04-01-2017, 05:54 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-02-2017, 08:28 AM by King Ghidorah.
Edit Reason: Word choice, dialogue tone, general cleaning
)
When the agent of Harnburg who called himself Chatterly needed to talk to Duke William Conrad van Harnburg, master of Castle Harnburg and its lands and titles, he always tried to do it over breakfast. The Duke was at his most agreeable in the morning, before the frustrations of the day had had the chance to set in. Also, his chef always prepared hearty meals that would keep a man alert and contented well past lunch-time, and Chatterly wasn't above eating his employers food.
On this particular morning, the menu consisted of a cream-of-onion soup, with garlic-loaf and an assortment of smoked fish. Chatterly could smell the savory scents wafting through the opulent corridors of the Ducal chambers as he made his way towards their source, striding purposefully down avenues adorned with burgundy carpets, fine wood paneling, and just enough golden trim to achieve tasteful decadence.
Reaching a set of embossed double-doors, Chatterly adjusted his black leather gloves, handed his cloak to a liveried guard, and waited. The guard pushed open the door and announced him: "Sir Harmon Briggs!"
The agent managed not to wince. He hated his given name, but it was just one of many small penances he had to put up with. Smiling carefully, he entered the room.
The Duke's private dining hall was perfectly square, ten meters on a side, and situated on the southwest corner of the fourth floor of his keep. It was austere as such places went: No tapestries adorned the oak-paneled walls, no carpets covered the red-granite flagstones, no chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. Simple braziers wrought from black iron stood in each corner, and the eastern wall hosted a small fireplace. All were currently unlit. The southern and western walls were given over to a series of high windows in lean frames, granting a view of the town of Harnburg, the lake, the surrounding pine forests, and the waterfall tumbling from the crimson cliffs on the far shore.
Other than the view, the only concession to princely luxury was the table. It was a massive, heavy thing, carved from cherry-wood and stained and polished until it shone very nearly black. The legs were embossed with a motif of golden vines. It could sit fourteen people comfortably, though there were only chairs for four.
Only one of them was occupied. In it, the Duke was enjoying his meal.
Not for the first time, the agent was struck by his master's unfortunate appearance. W.C van Harnburg was a thin man with a fat face, and a thicket of brown hair that looked as though it were dying of shame. Though he wore fine clothes, silk brocade in patterns of black and gold, they always seemed either too large or too small. He also had horrible taste in hats, favoring wide-brimmed affairs in a futile attempt to make his head appear smaller, though he at least had the social grace to take them off indoors.
Chatterly positioned himself at the end of the table, directly opposite his lord, clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
The Duke put down his spoon and folded his hands under his considerable chin. "Hello, Harmon. You're looking pleased with yourself today."
"Very much so, my lord. The spring-season caravan to Shatterdun has been destroyed."
The Duke's expression didn't change. "How unfortunate," he said. "I assume that we're responsible?"
"Of course, my lord. Not that anyone would ever guess. The caravan was attacked, you see, by a three-headed dragon."
W.C van Harnburg's eyebrows rose. He forked some smoked haddock onto his plate. "Literally, or did you only plant evidence that that's what happened?"
"Literally, my lord. The caravan was annihilated by a ravening monster."
"How did you manage to arrange that?"
Chatterly smiled, producing a scroll from a pouch at his belt, and approached the table. His narrow-faced reflection shimmered in its polished surface. "You'll recall that we had discussed soliciting for a third party to disrupt Shatterdun's trade-routes? Well, a very interesting Prime responded to one of our fliers. At first I thought he was just an ogre of some kind, but after I gave him his instructions and sent him on his way I rode out to investigate the recent disturbances that had been reported in the forest and on the eastern slopes. What I found there suggested that we may be dealing with something unusual, so I paid a visit to your pet hedge-wizard, and together we did a bit of digging."
The agent placed the scroll on the table beside his lord and unrolled it, spreading it flat with both hands.
"This," he said, "is King Ghidorah."
A nightmare glared up from the parchment. Three sneering, reptilian faces bedecked with crowns of horns perched atop long, sinuous necks, the spine of each lined by a tiny ridge of saw-tooth spikes. An almost human torso anchored two massive, bat-like wings. Two stumpy, elephantine legs terminated in a pair of clawed feet, and it had two long tails, ending in spiky nubs. The entire creature save for its leathery wings was covered in scales.
There was cottage in the picture, for comparison. It was smaller than one of the monster's toes. A man standing beside it was barely visible, little more than a dot on the parchment with a vague suggestion of limbs.
The Duke stared.
"Of course, this isn't his current shape," Chatterly continued. "As I said earlier, when you meet him he more resembles an average-sized ogre. However, preliminary reports of the caravan's destruction indicate that he has the ability to transform into something resembling what you see here - though not quite on this scale. Being a Prime, however, its reasonable to assume that he'll get stronger."
Van Harnburg pushed his chair out from the table and stood, his breakfast forgotten. He began to pace, one hand massaging the flesh of his chin. "How powerful is he, would you say?"
Chatterly re-rolled the scroll and returned it to his belt. "There's ample evidence to support the conclusion that he's at least above average, as Primes go." The agent began to tick off points on his fingers. "The remains of the caravan tell a story of sudden, overwhelming force. Large sections of the eastern forest road have been ravaged, and he seems to have destroyed the Coxley gang on his way through - also, I believe that the commotion on the slopes several nights past was our new friend killing another Prime."
A subtle grin flickered across the Duke's round, fleshy face. "Powerful and violent... a volatile combination. Do you think we can control him, Harmon?"
The agent smiled again.
"I think so. In all likelihood he's completely insane - based on what little I've seen of him, he seems to enjoy destruction for its own sake. He was incredibly eager to do a job that would leave most mercenaries interested at best, and his curiosity about everything he sees borders on obsessive. But I think if we pay him, give him a steady supply of information, and use him for the right kind of jobs, then he'll do as we ask."
The Duke went to one of the windows, overlooking the lake, and crossed one arm over his chest, the other still massaging his chin as he gazed out across the water. Chatterly crossed the room to stand beside him. Across the way, the cliffs glowed rust-red, the waterfall shining like liquid diamonds.
"Do you think, Harmon," asked van Harnburg, "That this could be the solution to our elf problem?"
Chatterly paused for a moment, refusing to be irritated by the Duke's insistence on using his first name. Instead, he reviewed the facts.
A few months ago, a group of nomadic elves had moved into the forest to the west, beyond the crimson cliffs. Mostly they kept to themselves, only occasionally attempting to trade. The citizenry of Harnburg, however, both the town and the duchy, found them intensely suspicious, blaming them for everything from sour milk to unfaithful wives. After all, they weren't really people were they? Everyone knew you couldn't trust elves; They made the serfs restless, and more importantly, they made the merchants that used the western road nervous.
The Duke, personally, didn't care about elves one way or the other as far as Chatterly knew - but anxious townsfolk and dwindling trade had him very concerned indeed. Several attempts had already been made to convince the squatters to leave, but the Duke's arguments had fallen on deaf, pointed ears.
Nobody of consequence would give a toss if a bunch of elves were attacked by a monster. The only concern would be that the County of Shatterdun might link the new incident with the attack on their caravan, but even if they did, Harnburg's culpability for the initial atrocity would be impossible to prove - at least, not well enough to justify retaliatory action.
Besides, the Countess of Shatterdun didn't like elves either.
"It very well could be." said the agent. "I think that a creature as evidently bloodthirsty as Ghidorah could be convinced to solve it permanently with very little prompting at all. In fact, begging my lord's pardon, I've already taken the liberty of inviting him here to discuss it."
Van Harnburg smiled. "Perfect. I should have known you'd already be on top of the situation... one does wonder though, what will happen if our new asset proves less tractable than you believe... Would you care to discuss the matter over breakfast? My soup is getting cold."
Chatterly clapped his gloved hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "I would, my lord. After all, as you say, it wouldn't do to be caught without a plan..."
Outside the castle, the sun glinted off the surface of the water, scintillating gold and nearly blindingly bright. Everything else appeared a mere silhouette in the light of early morning, as though scorched black by the glare.
On this particular morning, the menu consisted of a cream-of-onion soup, with garlic-loaf and an assortment of smoked fish. Chatterly could smell the savory scents wafting through the opulent corridors of the Ducal chambers as he made his way towards their source, striding purposefully down avenues adorned with burgundy carpets, fine wood paneling, and just enough golden trim to achieve tasteful decadence.
Reaching a set of embossed double-doors, Chatterly adjusted his black leather gloves, handed his cloak to a liveried guard, and waited. The guard pushed open the door and announced him: "Sir Harmon Briggs!"
The agent managed not to wince. He hated his given name, but it was just one of many small penances he had to put up with. Smiling carefully, he entered the room.
The Duke's private dining hall was perfectly square, ten meters on a side, and situated on the southwest corner of the fourth floor of his keep. It was austere as such places went: No tapestries adorned the oak-paneled walls, no carpets covered the red-granite flagstones, no chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. Simple braziers wrought from black iron stood in each corner, and the eastern wall hosted a small fireplace. All were currently unlit. The southern and western walls were given over to a series of high windows in lean frames, granting a view of the town of Harnburg, the lake, the surrounding pine forests, and the waterfall tumbling from the crimson cliffs on the far shore.
Other than the view, the only concession to princely luxury was the table. It was a massive, heavy thing, carved from cherry-wood and stained and polished until it shone very nearly black. The legs were embossed with a motif of golden vines. It could sit fourteen people comfortably, though there were only chairs for four.
Only one of them was occupied. In it, the Duke was enjoying his meal.
Not for the first time, the agent was struck by his master's unfortunate appearance. W.C van Harnburg was a thin man with a fat face, and a thicket of brown hair that looked as though it were dying of shame. Though he wore fine clothes, silk brocade in patterns of black and gold, they always seemed either too large or too small. He also had horrible taste in hats, favoring wide-brimmed affairs in a futile attempt to make his head appear smaller, though he at least had the social grace to take them off indoors.
Chatterly positioned himself at the end of the table, directly opposite his lord, clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
The Duke put down his spoon and folded his hands under his considerable chin. "Hello, Harmon. You're looking pleased with yourself today."
"Very much so, my lord. The spring-season caravan to Shatterdun has been destroyed."
The Duke's expression didn't change. "How unfortunate," he said. "I assume that we're responsible?"
"Of course, my lord. Not that anyone would ever guess. The caravan was attacked, you see, by a three-headed dragon."
W.C van Harnburg's eyebrows rose. He forked some smoked haddock onto his plate. "Literally, or did you only plant evidence that that's what happened?"
"Literally, my lord. The caravan was annihilated by a ravening monster."
"How did you manage to arrange that?"
Chatterly smiled, producing a scroll from a pouch at his belt, and approached the table. His narrow-faced reflection shimmered in its polished surface. "You'll recall that we had discussed soliciting for a third party to disrupt Shatterdun's trade-routes? Well, a very interesting Prime responded to one of our fliers. At first I thought he was just an ogre of some kind, but after I gave him his instructions and sent him on his way I rode out to investigate the recent disturbances that had been reported in the forest and on the eastern slopes. What I found there suggested that we may be dealing with something unusual, so I paid a visit to your pet hedge-wizard, and together we did a bit of digging."
The agent placed the scroll on the table beside his lord and unrolled it, spreading it flat with both hands.
"This," he said, "is King Ghidorah."
A nightmare glared up from the parchment. Three sneering, reptilian faces bedecked with crowns of horns perched atop long, sinuous necks, the spine of each lined by a tiny ridge of saw-tooth spikes. An almost human torso anchored two massive, bat-like wings. Two stumpy, elephantine legs terminated in a pair of clawed feet, and it had two long tails, ending in spiky nubs. The entire creature save for its leathery wings was covered in scales.
There was cottage in the picture, for comparison. It was smaller than one of the monster's toes. A man standing beside it was barely visible, little more than a dot on the parchment with a vague suggestion of limbs.
The Duke stared.
"Of course, this isn't his current shape," Chatterly continued. "As I said earlier, when you meet him he more resembles an average-sized ogre. However, preliminary reports of the caravan's destruction indicate that he has the ability to transform into something resembling what you see here - though not quite on this scale. Being a Prime, however, its reasonable to assume that he'll get stronger."
Van Harnburg pushed his chair out from the table and stood, his breakfast forgotten. He began to pace, one hand massaging the flesh of his chin. "How powerful is he, would you say?"
Chatterly re-rolled the scroll and returned it to his belt. "There's ample evidence to support the conclusion that he's at least above average, as Primes go." The agent began to tick off points on his fingers. "The remains of the caravan tell a story of sudden, overwhelming force. Large sections of the eastern forest road have been ravaged, and he seems to have destroyed the Coxley gang on his way through - also, I believe that the commotion on the slopes several nights past was our new friend killing another Prime."
A subtle grin flickered across the Duke's round, fleshy face. "Powerful and violent... a volatile combination. Do you think we can control him, Harmon?"
The agent smiled again.
"I think so. In all likelihood he's completely insane - based on what little I've seen of him, he seems to enjoy destruction for its own sake. He was incredibly eager to do a job that would leave most mercenaries interested at best, and his curiosity about everything he sees borders on obsessive. But I think if we pay him, give him a steady supply of information, and use him for the right kind of jobs, then he'll do as we ask."
The Duke went to one of the windows, overlooking the lake, and crossed one arm over his chest, the other still massaging his chin as he gazed out across the water. Chatterly crossed the room to stand beside him. Across the way, the cliffs glowed rust-red, the waterfall shining like liquid diamonds.
"Do you think, Harmon," asked van Harnburg, "That this could be the solution to our elf problem?"
Chatterly paused for a moment, refusing to be irritated by the Duke's insistence on using his first name. Instead, he reviewed the facts.
A few months ago, a group of nomadic elves had moved into the forest to the west, beyond the crimson cliffs. Mostly they kept to themselves, only occasionally attempting to trade. The citizenry of Harnburg, however, both the town and the duchy, found them intensely suspicious, blaming them for everything from sour milk to unfaithful wives. After all, they weren't really people were they? Everyone knew you couldn't trust elves; They made the serfs restless, and more importantly, they made the merchants that used the western road nervous.
The Duke, personally, didn't care about elves one way or the other as far as Chatterly knew - but anxious townsfolk and dwindling trade had him very concerned indeed. Several attempts had already been made to convince the squatters to leave, but the Duke's arguments had fallen on deaf, pointed ears.
Nobody of consequence would give a toss if a bunch of elves were attacked by a monster. The only concern would be that the County of Shatterdun might link the new incident with the attack on their caravan, but even if they did, Harnburg's culpability for the initial atrocity would be impossible to prove - at least, not well enough to justify retaliatory action.
Besides, the Countess of Shatterdun didn't like elves either.
"It very well could be." said the agent. "I think that a creature as evidently bloodthirsty as Ghidorah could be convinced to solve it permanently with very little prompting at all. In fact, begging my lord's pardon, I've already taken the liberty of inviting him here to discuss it."
Van Harnburg smiled. "Perfect. I should have known you'd already be on top of the situation... one does wonder though, what will happen if our new asset proves less tractable than you believe... Would you care to discuss the matter over breakfast? My soup is getting cold."
Chatterly clapped his gloved hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "I would, my lord. After all, as you say, it wouldn't do to be caught without a plan..."
Outside the castle, the sun glinted off the surface of the water, scintillating gold and nearly blindingly bright. Everything else appeared a mere silhouette in the light of early morning, as though scorched black by the glare.