RuneScape Forum Archive | Far From Grace

Jul

2020

Serene End

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“…Your words will not stop me, Achernar,” Lord Kórakas refutes Achernar’s demands, regaining his strength. Suddenly, to the warrior-lord, Achernar becomes as lucid as the glass of a window. His enmity loses itself then, transforming into a contemptible smirk. “Think not that your companionship with the queen has gone…without notice. You’ve allowed her to blind you, delude you, control you! You…are weak! Your lead will only bring us ruin.”

A sheer, impregnable silence then encompasses the basement. Lord Kórakas’s angry words disperse into the ether, but they receive no riposte. Seated at the table, the bystanders—the members of the council—shuffle their heads amongst each other. Vast, rapid talk consumes the air like the twitter of birds, yet they do not kill the quiet. They speak in tongues of question and distrust, turning an eye away from Achernar and Caerus. Yet as they speak, a disturbing mutter like the shattering of a soul crawls into their ears, thieving their starved attention. They break sight from each other, zipping their eyes to the source of that disquieting noise. Standing there, with quivering lips and a pale complexion, is Lord Kórakas, who seems to be gazing off into the distant nothing. Indeed, his eyes feast not upon this reality at the moment, but a much more horrifying one. A steady image has infiltrated the depths of his mind, of his soul. A ruthless, merciless mental assault, one of which preys upon his deepest, most intimate secrets. There are very little things a warrior such as Caerus Alcain Kórakas fears. He fears not death nor the embrace of it, nor the pain of the blade that will one day take him. There, before his eyes dripping with sorrow, is the one singular thing that he fears… His youngest son, Tyrillus, lays upon the ground, vacant of expression. He reflexes at the tug of Death’s hand trying to pull him away, twitching sporadically.
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24-Jan-2022 04:21:29

Jul

2020

Serene End

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Caerus drops to a knee in utter, stomach-turning weakness, his boy’s blood soaking into his toga and caligae. And there, with eyes steadfast upon Lord Kórakas, is Achernar, who watches the warrior-lord visually scream. His furious mind had invaded Lord Kórakas’s like an infection, unfurling his greatest nightmare before him. Moments of agonizing eternity come to pass, and Lord Kórakas is freed from his perdition. The body and blood of his son disappears like an illusion, returning to the old, creaky wooden floorboards of this place. Lord Kórakas, coming out of that nightmarish haze, frightfully scrambles to regather himself. He clinches his face as though to conceal his emotions. But he is swift as lightning when he staggers to his feet, cowering away from Achernar. He practically trips all over himself, nearly a victim of a buckled-up floorboard. With his back up against the barrels of alcohol, he distraughtly gapes the keen-faced Achernar.

“…You wouldn’t dare,” Lord Kórakas mutters tautly under his breath, having been bequeathed a message from Achernar—a message threatening, a message of warning.

“Is that a challenge you’d willingly commit to?” Achernar counters out loud, bearing an unnerving steadiness in his voice.

Lord Kórakas grimaces with thorough displeasure over the situation wholly. The image of the corpse of his son still inhabits his mind, washing over every action he commits like the ocean’s waves consuming a beach. He clenches his fist until his nails embed into his skin, incapable of defying Achernar. He possesses not the gall to spit in Achernar’s eye, and so he quietly admits defeat. Truly, as though with the demeanor of a loser, Lord Kórakas begrudgingly carries himself tableside. As the warrior-lord fixes his chair, Achernar closes his eyes. A breath, burrowed deeply within that tightened chest of his, exits him, releasing that provoked beast which hijacked his body like a demon.
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24-Jan-2022 04:22:49

Jul

2020

Serene End

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As Achernar begins to reconstruct his composure and sense of normalcy, the inquisitive brow of Lord Cayrel perks up. His hand rummages the inside of his coat’s pocket. It takes him a moment, putting a literal spin on those with deep pockets, but eventually does he conclude his search. Within his palm rests an unusual device: a portable timepiece of gold. It was a piece still relatively new to the technologically inept Solasúians. Several of the council members now ogle Aidan’s device with vast intrigue, clinching their chins as they examine it ‘til their curiosity is satisfied. The night had grown quite old in seemingly the blink of an eye. In reaction to the time, Lord Cayrel’s eyes extend beyond him and across the table, grabbing ahold of the dark-colored wardrobe of Achernar.

“Lord Nemeth, if I may get our meeting officially started…” clearing his throat, Lord Cayrel speaks up, resounding the click of his timepiece as he closes it shut. “I must say, given our cause’s current situation, that I find your attempt to convince Raphael of our existence rather suspect. What exactly was your game? To expose us?”

Achernar involuntarily reaches for the side of his head, corralling a few unkempt strands of his blonde hair behind his ear as if a calming mechanism. Without further delay, Achernar gives the meeting the limelight that it warrants. It becomes as this table to the room: the point which all things gyrate around. He comes back into the range of the candlelight, facing Lord Cayrel and calmly answering him, “Of course not. The only exposure I intended was of Our Empyrean.”

“…Exposure of Raphael?”

“Before today, the only one we knew who suspected our existence was Queen Meliora herself. That is why I spoke as I did today. I wished to openly expose Our Empyrean’s stance on the matter.”

“Quite the gambit, Lord Nemeth,” the poised Lady Mundus comments, handling her goblet of wine just below her rosy-red lips.
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24-Jan-2022 04:25:16

Jul

2020

Serene End

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“Not one I found particularly pleasing either,” Achernar admitted in a candid piece, placing his hands down upon the worn, splintered wood of the table. “I had hoped Raphael was with more of an open ear…but he truly is deaf to all reason but his own.”

“Although, it was quite clear even before then that Raphael is without any rationality at all,” speaks up Lord Cayrel. His voice stiffens as if cowering in the back of his throat, crossing his arms uncomfortably. With a pitch-black expression, he continues, “…H-he did, after all, make a pact with—”

“Do not dare speak that name!” aggressively ruptures the hoarse voice of the typically reserved Lord Decimus Ishvara, lashing out as if gesturing with wrath. “To breathe even a syllable of the Gray Wretch’s name is a transgression beyond penance! It is an insult to our Hero King, who died to save us, and to our very race!”

“Then I shall speak it, since all of you fear a single name,” the sickeningly pale, doll faced Ulyssa replies with a tone dripping with venom. The concept of her speaking the name is like worms crawling beneath the collective skin of all in attendance. Many cover their ears in fright, a futile effort given the potency of their hearing. Despite many tearing her apart with their eyes, Ulyssa stands stoutly. Visions of the past drive her forwards, visions of her king and witnessing fate’s cruel decision upon him. “Lamia was instrumental to Raphael’s success during the war. If we expect to defeat Raphael, then we must defeat Lamia.”
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24-Jan-2022 04:26:24

Jul

2020

Serene End

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Although amongst the council, Ulyssa speaks from an island to the mainland. A stark divide of candlelight and shadow; she recluses in the back, away from the others. Eyes affix upon her, yet many of these eyes become as hands indignantly stoning her. Faces of neutrality frown and furrow, displaying a clear, unwelcoming contempt for the rigorously strict noblewoman. She is a human after all, not a Solasúian as like everyone else. It becomes abundantly clear that one member of the council, Lord Decimus Ishvara, grows hostile in the presence of such a loose use of that name. He angrily emerges from his seat, pointing his finger at her as if persecuting her.

“ Cursed Undesirable! ” Lord Ishvara hisses indignantly. “You could not possibly begin to fathom what it means to speak that name! If you utter it ever again, you will regret that I did not kill you all those years ago!”

“Lord Ishvara, do not call her by that name!” Achernar urgently reacts to Lord Ishvara’s label—Undesirable. A heartless, demeaning moniker, a moniker that a human like Ulyssa once acknowledged herself by. His fingers coil into his palms in agony. Without fault, he turns to Lord Ishvara with teal blue orbs, pure and genuine. Achernar’s demand earns him an ice-cold, unblinking stare-down from Lord Ishvara. Decimus’s renowned, unnatural calm buckles under the weight of his ire, but the old lord suddenly snaps out of the heat. His hand darts for a goblet of wine, drowning his anger out in acidic swill. Though Achernar endures in her defense, Ulyssa is a mannequin—still and without feeling. She processes the vindictive nature of Decimus’s words as the nerves to the bite of a flea.
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24-Jan-2022 04:27:14

Jul

2020

Serene End

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“You do boast a valid point, Lady Ulyssa,” causally mentions Lady Mundus, having finished her wine. “Raphael is as the ivy along my villa’s walls: clingy, invasive, bothersome—oh, by the Hero King is he bothersome. The Gray Wretch wasn’t another piece in his ragtag band of cutthroats, though I imagine she’d fit right in. Without her, there would be no Rapine of Governanti, second or first. He would have lost.”

“Yes, he would have,” true does the monotonous voice of Ulyssa strike, like putting the period on a sentence.

“But where would we even begin to devise such a plan?” Lord Cayrel asks the question upon everyone’s mind. “She has slaughtered countless of our brothers and sisters… She stood before even the Hero King himself and took his life!”

“…She is not the same,” harshly breathes a hoarse, wheezing voice from the corner of obscurity.

The chaotic atmosphere of the room suddenly finds cohesion, being wrested away by the jarring screech of wood skidding against wood. Their eyes yield to the pitiful sight of a man struggling simply to rise from his chair. His skeletal, disheveled figure trembles with such weakness that it’s a wonder if he has any muscle at all. His exhausting battle sends a steady tremor across the table, entertaining the perverse few in the room. With the assistance of the table and his trusted cane in his left hand, however, the frail man gets to his feet. Sluggishly, he pushes forward, clutching fast to his cane like a lifeline. Long, unkempt strains of ebony hair conceal the immense strain upon his face as he reaches for just one more step. His body, sickeningly coiled up as if in constant, terrible agony, is forced straight with each violent cough bursting from his haggard lungs. A copious amount of looks and sneers impale him like an amateur knife thrower’s assistant. One in particular burrowing into him is that from Lady Mundus herself, who samples her wine like it had turned sour.
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24-Jan-2022 04:28:57

Jul

2020

Serene End

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“Ah, the owl of Our Empyrean finally hoots,” Lady Mundus acknowledges, an embossment nigh of infuriation defining her matured face. “I’m pleased you’ve joined us, Lord Thaddeus. I lament to admit, I was convinced that you were here only to see yourself besotted again.”

Regardless of his back bleeding with knives, the fragile figure feels as numb as death to them. His movement, as Lady Mundus mentioned, is indeed to the beckoning finger of the barrels of ale. They tempt him once more, pulling him like a puppet master’s fingers. He pops open the barrel, let loose the flow of its amber nectar. It tantalizingly pours into his parched goblet, until its foamy essence fills it to the brim.

The frail nobleman—he, the all-wise and taciturn Lord Telvern Thaddeus, the mind of the Resistance, advisor of King Raphael himself—now ganders upon the council whole. His sagging visage reconstitutes with a rigid, stern scowl, laying his steely brown gaze solely upon the censuring noblewoman. With no turn in his demeanor nor a twist of his tongue, the callous Telvern barbs, “…I am simply getting my fill before you have it all yourself.”

“Oh! Quite remarkable, Lord Thaddeus!” laughs Lady Mundus, lips raised in a scornful smile. “You may be as slow as an old couple making love, but at least your wits are still intact.”

“You cannot defeat Lamia,” with a tone solemn and steady, Telvern declares the situation dire. His words like a jarring blow to the collective jaw of the council whole, breaking it loose from its hinges. The room falls into chaos like an anarchist’s reign—a place where minds and logic become utterly helter-skelter. The skipping of hearts and the shuffling of eyes eclipses any sense of placidity. Yet they are all completely reticent, for their throats are petrified by fear and angst over the situation. Telvern’s words are not possible, a belief they all surely cling desperately to.
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24-Jan-2022 04:30:15 - Last edited on 24-Jan-2022 04:30:31 by Serene End

Jul

2020

Serene End

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Could it be that the Gray Wretch, slaughterer of their brethren and of their exalted god-king Dias, is…undefeatable? The very notion of an unkillable foe stirs the warrior-lord Caerus to his very core. He lunges his hand forward, shaking with complete and utter dismissal.

“Impossible!” Lord Kórakas’s denial furiously roars from his lungs. He steels himself, taking a stand for the council whole. With a warlike tongue, he barks back, “We are the Solasúians, the greatest and most dominant race to ever live! The Gray Wretch is little more than a grain of sand, a speck of dust we tread upon along the path to Utopia! We are not so helpless and frail without Empyrean Dias. If he can slay her, then so shall we!”

“Believing in such foolish notions…of pride is tantamount to suicide,” Telvern harshly criticizes, having finally returned tableside. He clings to its wobbly, unvarnished flesh, straining exhaustedly to seat himself back down. “Though this may be difficult for you to grasp, Lamia is not a problem you can simply resolve with a few lunges of your spear…”

“Hmph,” grumbles Lord Ishvara with disinterest. With arms athwart, the lukewarm gaze of Decimus seeks out the ailing Telvern, piercing him like a dull pain. “I find the decision to have a known turncoat amongst our ranks to be quite vexing. For all we know, he could be simply feeding us false information for the sake of protecting his Bastard King.”

“Indeed,” Lord Kórakas concurs, sipping his wine. His lips then curl into a boastful smirk, proudly pounding his fist into his burly, cylindrical breast. “My spear is of Kórakas! It has never known an enemy that it cannot defeat!”

“But what if he speaks the truth based on his knowledge?” Lord Cayrel swiftly defends, stiffening his brow. He then turns to Telvern as if with an open ear, speaking then, “What must we do, Lord Thaddeus? What do you—”
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24-Jan-2022 04:32:03

Jul

2020

Serene End

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As Lord Cayrel speaks, his voice becomes overlapped by a sudden storm. The lungs of the fragile Telvern Thaddeus explode, being possessed by a vehement hacking fit. Uncontrollable and especially violent, Telvern’s hand immediately reaches over his mouth as his skeletal body convulses. A scorching pain like the feeling of drowning rattles him, forcing his other hand to instinctively claw into his chest. His ribs practically seem on the verge of bursting out of his chest with each cough, for they bulge through the thin silk of his nocturne garb. The bombardment, terrible and seemingly endless, slowly subsides, gradually weakening until it simply let him go. Crimson red freshly drips from his palm and cracked lips, blood of which he so emptily wipes away on his sleeve. Seemingly recovering from his massive coughing spell, Telvern rekindles his focus onto the discussion at hand. His glasses, crooked beyond the point of usefulness, are quickly readjusted. However, Telvern is a man as ill as the deathly hue of his skin. These glasses are by no means of any aid to him or his awful vision. They serve merely as a show, a display—perhaps even a novelty—of his past self. It is then, as the haggard Telvern sits, attempting to regain his wayward breath, that two words mutter out from his mouth.

“Kill…Raphael…”

These simple two words the beckoning of a bell, hailing the inception of a conversational frenzy. Sentence after sentence cover overtop each other like the intricate layers of a symphony. However, the chart of this musical piece birthed a heinous tone. Its instruments of somber strings begin to give rise to a powerful choir, an ensemble which cried for the destruction of their venerated Empyrean. Though some are hesitant to jump abroad this carriage, others are enthralled by the discussion. The disfigured face of the would-be assassin Lord Kórakas widens at this regard, a smug, ill-boding grin which announces his intentions.
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24-Jan-2022 04:32:37

Jul

2020

Serene End

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“Let us not dance around this, my brothers and sisters,” Caerus arrogantly spurns, raising then his goblet of wine as though in victory. “If we kill Raphael and tear down his regime, we will usher in a new era for our kind. We will be liberated from the Barns, released from their shackles and our blood-pledges. The court will become freeform, where any soul—regardless of class, status, or house—may become Our Empyrean.”

“What madness…” the hoarse Lord Ishvara groans vitriolically. The long, angular brow of the affluent Minister of Wealth furrows quite markedly—an expression of his strong contempt over the concept whole. “The Barns have been a shepherd to our kind since time immemorial. Without them, we would be as cattle astray.”

“The Barns are paramount to the stability of our society,” confidently states Lord Cayrel. “The death of the Barns will only serve to create a vast power vacuum in the court, where every god of every house will fight for supremacy. It will facilitate mass panic, chaos, civil war! Why should we kill the house which birthed our great Empyrean Dias?”

“Well, perhaps it is time that we ascend beyond him!”

Catching even a second’s whiff of Lord Kórakas’s proposition spurs righteous indignation from practically every corner of the room. The words of Lord Kórakas, so disrespect and conceited, is perceived as though he had spat in the eye of their god, the exalted Hero King Dias Pallas Barn. Indeed, the only thing ascending here is the many from their chairs. The repeated, grating screech of wood grinding against wood seizes the air like a hostile takeover. Chairs are angrily thrown aside, crashing quite loudly upon the floor. The thunderous acrimony reaches even a floor above, arousing concern in some of the tavern’s patrons and its barkeep. Wine is sacrificed like a martyr, for the goblets and even the jug of wine spills upon the wooden table. Strenuously, the now-standing nobles stiffen as though snakes within striking distance.
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24-Jan-2022 04:34:17

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