Imgur isn't working, and I've waited a while but still down. Have places to be, so I'll post it like this and add images later.
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I wake from my sleep, restlessly turning, blood stained and feeling filthy to the core of my being. Necrothreader's black ichor covers me from head to foot, and my already dark blade has been suffocated in its oily darkness. Of course, I am in the hospital, again. It seem to be like a second home to me, with Yoink's disturbed and indecipherable mutterings seeming like a home-coming all in themselves. Sprin seems in his element, gliding about the room laughing as he polishes scalpels and brandishes bone saws, while Jenny sits in the corner, shadows wrapping her like a cloak. I blink and rub the grime from my eyes, and she comes into focus, slightly closer, a half-smile on her face.
Groaning, I tumble out of my bed, landing unceremoniously in my night garb, now stained with the filth of the battle. The fool who put it on me obviously didn't know what he was at, and I pluck at the fabric with annoyance. Standing, I face the two. Sprin acts as if I do not exist, while Jenny simply keeps watching me. I proceed to pull clothes over the night dress. Something is off with the Maiden of the Fortress – something not right. I remember her songs and her laughter, not this gloomy contemplation. A knock at the door intrudes over the rasp of Sprin's blades, and as it flies open I forget everything except the crazed Forumite before me. He holds a book carefully tucked under his arm, tattered and burned from fire, stained with gore. His one eye gleams with frenzied excitement, and his other… well, suffice to say it did not gleam, not unless the void itself could reflect light.
“There is an attacker, Dwarfy. Come quickly – the forges of hell itself spat this one onto the field. The Necrothreaders” he swallows and adjusts his grip on the book “the Necrothreaders were telling the truth. Their leader is here, the Lord High Threadromancer. He has come, and shadow comes with him. His wings seem to swallow the sun, the grass withers beneath the blast of their flight. Hurry.” His sword gleams as he pulls it free, and as does mine. Blue and black blades pierce the air. Mine takes a reddish tinge as I funnel my anger into the weapon, use it to calm and clear my mind.
“Let's go.”
[Image saying that a Lord High Threadromancer has appeared]
The upper fortress is in chaos. Forumites shout and jostle for position, dead corpses in view of the Fortifications rise and shamble after them. Highmax clears a path through them, blue light welling around him like lighting out of a clear summer's day. His face relaxes as he fights, taking revenge on the undead for the death of Apiks. I feel his pain, desire revenge, but first we have to see what we are up against. Going to the fortifications, I look across the barren land. It is scorched, that land, red sand oozing up through sparse patches of charred grass like blood from a wound. Prowling the ash gardens are fingers and hands, heads and torsos. But on the horizon, there is a patch of red. My sword pulses in counterpoint, jerking in my hand. It comes closer. Tongues of flame spear nearby undead like it is sport. A mule's head the military had been having sport with, as it could not be destroyed, is torn apart before my eyes like paper. Warmth washes over the Fortifications, warmth and the smell of Sulpher. Praying on high for help, I shout for the gates to be shut.
There is no way to contain such fury, such strength. Death from on high on our very doorstep. With a resounding thud, the doors slam shut for the second time. Children wail, warriors grimace, workers stare distraught as the last chink of sky is sealed away once more. I shout at them, order them to move. The depleted military acts quickly to control the public, except Arx. Spear in hand, he had stared with the rest as the doors started to shut, then quick as an eel slid through the gap and onto the field of red, red sand. The door slams behind him. His helm in place, he takes a step towards the living flame, which coalesces into the figure of a man. A man of darkness, surrounded by vermilion whips of light. A man the god of undeath had forged upon an anvil of misery.
Arx carries the spear lightly in his hand, and his tread is light. He goes to fight with the spirit of old Necrothreat, when the boldest and most brave of us had left the safety of the walls to spit in the face of death and flame. When the greatest of us had walked, and songs had resounded in the halls for their honour. This is the spirit, not of bravery or courage, but of hope and stubborness with which he goes to fight. The fiery figure smiles, and in his hand too there is a spear. Like the rising sun it shines, and shoots forward to explode at the feet of the hero. Arx jumps the fiery bolt, rolling on the ashen ground. From inside the fort, we hear the sound, feel the tremor and pray for Arx. With my view at the Fortifications, I shake my head sadly. He does not stand a chance.
With fingers barely fleshed, the hands of the dead writhe towards him, gripping at his ankles. One stab. Two. Three. They are wrested from the control of Ur's magic and sent into the void, and a smile of pleasure comes over the face of the warrior. This is his last dance, and he wants to take every step with care. A final roar reaches us as he throws himself into the flame. His spear bursts alight, its tip turns cherry-red. His clothes ignite, and he cries out in pain, but still comes forward. The arrogant look on the High Lord is wiped clean, its hands are raised…. And the spear strikes home, hitting the beast in the leg. A roar of rage echoes, and a cheer rises from the ragged people of the Fort. Only I see what happens next.
Hands reaching down, the High Lord Threadromancer grabs Arx. The hands melt through the metal helm, and beads of molten metal spray. The hands sink further, and Arx is no more. His body slumps to the ground and is consumed by flame, the wound in the beast's leg seems already to be healing. Like it were cauterised. We inflicted a minor wound to a great beast, and lost one of our finest warriors in the process. Hanging my head, I leave the Fortifications behind, watching the glare of fire on the walls of Necrothreat. Arx died a hero with resolution in his heart, but still we need to defend ourselves from this threat.
1st Granite
His face was turned toward the flame
And spear was in his hand
When Arx left us to fight the beast
Upon the blood-red sand.
And on his helm, a jewel fair
To light the way within beast's lair
Was lit, a beacon, lightning fierce
To light our faces, show our tears.
Long fought he in our wars, his spear agleam
And habergeon of adamantine fair
Was on his breast, blue was each ring
And silver in his hair.
Alas for us, he went away
Into the light of day.
We cry, we cry to see him go
But he needs not our woe.
For with his courage, and his pride
He smote upon the doors of fate -
He saw the dogs of death, and smiled,
And ordered them to wait.
Arm stretched, his flesh on fire
We watched him fade away.
Never again his like are we to see
Beneath the light of day.
For where he walked, the dead did quake
And tremble as they wept,
For he was firm and lived for us,
Then died for Necrothreat.
So the bards sing when asked, for the death that he defied, and that single injury that he dealt before his death. Remember him as you would remember your own dead son, for he saw each and every one of us as family. Remember him and his comrades, all the ones who died to keep the walls of Necrothreat stationed by the staunch Forumites. Most of all, remember our creed: We will stand!
This day, needless to say, is not one of celebration. After the death of Arx, we tried once more to think of a way to defeat the outside threat, with no hope. A Necrothreader tried to creep in through the back entrance, but by the grace of our own ingenuity we managed to seal it in. Now, the wails as it storms in the room of its capture shake the fortress, and kept us up throughout the night. Only Sprin and Jenny seem unaffected, both smiling widely and moving through the forms of surgery and patching back together the flesh of the living. They have asked me to visit them, and that is where I go to now, despite the protestations of Highmax. His nose seems to be more and more deep within the pages of that gore-stained book, but I don't pry. Each deals with grief in his own way. The torches on the walls flare as I walk further into the bowels of the fortress, and then the door arises from the smoke-haze they create.
Opening the door, I first see Yoink, lying on his bed. He seems to be gesturing at me, but from his chin to the crown of his head is wrapped in bandages, and he can no longer open his mouth to speak. “What is the meaning of this,” I demand of Sprin and Jenny. They stand together at the corner of the room, each with a smile on their face. Jenny never struck me as intimidating before, but now she practically radiates danger. What has been happening down here?
Sprin is the first to answer. “The reign of Th4DwArfY1 is over. Now begins the reign of Sprin, the reign of the doctor. I have shed blood on the battlefield for you, and now I want my reward, your place.” I suddenly wish Highmax were here, that he wasn't immersed in his book, but if wishes were reindeer, Mastah would ride as they say.” My sword leaves its sheath with a clear ringing sound, and lights up the room as it does. Sprin looks on with bemused indifference, and I funnel my disgust and distrust into my blade. It shines with a faint red light, bathing us in its glow, and my words come clipped and fast.
“I will not give into you, Sprin. You cannot overpower me. Your skill in the sword dance is great, but I...I have other powers at my command, such as would make the flesh peel from your skull and leave bare all the mysteries you possess. You will not take this fortress, by hook, bolt or sword. It is not going to be under the command of one such as you. If you submit now, I will leave here and grant you a pardon for this treason. If you stand in my way…” the sword pulses darkly red with each beat of my heart, illustrating my point.
Sprin merely looks on, still smiling, still arrogant. Slowly Jenny rises from her place beside him, and I see she carries in her hand the pick of Apiks. It has no rock dust on it now – it has been cleaned and polished, made like an ornament it would seem. Apiks would be shocked and disgusted to see his beloved pick treated as a bauble. I sneer at her. “You cannot defeat me, even with that. It is a mighty tool, but only when wielded by Apiks, by the founder of forts. You are not he.”
The pick rises and starts to shine. White, white like a starburst fills my eyes, and I hear myself muttering “no, no it cannot be” over and over under my breath. Tendrils of darkness weave through the light, a stain of darkness on a blank canvas. The red of my sword flickers and dies, my resistance drains beneath the gaze of Jenny, who I had considered my friend, and friend to the Fort. The light fades, but leaves behind a faint haze of whiteness over my eyes.
Jenny stands in front of me, a smile on her face. “Now, this is what we are going to do. You will step down and hand the position to Sprin, as a reward for his prowess on the field of battle. You will declare him a national hero, and….”
[Image of Jenny's info thing saying she would "love all masters toppled"]
Thus ends the reign of Th4DwArfY1.
Author
Topic: Necrothreat III, whatever that is (Read 320213 times)