Ford

The weather was pleasantly mild, southern Almaris’ desert heat nowhere close to being as potent as it usually was due to the hour of day. Cloudless blue sky, the sunrise of dawn was revealed in all its beaming glory. A nice breeze rolled in at refreshing intervals, a friendly companion to the early morning workers and volunteers as they invested effort putting up festive decorations in the city square. Directing the cohort in their activities was a dark brown haired middle-aged woman with eyes marked by heavy bags underneath. Tall poles were lined with banners of yellow and green, representing Kivdrona’s prideful flag and colorway. Competitive merchants eager to secure a prime spot at the square before their rivals could carted wares into favorable positions - the nearer to the statue of The Genius, the better. At the Prancing Camel, hungover tavern-goers from an enjoyable night before were woken up by Fredrick following Moe’s recent absence from the city, and they recuperated as best they could and hobbled to their abodes to prepare for the ceremony (or perhaps just pass out and not attend at all.) The common folk prepared for another toiling day. Sleek canes in tow, vests adorned with silver and gold buttons, makeup applied, shoes shined, and dresses fitted, the affluent now strolled the streets with chins held high amongst the rabble. At the highest floor of the Prancing Camel, in the expensive Emperor’s Suite, a lightly-dressed couple cuddled in bed. A sliver of sunlight intruded into their room through the curtain’s thin openings. On the ground, Glanton List and Haverty Trunt, captain and deputy of the Kivdronan guard force respectively, began to run through a tutorial of how to best deal with the potential threats one might face during an imperial event, barking instructions and pointing fingers at their loyal subordinates. Guards on wall duty marched prim along the perimeter. The Honor Guard, defenders of the Lord’s Tower and the Cathedral, attended their own seminar dutifully led by Dunfrey Rudiger, one of the few knight’s the city has and poster boy of honor. He was flanked by Perra Molvo, an older knight who sternly scanned over the regal protectors gathered in the throne room, ever the image of authority. Polton, an experienced Honor Guard, tapped his foot impatiently and glanced here and there, taking in the throne room’s stately details once more. Young Chelka Institute scholars were getting prepared in their communal sex-separated washrooms, changing into their stuffy uniforms, expeditiously studying piles of notes from yesterday’s lectures, eating breakfast provided by their parents or the canteen staff, all before heading out into town blessed with unconcerned demeanors. After all, there were no classes today. The only obligation they had to fulfill was to show up to the coronation -full attendance expected - dressed in upright Institute attire. Langan Brusch, Chelka’s head secretary, made it a point to remind them of this incessantly all morning. Leaving through the academy’s front doors, a group of bright-eyed students immediately sussed out a stall selling gaudy coats, the attending merchant beckoning them closer. The faculty took advantage of this opportunity, too, and roved out in search of entertainment or utilized the newly found leisure to spend time with their families at home. Still, Chelka’s most staunch and studious were cooped up in their offices, outlining the structure and content of their next lecture. Up on high, tensions remained palpable in the Cathedral. The last remnants of the clergy were crowded about a pew on either side, engaged in passionate conversation about something. An elder with short blond hair approached the gathering and spoke definitively. No one dared to broach the topic again after a shared breakfast in the refectory. They carried out the duties assigned to them in preparation for the crowning, higher authorities divvying responsibilities and managing the execution of tasks where they saw management was required. The prior elder stood in the middle of the nave and prayed there upon the walkway for a long while. The city was awake. It stirred vibrantly beneath the desert sun, a cut gem. Despite being haunted by the tandem misfortunes of the bazaar’s destruction and the short-lived incursion by the Moorish natives, along the steadily worsening opium epidemic looming in each level of their bright society, an exuberant energy radiated about Kivdrona’s general atmosphere that could not be stifled so easily. The essential and significant accomplishment of defeating the horrendous plague was a badge of ingenuity the city gladly affixed to its figurative lapel. The vast majority of the credit was directed towards the tireless work of those undertaken by the Chelka Institute, producing enough pride city-wide to offset other worries for the time being (at least, for the affluent enough.) Commoners and nobility alike had been anticipating this day - some more than others - for the past month and a half; however, the biggest share of Undercity dwellers couldn’t have cared less. Poppy dens were filled with return customers. Risk-taking men and women lost and won bets in the smoky-smelling gambling den. The underground gangs stalked through the tunnels in informal squads. Wracked with suffering, the minority still diagnosed with the plague idled in the Undercity’s many tunnels, sequestered. The day progressed. Outsiders (or ‘plants’ as Kivdronans liked to call them) filtered into the city, a number responding to the invitations received by a royal courier while others made the decision to attend the coronation after hearing the news naturally through word of mouth and flier. The square buzzed enthusiastically as the grand event neared. Smoke billowed up from a tent topped with a blue tarp near Kivdrona’s Genius statue. A Moorish man was situated beneath the tent working at a feverish pace with multiple cooking utensils and stations to keep up with orders a gaggle of men and women in front of the counter threw out. Ominous-looking men donning dreary-colored armor, tabards, and masks - save for one decorated in solid gold plate - surrounded a fragrance merchant’s stall, engaged in a barter. Couples kept their walk slow while engaged in conversation, visiting stalls at their own tempo. A fishmonger fixed savory fish speared on a stick for those wanting, the smell of pepper pungent. Standing a little above eight and a half heads tall, a dark-skinned woman skulked around, an even darker-skinned male companion, Aicard, remaining near to her. Families huddled close to each other, parents cautioning their children to not drift too far away. An organization known for their beast hunting affinity appeared, as well, much to the surprise of those able to recognize them, a dark elf nearby following closely. They would remain unbothered, but earned an abundance of skeptical stares for various reasons, nonetheless. Eventually, the invigorating fanfare of trumpets sounded an hour before dusk set in. Thus marked the beginning of the coronation of Crown Prince Tristan Barnaby. | | | The citizenry gathered around a scarcely decorated stage. An ornately carved wooden throne was made the centerpiece for this occasion. Four Honor Guards standing as sturdy as statues were posted at the corners of the platform, with more situated along the front width. Tristan crossed the crimson velvet carpet donning fantastic regalia. Before he was even in full view, an enthusiastic uproar erupted out of the entirety of those in attendance. Fists were thrown up in the air and smiles were presented. Swiftly, it was noticed that he was not alone. His sluggish walk to the stage required the support of a caregiver, who ensured his ascent up the stairs and gradual descent into the seat was a pleasant one. With that task complete, the assistant stayed next to him. And so, Tristan sat, his health looking far more degraded than most remember it being. The assembly’s sensibilities became tinged with uneasiness. The prince lifted his head until his half-lidded eyes could reliably view his subjects. Lips quivered. Expectant gazes were set upon him, awaiting rousing words. Silence endured. Abruptly overcome by something, another attempt was made. The Barnaby's eyelids parted wider than ever before, leaning forward with his mouth agape… But, ultimately, no words came. Defeated, he slumped back into his chair, barely sighing a weary, ragged sigh. The assistant slipped an arm behind the royal’s back and helped him to his feet, spectators muttering amongst themselves as he was escorted off the stage and out of sight. “Is that it?” “...What’s going on?!” “The king, the king…!” “Give us th’ king!” “We want to see ‘im!” A moment passed. Instead of their king to be, they were made audience to the visionary philanthropist and founder of the Chelka Institute himself, Doctor Chelka, who strode across the same carpet Tristan ambled upon and took to the stage dressed in simple trousers, belt, boots, and a white coat. An austere air exuded from him, hands clasped behind his back while green eyes scanned over the attending Kivdronans and outsiders. Confusion ran rampant across the crowd’s collective expression, but they granted him an audience, nonetheless. So began his speech. Its start was mild: progress, glory, forefathers of the land, success. Passion grew in the scientist’s spewed words and gesticulation. Dubious crowd members looked to those nearest. Glanton List lofted a brow. Guards shifted in place. The doctor delivered a signal stage left. Two masked Chelka operatives and a malnourished slave approached the stairs, the latter lead by the arms, restricted by tight clutches on either side to prevent his obvious struggle to escape. He was brought up onto the platform and placed beside the doctor, who apprehended the captured man by the collar of his tattered shirt. The comfort of those attending became strained, aversion to the current display conspicuous. Chelka continued with talk of refinement, perfection… Evolution. ‘The next step.’ Some malformed apotheosis. A full moon graced the coronation up high. Chelka’s free hand dipped beneath his white coat and withdrew a canister that glinted in the radiance. By this point, a splinter group utilized the distraction to slink away. With fervor, he twisted a valve near the cap. A visible gas slipped out. He thrust it up to the slave’s nose, who then recoiled while letting out a shrill scream. Instinctively, the guinea pig ran off the stage, but was barricaded by a contingent of Chelka operatives and city guardsman, who shoved him back into the open while he writhed in pain. His hair began to fall out, eyes darkened, skin altered in hue and developed magnificently-sized pustules, and resounding snaps and cracks marked the process of a hastily growing frame. Violent hissing originated from a multitude of locations throughout Kivdrona. Streets and alleyways became rife with the gaseous substance. It swelled from below the stage and advanced outwards into the crowd rapidly, spurring an even more frantic response. Before they even realized, most of those gathered had already inhaled it. Eyes went wide. Hardly a soul remained in place once the slave was nearly complete in his transition. A minority remained there in shock, a natural but unfortunate reaction that would cost them a spare minute or two more at most of living. Cries and screams flared up into the night sky as people rushed for the stairway leading into the city square, shoving each other in their panic, a considerable number already combating the agonizing transition they were undergoing. Fleeing citizens inhaled it in passing. Commands issued by authority fell on deaf ears. The situation fell entirely out of the guards’ control, but not for lack of trying. Protectors of Kivdrona, too, were twisting into something else beneath their armor. In the stead of a human servant, a monster stood. Magenta skin, limbs longer than its body, mace-shaped globules of flesh in the place of hands, skin hugging bone so tightly that stringy muscle was revealed. It swung the end of its limb in a wide arc, catching the head of a middle-aged man on the run and caving it in. Others unlike it in appearance, but similar in bloodlust arose from what were once civilians. The Hexers amidst the crowd were unmoving, their faces obscured by hoods, and their forms soon finding themselves as silhouettes beset within the crowd. Amongst the chaos, they were but drops in a purgatorial mania. Not all were affected by the gas; however, they were quickly beset by these fiends. Chelka inhaled deeply and stood triumphantly on the stage, overlooking the torment the populace were undergoing. Five crossbow bolts were fired from select vantage points. They whistled through the air, then, finding their mark and ripping into the doctor’s body. Crumpling to the floor on his back, all he could do was look up at the firmament overhead and laugh. "Not even you can stop me. . .” Once the moon had reached the peak in its celestial arc, the midnight sky warped in full view above Kivdrona. Dimly gleaming stars of the evening became acute yet shined brighter than ever and grew closer in perceived depth, as if they were only as high as the clouds. Darkness cast by natural shadows deepened unnaturally in every corner of the metropolis. The leaves, twigs, and all manner of plant life phased into an amalgamation flesh and bone and writhed like the innards of some slumbering titan. And the moon, ancient and large, swathed the city in brilliant crimson light. Glistening blood pools and streams that coated the city street’s stonework and poured into the sewers were accentuated; sprawled out, dismembered victims were revealed, the handiwork of demonic aberrants. Whether due to wisdom or sheer luck, Descendant life prevailed in small pockets. Two groups had fought through the hellish circumstances and ascended the daunting stairs to the Lord’s Castle and cathedral with a determined gait. The horrors throughout the city encroached upon them, following behind, maws wide and snapping, limbs extended. Those who, in bulk, rushed toward the principal steps of the lord’s tower were swift to find themselves enwreathed in chaos. They clawed maliciously, desperately at the walls of the great and imposing structure, only for their slow and bovine maneuvers do render them minced meat against the talons and claws that ruptured flesh and bone across their legs and backs. The few who were able to swiftly ascend to higher ground were granted only momentary refuge, as winged malformations of the men, women, and children once gathered around the coranatory precipice now frothed at fanged maws that struck mercilessly at those ahead. Blood and viscera accumulated in mass both along the facade and base of the tower, while those more firmly minded seemed to follow the beast hunters toward the church. Many stragglers attempted to stand and fight, finding themselves only battered down and once more incentivized to make haste toward the church. Within the towering confines they began to reinforce large oaken doors and windows, while the scrollers seemed to kneel before one flaxen-haired hexer, the hawk’s features obscured on one side by a bandage, and the other bearing a glinting amber eye. They shouted in disjointed praise and fear as the man simply continued past the pews, jerking his head about in erratic oscillations, as though in search of something. “The Flaxen Hawk!” “Praise be unto him, Edmond of Sava!” "A marked to grant us refuge!” "He was the Son!” The Hexers who accompanied the Grandmaster split away, moving to reinforce doors and windows alongside various Lectors and citizenry who had managed to, amidst the chaos and death, find a momentary coven within the church. As Edmond continued to search, the surroundings of the church shook and rattled as the onslaught began their attack against it. "They’re comin’ in through the windows!” shouted one Woland of Attenlund, his blade drawing free of scabbard to press violently against elongated limbs reaching through each and every crevice and inlet. “Bring Will to the hedgeway, secure the backside!” Clattering footsteps soon added to the chaotic drill of the cathedral’s halls, as a clothed man rushed toward Edmond, his hand extended to grip at his pauldron and breastplate. Jacob Sneed then spoke to the marked man, perspiration dripping from his brow in an attempt to grip his attention. “We can be saved!” he’d shout, turning then toward the other flagellants who surrounded him and the hexer. “He will save us. Edmond will, for he is the Fifth Exalted! We need only believe. He will save us all, just as Joseph had foretold! There is a way!” Amidst his feverous recitations, and the maintained and successful defenses of those manning the doorways, another soon entered the fold. A beast man, taking some form from man’s junction, with hairs lining flesh and his nails turned into talons - though despite his appearance, seemed different from the turned beasts outside the cathedral walls. Clutched within his hands was a golden scroll, gleaming and billowing as he held it. “Give the scroll unto the Fifth!” shouted the scrollers in the vicinity, though the beastman denied the claim. He seemed unwilling, seeking to open the scroll himself. All the while the clambering of shouts and sounds heightened, some beasts beginning to make their way past doors and windows, tangling with inner defenders as steel sliced and clamored in a cacophony of iron hisses. Still, the pleading and demanding of the scrollers failed to take the mind of the werebeast, as he himself began to seek to pull open the Golden Scroll within his talons, struggling all the while. "That belongs to the Fifth-,” shouted Jacob, only for his words to be overcome by a shrill shriek of pain as a Hexer’s blade of slayer steel cut violently through its wrist. Verres of Rhysten pulled his weapon back, a trail of sanguine blood spewing out after it as Edmond tossed his crossbow toward Yanis of Touron, a youthful looking Hexer defending the primary doorway, and began to pull open the Golden Scroll. Suddenly, his form went limp, falling to the ground as those below continued to fight. Blood and weaponry gilded the floor of the cathedral, none within its confines yet to fall, but each beginning to falter to injury and unyielding pain. A fire mage too, one Margot of Reinmar, began forming catacombs of flame projecting in fumed balls toward the creatures encroaching from above. Solun of Esbec held back the charge, guiding the survivors into the hedgeways as the rotisserie of beasts seemed unending. His blade battered through the doorway, mincing the creatures that lay behind as Angelika of Vidaus carried wooden planks to further fortify the doorways. Monroe too shifted along the back ends, holding the tower down as winged beasts sought entry from above. Masuo of Yamatai stood atop the bannerments, scanning the interior of the fortified walls for any maneuverable exit, all the while Kolette and Margot moved to approach the scroll-bound Edmond. Amidst the chaos, then, did the flaxen Hexer rise, some say floating above ground. His arms extended to either side as he began to speak in a resounding tone. “Know Thyself. Nothing in Excess. Certainty is Ruin.” He spoke of sacrifice, the scrolls all falling to their knees, the approaching creatures frozen in time, unable to move while he spoke. His flock looked toward him, each Hawk dumbfounded by the sight as his form slowly began to turn translucent. He spoke goodbye, a portal-like structure manifesting down from the church’s apse before all those gathered. Soon, his entire form disappeared, the thousands of monsters that had followed all unmoving, if only for a few moments, as all those present rushed through the portal. Each then was spared the near certain cataclysm that was set before them, save for one, who’s form was severed and brought elsewhere in sacrificial prudence. | | | Following its cycle as it had every day since its inception, the sun peeked its blaring head over the distant horizon and illuminated the desert sands. When dawn broke and yet another cloudless day reigned, the screaming had ceased. The transmogrification finished stealing every life it could possibly muster. Many thousands of lives were extinguished, all at the hands of a depraved act carried out by a seemingly deranged man’s arcane motivation. News of the city falling would spread like wildfire. Imports no longer came as exports no longer left. There was a certainty that Kivdrona, Jewel of the South, had fallen. Now infested with abominations, there was little hope that anything could be salvaged from the desert metropolis. But others harbored different ideas. ___ (Kivdrona will be going into a WIP phase. We’re giving the entire city a makeover and just generally doing a lot. When we’re ready, we’ll be putting up an updated event site thread for Kivdrona. We ask that you be patient and give us some time. Thank you to those who have participated, thank you to the builders who’ve been helping us, @Matheaww, @WestCarolina, @Minth_11, @MC_BreadStick, @VoxyNoir, others, and @Quantumatics for helping me write the post. We really appreciate what you’ve done for us. If you’d like, you can join the Kivdrona eventline discord linked here: https://discord.gg/9k8meTeVXY.)