(OOC Thread here )
Dagon Darkwater
The Golden Citadel, One Month Ago
Despite the best attempts of the weather, the Golden Citadel shone brightly through the storm, its domes and towers glittering as the sparse moonbeams struck their gilded surfaces. It was truly a sight to behold, but Dagon had no time for sightseeing. Spurring his horse foreword, Dagon made his way toward the castle, dashing through the cobblestone streets that were devoid of life. He passed through the maze of defensive walls that made up the outer gates. He rushed on the Bridge of Kings and onward still to the inner wall of the castle. The guards inside were well familiar with Dagon, and moved aside to let him pass. The Golden Citadel was designed to with multiple walls, with the keep located in the center. As soon as he reached the courtyard of the innermost circle slowed his horse down, and dismounted.
“About time you got here, Dagon. I was beginning to think you forgot!” shouted Ser Desmond Argrave, the senior Golden Guardian. The Golden Guardians were the King’s personal guard. The finest warriors in the land, these men in gilded armor were hand picked for their honor, bravery, and fighting prowess.
“What, and miss out on your fine company? Never!” Dagon jested, handing his horse off to a nearby stable boy. He gestured behind him and commented, “What’s all this? Finally moving your guests?”
“Aye. Those men are going straight to the Spire. Don’t know what they did, but I don’t envy them.” Desmond stated, walking toward the keep. The Spire was the most secure prison in the land, housing war criminals, political prisoners and, if rumors were to be believed, demons the church had taken care of. Dagon followed Desmond inside.
Soon, a Vokun member led the two men through a maze of secret passageways, finally depositing them in a small room. Inside was Count Quentin Halamore, the Leader of the Devine Hand and King Tiberius Feltray himself. Desmond and Dagon bowed. King Tiberius spoke plainly, “Now that we are all gathered hear, I’ll ask the same question I asked last week. What is the state of the realm?” Desmond moved to the King’s side, hand resting on the pommel of his two-handed great sword.
“The Vokun are dealing with the bandit droves which cropped up during the war. They should be taken care of within the week. However, war heroes are disappearing on us. Remember Ser Rodrick, who mounted the counter offensive at the Battle of Burtar? He’s gone missing. Several others, too. Give me the word, and I’ll send some men to watch over them.” Dagon reported.
“Hmph. Your Grace, we can’t waste men to watch over some glorified soldiers. The Inquisition is very close to finding an artifact that will help us finally end the threat of magic for good. We’ve been searching and we’re soooo close! If you can give us command of some of these Vokun Dumas Dagon speaks so highly of, the artifact can be considered already found.”
Dagon scoffed. “Use my spies to go on wild goose chase? Next you’ll be asking me to give you my Azraels to kill boogiemen and witchs!”
Quentin looked Dagon dead in the eye, his face showing rage. “I’ve seen you’ve only heard in stories, sneak-thief. There are things out there that we need magic to defeat. With this artifact-“
VaaHOOOM! The loud thrum of a warhorn filled the air, cutting Quentin’s argument short. “What was that?” the Head of the Hand inquired, his expression revealing his concern. Immediately, all but one of the Golden Guardians filed out of the room, swords drawn.
“That, Count Halamore, was the alarm. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say someone attempted to escape the prison convoy. For a man who’s job is to ask questions, you seem to excel at stupid ones.” Dagon replied, as he peered outside the window for a sign of what Something’s not right… Neither of my Azraels have passed by the window in a while. “Your grace, I need you to come over here right now.”
“Wh-“ The King never got to finish his sentence as five men clad in strange black armor smashed through the window behind him. In an instant, the sole Golden Guardian drew his sword and began to engage the intruders. “Go my Liege! Get out of here!” Desmond yelled, swinging his broadsword at his attackers in an attempt to keep them pressed against the wall. Although four men danced out of reach, one attempted to dart forward toward the King. He was rewarded with a crushing blow to the stomach, running straight into the oncoming sword. However, this suicidal rush was all a ploy, allowing the others to dash forward.
Dagon, a knife in one hand and a francisca (small throwing axe) in the other, had not attacked out at first out of fear of hitting King Tiberius or Desmond. Now, with the King clear and Desmond engaging another assailant armed with an axe, Dagon hurled his weapons. The knife entered the thigh of the nearest man, causing him to scream in agony. The cry was short-lived, however, as the francisca soon crashed into his windpipe.
Dagon whirled around to attack the others – and just barely dodged the sword swipe of another assassin. Given the close proximity of the aggressor, he reached back and drew his sword. “You picked the wrong target,” Dagon grinned as a leapt forward, slashing at his opponent’s torso. The ebony figure replied only by blocking the vicious blow, and then attempting to strike Dagon’s head.
“Careful buddy, I need that!” Dagon retorted as his sword darted up in defense, locking blades with the assassin. Once again, there was no reply but the force behind the blade began to intensify. Dagon gritted his teeth and pushed back, but the two men were at a stalemate; neither could push past the other. It was then he heard it. A sickening Snikt! as the blood of the greatest man Dagon had ever known spewed out, turning the orange robes crimson. The rest was a blur. Desmond and Dagon roared in unison, striking down their opponents in a flurry of blows that left them a bloody pulp. The assassin bent down, presumably to finish the job. He lowered his hand toward the king, and was struck by a knife to the ribcage. King Tiberius twisted the blade and pushed the dying assassin off him. “If you’re going ... to kill a man,” he coughed, blood coming up, “make sure he’s dead … before you loot him.”
Dagon ran to him and pressed his hand against the wound in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of the scarlet river. “Your Grace, I need you to save your energy. You’re going to be fine, just hold on.” He turned to the Head of the Inquisition, who had spent the last few moments in shock. “Count! Snap out of it! I need you to get to the messengers and get that healer woman! Lena…Rina… Rena! Her name was Rena! Quickly!” The Count slipped away almost reluctantly.
Dagon turned back to the King, who was fumbling at something in his robes. Dagon pushed the cloth aside to see a box with strange etchings on it. “Your Grace?”
“Keep… it safe, Dagon. It’s … what they want. Find … them. Look to the p-“ And with that, King Tiberius went limp, the great strength which held the kingdom to together during its darkest hour fading like a distant dream. Dagon could do nothing but watch.
The Golden Guardian sheathed his blade and ran to the Leader of the Vokun “Dagon! Who the hell were those guys?” Desmond yelled, gesturing toward the dead assassin. He paused, finally noticing the shock on Dagon’s face. “Dagon,” he repeated, “who were those men?”
Dagon turned back, his emotionless mask finally cracking to reveal shades of fear, auguish and rage. “I …. I don’t know.”
