Post by corvette1710 on May 10, 2015 19:39:34 GMT
Planned Events:
I plan to have him fight and kill a dragon during one of his power explanations, but might have to get such an event O.K.'d by storyboard, so it fits into the Reach universe. Right now, I'm trying to get him to fit in under the whole "Serum = Superpowers = Ancient Legendary Heroes/Gods" banner.
Possible reasons for a dragon's existence:
-A different character with superpowers/magic and level 4 Transformation
-Dragons existing as is in the universe
-Created by a character with superpowers/magic and level 4 Creation
-Character enlarges a lizard or a crocodile expediently to incredible size and imbues it with powers alike to mythical dragons
I also plan for the dragon's blood to have magical properties which attribute to his sword being a Rank 4 Slashing Weapon.
Future Events explaining powers TBD
The pictures are pretty large, I'll resize them at a later date.
Planned Powers:
Slashing Weapon Rank 4 + Weapon Master Rank 2 + Combat Supremacy Rank 2 (16)
Strength Rank 3 (22)
Body Rank 2 (24)
Young Art:
Art, circa 1263:
Art, modern day (planned):
Name: Ser Artæmus Lacor
Gender: Male
Alignment: Hero
Team: Solo Hero
Level: Global
Location: Reach City
Background:
1263 CE
The castle was falling; this, Art knew. The walls shook, and his old legs carried him at a brisk walk. His fists were clenched and his dark cape flowed behind him. His white beard had been trimmed by a servant that morning, and in the rich light of the flaming city through the window, it appeared orange. The aging man’s obstinate nose was looked over by two eyes so pale they looked almost white. A heavy brow and thick eyebrows were concealed by a stylized ceremonial golden helmet, weighty enough to have caused him strain when he’d first received it.
Its visage was of a dragon, or a lion, or some other great beast. It had been so long since he’d earned it that he couldn’t quite recall. He’d never taken the time to look. Ah, time. A commodity he’d soon be running dangerously short of, if the siege was going how it looked to be. This war may well be his last. The peasants were in uproar, rising against the queen. They wanted her blood, and Art was perhaps the last line of her defense.
The insurgents had constructed ladders to scale the walls surrounding the city, taking advantage of careless watchmen. Soon after they crossed, buildings began to burn. The greatest construction project the city had ever undertaken, a great golden statue of and for the queen, had been toppled and marred with soot from the structures toppling and exhuming the dust from their falling corpses.
The queen… Art reflected on when he was young, when he’d first met the queen, when the city had been but a township.
He’d worn not gold armor then, but steel, striking silver that had gleamed in the lacking sunlight of the deep forest like a great metal lantern.
1229 CE
Art’s horse plodded on the wet trail, mud slopping about each time it raised its hoof. A crash from further into the forest caught his attention; he couldn’t pinpoint where the sound had come from, though, other than its source being somewhere on his left. He dismounted from his horse and loosened his sword in its scabbard. Bandits, perhaps. He knew of a trail nearby, one that was more well-traveled and popular for its safety.
Not today, he supposed. He set off at a jog, his armor clinking and losing its luster as he pushed through dense undergrowth and out of the shining sun. He cleared a log with a leap, his boots smashing through a branch on his way down. He hit the ground and ran a little harder, the sound of wood splintering coming from the same direction as the original crash. A man’s cries for help echoed through the trees, but they ceased shortly after beginning.
He pushed through a tangle of branches and came upon a clearing on a hill with a pond at the foot. He could see from his position on the opposite side of the small dip in the land the road on the other side. He could also see a carriage, upturned, with the horses nowhere to be found and a corpse in the reinsman’s seat. Blood was still pouring from his wounds, and one still contained an arrow.
More interestingly, however, the carriage was swarmed with bandits; ruffians and barbarians, the lot of them, dressed in furs and bits of armor they must’ve picked off some poor knight or local militia. No noise came from inside the carriage, the door of which was holding up remarkably well. They beat against it with axes and clubs, and yet it didn’t even budge. They were beginning to try breaking in the windows, which was yielding much better results.
He made his way down the hill as stealthily as he could, but his armor betrayed him. The bandits turned, and now he could count them handily. Six, plus another who was still hammering at the door.
He drew his sword without a word. They spoke in a language he didn’t recognize. No point in talking anyway. The steel glinted in the light of the clearing, where sunlight was filtering through the trees around it in shafts.
He glanced up at the sun. He judged it to be just past midday. No real advantage to be gained from that. The eye slits in his helmet didn’t give him massive amounts of visibility, but the holes in front of his lower face let him piece together a picture. The red plume hanging from the back of his helmet matched the paint that lined it.
The six advanced on him, speaking their evil tongue and brandishing their primitive weapons.
He surprised them by initiating, his sword running one through the chest as he lunged, relying on his armor to protect him in case they triumphed over their surprise in time to retaliate.
He stepped forward and pushed the man off his sword with his foot, pulling the blade out of the man while he groaned throatily, bubbles of blood rising from his throat.
He swung his sword in an arc around him, lightning quick, catching two with deep cuts across the chest. They fell, bleeding and he assumed swearing in pain, and stopped moving after a moment.
Art rotated his wrist, and the sword with it, trying to look as menacing as possible so they’d run away. If he could help it, he’d try not to kill all of them, but if they kept fighting, the only fate they sealed was their own.
He’d taken out the axe wielders; four left. Now, they couldn’t possibly hope to penetrate his thick armor with their clubs. They didn’t seem to realize this, though.
Two stepped forward, swinging clubs at his head. He ran one through before his strike could connect and used his free hand to grab the other’s wrist and stop his strike. He let go of his sword, leaving his most recently cadavered victim to hold it in his torso. He brought a gloved fist around and smashed in the man’s face, feeling bones break and seeing teeth fly. The man howled primally, blood gushing from his mouth as he tried to get free of Art’s grip… but this was not old, slow, brittle as iron Art. This was Art the young, fast, and strong as steel. He struggled with no success and fell, wrist still held in Art’s fist. Art pulled him up and kneed him in the neck, hearing something crack and the man choke. He let go and reached for his sword, only to find it no longer in the man he’d left it in.
He saw the flash of steel only a millisecond before it struck, knocking the helmet from his head and jarring him. His vision opened up, and now he could see everything. He couldn’t decide if this was to his advantage or not as a club was racing toward his head. He ducked it and tackled the man to the ground, bringing a fist back to smash the man’s head in when he felt the wind knocked out of him and simultaneously heard a clang. Art and his sword were parting ways once more as the latter struck the former and the inexperienced hand of the wielder held the sword too loosely, leaving it to clatter and then thud to the ground.
Art was thrown to the side by the weight of his sword combined with the strike, but it was only a dent in his armor now. He scowled, stomped on the head of the man he’d been knocked off of, and advanced on his final adversary. Art pulled the dirk from his belt and plunged it down into the man’s chest from his neck. He pulled it out immediately after and then slit the man’s throat with such force that he hit bone, his eyes burning with indignation at the taking of his sword.
He sheathed both sword and dagger and stood behind the man hacking singlemindedly at the door. He turned, only to see all his comrades dead and Art standing behind him, arms crossed, the same scowl still on his face, and blood that was decidedly not his coating him.
Art jerked his head in the direction of the forest, inviting the man to leave. The color drained from his face and he sprinted away, tripping on a body in his haste.
Art looked at the door for a moment before knocking gently. He waited a moment, then said in a reassuring tone, “They’re gone. I’m not going to hurt you.”
He saw something in the broken window, a flash of fair hair, perhaps. Then the door opened, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen stepped out. He recognized her immediately.
“Your Majesty,” he addressed, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.
“Rise,” she said commandingly, yet softly. Her dress was elegant but not impractical, a brown and black leather tunic that reached to her knees. It was only when Art saw the bow slung over her shoulder and the quiver on her belt that he realized it wasn’t a dress; it was hunting garb.
He did as he was told, standing half a foot taller than the queen.
“What are you called?” she asked formally.
“Artæmus Lacor,” he replied, face covered in the layer of sweat.
She nodded. “Kneel, then.” Again, he did as asked. “Hand me your sword.”
Art did so without question, unsheathing it and handing it to her, handle first. She lifted it with both hands, tapping it to each shoulder and then speaking.
“I dub thee Ser Artæmus Lacor, Royal Protector of the Crown.”
Personality:
1263 CE
The air of the dungeons was clear, for smoke rose, and yet the stench of the place was nearly unbearable.
Art took a moment to consider his orders.
“Take the witch from the dungeon and bring her to me. She can stop the siege. She has to,” the queen had said, her face made of stone and her once-fair locks now a thinning gray mane. She hadn’t lost her regal bearing in the four-and-thirty years since she and Art had met.
Art also pondered the witch. She’d been locked in the dungeon for as long as he could remember.
Art had to give only a burning glance to the guard who protected the dungeon’s entrance and would usually ask Art for identification. The man backed away. Art opened the door with a push without his tempo faltering.
“Brumhilde, the witch,” he spoke lowly, scanning the doors of the cells for names and finally finding the one after which he sought. He unlocked it and opened the door, only to be met by a flash of green and then red in his eyes. He growled, swiping around and finding nothing but air between his fingers.
“This won’t stop me, witch. You’re coming to the throne room.”
“The throne room? What could the throne room want with little old me?” The smoke cleared from his vision, the only remnants being tinges of both green and red in the corners of his peripheral vision. No immediate effects he could observe other than that.
“Come with me, for you’re to save the kingdom. How, I know not. That answer lies with the queen… or with you. Either way, if I have to drag you bleeding and beaten to the foot of the throne, I won’t hesitate.”
The witch dropped from the rafters to the floor of the cell stealthily and smoothly, like a cat. The form she’d taken was that of a young woman, not unlike the queen in her day. More lithe, though, somehow dangerous. She stepped from the shadows into the torchlight. “Let us have haste then, yes?” Her accent was one that Art had only heard a few times in his life from anyone anywhere else.
“Aye,” Art responded shortly. He beckoned for her to follow, as she seemed willing to comply.
On the walk back, Art noticed something strange: none of his joints irked him or ached, his back felt no pain. His armor seemed a nuance to carry, as if it were made of cloth.
His vision was clear now, no colors tinged it. He took in the features of the corridors he’d been passing for decades in a new light. Vibrant new colors exploded into his memory, supplanting the faded tapestries he’d come to know. Even the torches burned differently than he remembered.
He shook his head, and the colors drew away. He heard a giggle from behind him, but didn’t bother looking. He knew the amused expression of a she-witch was the only reward he could possibly receive for it.
Art pushed the door of the throne room open, and then found he couldn’t move. He strained, baring his teeth, the tendons in his neck standing out as he struggled.
A cackle erupted from behind him, malicious and bubbly. The witch danced out into view of the queen. Remarkably, the queen’s expression didn’t change. “Let him go, Hilde.”
Hilde? Art’s expression became that of one bemused.
“You’re right. I should let him decide for himself,” she said, and before the queen could so much as reply, Art was swarmed with visions.
He saw a castle, the castle, the old kingdom’s center. It was worn down and battered from decades, possibly even centuries, of weather and war wearing on it. As if in flight, he raced from a hill overlooking the keep to the dungeons, where he saw a young girl behind the bars, and what seemed to be a cleaner version looking through them at her.
“Father says he’ll have you executed at my coronation,” said the clean one.
“Why? Locking me away forever wasn’t punishment enough? I haven’t even done anything wrong!” wailed the one inside the cage.
“Father says you tried to kill me when we were small.”
“Lies! Lies! Lies!”
Art stepped back, away from the two, and the scene changed. He was in a carriage… tipped sideways, and he could see trees all around when he looked to the sky through shattered windows. Sounds of battle came from outside, and a persistent hammering sound came from the door. After a moment, the battle seemed to cease, and then Art heard running footsteps… he remembered them.
Art heard the three knocks, and then a moment after, his younger self speaking. “They’re gone. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The queen, his queen, the one he’d rescued that day, dared to look out the broken window, her blonde locks flashing in the sun. The queen exited, and he heard their conversation, knew it as if it were a script he’d memorized.
It was only then he saw the second figure in the carriage: the witch, who looked exactly like the queen. He glanced back at the two outside the carriage, saw the queen’s burning eyes dart back inside to look at her sister, telling her with startling authority to stay quiet.
The doppelganger inside the carriage was bound and gagged, chained unceremoniously to the wall. She shivered, wide-eyed and clearly frightened. This injustice seemed to tick something in his mind, some primal protective instinct, and he barged out of the carriage, only to find his vision had disappeared, and he was marching towards the throne. His sword was in his hand, and he felt renewed vigor in his step, boosted by blind rage and newly-found adrenaline.
The queen shrunk into her seat, backing as far as she could from Art.
“How could you lie to me for all these years, these decades?!” Art roared, his teeth bared and grinding and his eyes clouded with anger. He grabbed the queen by her hair, dragging her screaming through the corridors that depicted scenes of his heroism. “All this, for a lying whore!” He shouted, his voice echoing through the halls and overpowering the queen’s wails.
Art dragged her up the stairs of the nearest tower, the South Tower, which overlooked the city. He stopped on the balcony, throwing the queen against the railing. Below him, he could see buildings burning and a mob at the foot of the castle, a throng of insurgents and defenders alike.
He took the horn from his belt, the horn of a dragon itself, and blew into the end of it. The sound was low and loud, its booming cry overpowering that of the bloodshed below. They were silent for the moment and looked to him.
The flames covering the city reflected in his eyes as he bellowed his message.
“People of Dronnigen’s Keep,” he began, “this is the Queen!” He picked her up by the throat and held her effortlessly at arm’s length over the edge of the railing.
“She has lied to me for many years. Today, the lies end.”
Art looked into his queen’s eyes for the last time as he raised his sword, Wyrm's End, to the light.
“I… dub thee… Ser Artæmus, the Unforgivable.”
Art’s eyes widened in shock, his grip falling slack as he realized what his fit of passion had done. The queen slipped from his fingers, falling to the square below. He heard a distant crunch. So was her end.
And there was peace in the land.
But never in Artæmus’s heart.
Wyrm’s End: Slashing Weapon, Rank 4
The sword Wyrm’s End rested in its sheath, unused for so many years. All the same, Art’s hand lay on it instinctively. He fondled the ruby pommel, its once-clear gemstone now a deep and bloody red. He eyed it as he stood before the new queen, Brumhilde. Her expression was unreadable and it was all Art could do not to break her stare.
“I’m going to leave. I don’t want you to wist after a reason that is so easily discerned, so don’t. Don’t follow me, or I will happily cut down your entire army. Only remember I taught them myself. If you need me,” he said, then paused, turning towards the door, “find someone else.”
What happens to the kingdom now is in her hands.
He rubbed the ruby in his pommel as he exited, recalling how he came to obtain his masterpiece, the thing that would be left behind forever, long after he was gone.
1237 CE
Art’s chestnut stallion whinnied and stopped, snorting derisively at the filth around it.
“I’m sorry, boy. We'll be out of here soon enough,” Art said, patting its neck.
The village around him was in squalor; the buildings that weren’t charred ruins were covered in soot from the buildings that were.
Vagrants and bums littered the streets, forcibly evicted by dragonfire.
Art hyah’d through the town to the other side, to the path to the mountain.
Traveling up the densely wooded mountain path, Art encountered no resistance, no real indication of a dragon even existing. That is, until he found the path leveled off at the entrance to the cave. Here, the ground was scorched and the bones littered about the entrance to the cavern were blackened. Their sizes ranged from that of cows and even deer to that of chickens and children.
Art dismounted at the mouth of the cave, drawing his blade, which glinted in the fading daylight. He pulled the heavy metal kiteshield from his back and fastened it to his arm, flexing, testing its weight.
He concluded he would be able to wield it handily, and so, entered the cave, his armor clinking as he stepped farther and farther down the throat of the great, mountainous beast that owned the cave.
“Smell I an adventurer?” the voice that called out from the depths of the cavern was deep and exhumed heat like a bellow from the oblong lungs of a fire demon.
A blast of hot air blew in his face, and he closed his eyes, blinking back tears as they dried and his body rushed to refill.
“No,” Art replied in a voice that was incomparable to that of the beast he’d just heard; one that could feasibly overpower a crowd, but paled next to a true monster. “A knight.”
“Have you any intention of leaving alive?” the dragon said, and as Art turned the corner, he beheld it.
It was the deepest, darkest blood red of anything he’d ever seen; so red that it sucked in the color around it and violated it with a bloody aura. Even the gold it sat upon turned orange merely by proximity to its visage. Its eyes were hard and predatory, yellow irises extending over its entire eyeball like a lizard’s, and a slit like a cat’s, slashed dead down the center of the sphere. Its scaled glinted evilly in the light from the fires perpetually burning on the stalactites and stalagmites around it. In its maw, teeth were littered, the size of Art’s sword, snaggletoothed and disorderly, in rows. Its wings were folded against its back, and in the cave, there was no way they’d be able to open. Its front legs were muscular and grotesque, curved like an eagle’s talons and as long as Art’s legs.
Its head was as long as three Arts standing on top of each other, and its tail whipped about, the spikes lining the creature’s spine a dark purple.
“I suppose that’s a no,” the dragon breathed with a sigh. “Shame. You’re such a shiny man. Shame that armor will melt to your skin. I’m not going to the trouble of removing it.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to.” Art gripped his sword a little harder.
The dragon’s mouth curled into what Art could only assume was a smirk. Then the heat came, and Art didn’t see anything else. He was too busy diving behind the nearest column of stone. He could see the flames shooting past him, to either side. He raised his shield as soon as it stopped, running from his cover to the next, peeking over the shield to get a glimpse of the dragon’s position. It hadn’t moved. Only its head faced him.
“I admire your reflexes, but I’ve been here longer than you. Survived more adventurers and rogues than your entire race has dragons. Been alive for millennia. My scales have long since become as ruby. My mere breath gives you pause. What hope have you?”
“I don’t need hope to kill you. Only my sword, my shield, and my armor.”
“And what if I were to… take them away?”
“I’d do my best to subdue you with my hands.”
At this, the dragon laughed, its mouth dripping saliva and the force of the sound taking Art to a knee.
“With your hands? One couldn’t even do it with your equipment. Try.” The dragon lazed onto its back, opening up its chest and belly to Art. “Take a few swings.”
Art tentatively took a step forward and raised his shield, just in case, until he got to the literal belly of the beast. Then, he raised his sword and brought it down on the lighter scales he found there. It clanged off, bouncing away from the dragon’s body.
“See?”
Art growled, looked at the dragon for a moment, then raced at its head. He brought his shield up as its head lurched back in surprise. No flames spewed from its agape mouth.
Art smashed his shield into its teeth with the entire weight of his body, knocking enough loose that it recoiled immediately.
The dragon bellowed, but by now the heat didn’t stop Art as blood gushed from its recently-made cavities. It poured on his sword as he raised it again to bring it down on the thing’s nose. Feeling the thing’s claws raking through his armor like a quill on thin parchment, his last effort was spent chopping the thing’s entire snout off. His blade cut through like there was nothing in its way. He was as surprised as the dragon, its eyes widening and its tongue lolling against the floor of its mouth. Blood spurted from it, drenching Art while he roared, raising his sword once more and decapitating the great beast.
The metallic liquid gushed into his mouth, and he spat it out. The gold beneath him tinkled and the mountain shifted, displacing him. He sprinted down the slope of gold, making it to the stalagmites at the bottom and hiding behind them just as the corpse of the dragon rolled into them. Cones of rock landed around him and he raised his shield to cover himself.
Drinker of Dragon’s Blood: Strength, Rank 3
He heard a clang against his shield, and then more. The rubble was veritably covering him. Yet still he held strong, his legs straining to push tons of rocks off his now-dented shield. He found they would not budge an inch with each colossal effort… yet there were distances less than an inch and so he slowly and laboriously displaced them.
It seemed the entire cave and mountain above had crushed him, yet he found it was becoming easier and easier to move the rubble as he felt warmth, nay, fire coursing through his veins. His musculature rippled with the energy, the heat of dragon’s blood filling him with strength.
As he displaced his impromptu tomb, he saw the sky-- the stars were out. Radiating light from behind him was the mountain of gold the dragon had hoarded in his years terrorizing this village. Glancing at it as he threw away his near-crumpled shield, Art felt something he’d never quite felt before: greed. This gold was his; this is where he’d make his home away from the castle.
A collapsed cave could be easily sculpted to glory, Art reasoned. Especially with the strength he now found he possessed. His sword sheathed and strength renewed, and his likeness veritably doused in the ichor of a leviathan, he mounted his chestnut steed and returned a hero, a god among men, to his kingdom.
Duty of the Hunter: Combat Supremacy + Weapon Master, Rank 2
1244 CE
In seven years, little had changed in Dronnigen’s Keep since the death of the dragon. The peasants still went about their simple businesses, the court still held, and Art still fought for the kingdom’s honor and sovereignty, though fewer enemies held fortress nearby.
The countryside was largely prosperous, and bread and salted meat were staple yields to the keep. Frightful tales, though, began to emerge from the west, of a demon that stalked the fields at night, devouring men and livestock he came across, and killing crops in his wake.
Art rode alone, often finding a group unable to keep pace. His horse felt no pressure to move quickly, though Art knew he must be swift in his craft. Whatever this thing was, it must leave a trail. Following the trail back to it would be its end. If it left a trail, Wyrm’s End could kill it. At least, that was his reasoning.
The sun shone brightly, contrasting the grisly scene that greeted him near the edge of the farmlands supporting the keep. A group of commoners twenty strong surrounded a pool of blood and a mangled body. Art rode his horse into the center of the square, then dismounted, his grand frame dwarfing many of the peasants. His armor was sculpted dragonbone, stronger than steel, and its polished finish shone in the sunlight.
The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses. His helmet he removed to grant him better vision, yellow irises the same shade as the great beast he’d killed years previous looking over the scene.
Lying the middle of the intersection was a man, large even compared to Art, with long black fur covering him in patches, as though he were shedding it. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape. Art knelt next to the corpse, noting that when he looked into the man’s open maw, there were teeth like that of a wolf inside. He glanced at the townsfolk and spoke forcefully to them.
“Remain in your homes, lest you suffer a similar fate tonight. I will hunt this beast. I don’t need help, I need you to stay indoors. Soyez sage.” Art figured that far as he was from Dronnigen’s Keep, he may well be in the territory where Gaul met their lands. Perhaps it would soothe them to hear their own language.
The throng dispersed with a wave of murmurs, allowing Artæmus to examine the cadaver uninterrupted. Blood was pooled mostly around the upper torso and head, and Art looked a little closer, pulling aside the great bushy beard that adorned his face and neck. A great, gaping, red wound was all that remained of a thick, ox-like neck.
The opening yawned wide before Art’s prying eyes. He could see the backbone—good to know this man had one, there are so many that don’t—and pooling in the cavity was a transparent pink fluid. Art sniffed. Rot had yet to set into the corpse, something that gave Art some sense of scope concerning the timing of this death.
Art couldn’t be sure if the man was from around here, but the important thing was that he died here, and that no man could’ve feasibly done this with any weapon Art knew of. Beasts of a sort were a more likely suspect, and this man looked to be half beast himself. A werewolf, maybe. Art had seen dragons; wolf-men weren’t out of the question. Maybe a pack rivalry, or a different monster entirely.
The sun was still high, and Art had a feeling in his gut he’d need to wait for nightfall before he could hope to track it. If it had footprints, they’d been obscured by the mob.
No, he’d have to watch the fields and streets himself tonight. Wouldn’t be difficult. He didn’t need much or any sleep these days, hadn’t since he drank the dragon’s blood. What’d be difficult is having an eye everywhere at once. Victory here wasn’t assured. A search wasn’t an enemy, not something he could fight. The best he could do was wait with an eye on the fields and an eye on the square.
Night came and night went for over a week before Art caught wind of something killing livestock. The same thing that had happened to the wolf-man in the square, the ruthless, brutal throat-tearing with nothing else so much as picked at, had happened to four cattle, three sheep, and two oxen in the one night. Art hadn’t heard a thing. It was too far away.
This was turning into a mess, and Art hadn’t the patience to leave his queen alone, unguarded in the castle for any longer. Tonight was the last night. He’d track this beast to its holding and slay it there, like he had the dragon.
The two were far from the same, however. A different village had been harassed by that dragon for months before Art had been sent to respond. This was the first death here, and usually the authorities the queen had assigned, a hinterlands-based law enforcement militia. The lands the queen could control with a dragonkiller were vast, both because she’d done a considerable favor for her people by killing perhaps the most dangerous of all beasts and because dragonkillers were few and far between with a reputation for lethality.
As such, since the queen could not wall her kingdom in affordably nor protect it sufficiently with only Art to do so, she chose to rely on volunteer militias armed with crown weapons. Usually, they had the means to prevent petty crime themselves, even murder could be sufficiently handled by summary trial and usually, subsequent execution.
But crimes against keep and crown—unnatural phenomena—were Art’s domain. The unholy, the monsters, they were also Art’s job to contain and kill. There had been only one as of yet: the dragon. This one, Art could not possibly pinpoint a creature he knew to exist. Many legends told of abominations, beastly things that tore the throats of livestock and men. These were meant to scare children into sleeping at night. Rarely were their fears realized, and when they were, many a time were the culprits wolves. Now, however, man had been killed by beast.
Wolf or not—and Art was certain that it was not—the abomination had to be ended rightly.
Hence, Art examined the dead animals, which were arranged in a circle. This time there was a post in the middle with the head of one of the great bull oxen speared on a fencepost that had been removed from the ground and replaced in the center of the circle. It was a clear message to Art—back off.
There was no possibility of that.
He crouched by the fence post’s original hole, taking great care to make his own tracks distinct so they could not be confused for the perpetrator. He saw no tracks, no footprints, at least. There was, however, a trail of yellowed and deadened grass that led into the forest, where more foliage was wilted and dead, as though a death wind howled on a particular warpath.
He loosened his sword in its scabbard at his hip, exposing a part of the shining blade as he forged a trail into the dense woods, where thick trees surrounded him. The way forward was clear in spite of the sun-killing canopy. The leaves blocked the sun and plunged the forest floor into darkness that was almost complete only meters in. Art had a lot of his own abilities enhanced by the dragon’s blood, and it made his sword indestructible—the chip from the scales of the dragon still lay on its edge, same as it had just before it was made unbreakable. All the same, he could not see in the dark.
Right now, the woodland was of blackest night and emptiest silence. No insects chirped, no birds sang: even the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot sounded muted, suppressed.
Art had walked perhaps a mile into the forest, following the same trail of dead plantlife, when a voice spoke from the inky depths ahead. It was tinny but resonant, and had a strange property to it, a lilt like a song. It seemed to come from all around.
“A knight this way comes, I smell.”
“Don’t lie to me, beastling. A knight smells no different from any other man,” Art replied, drawing Wyrm’s End and peering into the darkness.
“You’re wrong. A knight smells like pretension. He feels as though humankind is the equal to any monster that lurks in the world. It isn’t.” The voice began to focus into a single direction, but still, it was too broad to triangulate. Art faced that way and locked his jaw.
“What makes you think that?” Art was strung tight as a bowstring.
“Your sword won’t work on me, and I’ve outsmarted too many of your kind. Your little steel sticks and your metal suits won’t protect you from me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The shadows seemed to spew black mist over him, and he felt a weight on his back and claws tear at his throat. They were thin, fine-pointed needles of searing pain drawing four lines across his neck. They weren’t deep enough to faze him, though. The blow was glancing, for Art felt the wind rush across his face before the attack. He’d swung quickly and yet he knew immediately that he had missed. But he knew his precision was unmatched, was unmatchable. He had to have hit it. All the same, his sword encountered only empty air.
Art coughed blood into his mouth, then spat it off into the leaves. He could feel the air growing humid, and it began to reek like death and smoke. As good a swordsman as Art was, he was still fighting almost completely blind. The rays of sun that hadn’t been obscured before were now completely darkened by the cloud covering him.
He needed to see to fight. That meant the trees that were all around him had to be removed to make way for the sun. If he could get a good look at this thing, he could find its weak spot, or its body. Whichever was easiest.
Art leapt into action, jumping from the path of dead things into the woods, swinging his sword through the trees as if they were made of straw. He doubled back after the trees had fallen, spanning their great dark trunks in a bound. The thing was running into the thick black of the shadows, now. There were no condescending words spilling from its mouth now.
As he chased it, felling the trees in his path, the smoke around it dissipated until all that was left was a gangly creature with long limbs and long fingers, with knifelike claws.
He’d outwitted it now, chased it in a loop and cornered it beneath the only shade he’d left: a great wide oak tree as big around as a guard tower, with a canopy the size of the great hall at the keep. It hissed, its strangely human eyes wide with panic as it realized it was finished. Its mouth was a menagerie of needle teeth like spikes jutting from a hole in its face. Its grey skin was like ash, with flakes falling from it in flecks as it danced between beams of sunlight. Cordlike muscles flexed beneath its skin, its agitated state exaggerating its effort of movement. Finally it settled into an alcove in the tree roots.
“Before I paint you into the tree, I must ask: Is there a name for your kind?” Art leaned onto his sword, pushing its point into the earth. “I considered a few things at the beginning. Werewolf? No, you’re no loup-garou. Vampire? Why livestock? Not a vampire. So tell me what you are, and you’ll feel no pain.”
The thing looked reluctant, but as Art clicked his tongue and moved to pull his sword from the dirt, it stretched out its hands. “Wait… I crossed the keeplands to get here. I am from the wildlands to the west. In Germani I am called aufhocker.”
“A leap-upon.” Fitting. “Very well.”
Art pulled Wyrm’s End from the ground and ran the beast through the neck. It gurgled and swiped at him, but he took its wrist in his other hand and snapped it easily. It held no power now that it was detected. All its strength was in surprise. Now that he looked upon its bleeding, lifeless form, it was in most every regard… dainty.
It had found a weakness, a chink in his armor at the neck. Glaring, perhaps, but it was good bait, and it had served its purpose. Now it was time for him to ride back to the castle and recuperate from his wounds.
I plan to have him fight and kill a dragon during one of his power explanations, but might have to get such an event O.K.'d by storyboard, so it fits into the Reach universe. Right now, I'm trying to get him to fit in under the whole "Serum = Superpowers = Ancient Legendary Heroes/Gods" banner.
Possible reasons for a dragon's existence:
-A different character with superpowers/magic and level 4 Transformation
-Dragons existing as is in the universe
-Created by a character with superpowers/magic and level 4 Creation
-Character enlarges a lizard or a crocodile expediently to incredible size and imbues it with powers alike to mythical dragons
I also plan for the dragon's blood to have magical properties which attribute to his sword being a Rank 4 Slashing Weapon.
Future Events explaining powers TBD
The pictures are pretty large, I'll resize them at a later date.
Planned Powers:
Slashing Weapon Rank 4 + Weapon Master Rank 2 + Combat Supremacy Rank 2 (16)
Strength Rank 3 (22)
Body Rank 2 (24)
Young Art:
Art, circa 1263:
Art, modern day (planned):
Name: Ser Artæmus Lacor
Gender: Male
Alignment: Hero
Team: Solo Hero
Level: Global
Location: Reach City
Background:
1263 CE
The castle was falling; this, Art knew. The walls shook, and his old legs carried him at a brisk walk. His fists were clenched and his dark cape flowed behind him. His white beard had been trimmed by a servant that morning, and in the rich light of the flaming city through the window, it appeared orange. The aging man’s obstinate nose was looked over by two eyes so pale they looked almost white. A heavy brow and thick eyebrows were concealed by a stylized ceremonial golden helmet, weighty enough to have caused him strain when he’d first received it.
Its visage was of a dragon, or a lion, or some other great beast. It had been so long since he’d earned it that he couldn’t quite recall. He’d never taken the time to look. Ah, time. A commodity he’d soon be running dangerously short of, if the siege was going how it looked to be. This war may well be his last. The peasants were in uproar, rising against the queen. They wanted her blood, and Art was perhaps the last line of her defense.
The insurgents had constructed ladders to scale the walls surrounding the city, taking advantage of careless watchmen. Soon after they crossed, buildings began to burn. The greatest construction project the city had ever undertaken, a great golden statue of and for the queen, had been toppled and marred with soot from the structures toppling and exhuming the dust from their falling corpses.
The queen… Art reflected on when he was young, when he’d first met the queen, when the city had been but a township.
He’d worn not gold armor then, but steel, striking silver that had gleamed in the lacking sunlight of the deep forest like a great metal lantern.
1229 CE
Art’s horse plodded on the wet trail, mud slopping about each time it raised its hoof. A crash from further into the forest caught his attention; he couldn’t pinpoint where the sound had come from, though, other than its source being somewhere on his left. He dismounted from his horse and loosened his sword in its scabbard. Bandits, perhaps. He knew of a trail nearby, one that was more well-traveled and popular for its safety.
Not today, he supposed. He set off at a jog, his armor clinking and losing its luster as he pushed through dense undergrowth and out of the shining sun. He cleared a log with a leap, his boots smashing through a branch on his way down. He hit the ground and ran a little harder, the sound of wood splintering coming from the same direction as the original crash. A man’s cries for help echoed through the trees, but they ceased shortly after beginning.
He pushed through a tangle of branches and came upon a clearing on a hill with a pond at the foot. He could see from his position on the opposite side of the small dip in the land the road on the other side. He could also see a carriage, upturned, with the horses nowhere to be found and a corpse in the reinsman’s seat. Blood was still pouring from his wounds, and one still contained an arrow.
More interestingly, however, the carriage was swarmed with bandits; ruffians and barbarians, the lot of them, dressed in furs and bits of armor they must’ve picked off some poor knight or local militia. No noise came from inside the carriage, the door of which was holding up remarkably well. They beat against it with axes and clubs, and yet it didn’t even budge. They were beginning to try breaking in the windows, which was yielding much better results.
He made his way down the hill as stealthily as he could, but his armor betrayed him. The bandits turned, and now he could count them handily. Six, plus another who was still hammering at the door.
He drew his sword without a word. They spoke in a language he didn’t recognize. No point in talking anyway. The steel glinted in the light of the clearing, where sunlight was filtering through the trees around it in shafts.
He glanced up at the sun. He judged it to be just past midday. No real advantage to be gained from that. The eye slits in his helmet didn’t give him massive amounts of visibility, but the holes in front of his lower face let him piece together a picture. The red plume hanging from the back of his helmet matched the paint that lined it.
The six advanced on him, speaking their evil tongue and brandishing their primitive weapons.
He surprised them by initiating, his sword running one through the chest as he lunged, relying on his armor to protect him in case they triumphed over their surprise in time to retaliate.
He stepped forward and pushed the man off his sword with his foot, pulling the blade out of the man while he groaned throatily, bubbles of blood rising from his throat.
He swung his sword in an arc around him, lightning quick, catching two with deep cuts across the chest. They fell, bleeding and he assumed swearing in pain, and stopped moving after a moment.
Art rotated his wrist, and the sword with it, trying to look as menacing as possible so they’d run away. If he could help it, he’d try not to kill all of them, but if they kept fighting, the only fate they sealed was their own.
He’d taken out the axe wielders; four left. Now, they couldn’t possibly hope to penetrate his thick armor with their clubs. They didn’t seem to realize this, though.
Two stepped forward, swinging clubs at his head. He ran one through before his strike could connect and used his free hand to grab the other’s wrist and stop his strike. He let go of his sword, leaving his most recently cadavered victim to hold it in his torso. He brought a gloved fist around and smashed in the man’s face, feeling bones break and seeing teeth fly. The man howled primally, blood gushing from his mouth as he tried to get free of Art’s grip… but this was not old, slow, brittle as iron Art. This was Art the young, fast, and strong as steel. He struggled with no success and fell, wrist still held in Art’s fist. Art pulled him up and kneed him in the neck, hearing something crack and the man choke. He let go and reached for his sword, only to find it no longer in the man he’d left it in.
He saw the flash of steel only a millisecond before it struck, knocking the helmet from his head and jarring him. His vision opened up, and now he could see everything. He couldn’t decide if this was to his advantage or not as a club was racing toward his head. He ducked it and tackled the man to the ground, bringing a fist back to smash the man’s head in when he felt the wind knocked out of him and simultaneously heard a clang. Art and his sword were parting ways once more as the latter struck the former and the inexperienced hand of the wielder held the sword too loosely, leaving it to clatter and then thud to the ground.
Art was thrown to the side by the weight of his sword combined with the strike, but it was only a dent in his armor now. He scowled, stomped on the head of the man he’d been knocked off of, and advanced on his final adversary. Art pulled the dirk from his belt and plunged it down into the man’s chest from his neck. He pulled it out immediately after and then slit the man’s throat with such force that he hit bone, his eyes burning with indignation at the taking of his sword.
He sheathed both sword and dagger and stood behind the man hacking singlemindedly at the door. He turned, only to see all his comrades dead and Art standing behind him, arms crossed, the same scowl still on his face, and blood that was decidedly not his coating him.
Art jerked his head in the direction of the forest, inviting the man to leave. The color drained from his face and he sprinted away, tripping on a body in his haste.
Art looked at the door for a moment before knocking gently. He waited a moment, then said in a reassuring tone, “They’re gone. I’m not going to hurt you.”
He saw something in the broken window, a flash of fair hair, perhaps. Then the door opened, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen stepped out. He recognized her immediately.
“Your Majesty,” he addressed, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.
“Rise,” she said commandingly, yet softly. Her dress was elegant but not impractical, a brown and black leather tunic that reached to her knees. It was only when Art saw the bow slung over her shoulder and the quiver on her belt that he realized it wasn’t a dress; it was hunting garb.
He did as he was told, standing half a foot taller than the queen.
“What are you called?” she asked formally.
“Artæmus Lacor,” he replied, face covered in the layer of sweat.
She nodded. “Kneel, then.” Again, he did as asked. “Hand me your sword.”
Art did so without question, unsheathing it and handing it to her, handle first. She lifted it with both hands, tapping it to each shoulder and then speaking.
“I dub thee Ser Artæmus Lacor, Royal Protector of the Crown.”
Personality:
1263 CE
The air of the dungeons was clear, for smoke rose, and yet the stench of the place was nearly unbearable.
Art took a moment to consider his orders.
“Take the witch from the dungeon and bring her to me. She can stop the siege. She has to,” the queen had said, her face made of stone and her once-fair locks now a thinning gray mane. She hadn’t lost her regal bearing in the four-and-thirty years since she and Art had met.
Art also pondered the witch. She’d been locked in the dungeon for as long as he could remember.
Art had to give only a burning glance to the guard who protected the dungeon’s entrance and would usually ask Art for identification. The man backed away. Art opened the door with a push without his tempo faltering.
“Brumhilde, the witch,” he spoke lowly, scanning the doors of the cells for names and finally finding the one after which he sought. He unlocked it and opened the door, only to be met by a flash of green and then red in his eyes. He growled, swiping around and finding nothing but air between his fingers.
“This won’t stop me, witch. You’re coming to the throne room.”
“The throne room? What could the throne room want with little old me?” The smoke cleared from his vision, the only remnants being tinges of both green and red in the corners of his peripheral vision. No immediate effects he could observe other than that.
“Come with me, for you’re to save the kingdom. How, I know not. That answer lies with the queen… or with you. Either way, if I have to drag you bleeding and beaten to the foot of the throne, I won’t hesitate.”
The witch dropped from the rafters to the floor of the cell stealthily and smoothly, like a cat. The form she’d taken was that of a young woman, not unlike the queen in her day. More lithe, though, somehow dangerous. She stepped from the shadows into the torchlight. “Let us have haste then, yes?” Her accent was one that Art had only heard a few times in his life from anyone anywhere else.
“Aye,” Art responded shortly. He beckoned for her to follow, as she seemed willing to comply.
On the walk back, Art noticed something strange: none of his joints irked him or ached, his back felt no pain. His armor seemed a nuance to carry, as if it were made of cloth.
His vision was clear now, no colors tinged it. He took in the features of the corridors he’d been passing for decades in a new light. Vibrant new colors exploded into his memory, supplanting the faded tapestries he’d come to know. Even the torches burned differently than he remembered.
He shook his head, and the colors drew away. He heard a giggle from behind him, but didn’t bother looking. He knew the amused expression of a she-witch was the only reward he could possibly receive for it.
Art pushed the door of the throne room open, and then found he couldn’t move. He strained, baring his teeth, the tendons in his neck standing out as he struggled.
A cackle erupted from behind him, malicious and bubbly. The witch danced out into view of the queen. Remarkably, the queen’s expression didn’t change. “Let him go, Hilde.”
Hilde? Art’s expression became that of one bemused.
“You’re right. I should let him decide for himself,” she said, and before the queen could so much as reply, Art was swarmed with visions.
He saw a castle, the castle, the old kingdom’s center. It was worn down and battered from decades, possibly even centuries, of weather and war wearing on it. As if in flight, he raced from a hill overlooking the keep to the dungeons, where he saw a young girl behind the bars, and what seemed to be a cleaner version looking through them at her.
“Father says he’ll have you executed at my coronation,” said the clean one.
“Why? Locking me away forever wasn’t punishment enough? I haven’t even done anything wrong!” wailed the one inside the cage.
“Father says you tried to kill me when we were small.”
“Lies! Lies! Lies!”
Art stepped back, away from the two, and the scene changed. He was in a carriage… tipped sideways, and he could see trees all around when he looked to the sky through shattered windows. Sounds of battle came from outside, and a persistent hammering sound came from the door. After a moment, the battle seemed to cease, and then Art heard running footsteps… he remembered them.
Art heard the three knocks, and then a moment after, his younger self speaking. “They’re gone. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The queen, his queen, the one he’d rescued that day, dared to look out the broken window, her blonde locks flashing in the sun. The queen exited, and he heard their conversation, knew it as if it were a script he’d memorized.
It was only then he saw the second figure in the carriage: the witch, who looked exactly like the queen. He glanced back at the two outside the carriage, saw the queen’s burning eyes dart back inside to look at her sister, telling her with startling authority to stay quiet.
The doppelganger inside the carriage was bound and gagged, chained unceremoniously to the wall. She shivered, wide-eyed and clearly frightened. This injustice seemed to tick something in his mind, some primal protective instinct, and he barged out of the carriage, only to find his vision had disappeared, and he was marching towards the throne. His sword was in his hand, and he felt renewed vigor in his step, boosted by blind rage and newly-found adrenaline.
The queen shrunk into her seat, backing as far as she could from Art.
“How could you lie to me for all these years, these decades?!” Art roared, his teeth bared and grinding and his eyes clouded with anger. He grabbed the queen by her hair, dragging her screaming through the corridors that depicted scenes of his heroism. “All this, for a lying whore!” He shouted, his voice echoing through the halls and overpowering the queen’s wails.
Art dragged her up the stairs of the nearest tower, the South Tower, which overlooked the city. He stopped on the balcony, throwing the queen against the railing. Below him, he could see buildings burning and a mob at the foot of the castle, a throng of insurgents and defenders alike.
He took the horn from his belt, the horn of a dragon itself, and blew into the end of it. The sound was low and loud, its booming cry overpowering that of the bloodshed below. They were silent for the moment and looked to him.
The flames covering the city reflected in his eyes as he bellowed his message.
“People of Dronnigen’s Keep,” he began, “this is the Queen!” He picked her up by the throat and held her effortlessly at arm’s length over the edge of the railing.
“She has lied to me for many years. Today, the lies end.”
Art looked into his queen’s eyes for the last time as he raised his sword, Wyrm's End, to the light.
“I… dub thee… Ser Artæmus, the Unforgivable.”
Art’s eyes widened in shock, his grip falling slack as he realized what his fit of passion had done. The queen slipped from his fingers, falling to the square below. He heard a distant crunch. So was her end.
And there was peace in the land.
But never in Artæmus’s heart.
Wyrm’s End: Slashing Weapon, Rank 4
The sword Wyrm’s End rested in its sheath, unused for so many years. All the same, Art’s hand lay on it instinctively. He fondled the ruby pommel, its once-clear gemstone now a deep and bloody red. He eyed it as he stood before the new queen, Brumhilde. Her expression was unreadable and it was all Art could do not to break her stare.
“I’m going to leave. I don’t want you to wist after a reason that is so easily discerned, so don’t. Don’t follow me, or I will happily cut down your entire army. Only remember I taught them myself. If you need me,” he said, then paused, turning towards the door, “find someone else.”
What happens to the kingdom now is in her hands.
He rubbed the ruby in his pommel as he exited, recalling how he came to obtain his masterpiece, the thing that would be left behind forever, long after he was gone.
1237 CE
Art’s chestnut stallion whinnied and stopped, snorting derisively at the filth around it.
“I’m sorry, boy. We'll be out of here soon enough,” Art said, patting its neck.
The village around him was in squalor; the buildings that weren’t charred ruins were covered in soot from the buildings that were.
Vagrants and bums littered the streets, forcibly evicted by dragonfire.
Art hyah’d through the town to the other side, to the path to the mountain.
Traveling up the densely wooded mountain path, Art encountered no resistance, no real indication of a dragon even existing. That is, until he found the path leveled off at the entrance to the cave. Here, the ground was scorched and the bones littered about the entrance to the cavern were blackened. Their sizes ranged from that of cows and even deer to that of chickens and children.
Art dismounted at the mouth of the cave, drawing his blade, which glinted in the fading daylight. He pulled the heavy metal kiteshield from his back and fastened it to his arm, flexing, testing its weight.
He concluded he would be able to wield it handily, and so, entered the cave, his armor clinking as he stepped farther and farther down the throat of the great, mountainous beast that owned the cave.
“Smell I an adventurer?” the voice that called out from the depths of the cavern was deep and exhumed heat like a bellow from the oblong lungs of a fire demon.
A blast of hot air blew in his face, and he closed his eyes, blinking back tears as they dried and his body rushed to refill.
“No,” Art replied in a voice that was incomparable to that of the beast he’d just heard; one that could feasibly overpower a crowd, but paled next to a true monster. “A knight.”
“Have you any intention of leaving alive?” the dragon said, and as Art turned the corner, he beheld it.
It was the deepest, darkest blood red of anything he’d ever seen; so red that it sucked in the color around it and violated it with a bloody aura. Even the gold it sat upon turned orange merely by proximity to its visage. Its eyes were hard and predatory, yellow irises extending over its entire eyeball like a lizard’s, and a slit like a cat’s, slashed dead down the center of the sphere. Its scaled glinted evilly in the light from the fires perpetually burning on the stalactites and stalagmites around it. In its maw, teeth were littered, the size of Art’s sword, snaggletoothed and disorderly, in rows. Its wings were folded against its back, and in the cave, there was no way they’d be able to open. Its front legs were muscular and grotesque, curved like an eagle’s talons and as long as Art’s legs.
Its head was as long as three Arts standing on top of each other, and its tail whipped about, the spikes lining the creature’s spine a dark purple.
“I suppose that’s a no,” the dragon breathed with a sigh. “Shame. You’re such a shiny man. Shame that armor will melt to your skin. I’m not going to the trouble of removing it.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to.” Art gripped his sword a little harder.
The dragon’s mouth curled into what Art could only assume was a smirk. Then the heat came, and Art didn’t see anything else. He was too busy diving behind the nearest column of stone. He could see the flames shooting past him, to either side. He raised his shield as soon as it stopped, running from his cover to the next, peeking over the shield to get a glimpse of the dragon’s position. It hadn’t moved. Only its head faced him.
“I admire your reflexes, but I’ve been here longer than you. Survived more adventurers and rogues than your entire race has dragons. Been alive for millennia. My scales have long since become as ruby. My mere breath gives you pause. What hope have you?”
“I don’t need hope to kill you. Only my sword, my shield, and my armor.”
“And what if I were to… take them away?”
“I’d do my best to subdue you with my hands.”
At this, the dragon laughed, its mouth dripping saliva and the force of the sound taking Art to a knee.
“With your hands? One couldn’t even do it with your equipment. Try.” The dragon lazed onto its back, opening up its chest and belly to Art. “Take a few swings.”
Art tentatively took a step forward and raised his shield, just in case, until he got to the literal belly of the beast. Then, he raised his sword and brought it down on the lighter scales he found there. It clanged off, bouncing away from the dragon’s body.
“See?”
Art growled, looked at the dragon for a moment, then raced at its head. He brought his shield up as its head lurched back in surprise. No flames spewed from its agape mouth.
Art smashed his shield into its teeth with the entire weight of his body, knocking enough loose that it recoiled immediately.
The dragon bellowed, but by now the heat didn’t stop Art as blood gushed from its recently-made cavities. It poured on his sword as he raised it again to bring it down on the thing’s nose. Feeling the thing’s claws raking through his armor like a quill on thin parchment, his last effort was spent chopping the thing’s entire snout off. His blade cut through like there was nothing in its way. He was as surprised as the dragon, its eyes widening and its tongue lolling against the floor of its mouth. Blood spurted from it, drenching Art while he roared, raising his sword once more and decapitating the great beast.
The metallic liquid gushed into his mouth, and he spat it out. The gold beneath him tinkled and the mountain shifted, displacing him. He sprinted down the slope of gold, making it to the stalagmites at the bottom and hiding behind them just as the corpse of the dragon rolled into them. Cones of rock landed around him and he raised his shield to cover himself.
Drinker of Dragon’s Blood: Strength, Rank 3
He heard a clang against his shield, and then more. The rubble was veritably covering him. Yet still he held strong, his legs straining to push tons of rocks off his now-dented shield. He found they would not budge an inch with each colossal effort… yet there were distances less than an inch and so he slowly and laboriously displaced them.
It seemed the entire cave and mountain above had crushed him, yet he found it was becoming easier and easier to move the rubble as he felt warmth, nay, fire coursing through his veins. His musculature rippled with the energy, the heat of dragon’s blood filling him with strength.
As he displaced his impromptu tomb, he saw the sky-- the stars were out. Radiating light from behind him was the mountain of gold the dragon had hoarded in his years terrorizing this village. Glancing at it as he threw away his near-crumpled shield, Art felt something he’d never quite felt before: greed. This gold was his; this is where he’d make his home away from the castle.
A collapsed cave could be easily sculpted to glory, Art reasoned. Especially with the strength he now found he possessed. His sword sheathed and strength renewed, and his likeness veritably doused in the ichor of a leviathan, he mounted his chestnut steed and returned a hero, a god among men, to his kingdom.
Duty of the Hunter: Combat Supremacy + Weapon Master, Rank 2
1244 CE
In seven years, little had changed in Dronnigen’s Keep since the death of the dragon. The peasants still went about their simple businesses, the court still held, and Art still fought for the kingdom’s honor and sovereignty, though fewer enemies held fortress nearby.
The countryside was largely prosperous, and bread and salted meat were staple yields to the keep. Frightful tales, though, began to emerge from the west, of a demon that stalked the fields at night, devouring men and livestock he came across, and killing crops in his wake.
Art rode alone, often finding a group unable to keep pace. His horse felt no pressure to move quickly, though Art knew he must be swift in his craft. Whatever this thing was, it must leave a trail. Following the trail back to it would be its end. If it left a trail, Wyrm’s End could kill it. At least, that was his reasoning.
The sun shone brightly, contrasting the grisly scene that greeted him near the edge of the farmlands supporting the keep. A group of commoners twenty strong surrounded a pool of blood and a mangled body. Art rode his horse into the center of the square, then dismounted, his grand frame dwarfing many of the peasants. His armor was sculpted dragonbone, stronger than steel, and its polished finish shone in the sunlight.
The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses. His helmet he removed to grant him better vision, yellow irises the same shade as the great beast he’d killed years previous looking over the scene.
Lying the middle of the intersection was a man, large even compared to Art, with long black fur covering him in patches, as though he were shedding it. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape. Art knelt next to the corpse, noting that when he looked into the man’s open maw, there were teeth like that of a wolf inside. He glanced at the townsfolk and spoke forcefully to them.
“Remain in your homes, lest you suffer a similar fate tonight. I will hunt this beast. I don’t need help, I need you to stay indoors. Soyez sage.” Art figured that far as he was from Dronnigen’s Keep, he may well be in the territory where Gaul met their lands. Perhaps it would soothe them to hear their own language.
The throng dispersed with a wave of murmurs, allowing Artæmus to examine the cadaver uninterrupted. Blood was pooled mostly around the upper torso and head, and Art looked a little closer, pulling aside the great bushy beard that adorned his face and neck. A great, gaping, red wound was all that remained of a thick, ox-like neck.
The opening yawned wide before Art’s prying eyes. He could see the backbone—good to know this man had one, there are so many that don’t—and pooling in the cavity was a transparent pink fluid. Art sniffed. Rot had yet to set into the corpse, something that gave Art some sense of scope concerning the timing of this death.
Art couldn’t be sure if the man was from around here, but the important thing was that he died here, and that no man could’ve feasibly done this with any weapon Art knew of. Beasts of a sort were a more likely suspect, and this man looked to be half beast himself. A werewolf, maybe. Art had seen dragons; wolf-men weren’t out of the question. Maybe a pack rivalry, or a different monster entirely.
The sun was still high, and Art had a feeling in his gut he’d need to wait for nightfall before he could hope to track it. If it had footprints, they’d been obscured by the mob.
No, he’d have to watch the fields and streets himself tonight. Wouldn’t be difficult. He didn’t need much or any sleep these days, hadn’t since he drank the dragon’s blood. What’d be difficult is having an eye everywhere at once. Victory here wasn’t assured. A search wasn’t an enemy, not something he could fight. The best he could do was wait with an eye on the fields and an eye on the square.
Night came and night went for over a week before Art caught wind of something killing livestock. The same thing that had happened to the wolf-man in the square, the ruthless, brutal throat-tearing with nothing else so much as picked at, had happened to four cattle, three sheep, and two oxen in the one night. Art hadn’t heard a thing. It was too far away.
This was turning into a mess, and Art hadn’t the patience to leave his queen alone, unguarded in the castle for any longer. Tonight was the last night. He’d track this beast to its holding and slay it there, like he had the dragon.
The two were far from the same, however. A different village had been harassed by that dragon for months before Art had been sent to respond. This was the first death here, and usually the authorities the queen had assigned, a hinterlands-based law enforcement militia. The lands the queen could control with a dragonkiller were vast, both because she’d done a considerable favor for her people by killing perhaps the most dangerous of all beasts and because dragonkillers were few and far between with a reputation for lethality.
As such, since the queen could not wall her kingdom in affordably nor protect it sufficiently with only Art to do so, she chose to rely on volunteer militias armed with crown weapons. Usually, they had the means to prevent petty crime themselves, even murder could be sufficiently handled by summary trial and usually, subsequent execution.
But crimes against keep and crown—unnatural phenomena—were Art’s domain. The unholy, the monsters, they were also Art’s job to contain and kill. There had been only one as of yet: the dragon. This one, Art could not possibly pinpoint a creature he knew to exist. Many legends told of abominations, beastly things that tore the throats of livestock and men. These were meant to scare children into sleeping at night. Rarely were their fears realized, and when they were, many a time were the culprits wolves. Now, however, man had been killed by beast.
Wolf or not—and Art was certain that it was not—the abomination had to be ended rightly.
Hence, Art examined the dead animals, which were arranged in a circle. This time there was a post in the middle with the head of one of the great bull oxen speared on a fencepost that had been removed from the ground and replaced in the center of the circle. It was a clear message to Art—back off.
There was no possibility of that.
He crouched by the fence post’s original hole, taking great care to make his own tracks distinct so they could not be confused for the perpetrator. He saw no tracks, no footprints, at least. There was, however, a trail of yellowed and deadened grass that led into the forest, where more foliage was wilted and dead, as though a death wind howled on a particular warpath.
He loosened his sword in its scabbard at his hip, exposing a part of the shining blade as he forged a trail into the dense woods, where thick trees surrounded him. The way forward was clear in spite of the sun-killing canopy. The leaves blocked the sun and plunged the forest floor into darkness that was almost complete only meters in. Art had a lot of his own abilities enhanced by the dragon’s blood, and it made his sword indestructible—the chip from the scales of the dragon still lay on its edge, same as it had just before it was made unbreakable. All the same, he could not see in the dark.
Right now, the woodland was of blackest night and emptiest silence. No insects chirped, no birds sang: even the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot sounded muted, suppressed.
Art had walked perhaps a mile into the forest, following the same trail of dead plantlife, when a voice spoke from the inky depths ahead. It was tinny but resonant, and had a strange property to it, a lilt like a song. It seemed to come from all around.
“A knight this way comes, I smell.”
“Don’t lie to me, beastling. A knight smells no different from any other man,” Art replied, drawing Wyrm’s End and peering into the darkness.
“You’re wrong. A knight smells like pretension. He feels as though humankind is the equal to any monster that lurks in the world. It isn’t.” The voice began to focus into a single direction, but still, it was too broad to triangulate. Art faced that way and locked his jaw.
“What makes you think that?” Art was strung tight as a bowstring.
“Your sword won’t work on me, and I’ve outsmarted too many of your kind. Your little steel sticks and your metal suits won’t protect you from me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The shadows seemed to spew black mist over him, and he felt a weight on his back and claws tear at his throat. They were thin, fine-pointed needles of searing pain drawing four lines across his neck. They weren’t deep enough to faze him, though. The blow was glancing, for Art felt the wind rush across his face before the attack. He’d swung quickly and yet he knew immediately that he had missed. But he knew his precision was unmatched, was unmatchable. He had to have hit it. All the same, his sword encountered only empty air.
Art coughed blood into his mouth, then spat it off into the leaves. He could feel the air growing humid, and it began to reek like death and smoke. As good a swordsman as Art was, he was still fighting almost completely blind. The rays of sun that hadn’t been obscured before were now completely darkened by the cloud covering him.
He needed to see to fight. That meant the trees that were all around him had to be removed to make way for the sun. If he could get a good look at this thing, he could find its weak spot, or its body. Whichever was easiest.
Art leapt into action, jumping from the path of dead things into the woods, swinging his sword through the trees as if they were made of straw. He doubled back after the trees had fallen, spanning their great dark trunks in a bound. The thing was running into the thick black of the shadows, now. There were no condescending words spilling from its mouth now.
As he chased it, felling the trees in his path, the smoke around it dissipated until all that was left was a gangly creature with long limbs and long fingers, with knifelike claws.
He’d outwitted it now, chased it in a loop and cornered it beneath the only shade he’d left: a great wide oak tree as big around as a guard tower, with a canopy the size of the great hall at the keep. It hissed, its strangely human eyes wide with panic as it realized it was finished. Its mouth was a menagerie of needle teeth like spikes jutting from a hole in its face. Its grey skin was like ash, with flakes falling from it in flecks as it danced between beams of sunlight. Cordlike muscles flexed beneath its skin, its agitated state exaggerating its effort of movement. Finally it settled into an alcove in the tree roots.
“Before I paint you into the tree, I must ask: Is there a name for your kind?” Art leaned onto his sword, pushing its point into the earth. “I considered a few things at the beginning. Werewolf? No, you’re no loup-garou. Vampire? Why livestock? Not a vampire. So tell me what you are, and you’ll feel no pain.”
The thing looked reluctant, but as Art clicked his tongue and moved to pull his sword from the dirt, it stretched out its hands. “Wait… I crossed the keeplands to get here. I am from the wildlands to the west. In Germani I am called aufhocker.”
“A leap-upon.” Fitting. “Very well.”
Art pulled Wyrm’s End from the ground and ran the beast through the neck. It gurgled and swiped at him, but he took its wrist in his other hand and snapped it easily. It held no power now that it was detected. All its strength was in surprise. Now that he looked upon its bleeding, lifeless form, it was in most every regard… dainty.
It had found a weakness, a chink in his armor at the neck. Glaring, perhaps, but it was good bait, and it had served its purpose. Now it was time for him to ride back to the castle and recuperate from his wounds.
