King Osmodeus of Alabast sat in the shadow of the great statue of his ancestor. The epigraph below read:
THE GRAVEYARD KING
SCOURGE OF WYRMS. SKELETONS REMAINED IN HIS WAKE.
“LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY, AND DESPAIR!”
Osymandias was sculpted in a frightening aspect. He was clad in his infamous bone armour, plated dragonbone which covered him head to toe. His face was obscured behind a mask of bone with slits for eyes and a crown of dragon fangs ringed round his scalp. For all the glory of sculpture, it could not capture the glowing yellow eyes of the tyrant, shining out from his inhuman mask. At his side hung the Makitherin longsword, Gravetouch, the instrument of his defiance against dragon kind. Ancient scripture tells that a mere touch from the blade caused the dragons’ scales and flesh to deaden and rot away, leaving naught but bare bones. King Osymandias took the bones from the dead dragons and crafted them into dreadful armours using magic, raising an army of dragonbone warriors. There remained none of the ancient treasure.
He watched over the stone table in the centre of the room with a cold silent vigil, gauntlet perched on the pommel of Gravetouch, wrought in the shape of the water buffalo skull of House Marrow’s sigil. His descendant mirrored.
Osmodeus’ gaze shifted languidly from speaker to speaker. Nought stirred him till the Voice spoke of the terrors from the Black Continent. He would watch with interest how the other lords reacted. Fight, or flight?
Heldan of The Weald spoke for his lord, a detail King Osmodeus noted. He spoke wisely and eloquently as only a man of great experience could. The older man had been whispering in lords’ ears for generations. The king’s stare radiated through the Heldan as if reading his hidden secrets. He would continue to watch him.
Lord Benedikt’s words were less refined. He assumed too much when he regarded him and Gori Lamillur. No one had said anything about investigating abroad, and the logistics of doing so would be preposterous. You know nothing. Osmodeus met Roman’s sympathetic eye frostily.
Shamgar’s intervention put an end to this folly. It was time to galvanise this summit.
King Osmodeus clasped the arms of his chair and rose slowly to garner attention. He had known where his vote lay for a while. The chirping of little birds had done little to change his mind.
“I vote,” he rasped, his voice hoarse as if his throat had been abraded by centuries of dusty desert air. It was the first time he had spoken in a long while, usually finding gestures and his gaze satisfactory for conveying his thoughts. It was thickly flavoured with the sharp accent of the far east. The next two words would come as a shock to some there. “Shamgar Paragon.”