Chapter Ten, Revolution
Sunhilte 24th, 1329 CE, Crestfall, Capitol of Vizzari
Argus averted his eyes from the capitol’s adoring mob. Hiding sullen countenance behind crimson hounskull. In sight of the masses, he returned as triumphant Consul; hero who smashed the season of Drakes & stormbirds. They saw summer tide trail behind his Triumph. Though in sooth, he lumbered home with tail between legs. Behind trailed open invitation of shame & desolation. The ‘prizes’ of his parade, beaten vassals of thunderous god, were led into the Crestfall, under guard whose faces were barbarous under nasal helms & bascinets.
This dazzling gem of civilization derided Argus with serrated beauty & nauseating splendor. All seeming wrapped in a noose of treachery tightening around the neck of their holiest shrine. All glared with hollow gleam. He wanted to hang low his head and turn away from illusionary image of himself reflected in the eyes of the gathered citizenry, who with weeping revelry welcomed his return with cries of assent. The soft, yet hurried, whispers creeping from the covered captive carts dragging behind the conquering Consul were smothered by the crowd’s fanatical roars. “Io our Deliverer! Praise Prince Argus!”
Every face he passed looked at him through worshipful eyes, be they of lower or highest castes; every knave & slave cheered besides their masters as proud noble & affluent merchants hailed assent of their returning champion. For he saved them from the beast ravaging their countryside and upturning their holds. Yet all this clamor only ensnared him in a hellish loneliness & cancerous shame. For he knew that all these men around him were far from friends. Presented in full Dread Knight plate, with their flag and feigned smile, these triumphant conquerors and their ‘spoils’ belonged all to Drakkon. Only acting as prisoners of war and parade to waltz into the capitol with ease, bent on its capture.
Atop the towering staircase that paved the ascent to the Court of Crimson: the red-gold throne of Vizzari and home to the prime pontiff Magister of Faith, Janus Fel– the reigning crown of serpent cult & state order. Despite his pinnacle position in society the man was a pitifully short caricature of his gluttonous habits, shown in his ridiculously rotund bulge of a belly. Above Fel’s head soared crown of a hat wound in shape of the Serpent he served as Speaker for.
Beside the smiling pig stood the master of the Dread Knights, Amain of House Th’uul. A brutal sadist lurked behind that façade of righteous crusader. His physicality reflected core lust for violence. The Dread-Paladin’s countenance was harsh & clear in his cut by a glance to his sharply shaved dome and the abundance of sigil brandings, serpentine tattoos, and runes of warfare. His loyalty to Vizzarion: sworn in his skin; scars of the Serpent to show himself as its scale, its fang, its branded coil in flesh.
The impish Magister waddled a couple steps from his grandiose seat. Every pace in step with his glorified bodyguard in Th’uul. Adjusting his Mitre, Janus spoke down to Argus through gurgling froglike throat. “Thank Vizzarion for thy victory against these wretched fanatics that flay us in the name of their pretender. Thy victory over the Drake’s rot-ridden ilk is joy to all! Great feasts & tournaments shall be for the Triumph thou hast won.”
Magister Fel, porcine lump of grease, wine-laden sweat & incense wax that he was, rolled some steps down. Not one to stretch any physical labor, Janus remained high above the man as he addressed the gaping populace. “We heard disconcerting reports. Concerning claim to title of Consul. This claim went through no Magistrate council, no Chamber of Ethics. Nor did the late great Magister, Cassius Abraxas make it known to any here that he considered thee, a child of low birth ascended from dirt to greatness through the kindness of his Patron, heir apparent. Without roots in nobility the Houses must make congress over this matter and see what the wisdom of the Crimson Court decides. We cannot take that contract at full value when it flies in face of tradition & more still. Even given this trophy of return for Triumph.”
Backhanded welcome flustered Argus. Warm receptions wassailing his ‘triumph’ and admonishment of his worth, character & birth, webbed his will. He heard truth in Aris’ augury that Drakkon’s plot was the only way to make something great of himself, not within the Vizzar. For this court of the Serpent’s seat swiftly shaped to pit of asps ready to lunge for him. He bided time for indignation, bobbing head along to the Magister’s rambling and the mob. “We must make clear that one conquest of a band of ragged cultists does not make one the chosen ascent of Vizzarion – for whom I speak. But alas, let not this matter of another day spoil the relishing of today. For now, a toast to thee and to all Crestfall!”
Argus spat mocking venom. He fought the urge to retch from nervousness as removed the prestigious hounskull covering his guilt. His glare spoke fury before his tongue shot curse at the pompous stump of Janus Fel. Pushing through the first few croaks & cracks of his cords, the triumphant Consul lifted voice to adoring public:
“O ye children of Vizzari! I bear ringed signet of Revolution! This day we rise above all our enemies. This day we march against an enemy far closer to us than the fabled evil of godly berserkers... I say: the Serpent eats itself!” From this perch, he saw not only the stunned shroud of folks below but now a shadow sweeping across the rays beyond capitol walls. Half the force of West Elderath & hordes of common rabble recruited to scour the East encircled the city.
Behind Janus, who succumbed to stasis, the Dread Paladin of his honor guard leaned to whisper. Amain warned Fel’s ear, which quivered near as much as his fat, misshapen gut. “My Lord, he comes to usurp the Tongue of Vizzarion. Act or be devoured by this wolf!”
Argus struck knell of his speech. “This day we take back our city from the gluttonous boors & stuff-bellied bankers who squander the riches of our homes! Their rule ruins your futures with fevered greed! Long tainted the Crimson Court with their corrosive slime and steals what is rightfully ours! Their rackets drain thy coin while they laugh at thee once off the pulpit! They feast on the food thou shalt ne’er enjoy all the while thy stomachs rumble with famine!”
Reaching the top of the stairs with his entourage of sentinels the betrayer unsheathes his rapier and cries revolt. The spirit of his coup infects parts of the crowd below. Others, loyal to faithful Order decry their kin for their falsehood. “I accurse thee, Janus! Face Judgement of the masses for thy court’s pilfering vice!”
Yet the archpriest simply gapes at his accuser, paralyzed. Th’uul then comes to the defense of the faith upon that velvet-carpeted staircase. The puritan champion draws forth his weapon: a monstrous and grim broadsword of the same obsidian seen only before in Drakkon’s sword; forged of that astral base. A raised fist summons his knights to him. Follows forceful thrust of frozen courtiers with hammering blunt tones. “o Argus, thou art a fool! Get thee into exile or be cast as traitor to our Court!”
Gasps and jeers rattle the crowd. Alongside their confusion volatile tensions turn volcanic. The mob’s clusters of various sympathies brush against each other. Hundreds below truly trusted & loved their populist champion, Argus. What earthshaking revelation his words deliver; bidding follow him to revolt. Bent to battle for patriotism against another member of the Court though it seemed brazen insurrection.
But there were yet those who felt their ‘hero’ truly betrayed their realm and called for heathen blood. Civil abrasion blisters, and finally pops into utter anarchy. Chaos crawls out when the veil over the prisoners’ carriage is torn and the ‘defeated barbarians’ are cut from bonds & given steel by the same men who looked before to be their jailors. Drakkon himself charges behind their line as surge of Drakes and feral men flood through.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Surprise manifestation of a dead demigod hails vengeful return. Ruptures the turbulent fabric of Crestfall’s society. Yet though a star-born Lord leads the apocalyptic rush, this assault of madness upon blessed city, Th’uul furiously hunts first for Argus’s traitorous head. Engages in a storm of hell driven blows. With the Dread Knights’ training and the heat of their resolve dozens of Drakoni assassins fall to bloody mess. The imposter Triumphants: beaten back by synchronized stratagems of each knight. The precise flow of their combat tactics and their unique weapons combines to lethal performance. Dancing for slaughter and ardent resistance.
The sea of people parts for Drakkon and the arrival of his moribund reinforcements. Gray waves of helms, spears & coifs slip through yawning gates. But above, the clash of blades at the red circle turns quickly against Argus. He falters against the speed & power Th’uul possessed & channels through blackened broadsword. In a hasty attempt to strike a lucky blow he strikes at the paladin’s lightly protected leg. But the veteran of duels innumerable spots this desperate move in his shaky eye beforehand and, with bold riposte, slices through his rival’s sword hand.
Bone & tendon splints from the rest of his arm. Yet Argus feels nothing at his hand’s cleaving. Searing edge & the shock of adrenaline and disbelief uproots the pain. The strange singe of the slashing instrument’s radiance, so cruel yet clean. Numb to doom. Th’uul knocks him with pommel and kicks the maimed man down the grandiose staircase where he lay retching blood. He readies his deadly relic of meteorite rock, with a violet tinge to its dark and hungering glow. To conclude their mortal duet that ebony edge went to fall but first the sword lifts to air to savor the arc, praising that heaven sides with his cause. Yet the execution swing hung, unsung & intercepted.
Drakkon breaks through the Knights’ bulwark along with his best champions. His route to relieve the vanguard pivots to single out this slayer. Howling awe screams from the sidelines. More among conflicted parties of citizen find their favor suddenly steer towards Drakoni victory. For this foreign demigod was no savage but an honorable Lord of regal stature & might to match his bravery, rushing selflessly to save the life of their populist Emissary, in Argus who promised a better world.
Each commander fights as avatars of their people’s spirit. But while Amain claims crest of a mere abstraction of a god, Drakkon’s faith resides in his fervor. The Geist of Revolution belts from the Lord’s lungs. Neither blade chips the other, being equals in make, but the swifter of minds prevails in the wielding. The doughty demigod skewers Th’uul’s leg and shoulder through gaps in his regalia. The man’s spirit & vigor were not so wounded, and in his pride, the lord of Dread calls off any aid of his underlings. While he retreats to the tall columns atop the platform, bleeding the way, he swore none must interfere in this duel with a ‘heathen god’.
With dagger Amain cuts the links of his chest plate, freeing up mobility, and throws it as flailing distraction. Pushes then from the pillar he’d been supporting himself to lunge at his challenger. Bursting momentum so profound it would crack or splinter a blade of any other making than his meteorite. Nor did Drakkon’s will break beneath avalanche of wrath. He inverts Amon’s power against him, reflecting his course backwards to fling him from the heights of the Court.
The preeminent hierarch of Th’uul and vengeful saint of the Crimson Order falls. Those great steps raise to crushing height when one makes a hasty plunge from their roost. Sharp pole of Dread banner catches his horrible hop. Impales him through the center. The red-black-and-gold flag of Vizzari repaints as single shade.
With the square below saturated with guts gushing from his man, town into, Magister Fel scurried back. Searching out safety in the sanctums deep in the court’s belly. Running with such blind terror and on such stumpy legs, he sacrificed his ostentatious hat and trips on his robes. Meanwhile Mordaunt and the drakes, as crest of their rising tide, fought more vehemently than the cadaver commander’s remaining men. Across the temple, streets, outskirts, and farthest outline Drakoni typhoons sank their city.
Woe sullied blood rains down the grand staircase. Soaking patterned banners, graven pylons & glistening baubles; vestiges of Vizzarion. The turbulent undertow of unrest comes to ugly head. Death hails upon Crestfall. Its outspread wings cover the whole of the capitol in squall of Discord. Mordaunt and the other Drakoni captains wrangle the nearest populace. Culling resistance and corralling them like cattle to kneel below the court. Herds, bovine and gusty, watch with mixed emotions as their shrine is pillaged; all their great relics & idols torn down and smashed in this unprecedented storm of revolt.
The Court sanctum unsealed, the gold mouth opened, Aris pours martial stream, guiding the thralls of madness & reavers of vipers into hallowed hall. To where Vizzari’s ruling elite, in the Chamber of Ethics, lay in lowly fetal guise. Suckling fears & tremorous teats of apocalyptic auguries. Devils burst through the gates upon Helwind gales. Revolution rolls across temple threshold. Taking form in Drakkon and his terrors. By His indomitable might, in an instant the courtiers’ & priestly spheres of decadence collapse with the pillars of their society.
Their feeble resignation amuses Aris, spectating the marshalled migration of these wyrms to the execution square. How happy he was to see them drop their petty masquerade to show themselves as writhing worms beneath that pristine illusion of power.
The plump Magister, as avatar of the priestly caste’s virtue, begged for his life, so rife with vice. When Drakkon’s men tied his swollen, boar’s hide and hung about his throat a sinister rope a vocal throng loyalists demanded these vilifiers face death by sword. Swearing to ruin over submission to a foreign defiler, they vaulted to their deaths. Yet more swore off their old, dying gods as their pontiff dangled over the serpentine statue at the podium. Others swathed themselves threads of delirium, madly strumming havoc’s harpsicord. Those who leapt to lashing catharsis went to robbing & looting the merchants’ stalls and shops arrayed along the Triumph. Even taking to burning down institutions without any hint of discretion.
They torched what they could of their own city to spite those who would sack it from them. Rabid flocks sought the inferno as an act of blind scorn against the ruling pillars above them, proven fraudulent in nature and knowing that no ill should befall them for tearing hollow houses, defenseless against the Drakoni. Others look to that fiery blanket of misrule in hopes to shield their sins from illumination.
Baron, who was then behind plebian lines, would later remark to his Lord how the kinsmen of the Vizzar indulged much glee in the slaying of their fellows & the razing of their cousins’ estates. Though he knew not whether to emphasize this as to mark the character of those he’d enfolded into his Living banners or simply a sign of the wickedness of the state they’d destroyed.
Nevertheless, Crestfall’s messy riot was quickly quelled. Aquifer tracts were drawn to quench the blustery clinkers of slag. Firebrands of pandemonium slain; scoria humbled by zealous deluge. The jewel of Vizzari’s reign bent & wrestled by Drakkon’s grip. When enough shepherded the central square the conqueror roared his lion’s call to them, demanding their supplication. Much like the limp cadaver of their ignominiously deposed Magister, draped as decoration of their new Lord’s conquest, the people went stiff. As granite statues of apprehension, they witnessed overthrow of their civilization.
While their deified master molds domesticated minds with the hammer of rhetoric Aris, Albrecht & Baron tend to Argus. Using healer’s talents to bind his wrist and offer him herbs & potions to anesthetize the cripple’s pain, keep him living. In a dissociative state the wounded wretch watched it all unravel through sockets not his own. Dulled ears heard the Lord’s colloquium to the forum, after clarions of hosts, untold save those klaxons of their innumerable hordes, hushed their deafening declaration of His ascendancy.
With sword upraised to the sky, in challenge to the rule of the Vizzar, revolt & reversal emerged of Drakkon’s red sermon. The first of many they would hear; speaking of breaking the binds of slavish servitude & freedom from wicked masters that care not for the health of the land nor its people. He appraised the mark of heaven’s favour and new Imperium, foretelling the next Aeon.
Argus whimpered, holding his hand as the shock subsided. But his pain was ignored as new chorus came from the crowd. Those who refused to bow were escorted from their kin; dispatched away from the public’s eye. But every soul among them knew they had not simply vanished or been ‘exiled’ (as would be claimed). They had been cut down or drawn up, the citizens knew, though they would dwell on this knowledge in muffled silence. Suppressing their confusion & gradually growing woe beneath this snaring shade of Living Light...