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Welcome to Elenlond, an original medieval fantasy roleplaying forum! We strive for creative, free-form roleplaying, in the hopes of allowing each and every single member the power to achieve their potential.
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| Welcome to Elenlond, an original medieval fantasy forum! We're always looking for new, dedicated members. Elenlond is composed of two continents: Soare and Esiria. Esiria, a land now isolated due to the efforts of the last remaining Goddess, is inaccessible to all beings and lies in the east. Soare, a continent in the west, is composed of three distinct nations: Ashoka, Soto, and Morrim. Lying between the two major continents are the Scattered Isles. Since the dissolution of the pantheon and the fall of the gods, these countries have existed in relative peace and prosperity. But how long will that peace last? Enter Elenlond; Turn the pages and tell your own tale. If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| The Final Arguement of Kings. | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 30 2009, 01:27 PM (52 Views) | |
| Arta Laurentine | Aug 30 2009, 01:27 PM Post #1 |
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'Gods bloody burning, what an utter mess.' Arta hissed to himself under his breath as he picked his way delicately through the wreckage of what he summarised must have been a pottery shop. Terracotta shards crunched under his heel, distinguishable from the dull grinding of the heavier stones that had once made up the establishment as he headed to meet his current employer. Acrid smoke wafted through the hot air on a stray desert breeze, causing the wiry man to wrinkle his nose and wave the end of his burnose at the offending vapour. His employer's assult had done a rather thorough job of wrecking the city, which Arta found paradoxical. Surely to invade somewhere, you wanted it standing, so you could rule it afterwards? Maybe not, buildings could be repaired, people would eventually rebuild their lives that had been shattered by the brief and bloody cataclysm that had disrupted their small little world. Still, seeing his home city crumbling around him touched something off in his chest. Ah well, it was war and war was never the glamourous or glorious thing that the romances envisioned it as. War was brutal, messy and something, in Arta's opinion, to avoid at all costs. Nothing came higher on his list of prioraties than saving his own hide first and foremost. The muddied and wreckage clogged oasis that had previously been perfectly placid and serene passed to his left as he found the main road, even if it was somewhat battered now. Cobblestones were smashed, scorched, blood splattered or simply missing in some places, incongerously a spear stuck straight up, five foot of scarred wood, from the road's surface the light catching the blade of the weapon with an almost divine radiance for an instant before it passed as the spymaster kept walking. Arta kicked a helmet that had been crushed moodily. He was not especially tall, with deeply tanned skin and hair as black as coal. His build was indeterminate, hidden as it was under swathes of silk. Trousers, shirts, all these things were pointless in the dry heat of the desert climes and Arta would have shuddered at the thought of wearing something which stuck to his back... How very inelegant. Labourer he may have been, but he was a wealthy man and during his time as a traffiker of infomation had assumed many guises. Rich and elegant was certainly better than poor and wretched. He hitched the message satchel higher, resettling it on his shoulder. Whatever it was, Andromalius must of wanted it badly. The security had been pretty high and of a good standard. He did not ask what was on the pages of clinched vellum that were in the leather case, he had just retrieved them. In his business, ignorance was mostly bliss. Andromalius was easy to find. Why not? He had already conquered the city, no need to hide his presence anymore and his banner was certainly big enough. The encampment was Morrim and Arta ghosted in, weaving his way through the populace that was laughing, dicing and joking having not that long ago slaughtered a city. Standing before the command tent Arta repressed a shiver. It was not that his employer was psychotic, no it was more the fact that whenever he had to meet him in person, he felt like he was standing on the top of a mountain utterly exposed and very cold. Psychotic Arta could deal with, freezing cold wierdness in the middle of a desert definately wasn't his cup of preffered beverage. He simply knocked on the tent post, ignoring the guards, and waited. |
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| Andromalius | Aug 30 2009, 08:55 PM Post #2 |
King of the Sexy Guys
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Not much time had passed, days maybe. Andromalius wasn't quite certain on that, but would ask once he came around to feeling like his normal self, itching to pluck eyeballs from skulls and snap through tendons and tissue once again. Holding the powerful form of his Abyssal: Omega self for the length of a whole night was nothing if not draining. Even now, he felt himself still lacking in the power he knew himself to secretly possess. Alas, it was only a feeling, as he had only ever been this strong before, three-hundred years ago upon the day of his crystal imprisonment by the nameless white mage. Yes, and Eldahar... While he had been the obvious victor, he had never intended to reduce the city to the rubble it now was. This effect was the consequence of two possible things: One, he had underestimated the bloodlust of his men, or two, he'd overestimated the strength it would take to topple the city. He would have to figure out which one it was as to not let such a thing happen again. Indeed, a country generally isn't worth ruling unless it is, in fact, inhabited by living people to keep it going. For now, none could know of his mistake. He would lie, as he always did, and pass it off as purpose, an example of the carnage one could expect in his wake, a scare tactic for the other countries. But then... would anyone be capable of seeing the flaw in that plan besides himself? That perhaps such a high profile event could awaken Soare's defenders? And there were always some hiding around... like cockroaches, another creeping up just after you killed one... to take its place... Then again, the same could be said for the other side of the moral spectrum. No doubt, Andromalius himself was just replacing another, lesser even, namely Ashoka's tyrannical king, now in rotting pieces in the streets. Surely he is beef jerky by now, having not been moved out of the burning desert sun. The Emperor knew he needed to get up and go check on Orion sometime soon. It had been nothing but messengers, back and forth, since the battle's end (he didn't feel it correct to call it a war, the country had fallen so easily). It may be a good idea to look into hiring an agent to watch over him in the mage's absence. After all, the fighter was still just some nut he picked up off of the street one day. His loyalties were, as of yet, unproven, and he'd given the psychopath an entire nation to do with what he liked for the time being, all because he didn't feel that he had a soldier with enough wit to give such a great thing to. And for the last half day, once Andromalius had reached consciousness, his thoughts had been wrapped tightly around what the next step was. Truthfully, even this controlling, megalomaniacal bastard would like, from time to time, someone to tell him what to do... In between these significantly important ideas, a subconscious stream would flow, painting dreams of the end result, attached to which was a feeling that he could not describe as anything other than elation. These were not the thoughts of ruling the entire world, or how it will decay in his hands, but even after that... ...It didn't take a genius to acknowledge his supreme goal as impossible, but he held out still just for a single instance, a single, sublime instance when everyone in all of the world would be connected to one another by a shared second of real misery. Then freedom. ...But, then what? Andromalius's eyes very slowly began to open at the knocking outside of his private temporary quarters. He made no rush to get up or reply, taking the time to come back to reality, the present, away from the future. Ah yes, he remembered where he was now, and the corners of his lips curled up just slightly, the misty cloud of serenity washing over his deepest, black oculars. "...Enter." His voice was quiet, but at a volume by which he could be understood outside of the tent. If a body were to enter, they would see the King, sitting upright in a lavish armchair beside his bed. It looked as if he had been poured into the thing, sinking very low into it with an elbow on the armrest, and the hand of that arm holding up a tilted head. An eye peered out from between his spread fingers. The Emperor didn't look very excited, nor in a mood to deal with trifles. He wore black pants of light, gauze material and an unlikely, simple black sleeveless shirt. Strapped to his feet were the same boots he had been wearing: clunky, steel armored monstrosities. In fact, with his retained youth, he looked a bit too common for a soul of his power. Even so, his hair alone retained its untouched elegance, rolling over his shoulders and down his chest in free waves. On the other side of his seat, a medium-sized table held upon it a mess of opened books, all seemingly unfinished. Perhaps he had been frantically searching for something. |
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| Arta Laurentine | Aug 31 2009, 05:12 AM Post #3 |
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Arta steeled himself when the summons came and stepped into the shadowed recesses of the tent. Immediately, from long habit his eyes flickered around unconsciously, checking for guards, exit points, defences... Not that any of them truely mattered. The most dangerous thing was evidently Andromalius himself who was currently sprawled in an opulently appointed chair. The spymaster nodded to him, an acknowledgement of a superior. 'Sir, I've aquired what you asked me too.' Was all he said, holding the leather scroll case out. Glad to get rid of the damn thing too. For all it was a collection of papers, it had been uncommonly well protected. That and he felt like he had had a bullseye on his back ever since carrying it. Even as he thought of it, he remembered the night in some backwater settlement, the arrow flashing towards him only detected by the chance glint on the arrowhead from a light behind a window. Throwing himself sideways and feeling it graze across his upper arm and immediately cloaking himself, grabbing onto a gutter and scurrying up it. Seeing the assailant down the dusty street and dragging out his blowpipe, tugging one of the poisoned darts out of its specialised pouch carefully, huddled down behind a chimney, balanced precariously on the sloping cake that made up the roof. Dropping the dart, swearing viciously under his breath as adrenaline coursed through him, fitting the next dart finally, okay, deep breath and lean round and GOD DAMNIT! Whip head back quickly, feel the wind of passage hiss past his cheek, swear again and duck out of cover, a sharp huff of breath sending the dart into the figures leg. The quick acting poison as it seethes through his system, a short, strangled cry as blood fills his mouth as his lungs haemorrage and a thud as the body rolls off the roof and hits the sandy street. Leaning back against the chimney and breathing in short, shallow gasps. Carefully sliding down the roof again, hanging onto the ledge with fingertips before dropping the meter and a half to the floor, rolling with impact... Arta repressed a shiver at the memory, the arrow scrape on his arm throbbing steadily now that he had remembered it and turned his attention once more to the man he currently served. Maybe some downtime? That would be nice, a short rest to lose himself in the pleasures of the ci... Oh wait, no, could not do that, mainly because the creature infront of him had WRECKED THE PLACE! But Arta kept those thoughts to his subconscious. He was not sure if Andromalius could read minds, but incase he could, let's hope he wasn't reading too deep eh? 'Do you require anything more Sir?' He asked, rolling his injured shoulder with a mild grimace. |
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| Andromalius | Sep 17 2009, 01:48 PM Post #4 |
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King of the Sexy Guys
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"Yes," came the strict and chilled voice of the man's superior. Andromalius lazily reached out to snatch the requested item from the man. Little did Arta know that he'd gone through all that trouble just so the scroll could be given to a greedy Ophite who would likely forget about it in a week. "In fact, now your real work begins. It's hard, usurping the world. Did you really think you'd get a break anytime soon?" His head tilted to the side in question, a subtle smirk across his lips. He appeared to gain some kind of pleasure from ripping away this man's hopes of a vacation. "Now that I have two nations beneath me, and acquired the second with a high-profile war, the ones who disapprove of my actions will be gathering against me. One of my greatest enemies is going to be the king of Angkar, Razarod Evermore, because he is the soul sovereign who has any chance against me." The mage's nails began to tap absently on the arm rest of his seat. His eyes, barely visible behind the wall of white hair that fell in his face, were burning,as they always did with their oily hues. "It is because of this conclusion that I am sending you to Angkar to undergo a much more serious assignment. If you fail this, there will be no place in my Hell for you but the bottom of a mass grave." One of his nails scratched a little harder against the plush surface of his seat, ripping a clean-cut hole into it. "I need you to go there and get yourself in a position to be my eyes. Try to find a reason to be close to the enemy. Evermore is the head of the beast, and with him under surveillance, the rest of the island nation is helpless..." He'd been there many times since his re-awakening, and the particular day that he had found Ashes, he'd discovered much about the potential disarray of the country, how easy it would be to simply knock out a foundation brick and watch it all crumble. It hasn't been long since Evermore united the kingdom under one rule. There would be people floating about with a grudge against him for it, all they needed was a little bit of a nudge. "You are to leave tomorrow and send me a report daily. I want you to take particular interest in locations, culture, and security, but of course, the king is priority." At long last, the ghost moved, rising from his seat like an extension of the shadows. One large boot sled forward, followed by the next, until he arrived just before the spy. "You can have your rest for the remainder of the night. You're welcomed to go see Orion. He's holed himself up the the whore house," the mage grinned. "Or perhaps go visit the tourist hot-spot where Moghul's entrails are still rotting on the ground, or join the "kids" in tormenting the locals." |
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