Christoph
03-12-10, 01:55 PM
((Closed to Rayse))
I: Dusk
"The civil war in Salvar saw demigods and demons battle across frozen fields for the earth and soul of the kingdom. Songs and epics will tell their stories for centuries to come. Yet, some of this conflict's most important players spawned from humbler origins and remained largely unnoticed for much of the war. Of them, few minstrels sing, yet the threads of destiny were tethered to them as strongly as Denebriel herself."
--Yuri Talinov, "A Compendium of the War of Flesh."
*
“If power did not corrupt, who would desire it? When shackled to purity and honor, power becomes lessened, its uses narrowed. Corruption frees the powerful man from these restraints, though sometimes from his soul as well.”
--From the treatises of Silas Rotero, a Coronian philosopher.
***
1810th Year of Strength, late autumn; the Hills of Doth, just north of Archen.
It was late. The sun retreated behind rocky hills, draining warmth and color from the sky and giving way to dusk. Silence smothered the falling night, broken only by the crunch of rocks and leaves beneath clumsy feet. Weary and ragged, Jonathan half walked, half stumbled through the darkening forest. He looked every bit the grubby mountain trapper, with his tattered brown cloak dragging on the ground and a tangled mat of filthy hair stuck to his scalp.
Under dusk’s shadowy veil, the landscape took on a nightmarish visage. Gnarled skeletal trees reached for the starless sky like emaciated claws and the ancient pines towered like slave masters over their sickly cousins. A bleak, crypt-like stillness fell as the trapper hurried through the woods, pointedly ignoring the subtle prickling at the back of his neck. He could see no evidence of a threat; no sound or movement. This only unsettled him more, as though he walked not through a real, living forest, but a mausoleum of one.
The sun vanished completely, and Jonathan regretted not waiting for morning to check his traps, thus avoiding this daunting evening trek. But alas, his family was hungry and leaving the traps overnight would have invited wild animals to make off with what he’d snared. He held up his catch; a fine brown hare that would surely please his wife and two daughters. After wandering the wooded steppes all day, tracking and trapping, he would be happy to return home to them.
He would never see them again, of course. He died silently without so much as a fearful gasp, slumping to the ground with a black arrow in his throat. The night had begun its reign.
* * * * *
It had been a clean kill – swift, silent, and lethally effective. Yet, it felt so… unsatisfying. Ser Anton Timko strode silently through the woods, bow still in hand. Massive and black as sin, the wolf Acteon padded quietly behind, dragging its master’s most recent kill by the head. The noble sighed and ran a hand through surprisingly well-groomed blonde hair -- one was never too busy to keep up appearances.
The problem was that he had treated the filthy peasant as an opponent rather than prey. He typically reserved the dealing of swift and efficient death for those worthy of being considered real foes. This pathetic victim had been just that: a victim – an insignificant wretch to be terrified and toyed with for his pleasure. Such a waste. At least the peon would serve a more noble cause in death than he did in life: that of feeding his master’s small clutch of tamed mountain beasts.
The shoddy cottage he’d come across three hours before had been a far more enjoyable expedition. He found a mother and two daughters there by themselves. Anton had waltzed up to the home in broad daylight, taking delight as they screamed and ran for the door at the sight of his weapons and murderous eyes. The noble set his wolf after one, and then delighted in letting the remaining two listen to her screams of terror and pain whole he pretended to struggle for an entrance to their hovel. Once he grew bored of that, breaking in for real to finish the job had proved as simple as breathing. He’d enjoyed it thoroughly; it almost made up for his boring fourth kill. Almost.
He left their brutalized remains pinned to dead trees as a warning to trespassers. This forest and everything in it belonged to his master.
He smiled in spite of himself. To think, instead of stalking the wilderness like a reaper of death, the young lordling could have remained home, waiting for his father to hurry up and die so he could claim the Timko estates. Besides, if things went as his master planned, and the uprising they sparked in nearby Archen grew into something far larger, Anton could claim his own slice of the new order and gain wealth and power surpassing his grandest fantasies. The schemes of carving out a new domain in the central steppes of Salvar admist the civil war had seemed far-fetched at first, but they grew on him. There was... something about that former chef, their leader and his master, that drew him in, something beyond the man's wits and formidable sorcerous power.
What can I say? Megalomania sells.
A chorus of familiar reptilian snarls shook the noble from his reverie. He had reached the headquarters, and their small pack of ferocious, hot-blooded Ashkore lizards, part horse, part tiger, and part dragon in appearance, smelled the fresh blood of his victim. Three of the large scaly monstrosities pounced on meat immediately, their vicious jaws rending flesh and crushing bone. Spiked tails batted against leathery green flanks as they scuffled over the trapper's meager carcass. Anton started toward the keep, leaving his wolf to fight over meat with the beasts.
Though their base of operations had once been a mighty hilltop castle, time had reduced it to a bloated corpse of its former glory. Illuminated by torches and strange glowing crystals, the crumbling walls were the color of dead flesh. Patches of green moss covered the masonry like rot on a cadaver. It provided a forbidding atmosphere at night, but offered little real protection, and even the central keep cracked and crumbled beneath the weight of years. Anton would find his master in that keep; it was the command post of Elijah Belov – known as the butcher of souls, the caterer of the abyss, and many other titles, some less flattering than others.
The ruins swarmed like a hive with activity that night. Hundreds of warriors and from hundreds of leagues in every direction scurried back and forth, patrolling or doing other duties. He also saw a many unfamiliar faces; the new recruits, no doubt, though few of these appeared to be warriors. Most carted cut stones and logs; had Belov finally decided to repair the castle?
Anton entered the keep and headed to the far corner, to the only fully intact room in the entire broken castle: the kitchen, of all places. It seemed appropriate, and many great men spawned from humble beginnings, he supposed.
Two familiar gargoyle statues flanked the door. The noble paid them no notice until they turned their heads toward him and moved to block his path with a convincing semblance of life. That was new. Elijah and his sorcerers must have cooked them up somehow. Anton had to credit his low-born overlord; he knew how balance effective defense with scary architecture. Their demonic gazes followed him as he approached, scrutinizing his every step. One knocked on the door. The door opened a little.
“He’s safe, let him in,” called Elijah. His voice possessed a ring of youthful vigor and clarity and subtly powerful commanding edge. The two winged beasts stepped aside.
Belov sat at the end of the room, behind a large table covered with maps, ledgers, and empty plates. An iron woodstove glowed behind him and pots and cauldrons cluttered the walls. Several other members of the inner circle crowded around the table, filling the surprisingly small kitchen. A lantern hung from the ceiling and smoke, grease, and human odor thickened the air.
“Was your patrol productive?” Elijah asked, looking up from a frayed parchment. Even with the tattered chef coat under his cloak, the man managed a forceful, almost majestic presence. He possessed a strong chin and dark eyes, and also had strangely compelling aura, a certain… something about him that demanded respect.
“Yes, I would say that it was,” the noble replied with a grin. He took his seat in the empty chair by the door and folded his black-gloved hands on the table. “I took… measures to prevent trespassing, and to ensure that no one else possesses intimate knowledge of these hills.”
“Lovely, and how many did you kill this time?” asked a new voice. Anton glanced to the far corner and his lips curled into a sneer. There he found his younger sister, Alexandria Timko, leaning forward with a steaming tin mug in her hands. She glared with contempt at her older sibling. “There is psychological warfare, but then there is senseless brutality.”
Anton rolled his eyes dramatically. He and his sister shared the same blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and well-trimmed noble bearing, but the similarities ended there. Anton prided himself on his cunning and mercilessness, not caring about the means so long as he achieved the desired ends. His sister, though sly and clever, was honorable to a fault and sickeningly noble – an improper demeanor for a woman, he thought.
“I only killed four, dear sister, and none from the city,” he replied snidely. Anton had long ago grown very weary of his sister’s constant hostile impugnation. “The trapper to feed the war beasts and three others left as a warning.”
“Or as invitation to the Archen city watch, and every mercenary and witch hunter within twenty leagues, to come investigate,” Alexandria shot back harshly, narrowing her eyes. “You would risk them finding out what we’ve really been doing out here just to slake your sociopathic urges!”
“I say let them come!” Anton spat, pounding the table.
“That is quite enough.” Belov barely raised his voice, but his cold command halted the argument with stunning efficiency. “Alexandria, this is no place for the faint of heart or squeamish. You know that.” The Timko sister sank into her chair, eyes smoldering. Anton allowed a smug grin, until Elijah turned toward him.
“Nor is it time for your pointless stupidity, Anton,” their commander continued, a trace of venom tainting his voice. “Even with most of Salvar embroiled in civil war, there are many factions who would try to stamp us out, the Church in particular. Until we’re fully prepared, we cannot afford attracting unnecessary attention to ourselves.” As if on cue, beyond the door came the sound of wing beats, followed by a knock. The chef tilted his head, uncertainty filling his eyes for the first time. “The scouts are back early.”
The door opened unceremoniously without even a knock, and a stunning winged woman stepped through with the graceful steps of a dancer. She was the Matron of the Seraphim flock and one of their organization’s most powerful arcanists. Everyone looked on as she folded her wings and knelt before Elijah, a gesture that seemed very out of place from such a formidable figure. From her mighty black-feathered wings to her majestic form and powerful aura, she was deadly and magnificent. Regardless of what scholars theorized regarding her race’s origins, to Anton she was an angel of death. So terrifyingly beautiful.
“We have information, my lord,” she said, her voice at once even and melodious. “My flock reports a large number of intruders approaching the edges of the forest.” Elijah raised an eyebrow.
“Who are they? How many?” Elijah demanded.
“The Church leads a great host of thousands, master. Earlier today, they crushed the uprising you sparked at Archen, and have already begun scouting the edges of our domain.”
“Thousands of soldiers,” he murmured with a cynical chuckle. “They arrived far more quickly than I anticipated…” He shot Anton a glance. “And they will have no trouble finding us.”
I: Dusk
"The civil war in Salvar saw demigods and demons battle across frozen fields for the earth and soul of the kingdom. Songs and epics will tell their stories for centuries to come. Yet, some of this conflict's most important players spawned from humbler origins and remained largely unnoticed for much of the war. Of them, few minstrels sing, yet the threads of destiny were tethered to them as strongly as Denebriel herself."
--Yuri Talinov, "A Compendium of the War of Flesh."
*
“If power did not corrupt, who would desire it? When shackled to purity and honor, power becomes lessened, its uses narrowed. Corruption frees the powerful man from these restraints, though sometimes from his soul as well.”
--From the treatises of Silas Rotero, a Coronian philosopher.
***
1810th Year of Strength, late autumn; the Hills of Doth, just north of Archen.
It was late. The sun retreated behind rocky hills, draining warmth and color from the sky and giving way to dusk. Silence smothered the falling night, broken only by the crunch of rocks and leaves beneath clumsy feet. Weary and ragged, Jonathan half walked, half stumbled through the darkening forest. He looked every bit the grubby mountain trapper, with his tattered brown cloak dragging on the ground and a tangled mat of filthy hair stuck to his scalp.
Under dusk’s shadowy veil, the landscape took on a nightmarish visage. Gnarled skeletal trees reached for the starless sky like emaciated claws and the ancient pines towered like slave masters over their sickly cousins. A bleak, crypt-like stillness fell as the trapper hurried through the woods, pointedly ignoring the subtle prickling at the back of his neck. He could see no evidence of a threat; no sound or movement. This only unsettled him more, as though he walked not through a real, living forest, but a mausoleum of one.
The sun vanished completely, and Jonathan regretted not waiting for morning to check his traps, thus avoiding this daunting evening trek. But alas, his family was hungry and leaving the traps overnight would have invited wild animals to make off with what he’d snared. He held up his catch; a fine brown hare that would surely please his wife and two daughters. After wandering the wooded steppes all day, tracking and trapping, he would be happy to return home to them.
He would never see them again, of course. He died silently without so much as a fearful gasp, slumping to the ground with a black arrow in his throat. The night had begun its reign.
* * * * *
It had been a clean kill – swift, silent, and lethally effective. Yet, it felt so… unsatisfying. Ser Anton Timko strode silently through the woods, bow still in hand. Massive and black as sin, the wolf Acteon padded quietly behind, dragging its master’s most recent kill by the head. The noble sighed and ran a hand through surprisingly well-groomed blonde hair -- one was never too busy to keep up appearances.
The problem was that he had treated the filthy peasant as an opponent rather than prey. He typically reserved the dealing of swift and efficient death for those worthy of being considered real foes. This pathetic victim had been just that: a victim – an insignificant wretch to be terrified and toyed with for his pleasure. Such a waste. At least the peon would serve a more noble cause in death than he did in life: that of feeding his master’s small clutch of tamed mountain beasts.
The shoddy cottage he’d come across three hours before had been a far more enjoyable expedition. He found a mother and two daughters there by themselves. Anton had waltzed up to the home in broad daylight, taking delight as they screamed and ran for the door at the sight of his weapons and murderous eyes. The noble set his wolf after one, and then delighted in letting the remaining two listen to her screams of terror and pain whole he pretended to struggle for an entrance to their hovel. Once he grew bored of that, breaking in for real to finish the job had proved as simple as breathing. He’d enjoyed it thoroughly; it almost made up for his boring fourth kill. Almost.
He left their brutalized remains pinned to dead trees as a warning to trespassers. This forest and everything in it belonged to his master.
He smiled in spite of himself. To think, instead of stalking the wilderness like a reaper of death, the young lordling could have remained home, waiting for his father to hurry up and die so he could claim the Timko estates. Besides, if things went as his master planned, and the uprising they sparked in nearby Archen grew into something far larger, Anton could claim his own slice of the new order and gain wealth and power surpassing his grandest fantasies. The schemes of carving out a new domain in the central steppes of Salvar admist the civil war had seemed far-fetched at first, but they grew on him. There was... something about that former chef, their leader and his master, that drew him in, something beyond the man's wits and formidable sorcerous power.
What can I say? Megalomania sells.
A chorus of familiar reptilian snarls shook the noble from his reverie. He had reached the headquarters, and their small pack of ferocious, hot-blooded Ashkore lizards, part horse, part tiger, and part dragon in appearance, smelled the fresh blood of his victim. Three of the large scaly monstrosities pounced on meat immediately, their vicious jaws rending flesh and crushing bone. Spiked tails batted against leathery green flanks as they scuffled over the trapper's meager carcass. Anton started toward the keep, leaving his wolf to fight over meat with the beasts.
Though their base of operations had once been a mighty hilltop castle, time had reduced it to a bloated corpse of its former glory. Illuminated by torches and strange glowing crystals, the crumbling walls were the color of dead flesh. Patches of green moss covered the masonry like rot on a cadaver. It provided a forbidding atmosphere at night, but offered little real protection, and even the central keep cracked and crumbled beneath the weight of years. Anton would find his master in that keep; it was the command post of Elijah Belov – known as the butcher of souls, the caterer of the abyss, and many other titles, some less flattering than others.
The ruins swarmed like a hive with activity that night. Hundreds of warriors and from hundreds of leagues in every direction scurried back and forth, patrolling or doing other duties. He also saw a many unfamiliar faces; the new recruits, no doubt, though few of these appeared to be warriors. Most carted cut stones and logs; had Belov finally decided to repair the castle?
Anton entered the keep and headed to the far corner, to the only fully intact room in the entire broken castle: the kitchen, of all places. It seemed appropriate, and many great men spawned from humble beginnings, he supposed.
Two familiar gargoyle statues flanked the door. The noble paid them no notice until they turned their heads toward him and moved to block his path with a convincing semblance of life. That was new. Elijah and his sorcerers must have cooked them up somehow. Anton had to credit his low-born overlord; he knew how balance effective defense with scary architecture. Their demonic gazes followed him as he approached, scrutinizing his every step. One knocked on the door. The door opened a little.
“He’s safe, let him in,” called Elijah. His voice possessed a ring of youthful vigor and clarity and subtly powerful commanding edge. The two winged beasts stepped aside.
Belov sat at the end of the room, behind a large table covered with maps, ledgers, and empty plates. An iron woodstove glowed behind him and pots and cauldrons cluttered the walls. Several other members of the inner circle crowded around the table, filling the surprisingly small kitchen. A lantern hung from the ceiling and smoke, grease, and human odor thickened the air.
“Was your patrol productive?” Elijah asked, looking up from a frayed parchment. Even with the tattered chef coat under his cloak, the man managed a forceful, almost majestic presence. He possessed a strong chin and dark eyes, and also had strangely compelling aura, a certain… something about him that demanded respect.
“Yes, I would say that it was,” the noble replied with a grin. He took his seat in the empty chair by the door and folded his black-gloved hands on the table. “I took… measures to prevent trespassing, and to ensure that no one else possesses intimate knowledge of these hills.”
“Lovely, and how many did you kill this time?” asked a new voice. Anton glanced to the far corner and his lips curled into a sneer. There he found his younger sister, Alexandria Timko, leaning forward with a steaming tin mug in her hands. She glared with contempt at her older sibling. “There is psychological warfare, but then there is senseless brutality.”
Anton rolled his eyes dramatically. He and his sister shared the same blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and well-trimmed noble bearing, but the similarities ended there. Anton prided himself on his cunning and mercilessness, not caring about the means so long as he achieved the desired ends. His sister, though sly and clever, was honorable to a fault and sickeningly noble – an improper demeanor for a woman, he thought.
“I only killed four, dear sister, and none from the city,” he replied snidely. Anton had long ago grown very weary of his sister’s constant hostile impugnation. “The trapper to feed the war beasts and three others left as a warning.”
“Or as invitation to the Archen city watch, and every mercenary and witch hunter within twenty leagues, to come investigate,” Alexandria shot back harshly, narrowing her eyes. “You would risk them finding out what we’ve really been doing out here just to slake your sociopathic urges!”
“I say let them come!” Anton spat, pounding the table.
“That is quite enough.” Belov barely raised his voice, but his cold command halted the argument with stunning efficiency. “Alexandria, this is no place for the faint of heart or squeamish. You know that.” The Timko sister sank into her chair, eyes smoldering. Anton allowed a smug grin, until Elijah turned toward him.
“Nor is it time for your pointless stupidity, Anton,” their commander continued, a trace of venom tainting his voice. “Even with most of Salvar embroiled in civil war, there are many factions who would try to stamp us out, the Church in particular. Until we’re fully prepared, we cannot afford attracting unnecessary attention to ourselves.” As if on cue, beyond the door came the sound of wing beats, followed by a knock. The chef tilted his head, uncertainty filling his eyes for the first time. “The scouts are back early.”
The door opened unceremoniously without even a knock, and a stunning winged woman stepped through with the graceful steps of a dancer. She was the Matron of the Seraphim flock and one of their organization’s most powerful arcanists. Everyone looked on as she folded her wings and knelt before Elijah, a gesture that seemed very out of place from such a formidable figure. From her mighty black-feathered wings to her majestic form and powerful aura, she was deadly and magnificent. Regardless of what scholars theorized regarding her race’s origins, to Anton she was an angel of death. So terrifyingly beautiful.
“We have information, my lord,” she said, her voice at once even and melodious. “My flock reports a large number of intruders approaching the edges of the forest.” Elijah raised an eyebrow.
“Who are they? How many?” Elijah demanded.
“The Church leads a great host of thousands, master. Earlier today, they crushed the uprising you sparked at Archen, and have already begun scouting the edges of our domain.”
“Thousands of soldiers,” he murmured with a cynical chuckle. “They arrived far more quickly than I anticipated…” He shot Anton a glance. “And they will have no trouble finding us.”