A King and a Swordsmaster
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Is it not the folly of man that we see violence as the best solution to any problem?
Men roared and fought as the clash of iron deafened them and the acrid scent of fire, smoke and death filled the air, making breathing a near impossibility.
Warriors once of the same kin fought as brother, fathers and sons all slew each other due to the anger of two kings. Neither side could even truly remember why they fought, only that they fought, and fighting was the only way to earn food, and food meant living a little longer, and life meant a possible escape from the fighting.
So man clashed pointlessly as gods watched and laughed at his folly.
But man rose above what gods intended for them to become, harnessing the power of the earth they stood upon, building mountains and fortresses, ascending to the heavens as the gods watched on, not in laughter, but now in fear.
Only for man to come tumbling back down again, and their laughter began anew.
But one man grew tired of this laughter, this incessant mocking of his very species. This man built armies in a desperate bid for some form of power, so he might make these incessant voices of gods silent for once in his life.
At least, that is what he said. But in truth, in cold, hard truth, he sought to do little more with his new found followers than satisfy his own pride.
So he fought and fought, until some land was his. A small kingdom, little more than a province, really. But it was his kingdom, and his pride was momentarily sated.
But his people were starting to doubt their king, who loomed over them in his grand tower, as they slowly ran out of food and water, and bandits ravaged their land.
The king realized his folly, and immediately took action. But his armies were weakened by all the fighting, and thus his kingdom died before it had begun. But that was not the real ending of his story, no.
For, at this crucial moment in history, a savior arrived. A man clad in armour of the east, carrying a blade so powerful, its very strength was greater than the kings entire army. The man wielding it sought audience with the king.
This mans name was Allone.
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Allone was a wanderer. A vagrant swordsman, a master of the blade, forever drifting from land to land, never stopping. Until now.
No one truly knows what he saw in the prideful king. Perhaps the humble warrior saw a man so unlike him it was fascinating. Perhaps he saw only a victim of the same fate that had befallen hundreds of kings, and sought to remedy this mans troubles. Or perhaps he too was power hungry, and saw an easy way to gain fame and fortune in these lands.
But whatever his reasons, the man was a godsend. Together, the king and Allone fought and brought the kingdom back from the brink of disaster. Back to some semblance of order. During the fighting, they grew close. They came to see each other as their brother, and bonded in the fires of war, their kinship forged in battle like the iron the king was obsessed with.
For the king saw no weakness in iron, no flaw like his own pride. The king only saw strength, and unfailing loyalty. Their bond was so like iron the king took it upon himself to use the vast stores of iron within his newly rebuilt kingdom to produce many things.
A fortress, a grand castle made entirely of iron blocks, rivets and bands. Within this fortress he constructed a great iron throne, a monument to his power. He built mighty suits of iron for his most powerful warriors, turtle like in appearance, and nigh impenetrable in practice.
And to continue his hunt for iron he began tearing into his land itself. He ripped the land open, cutting great gouges in the earth, pulling thousands of tons of iron ore, and crafting it into armour and blades for his warriors, styled after Allones own equipment, and constructed a great refinery powered by fire.
But his relentless greed took its toll on the land, the once lush Harvest Valley becoming a toxic wasteland, home to shambling abominations enslaved by the kings iron will, who continued to rip their own land asunder despite the harm it caused them.
The king was also obsessed with fire, especially its heat. For heat could mold iron into anything he wanted, and the rare art of Pyromancy became an obsession for him. The power to wield fire as he wielded blades and maces, like a weapon.
A woman named Eiygil approached him, for she was a master of pyromancy, seeking to give it a will of its own. The king accepted her as a subject, and under her orders a mighty statue was built near the entrance of the iron kings keep, a massive bull headed iron statue, built to mark her love and affection for the king.
But the king was too focused on moving forward, bringing his nation to the forefront of industry and power, he ignored many things. A woman who showered him with affection, another whose beauty was beyond compare, and his kingdoms relations with other places.
But no king could ignore the looming threat over all of humanity. For when the king was at his most powerful, an ancient curse rose again, one that seemed almost determined to drive man back to his weakest state. And thus the undead rose once more, and the darksign branded a great many people.
No amount of iron, no matter how much or how strong, could halt the undead. But let it not be said the king failed for a lack of trying. He crafted shackles of iron to bind the undead, and would free them in the Undead Purgatory to be run down by the sadistic and merciless Executioners Chariot. This torture was unending, for undead never truly die.
Thus was the fate of any who displeased the king.
But, it was not enough. The undead continued to multiply in number. So the king opened his kingdom to hunters, warriors who would track down and kill the undead endless times for sport and reward. But still the curse continued.
And it was at this crucial moment in time Allone stepped away. He left the king, whom he loved like a brother, to his own conceit, to die. He had grown sick of his kings constant demands and ruthless nature, so unlike the prideful but kind man he had become brothers with. So he took his most loyal followers, and fled the kingdom and the kings wrath. And rightfully so.
The king was infuriated. How dare Allone leave him, abandon him like some miscreant. He sought vengeance, and gave chase, to a tiny fort many miles away. To the home of Allone and his disciples, who had tried and failed to escape his fury.
He slaughtered the paltry handful of guards defending their master, who, despite being trained by a master of the blade, were mere breezes compared to the whirlwind of rage that was the king. And so the king massacred them, and entered Allones sanctuary.
Allone was not himself that day. Where his blade, his mighty, all powerful, cursed blade, would have spilt the kings blood a thousand times, the king nimbly avoided each blow, the sword cutting through air instead of him. Finally, realizing he could never bring himself to kill his battle-brother, Allone took his own life, impaling himself upon his blade to avoid disgrace.
But our story does not end here, for the king still had one more room to look into. For in a tiny room, off to the side of Allones hall, was his old throne, a symbol of his humble beginnings as a small lord.
Then the king fell to the ground and wept bitter, salty tears for all he had lost in his ruthless pursuit for power. The respect of his people, his warriors, his own greatest friend. So the king wept and the gods laughed anew, overjoyed by the dramatic spectacle before them.
But the king hardened his resolve, hearing this laughter once more. He vowed to return his kingdom to a state stronger than ever, to avenge himself in the eyes of his dearest friend. And so begins the final act of our story.
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The king had returned from his hunt a changed man, and many noticed. He rebuilt his nation, and made it stronger than ever. He did not halt the undead hunts, but put restrictions upon the hunters. The people did not mind, for they too hated the undead, foul creatures that they were.
Eigyl especially saw the change in the king, as he ordered her to begin a new project, one that would bring her dream of granting fire a will to life. He created a mighty suit of iron, a fearful creature that looked a monster, and she gave it life using fire. However, something went horribly wrong.
The creature awoke into this new world, took one look at the king, and swung his blade. The blow threw the king aside, as Eiygil panicked, throwing a great ball of fire at the beast. To her shock, the beast seemed to welcome the fire, absorbing it into its body before killing her with a single downwards stroke of its blade, swinging in an almost dismissive way.
The king could only watch as the beast went on a rampage, the already faulty supports of his great keep finally failing and sending the monolithic structure crumbling deep into the earth, partially sinking it into the lava beneath. But the king stood, and tried to fight the beast, in an almost last ditch attempt to save his kingdom. The beast looked at him again, and swung once more, sending him tumbling into the lava.
Within the lava, the ancient soul of a proud lord, once the ruler of all the sun touched, found the burning king and absorbed his essence, creating the mighty demon Ichorous Earth.
And the gods laughed once more.
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And that is the tale of the Old Iron Kingdom. Gather your strength, undead, for the wrath of the former king shall not be conquered easily.
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Hello there folks. So, I was really, really sick for a while. I wrote this while incredibly feverish, so if it seemed scatterbrained or nonsensical, there you go. Tell me if you liked it, and have a lovely day.