For the last one hundred years, the Kingdom of Westerweald in Argwyll has been ruled by the family line of Lysandus.
And over the years, this family name was known for supporting one particular pastime: killing monsters.
All the citizens of the region’s capital city, Lucent, would often gather to watch the public burnings of the horrid little beasties that plagued their lands, brought to them by their valiant Greycloak hunters—men and women of good, pure, human blood—who, through rigorous training and secret rituals, were the master slayers of the world.
On days like today, when the sun was highest in the sky over the pearl-white spires of Castle Lysandus, the people of the city would gather to watch the great funeral pyres that concluded one of the good King’s purges. Today was no different.
In the middle of the city’s great square, a group of fifty bound hybrids burned, surrounded by the watchful, hateful eyes of the city’s people. Shopkeepers who only yesterday had chatted so amicably with their friends, gossiping, and spreading rumors about the dreary goings-on of their normal lives, had now come here spewing hatred that was far more demonic than the creatures they’d taken from their homes or outlying farms to be committed to the flames.
Partly to show the King that these people were indeed pious, and partly to drown out the screams of the dying catpeople and rabbitgirls who made up the vast majority of today’s burning, a priest was currently intoning a mass before the great bonfire.
“Let these impure souls be commended to good Kaedmon—the one true God. And may His chosen people reign over Argwyll now and always. Let humanity flourish! Let the pure blood of man reign supreme!”
The people added their voices to his exhortations, and soon the screams began to die away. Even children watched the fire slowly consume the hybrids, every ember licking away their skin.
It was justice. These creatures were minions of evil just like the monsters that served the vile Archons of Argwyll - the demon kings who had finally been cleansed from the land a century ago by the valiant Greycloaks and the armies of good King Lysandus. With Kaedmon's blessing, humanity had taken its rightful place as the undisputed rulers of the land.
And no creature existed as a more perverse refutation of their dominion as hybrids. Mongrel half-breeds with monster blood in their veins. The public spectacle of their deaths - such as today's - were truly blessed occasions. It reminded everyone - young and old - that one species would dominate this earth now and always.
High above the spectacle, the good King Lysandus IV watched with a satisfied smile on his face and a goblet of wine in his hand. Resplendent in his pearl armor that matched his castle walls, he was the very picture of purity. Many remarked upon his almost angelic beauty—especially when his guards rounded the corners of the slum quarters.
“Filthy beasts,” Lysandus said, squashing a fly that had committed the crime of landing on his finger. “It provides us with no small amount of gratification to watch them die at the hands of the common people. It adds a lovely final insult to their miserable lives. Don’t you agree, Sir Artorious?”
The man sitting across from the King could not be more his opposite. One arm hung from his side, having long ago drained his glass of wine, while his other arm socket was covered by the thick grey cowl and cape that partially obscured his thin body. His face was spattered with scars and wrinkles, eyes sunken and focused on the burning hybrids below with an intensity that made the King finally break the strange silence they had been sharing up here on his balcony for the last half hour.
“Indeed, King Lysandus.”
This admission seemed to satisfy the King.
“With apologies to your Brother Greycloaks,” he continued, “I believe we have exceeded our death quota in the last year by at least 80%. I do not say this to diminish your accomplishments, though. I still remember the beauty that was the great purge in the wake of the last Archon’s fall. I was but a boy then. But I still remember your face when you slew that great demon and then came among us all to proclaim humanity’s victory over monster-kind. It was a glorious day.”
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The one-armed man grimaced, trying to hide his pained expression from the King. The mention of the long-deceased dark arch-leader of monsters, The Archon, was still enough to send phantom pains shooting down his now vacant arm.
Even now, knowing the last incarnation of the demon was dead for good, he still couldn't shake his characteristic vigilance. He'd suffered many a sleepless night after plunging his blade into the last one's black heart.
“…yes, my Lord,” he said. “It was a glorious day for us all.”
“I told you not to call me that, my good man!” the King chuckled. “After all, you were a hero of the people far before I was their King. It is only a shame that your own Brother Greycloaks don’t share your commitment. They still lock themselves up in their stronghold and refuse to join my army proper. I wonder, perhaps you could…”
The sudden rising of the man beside him startled the King.
“If that is all, my Lord, I will take my leave now.”
Lysandus eyed him warily for a moment.
“Are you feeling well, Artorious?”
“I am tired, my Lord. The day has been long, and these old bones aren’t getting any younger.”
He bowed as a mischievous smirk appeared across the King’s youthful face.
“You still mean to retire, don’t you?”
Artorious stiffened. “It was a promise I made to myself a year ago, sire. With the death of the last Archon, my duty is fulfilled.”
“And what shall you do now?”
Artorious sighed deeply. “Probably drink until I can't form any more cogent thoughts.”
He turned his face back to the painting of red-orange suffering occurring below him, noticing that one catgirl was left, staring right up at him with eyes that were pleading, almost begging…
“Don’t pout, my illustrious friend!” Lysandus said as he raised a glass to his brooding companion. “Indeed, if my Sergeants’ projections are correct, Westerweald should be entirely monster-free in only a few short months if we keep up our quota. Soon, perhaps all you Greycloaks will be out of a job!”
“If it pleases you, sire…” Artorious replied, unable to tear his face away from the burning woman.
“Yes, yes, go on then,” Lysandus said. “Enjoy your little vacation. But know this—heroes don’t often hang up their capes for long, my good man. I think that one day soon you may be called back yet. After all, even with the Archon gone, there's still the threat of...unsavory activities brewing among our own kind, isn’t there?”
Artorious said nothing more. He knew what the King wanted - had wanted ever since he had taken in the hero of the last great war under his roof. In his mind, Artorious was nothing but a convenient tool to be employed when he needed it - to take down upstarts and quell potential rebellions. He was a politician through and through.
But he, even with all his armies, Lysandus couldn't stop the Lightborn from doing as he pleased. The Greycloaks were bound by Krea's Commandment - the ancient Law which allowed them to act as a military entity entirely removed from political influence. They'd maintained their stance ever since Lightborn Krea herself had descended on the armies of the first Darkseed and committed it and its minions back into the depths of the earth. Many Kings had ruled over Argwyll during that time. Some of them had resented the Greycloaks political and military autonomy. But none of them had dared stand up against them. After all, who could win against the anointed servants of God himself?
Artorious dragged himself away from the sight of the burning and the dying below, bowed swiftly to his King, and simply took his leave. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the great fortress-monastery of his people high in the mountains beyond Lucent: Caer Krea. The place that had once been his home.
The place he now could never return to.
He passed through the throng of commoners and nobles who had gathered before the castle to watch the spectacle unfold, avoiding the eyes of the catgirl as the last of her flesh burned away.
He walked with a palpable sense of relief. Finally, there would be time for him to do what he should have done a long time ago: drink himself into a much-desired grave.
A century was a long time to be a hero.
He made it to the pearly gates of the city with this sole thought as his guide, and only when he laid a hand upon its surface did he feel the distinct thrum in his mind of his normally dormant System screen:
[BOUNTY ISSUED!]
[OBJECTIVE: SLAY THE ARCHON!]
REWARD: 10000 Spirit Cores
He said nothing at first. He simply stood there, as his eyes slowly widened, sharing the same expression as the guards nearby who had just seen the same thing.
Because they’d all seen those words before.
“…impossible.”
He didn’t dismiss the screen. He looked past the words to the face of the creature.
It was a hat.
And, feeling more alone than he’d felt in a long time, Artorious Pendragon suddenly realized that his retirement plans would have to be put on hold.