RP:Macon Jauzon: The Furious King

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

Summary: With war looming, Macon takes this opportunity to to crown himself King of Larket with the population of the city in attendance at Fort Freedom. Hecklers and The Rage Stone's aura incite those within the mob and The Frozen Knight, Jhaelyn, sees to silencing the disturbances. Ernest ruins Jhaelyn's dinner and Thronnel does the honor of completing the ceremony.

Fortress Gate

Macon fidgets somewhat nervously somewhere inside the fort. The Death Knight, in full armor sans helm, has his trusty great axe strapped to his back, hanging diagonal to the ground with the bladehead down by his hip. The Rage Stone is absent from its usual spot in the socket at the center of the axehead, though it must be somewhere within Fort Freedom as its furious ambient aura can be felt pulling at last nerves as it does. Outside, the vast majority of Larket appears to have come out for this event. A mob, far greater in size than the furious one that had gathered to call for Kelovath’s head at Lucy’s crossing a few months ago, now mulls about, buzzing in anticipation of what has been billed as the crowning of a new king. The large gate leading into Fort Freedom is shut with several guards stationed outside of it to create a bubble between the crowd and the outer wall of the fort upon which the man seizing the throne will stand. Those gathered only have to wait five or so minutes past the announced start time, (during which several stragglers arrive late and join the back end of the crowd), before Macon comes into view directly above the gate on the curtain wall.

Jhaelyn had given Macon some pearls of wisdom in an attempt to calm him earlier in the day, but it would appear that it didn't help much. Probably also didn't help that most things she said were sarcastic, or somehow an ice pun, but she did her best. She was rather lacking in empathy today, sadly. As the furious one steps into view, a grin surfaces on the pale elf's face as the frigid elf pushes through the crowd to somewhere in the middle. Crowd control seemed an important thing right now, what with the possibility of people opposing this happy and glorious occasion. The expression of delight fades from sight and shifts into a stern, collected look. Now was the time for her to focus. Suddenly, a gentle breeze wafts through the entire area, and a light snow begins to fall. It was as if she was giving some sort of reassurance that she was present, even if he couldn't see her amongst the crowd. Hopefully, it would ease his mind somewhat.

Thronnel stood beside Macon as they waited for the coronation to begin. He had searched Frostmaw from its seediest alleyways to its poshest restaurants, and had found neither hide nor hair of Kelovath. He had come back to update the Rage Knight only to find himself swept up into the pomp and circumstance of the day. What timing! He stayed silent, but followed behind Macon as he ascended to the top of the fort wall, with the guards. He stayed back from the edge, but he could hear the crowd and he struggled to keep the disdain from his face. Such fools they all were. Well, it was working to his advantage, at least. He shivered as the snow began to fall and pulled his coat tighter around him.

Ernest was in the crowd, not part of the ceremony. He'd heard of some big production with a big muckety-muck of some kind and saw the crowd gathering and thought, "maybe he'll be there." So he joined in the throng. His face hidden beneath the wide brim of a hat, his body inside a long jacket, his hands in his pockets. One thing he couldn't quite mask, however, was his odor. The sickly sweet scent of concentrated floral extract permeated his whole body, as well as a strange spiced aroma. But that faint stench of death still swirled around him. Something nearby had died--perhaps not recently--but it was enough. And it was enough for the vultures. A half-dozen of them swirled overhead, waiting... watching. As did Ernest, as he moved through the crowd. No... no... no... just because he hadn't found him yet didn't mean the man wasn't here. He would find what he was looking for. That much he knew for certain.

Macon does that thing where he waves and points in a random direction into the crowd so that some portion of it thinks he is acknowledging them specifically. His reception is mixed to say the least. Spattered cheers weave in and out of the building murmur within Larket’s population. As always there is at least one heckler that isn’t yet convinced by the avalanche of evidence presented against the absent Kelovath, who shouts out “Traitor!” The Fury Knight, maintains a flat expression while tilting his dull, grey gaze upward into the newly falling snow. With one deep breath of the cold, evening air all the jitters he had been experiencing appear to melt away. With a raise of his right hand and a booming shout of “Larket!” He silences, relatively, the crowd. With the same confidence and poise he has addressed the people of his city with several times before. “I am happy to see so many of you here as I make this pledge to the Kingdom. Many of you know that there are difficult times ahead!” He lets that sink in for a moment, not exactly mincing words by dropping that warning right from the beginning…

Jhaelyn 's attention flits away from Macon and over to the one shouting in opposition of He-Who-Will-Be-King. She runs her tongue over her teeth in brief consideration before carefully moving through the crowd towards the heckler. Along the way, she just so happens to pass rather close to Ernest, an eyebrow raised in his direction. Her necromantic energies tugged at her mind, but she didn't need those to tell her what he was. Undead knew their own kind quite well. "Interesting," is all that came from the former paladin before she set on towards her quarry. It didn't take long, but she'd find the one who'd made their opinion of Macon very clear. Jhae continued her attempt to blend in, the chill in air worsening somewhat, just to get the attention off of the rather tall elf woman. Talks of the weather and the coronation was always good for that sort of thing.

Thronnel could tell from the mixed reception that Larket was a deeply divided town. He wondered what would happen when he brought Kelovath back to meet his doom. Would any dare rise up to save him? He would make quick work of them. He breathed into his hands in an attempt to warm them, and listened to Macon's speech. Well. Way to hype a crowd, guy.

Ernest froze. Another undead in the crowd. A curiosity. Perhaps related to his quest--and especially with the way her aura suddenly seemed to darken, maybe she'd found his target? Regardless, he needed to get close to find out more about the way these things were done these days. It had been ten years, after all. Since she wasn't making herself hard to find, he shifted course and lurched after her, using a bony talon to pry open an eyelid and gaze on the scene with a yellowed, half-glazed eyeball.

Macon has started with fear to get their attention and will work from there. He is making use of Frostmaw’s act of war to facilitate the grab for the crown, but he's also taking this opportunity to rally them for the fight to come. “Frostmaw has wronged each and every one of you. The Warmongering City has insulted your kingdom… They’ve walked an army through your home… And mos’ of all they have denied you justice…” The Rage Knight’s words, coupled with The Rage Stone’s unseen presence have infuriated much of the crowd. Not least of all the heckler, who is completely oblivious to the Dead Cold descending on him as he glares up at the focal point of the gathering. “Justice for your councilwoman and your sons, murdered in cold blood by the cowardly paladin…” Macon continues to rile them up, “Justice for your daughters that were los’to the Fermin attacks and their plagues. Justice for your brothers..!” He shakes a fist wildly in the air at his side to punctuate that, “Who fell during Frostmaw’s intervention in Larketian affairs…” He seems able to control their anger with each wave of his hand and rise in his voice. His command over the stone, even when it is not in his direct possession has certainly improved greatly since he first discovered the furious artifact…

Jhaelyn stared at the back of the heckler's head, listening as he went about his business and yelling at Macon. She wouldn't wait long, only until Macon took a breath and paused in his speech and then... Then, the undead female would grab the heckler's arms, bring them behind his back, leaned forward, and took a massive chomp out of his throat. Blood gurgled from the Larketian's throat, sputtering and spurting. The thick red liquid splattered on Jhaelyn's face, but it only drew a contented sigh from her. The undead elf drew her head away from the man's juggular, the blood dripping from her lips, sinew chewed thoughtfully. She didn't let go of him yet, the first bite just a warning.

Thronnel felt himself getting riled up, himself, though he couldn't fathom why. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He could vaguely sense magic in the air, and whispered an incantation under his breath, an all-encompassing shield against magical influence. Almost immediately he felt calmer. And warmer. He found that odd, but turned his attention to Macon and the crowd.

Ernest could have quoted Bruce Banner. Or an Angry Marine. He was always angry. All the time. The Rage Stone simply brought out his desire to kill his target even more than usual. Which meant intensifying his focus. Which meant he caught every gory detail of the woman's murder of the heckler. It brought a curl to his dessicated lips, a sneer of contempt. Quick as a flash--faster than one might expect of something like him--he snapped a hand inside his longcoat and whipped out a small crossbow. Two shots, one right after the other--pew-pew--right into her victim's forehead. "Uuuuuncivilizsssed," he moaned, shaking his head and turning away, reholstering the weapon and disappearing into the crowd.

Macon continues on, either oblivious to or ignoring the commotion in a quadrant of the crowd caused by a pair of undead teaming up to kill a man who deserved it, maybe. “You and this kingdom have been stomped on and rolled over for too long! Unable to stand up… T’fight back, because you have no ruler. No Queen.” He pauses briefly after this obvious reference to the kingdom’s last matriarch. “No champion…” Several back away in fear of the Chilly Elf, bumping into other attendees, which thanks to the Rage Stone’s effect, incites a fist fight or two. Macon struggles to begin his next thought, finally distracted by the disturbed part of the crowd that those grounded guards are moving in to quell. He eases off from exerting the full force of the angry artifact so as not to lose the remainder of the populous in the same way. “You have a council handcuffed by their own disgrace for aiding and backing a murderer, unable to act for you. I will become your champion. I will stand for you where your kingdom has failed to for too many years. -I- will punish those barbarians on the mountain for what they’ve done to you and together we will restore the strength and reverence this City once held!” With that the acting sheriff of Larket appears on the wall of the fort, carrying with him Larket’s new crown, golden and intricate, and at the center of it, the cause of the unrest in the city, The Rage Stone, acts as the crown jewel. The red gem glowing faintly in the twilight. Even the Fury Knight seems frustrated a bit now, seeing as he's losing part of his audience to disorder.

Oh, silly undead guy. You went and ruined her meal. That...was not a good idea. Not at all. Suddenly that rage that pulsed from Macon's stone overwhelmed Jhaelyn's broken mind. Oh, she was angry. Very, very angry. The snow began to fall harder and the wind bit at the faces of the mortals gathered. Her piercing blue stare followed Ernest until he was gone and a snarl pours from between blue lips. The ones fighting nearby is glared at and then promptly frozen to the ground. Shrieking at them, the sword is pulled from her back, and pointed at the those that dared fight beside her, "You will give Macon your attention or I'll devour you where you stand!!" Her voice was stern, commanding, frigid. Whatever little bit of good that still resided in Jhaelyn was gone for the time being and all that stood before the crowd was an furious, hungry shell. As if to make good on getting silence out of them, a hand reaches out, summoning up the magic to freeze the water and blood in the throats of those nearby, effectively choking them.

Thronnel slipped up next to the parapets, seeing the chaos unfolding below. He looked then to Macon, saw the anger brewing, and touched his shoulder. "Calm yourself, Macon," he murmured. "All will be well." Maybe. Hell if he know. But it seemed like the thing to say at the moment. And then Jhaelyn was shrieking and choking people out and waving her sword around. Sigh. He looked at Macon. "One of yours?"

Ernest turned a glare over his shoulder, one last glimpse at the icy undead. One cursed quarrel in the gut would shut her up... no, she seemed to be trying to preserve order among this crowd, as riled up as they were. Besides, those curses were for one man in particular, not to mention the fact that it would totally undermine his whole message about being civilized and professional. Deftly stepping between fistfights--not so much using his agility and more of a sense of perfect timing--he continued his hunt, hoping the violence would cause his target to show his hand. So far, nothing. But Ernest had waited ten years for this. Patience was not something he lacked.

Macon stares down into the crowd at the elven source of all this ice and cold. She's frozen the would be disruptions to the coronation and he can't help but feel grateful to have found such a fearsome ally, but then again he doesn't know that Jhaelyn basically started the ruckus in the first place. Thronnel’s hand on his shoulder pulls The Death Knight’s gaze off of the undead woman and his words earn a nod, further quelling the onslaught of anger from the stone. “Indeed.” he says, abandoning the vocal volume he had been using to address the people of Larket in favor of one that only the warlock beside him can hear. Up until this point his speech seems to have been practiced and well thought out. It has at least half the crowd roused enough that they seem ready to run through a wall, (or in this case a mountain), for this man, while the remainder is just chilling, so to speak. With the sheriff and the crown another Larket guardsman steps up, apparently he is scripted to do the actual crowning, but Macon takes a quick glance at the ornamental headgear and then looks back to Thronnel, “Would ye’mind?” he asks, offering the elf the honor of crowning Larket’s King.

Jhaelyn 's cold stare shifted back up to Macon, the crown, and the one that stood by the Furious One's side. There was a slight flare of jealousy as she stared at the unknown male, but it's held back. The cold dies down somewhat as she watches the two converse, quelling the anger she felt. The sword is placed upon her back again, and she goes back to her quiet, frigid self. Arms cross over her chest, the entirety of her body now adorned in leathers instead of her rapidly disappearing armor. There wouldn't be another movement or peep out of her unless those around her decided to get chatty and punchy again.

Thronnel snorted. Macon had all sorts of... interesting friends, it seemed. As order is restored and the offer is made, Thronnel blinked. He had... not expected such a request. But who was he to refuse. "Of course." Thronnel took the crown and, lifting it high so as to show it off to the crowd, placed it upon Macon's head. "Hail, King Macon of Larket!" he said, projecting his voice across the crowd.

Ernest figured the right thing to do at this point was to pause for a moment and cheer. Blend in with the crowd a little more. Plus, with the way Ice Queen back there was offing people for not cooperating, he could avoid a fight by going along. So he did. Raised a fist and made some kind of strange, dusty sound that didn't particularly carry very far, but at least he was making the effort.

Macon basks in this moment, taking in every detail he possibly can when that crown is placed atop his head and the crowd erupts once more. Grey eyes narrow slightly as his head tracks right to left, scanning the entire mob and finally falling on Jhaelyn and her frozen crew. This has been his goal since the beginning of the ordeal he has been pulling Larket through, and now that he's accomplished it, it seems his work has only just begun. Frostmaw looms, and he reminds his new subjects of this almost immediately. “Prepare yourselves! This is a dawn of a new Larket! One that will not cower in the face of the mountain and The Silver Dragon sitting on it!”

Jhaelyn didn't cheer whatsoever. She'd let the mortals have their fun now that they'd been contained. A side eyed glance was given in the direction of where the other undead had gone, a frown lining her lips. She'd certainly have to find that guy again. Maybe give him a stern talking to about interrupting people's dinner. It was very rude and only made things worse for the people around her. Once the coronation was over with, she'd stare down at the heckler she and the other undead had murdered, no sympathy written on her features. He should've known better. He had to have known that Macon would have people like her to back him up. Were they all really that mindless? Macon had his crown now regardless of how things had panned out in the crowd, and Jhaelyn once again fell back into her introspective state of mind. The dead heckler is nudged with her newly acquired boot, and a brief consideration is made. The undead is soon seen grabbing the male's hand and dragging him off towards the cemetery area of the city, a lovely trail of blood left in her wake, the cold disappearing as she did. Jhaelyn preferred her meals living, but in this case, she'd made an exception.

Thronnel let Macon have his time in the spotlight. He wasn't looking forward to war with Frostmaw, but he would hopefully be out of town for the majority of it. He still had a paladin to hunt down. Thronnel backed away and headed down the stairs. He would need to leave for Cenril soon.

Ernest moved himself over to the direction of the fort's gates and proceeded to watch everyone exiting. None of them matched his target. More studying would have to be done--of this town and of others. Should he happen to meet the eye of the new king, he'd offer only a vague, respectful tip of his hat before making a disappearance of his own. The hunt continues.