[Red Valor] The Death of Artorius Somonus

[Elven Doritos]

The White Tower of Sicloran, the holy cathedral and capital of the expansive Kettan Empire, stood triumphantly between the twin mountains, Kassik and Brell. It is said that Kassik and Brell were brother spirits, forged by the earth god Hikenth as a testament to the pact between the Rionian Pantheon and the peoples of the Tare, an eternal statement of mutual love and devotion.

But Elador Orvead knew better. A bitter old elf, hunched in posture and cruelly sharp in face and features, the Archmage Orvead had seen the true mysteries of the universe, peered into the dusty old eyes of gods and men alike. Garbed always in crimson and black, save a glimmering white cloak cut from a dragon's skin, the nasty wizard had seen the truths the world had to offer, had discovered its mysteries, and battled its evils. And so he had resigned to his fate as a hapless wanderer and embittered vagabond, imparting his considerable skills in the arts both magical and mundane only out of boredom or spite. Until, through surprising circumstance and unforeseen occurrence, the nasty old elf, the Hunched Housemage of Hastor's Pass, encountered an enterprising young warrior from the west.

Artorius Somonus, as he was known in the quickly-expanding and warlike Kettan Empire, was quite an unusual young man indeed. A holy warrior who made his home in Arvia, a land known for its pious people and corrupt rulers, Somonus was in fact the son of high-ranking Kettan and Vestinite politicians, an unusual union that provided the young lieutenant with unprecedented advantages in dealing with the divisive and bickering nations of the South. Indeed, Orvead watched with amazement as the knight of Arvia served the causes of powers great and small, Emperors and Prophets and Kings and Generals, but still remained true to his ideals and his vision. The Housemage saw in this Lieutenant Somonus the potential and force of character that arrive only once in every elven generation.

And so the years passed, and Elador remained at the side of his new ward. He surrounded Artorius with soldiers and companions alike, those who shared such similar potential, and gave him every tool he would need to excel. Orvead's pet project exceeded perhaps even the elf's own expectations, and Somonus rose to supreme power'" not just of Ketta, nor Vestin, nor Arvia, but of all the Tare and all its people. Empowered by his ally's success, the bored old elf's interests had finally sparked.

As ten years passed, the Artorian regime undertook enormous projects for the good of the people. It was not a concern of Elador's, who sulked around meetings and court proceedings as though a scarlet wraith'" unseen, unheard, but felt by all nearby, his chilling presence an omen of ill fortune. And Elador had been content to manipulate, intimidate, and cultivate those he deemed of importance, but things were starting to become'¦ dull.

The trouble had started years prior. Their friend Myzra, an incubus banished from the pits of hell for the sin of having a conscience, had been slowly returning to his old ways of debauchery and indulgence. The incorruptible Artorius had been swayed by his friend, unable to see the evil in his soul, and had become addicted to the hallucinogenic alqo flower. The divine call that had guided Emperor Artorius since finding the faith of Sicloran had vanished, and the aging ruler had become more erratic. Elador noted with concern that Artorius would only dictate legislation while under the alqo's influence, and became even more perturbed when the Emperor proclaimed that the Gods themselves were dead.

Not that it wasn't true (Elador knew that, of course; he knew it before Artorius did). Religion had always been an important tool for manipulation in Elador's mind, and to sacrifice it so readily seemed irrational. But the Scarlet Elf shrugged it off, for as long as Artorius Somonus retained power on the Tare, human matters would remain interesting.

Which is why when he was summoned to the Emperor's throne room the day before the Artorian Festivals, Elador did not expect what was to come.

"Artorius, old friend," Elador said through his cracked old lips. In the elf's decrepit hands was a painting of the Emperor in his younger days, a dashing man in shining silver armor and azure cloak, battling against his nemesis, an orange-and-black-adorned Maximelius II. "I have finished my tribute for the festival."

The art hardly reflected the man's current state. Thinning, steely grey hair sat ruffled and disheveled atop the pale white head of a droopy-faced man, an alqo pipe lodged between his lips. The filthy black alqo ran into his unshaven beard and onto his black and orange robes, robes that concealed an emaciated and destitute figure. Hardly the figure of grace and strength of his youth! "Throw it over into the heap," the Emperor said in a raspy mumble, tipping his head toward discarded statues, emblems, amulets, and other such trinkets that had been forged in his honor.

The Archmage contained his fury, placing the painting aside. Elador noted with disdain the empty throne to Artorius's left, and wondered what role the alqo played in his wife's relocation abroad. "How go the preparations?

Artorius looked to him dazedly. "For what?"

"For the Artorian Festivals. This is the celebration of your tenth year in power."

"Oh, yes, yes. All of that. I have been thinking about that, old elf." Artorius took a deep huff of the alqo pipe.

Elador's face betrayed the disgust he felt at this pathetic sight. "And?"

"I should rather think that the world'¦ well, you know how things are? With matters'¦ and then there's the northern barbarians'¦ Well, we'll have to oust Maximelius, of course."

"Maximelius? There's another Detrivan?"

Artorius's eyes widened with confusion. "Detrivan? No, no. We haven't'¦ Well, perhaps after I join the army'¦"

Elador shook his head in disbelief. "And who exactly are you?"

Artorius chuckled. "Daddy calls me Arty, but I'm not supposed to talk to elves. Or wizards."

"The alqo has ruined your mind," Elador stated plainly. He reached a slender, frail hand toward the alqo pipe. As his fingertips neared the Emperor's beard, Artorius erupted in a fit of rage, throwing Elador to the ground.

"No! You cannot! You cannot take her from me! Guards, kill this traitor! Kill this pointy-eared bastard!"

Soldiers garbed in blue and white hurried into the throne room, but stared confusedly at the scene; Artorius, shaking and frail, was accusing the mad old wizard of treachery?

"Sir?" a guard said.

"WHAT?" Artorius bellowed in reply.

"What exactly do you want us to'¦ do to the Lord Orvead?"

"Arrest him!"

The guards gave one another sheepish looks through their half-helms, and one was bold enough to take a step toward the archmage.

"Halt there, young man," Elador said. "One more step will be your last."

"The'¦ The Emperor said'""

"I have ears," Elador spat. "Does the Emperor look as though he is fit to be giving orders?"

Artorius, enraged, pulled his own sword and lunged at Elador. Twirling in his scarlet cloak, Elador readily dodged the attack, causing Artorius to stumble and fall. As Elador's scarlet cloak tore, it mixed with a rusty red pool forming around the fallen Emperor.

A guard rushed to help Artorius. In his drugged state, the holy warrior, the righteous reformer, the greatest Emperor of all had fallen upon his sword, causing a cruel and fatal wound.

For the second time in recent memory, Elador Orvead was surprised.

One of the soldiers spoke up. "What now?"

Elador cocked his head to the side, bewildered at his fallen friend. "Does it really matter?"

[LordVreeg]

great sense of place and personality.  I'd appreciate a quick sketch of the visulas of the room and of the raiments, but the emotion and feel come right through.

[Elven Doritos]

I was moseying through old posts and came across this one. For reference, this was a thinly veiled allegory about a friend who lost his mind to drugs and addiction. The story was meant to illuminate this fact to him. Obviously that was a naive thing to attempt.

[LordVreeg]

I was moseying through old posts and came across this one. For reference, this was a thinly veiled allegory about a friend who lost his mind to drugs and addiction. The story was meant to illuminate this fact to him. Obviously that was a naive thing to attempt.

No.
I disagree.
Or perhaps naive, but you make it sound less the worthy because of it.  And I disagree with that sentiment.  

[Lmns Crn]

Or perhaps naive, but you make it sound less the worthy because of it. And I disagree with that sentiment.

There's a certain irresistible poetry in a heroic effort foredoomed to failure. Just ask Orpheus.