GLORYAGE
Silver did gleam. The warmth of the morning sun beamed down, cutting through the disparate clouds and cutting aside the dense winter fog, it found its way upon the shining mail of the man with golden hair, a worn brow, and eyes that gazed only toward the future. From the precipice of the great hill that loomed over Silverthrone and Weatherponder he stood, swaddled in his arms a shimmering cloth not unlike the color of the morning sky. And therein, the tiniest little insinuation of a baby, drifting in and out of vestigial dreams in their father's arms. The man nudged a finger as gently as he could manage into the child's cheek, rousing it from it's sleep. "Look boy. . . Look Irka." He whispers before turning his eyes back across the Realm. "It's Omon Obin, my boy, it's our home. It's the home we fought for. The home we sweat, bled, and died for."
The young-ling responded with a resounding infantile cry electing their father to chuckle, "Irka Tinsabre." He spoke softly, holding the whining boy up in their adamantine wrap. ". . . The blade that should never be swung. I'll make those words ring true. . !"
". . . Some call it Sut, Tomb of Quests. Some say, Ala. The Dwarves say Tithleth or The Black. We know it as Gopet, the Putrid Cyst. . ."
Enrobed figures are gathered in the temples of Streammartyred, the Holy Eel, whom stands pontificating from the high altar splays both arms to either side as he speaks, the tall pointed shroud upon his head sways as he gestures so.
". . . But, my brothers, we know well that these great names are merely the personification of one unifying concept, one immutable truth, inescapable even in our glorious Realm of Silver. Yes. . ." He lowers his arms, leaning forth to place both palms upon the podium from which he speaks. The Holy Eel's occluded eyes pierce through the blackened veil to see his flock, to see the acknowledgement in their own eyes. He grips it tightly, delicate fingers across the rough stone. "Look to the Blights! Can we call this a gift of from the heavens? Can we call it punishment? For lack of virtue? For the stagnation of our old court? For. . ."
Another figure enters the temple, this one enwrapped by colors that mimic the bright moon in dark azure skies. That tall worshiper of Bikda made their way up toward the high altar, and leaned close to the Holy Eel. "Brother. . ." She spoke. "The Lord of Silver beckons for our presence. . ."
There they stood in the great hall of Silverthrone, three generations of Anthrad blood. Upon the titual Silverthrones sat the Law-Giver, Jas Anthrad and his dear wife and companion, Destis Sisterbreeches, both aged of face and greyed of hair. Humbly gathered too were the first-born son and daughter to the aforementioned two, Irka Tinsabre and Rimtil Minetwinkle neither having had a moment to cast off the garb denoting their religious stations. Then, without much in the way of manners to their parents' chagrin, three young children frolicked and danced across the hall of the Mirocline keep, Asri Boldpoked, Upek Yawnbearded, and Am Garnishedtulips all children to the Holy Subtlety, Rimtil.
"Children, please." She spoke, her voice as resounding as her stout body, taking well after her mother. Of course, the kids were off in their own world, playing Soldiers and Thralls or some other such game as they darted between statues of dwarfen-make, all chiseled in the image of the fallen members of the Band of Wax.
Just before Rimtil slammed her boot down, the Lord of Silver spoke, his voice was gentle, worn by four decades of stewardship. "Let them be." He mused, the law-giver couldn't help but smile as he gazed toward his willful daughter, "Never could I have imagined, when Jol, Eman, and I set out from sleepy ol' Waxfight on a fool's errand that I'd be sitting 'pon a throne watching my grandchildren laugh and play in our very own castle." He lets out a good and proper laugh, followed by a quick wheezing hack.
"Speaking of children. . ." Destis prodded in, jabbing her husband in the side with an elbow.
"Yes. . . Speaking of children. . ." The man repeated, tugging at his own collar with a certain whimsy.
"Irka, Rimtil." She addressed them with a flutter in her voice before lifiting up the cyan-clothed bundle in her arms "Meet your new brother, Luki. Luki Systemtowns, we like to think he'll be the great administrator." Cries suddenly filled the hall as Asri, Upek, and Am rushed to the source of the sound letting out a collective 'ooh' and 'aaah' as they met their own new uncle.
Irka merely raised a brow, electing to remain quiet as his sister's lips pursed into a mischievous smile. "You sly devil!" She manages to burst out, unable to keep back a giggle and an accusatory finger toward her seven-decades old father.
Jas raises both hands to defend himself, "D-Don't look at me. . !"
Only for his wife to laugh herself, drowning out Luki's cries, "I didn't think the old man still had it in him, bwahahah!"
Those of the Anthrad bloodline share that moment in earnest, a gentle peace in the seat of Omon Obin that their patriarch and his fellows suffered for. It was last moment of shared joy that they would have. . ."Honored father. . ." Spoke Irka, breaking his solemnity. "Forgive my crassness, but is this the only reason you have called us from our work?"
The peace washed away from Jas' face, replaced with its old ferocity. "Irka, Rimtil. Join me in my chamber." He said alone, rising from his throne and ascending the central stair. His children followed.
". . . Over the last few months, certain
reports have come back to my attention." The old Law-Giver begins, lighting a candle as moonlight filters in through the cut-gem windows. As he sat, so too did he beckon his children to draw in close, his brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, "Another outbreak of the Blight."
"How could that be?" Rimtil asks, leaning close to her father, "Were you and your band not as thorough as the stories admit?" Despite the severity, she jeers.
Jas takes in a deep breath, he isn't smiling, "I cannot control the world past our borders. Other nations struggle still with the rise of those thralls. It isn't impossible that the disease has snuck back into our Realm." He sizes up his children, the expressions that their faces take in response. "It has only touched our northern holdings and it's no-doubt a far-cry from the Band of Wax days, but it
must be stopped before it can fester like the old lords allowed it to."
"And what exactly do you want of us, honored father?" Irka wears a dubious look, he need not ask the question to understand the Law-Giver's intent. "You have men specifically trained for this, do you not?"
"Yes of course I do my boy. But men need leaders. Strong ones. Though I am old, still I could do it." Jas replies.
"Still you could do it. . ?" Irka raises a brow in incredulity, "Then again I ask, what need of us have you?"
"Listen to me child. I
could do it, I could lead another crusade across this Realm. But my eyes are on the future. . . You see. I was not strong enough to put an end to the Blight, far from it. All I could do was excise and keep it from our little tract of land, but even that goal fails me. I was weak. I
am weak. And in these inperfect times, the sins of the father fall upon the shoulders of his children. You must be strong - the both of you, together. One day soon Omon Obin will fall to your hands, show me then what you can do for our people."
There is a moment of silence between the three of them, the sound of wax droplets hitting the table and the distant cries of their newest brother are all that remain. "We are no soldiers!" Calls Irka, a frustration in his voice from the sudden expectations.
"Irka. . . We'll do as our father-- As the Lord of Silver asks. That's our duty--" Rimtil places a hand upon her brother's shoulder only to be rebuked.
"No! What fairness is there in this decision? Must the circumstance of our birth mean we've no agency? Must we be thrust into the maws of whatever danger
you deem fit?"
Jas nods his head, retaining his demeanor, "You're right boy, 'tis not fair at all. That is why you must be stronger than I, and create a truly fair world. Do this. . . Or do not call yourselves my children any longer. . ."
IMPORTANT: At some point during my turn Silverthrone seemed to have broken, when I attempted to reclaim it just now it was crashing my game. So I'm in the middle of fixing that and will reupload the save before the end of the night. Hopefully you haven't started yet Cook.
EDIT:
HERE'S THE UPDATED SAVE -- I will also message Cook.
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 475157 times)