The pounding of steel clashing with steel reverberates through a dark room, each strike casting a spark that briefly lights the surface of an anvil. With a rhythmic pumping, a bellows breathes life into a flame that heats iron to a glow. Six men stand around the forge, each proudly taking turns pounding at a longsword they wield. Chained to the anvil, a barely-conscious figure lies collapsed on the floor.
Clad in matching cassocks, the men bear a reverent demeanor. As if in unison, the men hum a solemn dirge to themselves, keeping time as they castigate the man shackled to the anvil.
Each of the six figures quench their glowing knives not in a bucket, but on the man's body -- the sizzling of searing flesh accompanied by a guttural scream as they use tongs to press the flat of the blade against the skin of his face, and head, and neck. This process continues until each of the figures are satisfied with the quality of their work, and in turn the chained man has long fallen unconscious from the agony. One of the six stands over him, taking no pride in his work, and the rest cease their assault.
"The sword of Rutilor will mark his own."
DR-IRENOS
DR-IRENOS
Re: The Sword of Rutilor
03/21/2024 12:12 PM CDT
Days. Weeks. Months.
It was impossible to keep track of time here. Between visits to the forge, the prisoner remained in his cell, isolated from any outside contact other than the delivery of gruel in a bowl through a small slot at the base of the steel door that also served as the only source of light within the stone room.
He knew they were holding him until Moliko, for a symbolic reckoning. For their singular focus on purging all that might harbor Necromancers, the Hounds called their actions just, and now they had turned on one of their own – his sin was not his overreaches, but that his overreaches led to a public condemnation of the Hounds’ methods. The prisoner accepted this. He also accepted that he was to die in a very public way to serve both as a scapegoat to keep public faith in the Hounds, and a sacrifice to Rutilor himself to appease the very wrath that he had suffered.
From outside the cell, he heard the gruff voice of one of his captors. “Prisoner, your food.” He watched as the silhouette of a pair of boots approached the gap at the bottom of his door. With a loud clank, an iron bowl clattered against the floor, and one of the boots kicked it inside.
The prisoner shifted to his knees, crawling, and reached for the bowl, clearly one used to feed the hounds in the kennels. He stayed kneeling, allowing his feet to serve as a cushion for him to sit. Dipping his fingers inside the slop of the bowl, he sniffed at it. While the gruel was a flavorless and lumpy meal, it had the distinctive smell of woundwort poultice – just enough to keep him alive from the daily trips to the forge that left his skin blistered and burned. Though it brought him no enjoyment, he ate the slop from the bowl with his bare hands as the boots remained outside of the door. Upon completion, he slid the dog bowl back through the gap, and licked his fingers clean.
“Prisoner, what is your name?” He began to respond as he had every day prior to this, even knowing the consequences. “Chep –” He did not flinch as golden sigils on the manacles that bound his hands flared to life, interrupting him and sending the lightning of searing pain up his arms and into the base of his skull.
“To Justice, you have no name.”
The prisoner collapsed to the stone of the floor, and the sigils on the manacles dulled, deactivating whatever magic had caused them to come to life.
It was impossible to keep track of time here. Between visits to the forge, the prisoner remained in his cell, isolated from any outside contact other than the delivery of gruel in a bowl through a small slot at the base of the steel door that also served as the only source of light within the stone room.
He knew they were holding him until Moliko, for a symbolic reckoning. For their singular focus on purging all that might harbor Necromancers, the Hounds called their actions just, and now they had turned on one of their own – his sin was not his overreaches, but that his overreaches led to a public condemnation of the Hounds’ methods. The prisoner accepted this. He also accepted that he was to die in a very public way to serve both as a scapegoat to keep public faith in the Hounds, and a sacrifice to Rutilor himself to appease the very wrath that he had suffered.
From outside the cell, he heard the gruff voice of one of his captors. “Prisoner, your food.” He watched as the silhouette of a pair of boots approached the gap at the bottom of his door. With a loud clank, an iron bowl clattered against the floor, and one of the boots kicked it inside.
The prisoner shifted to his knees, crawling, and reached for the bowl, clearly one used to feed the hounds in the kennels. He stayed kneeling, allowing his feet to serve as a cushion for him to sit. Dipping his fingers inside the slop of the bowl, he sniffed at it. While the gruel was a flavorless and lumpy meal, it had the distinctive smell of woundwort poultice – just enough to keep him alive from the daily trips to the forge that left his skin blistered and burned. Though it brought him no enjoyment, he ate the slop from the bowl with his bare hands as the boots remained outside of the door. Upon completion, he slid the dog bowl back through the gap, and licked his fingers clean.
“Prisoner, what is your name?” He began to respond as he had every day prior to this, even knowing the consequences. “Chep –” He did not flinch as golden sigils on the manacles that bound his hands flared to life, interrupting him and sending the lightning of searing pain up his arms and into the base of his skull.
“To Justice, you have no name.”
The prisoner collapsed to the stone of the floor, and the sigils on the manacles dulled, deactivating whatever magic had caused them to come to life.
DR-IRENOS
Re: The Sword of Rutilor
03/26/2024 07:21 PM CDT
"Prisoner, stand and step away from the door."
The gruff voice barked simple commands with no variation in intonation. Following the directive, the prisoner slowly lifted his emaciated body from the darkened cell floor and took a large step backwards toward the rear of the cold stone cell. He could feel each movement significantly belabored by the thick lattice of woven linear scars from his treatments at the forge. Once more, he could see the darkened silhouette of a pair of boots outside the cell, and nothing more. It had been two meals since his last treatment at the forge, which meant his justice was near.
"Prisoner, what is your name?"
“To justice, I have no name,” the prisoner recited. He choked back his clear resentment for the lack of consideration given to his dedication to the Hounds and held his manacled hands in front of him. The bindings were starting to feel loose around his wrists, but his weakness and the open sores that they had caused prevented him from forcing them open. He prepared to receive his meal.
And yet, no meal came. “Prisoner, you claimed your name is Chepiso. Is that not your name?” From behind the doorway, he could hear the mocking echoes of either other prisoners chanting his name, or others from within the Hounds – “Che – pi – so. Che – pi – so.” The chant was clearly meant to goad him into affirming his name. He knew better than that, and simply repeated, “To justice, I have no name.”
The din of the chant became louder, and faster. The syllables blended in with one another until the name became indecipherable, jumbled, out of order, and echoed. Undeterred, the voice asked him a third time.
“Prisoner, what is your name?"
Defiantly, the prisoner announced a simple response: “I am what you have named me.” He welcomed the punishment, knowing the bindings would flare. He prepared himself and did not flinch – instead, staying on his feet. The chant continued, entirely indeterminable. The visitor left, and today, for the first time in as long as he had been there, the prisoner went without food.
The month of Moliko had finally come, and the sacrifice would happen soon.
The gruff voice barked simple commands with no variation in intonation. Following the directive, the prisoner slowly lifted his emaciated body from the darkened cell floor and took a large step backwards toward the rear of the cold stone cell. He could feel each movement significantly belabored by the thick lattice of woven linear scars from his treatments at the forge. Once more, he could see the darkened silhouette of a pair of boots outside the cell, and nothing more. It had been two meals since his last treatment at the forge, which meant his justice was near.
"Prisoner, what is your name?"
“To justice, I have no name,” the prisoner recited. He choked back his clear resentment for the lack of consideration given to his dedication to the Hounds and held his manacled hands in front of him. The bindings were starting to feel loose around his wrists, but his weakness and the open sores that they had caused prevented him from forcing them open. He prepared to receive his meal.
And yet, no meal came. “Prisoner, you claimed your name is Chepiso. Is that not your name?” From behind the doorway, he could hear the mocking echoes of either other prisoners chanting his name, or others from within the Hounds – “Che – pi – so. Che – pi – so.” The chant was clearly meant to goad him into affirming his name. He knew better than that, and simply repeated, “To justice, I have no name.”
The din of the chant became louder, and faster. The syllables blended in with one another until the name became indecipherable, jumbled, out of order, and echoed. Undeterred, the voice asked him a third time.
“Prisoner, what is your name?"
Defiantly, the prisoner announced a simple response: “I am what you have named me.” He welcomed the punishment, knowing the bindings would flare. He prepared himself and did not flinch – instead, staying on his feet. The chant continued, entirely indeterminable. The visitor left, and today, for the first time in as long as he had been there, the prisoner went without food.
The month of Moliko had finally come, and the sacrifice would happen soon.
DR-IRENOS
Re: The Sword of Rutilor
04/01/2024 01:27 PM CDT
The prisoner estimated he had not eaten in a week, but he had no way to be certain in the dark cell. A painful nausea gnawed at his gut, reminding him of his own hunger. He had lost track of night and day – the Hounds no longer checked in with him daily, and the shred of light in the gap beneath the door remained steady. He knew the sacrifice would come, but the wait was becoming excruciating. He had only slept what he estimated a handful of hours in his wait, still being alert, but he had begun seeing spots and lines in the corners of his vision from lack of rest. His arms trembled within the shackles. What he had first accepted as a noble sacrifice to cleanse the Hounds was becoming much less appealing with each day that passed.
For the first time in days, the prisoner saw a shadow through the gap. He found himself hoping it was food, but it became quickly clear that it was not – a large rat squeezed through the gap, sniffing at what must have been castoff morsels of gruel within the cracks of the dark stone. Watching it intently, the prisoner saw that it turned, sniffing the air in his direction, before quickly forcing its way back through the gap through which it had entered. Lowering himself to his knees, he assessed the weight of the manacles on his fists. Despite the pain, he could feel them loose on his body. He pulled his wrist away from the manacle, finding enough purchase to tug. This caused the manacle to cinch tighter and activate, sending waves of pain radiating upward from his wrist. Grimacing, he stopped his effort.
Later, the guard returned. The prisoner prepared to retreat to the rear of his cell and answer the ritual question of his name, but the question did not happen. With a bang, the tin dish that brought his gruel fell to the ground and kicked through, and the figure stepped away from the door. Falling to his knees, he was grateful at the opportunity to eat, but what he found was not the gruel -- only ground woundwort, mixed with nothing that would supply his body sustenance. He dutifully ate it, knowing that he was to be subject to the next preparation for the sacrifice.
“Prisoner, to the back of your cell.” He did as commanded, and as soon as he complied, the door opened. Six Hounds entered the cell, grabbing him by the arms and throwing a bag over his head. Satisfied, they dragged him through the stone corridor.
From the repeated path, he knew they were taking him to the forge even before he met the blistering heat. He steeled himself against the searing pain of the blades, his eyes closed beneath the bag, but found that it did not come. Instead, they placed both of his manacled hands atop the anvil, his fingers splayed against the cold iron.
In moments, his hand erupted in sudden agony, as a forging hammer smashed each of his fingers in turn, and then his hands with repeated blows. He could feel the faint itching from the woundwort take hold – just in time to find himself grabbed by the arms and dragged. Now his bleeding, torn hands dangled helplessly inside a metal basin. He realized why, and screamed in agony.
Molten metal cascaded down his manacles and into his wrists, encasing his mangled hands and fingers in a single mass of steel. Even as the herbs took to heal his digits, the steel held them firmly in their mangled positions, leaving his broken hands in agony and useless with misaligned bones and digits that healed in place.
He passed out from the searing pain.
For the first time in days, the prisoner saw a shadow through the gap. He found himself hoping it was food, but it became quickly clear that it was not – a large rat squeezed through the gap, sniffing at what must have been castoff morsels of gruel within the cracks of the dark stone. Watching it intently, the prisoner saw that it turned, sniffing the air in his direction, before quickly forcing its way back through the gap through which it had entered. Lowering himself to his knees, he assessed the weight of the manacles on his fists. Despite the pain, he could feel them loose on his body. He pulled his wrist away from the manacle, finding enough purchase to tug. This caused the manacle to cinch tighter and activate, sending waves of pain radiating upward from his wrist. Grimacing, he stopped his effort.
Later, the guard returned. The prisoner prepared to retreat to the rear of his cell and answer the ritual question of his name, but the question did not happen. With a bang, the tin dish that brought his gruel fell to the ground and kicked through, and the figure stepped away from the door. Falling to his knees, he was grateful at the opportunity to eat, but what he found was not the gruel -- only ground woundwort, mixed with nothing that would supply his body sustenance. He dutifully ate it, knowing that he was to be subject to the next preparation for the sacrifice.
“Prisoner, to the back of your cell.” He did as commanded, and as soon as he complied, the door opened. Six Hounds entered the cell, grabbing him by the arms and throwing a bag over his head. Satisfied, they dragged him through the stone corridor.
From the repeated path, he knew they were taking him to the forge even before he met the blistering heat. He steeled himself against the searing pain of the blades, his eyes closed beneath the bag, but found that it did not come. Instead, they placed both of his manacled hands atop the anvil, his fingers splayed against the cold iron.
In moments, his hand erupted in sudden agony, as a forging hammer smashed each of his fingers in turn, and then his hands with repeated blows. He could feel the faint itching from the woundwort take hold – just in time to find himself grabbed by the arms and dragged. Now his bleeding, torn hands dangled helplessly inside a metal basin. He realized why, and screamed in agony.
Molten metal cascaded down his manacles and into his wrists, encasing his mangled hands and fingers in a single mass of steel. Even as the herbs took to heal his digits, the steel held them firmly in their mangled positions, leaving his broken hands in agony and useless with misaligned bones and digits that healed in place.
He passed out from the searing pain.
DR-IRENOS
Re: The Sword of Rutilor
04/01/2024 01:27 PM CDT
The prisoner awoke laying on the cold stone of his cell, the porous texture rough against his scarred face. He was unsure of how long he had been unconscious for. Taking the time to assess the damage done in the forge, he glanced down, finding both hands and feet encased in solid blocks of metal. Willing himself to wiggle his fingers and toes, he found they were unable to respond, held firm by the metal –- and each attempt, in turn, shot agony through his body as the unhealed digits struggled against his binding.
Standing above him as if victorious, the large rat returned. It sniffed at his face, almost mocking his inability to stop it. As if satisfied at his inability to retaliate, it scurried over to a food bowl that had been left for him, greedily eating the gruel within while watching him – mocking him.
He could not help but consider his own predicament. He had dutifully spent his life serving the Hounds, and became a blade to be wielded by Rutilor –- and in turn, the Hounds turned on him to cleanse themselves of their own sin, no doubt to avoid the same treatment at the hands of Rutilor and the Temple. They cast him aside with no compunction, despite –- or perhaps because of -- his unending commitment to their cause. Now, they left him to be lower than a rat, no doubt prior to a symbolic demonstration of his sacrifice to cleanse themselves.
What had been an overwhelming sense of commitment weeks before now boiled in his blood. He had dedicated his life to their cause, and in turn, they turned on him for that very dedication. They had become no better than the filth that they intended to carve out of the heart of Elanthia -– no better the rat that skulks a jail cell of a condemned prisoner. They took his station, his purpose, and even his name –- and now they were to take his life, for no crime other than service to their cause.
His face and body flushed with warmth as rage welled inside him. How quickly they had discarded him, and his service, as meaningless. He squirmed against the floor, bringing himself to his knees. The rat stopped eating for a moment at the sudden movement, but quickly resumed, and finished the bowl of food. In a single violent stroke, the prisoner smashed the rodent with the bindings that held his hands with such force that the stone beneath it fragmented from the impact. Without pause, he found himself expressing his displeasure at his current predicament with repeated blows on the now-deceased rat, pulverizing its corpse to a fine mush as droplets of blood spattered across his entire body.
After some time brutalizing the animal that had eaten his food, the prisoner glanced into the bowl, seeing the food was gone. He allowed sorrow to well within him, grief at his loss that manifested as distress over something as simple as the food being eaten. Lowering himself to the ground, he took a desperate bite at the unprepared corpse of the rat. His teeth struggled with its thick hide and coarse fur, but he was able to tear a chunk of meat from it. He chewed, ignoring the terrible texture and worse taste of the raw meat, and forced himself to swallow. A dark glee momentarily suffused his mind. Repeating the process, he found each bite to be less unpleasant, until he had devoured all but the crushed bones of the animal.
Standing above him as if victorious, the large rat returned. It sniffed at his face, almost mocking his inability to stop it. As if satisfied at his inability to retaliate, it scurried over to a food bowl that had been left for him, greedily eating the gruel within while watching him – mocking him.
He could not help but consider his own predicament. He had dutifully spent his life serving the Hounds, and became a blade to be wielded by Rutilor –- and in turn, the Hounds turned on him to cleanse themselves of their own sin, no doubt to avoid the same treatment at the hands of Rutilor and the Temple. They cast him aside with no compunction, despite –- or perhaps because of -- his unending commitment to their cause. Now, they left him to be lower than a rat, no doubt prior to a symbolic demonstration of his sacrifice to cleanse themselves.
What had been an overwhelming sense of commitment weeks before now boiled in his blood. He had dedicated his life to their cause, and in turn, they turned on him for that very dedication. They had become no better than the filth that they intended to carve out of the heart of Elanthia -– no better the rat that skulks a jail cell of a condemned prisoner. They took his station, his purpose, and even his name –- and now they were to take his life, for no crime other than service to their cause.
His face and body flushed with warmth as rage welled inside him. How quickly they had discarded him, and his service, as meaningless. He squirmed against the floor, bringing himself to his knees. The rat stopped eating for a moment at the sudden movement, but quickly resumed, and finished the bowl of food. In a single violent stroke, the prisoner smashed the rodent with the bindings that held his hands with such force that the stone beneath it fragmented from the impact. Without pause, he found himself expressing his displeasure at his current predicament with repeated blows on the now-deceased rat, pulverizing its corpse to a fine mush as droplets of blood spattered across his entire body.
After some time brutalizing the animal that had eaten his food, the prisoner glanced into the bowl, seeing the food was gone. He allowed sorrow to well within him, grief at his loss that manifested as distress over something as simple as the food being eaten. Lowering himself to the ground, he took a desperate bite at the unprepared corpse of the rat. His teeth struggled with its thick hide and coarse fur, but he was able to tear a chunk of meat from it. He chewed, ignoring the terrible texture and worse taste of the raw meat, and forced himself to swallow. A dark glee momentarily suffused his mind. Repeating the process, he found each bite to be less unpleasant, until he had devoured all but the crushed bones of the animal.
DR-IRENOS
Re: The Sword of Rutilor
04/27/2024 09:08 AM CDT
The prisoner awakened sometime later to the faint sensation of rocking. Hours -- no, days -- had passed. His hands and feet were bound in solid slags of metal. The surroundings were different, though: the inside of an ironwood wagon, shifting as it moved. Struggling to lift himself from the floor with the metal brace, he brought himself to his knees.
Gently swaying, the wagon halted. From outside of its confines, he could hear voices and the din of a city. He could smell the manure from caravans, and the flowers that were sold at a roadside stand. Vendors barked to grab the attention of passersby. He brought himself to the rear of the cart, up against the wall, and could hear two voices discussing their lunch.
Time passed. His gut was well beyond hunger -- he could not remember the last time he had eaten a meal. He knew the sacrifice was here, and he was no longer a willing participant, but he was no longer strong enough to fight it. The voices stopped. Though he was helpless, bound, and mangled, he dragged himself into a corner.
"Prisoner. It is time."
He could hear the scraping of metal as the guards unlatched the wooden door. Blinding light flooded the wagon, and he could not see, but he could feel the hands of two Hounds as they grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Che. Pi. So."
Repeating the chant from the entrance of the wagon, he could hear the Hounds gather outside as the two dragged him across the splintered rough-hewn ironwood.
Despite his restrained body, the prisoner remained defiant. With a sudden twist of his hips, he sunk his teeth into his first captor's hand until he tasted warm copper in his mouth. The Hound reeled backward, falling from the wagon, shouting about his own injured hand. The prisoner spat severed flesh and fresh blood in the face of the other before lunging forward, using his knees as a spring to smash his head into the second Hound's face. Daylight again flooded the space as two more Hounds moved to enter the wagon.
Using the shock to his advantage, the prisoner again twisted his hips, pivoting onto his back and leveraging the large manacle to smash against the head of the reeling Hound -- the metal crushing the skull with a wet thud. Now the second pair closed the distance and clawed at him, and he again sank his teeth into what flesh he could. This time, with a crunch, he bit through the thumb of the third Hound to engage. He again rolled to swing the manacle but missed his target and clattered out of the back of the wagon onto the filthy street.
The chant became louder, and more enthusiastic. Each syllable bled together until it was meaningless. The crowd now chanted a different name -- "O -- pi -- sekh." The prisoner looked around for a moment, seeing daylight for the first time in what seemed to be a year. It was no longer the Hounds cheering for him, but now the citizens on the street. He glanced around, feeling the warmth of the sun on his gore-streaked skin. Beyond the Hounds, he could see a large tower. Prone and at the feet of a half-dozen Hounds, he lashed out, but could not find enough leverage to resist as one smashed a steel mace in his face -- his nose crunching as it broke. Dizziness overtook him, and disoriented, he fell to the ground next to the man whose skull he crushed.
Unfazed, two Hounds grabbed him again by the shoulders. They dragged him through embossed silver doors into a chamber illuminated by countless flickering flames, his body leaving a bloody smear across the pristine temple. Chanting reverberated around him. A cleric shouted at them for desecrating the temple, but one of the five remaining Hounds quickly shoved him into a nearby alcove.
Dragging him into a great hall, they paused before the fountain. The chanting stopped as dozens of faces stared, no doubt in shock at the brutality unfolding within the sanctity of sacred walls. As two uninjured Hounds dragged him toward an arch with a large mosaic, the Hound with the missing thumb washed his bleeding hand in the pure water, staining the clear liquid a deep red. He wrapped his hand in cloth from his tabard, putting pressure on the bleeding wound.
The prisoner found himself hoisted before statuesque full plate upon a dais depicting baying Hounds. To one side, the wall inscribed with a Code that the prisoner both recognized and found entirely lacking, especially in this moment.
"Prisoner, you have sinned against Rutilor and against our sacred order. Rutilor has forsaken you. No God dares challenge His word."
As he spoke, one of the Hounds stepped forward, the cleric's piercing gaze passing through the prisoner. The prisoner could see him nodding to the speaker, as if to confirm that he would depart to the Red Spiral if killed.
"Your careless strikes have left the sword of Rutilor dulled and damaged."
His captors held him aloft, his face aligned with the gorget of the suit of armor.
"A sword is only as effective as the condition of its blade, and your poor handling has left this blade needing to be reforged." To illustrate, the speaking Hound drew a short sword, inspecting its blade.
"The mongoose can no longer effectively strike its prey. For this crime, you are condemned to the Spiral."
Without hesitation, the Hound stood behind the prisoner and thrust the blade between two of his ribs. The prisoner flinched momentarily but did not allow himself to cry out in pain.
"May Aldauth feast on your sins."
One after another, the remaining Hounds plunged similar swords into his back, allowing him to collapse to the floor with five blades buried to the hilt between his ribs. Blood seeped from his wounds, pooling beneath him before spreading across the alcove.
"The Sacrifice is complete. May Rutilor forgive his Hounds."
Chepiso lay lifeless on the floor, left for dead, his body collapsing inward until it no longer was there.
Each of the five Hounds stepped back into the Great Hall, watching through the silver doors, waiting for a meteor to streak through the sky.
No meteor came. As he bled on the floor, the prisoner's body flashed with a brilliant white light. A dark glee filled his thoughts, and he knew he would be reborn with purpose. A chill filled his bones, and darkness spread through him. Pain faded to numbness, and light flooded the great hall.
The Hounds turned, but too late. The unclothed, mangled, and scarred body of the prisoner now lunged toward them, freed of the bindings that had restrained them. Wrapping around the jaw of the first, he easily snapped the man's neck.
In moments, the dynamic changed. Where once he held righteousness in his heart, he now felt only rage -- his conviction was, indeed, misplaced. The rot was not at the heart of those who were sympathetic to Necromancy; the rot was the structure that held those people up. Lifting the man's helmet as the body collapsed, the prisoner hurled it at the head of another, and a second fell to the floor. A third drew a longsword from a scabbard at the hip, but before he could use it, the prisoner had clutched him by the throat, crushing his airway. Gasping for air, the Hound fumbled his longsword, and the prisoner gladly took it, thrusting it through the fourth Hound.
Still clutching his bandaged hand, the final Hound staggered backwards. Carrying the choking man like a shield, the prisoner lunged at the final Hound, who fell to the floor, scrambling away like a scared child. Stepping over him, the prisoner confidently left through the silver doors, discarding the man in his grip into the filthy street. With determination, the Prisoner strode into the street, and disappeared into the crowd that was still chanting a new name for him to take:
Opisekh.
