Return of the Cold Rider - The Prologue
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Light =&gt; Light: Human Small Groups =&gt; Topic started by: KaraKres on 30-03-2011, 09:13:22</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Return of the Cold Rider - The Prologue</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>KaraKres</strong> on <strong>30-03-2011, 09:13:22</strong>
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				Eyes wide with terror he watched from the dark edge of the forest, his snared rabbits falling lifelessly from his trembling fingers.&nbsp; The warband of armoured horsemen flowed through the small hamlet of Bhram.&nbsp; The only real path through the village, nothing more than a dirt track, ran with the blood of the slaughtered…a flash of lighting revealed a chaotic orchestra of swords, spears, and shields…rising, falling, rising…a cacophony of unrestrained hatred and bloodlust that played to a background rhythm of screams and cries of the agonized dying villagers.<br><br>Plow horses burst from the burning stable, manes alight, eyes mad with fear while above the boy in the forest, the carrion birds gathered squawking in anticipation of the feast to come.&nbsp; He didn’t know how his legs had carried him so far so quickly, he ears were deaf to the pleas of the wounded, his legs carrying him over the bodies of the fallen.&nbsp; Then something struck him hard in the leg and he stumbled, landing face first in the blood-soaked mud.&nbsp; Looking out from the mud through dimming eyes, the young boy saw the hooves of the mighty black steed above him, time stood still as a rivulet of blood fell from the hoof only to briefly splash before being consumed by the mud.<br><br>The lighting flashed, once more illuminating the scene of death and destruction and the boy saw the face of terror unbound.&nbsp; A visage that would taunt him for weeks and months…forcing him to recall the cries of the shattered hearts of parents who lost their children, the fearful denials of the dying, the burning village, the burning bodies…to relive the moment his terror gave birth to Rage.<br>_______________________<br><br>The coins, jewels, necklaces and other treasures poured through his fingers, a virtual king’s ransom, before he slammed his gauntleted fist on the creaking wooden table.<br><br>The other men in the room recoiled in fear; some would claim in later years that they could see tendrils of smoke wend their way out of the breathing holes in the Blackguard’s helm.<br><br>“I was told that the ring would be in the village.&nbsp; But I see it not amongst these baubles,” A black, steel encased finger shot out like a spear, “Jalu, explain why I’m not holding the ring?”&nbsp; The gravelly voice dripped menace and promises of tortures unimagined.<br><br>The one named Jalu, a bear of a man with a wide girth and size that once indicated great strength, now turning to fat took a step forward.&nbsp; His bearded face smeared with an insolent scowl.&nbsp; Dropping the chicken leg he had been gnawing on, he opened his mouth to speak.<br><br>The Blackguard spoke but a word, “Die.” And the great Jalu, victor of a score of vicious bar brawls, murderer, rapist, and looter fell dead on the spot.&nbsp; Eyes wide open in shock at his sudden demise.<br><br>Examining a strange sigil on the back of his metal gauntlet, the Blackguard spoke, his words barely a whisper, but they carried clearly to all in the room. “Find me the bitch wizard and bring me the ring.&nbsp; If you fail, you’ll suffer a fate worse than Jalu.”<br>_______________________<br><br><em>Octania</em>…the word sounded good on her lips, it reminded her of good fortune, although she was unsure why.&nbsp; Standing on prow of the good ship <em>Octania</em>, she watched as the small barque cut through the water, the canvas sails snapping in the stiff off-shore wind.&nbsp; Straining her eyes, she could see the smudge of land…only a few more hours and I can be with her…if she is still here…<br><br>Standing in the shadows of the massive ironmongers building, she watched as four guards clothed in the full livery of the Lord of Waterdeep lounged about the gate leading to the castle.&nbsp; Their helmets and cloaks lay forgotten as they strove to stave off the midday heat.&nbsp; They smoked their pipeweed and laughed as a small cask of wine was passed from hand to hand.&nbsp; Her attention was momentarily caught by children laughing and playing in a nearby stream, as the water babbled in the joyous yet indecipherable tunes of such a small meandering waterway.<br><br>A lone horseman wearing a luxurious red doublet rode leisurely through the gate, nudging his horse to the right and towards the sprawling buildings of the city of Waterdeep.&nbsp; Slipping from shadow to shadow, she followed the horseman.&nbsp; Her information had been correct – the slave trader had set up shop in Waterdeep, masquerading as a petty noble from Cormyr.&nbsp; He would know where her love was…and he would tell her, even if it cost him his life.<br>_____________________<br><br>“So the civil war is to end?” asked Rogr hopefully<br>Andir scoffed. “I doubt it.&nbsp; The next in line is his nephew, Nesel.&nbsp; Being a knight…” he left the sentence unfinished.&nbsp; They all knew well the warlike tendencies of the various lords of Tethyr and their vainglorious desire to be crowned the next king.<br><br>&nbsp;William decided now was the time to make a stand. “I think we should support Laurence as the next heir to House Bolare.”&nbsp; Seven faces turned to stare at him, most showing confusion and shock…William never spoke, much less about matters political.&nbsp; Amidst the ensuing chuckles because they thought that William had made a joke, a serving maid entered the room and deposited several goblets and a pitcher of honey-wine on the central table before abruptly hurrying out. <br><br>William poured himself a cup and held it between his thumb and forefinger, the only remaining digits on his left hand. The cup was made of almost half a pound of polished silver. Maruc, their host this evening, loved showing off his wealth.&nbsp; “But Laurence isn’t even of noble blood!” argued Maruc.<br><br>William sighed deeply, “Lord Garek’s marriage to Lady Alicia Bolare technically makes the entire Bolare family royalty.&nbsp; Laurence has guild connections – that’s what we need, not another warmonger!” William took a long draw of his wine in order to calm himself.&nbsp; Emotion was for weaklings.<br><br>The hours dragged on, filled with random plots and implications. William once again kept to himself, knowing the pointlessness of such conversation. He had the Nobles. The people would follow. He would win.&nbsp; William looked towards a seemingly empty corner and smiled.&nbsp; He saw the small puff of dust as a foot scuffed the wooden floor.&nbsp; Excellent, his son had used the entry of the maid to gain access to the room as he had instructed him to.&nbsp; The boy just had to learn patience.<br>________________________<br><br>The two score of horsemen continued riding through the rain. They had left in a hurry, taking almost no baggage and only three reserve horses. At their sides and in their packs were halberds, spears and swords carried openly along the road. Only the largest or most careless groups of bandits would dare attack forty armed and armoured men on horseback on even terrain. Near the centre of the loose group rode Sir Aeric Boeruine, a middle aged knight cloaked in a muddied red cape embroidered with the emblem of the Royal House of Tethyr, a sword driven deep into an anvil with a single thornless rose wrapped about its hilt, commonly referred to as the Sword, the Soul, and the Strength. <br><br>It had been over a decade since he had worn his cape, a garment that denoted his rank as Knight-Marshal of the Realm.&nbsp; The kite shield strapped to the flank of his chestnut stallion bore the same heraldic device.&nbsp; At his right, upon a powerful white gelding, rode Sir Hierl Diem, former commander of the Royal Guard.&nbsp; The two men were leading their small force to rendezvous with the force that William had gathered.&nbsp; Soon they would be storming the citadel and proclaiming a new dawn for the Kingdom of Tethyr. <br>___________________________<br><br>The beautiful young woman had reached the last few verses of her song…<br><br><em>Sûne I challenge thee<br>As demons dance and angels sing<br>Let us fight for our destiny<br>Let us contest Heaven's key</em><br><br><em>So did Lims-Kragma decree<br>Upon the Banks of the River of Truth<br>To the lowly mortal knight<br>Who stood before the Dark God’s might.</em><br><br><em>The man clutched the brilliant Sword<br>Of Ao, the Lord of Lords<br>This soldier fought with Lims-Kragma<br>A lord of thrice deadly sins.</em><br><br><em>The ground shook as fate clashed<br>As magic flowed and white blade slashed<br>Sûne smote down the lord<br>Sealed his fate to the sword.</em><br><br>The audience of the young woman was mainly young children and a few men taking the day off, applauded. Most, of course, really did not understand anything about Lims-Kragma, the dark lord of conquest, of whom the song was about. Most simply came to hear the music, played on an old lute by the graceful fingers of the young woman whose mane of hair shone like strands of platinum. <br><br>The older children came up and deposited small coins in her basket. Some of the adults gave larger silver coins. The young woman, a travelling minstrel who had called the quaint little village of Darmond in central Tethyr for nigh on two weeks, knew that she would have to move on soon.&nbsp; She noted that many of the adolescents had left earlier, disinterested with the rather slow-moving ballad that, in their opinion, really contained much less violence than it ought to.&nbsp; She quietly grunted in distaste. These people had no appreciation for the truly great deeds of the past, mostly wanting to hear about the tragic love affairs of the current nobility. <br><br>Her father had once worked in the Hall of Kings, and as such learned all the old songs and stories. Nobles, at least, had an ear for greatness. The minstrel remembered her father singing tales of Cathin of Nethir and tragic Princess Ambur to King Garek VIII in the great stone hall. The memory of the King standing to applaud her father still brought tears to her eyes. The king let them stay in the castle for as long as they desired. She often walked about the castle marveling as he remembered the great deeds that had been done before those walls. <br><br>Now his daughter was singing tales to bored ears in a muddy square and pacing about the wattle walls of her filthy sunken hut.&nbsp; After she had collected all the people would give, she said farewell with a flourish and walked inside. In the corner lay a disused wooden chest, beside her straw pallet. She went directly to the chest. This business about the coronation of a new King was disturbing. She opened the chest and carefully removed an old unbound book, the pages simply stacked neatly in a quaint box. Very disturbing indeed. She removed the book, turning it over in her arms. Her treasure.<br>________________________<br><br>The young female acolyte sat stiffly upon her horse.&nbsp; Its flank twitching as its nostrils detected the smell of burnt flesh, her ears assaulted by the cries of the carrion birds.&nbsp; Gripping the reins tight in her gauntleted hands, she nudged her horse forward, knowing what she would find in the small village.&nbsp; Her mind wandered back to her meeting but two days ago with Bishop Cigal of Waterdeep…<br><br>He had been sitting in his study, pouring over scrolls on various birds and beasts. He had always had an interest in lore of this kind, preferring the study of subjects in their natural environment, free from sin or virtue, to the history of men and lands and great deeds. He owned almost thirty books on the subject, not to mention scores of smaller writings. Other Priests of Sûne often criticized Cigal, as his extravagant taste for knowledge had cost his diocese almost thirty pounds of silver. However, he had never built castles or gathered armies, as other bishops sometimes did, and was on the whole considered a just and holy man, truly blessed by Sûne, for he had a passion that some claimed equaled that of the Flame Haired Goddess.<br><br>He had originally been a friar in a rather small diocese in the lands known as Avanil in the Blackmoore Baronies far to the south, but was still in his early thirties, and had a promising career ahead of him. The young acolyte knew that Cigal fancied he could become a Deacon's assistant, or even a Deacon, in his life.<br>She had watched in silence as the Bishop had fed one of his many pet birds, before he finally turned to her.&nbsp; His eyes travelling the length and breadth of her body, as if he considered her physical attributes to be as important as her spiritual zeal or martial prowess.&nbsp; Finally, he took a seat and indicated for the young acolyte to do the same.<br><br>“I have received an instruction from Archdeacon Gelir in Suzail.&nbsp; He wishes for an item to be retrieved and believes that it is Our Lady’s interest that Holy Mother Church possesses this item.&nbsp; This item is believed to be in the possession of the mayor of the village of Liazia, two days ride to the west.”&nbsp; The Bishop paused to sip at his wine goblet and the acolyte was struck by how handsome he was and she idly wondered if his preference included women.&nbsp; <br><br>Cigal continued, “I have hired a small band of warriors to accompany you to the village.&nbsp; If you are able to secure the item then you should return here immediately.&nbsp; If you can’t then I shall leave it to your discretion how you continue, but you should send missives when you are able.” Cigal picked up two scrolls from a table beside his seat and offered them to the acolyte.<br><br>“The first is scroll with six magical Sending inscriptions, use them carefully should you have to travel further than the village to keep me appraised.&nbsp; This second scroll contains images and a description of the item the Archdeacon requires.”&nbsp; With that the acolyte had been dismissed to her duty…<br><br>…the carnage was total.&nbsp; The village nothing more than a collection of burnt ruins.&nbsp; Dozens of bodies lay scattered about in postures of violent done-to-death.&nbsp; She could see that they hadn’t stood a chance and whoever had performed this massacre were professionals although there was a sign that the violence had degenerated into an orgy of death and destruction.&nbsp; Ignoring the putrid stench of burnt and rotting bodies, she quickly organised a search, knowing that a simple retrieval had become a lot more complicated.&nbsp; She was considering her options, when one of the warriors accompanying her called out, “Priestess! There’s a live one!”<br><br>She quickly dismounted as two warriors carried the mud and blood encrusted form of what appeared to be a young man towards her.&nbsp; She removed her gloves in anticipation of needing to use Sûne’s healing power…the warriors lay the man down gently and the acolyte could see that he was more of a boy, perhaps not much younger than she, rather than a man.&nbsp; She knelt by his side and splashed some water from a skin on her belt onto his lower face.&nbsp; She was startled when his eyes snapped open and his hand gripped her wrist like a vice.&nbsp; With a fire burning in his eyes, his hoarsely whispered, “I will kill them all…”<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Return of the Cold Rider - The Foreword</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>KaraKres</strong> on <strong>18-04-2011, 02:18:19</strong>
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				Alyx turned the ring over once again and silently read the inscription No Harm Unto Others…it had seemed so apt and now she wondered if the Goddess truly had mistaken her.&nbsp; It had been so easy before, alone in her chambers, a quick flick of a paring knife and she could feel the hate and loathing at what she was physically drain from her.&nbsp; Now the young warrior and the dark-skinned wizard seemed to be watching her incessantly.<br><br>The young Acolyte of Sûne squinted against the late winter sky, before returning her gaze to the town that preciously clung to the banks of the winding river.&nbsp; It really was little more than a village, even though they claimed it was the capital of Tethyr!&nbsp; She could the pillars surrounding its marketplace supported a roof that formed a sheltered arcade, which meant it would be a comfortable, welcoming place to mix with merchants, share gossip…Chathi had assured them that they would find the slave she sought in this small town…Chathi…so mysterious…so aloof…<br><br>To think, that but for Chathi, she would be dead.&nbsp; The young warrior she’d rescued and somewhat playfully seduced from the village had been knocked unconscious when the Temple Guards had turned on her, rape and murder clear in their eyes.&nbsp; Then as she had struggled for her life, the guards had been struck down quickly with magical missiles and then together they had slain the last guard.&nbsp; <br><br>Now the three of them sat astride their horses watching the slow meandering life of Tethyr’s capital play out before them.<br><br>“What’s that?” The young warrior asked.&nbsp; He insisted on being called Rage, even though Alyx suspected he had once responded to another name.<br><br>Alyx and Chathi looked to where he pointed; a large globe festooned with little stalks seemed to be hovering over the large keep that formed the centre of the capital.&nbsp; Faint sounds of screams and warnings reached their ears as suddenly a ray shot out from the globe and the centre of the keep seem to explode and moments later, black, armoured humanoid’s magically appeared above the castle and began to descend into the dust cloud…<br>____________________<br><br>Chathi continued to watch the young Cleric.&nbsp; Outwardly she appeared perfectly normal.&nbsp; Attractive, seductive…desirable.&nbsp; Yet under her skin lurked something dark, something that the cleric tried desperately to hide from the world. <br><br>She mused on the information that the slave-trader had revealed to her in Waterdeep.&nbsp; He’d sold his entire stock of slaves to a terrifying half-man half-ogre who seemed to be death incarnate.&nbsp; Apparently, the half-ogre had paid twice what the trader would have normally asked for his wares.&nbsp; This half-ogre had also been buying every slave that was available in the northern parts of the Sword Coast, he lover included.&nbsp; Chathi had left the slave trader consider the misspent aspects of his life as his life blood slowly drained from him.<br>South had been the advice.&nbsp; The half-ogre who loved black armour was heading south.&nbsp; Despite Chathi’s best efforts he always seemed to be a day ahead of her.&nbsp; She suspected that he was somehow using magic to make his slave caravan move faster.<br><br>Chathi’s musings were interrupted by a massive explosion across the river.&nbsp; She squinted despite the weak late winter sun.&nbsp; A plume of dust and smoke was billowing into the clear sky.&nbsp; Sounds of battle emanated from within the keep.&nbsp; Whatever was happening, Chathi suspected that it could only mean ill-tidings for the three of them.<br>____________________<br><br>The crackle of energy and a faint smell of brimstone heralded the arrival of his master’s messenger.&nbsp; With its whiny and nasal voice the red skinned Imp, cackled and demanded a report.&nbsp; Velkath looked wearily at the little creature, wishing he could take it in his mighty fist and crush it, he imagined laughing as it’s beady eyes popped out its head…the half-ogre looked away, trying to clear the amusing images from his mind before the Imp detected what he was thinking.<br><br>“Well?” The Imp’s voice had risen several octaves.<br><br>“I’ve collected every possible slave on the Sword Coast, as per Master’s instructions.&nbsp; But the items still elude me.&nbsp; The wizard has the two rings, but I haven’t found the Bard or the Thief, so the necklace and book still elude me.”&nbsp; He cursed silently for his failure to find the items that his Master had ordered him to recover.&nbsp; His Master had used great magics to discern their locations, but whenever he got close they seemed to disappear.<br><br>“Bah! Forget the items – Master needs the slaves more than the items.&nbsp; You must return with the slaves quickly so that they may be sacrificed as the prophecy requires, then the items will come to us!” <br>Velkath grunted. “Master may believe the prophecy, but I don’t.&nbsp; The items will release Him, not some blood sacrifice of which you seem so sure.”<br><br>“You forget your place Blackguard.&nbsp; You have fallen from your God’s grace and if it weren’t for the master you would already be dead! Now get back to the Temple, the Master expects you there in no more than six days.”<br><br>With that final command, the Imp disappeared from sight.&nbsp; Velkath retrieved his large full helm with the curved horns protruding from the sides.&nbsp; He knew that the helmet was impractical, but it inspired such fear in his underlings.&nbsp; His voice boomed from within the tent.<br><br>“Drury you useless son of a whore! Break camp, we move within the hour!”<br>____________________<br><br>Brinner stood half a step behind his father.&nbsp; Eyes darting nervously from side to side.&nbsp; &nbsp;His father, William, may be convinced that their time had come and all would be well, but Brinner knew, just knew, that now was the time to strike.<br><br>The procession slowly wound its way through the central knave of the Keep’s main temple.&nbsp; Within moments Laurence Bolare would be crowned King of Tethyr.&nbsp; Years of civil war would be ended and the country could be united.&nbsp; And all thanks to the wisdom, intelligence and ambition of his father.<br><br>Behind Laurence came the Arch-Deacon of Azuth who had travelled from Marsember to officiate the coronation.&nbsp; Behind him came a virtual gaggle of nobles and other courtiers.&nbsp; All of them had been at each other’s throats only weeks beforehand, and now that smiled and strode with a smugness that was almost sickening to Brinner, who knew them for the vipers that they were.&nbsp; His father may believe that he could control them, but Brinner knew that as soon as their back was turned a dagger would be plunged deep and the hand that held the dagger would most certainly be noble.<br><br>Brinner’s hand drifted to his short sword, even though it was ostensibly peace-bonded, he knew that he could have it drawn and ready to strike within moments.&nbsp; Yells and shrieks of terror suddenly reached his ears, as did the heavy thumping of the ballista’s mounted on the Keep’s towers.<br><br>Before his astonished mind could fully comprehend what was happening, the roof of the temple literally exploded, showering all within with chunks of masonry and distorted everything with a massive cloud of smoke and dust.&nbsp; Screams, cries, crackling energy, all was chaos and confusion.<br><br>“Father! Father!” Brinner knew he was shouting, but his deafened ears could make out no sound.&nbsp; He stumbled forward and his searching hands latched onto a man’s tunic.&nbsp; Looking up, Brinner saw his father’s face, stoic and composed.&nbsp; Magical sword glowing in his right hand.&nbsp; And then a round, bulbous creature that Brinner could only have dreamed in a nightmare, made its way through the smoke and dust.&nbsp; An impossible large eye in the centre, affixed above a too-wide mouth that itself was filled with rows of pointed teeth.&nbsp; Upon the creatures head, a dozen little stalks squirmed and wiggled, each one affixed with its own little eyeball…Brinner’s hand was pushed away by his father, something hard and metallic being forced into his hand as the nightmarish creature turned its gaze upon father and son…<br>____________________<br><br>Chantal had been leaning against a pillar, half concealed in a pool of shadow.&nbsp; She had watched as the procession moved up the centre isle towards the dais upon which sat the Throne of Tethyr.&nbsp; Having secured her position as Scribe of the Court, Chantal was soaking in every detail so as to better record it.&nbsp; Gripped under her arm was her treasured book…The Book of Days…she called it.&nbsp; For each day, new inscriptions appeared.&nbsp; Sometimes the language of the writing was indecipherable to her and others times it was clear as if she’d written the words herself.&nbsp; &nbsp;It was almost like she was reading half a conversation, so broken was the flow of the writing.<br><br>She felt the book…<em>squirm?</em>...under her arm and she knew that something new was appearing in the book.&nbsp; Reluctantly tearing her eyes away from the royal procession, Chantal opened the book and saw that words of the common tongue were slowly etching their way across the page…<br><br><strong>…and when the Tyrant strikes, we’ll teleport the Bladesingers and they will dispatch all.&nbsp; My magic…<br><br>…Interrupt me not! My magic is not flawed or mistaken.&nbsp; All five items are there and soon they will…<br><br>…yes, yes..I know, but we must have all if we are to breach the walls of His prison and bring him to this world….<br><br>Now! now is the time!</strong><br><br>Chantal tore her eyes away from the script that always seem to draw her in, as if trying to pull her into the book.&nbsp; &nbsp;Her mind registered screams just as she was deafened and the room became a scene of death and destruction.&nbsp; People were running in all directions, guards were screaming for orders and all around her people died.&nbsp; Moving through the confusion, desperately seeking a way out she had to choke back the vomit that threatened to escape her throat, Chantal stepped over the body of a lady-in-waiting whose head had been staved in by a chunk of falling roof.&nbsp; <br><br>The young Bard continued to stumble through the smoke and dust filled room and was almost paralyzed with fear when she saw the Beholder drift past her…its attention on something or someone else.&nbsp; She had read about the Eye Tyrants, but had never seen one before…<em>Tyrant? The Book! The Book had been talking about this moment</em>…stepping around a pillar, she saw that the Beholder was focused on two men who had a striking resemblance to each other…Lord William, the King’s new Chamberlain and his son…she’d seen them occasionally as the town had prepared for the coronation.<br><br>Chantal’s hand reached out and pulled the son back…<em>Bron, Brod, Brin?</em>...a sickly green ray of light stabbed out from one of the Tyrant’s eye stalks, striking Lord William squarely in the chest.&nbsp; Chantal was forced to blink and when she looked again, there stood Lord William as he had been but a second before…only he was composed entirely of stone!<br><br>Sobbing with fear and confusion, Chantal pulled the son backwards and towards a small shaft of light that had appeared.&nbsp; She sensed more than saw the black armoured figures that moved through the room, dispatching death to all, irrespective if they resisted or not.<br><br>“Quickly! This way!” Urged the son who had regained his wits.&nbsp; “This way leads through the back of the keep and to the stables!” 
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