Wrymlung the Decayed

Deal

The demon lord’s words hang heavy in the air with an ominous promise that makes the hairs on the back of Wrymlung’s neck stand on end.

“You wish to make me your knight,” Wrymlung gasps at his own words, and then -incredulous- huffs a soft laugh, looking at the demon lord for some hint as to his intentions.

“I do,” the words are matter-of-fact, clear, and to the point, and it does nothing to settle Wrymlung.

He tries to consider it, being the knight of the demon lord before him, but then something within him quails violently, forcing his whole body to lurch as if he were about to vomit. A knight… Can he do that again?

“And…” Wrymlung squints up at him, “And if I refuse?”

Without even a hint of anything like fury, the demon lord considered him for a moment with just simple curiosity and something that -if Wrymlung could not excuse such delirious thoughts upon his debilitated state- he would likely identify as approval.

Wrymlung recoils a bit, sliding a minuscule distance on the stone, his armor scraping on the altar as the demon lord lowers himself to meet him eye to eye before he says, “If you refuse, then I shall leave you to your own devices with what resources I can spare, including a roof over your head. It was my decision and not yours to make your heart beat once more, thus you have no obligation to me.”

“That is…” Wrymlung speaks, eyeing Lord Charnelscorn warily, “That is quite reasonable…” He swallows and leans forward, braving the unknown, “My lord.”

Lord Charnelscorn straightens up, his mass shifting like a tree given mobility, “Then what is your answer?”

Wrymlung feels the warmth in his chest settle as the light fades from Lord Charnelscorn’s hand, his body feeling his own again, and yet there is still a chill that he senses as a faint prickle along his spine and his veins. Dread seeps into him and though in his heart he knows what manner of being he has become, he dares not admit it, not yet. He smirks despite these thoughts as he realizes that it’s almost fitting to fall from the hands of one demon and into that of another.

“Yes, my lord,” Wrymlung looked up to Lord Charnelscorn, the tears staining his face slowly turning to ice, “I shall pledge my sword in service to you.”

“Excellent,” Lord Ahmose’s eyes flared in the dim light, and he held out a hand to Ser Wrymlung, “Are you able to stand?”

Ser Wrymlung looks upon the hand outstretched before him, bound in a gauntlet of that amorphous material that looks to be forged from the shadows themselves, and he reaches out, taking it in his own that is dwarfed by comparison. His movements are stiff and sluggish, but he manages to rise to his feet and kneel in oath before his lord.

“I do swear upon my name and honor, in the eyes of all the gods above and below, and before the people of this land, to serve you faithfully, my lord, Ahmose Charnelscorn,” his voice rings out true and as decisive as the strike of a judge’s gavel.

His heart leaps as Lord Ahmose hefts Ser Wrymlung to his feet with their joined hands with ease, making the knight feel no heavier than a hunted hare to his lord. Then, suddenly, from the darkness hovering around Lord Ahmose, a hefty thing of fabric is settled upon Ser Wrymlung’s shoulders that he belatedly realizes is a dark cloak lined with bear furs. He looks up at his lord in a surprised daze even as he clutches at the warm garment.

“Such words of devotion are not needed here, Ser Wrymlung,” Lord Ahmose assures Wrymlung with his hands settled upon his knight’s shoulder, “Your simple acceptance was more than sufficient.”

Ser Wrymlung falls silent, his eyes tracing the face of his lord to discern any emotion at all but the subtleties of Lord Ahmose’s visage remain an enigma to him; thus, he can find no words. So, he simply nods.

Lord Ahmose pulls away, gesturing for his knight to follow, “Come, we have some distance to travel yet.” With that, the demon lord ducks out of the old temple and into the awaiting snow, his large sabatons barely making any sound upon the freshly fallen snow.

Ser Wrymlung feels his legs shake under him, but they manage to hold as he walks out, his steps crunch loudly in the several inches of snow he trudges through in his lord’s wake, the gentle snowfall seeming to glitter around him in the light of the full moon. Pausing, he looks up at the swirling stars above that frame the moon, Ianthe’s eye, the village folk call it when they feel whimsical. With his hand held out, he catches some of the swirling snowflakes upon the worn leather of the palm of his gauntlet, watching them cling together while a soft wind nips at the cloak wrapped around him. The wind is frigid and bitter, but it does not make him recoil as it would have before his resurrection, feeling more like an unpleasant tickling than the teeth of an animal gnawing at his flesh as it had once felt. When tucked properly, the cloak blocks it all out, leaving him in a pool of warmth.

“Is it difficult to walk?” Lord Ahmose’s voice sounds as though it's but a few breaths away, but as he turns he sees his lord wandering towards him from some distance with what Wrymlung can only think of calling a horse by his side.

Wrymlung shook his head as he stared up at the imposing creature, standing many hands taller than his lord and then even greater still, with its velvety ears flicked up in attention as clouds of white steam puff from its dark muzzle. Its coat has an otherworldly sheen in the moonlight, making it seem more fey than animal with its fur the color of dark, bloody ocher.

“Then are you able to ride?” his lord asks, making Wrymlung turn to him with wide eyes before they flicker toward the beast, and he finally notices the saddle strapped to the gigantic thing’s torso.

“You ride that thing?” Wrymlung can’t keep the disbelief from his voice and is about to form an apology when his lord chuckles.

“There aren’t many horses that can bear my weight and even fewer that can carry me and move at speed,” Lord Ahmose puts, his hand running down the monster of a horse’s neck fondly, “Thus, Sorcha here has the unfortunate task of being my steed. She’s a solemn draft, a breed that can only be found in my Woewood.”

Wrymlung feels himself relax as his lord holds up some dry treat for Sorcha who munches on it happily, perfectly unbothered by the dark woods and the new person before her, seemingly unshakable. Tentatively, he puts one foot in front of the other in an even, careful measure as he approaches Sorcha, who doesn’t so much as twitch her ears, looking at him with barely passing interest. When he reaches out his hand, she bends her massive head down towards him, puffing cloudy, hot breath at him that smells of dry grass and something alive. Wrymlung pets down her hefty face gently, minding the hard bits of his gauntlet, and she closes her warm, dark eyes, pushing into his hand as he pets her.

“She’s quite taken with you,” Ahmose rumbles pleasantly, looking at his steed fondly while brushing off some of the snow on her shoulder.

“She’s… she’s quite darling,” Wrymlung feels the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips despite himself before stepping back to let her lift her head once more to shake out her braided main.

“How do you feel about riding her? I promise you she is of a very gentle temperament, indeed, she has braved things that have shaken even me,” Ahmose speaks softly and Sorcha bumps into her rider fondly as if understanding he’s praising her.

“I…” Wrymlung frowns as he imagines his much smaller form -though by no means short by human standards- sitting upon the giantess that is Sorcha and hesitates, “I worry that I would not be an adequate rider.”

“Worry not,” Ahmose steps confidently and then lifts Wrymlung by his hips, startling his knight, and places him upon the saddle.

Wrymlung blinks away his surprise before looking around himself, skeptical about his ability to properly steer when his feet cannot even reach the stirrups, only to tense as the large mass of his lord gracefully moves into place behind him. He could feel his lord at his back, surrounded by his lord’s arms, as he watched Lord Ahmose take up the reins, locking Wrymlung into place on the saddle.

“I will steer,” Lord Ahmose declares, urging Sorcha into a gentle walk, “You need only rest as best you can.”

Wrymlung wraps the cloak tighter around himself and keeps his eyes determinedly forward, “Yes, my lord.”