Epilogue
Erich stared at the command table with unwavering intensity, his eyes never breaking contact with the two carved figurines that were placed on the large map atop it. The map itself was that of the greater lands surrounding the city of Pravia, reaching all the way south to the dreaded Dweghom hold of Ghe’Domn. In Pravia’s place stood the carved form of a city – with minuscule walls and a few jutting towers. For Ghe’Domn, the figurine was that of an erect mountainous façade, an inhuman stone face with a hollow, emotionless gaze. Erick could not help but return to that dreaded craggy countenance, feeling the cacophony of voices that flooded his surroundings become muffled and fade out as the intensity of his own thoughts took over. The lands closest to the Dweghom hold had been abuzz with activity as of late, with reports of missing scouts and other such cases rising at a truly alarming rate. Ghe’Domn itself was showing signs of activity in its own right, as presented from select scout reports that had reached Schur, setting the scene for a truly dreadful scenario. What were the Dweghom trying to achieve? Were they going to attack Pravia? Erich’s mind was almost set, but he could not bring himself to give the order – once a choice like that was made, there was no going back.
“Commander!” Klaus’ voice cut through the dirge like a razor through fat-ladened flesh, forcing Schur to raise his head and face his subordinate directly. The room itself was filled with a crowd of officers and high-ranking soldiers, all arguing amongst themselves on what move to make next. “SHUT IT! ALL OF YOU!” roared Erich, straightening his body as he leaned away from the table, nodding at Klaus expectantly.
“Commander,” stated Klaus again. “Scout leader Amelia has been found by one of our patrols. Her condition is critical, but she managed to provide a report while she was still conscious. Her group was ambushed by a Dweghom force while within our territory. The rest of the scouts are dead…”
“Damn it all!” hissed Schur, slamming his fist into the table at his side. With a sharp inhalation, the veteran commander managed to contain his temper once more, hooking both thumbs over his belt as he continued to speak. “By order of the Chamberlain, I am to defend Pravia at all costs – and that’s what we’ll do. During my training at the War College, I came across manuscripts – very old manuscripts – with details about the Dweghom and their armies. We must disrupt them while they are still gathering their forces near their hold. Send out another scout detachment towards Ghe’Domn. Make sure they are well-armed and prepared for ambushes – we need to know exactly what we’re facing. In the meantime, I want a forward force to be put together as soon as possible – ahead of the main army. If we are to have a fighting chance, we must strike the Dweghom while their army is still forming!”
One of the gathered officers, a portly man under the service of Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh – though the Baron himself was nowhere to be found – laughed out loud, a sour grin forming across his lips as he spoke. “Why bother facing such an enemy outside our walls to begin with? Pravia has weathered sieges before. If the Dweghom do come, we’ll outlast them too!”
Almost instinctively, Erich started moving towards the outspoken officer, feeling his right hand ball into a fist and locking his eyes onto the man’s bulbous chin. Before his temper could get the best of him, Schur felt Klaus’ hand resting atop his shoulder, with his trusted subordinate silently mouthing “Don’t do it…” With a sigh, Erich uncoiled his fingers and raised his voice, addressing the officer directly. “If you believe the city can withstand a direct, unobstructed Dweghom assault, then you are a fool! A fool with a death wish, at that!” The officer tried to respond, only to be silenced by Shur’s wide-eyed glower. “No,” the seasoned commander continued. “We must stop the Dweghom while they are still gathering their forces and their supplies. That is when they are at their weakest. If that does not work, we chip away at their core with every given opportunity – stalling them until reinforcements can make their way to Pravia!”
Most of the individuals in the room, those under Schur’s command, buzzed with evident agreement – a stark contrast to the Baron’s men, who remained silent and discontent in their demeanor. Despite the commotion, Erich’s thoughts took hold of him once more, bringing to the surface the same questions that had plagued him over the past few days. Why Pravia? Why now?
Prelude
“It is done, my Raegh.”
Raegh Ragodosh of Ghe’Domn nodded abstractly. His grey beard and skin mixed around his mouth, making it hard to tell where one ended and the other began – Stone Face, they called him for this, as well as for other things and as he stood unmoving and unmoved, he was that name incarnate. His hands were clasped behind his back, an old, empty scabbard held in his right fist, and he kept his eyes peeled on the massive hauda, as if the report confirming that he had finally regained control of his Hold was of secondary importance. Perhaps it was, he thought. Almost three clans’ warriors had left, following the upstart Alekhaneros. He had personally stopped a forth group from leaving, a decision which had then led the entire hold into war, splitting the remaining clans to those that remained loyal to him and those fueled by the challenge of Alekhaneros’ refusal to obey him and his unsanctioned departure. Most withdrew when word reached them that Alekhaneros had gone to the surface. Others grasped the opportunity to challenge the Raegh and attempt to take his throne. Others still simply fought for some ideal that the so-called Azdhaen represented. He had delt with the first quickly and efficiently, but the latter had proved resilient and unpredictable, raising heads – and blades – when least expected. He shook his head, annoyed and tired.
“The so-called Azdhaenit are no more, my Raegh,” Eshakha, his Exemplar, said, spurred by his silence.
“Aren’t they, Eshakha?” Ragodosh muttered this time in response. “Peered into the hearts of those that bent the knee, did you? Read their thoughts like the Memories on our walls?”
“No, Raegh,” she answered with a smile. “But give the word and I’ll carve open their hearts and split their skulls. If there’s any reading to be done in those, let me do it.” The Raegh smiled, despite his mood.
“Loyalty and eagerness such as yours, good Eshakha, are the stone under any Raegh’s throne,” he replied, his voice slowly colored by bitterness as he finished his sentence. “Which is exactly the point. If doubt in one’s life is one’s weakness, doubt in one’s reign is acid on naked flesh. It will slowly, painfully, eat through skin, muscle and bone, until scantily a tendon is left to remind one of what once was. For two Rosters we had secured the Hold – then someone leaves this scabbard on our door and out of nowhere they appeared again, these Azdhaenit, claiming it proved Alekhaneros had found the blade.”
“They were never told there was human writing with it,” the Exemplar noted.
“Nor was it their duty to know. The point is, perhaps more than anything else, Eshakha, our people Remember doubt.”
The Exemplar remained silent, this time, eyes thoughtful as she looked at her Raegh, who still kept his back turned to her, eyeing the hauda before him. Anaghallosh still sat there, the Slayer, founder of Ghe’Domn, the skeletal remains of the first Raegh strapped in their final resting place upon the throne on the hauda until another as worthy claimed the right to it. That was millenia ago and still he sat there.
“It is his fault, you know,” he went on. “No,” he motioned for her to stop as she opened her mouth, “not Alekhaneros. Anaghallosh. When he decided to twist the very concept of Aghm and allow his Thanes to form their own clans under one roof, he doomed the Hold to this.”
“I see your point,” the Exemplar replied, nodding. “I’ve heard it from the mouths of the Azdhaenit as well. Azdhaen, they claim, Alekhaneros, did nothing that our founder had not allowed. As leader of a clan, he had a right to lead them where he wished.”
“That is one part of it, yes,” the Raegh noted. “But the true issue was the decision itself. The more we are divided, the more we fight. Divide us into twelve and you doom us into extinction.”
“You were once a Dhaen too, before this, Raegh.”
“And I like to think that I have left that behind,” he said. “But the truth is, I have allowed my former clan to prosper, sometimes at the cost of another clan’s claims. A Raegh should not favor anyone but the worthiest. A Dweghom should not favor anyone but the worthiest. Our entire world is based on that pure equality. And yet our Hold refuses to embrace that.” He fell silent, eyes ever peeled on the remains of the Founder. His mind raced, eyes narrowing to mirror his troubled thoughts, until, at last, he sighed.
“It is time to change that, as much as we can. I have orders for you, Eshekha.”
“Raegh,” she said, lowering her head in salutation.
“Demand that all eleven clans deliver their dragonblades at the feet of Anaghallosh,” the Raegh said, his granite-colored lips breaking into a crooked smile.
Chapter 1
While he waited for the arrival of the clan representatives, the King sat in solemn silence, digging his fingernails within the rough stone of his throne with uneasy anticipation. The throne-room was now completely empty, with Ragodosh’s hot breath being the sole sign of life within the great hall; yet he – Anaghallosh, first Raegh and founder of Ghe’Domn – was still there alongside him, seated upon the mortuary throne that acted as his eternal shrine. It was before the Throne of Anaghallosh that the dragonblades would be positioned, initiating the sacred rites that would muster the hold’s military might and unleash it upon the world beyond. Ragodosh reached for the empty scabbard at his lap and gripped it with a soft groan, squeezing the leather-bound material as if to test its worth: it was sturdy, unadorned yet durable enough to house a dragon-slaying weapon within its confines. Unlike Alekhaneros, he would find the blade and place it once more before Ghe’Domn’s founder – for he was the King, one of stony features and an iron will, and failure was not an option.
Ragodosh exhaled wearily; there was still no sign of his Exemplar and the summoned clan representatives. Did you ever feel this? he wondered, feeling the fleshless pits that once served as Anaghallosh’s eyes dig into the back of his throne. The howdah that held the first Raegh and his seat of power was positioned behind the King’s own throne, acting as an informal symbol of continuity: Anaghallosh was the first, and Ragodosh is the latest – more will follow after the Stone Face King has left the world of the living, but Anaghallosh will always be the one who started it all. To almost lose the Hold, thought again the King, to almost see my own people abandon me, my clans follow another. And all without even a challenge. The King focused his mind’s eye on Anaghallosh’s lifeless husk; though he could not see it directly, he could sense its presence either way.
Ragodosh knew no answer would come, for his ancient predecessor was dead; yet the first Raegh’s Aghm lived on within the immortal halls of memory, and it was the King’s duty to act as a leader worthy of such a legacy. Alekhaneros was, as far as Ragodosh was concerned, an anomaly; however, his actions had created a dangerous precedent within Ghe’Domn – one that dared not challenge the Raegh, but ignore him. Kerawegh or not, such a thing could not stand. For, for all his Exemplar’s assurances that the dissidents had been removed, the Raegh knew better: Aghm was an expression of Dweghom respect, as much as Dweghom respect was fueled by one’s Aghm. The Aghm he had – but the respect had been questioned.
Even as his thought raced back to the present, the Stone Face King’s expression did not shift, remaining unchanging when the clan leaders begun to enter the room; for his craggy features seldomly showed emotion, even when he was encompassed by the deepest and most illuminating of thoughts. He greeted any who came with a nod of approval, as each Dhaen deposited their dragonblade before the Founder’s Throne, on the hauda where Anghalosh still laid to rest. One by one, five Dhaens came and placed their dragonblades before Anaghallosh, presenting weapons that had once tasted the blood of a dragon: axes, glaives, swords – they were all dragonblades, for they had bathed in the life essence of the monstrous Bhaigharrodhakk. Then, two of the Raegh’s own following stepped out, carrying blades of clans that had died out long ago, during the many wars that had always plagued Ghe’Domn. A third had been absorbed into clan Gwerhygsûn, the King’s former clan and the Raegh’s same-blood, Gaeltemoh Gwerhygsûn, brought both blades to lay before the Founder.
It was when the turn of the last three clans arrived that tempers within the throne-room began to flare and hiss, as those were the scant remnants of the clans that had joined Alekhaneros’ crusade across the surface. First of these outcasts was Dhaen Hekmedeh of Idhebridsûn, whose clan largely abandoned her, in a monumental act of treachery, so that they could join the upstart Azdhaen. Second was a representative from Khodwersûn, whose true Daehn had fled to the surface along with the bulk of his clan. Last was Dheubrodsûn, Alekhaneros’ clan, which was represented by one of unremarkable worth, Krosnos, for he was the one with the highest Aghm amongst the withered remains of his once-kin. Krosnos’ mere presence sent a sharp wave of palpable disdain across the room, urging one of the gathered Dhaens to address his King with a plea – once all the blades had been placed and fastened before Anaghallosh.
“Who is this that would join this gathering, Raegh?” exclaimed Gaeltemoh, Dhaen of clan Gwerhygsûn, who was known as one of Ragodosh’s most steadfast supporters. “I do not even know his face, much less remember his name.”
“He is Krosnos;” calmly responded the King, silencing the wave of chaotic grumbling that erupted within his hall. “Now you Remember it.”
“I remember dead warriors I have felled too,” came the answer. “That alone earns them not a place before the Throne.”
“We agree,” the Raegh said. “Krosnos’ place among us – and of others, some of you think, but Krosnos’ perhaps above all else – is in doubt.” Nods and exclaims of approval resonated around the room. “So Aghm will be affirmed by the slaying of Slaghan.”
The mention of the monstrous drake’s name pulled away any last vestiges of sound from within the great throne-room, leaving only the faint echoes that emerged from Ghe’Domn’s vast cavernous bowels. Slaghan was a horror unlike any other: the vile creature had devoured four of its clutch-mates while still a babe and had killed many Dweghom as it grew into adulthood. Such a drake could not be tamed; attempts had been made but the beast would not be subdued long enough for the metal barding to be fitted on its skin. The Hold knew this well, as they knew the value of its loins to bring forth mighty beasts – and thus Slaghan had been left alive. Until now. “Each clan is to present two warriors to fight alongside Krosnos in this sacred bloodletting, where draconic blood will be spilt to honor the demise of dreaded Bhaigharrodhakk, recreating the event that gave birth to this great hold.” The King paused, dragging his stony gaze across and through each clan representative; finally landing on Gaeltemoh and allowing for the hint of a grin to taint his dead stare. “I ask not that you, my Dhaens, join this test of worth, if you do not want. Your Aghm is known,” spoke Ragodosh once more, each word lashing at the exposed pride of each of the gathered Dhaens. He then paused, weighing his next words carefully, as he let them think about what he had said already. His eyes stalled over Krosnos, the representative of Dheubrodsûn alone among peers in name.
Choice
- “I will join as clan Dheubrodsûn’s second warrior.” – The Stone Face King will personally lead the clans’ best in the battle against the beast, while representing clan Dheubrodsûn with Krosnos.
- “Clan Dheubrodsûn must prove their worth twice over during the trial. Let Krosnos be their only warrior.” – The Stone Face King will allow the clans’ best warriors to take on the beast without him.
Chapter 2
The march from Ragodosh’s throne-room to Ghe’Domn’s central arena was a swift one; the King did not give the chosen warriors any substantial time to prepare and equip themselves – they were to fight and kill the great Slaghan with the bare minimum, using their skills and worth as warriors alone to fell the dreaded drake. Anaghallosh’s throne was loaded atop a draconic mount of proper stature and breeding, ferrying the hold’s founder before the killing grounds: the mummified remains of the once great leader were to observe the ritualistic killing, for it was Ghe’Domn’s first ruler that gave birth to this bloody tradition all those eons ago. As they headed towards their destination, the first Raegh’s mortuary howdah ever-so-slightly swayed from side to side, jostling the dried-out remains that occupied the grand throne atop it: the eleven remaining dragonblades were securely fastened before Anaghallosh’s fleshless feet, while the deceased King’s own dragon-slaying weapon, a great axe caked with the decay and patina that come with centuries-long staleness, was firmly wedged within his calcified grip, having never been moved since the Raegh’s death in ages past. Ragodosh trailed behind the drake-bound throne as it made its way for the arena, closely observing the seventeen warriors that would be fighting alongside him.
The Stone Face King, in a decision the wisdom of which had yet to be revealed, had decreed that he would be fighting alongside Krosnos, assuming the role of the second warrior for the shamed clan Dheubrodsûn. Such a move had caused much distress within the Dhaens present, of that Ragodosh was certain, for it was not proper of a Raegh’s worth to fight alongside one of Krosnos’ stature: the warrior was a remnant of a near-extinct clan, acting only as a painful reminder of Alekhaneros’ treachery and eventual failure at securing the missing dragonblade. Regardless of Krosnos’ questionable worth, the King was not one to sit by idly and observe while his chosen champions were christened through blood and grit during the grand trial ahead.
No, that would not do.
Be it folly or not, Ragodosh would test the mettle and determination of his would-be Bloodbound alongside them; he would fight and suffer in the same manner Anaghallosh did when he slayed the dragon Bhaigharrodhakk during the hold’s monumental founding. You did not observe, thought the King, raising his gaze to meet the craggy silhouette of the first Raegh’s throne. You did not stand aside while your chosen throng took down the cursed dragon. No, you fought and defeated that vile monstrosity alongside them. The King’s gaze swiveled to the side, locking onto Krosnos’ slumped figure with scorching intensity. It was Anaghallosh’s clan division that had fragmented Ghe’Domn’s very heart, promising power through never-ending battle and ceaseless contention; now, it was time for that very same structure to prove its effectiveness, for Slaghan was all too eager to feast on Dweghom flesh, and the King needs defenders of extraordinary worth and skill if he was to survive the trial ahead of him.
Ragodosh and his following finally arrived before the Ghe’Domn grand arena, pulling the King away from his musings and dragging him into the smoldering flames of the present moment. The arena itself consisted of a large pit: the earth-bound cavity was deep, being just shallow enough to allow for the spectators near its opening to peer within it. A fairly large crowd had already gathered around the trial site, forming a dense mass of pressed bodies and eager faces that awaited to witness Slaghan’s slaying in the flesh. Ragodosh could almost feel the excitement pulsate through the air in regular, energized waves, grabbing hold of his war-pick with an iron grip as he was lowered into the arena via a reinforced length of rope; besides his weapon of choice, he also had his hefty shield by his side, feeling its considerable weight pull onto his shoulder-socket as he raised it up to his chest. The scabbard of the missing dragonblade was fastened to his belt, hidden beyond sight as it was buried within the coarse thicket that was the King’s beard; nevertheless, the Raegh could still feel its immense weight, a weight that consisted of kingly duties rather than physical mass. The rest of the chosen warriors were lowered in a similar fashion, dangling like overripe fruit as they descended into the great pit’s bowels – Ragodosh could see some Dhaens among them, though not all of the hold’s clan-leaders had elected to take part in the drake-killing. Such a choice sparked a momentary glint of anger within the Stone Face King: a leader is not an ornament, a leader must fight and bleed just like any other Dweghom.
With all the participants positioned within the arena, a great horn was sounded and the crowd above erupted with mixed cheering – this was a fight worthy of remembrance. Ragodosh looked up one last time, his eyes drawn by the shadowy silhouette of Anaghallosh’s throne, jutting out from the mass of observers and witnessing what was about to unfold with grim silence. The crowd’s cacophony was soon interrupted by a deafening, guttural roar, cutting through the air like a jagged blade and digging into the very souls of the assembled warriors.
Slaghan emerged from the shadows, dragging with it a gigantic strand of broken chain. The drake was truly immense, standing taller than even the eldest of the draconic war-beasts that were utilized by the armies of the Dweghom. Its hide was creamy and pale, highlighted by a pus-yellow tint that glistened throughout the creature’s overlapping scales; its body bore a multitude of scars, showing streaks of faded pink and deep crimson, like the branches of a great, terrible tree. The most noticeable aspect of the drake was its foul breath, showering the trial-takers in thick, hot waves as Slaghan roared once again: it smelled of rotten flesh and putrid sulfuric fumes – it smelled of death incarnate.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the gladiators rushed towards the great beast, raising their weapons with lethal intent. Chief among them was Gaeltemoh – Dhaen of clan Gwerhygsûn and the King’s same-blood – who charged ahead of the main battle-line and swung his axe at Slaghan’s leathery neck. The drake recoiled from the blow, hissing as sizzling blood erupted from the freshly opened wound and twisting its oversized body around with blinding speed. Slaghan’s tail struck Gaeltemoh with the force of an erupting volcano, launching the overzealous Dhaen through the air and into the wall at the far-side of the arena. The warrior landed to a spine-chilling crescendo of shattered bones and pulverized meat, bursting into a collage of deep crimson from the sheer force of the impact. Ragodosh scoffed at the gory display, taking a calculated step forward as he yelled out to the rest of the combatants. “There is no room for glory-seeking here. Attack as one or risk death!”
The Dweghom trial-takers slowly surrounded the rampaging drake, holding their shields aloft as they absorbed strike after strike from the bloodthirsty monster. Having sufficiently surrounded the beast, they began to strike back, pummeling Slaghan with a continuous flurry of blows. The draconic horror did its best to defend itself, lashing out with eager claws and its snapping maw in a maddened attempt to persevere, but the coordinated attack of the trial-takers proved too overwhelming even for a drake of such infamy. Blow after blow, Slaghan’s hide deteriorated into sopping ribbons of mangled tissue, splitting its body open and spilling its steaming innards onto the dust-covered ground. The beast barely clung to life as Ragodosh approached its slumped head, turning its sole remaining eye towards the King’s stony gaze. Spitting onto the ground, and expelling a couple of loose teeth in the process, the Raegh raised his war-pick and drove it straight into Slaghan’s skull: the drake spasmed with a last surge of abhorrent energy, pushing back all the warriors that surrounded it, save for Ragodosh himself. The Stone Face King pressed down on his weapon with monumental strength, groaning and tensing as he slowly overpowered the drake’s head and forced it against the dirt one last time. Finally, with Slaghan releasing its final breath, Ragodosh pulled out his war-pick with a wet pop – the trial was over.
The King looked around at the surviving warriors; some had died alongside Gaeltemoh, succumbing to the drake’s horrific attacks. Only thirteen remained in total: Ragodosh and twelve triumphant warriors, with Krosnos of clan Dheubrodsûn being among them. The King dropped his shield and reached for the empty scabbard at his belt, raising both it and his bloodied weapon above his head. “Remember this day!” cried out Ragodosh. “Twelve champions slew the cursed dragon Bhaigharrodhakk at Anaghallosh’s side – twelve champions persevered against the abominable Slaghan at mine! I name these warriors my Bloodbound, for our weapons are forever marked by draconic blood. Together, Ghe’Domn’s legacy will be made whole… The dragonblade awaits!”
The crowd roared, pounding their boots in a rhythmic pulse that reverberated through the very earth that encompassed the arena. Ragodosh allowed a slight smirk to creep across his lips, turning to face Krosnos. Dheubrodsûn’s lone warrior had proven his worth, the bloody gash that had once been his left eye acting as testament to his victory and fearlessness. The King lowered the scabbard and looked down at it – was this his burden still, or had Krosnos earned the right to carry it in his stead?
What will Ragodosh, the Stone Face King, do with the scabbard of the missing dragonblade?
Choice
- He gives it to Krosnos – Dheubrodsûn’s champion has proven his worth and may carry the legacy of his clan’s lost relic.
- He keeps it for himself – Krosnos is worthy, but clan Dheubrodsûn is irredeemable as a whole.
Interlude
Erich Schur stared at the religious procession with a look of contained disbelief: the sword, Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh’s so-called relic blade, had been propped atop a heavily decorated palanquin like the dried out remains of a saint. Leading this caravan of religious piety were Pravia’s Theist bishop and the zealous Baron himself, closely followed by six warriors clad in solemn-black armor: the Blades of Providence, Schur had heard of them throughout his military career, for they technically belonged to the ranks of the Steel Legion yet had customs and followed mysterious rituals that were entirely their own. Their ebon plate unnerved Erich to a degree, coupled by the fact that the members of the Blades of Providence never made a sound, granting them a notably unsettling aura. Drawn away from his own thoughts, Schur felt someone prod his shoulder, turning to face the ginger-haired man that was standing behind him – while forcefully slapping away the hand as if to make a point.
“I told you never to approach me from the back, Klaus! Next time I think I’ll break a finger or two, so the message can stay in that barren head of yours…” barked Schur, waving his clenched fist in front of Klaus’ amused grin.
“Apologies, sir! I received word from the Baron’s attendant that the first ceremony of blessing is about to begin, so I found it prudent to make sure you’re still with us,” responded Klaus with an earnest salute, assuming his place by Schur’s side while gripping the hilt of his sword.
“A man is allowed to think, damn it,” mumbled Erich with a hint of annoyance. “Doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention…”
The procession finally began to move, slowly making its way through Pravia’s main square; besides the aforementioned spearhead at the very front, the rest of the parade was quite large, including numerous civilians and military personnel, all adding up to create a sizeable, winding mass of bodies. Most of the troops present were Schur’s own men, for he was tasked, by the Imperial Chamberlain, to assist Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh and the Theist authorities of Pravia in their sacred task – to bless the Baron’s relic sword before the statues of Pravia’s most venerated and hallowed Stone Kings. Pravia, in all of its history, never had a proper king: the city was always ruled by Princes, with each one commissioning the statue of a king to act as Pravia’s symbolic monarch while each of them ruled. A strange tradition, thought Erich, to have an oversized rock as your king – might as well make a tree the bishop if you’re gonna insist on being this blasted weird about it…
Standing near the back of the parade, Erich could still see the Baron’s sword, propped high upon its palanquin and carried by several robed priests. The weapon was mesmerizing, Erich had to admit as much: the hilt itself was overdone, festooned with gold and gems to the point of being gauche, yet the blade itself managed to outshine the overambitious decorations of its other half by an impressive margin. It was no regular sword, Erich knew as much the first time he laid eyes upon it: the blade was wider and thicker than most swords Schur had encountered, forged of dull gray metal and bearing a most strange ebon-hued pattern along its length. The mark seemed to be an enlarged stain of sorts, with deep, dark blotches of an unknown substance having left a ripple-like pattern across the blade that was magnetizing to observe. Slithering across the blade’s edge like a steel-bound serpent, the stain itself had an impossibly dark color, sucking in all the surrounding light and appearing almost three-dimensional in its abyssal hue. Definitely a pretty blade, reaffirmed Schur in his mind. Too bad that prick of a Baron has it – a sword like that would fare much better in the hands of a warrior with skills to match…
“Quite the event,” remarked Klaus, grinning under his thick ginger beard. “We should count ourselves blessed to be here—”
“Oh! Shut it you fool,” grumbled Erich in response. “I know for a fact your patronizing arse hates being here; that makes two of us.”
“Care to share why we are here then, sir? The men have been coming to their own conclusions—”
“The ‘men’ should shut their bloody traps!” barked Erich in a flash of anger, lowering his voice once more, as he received several sour looks from the religious attendants around him. “The men should keep their fuckin’ mouths shut and focus on their duties. This whole affair will be done in a fortnight, and we can all go our merry way.”
“Very well, sir…” said Klaus with a sigh. “I won’t pry further if you do not wish to share. Besides, it is best we offer our undivided attention to the procession. Such religious events can sometimes prove dangerous; one can never know…”
Erich glowered at the man by his side, turning to face him with furrowed brows and a deep-carved frown. “You know, Klaus, you have many good traits as my aide – your thrice-damned wit is not one of them.” Erich leaned in closer to the man, inspecting his freckled features for the slightest hint of amusement. Once satisfied, Schur faced forward once more, crossing both muscular arms in front of his gut with slight resignation. “The Chamberlain wants to better his relationship with the nobility and the Theist church. Especially after how things unfolded in Riismark… Us being here is a sign of good faith. That’s all I know; that’s all I care to know.”
Klaus dipped his chin in acknowledgement, facing forward himself. “My mother would slap the freckles off my face if she heard me say this, but I do wish a good fight finds its way to us sooner than later – this is torture.”
“You and me both, soldier. You and me both…”
As the procession moved from statue to statue, Pravia’s bishop blessed it in each king’s name – the Baron observing with a wide smile plastered across his plump features. Gazing towards the gathered crowd occasionally, Erich noticed a compact, stout figure to the side – a Dweghom. Schur knew that the city had a token population of Dweghom, offering their knowledge of smithing and other such things to Pravia’s denizens in order to make a modest living. Schur never really cared to interact with their kind, knowing of their destructive potential in battle all too well. However, Erich could not help but look at the lone Dweghom, seeing him stare in the direction of the palanquin with pure, unadulterated awe. Schur saw the Dweghom’s features contort with near-religious exuberance – more so than the Baron himself. Before he could give more thought to the oddity of the sight he was witnessing, Erich felt Klaus’ hand on this shoulder, facing his personal aide expectantly.
“I just received word from the city guard. Scouts were sent south several days ago – routine regional inspection. None of them have returned; they were registered as missing in action today. I thought I should let you know… Could be bandits. Wolf packs. It’s hard to tell with such things,” said Klaus, noting his commander’s somewhat aloof gaze. “Are you alright, sir? Missing scouts are hardly that rare in our line of work.”
“No – I’m fine. I was just looking at something…” Erich turned to look at the curious Dweghom once more, only to find that he had vanished from the crowd entirely. Odd, thought Schur, and left it at that. Rubbing the ridge of his nose with a sigh, Erich addressed his aide with renewed attention. “No, missing scouts are nothing to write home about, but we should look into it, regardless. Find the complete written report; I’ll read it after the procession is done for today.”
Chapter 3
Ragodosh stared at his Exemplar long and hard, breaking eye contact only once as he made the effort to blink. “Not good,” he grumbled. “Not good at all…”
The Stone Face King had enjoyed a spell of relative calmness within his hold since his gladiatorial victory over the dreaded drake Slaghan and the christening of his Bloodbound; for once, something which had not taken place in recent times, Ghe’Domn was unified under a single and absolute purpose – to get back the missing dragonblade from the humans. Ragodosh had managed to confirm the location of the misplaced relic, for it was located in the human city of Pravia – a sizable settlement of the Hundred Kingdoms. The King’s scouts had spoken of streams of humans that had traveled towards the city in recent times, arriving from different locations in droves, suggesting that some event of note was taking place within Pravia itself. However, absolute confirmation of the dragonblade’s location was offered when one of no worth – a Dweghom with no Aghm that had joined the ranks of the humans as a blacksmith – had aacrrived at the hold he had abandoned, claiming to hold information of immense importance. The deserter, for that was what he was, said that he saw the dragonblade with his own eyes, stating that the denizens of Pravia were using it for some obscure religious purpose and valued it greatly as a result. The mere idea angered Ragodosh: to think that such worthless, in every sense of the word, creatures would venerate the dragonblade – they had no right to carry the dragon-slaying sword, for that was the privilege of his people alone.
However, Pravia would have to wait; if the King was to amass an army that could reclaim the dragonblade in a timely fashion, he would first have to resolve this new issue that had spawned within his hold. “So military intervention is needed to reclaim the armory?” spoke again the King, standing up from his throne and descending towards his Exemplar.
“Yes, Raegh. The automata have gone completely rogue and have collapsed all avenues leading towards the location – save for one. If we are to delay any further, they might bring down the remaining tunnel, and we will lose the armory for good.” The Exemplar showed no hint of emotion as she spoke, adding further gravity to the irrefutable problem at hand.
“An armory containing siege equipment, overtaken right before I am to commence a siege – by automata that have proved loyal and complacent for a great length of time, only to turn rogue and hostile at this critical moment. I do not believe in luck, Eshakha, yet one might argue that I lack it considerably…”
The Exemplar did not comment on the King’s reflection, shifting the conversation into the realm of practicality once more. “The automata are heavily armored and erratic. A sorcerer is needed to assess if any of them are salvageable or if they should be destroyed entirely. The Hellseeders have offered to dispose of the automata themselves if it comes to it; their volleys are especially calibrated for enhanced devastation. I believe they are perfect for this task.”
“If the Hellseeders are your primary choice for this mission, then you believe the constructs to be non-salvageable already. I have seen their regiment in action: the Hellseeders make other Fireforged appear as tame in comparison – their name is rightfully earned, for they seed destruction with the grace and skill of true masters.”
“As I said, my Raegh, they are the most optimal warriors for the task ahead – they will need support, though. Who shall we send to accompany them and the sorcerer? We don’t have many warriors to spare while the main army is preparing for the siege…”
Ragodosh hummed as he considered his potential options. He could allow the Hellseeders and the Tempered Sorcerer to take the lead, providing them with a token regiment of Hold Warriors to assist them, or he could lead the mission himself – joined by his Bloodbound, who will act as the spearhead of the assault to retake the armory.
How will Ragodosh, the Stone Face King, assist the Tempered Sorcerer and the Hellseeders in reclaiming the armory from the rogue automata?
Choice
- Ragodosh will send a token regiment of Hold Warriors to assist them – they are mighty enough on their own and need no greater support.
- Ragodosh will lead them in person alongside his Bloodbound – they are not capable enough to take back the armory without his direct supervision.
Chapter 4
Ragodosh and his entourage arrived at the entrance to the tunnel, which led to the fallen armory, in a cacophony of footfalls, with the determined marching of his following creating a rhythmic pounding that reverberated across the great stone hall that encapsulated them. The Bloodbound, the King’s personal guard, never strayed too far away from their commander’s side, hovering near him at all times with their weapons at the ready. The Hellseeders and the accompanying Tempered Sorcerer followed closely behind the Raegh and his champions, walking in unified silence despite the constant thrumming that emanated from the enhanced armaments of the specialized Fireforged. Raising his fist with a swift yet notably stiff motion, Ragodosh signaled for the entirety of the warriors accompanying him to stop: the entrance to the armory tunnel was guarded by a few Hold Warriors, who turned to face their Raegh with eyes that exuded defeat and anger above all else.
“What happened here…” asked Ragodosh bluntly, noticing the crates of supplies that were haphazardly stacked near the tunnel’s entrance. The stationed warriors were injured and barely standing in some cases – bearing bloody wounds and reeking of burnt flesh.
A single warrior stepped forward, clutching his split side with one hand and barely holding onto a chipped axe with the other. “We were tasked with guarding the armory, Raegh. Without warning, the automata stationed inside went rogue and started attacking us. They… They spat fire and ruin everywhere. Some exploded within our ranks and took many lives with them…” The warrior groaned with suppressed pain as he spoke, struggling to keep level with Ragodosh’s gaze.
“And the crates?” asked the Stone Face King, pointing at the supply bundles near the tunnel’s entrance.
“We realized we could not win, so we tried to salvage some of the more valuable equipment – weapons and the like. We moved out a good chunk of the important stuff before the damn automata could overwhelm us completely…”
“You did well to do so,” stated Ragodosh with a nod. “What’s the situation inside the armory now?”
“Can’t tell for sure, Raegh – we left in a hurry. There are more supplies inside; that’s for certain… Some of the other guards are trapped in the armory still; we heard their cries not too long ago. We did not have the strength to go back inside and fight those blasted things on our own…”
Ragodosh dipped his chin one last time, stepping away from the injured Dweghom and heading towards the tunnel’s entrance. Peering into the spacious opening, he spotted two exposed support pillars: a direct volley from the Hellseeders would decimate them and collapse the tunnel. Ragodosh was certain of that.
The Raegh called the Tempered Sorcerer to his side, addressing him without turning to face him directly. “The guards speak of automata that spew fire uncontrollably. Some even exploded. What do you make of this?”
“It’s hard to say; I’ll have to inspect them in person. I suspect some sort of internal degeneration: that can make for unstable and unpredictable constructs…” responded the sorcerer, rubbing his chin with evident concern.
Before Ragodosh could formulate another word, the tunnel erupted with a deafening, metallic screech, followed by the flickering illumination of advancing automata. The Bloodbound quickly surrounded their King and lowered their shields. The Hellseeders moved behind the main line and raised their armaments, aiming their barrels towards the tunnel’s entrance. The Stone Face King could now spot the erratic forms of the rogue automata in the distance – they were still behind the support pillars.
A thought flashed through Ragodosh’s mind. What if he ordered the Hellseeders to shoot the supports and bring down the tunnel? The armory guards had salvaged a good portion of the siege supplies from within and he was short on time as it was: the preparations of his main army needed his full attention, which was now wasted dealing with a comparatively unimportant enemy. He could always reopen the tunnel and take back the armory then – when they were back from Pravia with the reclaimed dragonblade.
Ragodosh parted his lips, barking out a decisive order to the Hellseeders at his back.
Which command will the Stone Face King give?
Choice
- Hellseeders! Aim at the support pillars ahead and bring down the tunnel!
- Hellseeders! Shoot down the approaching automata! We’ll push them back and reclaim the armory!
Chapter 5
For one full Duty – one day for those uninitiated with Dweghom timekeeping – Ragodosh and his battle-ready throng fought, hacking and bludgeoning their way inside the overtaken armory and dismantling the hostile automata in the meantime. At the forefront were the Stone Face King and his Bloodbound: they were a bastion of unyielding steel and bitter grit, forming an interlocking shield-wall that held back the mechanical aberrations that sought to escape the armory’s main tunnel. Behind them stood the Hellseeders and the accompanying Tempered Sorcerer; the deadly Fireforged unleashed volley after volley into the hissing deluge of automata that pushed back against the barricade established by their leader, blasting through their armored shells repeatedly and without fail. The automata themselves were relentless, attacking in manic waves and fighting until the bitter end; gear driven claws and other appendages, all glowing red hot with supercharged flame, would lash out at Ragodosh and his warriors, seeking to tear them apart yet finding themselves incapable of doing so. In earnest, Ragodosh could have ordered his troops to rush into the armory and take it in a bloody storm; yet that had the potential to incur losses, and the Stone Face King was unwilling to sacrifice a single Dweghom body for the task ahead.
Instead, the order had been to be methodical – to crush the rogue automata under the slow, building pressure of the Stone Face King’s advancing shield-wall. With each step the Bloodbound took within that tunnel, Ragodosh’s iron-grip around the exposed heart of the automata tightened, forcing his hand further into their innards until he could tear down their entire haphazard operation with one decisive tug. As they made their way into the armory, Ragodosh experienced an emotion he had not felt for a considerable amount of time – joy. By observing the Bloodbound that fought alongside him, joining his shield with theirs and raising his weapon against the berserk constructs, he saw that they had weaknesses: with the members of the Bloodbound hailing from different sub-clans within Ghe’Domn, it was only natural that their fighting styles and battlefield temperaments differed to an extent, at least for the standards of the Dweghom. However, such variations – drawbacks, if considered individually – came to complement each other in a way Ragodosh had not considered possible, with all warriors combining their strengths to create a truly remarkable fighting force. Even Krosnos – the once unworthy warrior hailing from the shamed clan Dheubrodsûn – fought with the might of a proper champion, adding his strength to the unstoppable force that was under the Stone Face King’s command.
By the time the Dweghom force reached the armory’s central chamber, most of the automata had been disposed of. The few stragglers that remained were pounding against a makeshift barricade of haphazardly stacked crates and mangled bodies, deterred by the withering attacks of the trapped armory guards that were positioned behind it. His muscles feeling tense and engorged with blood, Ragodosh raised his war-pick yet again and moved towards the ravenous constructs one last time, eager to end this fight and return to more important matters. In the same grinding fashion, the remaining automata clashed against the unyielding shield-wall of the Bloodbound, bashing into an obstacle that would not break and falling to the destructive volleys of the Hellseeders that lingered behind the Stone Face King’s main line.
“Gather yourselves and make your way through the tunnel,” stated Ragodosh flatly. The slack-jawed guards nodded after a moment’s hesitation, struggling to comprehend how the Raegh and his warriors had disposed of the automata with such deadly efficiency.
“Yes, Raegh!” called out the survivors, dragging their battered forms out from behind the barricade and exiting the armory.
Soon enough, Ragodosh turned his attention to the Tempered Sorcerer, seeing the unmistakable signs of exhaustion and battle fatigue form around his fiery features. “Make of the mechanical husks what you wish. Scrap them. Repurpose them. I care not. I want all recovered siege supplies to join the main army preparations within the Duty. Make sure that the next batch of automata that are stationed here remain compliant, or you’ll be the one to answer for their failing…”
The Stone Face King showed no hints of anger or displeasure as he spoke, yet the sorcerer understood the finality of the Raegh’s warning. Ragodosh was to have no more interruptions while he prepared to depart for Pravia, and his tolerance for turbulent and unplanned occurrences within the hold of Ghe’Domn had reached its limit. “Understood, Raegh!” muttered the Tempered Sorcerer, receiving no response from Ragodosh as he turned to leave.
Some time later – with scarcely any time to rest and recuperate – the Stone Face King stood before Ghe’Domn’s main hall, situated before the immense armored gate that led to the surface world. The preparative commotion of a war in the making was in full effect, with supplies and weapons flowing freely amongst a sea of Dweghom bodies. The great hall practically thrummed with the cacophonous excitement of what was to come, filling it with tension that was bound to be released in a truly spectacular fashion – much like a devastating punch from a coiling arm. Amidst the sights and sounds of such productive commotion, Ragodosh felt a familiar presence approach him. Eshakha, his Exemplar, approached the Raegh from behind and stood at his side, receiving a simple nod of acknowledgement from Ghe’Domn’s King.
“The preparations for the main exodus are going well, yes?” asked Ragodosh, keeping his gaze nailed to the unfolding scene before him and not turning to face the Exemplar.
“There was some confusion during your short-lived absence; that caused some delays, but nothing too detrimental. We will be back on track soon enough…” responded Eshakha, crossing both arms before her waist.
“So be it,” stated Ragodosh and turned to face Eshakha. “Such delays are acceptable, for my absence allowed me to gain much.”
The Exemplar’s eyes widened with visible shock upon seeing the Stone Face King’s visage directly, barely containing a gasp that tried to make its way through her clenched teeth.
Ragodosh – the King with a countenance that was as unmoving as stone – was smiling.
“Is there something wrong? You look… bewildered,” asked the Raegh, noticing Eshakha’s shocked expression.
“No-no, Raegh! You just look… pleased. If you don’t mind me saying.”
“Huh,” mused Ragodosh. “I believe I am, yes. Does that upset you, Eshakha?”
“No! Of course not, Raegh!” responded the Exemplar adamantly. “Though – I admit – I am curious as to why.”
Ragodosh turned to face the gathering army once again, feeling the lingering presence of a grin under his bushy beard. “I often questioned Anaghallosh’s decision to allow so many clans within the same hold – to segment Ghe’Domn as he did.” The Stone Face King paused, closing his eyes for a mere moment before continuing. “I thought such a decision had made us weak; made us fight each other; made us lesser than the whole that could have been…” Ragodosh continued staring at the gathering of Dweghom near the hold’s entrance, seeing warriors from different clans meld into a single, varied mass.
Choice
- “We will soon find out if I was right to doubt him; if change is needed. Commence the final preparations. War awaits.”
- “I see now that this division has culled the weakness within Ghe’Domn, breaking us down to forge something greater. We shall test that strength soon. Commence the final preparations. War awaits.”
Chapter 6
“Jasper, hold up…” grunted Amelia, gripping her bow tightly as she traversed the densely packed foliage. “Enemies could be hiding in the forest; you can’t just march ahead like that!” The other scouts, six including Amelia and Jasper, followed the pair without missing a beat, investing their surroundings with keen eyes and grumbling among themselves.
“There’s nothing out here!” called out Jasper, swinging his blade through a thick tangle of protruding branches and coiled vines. “Schur has us chasing after rumors and hearsay. Nothing would make it this far into our woods unnoticed. There’s nothing to be found—”
“You’re wrong!” barked Amelia, interrupting the man. “Reasoning like that makes us vulnerable. We can’t dismiss the potential of an enemy incursion until we’ve combed the entire area. One mistake, and the consequences can be fatal…” After a short pause, the woman continued, glowering at Jasper who turned back to face her. “And it’s commander Schur to you. Lest he finds out you’ve taken to referring to him too lightheartedly!”
Jasper snorted, turning forward once more and sliding his blade into its sheath. “Oh, please! What will he do if he finds out? Sit on me?! I’ve seen how his armor struggles to contain that gut of his…”
“I’ve seen him spar with a younger feller once,” pitched in one of the other scouts – an older man, with a gray beard and olive-green hood draped over his head. “An up-and-coming officer he was; can’t remember his name. Made a jest ‘bout the commander’s weight. Schur challenged him to a practice fight and broke three of the poor sod’s ribs with a swing of his mace…”
Jasper seemed to stiffen up after hearing his compatriot’s short recollection, lowering his head and moving forward without another word. Behind him, Amelia could not help but smile.
The scouts moved further into the forest, eventually arriving before a small woodland opening. Parting to make room for the blue skies above, the leaf-woven ceiling of the woods faded away ever so slightly, allowing for rays of pure sunlight to reach the soft grass below. The scouts moved across the natural clearing, inspecting it with curious eyes – though the location seemed untouched. Amelia stopped as she reached the center of the small glade, noticing a patch of flattened grass surrounding a large log. With an audible groan, she pushed the log to the side with both arms, pressing her body against it and heaving with tensed muscles. Rolling over, the log revealed a sight that sent a chill down Amelia’s spine: there was a patch of gray soot on the ground, with the finely powdered ash confirming her fears – someone had been here.
Without wasting another moment, Amelia dropped to her knees and removed a leather glove from her right hand, pressing her exposed palm against the fire-stripped patch of dirt. Warm, she thought. This is recent.
“Someone was here. I found traces of a campfire. Keep your eyes open!” called out the woman, sliding her glove back on and taking hold of her bow.
“Probably hunters!” responded Jasper from not too far away. “There is game to be found in these woods!”
“No!” barked the woman dismissively. “The sight of the fire was hidden. Whoever they were, they tried to cover their tracks!” As she spoke, Amelia felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickle and rise, roused by a sense of danger she could not shake off.
“You’re being paranoid, Amelia!” stated Jasper with a laugh, moving towards the edge of the clearing and leaning to inspect the trunk of a large, moss-covered oak. The moss, Jasper thought it was moss, was thick and spongy, spilling over from the oak’s bark in thick, darkened layers. With a single erect finger, Jasper pressed into the mound of moss, muttering under his breath as he did so. “Ugly thing, aren’t ya…”
In the single second he had to notice the two eyes that were staring right at him, poking out like specks of pure ivory from the grimy surface of the oak’s trunk, Jasper tried to move away. That’s not moss, raced the man’s mind – the moment of realization stretched to what seemed like an eternity. That’s a BEARD! As Jasper made to rise, the camouflaged Dweghom’s dagger struck out towards the man’s throat, emerging from the matted covering of moss and decaying leaves that had made up the intruder’s hiding spot. “WATCH OUT! ENEM—” cried out the man one last time, right before the Dweghom’s blade slid into his throat with a generous spurt of blood.
Amelia was already behind cover when the other two hidden Dweghom emerged, barely dodging a crossbow bolt that whizzed by her head. “Enemies!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, seeing that the other human scouts had already drawn their weapons despite the unexpected ambush. With a deep breath, Amelia stood up and pulled back the string of her bow with an arrow at hand, searching for her target. Jasper, she thought as her mind raced and her heart pounded in her chest. You damn fool!
Hundred Kingdoms scouts from the city of Pravia have been attacked by Dweghom ambushers! Who will be victorious?
Choice
- The human scouts manage to fight back against the Dweghom ambushers, emerging victorious.
- The element of surprise works in the Dweghom’s favor, allowing them to defeat the scouts from Pravia.