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Overthrowing a Foreign Monarchy for Dummies

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1 Overthrowing a Foreign Monarchy for Dummies on Tue Mar 26, 2013 2:02 am

Prologue Part 1
Spoiler:
Red moons and black skies. Sometimes, the punishment for the damned can only fall on the most fitting of days. Somewhere, along the coast of Demon's Splendor, the Castle, Anger, stood, gold and black built walls a testament to insincerity to the human populations of the world. Upon the Sea of Blood, west of the Desert of Madness, and far south of the Bowl-Valley of Hope, the horrible castle stood, an oddly calming sight for such an evil place.

Perhaps, some historians would argue, it was the fact that it was the fact that it was the only building for many thousand miles. Or, it could just be the grandeur of the shaped stone, so diligently cared for and scrubbed, trimmed with only the finest of gold. Under normal circumstances, such a precious metal would have eroded to the elements centuries ago. Yet, Castle Anger stood, as it had for nearly Four Millenia. Time held no sway for the structure. Folk tales and speculation state it as an effect of the power that radiated from the current King. Though, saying that, not many of the Human folk recognized the Demon King as their monarch.

King Monkross, High Lord of Reksross, was not a benevolent ruler for many reasons. He waged war insistently on the mortals, he conquered in an unstoppable manner, he allowed rape, murder, and feasting on those captured from the North, and he had an indomitable temper. Such things were not easily forgotten, most of all by his Eldest Daughter, Crystal.

"I tell you time and again," Monkross intoned warningly, "that I will not stop such a delicious conquest for your mild and meek manner."

Monkross was easy to spot in a crowd. First and foremost may have been the fact that he readily towered at a hulking eight foot form. Or perhaps his rippling muscles, tough with fiber and power, made him spottable from any distance. Aside from that he looked as any would expect a demon king to look. Blood red skin. Eyes with blacks instead of whites. Horns. A foreboding garb of black and purple. Cape. Massive, skull-headed scepter. Sharpened teeth. The works. His daughter, however, was the polar opposite.

Very human in appearance, Crystal stood at hardly five feet tall. She wore simple, cotton garb. Her hair, down to her waist, was blood red, and seemed to glow with an aura of majesty and beauty that seldom appeared to humans. Her body, much to her father's chagrin, was well bestowed. She filled out well, even a source of jealousy for the Succubi of the realm. True to her name, her eyes, despite the violet coloring, glowed and pooled like gemstones in their own right. Even her childish look at her father's rebuke seemed to compliment her beauty greatly.

"But we have to stop!" she intoned to her father, who, despite the unseemly impossibility, only seemed to grow more angry, "If we do not, they will die. You cannot kill for the sake of killing. Even you cannot be that depraved as t-"

She was suddenly cut off by a look from her father. His rage had grown to the point of no return and she knew she had gone too far for the last time.

"CRYSTAL!" the king boomed, walls shaking at his voice. "YOU HAVE INJURED OUR FAMILY FOR THE LAST TIME. FOR YOUR WEAK, MERCIFUL ATTITUDE, I CONDEMN YOU TO WALK WITH THE HUMANS! I STRIP YOU OF TITLE! I STRIP YOU OF ALL YOU OWN! I STRIP YOU OF RIGHTS!"

Crystal, being of sound mind, did the only thing she could. She fled.

And little did she know, of what a mook she was going to meet in her exile.

Prologue Part 2:

Spoiler:

"Mister Lathrame! Could you be so kind as to inform me of what the Lifeblood is?" Mr. Sand asked, his green eyes shining at the boy from his gaunt, sunken face. The teacher was a thin man, tall and weak-looking. His hand held a long, thin piece of wood that snapped in his opposite palm. The crack it made caused every single one of the students in the room flinch. They had felt the crack of the switch one too many times for comfort. Putting Leon on the spot just made them realize they could be next.

"Well, Mr Sand," Leon started, his voice rich with confidence and pride, "Lifeblood is what is kept in your body. It is pumped by the heart and keeps you alive!" The boy was so full of pride it was lamentable when Mr. Sand smacked him across the knuckles with the switch. Leon winced in pain, not taking the time to yelp out and draw another smack to himself.

"You weren't totally wrong, Leon. Lifeblood does allow you to live. But it is not the blood in your veins," Mr. Sand was in full monologue mode, "Lifeblood is the pure power of the human body. The pinnacle of your physical, mental, and spiritual strengths focused into an essence of magic that humanity can use. It is a form of balance, and each human has their own way of balance. A man with pure muscle mass may lose out to the spiritual man who uses magic. Magic and Spirituality are a beautiful pair. A genius with magic can do whatever he wants! Most of you, however, will go on to weapons training and become fighters!"

At this, Leon perked up greatly. He didn't like classroom learning. He wanted to become a weapons master. He watched all of the trainees, who stayed in the academy of fighters and learners for the shortest period of time, just before their nineteenth birthday. They all had such an astounding weapon flow and parry pattern. If he could become a weapon's master, he could clear the Bowl-Valley of Hope of all the imps, and kappas, and their kind. Demons. The scum of this world. But to do that he had to survive learning. Which he was really not doing well in.

"Today...," Sand continued, "We will go to the Battle-Room. We will try each of you in the Quarter-Staff, and then you will be decided. Will you leave early?" the look Leon got was almost murderous, "If there is aptitude in how you handle the weapon, you will be put into the accelerated learning spiral, and propelled into weapons training. You little 6-year olds will go against the 13 year olds."
---
A couple minutes later, they were all out in the Battle-Room, holding staves much too large for them. Boys and girls about 2 times the size of all the children stood before each one, hefting each weapon with familiarity. The weapons teacher stood, a troll of a man who hefted a large club. With a swing he hit the bell at his side, making a large, explosive clanging ring out across the Battle-Room.

The change in scenery was almost instant. Several kids went down with a quick staff to the chin, sending them sprawling end over end into the floor. A couple kids, managed to bring the staves up in time to block the initial couple hits, but were ultimately defeated.

However, Leon spun quickly, deftly even, knocking away raps to his head, shoulders, and chest. He was like a thing possessed, knocking at the boy he was matched against. If his form was sloppy, few people could tell. He was actually winning. After a few minutes, Leon swept the boy off his feet and knocked him under the chin. The whole room was absolutely silent.

The arms trainer was the first to speak. "My boy," he said softly, "Welcome home."

Chapter 1:
Spoiler:

Being a warrior is easy. Leading your own life is easy. Working for your own causes is easy. Being told you're doing your way of life wrong is goddamned impossible.

Ever since I was a young child, I have been trained in the art of warfare. Both armed and unarmed, I have been able to defeat those people who I should nearly match up to with such mighty ease that I grow infamous in my valley of Locke. So, as I knew I trudged on, weapons flashing, killing, maiming, and defeating those who stood in my way. Between assignments, I rest, or spend my hard earned knobs of cash, or even chase tail. But on the mission, I am in such a state that I will not, can not, be shaken.

Most people assume, in this world, that pure brute strength is all that is needed to become the best warrior. But that is not true. What makes a true warrior, is his ability to wield Lifeblood.

Lifeblood, the pure energy found in all living things. As a law, Lifeblood is the balance of Mind, Body, and Spirit. Mind, the control of your cunning, tactics, and unconscious capability to react. Body, the very control of your own muscles, without which you could not fight properly. The muscles are what most people assume makes a warrior true. With control in the muscles comes strength, resilience, speed, health, and presence. A man who has spent his life mastering the Lifeblood of Body tends to live for centuries. Lastly, Spirit. This aspect of the Lifeblood is one's aptitude for the magical arts. How much power you have in spirit depends on the inner focus you present when tapping it. An unfocused magus will generally cast weaker than one who is one with his spirit.

In most warrior cultures, each aspect of Lifeblood in unequal parts. I have met some men who have mastered Mind, Body, and Spirit in a simple ratio of 2:5:1. Some, even focus in a ratio of 1:10:1. Such ratios seem like they would present a perfect balance of physical prowess, but I present a simple piece of rhetoric. If you cannot control your muscles at the sub-conscious level, what use is your strength? If you cannot cast a spell to the point where you can dutifully wield it with your sword, why bother swinging? I, personally, hold my Lifeblood at a ratio of 2:3:2. My body, in top physical condition, is matched perfectly by my mind and spirit.

But let me get started on the last assignment I took...

It was dark. I was dressed in full battle garb. I stand at 6 feet 5 inches, with roughly toned muscles, long jet-black hair tied into a tail, gray eyes, and a simple smirk. My armor, forged intricately, was colored gray and green that night, the fashioned steel looking more like cloth. Across my hip was a small lump of Iron-Blood and on the other one sat a crossbow, pouch, and dagger. Strapped to my back was an oaken quarterstaff and a large, intricate Zweihander.

I move, like all tuned to battle for nearly two decades, with all the grace of a hunting cat. But this night was not meant for stealth. It was meant for quick action. I reached for my Quarterstaff and mentally pointed the two imps guarding the forested cropping I was briefed on. My muscles tensed and I sprung into action.

Before I get to the juicy bits, let me tell you a little bit about Imps. Imps are little red skinned beasties, about two feet in height. They wield a variety of small metallic arms. Now, as they are, they sound useless. But the fact of the matter is, when a wizard summons Imps. He doesn't just summon one or two. He usually summons hundreds. A small legion perhaps. Now, what the Imps lack in raw fighting capability, they make up for in sheer quantities. A couple dozen Imps could knock a normal man on his back.

Quarterstaff in hand, I did a quick mental scan. Nothing with a large enough Lifeblood marking to worry myself. Thus I swung the tip of my stave downwards and crushed the skull of the first Imp before he could even screech. The second one, however, did manage a small yodeling sound before, he too, was crushed by the brute force of a hardened piece of Oak wood.

I counted to two hundred once, then leaped up, swung my staff in a circle, and knocked at least four Imps, dead, to the ground. I swung the staff, high, low, around in swooping motions that caught several more Imps. At one point, the Staff swung, snapped an Imps spine, and snapped promptly on a tree. I only gave a grunt before I switched tactics and drew the Zweihander, effortlessly wielding it with my left hand, swinging and cleaving Imps out of the air, while my right hand used the Crossbow to shoot little ones out of the air. I was, simply stated, a hurricane of pure death. Everywhere I occupied dropped dead imps.

Now, you may be wondering what the hell Iron-Blood is. I'll tell you.

As I was swinging my blade, I needed a way to reload bolts. So I focused my mind ever so slightly, stirring the lump of inert metal at my hip into motion. the Iron-Blood quivered and then became a small line of liquidy metal that grabbed bolts and reloaded my crossbow. It worked quite efficiently and, occasional, I could use the line to slit an Imp's throat. It was glorious.

I finished off the Imps with hardly a sweat. But as I headed to find the Sorceror who summoned them, I heard a feminine voice.

"You're fighting wrong."

Being told you're doing your job wrong, is Goddamn impossible.



Last edited by Jaden12344 on Sat Jun 01, 2013 1:37 am; edited 1 time in total

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