Sarkozic

[ARCHITECUS 4788]

 

One last act of passion, and he sets off. A sword hangs on his hip; he would not die without it, and a cloak bearing the colors of his scattered family billows over his shoulders.

 

Red, black; gold. Colors of Carrion. Colors of a hamlet, Kralta, home to triumph, hearth for long passed souls still bound to this world by nostalgic memories. Colors of an empire. Colors of victory. Now, colors of Franz Sarkozic. Eternal; temporary.

 

He walks through the farms comforting Brelus. He glances back at his manor, and is comforted by his final triumph. He was comforted by his final pleasure in this life.

 

He walks across the river. He reaches the battlefield, scorched and ruined, the turning point of all of this. He drifts through. The bones of his brothers cheer him on; welcome him to the next stage. The bones of his enemies mock him; curse his treachery. 

 

He passes through Peremont. The stone curtains shielding the land did not scare him, but now they jump on his back, grab his pounding head and whisper death; shrink him to the size of a child.

 

He passes Dour Watch. The unfinished homes peek over the wall and whisper to eachother. "There he is! The defeated duke! He lost it it all!" He leaves them behind and faces the end.

 

He passes through the gates of Felsen. Each step, he believes, is closer to his death.

 

Pacing, pacing across the gravel and cobblestones. His feet send cannon blasts to his head, punctuated by his thumping heart. His brain throbs. Closer, closer, he goes.

 

The drone of people surrounding him, he walks past laborers, craftsmen, merchants, idlers: all still living. They will stay so. Franz parts them as he walks. Death piercing through life, they make room for the corpse pacing, pacing.

 

He crosses over the sea. It rumbles, rages; reaches up to pull him off the bridge. The palace stands before him, grand and menacing; a beautiful monster. He enters its bowels.

 

A stone hall contains three men, one is illuminated to an off-putting effect by the raging hearth, dents and mishealed bones of his skull create a monstrous image, the other sits calm, smiling politely. The third sits upright, his mannerisms stoic and solemn.

 

“Hail to you, Augustus, Guy.” He casts a distant stare across the table, his one, green eye shining brightly against his filthy, dark hair.
 
Augustus remains silent, sliding a parchment towards the other. Guy de Bar sits abreast him, his expression steely.
 
He looks it over slowly, sleepily, then nods. “There is nothing left. Have your way.”

 

Augustus rests in his seat, his arm planted firmly on the armrest as he eyes the raven-plumed man with a disgusted mien. He examines the treaty documents to ensure that the man across had signed.

 

"Take him away." mutters Augustus de Sola.

 

Franz Sarkozic stands a bit before the square of Felsen. He squints at the guard gripping his arm tightly. A red stripe decorates the man's helm, running from the mask's brow to chin.

"Familiar." Franz quips.

 

They walk. Augustus flanks the cold procession.

"Time for you to answer for your crimes, Sarkozic."

Franz' face softens.

"Of course." He regains his cold fire.

"The others are dead, and I am the vessel for their sins against you."

 

Commoners begin to follow the trio. A snowball of interest and revelry rolls down the hill leading to this man's death. High and lowborn alike fill the square. Their eyes are glued to the stage as it begins.

 

"On his knees."

He does so.

"It is now time for you to answer for your crimes." His sentencer tells him smugly.

"Many good men have died in this war you started."

Franz seems taken aback, ripped from the fog of death by this statement.

"I started?" He lifts his head.

Augustus corrects himself. "Your predecessors started."

Franz allows his head to fall, rustled hair hanging down. He is satisfied by that.

"Who failed miserably. Off with his head."

The caustic addition bites Franz's soul and whips it about. One last insult.

 

His familiar executioner prepares himself. In the eternal moments the dead man has left, Franz gets a good look at the woman he attempted to ransom. Failed miserably. His bones begin to shake, and he sets his gaze on the clouds floating above. Twirling, twisting in the air. Forming; dissipating. The clouds would continue on. Eternal; temporary.

 

The clouds begin to weep, casting a grey mask over the city.

They rage, sounding claps of thunder and shooting flashes of lighting in vain.

 

"Can't believe it's you doing it."

He mumbles to Constantine. The man had fled his home to find comfortable victory.

To each his own.

"Apologies." One comes from the steel mask.

Franz's visage becomes stone, then burns and melts.

"**** your own mother."

 

Franz's head flies. Twirling, twisting in the air. A crimson arc follows the man's life down to the vibrant ground. It gathers together, runs through cracks in the clay; jumps in the rain.

 

His last thought is a hope. A hope for his blood to pass on, and not on the cursed ground it now lie.

 

[Devland99 180]

(to be clear it was not me executing him lmao)

Constantine Dystov sighs in Norwick realizing the inevitable 

[AGP 3169]

The deed done, Constantine stays behind in the Brelus square whilst everyone else gallivants off to Brelus. Carrying the lifeless corpse of Franz to the cathedral, he spends the rest of the day preparing the body for burial. 

[Heff 2460]

'Ed', formerly Edric the Vladov Bannerman, spits on the ground. Cursing the traitorous Constantine. The smuggler, should have never been trusted. A weasel and a snake.

[Arteh 1837]

 

The victorious Men march to Brelus

[verfumbo 47]

Upon hearing the news, Sarus lets out a long sigh, he looks up to the heavens, hoping his ancestors look down on him. "Get ready for my arrival comrades."  He sharpens his sword, looking over his fellow crow brethren, the men he had spent half his life with look back at him, a look of acceptance cover their faces, not acceptance of defeat, but of death.

[Blanchables 528]

"I'm glad Constantine is satisfied with his victory." Sporan thinks as he witnesses the execution 

[Jachnun 566]

 

"He did not start this" a puzzled paesant would mutter hearing of the innocent man's death

[Cracker 4570]

"Hugo the Headless, Franz the Faultless", Leon would ponder to himself after witnessing the carnal display in the Felsen Square.

[JVQ 1719]

Timothy, Dwarf of the host, watches as his master is executed.

A tear trickles down his black beard. He makes his last journey back to Brelus,

where he walks through the ripe wheat field to a large oak tree protruding from

the ground.

 

 

Timothy bows his head, marking a deep grooved "FZ" in the trunk, pulling out a small nail

he chisels it in to the tree, hanging his Ireheart Necklace. A trophy from his

blooding. Finally, he places the Sarkozic's sword in to the dirt around the tree.

 

The Dwarf pulled up his hood, and disappeared in to the woods.

[Legoboy7984 3155]

Okari Angelhosa sees the sharp blade come down on Franz head falling down to the floor, as Okari pulls up his hood walking away to the sunset lost in south heading up north where he waits till things settles down.

 

[James 425]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.