A time when the kingdom of Atenveldt knew only light, and the story of the king that tamed the night. Thus begins the tale of Sir Cosmo Craven the Elder, and the Specter of Death.
Long ago the embodiment of darkness was death. Death was the specter that snuffed the light of life, and the soul of death stood in opposition of light itself. Death was pleased with its role in the world; there was no soul that did not fear the darkness, no land that his shadow did not touch, save one.
Atenveldt was a land that knew no darkness, that feared no shadow, and that death could not touch. This kingdom of the sun enraged the specter of death, and he vowed that one day he would bring darkness to the land of the sun. Thus it was that the reaper set plans into motion. Death knew that he had the strength to claim only one soul. Power enough was his to take one life, but whom?
To claim a king would make a hero. To take a knight would make a martyr. To take a priest would make a god. The specter of death pondered long and hard about the soul that he would take from the land of the sun, until finally it came to him. Death would not claim a king, or a knight, or even the highest priest. Rather the reaper would make his presence known in the land of light by claiming the queen, the one perfect soul from which all light flowed.
And so the plan was laid, and that night, as darkness claimed all lands but one, the reaper stretched out his long ghostly finger, and stroked the soul of a queen. When the first evening fell on the land of the sun, the queen was taken ill. When the first night divided the day in half, the queen was truly sick. When the darkness of night stretched longer than the sun could claim the sky, the queen of Atenveldt was at death’s door.
The reaper was thrilled. His plan was working. He had laid low the source of light and beauty in the kingdom of the sun, and now his shadow had all but claimed the land. All he must do was to creep in the night, and claim the soul of a queen.
Death considered when to take her. He decided he would take her slowly, by inches. Better that the people see her suffer. Better that they try to save her and fail. Try they did. Priests prayed, knights quested for relics, and healers came from all around to watch their potions fail. In time, all lost hope, all but one.
Each night when the inky black came to drive the sun from the sky, did the king of Atenveldt keep the watch. Long did the lord of light keep the darkness at bay. Long did his lady, kept by his faith, bring the dawn once more.
Death should have known better than to try to claim the queen.
On the darkest longest night, the healers, and the priests came to the king, and spoke to him, where he sat at the hand of the queen. They told him that in this, the longest and darkest night, the ghost of death would come, and claim the queen. The king nodded. There was no prayer potion or relic that could save her now. The solar king called for his sword, and made ready once more to keep the watch.
Darkness had come to the valleys. Darkness had come to the castle mount. Darkness had settled in the halls of the castle, and darkness had come to the door of the queen. Silently the specter of death crept into the room that held the last bastion of light in the kingdom of the sun. There did the skull of death grin, for before him he saw the queen. There he saw the crown on her pale brow. There he saw the ring on her finger, and there, at her hand he saw the king of light staring directly at him.
Death had never had cause to pause, until now. This was the first time that mortal eyes had ever looked on him, and death was surprised by the steel that he found there.
Death said nothing. The king said nothing. Death crept close to the bed, and the king of men rose.
“You see me king of men.” Death said. “And I shall stop you” replied the solar king. “Then tonight I claim two souls, instead of one”
In the span of time it takes a heart to stop beating, the reaper lashed out at the king of light. In his skeletal grip was a sickle forged of purest shadow. Faster than the moment of death the heart of darkness stuck out at the king. Faster than the breaking of dawn was he halted. In the chamber of the queen, the weapon of darkest night met the blade forged of sunlight held fast in the kings good right hand.
Kings victory was, it is said, forged from a single ray of the golden sun. Captured by the old magic, this ray of pure light was forged, folded on itself again, and again. When finally the blade was nearly forged, the hammer was passed to each of the knights of the kingdom of the sun. To seal the magic each knight of solar decent landed one blow on the newly forged blade, and each hero bound his soul to the light. If ever was born a match for the sickle of death, it was the blade known as king’s victory
When the sickle of death met the blade of light, there was a pause in time. The specter of death, the heart of shadow, knew that this would be the fight that decided the fate of Atenveldt. And so was battle joined.
In the chamber of the queen, in the deep still of the night did hero and villain battle. Light and dark, sun and shadow met and rebounded. The king of the sun, and the ghost of death battled long and hard, each a match for the other. There they would be bound, neither able to gain the upper hand. Until the king of men, mortal and finite, began to tire.
Soon did the solar king draw his breaths in ragged gasps. Eventually his blows began to slow, and his guard began to falter. With time did the king’s strong right hand begin to fail, and in desperation did the king lock his weapon with that of death and pull him into a clinch.
The ghost and the king stood face to face, inches from each other. The blade of light, and the sickle of darkness locked fast against one another as monster and mortal struggled for the advantage. Death began to laugh
“Fool mortal. You grow tired. I feel the weakness in your strong right hand. You will fail, and the queen will die.” The skull growled.
The solar king felt the trembling in his strong right hand, and grinning he gave his response “You are right,” he said. “I will be failed by my strong right hand.”
“You know you will fail.” Hissed death, puzzled. “Why is it that you smile?” “Because I know something that you don’t know.” Replied the king. “And what is that?” “I am not right handed”
With the speed of light itself did the lord of light, solar rex, lash out with his stronger left hand. The mighty hand of the king drove deep into the chest of the specter of death, and clutched at the shriveled heart of death.
The reaper screamed, a howl that has not been heard since, and knew he was defeated. The hand of the solar king gripped the black heart of death, and burned that ebony ember with the light only a true hero of Atenveldt can ever hope to wield. The reaper cried for mercy, but the king would give him none.
The mortal hero gazed into the screaming face of death, and made his will known. “Now ghost,” he roared. “You will go from my land. You shall darken the skies of my kingdom only when the sun resplendent allows it, and not a moment before. You shall go from the chamber of my queen, and know that so long as I live, she shall never die. You shall slink from my halls, and know, once and for all, that when death comes to an Aten soul, it is on their terms, and no others. To remember this edict you will bear my grip on your heart from now until the world end.” With that, King’s Victory flashed, and the Solar Lord cleft off his stronger left hand, leaving it forever locked in a death grip, around death’s own heart. Then did the sword of sun flash once more, and the hand of the reaper fell away. Before the ghost of evil could flee, he watched in terrible awe as the king of the sun, with magics older than time, bound the skeletal left hand of the reaper to his own bleeding arm.
Death fled the land of Atenveldt. He ran for fear of the sword made of sun. He ran for fear of the lord of light. He ran for the pain of the hand on his heart, but most of all, he ran because he knew that if ever he were to be seen unbid the king of the sun would lay the reapers own skeletal hand upon him, and death itself would be no more.
In this, the closing of my account, I give caution for those that test the mettle of the line of solar lords. Let these words be testament to any that would heed my council
To all the foes of this great land I warn you with my parting breath Our king wears the reaper’s own hand The sinister icy black hand of death. Thus ends this account. Let mortal minds never forget that this has been the telling of how Sir Cosmo Craven the Elder laid low the specter of death, and came to fly the flag bearing his own hand. May fate have mercy on the soul that does not heed this warning.
Set down, faithfully, by my hand. Malcolm The Bold Scribe, and Servant of the Sun
Interests of the household
Awards of the Duchy of Sibod
Heads of Household
Arianna della Luna
Aurora de Ivory
Floki the Ginger
Heinrich Loescher von Rostock
Juliana la Caminante de Navarra
Kron the Mighty
Lisette du Lac
Rian hua Tadgain
Richard Attekirck the Rabbit
Sebastian Of The Titans
Styrbiorn inn Rauði
Tighearnain of Mightrinwood NKA Faris al-Muwallad
Sibod Justice I, II, III
We’re proud to be lefty
It’s just the way to be for me
The righty reigns are through
We’ll wrap you ‘till you’re black and blue
We are lefty ninjas, fighting tyranny
From this affray you’ll run away
Coz sinister’s for me