Flagg wanted to leave it there because we don't know whether there are any more eldritch horrors to be dealt with in the city.
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I've gone ahead and posted the fruit of me and Flagg's convo.
The sun was high on the horizon when Ioannes rode out to meet the so-called Lord of Sepulchrave.
He did not do so alone, of course. When the gate was raised he emerged at a brisk pace, mounted atop his destrier and in the company of a half-dozen armed and armored horsemen. He had taken a grindstone to his blade and a cloth to his mail before emerging; the steel shone like spun silver, while the razor-sharp orichalcum edge of his longsword flashed a dull gold.
His company came to a stop some twenty meters from the gate, men parting on either side to deliver him to this Dratha. From atop the not-so-distant walls, it would hardly be possible to ignore the archers and crossbowmen looking tensely at the parley.
"I am Ioannes Arsenikos," he spoke in a voice that belied no concern. "King of Acharnae, and of much more besides, and heir to the too-long-empty throne of the Atlanteans. I would suppose by the attack on the northern gate that you have not come to swear loyalty to your liege."
"Quite a capital you've won for yourself here, Imperial Majesty," said Dratha, nodding toward the piled corpses and soot-stained rubble. A smirk twitched across his scarred face. "No. I don't wish to swear anything to you, except my desire for peace between us. I did not come here to fight you or to add this blasted ruin to my domain."
"Then what have you come here for?"
"Those riders you slew. The wights and slaves. What do you think they were doing here?" asked Dratha, "What do you think will happen to you if you stay?"
"Do not presume to think that my efforts have been for some vanity," Ioannes countered, anger apparent in his demeanor. "Have you gazed upon the dark walls of this city? I came to add it to my domain, but I remained to cleanse the city of its foul masters.
"And I have," he continued. "My forces have slain their armies and their black knights and their foul necromancer leader alike. I do not mean to remain here. Bend the knee or turn back to your fortress, it makes no matter. I plan only to tear down this citadel, vanquish what perils remain, and move on to riper fruits."
"Well, our cause and intentions are the same. But I am afraid destroying what lurks here is well beyond your skill."
He did not do so alone, of course. When the gate was raised he emerged at a brisk pace, mounted atop his destrier and in the company of a half-dozen armed and armored horsemen. He had taken a grindstone to his blade and a cloth to his mail before emerging; the steel shone like spun silver, while the razor-sharp orichalcum edge of his longsword flashed a dull gold.
His company came to a stop some twenty meters from the gate, men parting on either side to deliver him to this Dratha. From atop the not-so-distant walls, it would hardly be possible to ignore the archers and crossbowmen looking tensely at the parley.
"I am Ioannes Arsenikos," he spoke in a voice that belied no concern. "King of Acharnae, and of much more besides, and heir to the too-long-empty throne of the Atlanteans. I would suppose by the attack on the northern gate that you have not come to swear loyalty to your liege."
"Quite a capital you've won for yourself here, Imperial Majesty," said Dratha, nodding toward the piled corpses and soot-stained rubble. A smirk twitched across his scarred face. "No. I don't wish to swear anything to you, except my desire for peace between us. I did not come here to fight you or to add this blasted ruin to my domain."
"Then what have you come here for?"
"Those riders you slew. The wights and slaves. What do you think they were doing here?" asked Dratha, "What do you think will happen to you if you stay?"
"Do not presume to think that my efforts have been for some vanity," Ioannes countered, anger apparent in his demeanor. "Have you gazed upon the dark walls of this city? I came to add it to my domain, but I remained to cleanse the city of its foul masters.
"And I have," he continued. "My forces have slain their armies and their black knights and their foul necromancer leader alike. I do not mean to remain here. Bend the knee or turn back to your fortress, it makes no matter. I plan only to tear down this citadel, vanquish what perils remain, and move on to riper fruits."
"Well, our cause and intentions are the same. But I am afraid destroying what lurks here is well beyond your skill."
Ioannes had closed the gates of hell, but the demons had already pushed their way through.
The desperate strength of the remaining black knights had wavered at the death of their leader, and soon the tide of the battle within the courtyard had turned. Those struck down no longer rose once more, though the thoughtless hordes remained standing. Ioannes regained his torch, fallen during battle with the necromancer, and with what cavalry remained he fought a desperate battle, fire and sword against dozens or hundreds of sets of gnashing teeth and pairs of clawing hands.
It might have been minutes or hours by the time that the undead stopped streaming into the courtyard, and all that remained was the slow crackling of embers and the charred flesh and bones strewn about. There was no time to revel in this achievement, however; no doubt just outside the citadel another horde fought against the main army. And so he scattered his horsemen to the wind, with one message to send to his forces' remaining commanders: To pull their forces back into the fortress, and block the gates behind them. The black-iron citadel might have once been the home of experiments unholy and horrific cruelties, but its narrow hallways and tall towers stood the best chance of repelling what foul undead continued to roam.
---
The great majority of those who had participated in the assault, thank the gods, had remained in good order where Ioannes had left them at the gates of the citadel. When the dead had begun to walk again they had held firm, keeping themselves between the horde and the fortress. Though at its worst it had seemed as though the undead were about to break through their ranks, two events had saved the majority from sudden doom -- first, a desperate rider had emerged from the fortress, shouting wildly to use fire. Though it took precious time for the archers to light arrows aflame with their lantern's oil and infantrymen to toss their torches haphazardly into the horde, another boon soon appeared. Whereas for the beginning of the fight the undead had seemed nigh-unkillable, eventually they began to fall as any mortal might. When the horsemen rode from the citadel to order a retreat into the castle, it was a significant portion of those soldiers who had originally entered the city who heeded it.
Other news was less savory. One detachment of soldiers, the last to arrive before the dark citadel's gates were closed and barred, claimed to have been in the process of raising the northern gate when they were set upon by the undead. Shortly afterwards, what seemed to be reinforcements had somehow raised the gates from the outside and stormed into the city. These supposed allies turned on the Acharneans as soon as the wights were able to be killed, slaughtering many before the orders to retreat had finally reached the outskirts of the city.
Regardless of who these mysterious attackers might be, the situation was less than ideal. The majority of Ioannes' host still sat in their siege camps against the bay, and those within the city found themselves besieged by the remaining undead. Ioannes gave the order not to waste any more ammunition on the hordes outside the walls unless they seemed to be succeeding in an assault against the fortress -- an unlikely event, since his soldiers had barred the gates and clogged the narrow and twisting passageways with whatever furnishings and debris could be found. With what axes could be produced they hacked at the few bare and scraggly trees of the courtyard, and lit them aflame from the citadel's black iron towers -- a smoke signal that would signify danger Ioannes' army outside the walls. His wife, to whom he had given command of his main forces, was tactical beyond any right a person had to be -- with any luck, she would be reinforcing the trenches and spikes and palisades of the camps and drawing the besiegers into defensive positions in response.
It was to one of the aforementioned black iron towers that Ioannes walked wearily, every step reminding him of the aches in shoulders and the weight of his armor. And every time he blinked his memories seemed to go back to the impaled necromancer as he lay dying, and the lingering truths and horrors that had lain within his eyes. But all that must be pushed aside, for there was other business to attend to -- first, to see if he could find out from the towers exactly who had flooded through the northern gate.
The desperate strength of the remaining black knights had wavered at the death of their leader, and soon the tide of the battle within the courtyard had turned. Those struck down no longer rose once more, though the thoughtless hordes remained standing. Ioannes regained his torch, fallen during battle with the necromancer, and with what cavalry remained he fought a desperate battle, fire and sword against dozens or hundreds of sets of gnashing teeth and pairs of clawing hands.
It might have been minutes or hours by the time that the undead stopped streaming into the courtyard, and all that remained was the slow crackling of embers and the charred flesh and bones strewn about. There was no time to revel in this achievement, however; no doubt just outside the citadel another horde fought against the main army. And so he scattered his horsemen to the wind, with one message to send to his forces' remaining commanders: To pull their forces back into the fortress, and block the gates behind them. The black-iron citadel might have once been the home of experiments unholy and horrific cruelties, but its narrow hallways and tall towers stood the best chance of repelling what foul undead continued to roam.
---
The great majority of those who had participated in the assault, thank the gods, had remained in good order where Ioannes had left them at the gates of the citadel. When the dead had begun to walk again they had held firm, keeping themselves between the horde and the fortress. Though at its worst it had seemed as though the undead were about to break through their ranks, two events had saved the majority from sudden doom -- first, a desperate rider had emerged from the fortress, shouting wildly to use fire. Though it took precious time for the archers to light arrows aflame with their lantern's oil and infantrymen to toss their torches haphazardly into the horde, another boon soon appeared. Whereas for the beginning of the fight the undead had seemed nigh-unkillable, eventually they began to fall as any mortal might. When the horsemen rode from the citadel to order a retreat into the castle, it was a significant portion of those soldiers who had originally entered the city who heeded it.
Other news was less savory. One detachment of soldiers, the last to arrive before the dark citadel's gates were closed and barred, claimed to have been in the process of raising the northern gate when they were set upon by the undead. Shortly afterwards, what seemed to be reinforcements had somehow raised the gates from the outside and stormed into the city. These supposed allies turned on the Acharneans as soon as the wights were able to be killed, slaughtering many before the orders to retreat had finally reached the outskirts of the city.
Regardless of who these mysterious attackers might be, the situation was less than ideal. The majority of Ioannes' host still sat in their siege camps against the bay, and those within the city found themselves besieged by the remaining undead. Ioannes gave the order not to waste any more ammunition on the hordes outside the walls unless they seemed to be succeeding in an assault against the fortress -- an unlikely event, since his soldiers had barred the gates and clogged the narrow and twisting passageways with whatever furnishings and debris could be found. With what axes could be produced they hacked at the few bare and scraggly trees of the courtyard, and lit them aflame from the citadel's black iron towers -- a smoke signal that would signify danger Ioannes' army outside the walls. His wife, to whom he had given command of his main forces, was tactical beyond any right a person had to be -- with any luck, she would be reinforcing the trenches and spikes and palisades of the camps and drawing the besiegers into defensive positions in response.
It was to one of the aforementioned black iron towers that Ioannes walked wearily, every step reminding him of the aches in shoulders and the weight of his armor. And every time he blinked his memories seemed to go back to the impaled necromancer as he lay dying, and the lingering truths and horrors that had lain within his eyes. But all that must be pushed aside, for there was other business to attend to -- first, to see if he could find out from the towers exactly who had flooded through the northern gate.
I'd like to work the actual meeting out myself, but before that is the whole issue of zombie apocalypse occurring in the city.
Aquilona is going to be a fun place to be pretty soon, innit?
Oh, it's been a fun place already. Everyone else is on a gradual curve upwards while Ioannes smashes himself against the walking dead.
@DeltaV Yo- based on @Dead Cruiser's post, I'm having Dratha march on Aquilonia as well. Let me know if you would prefer him and the legions to show up mid- or post- battle?
Either / or, doesn't matter to me. You might join me in being up to your eyes in zombies if you show up mid-battle.
You changed your avatar. 2spooky4me.
A long lifetime ago, Ioannes Arsenikos -- then only the heir to a single city on the coast -- had spent a number of years in the Jade Kingdoms, studying the strange ways of the magicks that its inhabitants still claimed to possess. Nine out of every ten supposed practitioners were not mages but magicians, of course, and you were more likely to have some cretin steal your coin while watching them than to learn anything particularly useful. There had been one old man, however, who claimed to have knowledge of the ways of life and death.
"Only death can pay for life," the man had explained in the way signature of the self-acclaimed mages, his words seemingly insightful but almost entirely meaningless. But as Ioannes watched in interest the man had slaughtered a number of ugly green frogs and spent the good part of the afternoon performing strange rituals over them. Ioannes had kept a firm grip on his coin purse, but was pleasantly suprised -- if a little disgusted -- when one of the frogs regained its feet and began to amble about. And Ioannes vividly remembered how the old man had put an end to his creation when he had suitably impressed his visitor; with a torch he set the creature alight like so much kindling, and it made no sound as it burned as if made entirely of tallow.
On the streets and in the taverns sometime afterwards, Ioannes had learned something just as interesting. That old man, the locals claimed, had been a simple trickster only a few months prior, but more and more of the ancient magicks seemed truly to be awakening. Ioannes had gone on to observe another half-dozen magicians, including a supposed fortune-teller (who took his coin and told him he would be a great man) and a rather impressive pyromancer who could summon flame from the air.
Only death can pay for life. A sickly feeling overtook Ioannes as he struggled to maintain a hold on his nervous horse. He began to understand why so many half-trained armies of slave soldiers had been sent out to die from the gates, and was immensely glad to have burned the bodies when they grew too numerous to bury.
But that was not important. What was important was the battle at hand, two dozen of Ioannes' finest cavalry locked in a mortal struggle with more black-clad warriors as the dead began to pour from the hallway through which they had entered the courtyard. As Ioannes traded blows with a silent black knight, he noticed out of the corner of his eye as one of the foes cleaved the head from his enemy's horse. Beast and rider fell to the ground, the horse crushing the man, but within moments both had risen again on the other side of the battle.
There was no time to be wasted. With a lucky strike Ioannes buried his blade in the neck of his enemy, who fell to his knees as black blood hissed from his gorget. He might rise again in moments, Ioannes knew. But in his off-hand was the torch with which he had lit his way through the dark and twisting chambers of the citadel. When the knight rose again Ioannes jabbed his torch into the gash he had created. The living corpse began to smolder as though it were made of kindling, and by the time it had raised its sword once more the arm holding it was aflame. The sword-arm remained raised, billowing with acrid smoke, as the creature fell lifeless to the ground.
"Flame! Give them flame!" He wheeled his horse to look to the horseman to his right, a minor household knight. "Send word to the infantry." The knight's face was pale as ash as he drove an opening into the flow of undead. Whether the man would make it out of the fortress was another question entirely.
Across the courtyard, the nameless, almost inhuman-looking leader of this vile fortress stood, one first gestured out in silent challenge. Just to look on the strange and horrible runes that covered his armor and shield caused Ioannes' head to ache, but he forced himself to watch as he spurred his horse forward.
When they stood separated by only a few paces, Ioannes dismounted his destrier. It would only be further encumbrance in such close quarters; he could only hope that the horse would not go mad with fear and charge away. Looking back, Ioannes watched as more of the dead -- some he knew well, having seen their corpses filling the halls he had passed -- spilled into the courtyard. But for now all that existed was Ioannes and his foe. They both raised their blades.
The black knight's armor seemed to drink up the light in exactly the way that it should not have, making the entire courtyard seem a bit darker. His shield was dark oak covered in a thin layer of the same metal, graven with unreadable runes. His sword was twice the size of Ioannes', clearly intended for a large man to wield with two hands, though his foe held it with one as though it were a child's wooden training blade.
The commander seemed to have no words left to say. Instead he simply swung his blade, a brutal sideways slash that might have cut Ioannes cleanly in two had he not interposed his own weapon. There was a terrible screeching of metal, but the tempered orichalcum sword held strong. Ioannes stepped into the reach of the blade and swung at his foe's chest. Instead his sword clashed against the heavy shield. The black knight made a cold, grumbling sound that might have been a laugh as he countered, bashing Ioannes out of the inside of his sword-reach with his shield.
They traded blows several times further, the song of steel filling the courtyard as Ioannes' horsemen continued to hold off the remaining black knights and the undead horde that continued to pour in. But while Ioannes was a skilled swordsman, he was not entirely a match for this beast of a necromancer. With another savage blow of his shield he knocked Ioannes to the ground, and raised his sword to make an end of it -- but the booming, icy laugh turned into a noise halfway between scream and groan when one of the cavalrymen, riding desperately from across the yard, buried a lance to its hilt through the necromancer-warrior's chest.
"Only death can pay for life," the man had explained in the way signature of the self-acclaimed mages, his words seemingly insightful but almost entirely meaningless. But as Ioannes watched in interest the man had slaughtered a number of ugly green frogs and spent the good part of the afternoon performing strange rituals over them. Ioannes had kept a firm grip on his coin purse, but was pleasantly suprised -- if a little disgusted -- when one of the frogs regained its feet and began to amble about. And Ioannes vividly remembered how the old man had put an end to his creation when he had suitably impressed his visitor; with a torch he set the creature alight like so much kindling, and it made no sound as it burned as if made entirely of tallow.
On the streets and in the taverns sometime afterwards, Ioannes had learned something just as interesting. That old man, the locals claimed, had been a simple trickster only a few months prior, but more and more of the ancient magicks seemed truly to be awakening. Ioannes had gone on to observe another half-dozen magicians, including a supposed fortune-teller (who took his coin and told him he would be a great man) and a rather impressive pyromancer who could summon flame from the air.
Only death can pay for life. A sickly feeling overtook Ioannes as he struggled to maintain a hold on his nervous horse. He began to understand why so many half-trained armies of slave soldiers had been sent out to die from the gates, and was immensely glad to have burned the bodies when they grew too numerous to bury.
But that was not important. What was important was the battle at hand, two dozen of Ioannes' finest cavalry locked in a mortal struggle with more black-clad warriors as the dead began to pour from the hallway through which they had entered the courtyard. As Ioannes traded blows with a silent black knight, he noticed out of the corner of his eye as one of the foes cleaved the head from his enemy's horse. Beast and rider fell to the ground, the horse crushing the man, but within moments both had risen again on the other side of the battle.
There was no time to be wasted. With a lucky strike Ioannes buried his blade in the neck of his enemy, who fell to his knees as black blood hissed from his gorget. He might rise again in moments, Ioannes knew. But in his off-hand was the torch with which he had lit his way through the dark and twisting chambers of the citadel. When the knight rose again Ioannes jabbed his torch into the gash he had created. The living corpse began to smolder as though it were made of kindling, and by the time it had raised its sword once more the arm holding it was aflame. The sword-arm remained raised, billowing with acrid smoke, as the creature fell lifeless to the ground.
"Flame! Give them flame!" He wheeled his horse to look to the horseman to his right, a minor household knight. "Send word to the infantry." The knight's face was pale as ash as he drove an opening into the flow of undead. Whether the man would make it out of the fortress was another question entirely.
Across the courtyard, the nameless, almost inhuman-looking leader of this vile fortress stood, one first gestured out in silent challenge. Just to look on the strange and horrible runes that covered his armor and shield caused Ioannes' head to ache, but he forced himself to watch as he spurred his horse forward.
When they stood separated by only a few paces, Ioannes dismounted his destrier. It would only be further encumbrance in such close quarters; he could only hope that the horse would not go mad with fear and charge away. Looking back, Ioannes watched as more of the dead -- some he knew well, having seen their corpses filling the halls he had passed -- spilled into the courtyard. But for now all that existed was Ioannes and his foe. They both raised their blades.
The black knight's armor seemed to drink up the light in exactly the way that it should not have, making the entire courtyard seem a bit darker. His shield was dark oak covered in a thin layer of the same metal, graven with unreadable runes. His sword was twice the size of Ioannes', clearly intended for a large man to wield with two hands, though his foe held it with one as though it were a child's wooden training blade.
The commander seemed to have no words left to say. Instead he simply swung his blade, a brutal sideways slash that might have cut Ioannes cleanly in two had he not interposed his own weapon. There was a terrible screeching of metal, but the tempered orichalcum sword held strong. Ioannes stepped into the reach of the blade and swung at his foe's chest. Instead his sword clashed against the heavy shield. The black knight made a cold, grumbling sound that might have been a laugh as he countered, bashing Ioannes out of the inside of his sword-reach with his shield.
They traded blows several times further, the song of steel filling the courtyard as Ioannes' horsemen continued to hold off the remaining black knights and the undead horde that continued to pour in. But while Ioannes was a skilled swordsman, he was not entirely a match for this beast of a necromancer. With another savage blow of his shield he knocked Ioannes to the ground, and raised his sword to make an end of it -- but the booming, icy laugh turned into a noise halfway between scream and groan when one of the cavalrymen, riding desperately from across the yard, buried a lance to its hilt through the necromancer-warrior's chest.
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