Alone upon the battlements, the King walked silently in contemplation. Down the steps from Skaros' office, he'd begun his leaden tread with the possible meanings of the revelations there roiling in his mind, whilst the crown, symbol of all his responsibilities and powers, turned between his fingers. Gazing south over the capital city, his eye naturally rested on the Artist's Guild... Ahh yes, if they had their way he mused, a storm would be raging overhead, some dramatic visual gesture to mirror a Monarch's inner turmoil. King Blackthorn did not feel this way though. He was complex like a storm yes; but people were so afraid of dark clouds overhead, so certain they would become the lightning-blasted oak if they stood out in the chaos for too long, whilst all around them the life giving rains fell unappreciated. And did they dare to dream to become the very lightning themselves? Blackthorn had dared. But now?
Walking slowly clockwise, he thought of Ravens. Yes, there to the West was Britain Graveyard. For generations the people of the realm had buried their loved ones there, despite the tendency of the magic within the ground to re-animate them as zombies and skeletons. Before the funeral would even be out, young heroes would appear, out to win Honour or simply impress a local lass, sword in hand to hack about the bodies of the dead... And all of this was considered normal within such a Kingdom as this. The King gave a sigh; but when the Raven King, a kindred creature more intelligent than the usual cloth eared, leather jerkin'd adventurer is given a home here, and speaks of a better use for our dead, suddenly there was a moral panic upon our hands.
Had the Kingdom always been irrational like this? A smile. No, and the King had not always had such a far reaching perspective, if Honesty be required. Ahh, it was a hurried Blackthorn, and if he'd asked the Artists for their dramatic opinion, a badly plotted and poorly drawn Blackthorn too who'd once met another Raven by name. A wild willed, daughter of the Sea... blue eyes set against jet black hair, like diamonds against velvet, like lightning from the skies she was. Although she'd insisted those eyes were sometimes green, and in his bravado he'd tried to impress her with knife tricks, but accidentally stabbed her hand with the blade. That Raven had flown to some blonde haired, muscle bound oaf too, and perhaps not without reason. Still, the name would always carry a certain fondness, even if the plots of youth never worked out to be great art or satisfying endings.
What would the King give to talk to Raven again... Ahh, hadn't that request come up at the recent Council Du Roi? Yes, the people had asked to speak directly to the Raven King and learn of his ways. Perhaps it was not too late for modern politics at least. As King, he would arrange for this to occur. Maybe the people would know, would understand what to say second time around! Surely between intelligent beings there must be hope of shared understanding.
By now the King's walk had taken him North, looking over the orchards and trees to the distant mountains. Would Snox like to live in the gardens, he wondered? Ahh yes, Snox. He'd been rather badly done by our efforts to open communication with the Underworld Goblins. Fortunately much of what had been destroyed by our agent's "Big Stick" approach to diplomacy turned out to have been mechanical contrivances of the daemon Memen Tomor, which had made it easier for the Goblins to let Snox go again. The King shivered at the thought of machines replacing people though, how the coldness of metal in general unsettled him, and the thought people might not notice when hearts were made of it disturbed him. Skaros might usefully be employed investigating this, a note for later.
The King's eyes rested on the band of rock across the horizon. Rock, yes the people were the bedrock of the Kingdom it was true. But some of those rocks were more prone to flaking than others was also the truth; he could still see Skaros' anger about one character in particular, who had gone from calling for invasion of Nujel'm, a city that had turned out to be unconnected to the daemon at least as far we currently knew, to actually calling for action to be taken against the King himself. Well, Blackthorn still had enough lightning in him to take care of any such threat! And then there was the Trinsic Beacon again; could they not see how shaken he had been by Father Grant's death, and the vile abuse of his poor body to insult the nature of Chaos? Would they see their King in sack-cloth, whipping himself through the streets of Trinsic before they'd be satisfied? Never! The crown was rammed from hand onto head at this thought. I am the rightful King of Britannia, the guiding hand for all the kingdom's creative forces, and some things simply should not be!
Striding powerfully now, Blackthorn moved to his bedroom on the East Wing. Let me see now; apparently the deamon Memen Tomor had been merely banished from the realms of the King's Writ. Those who had taken a shard of the broken mirror that housed him swore it continued to whisper to them in his voice, and a shade of his colour could still be seen within it. Spies in the lawless lands said he'd been seen there, beckoning people to join a "Feast of Death", but not commenting on who had paid him to cause such trouble previously. Could we believe him, even if he had? And the chances of getting the banditry and brigands of Felucca to allow us to pursue him further did not look good.
What else? Blackthorn had passed on a satirical cartoon that someone had drawn at the Council du Roi, and Annabel Lee had been delighted. She was even talking about awarding the first ever Archivist rank to anyone who could enlarge the details so she could have it framed over the Archives. Sometimes, it really did seem the people had concerns much beneath the King! But this one was harmless at least. Let the Archives show people looking bored, better than them looking bloody and beaten beneath the batons of some of the Rulers they had previously had...
Still! The King threw down the piles of hated paperwork, and wandered over to his balcony facing East. Away in the distance, the Watchtower where the Raven King was staying was animated by the beautiful sight of dark birds flying freely, an inspiration in and of nature. But still... ever since Lord British had left the Kingdom, Blackthorn wondered if he'd ever been as inspired, as understood as he was in those old days. If they had healthily agreed to disagree about Virtues versus Chaos over a good game of chess, was it just beyond the common man to aspire that high? Did they need to be guided towards a better nature, as British suspected? No, he could believe neither, from Chaos still he believed they'd spring forth in creative understanding eventually. Still though... Blackthorn sat down heavily in the old, well worn chairs. Should I play the black pieces? He gazed over towards the Ravens; No, no. Let the past keep it's dark, delightful council. Perhaps Lord Blackthorn should play the role of White knight for a change, for the Kingdom's sake...
Walking slowly clockwise, he thought of Ravens. Yes, there to the West was Britain Graveyard. For generations the people of the realm had buried their loved ones there, despite the tendency of the magic within the ground to re-animate them as zombies and skeletons. Before the funeral would even be out, young heroes would appear, out to win Honour or simply impress a local lass, sword in hand to hack about the bodies of the dead... And all of this was considered normal within such a Kingdom as this. The King gave a sigh; but when the Raven King, a kindred creature more intelligent than the usual cloth eared, leather jerkin'd adventurer is given a home here, and speaks of a better use for our dead, suddenly there was a moral panic upon our hands.
Had the Kingdom always been irrational like this? A smile. No, and the King had not always had such a far reaching perspective, if Honesty be required. Ahh, it was a hurried Blackthorn, and if he'd asked the Artists for their dramatic opinion, a badly plotted and poorly drawn Blackthorn too who'd once met another Raven by name. A wild willed, daughter of the Sea... blue eyes set against jet black hair, like diamonds against velvet, like lightning from the skies she was. Although she'd insisted those eyes were sometimes green, and in his bravado he'd tried to impress her with knife tricks, but accidentally stabbed her hand with the blade. That Raven had flown to some blonde haired, muscle bound oaf too, and perhaps not without reason. Still, the name would always carry a certain fondness, even if the plots of youth never worked out to be great art or satisfying endings.
What would the King give to talk to Raven again... Ahh, hadn't that request come up at the recent Council Du Roi? Yes, the people had asked to speak directly to the Raven King and learn of his ways. Perhaps it was not too late for modern politics at least. As King, he would arrange for this to occur. Maybe the people would know, would understand what to say second time around! Surely between intelligent beings there must be hope of shared understanding.
By now the King's walk had taken him North, looking over the orchards and trees to the distant mountains. Would Snox like to live in the gardens, he wondered? Ahh yes, Snox. He'd been rather badly done by our efforts to open communication with the Underworld Goblins. Fortunately much of what had been destroyed by our agent's "Big Stick" approach to diplomacy turned out to have been mechanical contrivances of the daemon Memen Tomor, which had made it easier for the Goblins to let Snox go again. The King shivered at the thought of machines replacing people though, how the coldness of metal in general unsettled him, and the thought people might not notice when hearts were made of it disturbed him. Skaros might usefully be employed investigating this, a note for later.
The King's eyes rested on the band of rock across the horizon. Rock, yes the people were the bedrock of the Kingdom it was true. But some of those rocks were more prone to flaking than others was also the truth; he could still see Skaros' anger about one character in particular, who had gone from calling for invasion of Nujel'm, a city that had turned out to be unconnected to the daemon at least as far we currently knew, to actually calling for action to be taken against the King himself. Well, Blackthorn still had enough lightning in him to take care of any such threat! And then there was the Trinsic Beacon again; could they not see how shaken he had been by Father Grant's death, and the vile abuse of his poor body to insult the nature of Chaos? Would they see their King in sack-cloth, whipping himself through the streets of Trinsic before they'd be satisfied? Never! The crown was rammed from hand onto head at this thought. I am the rightful King of Britannia, the guiding hand for all the kingdom's creative forces, and some things simply should not be!
Striding powerfully now, Blackthorn moved to his bedroom on the East Wing. Let me see now; apparently the deamon Memen Tomor had been merely banished from the realms of the King's Writ. Those who had taken a shard of the broken mirror that housed him swore it continued to whisper to them in his voice, and a shade of his colour could still be seen within it. Spies in the lawless lands said he'd been seen there, beckoning people to join a "Feast of Death", but not commenting on who had paid him to cause such trouble previously. Could we believe him, even if he had? And the chances of getting the banditry and brigands of Felucca to allow us to pursue him further did not look good.
What else? Blackthorn had passed on a satirical cartoon that someone had drawn at the Council du Roi, and Annabel Lee had been delighted. She was even talking about awarding the first ever Archivist rank to anyone who could enlarge the details so she could have it framed over the Archives. Sometimes, it really did seem the people had concerns much beneath the King! But this one was harmless at least. Let the Archives show people looking bored, better than them looking bloody and beaten beneath the batons of some of the Rulers they had previously had...
Still! The King threw down the piles of hated paperwork, and wandered over to his balcony facing East. Away in the distance, the Watchtower where the Raven King was staying was animated by the beautiful sight of dark birds flying freely, an inspiration in and of nature. But still... ever since Lord British had left the Kingdom, Blackthorn wondered if he'd ever been as inspired, as understood as he was in those old days. If they had healthily agreed to disagree about Virtues versus Chaos over a good game of chess, was it just beyond the common man to aspire that high? Did they need to be guided towards a better nature, as British suspected? No, he could believe neither, from Chaos still he believed they'd spring forth in creative understanding eventually. Still though... Blackthorn sat down heavily in the old, well worn chairs. Should I play the black pieces? He gazed over towards the Ravens; No, no. Let the past keep it's dark, delightful council. Perhaps Lord Blackthorn should play the role of White knight for a change, for the Kingdom's sake...
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