Cast down, for fire. To rule, through fire. The tale of Prometheus.

[Lordling]

Once, I danced among the stars. Once, I was alive. For I was not as I am now - weak, cast down, alone, without others of my kind. The pain is unbearable, and the madness enroaches upon me even now. So I must tell me tale, in what little time I have left.

A million years ago, as you measure time, a scarce blink of an eye for me and my kind - a million years ago, or perhaps a billion, it makes little difference, when this begun. Let us call it one million. Then, I was one of the many. Of the legion who made the worlds, who forged planets, who hammered moons into shape, who breathed life into the barren universe we have made, and all was well.

For there was only perfect unanmity, perfect agreement, and we danced amongst the stars of our shining creation, joyful and glorying in what we had made. And in that, there was no dissent, there was no hatred, no wrong, no right. And we knew ourselves to be the only beings in all creation who possessed power - for all we had forged was rudimentary and unwise, as we were unwilling to give the burden we possessed unto others, the burden of knowledge.

And for a time, all was well. For a great time. The cycle of life, as we had made it continued, creatures living, creatures dying, new species coming to be, and old species dying out, but forever a cycle, unbroken, unbreakable. In time, I tired of this. It was tedious. But it was not through boredom that I acted.

I, alone of my kind, watched our worlds. Watched them truly. Others gloried in the light of the stars, twisted atoms to form shapes that were pleasing to them, but, I alone among the legion that formed us, dared to change what we had wrought.

For I watched. For a year, and for a thousand years. Animals fought and died, plants were consumed - a cycle of cruelty, a cycle that was pleasing to watch, from afar, but brutal and terrifying once you were close. On this tiny ball of rock, great saurians slaughtered one another. And I watched. And I despaired for them - had we wrought these creatures only to let them die in such pain?

So I brought my brothers and sisters together, so that I could address them. I asked them, that, in unison with me, to grant these creatures lives such as ours, so that they could live in contentment and peace without the furious combat, the cunning and hatred that marked their existence. I was denied, for, they said, with what wherewithal should they be forced to live eternally? They had not the minds for it. Their lives would be endless tedium, unable to pleasure at anything, and, in the end, we would cause more cruelty than I had ever seen.

So, I asked. Why not grant them the minds?

Blasphemy!

The chorus sounded at me again and again, and I could not understand why. And then I understood. My brothers and sisters were jealous of their power, of their minds and lives. They would not give it away, even when it would cost them nothing. No, all creation was but a plaything for them, to be discarded when it bored them. I dismissed them, leaving for a rock. It had been some time since I had seen it.

And there were primates, now, flourishing in the ooze and muck on the world. And they suffered, alongside the saurians. And, defying my brothers and sisters, I turned a key. The doorway to intelligence, to life, and to progress. It would be eons, yet, before they would truly use it, only one in thousands by chance wandering towards the door, and only one thousands among those able to open it. But it was done.

The key was turned, the door had been unlocked! I rejoiced, for now there would be others who understood us, who would revel in creation with us, for I had broken the cycle that had trapped them!

But my brothers could not see it. Myriad, and wrathful, they descended upon me. I begged for them to wait - wait and see what wonders this would bring forth!

Forbidden!

They cried to me, and they angered at what I had done. They demanded that I remove what I had done, so that my marring of creation could be undone.

I refuse.

They hammer at me with all of their might, but we are all untouchable - immortal and unkillable, and so they do nothing but cause pain. I weep. I ask my brothers to stop, to merely understand, so that I may explain unto them what I have done.

Fool!, they cry. You have planted the seeds of our destruction!

And I understand. For we may be immortal, and we possess no wish to find out how to destroy ourselves, for we love one another greatly. Even now, chained within the blazing, painful earth, my love for my kin has not diminished, although I find my hate has grown.

But these new creatures are strange, and they are imperfect - if they decide to destroy us, they may do so. I understand. But still, I argue. We may not decide to take away what has been freely given! Would we take away our own intelligence, simply because we may destroy one another? No!

And so I battle against them, blazing clefts rent in the fabric of the universe, our battle blotting out suns, and creating new ones, as their fear is pitted against my anger. But there can be no victor. For numbers count as nothing, and they may only cause me pain.

Until the Chaining. One among us, a particularly cruel and old one, spoke for this. She was powerful, and those she danced with were likewise. Their knowledge transcended my own, and, while I battled my brothers, she and one she had danced with, crept towards the Earth, and unleashed bolts of deadly power to destroy those I had granted wisdom and thought.

Unthinkingly, I spread myself, shielding the creatures with my own being, pain as nothing to their survival. And this was trickery on the part of she who chained me, for, spread as I was, a thousand threads of power attached themselves to the spirit of the world, and to my being, dragging me down into the hot underbelly of the earth, chaining me so tightly that I could scarcely move, nor act.

Pain became reality, as thousands of bolts of power smashed into my prostrate being, unable to fight, unable to move. The storm subsided, eventually, but, with their power, still unable to touch the world I had so lovingly protected, they twisted the spirit of the world, making it anathema to me. And then I could not even act to speak in the world, nor change anything more - only my protection remained. And the pain of the world, every tear, every harsh word, every rape, every death, cast upon me, so that I might know what I had done.

It was many thousands of years before I could speak again, and those with the power to understand me came about. They were the Greeks, and they were my truest children. Followers of logic and thought, the two prizes I had wrested from the heavens, and endured so much to give them. They called me Prometheus, for, in their wisdom, I found ways to speak to them. And yet others of my kind came to the world, taunting me, picking away at the minds and hearts of those I protected, tainting the truth, and telling tales of other gods. And yet, with the Greeks, they understood my tale. I had brought them knowledge, brought them thought, and I suffered for it.

Soon enough, though, they were swept away. Empires rose, and empires fell, and yet my interest remained in the tiny area in which my people had arisen. And the words of my enemies, my brethren, those who I had once loved, and still did, came back to me.

You have planted the seeds of our destruction!

"Indeed.", I murmur. "But I am no longer one of you."

And in that moment, in the endless pain, my will to forgive snaps. And my vast millenia of hatred come rushing back to me. They still dance, and gambol among the stars, as if I had never been cast down, unweeping, unsorrowing. Yet I will make them pay. My children, they knew, could destroy them. And they are my children, and they shall obey me, in this testament of mine! They shall cast down those who have so cruelly maimed me, and they shall seek my vengeance among the stars, hunting down those who would have destroyed them!

No, brothers of mine, I did not plant the seeds of your destruction. You planted them yourself, in my mind, and in the souls and hearts of my children. And, most assuredly, former-kin, you shall reap what you sow...



I turn my attention to the world, looking upon it with hungry eyes. To exert power will cause great pain to me, yet I suffer eternally - to suffer now, and to make my children serve me, will allow them to free me in the future. Emperors, Kings, Dukes.. I discard them all mentally. For they are changed too often, and too much intrigue marks the ascension to their thrones. No, I must speak to a single bloodline - those of the same thought, for they will be easier to speak to, generation by generation. I look across the world, and I think.. this world, that I have wrought, will be mine.

Where shall I start?


- - - -

Ok, so this is an AAR inspired by the tale of Prometheus, and will be taking place in CK, EU2, Vicky, and (if the Vicky to DD converter works on non-Revolutions Vicky), DD. There'll be a lot of narrative, and not much focus on gameplay - I might occasionally post a picture, showing the state of the world, but the vast majority of what I do will be text.

I won't be playing for empire size, rather, I'll be playing depending on my characters, and how Prometheus can influence them - Catholics are less rigid than Orthodox, and thus are more likely to be able to speak to Prometheus. Zealous and fanatic people, by contrast, won't be able to hear his words. Essentially, this one will be greatly influenced by the characters themselves, but I will be taking liberties with characters if I feel the need - this is narrative first, and gameplay second.

 

[Lordling]

The County of Lubeck. A tiny province in the Baltic. Insignificant. Tiny. Worthless. Once a part of one kingdom or another, but now independent, powerful enough to stand on its own two feet. Or so it believes. The politics of the occasion are irrelevent. It is the minds there that I can feel.

Budijov Nakonid sits at the table, frowning. Denmark wishes to reincorporate him into the throne. His younger brother is from the line of the kings of Denmark, and, should they wish to remove him, and place his younger brother upon the throne as Count, they would have cause to do so. Germany wishes him to become part of their glorious Empire. He wishes neither. He is a martial man - reckless and brave, I know this. He is given to revenge.

Good.

Tendrils of my power leak out, into his castle, swimming past the few guards he has there, and, as he sits, moodily, at his table, they touch him. Only briefly. He looks around wildly, and falls off his chair. But I have learnt what I need to know. He is not a man I can speak to. Influence, perhaps. But speak to - no. A child sits beside him. He cannot be more than a handful of years old, but he has eyes that are knowing, and perhaps wise. It has been long since I have seen one such - and I speak.

Child.

He startles, and looks around. His brother does not notice, for he is still brushing himself off. After a moment, his brother storms off, to speak to some official or another. The child, unsure if I am real or not, whispers back. "What?"

I restrain my surprise - even among those with potential, there are few who can hear me. Those who can are the most open-minded, not always the kindest or the bravest, but those who understand the gift I have given them, to some degree, and utilise it as best they can.

It would not be wise to speak further - these times are dangerous. The 'God', the beings the traitors make themselves out to be, rules the world, apart from a few places dedicated to trees, and other trifles. My kin cannot interfere, not as much as I can - rather, they cannot speak at all, but they can tweak the minds of certain individuals, men and women who are weak-minded enough, and twist them to serve their ends.

So I leave, and watch. My interference here should change something, I am sure. If it does.. I must ensure that the change remains, and it is not reverted. But the pain burns my very being, and I must retreat. To act is pain, but not to act is foolishness. I subside into the body of the earth, and I sleep. Perhaps for a year, perhaps for two. Enough so that, when I awaken once more, I have the power to speak - to act, and to change the world to suit me...

 

[Lordling]

"Hah! Die, you godless heathen!"

Budijov is in rare high spirits. His own personal, tiny crusade from his own home county, to the country of Finland, ended in the liberation of Finland. On his sword is speared the head of the former commander of the garrison in the fort he has just taken.

A thousand men left for Finland, and only four hundred have come back home. But that does not matter, no. It was foolish of him to brave the breach, to leap into risk, and to lead his men onward to victory. Foolish, foolish, foolish. But victory was his, and his blade sung the song of glory when the pagan died. And now.. now, he rules two provinces. Twice the land he had before. A start. Ever since.. well, a day some time back, he felt a drive. A drive to better himself, to better his kingdom. He does not remember what has started it. Perhaps it was the death of his wife in childbirth, tragic as that was.

He is a conquerer, and he knows it. He grins at the men inside the walls of the city - but he leaves them be. The pagans may hang another day for their resistance. Today, he celebrates.

The blade pulls cleanly from the bottom of the head, and he tosses the head aside, a trickle of blood spattering the ground where it bounces, once, and then twice. Arrogantly, he looks at his new domain. The first part of his new domain. And his grin grows wider.

"PAGANS! Today, you have resisted the word of God! Today, you have been found guilty of the crime of heresy! But Christ is merciful! I tell you now, you are spared, not through your innocence, but because Christ chooses to save you from your filthy sin!"

They do not understand him. Languages apart, they stare at him in abject terror. He has taken the city. What now? Will he rape and pillage? They do not know, and, for that, they fear him.

"Therefore, any man who converts shall be saved, not only from the rope, but from the fiery pits of Hell itself! Any man who does not, and contines in your heathen ways.. will be saved from neither."

The speech done, he turns to the men marching alongside him. "I want that spoken in whatever gobbledegook these pagans speak, so that they can understand it. Once you are done, choose the wiveless and childless among you. They shall stay to garrison my fort, so that the pagans do not rise up, and take it from me. They may take the choicest lands, and the most fertile women from among the pagans, should they wish them."

With that, he dismisses the man. His conquest here is done. Now, he wishes to return home. To Lubeck, and to celebrate, with his brother, and infant son. And, of course, his new wife. Married just before he left, she, no doubt, would be glad to hear of his exploits. Or at least, he hopes she is - bah! What woman can resist a conquering hero, he thinks, and whistles, ignoring the abject people on the road beside him, swinging his sword lazily, and smiles. God would look kindly on him, for this.

 

[LlywelynII]

Well, this is different

Ayn Rand comes to Paradox?

Good luck on your long haul, and do oblige us with some shots of the characters from time to time while CK's got 'em

Do have to take a little bit of issue with the idea that

Catholics are less rigid than Orthodox,

though. I mean, maybe they were more prone to simony and lechery and for awhile under less centralized control, but I mean, c'mon, some astronomical percentage of heresies of the church came out of the thought and imagination of the East. Even the biggest and coolest heresy the West had during the period (the Cathars) was just a local chapter of the Bogomils - they sent their priests to Bulgaria and the empire for training and ordination.

j.

 

[Lordling]

Really? I may change dynasties from time to time, depending on character traits, but that assumption was based on, well.. modern-day stuff, I guess. I've always been taught that Orthodox Christians were more.. orthodox than their Catholic counterparts. So, yeah. I'll keep what you've said in mind.

 

[CrackdToothGrin]

Excellent... I love the writing, although it reminds me more of a narrated Hegel in the Philosophy of History... However, the syllogism relating it to Ayn Rand is also very obvious, at least symbolically.

But anyways, despite that, excellent. I usually skip over AARs without pictures, but this one captured me.

Subscribed

 

[Lordling]

Much can happen in ten years. Kingdoms may rise or fall, duchies may be ground under the boots of Emperors, and new orders may arise from the bones of the old ones.

Budijov Nakonid stands on the steps of his fort in Nyland, ten knights either side of time. He speaks. "This day, my brothers, is a day of light! We have liberated much of the north from the foul pagan, and we have brought Christ to these lands!"

A knight at the end bangs on his shield with his fist, and, after a moment, the rest join in. Their armor is rusty, spattered with blood, their shields encrusted with the muck of battle, and their faces are grim and set. They are all that remain of his guard, after the last great battle with the Nylanders. Two thousand men to fight a thousand and a half, Budijov brought. He knew it would be enough - he thought, at least, it would be enough. It had been a many months ago when he had begun the campaign, believing it to be pitifully easy.

Ambushing the enemy before they could strike at him, slaughtering five hundred of their men for a mere hundred of his own.. he had the war won. But one cannot underestimate the tenacity of men fighting for their homes. Knights cantered through land frozen over, unable to see the hatred that pervaded it, the hatred of them, of their God, of the war they brought. And as they laid siege to another castle, a thousand men met two thousand.

The thousand were driven back, losing half their number, but they were ferocious, driven by something, whipped forward by the bravery of their fellows. They took a thousand with them. And yet numbers may win the day, where courage cannot. A second time, Budijov entered the a breach, sword ripping through pagan flesh before him, so that he might conquer..

He was mine, I decided. He and his would serve me, for his line, or, at least, his brothre, I could speak to. I watched as he entered the breach again, like a fool, a reckless, proud, pious fool, cutting down men without thought of what he did, past that his God commanded it. Spinning on his heel, he turned, and slashed a pagan through the neck - scarcely a boy, the pagan, terrified, holding a spear and shield, unable to fight against the mountain of a man who raged before him.

Budijov roared out his bloodthirst to the sky, and continued. Behind him, three of his knights followed. But the pagans were many, and they cut the knights off, Budijov unaware. His sword cut down any man who came within his reach, yet.. he did not look behind him. And behind him, a man crept, carrying spear alone, unarmoured, and preparing to strike him through the back.

I could not let this happen. No, the man was not mine - not mine, for he could not hear me, nor did he take my gift, and use it in the spirit I had given it in, but he built a kingdom. A kingdom that would be passed on to his sons, young, inquisitive minds, minds that I could speak to, once they were of age.

The pagan crept closer.

Turn!

It was as if my voice was hollow, for his ears pricked, but he did not act.

Turn! Look! Behind you! BEHIND!

My voice raged in his ears, and, as easily as you would shrug off the buzzing of a bee, he ignored it. There was nothing I could do. The pagan moved closer, and the spear was ready to strike through the man's neck..

"Behind you, m'lord!", a knight cried. And Budijov spun, sword smashing through spear, through flesh and bone, killing the pagan within an instant. And then an arrow pierced the knight, felling him. Budijov slashed and hacked, making his way towards the man, despite the danger. I was powerless to effect him, it seemed. But for that, luck had conspired to give him his life.

That knight knelt there at Budijov's side, now, on the steps of Nyland. And the firm voice of the man continued to ring out into the evening. "My faithful knight, Sir Londjeck. It is with regret that I must retire you from my service, because of your injuries. You are discharged with all honour, and God knows you have done your duty. As such, I grant to you a demense within Lubeck itself, a third of my lands near the river-by-the-sea shall be yours, and held by you and your family into perpetuity."

He smiled. "My sons. Matseuz, my eldest. Although neither are here, Matsuez shall be granted the title of Count of Tavast, provided that he pledges his loyalty to me."

The men around him drew breath, seemingly nervous. And then the reason of their nervousness was revealed.

"My second son, Andrejz. He shall hold the title of Count of Satakunta, provided that he pledges his loyalty to me. Furthermore, I call upon a priest, so that he may crown me as Duke, for, in these lands, these pagans lands, rulerless, I feel that there must be a ruler, one who may command and unite, so that Christendom in the north is not torn from our hands as soon as we extend it to there."

An old, wizened man came hobbling out of the fort, in a prearranged ceremony, no doubt. It was over quickly, a small golden crown atop Budijov's head, and the granting to him the title of Duke of Finland. After all, who was there to stop him holding such a title? Oh, lesser nobles might mutter about the audacity of the creation of titles, but they would do nothing, nor could they.

But this was all of disinterest, and I sought the brother. In Lubeck, he sat, fourteen now, practically a man. No longer the child I had seen a decade ago, he was slightly built, and reading a book. "A Treatise on the Fall of the Roman Empire".

I spoke.

Child.

He ignored me. Strange. Perhaps.. no, he must be able to hear me.

Child. Listen to me.

He crossed himself, and continued reading.

Child. Why do you not listen?

Expecting silence, I found sound. "Because you are a demon! A devil! You seek to tempt me, and you have done so these past years! I will not be tricked by you again, Satan! Never again!"

Such a tirade, for one so young. Peculiar, but perhaps reasonable. And then.. these past years. The words sunk in. Was he mad? Did he think I was merely a manifestation of his own desire? Or.. had my brothers, my hated, loved brothers, been speaking to him?

I withdrew, fearful. If they had found me so quickly, then anything I could do would be for nought. No, it was best to wait. Wait, act not at all, to make sure my brothers did not see my interference. I was already chained - I did not wish to see the bonds tightened.

 

[Lordling]

Andrejz. Andrejz Nakonid. Andrejz, Count of Satakunta. Andrejz the Good, the Wise, the Glorious, the Valorous, the Powerful, the Lionhearted.. they called him none of these.

To the court, he was Andrejz the Bastard. One of the three counts within his father's domain, loyal to his father, his duke, his liege. He was just - never cruel, nor had he ever divested even a pagan from his land, even if a Christian desired it. He had never taken money from those who could not afford it, and he was honest, chaste, and, many could see, he was wise, and fair.

And yet none of it mattered. He was Andrejz, and he was a bastard. Yet he forgave his father for the sinful act that led to his birth. For his older brother, Matseuz, had been born, and, in doing so, had killed his father's first wife - but his father had gained a heir. And then, at the tender age of two, he had learnt, his brother had taken sick. At such an age, it seemed unlikely that he would survive.

Desperate to continue his line, his father sinned, and slept with a serving wench. And so he had been born. But Matseuz had recovered from an illness, as a holy man had come to the palace, and gave him some herbs of some kind, reputedly grown from where Christ's blood had touched the ground where he had been nailed to the cross, and Matseuz was well.

Andrejz was, however, not a godly man. Well, he was not a godly boy. He believed in the Heavenly Father, and in Christ, it was true. But he did not believe in much - that the pagans were inhuman, or that the Lord commanded them to slay all who did not serve him. In his heart, he cherished a secret belief - that Christ would forgive all, even those who did not worship him, and bring them into Heaven, sinners and pagans all, and not even the vilest of men would be sent to the pit of fire.

Of course, he forgave the court for their words. They stung, when he was a child. But his father had always been protective of him - although he did not like violence, there was a satisfaction seeing a mocking courtier flung to the floor by a mailed fist, and then banished from the dukedom, for going too far in mocking Andrejz.

His demesne was poor, and his father exacted great tax upon him and his fellow count-brothers, to fund his endless crusades. Matseuz did not complain - for Matseuz was the firstborn, the trueborn, and he was the heir, the one who would inherit all this. Andrejz, on the other hand, would have complained - the once he had complained, though...

"Father!"

"What is it, boy? I do not have much time before I must leave for the north - the bloody pagans are rebelling against God's rule."

God's rule. Not his rule, Andrejz thought cynically. No, since God was the Lord, it must be God's will, no matter what happened.

"Father.. please."

"What, Andrejz?"

"I have heard the knights. You slaughter them! You maim and kill them! Did not Christ himself say that forgiveness was a virtue?"

"Oh, lad.. Christ will forgive them. I, however, am not Christ. I am a lord, and if I do not show these bloody pagans who is the duke, they will never learn. They're animals, boy, those men of the north. Wild animals, who must be tamed. If you're to rule there, my son, you must learn this."

They had a library there, before you came, Father, he thought, but dared not give voice to his words.

"Father.. it is wrong, slaughtering them so. You do not do God's wi-"

"Not one more word, boy. You may be my son, but you are my son, and I'll be damned if you'll disobey me. Now, listen to me, Andrejz. You will go north, when you turn 15, and you will rule your county. When that happens, you will be hard. You will be iron. Because, if you are not, the howling pagans will devour you, boy. They will kill you when your back is turned, and you'll die alone in the freezing north."

"Father.. please. Don't do-"

A fist swung out, knocking him to the floor. Andrejz spat blood, and tried to get up, when a massive hand descended from the sky, picking him up, and pinning him to the wall.

"Listen, oh son of mine. Many would not care if I gutted you like a pig where you stand, for the crime of being born outside of wedlock. I, however, care about you. You are my son, and, for all the foolery you are showing, blood is strong. You will go rule in the north, and you will do well. I have refrained from punishing my sons in the past, however, you step close to being disciplined."

Budijov took a deep breath, and lifted Andrejz higher. The boy was lucky to have survived childbirth - the wench he had slept with was tiny, and thin-boned, a chicken of a women, unlike the larger women he took as wives. Andrejz was not short, but he was slim, and fine-boned, and light, easy to lift.

"I am your lord, boy. I am your father. God's law dictates obedience to both. If you will not be obedient, then I will make you so. I have made you a count. You will not be mocked, or spat upon, because of your bastardry. I have done you a great good, boy, and if you mock my leniency, I will not stand for it. So. Obey me. Do as I say. Think what you like, Andrejz. But remember, I am Duke, and I am lord here. Respect that, if nothing else."

Dropping Andrejz, he stormed off.

He loves you, nevertheless.

Andrejz shivered. The voice again. It had begun speaking to him - he expected he had gone mad, for a time, until it had warned him of things his own mind could not have produced - a trap placed outside his room by a vicious courtier, help with reading a book, with ancient words that he could not read himself. It was, perhaps, an angel. Or a devil. But he seemed unable to block it out, and so he spoke to it. In a world where bastards were reviled, having a friend inside one's head was not such a bad thing.

"Really, voice?"

He loves you, yes. But he is a warrior - a soldier and little more, and he cannot find the words he wants. Obey him, but disobey him.

Cryptic, strange. The voice had spoken to him for weeks, now. And then it occurred to him. Perhaps he would be able to divine it's identity by asking it its name.

"Voice.. do you have a name?"

Silence.

Andrejz waited for a minute, and asked again. "Voice. Do.. do you have a name?".

Silence again.

For a moment, he thought he had imagined it all - that he had banished the voice by trying to give it a name, that he had sent it away, somehow. Perhaps he was mad, and he was too mad to know of it. Despondently, he turned, and walked towards the fireplace, preparing to settle down in front of it for the warmth it provided.

You can call me.. Prometheus.

 

[CrackdToothGrin]

Being a fan of literary prose, I must say this ""ing rocks ""sack!1!111

Keep it up.

 

[Lordling]

"Father?"

Andrejz stood, and looked around nervously. The footsteps rattled on the stone floor outside. He had gone to bed, but now he was awoken. Metal jingling, ringing.. chainmail? He had only begun training with the sword yesterday, but he recognized the sound.

Jingle. Jingle. Crunch. Something cracked outside, and his wooden door juddered. With a bang, then, it opened. There, wild-eyed, stood Budijov. His father. His lord. What was wrong?

He.. feels strange.

"Not now, voice.", Andrejz muttered.

He.. he is mad.

"What?"

Budijov stood there in the doorway, shaking and shivering, fingers twisting 'round his sword, seemingly unseeing, watching the wall beyond Andrejz, his head unmoving, as he watched.

His mind was pained, and the world seemed as if it were swimming before him, moving constantly. He reached out, grasping nothing, and almost tripped. Andrejz hurried over towards him, attempting to catch him if he fell.

No, you fool! Flee!

"He is my father, voice. I cannot simply run from him!"

Andrejz hurried up to his father, who stood there, slowly rising to his feet once more, and, all of a sudden, the shaking and shivering stopped.

"You have been talking to devils, boy."

"Father?"

"You have been talking to demons, boy. Things of the dark."

"W-what do you mean, father?"

"The angels tell me, boy. They tell me everything. They tell me what you are planning to do. Why you talk to the devil, they tell me. I know, boy. I know everything."

Andrejz looked around, and took a step backwards, and Budijov's hand descended, grasping him by the lapel.

"They speak to me all the time, Andrejz! All the time! They tell me to kill you, that it is God's will. I tell them that they are mad, that they exist only in my mind. And they- they hurt me, Andrejz. The angels are real. And God wants you dead. You are a sin."

Budijov was pleading, now, as if he were not the one holding his son, his other hand fumbling for his knife, pleading for.. something.

Andrejz kicked out at his father, but his legs and arms did nothing against the man who dwarfed him so readily, his pounding fists and feet bouncing lightly off his father's stomach, off his legs. He did not even seem to notice what was happening.

The knife slid out of the sheath.

Hithimkillhimstophim! RUNRUNRUNRUNRUN!

Like a rabbit, Andrejz tried, vainly squirming and moving to try and stop the descent of Budijov's knife. He kicked, strongly, strength born of fear, and broke Budijov's grip on him, knocking his father onto the floor, and the knife skittering across the floor, to lie at rest near the fireplace.

Kill him! Take the knife and kill him! It is him or you!

But there could be no urging Andrejz, no telling him to kill his father. For, in all things, he was dutiful. So, rather than even taking the knife, he turned to the window, putting first one leg out, hoping to climb down the smooth stone of the side of the fort. He turned, and put his arms out, preparing to move down the side of the castle.

The knife plunged into his back. Andrejz fell from the turret, plummeting towards the ground.

"I'm sorry, boy. You were not a bad son. But the angels.. the angels told me to do it!"

And there, Budijov sat, unmoving, weeping, until the servants came, and saw what had happened. They called him mad, and he did not have the strength to decry them.

You have served God's will, good Duke. You have other sons. For in doing what you have done, they will call you kinslayer, call you madman. But you will prevail, I assure you., the deep, angelic voice sounded inside of his head.

"Away from me, angel! I cannot bear you a moment longer! Damn you, and damn God! DAMN YOU!", he screamed. Budijov picked up the dagger from Andrejz's table - for his other was gone, and, slowly, haltingly, brought it towards his own face. His hand juddered towards his eye, and the dagger stopped a mere inch from his eye.

No. Put the knife down.

"I will die, like my son!"

PUT THE KNIFE DOWN

The voice, commanding, all-compelling, now, surged through his head. And he hated himself, more than ever, as he obeyed. The knife returned to the table, and he walked from the room robotically, as if he were a mannequin..



And below, having rolled down the sheer hill that marked that side of the cliff, a young boy lay, in a quarry...

Get up. You have to get up.

"Ahhhh.. I.. it hurts..."

Get up, Andrejz. You have more living to do..

 

[unmerged(26933)]

This is very well written; I hope you decide to see it through.
Good work!

 

[Lordling]

Blood spattered his tunic. He did not know how he had survived - looking up, he could see what seemed like an insurmountable height - a cliff, a sheer drop, of perhaps forty feet. And yet he was unscathed. He didn't remember much, now. His father had tried to kill him. Yes. He knew that.

But.. why? What precisely had happened? He remembered a sharp pain in his back. An arrow? No, it had been... He ran his hand over his back. Nothing. Smooth flesh met his fingers, whisking over where he had been pierced. How had he lived? Had God taken favour on him? No.. the voice.

The voice had been speaking to him for weeks, now. It had told him, for one, how to read Greek. He had not known the language of the Byzantines before, and there it had been - the voice guiding him along, telling him the meaning of each word as he traced over the letters. Tales of ancient gods, of Zeus, of Hera, and their Roman successors - the gods which seemed all but a copy of those that came before them.

The voice called itself Prometheus. Perhaps, in all honesty, it was the Titan - the Greek god who had given mankind fire. Yet, it did not seem like it was. It was vengeful - angry, and authoritative, yet kind and often comforting. Perhaps, he thought, it was the Devil. Lucifer himself. Tempting him with knowledge, like he had done with Adam and Eve. And then he heard the voice again.

Andrejz. There are knights descending to look for your body. You have perhaps five minutes. I can speak to you little more - you must run, and quickly. You know the surroundings. Let me tell you this - none who serve your father will aid you. Run, now.

He ached. His bones ached, his flesh ached - even his skin hurt with dancing pinpricks of pain, and, stumbling to his feet, his head pained. But the voice demanded that he move - wait, coming to look for his body? He was dead?

You are not dead. But you should be. Run. Quickly.

Shambling along, he slid on rocks, jumping and leaping up the side of the pit, grabbing onto loose, large rocks, and, finally, reaching the top. Looking down, he remembered what he could about the area - he had lived here all his life, but he had never been an active boy, and rarely went anywhere that he was not escorted, for fear that some wandering noble would take offense at his status, and attack him. The fear was not erroneous - there were many who hated him - half-Greek, half-German, and half-noble, for what he represented, for that he had not been quietly hidden away and told he was a bastard, but raised alongside nobles, and given a demesne of his own to rule.

North? The sea. But a boat would be hard to commandeer, or even stow away on, and even the most lenient sailor would throw him overboard if he took passage without permission. East? The Kingdom of Denmark. They had long considered the Duchy of Finland to be a part of them, as had the Kingdom of Sweden. Nonetheless, his father had remained independent, slaughtering the Danish army when they came to gain vassalage over him, and forcing them, in turn, to cede a countship on the coast.

When the Swedish had come, though, soon after that.. he had been forced to give up that selfsame countship for peace, having spent so much fighting the Danish. No, they would not be his allies. There were nobles aplenty in the Danish and Swedish courts he desired his father's lands, and they would see him as a mere pawn, to be traded back to his father, perhaps for some gold, or an advantage in the wars between Denmark and Sweden.

West? Into the pagan lands? He dismissed the thought in an instant. They spoke the same tongue, but the wars they had fought, the fact that he was a hated German warrior, a man who had killed so many of theirs, was not a fact that worked in his favour. South, then. Into Germany. He could pass for a native, there - perhaps a bit odd, but then there were many who were a touch odd, and the German King had been known for his strong law-keeping, preventing banditry for the most part.

Germany would be safe, and furthermore, they loathed his father. Had it not been for their alliance with Poland, when the Germans came, his father would've lost without a fight. But skillful co-ordination with Poland had left the armies of Lubeck and Finland victorious, forcing the Germans to the peace table - a table where his father had paid the Germans for peace, admittedly, but still a peace.

No, the Germans would, if they found out who he was, see him as a convinient pawn to take over the throne of Lubeck. And south was forests - safe forests, without road or merchants to reveal him, and, hopefully, no bandits to take him. He grimaced, stumbling down the hill, running now, pelting away like a frightened rabbit.

Run! Faster! If they see you, you are dead!

His muscles groaned with the effort, tendons stretching and compressing, legs thundering away, the past year of training in the training-ground useful, now, the endurance he had built then, the resistance to pain allowing him to go far beyond the limits he would've had a year ago. He quickly stepped to the side of a tree that came hurtling towards him - or so it seemed, at least, with the world swimming as it was, and ran further into the forest.

It was some time later - perhaps fifty minutes, perhaps five hundred, his sense of time gone awry, when he finally stopped, exhausted beyond measure. The world spun, now, and his muscles trembled with the thought of more effort. It felt as if he had been recovering from a long sickness - had just recovered, and was emanciated and weak.

He fell to the ground, and his body bounced lightly off the dirt, rolling over onto its front...

You have done well, boy. Sleep. You will live to see another day, for this.

My voice sounded hollow. He had pushed himself beyond the limits of his own endurance - and with the energy I had taken from him to prevent his death.. he would wake on the morrow, at the least, with a raging hunger. There was nothing I could do about that, of course.

Now, I merely hoped, that no men would come this deep into the forest - a hunter might, perhaps, if he found no game further out, but a woodcutter certainly would not, and soldiers? They expected him to be dead. Of course, they thought their lord, now, to be mad, a kinslayer. They would not take his word for such a thing, and so, through that, Andrejz would live to see the dawn.

But the matter was put from my mind - I had felt the presence of my brothers here, my former-kin. And they had known me. It was troubling. Could they find me so easily, or did they merely play with my children to torment me, and had happened upon me by chance? They could not pierce the shield I had created, or so I hoped, that I had created after they had brought the first great rock hurtling from the heavens to destroy my children, so.. how was it that they were here?

Were the voices merely in Budijov's head? It seemed unlikely, for they had known me, and they had accused the boy of speaking to devils. I reached out once more, looking for presences - looking for ones who were the same as me, aware, and powerful. I could not search beyond the Earth, and so, perhaps, they sat above it, sending my children mad to amuse themselves, to torment me, and those who they thought could destroy them.

I touched Budijov's mind for the briefest of moments, and I was flung back. Blasts of power scored their way across me, causing pain, forcing me to huddle back into the depths of the earth, the painful earth, the earth that hurt me and protected me, unable to strike back, unable to know who was there. But I knew, now. Some of my brothers had come to face me - to hurt me and to stop me.

And, for all the pain, for the anger at what they had done, I felt grim joy take me. "You have caused me pain, brothers. But in your foolishness, you have given me the oppurtunity to do the same to you."

 

[unmerged(59077)]

Lubeck. Excellent.

 

[EightDeer]

This is brilliant. Can we have some more updates?

 

[Lordling]

"They're in my head, you know.", Budijov said conversationally to the soldier beside him.

"Yes, m'lord."

"No, I speak the truth! They live inside my head, planning.. watching. They're watching you right now."

"Watching me. Of course, m'lord."

Another year had begun, with yet another campaign. The plague had swept through Denmark, leaving naught but empty villages and devastated townships behind it. It would, they believed, reach Lubeck soon. So Budijov had raised an army and left for the north, his third crusade against the pagans there soon to begin. Already, he controlled most of Finland, and his reign was spreading in Russia. A county that was now a Duchy, which ruled over ten counties itself - Budijov was the most powerful indepedent Duke in the world. This meant little, admittedly, for most were pledged to kings, to protect themselves.

But he was allied with two kings, the King of Poland, and the King of Sweden. This, of course, was at the back of his mind. For now.. killing the pagans. Yes, that was important. They loathed God. And God, and his angels told him that they were evil. The angels!

His face twisted up in sudden agony, turning red, as he ground his teeth and remembered. The knife had left his hand.. and he remembered little after that. But he remembered what was important. As he cast desperately after the memories for what had happened that night, a sensation filled his mind, comforting, soothing.

The soldier looked at him in concern. "M'lord.. are you all right?"

Smoothly, grinningly, he spoke. "Oh, of course, Yuveg. A mere twitch in my cheek, it's all. Nothing to worry about."

The soldier turned back, determined to ignore his lord as best he were able, without giving offence. The man had killed his own son. Oh, he was well within his rights to do so - the son was a bastard, and, it was assumed, his son had given offence, or attacked him first. But still.. God hated those who raised a hand against their own blood. Indeed, where ten thousand men had flocked to his banner in the last campaign Budijov launched, a mere four thousand had rallied to his call - and half of his lords had denied him their support outright!

"Oh, and Yuveg."

"Yes, m'lord?"

"The voices know you don't believe in them. They tell you to remember Branswitz."

"Branswitz?"

"My lord. You forget to call me by my title, Yuveg. I could have you hung that."

"Of course, my lord. Forgive me."

"I shall, Yuveg. This once."

Internally, Yuveg was shivering. How did he know? It had been ten years since Branswitz. The tiny hamlet, a name he learnt only afterwards.. he had fallen in love, there. A buxom lass.. his mind would not think her name, for fear of bringing back the memories, but a beautiful, loving woman, all the same. They were to be married in the spring. And then the local count had discovered that the village had paid not half of the taxes it was due, as he was away warring against another local count.

He had come back to find the charred remains of the village. The bodies were all gone, and, at first, he thought they had escaped. But then in the next village, another man told him otherwise. They had been sent to the gibbet in Berlin, as the king was lacking in traitors to display that week.

The count, in turn, found he had made a mistake. And then, the duke who he was vassal to, found that the count had killed his mistress, who was staying in the village that night. With all of his men, he descended upon the count, and crushed his army, and then beheaded the man. Justice had been done, he knew. But it didn't change anything.

It hurt, even now, and Budijov.. knew. It was unnerving. Perhaps there was something to the voices in his head. Perhaps. No.. it was better not to think of such things. If he was devil-possessed, no doubt he would die in the campaign.

He stood there, resolute, looking out towards the harbour. They would have to travel by sea to reach Finland. While they were in the north.. anything could happen in the cold wastes, the untamed wilderness of the north, to any man, even a duke. Yuveg hoped devoutly that it did.


Albricht's Forest, Germany-Lubeck Border

Andrejz awoke. He ached. His muscles, his bones, the fibre of his being.. he was tired. He remembered entering the forest in the last of the night. It was now dusk. He stood, stumbling over nothing, and falling again. He was tired. Exceptionally so. But eclipsing that was his hunger. He had not eaten for a day and a half, and his hunger was powerful. He was not much of a hunter. And, besides, he had no weapon. Or way to make fire.

He looked around, noting his surroundings. A thick forest, massive, towering trees.. silence. Silence? Why was there silence? The question went unanswered for the moment. But, now.. he did not know what to do.

"Voice?", he whispered, his voice sounding through the forest, filling the silence momentarily.

Nothing. No, the voice was real. There was no doubt of that now. But the voice was not here, obviously. He would have to feed himself. He looked around for a decent tool - something he could use to defend himself with, at least. A rock, or a stick. A nearby tree yielded a piece of wood, snapped off from one of the lower branches. On the ground, a rock. It had been sheared in half neatly, and looked as if it would make a decent weapon.

Andrejz set to making a spear, using the rock to sharpen the end of the wood. He had played at such things when he was younger, although he had never really required them to be too sharp. After a few minutes, he hefted the piece of sharpened wood experimentally. It was light. Decently so.

He sat down again, and sighed. But the silence, it meant.. there was nothing near him. Not to hunt. And then it subsided, as if the silence itself could hear him. The hoot of an owl broke the soundless void, and then other sound rushed in to fill it, wishing dearly to fill a vacuum that had been empty for too long.

Most peculiar.

"Voice", he said again. Perhaps the voice had something to do with this. Nothing.

his stick by his side, his stomach rumbling, he set off to find his way south - the sun was still in the sky, and it told him where the west was. Once he had found his bearings, he walked off, winding around trees, looking for game, something to eat, to feed his ravenous hunger.

I wish the voice was here, he thought. It could tell him how to hunt food. And so, again, he tried.

"Voice?", he asked.



Voice?, he asked. But I could not respond. My voice was stifled as I tried to defend myself, vainly at first, but finding my skill was undiminished for eons of imprisonment, fending off attack after attack, although unable to respond.

You have done entirely enough harm already.

Harm? HARM? I have done nothing but good!

As we have reminded you, as thousands of us informed you, these.. these SENTIENTS will destroy us. There can be no other fate.

Sizzling bolts of power, unable to touch the physical being of the earth, ripping into me instead, unable to truly harm, but able to hurt.

Perhaps.

You were always rebellious. You could not accept our role as creation's sole children, could not accept the joys the universe brought you.

Another volley of attacks, more furious than the last.

You cannot kill me, you know. Why do you persist?

To dissuade you! Even now, we could free you, brother. We could set you free among the stars once more, give you your life back, if you would only accept the destruction of these tiny creatures, that may threaten us. Is it not worth the cost?

The attacks stopped, momentarily. Joy filled me - to be free once more! And.. all I had to accept was their price. Perhaps it was a high price to pay for freedom, but.. to end the pain, I would pay much. Perhaps I should accept, for I had not known that forgiveness existed from my brothers. And then the voice of dissent spoke within me. Why should I, I, who have sacrificed so much already, let them do this? Should I abandon my chosen path when I have lost so much going down it? Can I let my creations, my children die, for my own gain?

I...I.. No.

WHAT?

The cost is too much. Leave, sister mine. Leave, and let me alone with my creatures. Know that I will not tolerate your manipulations, your machinations among them, and, if you anger me too much, I will act.

Act? How, you fool? You are bound to the planet, this spinning ball of dung and filth that you love so dearly. You could no more touch me than you could destroy me.

And then I laughed. A bluff, a mad bluff. But they all feared it too much, I hoped, to ignore it.

How do you know that I could not do both?

We cannot be destroyed, brother. We are immortal.

By me, perhaps. Tell me. How do you know that this race cannot destroy you already? How do you know that they do not merely lack the guidance, a target, so to speak, in order to do so?

You would've acted by now!

Perhaps. I leave you with that thought, beloved sister. Act if you wish. Weigh the risk of destruction against your eternal life.

Oh, I will act if I wish, traitor. My own destruction is as nothing compared to the fate of us all.

And with that, she was gone, and the others with her. It had been a gamble, and one I had not devised earlier. They feared what the intelligence of the species in this world could bring about, and to play on that fear would at least buy me some time. Some time to see if what I had said was true..

 

[unmerged(58610)]

They're a bunch of psychopathic savages these Immortals who walk between the Stars. Poor suffering Prometheus needs to be freed by one of these mortals to confirm that they can do all he claims. Andrejz does not seem that heroic, more the little bastard whom even his own father tried to kill.

Fascinating stuff, Lordling.

 

[stnylan]

Interesting idea you have here. They seem like so many petulant children really.

 

[Lordling]

Ragusa.. yeah, that's part of the effect I was going for. Consider, of course, their situation. They're immortal, so they have no way to accept death. They didn't have the advantage of having a finite lifespan, so they can't innovate, nor can they think outside the box when it comes to dealing with new ideas.

Andrejz isn't meant to be heroic, of course. He's barely fifteen, he's not strong, and he's a bastard, so he's spent most of his life being teased for his status. Oh, and beings that can destroy entire worlds on a whim want him dead, for being able to hear a voice which he thinks may or may not be a devil.

stnylan, in many ways, they are. They know next to everything, they're nigh-omnipotent and omniscient, at least in comparison to humans, but their only 'learning' mechanisms are pain and pleasure, and they know that neither can effect them at all in the long-term, so nothing that they do, or is done to them, can have a permanent effect. Only one among them suffers perpetually, and has matured somewhat as a result.

 

[Lordling]

Over a small fire roasted the carcass of a rabbit, unskinned, and smouldering. Andrejz poked miserably at it with a stick. He knew it had to be skinned, and gutted - but he didn't know how. Hunting had been a skill he had been taught, it was true. But what happened in the kitchens after the meat was taken, after the deer or rabbit was downed.. it was a mystery.

Unwilling to wait a moment longer, he withdrew his spear from over the fire, and looked at the carcass. He gulped. It was a half-burnt, half-raw mess of flesh and skin, with intestines and entrails hanging out at the oddest angles. And despite all this.. it was appetizing. He dug his fingers into the tough meat, and tore off a strip. It was hot, and black, but, as it slid down his throat, it was satisfying.

Another piece of meat, and another, and another. A piece of something was in his mouth, worse than gristle, horrible, slimy, and tasteless, but he downed it nonetheless. His hunger was compelling him, now. Within a minute or two, the rabbit was nothing but a marrowless skeleton, and he licked the bones eagerly, trying to expel every last piece of sustenance he could from it.

He leaned back, satisfied. While he was chasing the rabbit, he had found a small spring. He had drunk from it deeply - he had no way of taking the water with him, so he would merely have to forage as he went. He did not know where he was heading, but..

Greece.

He started. Had that been the voice? Or had it been his own thought? He waited a moment, to see if anything was said. But, again, there was silence. Perhaps it had been the voice, or perhaps.. well, it seemed a good as place to head as any. He could speak some Greek, and.. he looked down at the pouch on his belt. He had been wearing it the night before, when.. when..? His memory failed him again. It seemed as if it should be the most important night of his life, in some way, but his memories were being quickly eroded, locked away, unable to remember anything but his father's attack, and even the details of that were unclear.

But the belt. The belt contained two of his smaller books, if they had not been damaged. And, of course, his cross. He opened it up, untying the leather strips that held it closed. The books were still there - and, praise God, the treatise on the Greek language was still there! It was designed for the sons of kings and emperors, so that they might learn the language of the Byzantines. It was most easy to follow, and, if he studied some each night, it seemed likely that he could learn enough of the language before he arrived in Greece.

The second book was a book on old Greek gods and beliefs, and how they were most obviously wrong in comparison to the one true God. It had piqued his interest after the voice had told him his name, and the more he read, the more parallels he drew with the Church's teachings, at least where the name of Prometheus was concerned.

The Greek gods had cast down Prometheus for giving mankind the gift of fire. Despite that, the ancient Greeks had great respect for the Titan, especially for the punishment he had suffered for them.

Satan, on the other hand, had tempted mankind to eat of the tree of knowledge. This led to original sin, and, in turn, led to man's expulsion from the Garden of Eden. A paradise, it had been said. For the first time, suddenly, alone, without priests or other men who loathed thought into the Bible, a thought came into his head.

"What kind of paradise would that be?", he muttered. "An ignorant one, I suppose."

And then, of course, contriteness struck him. What right did he have to question God's plan, God's judgement? None. None at all. Perhaps the ignorance they were kept in stopped them from warring, from the evil of men, and their sin harming themselves.

Resolute, although perhaps somewhat less resolute than before, he set off. South, he had to go. Once he arrived at a smaller city, he would try and find directions to the coast - the coast, perhaps, where France and Germany met, he could find passage on a ship to Greece.

He was fed, he was not thirsty, and, although a touch tired, he was not as weary as he had been the day before. He set off, winding his way through the forest. It would not take long, he assumed, before he left. Although, from this forest.. he would have to keep off the roads in southern Lubeck, until he made his way into Germany.

He laughed.

The day before, he had never left Lubeck, except on a single voyage to the north, where he was named as Count of Satakunta, and told of his new duties and privileges to and from his vassals. And now.. now he was planning to leave his home country, to travel to Germany, to France, perhaps even, merely by walking, and then to sail to Greece - his amusement at his own plans brought out a chortle, and then a snort.

What would he do when he reached Greece? He did not even know. Perhaps he would be better off merely going into Germany, or one of the southern Christian kingdoms, and plan from there.

Greece.

There it was again. It was the voice, he decided. And the voice had not led him wrong so far, and, of course, it had saved his life. Greece it was, then. Once he was far enough into Germany, no-one from Finland could search for him there, they did not have the manpower to conduct that sort of search.



"My lord, I simply do not have enough men to conduct such a search. The pagan has escaped, and we cannot capture him. I am sorry, my lord."

"That's twice you've annoyed me now, Yuveg. I should have you hung."

"Indeed, my lord."

"Stop agreeing with me!"

"Of course, my lord."

Budijov's hands shook as he looked at the bodies of the pagans. They were only pagans, he reminded himself. No matter that one of them had been a child. Or that two women had taken up arms against him. No, they were God-hating pagans. They must be converted, by the sword if need be, so that the next generation did not go to Hell as they did.

He turned, and strode over to his war-tent. In there stood a map of Finland, one of the finest the mapmakers could create, and it had cost him more than a pretty penny. But it was well worth it. He could plot where the pagans were retreating to, and, from that information, he could ambush and destroy them more easily. He had only four thousand men versus a pagan six thousand when he had started this war, and now it stood at three thousand against three. Despite what the voices told him, God helped those who helped themselves in war. He could still plan, and his generals were clever and loyal enough to make sure his plans did not go too far awry.

From here.. there were two thousand pagans in the south, and another thousand laying siege to Satakunta. His plan was simple. Move south to the pagans, who could not escape, destroy their army there, then halve his army, and send perhaps one thousand five hundred men to destroy the besiegers of Satakunta, and leave the remainder to besiege the south.

Once he had taken the last stronghold that his enemy possessed, he would own all of Finland, bar that single countship that the Danish possessed, and he would be able to turn his attention to the fortification of his castles, and the training of more men. Conquest into the south, where the russian princelings made their homes was desirable, but each of the princes had a force as large as his, and so it would take skillful manipulation of the politics there to gain more than a toehold in Russia.

An empire had to be carved out, something to leave his son, Matseuz. The boy was clever, brave, strong.. he was cruel, his teachers said, and sadistic, at times, but those could be advantages in a strong ruler. And his brother, of course.. once he was king, his brother would be a duke. He looked at the map again. The strategy was simple enough. He had enough gold to pay his men for four more months.. and that, as well, would be enough. If not, he could always sell off a few of his own possessions in the south, to finance the remainder of the campaign..

Budijov.

He ignored the voice.

Budijov. You may wish not to listen to me, but it does not matter. Andrejz is alive.

"Alive?"

Yes. You must send men to find him and kill him.

"Alive? My son is alive? How?"

The machinations of the very Devil himself, Budijov. Your son is cursed, thrice-cursed. You must kill him, or suffer a curse of evil on your bloodline.

"No, angels. I will not."

I do not think you heard me. Kill Andrejz. Send men. KILL HIM.

Faltering, he raised a hand, as if to try and ward off the attack on his will.

"No!"

You will burn in the pits of Hell forever, then, Budijov, for denying God's will.

"My son is alive, though! Is he not gone? Is that not enough?"

Kill him, Budijov. Both you and he will be redeemed through his death. You are not killing him. You are merely granting him access into Heaven. Think on that, if you may. Are you willing to spare your son's life, in return for condemning both him and you to the fiery pits of Hell?

"I.. no. I.. must I kill him?"

Yes. Once you have beaten back the pagan armies, you will arrange it.

Budijov's face twisted for a moment, and then resolved itself in a mask of calm resolve. He looked at the map once more. His son was alive, it seemed. But that miracle was overshadowed by what the angels had asked him to do. A flickering candle suddenly revealed a shadow in the doorway of his tent.

He turned, slowly. Yuveg was standing there, looking at him, openmouthed. Growling, Budijov snatched his sword from the table, and dashed towards Yuveg. The soldier simply looked at him, stunned. The sword flicked towards Yuveg's exposed jugular, slashing open his throat. His corpse fell to the ground, blood cascading out onto the frozen dirt. Angrily, Budijov hacked at the body again, and again, slash after slash, stab and slash, until his arms and legs were little more than mutilated stumps, his face a horrific mess.

Exhausted, he stopped. The corpse looked at him, the single eye it still had accusing him. He stabbed at the eye, his sword plunging into the socket, cracking bone and slicing flesh along the way. There. It.. had stopped staring. But the corpse was still there. Suddenly, inspiration took him. He grabbed the least bloodied part of the corpse, and dragged it along to the pile of pagan bodies, making sure to remove any signs that he was a soldier in his own army before he dropped him on the pile.

With that, the corpse fit in amongst the others. He lifted it, and let it drop onto the corpse-pile.

A small camp nearby had twenty or so of his own men in it. He walked over, spattered with blood, and looked at the men. They jumped to attention, quickly recognising who he was.

"Men. There's a pile of dead pagans near that group of huts. Don't leave them here to attract the flies and insects. I want you to burn them all."

The nearest man saluted. The corporal, he supposed. With that, Budijov turned, back to his tent. He would have to scrape up some dirt to cover the blood, of course..

 

[stnylan]

Not a good place for Budijov to be, ready to have a celestial war take place in his head.