Interlude: Red Duke Of PlatinumgodBorn 6 Granite 463, The Age of Myth
Dwarf women tend to be tough. Dwarf noble women tend to be angry and needy. This makes them undesirable, but there is really no way to turn your back on them. After all, politics is important. A few hundred years ago though, the heir to Platinumgod was forced to marry one of these women. They had a true born son, heir to both Platinumgod and Steelridge. As neighbors, the combined realm would have had the power to declare independence from Goldenhold.
But that is not what this story is about. No one tells this legend because of how this caused the failure of a rising power. They tell it because of how the assassination went:
He had just finished cheating on his wife. He walked out of the room, his grey beard tucked into his belt. A sword at his hip shined with the look of new steel. His red vest covered his chest against the cold winters that came into the valley outside platinumgod.
And he looked to his right, screaming as he saw a dwarf with a knife and a buckler approach him, his face hidden by the cowl of his black cloak. The assassin could have ended the Dukeís life then and there. The duke began to draw out his sword with his right hand but suddenly stopped.
He had no more right hand. The assassin had lopped his arm off with the knife in his hand. Why he didnít end the Duke there and then was a matter of tradition, still time honored to this day.
You see, ending an enemy has to be an art- the louder he screams the more the gods hear of their creations. A simple stab to the neck is considered dishonorable because of this- a killing should be gracious and slow, the sounds of yelling and pain acting as a harmony of the world. Pushing them into lava is double the glory.
The blood began to spray out of his arm, staining the floor. But he ran, faster than the assassin on his two light feet, faster than the wolf prowling at night. Some say he ran faster than most gods on a good day. Either way, once the sweat began to pound off his forehead he saw he was in a cavern. Between losing his arm and reaching this point he only remembered screams. And the laughs.
But for now, as he sat down, he only saw the cliff behind him, looming over the waters of the deeps. Moss beneath his feet made it hard to move, and although there was little light he could see some of his blood leaving a trail.
Suddenly, he felt very weak, and very tired. His skin was lighter than normal. It was only a matter of time before- he heard footsteps. Multiple footsteps beating against the cavern floor. Suddenly instinct won him over.
He dodged a bloody knife to his throat, drew his sword with his left hand, and failed to block a supposedly killing blow with his clumsy counter attack.
But it wasnít fatal- his intestines were just pouring out of his stomach. The duke sheathed his sword.
But when did intestines ever stop a true master of the sword? The duke pulled out the blade, throwing it to the ground. Then he once again unsheathed his sword. Another knife flew at him, he took a step back, the knife going right over his head as he went down over the edge of the cliff, into the water below.
He fell, screaming. He lived however with his broken leg that hit the rocks at the bottom. He tried to swim but didnít know how, but slowly he managed to walk his way across the bottom, his boots entrenching themselves in the much. Just before he was out of breath he steamrolled up a ramp, and lied dying beneath a fucking mushroom that would eventually be used as a fucking spice.
It took him three weeks to die.