[Open] An eye for an eye and a tooth from a youth.

[engelbert]

[Warning - This roleplay contains posts graphically described violence. Members uncomfortable with this are advised not to read or join this roleplay.]


It had been a pleasant day. Pleasant, but perhaps not idyllic. The sky was cloudless and bright azure, leaving no obstacle to inhibit the suns warming rays. Sunlight danced across the fields and buildings surrounding His vantage point. Commoners could be seen busying themselves below in the streets. Each like an ant performing their own menial tasks.

Many of the city dwellers below were also appreciating the day, though perhaps not for the same reasons.

A chill smile played on the lips of the silent observer. Devoid of humour, it spoke of cruelty and deep-seated bitterness within the individual. In his mind, the events of the morning replayed over and over. Screams of children and women echoed over and over. Blood curdling cries of agony rolled through the air. Each sound bittersweet in his ears. Ruby red streams of life ran freely upon the ground as the work of his most precious took effect.

Ah... a fine day indeed though still I lack what I need.

Light footfalls broke his silent musings and a look of distaste washed over his face. Fortunately for the intruder, he was stood facing out of the window and so his features were hidden.

"Ah... erm... Dark Lord," the messenger quavered haltingly. Fear tinted his words and it was obvious that his body was trembling meekly.

The Dark Lord Razgriz turned to face the young messenger. The impressive robe he wore swirled lightly at the sudden movement. It began in a heavy hood that concealed most of his facial features and stretched down to cover his feet. The arms were tight and around his wrists were bulky bracers. These bracers were clearly made mostly from metal, either steel or silver, but were heavily inlaid with amethyst gems. The bulk of his robe was a rich royal purple but the front of the robe was much darker. The paler purple overlaid around this in 3 distinct overlapping sheets, each shorter than the last so that each layer was visible. Around the edges were embellished with runes and bizarre symbols all embroidered in a silvery thread.

The Dark Lord then answered the messenger with nothing more than silence. Tension could be felt increasing steadily and the messenger gulped uneasily.

"King S-S-Shrenk s-says that the g-g-great h-hall is r-r-ready for you, Oh L-Lord."

The messenger stooped suddenly onto one knee, lowering his head in deference. The term 'don't shoot the messenger' did not apply to the Dark Lord Razgriz. Even those poor sods bearing good tidings often felt his wrath. This particular messenger was lucky though. The Dark Lord swept by him regally, offering him nothing more than a piercing stare as he passed.

As he made his way through the twisting corridors towards the main throneroom, The Dark Lord went over his plan once more. Deeply comtemplative, he barely noticed the cowering servants spread throughout the castle. Many of them threw themselves to the floor to escape being the focus of his distaste.

It was not long till he reached his destination. Before him was King Shrenk sat on his throne. Fanned out throughout the hall was a mottly assortion of men and women alike. Scattered between them were also the odd Anja.

The Dark Lord said nothing and strode confidently to face each of them. A short fanfare accompanied his entrance, played by a group of musicians that always occupied a small booth area. The fanfare consisted of string, wood and light percussion instruments aimed at swelling the egos of well known nobles and visitors. As expected, The Dark Lord Razgriz always received the best of attention.

Once inside the throneroom, he observed the crowd with the same distant expression of displeasure that he usually held.

[Valalerin]

The halls fell into awkward silence. Not a sound escaped to reach the ears of the great horde of onlookers, each perched on their toes to see what business will occur between the Dark Lord and the King. It was not a common occurrence, and it was obvious how each event wracked the King’s nerves more than the last.

“Dark Lord… To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I understand you recently burned down a village. I humbly ask your enlightenment…” the King asked with a tone that was remarkable to come from a King, especially one that is well known for being unfeeling and downright cruel to his underlings… But speaking so formally, and so humbly, was unnatural even for him. But it was necessary when in the presence of the Dark Lord, the slightest mistake could end in death.

The King sat straight in his chair. He had been in his chambers reading prior to being informed of the Dark Lord’s presence, and no book is good enough to read in those circumstances. He dressed in his most royal and formal attire, a purple robe embroided with golden thread reaching his feet, which ended with soft silken footwraps dyed to a dark purple bordering black. His hands were bare, though almost unseen due to the long, flowing arms of his robe. He wore not his crown in the presence of the Dark Lord, that would be to imply superiority… Instead he wore little more than a purple beret, a hat worn by servants.

His face was beginning to show signs of old age, littered with wrinkles from the stress of living under the Dark Lord. He had a low jawbone and a cleft chin. Cleft chins were a good thing to have in their culture, they were considered the embodiment of strength. His eyes were deepset and brown, thick and bushy eyebrows furrowed at the thought of losing another town to a man he has no power to punish. He had no facial hair, for he enjoyed visiting the barber’s regularly to both spend his great wealth, and he believed that the rich and proud should not befoul their face with hair.
His hair was short and neatly trimmed and styled. It constantly looked in perfect shape, style and health due to his having a private servant whose sole job it was to care for his hair.

“The town, was it harbouring a rebellious force? Perhaps heathens? I humbly inquire… Why did you destroy that town?” the King asked with a solemn tone of loss to his voice.

[engelbert]

Razgriz did not even spare King Shrenk a glance as he began to speak. The words were not spoken to anyone in particular, but rather as an announcement to all those within hearing range. As his voice carried well in the silence of the hall, this included everyone stood within the walls of the throne room.

"The Village was burned for working against me. They were asked to produce an item of great interest for me and they either refused or were too ignorant to know of what i asked. Punishment for such insolence is death."

He paused for a moment, allowing the impact of his words to sink in. He then continued to speak but in a slightly raised voice and more directed towards the crowd that patiently listened.

"This incident is the reason that you have all been called here. There is a cylinder of magical potency that I wish to have. Though the villainous traitors have spirited away the item, my harpies have manage to glean some information about the current whereabouts of it. It is your task to obtain it for me."

Again the Dark Lord paused.

"Those of you that agree to hunt for the item will be greatly rewarded. Those of you that do not...."

At this point a small group of harpies entered the hall behind the Dark Lord. They hissed and scowled menacingly at both the group and King Shrenk, bodies contorted by their mutated forms.

"... will be dealt with accordingly."

The Dark Lords face came a little more into view as he tilted his head back so that his hood showed a little more of his features. His lips twisted into a cold smile and his eyes, glowing malevolently, lacked any warmth.

"Record your names with Shrenk," he ordered finally, before turning his back on the group.

As he began to leave the room a second fanfare began. Wind, string and brass instruments rose together in a delightful symphony. Such was well deserved and the egotistical side of the Dark Lord smirked inside. He strode confidently towards the large oaken doors marking the way towards the private inner rooms of the castle but stopped partway. Some fool of a whoreson had played a wrong note. The Dark Lord was not the only one to notice this and as he turned to face the unfortunate band of musicians, many were trying to edge away from the unfortunate soul. It turned out to be a man in what looked to be his 30s. He was trembling violently now and had dropped the flute he had been playing.

At this point the guards would usually have stepped in but this was a different matter for no one insults the Dark Lord Razgriz. Though there were at least 20 guards positioned around the throne room, not one moved to either defend the quivering musician or eject him from the hall. The Dark Lord raised his left arm and pointed at the unlucky musician with an accusing finger before turning his hand palm upwards and motioning the fellow to approach. The musician was sweating profusely and gibbering to his peers for help. They ignored his pleas and roughly pushed him from their cornered off area out into the open hall. No one sought friendship from a dead man. The musician approached cautiously and was still gibbering unintelligible nonsense. He was also hunched over slightly with fear, both of the Harpies which were eyeing him hungrily and from the man who would surely order his death.

When the man reached The Dark Lord Razgriz, he stopped just a metre before him. The Dark Lord eyed him critically with a look of disgust on this face. He then did something that was quite rare when dealing with commoners. He spoke to the man. In an icily cold tone he voiced, “The difference between failure and success is doing a thing nearly right and doing it exactly right.”

The musician said nothing in return and merely blinked with fear and shock. His silence was cut off by a fluid blur from The Dark Lord Razgriz’s right arm. The group of musicians audibly gasped and one man cried out in alarm. The offending musician merely gagged and a harsh rasping sound erupted from his lips. Embedded deeply in his throat was the legendary black bolo that Razgriz possessed. The sword was made of black steel and it had ended the lives of many men. The unlucky musician coughed once more and shuddered violently, his throat still impaled by the blade of the Dark Lord. Thick foaming blood was coming from his mouth and staining his chin. The front of his doublet was also steadily turning a deep blood red as more and more of his life gushed from the severed arteries of his neck.

“The same can be said for the difference between life and death,” The Dark Lord continued. His tone was unchanged and unremorseful. With a savage pull he hefted his blade clear of the musician’s throat before turning his back on him and walking clear from the throneroom without a second glace.

The musician stood for a few moments whilst he slowly choked on his own blood before falling to his hands and knees. He coughed twice and gagged, harsh sounds coming from both his chest and mouth before collapsing fully and face down upon the floor. Though he lay lifeless, his blood continued to gout out from his neck for a few minutes more. The Harpies knew better than to feed from the musician without the permission of their Creator and so the Dark Lord did not waste his time in warning them against it.