RP:A King Awakens
Part of the The Underworld Rising Arc
Synopsis: Eboric awakens, returning from the land of the dead to find his kingdom in disarray. He takes immediate steps to rectify this.
Within the Barrows
The hill-like barrows above open up into a massive underground complex here. Just inside each entrance is an alcove, each with the bones of a long-dead warrior, renowned enough in life to merit a guardian position in death, their souls still active, warding the barrows from all but the most determined of intruders. The stones press close, dampening sound. From here, the only exits are back up through the barrow entrances, or down the sloping corridors into the the darkness.
Deep within the pitch-black halls of the barrow complex, down below where even the faintest hint of the sun can be seen, a chamber begins to glow. The walls are lined with shelves, filled with ancient bones, age-weathered bronze grave goods, and a hefty coating of dust. The floor is bare, aside from a large stone chair in the center of the chamber, raised upon a small dais, and it is from this seat that the glow emanates, pale and bluish-white. The seat is occupied by a large man, swathed in a dark cloak, bright armor shining from beneath. The light seems to come from the man himself, swelling to a blinding intensity before fading again, disappearing into the slumped figure. A few moments pass in dark stillness, before the man stirs, straightening in his seat. His eyes snap open, and once again the room is illuminated by that same pale light, this time flooding only from the man's eyes. As he stands, glancing around the room in confusion, the silence is broken by a susurrus of whispers, voices murmuring in long-dead tongues. The man cocks his head to one side, listening to them for a long moment, before he speaks, his powerful voice echoing in the barren room. "Enough. There is a need." The voices continue to hiss and mutter, but he ignores them and walks steadily toward the passageway leading upward, accompanied only by the faint light and the whispers.
Hazy Barrows
Mists rise up, enshrouding most of the view beyond the immediate surroundings. Careful footfalls echo dully, the sounds caught within the dewy particles that hang thick throughout the air. The ground is lined with rows of graves, cairns, and crypts. All are unmarked, and unremarkable, except in their exquisite simplicity. Surprisingly enough, none appear to have been touched. The mist hangs thick in all directions, though to the west, something dimly glitters, marking a possible end to the fog, while a few shrubs can be seen in the north, wretched and dying. A small, carefully maintained path runs up the flank of one barrow, leading to a small grove at the crest.
The cloaked man emerges from the entrance to a crypt, his deathly glow vanishing in the rays of the late afternoon sun, the sibilant voices fading away as well. Blinking against the unaccustomed brightness, the man pauses, shading his eyes as he looks to the shining city, some distance to the south. A horse nudges his shoulder, massive and pale white, its ghostly hide covered in red-painted runes. The man smiles, patting the beast on the nose before swinging up onto its back, urging it on to Venturil.
Engraved Gates
The high, white wall’s circle around the city is unbroken, save for this one place. Heavy gates have been built into the white stone, made of thick wood plated in heavy bronze, which is engraved with interwoven beasts and burnished to a gold-like shine. Guards patrol the wall’s top, man the gatehouse, and stand before the gates themselves, looking capable in their shining byrnies and rounded helmets. They decide who enters the city, and they take the tolls from those allowed within. The flag of Venturil’s king flies above the gates, depicting a crowned, golden bear on a field of red.
The lone rider approaches the main gate to the city, sitting straight-backed and proud. The guards at the gate move to block the opening, eying the large man warily. He is armed, they can see, with the hilts of sword and seax jutting from his belt, and the mithril shirt beneath, enchanted to a golden hue, reflects the sun in a blinding display, matched by the precious rings that band his arms. On his head rests the crown of Venturil, graven with runes and brightly shining.
The older of the two guards, a man a bit past his prime but still lean and hardened, suddenly lets out a gasp and drops to one knee. His younger companion, a recent addition to the force, remains standing, staring at the older man in bemusement. "My lord," the guardsman says, looking up at the rider. "Is it truly you?" The man upon the ghostly horse stares down at the kneeling figure as memories swirl in his mind, countless scenes from a multitude of lives vying for dominance. At long last, he finds the memories that match the man before him, a name to go with the face. "Harold," the king says, gesturing for the soldier to rise. "Up, man! It is good to see you thriving! You have served me since the beginning, since we left Rynvale together. Does your oath yet hold?" Harold springs to his feet, the joy plain to see on his face as he hurries to Eboric's side. "Always, lord. It is good that you have returned; much has changed. I must bring you to Oswine, he's captain now, he will tell you all that has happened." Eboric notes the hesitation in the man's voice, the hint of things unsaid, and grows grim. "Lead on, Harold," he replies, and the two enter the city.
Feasting Hall
Venturil’s castle is truly immense, with a maze of side passages leading off to a myriad of chambers, the hallways still lined with the rich tapestries hung by previous rulers, augmented by the current king’s banner, as well as those of his nobles, and the long tapestries woven by the Kuronii people, depicting scenes from past battles. The main hallway leads out into a long, wide room, lit by torches on the walls and a great fire in the center, the smoke swirling up to the unseen chimney high overhead. The room is lined with row upon row of benches and tables and, on a raised dais at the far end of the room stands the high table, centered before the king’s throne, an impressive thing of carved oak, intricately detailed.
In the hall of the castle, Eboric sits in his wooden throne, surrounded by the officers of his personal warband, stationed these past few years in the city itself. Having heard from Oswine how the current Ealdormen have risen beyond their station, claiming rights that belong to the throne alone, the werebear has settled into a dark rage. He listens to reports of the numbers of men each Ealdorman has, and how many remain in the city. He hears as well of the strange new beasts and the blockade closing the road to the east, and his anger grows. Finally, he surges to his feet, cutting off the last of the captain's words. "Enough. We must act now, before they know that I have returned. Close the southern gates and leave men to guard them. Assemble the rest north of the city."
Berendebyrg
Surrounded by a wall of white stone, surmounted by sharpened stakes, Berendebyrg rises over the farmland surrounding it, the whole town set on a hill that overlooks the lake to the east and the wide, fertile fields to the south and west. The streets are ordered and straight, dividing houses and shops, barracks and markets. In the center of the town stands the Ealdorman's Hall, wherein lives the lord given dominion over this part of Venturil.
Eboric rides at the head of his warband, the trained core of the army he had once controlled, men who had fought in Rynvale, Cenril, Frostmaw, and Venturil. They have held the city, trained and drilled by the officers that he raised up, but it has been long since they have gone to war, and their excitement is palpable, even though they march against their former comrades. As they approach Berendebyrg, Eboric and those of his men who are mounted spur forward with the flag of Venturil waving before them. They enter the city unhindered, the guards at the gates not expecting an invading force, and the king's troops fan out through the town, silently moving to block the doors of the barracks that house the Ealdorman's troops, while the king himself rides with some of his men to the lord's hall. The guards there shout a challenge, and Eboric's party comes to a halt. The king rides forward, his black sword Eidhur bared in his hand, drinking the pale, ghostly light that emanates from both horse and rider, visible now as the sun sets.
In the yard before the hall, Ealdorman Nikolic Provenay steps out to meet the warband, his nervousness plain as he recognizes the king. Most all of his own troops are those first given by Eboric when the Byrg was built, and he can hear them speaking to each other, low and urgent. He can see, as well, the troops from the other town barracks, unarmed and ushered by the royal troops, herded into a crowd below the lord's hall. He looks again to the king, unable to find words.
Eboric dismounts and stalks forward, towering over the Ealdorman. For a long time, he simply stares down at the man, a Venturil-born noble raised to his position to keep the locals happy. He can remember his own experiences with Nikolic, but behind and overlapping those are the memories of others, memories of the Ealdorman's parents, and grandparents, of his line down through the ages. As the silence stretches, uncomfortable and tense, Eboric sifts through those memories, weighing one against the other. Suddenly, his eyes focus again, glinting hard as steel as they bore into the Ealdorman. "For the sake of your line," the big man says, "I will allow you to die with honor. Draw your sword, Provenay, and come to me. We will see whose luck is the greater." Stepping back, he gestures to his men, who assist him in removing his armor, leaving him dressed in simple clothing, nothing more, matching Nikolic's unarmed state.
The Ealdorman, to his credit, does not quail, but simply sends a man running for his weapon and a shield. His blade is sharp, and the shield stout, but fear still gnaws at him as he looks at his opponent, who stands impassively before him with his sword in his right hand, his shorter seax in his left. The soldiers nearby step back, forming a wide ring around the two men. With a resigned sigh, Nikolic steps forward, raising his shield and closing with the king. Quick as lightning, his sword flashes out from around his shield, feinting high then dropping low in an attempt to cut Eboric's legs out from under him.
Eboric steps back and away easily, allowing his foe's blade to slice the air mere inches from his ankle. He bursts into motion then, bulling forward before Nikolic can recover from the strike, focusing his weight into his right shoulder as he drops it down, slamming solidly against the Ealdorman's shield in a punishing blow that pushes the man back and down, forced to one knee. Eboric's seax licks out, the tip slicing a line across his enemy's cheek. He steps back then to where he had stood before, watching silently as the blood begins to flow from where he had cut.
Nikolic rises to his feet, shaken but still strong. He again moves forward, heaving his shield out before him in hopes of forcing Eboric to recoil, then thrusts with his sword at the werebear's unprotected belly. Once again the strike is a feint, however, the blade dropping down and away. Using the momentum of its swing, the Ealdorman whirls it around in a high arc, meaning to hack into Eboric's neck.
Eboric stands still, merely shifting his weight to absorb the blow from the shield. It succeeds in knocking him back a single step, but he seems none the worse for wear as he steps back once more, readying himself for a thrust that never comes. Instead, as Nikolic's blade swings high, he raises his seax, catching and deflecting the blow, then whipping around to hit the edge of the Ealdorman's shield, knocking it wide. To the exposed body of his foe, the king delivers a swift kick, his boot catching Nikolic in the gut, staggering and winding him. Without hesitation, Eboric follows up with a thrust of his own with Eidhur, aiming the black blade for the Ealdorman's chest.
Nikolic's eyes widen in shock as the sword slides in, the dark metal impossibly cold as it passes his ribs to find his heart. To him, it seems as though that moment lasts hours, as the cold of the sword spreads outward, numbing his body as it goes, weighing down muscles and swallowing his life. In the void left by the chill, he can sense a terrifying void, a place devoid of the comfort of kin.
Eboric draws the sword from Nikolic's chest, letting the man drop to his knees, his eyes growing glassy, pupils widening as death comes. Before the body can fall the rest of the way to the earth, the king hacks once, putting his weight behind the blow as it strikes the Ealdorman's neck, cutting and through to detach the head from the rest of the corpse. As the two broken pieces of Nikolic hit the ground, the Eboric turns to the watching soldiers and raises his dripping blade. "You men of Berendebyrg! You are loyal men, you kept your oath to your lord. But your lord broke his to me." He points at the lifeless body at his feet, saying, "This is what becomes of oathbreakers, of disloyal thanes who attempt to rise higher than they should. If there are any here who wish to follow him, step forward!" None move, and the werebear's face splits into a feral grin. "Good. I will not punish you for following your sworn lord. But now, he is dead, and you will swear to me, your rightful king. There is a blight on these lands once again! Kneel, swear, and help me free our home of it!"
The soldiers kneel. A few at first, then more, until every last one of them is on one knee. They speak their oath, the voices overlapping and blending until it is only a wave of sound. When it is done, the king gestures, arms outspread. "Stand then, men of Venturil! Return to your homes, and gather your gear. You will march with me this night!" As the soldiers disperse, Eboric turns to his nearest companion. "Take this out of sight, and cut it into two halves," he says, pointing at the body of Nikolic. "Send one half to Diernebyrg, and one to Aedrebyrg. Take the head, and put it on a spike above the gates here. I will have no more of this treason in my land." The soldier nods, and moves to obey.