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Cyclone
Archetype ZeroFar away beyond the mountains – there live a people that hate God.
-Chronicler Domentziolus on his working chronicle ‘Barbarian Races of Visandza’’
Skadan Castle, throne of Dalgiserius
Skadan Castle is built high into the Rudines at the northern outskirts of Skadania, from where the dark Castle menacingly looks out over Lampertei’s Royal Capital -- ever a stern reminder as to who is in charge. It is home and headquarters of the Lampert King Dalgiserius and his Gastald thralls. Where the Chlotar constructions tend to be built of clay, due to them being largely a riverland people, the Lampert constructions are often built of rocky rubble masonry – stone from the very mountains in which the Lampert capital is built.
Though initially a more-or-less ordinary castle, with the coming of King Dalgiserius, Skadan began to resemble a sinister labyrinthine ‘pyramid’ after more and more subterranean levels were added with the construction of tunnels and hallways. Underneath the throne of the King is a large network of dungeons where the Lampert’s many hostages are kept. The poor fools dragged into there will never see the light of day again. After the initial screams, their voices are, by means unholy, snuffed out from this world. Their fate known to few save for the Farigai that operate Skadan’s dungeons.
The Farigai is a sinister policing force and cult of personality centered around King Dalgiserius. After the old clergy of Lampertei were driven out, the Farigai is more-or-less what filled their vacuum.
Before Skadan castle is a somber court area flanked by Rudine cliffs and walled by the towers of a great battlement. Through the great entry gate is a long hallway leading to stairs, corridors and smithy chambers. And finally, the nethermost hall – the Throne of the King of the Lamperts.
The throne room is a very dark place due to being the deepest section of the castle. No sunlight reaches there, and the only light sources are dim braziers flickering with green flame – giving the dark netherhall a general greenish and unnatural glow.
There, on a large monolithic stone throne sits the King himself – Dalgiserius. An imposing man with the likeness of a great black bear. On his head rests a tremendous tower-like horned metal crown. With a vicious scowl he gazes at the assembled thralls situated around a large and long dining table, a great piece of furniture that is at the centre of the hall, around which his Gastalds sit for their supper. It’s supposed to be a feast, but the mood is never merry. Ever.
In total the assembly sitting around the whole of the great table consists of some fifty men. And the number of women can be counted on a single hand. The more noteworthy of the Gastalds present are:
Liutpertus, a model warrior-noble that even during feasts brings his lamellenhelm and lamellar armor. He is the King’s stalwart sword-bearer and bootlicker, swiftly recognizable by his missing eyeball and crooked nose, platinum blond hair and long drooping mustache.
Then there is the soothsayer, Giselart. Leader of the Farigai, he is a mighty sage, loremaster and foremost advisor to the King, and by far the oldest among them. Whispers of sorcery and superstition surround his grim figure, bent under the weight of years, and voices of more palpable fear. Even now, none can be certain that an army of faceless, black-cloaked shadows is not watching his every gesture from a darkened corner, ready to seize upon anyone the elder may point at in condemnation.
There is Ardoiwn, the only foreign-blooded amongst the Gastalds, with long earthen hair and a short scraggly beard. Despite his blood the man has been found strangely and admirably devoted to the King. He scanned the table with his deep blue eyes, still new to the court and learning what he could from those around him, however his shoulders were slumped and his hands nervously held under the table as he was indeed still new to the table, and the king.
And then there is the girl Antonia, the King’s adopted daughter, who sits as silent as the grave with her bright eyes carefully averted. She has forgone a gown and instead wears a simple leather jerkin and cotton breeches, but even in her plain clothes she looks very out of place in the company of these old and battle-tested men. Yet none question the King over his decision to include her here.
For a long time there reigns an eerie silence, and the only sounds heard come from the flickering of the braziers and the strong mountain wind howling through the pathways. As the King always has the first word before a feast may commence, each of the Gastalds remain deadly silent as they await the royal word.
The King finally grunts with a deep and booming voice, intensified by the echo inducing walls.
‘’Eat, you mangy rodents. And Curse God!
Drink to the final battle! Drink to the world’s end!’’ Dalgiserius raises his mace-like-scepter.
‘’Death to God! Hail King Dalgiserius!’’
The Gastalds speak in choir, raising tankards and horns of foaming mead as their unison of voices boom through the castle halls.
The Gastald sitting closest to the King, Liutpertus snarls at a nearby cup-bearer:
‘’BOY. Where is the King’s tankard? Get it! And be quick with it!’’ As he uses his rope-belt to lash at the boy’s feet with a ‘CRACK’.
The cup-bearer of some age of 12 yelps and scurries through the large stone columns, returning seconds later carrying a red cushion, on which a skull-cup… with a thick orange alcoholic liquid in it. Too thick to be regular mead. And the unfortunate man the skull belonged to had been a particularly hated enemy of the King.
‘’About time, damned be God. Give that here, mutt.’’
Liutpertus growls at the boy, his face red with a passive seething as he whisks him away with his hand.
‘’y-Yes my lord!’’ The cup-bearer stammers.
Having taken the cushion and skull-cup off his hands, Liutpertus turns around to present it to the King nigh him. And just like that his red face turns mellow, and a smile falls on his lips.
‘’Here, your excellency…’’ The Gastald drops to one knee and lifts the cushion up within arm lengths of Dalgiserius.
Not even commenting on Liutpertus’ familiar fawning, Dalgiserius takes hold of the skull and, after taking a mighty gulp of its contents, turns his attention to Giselart.
‘’Soothsayer.
Tell me the omens. When has the ritual been finalized for me to make my charge?’’ The King speaks cryptically to Giselart over the table, expecting him to know exactly of which he speaks.
“Soon, my king.” The defiled icons and symbols scattered among the old man’s robes and beard ring with low, melancholy notes as he rises to bow before the sovereign. Twisted pieces of precious metal catch gleams from the sickly light of the braziers in their flowing motion, so that it appears that Giselart himself has wrapped a shroud of green flame around his squat, but firm body. The gnarled shell on his breast glows as though restored to its monstrous life. Yet not a single glimmer reaches his own eyes, which are two deep black wells amid his weathered face.
“The blood of your foes spells signs of ruin over their broken shrines. Every drop of it that falls is a spear to God’s rotten heart.” The sage’s voice is as deep and rumbling as that of a man twenty years his younger.
“I have watched the shapes of the stars, heard the voice of the waves and read the liver of those that died by my knife, and all speak of fire and death. If you move before the year turns, Udos will fall.”
For the first time this evening, the King gives off a mild suggestion of satisfaction. ‘’And so…’’
Dalgiserius stands up from his throne and speaks forcefully.
‘’Before the first snows of winter -- God will be yet another foe that I have defeated!’’ The last three words were accompanied with Dalgiserius harshly slamming the table before him. ‘’And show the world..! --- NOT A FOE can stand against the GOD-SLAYING LAMPERTS!’’
‘’Hail King Dalgiserius! Hail!’’ Raising their tankards and horns many sensible Gastalds cheer in choir in anticipation of their kingdom’s approaching and final victory.
Antonia is so used to seeing the man scowling that the sight of him even slightly content has her on edge. Her thoughts are disturbed by the sudden call of her King:
‘’Girl!’’
Antonia can tell, sense, by the dark and familiar foreboding that always emanates from the Lampert King that he is looking directly at her. She bites down on the inside of her cheek hard, but despite her best efforts she can't stop the shiver that runs down her spine.
‘’You have been found worthy of being anointed to the select few, and thereby be hosted at my table.
Now begins the gruelling process to make you one of them.’’ The King motions his scepter at the Gastalds around the table, all their eyes on her, before continuing.
‘’…And I know just where to start…’’ The King gestures at Liutpertus, as he takes the skull-cup off the King’s hands. Then the one-eyed Gastald walks over towards Antonia’s seat.
‘’Drink.’’ The King snarls.
‘’Drink merrily with father.’’
Liutpertus pushes the skull into her hands a little harder than necessary, causing some of the honey colored drink to slosh over the sides. Antonia can feel everyone’s attention on her but for a moment she stands frozen, blue eyes boring into the skull in her grasp and the frothing liquid that is contained within it. She knew without doubt it belonged to her true father because the King had just had him hunted as a message to the queen, and it’s exactly the kind of hateful behavior she’s come to expect from Dalgiserius at this point.
Still, it doesn’t make it sting any less.
Antonia feels her eyes grow hot but blinks the sensation away just as quickly. “Yes, father,” she says in a quiet but steady voice. “Damn God and long live my king,” the girl professes solemnly before taking a drink.
‘’There’s a good girl. No, not a girl. You are my new Gastald.’’ He lets out a faint chuckle, though the sneer on his face doesn't betray any good will.
Liutpertus takes the skull from her hands and brings it this time to Giselart, as the one-eye wantonly slaps the soothsayer on the shoulder before making for his own seat again. It was his Farigai, after all, that had captured and slain the man it once belonged to.
As the evening progressed, two men are allowed in the netherhall to plead with the King. The first is Laiamicho, a loyal scout and servant of the Royal Family. The latter, based on his single-garment dress, sandals and lack of pants, must be a Tautan emissary.
Most of the warriors had long finished eating, and some were already hoping to leave the dark hall. But now this brat, this Laiamicho with his youthful and smug face and handsome black curls, is making them wait. King Dalgiserius perks at the sight of his two new guests.
‘’Speak.’’ Dalgiserius blurts impatiently.
‘’Yes my King.’’ Laiamicho says as he makes a deft and deep bow.
‘’I have traversed into Chlotaringen per request of Princess Dalgiserata. And I bring you ill-tidings, o almighty ruler. For the Chlotars have a new King, who has gained the mastery over the whole of the Chlotarian territories. He is assembling his armies and marches them south as we speak -- seeking to challenge us, your excellency.’’
‘’So what? They’ve never crossed the Rudines before. We’ll beat them back yet again.’’ Liutpertus quips, who happens to have won his Gastald status by being an accomplished Rudine patrolman.
‘’This time will be different, for the Chlotars seem more committed than ever. I heard whispers that they seek, or already have in possession, a weapon by which they can cross the mountains…’’
‘’No such weapon exists!’’ Exclaims another Gastald in the back of the hall, standing up as he was just about to leave the room, and thereby frustrated towards Laiamicho for holding him up.
Liutpertus, however, grows pale as the tale seems to ring familiar to him. He speaks hesitantly:
‘’Is this weapon per chance a horn?’’
‘’So it is said.’’ Laiamicho replies.
The one-eye slumps back into his chair in contemplation. Giving away a twinge of nervousness as he brings his hand towards the hole where his right eye used to be.
‘’Hrm….’’ The King mutters. ‘’None may interfere with our march on Udos. I will send more of our boys to fortify the northern perimeters. What else?’’
Laiamicho nods, not quite content with the answer, but not willing to push his luck either. He makes another deep bow and retreats towards the back of the room. Dalgiserius this time looks at the flustered Tautan who, realising it is his turn to make an appeal, drops to the floor as he folds his hands together. Whatever rational diplomatic proposal he might’ve prepared as he traveled to Skadan was lost to him now, because Dalgiserius’ oppressive air is one that no outsider could prepare for.
‘’O magnificent King of Mighty Lampertei! Please… Please…! Now more than ever, on behalf of our Noble King Orso, Baltia seeks alliance. We.. We are on the verge of collapse! Our allies have deserted us! Only your intervention can prevent Cauroman’s total hegemony north of the Rudines!’’
The Lampert King looks away in disgust from the groveling Tautan.
‘’Pathetic. Celesean scum. Or Viigoc? You are all the same to me. My people are not here to remedy your self-inflicted disease. Your laughable weakness is not our business.’’ Slamming his fist on the table, the King yells out in anger. ‘’Guards! Remove this disgusting creature from my sight!’’
Two Lampert guardsmen carrying maces enter the netherhall, seize the Tautan still there groveling on the floor, and drag him out by the feet.
‘’Your majesty! Please! Please! Please! You must hear m--’’ As the man wouldn’t shut up, the guards begin kicking and beating him, and begging turns to screaming. Then the gates close shut.
A new silence reigned, and it was unbroken. Dalgiserius stares into the hall, with the Gastalds quietly looking back. Then after a brief moment of hesitation, a voice rings through the netherhall loud and clear.
“My King if I may, I believe this is in fact our business”.
Everyone looks to who spoke; it came from Ardoiwn.
The young man had stayed quiet up until this point, not yet ready to speak under the oppressive air that seemed to follow the king, however this was a matter of importance.
“If you’ll pardon my interruption sire. Tautom falling would not go over well for us. With access to the Sea of Tears the Chlotarian’s may just be able to flank around and bypass the Rudines entirely. Such an action would put lands dear to me in grave danger and as such I must volunteer myself and my men to this.”
Ardoiwn at this point was standing out of his chair, his passion getting the better of him as he considered what may happen to his home should Tautom fall. The moment passes and suddenly Ardoiwn feels the number of eyes upon him and sinks down into his chair, the aura of his king beating down his fervor as Ardoiwn offers another more collected thought,
“Of course, defending the walls of Tautom will also mean more Chlotars dead without any risk to our own fortifications, stalling their armies and giving us ever more time to build up our defences.”
...Dalgiserius remains quiet for a while. ‘’...Your men?’’ The King eventually grunts. ‘’You seek to take my warriors to whore for foreign interests.’’ The king sends a vile glare towards the Gastald that so brazenly spoke out.
Sensing an opportunity to suck up some more, Liutpertus speaks to the king with a hushed tone:
‘’What hubris this man displays with his defiance… radical disciplinary measures are surely warranted, your excellency.’’
‘’Quiet.’’ The King grunts at the one-eye.
‘’Gastald Ardoiwn --- was that your name? You raise one point -- Carlovech’s worthless Spawn has the audacity to challenge Lampertei. If what Laiamicho says is true, he means to cross into our rightful territory. I would be hard pressed if he could claim the Stronghold of the Celeseans, which has resisted Chlotar dominion for half a century now. Let alone pass into invincible Lampertei!’’
With a groan he follows.
''I do not wish to show good faith to those degenerate Tautom wurms. Nevertheless I will permit you and your personal retainers to go there and offer your services to the Celeseans… And no more than that.’’
Dalgiserius finishes with a low, threatening growl:
‘’No more than your own handpicked retinue… Am I perfectly clear?’’
Ardoiwn flinched under the words of his king, but managed to muster enough spine to make his words clear, “Ye- yes, my king. We shall do no more than needed, with as few men as possible.”
Ardoiwn would allow himself to sink as deeply into his seat as the chair would allow him, fear dogging his mind as he tried to find out where exactly he made his mistake and how to account for it in the future.
The day passed and the Lamperts made ready for war.
