The child, Irka Tinsabre he is named -- A blade that should never be swung. Still overcome with emotion, the Law-Giver of the Realm of Silver plants a kiss upon the whinning little bundle's forehead. Starlight filtering in from the white jade windows of the bedchamber illuminates the boy's flushed face. "I dare not utter a curse against ye, o' Silver Lord. . ." Speaks the High Housekeeper, clearly more words yet still hold upon her tongue.
"Please. Cast off those thoughts, we are not the nobles of old, we're hardly noble at all." Jas responds with a light grin.
"Oh no, good ser. You and your clansmen are more noble than any I've served, that is what says my tongue." Slowly, methodically, the Housekeeper draws the curtains, lighting a candle or two.
Detsis heaves, a mighty sigh escapes her throat, she's exhausted to say the least, "Let me have a hold of my damn son." She manages to say, feebly so.
"Ah. Right." Her husband stammers, gently handing off the shimmering cloak swaddling their child. With that, he turns again to the High Housekeeper, "Let us step out." He says, a credulous gaze is shared.
Irka's cries are muffled behind the solid willow door, Galka and Eman sit quietly in the dim dining room -- as quietly as the one-armed sword-master could manage, casting knuckle bones and beckoning his dour companion to play along. The Law-Giver leans against the bright microcline masonry of the Staff of Kissing's finest craftsmen, looking down to the squat Housekeeper, he speaks softly, "Now what was it that's bothering you?"
The woman gazed up at her tall, yet humble lord, "Ser. Again, I mean no disresp--"
"None taken, please. . ." He splays out a hand in gesture.
She adjusts herself, after these past few years still unable to acclimate to the 'royals'' lack of decorum. "It's just that. . . That the stars shone on young master Irka tonight. A. . . Constellation foretelling woe."
Jas raises an eyebrow, but he does not appear shaken, "And that would be?" He asks, pushing her on to continue, and to cut her vagueries.
"Gopet's Crook." She whispers at near inaudible level, yet Galka can't help but find his ear twitch as he turns his attention from Eman's foolery.
Again, unperturbed, Jas responds, "Dear Housekeeper, I am a simple man. Hardly can I read a codex let alone the stars, what significance is this?"
"You know Gopet of course. The Putrid Cyst. Death and Disease are his domain. The High Confederacies know he as Sut, the Tomb of Quests, while the Nations of Honoring give him only the name Ala. . . I do not question the motives of the gods, no, no of course not. But I fear for young master Irka in their plans -- the Gopet's Crook signifies the rise of troubled times, not the fall!"
Working herself up into a frenzy as her voice grows more and more unstable by the moment, Jas places both hands about her shoulders, steadying the woman. "There will always be troubled times, The Band of Wax's journey was only the end of the chapter, not the story. But even so, my progeny and I, the Realm of Silver, we make our own fate -- We are not beholden to some dictations of the night sky." He bears a warm smile, practically embracing the High Housekeeper as if to thank her for her concerns, yet he stalwart against their meaning. "Now. My wife awaits you, take good care of them both, and burden not their hearts with such words."
With a nod, and a return of Jas's countenance, she returns to the bedchamber. Galka has not taken his eyes off of her, nor Jas, he beckons the man before he can compose himself. "Is it secret. . . Is it safe?"
"Even you, Master Galka? My son is no pawn in our enemy's game." Jas rests both palms down upon the wooden table, leaning in over his companions.
Galka responds with a cold stare, "Can you be so sure?" He doesn't allow Jas a pithy retort. "You've blithely accepted the strange gifts of that hollow-eyed
Raven, what makes you believe they weren't tools sent to destroy us from within? Or have you forgotten what has become of our dwarven scholars?"
Jas speaks softly, "Of course not. . ."
"It had to be done." The Law-Giver remarks, "I could not bring myself to execute them for their errant gaze. What monsters would we be?"
Galka merely grumbles before continuing, "Regardless, the slab is yet locked away, is it not?"
"Yes, yes of course. None but the three of us know it's precise location. Nor the rest of the manuscripts left by those assailants." Jas is haggard, some deeper portion of him is long exhausted from their campaign against the blight, yet that only seems to be the beginning.
"Good. See that it remains that way. . ."
Jas sups upon a mug of spiced strawberry wine, sitting forward upon the eponymous Silverthrone. The castle's main hall is all but empty save for the Law-Giver and his two closest confidants. The night is young still, and the coolness of the hall invites awakness. Galka's voice carries only to the pair of men he'd shed blood with. ". . . Yea, if there's aught my journey has determined, 'tis that our foe is no dark god, but flesh and blood the likes of we three. The blight only persists in small pockets beyond our Realm, enough to assume this foe -- 'The Abyssal Cult', either is near to us, or merely has a vendetta against our Realm, or perhaps certainly against our cleansing of their taint. To the fortress of Ancientknowledge I'd traveled, there the Queen of the Walled Dye met with me, her eyes as hollow as the scholars below us. I cannot say that she or the dwarves have any part in this, no, but I learned that the tablet in our vault is not the only one of its kind. Indeed there are no less than fourteen slabs, each holding the concentrated secrets of life and death. . ."
Eman rasps after a heavy glug of his mead, "Ain't no man needs that kinda power, must do stuff to yer head."
Galka nods gazing at his own pale limbs, "I concur. Certainly thee have noticed by now -- I am no mere man. A taste of that curs--"
Jas raises a hand to quiet his mentor's concern. "You are as much a man as we are. Nothing more need be said."
"Aye!" Adds Eman, "Band o' Wax, thru an' thru."
The crippled one can't help but fill ill at ease, but he manages a chuckle. "Well. . . Regardless of that, I put it to thee that wouldst we seek to learn any more of our foe, than seeking out the remaining slabs, chiseled by the gods is nary our only choice."
Jas replies resoundingly, his questions purposeful. "You would have us set out on another journey then? A wild chase even. And what of these tablets, if they are so corrupting the eyes of men, how can we keep them safe?"
"I've now more than a few leads. . . We would destroy them." Galka's proclamation resounds through the hall. "The will of the gods be damned, we've naught but suffered under the burdens they've laid out for us. It is my belief that we are no more than playthings for the greater powers, cheap toys to be discarded after a time. Let us rise above our station, let us wrest fate into mortal hands. . !"
Here, here! The other's exclaim, bringing their mugs together.
"But master Galka, I'm afraid we cannot set out at once. . . You know as well as I do that Silverthrone could be under threat again soon, we must continue preparations. I've contacted the Dwarves of the Staff of Kissing, they're willing to return and build walls for us -- fortify the river and more. Just the same, we've sent out a call for all able bodied men of the realm to join us here, Eman will be in charge of training them. But even before all of this. . ."
Eman wheezes, gripping tight on his drink. "Swordgleamed ya know. . . The Feed o' Styles're startin' to get uppity as hell. We gotta put those bandits in their place. Sooner the better."
"Legitimacy is still hard to come by for us Master Galka. We've the support of a good deal of the populous to be sure, but the nobles are just as well to use our rise for their own gain. Our fist must be shown to come down on any threat, from within or without." Jas mimics his words with a clenched hand and a steady strike. "We cannot loosen our resolve, not ever."
Bringing his one good hand to his strong chin, the now more youthful face of the crippled vampire gazes back, "Great stewards of the Realm you've become. . . Such things had slipped my mind. We've no army yet to strike at the bandit stronghold, and I've heard tale that they're four-hundred strong and swelling still, what is your plan?"
Jas stands from the Silverthrone, a wide smile on his face as he raises his cup, "We'll go ourselves, as the Band of Wax!"
OOC: Not much to say here, lots of dialogue in this one. Probably just one more part after this.
Also Maloy! The Wolfman Lord obsessed with an ear is already plenty an impact if you ask me. Haha.
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 409364 times)