This fucker is really long...you may want to think twice reading it...
Weeks turned to months, months to seasons, and seasons to years as the young prince grew ever protected by his father’s former friends and allies. Since the time of his father’s death and the Tundra had fallen, many treaties of peace and alliances were forged among those who now inhabited the Tundra region. A boy, once drenched in soot and disguised as a peasant, bore witness to his father slain atop his keep as their war with the Free Companies came to an end. As his father’s head bounced off of the stone cascades and barricades to the ground far below him, it was in that sight that a monster was created. Young Tanken the Second would never forgive this sight, nor would it wash free from his mind.
Among his travels through adulthood, he was passed from house to house. Making his way from the Fighting School of Crippled Cow, to the Dens of Saxony, the boy was never without friend. He learned mercantilism in the House of Turmoil, the ways of courtship from Sir Flowers, and found himself in a band of Nomads that roamed the steppes. He forged many friendships during his teenage years until he himself was old enough to form his own house, and it was quite a glorious one at that. Spearhead, was the house he envisioned, a school where disciples could learn the Eastern art of Pike-Fu, derived from Chinese methods of hand-to-hand combat and polearm fighting.
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However, this life of solitude and peace would not bestow itself upon young Tanken much longer. A call was put forth, a holy quest if you will, and called upon houses from across Calradia—Spearhead being one of those. As each house prepared its banners, its servants were finely dressed, and each man was carted with their entire army, they met in the grand city of Dhirim as its central-location made for a grand place of commerce, as well as council. The sight to the city was splendid, never before had Dhirim hosted this many houses nor garrisoned this many armies to one place.
Tanken was in awe, his small clan of pupils and dirtied orange banner stood no attest to those whom were at this council. Every which way you looked; there were house banners and armor-clad guards escorting their Lords. As nightfall approached, each lord of their house would make their way to the keep of Dhirim, only two guards permitted to accompany them, and a large square table sat, with chairs placed around. It was clear now, that there was to be twelve houses represented in this meeting of grandeur.
As he took his seat, he recognized many of the other houses around him, many of them friends of his father’s and former hosts of his company. The room was in silence, the only thing that could be heard were the soft clinking of armor adjusting, and the occasion heavy breath of anxiousness. Alas, a door atop a balcony overlooking the table below opened quite viciously, and a very peculiar fellow emerged. It was not a King, and it did not appear to be a scholar either—it did not even appear to have a gender..
It spoke to greet the nobles, and as it did, all men of the council listened as its voice was like nothing before heard. The sound of six men speaking, each a half-octave apart, yet each in harmony was the melody of its voice. Dark circles covered its eyes, no distinguishable white peaked from between its lids, and its lips were blue as of a corpse. Yet, no one was disturbed, it was as if the whole room were entranced by whatever it had to say.
In dark red and black robes, it cascaded down a flight of stairs, ever-so-slightly out of the reach of any real candle light to illuminate it. What questions the men had, were soon answered as it began to speak once more. “My name is Baal, and I gather each of you for purpose.” An obvious pause was made for theatrical effect as Baal reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped closer. “In Calradia, we have each heard the legends and stories of the past in which men slay men and jury convicts with no pretense—but of these legends what do we hear? Treasure…there is always treasure, or a relic of sorts. Take Juriah’s cloth hood, ripped from his head by Hemrich’s heavy hand before severing the head of its former wearer. Or the mithril arrow which struck down King Lanthamer at the Raid on Sumbuja?”
The men looked around; they had each heard the story, though the emphasis upon the items themselves was nearly never noticed. “What if I told you, each of these relics were real—and very much attainable? What if I said, those relics could be fetched and those whom retrieved them would be showered in the highest of riches. Armor clad with nothing of gold, a crown so large—yet light, no man shall ever tower above it, and an army so valiant, no foe would dare think to attack it. Yes, yes, that is what I have for you. Riches, beyond anything you could imagine.”
The council seemed intrigued, warriors shifted in their seats as their guards looked about. Finally, a man Tanken did not know spoke up from the table, “And you mean to provide such ‘payment’ in exchange for these, ‘treasures’?” The eyes that were on the man speaking, quickly in unison darted back to that of the speaker.
It smiled, its teeth yellow and gray, sharpened like that of a canine, not human by any means. “Yes, I do. I call upon each of you, bring your house into unison for the cause of finding these relics, and I shall make each of you immortal in legend.” It was something many men strived for, the names in legends were never changed nor forgotten, and storytelling had its place in the hearts of all Calradians. To be immortalized in legend and lore would give meaning and purpose to life, one not offered by Christianity.
Once more, members of the council glanced about, soft nods exchanging before another member spoke up, this one from a far corner. “And what of these relics, why are they important to you?” And again, eyes fell back to the speaker.
“These relics when united will give me what I need to challenge the King and claim my rightful throne, and those of you whom help me shall serve as my court and forever be with me as I rule.” It was something about the way it spoke, the melancholy voice and the confidence, yet absence of emotion was something to be embellished by. There was a soft stir in the room, before Sir Tom of the House of Turmoil rose.
“I will join this search,” he’d say, his voice clear and unshaken.
“As will I,” another would step forth, his armor black like the night.
The great Saxon warrior Wolfgang would rise, his heavy shoulders and iron forehead illuminated by the candle light. “You have my men as well.”
He found himself speaking, as if he had not given the command to his lips to move, yet there they went, “Spearhead will join.” And with that, all men of the table stood. None were quite sure why they would betray their King in the sanctions of this domain, but all were certain that Baal meant well when he said that he would shower them in gold—and immortalize them in legend.
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The next morning, each house left, and there was no sign of Baal, yet the sky over Dhirim held an odd hue to it. An eerie smell clung to the air as the clouds around them brimmed dark red and orange as if fire were illuminating them. Spearhead and its leader Tanken now held a purpose, as did eleven other houses, find Calradia’s Greatest Relics and be forever immortalized in song and lore, as well as richest men of Calradia.
Poll