OOC Link Cyne Alwyht - remember this name. It is a name you should fear, lest his like ever come again. Once, he was ruler of this land. King before the fall. Then the armies of Arlandia marched upon us. They razed the ground as they came, and when the King rode to meet them in challenge, he was slain with neither care nor mercy.
I do not know how we should have fared if Arlandria had had us at their feet. I was not alive during that strained decade where our people were little more than slaves to the barbarian troops. Regardless, I can scarce imagine it was a fate worse than that which did follow.
It began as a murmuring, in the outskirt villages of Parbrook.
‘The King has returned,’ they whispered, ‘and no blade may kill him now.’
At first, we did not believe the news. We laughed at the messengers with sadness, for they teased us with our own dreams. Then the raids began. Patrols disappeared. Entire towns were found destroyed and empty.
Our people rose up in rebellion. We did not think of those we had lost to the attacks, only of what we had gained. Soon the people of Arlandria were fleeing - their remnants huddles in a single force, poised nonetheless to destroy the seized rebel capital.
Then, overnight, they vanished. Come daylight there was no sign they had ever existed. We thought ourselves blessed, for what but the gods could have done such a thing. Our answer was given the next night, as the walls resounded with the pounding of flesh and stone. The gates burst beneath the mass of the horde, and we stared into the eyes of friends long dead and enemies far fresher. We scattered, spirit broken even in those who were physically not, and we ran.
Some few escaped that slaughter. Most did not. Over the course of years the cities were torn down, and their stones formed a vast tower in on the site of old Parbrook. In the topmost chamber of the tower, surveying the lands below, sat a throne of skulls - and on this throne sat the King, Cyne Alwyht.
He had not been content to die in battle. He had not been content to surrender his throne. And so he had made a pact with dark forces I can only imagine. He returned from the depths where only death may tread, and tore our lands asunder. Only the utmost edges escaped his influence - and it is here we shelter now. Our ancestors still walk their streets, along with horrors that I could not describe within these pages. They are the servants of the Necromancer, and they are our captors.
Twenty years have passed since the fall of Biarule. Twenty years of fear and struggle, the pressure at the borders ever growing. And yet, this last year, it has begun to fall. Now, the merest drips of the horde break on our walls, and even our furthest reaching scouts find nothing they cannot handle alone. To be frank, I do not know the cause, and this troubles me. But these are merely the worries of an old man.
No, the point of this letter is to ask if this is the case elsewhere - and if so, to carry to you a proposition. Now is the time to reclaim the fallen kingdom. And failing this, to slay the Necromancer himself.
You stand before the King in the throne room of Arlandria, the best that the kingdoms could muster. The King himself stands in stark contrast, old and weak, his brow heavy with the weight of the crown. He pushes himself - ever so slowly - to his feet, and the red of his robes slides from the gold of the throne. His face lies grim, as if proclaiming a death sentence.
‘You all know why you are here.’ His eyes glance at the group gathered before him. ‘But for the sake of formality, allow me to repeat them.’
‘You are tasked with settling in the lands to the North, in the shadow of the Necromancer’s tower. The specifics of how and where will be left down to you. We have provided you with the basics you might require, all of which are loaded into the wagon outside. You have been chosen as the best of the best, as those in which we can put the greatest faith of survival.’ The King pauses, eyes flicking between the people in the room - the religious and the blasphemous, the gunners and the warriors. Differences set aside at the call from him. A sad smile settles over his face, and his tongue flicks out, moistening his lips.
‘May you die as heroes.’
-----
The king sighed as he hobbled to the exit. The best of the best. Again, the sad smile touched his lips, as he shook his head. He motioned to someone out of sight as he exited the throne room, and a younger man took his place. He was dressed in simple attire, with dual pistols hanging from his belt, and his long blonde hair hid his left eye from view. His right shone a vibrant green, though one corner was clouded where a small scar slips across the corner.
His gaze moves across the group arrayed before him, and he nods, once, before leading them to a side door. The room that follows is small, barely big enough to contain the group, and in the centre is a table supporting a couple of sheets of parchment. The first is aged and crinkling, and appears to be a map. The second is a list of supplies.
‘You know your job, right? We leave immediately - first though, we need to choose where we’re settling down.’ He taps the map. ‘This is the lay of the land. I’m just a supervisor, so I’ll leave the final choice up to you, but bear in mind that the closer we are to the tower the worse things will get.’ He pauses a moment, seemingly distracted, as a hand raises to stroke his scar. His other points to the list. ‘And this is what we’ve got to take with us. I doubt we could get our hands on anything else, but if there’s anything seriously lacking, do say.’
50 Stone
30 Wood
30 Metal
1 Anvil
200 Food
3 Construction tools
3 Farming tools
2 Health potions (2d4 health)
200 Blessed seeds (Grow in ~ 1 week)
10 Medicinal herbs
5 Volatile reagents
10 Stable reagents
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Topic: In the Necromancer's Shadow IC (Read 6091 times)