Narratives

           Rel Mord celebrated the end of 594, and the beginning of a new year. Taverns threw their doors open and the city caroused. Party-goers wandered from place to place in the lamp lit streets, holding a toast to anybody passing by. The Royal Palace, walled and perched on a hill in the center of the city, was illuminated with torches; a golden centerpiece, crowning a nation trying to find its way out of years of trouble.
           Within the palace there was less of a revelry atmosphere. Most of the staff had been allowed to visit the city, while the King and Queen took to bed early. The Queen had to rest often of late as she was having a difficult time carrying their first child.
           Flutes quietly twittered a lusty song in the main hall, where a few remained and tossed back to the health of the King and Queen. Just off the main hall, down a side passage to the right, was a smaller receiving parlor. This parlor contained a display case, and within the display case was a beautifully wrought sword and a note, explaining the sword as a gift from the King's perfidious brother Sewarndt.
           The sword's arrival had caused much consternation at the wedding, and many of the King's advisor's wanted it immediately destroyed. But the King had hopes of his brother turning a new leaf, and instead the sword was placed on display. The King will have his way. Since the wedding, new information had been found of his brother's treason, but by then the sword was forgotten, lost down a passage and in a small parlor rarely used.
           The clerics of Lendor, Cyndor and even Labelas Enorath were meticulous about the passage of time, and precisely at midnight all the bells of the city rang. Those in the great hall shouted huzzahs.
           Down the passage to the right and in the parlor the sword briefly flickered, almost as if it were a glint of light from a passerby.
           A moment later there was a slight pop, and an urn on a side-table was bumped by one of the twelve people who suddenly appeared. His quick reflexes stabilized the vessel before it fell.
           A well tailored gentleman stood in the center of the group, dark hair pulled back from his handsome groomed face. He surveyed the group, then quietly stated, "Find my brother."
           In short order, all but four of the shapes had slipped from the room. Sewarndt picked a bit of lint from his cuff, pulled his doublet straight and motioned for the remaining shadows to follow him as he casually strode from the parlor.

* * *

           Elsewhere in the castle blankets erupted unceremoniously from a canopied bed as a bald-headed bull-necked man suddenly sat up, then hopped onto the floor. A feminine squeak emerged from the bed behind him as the blankets slid away. He ignored her as his gaze dashed wildly around the windowless room, which held the faint scent of rose petals with an underlying tang of sulfur.
           He strode forward in his small clothes, palmed a crystal ball from a shelf with his meaty hand and gazed into its depths. Colors swirled and light flickered in the ball. A moment later he looked up, his eyes afire.
           He returned the ball to its resting place and tossed open an armoire. Pushing aside a gray cloak with a classic wizard's hat and long white bearded wig, he retrieved a simple pair of pants and a robe. He slipped into the pants, and while pulling the robe on muttered to the lady who was recovering the errant blankets, "Get dressed, now."
           Then he hastily left the room.

* * *

           King Lynwerd strapped on his swordbelt while Queen Xenia furiously buried a small wailing wooden figurine into a chest of drawers. She then straightened her night gown and turned to Lynwerd, "Dreadful noise, I must say."
           "Yes, you have defeated it, now get dressed. This does not bode well. You know the Grey Seer's warning. That stone will only be going on so when danger threatens."
           She grimaced while hastily changing into a robe, "At least he could have made it wail on-key."
           He smiled mischievously, then swatted her behind as he left the room, "Finish getting dressed, my muse. Somebody will be here shortly. I'm going to check on father."

* * *

           Dust slowly settled in a baroque bedroom on the upper floor. A maudlin decorator too concerned about Nyrond's past had effectively covered every wall, niche and open space with a wide assortment of items holding suspect sentimental value. In the center of the room crouched a monolithic poster bed. A cough emitted from within its curtained interior.
           Archbold woke often, finding he needed less sleep the older he became. He had left the revelry early, retiring to a warm brandy by the fire of his room. The fire had dwindled to coals and a winter's chill seeped through the wood paneling and tapestries.
           He remained in a cocoon of warmth and considered what the new year may bring. He often reminisced on the past, as every man does. Had he done good? He had lived through very difficult times, and he had many critics.
           His body shuddered and he reached out with a withered shaking hand while starting to wheeze, snatched a lacy handkerchief from the bed stand and coughed into it. As the fit passed, he sat up, then stood with the support of a cane and crossed the room as quietly as possible, mumbling about servants.
           The side door opened and a mouse of a girl peeked in with bleary eyes. Seeing him awake she skittered across the room and lent him her arm, "M'lord, let me help you with that."
           He shushed her offered arm away, "I don't need help... just get me something warm from the kitchens."
           She nodded, bowed and retreated through the servant's door.
           He slowly paced the room, sometimes stopping to pick up and consider a bauble. His ruminations were disturbed by a flare of light from the window.
           Then the glazing shook in its frames as a rumble rolled through the city.

* * *

           Via Regus, grand promenade of Rel Mord. Elaborate gardens worked their way in terraces down each side of this bold road cutting through the city up to the Palace. While the city celebrated, revelers packed the parkways, wandering through the various side paths and secret hideaways.
           Amidst it all, a nondescript man walked. He arrived in the city several hours before, and despite all attempts to cheer his spirits he sat quietly in a corner of Fharlanghn's staff, a traveler's inn just off the East Gate of Rel Mord. As the bells rang throughout the city, he stood, hoisted his pack and left the tavern. A barmaid came by to clear his table and huffed at the lack of a tip.
           His only emotion was a mild chuckle as he passed the massive Temple of Heironeous, now mostly empty as the clergy had rallied forth to build a picket line from Sewarndt's army massing in Onyxgate, to the south.
           Now he walked up Via Regus. Although he was periodically buffeted by some of the more boisterous revelers, his pace did not slow. Near the top of the road, just before it intersected with East Temple Street, he stopped and crouched while dropping his pack to the ground.
           He opened it and withdrew a plain white stone in the shape of a triangle. Somehow the stone represented more than it appeared, the air around it warmed as it crested the pack, and those who glanced at it felt something tug and pierce inside their psyche. Its very appearance caused an unconscious widening of the crowd.
           The man placed the stone on the ground, in the center of the roadway, with the triangle pointing towards the palace. He smiled, and stepped back. The crowd was widening by this point, many were confused and intrigued at this unusual behavior.
           Reality bent, just a little.
           A few people grabbed their heads from a sudden ache. But the pain was soon forgotten as a flame erupted, consuming the stone. The nondescript man pushed his way through the crowd, unnoticed as he ran away. The flame flared wide, singeing those who were a little too close. Then burst higher, arcing to each side of the road. As it touched, a horrific wail, rooted in the deepest fear each and every person holds, rose from the flames. The keening increased, complemented by the screaming and panicked crowd.
           Reality bent again, and this time it tore. A rift burst forth, opening a gateway in the flames. It was followed by a concussion that crashed through the city. A fell site lay within the gateway. Dark and unholy images flickered, tugging at the murkiest and most vulnerable parts of the soul. A discordant wailing chorus of tortured voices careened from the gateway, and the edges burned brightly, a beacon seen throughout most of the city.

* * *

           Archbold's bedroom was on the top-most floor, commanding a great view over the palace walls and down Via Regus. He watched the eldritch scene unfold. Halfway up the broad boulevard the fell gateway burned, and from the depths of the gateway poured troops. Rank upon rank of men and beast flooded into the city. Many were racing towards the palace, but others split off and disappeared down side streets.
           His attention was drawn to a banner held among the troops. Notable was the emblazoned crest, an inverted version of the family crest, now claimed by his younger son Sewarndt.
           The curtains fell from his grasp.
           He turned to face the room which had become a representation of his decrepitude and stood contemplating for a moment, then a horn of alarm sounded from the palace walls.
           The Guard was alerted.
           His shoulders straightened. He took a deep breath, crossed the room and selected a formal robe and attire. He pulled a sheathed sword from its dusty perch on the wall, and, using it as a cane, left the room.