Legacy of Brutality
All Hell Breaks Loose
Walls start closing in around you/ My Twins of Evil/ will shake you by your collar-bone/ and snap your ribcage/ Broken bodies in a death-rock dance-hall/ please be my partner/ Eyeballs pop, accelerated blood-beat/veins a-shaking/ and All Hell breaks loose.
The Dark One howls into my ears on the nights when The Moon is strongest. It used to be many Gods who sang to me in my dreams. Of late it is only Him. This frightens me, but I dare not defy the will of The Gods. It pleases The Dark One that I record my travels in writing.
As is the will of The Gods and of many powerful men, I have been accompanying my Master as he dithers endlessly from one city of men to another, conducting meaningless business of great importance. All cities reek the same. Oh that I could return to the woods and the life that knows no walls. But sadly, it is not The Gods will that I should do so. I am their puppet of flesh, and I dance as they direct. They direct me to travel in the service of my Master, The Good Sir Trousdale, and so I do.
Sir Trousdales idiotic comings and goings most recently brought us unto the city of Asgulan, many days journey from here. After concluding with the treaty or tariff or wedding arrangement or whatever horse-shit it was that had demanded his presence in Asgulan, Trousdale drunkenly ordered us back to Delvers Dale. We traveled for many days. As we approached within scent of the town, we happened to come upon a merchants wagon under attack by a most curious and unnatural murder of crows. The wagon lurched down the road, speeding out of control and finally capsized some 50 yards ahead of us. Dog sniffed the air, let out two fierce growls and then shot off down towards the beseiged wagon. My compatriots assembled into a crude and pathetic combat formation while I readied my powerful magics to do battle with the beasts. When I had crossed enough ground to join the battle, I had found it was not just birds we were facing but small walking bird-men of great curiosity. I was attacked about the head and face by the rampaging crows, but was not injured seriously. Our clumsy band of “warriors” made battle with the Kenku bird-men (of which I have heard stories, but had never before seen in the flesh) for some time before the drunken sod Trousdale finally saw fit to ride into battle and kill the last pathetic creature still standing, only to take all of the credit and glory of the battle for himself. Much veneration and overture was made on his behalf. To see such brave and hearty warriors willingly kiss the arse of this withered old fool never ceases to turn my stomach. After a quick check on the occupants of the wagon (nothing was found worth stealing or raping) the party (as is customary in observance of any joyous occasion, no matter how meaningless or insignifigant) retired to Trousdales wine-cart to drink ourselves blind and recount tales of our battlefield glory.
I woke up many hours later in a bed within an Inn in Delvers Dale with no recollection of how I had gotten there.
My compatriots brought me up to speed on what had transpired during my “lapse”. We were in Delvers Dale, Great King Whoever was murdered and our colleague the Finch was a blood descendent to the throne. He (and all his living kin) were also suspects in the assasination of the king.
I shall commit more of this exploit to word later…