RP:Eboric Takes the Palace

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

The Royal Palace, Venturil

For miles around, the denizens of Venturil were gaping toward the sky, where vast plumes of dark, acrid smoke rose to choke the land surrounding the city's Palace. Many of the able-bodied were already there, assisting the majority of the guards in beating back a terrible fire that raged out of control in the barracks behind the Royal building, spreading quickly to the stables. It was a disaster, and one that threatened to leap across the barrack walls to the merchant sector.. Ash-smirched and exhausted, many shook their heads in dismay - it was as if this blaze had a mind of its own.. but thank all the gods, they would say, that the fair winds kept it from blackening the Palace itself.

Tenebrae sat on the throne, flanked by two many-eyed atrocities which loosely resembled faceless serpents with several incongruously humanoid sets of limbs, the eyes in question staring balefully in two rows down the sides of those sinuous bodies. Dressed in scarlet, the Necromancer lolled one leg over the throne's carven arm, her back pressed to the other, and nibbled on a human heart. Before her lay a squelchy sort of ruin, red with clots and giblets, shards of bone and twists of metal that might have once been armour. From the abandoned palace gates, all the way to this horrible scene, arrows of blood painted on the pristine walls led the curious here. To die, mostly.

Eboric curses at the sight of the smoke. The warlord has been patrolling nearer and nearer the city, anxious to assume control of the place, and only his word to Tenebrae keeping him from launching a full assault. He rides at the head of scouting party, all mounted, and it his half to them, and half to himself that he says, "I do not intend to be king of a smouldering ruin." His white horse leaps forward, and it is all the scouts can do to keep up with their liege as he spurs into the city, ignoring the terrified citizens as they run to protect their homes from the blaze. Once inside, the werebear directs the majority of his men to where the flames rage, taking only a few of them to investigate the arrows of what can be nothing but blood. He follows them along, still mounted, until he breaks out into the throne room at last. The ghostly steed takes him up the walkway at a slot pace, while he stares at the woman seated on the throne.

Tenebrae tossed the shrivelled remnants of the heart over hear shoulder and licked her fingers, before wiggling them in greeting to Eboric. "Took your time."

Eboric comes to a halt a short distance away, and glances around, taking in every detail of the throne room. "What is this," he asks, eyes narrowing. "The city burns, and the castle awash with blood? What game are you playing?"

The Necromancer swung her leg back down, shifting herself upright, and placed her pale, bloodied hands on the armrests of the throne. The creatures beside her turned all of their many eyes upon Eboric, while their blank heads twisted toward their creatrix, as though they were waiting for orders. Tene ignored them, smirking at the obviously ruffled were-bear on his horse, amid the mangled bodies of the former Royal Guard. "Now, now," she chided Eboric, raising one hand to wave an admonishing finger at him. "Your tone is not very neighbourly, Eboric. You might want to amend that." Still smirking, the Necromancer petted the nearest Watcher on its chitinous nose, idly, and said, "I am merely here to make you an offer." One, she was quite sure, that Eboric could not refuse.

Eboric dismounts, leaving the horse standing still, flanked by the three men he had brought with him. Walking the last few steps toward the throne, he shows no fear of the Watchers, focusing instead on the woman on the throne. His throne. "And what offer is that," he asks, suspicious.

Tenebrae let silence hang like a body on a gibbet – it was plain she was thoroughly enjoying all of this. Then the woman in scarlet tugged a slip of parchment from her cleavage and waved it like a paper fan before her face. "I shall need gold, for the building of a Temple on the land you've promised me. Quite a lot of it, actually. And for that gold, I -might- be inclined to hand you this..." she snapped the parchment out, then fluttered it a little. "This.. being the signed and sealed abdication of the -former- King of Venturil."

Eboric gives a wry smile. "So I'm to buy my crown, is that it? Better than being handed it, I suppose. Gold I have in plenty, Tenebrae, and I can spare some for your building costs. But I will need assurances, of the most binding kind, that you and your group will neither attack me and mine, nor ally with those who do."

Tene made a show of looking very wounded at the suggestion that Eboric would be "buying" his throne. "Nothing so vulgar as purchase, Bear-shirt. I merely ask compensation for what this piece of parchment has cost me to obtain. Two hundred thousand ought to cover it." She winked one green eye at him, "Materials.. pain and suffering." Much of the latter had not been her own, she but wasn't going to tell him that. "And we've already discussed the mutual benefits of being neighbours, haven't we? Cups of sugar, and wot-wot." Her next words preceded by a sigh that spoke of infinite patience with the mentally deficient. "However, if you insist..." she placed her other hand over her heart, "I promise."

Eboric snorts loudly, causing his men to jump a little. "Right. Well, surely you don't expect me to have that amount on hand. I will have it delivered to you, and we will speak more of your promise when that day comes." He reaches out a hand for the paper, controlling his eagerness most admirably. "And you still haven't explained the fire and the...bodies."

Tenebrae held the parchment back, as one might tease a child with candy. "One little clause, Eboric, to the former agreement. I must insist that it will not be seen as any fault of my own should you irritate any of my people to the degree that they would, as an individual, seek retaliation. After all, I am aware of just how irritating you -can- be. But for now, I shall call amnesty on all past transgressions and vow upon my fealty to the God of Death - I shall not come against you, and nor will my people, without very good cause." Tenebrae thought it unseemly to mention the gold again, so she did not. Instead she went on, "As for the fire - you are not King, yet. And the King is in.. ahem. He's indisposed, you might say. And since no other room is more fitting a place in which to conduct your succession," the Necromancer shrugged, "I made sure we weren't to be bothered too much." As if on cue, there came sounds of armoured men running toward the hall Tenebrae smiled, at last holding the document out to Eboric. "Not all of Rheven's subjects are going to be happy about your ascension. I dare say, there'll be complaints.."

Eboric takes the paper with a smile. A quick glance assures him of its legitimacy, and he snaps out an order to his men. One departs in all haste, taking care to avoid the hurrying men. He is scarcely gone before they arrive, breathless and confused by the sight that greets them. "I am the Cyning Eboric, son of Penda, scion of the Kuronii, Titan of Winter, Titan of War, and I claim the throne of Venturil by right of blood and conquest." His voice carries through the room, echoing from the walls, and filled with the power only a battle-commander can summon. "Even now, my armies are entering the city." A half truth, at best, but the less time wasted, the better. "Loyalty will be rewarded with gold and land, but treason will be punished swiftly and without mercy." His eyes are hard as he turns to the guards, towering above them. "Now go, and see to those fires."

Tenebrae drew and then released a deep breath, and turned a sharp thought to the Watchers, ~kill the one with the shredded cloak, and the one with the long beard~ as those were most likely to prove troublesome, said her present power of foresight. And while the horrible creatures slithered off to scale walls in order to drop on those men from above, Tenebrae spoke again to Eboric, "You really are a bit thick, aren't you? This room will soon be swarming with loyalists.. and I shall probably be forced to do something about that. Subtle as a freight wagon.." she sighed again, and vacated the throne, stepping lightly down into the gory mess she'd made of the former throne-room guards. "You'll find your name marked as successor, Eboric - but if we must indulge your passion for fighting," and fighting there was, swords already ringing loud as loyalist steel clashed with that borne by Eboric's men, "I'll play along for a while.” Outside, the fire raged - still most oddly confined to areas that would not damage the Palace.. among the casualties, several commanders she'd ascertained to be unwaveringly loyal to Rheven, apparently perished in the flame since no trace of poisoned arrow-wounds would survive such a blaze.

Eboric draws Eidhur, the black metal drinking in the wan light of the room. "My men are not far, and have been ready to mobilize for weeks now. I estimate that the first waves will arrive within the hour." He moves swiftly to help his two scouts, joining the fray for the brief few minutes before the remainder of his scouting party, alerted by the messenger, arrive to cut into the loyalists from behind, staining the room with yet more blood. "Come," he says to Tenebrae. "We will close off the castle as best we can to keep them out, and hold until my men arrive."

Tenebrae clapped her hands, as might a small girl promised a trip to the circus, "Ooh, I love a good siege. Warn your fellows to keep off the battlements, won't you?" She did not explain why - and perhaps wouldn't need to, as horrified screams rang out from the walls, strangled words about monsters among those pitiful noises. Tene said nothing more, for the moment, but merely unslung her delicate jaw, which was abruptly no longer delicate in any manner at all, but a horror-mouth filled with needle teeth. Her nose shrivelled to a tilted nub, her features pushed back to a mad rictus, and the black armour scantily casing parts of her anatomy extruded chitin plates. As these slid across her changing frame, the Empusai nature of her blossomed to its ghastly fruition. The monster who'd gifted Eboric a throne throated a chuckle of joy and flexed its razored fingertips, its lantern-like gaze fixed on Eboric, lit with a light of mockery, as if to say, "Lead on."

Eboric cannot hide the look of revulsion that flickers across his face at this new development, and his men look to him worriedly. He shakes his head, leading the group back out into the main rooms of the castle, his warriors moving to bar doors and block windows with the efficiency born from experience. "It would be best," he says as they move, "if Venturil did not see me as some usurper with demons at his beck and call, don't you think?"

Tenebrae snickered and said, somewhat hissily through that fangsome maw, "As you wish, your Majesty." A welter of barbs erupted from her hands, and she made short work of clambering the stone wall toward a high, unglassed window-slot. "I shall leave no-one deluded as to whose beck and call these demons obey." A large shadow crushed light from the window's opening, summoned by some soundless call or other, and Tenebrae leapt toward it. A moment later, she was peeping through again to shout to the new King below, "The ones I'll leave behind are expendable. Weaklings, left over from my vat-spawn. Have your men dispatch them once they've thinned the loyal guard, and see what heroes you all become..." Shrieks from the outer reaches sounded, as the locals got their first glimpse of an Empusai wing-beast, the horror swooping like a nightmarish bat-god across the burning barracks moments later, bearing its Mistress back to matters of more import to her, leaving Eboric to deal with the aftermath.

Eboric cannot help but smile. Firstly, because he had been thinking the same thing, and perhaps might have simply attacked the beasts on his own, had events not unfolded as he desired. Secondly, he can hear the wailing calls of battle horns, and he knows that his men approach. First come the mounted warriors, few enough in number, but their shaggy horses are as heavily armored as the riders themselves, and they clear a path by the sheer force of their movement. Behind them come the infantry men of the Gedriht; tall, scarred men from Rynvale island, heavily-bearded men from Frostmaw, and the Murum Mors of Gualon, looking somewhat out of place with their short stature and southern armor. All are disciplined and orderly, however, showing that the new king has not been idle, and they march swiftly toward the castle, keeping themselves ready for any ambush.

The serpent-headed Watchers, having accomplished their orders to dispatch the commanders of the guards, leaving the rest of them bewildered and terrified, had no imperative other than to fulfil their prime purpose - and watch. Hanging upside-down from the vaulted ceilings, they'd provide Tenebrae with a monster's-eye view, as it were, of the chaos to follow. On the walls, those supposedly weakling Custodian creatures, horrors beyond imagining with loathesome scythes for arms, sheared through the Palace's defenders like butter, sustaining many injuries of their own which leaked black ichor though this did not as yet slow them down. Body-parts and innards spattered the grounds below, and the armours of Eboric's men and the native guards alike. Some of the Venturillians had drawn back from the fray, muttering about having wives and children, while others shouted about invaders and threw themselves into the task of defending the Palace in the name of their rightful King. One grey-bearded man, in particular, was the one to whom most of the loyalists paid heed. He was Geralt, a staunchly loyal sergeant-at-arms, and his deep voice bellowed to the men above to fall back from the turrets even as they died.. He moved through the incoming swathe of armed men like a giant of legend, smashing helmets and taking heads as he and his men forged a path to the Palace doors, others ordered to swarm the watch-towers where archers were taking their toll on the forces of the Usurper, as Eboric was already dubbed in those battle-cries. But only one half of the army came to defend to the palace and its bastions. Those beating back the last of the fires had not yet heeded the impending battle within, and were in any case too exhausted to fight.

Eboric 's officers begin barking orders, and the ranks tighten, the cavalry disappearing down side streets, unable to charge in the confusion. The foot soldiers close ranks, lapping their shields over one another to form a thick wall of metal-rimmed wood, bristling with spear-points wielded by the second and third ranks, while the first rows keep their seaxes drawn, ready to stab. One by one, the watchtowers are taken, and manned by the werebear's own archers, who throw out the new king's banner to offer hope to their friends on the ground. The main bulk of the force enters the courtyard, however, following that section of the army led by the loyal sergeant. They halt there, the spiked wall of men and shields spreading along the inside of the walls like a dark stain, widening the line of battle with every step. Meanwhile, the cavalry abandons their all but useless horses, taking their side streets and alleys to the palace, where through a servant's entrance they gain access to the inner chambers, bolstering Eboric's small force.

The fires that had raged through the barracks and stables were at last under control. Later, around campfires, those who fled to join the new rebel factions would whisper that the dulling of the flames had coincided with a jagged-winged shadow passing across the sun; a demonic shape so large that it was as though a brief night had fallen, and taken the heart of the conflagration with it. Indeed, there were murmurs that the Usurper had a powerful witch in his employ, and a company of demons.. More rational men would laugh and call them fume-drunk. But they'd know what they saw, and swear by it.. In the palace grounds, presently, Geralt was barking orders for his men to stand their ground, though the barbarian horde had them penned in from all sides. They'd die this day, Geralt believed, but by the gods of steel and vengeance, they'd take as many of these stinking wildermen down with them... Broken archers joined their arrows, littering the ground under the turrets and watch-towers, though many had surrendered.

Eboric's presence was not cursed by every Venturillian native that day, however - there were enough that called their thanks for liberating them from the vampire's clutches, others were grateful for help given to extinguish the fires and shared an ale with their unexpected saviours while the battle raged beyond the burned-out timbers. It seemed for a time that those who chose to fight the Usurper's forces were doomed to perish - until an elderman, long of beard and tooth, hobbled through the shatter of metal and flesh and shouted hoarse words of wisdom to the Sergeant, urging him to live to fight another day... and reminding him, too, that escape was feasible, if he only thought of the cellars...

Eboric , his ranks now bolstered by the dismounted cavalry, flings open the palace gates, sallying out in a pristine wedge formation, shields overlapped to form an arrowhead that marches smoothly down the steps and picks up speed, heading for the rebel forces. If escape is to happen, it will need to be soon. The main bulk of Eboric's force is too great to fit within the walls, and detachments are sent up onto the walls, where they begin the grim work of hunting Tenebrae's creatures, their locked shields giving them an advantage over the hapless guards that were so swiftly cut down by the monsters.

It was to the great fortune of Eboric's men on the battlements that Tenebrae had indeed brought with her the runts of her latest batch of vat-spawn... Even so, the creatures faced by the shielded troops were beyond horrific, and more than one would bear festering scars which would never quite heal, or was simply hewn down by slashing scythe-arms, snapped like twigs in maws more fearsome than any wild animal's. But the creatures slowly were themselves hacked to pieces, one or two judicious spear-strikes by chance finding the weak spot - clusters of ganglion buried deep below the hard chitin, bitten into by probing spear-tips where a gap in the plating was glimpsed...

Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Geralt was howling with bitter rage, ordering his men to take to the tunnels below, which travelled for miles in a mad maze of wine cellars, long-forgotten family crypts and access-passages to the southerly regions dug out half an aeon ago, when great men and demigods waged terrible war on the surface.. The entrances were well disguised, and the passages an endless puzzle for anyone who had spent his boyhood exploring them. Into these dank tunnels, the majority escaped, cursing the name of Eboric and swearing on the graves of their mothers that they'd get their revenge.. and avenge the King they'd sworn fealty to, with blood and honour. Many were now kneeling as Eboric passed by, having thrown down their weapons and surrendered, or did so from the gladness in their hearts to see a living man claim the throne.

Eboric 's spear of men follows the fleeing rebels for a time, but he calls out the halt before they can be lost in the cellars. Leaving his men to board up the entrance, he returns to the palace doors where, standing at the top of the steps, he turns to face the crowd. His men are at work disarming those who surrendered, and the Cyning pays no attention to that, speaking instead to the citizens of Venturil, who gather in droves now that the fires are quenched and the monsters slain. "People of Venturil!" His voice echoes even louder against the ornate mask of his helmet, and the words are repeated back along the crowds. "I am Eboric, son of Penda, of the line of Aethelred, who was Ine's brother." The names are whispered among those who know their history, and the horde takes on a note of excitement. "I hold in my hand the paper, signed by Rheven himself, abdicating the throne, and legitimizing my claim to it even further." He produces and brandishes the document as he speaks. "I will usher in a new era for this land. Prosperity will return, and trade will expand. My men will begin taking oaths of fealty. I suggest you give them." Not much of a speech, but the crowd seems not to mind. As if to punctuate the words, Eboric's men unfurl the massive banner, flying it from the walls. A field of red, trimmed with gold, on which a golden bear stands, its head sporting a stylized crown. The castle, at least, is taken.