Wrymlung the Decayed

Dwelling

Stone more ancient than he can fathom constructs walls that bar a veritable town of the forgotten and discarded. Goblins, drakemen, stonemen, and his own elvenkind are all bustling around in homes and buildings with designs he’d never seen before. The stone has been sculpted into twisting vines, mighty branches, and elegant flowers with such care that he'd believe them to be alive if they were not so gray and weathered with time. As he looks around in amazement, it strikes him that no one gawks at him nor the demon lord at his back, not even when they pass through a bustling market lush with stands that vend produce, knick-knacks, and street fair with people wandering about as though it were any other day. Then, something even stranger happens, as more and more people take notice of the demon lord, they bow to him in deference, reverence even as they submit to him. Lord Ahmose waves to them, his posture stiff and imposing as he barely looks over them, his subjects, Wrymlung finally realizes and shakes his head at himself for taking so long to come to the obvious conclusion.

Looking over his new lord, Wrymlung can't help but shift uncomfortably as he hisses, "I should be walking astride with you, not riding as if I were some sort of ward to you, my lord."

"Nonsense," Lord Ahmose's voice is firm without room for argument, "you have just arisen from death. You are in no state to walk such distances as of yet." Hearing the resolution of his lord, Wrymlung simply sighs and resigns himself to his fate.

As Sorcha's massive hooves tamp down the wet, dark earth of the glen they pass through, children of all kinds come rushing from under the brush, behind trees, and even logs, startling Wrymlung as he looks in bewilderment at the motley crew of all sorts dressed in worn but well-kept clothes. They all scurry around, to and fro without care underfoot of Sorcha who slows and moves carefully among the children until she goes still and snorts softly, patient as a saint. At this, Lord Ahmose takes a pouch off of his belt and bends down to the side, lowering the pouch to one of the children, the eldest among them, Wrymlung suspects. They take it eagerly before scrambling out and off to the side with the other kids following them like a herd of little lambs. Small limbs shove and flail as the pouch is opened to reveal little trinkets of iron that make up small soldiers, spinning tops, and even dice mixed up with a jar of sweet pickles which is swiftly opened and then doled out quickly to eager, grubby hands. With the road now clear of wily youths, Ahmose ushers Sorcha forward, down the twisting, earthen road.

The spectacle of it all makes Wrymlung's heart twist and he drags his eyes away as he clutches a hand to his chest, feeling the deep chill within him grow colder and he pulls the cloak further around himself. He closes his eyes and pushes away thoughts of better days.

He jolts up in shock as he's awakened by sudden jostling, surprised to find that he'd fallen asleep, and rubs his eyes before tracking the movements of his lord as he swings his massive frame off of Sorcha before marching over to a set of large, iron wrought doors with patterns made of twisting metal that make up fines and hands that reach ever upward to the carving of a full moon. As Wrymlung's eyes land upon the carving, the track further up, higher and higher until they land upon the cracked, pale stone peak of the ramparts. Wrymlung's head twists this way, and that as he takes the fortress before him in, his eyes going wide at the massive statues of elves clad in sleek armor, bearing long-forgotten crests.

Lord Charnelscorn rests his hand upon the door, his soft words reverberating through the air making it hiss and vibrate while Wrymlung shivers at the feeling of raw magic crackling within the sudden rush of wind. The spiraling marks carved along the many arms and vines glow softly with an icy, blue tinge as the many hands and vines move like flesh and vegetation instead of cold iron as they slither away from the center, unlatching the massive doors. His lord steps back, letting the doors open before them to reveal the entry gate that leads out into an overgrown courtyard with the path lit by soft blue flame. Wrymlung's attention is drawn to Lord Ahmose as he turns to look at his new night.

"Welcome to my dwelling, Ser Wrymlung..."

Wrymlung swallows and nods, "Thank you, my lord."

As Wrymlung tries to dismount, his lord is already there, lifting him easily once more and gently setting him on his feet, his legs shaking under his own weight as he takes a few cautious steps toward the ancient fortress. His lord takes Sorcha's reins and leads her through the gate, her massive hooves clattering loudly against the heavily worn cobble with Wrymlung just to the side of his lord. He's led to a much newer structure, large stables made of pale wood that are large enough to house Sorcha and accommodate his lord's great height. Sighing, he closes his eyes at the familiar scent of hay and cured wood, a sliver of peace sinking into his chest. As his lord works just a short distance away from him, he watches in fascination as the demon lord unsaddles Sorcha and then brushes her down with great care. As he steps out of the stall setting a hooked trough onto the gate, Ahmose turns to Wrymlung.

"Are you well?" his lord tilts his head curiously. "You seem distracted..." Lord Charnelscorn marches his way out, motioning for Wrymlung to follow.

Walking as quickly as he can to keep apace with his lord, Wrymlung glances back to the stables and then around, taking a breath.

"It's simply that..." Wrymlung falters for a moment, wringing his hands as he keeps glancing briefly up at his lord, "I apologize for my impertinence, my lord, it is only that I've never seen a noble tend to their steeds."

Ahmose looks back at his knight as he takes them into the keep, "You think me noble?"

Wrymlung snaps his head up to gaze incredulously upon his lord, "What else would you be? You are my lord..."

A soft mist swirls out from between Lord Charnelscorn's fangs as he sighs deeply, "The lord part of being a demon lord is hardly like those bloodlines you mortals swear yourselves to. It is far more... metaphorical. We demon lords possess great power you see, but not in land or title."

"My lord..." Wrymlung starts, his eyebrows tensing together, but then he just sighs as well and nods, "As you see it."

Ahmose stares at him for a moment and then nods as well and opens a door that's been used far more often than any of the others and gestures inside to which Wrymlung obediently follows only to blink in surprise as he looks around to find a study with books and parchment strewn this way and that. The sound of the door rattling closed pulls his attention back to his lord who treads delicately over to his desk where he picks up an old tomb.

"My lord..." Wrymlung broaches before sinking back into himself, ducking his head to await his orders.

There's a long beat of silence, and then Ahmose's voice rumbles out to him, "Yes?"

"I..." Wrymlung keeps his head down and licks his lips nervously.

His lord steps back to him, resting his hand on Wrymlung's shoulder, the size of it consuming his pauldron as he urges Wrymlung to look up at him.

"You needn't hold back," Ahmose pulls his hand back gracefully, "Do speak..."

"You don't have any servants..."

Lord Charnelscorn hums thoughtfully, "Yes, you are the first person I have taken on to serve me..." The Lord looks over his study, "Perhaps I have not given you the best image of myself. I understand it if you find me lacking."

"No!" Wrymlung is quick to correct only to retreat into himself under his lord's gaze, "I mean only that... would it not make things far simpler to have a servant or two?"

"Perhaps, but I enjoy my privacy and I can manage my affairs... I am in no need of such luxuries."

Wrymlung scrutinizes his lord and then bows his head, "As you say, my lord."

There's a beat and then Ahmose opens the tomb, "Now to tell you of my true purpose in resurrecting you..."

Wrymlung looks down at the massive book only for his eyes to widen at the sight of the very ritual that brought the elves to the end of all civilization.