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Forums > Fantasy Roleplay Forum > Paradise Lost (OPEN)

He sat slumped upon his makeshift throne of carved wood -- a gnarled, bulked shamble that served simply to haul the Lord and the heavy mithril armour that he adorned, which he was never seen without when under the survey of his curious serfs. They were natives of these lands he declared his own, wild folk from the race of men who were harmonious with nature. 'Druids', they called themselves, 'King,' they proclaimed the foreign Bohtimbhar, whose host were utterly alien in culture and race. He hailed from what he referred to as Paradise, the undying land that was once his home, the home of the Elves. But in the short time the Lord and his enigmatic host had spent upon Man's shores, Bohtimbhar didn't think much of his verdant home any more -- the idyllic landscape and marble fortresses bathed beneath the glare of the sun became fizzled and changed in his memory of it. Flickering...

...He knew why in truth; those lands brought bad thoughts of his leave and the origin behind it all.

The snowy fields of these wildlands would do him for the moment. It was the Winter season, rife with ghastly, silent nights under the full moon -- the Human-folk he presided over stayed huddled in their homes save the need to forage. Those Druids that served him as council entered with great pelts of fur to keep the chill at bay, his kinfolk would have to earn theirs as they remained stoic beside their posts, feinging ignorance to the season.

Bohtimbhar and his council presided within the remains of the late chieftain's longhouse; the vassalage of his tribe given in the belief Bohtimbhar had been sent by a higher power. He entertained this notion, although it was only half true. The Silver King and his mysterious folk were immortal, of course. His motives, however, were entirely his own. Usual discussions within the makeshift throne room consisted of expansion ideas, including further annexation of the Human tribesfolk. But this occasion was special. A religious icon of the tribe had been razed by a rival confederation, it's guardians slain and religious folk slaughtered or enslaved.

It had been late in the evening when this news had gotten to his Lordship. The entire town was in a state of panic -- much it's people stood cold and shaken inside the longhouse as they feared greater evil upon their folk, held back by the lanky figures of the Elvish guardfolk.

A crooked shell of a man entered amidst the wall of ragged folk that parted for his figure. A shaman, hurdling himself over with the help of worn, oak staff. He was presented before the Silver One, his wrinkles hidden under a shade of woad spashed across his face like abstract locks; his figure barely holding up the pelt that hung over his wavering torso. "My Lord." He uttered with an eerie curtsy.

"What does the tribe bid in this late hour..?" Bohtimbhar replied with a curious glare. Of course he knew of the tragedy. Why the raid had occurred was something else.

((¿OwO? Is this still open?))

(('Tis indeed.))

((Yisss))

Volkan had arrived after the whole thing had gone down. Now he stood outside waiting with one of the elderly. One who’s riches were still mostly intact and had promised Vol a fine reward if he helped them.

He was a traveler and didn’t stop for dilly dallying often, but this was a special case. He needed the money and it was a long way back home. He’d come to earn money but all he’d done was loose it. Now Volkan needed to earn everything back and more. So he was working harder and a lot more. Which meant stopping in one place for longer periods of time.

It was also annoying in the sense that Volkan didn’t care for rumors and gossip. He’d have preferred to keep himself in the dark about the on goings of the area. Yet it found him once he’d arrived at the next town which was in ruins. He honestly had no clue what was going on, but money was money.

Those who’d survived were all present at the moment. Seeking shelter and refuge or anything else. Volkan now stood amongst them with quite the face. ‘Sometimes I forget what’s happening,’ he thought. Feeling quite lost.

The withered shaman stuttered for a moment -- either from the capricious chill tingling amidst the cold longhouse, or perhaps he felt intimidated by the pair of stationary figures that loomed beside the gnarled throne. The solitary fireplace that crisped in the center of the hall gave no comfort, even as the heat lapped itself behind the shaman's back. But the tribesfolk that huddled around the flames still felt a freezing sense of indecision within the pit of their stomachs. There were no bardic songs to recite or beautiful maidens to prance heartily around the circle of warmth. Not since the Bohtimbhar and his alien host claimed the tribe as his own, sponsored by the late chieftain himself. The tribe would maintain it's autonomy, but the monochromatic banner of the Silver host carried by the lanky soldiers that now patrolled this village as a base reminded these docile folk who their new masters were.

And now, begrudgingly, they would have to petition for the host's aid.

"Y-you've heard, h-haven't you? The Honey Oak..." He stuttered again, a tear almost forming by the corner of his wrinkled eye. "The souls of our ancestors housed within it's wood, c-crops grown from their essense, t-the roots. Now they are felled by the warlike southerners, the branches quartered and burned alongside it's druids."

Bohtimbhar's blank eyes glowed from behind his closed visor, as if awoken with curiosity. He leaned forward, catching a slight glimpse of the scared tribesfolk outside -- and a figure that looked oddly unique among the canopy of wolf pelts. "This was an act of murder outright, but you say the souls of your deceased were bound within the Oak?"

The Shaman nodded with a weep. "Our great men and women. They helped instill wisdom in the tribe, made the crops grow and the harvests bountiful. Now they are gone, and the south will come again for our village."

The future of the tribe seemed to be at the forefront of the villagers that stood outside -- the razing of the tree simply served as a warning. Whoever had come from the south could indeed return to enslave the tribe. Buzzing words of 'The tribe,' 'ancestors' and 'aliens' passed across the collective mouth of a hundred folk and many more. Guarding the entrance within the longhouse were a trio of lanky, masked spearmen, bearing the same monochromatic banner upon their tabards as that which flapped on the outskirts of the village. The pattern was nondescript, it's origin unknown to the outside. As far the Silver King was concerned, this obscurity would not last.

The atmosphere was starting to get to Volkan. He began to feel awkward and little anxious. The figures beside the throne appalled him to a certain dagger as well.

He wanted to help, but he was no singer or dancer. Neither was he a pretty maiden that could woo others with story telling and fancy talk. Volkan eyes the Shaman and the Silver King. Wondering where the conversation would go. It seemed as if the king could care less, or even if he did he didn’t show it much via expression. At least the king was hearing the shaman out.

Volkan wondered about this ‘Honey Oak’ the shaman spoke of. Where Vol came from there weren’t such beliefs. So he couldn't decide for himself whether it was true or not.
((Typing fast))

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Forums > Fantasy Roleplay Forum > Paradise Lost (OPEN)