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Sir Nicholas -> RE: Dark Waltz. (4/20/2010 17:38:08)
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Chapter 4: Ballad of the Fallen.
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~Victimia, Darkovia~
The horrible screams of terror and despair were deafening and seemed as if they would never cease. One by one, each individual voice was eventually silenced, cut off abruptly, or more often than not, dying away into wet, hacking coughs or choking gurgles. As the life had faded from the last of the pale-skinned citizens of the town of Victimia, there came a great stillness.
"Foolish creatures..." Hissed a voice that dripped with malevolence and unkempt disgust for the scores of broken human bodies that lay mangled before animated undead creatures. Hideously disfigured corpses and torn limbs dripped with blood or were steadily being ripped apart and devoured by hungering ghouls.
Standing erect and with dark eyes before the gruesome scene was a figure dressed in black armor. Spikes and serrated blade jutted from the kneecaps and shoulders, the body of which was decorated with disconcerting visages of skulls.
A torn cape of ebon cloth hung loosely at the Death Knight's back, which billowed softly in the cold wind.
Around him and the Undead army was what had previously been a human settlement; though now it more resembled a necropolis. The land and buildings that had shined so beautifully in the moonlight stank of corruption and foul-miasma.
Human men in black robes, obviously living due to their movements, awaited patiently for their master's command as he looked over the corpses from the last battle. One of the necromancers, who clearly was unaffected by the fear and awe that was so evident in the faces of his peers, cleared his throat as he addressed the Death Knight.
"My Lord; we've searched the area- There were no survivors. We respectfully requ-ack!" Within an instant, a metallic claw gripped at the necromancer's throat, silencing him in mid-sentence. The living man's fingers pried feebly at the iron grip that held him aloft, feet dangling inches above the ground.
"Wrong." The Death Knight hissed. Effortlessly, he lifted the necromancer's face so closely to his own that the living human was chilled by the frigid breath.
"Two men survived; they fled while you so carelessly experimented with their comrades." He glared deeply into the terrified cultist's eyes, his own devoid of any compassion or mercy. In fact, the longer that one stared into them, the more the black irises seemed to devour all life, hope and sanity.
"I-I'm sorry, Lord-..." The necromancer managed, his breathing and the flailing of his legs becoming more erratic with each passing moment, the effort of his speech obviously taxing him. As if amused by the agony, the Death Knight threw back his horned head and laughed; a bone chilling sound.
"Fail me again, and your suffering will be eternal."
The necromancer could manage only a choked sob as the shadowy figure released his grip, the cultist's legs gave way beneath him, sprawling as he attempted to regain his composure upon the crouted soil. The Death Knight turned away, his gaze penetrating the curtain of darkness that had spread with the army's march.
Beyond, he could see the spires and cruciform ornaments of the Paladin Temple, standing proud and defiant against his power. Black eyes narrowed in contempt and anticipation. If he'd had a living heart, it would have been pounding at the thought of finally wiping the self-righteous order from the planet.
If the other necromancer's had any doubts, any second, traitorous thoughts of turning against the dark master they had sold their souls to, it was dashed like a fine piece of glass against the ground. Faces and bloodshot eyes were grim with fear as they watched the Death Knight raise his arm and gesture in a sweeping fashion towards them.
"I want all other cultists, and their armies. We shall attack with the greatest force this world has ever known." Gauntleted fist clenching and swirling darkness spreading from him, he invigorated the mortal men who served him with his grave and terrifying presence.
"At twilight, tomorrow, all shall know of the fall of BattleOn...to Lord Drake."
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~Granemore, 9 hours later~
General Herous of the 'Emoran Knights was a proud and stern man, his one eye was bloodshot and his face haggard from the lack of sleep he'd had in the last few days. Drained after the hours of ceaseless combat with no rest or break, his hair already was beginning to exhibit signs of grey in some places.
He sat upon his throne in his tower, mulling over the recent events and wondering where all this might lead to. The reprecussions of such an attack on the city was just one more thing that the citizens now lived in fear of.
Herous' one eye scanned the horizon beyond the open window that allowed him a glimpse of the frozen wasteland that had become of his lordship. His other eye had been violently torn from its socket during the 'Galin War, and he'd promptly returned the favor by removing the head of the Brilhaldo necromancer who had done the deed.
Since that time, he'd worn the scar on his face and his eyepatch like a badge of honor: His weathered features a testament to the many years of harsh warfare that he'd endured.
"All in service to my people" he thought, his right hand gently feeling along the scar that ran beneath his eyepatch. Though he'd no longer felt any pain, there still existed some sensation along that area, as if some nameless force was constantly reminding him that despite his tremendous skill, he was not invincible.
In his youth, General Herous had been an arrogant young man, exuberant and brave, yet also one who desired to bring hismelf glory in battle. The chance and call of war had brought him to join the 'Emoran Knights to fight against the armies of the Network.
However, the loss of his right eye and the countless other scars of that terrible conflict, had left him with a lasting impression that even the mightiest of warriors could still fall in battle.
Right now, he had again tempted fate and emerged victorious. Though the new scars of this battle would be no worse than the previous, he had a feeling in his heart of hearts that something terribly wrong was happening just outside the now-secured city walls.
The city lay in ruin, while its people had been mostly unhurt; Sir Andrew's legion had performed most of the hard fighting while Herous' own Knights were gathering all the corpses into piles to be cremated. Even with this victory, the faces of the men was like the General himself: Deeply shaken and disturbed by recent events.
Sir Andrew himself had appeared not long after the battle had finally ended, appearing more as a pillar of strength and resolve than a weary warrior. Sir William had marched straight up to his master with his face a picture of fury. Even with the fighting over, he clearly was displeased with the Paladin Master's late arrival.
"You kept things well together lad," Sir Andrew had said, grinning in as reassuring a fashion as he could, "Now, you should get some rest." Sir William had grunted audibly and shook his head, furious.
"I can't! There's more people dying out there because of me!" He had practically barked the last word, his every action indictating a barely contained rage. Sir Andrew was quite taken aback by this uncharacteristic move and shook his apprentice with one arm. It had taken all of his teachings to restrain himself, Herous had remembered, as Sir William was breathing heavily, the unmistakable sound of teeth gritting together was clear in the silence that followed.
Not long after reprimanding his apprentice for the extreme tactics he'd used in the battle, Sir Andrew had taken him and Sophia, who had been unconcious, back to the capital.
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~High Council Chambers,
The Paladin Temple~
"I know we were exhausted, but when was it last that anyone stood against five Paladins and held his own?" Asked Sir Matthew, one of the members of the High Council.
He was but one of two survivors of the terrible assault on Victimia, and he had only escaped by the three of his fellows sacrificing themselves. The attack had come without warning, and without mercy- Only he and Sir Thaddeus, another councilor had been able to flee.
As he took his seat upon his chair, the fair-haired Paladin turned to face the other councilors whose faces were set upon with mixed expressions.
Sir Mathew's eyes momentarily traveled appreciatively across the vast expanse of the council chamber. It was well-named, for the wondrous marble stone and concrete that composed the walls and ceiling, along with the glass-smooth pearlescent windows, lighting the room brilliantly with the sun surging through them.
Soft golden light akin to the warm rays shone down from the armors of the ten other members of the council, while tiny shadows from their tall frames danced along the walls and formed over the intricate symbols across the floor.
All around, arranged in a circle was the High Council; the governing body of the Paladin Order. These eleven men had been the leaders and generals of the enlightened army since the end of the 'Galin War. The reformation had been deemed necessary after the Order's number had been halved during the conflict.
With so few remaining true to God, and so many falling, there clearly had been need for a greater leadership structure. The council had called for an emergency session after Sir Mathew and Sir Thaddeus had returned, bloodied and exhausted after the attack on Victimia.
Sitting in the grandest, largest chair that was slightly elevated was Grandmaster, Artix Von Krieger; the overall leader of the Paladin Order. His armor was the brightest and most dignified of the twelve men, while his axe sat propped against the wall behind him, a pristine weapon of gold.
Artix's hair was short and dark brown, touched only by gray at the temples, and the crease-lines on his face appearing more due to his raised eyebrows than age. At forty, he was the oldest of the council, but still at the peak of his physical shape.
Sitting in chairs less ornate but just as well decorated as his were the other members of the council: Sir Thaddeus, head of cavalry. Sir Simon, head of the elites. Sir Thomas, leader of the apostles. Sir Philip, who headed the peace-corps. Sir Andrew, who of course led military efforts.
Also sitting amid them were Sir John, Sir James, Sir Peter and father Sanctus, all of whom were members of the priesthood.
"This must be dealt with!" Sir Andrew said, rising momentarily from his seat, giving his peers a determined look whilst shaking his fist.
"I concur," Said Sir Peter, "This 'Lord Drake' might change the face of the crusade." murmurs of agreement resonated throughout the room.
"Our numbers were dwindling before, but now this?" Sir Simon spoke up, his voice gentle in comparison to the harsh tone of Sir Andrew. "Its clear that we need more Knights. If we don't increase our number, they will be inadequate in less than a year."
Artix sat gripping the arms of his chair uneasily, deep in thought and his jaw tightly closed.
"I know this will generate debate," Sir Andrew continued, "but in this time of war, I propose that we forgo the trials and immediately put some of our more experienced squires out on the field." The other members of the council looked at him as though he'd lost his mind, particularly Sanctus, who was quite easily, the most conservative of their number.
"This is absurd!" The grey haired priest said, allowing his shock and anger to show. "we cannot set aside our most sacred traditions! Even in this time of war, we cannot allow the master of a heretic to make such preposterous-...!"
Before the whole council could erupt into arguement, Artix had held up his hand with a stern look that symbolized his displease. For a long moment, no one spoke, as they all knew the look the Grandmaster was giving: He was never one to wrongly discipline his fellow councilors, but he when he did give them a reprimanding, it was one that clearly addressed the problem.
"I hardly think," Sir Andrew began slowly, cautiously so as not to further upset the others, "that my apprentice is a heretic for his actions in the last battle."
Father Sanctus had not moved, but his eyes were alight with concern and a well-worn cautiousness that bordered on paranoia.
"Though his methods are questionable, the results that he achieved in defeating that Dark assasin are more than justified."
Again, Artix held up his hand, but finally spoke, breaking the stoic silence. "This is a just debate brothers- But in this time of war, we need all the Knights we can get." Artix's voice was one that was rich and commanding, clearly befitting that of the leader of the enlightened order.
"Young Sir William's career has been unorthodox, but his near inability to control his temper, was close to a failure," Sir Simon spoke up, all the other councilors nodding, all but Sir Andrew. "was it not your training that told the apprentice to harness, and not to reject his anger, master Andrew?"
Sanctus rose from his seat and fully allowed his suspicion to show. "That is what concerns me! To follow the path of the Paladin requires discipline! Young William is reckless!"
Artix shook his head once, "Were you not, when you were a student here, master Sanctus?" he asked, giving the elder priest a curt glare. "We all are aware of the incident with mistress Kailey Obsidia, are we not?"
At once, Sanctus returned to his sitting position, anger bleeding away before the reminder of the incident whereupon he'd nearly spat upon his own honor.
"I trust in God, as should we all; but we must remember that Sir William is young." Artix continued, "As such, I declare that we shall keep a closer eye on him, but that his spirit must also be subject to the trial."
Gasps emerged from the other councilors, not the least of which was Sir Andrew.
"Facing the mirror is what I believe young William requires," Artix concluded, "When he sees the error of his judgement, I know that he'll overcome his youthful antagonism."
With that, Artix rose from his seat and the meeting was adjourned.
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~BattleOn~
Sophia hummed as she strode through the gardens of the park of the capital city. It was a beautiful summer dusk, known among commonly as "The Magic Hour" when the day was not quite gone, but the night had not yet arrived.
She'd been here for nearly a day and a half now at Sir Andrew's request, but never did the city lose its sense of wonder. Everything, from the tiniest blade of grass, to the tallest most majestic building emanated magic. To a High Elf, especially one from the prosperous kingdom of Greenguard, there were few things that could content her more than to curl up in the sun with a cold glass of sweet tea.
But for now she wanted only to wander in the gardens, feeling the living earth beneath her bare, graceful feet and singing softly to herself.
Since the battle in Granemore, both she and Sir William had been recalled to the capital to rest, recover their strength and to spend time together. And since then, they'd been as thick as thieves.
It was a situation which all parties agreed to; and Sophia had to admit, she had felt more at peace than she'd been after days of fighting, but only when Sir William was around.
Only one thing bothered the Elf, however. The young Paladin had adamantly refused to share the rest of the story of what had happened in Granemore, after she'd been knocked unconscious. The last thing that Sophia could remember was that Sir William was carrying her, bridal style towards the hospital.
Afterwards, she'd been brought to the capital, had been treated for her wounds and so spent her time as best she could.
A pair of hands abruptly covered her eyes and broke her from her line of thought.
"Guess who?" a male voice whispered, but still holding tones of mirth. Sophia, her eyes covered, thought it over, then fought back a smile.
"Let me guess..." She said, placing her own small hands over the strong, calloused fingers. "You smell of horses and leather...you've got a firm grip, and you would dare to sneak up on a High Elf?" She asked in mock outrage.
A small chuckle escaped the man's lips, but he remained silent.
"Sir William!" Sophia exclaimed, surprise and delight warming her voice as she lifted the arms from her face, grinning upwards as she turned to face him.
He was clad in simple, violet and gold robes instead of his heavyset, glowing Paladin armor. His face was calm and relaxed instead of the wan, rueful grin of the hardened veteran. The ease and fluidity that Sophia responded to immediately.
"How are your wounds, my lady?" He asked, a hint of worry lingering in his tone and eyes. The formality of his words however, sobered her slightly.
"Oh, stop that, I'm Sophia."
"And I'm Sir William, nice to meet you."
Gently Sophia pushed him, then they both laughed. It felt as though a barrier between them was suddenly gone and together, they began to walk through the gardens, admiring the scenery and talking lightly. At one point, Sir William tucked his right arm in around her left and they clasped hands. It was a warm and courteous gesture, yet Sophia parted with him as she turned to get a glance at the Paladin Temple.
Hiding his disappointment, Sir William joined her and gazed anew at the vast wonder that stood before them.
Originally, the Temple was the Guardian Tower, but after the merger of both Paladin and Guardian Orders, it had been renovated to suit Artix's purposes. With multiple turrets surrounding the new outer wall, sturdy gates of iron and mythril, and a central keep with fluttering banners, the temple appeared more like a fortress than a place of worship.
"Beautiful isn't it?" Sophia said softly, slipping her hand gently onto his wrist. Sir William nodded, though his attention was focused fully on the main tower that stretched high above the capital.
"So," he began awkwardly, "What do you think of the capital so far?" Sophia turned to face him fully, her face beaming with delight.
"Its a marvelous city; coming from a High Elf from Greenguard, where magic is the birthright of every citizen, that is quite a compliment!"
Sir William nodded, then smiled as he raised his left hand to gently stroke her cheek. Gingerly, perhaps hesitantly, Sophia placed her palm upon his and guided it as he massaged her cheek. Impulsively, she released his hand and threw her arms around his waist, pressing her ear against his chest. Sophia closed her eyes and listened to his heart's sporadic, rapid beating as Sir William's hand came up, stroking her golden head.
She knew that she should pull away, she should have pulled back. It was not proper. She had acted solely on instinct when she'd hugged him. However, for all her teachings of restraint and self-discipline, she could not deny that it felt...right lingering in his embrace.
Sophia knew she should turn away, before somebody saw them together!
Instead, she lifted her face and closed her eyes.
The kiss was gentle at first; the very first either of them had ever known in fact. Utter surprise was Sir William's first response, but then he closed his own eyes and relished the feel of her in his arms. Sophia, the Elven priestess who was his friend, his companion, the very same girl who awestruck him by her loveliness and grace. For now, they could pretend that the Paladins & clerics weren’t crusading against an undead menace.
For one long, wondrous moment, they were just Sir William and Sophia, and everything was right.
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