The Beaver King, Cautionary Tales of Medieval Dysfunction

When the recently widowed Irenna (Matthias TaylorBlack) made the decision to leave Stonewake and settle the community that would later be known as Beaverton—a settlement she herself would found—she did not come alone.

With her traveled the Dowager Queen, King Robert, and his Queen Consort. At that time, only two of the Little Lords had yet been born: Baylor the Bound and Brentin the Beneficiary, both still very small, scarcely more than babes carried along by the momentum of adult decisions made far above their understanding.

Beaverton was not yet a kingdom, nor even a promise. It was a gathering of displaced will, grief, ambition, and unchecked authority, stitched together under the quiet assumption that order would simply emerge if everyone pretended long enough that it already had.

Because the family was new to the area, they made an outward show of wanting to meet other families, to be seen as neighbors rather than rulers, as settlers rather than sovereigns. But the larger purpose moved beneath the surface. As the foundations of House Beaver were being quietly established, there arose the shared understanding that it would be best to fool the people; to obscure who they truly were, what they truly intended, and how much power they already believed themselves to possess.

It is here that King Robert’s first stint of on-again religion begins.

They found the Robertson Hollow Revival Church, and they began to attend. To understand what followed, one must first understand how King Robert involves himself in anything at all.

When something catches Robert’s interest, it does not simply occupy him—it consumes him. He goes all in. He pours time into it until nothing else exists. He spends money recklessly, lavishly, as though excess itself proves sincerity. He speaks of it endlessly and demands that those around him mirror his intensity. What he loves, everyone must love. What he is fixated on, the household must orbit.

In these seasons, Robert allows no moderation. Obsession masquerades as conviction. Control dresses itself as passion. And then, just as suddenly, the interest is gone.

Once Robert has taken his fill, once the novelty dulls or resistance appears, he abandons the thing entirely. What was once treated as sacred becomes disposable. The people he dragged into devotion are left standing alone with its remains, expected to adjust without question, without grief, and without acknowledgment of the cost.

This is the pattern. This is the cycle. Religion, in Beaverton, would prove no exception.

As soon as the Beaverton clan met Robertson, the presiding voice of the revival, King Robert’s obsession ignited fully, much to the chagrin of the Queen Consort, Brystal. The revival made King Robert feel important. It placed him in proximity to admiration and applause, to titles spoken aloud, to authority mistaken for holiness. We highly doubt the religious substance itself played much of a role at all.

Before anyone realized what was happening, the family was attending multiple times a week. What began as polite participation hardened quickly into expectation. The Queen Consort altered her dress and her hair to suit the needs of Robert’s newest fantasy, reshaping herself to match the image he wished to project. The revival did not merely become an activity—it became life.

And even as performative as the revival already was, the Beaver King took it further still. Shoes off, and his sausage fingered hands waving. Gibberish spouted with confidence. Jumping, shouting, flailing, an exaggerated theater of devotion so absurd it bordered on parody.

It was deeply embarrassing for the Queen Consort, who had come from Mooresfork, where worship was practiced quietly and with restraint. There, reverence was not loud. Here, it was chaos. The Dowager Queen, too, was embarrassed—though she would never admit that her little prince could conduct himself in such a manner. Silence became her refuge. Denial, her shield.

As Robert’s obsession grew, so too did his hunger for power. He has always wanted to be in charge, but not to lead. He lacks the patience, empathy, and discipline required of true leadership. What he craves instead is prestige, admiration, and the appearance of authority.

Somehow, through influence, pressure, or sheer audacity he produced what he claimed to be a formal paper from the Capital, a license to practice ministry. Its purpose was singular. He intended to usurp Robertson and place himself at the center of the revival.

It should be noted here that many, including This Minstrelle, believe that this so-called paper was a forged document. No independent record of its issuance was ever substantiated. No confirming authority was produced. The paper itself was never examined beyond Robert’s own presentation of it, waved about with confidence rather than verified. Like so many things attached to the Beaver King, it relied entirely on volume, assumption, and the expectation that no one would dare question him.

The document served its purpose briefly, not as legitimate authority, but as a prop. Once its usefulness faded, it disappeared from conversation altogether, never referenced again, never renewed, never defended. Its absence spoke louder than its original claim. Whether forged outright or merely imagined into existence, it functioned exactly as Robert required: long enough to inflate his sense of importance, and not a moment longer.

This ambition proved short-lived.

For Robert had not understood what ministry actually required. He had not accounted for the labor of care. The listening. The late nights. The emotional expenditure of tending to others without applause. When the work ceased to flatter him, when it became inconvenient and draining, the weight of it revealed itself as a cross he had no intention of bearing. And just like that, the obsession faltered.

From then on, as recorded by Baylor the Brave as he grew older, it would appear that the Beaver King’s interest in religion was only ever piqued after he had committed some grievous wrongdoing and found himself in need of atonement.

Faith became a reset button. Attendance would increase. Language would soften. He would speak of conviction, forgiveness, and being “called back.” Those around him were expected to accept the transformation as immediate and sincere.

During each of these on-again seasons, Robert did not change alone. He forced the entire household into the transformation with him. Rules appeared overnight. Language shifted. Music, clothing, routines, and expectations were abruptly rewritten to match whatever version of righteousness he was currently performing. The children were marched into compliance, required to adopt convictions they could not yet understand—and abandon them just as quickly when his interest waned. The Queen Consort was expected to pivot instantly, reshaping herself again and again to match his latest performance.

It gave them all whiplash. There was no gradual return, no concern for stability. Only sudden immersion followed by sudden abandonment. What was sacred one month became irrelevant the next. What was enforced with severity was later dismissed without explanation.

Once absolution was assumed, the devotion would disappear. The behavior would resume—often worse than before. He would also return to religion whenever his ego required stroking and his mother’s reassurance was no longer sufficient. Praise given too freely lost its potency. He needed a larger audience. Often, it was simply when he needed self-importance.

This Minstrelle has had her own experience with this pattern. The one time this Minstrelle went to the revival, and listened to Mada on the Hill’s blathering, word of her presence somehow reached the Beaver King. What followed was immediate.

He came calling to the caravan, freshly shaved and eager to be noticed. He bragged of rising early and ensuring everyone attended revival that very morning. For the record, by that time This Minstrelle had been with Baylor for four full seasons and had never once heard tell of such a thing occurring.

A wild yarn followed, of taking over a neighboring revival in Worthingmere, of becoming its head shepherd, its supreme voice, its spiritual authority. Titles were implied. Prestige assumed.

To this Minstrelle’s knowledge, none of it ever came to pass. The assumption of the Worthingmere Revival never happened. Church was never attended again. No congregation gathered. No flock ever stood before Father Beaver, for such a figure existed only as long as it was useful to say that he did.

Thus continued the cycle: an on-again faith resurrected not by belief, but by obsession, ego, and guilt—and abandoned the moment it demanded anything in return.