Post:Re: The Sword of Rutilor - 04/27/2024 - 09:08

Re: The Sword of Rutilor · on 04/27/2024 09:08	2430
The prisoner awakened sometime later to the faint sensation of rocking. Hours -- no, days -- had passed. His hands and feet were bound in solid slags of metal. The surroundings were different, though: the inside of an ironwood wagon, shifting as it moved. Struggling to lift himself from the floor with the metal brace, he brought himself to his knees. Gently swaying, the wagon halted. From outside of its confines, he could hear voices and the din of a city. He could smell the manure from caravans, and the flowers that were sold at a roadside stand. Vendors barked to grab the attention of passersby. He brought himself to the rear of the cart, up against the wall, and could hear two voices discussing their lunch. Time passed. His gut was well beyond hunger -- he could not remember the last time he had eaten a meal. He knew the sacrifice was here, and he was no longer a willing participant, but he was no longer strong enough to fight it. The voices stopped. Though he was helpless, bound, and mangled, he dragged himself into a corner. "Prisoner. It is time." He could hear the scraping of metal as the guards unlatched the wooden door. Blinding light flooded the wagon, and he could not see, but he could feel the hands of two Hounds as they grabbed him by the shoulders. "Che. Pi. So." Repeating the chant from the entrance of the wagon, he could hear the Hounds gather outside as the two dragged him across the splintered rough-hewn ironwood. Despite his restrained body, the prisoner remained defiant. With a sudden twist of his hips, he sunk his teeth into his first captor's hand until he tasted warm copper in his mouth. The Hound reeled backward, falling from the wagon, shouting about his own injured hand. The prisoner spat severed flesh and fresh blood in the face of the other before lunging forward, using his knees as a spring to smash his head into the second Hound's face. Daylight again flooded the space as two more Hounds moved to enter the wagon. Using the shock to his advantage, the prisoner again twisted his hips, pivoting onto his back and leveraging the large manacle to smash against the head of the reeling Hound -- the metal crushing the skull with a wet thud. Now the second pair closed the distance and clawed at him, and he again sank his teeth into what flesh he could. This time, with a crunch, he bit through the thumb of the third Hound to engage. He again rolled to swing the manacle but missed his target and clattered out of the back of the wagon onto the filthy street. The chant became louder, and more enthusiastic. Each syllable bled together until it was meaningless. The crowd now chanted a different name -- "O -- pi -- sekh." The prisoner looked around for a moment, seeing daylight for the first time in what seemed to be a year. It was no longer the Hounds cheering for him, but now the citizens on the street. He glanced around, feeling the warmth of the sun on his gore-streaked skin. Beyond the Hounds, he could see a large tower. Prone and at the feet of a half-dozen Hounds, he lashed out, but could not find enough leverage to resist as one smashed a steel mace in his face -- his nose crunching as it broke. Dizziness overtook him, and disoriented, he fell to the ground next to the man whose skull he crushed. Unfazed, two Hounds grabbed him again by the shoulders. They dragged him through embossed silver doors into a chamber illuminated by countless flickering flames, his body leaving a bloody smear across the pristine temple. Chanting reverberated around him. A cleric shouted at them for desecrating the temple, but one of the five remaining Hounds quickly shoved him into a nearby alcove. Dragging him into a great hall, they paused before the fountain. The chanting stopped as dozens of faces stared, no doubt in shock at the brutality unfolding within the sanctity of sacred walls. As two uninjured Hounds dragged him toward an arch with a large mosaic, the Hound with the missing thumb washed his bleeding hand in the pure water, staining the clear liquid a deep red. He wrapped his hand in cloth from his tabard, putting pressure on the bleeding wound. The prisoner found himself hoisted before statuesque full plate upon a dais depicting baying Hounds. To one side, the wall inscribed with a Code that the prisoner both recognized and found entirely lacking, especially in this moment. "Prisoner, you have sinned against Rutilor and against our sacred order. Rutilor has forsaken you. No God dares challenge His word." As he spoke, one of the Hounds stepped forward, the cleric's piercing gaze passing through the prisoner. The prisoner could see him nodding to the speaker, as if to confirm that he would depart to the Red Spiral if killed. "Your careless strikes have left the sword of Rutilor dulled and damaged." His captors held him aloft, his face aligned with the gorget of the suit of armor. "A sword is only as effective as the condition of its blade, and your poor handling has left this blade needing to be reforged." To illustrate, the speaking Hound drew a short sword, inspecting its blade. "The mongoose can no longer effectively strike its prey. For this crime, you are condemned to the Spiral." Without hesitation, the Hound stood behind the prisoner and thrust the blade between two of his ribs. The prisoner flinched momentarily but did not allow himself to cry out in pain. "May Aldauth feast on your sins." One after another, the remaining Hounds plunged similar swords into his back, allowing him to collapse to the floor with five blades buried to the hilt between his ribs. Blood seeped from his wounds, pooling beneath him before spreading across the alcove. "The Sacrifice is complete. May Rutilor forgive his Hounds." Chepiso lay lifeless on the floor, left for dead, his body collapsing inward until it no longer was there. Each of the five Hounds stepped back into the Great Hall, watching through the silver doors, waiting for a meteor to streak through the sky. No meteor came. As he bled on the floor, the prisoner's body flashed with a brilliant white light. A dark glee filled his thoughts, and he knew he would be reborn with purpose. A chill filled his bones, and darkness spread through him. Pain faded to numbness, and light flooded the great hall. The Hounds turned, but too late. The unclothed, mangled, and scarred body of the prisoner now lunged toward them, freed of the bindings that had restrained them. Wrapping around the jaw of the first, he easily snapped the man's neck. In moments, the dynamic changed. Where once he held righteousness in his heart, he now felt only rage -- his conviction was, indeed, misplaced. The rot was not at the heart of those who were sympathetic to Necromancy; the rot was the structure that held those people up. Lifting the man's helmet as the body collapsed, the prisoner hurled it at the head of another, and a second fell to the floor. A third drew a longsword from a scabbard at the hip, but before he could use it, the prisoner had clutched him by the throat, crushing his airway. Gasping for air, the Hound fumbled his longsword, and the prisoner gladly took it, thrusting it through the fourth Hound. Still clutching his bandaged hand, the final Hound staggered backwards. Carrying the choking man like a shield, the prisoner lunged at the final Hound, who fell to the floor, scrambling away like a scared child. Stepping over him, the prisoner confidently left through the silver doors, discarding the man in his grip into the filthy street. With determination, the Prisoner strode into the street, and disappeared into the crowd that was still chanting a new name for him to take: Opisekh.
This message was originally posted in Events and Happenings in DragonRealms' Elanthia / Zoluren Events, by DR-IRENOS on the play.net forums.