Thrashia
11-09-2007, 07:01
OOC: This rp is closed. If you should show some interest however and have skill in PT/Fantasy rps then feel free to TG me and ask permission to join. Other factions exist to be used such as the elves, dwarves, orcs, etc. @ Chronosia: here is a link (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=537584) to information of the 'Empire of Thrashia' and a map of the lands. If you have questions, just TG me.
IC:
Mount Selenia
Torrents of rain fell upon the ground, a deluge of water cascading everywhere. The sky which had been clear and blue but moments before was rent with lightning and the raucous sound of thunder. Dark clouds moved with a slow purpose over the sky, like fell creatures waiting to fall upon unsuspecting prey below. Those unfortunate enough to be caught outside or traveling quickly found shelter from this unlooked for and terrible storm, more than a few simply becoming more soaked from it for their efforts. Trees atop hills were turned to burning ash as lightning flashed upon the ground in feral leaps, the jester-god’s dice deciding where and on whom they landed.
The stone of the walls seemed to protest in silent roars as the cold rain beat against their surface, continuing the timeless and continuous effort to weather them down. As high as the tower was atop the mountainside, the rain did little, though the wind howled as the Furies. A lone light sprang from the topmost window of its lonely spire, flickering a tepid dance.
“Shut that damned shutter will you boy!?” cried out a thick, authoritive voice.
A young boy wearing a servants smock rushed over to the tower window, cringing as rain beat in across his face, and strained with the small chain attached to the wooden shutters. After several long moments and several loud curses the small servant boy managed to shut them, the din from the storm lowering slightly.
“Ah, much better.”
The boy turned to cast an anger-filled glance at the wizened old man across the room. He sat behind a desk which was topped by towers of ancient books and weathered tomes. Parchment with near indecipherable penmanship was scattered all across the room. Diagrams and pictures depicting creatures of old repute and items of forbidden lands hung from the walls.
“Don’t give me that look Matthias,” ordered the old man. “You know it was your turn to be window watcher today. I even told you a storm was coming.”
“I was at the bottom of the tower, sir,” the boy Matthias said with a severity. “I would have walked up here instead of run had I known the great wizard Palatine couldn’t close a simple window himself.”
Old Palatine regarded the boy with beady eyes. “Were you troublesome and sarcastic or just plain rude to your former parents?”
“Both,” Matthias deadpanned. “I usually had a hard time choosing between the two.”
Palatine sighed. The boy, though of royal lineage, was a troublesome bother that was constantly irking at the edge of his worries. The chores in his tower were never enough to exhaust the small boy even though they were chores fit more for a child twice his age. But then he liked that characteristic about the child, he had guts and fire in him.
“Very well, off with you before I decide to let you spend the evening as an ermine,” declared Palatine, trying his best to sound mad. The boy left, but not before Palatine swore he saw a small smirk cross the boy’s face. The old wizard smacked his hand on the table. “Little devil!”
It didn’t help his mood any further when he heard laughter follow this proclamation from outside his door.
Palatine however let all thoughts of the boy disappear from his mind as he turned in his seat to face a small alcove set in the rock behind his book-ridden desk. There sitting on a small purple, plush pillow was a glowing crystal ball. It was one of Palatine’s oldest and most valuable possessions, having once belonged to his own master and teacher. With it he could search the river of time and see past and future. And what he saw sent a cold chill to the core of his bones.
Visions of a horrid and evil host marching like a plague across the land of the Thrashian Empire and setting to torch the lands of Men, Elves, and Dwarves alike played out within the crystal ball. Over and over Palatine used his magic to view the different courses of the future, hundreds upon hundreds slipping past his fingers as he strived to see some truth.
“It will be a dark day coming…,” he muttered, a pained and knowing look passing over his aged features.
* * * * *
The city of Phyros rose up from its fog shrouded mountain-valley like a bird rising from its nest early in the morning. High and powerful stone towers rose up out of the mist like jagged teeth, set at intervals along the highest wall of the large city. The highest tier, a tall tower, presented the citadel to the sky, affording a man standing at its roof a view of the entire valley for miles around. Below the walls guarding the citadel were masses of cramped houses, white washed walls of brick and roofs of red and brown ceramic shone as the early sun’s beams fell. Three more high and tower teethed walls rose up amongst the houses and small mansions in the city, before finally coming to the grand curtain wall that was a massive, stone boundary for the city.
With the morning the noise and hubbub of a thriving market rose as men and women came awake in time to hear the cry of bakers presenting fresh bread and huntsmen yelling out the special tastes of their captured prey. The strong smell of foreign spices eroded the senses when one walked by the stalls of rich merchants, haggling with customers over prices. Small children rushed too and fro, laughing and playing as was their whim.
Standing in the window his of private suite within the second-highest tier of the city, Prince Zander looked down at the city with fondness. It had been his home since birth and he knew it well. He stood clothed in only his sleeping robes, rich silk from the Elven port city of Niva, and remembered fond memories from the past. His revelries were however disturbed by the wooden door to his sleeping chamber being slammed open and a neutral-faced looking servant enter carrying a tray of food.
The servant set it down at a wooden table sitting next to the bed and poured out a goblet of cooled, red wine. “Fair morning to you my lord, I trust you are fully awake and fit for today’s duties.”
Prince Zander bristled a bit at his servant’s tone. “Must you always sound insolent Hawk?”
“If I were more indispensable to my lord he might find me even more so,” the servant named Hawk deadpanned. “Though that would undoubtedly bore me since dancing with death at my current precipice seems more entertaining. Butter or no butter?”
The prince bit back a retort and answered back through gritted teeth. “No butter! Just get on with it!” The prince knew that his servant knew what to do each morning, but simply asked questions to barb and pick at him. A habit which could, if Zander ever thought of it, get the man in trouble.
With a huff Zander sat down and started into his breakfast of fresh bread and sweet, golden honey. He spent large amounts of his private treasury to buy the stuff from the provinces to the south where they harvested the sweet nectar in abundance, but here in the craggy north with the mountains around there was little of such things, much to Zander’s displeasure.
Zander took a deep drink of his wine, the silver goblet catching some sun light from the window. “Well,” he said, putting it down. “What have we on the list today?”
Hawk smiled mirthlessly. “After you’ve finished your breakfast my lord there is a training session with Master Falherst which will last until, he told me, mid-day whereupon I will see you bathed and then fit in your armor to be presented prim as a rose to your father’s court where you will help preside over the Court of Alms.”
Zander sighed in anguish. Not only would he be subjected to a harsh physical regimen this morning, but an afternoon spent listening for an eternity to the squabbles and arguments presented by aggrieved nobles and peasants would give him a headache. His servant however seemed to only take pleasure in detailing his further responsibilities.
After giving his grueling four hour fencing session with Master Falherst and a quick and very rough scrub bath under the scrutiny of Hawk, Zander found himself wearing his usual royal robes and armor. His feet were clad in soft, black doe-skin boots and he wore fine leather britches with a knee-length leather shirt over which was a hauberk of finely crafted dwarf ring mail. Steel pauldrons crafted into the visage of screaming falcons adorned his shoulders and the crest of the imperial line, a fierce looking dragon spitting fire, was emblazoned on his chest. His hair, a bright blonde, like his mother's, was cut short and the high mountain breeze kept his exposed neck cool in the hot armour.
He walked past citadel guards armed in full plate armour with great, long swords of well forged steel at their sides and into the inner sanctum of the courtyard. Dozens of arrow sloops glared down at Zander as he walked, waiting to fulfill their purpose in creating murder holes. Archers and crossbowmen in the Emperor’s livery walked the walls and servants dashed in all directions on different errands. All gave a quick bow as the prince past. Finally he reached the great hall where his father held feasts and court. The stone of the castle disappeared here to be replaced by white marble.
The main hall of the citadel was a large, circular space made of seamless, pale white stone and hung with archaic tapestries depicting the deeds of warriors long dead. The vaulted ceiling soared more than thirty feet over Zander’s head and when he looked up he could see a gleaming moon and a scattering of stars glowing in the shadows. Illumination from the illusionary moon was the only source of light in the chamber, limning the dais and white-gold throne in the centre of the room with a patina of pale pewter. Statues of wizards and emperors stood in alcoves around the perimeter of the room, their marble faces astonishingly vibrant in the light. Behind the throne rose a dragon in a spiraling pillar of stone that rose up into the ceiling. The illusory moonlight shone on iridescent dragon scales formed from crushed pearls.
The grandeur of the room never ceased to amazed Zander. The air was filled with age and power, reminding those who walked there that the dragon throne had been present there for countless centuries.
Two guards in full armour stood with bared blades before the iron-bound open doors. When Zander approached they parted and bowed as he passed. As he did so, Zander saw the intricate patterns of red and gold wyverns carved with delicate care into the doors themselves. A rush of sound fell over Zander as he entered: men arguing, bottles clinking into cups, bitter curses, and some faint laughter. But for the surroundings Zander would have thought he’d stepped into a tavern house rather than his father’s court.
The court’s crier spied Zander and tapped his iron shod staff to the ground. “If it pleases you my lord, Prince Zander has come in answer to summons and stands ready to serve,” he cried the ancient phrase of entrance to the Emperor’s hall. A dozen lesser nobles and a few peasants intermixed with richly dressed merchants turned and parted way as Zander plodded past.
Half a dozen armoured highborn, members of his father’s personal household knights, gave Zander measuring glances. Servants moved unnoticed through the men offering wine or trays of food and retreating behind screens of heavy tapestries. Zander however ignored them all and bowed low before the man seated in the throne.
Emperor Octavius reclined in a massive throne formed of white marble and gilded gold, wrought carvings of dragons speared across its surface depicting the great beasts of legend out on the hunt. The Emperor wore finely crafted armour chased with silver and gold and his light brown hair fell loose about his narrow shoulders. Octavius was a handsome man, with a square chin and high, flat cheekbones. Zander couldn’t help but see a bit of himself, like looking into a mirror, looking back at him.
“Rise, my son and prince of Thrashia,” intoned Octavius, his bright blue eyes looking with kindness on his son.
“I bid my lord welcome,” replied Zander, rising to his feet. Octavius motioned to a smaller, less ornate, throne at the foot of the dais. Zander bowed and took his place.
“Now,” said Octavius. “We were just about to start the case of Lord Cant and-.”
Before the emperor could finish his words however a great boom sounded throughout the cavernous hall and a white light burst from the center of the room. Everyone shielded their eyes. Zander and others around him of his father’s guard struggled to their feet, hands moving to sword hilts. Zander dragged his out with a hiss and stepped forward into the light.
“Stay your hand proud prince,” commanded an old and powerful voice. When Zander struggled to take another step he yelled in pain and dropped his sword. Its hilt burned bright red.
The light faded to reveal an aged man standing before them. He wore bright blue robes and a high conical hat of silver. In his hand was a gnarled staff of some ancient oak, carved along its length with runes and small scribbling. The man’s face carried much age but at the same time carried authority and power. His eyes betrayed that feature with heartwarming tenderness, their watery blue color looking in amusement at the scalded prince.
Several of the guards attempted to draw their swords when suddenly the Emperor’s voice barked out. “Away with you swords! Stand down!”
Grudgingly the men did as they were told. With a gesture the Emperor dismissed the attendants and civilians who had only moments ago been present to ask a boon or demand a sentence to a certain grievance they had; in the face of the strange new arrival however none dared to question their lord.
When the room was clear except for Zander and his guards the Emperor spoke. “You come quite unannounced into my halls Palatine and interrupt my court. I feel that I should be much aggrieved.”
Zander stared in amazement. Palatine? The ancient wizard of legend and tale who helped to banish the Lyzird Warlocks and Orc Shaman back to the abyss? The powerful mage who dueled with Salykar the Corrupt? Zander’s eyes flickered between his father and the wizard.
“I am sure that my lord with not grieve the loss of listening to more petty, squabbling noblemen when he hears my dark tidings,” answered Palatine, a look of sorrow crossing his face after his short spark of mirth. Emperor Octavius’ brow furrowed in concentration.
“Go on.”
“I bring news of a great evil. One that has not been seen since the coming of Salykar and his orcish masses,” declared Palatine. The hall hung heavy with silence at this. Zander stared in open confusion. “An evil is entering into the lands of your Empire my lord. One that has never before been seen; one more potent and foul than any our brave souls have ever thought to face.”
Octavius sat up straight in his throne and his eyes bored into the wizard. “You make it sound as if the Gates of Dekkar were opened and the undead risen to attack us.”
“Verily near the mark my lord. However this is an evil more foul than even the Lord of Undead could unleash. I speak of dark and evil gods…Gods of Chaos. Their foul brood, legions of the damned even now march from the far north east and into the realm of your cousin, the Elector Count of Ean Dosen. If not opposed they will wash the lands of Men away in a wave of blood.”
Zander didn’t understand what the old man was talking about, but at the mention of the word ‘chaos’ a trickle of cold crawled unwanted up his spine. A small part at the back of his brain whispered warning, speaking of untold horrors that await in even mentioning the name.
“Then it would that I would be fool hardy to recall my court petitioners,” Emperor Octavius said without mirth.
“Quick action would undoubtedly help my lord. I myself must leave you now to visit the High Lords of the Elves and the King of the Mountain Dwarves. Pay no heed to my coming and going, simply know that I will find you,” said Palatine. “May you be watched over by the Eternals.”
Without another word but with another bright flash and thunderous boom the wizard Palatine disappeared, leaving the Emperor Octavius brooding in his chair. Zander, off balanced by all the events that had just taken place, stood there in a stupor.
IC:
Mount Selenia
Torrents of rain fell upon the ground, a deluge of water cascading everywhere. The sky which had been clear and blue but moments before was rent with lightning and the raucous sound of thunder. Dark clouds moved with a slow purpose over the sky, like fell creatures waiting to fall upon unsuspecting prey below. Those unfortunate enough to be caught outside or traveling quickly found shelter from this unlooked for and terrible storm, more than a few simply becoming more soaked from it for their efforts. Trees atop hills were turned to burning ash as lightning flashed upon the ground in feral leaps, the jester-god’s dice deciding where and on whom they landed.
The stone of the walls seemed to protest in silent roars as the cold rain beat against their surface, continuing the timeless and continuous effort to weather them down. As high as the tower was atop the mountainside, the rain did little, though the wind howled as the Furies. A lone light sprang from the topmost window of its lonely spire, flickering a tepid dance.
“Shut that damned shutter will you boy!?” cried out a thick, authoritive voice.
A young boy wearing a servants smock rushed over to the tower window, cringing as rain beat in across his face, and strained with the small chain attached to the wooden shutters. After several long moments and several loud curses the small servant boy managed to shut them, the din from the storm lowering slightly.
“Ah, much better.”
The boy turned to cast an anger-filled glance at the wizened old man across the room. He sat behind a desk which was topped by towers of ancient books and weathered tomes. Parchment with near indecipherable penmanship was scattered all across the room. Diagrams and pictures depicting creatures of old repute and items of forbidden lands hung from the walls.
“Don’t give me that look Matthias,” ordered the old man. “You know it was your turn to be window watcher today. I even told you a storm was coming.”
“I was at the bottom of the tower, sir,” the boy Matthias said with a severity. “I would have walked up here instead of run had I known the great wizard Palatine couldn’t close a simple window himself.”
Old Palatine regarded the boy with beady eyes. “Were you troublesome and sarcastic or just plain rude to your former parents?”
“Both,” Matthias deadpanned. “I usually had a hard time choosing between the two.”
Palatine sighed. The boy, though of royal lineage, was a troublesome bother that was constantly irking at the edge of his worries. The chores in his tower were never enough to exhaust the small boy even though they were chores fit more for a child twice his age. But then he liked that characteristic about the child, he had guts and fire in him.
“Very well, off with you before I decide to let you spend the evening as an ermine,” declared Palatine, trying his best to sound mad. The boy left, but not before Palatine swore he saw a small smirk cross the boy’s face. The old wizard smacked his hand on the table. “Little devil!”
It didn’t help his mood any further when he heard laughter follow this proclamation from outside his door.
Palatine however let all thoughts of the boy disappear from his mind as he turned in his seat to face a small alcove set in the rock behind his book-ridden desk. There sitting on a small purple, plush pillow was a glowing crystal ball. It was one of Palatine’s oldest and most valuable possessions, having once belonged to his own master and teacher. With it he could search the river of time and see past and future. And what he saw sent a cold chill to the core of his bones.
Visions of a horrid and evil host marching like a plague across the land of the Thrashian Empire and setting to torch the lands of Men, Elves, and Dwarves alike played out within the crystal ball. Over and over Palatine used his magic to view the different courses of the future, hundreds upon hundreds slipping past his fingers as he strived to see some truth.
“It will be a dark day coming…,” he muttered, a pained and knowing look passing over his aged features.
* * * * *
The city of Phyros rose up from its fog shrouded mountain-valley like a bird rising from its nest early in the morning. High and powerful stone towers rose up out of the mist like jagged teeth, set at intervals along the highest wall of the large city. The highest tier, a tall tower, presented the citadel to the sky, affording a man standing at its roof a view of the entire valley for miles around. Below the walls guarding the citadel were masses of cramped houses, white washed walls of brick and roofs of red and brown ceramic shone as the early sun’s beams fell. Three more high and tower teethed walls rose up amongst the houses and small mansions in the city, before finally coming to the grand curtain wall that was a massive, stone boundary for the city.
With the morning the noise and hubbub of a thriving market rose as men and women came awake in time to hear the cry of bakers presenting fresh bread and huntsmen yelling out the special tastes of their captured prey. The strong smell of foreign spices eroded the senses when one walked by the stalls of rich merchants, haggling with customers over prices. Small children rushed too and fro, laughing and playing as was their whim.
Standing in the window his of private suite within the second-highest tier of the city, Prince Zander looked down at the city with fondness. It had been his home since birth and he knew it well. He stood clothed in only his sleeping robes, rich silk from the Elven port city of Niva, and remembered fond memories from the past. His revelries were however disturbed by the wooden door to his sleeping chamber being slammed open and a neutral-faced looking servant enter carrying a tray of food.
The servant set it down at a wooden table sitting next to the bed and poured out a goblet of cooled, red wine. “Fair morning to you my lord, I trust you are fully awake and fit for today’s duties.”
Prince Zander bristled a bit at his servant’s tone. “Must you always sound insolent Hawk?”
“If I were more indispensable to my lord he might find me even more so,” the servant named Hawk deadpanned. “Though that would undoubtedly bore me since dancing with death at my current precipice seems more entertaining. Butter or no butter?”
The prince bit back a retort and answered back through gritted teeth. “No butter! Just get on with it!” The prince knew that his servant knew what to do each morning, but simply asked questions to barb and pick at him. A habit which could, if Zander ever thought of it, get the man in trouble.
With a huff Zander sat down and started into his breakfast of fresh bread and sweet, golden honey. He spent large amounts of his private treasury to buy the stuff from the provinces to the south where they harvested the sweet nectar in abundance, but here in the craggy north with the mountains around there was little of such things, much to Zander’s displeasure.
Zander took a deep drink of his wine, the silver goblet catching some sun light from the window. “Well,” he said, putting it down. “What have we on the list today?”
Hawk smiled mirthlessly. “After you’ve finished your breakfast my lord there is a training session with Master Falherst which will last until, he told me, mid-day whereupon I will see you bathed and then fit in your armor to be presented prim as a rose to your father’s court where you will help preside over the Court of Alms.”
Zander sighed in anguish. Not only would he be subjected to a harsh physical regimen this morning, but an afternoon spent listening for an eternity to the squabbles and arguments presented by aggrieved nobles and peasants would give him a headache. His servant however seemed to only take pleasure in detailing his further responsibilities.
After giving his grueling four hour fencing session with Master Falherst and a quick and very rough scrub bath under the scrutiny of Hawk, Zander found himself wearing his usual royal robes and armor. His feet were clad in soft, black doe-skin boots and he wore fine leather britches with a knee-length leather shirt over which was a hauberk of finely crafted dwarf ring mail. Steel pauldrons crafted into the visage of screaming falcons adorned his shoulders and the crest of the imperial line, a fierce looking dragon spitting fire, was emblazoned on his chest. His hair, a bright blonde, like his mother's, was cut short and the high mountain breeze kept his exposed neck cool in the hot armour.
He walked past citadel guards armed in full plate armour with great, long swords of well forged steel at their sides and into the inner sanctum of the courtyard. Dozens of arrow sloops glared down at Zander as he walked, waiting to fulfill their purpose in creating murder holes. Archers and crossbowmen in the Emperor’s livery walked the walls and servants dashed in all directions on different errands. All gave a quick bow as the prince past. Finally he reached the great hall where his father held feasts and court. The stone of the castle disappeared here to be replaced by white marble.
The main hall of the citadel was a large, circular space made of seamless, pale white stone and hung with archaic tapestries depicting the deeds of warriors long dead. The vaulted ceiling soared more than thirty feet over Zander’s head and when he looked up he could see a gleaming moon and a scattering of stars glowing in the shadows. Illumination from the illusionary moon was the only source of light in the chamber, limning the dais and white-gold throne in the centre of the room with a patina of pale pewter. Statues of wizards and emperors stood in alcoves around the perimeter of the room, their marble faces astonishingly vibrant in the light. Behind the throne rose a dragon in a spiraling pillar of stone that rose up into the ceiling. The illusory moonlight shone on iridescent dragon scales formed from crushed pearls.
The grandeur of the room never ceased to amazed Zander. The air was filled with age and power, reminding those who walked there that the dragon throne had been present there for countless centuries.
Two guards in full armour stood with bared blades before the iron-bound open doors. When Zander approached they parted and bowed as he passed. As he did so, Zander saw the intricate patterns of red and gold wyverns carved with delicate care into the doors themselves. A rush of sound fell over Zander as he entered: men arguing, bottles clinking into cups, bitter curses, and some faint laughter. But for the surroundings Zander would have thought he’d stepped into a tavern house rather than his father’s court.
The court’s crier spied Zander and tapped his iron shod staff to the ground. “If it pleases you my lord, Prince Zander has come in answer to summons and stands ready to serve,” he cried the ancient phrase of entrance to the Emperor’s hall. A dozen lesser nobles and a few peasants intermixed with richly dressed merchants turned and parted way as Zander plodded past.
Half a dozen armoured highborn, members of his father’s personal household knights, gave Zander measuring glances. Servants moved unnoticed through the men offering wine or trays of food and retreating behind screens of heavy tapestries. Zander however ignored them all and bowed low before the man seated in the throne.
Emperor Octavius reclined in a massive throne formed of white marble and gilded gold, wrought carvings of dragons speared across its surface depicting the great beasts of legend out on the hunt. The Emperor wore finely crafted armour chased with silver and gold and his light brown hair fell loose about his narrow shoulders. Octavius was a handsome man, with a square chin and high, flat cheekbones. Zander couldn’t help but see a bit of himself, like looking into a mirror, looking back at him.
“Rise, my son and prince of Thrashia,” intoned Octavius, his bright blue eyes looking with kindness on his son.
“I bid my lord welcome,” replied Zander, rising to his feet. Octavius motioned to a smaller, less ornate, throne at the foot of the dais. Zander bowed and took his place.
“Now,” said Octavius. “We were just about to start the case of Lord Cant and-.”
Before the emperor could finish his words however a great boom sounded throughout the cavernous hall and a white light burst from the center of the room. Everyone shielded their eyes. Zander and others around him of his father’s guard struggled to their feet, hands moving to sword hilts. Zander dragged his out with a hiss and stepped forward into the light.
“Stay your hand proud prince,” commanded an old and powerful voice. When Zander struggled to take another step he yelled in pain and dropped his sword. Its hilt burned bright red.
The light faded to reveal an aged man standing before them. He wore bright blue robes and a high conical hat of silver. In his hand was a gnarled staff of some ancient oak, carved along its length with runes and small scribbling. The man’s face carried much age but at the same time carried authority and power. His eyes betrayed that feature with heartwarming tenderness, their watery blue color looking in amusement at the scalded prince.
Several of the guards attempted to draw their swords when suddenly the Emperor’s voice barked out. “Away with you swords! Stand down!”
Grudgingly the men did as they were told. With a gesture the Emperor dismissed the attendants and civilians who had only moments ago been present to ask a boon or demand a sentence to a certain grievance they had; in the face of the strange new arrival however none dared to question their lord.
When the room was clear except for Zander and his guards the Emperor spoke. “You come quite unannounced into my halls Palatine and interrupt my court. I feel that I should be much aggrieved.”
Zander stared in amazement. Palatine? The ancient wizard of legend and tale who helped to banish the Lyzird Warlocks and Orc Shaman back to the abyss? The powerful mage who dueled with Salykar the Corrupt? Zander’s eyes flickered between his father and the wizard.
“I am sure that my lord with not grieve the loss of listening to more petty, squabbling noblemen when he hears my dark tidings,” answered Palatine, a look of sorrow crossing his face after his short spark of mirth. Emperor Octavius’ brow furrowed in concentration.
“Go on.”
“I bring news of a great evil. One that has not been seen since the coming of Salykar and his orcish masses,” declared Palatine. The hall hung heavy with silence at this. Zander stared in open confusion. “An evil is entering into the lands of your Empire my lord. One that has never before been seen; one more potent and foul than any our brave souls have ever thought to face.”
Octavius sat up straight in his throne and his eyes bored into the wizard. “You make it sound as if the Gates of Dekkar were opened and the undead risen to attack us.”
“Verily near the mark my lord. However this is an evil more foul than even the Lord of Undead could unleash. I speak of dark and evil gods…Gods of Chaos. Their foul brood, legions of the damned even now march from the far north east and into the realm of your cousin, the Elector Count of Ean Dosen. If not opposed they will wash the lands of Men away in a wave of blood.”
Zander didn’t understand what the old man was talking about, but at the mention of the word ‘chaos’ a trickle of cold crawled unwanted up his spine. A small part at the back of his brain whispered warning, speaking of untold horrors that await in even mentioning the name.
“Then it would that I would be fool hardy to recall my court petitioners,” Emperor Octavius said without mirth.
“Quick action would undoubtedly help my lord. I myself must leave you now to visit the High Lords of the Elves and the King of the Mountain Dwarves. Pay no heed to my coming and going, simply know that I will find you,” said Palatine. “May you be watched over by the Eternals.”
Without another word but with another bright flash and thunderous boom the wizard Palatine disappeared, leaving the Emperor Octavius brooding in his chair. Zander, off balanced by all the events that had just taken place, stood there in a stupor.