The Throne Room
Barbarossa threw the toe onto the floor.
“We killed your damned dragon.” he said. “Give us our money so we can get out of this place. I’m sick of your guilds and your wars and your Godsdamned dragons. ”
“Of course!” said the Warlord. His advisor gave him a sack, which he threw to Barbarossa. The dwarf caught it easily. It was extremely heavy and, checking inside it, did appear to be gold. He resolved to have it checked by an alchemist. “But I must speak to you. Come, walk with me.”
The Warlord turned and walked off. Barbarossa watched him for a second, before turning and walking out the door.
“Bastard,” he muttered. Passing through the doors, Workerdrone and Bardbeard fell into step with him.
“Got it?” inquired Workerdrone.
“Yes. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They quickly left the building and, half an hour later, the city. Back in the throne room, the Warlord sat, fingers arched.
“See to it that if they come within bow range of the city again, they’ll be fired upon.”
His advisor nodded.
“Didn’t even think to ask. The fool. War will overtake him. He can’t run from it. My army will rule this land.”
The advisor quickly left the room. He always did when his master began to soliloquize.
“He could have joined me. He and his men could have been placed into a position to rule. Bah. Where is he? Arthur!”
The advisor re-entered.
“My lord?”
“Tell my generals to muster their troops. The problem has been dealt with, we can move out.”
“And then you will lead a campaign and conquer the world.”
“And then,” said the Warlord with a dramatic flourish. “I will lead a campaign and conquer the world!” The advisor sighed, internally, and left.
The Warlord sat down. Things would come to fruition soon. Everything made so much more sense when he was in the throne room.
Looking down at his sword, he smiled. Looking back up, he screamed. In front of him floated what appeared to be a mishmash of pulsating meat and gristle.
“Who are you?” he whispered, to afraid to draw his sword.
“An advisor.”
11 pm, The Camp of Eli Eremo
Walter lay on his bedroll. He was glad they were out of the snow. It was so much nicer sleeping out under the stars. He – his thoughts were cut off by the hands closing around his neck. He struggled for several seconds, before blacking out. The three men quickly lifted him up and set off.
“Why is he so keen, anyway?”
“He’s his son. I don’t think he needs a reason.”
“Whose there?” called out Urist. “Hello?”
“shit. Run.”
By the time Urist got to where they had been they were long gone.
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Topic: To venture north, into Hell: Othtar Noloc, world at war (Read 106576 times)