09-11-2015, 08:43 PM
He’d expected more commotion. He’d expected more whooping and hollering. In-fighting. Vulgarity. He’d expected to see the people Camelot had despised so much that they’d locked them away in a dungeon hidden from sunlight act like despicable filth. He’d expected them to live up to society’s expectations of them.
What he got instead was a much more solemn display. There were some laughs and words exchanged. But mostly, the prisoners picked up weapons, helmets, pieces of armour; anything they could get their hands on.
The blood and bodies stained in a way that would mar this already-foul place for a long time; Magus knew this. He felt it. Yet such a fate befell all who stood against him.
“You are all filthy, bedraggled creatures,” Magus began to a chorus of angry murmurs. A couple of newly armed prisoners already made to ready their weapons against them, but he continued before they had the chance to interrupt him. “You all bear the signs of abuse; malnutrition, bruising, scars. This place is disgusting, and they make you rot in it. Cold and dark, without even a window to remind you of the world you had left behind. How long have you been left here? Years? Decades? Long enough that it would have been less cruel of them to simply have slit your throats and be done with it?”
Now an angry swell of support began to rise through the cellblock as people voiced their approval.
“I suspect many of you didn’t deserve to be put here in the first place. I suspect many more of you have suffered punishments disproportionate to the crimes they tell you you’re guilty of.”
More voices joined the rising crescendo.
“I’ve been wrongly persecuted, as well,” Magus continued. “They put me here because I annoyed someone in a position of power. They sent bounty hunters after me; innocent people died because someone’s ego was damaged. They’d have left me to rot like they’d left all of you.”
The rising tide of vocal emotion pitched into a different kind of anger. Anger directed at him. Magus put his hands up in a gesture meant to defuse the situation.
“Do not misunderstand me. There is more to my story: you see, I believe I was betrayed. Have any of you heard of the People’s Army? They claim they fight for democracy. For equality. I believe they had a hand in sending the bounty hunters who put me here, and I am… angry.” he clenched his teeth and glared out at the crowd of haggard, beaten-down prisoners before he suddenly raised his voice into a shout. “And I think you’re angry! I think you have been betrayed by your own people, and I think it’s time to fight back!”
A roar of approval echoed all around him. Some banged swords against shields; others rattled their weapons in the air.
“And I’m giving you an opportunity. We will get out of this place, of that I have no doubt. But this is merely a skirmish. My brothers in shackles, I am going to war, and I would like for you to come with me. After we are free from this place, I am going to hunt the leader of the People’s Army down, and I am going to bring unfathomable suffering upon him before I send him screaming from this mortal coil,” he paused. “Society has decided they do not need you. They do not want you. So come with me. We’ll take the People’s Army for ourselves. We will build an army for people like us. No more suffering under the thumbs of the lofty. If you are with me, you’ll follow me follow me when we’re out of here. If not, that is your decision. You are all free men, once we get out of here.”
Another peal of approval rumbled around him and quickly subsided to quiet murmurs of discussion.
“Now, to work. I will head upstairs and scout what lies ahead. Prepare yourselves; there may yet be more fighting ahead of us. I will see you again soon.”
Magus strode toward the ascending stone steps as he slowly faded out of sight in a puff of smoke and purple motes. Waylon could hear the heavy footfalls of the mage’s boots as he strode, invisibly, up the stairs.
“Goddamn Primes have all the luck.”
- - - - -
The invisi-wizard stepped out onto the next floor and saw a pitifully small group of guardsmen up there waiting for him behind a pair of locked, barred cell doors. Only two crossbowmen were left; the others had swords and axes.
And there, cowering behind them, was the old man himself. That crooked old fuck who had come to taunt him at his cell door. The one Waylon and the others called Ol’ Gutless.
Magus prowled toward the door, hesitated a moment, and then simply walked straight through it. He breezed through the second one much more confidently and chuckled in low, dark tones, eliciting the typical reactions of surprise he’d expected.
Ol’ Gutless stammered out a demand to know who was out there, clutching a hatchet to his chest in a manner that suggested the man hadn’t much combat experience, even in his better years. The guards around him raised or drew their weapons; the two crossbows swept the area in front of them.
“I think you know who I am,” Magus responded from a different spot in the cavernous gallery. He took his time sauntering to another point near the group’s right flank. “I am the one called ‘Demon King.’ And I am very, very angry.”
“Wh-What do you want??”
“Same thing everyone wants,” the voice came again, this time from a different spot, prompting the crossbows to swing again toward him. “To be free. To make my own decisions, to pay back the people who have wronged me.”
One of the bowmen let fly a bolt that whizzed through the air and slammed into the wall, splintering on impact and clattering to the floor, broken and useless.
“Show yourself!!” roared one of the guards.
“If I did that I’d have to kill all of you.”
“So what, then?” the old man inquired. “What do you want from us?”
“I want you to throw the key to those big cell doors keeping my friends locked downstairs onto the floor in front of you, and then-”
“I cannot!” Ol’ Gutless bleated after a moment’s onomatopoeic bluster. “As on official in the service of-”
“I want you to throw the key to those big cell doors onto the floor in front of you. And then, all of you are going to lay down your weapons, turn around, and lie down on the ground.”
“And- and what if we refuse?”
“You all know why they locked me away down here. You all know what I can do to all of you if that is what you choose.”
A long, pregnant pause drew out between Ol’ Gutless and the invisible man. He clenched his hatchet tight to his chest, sweat prickling up on the back of his neck as he considered the Demon King’s words. Finally, he must have decided that his life was worth more than his oath, as he cast the hatchet onto the floor with a clatter before fishing down the front of his shirt to reveal a key suspended by a necklace. He didn’t bother unclasping it; he just broke it with a sharp tug and threw the key, broken necklace and all, onto the floor in front of him.
“Lower yer arms, men.”
“We can’t just-”
“Lower yer arms, dammit!”
They did. Some set theirs down carefully, some threw theirs down, frustrated with their orders. All of them turned away from their weapons and got down on the floor, hands over their head. Lastly, Ol’ Gutless did the same.
A loud ker-clank! of a lock being opened sounded out, and the tell-tale sound of a jail door being opened rattled out. The same series played out a second time and Ol’ Gutless knew both doors had been opened. He was sure that the invisible man had gone back the way he’d come. But he dared not look.
His bony fingers interlaced behind his head suddenly felt fat as sausages, pressed up against his scraggly white hair. He trembled and worried and wondered if he’d go home to his sad, empty apartment ever again. If he’d ever see his sons or daughters again. Hell, he even wondered if he would ever find himself at the bottom of another bottle again.
His train of thought wasn’t permitted to travel much farther than that, however, as he heard the scuffles of footsteps approaching from behind. Dozens of footsteps.
Soon, the armed prisoners were all around the pitiful remains of the prison guards, and Magus was there, standing over Ol’ Gutless.
“Get up, old man.”
In spite of the great fear welling up in his throat, he did, and Magus grabbed him by the neck and pushed him past the others.
“Is there anyone else here who’ll stand in our way?”
“N-No sir, nobody. Our last line of-”
“Show me the way out of here. Try anything and it will be a long time before you’re dead, and only a short time before you wish you were.”
“Yes, okay, okay.”
“Hey,” Waylon interjected. “Whaddya want done with this lot here?” he gestured at the guardsmen with his weapon.
Magus looked down at them and reconsidered his plan for a moment. But just a moment.
“Kill them.”
What he got instead was a much more solemn display. There were some laughs and words exchanged. But mostly, the prisoners picked up weapons, helmets, pieces of armour; anything they could get their hands on.
The blood and bodies stained in a way that would mar this already-foul place for a long time; Magus knew this. He felt it. Yet such a fate befell all who stood against him.
“You are all filthy, bedraggled creatures,” Magus began to a chorus of angry murmurs. A couple of newly armed prisoners already made to ready their weapons against them, but he continued before they had the chance to interrupt him. “You all bear the signs of abuse; malnutrition, bruising, scars. This place is disgusting, and they make you rot in it. Cold and dark, without even a window to remind you of the world you had left behind. How long have you been left here? Years? Decades? Long enough that it would have been less cruel of them to simply have slit your throats and be done with it?”
Now an angry swell of support began to rise through the cellblock as people voiced their approval.
“I suspect many of you didn’t deserve to be put here in the first place. I suspect many more of you have suffered punishments disproportionate to the crimes they tell you you’re guilty of.”
More voices joined the rising crescendo.
“I’ve been wrongly persecuted, as well,” Magus continued. “They put me here because I annoyed someone in a position of power. They sent bounty hunters after me; innocent people died because someone’s ego was damaged. They’d have left me to rot like they’d left all of you.”
The rising tide of vocal emotion pitched into a different kind of anger. Anger directed at him. Magus put his hands up in a gesture meant to defuse the situation.
“Do not misunderstand me. There is more to my story: you see, I believe I was betrayed. Have any of you heard of the People’s Army? They claim they fight for democracy. For equality. I believe they had a hand in sending the bounty hunters who put me here, and I am… angry.” he clenched his teeth and glared out at the crowd of haggard, beaten-down prisoners before he suddenly raised his voice into a shout. “And I think you’re angry! I think you have been betrayed by your own people, and I think it’s time to fight back!”
A roar of approval echoed all around him. Some banged swords against shields; others rattled their weapons in the air.
“And I’m giving you an opportunity. We will get out of this place, of that I have no doubt. But this is merely a skirmish. My brothers in shackles, I am going to war, and I would like for you to come with me. After we are free from this place, I am going to hunt the leader of the People’s Army down, and I am going to bring unfathomable suffering upon him before I send him screaming from this mortal coil,” he paused. “Society has decided they do not need you. They do not want you. So come with me. We’ll take the People’s Army for ourselves. We will build an army for people like us. No more suffering under the thumbs of the lofty. If you are with me, you’ll follow me follow me when we’re out of here. If not, that is your decision. You are all free men, once we get out of here.”
Another peal of approval rumbled around him and quickly subsided to quiet murmurs of discussion.
“Now, to work. I will head upstairs and scout what lies ahead. Prepare yourselves; there may yet be more fighting ahead of us. I will see you again soon.”
Magus strode toward the ascending stone steps as he slowly faded out of sight in a puff of smoke and purple motes. Waylon could hear the heavy footfalls of the mage’s boots as he strode, invisibly, up the stairs.
“Goddamn Primes have all the luck.”
- - - - -
The invisi-wizard stepped out onto the next floor and saw a pitifully small group of guardsmen up there waiting for him behind a pair of locked, barred cell doors. Only two crossbowmen were left; the others had swords and axes.
And there, cowering behind them, was the old man himself. That crooked old fuck who had come to taunt him at his cell door. The one Waylon and the others called Ol’ Gutless.
Magus prowled toward the door, hesitated a moment, and then simply walked straight through it. He breezed through the second one much more confidently and chuckled in low, dark tones, eliciting the typical reactions of surprise he’d expected.
Ol’ Gutless stammered out a demand to know who was out there, clutching a hatchet to his chest in a manner that suggested the man hadn’t much combat experience, even in his better years. The guards around him raised or drew their weapons; the two crossbows swept the area in front of them.
“I think you know who I am,” Magus responded from a different spot in the cavernous gallery. He took his time sauntering to another point near the group’s right flank. “I am the one called ‘Demon King.’ And I am very, very angry.”
“Wh-What do you want??”
“Same thing everyone wants,” the voice came again, this time from a different spot, prompting the crossbows to swing again toward him. “To be free. To make my own decisions, to pay back the people who have wronged me.”
One of the bowmen let fly a bolt that whizzed through the air and slammed into the wall, splintering on impact and clattering to the floor, broken and useless.
“Show yourself!!” roared one of the guards.
“If I did that I’d have to kill all of you.”
“So what, then?” the old man inquired. “What do you want from us?”
“I want you to throw the key to those big cell doors keeping my friends locked downstairs onto the floor in front of you, and then-”
“I cannot!” Ol’ Gutless bleated after a moment’s onomatopoeic bluster. “As on official in the service of-”
“I want you to throw the key to those big cell doors onto the floor in front of you. And then, all of you are going to lay down your weapons, turn around, and lie down on the ground.”
“And- and what if we refuse?”
“You all know why they locked me away down here. You all know what I can do to all of you if that is what you choose.”
A long, pregnant pause drew out between Ol’ Gutless and the invisible man. He clenched his hatchet tight to his chest, sweat prickling up on the back of his neck as he considered the Demon King’s words. Finally, he must have decided that his life was worth more than his oath, as he cast the hatchet onto the floor with a clatter before fishing down the front of his shirt to reveal a key suspended by a necklace. He didn’t bother unclasping it; he just broke it with a sharp tug and threw the key, broken necklace and all, onto the floor in front of him.
“Lower yer arms, men.”
“We can’t just-”
“Lower yer arms, dammit!”
They did. Some set theirs down carefully, some threw theirs down, frustrated with their orders. All of them turned away from their weapons and got down on the floor, hands over their head. Lastly, Ol’ Gutless did the same.
A loud ker-clank! of a lock being opened sounded out, and the tell-tale sound of a jail door being opened rattled out. The same series played out a second time and Ol’ Gutless knew both doors had been opened. He was sure that the invisible man had gone back the way he’d come. But he dared not look.
His bony fingers interlaced behind his head suddenly felt fat as sausages, pressed up against his scraggly white hair. He trembled and worried and wondered if he’d go home to his sad, empty apartment ever again. If he’d ever see his sons or daughters again. Hell, he even wondered if he would ever find himself at the bottom of another bottle again.
His train of thought wasn’t permitted to travel much farther than that, however, as he heard the scuffles of footsteps approaching from behind. Dozens of footsteps.
Soon, the armed prisoners were all around the pitiful remains of the prison guards, and Magus was there, standing over Ol’ Gutless.
“Get up, old man.”
In spite of the great fear welling up in his throat, he did, and Magus grabbed him by the neck and pushed him past the others.
“Is there anyone else here who’ll stand in our way?”
“N-No sir, nobody. Our last line of-”
“Show me the way out of here. Try anything and it will be a long time before you’re dead, and only a short time before you wish you were.”
“Yes, okay, okay.”
“Hey,” Waylon interjected. “Whaddya want done with this lot here?” he gestured at the guardsmen with his weapon.
Magus looked down at them and reconsidered his plan for a moment. But just a moment.
“Kill them.”
![[Image: Magus.jpg]](http://rpnexus.com/sig/miscsig/Magus.jpg)