Post by Dark Lord Lucien on Aug 14, 2010 0:58:35 GMT -5
The throne was amber and gold-hued, covered in an intricate series of Celtic knots, flower motifs, and birds. It was modestly raised on a small dais, and the back of it was crafted to neatly fit into the eastern wall. Like a farmer's trellis, this wall was woven cedar and oak and in its glory days vines covered it to the point where it was obscured from view. Complimentary in design, the ceiling was open to nature and likewise made up of latticework. Indeed, the entire audience chamber seemed like a collosal pergola. Here, the Queen of Morthika would rule her beloved kingdom with a very personal touch, and the love of the natural world surrounded her and brought her comfort. Although the throne was centrally located in the chamber and no doubt meant to establish her dominance over others at least in theory, the arcing rows of guest chairs and those for attendants were no less beautiful or well made, being similarly built into the ground with lattice-worked sides. Whereas a common king or queen would have a spartan room dedicated to defense, made superficially pretty by means of expensive tapestries and zealous amounts of gold, Moridanu's throne room was more like an airy and comfortable summer room.
Or at least, it had been. Kendelah, seat of Morthika's political and economic power, was in shambles. The battle between Lucien's forces and Moridanu's had leveled nearly everything, and the smell of ash travelled in the air. Here, in her most beautiful of offices, the bodies of fallen defenders littered the ground, their bodies torn and mutilated by his monsters. Blood and decay marked the success of Lucien's army, and while much of his fodder met its miserable end here, success was just as apparent as the onyx-armored figure resting in the amber and gold throne.
A large man in life, in victory he seemed like a heathen deity of old, towering above the relic of her prosperous rule like a black spire. This room had been preserved upon promise of death, and yet it still bore evidence of the vicious fighting which had taken place not even a day ago. The Queen's own guard had dedicated a small force of dedicated men and women to oppose the taking of the castle, and the uncouth forces of the Dark Lord took it with extreme difficulty. Yet failure was not an option for his minions. He sat, chin resting on a mailed fit, mulling over the details of the battle which he had personally directed. Over her. His thoughts were beyond this once-beloved chamber, borne skyward by doubt and concern, and distracted by pain.
The vicious scars on his right side were just a hint of the true battering he had received. He had been careless, too enthralled with his own power to realize his vulnerability until it had been too late. True, he had survived... He had planned too well for the reverse to be the case, but the scars were a reminder that he overestimated his own control of the situation. On another man perhaps, these raking scars would have made him appear broken, abused. But on Lucien, they were vivid and visual examples of how his enemies had wounded him. They were to be utterly destroyed, and the three jagged lines would only fuel his resolve. He had attacked Moridanu at the seat of her power, in a means designed to sow chaos both within and without her lands, yet he had walked away weakened physically and nearly defeated.
Yes, he was distracted, and it gave his men time to clean up the city. They took a small measure of comfort in knowing his cold presence was not bearing down directly on them. Even the storms which had before been ever-present had relented. Those buildings still intact were quickly converted to barracks and storehouses. Those dying were slain and resurrected by his necromancers and immediately set to work, even the dead not being given any peace in the presence of the Dark Lord. No hospitals were rigged; the officers felt none of the fodder was worth the effort. Bodies not able to be revived were thrown into piles and burned, the smell of human, dwarven, elven and other remains carried on the wind as a warning to others that defiance meant death. Now that the battle was concluded, his wishes that Kendelah become his new capitol were being put into motion. Already, his banners were being set up near the charred remains of the gates, and the castle was being examines for weaknesses before he would chose it as his permanent residence.
The rumble of wagons woke him from his reverie as engineers and carpenters attempted to bring up materials to patch the walls and enforce the standing buildings. He thought idly of the work to be done, the executions he would have to order, the survivors brought to the castle dungeons and summarily tortured for more information. For years he had played the role of the dark tyrant, the administrator whose strength lied in his ability to terrify even his own dangerous allies into doing his bidding. The idea of rebuilding Kendelah into his capitol was but one of a series of insults he had intended for Moridanu, and it did ease the pain somewhat of his nearly-fatal lapse in judgment and the ever-present reminder of his scars. Outside, his slaves and minions toiled to bring the once free city into a defensible bastion of evil before it could become a capitol. If the Dark Lord's enemies attacked now, it would be... messy.
Mors, the attendant who had been charged with waiting on Lucien while the others scampered about trying to put things back into shape, twitched when he noticed his lord's eyes regain focus. He inwardly dreaded whatever words might spill forth, as nervous as any attendants that he may fail and suffer greatly for such failure. Lucien's eyes narrowed as he considered the miserable Ikani before him. Mors' people had worshipped Lucien as a god in decades past, and even now made up the core part of his personal guards and officers although they were no longer his favorites. Mors was perhaps the fifth Ikani to hold this particular office in Lucien's court this year; the Dark Lord was not very forgiving with his followers.
"My lord?" He dared to ask, head bowed in submission. He had not been spoken to, and it was bold in any normal circumstance. But now Lucien was lacking in cruelty today, at least where his own men were concerned.
"Mors... This hovel should be redefined." His normally deep, commanding voice was almost pensive. This kept the Ikani more on his guard than a host of demons would. "We should honor the former Queen, don't you agree?"
The retainer only nodded stupidly, unable to render a judgment call on how the lord's new audience chamber should look. He did not trust himself to reply verbally, fearful of being baited to his own folly by the cunning tyrant.
"Bring me Diot, now." The Ikani bowed and left, his robes of office trailing in his wake as he gladly departed with the order. Diot, an ancient and vicious crone, one of his more foul officers, was head of his necromancers and capable of impressive magics where the dead were concerned. The idea of her helping with the redecorating was quite appealing.
Diot's laugh was more akin to a hamstrung child than that of a human bellow or cackle, but any emotional response besides rage and contempt from the old necromancer was taken as positive. She liked Lucien's idea to remodel the audience chamber, and furthermore she had offered before he had concluded his description to improve upon it. One of his eldest allies and no doubt the most deranged, he respected her powers and allegiance too much to consider checking her brash suggestions. Besides, sometimes it is nice to be pleasantly surprised by the works of others. He leaned back in his new throne, admiring the airy view, considering for the first time that everything was going to be as he planned it to be from here on out, and let the crone carry on with her own ideas.
Mere hours later, the latticed walls and roof of Moridanu's once proud hall were decorated with the slain corpses of her equally proud defenders. Knights, paladins, dwarves, elves, men and boys who had taken up swords to protect the city were arranged in macabre patterns, their skeletons cleaned and making up the common alphabet's words for "caput mundi". The amber and gold throne was made the centerpiece of this evil exhibit, with the skulls of both fine heroes and poor citizens arranged to create a new base and backing, while the exposed colors were obscured with blood and runes of protection.
But the best part, the part he enjoyed most was the skull of the many slain castle defenders suspended on the wall above his throne. Each skull was picked clean and bleached, and in place of their eyes were magical fires which gave an unnatural and unburning source of light to the hall. Shadows dances around him, exaggerating the death which marked his new throne room, and in the darkness Lucien's grin touched his eyes.
Or at least, it had been. Kendelah, seat of Morthika's political and economic power, was in shambles. The battle between Lucien's forces and Moridanu's had leveled nearly everything, and the smell of ash travelled in the air. Here, in her most beautiful of offices, the bodies of fallen defenders littered the ground, their bodies torn and mutilated by his monsters. Blood and decay marked the success of Lucien's army, and while much of his fodder met its miserable end here, success was just as apparent as the onyx-armored figure resting in the amber and gold throne.
A large man in life, in victory he seemed like a heathen deity of old, towering above the relic of her prosperous rule like a black spire. This room had been preserved upon promise of death, and yet it still bore evidence of the vicious fighting which had taken place not even a day ago. The Queen's own guard had dedicated a small force of dedicated men and women to oppose the taking of the castle, and the uncouth forces of the Dark Lord took it with extreme difficulty. Yet failure was not an option for his minions. He sat, chin resting on a mailed fit, mulling over the details of the battle which he had personally directed. Over her. His thoughts were beyond this once-beloved chamber, borne skyward by doubt and concern, and distracted by pain.
The vicious scars on his right side were just a hint of the true battering he had received. He had been careless, too enthralled with his own power to realize his vulnerability until it had been too late. True, he had survived... He had planned too well for the reverse to be the case, but the scars were a reminder that he overestimated his own control of the situation. On another man perhaps, these raking scars would have made him appear broken, abused. But on Lucien, they were vivid and visual examples of how his enemies had wounded him. They were to be utterly destroyed, and the three jagged lines would only fuel his resolve. He had attacked Moridanu at the seat of her power, in a means designed to sow chaos both within and without her lands, yet he had walked away weakened physically and nearly defeated.
Yes, he was distracted, and it gave his men time to clean up the city. They took a small measure of comfort in knowing his cold presence was not bearing down directly on them. Even the storms which had before been ever-present had relented. Those buildings still intact were quickly converted to barracks and storehouses. Those dying were slain and resurrected by his necromancers and immediately set to work, even the dead not being given any peace in the presence of the Dark Lord. No hospitals were rigged; the officers felt none of the fodder was worth the effort. Bodies not able to be revived were thrown into piles and burned, the smell of human, dwarven, elven and other remains carried on the wind as a warning to others that defiance meant death. Now that the battle was concluded, his wishes that Kendelah become his new capitol were being put into motion. Already, his banners were being set up near the charred remains of the gates, and the castle was being examines for weaknesses before he would chose it as his permanent residence.
The rumble of wagons woke him from his reverie as engineers and carpenters attempted to bring up materials to patch the walls and enforce the standing buildings. He thought idly of the work to be done, the executions he would have to order, the survivors brought to the castle dungeons and summarily tortured for more information. For years he had played the role of the dark tyrant, the administrator whose strength lied in his ability to terrify even his own dangerous allies into doing his bidding. The idea of rebuilding Kendelah into his capitol was but one of a series of insults he had intended for Moridanu, and it did ease the pain somewhat of his nearly-fatal lapse in judgment and the ever-present reminder of his scars. Outside, his slaves and minions toiled to bring the once free city into a defensible bastion of evil before it could become a capitol. If the Dark Lord's enemies attacked now, it would be... messy.
Mors, the attendant who had been charged with waiting on Lucien while the others scampered about trying to put things back into shape, twitched when he noticed his lord's eyes regain focus. He inwardly dreaded whatever words might spill forth, as nervous as any attendants that he may fail and suffer greatly for such failure. Lucien's eyes narrowed as he considered the miserable Ikani before him. Mors' people had worshipped Lucien as a god in decades past, and even now made up the core part of his personal guards and officers although they were no longer his favorites. Mors was perhaps the fifth Ikani to hold this particular office in Lucien's court this year; the Dark Lord was not very forgiving with his followers.
"My lord?" He dared to ask, head bowed in submission. He had not been spoken to, and it was bold in any normal circumstance. But now Lucien was lacking in cruelty today, at least where his own men were concerned.
"Mors... This hovel should be redefined." His normally deep, commanding voice was almost pensive. This kept the Ikani more on his guard than a host of demons would. "We should honor the former Queen, don't you agree?"
The retainer only nodded stupidly, unable to render a judgment call on how the lord's new audience chamber should look. He did not trust himself to reply verbally, fearful of being baited to his own folly by the cunning tyrant.
"Bring me Diot, now." The Ikani bowed and left, his robes of office trailing in his wake as he gladly departed with the order. Diot, an ancient and vicious crone, one of his more foul officers, was head of his necromancers and capable of impressive magics where the dead were concerned. The idea of her helping with the redecorating was quite appealing.
Diot's laugh was more akin to a hamstrung child than that of a human bellow or cackle, but any emotional response besides rage and contempt from the old necromancer was taken as positive. She liked Lucien's idea to remodel the audience chamber, and furthermore she had offered before he had concluded his description to improve upon it. One of his eldest allies and no doubt the most deranged, he respected her powers and allegiance too much to consider checking her brash suggestions. Besides, sometimes it is nice to be pleasantly surprised by the works of others. He leaned back in his new throne, admiring the airy view, considering for the first time that everything was going to be as he planned it to be from here on out, and let the crone carry on with her own ideas.
Mere hours later, the latticed walls and roof of Moridanu's once proud hall were decorated with the slain corpses of her equally proud defenders. Knights, paladins, dwarves, elves, men and boys who had taken up swords to protect the city were arranged in macabre patterns, their skeletons cleaned and making up the common alphabet's words for "caput mundi". The amber and gold throne was made the centerpiece of this evil exhibit, with the skulls of both fine heroes and poor citizens arranged to create a new base and backing, while the exposed colors were obscured with blood and runes of protection.
But the best part, the part he enjoyed most was the skull of the many slain castle defenders suspended on the wall above his throne. Each skull was picked clean and bleached, and in place of their eyes were magical fires which gave an unnatural and unburning source of light to the hall. Shadows dances around him, exaggerating the death which marked his new throne room, and in the darkness Lucien's grin touched his eyes.
