So, this was going to be a longer post, but I figure I'll split it. Mainly because it's been a while since I posted, so this makes it sooner. Also because I feel it deserves a stand alone post.
*****
We walk the paths ascribed to us; I, the miner forever cursed. Him; the King of good intent and shady means. We walk, and the gods laugh. We stab at one another ineffectually. We spar and dance and part with no blood shed.
That changes. Now.
The gods took my son, and so I will walk a new path, sing a new song. One of anger. One of vengeance.
One of death.
***********************
The Trolls charged Apiks in one great, seething mass. Fire lit the walls with staccato shadows as a single Gamer threw flame and shouted its rage. All the enemies of Necrothreat, in one room, with one imperative.
Kill the King.
Beyond the drawbridge the sound of battle filtered through, and Apiks gritted his teeth even as he pulled his chainsaw to roaring, thirsty life. If Highmax and Carefulrogue could reach that lever, he knew, it would be over. They just had to…
A Troll lumbered in from the side, and Apiks hewed through its arm. It fell to the ground in a wash of blue blood, but the beast came on, rage contorting its face.
Apiks seemed to flow to one side, his guard up, and severed its head as it charged, bull-like, towards him.
The head fell at the feet of three more.
The King now seemed not to dance, but to flow. He was water, he was air. His was the saw which fells the mightiest of oaks. Limbs flew, horns grazed his skin, his mouth opened wide in a silent scream.
His hobnobbed boots struggled to find purchase on the slick wood of Necrothreat’s roof. It was cacophony, it was chaos, it was what King Apiks lived for.
Trolls filled the room still, though many were dead. They crowded him, bounced from the confining walls, stretched grasping hands through the gloom to snatch at weapon and clothing. His Chainsaw kept them back, like a shield of death, and Apiks took one step forward. Then another.
Like a tide, the Trolls were forced into retreat, a blood stained Forumite laughing and following them. He was Apiks. He was the King of Bones. He was not going to be defeated by mere Trolls.
But there were more than he knew. They hit the far wall and could go no further back. Enraged, they surged forward once more in a savage mass of grasping limbs and darting horns.
One laid a huge hand on the Forumite’s arm, another on his leg. Yet another gored him in the temple, tearing a burning streak of fire across his skin.
Still he fought, still his chainsaw darted like a hummingbird flying to the sweet nectar of blood. Tanbetan, killer of a legion, chainsaw of Apiks. Always faithful and true, unlike the Forumites of Necrothreat.
Always ready to kill at his will.
Tanbetan was pulled with a sharp, unexpected shock from his hand.
It skittered across the floor, the splutter of its engine dying the only noise. Red eyes blinked around the King, stupid eyes. But they knew what an unarmed foe meant, and they attacked with renewed ferocity.
Still the King fought, his arms held down by limbs like trees. His teeth tore out a Troll’s throat, his hands somehow scratched his attackers, his knees were like battlehammers.
Almost he drove them back on his own, almost overcame the mountain of flesh pushing him downward. But Tanbetan had been his symbol, and without it, he was less than Apiks, King of Necrothreat, one time wearer of the Crown of Bone. He was, instead, Apiks. A Forumite whose will could match the gods, but whose might could not.
Once more a horn grazed his temple, skittering off his skull. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Apiks strained upwards, each frantic heave accompanied by blinding pain.
They stabbed. And stabbed. And stabbed.
He heaved. And heaved. And heaved.
And then the King collapsed backwards, exhausted.
He thought then, in a moment of time which stretched into eternity, of the greenness outside and those who fought for him on the roof of Necrothreat. Of Morul and Carefulrogue. Did regret stain the edges of his vision? Was he being borne away on wings of righteous flame, or being dragged below? The green faded. Rogue's face became vague. Time slipped from him.
Apiks, the King, was dead.
*Attached to the document is a sheet of paper. The following is written in shaky, indistinct writing of the Necrothreat dialect*
When Necrothreat first rose from ash
And felt the flame of godly wrath
When land was scarred with absent graves
And none were loyal to the throne.
Then, in that forge of old, was made
A different sort of blade.
For Highmax sang the songs of lore
And swung a sword the same
But Apiks held a pickaxe, nothing more,
When out of nothingness he came.
None slept at night for fear of death
So Apiks fashioned rooms below.
We thirsted and for water sought;
He found eternal springs to soothe our woe.
And when we saw the face of god
Who in our zeal we had obeyed
But found it hard, unyielding, cruel
...do you know what Apiks said?
"I'll fashion out of stone, not blood or death,
A path for Forumites to use"
And then he spat in Armok's eye
And scorned the head of Ur.
We funnelled stone and fashioned crafts,
Carved history onto our walls.
True, we were plagued by godly wrath
But Apiks stood the helm and steered us well
Into the fiery pits of hell... and out again.
He was our saviour, miner, warrior.
He was our blade.
But time is hard, and blades can warp -
And now that Forumite is dead.
King Apiks of the pick, King of Stone,
Your heart was young and good.
King of Necrothreat, King of Bones,
Your fist was iron hard.
Rest now, as you could not in life,
And when the circle comes again
Rise, rise new-forged from nothingness,
Through tears that fall like rain.
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Topic: NecroThreat IV: Fortress for BFEL, God of Necromancy (Read 514833 times)