Finally read through the Cacame thread. Figured if I was going to necro, I should contribute something.
A fey mood was had. I wrote a thing. Have it.
The Elf King Cacame Awemedinade stood beneath the legs of his colossus. Both he and the giant statue served as the vanguard to the entrance of Gamilrag, the mountainhome of Trustclaps, the seat of his kingdom. Beside him were his Royal Guard, composed of humans, elves and goblins. Behind he and his guard were ranks of Dwarven soldiers, recruits and champions alike. The reflected sunlight from the golden cape of the colossus illuminated the armor of the soldiers, from the grey glint of steel to the mystic blue of adamantium.
Across from the Elf King of Dwarves stood a Final Alliance that reflected his Royal Guard: humans stood in the same rank as elves, hundreds of the combined host at attention. They were flanked by goblins and gibberlings, the former managing the latter in groups, keeping the battlelusty creatures under control before the battle began.
Cacame felt as though he should be surprised. He thought that the sight of mixed races setting aside their mutual hatred for a common goal would have concerned him more. He decided he should have known better, for did he not swear himself an enemy of the elves and stand now against his race alongside the dwarves? Although they and he were far from similar; Cacame could clearly see the dislike and distrust in the eyes of his enemies, while he himself only held the utmost respect for his dwarven brethren.
Still, an alliance was a curious thing to confront. Had they decided that this mountainhome posed their civilizations some serious threat? Had they decided that he posed some serious threat? That they should band together as one, as only their combined might may defeat their hated foe?
He knew not. He knew not and he cared not. He had seen their like driven into the ground before him. He had slammed riders from their mounts and knocked their horses twenty paces with ease. He had seen their broken, bleeding forms, their chests caved and innards splayed out before him. He had seen what they were made of.
Every time it reminded him of Nemo. It reminded him of finding her torn apart and eaten.
And Nemo reminded him of Amoya, the elf who had murdered his wife and whose death Íle wrongfully denied him.
The artifact warhammer seemed to purr in his hands, almost aware of its master’s thoughts. The warhammer was no construction of a possessed weaponsmith. It was not an artifact because it had a name, for indeed, the warhammer bore no name to itself. No, the warhammer was an artifact because it had beaten the life from countless bodies. It had ended a mighty dragon at his hands. Most of all, it had channeled the malice of Cacame within itself, becoming his instrument of destruction. It knew only hate and the act of righteous murder, and it lusted for the battle it knew would soon come. It sang to him, wishing him to quicken the inevitable.
Cacame stepped forward, hefting his warhammer at a ready stance, challenging the host alone. They stood still, save for the slight wanderings of the gibberlings at the hands of the goblins. He tired of their silent stares.
“Well?” he asked impatiently, his voice echoing over the strange silence and through the valley before him. Then, as one, the warriors of the alliance cried out and rushed forward to slay the Elf King and crush his mountainhome under the rock it sat beneath.
_________________________________________________________
As Cacame drenched the battlefield in the blood of his enemies, Armok watched upon the Elf King from His Throne outside the ken of lesser beings. His honor guard, those Most Hallowed and Proven, stood as immaterial spectres to his flanks. As another score of foes were crushed by a wave of Cacame's hammer, Armok's goblet filled with their blood. The trials of the Elf King had nearly filled the cup, and Armok was certain that this last, glorious battle would prove to complete the succulent brew.
The God smiled. Cacame Awemedinade was not born from the Earth. He was not born of Armok's Blood. He was born from fickle leaves and weak roots. He was born under Íle, the Fool, under the boughs of trees and not the ceilings of grand stone halls.
The Elf King could have become the champion of Íle, to serve the contemptible thing for eternity, had not the Fool scorned him, damning his immortal coil, over such a rightfully deserved boon. Now Íle and its children were made to pay the debt owed, though never would there be enough souls to settle the claim.
Instead, the bodies pelting the ground from the blows of Cacame's hammer were offerings unto Armok. Cacame merely wore the visage of an elf, though his soul was not something so simply labeled. He was too torn, too fractured to be of any one identity, save for vengeance. For that is what he is, a flesh-borne machine of wrath, taking from the world what it so wrongfully took from him. So noble a mission could only honor Armok, the one true God.
And so Armok saw the Elf King, the corpses and entrails of his enemies piled before him, a grand colossus of his image above him and the Children of Armok cheering behind him. Armok saw, too, that only dissatisfaction colored the Elf's expression.
Dwarves were made to pursue knowledge. They were made to pursue crafts. They were made to appreciate and respect the eternity of the Earth. They were made to be finite. Though all of Armok's Children would bask in His glorious presence in time, only those most deserving could stand closest to His Throne.
Cacame was made to appreciate and respect the frailty of life. He was made to be infinite. Immortal.
He was not one of Armok's Children. He could never stand close to Armok's Throne. He could never know Armok's presence.
Armok raised his goblet, full to the rim but denying the motion the ability to spill its contents.
"I raise this offering of Cacame Awemedinade, known to the living as The Immortal Onslaught, in his honor."
The warrior shades to his right and left raised their weapons, and one cabinet, in response, and spoke:
"May he slake the Thirst of our Ever-Thirsting God."
"Though may he never pay the toll."
And Armok drank from the goblet, savoring the curse of Cacame upon the world.
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Topic: Dwarven king is an... (Read 552181 times)