Words of Power (The Elves of Gotresham) - Menace - 26.11.
Nov 29, 2019 15:34:29 GMT
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Serpentine/Morganna, Merla, the Daughter of Summer, and 1 more like this
Post by Ian (Menace) on Nov 29, 2019 15:34:29 GMT
The wind never seems to cease blowing over Kul’Goran. With the arrival of general winter, the fighting between the Kul’Gorani and the giants is becoming even more brutal, as the very ground greedily drinks the injured and dyings’ hot blood, and the merciless winds chill the survivors to their very bones. War is a waking nightmare, but the weather is sapping even the last of high spirits.
Since the last sortie to the north, Menace has withdrawn to Truehorn’s Tavern in Zot’Goran, capital city of the republic at war. Having spent the better part of the last month in the city, he has taken quite a liking to it, exploring its labyrinthine streets and markets. “And less worry of the revenant catching up to me here”, he thinks to himself, “probably still on the long overland way… By the time it comes even close, I will use the teleportation ring back to Daring, having made its entire journey pointless!” he chuckles at the thought. And even if the corpse-walker should manage to make the entire way - on foot - there are few better places to hide out than in the midst of body of armed men. The war, he muses, certainly has its benefits.
And so much opportunity for bloodletting… It truly suits us.
He barely even notices the grating voice at the back of his mind anymore. The war has shown many strange things to be possible, a comforting voice to guide and validate his actions is surely the least of his worries.
How nice of you to notice.
But the war is always on his mind. So much opportunity - and so much waste. During the last mission, he and a group of mercenaries from Daring had been sent north to assist the Errant Guard at Fort Maelstrom. Varis, Baine, Mystigon, Sheryl and Serpentine had all come along for this foraging mission, explained by veteran commander Howl to target a recently destroyed Fort for its armory, the contents of which were desperately needed to maintain the Kul’Gorani defenses; the mercenaries being necessary to stiffen the resolve of the regular troops and provide a proven edge in the fighting that continued to rage in the area. The journey north had been pleasant enough, he was well acquainted with the group, with the exception of Baine, a half-orc soldier of the Crimson Fist. Commander Varis, the stern but competent master of the Order proved to be as knowledgeable about tactics as he was brutally effective in battle, helped to pass the time on the journey.
If only he would ease up on the preaching of the greater good…
Yes, indeed; hadn't he just said so himself? The good commander tended to drone on a bit about his “responsibility to protect”, but he certainly had a mind of shifting wheels that Menace could appreciate. Soldiers may do the necessary fighting; but it is the machinery of war, the logistics, the positioning, the leveraging of advantage that truly won a conflict, and this was a language that Menace was well versed in.
When they had reached the ruins of Fort Blackstone, his mercenary companions had shown their mettle. While the Kul’Gorani soldiers were busy clearing the debris to reach the armory, they had been attacked from two sides by both giants and the mysterious elves of Gotesham. Quick tactical appraisal and the ruthless application of overwhelming force had crushed the attackers, leaving the Errant Guard and its mercenary auxilia to carry the day with minimal casualties. But such a waste it had been.
No blood shed is ever truly wasted…
He furrows his brow at the memory. An unbidden thought, waved off like a fly. Sheryl, the fae-touched halfling had certainly had a promising idea: turn the elves to our advantage. She had sung to them, slowed their advance. But she had failed to turn them, and Serpentine had seized the moment to destroy the incoming threat with a savage curse that left the elves in no doubt about their enemies. This would lead to a vicious exchange between the two, leaving Sheryl badly shaken after the battle. He pitied the halfling, for while her instinct may have been right to wonder if the elves could be turned into assets, she had failed to realize that their value lay in the bodies they offered, not the lives to be saved. Sometimes no matter the question, steel must be the answer. Or gold. He smiles at that.
Surely you could have done better... Gather more bodies for the slaughter. All offerings to the Bloody Handed Lord are equally worthy.
Words are like weapons - if properly applied, they kill just as surely as a blade. He has always known this, and always wielded them like a master swordsman. Turning the elves to his advantage would have been no small task, but surely, he could have done it. What does a musician know of the power of words, really? What does a warrior? The way his words can make you doubt what you held true; how a whisper can drip like poison through a man’s ear, where no armor can protect him? An open mind is like a great fortress, with its gates unbarred and its walls unguarded. And he would breach every citadel he turns his will to.
Let me help you. All ways of violence please Him Who Kills…
He does not notice the whispers anymore. They mingle with his thoughts, weave together, creating strands of power in a tapestry of ambition and violence. Red is the color of his dreams, gold the hue of his will, and crimson the shade of his art, as he lets the whispers flow through him, and he begins to write. Words, like weapons, have a power all of their own - and all weapons incite to deeds of violence.
Since the last sortie to the north, Menace has withdrawn to Truehorn’s Tavern in Zot’Goran, capital city of the republic at war. Having spent the better part of the last month in the city, he has taken quite a liking to it, exploring its labyrinthine streets and markets. “And less worry of the revenant catching up to me here”, he thinks to himself, “probably still on the long overland way… By the time it comes even close, I will use the teleportation ring back to Daring, having made its entire journey pointless!” he chuckles at the thought. And even if the corpse-walker should manage to make the entire way - on foot - there are few better places to hide out than in the midst of body of armed men. The war, he muses, certainly has its benefits.
And so much opportunity for bloodletting… It truly suits us.
He barely even notices the grating voice at the back of his mind anymore. The war has shown many strange things to be possible, a comforting voice to guide and validate his actions is surely the least of his worries.
How nice of you to notice.
But the war is always on his mind. So much opportunity - and so much waste. During the last mission, he and a group of mercenaries from Daring had been sent north to assist the Errant Guard at Fort Maelstrom. Varis, Baine, Mystigon, Sheryl and Serpentine had all come along for this foraging mission, explained by veteran commander Howl to target a recently destroyed Fort for its armory, the contents of which were desperately needed to maintain the Kul’Gorani defenses; the mercenaries being necessary to stiffen the resolve of the regular troops and provide a proven edge in the fighting that continued to rage in the area. The journey north had been pleasant enough, he was well acquainted with the group, with the exception of Baine, a half-orc soldier of the Crimson Fist. Commander Varis, the stern but competent master of the Order proved to be as knowledgeable about tactics as he was brutally effective in battle, helped to pass the time on the journey.
If only he would ease up on the preaching of the greater good…
Yes, indeed; hadn't he just said so himself? The good commander tended to drone on a bit about his “responsibility to protect”, but he certainly had a mind of shifting wheels that Menace could appreciate. Soldiers may do the necessary fighting; but it is the machinery of war, the logistics, the positioning, the leveraging of advantage that truly won a conflict, and this was a language that Menace was well versed in.
When they had reached the ruins of Fort Blackstone, his mercenary companions had shown their mettle. While the Kul’Gorani soldiers were busy clearing the debris to reach the armory, they had been attacked from two sides by both giants and the mysterious elves of Gotesham. Quick tactical appraisal and the ruthless application of overwhelming force had crushed the attackers, leaving the Errant Guard and its mercenary auxilia to carry the day with minimal casualties. But such a waste it had been.
No blood shed is ever truly wasted…
He furrows his brow at the memory. An unbidden thought, waved off like a fly. Sheryl, the fae-touched halfling had certainly had a promising idea: turn the elves to our advantage. She had sung to them, slowed their advance. But she had failed to turn them, and Serpentine had seized the moment to destroy the incoming threat with a savage curse that left the elves in no doubt about their enemies. This would lead to a vicious exchange between the two, leaving Sheryl badly shaken after the battle. He pitied the halfling, for while her instinct may have been right to wonder if the elves could be turned into assets, she had failed to realize that their value lay in the bodies they offered, not the lives to be saved. Sometimes no matter the question, steel must be the answer. Or gold. He smiles at that.
Surely you could have done better... Gather more bodies for the slaughter. All offerings to the Bloody Handed Lord are equally worthy.
Words are like weapons - if properly applied, they kill just as surely as a blade. He has always known this, and always wielded them like a master swordsman. Turning the elves to his advantage would have been no small task, but surely, he could have done it. What does a musician know of the power of words, really? What does a warrior? The way his words can make you doubt what you held true; how a whisper can drip like poison through a man’s ear, where no armor can protect him? An open mind is like a great fortress, with its gates unbarred and its walls unguarded. And he would breach every citadel he turns his will to.
Let me help you. All ways of violence please Him Who Kills…
He does not notice the whispers anymore. They mingle with his thoughts, weave together, creating strands of power in a tapestry of ambition and violence. Red is the color of his dreams, gold the hue of his will, and crimson the shade of his art, as he lets the whispers flow through him, and he begins to write. Words, like weapons, have a power all of their own - and all weapons incite to deeds of violence.
