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"Behind me brother!" Rimtil's voice beckoned out over the dead-choked snow, it echoed through the solemn town where naught was left but the dull moans of thralls and their shrieks of mortal wounds. As the soldiers that the two Heirs led dispersed into the quiet homes, marked in ash, together they approached the Lord's hall. It was the scene of grisly crime, a scene for which the spawn thereof yet lurked, lingered, awaited their demise.
Outstretched, Rimtil's spear pointed ahead, dripping the crimson filth that oozed out of her foes, two yet more of which approached, trudging through the frosty slurry. Behind Rimtil, Irka stood in dazed silence, he leant upon the pike in both arms, bloodless and pristine, eyes cascading across the lumps in the snowfields, and then to the Lord and their attendant first shambling, and then charging forth. Was it fear that struck his heart. . ?
Rimtil met with the attendant who haphazardly surged her way, she put the point of her spear through the thing's neck and drawing it to the ground, embedding it so despite the creature's continued thrashing. The blighted nobleman was next, despite its discordant movements it was nearly upon her. "Irka! Your pike!" She gestured toward her brother, yet nary a response came as the thrall slammed against her. Its jagged teeth gnashed and slavered, desperate to sink themselves into the Heir's fresh, warm flesh. "Damn it. . .
IRKA!" The woman bellowed, wrestling with the unnaturally strong monster, each clamp of its jaws getting closer.
Rimtil twists the beast, kicking away its ankle, at last a half-hearted, "H-Here." Heralds the pike into her hands. With a flourish, she batters the skull of the once-lord, smashing and smashing away with the half of the weapon 'til there's naught left but a red spot in the snow. Catching her breath, the Heir huffs and puffs, stepping over to the still raving one, flat on its back. She finishes it with a single weighty stab through the forehead.
Together, the siblings merely stood and watched as the thrall's viscera leaked out into the earth. Uncomfortable silence had befallen them, Rimtil turns toward her brother to break it, "If only uncle Eman hadn't kicked the bucket, he'd be proud to see us showing the skills he taught eh?" She sucks at her teeth, Irka doesn't so much as budge, fixated on the field of battle. Rimtil tosses her brother the pike, shocking him to life before retrieving her own spear.
"I never realized. . ." The young heir begins, his fist gripping tight the haft of his weapon, "I knew the Blight twisted the bodies and minds of men to its dark bidding, but this. . ? It's as if their souls are trapped inside, just behind those eyes, screaming and begging for an end to their walking nightmare. It's horrifying, looks no different than killing a man in cold blood."
His sister puts a firm hand to his shoulder, "A swift end is all we can give 'em Irka."
"Yes, you are right."
The Holy Eel and the Holy Subtlety of Streammartyr both say their respective prayers for the deceased, no doubt wholly different than the other's. The Soldiers of the realm carry bodies upon their shoulders, casting them into great piles, whale fat oil from the Sea of Blades is cast upon them, and soon thereafter they're set alight. "Thank you, men of Silver, your services are legendary, and will be aptly rewarded." Rimtil's voice befalls on the haggard warriors, each of them dealing with their own demons in the aftermath. "We'll rest here for now, 'fore we move on." She adds, sitting beside her brother 'neathe the boughs of an oak tree as they look over the town. Between the two heirs, the soldiers, and remnants of the site's citizens, a contemplative silence had blanketed the area, beside from sizzling blighted flesh.
In the footsteps of their forebears, Irka, Rimtil, and the young soldiers of Omon Obin traverse the realm. Picking through the ghastly ruins between its bastions of civilization, they march on. Yet unlike their forebears in the Band of Wax, emboldened with each victory over their blighted foes to rescue their realm from the jaws of oblivion, only a greater and greater disquiet fell over the heirs to the Realm of Silver. A low dirge clung to their hearts and grew with each infected citizen's demise, no truths whether objective or otherwise could keep the horror of the Blighted Thralls' sentient eyes.
In one such town the pair trudged, their shimmering cyan cloaks marked them as their soldiers followed suit, each with their own unspoken turmoil as well. In the empty roads that heralded their mud-caked boots, Irka drew closer to his sister, hoping to find some solace in their shared spirituality as he spoke. "This. . . This cannot be the truth of Gopet's will." He mutters, his head hung low. An eye catches the rotting skeleton of an unfortunate soul that once perhaps lived among these homes. "This blanket of death is not the harvest that my lord sets into motion. It is not the fallowing of Orid Xem for the fertility of the next generation of crop. It is death only for the sake of death - A perversion, anathema to what I know and believe. . ."
"Keep your head up dear brother." Rimtil beats a fist in Irka's shoulder blade, breaking some of the dreariness from his mind. "The gods are no petulant as man is."
"Are they not. . ?" She receives in whispered kind.
Rimtil smirks, patting her brother firmly again, "There is purpose in the trials they present, just think Omon Obin would not have flourished so under father's even hand had the Blight not come."
"Hmph." Irka thinks on that reality for only a moment. "Perhaps that is true, but I defy you to find a man or woman alive that would not have chosen the old rule a thousand fold over before the scourge of the Thralls - The suffering that it wrought."
She sighs, knowing that her words will fall on deaf ears. "Have you not considered that the suffering will only make us stronger? It will lead the Realm to greater heights, that I believe. . ."
"What malevolence then our deities must hold. For theirs is the power over all. Suffering need not be."
Three weeks pass by marked by a haze of blood and doubt, the northern holdings of the Realm of Silver are cleansed once more from the menace of the Blight that had made its way through the harsh Tundra of Heroes.
The populace of New Weatherponder welcome the returned heirs and their retinue with mighty applause, and though some revel in the appreciation, many of the soldiers cannot help but feel they are being cheered on for base acts of murder, Irka is no different. When they come before the gates of Silverthrone, they are lauded by the sounds of bellowous cecs and saluted by the guard.
Before the eponymous Silverthrone, they kneel, their men and women abaft as the great Jas Gloryage the Worshipful, descends from above to hold court. In the 23rd Law-Giver's arms is the young babe Luki, his third and most certainly final child. "My son, my daughter. I expect you would not have returned without completing your task -- To you and to all the valiant warriors here today, I am humbled by your perseverance." The elder Lord of Silver bows his head gently, he cannot help but break his veneer of statesmanship to creak a wide smile at his children. "Soldiers of Omon Obin, please, rest and make merry, I would speak with my progeny alone."
Their sabatons bound across the masoned grounds leaving the great hall of Silverthrone empty save for their flesh and blood. "Father." Rimtil speaks at once, but is quickly cut off by Jas.
"Irka. Rimtil. Now that you have gone into the Realm and lived the life that I once had, tell me - What have you seen?"
Irka is the first to answer, his head remains down, gazing at the tiles beneath him. "Pain. Our people's pain. The pain of Orid Xem. The Blight has taken hold of it, more than a century ago, and it has not let go. We were sheltered by your band's exploits, and made weaker for it, for I know only cowardice in the face of this woe."
"Rimtil?" Jas prods without responding to his son.
"Hope and strength. The will of our peoples are strong." She locks gaze with her father, speaking firm. "Though they have suffered greatly at the hands of the Obin Blight, they are resolute that we as stewards of the Realm will shield them from the darkest of days."
"How would either of you confront this threat?" The Law-Giver asks.
The daughter is quick to answer, "Whatever the cost we must fortify our holdings. Arms and training to our common folk, commission the dwarven masons to build us forts and defenses. We must fund a night-watch all the same that we will not have another incursion as such again."
"Bold." Jas remarks, "I would have done so at the moment of my ascension had we the funds and manpower. But the Realm has prospered this last decade, perhaps your vision is achievable. My son, what would you do?"
Irka breathes deeply, looking still at the cobbles, "In my heart of hearts I know that I would flee from such menace. I am not a warrior as Rimtil. . ." He gazes up, meeting his father, "But if you must press me so cruelly, I would have us learn all that we can about this Blight, only then can we effectively counter it."
The elder man ruminates, considering both his children, their hearts, and their words, stroking away at his silver beard.
"Honored Father!" Irka bursts forth, "For the sake of succession there is only one choice among us--"
"It is Irka." Rimtil finishes her brother's sentence to his surprise. "For he will have the level head and deepest thoughts between us. His actions will be purposeful each and all, and there shant be a misstep when it comes to matters regarding our people, this I know. And I will be his general, valiant and true." She doesn't mince her words, beaming a wide grin toward her stupefied sibling.
Jas Gloryage lets out a wheezing laugh. "I am not dead and gone yet, little sprouts!" He stands, third child Luki waking in his arms, "Whose to say your younger brother won't succeed me, eh?" Despite his words, and despite his trepidation, Jas feels a sense of pride in his children welling up in those eyes, though he quickly blinks it away and states thus, "Irka, Rimtil, come. There are portents for your future that I must show you at once."
With that, the three descend into the castle's belly, where dark shadows lie. . .
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Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 409767 times)