The Imperator's Literature

[Samson Option 9652]

I reckon I'll compile all of my literary works I've compiled on LotC. I'll be writing MC books from now on for LotC, so I'll give a tease on what may be expected.

 

Theodosius Visconti Death Post

 

The following music pieces might enhance the enjoyment of the following piece of fiction:

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbWtd2S2HaE

 

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBcXe2B97TQ

 

 

 

 

 

Steady as a drum repeatedly struck, the aches of many knees hefting the soldiers' bodies and the smacking of shields against armor pieces woke the easy dawn air near Vekaro. The formations of men deftly intertwined as each cohort reached their destination in what intended to be a support for the garrison of Raevirs holding skirmishing Dwarves and Sariants at bay. Each tribune barked in a high and firm voice and led their individual cohorts throughout the sprawling town amidst skittering strays and praying women clutching children close. Theodosius Visconti stepped his way through alleys and walked amongst a steady stream of men moving North, his scutum shield rocked his tense forearm and scraped the cobble of each hovel as he neared the Raevir crouching behind the parapets. Darting a glance towards Vibius de Sola, he watched the Lord Marshal rub his sinuses and asked for what the Raevir could tell about the enemies yonder the defenses. Hearing the numbers, a Kaedrinly grin surfaced as Vibius gestured for a few Raevir to man the pulleys to the portcullis.

Rows of men marched in columns, narrow enough to pass the gate with no issue and wide enough to command a sizable push if the Dwarves attempted to hold their passage. Theodosius Visconti fell into the column aside Albrecht Horen, mid-section of its entirety and bent his knees. Theodosius gazed upwards, muttering a silent prayer to the Creator as he placed his scutum firmly in front of him. Considered a veteran in the war, Theodosius felt himself come together in a design of muscle memory and knew his instincts honed. As he stared upward, his pupils shying away from direct sight of the beaming sun, a cloud cloaked the light that poured over his surroundings. In that moment he felt a memory rush into him. His gaze lowered as the commands of harking Raevir and commandants were flushed from his head and his skin flattened, threatened, unveiling goosebumps. His head turned slightly to the left as he gazed longingly towards a figure dressed modestly yet with a young and voluptuous figure. The figure neared, his betrothed Arya Silverblade gazing into his eyes with a worried expression uttering, "Please keep safe as you leave Theo". Her hand extended, her palm curled to fit around his cheek before his senses snapped alert and his deja vu vanquished. Theodosius's skin stiffened and flushed, his senses returning rapidly as he gulped and kept his throat tight hearing the portcullis begin to raise.

For that moment of return, his mouth gaped open yet no sound escaped as soldiers around him began to break their stance and rush forward with warcries sent forth. Theodosius stumbled once, but returned to a jog as he watched the gate swallow and spit him northward leading him into the fray. The column expanded once the soldiers passed through the gate, soldiers quickening their step for a proper bash of their shield and engagement of arms. Theodosius Visconti found his mark, his eyes glaring violently as he lurched his shield at the Sariant's helm and knocked him forward and helm off. The battle raged as he thought to himself in confidence how he replied to Arya. As he plunged his longsword into the Sariant's gut with a twisting motion akin to a kirn-staff churning out clot-filled blood from out the Sariant's mouth, Theodosius heard himself respond, "My beloved, I've fought in wars past and I in good confidence assure you I shall return to you".

The compression of air as a war-hammer whistled near his shoulder brought him back into the grit of the battle, Theodosius spied the dwarf bringing his warhammer back around in a full revolution. Raising his shield suddenly, the hammer smashed his scutum asunder and sent the shield's iron boss slicing across Theodosius's forearm. The drawn blood from the gash lent Theodosius the adrenaline necessary to sprawl away from the dwarf and stumble into a loamy pit. With the dwarf on his heels, Theodosius crawled through a body-laden mud. A crash of the hammer against a dead Raevir sent a nauseous smell exhausting from the porous skin and drew the dwarf back. Shooting his hands along the mud, Theodosius picked up a billhook in a erratic movement and folded his knees under him. Gazing at the warhammer being picked up and swung above him, Theodosius asserted the billhook upward and twisted the blade-flange sideways to catch the hammer just at the binding between pole and iron and caught the hammer mid-swing. The dwarf spending his energy into the swing buckled at the knees and slumped forward, receiving two stabs of a dagger from Theodosius's belt.

All around him, the engagements began to subside as the Dwarves and Sariants routed away from Vekaro. Imperial soldiers began to stand each other upright, offering callused hands to those who had fell into the soiled mud and led themselves to follow the routing enemies heading to Dungrimm's Mouth. The soldiers jogged in a scattered mesh along the hill, the first few who made it over the crest threw themselves behind their shields as bolts and arrows flew over the hill. Theodosius, without shield, crept along the hill with his eyes searching along the parapets of the Dwarfish wall and bounded behind the inn atop the hill. He strode for a pillar nearby and stood himself sideways for cover, watching a man rushing past him catch a bolt to the thigh and crippling him before his very own eyes. Raevirs began to chant as they pushed a roughly handled ram with a convoy of shield-raised Imperial soldiers forming a testudo to protect the rammers. Rolling his head out of cover, Theodosius peered at a Dwarf leveling his crossbow upon himself as the target and jolted back in time. The second motion, he spotted the upper-body of the Dwarf bulge upward as the crossbowman set his sinew backwards.

Theodosius hurriedly broke for a sprint towards a gnarled oak tree down a few yards along a meadow closest to the wall of Dungrimm's Mouth. Inhaling a gasp, his eyes doddered upon the tree slowly unveiling his betrothed. Theodosius crashed into her forearm held outstretched, running his hands along her figure and slowly grasped a hug. His face, enmeshed in sweat and flecks of soil laid tenderly upon Arya's bosom. Tears began to fall upon her collarbone as he looked up into her eyes with defeat. He clasped tightly around her form, gripping yet firm as he apologized softly. He brought back one of his hands and felt the silkiness of her blonde trestles. "This war, you've returned victorious haven't you my love", Arya spoke soothingly as he nestled up and tried to bring her closer. His tears began to soak the skin of her neck and run down in droplets as he looked into her eyes without an affirmative reply. Gasping for breathe, Theodosius felt the true form of her hair as each strand seemed to crumple and crunch together. Rubbing his lips against her bosom, he tried to kiss Arya before feeling the scars and rivulets of tree bark tease his cheeks roughly. His body began to slide coarsely against the hallucination, shard of bark feeding into his scale-mail armor and the quarrel shot into his stomach strummed against each ridge carved into the tree as he fell.

Looking blankly at the hill that he ran down from, Theodosius felt only a lingering sense of shame having betrayed his betrothed. He laid distraught and struck while more and more soldiers charged forward and set Dungrimm's Mouth asiege, some men unaware of his imprisoned last moments and stepped sacrilegiously atop him and drove the quarrel deeper. Not a sound did he make as the last of his life slowly wore away, Theodosius dying on the battlefield for the Imperium.

 

 

Oren has some of the chillest members in their collection of gamers and I did my good part to ensure I left on a good note and a fair note. Returned the iron I got as Steward, got myself removed from perms, removed myself from Skype chats, etc. Salute to vulcus, Steven, Tom, Mingpow, and the others for being good crew to play with. I thought I whip together perhaps one of the best pieces of fiction that LotC has seen to return the favor that they've shown me.

 

Visconti Lore

 

The esteemed common House of Visconti [ne Nicator] forged itself through a swearing of loyalty to Emperor Peter Chivay of the Third Empire of Oren. The Visconti bloodline is riddled with cultural and historical principles and achievements. The youth is nurtured in a liberal way, their parents stimulating the young to advance in the way they desire. The Visconti have prided themselves militarily in their cavalry dash and elan and pedigree. The Visconti claim to be cultural offspring from Aegisian, Asulonian, and Anthosian Southerons, known as Illatian.

 

The Visconti Saga

     The year 1257 carries with it a momentous event that consecrated the survival of mankind upon the continent of Asulon and forward. The Black Dragon's ascension and utmost attendance to the realm of Man after the grand defeat of the Salvian Kingdom saw to man looking outward and drawing all of the spawn of Horen inward for what became a lasting centralization of mankind's power. One such tribe sought after were the Subudain tribes that carried with them a nomadic quality that presided over Asulon longer than the Aegisians who explored the continent after Iblees's rendered destruction of the First Continent. The reforged Teutons, newly acquired by the Black Dragon and the Blackmonts sought to harass the horse tribes on the northern reaches of Auvergne into a steady assimilation into the nationalistic Holy Oren Empire.
 

 

 

Portrait of Charlanoyre, credit to: Kim

     One such chieftain of the Subudai did heed the inquiry from the Holy Oren Empire, coming in peaceably to Auvergne and splitting his tribe throughout the Empire. Charagai Noyan, renamed Charlanoyre to fit better with the linguistic abilities of the Auvergnian-tongued, sought to assimilate in the best means possible. He saw to each of his tribesman being placed in regions of the Empire where they could take up trade and professions that would incorporate them into the mercantile fabric of the continent. Charlanoyre kept familial ties close as he engaged in the oft-shunned profession of masonry, the Subudai not taking to permanence in their townships. The Nicatori, a surname adopted and corrupted from the Subudain tongue meaning toughened, established themselves and became educated in Orenian values and civilized ways.

     The Nicatori became entranced with the Southeron culture, bearing similar skin tones and the affinity for well-lettered oratory and passionate conducts. They established families with Southeron women, wielding highly fertile yields of children. The Nicatori took special interest in the family known as Visconti, conducting matrimonial links throughout the vast tree and branches of intermediate families who shared affiliations with either family. By then in middle Anthosian history, the Nicatori disposed their Subudain past save for their affinity for equestrian activities and adopted the Illatian custom and tradition aside their Visconti familiars. Through this assimilation, the Visconti became empowered and greater in number through their lessers and have arrived in the Fringe as a House looking yonder the unexplored and made their first steps in the politically unstable time of the late Carrion Dynasty.

     As the Scourge began to spill into the Fringe, given the ward broke upon opening, the Viscontis realized that Oren stood as first to receive skirmish and attacks. The threat to be assaulted by the unpalatable Harbingers made them seek a role in the realm of Man. Slowly, the Visconti scholarly combined with the Orenian religious establishment of St. Lucien. Stylites, the father of Leonardo, Johnny, Julian, and Theodosius had given liberty to his young to adopt the religious atmosphere or to seek refuge away from the Scourge's bastion in the southern hemisphere. This caused severe diversity in the house as those who sought refuge pursued practices medicinal and scientific while those who drew towards the battle with the Scourge claimed enlightment and a reforged and religious behavior.

     After the passing of Stylites Nicator and Valeria Visconti in the first few years in the Fringe, the eldest brother Theodosius considered his ties to both the major Visconti and the minor Nicatori families. His kin from both sides laid spread across the Fringe, some taking refuge in Alras while others conducted themselves meagrely in the dynastic Oren. Theodosius fled to the wintry wastes of the West, specifically to take oath under Ser Alexei Nicodemus and served the religious order of St. Lucien as an unoathed. Showing his ferver for sums and letters, as well as a curious taste for the heard and unheard, Theodosius rose to become minor chamberlain of Vekaro. The town of Vekaro became the furthest marker of extension of the OSL's control throughout the civil war. Aside from the scant economic participation, Theodosius saw war mostly and became known for his Theodosian Wall that shielded Vekaro from Scourge peons known north of the small town.

     Theodosius Visconti ne Nicator became one of the first to enter the court of Emperor Peter Chivay and his camaraderie when they arrived to the Fringe. Having the recommendations of Grandmaster Jack Rovin of the OSL as well as the oratorical skills to prove himself, Chivay enlisted Nicator into the Privy Council of the Third Empire of Oren. The arrangement came into being in year 1457, that Theodosius and his brother Julian Visconti ne Nicator serve as Vicar Stewards of the Empire in the Fringe whilst August Joseph Lane drew up plans for a suspected contingency plan in case a new continent was found. The Visconti rejoiced in the achievements of Theodosius and Julian and found themselves land close to the capital of Kaldonia to settle. A minor estate is formed along the north-eastern boundaries, belonging to the Viscontis. The motto adopted due to the dismal early years of the Orenian Civil War is "You have seen our descent, now watch us Rise!" and "Ave Morituri te Salutant - Hail, those who serve salute you!"
 

 

Battle of the Uncrowned Kingdom

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUN_2tfxsxg&list=PLx4oI5JUoRmQKx2txF9hIfSYrlMdKQnXr&index=6

 

 

Fingers brushed alongside the chests of Raevir, Kaldonian, and the various swath of soldiers armed in chain-mail and tempered plate armor. Men made their prayers as the fog unsettled along the hilly boundaries outside of the town of Vekaro as the horizon became bordered with the bodies of Dwarves, Orcs, and Sariants. A singular figure marched in heavy plate with a winged helm, spoken of as the infamous Hochmeister as Raevirs huddled together along the walls muttering the old tales of their founding figures of Kralta and yonder. The soldiers stood sideways along the walls and began to nock arrows with caution as the Hochmeister came to his halt nearest the gatehouse of Vekaro. The raised hand of Decurion Albrecht Horen fortified the resolve of the archers and held their arms at attention and unwavering with bows held taut.

 

Holding his hands behind the cusp of his back, the Hochmeister looked up with sunlight ricocheting from his winged helm of the infamous Teutonic Order. The soldiers of the Imperium closed their eyes in unison, lifting their head up as the Hochmeister called a loud challenge in defiance to the diplomatic attempt to end the war pushed by Vibius de Sola, Albrecht Horen, and Bertram Brunswick merely thirty minutes before. Dust rose over the walls of Vekaro as soldiers began to take their positions as the Decurions of the Imperium's Army walked betwixt groups of men and ordered them quietly to arrange themselves per a proper skirmish. Arrows whistled over the parapets of the palisades as men formed up in their cohorts and presented arms. Randall Maplewood, Theodosius Visconti, and Ser Rosencrantz made their way down from the palisade and presented information that indicated that the combined militias of the Dwarves, Orcs, and Teutons stretched themselves around the northernmost half of Vekaro in an attempt at setting up perimeters for a possible siege.

 

Despite the former tidiness of the ranks formed by the soldiers, heads turned and salutes swung about as Emperor Peter Chivay came through Vekaro. As if by heavenly ordainment, the sun set about brighter with the morale triumph due to the acknowledgement of Peter Chivay's commitment to his soldiers. The Emperor and the Marshal both pushed themselves along the wall, harking orders that split the army in twain. Vibius de Sola ordered the eastern division to take for the sally gate and smack in between the Dwarfish and Orcish lines whilst the main division opened the gatehouse and flooded out to sweep the Orcish lines from the other flank. Within minutes, the calls and cries of men rang out as both divisions executed commands and engaged the combined armies of the Teutonic Order, Dwarves, and Gul Orc Clan. The eastern division clashed with the Sariants and left the field betwixt Vekaro and Tahn'siol littered with upraised winged helms in the old fashion of the Blackmonts. The main division provided the theoretical hammer to the eastern division's anvil by means of cutting off many of the Dwarves and the Gul Orcs from their escape with only a scant few escaping the battle routed.

 

The battle saw few escaping with the cohorts in pursuit. Raevirs rushed with freshly assembled siege ladders and pressed them hard against the walls of Old Indigo and cut down a good remainder of those defeated prior.

 

Confession and Conversion of Theodosius Visconti

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4B6TGghdYs

 

 

Theodosius Visconti walks into his office and removes his scale-armored gauntlets one by one and lays them on his desk. He sees a treatise pamphlet laid neatly upon his table and walks around the desk to sit himself. Bringing his chair forward an inch with an ominous echo sounding, he skims over the pages and finds a neatly printed document with a cover sheet inscribed of the destination from which it came. From the Raevir of the Eastern Hemisphere, only few of the Carrion knew the manner in which he respectfully spoke of the lands of Carrion and led him to guess the possibility of one of the Barrow lads delivering said document to his office in Kaldonia. As each page flipped, the irises of Visconti's eyes doddered and quivered as he read each emotionally moving page. Very few of the Imperium knew of Theodosius's history, how he served in the Lucienists' ranks against the Carrion Dynasty of Heinrik and the assassinated king thereafter.

 

Each page flipped evoked sweat beads along his forehead as he stared further and further into each line of writing. His hand began to quiver and he laid the document atop the table, his breathing increased. He flipped each page quicker, darting a nervous glance at the door as if expecting a divine punishment. Finally, the last page slid to the left and the pamphlet completely read. He slipped out from his seat, his knees rocking with age, arthritis, and a hidden anguish. Stepping out of his office, rain began to carve rivulets across the sweat and grease covered face of his as he raised his head slowly. His head doddered to the right, staring down the road that eventually led one past the Church of Saint Adeodatus as his knees finally buckled from the mental strain and emotional stress. Nonplussed by the sound of squelching soil did Theodosius feel as he stared upwards hoping for an intervention disallowed by the storm clouds above.

 

With each quaking beat of his heart, Theodosius Visconti cupped his hands together in a drunken manner as he contemplated his entire youth and began to beg for mercy. "Creator above, doth give me twenty more years to my life to right my wrong. Creator above forgive me for I have slain those who upheld the right whilst I was persuaded to the wrong. Creator above know my earnestness for I shant make excuse, I have sinned and my path has been straightened. Do me this divine favor for I shall serve you nobly now that my eyes are opened before thine Ultimacy."

 

Ghost of the Hochmeister Prima

 

 

 

The spectral glow of a hundred boots marching softly with no squelching of mud or crunching of leaves heard held an eerie reminiscence. An elderly face, skin drawn taunt and lighting the dimness of the night, looked out as his face felt pained with memories. In his former life, his naivete and intelligence saw to the forging of one of the grandest empires. Many times did they march with a passion for their assertions, but this practice had changed. The tone of their grandiose hymnals, chanted from under winged helms in the dark of night to bring out the fear of enemies, had dulled.

 

Throughout the north, from Malinor to Herendul, the apparitions of the old Order would appear on occasion. The Sariants would contemplate upon the faltering of the third continent, anguish distinguishing their hymns as they appear like byzantine saints as they trek along their paths. The plague and devolution of the ways of Man inspired them to return from whence they had left. If any man had to suffer for the sin of empire, it was the first Hochmeister and he felt the morose from the orgy of war that afflicted man to the point of dwindling to lesser numbers than Horen spawned on his own in Aegis.

 

Looking out upon the fields of old Ildon, the Hochmeister swore he saw the spirits of his old enemies- the Undead, the Ascended, Galahar. As the mirage faded, his arrogance subsiding, he saw only graveyards and besieged castles and towns turned towards nature to falter. It was the grand battles of the past, the glory forlorn that taunted him to believe it would all continue as he dreamed. What he saw before him was a shattered continent, bent by steel and foolishly ongoing war with no aim. While he had a truer cause, he saw nothing but causes conjured to help the selfish.

 

 

Smiling momentarily as he confides in himself about the death of Horen, the failure of the Blackmont, the occasional successes against the North-shadowlings- it was not enough haughtiness to push himself from the feelings of sorrow upon the sin of empire. It was the curse of curiosity, to see how far a man could go and he forged what no other man could say they could match. All curses are called curses for a reason and he felt that reason now. The time has come for the curse's effects to be broken, the old Sariants would see to that.

 

Perhaps the curse could be turned, if man dreamed himself capable of forging an Empire of Liberty.

 

Iron Fields

 

Only
a trail of demarcated mud, filled with the dew drops of yesternight,
bore witness to the many men marching. Glinting chain-mail, reflective
plate armor, and the distorting torsion of leather was all it saw as
Sariants marched outward from Greywynn and lined up in neat form.
Marching from dawn, the son has yet to sliver, the rays of the sun
silver the rising fog as men dressed in white and black take their
places, the horned helms prominent and an ode to the days of the First
Continent when Hochmeister Gaius Marius made love with the grandest
capital of Al'Khazaar. Five times to bed and a nation raised from birth
had saw the Teutonic Order's line orderly with the sons, grandsons, and
veterans of the Order of early; Hochmeister Mirtok DeNurem taking the
field in traditional suit of armor and zweihander in hand. With a raised
hand, Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog takes to his side and they begin to
raise their heads as the sunlight creeps with more heartening spirit to
illuminate the field and the grand army that stands in grim
satisfaction. As in the times of elder, the Sariant-knights begin to
raise their heads to the heavens and let out a shrilled voice
collectively in match with Mirtok leading the foreboding chant:

 

"When we reap the lions, we are back on iron fields
When we see the signs, we are back on iron fields
When we kill your father, your mother and your son,
When we will call the arms, we are back on iron fields"

 

At
that moment, a din is heard as some Sariant-Knights withdraw their
swords and board, curl their shield arm and begin to tap their swords
heavily against the shield and with a growl; they supply choruses in
Marian of dark intent. Marching forward in a clamor of boots against
roughened earth, a field to the left is approached by the
Sariant-knights as they note the Blackmonts attempting to flank through
an edge of forest. Upon arriving in full to the field, the front rank
bends upon one knee, all Sariants withdrawing their short- and composite
bows and nocking arrows in unison. With the experience of the past,
Hochmeister Mirtok prepares the first volley of barbed arrows and turns
the Sariants loose at the traversing Blackmonts.

 

 

The
barrage of arrows was only the first assault, successful it was, onto
the Blackmont falsehoods; the Ordenmarschall Maur orders the infantry to
engage in melee as the Blackmonts attempt to seek refuge behind the
oaken and spruce woods; using them as testudoes against the arrows. What
metaphor could do justice to such a charge escapes the mind of witness,
Sariant, or fallen Blackmont in what denizen of afterlife keeps them
impaired. Who could describe the livid nature of the sinister
befriending the fallen? Who could describe the triumphs earned in the
halls of Greywynn and the reminder it had to the First Age of the Order
when one sees the splayed, spliced, and sacrificed Blackmonts strewn
through the field; the Sariants had a honorific guffaw as Ordenmarschall
Maur'Azog in traditional Orkish fashion piles the bodies of the False
House and poses upon it as he discovers his heart's contentment..

 

Upon the victory, the words of a many Sariants spread forth firstly from taverns as men sought to give tale; their eyes demanding their mouths to harken all to the glory that was had...

 

Necromancer Event

 

"Verily
the widows will rejoice, their soldiers are in my rank and file in the
Perished Meadows. March they will, this legion of mine, every mention of
command will be harkened by cohorts many in their respective
battle-lines. Tarry not in these fields and pray that you see no
vulture, for surely the eye may trick and you will see that the Dead can
dance with sword and board. As the vultures are fed on the dead and the
women wed to weep for their fallen husbands, so to are Necromancers
rejoicing as soldiers lie in graves at attention; readying to be called
when the whispers of vain travel to where they are lain." - Necromancer Derict, now fallen at the hands of Archfather Edgar Tarus at the Perished Meadows.

 

Upon
the chiseled hills bordering the battlefield of the First Battle of the
Twin Kingdoms of Urguan and Oren, there lied a fire crackling with
life; the light dancing the furthest it could from it's source. Amongst
the smoldering ashes of spruce wood, therein lied the skulls of Dwarves
and Man alike in charred form, the border of the fire vaunting the
intent of the fire. Two decrepit figures stood, in an array of harsh
cackling and rhythmic chants as they screamed banter and hollered orders
for more graves to be dug by their ever-growing collective of the
Risen. The mob, in their past life fine soldiery of different cultures;
have now been grasped onto by the Necromancers to serve ulterior
motives.

 

Meanwhile,
as the collective of Risen accumulated, one Archfather Edgar Tarus
along with Rain Druid Valiel, Father Vaerus, Oswin, Stag Druid Gavin,
and Lissa Ransom were assorting alongside a modest tent; shovels and
mortar being transported along the grounds. The Archfather, with
guideful prayer, saw to task the digging of respective graves complete
with well-etched tombstones and vigils given in Dwarven and Common. As
the outlines of certain persons were made out from the hill-top, the two
Necromancers began to assemble what soldiers were received and went to
work.

 

As
the moon raised and reflected light bathed the Perished Meadows in dim
light, marching could be heard in the distance. Initially ignored as
Dwarfish military activity, the tent grounds was soon within view of the
two Necromancers as various figures were seen of their silhouettes
conversing and laboring. The gruesome view of many Risen-infantry and
archers flooded the scene as disorganized ranks were drawn and facing
the tent complex. From there, the minions were double-timed towards the
tent complex under the cover of darkness, the Risen-infantry drudging
towards the complex whilst Risen-archers formed along tree-lines to
haphazardly aid with whittled down, yet effective bolts and bodkin
arrows.

 

With
a sudden jolt of life, the tent complex were thrown into disorder as
men and women scrambled within the shanty palisades, the Archfather
ordering the grave-diggers to repel the Risen. The Necromancers Persh
and Derict watch with amusement as their victims are sent into throes of
disorganization, but swiftly their glee turns to disdain as they view
several Dwarven legionnaires rushing to their aid. Within hours, the
army assembled by the Necromancers are put down for a second time, with
Persh having been felled by a motley crew of the Dwarves. Derict
retreats along the tree-line in the company of the Risen-archers,
issuing forth torrents of arrows to rout any of the Dwarven military and
allow him to come face-to-face with the grave-diggers.

 

Stepping
briskly around the dug-ins for various cofffins, Necromancer Derict
neared the tent complex with impunity; the various people within gasping
and readying themselves with swords and shovels arched and bows drawn.
Looking with piercing eyes, no words muttered, Derict stares at Edgar
Tarus as the Archfather began muttering to himself and occasional jolts
of electricity skimmed his hands. Grabbing onto his ebony staff, he
grabs the gem on the higher end with a clenched fist; the varicose veins
popping out along his hand as the gem begins to glow dark. With a
snarl, the Necromancer began speeding his steps, leaping forth with the
dark energies at hand.

 

Upon
seeing Derict launch himself forward boldly, Tarus begins to outstretch
his arms, electricity brimming his forearms as he formed himself as a
lightning rod. With Derict in mid-air, a thunder-clap is heard as Edgar
Tarus lit yellow as a bolt of lightning coursed through him; spewed out
in jagged fashion and striking Derict in a strong show of force as the
area lights brightly. Thrown by the force of the lightning bolt, Derict
flies back and slides into a grave in mock fashion to those whom he had
arisen.

 

Scourge Horsemen

 

 

"Lo... a few of our tribesmen were fools. See as they linger a nomad cycle, at an abandoned camp; lit with fire and smoldering embers. The crystals of corruption bound themselves to the wood of our yurts and the fibre of our leathers are fringed. We know who took our four stragglers, but I do doubt we will see them again. Setherien heard the rumor and he wanted the swiftest for himself. I'll be damned if he can use them for long, they may be of my blood, but they are corrupted evermore."

 

Sertorius al-Hallaj and the Khagan look away morosely, leaving the old camp to decay and mounted their stallions. They rode south whereas the four rode north.

 

------------------------------

 

 

Approaching the floating obelisk, the air filled with soot, ash, and smoldering dust, the four Subudai begin to look about in terror and bewilderment. The riders felt hopeless as grotesque men marched at their flanks and held chains wrapped around each horse's neck. A gaunt and mocking appearance rose overhead as the prisoners and their captors marched further into the icy North. A cat o' nine tails appeared in each captors' left hands upon stopping short of the shadow of the floating obelisk, a series of whips and taunts brought down upon the tribesmen and their steeds. The crying out shamed a singular figure and silenced his own stallion in the far distance, unable to assist the four as they suffered as the transcendent umbra cast from side to side as it issued encouragement to its servants.

 

"While my veterans have struck too weakly upon the populace spread across Anthos, I have devised a new plan of true cunning. You shall be whipped till your spirit breaks so that I may mold you, to entreat you with resistance to the swords of the many of Man. They are as superstitious and falsely religious as they are populous. Therein lies the weakness of the first to be folded in my firm grip. You will serve me well so that I may roll the many dead bodies and the captured onto the rest of Anthos."

 

The umbra seemed to compress, an eerie inhale echoing across the landscape before it casts itself down upon the four horsemen. Sliding off their stallions, one after the other, their figures seemed to shrink as they cringed and their muscles convulsed and drew them into bent positions. Their bodies contorted as they reacted to the metamorphosis cast upon them. A strange silence fell along the snowed glen, the servants stepping back as each Subudai began to stretch their bodies back out to reveal horrifying scenes. One horseman began to catch fire as plates of wrought, tarnished-blue iron clamped themselves around his entire body. One horseman began to grow bloated, a gangrenous green overtaking his skin complexion. One horseman began to shrivel, parts of raw flesh and bone exposing themselves as he murmured painfully. The last horseman stood out from the rest, a proud guffaw uttered as a cryptically regal appearance dressed him in ribbons of gold and sky blue.

 

Taken aback, the singular figure stood in melancholy from behind a stalagmite. The four horsemen began to slowly pick themselves up, turning themselves before the umbra that by now retracted from the four and floated before them. One by one, each of the corrupted horsemen bowed on a knee as a tome heralded their presence. Falling back as if in a trance, the lone figure dashed through the snow away from the scene without a thought for steed or belongings.

 

 

Demones Manor Captured

 

 

Xort, Daink, War, Dumamis led a procession of cultists and dreygurs through the winding paths that ended in Lienniel. The procession passed under the trees and abodes of Mali, with few springing out and withdrawing upon seeing the Scourge. Arriving at the central tavern, War steps forward in demanding to see the governor of the township. Ebs Telrunya led the reply by informing the Harbingers that the leaders were absent except for the Matron. Stepping forward and demanding the Mali' in the audience to bow, the Harbingers and Cultists made short work of any brave and naive enough to fight them. Leaving before them bowed Elves, Ebs, Elorna, Z'ress, and Caelria were gathered into a chain-gang and led to the Demones Manor.

 

---------

 

Grasping the door shut with frustration, his hands heating the handle to a high enough temperature so as to contort and lock it; War looked down the hall and saw the Harbingers and Cultists forming a line. Stepping out of the hall and looking out of the door, a motley crew of Orenian levies and Orcish brutes brought a shorn slab of timber against the courtyard gate to batter it down. Throwing about his hands in a series of commands, Cultists began to form up in a shieldwall along the stairs as Harbingers immersed the floor in portals which drudges threw themselves out of.

 

Marching up to the door, an Orenian soldier tossed himself against War. With a cocking of his palm, opening his hand, a loud boom in the form of a thunderclap tossed the soldier against the courtyard garden. War ushered the defending Regiment of the Black Wyrm to rally out of the Demones Manor and dispatched enough of the rescue party to force them into a rout. Standing upon a fountain statue in the courtyard, War screeched and called back his forces to return to the Demones Manor.

 

Entering, Vak'thuul the Keeper came behind War as they entered the bathhouse used as a room to hold the captives. Having held his runed claymore along his shoulder, War brings the claymore down on a brave Adunian who attempted to charge him. After forcing the body to slide off of the impaling claymore, War glared upon the rest of the subjugated Lienniel citizens. Beckoning them to listen, War laid out his details of the forced contract on Lienniel.

 

 

"At our beckoning, we shall gather the able-bodied of Lienniel and send them into the gut of a mine to be dug at the Demones Manor. The Manor itself shall be converted to a slave camp and you will gather resources on our behalf. Attempts to escape will result in death, do your labor and you shall have a temporary reprieve."

 

The Sixth King of Oren

 

Laying his mail mitton out palm open and facing upwards, Gaius receives a peculiar young hawk with sharp talons scratching his raw hands. Having been laying down stone to stabilize the bridge across a body of water near Konigsberg, Gaius unravels the fine string tie to the talon and lets the Hawk go free as he pushes his thumbs against the curl of the paper and unfurls it. Reading the fine writing embossed on the paper, Gaius looks up towards the rising crescent in the western sky and loses himself in deep thought for a few minutes. Taking up his zweihander from it's place leaning against a dirt mound, Gaius briskly walks towards the small docks hastily erected and positions himself into a boat and begins rowing. With so many ideas haunting him of what Enor was intending to inform him, Gaius feels the throe of confusion and utter doubt in what the near future has in store. Upon arriving to his destination, he takes the hilt of his zweihander and throws it till it digs into the shoreline and pulls himself and the boat he sits in to bank. Placing his foot with a feeble limp of anxiety, Gaius strokes his beard and looks toward the home in which he had razed so long ago; he makes his way to said house and opens the door as quietly as possible.

Standing facing the fireplace was King Enor Sheffield and Lady Dawn Perea, both glancing at once at the newly arrived guest. He stares at them both in the eyes and makes his way over to Enor's side and after a long string of silence, Gaius beckons Enor Goodday and acquires of what he is needed for...



Enor explains to Gaius that despite their harsh differences and violent actions against each other, in Enor's earnest opinion, they were to come to agreement. Speaking of the weary days of ruling the Kingdom of Oren and feeling stressed over the many deaths tolled to his name and blamed on him, he looks into the fire and admits he has come to terms with how he is doing now. Both men observing how they aged with chuckles of memories and guffaws of trading comments, Enor startles Gaius severely with a revelation. The Kingdom of Oren... was to become Gaius's. In utter disbelief, Gaius cries out how they used to be enemies, but unmoved, Enor told Gaius that he knew what was best for his people. With his mind clouded of the situation that he was placed in, Gaius searches Enor for any sign of triviality in which he found none; Enor was earnest in his decision.

Stating that Gaius was formidable and well endowed with a military mind to protect the people of Oren, Gaius glances at the crown just handed to him and looks away...



Enor looks at Gaius purposely and nods his head, beckoning Gaius to do great things as King. After the conversation, Gaius returns to his boat and rows back to the docks of Galahar. There, he begins addressing the people wandering through a town riddled with signs of rebellious intent:

'Men, Women, Children of Oren, I beckon you to pay heed! With this crown in my hand, I have received the rule over Oren, but pray tell will you not observe me! I will be a Man of Action, I will be a Man who has earned his respect with the days of my age and as you may know, I am indeed the Leader of the Teutonic Order! Worry not, they will serve now to protect Oren! I may have a history with few individuals, but I am a man of intelligence, a man true to my word, and a man who has proven my ability to protect and honor those who give me their words of respect. Enor this day gave the throne to me out of earnest want for the best of the Kingdom, it is no time to throw names of insults, he deserves them not. We will be hypocrite if we throw insults constantly and busy ourselves with the slander of our own kith, ken, brother, sister, and neighbor! You say you want action, I will be that catalyst! You say you want reform, I will be the man to hear and choose wisely the progress of this Nation!

To the rebels, I have spoken to one leader and will parlay with others, I request the rebellion is over. You have voiced yourselves, now I will meet with you all, you call for reform, let is be organized and intelligent and we will have said reform. Some have already seen me, I mingle with the folks of any kind, for I am your equal. If you see a Black Cross marching through Galahar, treat him with respect, for he now will protect your families. It is time for Oren to correct our paths of progression, to build upon the foundation that we have forever held sturdy, it is time for a new Era.

More will be revealed as I sit down with the many and hear the thoughts so desperate to be heard. Warn ye though that I cannot logically implement every single wish that a man can desire, I must choose the best for the best results for all!

Thank Ye for Hearing me!

 

Teutonic Order Lore

 

The one, the only, the most viewed Aegisian thread that never received 'Pinning'! http://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/9874-the-rise-of-true-rectitude/?hl=teutonic#entry42716

 

 

[Norman 492]

Dope reads, +1.

[Draeris 3124]

You are already extremely missed within the Illatian culture Gaius, great post.