Years ago a hero fought and won against a tyrant. The kingdom rejoiced and gave the hero rulership over them.
As time went on, the king lead his people in times of trouble, but always led them true. As king of the land, he was bonded to its health, and he gained longevity and well-being.
Something poisoned the king, or perhaps, something poisoned the land. The next decade led into an age of whithering, as the poison spread. Swamps spread across the lands, filled with half-rotten trees where before had been lush forests. Dangerous bogs swallow those who stray from the path.
The King sits on his throne at the heart of the swamps, of his kingdom. Murky waters fill farmland, damp moss grows across stone, rust spreads like an infection on metal. Mist hands low, unseen light-sources flicker in the dark.
The knights, servants, and peasants have all been draw in, changed as the king has changed.
....
Any suggestions of what the general population could be turning into? Something vaguely humanoid, but just not undead.
Even before the rot set in, the kingdom was not fully secured within the borders.
An exhausted mine became home to a kobold tribe, a forest was home to a number of kenku flocks.
Though not human, these dwellers are still part of the land, and with the poison were changed as others had been.
The kobolds still live in their mine, but it is now flooded with water all the way to the surface. The kobolds have changed to an aquatic mutation, similar in proportion to young crocodiles, though much large in size.
Mostly they hunt the numerous fish and reptiles that inhabit the swampland, but will happily scavenge from a lost human.
The Kenku's legs have adapted, grown longer to allow them to wade through the deep waters. Through their mimicry, and the deep mist, they often lure people off the safe paths with false cries for help. Sharp spears extend their reach, and also double as fishing tools.
Oh, I have an idea.
The blighted knights!
They wear partially rusted armor, have marks of disease and plague all over, they are quiet and reserved. They wield faintly glowing claymores, with odd mosses, mold and fungi coming from their armor orifices.
To behold one, let alone face one, takes courage. It is tempting to empty your stomach at the mere smell of one, but do not, for if they see any opportunity they will take it as a sign of weakness and kill you.. Or worse, fester you with rot and infection until you join the court of the rotted king.
The locals in towns surrounding the mire are quite afraid and paranoid of any travellers, and shun anyone with any sort of ailment, for they believe they have bear the mark of the rotted mire. It is no wonder that those afflicted wander into the marsh at the deadest hours of the night, to flee the discrimination and persecution of the local church, that idolizes purity and is zealous with a fiery passion.
I digress, for every soul does not wish to speak of the horrors which await the lost, doomed, damned and stupid enough to be drawn into the marsh. Rumor has it that when you are drawn to it, you will hear whispers, telling you that your time has come, and that the rotted council approaches you in the form of a traveller, beckoning you with temptation. Eventually, the anxiety of this boils and culminates, until you are irresistibly drawn to the horrid swamp.
Fuck, that was hard not to rip off lovecraft. Anyway, inspiration over. Glad I got that out of my head.
I just wanted them to be what used to be the trusted knights of shining whitery of the king, now corrupted and bitter. The smell of them is indescribable, they're intelligent despite their aura of decay, and they often are submerged in the shallow, murky marshes just off the trails.. Waiting.
Also, you don't join the knights, you join the cult or the swamp-people. A band of whatever you imagine.
Double-also, the only way they get new knights is when the local uptight stick-up-their-ass pallies go and SMITE AND CLEAVE, only to succomb to the corruption, for they are not pure. It's kind of an initiation of purity in the local zealot church to stride through the mire, and come back alive and uncorrupted.
Pretty much. They aren't much for aggressive RIP AND TEAR, they're more of the sneaky, contemplating type.
HERE I GO AGAIN.
If some ill-fated soul somehow manages to make it past the shrines, fetishes, lean-tos' and crude huts that make up the shire with half a brain left, they will gaze upon undoubtably one of the most diseased, corrupted and festering places in all the land..
The castle.
Oh, it pains one to describe it without bringing imagery to their head. Many a seer has gone mad trying to fathom the colossal unpurity that is the court of the rotted king. The only information that was intelligible to this day is that on one floor, there lies a council's chamber, full of horrid shrines to deities the stomach detests and the mind pains to imagine. The various priests, high cultists and champions of the corrupted nature reside here in this sanctum, researching and contemplating, praying to the gods, and spreading the corruption across the land. This has come to be known to the local people as the Vestibule of filth.
The more afflicted cultists, who either have done horrid, corrupt things, or have simply been here far too long begin to change..
There is two ways they might change. The first and most common is that their very souls begin to fester, rot, and change, along with their bodies. Picture the bullywogs and nurgle unclean one mixed.
The second is that they begin to become bearers of the plague, bastions of disease, spreading corruption across the land. The outward signs of this are very little, but inside, they are seething, burning, boiling pimples of hate and disease, waiting to infect foreigners. The most common are the men lured by money and temptation; Rogues, Merchants and Diplomats/politicians seeking power are promised it in return for becoming vassals.
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Topic: ignore dis (Read 1005 times)