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Thread: [M] The Dark Lord Cycle - Conquest (Salgon and Naming)

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    Default [M] The Dark Lord Cycle - Conquest (Salgon and Naming)

    Ari had always hated wearing armour.

    They understood the importance of it, of course. It was designed to save lives, and usually did its job admirably. The set of chain mail they were wearing right now, enchanted by their own hand, had fulfilled that particular duty dozens of times over. If you included the rest of the set – their helmet, shield, greaves, gauntlets, and so on – then that number climbed exponentially. Beyond that, Ari couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship. Even the most basic pieces possessed a utilitarian beauty, to say nothing of the more ornate creations they had seen. None of that knowledge, however, didn’t change the fact that it was so damn uncomfortable.

    It chafed something terrible, and itched in places that were impossible to scratch. Whenever Ari put the padding on, they felt like it only took five minutes for them to sweat through it. The helmet, in particular, always drew their ire. It made them feel like they were both choking and blinded, all at once. As if they were drowning. For all the years they’d devoted to study, they had never been able to figure out how some people wore the stuff every day, or marched in it for hours without reprive. The knowledge that it had saved their life so often made their discomfort more bearable, but only slightly.

    Unable to stand it any longer, Ari pulled their helmet from their head as soon as the fighting lulled, against their own better judgement. They took a deep breath, tried to blink the sweat from their eyes, and turned their gaze to their surroundings. It didn’t take them long to start regretting that particular decision. This particular skirmish might have ended, but the horrors of battle still lingered. Scattered bodies littered the cobblestone street in frightening numbers. Both friends and foes stared up at the sky with vacant, unblinking eyes. Their blood pooled and mixed, dyeing the gutters a deep crimson. The smell was so overpowering that Ari swore they could taste its distinct, coppery tang on the back of their tongue.

    To distract themselves, Ari turned their attention to the buildings that lined the street. They seemed to press in close, and were backlit by the distinct orange glow of distant flames. Architecturally speaking, the designs were simple. Two-story shops and homes, built with a mixture of wood and stone. The entire street was almost indistinguishable from any of the others Ari had passed through so far. There were no officia-lookingl buildings, or churches, or infrastructure. Nothing that looked important in any noticeable way. Why had their opponents decided to make their stand here, instead of falling back to the keep with the rest of the city’s retreating defenders? Ari couldn’t make sense of it. They had plenty of questions, but no answers.

    Nose wrinkled in displeasure, Ari tried to forget all this needless death, and instead sought out the other survivors. Watched as the rest of their squad reassembled, stepping over the bodies to group up again. They took the time to retrieve anything useful, bandage their wounded, and offer mercy to those beyond saving, all under the watchful eye of their captain – a bulky man with a weathered face, distinguished from his companions by the knots on his shoulder. Ari quickly moved to join them, determined to offer whatever assistance they could. They were an average fighter at best, competent only at keeping themselves alive, and occupying enemies until the more skilled members of their squad could finish them. Here, though, Ari could be of use. Saving others had always been their preference anyway.

    Without stopping to ask, Ari took a moment to rest their spear against the nearest building, before crouching down alongside one of their wounded companions; a woman with an arrow embedded in the meat of her thigh. It had pierced deep enough for the tip to emerge from the other side. That was a blessing, in a way – Ari wouldn’t have dared treat the wound here if the barbed arrowhead were still inside her body. With deft hands, they drew a piece of boiled linen from a pouch at their waist, whilst the other slipped their belt knife free of its sheath. They didn’t have any sort of antibacterial agents with them, or the time for a full examination, but it didn’t look as if the arrow had struck the leg’s major artery, based on the flow of blood She would survive long enough to make it back to the actual medics, so long as Ari worked quickly.

    They had just lowered the knife to the arrow’s shaft when the runner approached. Ari was so focused on stripping fletching from wood that they didn’t notice the messenger’s presence until he knelt down alongside them. Ari threw the man a brief sideways glance, before handing him the piece of linen.

    “Sir? I’m not a medic.”

    “You can use your hands at the same time as your mouth, can’t you? As soon as I pull this free, put pressure on the wound.” Ari’s voice was measured, but insistent. When it came to the lives of their allies, they would brook no argument. Thankfully, the young messenger seemed to recognize that, and refrained from pressing the issue.

    “Y-yes sir.”

    “Don’t call me that. I’m not an officer.” Before the messenger could speak again, Ari returned their knife to its sheath, before placing one hand on the arrow, and the other on the woman’s leg. He gave the wounded soldier a warning look, before pulling the shaft the rest of the way through their leg. The woman jolted beneath his fingers, a groan of pain slipping from her lips, but Ari tried to ignore her pain. Whilst the messenger did as they had requested, Ari pulled another strip of linen from their pouch, and set about bandaging the wound.

    “You’ll survive. So long as you don’t put too much weight on it, you won’t suffer any lasting damage, and you’ll have a nice scar you can show off to boot.” Ari clapped the woman on the shoulder gently, before rising. They retrieved their spear, before turning to face the messenger properly. On any other day, Ari would have rushed to the other wounded, but apparently another pressing matter required their attention. Thankfully, the messenger didn't waste any time, and instead cut straight to the heart of the issue.

    “The castle gates have fallen, sir. Your squad is to head there immediately. Lord Salgon will want you there for the big moment.” The man spoke quickly, but clearly. He didn’t seem all that out of breath, for how far he must’ve run today. The benefits of experience, Ari supposed. Nonetheless, they couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

    “Shouldn’t you be reporting this to our commanding officer?” Ari tipped his spear towards the man, who stood just a few paces away, arms folded over his chest haughtily.

    “Everyone knows that you have Lord Salgon’s ear, Si…soldier.” The man had the good grace to look embarrassed, at the very least. He turned to face the captain, but the larger man just sighed and shook his head.

    “Forget it, son” the captain grumbled, before turning away. When next he spoke, his voice boomed, echoing out to reach the rest of their group. “You all heard him, lads. We’ll have to leave the rest of the stragglers to the other squads. We make for the keep instead. You have two minutes to get your shit together.” The captain turned away, and started issuing orders to individuals. Ari ignored him. Instead, they dismissed the messenger with a simple gesture, and went to retrieve their helmet. They didn’t plan on putting it back on, but they could make a show of carrying the damn thing, at the very least.

    Captain Hardow was as good as his word. Within two minutes, everyone in their squad who was still combat-ready was marching through the streets again, winding their way towards the keep. Minus the handful of men he’d left behind to escort the wounded to safety, of course. As they drew closer, Ari found themselves staring up at the large stone castle and its inner walls as they towered overhead. Despite everything that they’d seen and done today, despite their growing fatigue, a small smile graced their features.

    “Looks like you were right, Salgon. We really can do this. There’s no way you’ll be any worse of a ruler than the former queen, either, even if you are the dark lord. Just don’t start the party before I get there.”

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    A Dark Lord must understand what most people do not: that a weak ruler is far worse than a tyrant. Stories tell of Dark Lords who slew royal families who were "nothing but kind," and it is often a reason why people come to hate Dark Lords. But, the truth is, usually rulers who are spoken of as being kind rather than wise, fair, or just, are often the types who are allowing evil to thrive within their lands. Willingly allowing evil to thrive is no better than engaging in evil. A monarch who allows bandits, brigands, and barbarians to run rampant in their lands may as well be a member of those thieving bands. But it is not the place of a righteous hero to put them down, no, this will earn them the ire of the people, and the land shall never see peace. It is for a Dark Lord to put weak leaders to the sword for their crimes of negligence. This means that the Dark Lord's hands shall be stained with blood that the common folk will call innocent, and he must be ready for the ire he will inspire.

    The words of his favorite book, the tome that had been the road map for his life since his father's suicide, echoed in Lord Salgon's mind as he waited just outside the throne room for Ari, his best friend, to arrive.

    Clad head to toe in black armor, Lord Salgon had taken to heart the book's instructions on how the Dark Lord should go about crafting his appearance. A Dark Lord must not show his face, except to his most intimate advisors. Thus, he wore a helmet with a visor to cover his visage, and when not in battle wore a feature-less steel mask. The pauldrons on his armor were far more ornate than necessary, an aesthetic meant to mark him out as special on the battlefield. As the book said, The mere appearance of a Dark Lord must strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, hope in his allies, and terrified respect in his minions. Aside from that, Lord Salgon had also learned that if someone is defeated in battle and they are wearing ornate armor, their enemies are more likely to ransom them than to kill them. The ornate nature of his armor provided another kind of protection, in that way.

    Scouts came to him with their reports, and he gave them directions regarding places to search, exits to cut off. He wanted to ensure as few of the royal family members survived as possible, because there would be those who would rally to their cause and fight to restore them to the throne. If he wanted order in the land, he could not have that. On the other hand, The Dark Lord Cycle also talked about how there are usually survivors of a coup who come back later, either aided by the gods' Chosen One, or who actually is the Chosen One. Lord Salgon hated the idea that the Chosen One might rise so soon in his reign, but he understood it was necessary. After all, his goal was not to rule the world for a hundred years, but rather to bring peace to the land, even if it meant his life and his very soul must be sacrificed to accomplish it.

    Lord Salgon turned his eyes toward the door to the throne room. He'd been in there once before, when he tried to negotiate for the royal family to surrender. Well, "negotiate" may not have been the best term. He'd threatened them with an army if they did not. At the time, he hoped that their weakness would be enough to deliver them into his hands. They'd proven cowards so many other ways, perhaps they'd give up at the first sign of war. They'd refused, giving Lord Salgon no choice. The last time he entered the throne room, it was as a visitor. This time, whenever Ari arrived, he would sit upon that throne and reign as the new ruler of the land of Ridia.

    Four of his soldiers approached him, bringing with them a young boy with elven ears, clad in expensive clothes and manacles on his wrists. By the look of him, the boy could not have been much older than eight years.

    "My lord," said one of the soldiers. "May I present to you Prince Laeroth, youngest child of the late queen. What shall we do with him?"

    While The Dark Lord Cycle usually encouraged eliminating as many members of a royal family as possible, it did allow for a caveat, an alternative plan in some cases. Prisoners could be just as valuable as casualties, under the right circumstances. Hostages, in particular, were helpful in keeping those still loyal to the Royal Family in line. They also served well as bait for anyone who might try to use them against him.

    "Take the young prince to his room," Lord Salgon commanded. "From this moment on, the boy is under house arrest. He is not to leave his room, and any meal brought to him must be thoroughly inspected by those standing guard. Should any servants seek to deliver anything to him such as weapons, lock picks, messages, or anything else that might help him escape, they are to be executed immediately. Now, take him away!" Lord Salgon pointed down the hall, and the soldiers did as he bid them.

    As he left, Prince Laeroth glanced back at the Dark Lord, giving the most furious expression his young face was capable of. A small part of Lord Salgon hoped this boy was the one who would one day be Chosen by the gods, because that would allow the Dark Lord at least ten years on the throne of Ridia.

    With the boy out of sight, Lord Salgon turned his attention toward the front door, just as Ari entered. Behind his visor he smiled at the sight of his friend, though his stature remained stoic as a stone.

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    It didn’t take Ari long to track down Lord Salgon.

    Their squadron arrived at the keep, as instructed, and promptly discovered that the messenger had spoken truth. The large double gates beneath the castle walls had been thrown open, and soldiers in familiar livery moved freely in both directions. It looked like everyone who hadn’t busied themselves looting had been put to work taking inventory, dealing with the last few holdouts, and transporting the nobility-turned-prisoners that had been cowering inside the castle when it fell. When they arrived, Ari paused where they stood, and spent a few brief moments taking it in. The courtyard was in chaos, the air filled with shouted orders, but it was an organized sort of chaos. A far cry from the wanton destruction that took place on the battlefield, or the rampaging that they had expected to accompany Salgon’s first victory.

    After a few moments, Ari decided against making their leader wait any longer. They bid farewell to Captain Hardow, left their squad behind, and dove into the sprawling mess of bodies that stretched out before them. They ducked and weaved through the crowd, heading in the rough direction of the castle’s entrance. Their eyes roamed freely, and on more than one occasion, Ari exchanged a wave with another of Lord Salgon’s advisors. It only took a few questions, directed to the right people, to pinpoint the exact location of their leader. He was waiting in the entrance hall, right where Ari had been heading. That wasn’t particularly surprising – Ari knew that he’d been waiting for this moment for a long, long time. Still, having confirmation was nice.

    The interior of the palace was significantly less crowded than the courtyard. On any other occasion, Ari likely would’ve stopped to savour the moment a little more. Admire the architecture, and let the reality of their situation sink in. Bask in the glory of their newest accomplishment. Today, however, they only had eyes for the person waiting at the far end of the hall. The man clad head to toe in a full suit of armour, their face obscured by a featureless helmet that made them look less like a person and more like a force of nature. On some days, Ari had a difficult time reconciling that blank visage with the friend he knew so well, the face that he knew must be inside, but not today. From the looks of it, Salgon was expecting them, too.

    As Ari walked the length of the hallway, they couldn’t help but feel they were severely underdressed for an occasion such as this. Their standard-issue armour and weapons, distinguished only by the enchantments they had cast themselves, felt paltry compared to the imposing, ornate suit of armour that was their best friend. Their long brown hair, normally long enough to pass their shoulders, was pulled into a messy bun to accommodate the helmet they carried. Their fine-boned features, light brown eyes and wide hips bordered on feminine, and looked more suited to a ballroom than a battlefield. A stark contrast to their muscled figure – not that of a professional bodybuilder, but the lean, wiry strength a career fighter. The robes of an advisor or scholar would’ve been a better fit, Ari knew, but there was nothing they could be done about that now. They’d have to make do. Such a small disparity couldn’t be allowed to ruin an occasion as monumental as this.

    When Ari reached the far end of the hallway, finally arrived before their friend, they felt the urge to clap them on the shoulder. To hug them, and cheer, and do whatever else felt appropriate to celebrate their joint survival. To celebrate Salgon’s victory. Unforunately, Ari knew better. A lifetime of friendship meant that they knew just how important all this ‘Dark Lord’ business was to Salgon. He had charted the course of his life by it, crafted his entire reputation around the ideal he wished to become. It wouldn’t do for an aspiring dark lord to be seen engaging in such frivolity, even with one of their close friends. So instead of doing anything that they wished, Ari raised an arm across their chest and dripped their head in a small, respectful bow. They weren’t able to help the grin that spread across their face, though.

    “I had my doubts, old friend. I’ll be the first to admit that. Even though the numbers suggested that it was possible, I had a hard time imagining that we could actually change the world on such a large scale…and yet, here we are. You were right.” Ari spoke the words casually, unbothered by their own stark admission of failure. They continued to grin at the faceless visage of their friend for a moment, before turning their attention to the doors that waited just beyond – those leading to the throne room itself. Ari allowed themselves a brief moment to take in the ambiance, before they’d throw a sideways glance at their friend, and continue.

    “This is your big moment. The first real step. Are you ready?”

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    Seeing his friend approach, clad in battle-worn armor, it was exactly how Lord Salgon always pictured the day he rose to power. Kings and emperors assumed the throne with pomp and circumstance. With celebration, cheering, finery, and music. A Dark Lord, however, assumed the throne in a simpler ceremony. One that showed the enemies of law and order that he was willing to spill blood to maintain peace. It was a hero's place to be loved, and Lord Salgon was certain such a hero would one day arise. For now, the people needed to learn fear, and he was ready to be their teacher.

    "I am ready," said Lord Salgon. He wanted to say something kind to his friend here, for he deeply cared for them. However, he also understood that the wrong kind words might make others think him weak or soft. Even saying "thank you" might imply that he owed his friend a debt, which would make him vulnerable in the eyes of too many.

    "I am grateful for all that you have done in service to our vision," he said with a soft nod. Later, when they were alone, he would speak kinder words. That was what he determined.

    As the book The Dark Lord Cycle said, Everyone wears a mask for the occasion they rise to. Fathers and mothers wear masks in front of their children. Soldiers wear masks on the battlefield. Merchants wear masks when trying to sell their wares. The Dark Lord's mask must be cold. A visage that inspires both fear and a sense of mystery. People who look upon that mask must come to wonder what's underneath, but assume that it's nothing but darkness underneath. A void.

    Lord Salgon gestured to the double-doors leading to the throne room. "Lead the way. Stand beside the throne and I will ascend to it. You have earned your place by my side." In a lower voice he added, "Let no one say that you got so far by anything less than your own merit."

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    When Lord Salgon offered up his gratitude, Ari accepted it with a gracious smile and another small bow. It didn’t matter if their friend’s words were every bit as stoic and utilitarian as the armour he wore. That didn’t make them any less true, and Ari had known Salgon for too long to ever expect anything else. Besides, Ari suspected that the two of them would find a chance to celebrate properly later. Whenever they found a private moment, and no longer had to worry about Salgon’s reputation - That was when the real celebration would take place.

    When Salgon prompted it, Ari crossed the short distance that led to the doors of the throne room. As they laid a hand against the polished wooden doors, Ari couldn’t help but feel this moment was symbolic. This was Salgon’s victory, through and through, but they had helped pave the way for it. Now here they were, leading the way as their friend claimed the spoils of his victory. The thought was both pleasing and amusing. There would be plenty of time for basking in the glory of their accomplishment later, though. Without any further delay, Ari began to push in earnest. The doors swung inward at long last, revealing the throne room proper.

    The former king’s home was nothing short of stunning. It was spacious enough to accommodate his entire court, and no effort had been spared in decorating every corner of it. The walls were covered with artwork and tapestry both, from places local and far-flung alike. Every visible inch of the floor was inlaid with coloured tiles and cut gemstones; a mosaic that seemed much too beautiful for them to imagine anyone walking on it. Ari couldn’t make out the entire picture from here, but the whorls of colour alone were impressive enough. At the far end was an ornate throne so capricious that it could hardly be called a chair anymore, positioned atop a raised dais. A series of great stone columns lined the walkway, each one laced with carvings that would’ve required the combined efforts of several master artisans, and several years besides.

    The sight of it was enough to take Ari’s breath away, and yet…while they appreciated both the visual appeal and the architectural significance, a part of them couldn’t help but feel all this majesty was nothing but a waste. People in the outer reaches of this kingdom died from starvation and sickness, but the man who ruled had enough coin to line the floor itself with treasure? The mere suggestion turned Ari’s stomach, and helped drive home the notion that they really had done something good here today. Despite all the bloodshed and death. This nation really would be better off for it in the long run with them at the helm.

    While Ari made the long walk towards the throne, they made sure to keep their head up and their back straight. They kept their shoulders pulled back, and made sure to move at a stately pace. Every movement and step was composed and graceful, each detail carefully considered, all for the benefit of those who followed. Ari didn’t need to look back to know they had more than just Lord Salgon for company, either. Beneath the heavy clanging of his boots, they could hear plenty of other, quieter footsteps. Everyone Salgon had chosen to witness his ascension trailed in behind them, following their lord at a respectful distance. Friends and comrades, here as a reward for their loyalty? Or those who had submitted, forced to endure the humiliation of such a public spectacle?

    When Ari finally reached the dais, they refrained from climbing further than the first step. Instead, they turned to survey the crowd behind them, expression neutral. Ari would wait until Lord Salgon walked past, climbed the remainder of the steps, and claimed his rightful place.

    Had Ari been in the presence of a lesser man, someone who named themselves king by virtue of bloodline alone, they might have felt the need to announce Salgon. To call his name, declare his new title for all those present to hear, so that they would know who stood before them. Instead, they did none of those things. Their friend was a conqueror, not a figurehead. The people in this room knew Salgon. They supported or feared him, each and every one. Such gestures felt unnecessary. All that remained was to wait, and see how the new king would spend his first moments upon his throne. A speech? A demonstration of his power? A silent dismissal that proved his control? All seemed appropriate, depending on the message he wished to send. Ari couldn’t wait to find out what he had decided upon.

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