The Price of Valwyn

(Note: RP posts concerning the attack castle should all go into this thread. Yesss, it's an actual forum RP thread!)

The day dawned cool and misty, and Drysllthen watched the clouds melt from black to grey. He had passed the night on the stone perch outside his tent, Caoilfhionn sleeping in his arms while he stared in the direction of the castle, waiting for the threatened flames to engulf it. They never came, and in the dim dawn, the black fortress still loomed. It scarce suggested a day of importance for not even the sun came to greet it, and the sounds that met the King's ears were all the usual ones, Caoilfhionn's shallow breathing, the occasional grunt of his guards, beyond that the sleepy shuffle of a camp shifting to wakefulness and the rumbling stream.

In truth, it seemed a fancy that he would ride down to the middle ground and find himself in possession of Valwyn, but that was precisely what he intended to do. Oh, doubtless some would resist, but none they could not quell, and hopefully enough to sate General Alexston's foul temper.

The skies lightened, and it was time. He kissed Caoilfhionn to wakefulness and sent her on her way to prepare. He needed to be alone, or as alone as a man in his station could be. He ate, he bathed, he donned his armour, and then he joined his men.



Drysllthen waited at the middle ground, out of reach of the castle's archers, for the exodus to begin. Atop his deep-chested bay, he sat tall and proud, the blue and black of Valenti adorning the leather surcoat over heavy mail and breastplate. His half helm and mail hood hid the recognizable red hair of the King, but his banners snapped in the morning breeze, his presence unmistakeable. Sorynn rode with him, one protective gauntleted arm about her, though she was unbound this time. At his sides, his generals accompanied him, and behind them, his army was arrayed beneath the dull grey sky.

Each had their orders, some to search and hold captive the exiles until the castle was secure. Others would guard Raegnold's women and servants once their allegiance was made clear. Two of Drysllthen's personal guard awaited to escort the surrendering King to their own King.

Trumpets announced their position, calling Raegnold to keep his word.

General Alexston's temper seemed to have kept even the sun at bay. He had slept little, preferring instead to attempt to calm himself before the day of cockless surrendering began.

Drysllthen's fucking emotions. Pansy-arsed twathammer. "That cock-stuffed scrot Raegnold surrendered," he answered. "There'll be no fucking battle, and Drysllthen's going to let that treacherous little harlot live. Fucking queers might as well wear flower crowns and wax their ginger pubes off."

Oh, he had ranted. Merripen's ears might well be singed from the string of epithets he'd thrown together that particular evening.

The storm hadn't abated. He stood outside his tent with Merripen strapping him into his armour, a squire throwing the black velvet colours and their gold and green stitching over the ugly horse's body.

Sarmagh's forces twitched as though they'd not eaten and their only sustenance was caffeine. A brontide-tempered General had them doing everything twice as fast and half as carelessly. The county-wide streak of perfectionism doubled. Anything that might abate the fury, anything that might prevent casual floggings for soap theft.

Instead of carrying the antlered Great Helm, he decided to wear it. It was safer for everyone concerned, as it meant his contemptuous facial expression was hidden and he'd barely be able to see the cunt-sporting Raegnold and his eyelash batting whoresprog.

It made for an imposing visual. The black warhorse's bent face was layered with a steel reinforcement down the nose, his mane hidden beneath the cloth and the nape of his neck lined with hinged armour. Black velvet draped from him, stitched at the edges with gold ivy over a green border. His tail had been cropped and crouped.

Atop him, the General himself, in pitch dyed leather and gold inlaid steel. The antlers rose from the square helm, the trunks strengthened with metal and the tips sharpened. The forehead of the helm sported a large, elaborately engraved 'W', whilst the 'V' and 'A' took one cheek.

He was on time. He brought the rows of immaculately presented Sarmagh cavalry first, black martingales and shoulderguards over muscular horse chests centred perfectly, one after the other. Behind them, the lightly armoured mounted archery cohort. And behind them, the footsoldiers and pad-archers. The immense hooves of the General's malformed beast flicked up heavy chunks of sod as he came up the frontline to draw into place with the other Generals, the animal briefly fidgeting as though the mood of his master extended to him.

Bring me resistance.

Raegnold looked out over the castle wall for what he was certain would be the last time. Everything was ready... freshly turned earth marked the spot where his contingency plan had been laid to rest-- all of the flammable materials suffocated in the dirt where they'd pose no danger to anyone.

He'd spent his final night consoling his wife and two daughters, urging them to be brave, and not to let the enemies at the gates see their tears. He had said his farewells then, and left a few hours before dawn to see to the final arrangements for the castle's handover.

There had been little superfluous talk among the men of the garrison and even the servants, who ordinarily had endless appetites for gossip had very little to say. He'd given his orders for disarming and submission to Drysllthen's forces, along with warnings of consequences for doing otherwise, and had read mixed reactions among his men. Everybody had taken the news quietly-- some with solemnity, some with burning fury that they thought to hide behind mute deference, but that Raegnold read on their faces plain as day. Drysllthen's takeover would not go uncontested...

Some part of him was pleased by this-- had he been a younger man with only his own life to lose, he would have gladly joined his men in spitting in the faces of their enemies and dying on a field of battle with steel singing all around them. But a young man he was no longer and the lives of his daughters and of his people, innocent in the game of thrones that men played, had to come ahead of his own petty pride. He had been pleasantly surprised to find that the new king felt similarly-- his recognition of innocent lives above the prideful pissing games of young men had been more wisdom than Raegnold had expected from a man of Drysllthen's age.

The trumpets blared, and Raegnold smiled humorlessly to himself. He made his way down from the castle wall, and mounted up to ride out to his destiny alone. Without his rich attire, sword and crown, he was hardly recognizable. What was once an old king was now simply an old man... weak and weary and ready for his well-earned rest.

Sorynn rode in silence as the party made their way to the castle gates. Even without binds, she would not attempt escape. Her gut was tight, dread crept up into her throat and contended it's place there with her wildly beating heart. The world took on a dream-like quality. The horses footfalls were muffled to nothing. The clanking of metal and armor, padded. The castle loomed larger and larger each passing moment, until it looked ready to swallow the entire army whole.

When they stopped, her wide, dry sea-green's took in her home, and through her dread, a strange smile slid onto her face. No longer did it feel warm and secure, and that was a blessing. She did not belong there, therefore it would be easier to leave it behind. The moors were calling. Blissful solitude was singing siren songs in her head.

Then there was movement. Teeth found her lip to bite down to keep from weeping at the sight. He looked so small. Sorynn always remembered him to be larger than the world. To see him so frail, so old... she knew her thoughts had been right. He was done and glad to be so. Even before he was in close enough range to see her, she smiled at him and held it there. She kept her chin up and her eyes dry. Though as she gathered her courage to be brave and tearless, she was thankful that Drysllthen kept her secured to the horse, for she felt the dread in her stomach had turned all her muscles to jelly.

Drysllthen observed in silence as the gate raised and that solitary figure entered the field, feeling the impatience of General Alexston and his men. It would not sway him, and for the moment, they faded into nothing behind him. His vision tunneled on the old man making the long lonely journey. If he was honest, disappointment that the old king would not fight for his throne tinged the day, Drysllthen aware that he needed a display of strength beyond the standing armies. There was little triumph in killing an old man.

His blue eyes lifted toward the castle. Some banners still flew defiant on the towers, and a grim smile spread over his face. How kind of them to give him the chance. His attention did not linger long on them, however, his gaze slipping back to the old King. He urged his horse the last few yards to meet him, and he dipped his head in a slight nod, cultured voice meeting him. "Well met, Raegnold."

His fingers punched the air, pointing at several of the heralds and the small contingents guarding them. Those he waved forward, and while they marched toward the castle, shields upraised over the heralds, he allowed Sorynn to dismount, giving a subtle nod toward Raegnold who was now flanked by Drysllthen's personal guard.

Before them, the horns trumpted and the loud cries of the heralds descended on the castle.

"ALL THOSE WHO RECOGNIZE THE REIGN AND PROTECTION OF KING DRYSLLTHEN SHALL NOW JOIN HIM."

Drysllthen watched, almost expecting the gate to fall with the women he was sworn to protect and the others who would swear to him still in the castle. Nothing showed on his freckled face, stoic in his wait while several columns of men marched forward to usher out those willing to join.

"ALL THOSE WHO WOULD LEAVE NHARATI RATHER THAN BOW TO KING DRYSLLTHEN.."

The instructions continued, more waiting to search and receive those who faced exile. Bound and with rough captors, they were ushered well away from the field of battle (provided they were allowed to leave, of course).

He'd instructed the heralds to make no pronouncements regarding the ones that still remained in the castle. They would come later, and there would be no mercy. The commands to his generals had been clear: to a man, they would die.

Finally, he dismounted and faced Raegnold, his face stern and certain. "Kneel and swear to me."

Raegnold could feel his heart pounding as he approached the new king-- wondering if he'd made the wrong choice, if he should have stayed to fight... and he feared death as much as any sane man, though in his position, he was not at liberty to admit it aloud...

The sight of Sorynn's smiling face wiped away his doubts once and for all as it came into focus-- he'd made the right choice. He'd have given his own life a thousand times over to see his family alive and well. With time, their wounds would heal and he dearly hoped that they would be able to live normal lives. He smiled back at his daughter, but only briefly, not allowing himself to be distracted from the matter at hand.

He dismounted as he at last reached Drysllthen, and held out his horse's reins to whichever of the new king's men cared to take them. He was vaguely aware of the shuffling of people behind him as they chose either allegiance, exile, or neither--a choice which meant certain death, though Raegnold couldn't speculate on whether the men understood the full gravity of their situation. Regardless, there was nothing he could do for them now.

He sunk stiffly to one knee, and bowed his head. "The decrees have been heard by the people, and the palace has been cleared of the danger of fire. Those who remain in the castle are aware that they have committed treason against the crown, and appreciate the consequences of their actions. As agreed, Valwyn is yours, your Majesty."

Sorynn took a long while to dismount, half-afraid that her legs would collapse from under her the moment she put her weight upon the earth. Though shaking, the girl did not fall. When the orders were heralded, the girl didn't venture to look up at the castle gates. Her bright sea-greens were solely on her father, glittering with unshed tears.

She waited for him to swear. The sight of her father kneeling knotted her stomach. Yet she was still and silent until he finished. Before he could get up, she crossed the distance between them and lowered to her knee's in front and to the side of him. Yet for a moment she faultered, wishing Drysllthen had not been good to his word. For that brief, quivering second she thought if she didn't embrace the old man, he might yet live, as if her touch would seal the deal.

She shook the foolish thought away. "You're a brave man, Father and I adore you." She whispered to him, the unspent tears gleaming brighter in her eyes. A crooked smile found it's way to her face. "I will see you soon." She couldn't bear to say goodbye, and the promise was much more comforting. Arms wrapped around him tightly, a kiss pressed against his wrinkled cheek. She wanted to linger there, to cling to her beloved father forever, but she knew better. With every bit of strength she possessed, she finally coaxed herself to release him and get back to her feet, and took a few steps back toward the King-to-be.

Raegnold turned his head to regard his daughter one last time, and smiled. He lifted one hand to delicately touch her cheek. "And I you, sweetling. All that is best in your mother and I survives in you. Be strong." he murmured quietly. He took her hand and lifted to coax her to her feet, before resuming his position. He lifted his head to meet Drysllthen's eyes, ready for whatever came next.

His last words remained unspoken, but "piss on you, ginger bastard" could be read plainly in his expression.

Drysllthen's hand fell to rest on the head of the aged king to accept the words as sufficient oath. "So it will be," he intoned firmly. With a step back, he waited for Sorynn to embrace Raegnold in stoic silence. Whatever sympathy she'd seen in him previously was gone, something like impatience gripping him as the pair spoke.

He'd just opened his mouth to tell her to step back when she did so, and he gestured her to his horse with a nod of his head, eyes never wavering from Raegnold. Smoothly, he stepped forward, gauntlet creaking as he gripped the pommel of his sword. Unwavering blue eyes held Raegnold's defiant ones for a long moment, the first touch of a smile creasing his face.

"May God have mercy on your soul, and may his fires bear you to heaven." It sound little enough like the blessing it was supposed to be, the words ringing out coldly on the steel grey day. His sword scraped from its scabbard, and nothing in the word existed other than the kneeling man before him.

The lusterless blade echoed the gloom of the day, and as both hands gripped the handle, Drysllthen stared into his foe's eyes, keen to catch the last glint of life in them. Without hesitation, he slammed the blade home, feeling the air whistle past before it met resistance. The first beads of blood filled Drysllthen's vision as the tip nestled at the hollow of Raegnold's throat. His weight followed the blade down, flesh and muscle tearing, and then it found bone. The old King's spine shattered, vibrations wending up the sword into Drysllthen's wrists as he twisted. The dark glistening tip exploded through Raegnold's back in a wash of blood, the force sending his body toppling backward.

Drysllthen kicked his legs straight beneath him and anchored the body with his foot, a great grunt sounding from him as his muscles strained to yank the blade free. Blood clung to it, the body reluctant to release it, but the King tore the sword from the body, one long last look at what had been Raegnold soaking in a pool of blood.

He heaved his sword into the air to meet the cry of triumph from his men, their bellows drowning out the grind of the gates closing.

Sorynn stood beside the warhorse, but did not mount. Fingertips held onto it's mane as if the threads could tether her to her spot. Wide eyes refused to turn away from the scene, even though from the angle, she could only see Drysllthen's back.

But she could see the blood that fell through the space between his legs. Her breath left her. She'd done well up until that point, with keeping her tears to herself. But at the sight and sound they were expelled in a great heaving sob. The little strength she had been holding onto, fled her.

The girl fell hard onto her hands and knee's. The grit that skinned her flesh went unnoticed, for the pain in her heart was too great. Not even the Siren Song of forever solitude could be heard over her grieving heart. Her head hung low, her long chestnut locks providing her with a sheild against the spill of crimson, yet she could hear it. It ran like a rushing tide in her ears. The sound of his body hitting the ground was like thunder.

As racking sobs shook her, her fingers fumbled into her pocket and withdrew the breakfast knife she had taken from Drysllthen's chest when she had put the dishes away that morning. She saw rainbow colors sprouting from the blade when it hit the sunlight through her teary gaze. Surely it was a sign that everything would be alright. With a deep breath, she began hacking off her hair in great clumps, letting it fall in shining brown puddles around her.

The moment the last had been sliced away she was on her feet and stumbling toward Drysllthen, knife still tight in her hand, sobs still shaking her frail form. She didn't hear the cheers, she was after one thing...

Comfort.
A simple embrace from the man who'd given her Father peace.

Drysllthen's personal guards flanked the body of the dead King, their own calls bellowing with the rest, but it was a dark-eyed one that caught the rainbow flash of steel in Sorynn's hand, and his cheers silenced. She was behind his King and armed, but when the blade went for her hair, he breathed easier. Still, a glance shot toward Drysllthen who had not seen her, and he broke formation, smoothly slipping around his King with his hands outstretched.

Movement of his guard drew the King's eye, sword still held high while his gaze followed the guard to Sorynn. A knife .. he recognized the knife. He scarcely had time to realize she was moving toward him before the guard's fist snapped out suddenly, viciously curling around her wrist. Gripping her tightly, he twisted, hand shoving her arm behind her back with a wordless hiss. Drysllthen's eyes blazed at her, the grip on his sword tightening again.



Sorynn stumbled only a couple of steps before she was easily seized. The knife easily dropped from her hand, even as the man reached for her. Sobs still spilled from her thin frame. The tears running down her cheeks were now without the benefit of her long locks, now a choppy, uneven mess that fell in her eyes. She couldn't hear his hiss, nor could she see the blazing eyes of the new King. Even if she had, she wouldn't have cared.

Pain laced up her shoulder when her arm twisted, but it didn't stop her. She stumbled another step, face planting itself in the guard's chest and she sobbed against the metal. Her free hand wrapped around his waist and anchored there in a tight embrace. His grip and her own shakey one the only things supporting her weight, for what little strength she had managed fled her again. Her body curled against him as would a sobbing child.



Drysllthen blinked when Sorynn crumpled into the chest of his guard, nothing of it making sense to him. Had she been intending to come at him with a knife or not? Now was not the time to concern himself. He would find out later. "Bind her and put her with the rest of Raegnold's women," he commanded brusquely. It was all the attention he could spare, the girl gone from his mind as the guard effortlessly carried her away.

With his sword still clasped in his hands, he surveyed Valwyn, his castle. The great towers loomed, the whole structure built of stone so black it seemed to suck the light from the sky. On the heights, banners flapped, but they were not the blue and black of Valenti. They were Raegnold's old standard. Neither was the gate open as it had been before, the drawbridge closed, and he heard himself chuckle, a dark grin upon his lips as he wiped his sword down.

The sword clean, he slid it home into its scabbard and swung onto his horse's back. He punched the grey day, beckoning a fist of riders forward. With them, he galloped toward the gate, the bay tearing over the ground until he pulled it up short.

"OPEN FOR YOUR KING!" He roared at the sealed castle, sword once more in his grip.

Rattling swords and shields answered him along with the wordless bellows of men refusing to surrender, and he basked in the fury of the men waiting on the walls. Several arrows arced through the air toward them, and the horses danced back, Drysllthen laughing at his foe.

More taunts followed, Drysllthen and his riders calling the defenders out into the open, questioning their courage, but the response remained the same, the occasional arrow deflected by a shield when it made it far enough. With the will of those behind the wall made clear, Drysllthen whipped his horse around, the cohort galloping back to the waiting army. His horse skidded to a stop in front of the Sarmagh contingent, Drysllthen's cool eyes lingering on that antlered helm for a long moment.

His command rose to carry over the army. "General Alexston, open the gate!"

General Alexston would do just that.

"SARMAGH!" he thundered as his horse turned from the site of Raegnold's death and made its heavy hooved way across the sod towards the frontline of his own forces.

In response to his summons, the knights straightened, the combined standards of Sarmagh and the Valenti crown pointed directly upwards, and a single bellow of acknowledgement left every set of lips present. His officers made their way out towards him, not turning as they were given a very brief, "To the plan."

They went back to their respective units. The General made one single gesture with a gauntlet, and three rows of knights began filing out to make room for the supposed battering ram to be brought forwards. A combination of draft horses, chains and men kept it coming, the imposing sound of wooden wheels rumbling through the grey air.

Beneath the Great Helm, black eyes shifted towards the copse. They then looked the other way towards the standard intended to signal to the waiting catapults, and he turned to watch the pendulous approach of that oversized, hollow battering ram.

It did as intended. Archers flooded to the front wall and began to volley outwards in an attempt to stop it reaching the moat.

The men unchained the horses from the base of the ram, sending them running with sound whacks to their flanks. They worked in tandem, one man holding the shield, the second uncoupling the ram from the supports, the third ensuring the ram stayed up. In places it failed. The arrows were bound to do their work eventually. As the progress slowed, General Alexston became fidgety, but his resolve didn't weaken.

And then it happened. The base of the battering ram was forced forwards, and the leather armoured uncouplers followed it into the moat. The battering ram remained still.

Archers began to question. The uncouplers swam beneath the wooden, thick gangplank until they reached the wall, where the mortar spikes clamped firmly into the stonework beneath the gate. The moat was useless and bridged.

More arrows flew, and more of the men at the ram fell.

One gesture, one lifted standard, and one ejected lever later, the archers were soaked through. They weren't given a single moment to wonder what in the Hell had drenched them. The sacks of ether and peat stank enough to be offputting.

The flames came quickly. Spirit drenched balls of packed wood, peat and dry timber were launched directly at the battlements, and rolled the ether alive. The archers were engulfed in fire, and began to form a flailing, broken inferno whose pieces either launched themselves into the moat or panicked.

The men were dealt with. Now, just the gate.

The quadruple catapult that had been designed purely for this purpose rolled out of the copse.

Beneath the helm, the General's face was split with an almighty grin.

The sound was horrendous. It began with the groaning complaint of wood as the levers were pulled in time, half a second after the former. The ram took to the skies like an ungainly whale cast from the depths. It turned in the air, as per the delayed lever trajectory, until its point aimed directly at the wooden expanse of the gate.

A moment later, its metal head burst through the gate with a thunderous detonation. Wood splintered into huge fragments and exploded shrapnel, the remnants of men behind the gate either crushed or slammed with a series of stake-like spikes.

A moment of silence was broken by the rather raucous laughter of one General Alexston. He had snapped the reins of his warhorse into specialised buckles at his ankles, leaving his steering down to leg position. Both gauntlets rose to the leatherbound handles of the blades that crossed over his back. Their curved ends were much like a pointed shepherd's crook, their sides engraved with ivy that took to elaborately crafted names - Mereavus and Roselyn.

The standards thrust diagonally forwards.

The 'Sar!' that left the General's lips was completed by the rest of the masses in a combined, aggressive, single voice. A rolling, "MAGH!" brought fidgeting hooves and strained gloves on reins.

"Who is your King?" the General demanded, wasting time on this exercise purely because he wanted hot men whose blood had been roused rather than merely excited rabble.

"DRYSLLTHEN VALENTI."

The black warhorse with the bent face could hold his impatience in no longer. His forelegs yanked themselves upwards and sent mud clumps spiraling into the grass.

All in a moment, the General was gone. His Knights flooded behind him, slower, en masse. Hooves struck the wooden surface of the gangplank, which quivered, but held.

The archers had hopped a-horse with the knights, and flung themselves off once they were behind the gate to establish positions that would keep the funneling units safe.

There wasn't any stopping. William's horse was going to plough through whatever was behind those walls, whether they were demons or children.

The resistance hesitated. The antlered General and his enthused Knights rounded the lain battering ram and came directly for them.

"Pikes!" someone hastily yelled, to the response of pikemen and pitchforks thrusted out in front.

"Shoot him!" another voice hissed, the owner of it fumbling for an arrow from his fletch.

Most missed. But those that didn't, didn't stop him anyway. One thunked into the right bicep, the other just north, by his shoulder. His grip on Roselyn didn't weaken.

The General detoured and instead of taking the pikes head on, he pushed his warhorse onto a nearby decorative, low wall, and launched overtop them.

The horse landed with a hostile half-scream and crushed two men beneath him. The curved blades swiped their bent edge through the skulls of whoever happened to be nearby, and swept back around to decapitate two.

This was barely satisfying. His boots left his stirrups, the buckles holding his reins snapping backwards to release him, and he threw himself from the back of his horse - who was still merrily bashing the face off a fallen man.

It was almost choreographed. Stomachs opened. Guts were dragged out and into the faces of others, low swings hooked and removed knees, higher ones lodged in ribcages and broke through bone.

A swordsman yelled and ran directly for the General. A second later, the hooked tip of Mereavus slid out of the left side of his back. It paused, twisted, and hauled itself back through his spine and stomach with a sickening crack.

Roselyn whirled and caught an archer underneath the jaw, the tip slicing through his tongue and anchoring him to the metal. He was whirled above the General's head in one full circle before his jaw snapped and he plummeted into the bladed mess of his own men. Arms came off. Legs were half removed. Organs pooled onto the floor with desperate hands clutching at them and trying desperately to shove them back into the confines of their own skin. Collarbones were opened. Spines were snapped.

There was no easy, smooth way to die at the hands of General Alexston. It was guaranteed to be painful, and ugly, and thoroughly satisfying.

The gate was open.

Drysllthen's horse danced restlessly for the scent of blood filled its nostrils, impatient for its man to join the battle. Its man seemed hardly less settled, heart pounding from the race back to his army, sword out once more though he could not have said when he drew it.

As the General's attack unfolded, Drysllthen discarded the assault on the walls, cheering along with his men as the archers tumbled into the water. The great groan of the catapult silenced them, and he watched with barely hidden glee as the ram hurtled overhead. A roar of approval erupted from his throat, and after Sarmagh's bellow of his name, it echoed throughout the ranks. Swords rattled upon shields and men's voices answered the earlier refusal.

Close on the heels of the first rank of Sarmagh, Drysllthen and his knights clamoured over the plank with Pfoergarth at their back, their rush slowed to crawl by the narrow gate. Though it was mere seconds, Drysllthen seethed, hand twitching upon his reigns until he burst through the ragged opening.

Chaos engulfed the yard, the defenders clustered into small knots pressed hard against the walls or against yet more of Sarmagh's valiant. Screams of 'Valenti' and 'King Drysllthen' rose over the occasional gutteral cry of 'King Raegnold'. Less and less those sounded, but when the King punched through into the yard, it came as one, Raegnold's men with a sudden fury to be upon their oppressor. Few even made it as far as his knights before they were hacked down, the rest ended in a spray of blood and bone.

It was a slaughter, his father's thirsty blade joining the fray, Drysllthen scarcely aware of it hacking at arms, twisting beneath up under armour, flashing at whoever dared come near him...and soon, there were none save one.

"Mercy, Majesty!" A shriek near his feet paused him for only an instant, the begging bloody face staring up at him. Cold blue eyes met the pleading ones, and his blade continued its descent, the wounded skull shattering beneath it, brain and blood erupting.

As the chaos died in the yard, he bellowed for his knights and vaulted off his horse. A sudden pain shot up his left leg, and the King nearly tumbled. A glance down showed his one of his greaves dented, blood seeping down his calf, but he ignored it. "Search the castle!" He commanded to those left, already leading his men through the main doors.

Automatically, he reached back to take his staff, but a change of mind had him clutching his sword. This day belonged to it, and with it in hand, he stalked toward his goal. As suspected, small handfuls of defenders launched at them as they made their slow way to the throne room, Drysllthen's sword flashing with his knights'.

Finally, he emerged into the fabled room, the previously reluctant sun glimmering faintly in the colourful windows. No longer were the cushions and banners the blue of his mother's memory, but Raegnold's silver. Still, on the dais stood the polished ebony wood thrones, the middle one dominating all else in the room, and his eyes locked on it. A wave of disbelief washed over him, the moment utterly surreal to be standing before that throne. He'd fought for it all his life, some part of it believing it all a foolish dream, and yet there it was..the room surprisingly empty save for his men.

He took his first step toward it, and something caught his eye. Some tiny part of the black had moved. Another step, and nothing happened, but he knew he had seen it, and before whatever it was could escape, he flew around the throne.

A thatch of black hair met him, and he grabbed hold, sword to the throat of the possessor of such hair. The boy was barely old enough to shave, and as he took in that fact, the lad's hand flew toward his injured leg. Drysllthen stomped viciously on the hand, a small blade clattering to the floor as the boy screamed and the King laughed.

"I have someone for you to meet." A nasty smile curled over his lips, and he threw the boy at one of his knights. "Bind him. I want to question him before he dies."

Just as quickly, he forgot the terrified assassin clutching at his destroyed hand, his screams simply part of the background. Careless of the blood that soaked every part of him, he limped to the great ebony throne. Blue eyes swept the room once more, his knights having ensured it cleared, and with that, he sat.

No music played nor lights from heaven shone, and blood stung his eyes while his leg throbbed viciously, the King more glad to be sitting at that precise moment than to be in his throne. He let his head loll back and his eyes close while his fingers curled over the etched arms of the chair. A slow smile spread over his freckled face.

Nharati was his.

(Note: Duplicated on the Town's Fall thread)


With their general dead, the defenders of Valys were well and truly broken. The only remaining casualties were those unfortunate souls too distant to hear the news of their defeat, and when at last the town was secured, Tyltin's knights swept through the streets to clear them of any further annoyance.

As was his custom, the Swordking marked off one-fifth of the city for looting by those unlanded or in want of further wealth. Any civilians inside the condemned zone would have no redress, though any theft outside the prescribed borders would be treated as a theft from the Swordking himself and summarily punished. As lootings went, it passed without much of an issue, and Tyltin left the city to its fate when it became clear that his men had themselves well in hand.

Tyltin took his most stalwart lieutenants and staunch supporters to the newly-liberated castle, men who still hummed and seethed for their lord to assume Nharati's throne. Along the way they intercepted a messenger bearing summons from Drysllthen. Tyltin silenced his men's laughter when the messenger announced him as King, and their mounts panted in effort to cover the distance in half the time, and when they arrived the Swordking caught sight of his nephew outside the castle's walls.

Still shirtless and covered in smeared blood, his arm and face bandaged, the Swordking dismounted well short of the royal party. “My liege,” he called out over the distance, not waiting for his own men to follow as he tromped over the uneven ground. Fresh blood oozed from beneath the facecloth when he spoke, giving his jaw and neck a copper hue.

Exhaustion threatened to overtake the Swordking, for when he knelt his limbs wavered. His jade eyes didn't manage to lower appropriately, still framing his nephew's face. “Crown Prince Tyltin reporting, to deliver Valys to the King of Nharati,” he barked, aware of the tension building behind him.”King Drysllthen Valenti,” he reiterated. “I stand ready for your next command, my lord.”

If there'd been any doubt among Tyltin's own men, his words obliterated it. Some grumbled, while others sighed in relief, but he had cultivated great loyalty in his closest battle-companions, and none visibly dissented to the outcome. At long last, the Swordking saw peace.