Blackthorn - Prologue

Stories, fluff, army fluff, your own fluff ideas, and other creations concerning the Druchii, the End Times Elves or the Exile Aelves go here!

Moderators: T.D., Drainial, The Dread Knights

Post Reply
User avatar
Kinslayer
Roleplaying Deity
Roleplaying Deity
Posts: 4577
Joined: Wed Jun 04, 2008 9:50 am
Location: Roleplaying Forum

Blackthorn - Prologue

Post by Kinslayer »

Foreword - This is the background story of Varin Blackthorn, the main NPC character in the RPG group I ran on here for the past four years. If you are unfamiliar with the story of Group 22, it may help you to read that first as this is something of a prequel. One day I will get around to writing the adventures of Group 22 up in a story, maybe even follow it on into it's next unwritten chapter... but for now I intend to expand on the history instead.


Blackthorn

Prologue

The world was an ocean of darkness and despair. The chill breeze carried with it a scream that was not entirely it's own, rising up from the streets beneath them as if trying to escape those dark places. The wind at least had a chance, but for the thousands of slaves being tortured and bartered there escape was not an option, no longer even a conceivable possibility. Dark spires of iron broke from the shadows of the streets like great stalagmites or grasping talons, many of them still strapped with the masons girders of their construction. Blackthorn looked down upon it all, his lip curled into a cruel sneer as he imagined the countless slaves giving their lives and blood to make Vikarh what it was today, and what it would become in the centuries that followed.

"Strange, is it not?" came a sudden, hoarse whisper at his side, "To think of Vikarh as a City, as a mere township no longer."
Blackthorn turned from the window and let a warm smile play across his features, a rare sight but one that the wisened elder was much familiar with, "Oricus," he boasted, embracing his trusted friend briefly in welcome, "You arrive at last, I had started to think you taken by the cults on your way across the town, or City I should now say it seems."
"You know me Blackthorn, it would take more than a couple of death cult rogues to snatch me from the street."
"I meant the pleasure cults," he replied, "I hear you are a willing participant."
They laughed together as they watched out over Vikarh for a long moment, embracing what was to come.


At length, Blackthorn turned from the window and returned the silver goblet he had been holding to a tray held motionless by a slave a few steps to his side. His aide followed after him, long black robes masking all but his long bone-white hair and corpse-pale hands and face. Blackthorn watched as dark eyes that spoke of loyalty and wisdom as much as cruelty and pain scanned the vast hall they were in, always watching and brooding over dark thoughts. He turned his own eyes upon the room, watching momentarily the subtle dance of the Druchii nobility at play. Everywhere allegiances were being made or feigned, kind words spoken without meaning, casual lies spoken without truth. It took a sharp mind to keep track of who was dealing with who and who you had to look out for, which was one of Blackthorns' keenest abilities. It took an even sharper mind to see right through the web of deceit that was their society however, and that was why he kept Oricus so close at hand.

"So tell me, who do you think will be given this heavy crown?" rasped Oricus after another long silence, clearly trying to test him. That was the purpose of the court that night, to decide who, with Vikarh having been named a City after it's latest expansion, would bare the title of Drachau. Blackthorn himself of course was well out the running, for despite being of Druchii nobility and having held position in the court for over eight centuries, there were many with wealth and power that overshadowed him as he would overshadow a slave. He knew that, of course, just as he knew most of the unspoken power ranking that controlled them all. He turned his mind to Oricus' question, trying to imagine who the gathered Drachaus' would elevate to their own level of power before they departed the following day. There were several worthy candidates, and many more who stood a chance in the great draw despite Blackthorn thinking they lacked what they truly would need.

Oricus chuckled under his breath, a dry choking sound more than a laugh, as he sensed his Masters' hesitation.
"It is a tough one, is it not? To place control of a City upon ones' shoulders he must be many things, some which perhaps even I do not see."
"Vlarakus" said Blackthorn, earning a questioning eyebrow from Oricus as his advisor turned the thought over in his head.
"No, I do not think it will be him," he said at last, "He is a powerful, dangerous man make no mistake, ruthless as well as wise. He could lead without fear of rebellion with knowledge of his cold wrath alone, and has wealth enough to build a tower that would dwarf even this council spire, but I do not think it will be him. He lacks balance , his every action tips the scales on the side of being too headstrong, despite all his plotting and scheming. To rule, one must not only know how and when to act, but must also know when to take no action at all."
Blackthorn let Oricus' words sink in for a moment, before asking him the question instead.
"And who do you think will take this title?"


Always a man of riddles and never one to let himself be guided into saying something that may be wrong, Oricus did not have an answer for him. His aide was never one to guess, only one to speculate and observe. He did however give the question some thought, casting his eyes over the hundreds of gathered nobles as he sipped from his own goblet of wine.
"What about Ruekith?" he suggested, indicating to a tall, dark haired noble who surrounded himself with an asortment of aides, lesser nobles, and even a dangerous looking seer. The dark eyes of the lithe Sorceress turned to regard them from the other side of the huge chamber, as though she knew they were talking about her Master despite it being impossible that she could hear them. Her chill sneer caused even Oricus to look away, searching for another candidate within the throng he could suggest.
"Or how about Suleket, his reach extends far, perhaps even the furthest of any of us, and he is not exactly without power."

Blackthorn pondered the idea but discarded it, "Suleket is a weasel controlling an army of under-City rats, despite all his appearance in court. He deals with mercenaries and cut-throats for a living, he is too intermingled with the lower classes of society to be given overall rulership of the City. A Drachau would never risk such power slipping from the higher echelons."
"I know," came Oricus' reply with another raspy chuckle, "I was testing you, but he is still a man to be feared if you have any sense about you, and his net of power in our upper echelons is almost as complex as that he controls down below."
Blackthorn nodded, always sure to take note of what the elder said to him, storing the information away where it could become useful one day.


Just then, he caught sight of three young nobles moving through the crowd, and his hand instinctively reached for the dragon-carved hilt of the fine longsword at his hip. The two young men led their sister across the hall, no doubt aware that they had entered his line of vision. That the two youths' were near virgins at court was obvious, their posturing and play almost laughable, but it still iritated Blackthorn to see them there so smug. He felt Oricus lay a hand on his shoulder, following his Masters' gaze across the room to the three young highborns. Blackthorn immediately felt a wave of clarity pass through him at his advisors' touch, his hatred receeding as quickly as it had arrived, not dispersing completely but simply simmering like boiling blood beneath the surface once again.

"Alright, then what about Tvar?" said Oricus as he continued to study the three Druchii walking past.
"Be careful, old man" said Blackthorn, his hatred rising again at the casual use of the name by his advisor. If it had been anyone else under his command that had said it, he would have cut off their head before they realised their mistake.
"Think about it," said Oricus, pushing further despite the warning, "He is one of the more powerful Nobles now, with a wealthy estate built from his ever growing business empire in artifact cataloguing. Now that his children have come of age and joined the court game, his power has started to spread even further, with several heads to help guide it."
"Tvar is a fool and a coward, the bastard son of a thieving whore-witch. He sells trinkets and jewels, he is no Drachau."
"As ever, you underestimate him my Lord, and that will be your downfall in this great game of hate."
"It is no game," Blackthorn snarled above a whisper, causing a few heads to turn, "His family stole our sacred blade."
"I am aware of that," said Oricus calmly, returning his hand to his Masters' shoulder, "but that does not stop him being a candidate here today."

Blackthorn let his muscles relax, and drew in a long breath through gritted teeth, realising how he had fallen for the Tvar childrens' ploy by rising to their bait. The two sons of Tvar had moved out of sight now, but his daughter lingered at the edge of another group of highborns, her dark beauty something of an attraction, a weapon of court it seemed she had already learned to use to her advantage. He shook off his advisors' hand and turned away from her, returning to what Oricus had just said about her and her brothers joining court this last decade, rather than dwell on thoughts of her thrice cursed father.
"The Tvar boys are not a threat to me and never will be," he exclaimed with no small amount of truth behind his words, "and nor is his daughter. She uses her beauty and wit to spin her web like a strangle-fang spider, but it will have no effect on me. I see through her every move here, just as my hidden eyes keep track of what her father is doing outside of court."

"Eyes that have not yet revealed the whereabouts of the dagger," reminded Oricus like an insult, "I will say it again, you underestimate them. Ranor and Ignar are idle threats, we can monitor them from here and ensure they do not get out of control, but his girl Eaun is like her father. She is dangerous."
"You grow weary with your constant watchfullness, Oricus. There is no threat in her that I can see in or outside this court."
"Ah, but it is the things you do not see which you must watch out for," reminded the elder Druchii with a wary smile, "Just what does she say to the Nobles' she takes back to her bed? No doubt her father guides her mouth, but to what end? We have no eyes in the Tvar mansion, just as I am sure House Blackthorn is clear of theirs. And what of that we do know? Her father has had her leave the City numerous times in the past four centuries, sometimes for years at a time, is he extending his web even beyond Vikarh? She spends a lot of time with that cadaver Mortus as well, their dealings are shrouded in secrecy not even my own agents have yet to understand. Tvar has a black veil over that one Master, one our knowledge does not yet let us pierce, and so we must be careful."


Interupting them before they could discuss the plots of their greatest enemy further, one of Blackthorns' messengers approached from the large doors to the stairwell at the end of the hall. It was fortunate they had not been called up by the Drachaus' yet, for if they had no messenger would have reached them until the court was dispersed after the decision had been made. Blackthorn watched the young slave approach, giving the customary bow on one knee with head tipped right to the floor, hand outstretched. There was no parchment in his grasp, the hand instead held open with palm to the ground, and indication that the message was verbal, and with his thumb tucked beneath his palm, which meant that it was urgent.
"What is it?" demanded Blackthorn as Oricus bid the runner to stand, who was still trying to regain his breath.
"It's your child," he said, tipping his head again in supplication. "It is coming."

Blackthorn took a long look around the council hall, taking in once more what the other Nobles' seemed to be doing, watching to see who threw the occassional glance his way and who ignored him entirely, before making his decision.
"Then we must go," he said, "For us, finding out who gets to wear the iron crown of Vikarh will have to wait until dawn."
The Noble took one more glance back at the Tvar girl, his neutral expression a mask for the eternal hatred he felt for her, before he turned and strode towards the doors, his long red cloak and silver hair sweeping out behind him as if billowing in the wind. Oricus fell into step behind him as they hurried from the chamber and started to decend the wide staircase that spiralled down through the core of the council tower. The messenger chased after them, but Blackthorn neither noticed nor cared.

When they reached the ground some time later, Blackthorn found that the messenger had predicted his action and had already had another slave bring his chariot around and prepared for transport. He leaped into the back with a Nobles' grace, Oricus climbing in behind him a moment later. The dark steeds responded to his return without command, starting to move even before he grabbed the reigns and willed them faster. He did not wait for the messenger, and nor would the slave have expected him to, and quickly left the council tower behind him as his loyal steeds carried him across the rapidly expanding City towards what had just been renamed as the Nobles' Quarter. His estate was near the centre of that district, but their passage there would be swift as they followed familiar roads and all but another highborn would move off the road at their approach.

As such, they reached the Blackthorn estate in less than half an hour, and the gates snarled open on their great iron mechanisms as the guards saw their Master approaching. The chariot didn't even slow down, and the gate was raised just high enough in time to allow Blackthorn and Oricus to race through without being decapitated. Neither of them flinched, all too familiar with the experience of thundering through the gate and trusting to the guards to do their job properly. The gate was immediately grating shut behind them, and the chariot slowed to a halt as it crossed the courtyard, despatching them outside the doors to the main house. Blackthorn was off the chariot before it had stopped moving, and left Oricus to dismount and follow in his wake as he raced inside, turning immediately to the right and heading down a long corridor that led to the apothecarium.


Blackthorn burst into the closed room he instinctively knew was his destination so suddenly that he made the apothecary and his young apprentices jump, stooping as they were over a blood soaked bed. The body on the bed was wrapped in black robes of the finest Ulthuan silk, but he could tell as soon as he arrived that there was no life left in her and that he had arrived too late. He came around the bed and stared into the womans' dead eyes for a long moment, Oricus arriving at his side being what eventually startled him into averting his gaze. He had remembered when he and the she-elf had met, over three centuries earlier, and some of the fondest times they had spent together in the times in between. He felt no sadness at her passing however, instantly recognising the omen for what it could be if his child had survived the birth.

As if in answer to his question, the apothecary suddenly stepped away from the body with his forearms soaked in blood, holding forth his newborn son. He did not scream, and Blackthorn smiled as he recognised also this portent of strength. It was Oricus who reached out and took the baby from the apothecary, still dripping with gore as he used his finger to trace a rune across his chest. For a Druchii son to be born in the death of his mother was considered a mark of greatness, of a destiny given at birth that would be fulfilled later on in life. The rune Oricus marked him with was familiar to Blackthorn.
"Varin", he said it aloud for the first time, unsure of where he had heard it before but recognising it for what it was.
"You know it's meaning?" said the aide, passing the newborn back to the apothecaries to be cleaned.
"I do," said Blackthorn, reciting it to Oricus with a nod of agreement, "He who will end the game."

"Varin Blackthorn" said the elder, "He who will end the game."
User avatar
Drainial
Prophet of Tzeentch
Prophet of Tzeentch
Posts: 4641
Joined: Fri May 19, 2006 3:51 pm
Location: I am the voice inside your head

Re: Blackthorn - Prologue

Post by Drainial »

I will save the platitudes so often given in these comments. Suffice it to say that I and doubtless others will be reading and appreciating any other such morsels you can scavenge time to write.
Moding a group of Druchii.net players is much like directing the musical 'Cats' using actual cats. Frustrating, difficult, chaotic but ultimatley satisfying and a great deal of fun.

Arch Deacon of the RPG forum
Gentleman of Moderation
User avatar
Layne
Arnold Layne
Arnold Layne
Posts: 3398
Joined: Mon Nov 12, 2007 1:44 am
Location: On Her Majesty Morathi's Secret Service

Re: Blackthorn - Prologue

Post by Layne »

Nice.

Mind the novelists first rule though - show, don't tell. In other words, let the facts of your character's lives become apparent from what they do and say. And don't do what I always used to do and forget who is speaking, and who they're speaking to, and who might be listening etc. It's not you talking to your audience, for instance, but Oricus to Blackthorn, in a great room full of rivals, with a slave,who could be anybody's slave, standing right there, for instance.

It's a trap every writer falls right into on the first try. If you read the Lord of the Rings, or watch an episode of Criminal Minds [which I don't recommend], you'll see this sort of thing in action. Sometimes the characters end up becoming scene machines, speaking in a way that is out of character - out of any character, that is, especially their own - and saying things that the character's audience should already know. Tolkien simply dropped the ball on that - as he acknowledges in his own foreword - but the people who write Criminal Minds are after a non-discerning audience whose brains only want eat now, without cutlery. I expect you would rather lay out some silver, and minding that rule of "show, not tell" is the basic skill of it, the rest being your own style.

This looks like a great work of imagination in progress - as Group 22 was - but you need to think more carefully about how you introduce facts into your narrative.
Layne
Global Moderator. Everything but the weather.


Caveat Numptor.


Karonath - WS6 / S4 / T4 / D5 / I3
Equipment: Bloodfeather, heavy armour, helm, Sea Dragon Cloak, rope x 2, month rations x 2
Inventory: longspear, 2 short swords, glaive, winter gear, shade cloak,
Mount: Dark Steed (Shiny), talisman of kurnous
Gold: 2294
Skills: Ambidexterity, Controlled Frenzy, Basic Ride, Drukh Kaganth
Class: Khainite
Post Reply