Sweat pooled beneath King Theran's collar. Barely a night had passed where he did not drive himself mad from insomnia for the past several weeks. There was just too much to worry about. Famine spread across his kingdom, neighboring armies at his border eager for any show of weakness, and grim tidings of the Dark One's return, a horde of hungering monstrosities at his heel.
And now this! Weeks ago, his Court High Magician had come to him, mad glee in his eyes. A spell of summoning, a great ritual to summon heroes from beyond the veil. At long last, a savior was nigh! At least so far as the magician had claimed.
King Theran put little stock into it. He had no reason to believe the spell would not work, but the spell claimed to be used for summoning young students. Children! What use did his kingdom have for children? A war hardened general, a scarred soldier, even an intelligent diplomat, these he had use for but not children.
With a heavy sigh and a wave of his hand, King Theran sank further into his throne. “Get on with it, Zetharim. Summon these chosen heroes or whatever you call them.”
“But of course, your majesty! Simply observe. Upon completion of the ritual they shall appear upon a divine, yellow chariot! They will be eager to assist, and their hearts and companionship will see them through all our hardships. Just you wait, your majesty, just you wait!”
Curse the infernal man for being so chipper while lives, nay, an entire kingdom were at stake. “And they will be...” The king struggled, yet another heavy sigh fleeing his lips, “They will be children?”
The magician's eyes seemed to shine as he spoke. “But of course, your majesty! But not small children, no. They will be just on the cusp of adulthood. And they shall have marvelous adventures, learning the true value of friendship, of love! There journey shall mirror the ascent to adulthood in a fun-filled, easily marketed yet completely overdone fashion!”
“I don't need them to learn about fucking friendship, I need them to save my fucking kingdom,” Theran muttered under his breath. He was now wondering whether the crazed lunatic belonged in an asylum or the gallows for wasting so much time. King Theran composed himself, sitting straighter in his throne, and resigned himself to humoring the fool. “Yes, yes, of course. Just get on with it then, Zetharim.”
“At once, your majesty!” the magician replied. Excitedly, he turned to the great summoning sigil etched into the throne room's floor and began murmuring words of power. Arms waved sporadically, so much so that one might think the man drunk. A subtle glow began to spread through the arcane markings, strengthening into a near blinding light. “They arrive, your majesty! Your saviors arrive!”
With a flash and a crash, the light faded, eldritch energies dissipating to nothingness. Before the magician, in the center of the summoning sigil, sat a massive object of dark gray steel, six wheels beneath it. It was obviously some sort of armored carriage, but unlike anything seen before. The wheels were not wood, but some strange, black material that seemed at once soft yet rigid, and there were no horses or beasts of burden nor even an obvious way for them to pull the thing. An aura of intimidation radiated from the thing, as though it was alive and wanted you to know it was dangerous.
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“Well, at least it isn't yellow.” The man-at-arms beside his throne could barely contain the chuckle at King Theran's quip, bringing a gloved hand up to stifle the noise.
Steam rose from the carriage, as ice flakes from the spell began to melt away. King Theran could hear muffled voices from within and eventually, a hatch of some sort sprung open from atop the vessel. A head peaked out, carefully, glancing about in apprehension and eventually in confusion. The head ducked down once more, muted conversation echoing from within, before it sprang back up. The man was dressed strangely. A black vest of some odd material over a form-fitting, white tunic and loose pants covered in various shades of light brown and tan splotched haphazardly across it's entirety. He had a device in his hands, a crossbow of sorts perhaps but with no arms to provide tension, and was training the thing on Zetharim threateningly.
“Back the fuck up, hombre!” he shouted, eyes darting as he took in the room. A pair of King Theran's guards stepped towards the carriage and he swung towards them, bringing his strange object to bear. “I said back the fuck up! Step away from the fucking vehicle or I will fucking end you!”
King Theran stood from his throne, the movement drawing the strange man's eyes. He waved at his guards, motioning for them to step back. “Peace, good man, peace. I and mine mean you no harm if you mean us none in return.” Diplomacy was needed, and King Theran did not like how that man was brandishing the strange object. A weapon perhaps? One he was unfamiliar with to be sure, but the man seemed confident that it could deal harm. King Theran hoped to keep things from escalating to that point, of course, and so diplomacy was needed. “Please, good man. I am King Marcus Theran, sovereign of Lordsfall and protector of these realms. You have been summoned here as we are in need of brave heroes. Our lands are troubled, greatly so, and we are at wit's end. Please, I entreat you, good man, calm yourself so that we may discuss.”
Tension drained from the strange man's shoulders, if ever so slightly, though King Theran figured that was more from his guards and magician stepping away from the man's carriage more than Theran's speech. The man's eyes remained on the king's, and he whispered down into the open hatch of the carriage, speaking to whoever remained inside. A pair of doors on the side of the carriage opened, several men dressed similarly to the one on top spilled out, brandishing similar devices. Their movements seemed practiced, drilled, as though they lived and breathed discipline and perfection.
A smile crept ever so slightly up King Theran's lips. Damn whoever Zetharim thought he was summoning, these were men he could use, men he could rely on.
Warriors.
From his spot off to the side of the chamber King Theran heard Zetharim mutter dejectedly, “What? Where are the barely legal, big titty waifus?” The man was obviously descending further into madness and King Theran would need to see to him eventually.
Seeing no threat immediately apparent, the strangers relaxed, though they kept a tight grip on their devices and continued their constant scan of the chamber. One man in particular allowed his device to drop, a strap of sorts attached to his black vest cradling it within easy reach in front of him. He reached into a vest pocket, pulling out a small box and retrieved what looked to be a small, rolled piece of parchment before depositing the box back into it's pouch. With a click, a small flame sprung from the man's hand, igniting the parchment, now clasped between his lips. He inhaled sharply, and exhaled a cloud of foul smelling smoke before turning to the king. “Alright, now someone tell me what the fuck is going on here.”