Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
TWO WEEKS AGO
“A sullen affair, is it not, brothers?” The stride of Jean's horse was slow and steady, as he and his comrades rounded the site of the destruction. The air was still florid with the biting stench of smoldering sulfur and ashes, the ground darkened to a pitch by the derisive attack of sorcerous fire — traces of magical were still lingering in the air. Bodies, charred and bloodied, decorated the sallow fields. Blood-red insects buzzed through the air, near the corpses, amidst the thick smoke.
The path turned to a slope as the horses walked about, bits and pieces of the ground had eroded to the furious warfare. One of the mages coughed, breaking the silence. Another rode up till he was beside Jean.
“It is, unfortunately.” The blackhand next to Jean answered promptly, his voice gruff and steely. He was tall and well-built, and from the little that one could see, he was dark-skinned — likely possessing a bit of heritage from the Karshian tribes of the Earth kingdom, who're known for their burgundy complexion and light-coloured eyes. The man tugged onto his reins, keeping it steady, and setting his eyes solely on their supposed destination.
“The bodies are still fresh.” Jean replied, after a small, hesitant pause. He instinctively tightened his choke on the horses's rein; the animal gave out a loud, hoarse growl. Jean winced at his sudden, awkward mistake, shifting uncomfortably within his seat. The rest of the blackhands didn't pay any attention to this slight mishap, or at the very least, feigned nonchalance.
“The destruction is recent.” The Karshian answered, likely the least silent of the bunch. His words were bold, emphasis spread liberally among his words, but 'destruction' audibly stood out the most.
“Burnas?” The word was accentuated with a thick quaver towards the end, making it sound more like 'Burnaus'. Jean averted his eyes from the road, fixing his eyes on the smoldering ruins of a building. Thick red veins, strong with residues of magic, ran through the wooden supports.
The mage hastened the horse with a kick from his spurs. “It seems like. It isn't weaponry.”
“The tangerine vapor-” Jean shuffled around the seat, veering his focus from the houses to the mage. “Powder smoke doesn't lumber sound like this, I say.”
“True.”
Jean turned back towards the road again, mimicking the stoic nature of his conversational companion. “Of irrelevant nature, but what was your name again?”
“Sven, sir.”
“I'll remember that.”
“Right.”
Jean shrugged, loosening his grip on the reins as the road became less narrow. Few more minutes of constant trodding, a look or two at the waves of destruction spread across the hilly terrain, until they reached an intersection, or what seemed like an intersection. The former king belted out a series of coordinated hand signals, slyly ordering the blackhands to subtly spread throughout the region and search for survivors, and in the process, clues. The talkative mage nodded, moving after his hasty allies. The four, excluding Jean, split into two and went sideways, left and right. Jean continued forward.
The blackhands, and to an extent Jean as well, were all dressed in complete black, dark cloaks, dusky bandanas, and hats with a wide-enough brim to shade the eyes — in the shade of the night, the outfits gave off, effectively, a mysterious air. Their horses were draped in a similarly-coloured dark grey, smoothly curved slabs of metal protecting their sloped faces and lithe necks. The armour blended well with their dark, speckled hide.
Admittedly, Jean's attire was of a more expensive nature. He wore a dim grey coat, that swayed downwards and stayed above the hips, with prudent signs of any buttons — the edges were lined with a maroon tint that gave more depth to his jacket. The old man wore a silk, off-white tunic and a pair of red sashes that hung on to his waists; his trousers were more modest, deep midnight trousers that were tucked into a pair of black downcuffs; over his elegant attire, he wore a rugged, onyx overcoat that hid all his armaments; above it, he donned a dark cloak, gilded with hardened gold, that portrayed minimalist yet thorough designs. His sword hung by his side, protruding from beneath and above the red sashes, wrapped in a well-oiled scabbard that dangled tightly from a belt concealed underneath the superficial ornaments. The handle was well visible, so was the shaft of the belt, but both were hidden by his overcoat. His throwing knives were packed into a hidden compartment within his trousers, crafted specifically to tailor his needs, hidden by his sashes. Fixed onto his overcoat, underneath his cloak on a leather holder visible to any curious pair of eyes, was his prized fighting dagger.
The rest of the blackhands, their hands full driving their horses, ventured in more somber clothing. A grave tone emanating from each pace they covered, their voices only vague whispers in the winds, their gestures precise and carefully constructed — not apparent at a single glance, but Jean had learned their ways. A cryptic stanza, a part of their many austere rules, designed to communicate with hands and subtle signals, so as to not betray any detail to nearby adversaries.
Jean had yet to learn of the more finer ways of the blackhand's primary form of communication — fortunately enough, they spoke traditional tongue, a more gothic, elongated form of it, but Jean usually understood.
The blackhands soon disappeared off into the lingering mist, leaving Jean alone to brood and wander about. He yanked at the rein of his horse, stopping at what seemed to be an end to the eyrie massacre. Bodies were strewn about, many of them detectable by their large, orcish frames; amongst them, one stood out terribly, a big one. He was large, brutish and sporting thick leather armour — strips of skin and flesh trailed down over his armour, implying that they simply didn't work.
The former king examined the thick creases of bodies, slightly expecting a foe or a friend to pop out. None did, of course.
Jean gingerly bowed over his horse, stepping off from it, before treading closer to the body. A single glance, a more steadier one, and he discovered that it wasn't just a body — rather, the brute was still alive and writhing in pain. Quite a pathetic sight for a man like Jean, if not slightly surprising. Few could survive such a barrrage of eroding magic. Jean didn't betray any sign of shock, instead, bending his head slowly towards the orc. He leaned closer, now on both of his knees, tightening his lips.
“Who,” Jean said, stopping low enough for the groaning bastard to hear. “Did this, dog? Who?”
The orc slowly shifted his head towards Jean, his mouth sputtering blood. “Dey went. Dey mah'duhed eber'buhdy.” The bearish creature started to choke on more blood, seemingly unable to talk anymore.
Jean snickered, bringing from within his leather compartment his terribly efficient stabbing knife. He stood up, perched over the half-slain monster.
“Adios, bastarde.” Before the orc could react, Jean awkwardly lashed out and stabbed him in the head. The blade punctured through the dull-green surface, blood spurting out at an alarming rate — not alarming enough, now that the orc was dead. It was the least any dying person was entitled to, a quick death rather than a slow one. Jean might be considered a colorless person by most, but he had his personal set of principles — and that meant a lot in this treacherous era.
One of the mages — upon closer examination, Jean discovered that it was Sven — came from within the thick rows of body. “I heard commotion.” It was said that supreme mages, like those of the blackhands, had very heightened senses.
“Mercique execution.” Jean muttered, rising from the ground. He slipped his hand into a vaguely-discernable pocket in his overcoat, pulled out a simple handkerchief, before using it to clean his dagger in two quick snaps. Jean, once done with the deed, tossed away the piece of cloth.
“As I've assumed, it was the act of physical entities- not a psychic maelstrom nor a natural anomaly.” The former king added as he glanced towards Sven, before moving onwards to his horse.
“By the trail of cloven foot, and bodies, I believe they're heading east.” Sven stated, in the factual voice that most, if not all, blackhands bore.
“Then, we best start after them right away.”
“Right, sir.”
PRESENT DAY
The air was warm and crusty, the orcs bursting with raucous laughter, and the 'royal' guards pigmented with gracious prudence and a fistful of soot. The guards stood gallant, though not enough, for one of them felt bright enough to sleep away his likely paid time, and the other cool enough to stare at the graffiti on a half-whitewashed wall. The wide hallways, glistening from the many torches and oil lamps set on their respective holders, stank of sweat, rusted iron, and damp clothes. Iron, plate upon plate crudely riveted together, columns bolstered the ceilings, spread in clumsy rows close to the walls. A shade of pale grey decorated with the verdant saturation of the oil lamps, although at the same time, making the place look more dingy than it actually was — and it was seriously in need of good cleaning, and the integrity of its construction doubtful. Doors and many doors, some even lacking in actual doors, flanked the sides in many clusters — snoring orcs, shouting orcs, there wasn't a lack of variety here.
Jean tugged away at the collar of his sweaty shirt, hoping to get an intake of cool air. “Why, in the name of Vulcan, is it so fucking hot in 'ere?”
Jean's voice had a subtle yet noticeable tinge of an accent, light and slightly quivering but it resonated with depth and force — to a more careful listener, it had a slight gothic tilt to it, likely a trait adopted from the painstaking amounts of time he spent with the decidedly weird blackhands.
As a matter of fact, two of them were following him right now. The arch-magus Kzeth, draped in an illustrious red robe that covered his entire body and a deep red mantle which came with a hood, strode by on his side. The common blackhand Sven, clothed in his usual black outfit, also followed him. He was someone Jean had come to trust in the past fortnight. Both were terribly reliable, and ranked enough to accompany him on this important but minuscule sojourn.
“It's, if I may be so bold as to say, the fire kingdom, Lord.” The arch-magus was rather well-behaved in spite of his haughty clothing; it was most obviously a tradition that needed following, and of course, was being followed.
A single guard abruptly shove his three feet arm forward. “Wad'r ye' dain' 'ere?”
“Knightly business, gent, knightly business.” Jean quickly replied, fidgeting is hand over his coat. He was wearing a simple two-tone black and white coat-and-shirt — silk seams, strengthened fibres, usual elegance present — trousers long and slender, uninhibited by any downcuffs. His sword hung by a belt and scabbard, his dagger on the opposite side of his sword, and his fighting knives tucked visibly into pockets in his belt.
The guard grunted, expressing his annoyance, before wandering away to his distant post. After a few minutes of walking, someone reignited the conversation again.
“Indeed, the arch-magus is always right.” Sven added promptly, his face exhibiting absolutely no sign of humour.
Jean raised his eyebrows, looking over at them for a lingering moment, before shrugging back with a slight grunt — the blackhands were foreign when it came to humour, or even the various flawed concepts of humanity. Concerning certain aspects, they were incredibly naive.
A few more ambling about, bypassing the various sleeping guards and the orcs who saw ought in knocking themselves out on the floor, they had reach the door of the throne room. Of tremendous size and made up of chromed steel, with golden bars embossed on its surface. Two orcs, armoured in strictly professional plating and hue, stood besides the door, blocking it. They seemed starkly different in comparison with their lesser companions: absolutely serious, bearing menacing stances and harsh faces.
“I need to speak to the king.” Jean stated, a crooked, lopsided grin spreading across his face.
The guards raised their eyebrows simultaneously, moping around in this dry expression for a while, before returning to their nonchalant.
“Argh,” Jean growled, the smile fading from his lips. “I need to speak with your king, about the Mythirian rebellions. I killed them-”
“We destroyed them, and, eh, took their leader captive- we need, uhm, to speak to your king about his, eh, enlightening perspective. Yes that.” It was rather painful to see Sven bumbling about in his lackluster improvisation.
The guards cast a glare at the trio, sceptical, before glancing towards each other and back to them all. “Ye' m'pass.” The left guard stated, after a brief visual discussion amongst the two.
“Ye' 'eard 'im, shoo!” The second guard exclaimed, nudging open the gigantic door till it was ajar. The trio squeezed through the semi-narrow space, before entering what was likely the throne room. Menial servants ambled about, carrying parchments and refreshments, some tumbling over the other in their state of dumbness.
Jean cringed back, glancing back at his comrades — they were both eerily stalwart — and then looking forward towards the king. Grimskull was, seemingly, napping on his cast iron throne, a cotton pillow bearing the weight of his drooping head.
“Wake up.” Sven said, though his voice lacked solidity.
“You heard the boy, wake up, Grimskull!” Jean shouted, his thin voice twisting to a hoarse rasp, as he neared the stratified slope that lead to the less-than-resplendent throne. “We have business to discuss, king!”
archur
“A sullen affair, is it not, brothers?” The stride of Jean's horse was slow and steady, as he and his comrades rounded the site of the destruction. The air was still florid with the biting stench of smoldering sulfur and ashes, the ground darkened to a pitch by the derisive attack of sorcerous fire — traces of magical were still lingering in the air. Bodies, charred and bloodied, decorated the sallow fields. Blood-red insects buzzed through the air, near the corpses, amidst the thick smoke.
The path turned to a slope as the horses walked about, bits and pieces of the ground had eroded to the furious warfare. One of the mages coughed, breaking the silence. Another rode up till he was beside Jean.
“It is, unfortunately.” The blackhand next to Jean answered promptly, his voice gruff and steely. He was tall and well-built, and from the little that one could see, he was dark-skinned — likely possessing a bit of heritage from the Karshian tribes of the Earth kingdom, who're known for their burgundy complexion and light-coloured eyes. The man tugged onto his reins, keeping it steady, and setting his eyes solely on their supposed destination.
“The bodies are still fresh.” Jean replied, after a small, hesitant pause. He instinctively tightened his choke on the horses's rein; the animal gave out a loud, hoarse growl. Jean winced at his sudden, awkward mistake, shifting uncomfortably within his seat. The rest of the blackhands didn't pay any attention to this slight mishap, or at the very least, feigned nonchalance.
“The destruction is recent.” The Karshian answered, likely the least silent of the bunch. His words were bold, emphasis spread liberally among his words, but 'destruction' audibly stood out the most.
“Burnas?” The word was accentuated with a thick quaver towards the end, making it sound more like 'Burnaus'. Jean averted his eyes from the road, fixing his eyes on the smoldering ruins of a building. Thick red veins, strong with residues of magic, ran through the wooden supports.
The mage hastened the horse with a kick from his spurs. “It seems like. It isn't weaponry.”
“The tangerine vapor-” Jean shuffled around the seat, veering his focus from the houses to the mage. “Powder smoke doesn't lumber sound like this, I say.”
“True.”
Jean turned back towards the road again, mimicking the stoic nature of his conversational companion. “Of irrelevant nature, but what was your name again?”
“Sven, sir.”
“I'll remember that.”
“Right.”
Jean shrugged, loosening his grip on the reins as the road became less narrow. Few more minutes of constant trodding, a look or two at the waves of destruction spread across the hilly terrain, until they reached an intersection, or what seemed like an intersection. The former king belted out a series of coordinated hand signals, slyly ordering the blackhands to subtly spread throughout the region and search for survivors, and in the process, clues. The talkative mage nodded, moving after his hasty allies. The four, excluding Jean, split into two and went sideways, left and right. Jean continued forward.
The blackhands, and to an extent Jean as well, were all dressed in complete black, dark cloaks, dusky bandanas, and hats with a wide-enough brim to shade the eyes — in the shade of the night, the outfits gave off, effectively, a mysterious air. Their horses were draped in a similarly-coloured dark grey, smoothly curved slabs of metal protecting their sloped faces and lithe necks. The armour blended well with their dark, speckled hide.
Admittedly, Jean's attire was of a more expensive nature. He wore a dim grey coat, that swayed downwards and stayed above the hips, with prudent signs of any buttons — the edges were lined with a maroon tint that gave more depth to his jacket. The old man wore a silk, off-white tunic and a pair of red sashes that hung on to his waists; his trousers were more modest, deep midnight trousers that were tucked into a pair of black downcuffs; over his elegant attire, he wore a rugged, onyx overcoat that hid all his armaments; above it, he donned a dark cloak, gilded with hardened gold, that portrayed minimalist yet thorough designs. His sword hung by his side, protruding from beneath and above the red sashes, wrapped in a well-oiled scabbard that dangled tightly from a belt concealed underneath the superficial ornaments. The handle was well visible, so was the shaft of the belt, but both were hidden by his overcoat. His throwing knives were packed into a hidden compartment within his trousers, crafted specifically to tailor his needs, hidden by his sashes. Fixed onto his overcoat, underneath his cloak on a leather holder visible to any curious pair of eyes, was his prized fighting dagger.
The rest of the blackhands, their hands full driving their horses, ventured in more somber clothing. A grave tone emanating from each pace they covered, their voices only vague whispers in the winds, their gestures precise and carefully constructed — not apparent at a single glance, but Jean had learned their ways. A cryptic stanza, a part of their many austere rules, designed to communicate with hands and subtle signals, so as to not betray any detail to nearby adversaries.
Jean had yet to learn of the more finer ways of the blackhand's primary form of communication — fortunately enough, they spoke traditional tongue, a more gothic, elongated form of it, but Jean usually understood.
The blackhands soon disappeared off into the lingering mist, leaving Jean alone to brood and wander about. He yanked at the rein of his horse, stopping at what seemed to be an end to the eyrie massacre. Bodies were strewn about, many of them detectable by their large, orcish frames; amongst them, one stood out terribly, a big one. He was large, brutish and sporting thick leather armour — strips of skin and flesh trailed down over his armour, implying that they simply didn't work.
The former king examined the thick creases of bodies, slightly expecting a foe or a friend to pop out. None did, of course.
Jean gingerly bowed over his horse, stepping off from it, before treading closer to the body. A single glance, a more steadier one, and he discovered that it wasn't just a body — rather, the brute was still alive and writhing in pain. Quite a pathetic sight for a man like Jean, if not slightly surprising. Few could survive such a barrrage of eroding magic. Jean didn't betray any sign of shock, instead, bending his head slowly towards the orc. He leaned closer, now on both of his knees, tightening his lips.
“Who,” Jean said, stopping low enough for the groaning bastard to hear. “Did this, dog? Who?”
The orc slowly shifted his head towards Jean, his mouth sputtering blood. “Dey went. Dey mah'duhed eber'buhdy.” The bearish creature started to choke on more blood, seemingly unable to talk anymore.
Jean snickered, bringing from within his leather compartment his terribly efficient stabbing knife. He stood up, perched over the half-slain monster.
“Adios, bastarde.” Before the orc could react, Jean awkwardly lashed out and stabbed him in the head. The blade punctured through the dull-green surface, blood spurting out at an alarming rate — not alarming enough, now that the orc was dead. It was the least any dying person was entitled to, a quick death rather than a slow one. Jean might be considered a colorless person by most, but he had his personal set of principles — and that meant a lot in this treacherous era.
One of the mages — upon closer examination, Jean discovered that it was Sven — came from within the thick rows of body. “I heard commotion.” It was said that supreme mages, like those of the blackhands, had very heightened senses.
“Mercique execution.” Jean muttered, rising from the ground. He slipped his hand into a vaguely-discernable pocket in his overcoat, pulled out a simple handkerchief, before using it to clean his dagger in two quick snaps. Jean, once done with the deed, tossed away the piece of cloth.
“As I've assumed, it was the act of physical entities- not a psychic maelstrom nor a natural anomaly.” The former king added as he glanced towards Sven, before moving onwards to his horse.
“By the trail of cloven foot, and bodies, I believe they're heading east.” Sven stated, in the factual voice that most, if not all, blackhands bore.
“Then, we best start after them right away.”
“Right, sir.”
PRESENT DAY
The air was warm and crusty, the orcs bursting with raucous laughter, and the 'royal' guards pigmented with gracious prudence and a fistful of soot. The guards stood gallant, though not enough, for one of them felt bright enough to sleep away his likely paid time, and the other cool enough to stare at the graffiti on a half-whitewashed wall. The wide hallways, glistening from the many torches and oil lamps set on their respective holders, stank of sweat, rusted iron, and damp clothes. Iron, plate upon plate crudely riveted together, columns bolstered the ceilings, spread in clumsy rows close to the walls. A shade of pale grey decorated with the verdant saturation of the oil lamps, although at the same time, making the place look more dingy than it actually was — and it was seriously in need of good cleaning, and the integrity of its construction doubtful. Doors and many doors, some even lacking in actual doors, flanked the sides in many clusters — snoring orcs, shouting orcs, there wasn't a lack of variety here.
Jean tugged away at the collar of his sweaty shirt, hoping to get an intake of cool air. “Why, in the name of Vulcan, is it so fucking hot in 'ere?”
Jean's voice had a subtle yet noticeable tinge of an accent, light and slightly quivering but it resonated with depth and force — to a more careful listener, it had a slight gothic tilt to it, likely a trait adopted from the painstaking amounts of time he spent with the decidedly weird blackhands.
As a matter of fact, two of them were following him right now. The arch-magus Kzeth, draped in an illustrious red robe that covered his entire body and a deep red mantle which came with a hood, strode by on his side. The common blackhand Sven, clothed in his usual black outfit, also followed him. He was someone Jean had come to trust in the past fortnight. Both were terribly reliable, and ranked enough to accompany him on this important but minuscule sojourn.
“It's, if I may be so bold as to say, the fire kingdom, Lord.” The arch-magus was rather well-behaved in spite of his haughty clothing; it was most obviously a tradition that needed following, and of course, was being followed.
A single guard abruptly shove his three feet arm forward. “Wad'r ye' dain' 'ere?”
“Knightly business, gent, knightly business.” Jean quickly replied, fidgeting is hand over his coat. He was wearing a simple two-tone black and white coat-and-shirt — silk seams, strengthened fibres, usual elegance present — trousers long and slender, uninhibited by any downcuffs. His sword hung by a belt and scabbard, his dagger on the opposite side of his sword, and his fighting knives tucked visibly into pockets in his belt.
The guard grunted, expressing his annoyance, before wandering away to his distant post. After a few minutes of walking, someone reignited the conversation again.
“Indeed, the arch-magus is always right.” Sven added promptly, his face exhibiting absolutely no sign of humour.
Jean raised his eyebrows, looking over at them for a lingering moment, before shrugging back with a slight grunt — the blackhands were foreign when it came to humour, or even the various flawed concepts of humanity. Concerning certain aspects, they were incredibly naive.
A few more ambling about, bypassing the various sleeping guards and the orcs who saw ought in knocking themselves out on the floor, they had reach the door of the throne room. Of tremendous size and made up of chromed steel, with golden bars embossed on its surface. Two orcs, armoured in strictly professional plating and hue, stood besides the door, blocking it. They seemed starkly different in comparison with their lesser companions: absolutely serious, bearing menacing stances and harsh faces.
“I need to speak to the king.” Jean stated, a crooked, lopsided grin spreading across his face.
The guards raised their eyebrows simultaneously, moping around in this dry expression for a while, before returning to their nonchalant.
“Argh,” Jean growled, the smile fading from his lips. “I need to speak with your king, about the Mythirian rebellions. I killed them-”
“We destroyed them, and, eh, took their leader captive- we need, uhm, to speak to your king about his, eh, enlightening perspective. Yes that.” It was rather painful to see Sven bumbling about in his lackluster improvisation.
The guards cast a glare at the trio, sceptical, before glancing towards each other and back to them all. “Ye' m'pass.” The left guard stated, after a brief visual discussion amongst the two.
“Ye' 'eard 'im, shoo!” The second guard exclaimed, nudging open the gigantic door till it was ajar. The trio squeezed through the semi-narrow space, before entering what was likely the throne room. Menial servants ambled about, carrying parchments and refreshments, some tumbling over the other in their state of dumbness.
Jean cringed back, glancing back at his comrades — they were both eerily stalwart — and then looking forward towards the king. Grimskull was, seemingly, napping on his cast iron throne, a cotton pillow bearing the weight of his drooping head.
“Wake up.” Sven said, though his voice lacked solidity.
“You heard the boy, wake up, Grimskull!” Jean shouted, his thin voice twisting to a hoarse rasp, as he neared the stratified slope that lead to the less-than-resplendent throne. “We have business to discuss, king!”
archur
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