Wed Oct 08, 2003 3:36 pm
Notes and notices of abductions were not the only thing to rise with the coming of the dawn. He had already seen the gory line of writing that had graced the disheveled linens that made up the bed of his beloved wife. Eyed before anyone else, other than the perpetrator that was, had had a chance to survey the scene. And as the folk of the Broken Dagger were rising, already would he have made his march through the building.
Arrayed in garments very rarely worn in the history of his nation, yet still carried with him despite the belief that they would never be needed. The silken surcoate was of an elder design, the stylization of the Hawk of Thessilane upon it in a hand that had been dead for two hundred years. It was broad of wing, feathers curling around a golden fist. Within that, a sword was held, point downwards and cross-hilt forming a cross at the center of the chest. The breeches underneath was black wool, stitches of silver running up the outer lines. The waist was wrapped ‘round by a wide leather belt, beaten plates of iron surrounding the entire affair. Boots were flaring at the knee, iron was pressed into leather, here. Making them almost like greaves.
To top it, a sword rode at his waist. Not his personal blade, but the blade of the Thessilane Dukes. An old and ancient weapon, that had seen the birthing of the nation through conquest and strife. Heavy, made for a time when the art of blade-work was not common in the land. Hacking and slashing was the order of this weapon. Thick, to withstand the blows of swords of it’s like, to smash through shield and bone and sinew. Somewhere in it’s past, a Duke like him, had gotten the weapon ensorcelled. Fingers of energy coursed up and down the first ten inches or so of the blade, where it had been sharpened.
He had never used the thing in battle, though he often had trained with it. He could not swing it as fast as his precious sabre, but he would still be a terror with the weapon. He only knew of the rumors of it. Used in the taking of Vyzant, which would become Orvere in time. Removed the head of Ryzan, who was King of Marsember, four hundred years ago. Last held by his father, before being slain in ambush by a horde of Orks. Rumor said it cut like fire, when it struck. If he had it his way, it would do so, and the flesh it struck would be that of the Drow, Audmathus.
Burel removed himself from the tavern, anyone who had attempted to wish him well would have been curtly ignored. A strange thing for this man, who was always so congenial. But once they, too, discovered the remains of her bedchamber, they would understand. To the stockade he would go, where the remainder of his men resided. Those who had not departed with General Dross and Prince Altan to hunt down the horde. Those who had not departed on another errand, one kept secret from all but those who were in command of the ordeal. Those who remained, four hundred of them in the crimson and gold of Noble Thessilane. He would reach the stockade, and summon them all to the yard.
Faced them, in that dawn light. An hour had passed, perhaps, since the sun had risen. It shone in his face, glinted off the hawk that proudly flashed upon his chest. Off the circlet of gold that held back tresses of brown. Some of them, aware of the history of their nation, saw the outfit and paled. Others spoke softly to their sword-brethren. “Brothers!” The first word said. Shouted to his fellow warriors.
“Brothers! I am a man aggrieved! You who know, understand the nature and the meaning of this! These robes of crimson and gold. The meaning of once again carrying the sword of the Crimson Duke!” A few of the men shifted in their feet. The Crimson Duke had been the name given to the seventh to hold the title of Duke of Thessilane. He found he had been plotted against, his wife was abducted from beneath his nose. His capitol had been barred to him. Yet, with that sword in hand, he had beheaded all those who dared plot against his reign, he had spitted those who had dared take his wife from his side. He had reclaimed his city, and destroyed those who had attempted to balk his will.
“History finds a way to repeat itself in our common days! The past comes to attack a man, who in his vanity, had thought himself safe! I grieve my fellows! And I will have my vengeance! The Duchess Lenore, my wife and mother of our daughter, has been taken from under my very nose! From before my very eyes!” Such words were rare to hear, especially in public. “But I shall rectify my faults, brethren. Before you all do I swear this oath. Audmathus, murderer and abductor. Villain and thief! He shall learn the meaning of righteous anger and justice! And Angelmar shall be the key to my wrath!” He had drawn the broadsword from it’s sheath of black. Held it high in the sky above his head. The weapon flickered with anger and hate at the tip. Reflecting the anger within the man who bore it.
“Vengeance shall be mine!” A pause, the weapon lowered and then point set to the wood before him. It sizzled softly, that planking, under the weight of sword and magic and arm. “A hundred of you shall be chosen, and garbed in crimson and black as my Templars. You will be as my shield and my sword and my plate. You will assist me in this hunt, and together we will right the wrong done this day. To Lenore. To my wife! To your Duchess!” Forwards the ranks broke, and a great number of them moved to become the Duke’s personal death company…