#v. vagrant lord ( interim. )

[of-forossa]

Brom's throne room after reclaiming Forossa and becoming lord is... rather spartan compared to the opulence and splendor of many throne rooms. Lit with braziers and torches, the hall is made from sturdy stone, with banners and tapestries detailing the achievements of ancient heroes hanging from the otherwise bare walls. Walking the length of it leads not to a dias where a king would look down upon his people but to the edge of a set of stairs that descend a good fifty feet before settling out.

There the throne resides, likewise shaped from stone, and resting in it the lord of Forossa is looked upon by his people. Brom gathers his court during the day and has them seat themselves on the stairs and benches, that they would always be in a position above himself and would be heard no matter how softly they spoke.

[of-forossa]

“Cull the deathless, lay open their undying hearts! Bathe the realm of our lord with their life!”

A seething wave of bloody red and obsidian rages forth, men and women turned to mere animals in their fervor to drink first the blood of their supposed prey. They howl and shriek in their maddening rush, sprinting and running as dogs on all fours baying for man-flesh, their robes and hoods filthy for the grime and gore of their ceaseless sacrifices to Nahr Alma. Joining them are abominations beyond name or recognition, beasts of bone and shadow fused with curses; of skeleton horses and shambling man-things with too many limbs, of hideous flesh puppets muttering tidings that corrode the ground beneath them and of countless other monstrosities known only to the god who gave them their imitation of dark life.

They lope and charge and sprint across the field of ice and snow, an ocean tide of madness and death threatening to overwhelm the bulwark of humanity that awaits them. Line after line of shields and spears, swords and axes, each gleaming in the scant light peering through the darkening sky. An army born from men and women of every nation, a shield against the darkness long taken root in ruined Forossa, outnumbered by the thousands yet resolved to meet them not with fear or terror but rage-- a flame of fury stoked by every son and daughter taken, every father and mother lost, every brother and sister seized by curse or corruption now given form in these monsters.

Before them stands their unifier, a lord not by right of birth or prestige but by conquest, a king crowned by the souls claimed and strength seized through every trial and tribulation. Longsword bared towards the dread horde fast approaching, Brom stands at the head of this army of the unbowed and unbroken, and over the curses and oaths of the enemy his voice rings out as a roar.

“Look upon them, my brothers and sisters!” He cries, the sound heralded by the steady beat-beating of blades against shields and the pounding of their feet. “They expect us to cower before the prospect of eternal torment! They think us cowed by the shackle put upon us by jealous gods, that we would turn tail before the thought of being offered up to Nahr Alma on his altars as perpetual sacrifices!” He turns to them now, their pounding growing only louder, and raises up a gleaming crown of silver and steel, that of Vendrick so long ago. “They think us still shackled to our lives, but we are not! They have forgotten what it means to fight as though there is no coming back! They have forgotten what it is to die for a cause, to lay one’s life down for something they believe in, to die knowing they will not return!”

“But we will remind them! Think of your husbands and wifes! Think of your sons and daughters, your brothers and sisters, your mothers and fathers!” Placing the crown over his helm, the symbol of his rule soon to be earned is molded into the helmet and the world ripples and struggles to recognize the strength of a lord’s soul unleashed. Beneath his feet the earth splinters and cracks, around him the air seems to tense and shiver, and with a sound of thunder Brom raises his longsword. “Let your deaths have meaning once again, kinsmen! Let the gods envy our mortality once more, let the death of men be met with honor and reverence anew! If we must die today, then let it be no longer as undead but sons and daughters of humanity!”

[of-forossa]

"What do you hope to find at the end of the Age of Fire," the last witch of Izalith asked him while staring into the flames of the bonfire in front of them. It was a question that had accompanied her for a very long time - why did undead and humans want to end this age? "Do you know more than we deities do? How can you possibly know that what lies beyond is better than we have now?"

@frostweaved

He hadn’t so much as flinched at her arrival or her queries, consumed in one of the tedious but not unwelcome tasks that had already taken him the better part of the evening. Bereft for once of steel face, the expression so oft hidden beneath is stone set and rigid, firelight and shadow dancing across the stern visage. His sword rests upon his lap unsheathed, the aging edge still sharp and growing sharper still against the grind of the whetstone in hand as he methodically goes back and forth the length of the blade...  “When an undead throws themselves onto the First Flame for the gods, is there a funeral for them?”

Back and forth goes the whetting stone, back and forth. “Do you recognize them with a ceremony attended by thousands? Host great parades and grand festivals in honor of their sacrifice? Do you and yours weep and tear at your garments in grief of a world that demands a sacrifice by flame?”  Leaning forward, further onto his haunches, he regards the goddess with a look that doesn’t accuse or condemn but searches for truth no matter how terrible. “Do you even bother with remembering their names? Those noble fools who would fall headlong into an eternity of burning without so much as a thank you for all their struggling? For all of their death?”

He stares a moment longer before settling back, turning his gaze back to the longsword to regard the now pristine edge. All around them looms the deepening night, no gleaming light of the moon above or myriad of twinkling stars to guide or comfort. Only the bonfire before them offers solace with the hungry warmth of flame and crackling illumination, and even then the fierce fire seems to wane before the encroaching shadows. A lifeline for one of them to cling to desperately, and a noose for the other to hang from should the latter’s fate be decided by the designs of the former.

“I know no more about what comes after the fire fades than you or any other god.” His admittance isn’t tainted with uncertainty or fear but a frankness perhaps better suited for discussing the weather rather than the end of everything both once-mortal and immortal gathered here have ever known. “I have some notion of what it might entail, what might be left when the fire fades from a man who dared peer beyond flame... but I have no intention of hastening the end by snuffing out the First Flame. Not unless there is a peace I have not yet seen in this age to be found in darkness.” 

Seemingly satisfied with the fruit of his labors, Brom sheathes the longsword with a quiet whispering of steel against leather but doesn’t make to rise or put the weapon away. He regards her from across the bonfire, the already stern lines of his face deepening with the frown that settled onto his expression. “What I do know is beyond the comprehension of you and your kin, though. It will always be beyond you, to know what it means to die only to rise again and again from shallow graves for a cause that isn’t yours. To feel the sting of death for the hundredth time as fresh as you did the first.” His expression is fierce in the firelight, gaze sharp and words sharper, chin resting on steel-wrapped hands clenched tightly together. “What I know is that you and your kin are afraid of the unknown that the fading fire represents. So afraid that you would bury every land and every nation beneath the ashes of their children and their children’s children if it meant even a moment longer in the firelight.”

There is a rage in those words, a frozen fury with frostbitten teeth that threatens her with their chilling bite even with his voice little more than a whisper. It remains just beneath the seemingly empty veneer he’s upholding before slithering back beneath, obscured once more by an armor worn even when the steel plates and chainmail have been shed. When he leans back onto his haunches, there is no indication of the hatred or violence promised in those hardened eyes. “What I know, daughter of Izalith, is that you and your kin need not worry about the Age of Dark. For the day is coming when the shackle of the Darksign will be broken, when every man and woman will be free to draw their swords and die one last death on their own terms... to die for something more than the right to be kindling for your fire.” 

When he rises from the bonfire, battered but bettered sword fastened to his hip and steel helm fixed once more over death-rugged countenance, Brom regards her with a final slow shaking of the head. “What I know is that the gods can be slain, and on my oath I will not let the ending of an age take from humanity the blood they have long been owed. Before every nation, before every man and woman I will have you all laid low for the death you have wrought. At the end of your age, I hope to find justice.”