His Kingdom Come

Spooky Sundown 2020

Tviyr was the first boundary to be created when Fellsgard was freed from Bhelest. There is a diverse magnitude of adventurers that trek through this countryside. Decorated with grassland, coastline, forest, and jungle, it's quite the vision. Read more...
Post Reply
User avatar
Malcolm Rhodes
Event MVP
Shield of the Hall, Knight Protector of House Galewatcher
Level
03
50 / 50 HP
38 / 38 MP
0p / 0g / 1s / 60c
Race: Ghost
Class: Paladin
Posts: 37
Joined: November 3rd, 2019, 10:52 pm
Been thanked: 3 times

His Kingdom Come

Post by Malcolm Rhodes »

The days had stretched again; despite his efforts the warm comfort of summer blended to a blur of ruthless training tinged with frustration. Malcolm looked up from where his thoughts had wandered and pressed his leg to spur his war mount onward. Typhoon, a trusted companion long familiar with his rider’s foibles, snorted and moved just a touch quicker along the winding trail. Malcolm nodded and swept his eyes about, looking for signs of danger and life in the fading light of afternoon. He found only the muted stamp of hooves in first snows and the faint whistle of the wind.

“Not much,” he said softly to his mount, patting the beast’s neck. “The word was undead were massing in the area, and they weren’t much for things beyond herb and skins before.” Typhoon snorted, intentionally kicking a small flutter of snow into the drifting winds. “Right- the snows. Well- if they have what we need then we can hang about for a bit, perhaps hold over the winter and enjoy some small comforts,” he offered with a placating chuckle. As the muted woods passed by, his thoughts returned to drifting.

The Paladin had striven hard to harness his abilities as a lingering spirit. Mastering his will and form, learning the dangers and benefits of being without need to breathe, eat, or do anything else a living body required. Beyond training, he also ravenously sought knowledge of his condition. Despite this effort, he’d yet to find a sage able to explain much of use. He had information that some form of deathweaver or the like lived in the secluded village ahead. His hope was they would be able to shed light on his own abilities and limits. Despite the theological stumbling block, Malcolm's purpose was clear. As a Paladin of Esyrax he would ensure the Idol's will was done; even if he only lived in the vaguest sense of the word. Something like a simple mockery of the veil would not stop him.

A sudden crack of wood echoed like thunder in the oppressive silence. Malcolm halted his horse, turning his senses towards the source and frowning intently. Another small gust of wind came through, drawing further snaps of dead branches as a small tree fell to the forest floor with a dull crash and flurry of snow. He grunted and urged Typhoon onward, the mount simply phasing through the obstruction. As the pair reached the far side, they saw an intricately etched runestone resting in a maintained hollow. Malcolm’s hand moved to his blade on a long-instilled reflex as uncertainty tickled at his thoughts. “Something is wrong-” he began softly, his eyes darting about.

The warrior had experienced a good deal of magic in his life, even before its untimely extension. He often found the sort of arcana that lasted of its own accord, or was carefully maintained, had a sort of will about it. Magic could judge intent with a looming awareness, and it was clear this runestone pulsed with judgement. Malcolm pressed with his legs, signaling to Typhoon to retreat backwards slowly. The warhorse complied without complaint, gliding soundlessly away from stonework.

With the barest flicker of warning, a silvery light flared on the stone and both he and Typhoon lost form. Malcolm burned with anger at the clear trap as he became an expanding ethereal mist. Then he felt a rush of fear as he attempted to coalesce and found his form out of his control. “Stay close friend, let us hope we need not fight,” he said, his voice a faint wisp of its usual strength. A persistent pull, like a rope tied to his soul, began drawing him inward past the trees as the runestone simmered with lingering energy.

Soon enough, they entered a broad clearing that seemed to be in the early stages of falling again to nature. Small homes and a few workshops were spread around a longhouse. Malcolm estimated at its peak the village held fifty, though only the longhouse and two other buildings had fires going. What alarmed him was the presence of undead moving around with purpose. These were not the usual mindless shambling and broken sort, but clearly well maintained and directed skeletons with some even wearing clothes or carrying tools.

“Necromancer?” he wondered aloud as they were pulled ever further into the village before finally coming to rest before a great runestone that shimmered with power. Malcolm looked up at the intricate rune work and tried to pull meaning from the stone and silver. The runes flared a final time and then faded, and it was only as the faint howling of wind returned that he realized he had not heard a single sound since the initial explosion. He flexed his will and felt his fear fade slightly as his form responded to his intent.

The paladin reformed himself there before the runestone and looked to Typhoon with a shake of his head. “Best we see who is home?” he asked the horse. Typhoon only snorted with agitation in reply. Malcolm moved towards the longhouse, letting his ghostly form press into the snow and clink with the sounds of life. He had learned well that many found the lack of sound the most disturbing part of his unlife and with a bit of practice he’d come to near master mimicry of sound. He brought his gauntleted hand up and thumped it solidly against the door twice before stepping back and calling out. “Ho there, a traveler looking for fire and knowledge.” There was the sound of intense rustling and the crash of wooden tableware from beyond the door.

Finally a weak male voice called back, “We- weren’t expecting- how’d you make it past the guards?” the voice demanded, though the wavering stripped the words of all authority. Malcolm looked at Typhoon with a raise of his brow.

“I was invited in, by the big stone,” he answered with a shrug as he glanced back to the now dormant rune stone. “Seemed fair I knocked, given I didn’t ask to be pulled here.” There was more shuffling and the distinct grind of a wood bar being slid aside.

The door cracked open and a young face hardened by harsh winters peered through to eye the Paladin. “What do you mean invited-” the words stopped abruptly as Malcolm’s sickly glow became clear. “If- you’re not here to seek revenge right? You promise?” the voice asked, an edge of confidence seeping back into the words.

“I seek no quarrel, only knowledge and rest. I have travelled here to speak to a deathweaver in the hopes they might enlighten me,” Malcolm answered with a thump of his gauntlet to his chest. There was a moment’s hesitation and then the door opened further.

“Quickly, before they come over again,” the young man said, readying to seal the door again the instant Malcolm passed him. Typhoon dispersed, and then with a nod and a bit of phasing, the Paladin and Warhorse slipped around the door and into the longhouse. Malcolm looked across the space, seeing many filled cots and blankets spread out as though in an infirmary. A meager fire crackled in the center pit, just barely sending warmth into the room. With a thud, the door was sealed again and the bar slid back in place.

“You don’t eat, right- we don’t have much to spare right now,” the young man said, moving past Malcolm to tend the fire. “I'm Norman, and my mother- she’s the one you want, but she can’t talk right now.”

Malcolm frowned and followed Norman's movements as he indicated his mother. She was pale and sickly, even more so in the soft glow of silver coming from a rune stone necklace resting on her chest. He looked back to the boy and shook his head. "I do not need food or warmth. What has happened here and are the undead what you fear?" he asked evenly, looking towards the barred door.

Norman nodded, and continued his work. "They were guards and helpers, my mother made them. She was teaching me how as well. Then the sickness came and more and more folks couldn't work." He motioned to the filled cots with still men and women. "Mother says if they're cared for then everyone will recover, but when no one can do work how do we eat or keep the wolves away? So I tried to summon more- and then they decided they didn't want to listen anymore. Now they roam around in the day."

Malcolm nodded, the story not an unfamiliar one. "Are all of the undead in the village? Do you know how to control them if I can protect you?" the Paladin asked as Norman's fire-tending came to an end.

"No sir, they come back at night though. The runestones get stronger and- maybe they remember they're supposed to come get inspected," the boy answered before quickly adding, "They don't get any less angry but I can release them if you keep me safe."

Malcolm considered and nodded decisively. "Then we will meet them on the field. I will defend you and you will banish their spirits," he declared. "Typhoon, you will guard the longhouse, in case something goes awry." Typhoon snorted softly, forming within a cleared space to loom over the cots. A plan set, Malcolm moved to settle by the door, as he prepared himself. 'Norman clearly isn't a fighter- and these undead are bound with moonlight given the runes,' he mused. He was confident they could handle the situation if it happened now in the daylight. After sundown, things were going to get a whole lot worse.

---

The moon rose and darkness fell, Norman tending the fire and moving absently from cot to cot to tend the villagers as well. When the runestones upon his mother's neck began to pulse with power he called out to Malcolm. "Sir, it's time." Malcolm rose from his leaning spot, moving to exit the door as Norman opened it. The boy moved with a practiced quickness, tying the door from the outside to give it some security without the locking bar. Malcolm kept his focus outward, examining a gathering of six gleaming skeletons across the way.

Each undead's skull was alight with magical silver fire, their eyes casting the now familiar silvery glow onto the ground as they marched towards the longhouse. When they saw Norman, their march halted and the fire flared as they arrayed to attack. Malcolm watched carefully, prepared to intercede when the undead halted in a ragged line of battle. The skeletons hissed and rattled, the sound of shifting bone just barely heard beneath the crackling of magical flame. The racket stirred many memories within Malcolm and he stepped forward.

"Fear not my boy; though the shadows close and the wolves circle they will not win the day," he said, squeezing Norman's shoulder firmly as he focused fully on the approaching undead. Then he was mist, surging forward to encompass the young man. "I am the Bear and the Eagle and my Duty is not yet done," Malcolm intoned as his form coalesced around Norman. Even dispersed, his voice boomed with power across the snows. He tightened his will and his body formed into a spectral armor, plates of viscous green armor solidifying to gleam in the moonlight.

"The Mantle of Battle, a warrior called and willingly bound by a righteous request," he explained, as the final bit of him tightened into impenetrable protection. Norman made a choked yelp and Malcolm's face split in a grin. Though their work was grim, finding amusement in the smaller moments was to be alive. The undead surged forward and Malcolm tightened his control, ensuring that nothing could strike the one he protected. Then the skeletons came to a stuttering halt, just as the final wisp of will hardened. The paladin frowned, uncertain of this development. Another choked shout came from Norman, and Malcolm turned his attention inward.

Where he expected to find a frightened young deathweaver, he saw instead a roiling mass of blackened smoke and silvered flame. The sight tickled distant memories and Malcolm's emotions ran cold. "A soul eater," he spat, the words springing from his lips dripping of fury and disgust. "You wanted to consume me," he added as full realization dawned. Barely formed claws of smoke swiped and scratched inside his solid form, finding no purchase in his iron will.

"These skeletons, they carry the same trap the stones did- you hoped to disperse me and feed," he continued, the roiling smoke moving frantically without result. Malcolm looked to the skeletons, the flames in their skulls beginning to sputter and fade. "So, why should I not crush you now?"

The wicked spirit wailed, a mouth of gnashing teeth springing into existing and smashing against the spectral prison over and over. From among the smoke a scared boy's voice emerged, "Please sir- I just wanted to help my mother. I just wanted to- feed."

Malcolm sighed and brought his mailed fist up before his chest. "Esyrax, I call upon your powers to cleanse and heal. I will banish this foul creature in your name." A power surged from without and within the Paladin as gleaming light flared along his hand. "Your servant is humbled by your blessing," Malcolm said reverently and loosened the control of his chestplate. The soul eater tried to spring forward and burst from its prison, only to be caught by searing radiance.

The creature's desperate gnashing became a keening wail as it tried to shrink away from the unrelenting divinity. Malcolm spread his fingers, curling them around the small bone core of the soul eater. He paused then, sighing in disappointment. Then he closed his fist, the bone shattering with a faint pop as the smoke exploded within him. The sickening sound of snapping bone followed as the skeletons joined their master, splintering into shards with the force of their unlife released.

The ensuing silence lasted for only an instant before resounding cracks tore across the village. Buildings began to decay and crumble, logs and mud turning to ash as the power that maintained them fell away. Malcolm watched with sadness as all but the longhouse fell to nothing. Running his fist through his hair to collect himself, he turned and moved towards the building. He called out for Typhoon as he phased through the barred door and found the warhorse watching vigilantly in the last flickering vestiges of the central cookfire. In each of the cots, bones rested with half-etched runes marking their skulls.

Only the mother seemed intact, her body just as he had seen it before; sickly and pale, though rapidly growing waxy with recent death. The runestone necklace atop her chest lay cracked now, the silver gleam gone from it just as it was from the skeletons outside. Malcolm moved to kneel beside her, his head bowed in regret. "It is my duty to ensure you know the creature who took your son has been vanquished."

Malcolm looked at the shoddy rune work on the other skeletons and nodded slowly. "My guess, he was not far enough in his studies; did not understand well enough the risks. In his desire to help, he invited a dangerous spirit into being and it consumed him. Ate him from the inside, keeping enough of his memories to use your talents and defenses to draw others here and consume them. I- am sorry- but it is done now." Malcolm reached down and carefully lifted her body, carrying her to the cookfire and placing atop it. He stoked the flames with the poker, encouraging it to catch her woolen dress. When she was caught in the consuming flames, he placed his palm upon her forehead and spoke a prayer.

"Esyrax, I ask for forgiveness for this woman. I fear she suffered not for her own sins and her soul deserves your redemption. So does your Paladin ask, so will you decide." As the last of his words faded he stepped back, looking at Typhoon with a nod before turning to leave the longhouse. "I am sorry my friend, it looks like we cannot rest and learn here," he said sadly, patting the mount's side before hopping deftly into the saddle. Typhoon snorted and began to walk towards the distant break in the trees and the woods beyond.
Word count: 2756
Post Reply

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest