King Louen Leonchur continued to wipe away his blade with a crimson cloth, clearing away the copious amount of blood that had been stained upon it in the battle he had just concluded. Phillip as usual pleaded with him to clean the blade for him, but as usual, Louen gently turned his squire down. It was unusual, but even before he became King, washing away the blood of Bretonnia's foes had a been a past time for him. He remembered many of his companions thinking him odd for doing such a menial task himself, but they didn't question it. They knew the kind of man he was. The kind of King he would be. It's why so many followed him...even if not all of them lived to see him become crowned.
Regardless, these moments in where he cleaned his precious blade afforded him precious moments. Precious moments to think and reflect. On the state of his skills. The state of his holdings. The state of the realm as a whole. It was a shame that such time for reflections did little to improve his mood at that moment.
Already he could feel his body tightening like a coiled rope, at how much had changed in so little time and not for the better. Greenskin raids were ramping up in the center of Brettonia proper as well as in the South near Couronne. Mousillon and the Red Duke stirring in the west. Pirate raids making life arduous for those with a coastline, especially for Bordelaux. Beastmen acting up in the south, and even now he had just ruthlessly put down (for the moment) another Norscan raid.
His brow furrowed at the thought. This raid was easy enough for him and his knights to fell, but it was concerning how common these raids were becoming. He had hoped that by mustering more forces from his dukes throughout the realm, that it would make defending easier, and thus possibly bringing an attack on their cursed lands more of a possibility, yet to his worry these northerners seemed to be emboldened by the challenge, most likely foaming at the mouth at the chance to prove themselves to their dark gods.
He could defeat them easily enough, especially since these raids were hardly coordinated, but it was making life especially miserable for the common folk. Each and every hamlet and village that they managed to reach, Louen felt his heart ache a little bit more at how many lives he failed to save. How many lives were being offered up to the Norscan's accursed dark gods. Much as he willed it, he and his forces couldn't be everywhere at once, and these raiders seemed to revel in such a fact, much to his consternation.
It didn't help that his court damsels were getting...concerning visions regarding the future. Time and time again, their ability to piece together bits of information regarding threats to the realm granted to them by the Lady herself had saved more lives than he could count and filled him with a sense of hope and purpose towards his work...now, however...he couldn't help but be wary at their visions of bleakness regarding the happenings of the north...possibly related to what was suddenly spurring on these norscans.
Perhaps another erranty war could be called if necessary?
Almost immediately the King shook his head while wiping on the tip of his blade carefully. No. He already called for the forces of his dukes' men. To call for an errantry war so suddenly while they were regaining and training new forces would be folly.
Perhaps he could turn to deal with one of the more immediate threats like the Red Duke...and make sure he stayed in his resting place more personally.
On the other hand Louen had also heard some interesting and disturbing news regarding another undead host, more to the south. But, the reports were recent and conflicting, leaving him wondering what to make of them.
"My lord?" Phillip's young voice rang him out of his musings. Causing him to blink pause the polishing of his sword and leave him realizing he had almost finished his job, so engrossed he was in his thoughts.
Heavy was the head…
Smiling towards his squire Phillip, Louen continued to polish his sword. "Have the rest of our forces finished resting Phillip?"
To Louen's concern, his squire seemed more nervous than usual. Bad news then. "Lord Quentin wishes to speak with you m'lord. Said it was urgent...looked like it too."
Bad news indeed. The king suppressed a sight. "Very well." Just as he moved to stand, Phillip was quick to wave him off.
"No need for that my lord. He's coming to you."
Truly dire if he's in this great of a hurry. Louen couldn't help but feel a wave of dread wash over his shoulders. Not for himself, but for the innocents that were no doubt suffering from whatever great calamity that was going through his realm. A king's work was never done. "I see…" He then stopped polishing his sword altogether and handed to Phillip. "If you wouldn't mind Phillip-
To his inner amusement, his squire jumped at the chance, grabbing the rag and blade. "But of course not my lord! I'll ensure that your blade will allow your foes to see their own horrified complexions before their end!"
"That you will lad." Louen nearly chuckled, his smile dampening a bit when he saw lord Quentin heading over at a brisk pace, followed by the form of a familiar damsel not far behind him. "If you would please Phillip?"
"Yes my lord." His squire bowed obediently, moving out of ear-shot aways away to finish his King's job while Louen tended to the dirty business at hand.
Quentin had only just removed his helmet as he headed towards his king, revealing a sweat and dirty pale face flecked with tired dark eyes and short dark hair. The man was exhausted having run a gauntlet with his king against multiple norscan raids, but the steel that lied beneath exemplified why Louen thanked the Lady that the man was his marshall. His armored was smudged with both dirt and blood on several places, especially his right armored, showing signs of the battle from earlier.
Next to him was a weathered longhaired damsel wearing a long and slender blue dress with a pair of sandals. Said hair was a rich silver , complemented by the brimming bright green eyes, narrowed slightly in concentration as she moved beside the armored knight beside her.
Said knight moved to kneel before his king until Louen held up a hand. "None of that Quentin. I know you would not move away from the men to me personally so soon unless it was of dire importance. Please. Tell me what troubles."
"Thank you my lord." Quentin breathed, standing right back up and settling with a quick and short bow regardless. "I will speak plainly for I wish not to waste more of your time, now more than ever...Artois has fallen."
Quentin was a hard man. A man who took his duties seriously above all else, especially once he earned his position as the King's Marshall. The man was so dedicated to his work, that he had a horrible tendency of pouring over battle strategies and the maps of local terrain before the battle had even started often losing himself in those very maps, making the tired-looking eyes on his face almost permanent given the amount of time he dedicated to winning a battle.
It was because of this that Louen knew he would not jest about something like this. Weaker King's in the past had stricken down the highest of barons for less. It was why Louen almost forgot to breathe for but a few moments, the weight of its crown nearly making him buckle before righting himself internally, growing stouter at what had just been proclaimed.
"...Kemmler?" The King of Bretonnia guessed, barely keeping the growing fury out of his voice.
The damsel, Ninette, shook her head. "The rumors proved true your majesty. The lady has made this plain to me now...the Lichemaster is dead."
Louen didn't believe the rumors initially. A horrific necromancer of Kemmler's caliber didn't die easily, especially when he was hell-bent on extending his own life. The king knew full well how much of a terror he could be with the horrors he had personally brought to the several grail chapels and holy sites he had raided through the years. Some successfully, some not so much thanks to Bretish bravery...Not even the elves of Athel Loren were safe from his greed for powerful artifacts...to hear that he had died so suddenly…
"Yet the Barrow Legion succeeded where he failed?" Louen questioned incredulously.
"One would hope that the rest of the body would die once the head of the serpent is cut off." Ninette lamented. "Sadly it seems a new head is driving this corpse-ridden snake forward...one with different intentions than the grail chapel pillaging ways of Kemmler...castle Artois itself has fallen my lord. The vision the lady granted me showed me the flag of the legion perverting the walls."
"That's not all my lord." Quentin cut in grimly. "Duke Artois or someone within his court must have realized the castle was lost and sent out several birds conveying what Lady Ninnette witnessed. The entire Duchy will no doubt follow suit."
"...an entire duchy." King Louen said to himself, testing the words to feel just how true it sounded. "Dark times indeed. Dark times that threaten to swallow us where we stand."
Ninette's dark eyes burned with a fury. "With the fall of Artois, it will not be long before the barrow legion finishes what it started. We must end it before it truly begins."
Quentin snorted grimly. "Easier said than done. Our army cannot be in two places at once milady, let alone three."
"Are you shirking from your duty, Sir Quentin?"
"Are you ignoring how many foes assail us...milady?"
"Gilles did not shirk from the many foes that beset Bretonnia in her inception. We will not follow suit." she replied hotly, her voice filled with zeal.
Quentin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. "It fills me with hope that ladies such as yourself believe that the stories of Gilles were won through faith alone."
Before the damsel could reply, they both silenced themselves at the simple raising of a hand from their king. "Squabbling will solve nothing. Not while the blood of innocents is being spilled as we speak. And save your apologies. The lady requires our toil."
Neither of them could argue with that...nor with their king in general. "Do the rest of the lords in our forces know?"
Quentin grimaced. "Not yet, but with the number of birds that the duke sent out, it's not likely to stay that way for long...Your highness, with the fall of Artois, many of the lords throughout the realm will want their knights back...and many of those knights will want to return to defend their homes, we may not be able to invade the Norscans after all. We simply won't have the manpower anymore."
"They would abandon the word of their king so easily in the face of duty?" Ninette questioned with heat.
"They will if they feel their homes, castles, and families are endangered."
"Then how can they call themselves true sons of Bretonnia?"
"Careful Damsel." Quentin's voice became dangerously low.
"Enough." Once again, their sovereign's voice cut through the growing argument before it could become something more, regaining both of his valued officials' attention. "Quentin is right. To believe that all of our knights and lords will stay in the host now is folly, even if I were to demand it. Artois is in an unfortunate position. It allows this damnable undead legion to strike in any direction they desire...but that also leaves them vulnerable from all directions."
King Louen began to think. Perhaps he couldn't keep his mighty expedition together, but perhaps he could hold back the norscans with his own personal army while the rest of the dukes with their own forces strike down the new leader of the Barrow Legion.
It was a gamble he knew, and he loathed above all else gambling with lives...but if all played out well, he could save more.
"We will disband the host and send the lords and knights back to their homes...but you are also right Ninette. If they are true sons of Brettonia they will rise to the call of destroying the evil that has now announced itself throughout the realm...do we know anything about this new leader of the legion?"
"Not yet my lord." Ninette responded to her visible shame.
"Amend that. I know how deplorable of a creature Kemmler was, but we know nothing about who has replaced him. Quentin!"
"My lord!" The marshall of the realm responded smartly, standing at attention with his head held high.
"Get a paige and tell them to mark these words down. For anyone who brings me the head of the necromancer now leading the Barrow Legion, One thousand gold will be awarded."
"So much my lord?" Guile couldn't help but ask.
"Why horde gold when it can be used in thwarting evil. I loathe bartering for the bravery in good men, but I must be realistic Quentin. If the Barrow Legion wishes to pervert Brettonia, let the dukes in the realm strike them down!...I can only hope that Duke Artois was able to escape. He was hard man for certain, but a man who protected his people expertly if nothing else."
Ninette shook her head. "If he had true honor he would have perished with his council, fighting until he could swing his sword arm no more...it will be up to us avenge him, my lord."
"In due time." King Louen agreed, glaring to the north. "Let the necromancers to the south think they have won for now. Once we put the norscans coming to our lands to the sword...Mousillon to the torch as it should have been generations ago, and the greenskins butchered along with their pitiful waaghs...the barrow legion should pray to their Naggash that my dukes of the realm have sorted them out...for if I must deal with them personally...they will find my patience short, and my leniency shorter."
Despite his words, The current King of Bretonnia couldn't help but worry. He had dealt with crises before, even those occurring one on top of the other...yet to deal with so many different horrors at a single moment was daunting for even the greatest grail knights!
What concerned him, even more, was that it wasn't just his precious Bretonnia that was undergoing such turmoil. It was times such as these that he would swallow his knightly pride and perhaps request the aid of The Empire, given his excellent rapport with the Karl Franz and use it to enlist the help of his imperial neighbors. Yet he had heard that even this noble Emporer was having troubles of his own. Secessionists harrying his steps. Bickering Elector Counts. Beastmen within Middenland. Norscans in the North. Greenskins in the South. Sylvania stirring in the East.
Only the most pompous and foolish of knights would call this a coincidence. King Louen liked to think of himself as neither. He could feel it in his bones. A great upheaval was coming. A darkness unlike anything he, as well as the many nations of man, had faced...though the Asrai were a reclusive folk, they had not spurned him entirely once before. Perhaps they as well as the Asur could help be the bulwark of whatever darkness was coming.
He felt Bretonnia may need such assistance for whatever evil was heading their way.
…
Dhar: The corruption of the eight winds of magic to turn it into something else entirely.
The pompous and arrogant residents of Ulthuan will turn their noses up at what I and my compatriots can create and call it a 'lesser' and 'bastardised' version of their high magic, but are incapable and unable of seeing past their high noses and seeing the beauty of what dhar can create.
Yes, it's true that there are necromancers who can create a cheap imitation of what dhar is capable of, but I and my acolytes will always create the true essence necessary to create true dhar. Any who fail are better off pulling the corpse carts that invigorate my undead hordes.
Certainly, I have not yet met a man capable of the Asur's Quaysh wind, but why bother? Why play with powers that only limit your abilities when there are other avenues before you? I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes out of my wrinkly old sockets every time I hear about some ignorant sigmarite witch hunter or high priest droning on about perverting the bodies and souls that belong in Moor's garden or whatever fanatic that I happen to run across speaking about Dhar being evil.
Dhar is not evil. Dhar is the evolution of magic itself. One does not need ill will or malice in their thoughts to use dhar. I would know. My experiments have shown as much. Granted I cannot stand to involve myself with the weak-willed bastardizing this purest form of magic, my point still stands to those ignorant naysayers across the world.
Another maddening misconception is the idea that all winds of magic have to be combined to form dhar. This is not remotely true, but combining more into a spell certainly doesn't hurt...though I've observed that it does come with more risk...the less talented mages I've had have left the most annoying smears on my walls afterward. Time-consuming for my zombies to clean, but informative all the same.
The more Lyle read Kemmler's notes, the more he began to feel that this old man fit the evil old wizard archetype to a T...it just felt a helluva lot different reading about him in comparison to the doddering old saturday morning cartoon villain he had pictured in his head.
Despite this guy making an argument that dhar wasn't evil, the words 'corruption' and 'smears' didn't do much to stop red flags from being raised in his head. Lyle wasn't a complete fool. He did see that there were dubious moral barriers he was crossing by literally raising the dead and having them butcher the living, but the process of it was something that he was ignorant of until this point. The more he read into the grittier details, the more unsure he became about this power of his.
That being said, Lyle was far from a bookworm, but it was hard not to be fascinated by reading bout actual magical theories that existed in this world. Finding out that there were different types of winds of magic such as Ashy the lore of fire, Ghyran the lore of life was irresistibly interesting. It also left him with more questions, such as if necromancy was superior to all of these winds of magic considering it combined them in some way...or if it was just different.
From what he could read, Kemmler certainly seemed to believe the former, but it was hard to believe that the old man wasn't biased with how he sang the praises of this magic. Kind of like how his old man believed that the Mets could be relevant before he died.
Lyle was firmly doubting that for almost every team located near New York, but he was getting off track.
Before he could get back ON track, however, there was a small knocking on his door.
"You can come in Freddy." Lyle called out, only for the knocking to resume. "Freddy I said you can come in." To Lyle's further confusion the knocking only resumed. "...Freddy?"
Another set of small knocks and for a moment Lyle felt himself go still. Slowly yet surely, he put down Kemmler's grimoire on the table next to him and reached for the knife he had placed under his pillow, something he had retrieved from a plate of breakfast given to him by a nervous servant a few days ago. If said servant noticed a missing knife they didn't mention it, and Lyle was counting on that to continue being the case just as sweat began to build on his brow. He then slowly took his covers off, slipping out his bed and approaching the door with light footsteps, feeling relief that his bare feet on the carpeted floor didn't make a sound.
Holding the knife behind his back in a way that he hoped was inconspicuous, Lyle then slowly opened the door to not tip off whoever was knocking on his door, only to be met with confusion.
No one was there. Not a soul in sight. It was so sudden and jarring that for a mad moment, Lyle thought someone was playing him for a fool and having a laugh at his expense.
Or at least that was until he felt something tap his ankle.
Lyle nearly jumped up in utter shock and fright, barely managing to suppress a yelp as he hopped away on instinct, blinking at the sight of a bony skeletal hand standing on its fingers in the doorway.
As Lyle worked to get his breathing under control he stared at the offending hand as it 'stood' in the doorway.
"Um…How you…doin?" Lyle found himself saying dumbly. He could only blink in surprise at the sight of the bony hand flattening itself on the ground and then giving a brief thumbs up.
This had the effect of immediately putting a smile on Lyle's face, his poor mood from earlier already improving. "Well I'm glad to see one of us is doin' alright…so you uh…whose controllin' you?"
The hand stood immobile, tapping its index finger on the floor as if pondering its question. Lyle felt himself at a loss before he realized he may have asked the wrong question.
"ehh..I mean whose movin' you?... tellin' you to do this?" Suddenly filled with curiosity he stepped bast the hand gingerly and looked past the doorway, half expecting to see someone outside yet coming up short. Lyle's confusion only grew as he turned said confusion back to the hand. "Okay…is…someone doing this from long range or something. I mean Freddy told me about some necromancers being able to do that but…shit I should have paid attention to that."
To Lyle's surprise, the hand made another gesture, pointing right at the new necromancer himself. "E-eh? Me?...you sure bout that?...Nah really?"
The hand gave another thumbs up in response, only enforcing Lyle's confusion. "Huh…I uh…wasn't aware that body parts that I've animated could be so…expressive. Maybe something to ask Freddy about. Now that I think about it, I can't say I recall summoning a hand specifically." Lyle thought aloud, putting a finger to his chin.
Once again, the hand surprised him, by offering a response. It suddenly skittered away from Lyle, heading towards the left of the room and suddenly pointing upwards towards the nearby wall which predictably had an assortment of beastmen heads mounted on it.
Lyle furrowed his brows. "...I'm a little lost dude…what do the severed heads of these beast guys have to do with you?"
It seemed that Lyle was on the wrong track as the hand suddenly and emphatically began shaking its finger as if to say 'that's wrong and then more emphatically pointing upwards. Lyle felt lost at what this skeletal hand was trying to tell him until he looked a bit higher and spotted a bejeweled blade fastened on amount upon the wall.
"The sword? What about it?" The second these words left Lyle's lips he felt he was futilely grasping at straws as the hand suddenly made its way towards him, stopping before him before pointing downwards. "Uh…what?...my feet, my legs?"
The hand shook itself again in the negative, then yanking on his pant leg and pointing downwards again. "Oh…Oh! You want me to kneel or somethin'?" The hand then gave an emphatic thumbs-up, as Lyle found himself smiling along with this innovative game of charades. "Okay, okay I hear ya…or uh, see ya I guess." Lyle chuckled as he did as he was asked kneeling. "Alright, so where exactly are you going with this?"
In response, the hand made a motion as if clenching its fist, but leaving a noticeable gap in its grip. "You…um, holding something? You were holding something?" Another thumbs up. It then pointed back to the sword's direction. "Hold up! You were holding that sword?" It shook itself again. "No?...you were…holding A sword?" A thumbs up this time.
"Okay I think I see where you're going with this, but what does this have to do with…hold up…" Lyle's eyes widened, face lighting up in recognition as he suddenly clapped his hands in excitement from said realization. "You were the arm…or the hand that I grabbed when you stabbed that guy on top of me weren't you!?"
Another thumbs-up, which in turn left Lyle feeling incredibly dumbfounded. The very hand he used to save his own bacon, was somehow acting sentient on such a level that he had yet to see from any of the undead that had been raised to fight in his legion…except for Krell of course, but Lyle felt that particularly powerful undead was a very special case. This, however, he felt something else entirely. Something that possibly Freddy would know, but Lyle felt emboldened to find out himself. As if he had just stumbled upon revolutionary, and new in spite of the fact that he himself was still something of a rookie to necromancy in general.
This in turn brought up more questions for Lyle. Just how sentient was this hand? Did it still respond to him personally? He was pretty sure he had personal control over it since all of the skeletons he brought into that feast were under his personal control, yet none of them showed this much autonomy and initiative…at least until now. So why now in particular?
"So uh…I gotta ask, not to be insensitive or anything, but…ah screw it, might as well be straight. You still under my control?" The hand gave another thumbs up. "Huh…do a hop with your fingers." The hand immediately complied, doing said hop with a quick bend and straightening of said fingers, hopping a little higher than Lyle anticipated.
"Goddamn, I honestly don't know how to react to this." Lyle breathed in amazement, scratching his head. "I genuinely don't know where to begin with this…I wonder if there's anything in the old man's grimoire about this?" The necromancer pondered to himself as he reached for the book and sat on the ground cross-legged, flipping through pages upon pages of text to see if there was anything he could find relating to this. To Lyle's frustration, he quickly realized that this was a grimoire that lacked the labels and markers to find anything related to this, and seemed more like the kind of book that someone would know by heart because they personally wrote it, rather than a professionally written book. "Ehh…maybe we can look into that later. Truth is, I was just doin' some extra reading before Me, Freddy and the rest of the legion went out to kick some more Brettonian ass y'know? Just…trying to keep myself busy after what happened a few nights ago…I mean hell you were there you saw what happened…I mean…I think you saw what happened. Actually, now that I think about it, how the hell can you see anything when your just a frickin' hand?"
The hand seemed to contemplate the question, tapping its index finger on the ground again before turning itself and splaying itself out, as if to say 'Don't know.'
"Yeah, I figured I wouldn't get that easy of an answer. Hell, I had things easy when I first got here I'll admit, but that night…hoo boy that night." The Jersey native shook his head. "I won't lie my man...up till' that night, I felt absolutely invincible. Like everything was goin' my way. Like I couldn't be touched. The fact that I escaped death by the skin of my chinny chin chin only made me believe that more, but then…people died because I got too big for my britches. A lot of them didn't deserve to go out that way either."
The hand seemed to be standing before Lyle, moving ever so slightly, yet clearly interested. Lyle was curious as to how it was even hearing him without…well, ears, but he chose not to dwell on it. For some reason, he simply felt the urge to unload on this sentient hand.
"Now don't get me wrong! Some of those guys did deserve to die! A few of em' tried to shove steel in my guts for Christ's sake! And even before that, I'd seen these smelly, literally dirt-poor farmers and peasants get butchered like a group of red-shirts on the Enterprise on a massive scale!...oddly enough it…didn't bother me much...at first. I mean it kind of did but not really it's…hell I'm not too sure how to put it into words y'know?"
Lyle looked at the hand, feeling a bit silly about the fact that he was talking to a sentient skeletal appendage in the first place, but felt emboldened to continue when the hand shook its index finger a bit. As if it were urging him to continue.
And so continue he did. "Heh. I guess what I'm trying to get at is that I didn't all too feel bad that I'd gotten people killed up until that damned feast. Before that I'd seen…Guys get literally diced in half. Boys with spears that barely looked as old as me get their necks split open. Some crying on the ground with the carnage goin' on around em' and I just didn't much thought into giving a damn until that dinner…that dinner where I caused…Hell I dunno, it just felt so unnecessary is all!" Lyle groaned in frustration, coming off his knee and resting his back against the edge of the former duke of Artois's bed. "I mean I'd like to say the other people that died before then were unnecessary, but they were personally in my way. I don't feel all broken up about the bastards that were trying to spill my guts, but people I was trying to help out got caught up in all the bullshit. Then again the peasants I killed before were no different in a way. They were caught up in the bullshit too, they're just too scared or too brainwashed to against those steel-plated thugs that call themselves knights."
To Lyle's surprise, the skeletal hand suddenly crawled onto his leg, nearly startling him and stunning him further when it rested upon his shin, tapping it with its fingers for a beat before stopping entirely.
The necromancer tilted his head, smiling with curiosity. "You uh?...tryin' to comfort me or somethin'?" When he received another thumbs-up, Lyle sighed, a smile still on his face. "Here I am having a therapy session with an undead hand. Oh, the lengths of what my life has come to. Alright, look. I don't mean to moan and bitch to you the first chance I get, I just gotta get this off my chest. The point is I screwed up and I'm not in the mood to be having screw-ups like that again."
Lyle then gestured for the hand to get off of him, which it obediently did, allowing him to get up without shoving the being off. "Ever since I got here, I've been living in the moment. I mean how could I not? I was just some regular average joe studying economics and trying to get out of my neighborhood, to suddenly having a kickass undead legion at my fingertips! Crazy thing is, if my brother knew he'd throw the biggest bitch fit that HE didn't get the chance to do so! And I still can't believe this is happening to me!...and I nearly blew it in just a few days, cause I was too damn stupid to see just how different these people are from me and where I come from!"
The hand tapped his leg a few times, catching Lyle's eye after his little rant, and suddenly crawled away towards none other than Kemmler's Grimoire, tapping the old and worn book emphatically with its index finger.
Lyle blinked owlishly. "You uh…know what that is?" In response, the hand suddenly hopped off the book and with a startling amount of efficiency, began to rapidly turn the pages of it, doing so with a level of dexterity that belied the size of the hand itself. After flipping through a torrent of these pages, the hand suddenly pointed jerkily right at the two pages that were now revealed.
His insecurities momentarily forgotten and curiosity now piqued, Lyle stepped forward to peer at these pages, realizing that it was a section dedicated to the use of a particular skill.
"Gaze of Nagash." Lyle read aloud. "Bolts of Dhar fly from the caster's eyes, and what flesh they touch blackens and withers, peeling away completely to reveal bleached whine bone beneath…the description is certainly not lacking in the grim department." It was a different spell besides the one Freddy had recommended him, that one being the Hand of Dust spell. Lyle couldn't deny that this particular spell sounded rather 'kick-ass' in his humble opinion, at least on description alone. It made him realize just how lethal and utterly dangerous magic could be in comparison to a handgun or other weapon if used properly…and if the size of Kemmler's grimoire was any indication he was only scratching the surface of what necromancy could give him, along with the potential of dhar itself.
It made him briefly wonder just what his mother would say if she saw him reading up on such 'vile sorceries' and if she would believe if the devil had gotten his claws in him. It would be ironic considering she thought great grandad was a saint.
Looking back towards the hand, lyle had a wry look on his face. "I get what your sayin'. Stop bitchin' and put your head down to better or something along the lines right?"
Yet another thumbs up from the hand. "Y'know you're a pretty good motivational speaker without the speaker part if ya ask me…he was almost tempted to ask the hand how it could understand him among other things, but figured A: they were questions with far too complicated answers, and B: it would probably do him some good to focus on the magic that it was suggesting to him.
With this in mind, he looked back towards the spell it had pointed out and reread the notes Kemmler had made about it, down the finest detail of the mental incantations needed to perform. "Gaze of Naggash eh?" Lyle mumbled to himself. "I've heard of this guy's name pop up more times than I can count, now that I realize it and I still know jack shit about him...something for later." He mumbled to himself, as he then stood up, moving over towards his bed and grabbing his propped-up staff leaning against the wall, holding it in his right hand.
Lyle then inhaled and exhaled, steadying his breathing and closing his eyes...and just like that he could feel the Dhar gather around him.
When he first used spells, he didn't pay all too much attention to the sensation and feeling of it at first. Much like how he didn't pay much attention to the lives he was initially taking, he didn't pay much attention to the 'feel' of the winds of magic that coursed around him. Now that he paid more attention to it, however, he was beginning to understand what that old codger Kemmler was on about when discussing the use of different forms of magic. Initially, he could feel the heat, then warmth, then hazy air, and so on. Each new feeling represented a different wind of magic that was being combined into something else entirely...Dhar.
Following the notes in the grimoire, Lyle then grimaced as he focused with effort on focusing this Dhar into his staff, wrapping it around the tip of his staff as he eyed the room and focused on one of the beastmen heads in the room, a particularly nasty-looking beast creature that seemed to have its horns removed.
Chanting the mental incantation in his mind, Lyle was nearly taken aback by a blast of black energy trailed by a sickly green looking color, flying near-silently at the head and causing a small yet almost muted explosion to happen, creating a small shockwave and leaving behind a curious sight in Lyle's view.
The beastman's head was nothing but, bones. Its furry flesh and eyes stripped away leaving pale bone that looked more beast than man in structure in appearance, causing a shiver to travel up Lyle's spine in response.
Curious, he turned towards a suit of plain-looking armor on a stand not far from the head, and using some leftover Dhar still in his staff he fired another salvo of the spell at it, finding his curiosity piqued by the sight of no explosion and the armor not changing in the slightest.
"Only works on things with flesh and bone it looks like...good to know...and holy hell that was something." Lyle muttered to himself. With a deep breath, the Dhar dissipated, uncoiling around him oozing off of his body like heavy air.
What he appreciated like the first time he used magic when entering this world above all else was an intoxicating feeling when doing work for his Uncle...power.
The power to do something that no one else could do...that only an exclusive group of people were capable of doing and to do it with ease. Freddy did say he was special in how quickly he could get a grasp in spells in comparison to others, and such a special talent was something the Jersey native found himself utterly reveling in.
If he were being quite honest it was feeling almost addictive how incredible the power he had was with that feeling of heavy yet potent Dhar, wafting around him like a visible and everpresent scent. A scent that seemed to permeate around him...
...
Deep within the dungeon of Castle Artois, a pale and thin young man with a robe that seemed far too big on him was hunched over what seemed to be a body.
A body that had some of its skin peeled off of it, with a look of frozen horror marring its face, made worse by the flesh now missing from it.
A knife glinted in the dark, nearing the face of the corpse before the hand holding it shuttered. Then the whole body of the roabed youth shuttered for a beat, a long yet labored breath filling the room.
His hair, which resembled more a curtain, masking nearly his entire face, could not quite hide the open-mouthed shock which morphed a delighted grin in short order, letting out another shuddering breath.
"...Fun, fun, fun...fun times ahead indeed..." The light and high-pitched voice that came from those pale lips came out as clear as the light would appear in dark, lacking subtlety and refinement, and filling the room with a macabre cheer as unrestrained giggles washed over the poorly lit dungeons.
...
"I gotta say. In terms of pure offense, I couldn't help but feel bad for anyone who gets hit by that. Gotta hope it at least takes em' out quickly." Lyle said to the hand, still admiring how bereft of flesh the beastman skull was. "Thanks for that by the way! Makes a guy wonder why Freddy didn't just teach me a kickass spell like that from the getgo but hey. We were and still are on a tight schedule."
The hand gave an 'okay' sign with its thumb and index fingerbones, showing appreciation and dexterity with its limited appendages. Lyle was about to comment further, until a knock on the door suddenly rang out in the room, causing Lyle to instinctively reach for the knife in the back of his pants, his body going still.
"Lord Lyle. Lady Fredericka sent me to fetch you. She says it's time to march east."
The 'lord' in question rose an eyebrow, his hand moving away from the knife, while quickly letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You don't have to talk through a wall there Rudy. I told ya before, you're good."
The door opened revealing the scarred young man wearing boiled leathers mixed in with a blank white tabard that came over said leathers with some dirty scuffed boots, his face though scarred was noticeably cleaner than it was previously with at the banquet. When he entered the room he was noticeably not looking directly at Lyle's face and instead slightly at the ground. "I can't bear to break THAT much protocol with you my lord. I'm afraid I'm not feeling so bold as to do that."
"Your loss…also I told you to just call my Lyle, but I'll just save my breath given your previous response, kid."
"You're far too kind my lord."
Lyle couldn't help but chuckle as he stood up from the ground. "So I've been told…time to hit the road eh?"
"If that's a saying for going on a campaign, then yes my lord."
"It's not but, whatever. You feelin' good Rudy?"
The young man looked a bit confused at the question, almost as if he were unsure of how best to initially answer it. "I…I am 'good' lord Lord Lyle. Quite well…more good than I ever thought I would be…"
"That's good!...and the other guys we let go?"
"Lady Fredericka let them go without incident. Also…I made sure to let them know who they had to thank for their release. And I made even more sure that they spread the word about your kindness."
"Huh. Good on you Rudy."
"I aim to serve you my lord. The way you helped that young lad with his father, only removed any doubt in doing so."
Lyle had to keep himself from wincing. Personally, if it were up to him, he'd rather not be reminded about the fact that he had a hand in robbing a kid of his dad, and the best he could do to say sorry was not raise and add him to his growing undead army.
Not wanting to get caught up in his own conflicting feelings, Lyle smiled at the scarred young man. "Just doing what's right is all. And what happened to that kid most certainly wasn't right."
It was barely noticeable Rudy's maligned face seemed to brighten at those words, his eyes glistened a tad before he resumed the conversation. "Allow me to help you pack my lord. Lady Fredericka suggested that we make haste…she seemed almost eager and excited from the way she ordered me about."
Lyle's eyes narrowed a smidgen. "She's not giving you a hard time is she?"
"In comparison to lords like Chilfroy, I could mistake her for the lady herself for the way she treats me."
"Huh. Nice."
"Indeed. It is nice…"
"Kind of like how it would be nice if you could look me in the eye." Lyle commented, with a raised eyebrow. "What, you afraid your gonna turn to stone if we make eye contact?"
"F-forgive me, my lord. Staring at lords in the face is considered a punishable offense by all the lords I've met."
"My man, you don't need to apologize to me. I'd like to think I don't have as fragile of ego as the foppish fuckers. Probably why they have to walk around in so much plate armor, to protect said egos."
"Do you truly believe so my lord?" Rudy asked with curiosity, not daring a look at his new 'lord's' eyes. "Do you believe that a wound to their ego can wound them fatally?" For him, it would explain why insults to their honor are so ruthlessly quashed with lost limbs and sometimes lost lives.
Lyle just chuckled in response. "Nah, not literally. It would just be their feelings that are hurt. Which makes it a shame that they're the ones calling the shots around here isn't it? Makes it all the more important to knock em' off their gaudy and overblown thrones don't you think?"
For a beat, Rudy was silent. His expression darkened considerably at the thought, his eyes moving away as if in contemplation before he looked seriously at the Barrow Legion's leader. "And…you truly believe that you can end their reign master?"
"I don't see why not, even though guys who've been on the bottom rungs of society like yourself seem to think otherwise."
"It's just…lord Lyle, I will fight for you to the bitter end, just for the fact that you spared and fed me what Duke Chilfroy would not alone, but even I have…I'm not sure your goal is feasible-please do not think I'm insulin, I beg you, I-
"Rudy." Lyle said suddenly, his voice going hard with a serious expression on his face. Rudy seized up, his face going down and looking away, his body fidgeting until he heard Lyle's face again. "Rudy, look at me." Immediately the young scarred man did, his face a tad ashen. "I ain't mad my man. I'm just curious is all…do you guys truly believe these knights are all that? That invincible? That unstoppable?"
Seeming to regain his nerve, Rudy swallowed the spit that had been gathering in his mouth before he exhaled, giving an answer. "I've heard that Bretonnia has existed for over a thousand years…that's what traveling pilgrims and damsels would tell our village, along with our village leaders. Bretonnia…do you know how Bretonnia was founded, my lord?"
"No…but I guess it's nice to see they give you history lessons instead of actual food. Do go on though."
"They didn't tell us everything of course, or at least that's what I believe. But, it was forged over a thousand years ago fighting against the likes of undead like yours, along with demon worshipping northerners from wastes that I've been told exist up north. To goblins and orcs that ravaged the lands in the south…my lord that they managed to fight all of these threats unified my lord, before the lands became one, all of it with the strength and leadership of Gille Le Breton, and the blessing…the blessing of the lady herself."
Taking a deep and shaky breath, the young man seemed to compose himself with a nervous energy seemingly running through him. He seemed like he was trying to get his bearings before even thinking about saying whatever needed to be said next. "My lord can you do it? Can you actually go to Bastonne? Can you actually end his reign like you're aiming to do so?"
Feeling the weight of the question, Lyle could almost sense the gravity through which it was pressing down upon him. He could feel the weight settling in his gut. To his slight startlement, He could feel the hand climbing up his pant leg, garnering a yelp of surprise from Rudy as he spotted the…creature for the first time a looking wide-eyed as it perched itself on Lyle's shoulder with ease, giving yet another thumbs up in Lyle's view.
Suddenly the musings and insecurities that he spilled to this very hand on his shoulder seemed oh so small and pitiful in comparison to the concerns of the young and scarred man before him. The concerns that could lead to people like him having a better tomorrow. Concerns that Lyle couldn't help but feel suddenly dwarfed his own personal issues like the sun outsizing the earth itself.
Filled with a sense of ease that this hand seemed to be an expert at pouring into him, Lyle turned to Rudy with a new sense of confidence filling his being. "Rudy. These guys may have been hot shit once upon a time ago, but like you said. That was over one thousand years ago. And maybe this country of Bretonnia may have been great back then under the Gille guy or whatever, but if you ask me if they've been content in treating people like you like the dirt they walk upon…it's time for a new change of management if you ask me."
"You can…do you truly believe you can take Bastonne?"
"With the power at my fingertips? Maybe." Lyle admitted as he bent down and picked up the grimoire, tucking it under his shoulder. "With the help of the little guys like you?" Lyle then put his free arm around Rudy's shoulders, causing him to jerk slightly, but found himself almost entranced by Lyle's words, wanting to believe them and hanging off them as if his life depended on them.
"Rudy my boy. Together. We're gonna make Bretonnia great again." The leader of the Barrow Legion declared, feeling both a sense of irony and new purpose fill his lungs when he uttered those words, nearly chuckling to himself at how light he suddenly felt at that moment. Letting go of the scarred peasant boy Lyle moved over to a wooden chest, opening it and revealing an assortment of clothing in which he placed the grimoire in. Closing it and lifting it with a slight heave. "Already packed by the way. And don't worry about helping me lift, I need the workout. Now come on." Lyle said with a smile as he headed towards the door. "Shouldn't keep Freddy waiting too long. She deals with enough of my B.S. as it is." Lyle chuckled to himself as he made his exit out of the room, bony hand perched resolutely on his shoulder, leaving a contemplative and almost puzzled Rudy within as he lagged behind.
As he moved to follow behind his brand new lord, not for the first time, Rudy began to truly consider his position while he took one long look at the ostentatious room, bed, and mounted beastmen heads that would be a natural terror for his small village back home.
He knew that should he continue this path the lady would most likely damn him and his soul for generations to come for this betrayal. For willingly working with an undead wielding heretic who was openly admitting that he was looking to bring an end to the status quo of Bretonnia itself.
Yet with his family long dead, and the only people he knew that would disapprove of his actions were those that simply stood by and watched his loved ones get butchered like the very beastmen on these walls, Rudy couldn't quite bring himself to care as he still struggled to get used to the tabard and leathers that he was still wearing, finding himself enjoying the boots that fit quite snug around his feet and warmed his legs comfortably…it was a sensation that was both alien and soothing he found.
"Make Bretonnia great again." He said aloud, almost tasting the words. Rudy couldn't quite explain it, but those words sounded quite fitting on both his tongue and to his ears.