Death And Destruction.

[Sultan 3953]

 

 

 

A large encampment sat under Mount Owyn, north of the Emperors forest, the camp flew many banners but not all of Orens banners flew. In the commanders tent sat the Crown Prince of Oren Horen the Black Dragon, behind a wooden desk. ''Shadow.’’ Horen said, out of the shadows of the tent emerged a being clad in black clock and hood its face unseen. ''Yes Master.'' Horen extended his hand backward a scroll landed in his hand, as the figure faded into the shadows once again. Horen slowly opened it his eyes beamed for a moment, ''Good, good.'' he spoke, he moved the scroll to a candle letting it burn slowly as he let it drop into a chamber pot. Horen slowly stood, walking towards the entrance. 

 

The sound of his footfalls heralded his exit the men outside shifted. Each step echoed with a thunderous boom, as though the ground was being trampled upon by a giant. As he walked Horen only could think of the night-sky showing nothing but clouds, in the distance it gave hints of flickering lights and lingering fog. Destruction, the screams of women, men and children can be heard echoing through the distance, being carried together with the well familiar scent of blood and rotten flesh, torn bodies, wrecked lives and villages. They're sacrifices. Obstacles; who are to be removed. Orders are shouted across the fields, cutting through the sound of clashing steel and desperate screams as a blade through the weak flesh.

 

As the sun's sweltering rays heated and harassed every inch of the grassland it hit his face making him snap back to reality from his dream of destruction, his skin shaded with an inner darkness, as though he was not a man of flesh and bones, but a statue of polished Obsidian. His hair was dark brown and unruly, not unlike the mane of a wild stallion. Something about the Prince suggested that he walked on the edge of propriety at all times, bending any custom and rule he saw fit, while tossing out the rest. This was a man that couldn't be measured by the same yardstick commonly used to gauge men, for he was either the best or the worse. 

 

There was no middle ground for a man like him.

 

''Come now Owyn and Augustus'' Horen spoke to his two sons that stood outside, they walked towards him and stood an inch behind him.

 

He extended his hand with a parchment to a Sargent that stood nearby ‘‘Take this to .....'' he said as the Sargent bowed his head mounted a horse and rode out of the camp with twenty riders in his company.

 

Now that he was outside his face had hardened into a blank, impassive slate, and his full, lips pressed into a thin, harsh line. Before now, his large hands had only been seen furiously scribbling away at a piece of parchment. Now they balled into tight fists, and the thick coils of muscles that ran along his bare arm rippled and tensed like a bundle of ropes. His frame suddenly seemed broader, and the soft lines of his body sharper. In an instance, he had transformed from a Prince to a killer.

 

He spoke once more harshly ''I shall deem you worthy or unworthy soon my sons, soon there shall either be destruction and death or more destruction and death.'' as he finishes his eyes flicker seeing the image of fire and death once more.

 

[TMGavLan 92]

Augustus, almost a spitting image of his father, remains silent as his father speaks - staring into his darkened eyes.

[Sultan 3953]

Horen takes out two more parchments, one to Pontiff Goddard, and one to Archbishop Osterwald. ''These are two summons the names are written on the parchment take it to them and escort them here, they are to come with there flock of clergymen.'' The two horsemen nod and ride out a couple of more horsemen follow them out of the camp.. He walks back into his tent awaiting the arrival of the Clergymen.

[3andD 1722]

Goddard sits, eyeing the scarce parchments lain out on his desk. The candlelight, flickering outside his view, kept him awake; the constant jumping flame catching his eyes. At the same moment, the brash sound of the door slamming inside the palace breaking his trance. "Your Eminence!" The voice rang through the halls, emulating the voice of a saint. The accent was distinctly Auvergnian."Your Eminence!" The voice once again echoing through the halls. "The Crown-Prince, he calls." The voice piercing through his office as the door slides open. "He calls, for you to come to his camp." The voice once again speaks, this time in a calm demurer. As the shadow approaches him, his eyes slowly focus on the man, it was his novice, Frances. "We shall heed the call, and attend." He replies, exhaling sharply.

 

-- 

 

As the two stalk towards the stable in the moon's light, Goddard turns to Frances. "Brother." He nods to him, "Gather the laymen, I shall ride for the camp." He says, mounting his steed. It hadn't been moments, but Goddard had already hushed his horse forward- heading to the camp.

 

--

 

It hadn't taken him more then two days for him to arrive. The camp budding onto the horizon as he gallops towards the shady outline. Approaching the camp he quickly heeds his horse, dismounting and stepping towards the side to tie his horse to a post. Approaching the breach of the camp.

[blindmind 350]

Archbishop Osterwald rides, his arms locked around the belly of one of the messengers, grumbling and wincing for the horse's thunderous gallop. The summons was sudden and clouded with darkly intent. If lightning could whisper, it would sound like the words scrawled for him to hear. For, now, there is a distant storm gathering at the back of his mind, a bulging miasma sneering with the flashes of a hundred worries, that sounds like the crashing of hooves across the dirt, bursting for their fevered march.

 

It is then, when the horse at last finds the encampment and Osterwald beholds Oren's banners pitched high in the night, that he wished he had the luxury of his laymen's company to lend him pride in the coming moments. They would arrive soon, only a short distance away since the horse came to a gallop, but he felt disarmed nonetheless. The horse stops and Osterwald slinks off the side, dropping to his feet with a grunt, and he balls his hand into a fist, forgetting that he could not bring his walking stick.

Upon dusting himself of the trail's dirt, straightening his habit, and taking a sizable breath, Osterwald steps toward the Prince's tent. He bows his head to the guards, and a breeze rolls by that catches the nape of his neck like a chill that could peel away the skin and leave his thoughts bare to the eye. With a shiver, Osterwald furrows his brow, sending a concerned look to each of the guards and shuffles inside.

[Sultan 3953]

The guards make way for the clergymen allowing them to enter into the tent, Horen lowers his quill as they enter, he slowly stands his eyes wondering to there faces as he looks at them silently. 

 

He gestures with his hand for them to come closer, two seats are sat in front of his desk but he asks them not to sit yet.

[3andD 1722]

Goddard steps towards the Crown-Prince, bowing his head in humility. He had ridden day and night to meet with the Prince, and he so urged to know the reason for the summons. He exhaled slowly, the breath visible in the night's chill. Choosing to stay silent, and to study the situation at hand.

[Avacyn 1712]

((My character has gathered all clergymen under Pontiff Goddard I. If you are a clergyman, and are under him, you have followed me into camp RPly unless you choose not to come.))

 

Bishop Frances LeTroux walks into the camp on his horse, wiping croissant crumbs off of his mouth with his sleeve, a stream of clergymen in tow, all moving at the same deliberate pace. He brings them to a stop, carefully dismounting. He smiles warmly to all nearby people, leading the men on to the tent, stopping outside. They patiently wait.

[blindmind 350]

Osterwald steps forward and holds his hands at his waist as he steps behind one of the chairs, beside Goddard. He, too, quietly bows his head. "Your highness," he says. "We have heeded your summons."