A Simple Storyteller

[xmrsmoothx 317]

As you step into a roadside inn and take a casual seat at one of the wooden booths, you hear a faint trudging of combat boots, and for some reason, the 'clink' of chains. You turn to the door, gripping the handle of your tankard. Although used to the stomping of warriors' feet, something about this one feels... off.

(( Note - the sword shown is not the one that he carries. ))

As your gaze drifts over to the doorway, you notice a rather large figure. The humanoid inside would measure roughly six feet even, and lean, but his equipment was an ordeal of its own. The knight, for he was unmistakably so, wears thick armor - it appears to be forged of exceptional cast iron, an incredibly heavy thing to wear on one's body.

The armor is hefty, his pauldrons gigantic semispherical plates on their own, and his entire kit marked with sharp points and jagged bends, all forming a sinister ensemble of defense. Most every surface of the armor is pitted, pockmarked, dented, scratched or otherwise damaged. On the portions where the half-inch plates don't conceal, tough, indigo-stained leather grips the warrior's body, rivets piercing the metal to fasten. His helmet is a terrifying visage, sharp angles and angry, pointed plates encircling its entirety. In the helm's eye holes, there are no visible eyes, only the deepest of shadow.

In his right hand, he drags a massive claymore, its blade alone nearly a meter and a half in length, and wrought of the same heavy cast iron as his kit of armor. The hilt is the same material as well, of a slightly brighter hue, and the grip itself wrapped with thick, hemp rope. The pommel of the claymore is embedded with a octagonal onyx, which glitters in the torchlight.

The most striking, and most obvious feature of the knight's armor is the wrought iron chains which wrap, encase and connect to various portions of his form. On his back, three sockets tether the chains to his cuirass. His pauldrons each have one connection, and his forearm vambraces, thick tubes of cast iron, are each marked with two chain bases. The chains wander his armor in a convoluted pattern, five of them finally terminating at his claymore's hilt. Every time the warrior moves, the chains grind together, a characteristic 'chinking' noise.

The huge knight ducks under the door frame slightly, to avoid collision between his horribly ornate helmet and the wooden structure. He lumbers over to the largest seat available, his boots like gigantic pillars crashing against the floor. The head of his claymore cuts a thick groove in the floor as he drags it behind him. Heaving himself into the chair, and nearly crushing it, he taps the table with a gauntlet-sheathed hand, leaning in slightly.

"Barkeep... A glass of whisky, if you please."

As the warrior speaks, his spacious helmet seems to amplify his booming voice, rather than suppress it. The tavern manager strolls over, used to seeing such strange guests. He drops a tall glass on the table, letting it wobble to a stop. He slides a new bottle of whisky across the table, and tosses the knight a cork remover. The warrior's hand, seemingly huge in its heavy gauntlet, scoops up the bottle opener, jamming it into the cork. Twisting it in one motion, he pops the porous object out and drops it on the table.

"My thanks, barkeep."

((NOTE - I RETCONNED OUT THE REST OF THIS. IT IS NO LONGER TRUE FOR THIS CHARACTER.))

He nods as he tips a half a glass of whisky into his container, not making to drink it nor even touch it. He reaches into a heavy canvas bag, suspended by one of his chains, and withdraws three heavy-looking golden coins - hundred-mina pieces. He glances to them in his hand, and slaps them down on the table, the force behind it generating a heavy 'bang'.

"The Undead, out there... they're a damn fight, I'll tell ya' that much."

The tavern manager grins at the hefty sum that the warrior laid out, scooping it up greedily. He ***** his head as the armored man (presumably a man) speaks of events which passed long ago.

"I was just out there, ripping them to pieces. The lightning, it's like a... like going into a dream, every time. The bright light. It's a real terror to behold. And the zombies, oh Aeriel, the zombies. They were everywhere. Gibbering, mad beasts... the Necromancers are monsters themselves, bringin' those things to the surface."

The customers in the tavern gather round, and even the seasoned barkeep pulls up a chair to listen to the knight's tale. You turn in your booth, watching the figure recount battles from over a hundred years prior.

"Yep... there I was, standing at the gates to that Keep. It was a hell of a place. Taller than the eye could see. Made of the blackest o' the black obsidian... Like that." He points to a patron's shirt, made of deep black wool, dyed with squid ink. "But blacker. There was lava pouring from every battlement, and the Undead frolicked in it, like children. Like madmen. Their robes were almost as black as the obsidian that made up those walls. They stood on the towers, and sometimes they just floated in the damn air, like... like gods. They thought they were gods, dammit, gods!"

The knight slams his fist on the table, the bottle of whisky and the glass of the same bouncing, and the sound of his gauntlet reverberating throughout the room. Several people inside gasp, and most of them jump slightly.

"But... I'll be damned if they're gods. Next time I see those bastards... I'll rip them all limb from limb, I swear it on Aeriel's name! Gah. I was shooting at this one... he hung off of a turret, taunting. Makin' fun of us! I kept shooting at him, but dammit... dammit... dammit... the arrows, the arrows just kept glancing off. They fell into the lava, just... just burned up."

The warrior, growing more emotional now, is leaned over the table. He sits up proudly, shaking his head in frustration. The onlookers whisper amongst themselves, but quiet to nothing once his titanic voice picks up again.

"Then... then, outta' the blue... He hit me with some lightning. Some flashy... sword from the sky! He squashed me away, like some sort of bug, with that skysword... And then... dammit... this, thing, this thing opened up next to me. It glowed like a torch... but sucked in all light at the same time. I couldn't really see to well at this point... I was a little delirious, and that lightning blew my legs clean off. I could see my intestines, all pourin' out... At least, I think so. But... these zombies, those moaning, roaring creatures who swing and trudge like so much meat, they poured out of the thing next to me. They jumped all over me, ripping up my armor, clawing at me, and suddenly... one of the stinking beasts, it just... ate my face, clean off. It opened that rancid maw, and swallowed my head whole, it seemed."

The crowd waits in anticipation, waiting for the conclusion of the knight's story - How did he escape the grip of death's embrace? How did this incredible, ancient fighter do such a thing?

"And then... and then I died."

[Ever 2648]

Karvia Starbreaker lets out an audible gasp then quickly covers her gaping mouth with both hands. Her astonishment quickly fades, replaced by incredulity. Slowly she scoots off the edge of the chair till she rests against the back.

Her head swims with thoughts. If what the warrior says is true then there must be something special about him. Is he a special agent sent to her by the Brathmordakin? A champion for her cause, even? Even if he was not blessed by the supernatural, the weapon at his side and the armor proudly worn paints him as a suitable fighter at least.

Karvia silently swears an oath. She will have him as a champion, as a warrior for the Brathmordakin, as a tool of destruction.

[steelersfan1221 300]

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