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Post by Solomon Moon on Aug 28, 2016 4:03:55 GMT -6
A warm and damp breath of the rising day swelled through the metropolitan streets, filling their venous suggestions with an oppressive vitality that seemed to suit the rhythmic pulse of murmuring humanity that beat from the city's heart. Like the body of a slumbering giant just beginning to rouse itself in the morning breeze, the city was already awakening from the omnipresent hum of an organism that never truly slept and returning to the activity of vital function that signaled the start of a new day. Shatters were clattering as they were thrown aside to welcome the fresh rays of the cherished sun, as even after generations of life upon the surface, somewhere deep within the hive mind of the populace they remembered those dark years when sun shine and the surface had been synonymous with danger. The voices of great engines spilled into the air like the yawns of sleeping beasts being coaxed out of a deep slumber, permitted a rest through the dark by the recently enforced curfew and thus lending their call to the rising song of humanity as it billowed up the street, an audible response to the humid wind's caress. Vendors opened their stores to the day, if not yet many customers, and those that had no stores shouted their wares from the stalls that populated the markets, whilst men and teams of heavy machines gathered and milled through the streets.
Some of these men poked their heads into the shops, or glanced into stalls, or added their own voices to the developing hum of this brave new day. They haggled, and conversed, but never stayed for much longer than it took to make sure that everything was as it should be. Then they would amble down to the next block, and pause to make their admittedly tense pleasantries with the locals, every now and then pausing to direct some activity or another, followed by their mechanical beasts whose turrets scanned the streets like the sweeping beaks of large birds. Sometimes they would find something that was disturbed, having laid undiscovered in the dimness of the night, a toppled monument, a broken window, some artless and delinquent graffiti that insinuated unpleasant things of the men's mothers, and at each they would stop, and someone would make a note, or speak a few clipped words into their radio and then the procession would continue.
Even were it not for their attire, peculiar for this region, or their accents, or the way the populace offered them a wide berth and then spoke in hushed tones as they passed, it would have been obvious to even a casual observer that these men and their machines were neither off this land, nor particularly welcome within it. Their uniforms of urban camouflage, dull greys and tans, combat armor that rustled with their movements, the aura generators mounted at their hips, and the battle rifles they cradled in their arms, all combined to identify these men as soldiers. The majority of these groups were mercenaries, sellswords and soldiers of fortune who had remained behind in the employ of Barnett, and by extension Legion, following the annexation of the capital city of a country that bore the same name.
The group most relevant to this account went by the name of, Moon Military Contractors, colloquially known as House of Moon, 1st (and only) Battalion, and more specifically a pair of squads each numbering twelve individual soldiers, and two bulldog armored utility vehicles.
Within each vehicle were a single fire team of four soldiers, whilst the remaining troops escorted the ponderous and blocky wheeled transports as they all made their way northward along one of the city's larger local roads, towards a distributor and rendezvous with another pair of squads en-route to receive relief. Marching smartly on the passenger side of the west most AUV, was a soldier who stood out from the rest, despite how others of his team had positioned themselves deliberately between him and the glares of the local population. This man did not share the uniform of the soldiers around him, though soldier he was, nor did he wear an aura generator upon his belt, nor did he carry a rifle, for he had no need of either.
This man, his black hair already growing warm in the cresting rays of sunlight that spilled into the streets between the climbing forms of crystal towers and concrete buildings, wore upon his back the very symbol of the company with which he traveled, stitched ornately upon a blue duster whose tails swept across the road as he walked. Against the subdued tans and greys of his fellows and the practical but bulky shapes of their armored vests and helmets, the deep midnight blue of his coat seemed nearly blasphemous with it's rich golden trim, high collar, and shining brass buttons and buckle. He was not weighed down as the others were, with gear, additional ammunition, and travel packs of emergency medical supplies or fuel cells for their aura generators. Instead he had a much more spartan approach to his equipment, one that matched well with the fashion of his ancestors. He wore armor as well, of course, he was not a complete fool, but his was a lavish, if somewhat simplistic in design, breastplate of banded mail that lay exposed by the open front of his duster it's lacquered blue surface gleaming every so often when a finger of sunshine caressed it. Though clearly made of some sort of metal, instead of the composite ballistic plating of his fellows, the segmented design of the armor seemed to hinder him little even as it fully encircled a broad, powerful chest that swelled with youthful splendor. But otherwise, his only apparent possession, aside from his smartly polished jack boots, shining silver greaves baring his family crest, a waning moon, and cargo pants of the same shade as his dark hair, was a sword which hung from his left hip. Said sword seemed as at home on the young man's hip as a leaf did on a tree, and the deep blue of the woven straps around it's hilt, and the overlapping red scales of it's sheath served to well compliment to colors of his outfit.
This man, surveying the streets as he passed with a single golden eye, the neighbor of which nothing but an empty and scarred socket beneath a plain leather patch, was the reason for the apprehension of the citizenry, not as one might expect the small force of armed men that surrounded him. The people of Rift were familiar enough with the mercenaries left in the wake of their conquerors to have resumed an uneasy acceptance of their presence, and those in this particular section of the city recognized the uniforms of Moon's 1st Battalion given that this was the unit's assigned territory. However, the one eyed man in blue was unfamiliar to some, and therefore, dangerous, and familiar to others, and therefore, even more so.
This young man was no common soldier, though he marched with them as would a wolf comfortably with it's pack. This young man was Solomon Moon, and the renditions of Remnant's nocturnal watcher that populated his cloak and greaves was not just the banner of the squads with which he marched, and indeed the entirety of the House of Moon forces, it was the symbol of his family. The Moons had a reputation as, if not unjust or cruel, somewhat volatile. It was said that they would take anything as a challenge, and would delight in dueling for imagined slights, often with gruesome, when not simply lethal, consequences, and not even the bravest of those wandering the streets at this young hour wished to risk anything that might precipitate an the attention of the young lord.
Tales of what Sol had done, the vast tracts of land burned to cinder, the surrendering soldiers butchered, and hundreds of his own soldiers sent to needless deaths, so some said, all to satisfy a grudge, had reached even so far as Rift. Whilst others simply knew a hard and dangerous man when they saw one. That haunted look in the young man's eye could mean nothing good for whoever it settled upon.
Sol himself was mostly oblivious to this. He was lost in his own thoughts at that exact moment as he and the other squads passed into a market square that was just beginning to attract some early bird buyers. He was remarking at how the way the city seemed to snore and come awake around him had a nearly poetic feel to it, and he was sure this was the sort of thing that would make a man feel like personifying the entire edifice in some inane and ultimately futile manner. Not him, not anymore at least. He felt he'd given up that part of himself for many years now, and the part of his heart from which sprang sentiments of poetic import had long since atrophied into an organ that was vestigial at best. He did not miss it, at least not any more than he missed his right eye, but he'd been so long without either that he'd forgotten what the difference was. That did not mean that he did not notice it when something he should have been able to see remained lost in a blind-spot, both figuratively and literally. He recognized that it was, if not a disability, then certainly a deficiency, and it was exactly this sort of thing that he was considering as he marched. He was trying to imagine what, were he a poet, the scene before him should have made him feel, but it was as futile a pursuit as trying to imagine a new color, and he promptly abandoned it in favor of observing the faces of those that he passed.
There was an unquestionable distance between him and them, and it was further than simply the tree armed guards that made a border between them, though they, and the institution from which they came, were certainly part of it. These people were common folk, what might have been called peasantry as little as a hundred years ago, and they were of a simplicity that made someone like Sol, who could call upon nearly a thousand swords should he wish it, and could wear his weight in gold if it pleased him to do so, seem almost as if he were too fantastic to be simply taking a stroll through the streets. Many of these people had probably grown up within the borders of this very city, and would not have known what end of a spear to stick into a Grimm should one come slithering over the walls. To them, Sol, an academy trained aura user, a lord of a private military outfit, and one whose business it was to know which end of a spear to stick into a Grimm, was something almost supernatural. Of course they must have seen hunters before, but few of them had been handed a contract to keep the peace in their city after actively serving in the force that conquered it.
If not animosity, then they certainly regarded the one eyed youth with a great deal of weariness, and this satisfied Sol. At least if they were afraid they might wait until after he and the others had passed by to cause any trouble, and at least today this part of the city might enjoy some semblance of order, free of the riots and demonstrations that had been so common since the annexation of the capitol. Sol didn't really understand that, the protesting, the vandalism, the constant sullen reluctance that seemed to meet the noble efforts of himself and the other mercenaries outfits to maintain order. It seemed indecent to him that the population would continue these token examples of resistance now that they were conquered. After all it seemed an act of utter and pitiful futility to continue to fight a foe who had already one, especially when said foe had done so when the resistor was at full combat strength. To him, it demonstrated a lack of nobility, as well as a poor grace, but he could hardly expect any honor from a population that likely had never held a weapon until he and the others of Legion's forces came knocking. Maybe this would be good for Rift in showing them that even the common man must be able to fight and protect what was his.
Something on a nearby stall caught his eye as it rustled in the humid morning breeze, and he was drawn from his musing at the sight of it. Though at first he did not know why, that withered organ that resided somewhere in his chest stirred faintly in recognition of the stacks of square paper pinned beneath a large jade weight, fluttering in the wind as if trying to escape. Were that atrophied agency rousing itself weakly within him just a bit stronger, he might have thought it peculiar and fitting ow well the sight of the paper's struggles so well mirrored the situation of the city at large, but instead he was simply drawn closer by some compulsion that he could not identify at first. Without a word, he broke formation, receiving a curious glance, but nothing more from his fellows as they made their way to the market's center and began making their own inspections.
The vendor, a middle aged woman with wings of grey forming at her temples, smiled weakly by shied back a step as the well dressed warrior approached her wares. She appeared to be selling products of paper, blank canvasses, sheets in various hues and shapes and sizes, all of which dancing in the breeze. Sol was not interested in any of the other products, though he would have remarked that their quality certainly deserved better than an unsheltered outdoor stall. He continued towards the squirming pile that had originally captured his attention, and noted an occasional glimmer of something metallic within the stack.
Curious, he raised his right hand, gloved in leather, as the other rested on the pommel of his sword, and placed a finger on the stack to still it for a closer inspection.
"Origami paper..." came the worn voice of the vendor, speaking in tones that would never have been well suited to crying her wares at the height of the business day, and Sol looked up to her, causing her to cut off abruptly and shrink back from the unexpected intensity of that golden gaze.
"I know..." He replied to her, not unkindly, in the earthy tones of a rumbling volcano, voice like the smokey rumble of distant cannon fire, "I saw something metal in the stack.."
"F-foil... Foil paper.. The wind creases it... so I cover it with the others." The woman explained, hastily, despite tripping over a few syllables, clearly worried that the soldier had intuited a much more insidious metal object to be the culprit, and worried to be suspected of being armed with anything more dangerous than scissors.
Sol felt something tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he lifted his left hand from the hilt of his sword, much to the relief of the vendor, and brushed at his spasming cheek for a moment as he leafed through the pile with the fingers of his gloved hand. It did not take long to verify the woman's explanation as he located the culprit mid way down the heap. It was as she had said, silver foil paper, metal leaf suck to a thin layer of onion paper, shining in the early morning glow of the sun and sending dancing sprites carousing across the stall as the wind ruffled it. The surface of the paper was badly creased, featuring an uneven seam where it had been folded carelessly, or perhaps crumpled by the very wind, and Sol was disconcerted by how that ugly irregular line perfectly matched up with the reflection of the right side of his face as he looked down upon it's polished surface. He realized that the tugging on his lips had been a frown trying and eventually succeeding to form. No wonder the merchant was so nervous, because even that slight downward turn of the lips made his face brood with all the menace of a thunderhead.
"How much for this one?" He asked once he had swallowed down a hard knot that was forming in his throat.
"S-sir? That one is creased," came the woman's uncertain reply, though he tone had grown lighter at the prospect of a sale, "Surely you'd prefer anoth..." Sol didn't let her finish.
"This one!" He declared with the certainty of a pistol report, perhaps more harshly than he mean to, adopting the kind of tone that he employed when giving orders, causing the vendor's head to jerk in surprise as if she'd been slapped. He made a conscious effort to soften his next words, his tone resembling sandstone as apposed to granite as a result.
"This one, please... I like this one..."
---
Sol hurried to catch up with the rest of his squad, as he cradled the fluttering thirty five square centimeters of foil paper against his breastplate. They had gone further than he had expected, and he must have spent longer looking at the paper stall than he'd expected to, because the marketplace was beginning to fill with people, enough that he was not likely to take many more steps before bumping into someone.
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Post by Aldous Barnett on Aug 28, 2016 16:44:56 GMT -6
 On the branches in the ditches, it's now silent and without life, And breathing becomes oh so hard for me Woe is me,
oh woe, And the birds sing no more 826 • tagged Solomon Moon • blood. everywhere. | Deplorable, at best.
Barnett’s tired brow furrowed at some of the reports he had received from the city. It seemed some of his mercenaries were starting to act up, not that he blamed him. As he walked down the halls of Rift’s white palace, the recently crowned - newly appointed - King of Rift glanced at a number of documents that had been delivered to him by a member of his staff. His hand brushed through his short dark - slightly graying - hair with a frustrated huff, glancing over to the timid man that had delivered the news to him. “I want you to make sure this doesn’t escalate, Durant.” He said, his thick accent adding a sharpness to his words. “If the mercenaries get too restless, we’re going to have a lot of problems on our hands.”
The two, followed by Barnett’s personal guard, entered a large dining area. The room was exquisitely decorated, with gold and silver accents all over. A series of chandeliers - totaling six - spanned the length of the ceiling, glowing brightly to bring out the best of the room’s colors. The table was decorated to match, the many blues and golds of Rift’s regalia spanning its great length. On the table were various food items. Chicken and pork, beans and potatoes. Almost anything a hungry soul could dream of was present. Barnett sat in the heavily decorated chair, the design of which matched that of the table. His assistant, the man known as Durant, sat nearby - watching timidly as the King went about picking at some of the bits for lunch.
A roll in hand, Aldous eyed the man, regarding his demeanor with a grin. “What are you so nervous for?” He said, his voice causing the man’s blood to seemingly freeze. “N-nothing, sir. I swear.” He said, his eyes shifting to some of the food just to get them off Barnett. Seeing this, the King chuckled, grabbing the plate before him and handing it to the man with him. The three knights, clad in blackened armor, exchanged glances - also chuckling in response to the King’s action. “Go ahead, eat something.” He offered, waving the plate as if taunting. Durant, noticeably nervous, hesitantly took the plate before starting to pick at some of the food himself.
As he reached for one of the rolls, Barnett - with almost blinding speed - grabbed one of the butter knives and stabbed it through Durant’s hand, pinning him to the table. The tablecloth stained red as the man cried out in pain, doing his best to keep his voice down to avoid drawing attention to the dining room. Barnett, rising from his seat, positioned himself behind Durant and rested his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Durant. Listen very carefully.” He whispered malevolently into his victim’s ear. “There is a lot at stake here in Rift. The Rha-” He cut himself off, motioning to the black knights to ignite the many candles in the dining hall. “Our…allies have invested a lot of resources into this usurping. To see us lose control because you cannot maintain the men is not an option.”
Durant’s muffled cries grew louder as his hand began to go pale - a direct result of the blood loss. “M-mercy, my king. Please.” He begged, struggling to free his hand from the knife. Barnett, seeing this, grinned as he patted Durant on the side of the head. “I want you to do something for me, first.” He said, his tone becoming darker as he went on. “Go into town and fetch me Solomon Moon. He should be somewhere in the city, and given his…appearance, I’ve no doubt you’ll find him easily. I need to discuss something of great importance regarding him and the company he keeps.” With those final words, he violently tugged Durant’s hand from the table, leaving the bloodied knife in its place. The informant-turned-messenger wasted no time, rushing out of the dining room - then leaving the palace to enter the city.
The journey was short, the man eventually finding Solomon among his team of soldiers. “E-excuse me, Mr. Moon.” The man said, his voice shaking as the wound on his hand started wearing him down. “Th-the king, he…He wishes to speak with you privately. Please direct yourself to the palace dining room immediately.” Durant turned his back without a second thought, wandering off into the city in an effort to find assistance in healing his wound. King Aldous, in the meantime, enjoyed his meal in silence. |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Aug 28, 2016 18:07:48 GMT -6
Sol shielded his prize from the milling throngs of civilians as he returned to his party and was greeted in the manner becoming of a soldier to a commanding officer. The one eyed lord nodded solemnly at the salutes and reports of his men, and deigned not to comment on the sheet of metallic paper he was cradling against the steel of his breastplate, despite the obvious and curious glances of several sets of eyes. By all accounts it was shaping up to be a quiet day, as incidents of mischief during the night were at an acceptable minimum, and nothing amiss had yet to be discovered in among the stalls or shops on the patrol route. It was truth for even the common soldier that the job was looking good in a uniform and waiting for something to happen for ninety percent of the time, and trying to stay alive for the rest, and Sol was accustomed to the boredom of a front line existence. In light of the alternative, he actually welcomed the down time. While the taking of the city had not been especially difficult, it had hardly been bloodless either, the actual monarch of the region being not the least among the dead. Sol had sent personal letters of regret to the families of some of his own men who would not be returning home alive.
This was why, when a nervous looking clerk type, cradling a bandaged hand, approached him and his squad, that Sol felt a definite sensation of dread as if a block of ice had just splashed into the deepest part of his guts. From the man's pale face, his faint voice, and his bloody appendage turning it's wrappings more red with each beat of his pulse, none of it had the makings of any good omen.
In the days following the battle, right up until this very moment, Sol had seen no shortage of citizens sporting some sort of injury, likely earned during the fight itself or during the numerous examples of civil disobedience that followed, but the messenger's, - Sol knew him only as one of Barnett's aides-, bloody hand seemed like a recent affair. The fact that the man had come to find Sol, before attending to his own injury, could not mean well of the situation.
Sol accepted the summons with a quick nod of ascent, and dismissed his retinue with a wave of his hand. They were hesitant to abandon their lord to the risks of traveling through the city alone, and with the kind of lack in subtlety that was so often used to depict the House of Moon as a whole, they wore their uncertainty plainly upon their faces, and a couple went so far as to utter grunts of inquiry under their breaths. Sol glanced to the others and waited until the clerk had departed to chastise them fully for their reluctance, sparing his men the shame of being reprimanded in front of a civilian.
"It is a private summons, and you are all due for relief. You are to continue on to the rendezvous." He said, phrasing his words as a clear order, and in doing so leveling a scathing censure upon the others by simple act of needing to repeat an instruction verbally.
This rebuke shamed the unit so thoroughly that several set their jaws, whilst others tossed their heads in embarrassment. All were thankful that this civilian population of Rift did not understand the proper etiquette of command in enough detail as to appreciate the depths of their humiliation. It did not take long at all for the corporal to appeal for forgiveness by proffering a very smart salute, left handed on account of his rifle, followed by the imitation of his fellows, their boots striking the tarmac in unison as they assumed a stance of attention.
Sol returned the salute, exposing his gloved palm to the soldiers as he rested the fingertips against his brow, much to the relief of the men, and sparing them the insult of departing without accepting the gesture of deference. Though Sol did not technically command the unit any more than one of the privates, tradition still placed him in a position of greater honor than the rest, and it was not his place to abuse that respect. It was already improper enough that he came and went as needed, and held no official rank, and he depended entirely upon the respect of his men to maintain any excuse of leadership that was afforded him.
"At ease, corporal. Your concern has been noted. See to your assignment."
---
Sol couldn't help a pang of something close to irritation as he entered the palace. He'd never liked the idea of palaces. Fortresses made sense to him, and his house laid claim to one of the oldest and mightiest examples in all of Remnant. With its vast stores of food, access to underground water, and parapets built into the very bedrock of Legion's Toho mountain range, the Moon Compound, with a garrison of less than a thousand troops, could hold off siege long enough for the lost troops to be replaced by their sons. To Sol, the Moon Compound, was what a palace should look like, a refuge for the people to huddle beneath the protection of their liege lord. By comparison, the palace of Rift's highest seat, with it's poorly laid out corridors, it's merely nominal presence of defensive structures, and only enough storage to hold enough food for the ruling class was the ultimate obscenity. It was like making a sword out of gold. Sure it was pretty, and might hold an edge, but ultimately it was a poor example, or even a mockery. Perhaps if the former king of Rift had concerned himself more with fortification and less with chandeliers, he might still be sitting upon his garish throne, but perhaps not. The forces of Rift had turned out to be less impressive than the architecture of their great city after all.
It worried Sol that the new king, one that he himself had helped to install, might be too comfortable in such trappings, and this thought only grew stronger as he strode beneath great tapestries and dangling crystal chandeliers.
The sounds of his steel shanked jack boots striking marble floors announced Sol's approach long before the massive double door that served as entryway to the dining room creaked open. The young lord drew in the scent of the banquet set out for a single man, and his worries gnawed all the more feverishly at the back of his mind as he witnessed the jaw-dropping decadence of the spread. He'd been on patrol since the chime of midnight, and had eaten nothing but field rations, and it shamed him that the sight made his mouth water, at least until he noted the blood stain on the table cloth, and the mark where something seemed to have been driven through it.
The hard plains of his face stiffened, and he resisted the urge to turn his gaze upon the seated and recent king. He instead forced himself to stare dead ahead over the table as he struck a statuesque posture of attention, heels drawn together, back straight,(foil paper carefully folded corner to corner and stowed safely in his bracer) and chest thrust out. The sound of his boots striking together as the heels met rang like a gunshot through the near empty chamber, and Sol saluted stiffly for a moment, before returning his hands to his sides.
"My Liege." He addressed Barnett, using the traditional term, as it was a source of great pride and honor that his house still knew how to behave before royalty.
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Post by Aldous Barnett on Aug 30, 2016 12:56:01 GMT -6
On the branches in the ditches, it's now silent and without life, And breathing becomes oh so hard for me Woe is me,
oh woe, And the birds sing no more 597 • Solomon Moon • all alone | The new king picked at the roll he had worked on for the last several minutes, using the small bites only to suppress the bit of hunger he was experiencing instead of filling himself. It was apparent that patience was a virtue he did not possess, irritably tapping his foot to the sound of a tree branch striking one of the dining room windows. Why was this room so large, anyway? Furrowing his brow, Aldous looked from one end of the table to the other, trying to come to a reasonable conclusion. The Sablier’s, as far as he knew, didn’t have many guests that shared the palace dining hall. On top of that, they were a family of three.
A better question was probably who though one man needed this much food. Rubbing his eyes, Barnett motioned to one of his knights. The black figure stepped forward, standing stiff like a statue at the King’s side. “I think it’s time the chef retired.” He said with a smirk. “What do you think?” The knight chuckled, the deep voice almost rattling the glass. “I’ll deal with it personally, m’lord.” He said before leaving the large hall. Barnett leaned back in his seat, continuing to pick at the roll as he stared - as patiently as possible - at the door to the hall. If this kid took any longer, whoever was in line to take the throne after Aldous’s death would be in power.
Too bad he had no heir.
Sounds, metallic to a degree, echoed in the halls. It was about time! King Barnett observed Solomon as he entered, smiling at the young man as he stood straight and stared forward. "My Liege." The young man addressed him, forcing Aldous to reply with a slight scoff. Still smiling, Aldous rose from his seat and walked - slowly - around the table before standing right in front of Solomon. “I’m happy you could join me, Solomon.” He said with a smirk, taking the young man by his artificial hand and shaking it. His grasp was tight, some comparing it to the snap of an alligator’s jaws, even despite the reinforced nature of Solomon’s arm. “Please, have a seat - help yourself to some food, I'm willing to bet you're hungry.” Barnett added, drifting back to his seat. “I don’t understand how Sablier didn’t eat himself to death. This is far, far, far too much for a man like myself.”
Lowering into his chair, he motioned for Solomon to sit in the seat directly across from him, lightly tossing a plate and glass to his side of the table. “There are a few…things that I wish to discuss with you - mostly in private.” He said, motioning for the rest of his knights to leave the room. Without a word, and a simple low growl, the black-armored soldiers left the room - standing just outside in the event they were called. The doors behind them, the only way out except by window, closed. “Tell me about yourself. What is it you do exactly?” He inquired, taking a quick sip from his wineglass. “And please spare me your story. I don’t want to know where you came from and what business you’re in - I want to know what you do, follow?” |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Aug 30, 2016 20:34:19 GMT -6
Sol stood still as a post as Barnett traipsed about the perimeter of the table. He remained acutely aware of the other man's general location at all times, as if there were a dull hum to accompany the king's movements. It was not a conscious thing, and Sol could not help sensing the imminent sense of peril that seemed to radiate from the nobleman. He wanted to put it down to an overactive imagination, or much of the night spent on patrol, but there was no reasoning with the deeply set reptilian part of his brain that wanted to put his back against a wall and verify at least three overlapping lines of fire before he risked approaching the nexus of that faintly defined dread.
He was about half way to convincing himself that it was just frayed nerves, and remained motionless as a statue, though whether by habit to stand stock still during inspection or petrified by some indistinct bugbear of ill-ease he could not have known. Sol had been subject to military inspections of one sort or another for nearly half of his natural life, and was accustomed to the sensation of being appraised like a display rack of killing implements. He had been taught that the proper way to behave under such scrutiny was to maintain a strong upright posture, hands at his sides, eyes -or "eye" in his case- dead ahead, ears open and only speaking when spoken to and only doing so long enough to answer the question in as few words as possible. Naturally this was exactly how he was acting at the exact moment that Barnett grasped his mechanical hand and shook it firmly.
The limb was a dumb one, utterly devoid of all but the most rudimentary of impressions, and was unable to report any sensations of more complexity than the force being applied upon the joints, and tactile awareness that prevented him from crushing delicate objects into powder when he tried to pick them up. Of pain and injury, Roar, the name Sol afforded his ghastly weaponized prosthesis, knew nothing, save for the constant pain and discomfort of the implants that served as structural anchors for the limb to affix to. This was well, because even the simplest ability to recognize heat or pain would have rendered the act of firing Roar's main gun to an act of excruciating agony. The only clue Sol received of the king's grasping strength was a faint groan as two of the ceramic plates that protected the back of his palm were ground together, which he met with icy indifference. He did not even so much as squeeze the offered hand in return. This was because, in addition to the limb being a historically treacherous one and how it would not do behoove him to break the king's hand for the crime of courtesy, Sol also thought that the unyielding structure of the metal fist would serve as an adequate response to any attempts of bravado that men often took handshakes as excuses for. For all the good it did him, Barnett could just as easily have been vigorously jiggling a titanium doorknob.
Though ambivalent to the exchange of pleasantries -Sol had little patience for politesse of any kind-, the young cyclops did allow the exchange to signal that he was free to find his ease, and summarily placed his hands behind his back and spread his heels to allow for a more comfortable stance. He even went so far as to make direct eye contact with Aldous. He found that the mere act of being able to track the other man's movements did much to quench the uncertain ember of vague danger that the distinguished lord's manner seemed to engender. Looking at him, Sol couldn't understand why his instincts had been wailing so loudly, though he presumed that the mysterious bloodstain on the tablecloth had a lot to do with it. Barnett had the appearance of a man who had served his country dutifully for many years, and had a body that had known the rigors of battle more than once. He was lean, but not frail, and perhaps his body was not at the peak of maintenance, it was clear that is was not unhealthy. Truly, there was nothing about the sight of the man, with his easy smile and grey at his temples, that should have put a strong warrior like Sol on edge. Except perhaps Aldous' eyes. There was something not quite right about his eyes. In appearance, the man looked -if not harmless-, peaceful enough, but the same could not be said of his eyes.
Aldous invited him to help himself to the food on the table, but the sight of blood on the table top had destroyed Sol's appetite. He did not think it was coincidence that the seat before that pool of fresh red was slightly aslant of the rest, as if the occupant had rushed from the room in a great hurry. If he had left under his own power at all. There was a niggling suspicion blooming in Sol's mind, but the wounded hand of the messenger, which would have been the missing piece of the bloody puzzle, would also remain obscure in his mind for the moment. In any case, he was not about to seat himself at the same table where some unknown individual had shed so much blood, and so recently that the table cloth had not been changed, meaning that it had been done after the banquet had been prepared. If nothing else, it seemed like eating anything off that table would be in poor taste.
Sol was laboring to justify to himself that Aldous' invitation had not been an order and thus he was permitted to decline it, no small feat given his education when it came to dealing with nobles, when his stomach, content to suffer the pangs of hunger no longer while the odors of fresh meat filled his nostrils, committed unforgivable mutiny. A low, rumbling, and faintly moist growl rang right through the banded straps of his breastplate, and Sol snorted in embarrassment without breaking his gaze from Aldous. The noise was such a striking imitation of Sol's namesake, that it was surprising that such an expression of enmity towards his own biological processes was not accompanied by twin funnels of smoke from his nose.
Unable to decline the offer now, at least not without insulting his liege, Sol, with obvious and painful reluctance, removed the glove from his right hand, exposing the bio-mechanical nature of the appendage and approached the table. He tore a leg from the steaming carcass of some large bird, using the act to vent a small measure of the frustration he felt, a source of which he still could not discern. He did not seat himself, and unless his legs began to quiver under the weight of him, he did not plan to.
He ripped into the roasted thigh so aggressively that it seemed he might hold it personally responsible for his chagrin. He had to admit, the chef had done well, and the meat was pleasantly moist, warm, and quite well spiced. Though he would have preferred something red, and prepared more on the rare side, having settled upon the bird because unlike a steak he could maintain some level of civility while eating it with his hand, Sol would have admitted, albeit grudgingly, it was indeed a meal fit for a king. He took no time to properly savor the flesh of the fowl, as soon his instincts of hunger were driving him to swallow barely chew mouthfuls as quickly as he could separate them from the bone. By the time Aldous had returned to his seat, Sol was liberating a second leg from the mass of the departed bird's meat.
Aldous' inquiry took Sol off guard, though, to be fair, he'd been somewhat off balance since arriving, being that this audience had gone in no way as he had been educated to expect of royal audiences. He paused, as the question took root in his brain, leg of some nondescript large bird raised halfway to his indecently drooling maw. He shut his mouth, and an expression of consideration overtook his face, mostly put on to make clear to Aldous that the resultant silence was not a sign of Sol ignoring his interrogation. Perhaps it took Sol too long to come up with an appropriate response, save for allowing his eye to drift back to the seated king, brow slightly knit to display his consternation at being asked such an incredibly broad question. However, that expression faded, and was replaced slowly but surely with something more closely resembling the cool consideration with which Sol appraised most situations. He nodded to himself as he settled on an answer, bobbing the leg of bird in his false hand as if testing it's weight, though it was a token gesture, as the mass of the meat was so insignificant to the myomer fibers of artificial muscle that it was indistinguishable from the feel of an empty hand.
Sol expected that a lesser intellect would have been waylaid by such a seemingly broad query, but a quick reflection on the context of the question, and the manner of the man giving it, narrowed the nature of the discussion down to a laser's precision. Barnett was not one for idle banter, and Sol could tell that every word was chosen with purpose, something that he respected, though he personally would have been a little less vague about it.
The young mercenary did not answer, at least not verbally, and instead he raised his left, and empty, hand to his lips, and using his teeth he grasped a fold of leather and pulled the glove free of his fingers. He then turned towards the window that he had settled in front of when presenting himself to Aldous, and approached the glass, taking a moment to stow the removed gauntlet behind his belt, along side it's partner. With exceptional nimbleness for such blunt and thick fingers, he undid the gold plated latch and cast the window open. He took a moment to glance back at the king to make sure that the noble was indeed watching, and as golden eye met those dark troubling eyes of his liege, Sol gave a nod to signal that the display would begin.
He tossed the severed leg of the large bird through the open portal, giving it enough of an upward arch that it seemed to hover briefly in the air before beginning it's descent. That brief moment where the meat hung suspended between the rising force of Sol's throw and the plunging forces of gravity, was all that the warrior needed to complete his display.
Without any warning, save the parting of Sol's lips to produce a showing of teeth that was more snarl than smile, the young lord was surrounded in a thrashing haze of red and blue that seemed to materialize from within his flesh itself. The sudden appearance of the thrashing scourges of deep sunset red flame that decayed into ocean abyss blue smoke impacted Sol's surroundings with a physical presence that made the air shudder like the surface of a pond suffering the sudden intrusion of a plummeting boulder. The chandeliers rattled as the disturbed air crashed against them, and the tablecloth tried to seek refuge beneath the table as if under the compulsion of a stiff wind, various unsecured articles upon the spread and around the room were ejected bodily from their positions, as if even inanimate objects were impelled to flee from such the certain forces of destruction that such a display of power must precipitate.
Sol, now a writhing shape of flailing tongues in apposing hues, stretched his arm through the window, and raised his bared left hand towards the lingering shape of the drumstick, palm out and fingers spread. As if drawn towards the gesture, the swirling cloak of Sol's aura surged up his back, over his shoulder and down his arm in less time than it would take to blink. Upon collecting at a point separated imperceptibly from the bare flesh of his palm, the energy collected and condensed, and briefly seemed to throb as surely the mass of pulverized reality at the center of a black hole must quiver with untold yet undeniable destructive potential, and then it burst.
A deafening report rang out with the voice of a hundred cannons firing at once. Windows on the most distant edges of the courtyard into which the blast was released rattled as if trying to shake free of their frames, as the sound of the burst bounced back and forth between the fortified exterior walls like a cannonball ricocheting between church bells.
At what appeared to be the same moment, though due to the laws of physics and the relative speeds of sound versus that of light the sound actually came long after the true purpose of the display, a sudden flash of light sprang from Sol's hand as the collected energies collapsed under their own weight. A ripple of force seemed to distort the very air, as the pressures created caused the gasses of the present atmosphere to condense to the point that for an instant they were actually an expanding and entirely solid semicircular ring that slammed forth with strength unrivaled in all of nature, save for the surface of the sun, or the center of a lightning bolt.
The sudden reality sundering strength of the disruption was such that air not hammered into a wall of tangible force was super-heated beyond the point of ignition by virtue of simple proximity. This meant that at the same instant that the drumstick was disintegrated on the molecular level as individual atoms were ripped apart by the forces of what seemed to be a hundred hammers falling on every inch of the object, it was also utterly incinerated. Destruction was utter, and complete, and not even a dusting of ash remained of the unfortunate food item.
Sol took a moment to appreciate the sight, as the echoes of the act returned to him a few times each before fading away as completely from reality as the chunk of meat had. He stood there, mesmerized as he often was whenever his soul's manifestation succeeded in completely erasing something from existence.
The moment of awe passed, and his face was blank of emotion as he carefully closed the window with his right hand, before securing his gauntlet back over smoking fingers and turning to Aldous to proclaim.
"THAT, is what I do."
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Post by Aldous Barnett on Sept 1, 2016 10:50:17 GMT -6
On the branches in the ditches, it's now silent and without life, And breathing becomes oh so hard for me Woe is me,
oh woe, And the birds sing no more 577 • Solomon Moon • to business | Leaning comfortably in his seat, Aldous observed Solomon as the young man tore into the bird’s leg with little effort. He fought a wide grin, instead keeping to the slight smirk that had formed on his face when Solomon first arrived. The thought crossed his mind to, perhaps, increase the amount and the quality of the rations distributed among the men. The Kingdom could afford it, and Barnett and the Queen had little need for excess revenue streams given the connection Rift now had with Legion. With the capital coming in from both countries, Barnett’s new little kingdom could sustain itself for years with little effort.
When Solomon froze in place as a result of his question, the King leaned forward, listening intently for whatever the young soldier’s response would be. Surprisingly, no words came from him, at least not at first. Aldous watched carefully as Solomon jounced the bone from the bird’s leg with his prosthetic hand. He assumed the young man was testing the weight, given the thought that seemed to have gone into putting together a response to the question. As Solomon moved towards one of the windows, Aldous leaned back in the gold and purple seat of the king, resting his left hand under his chin as he briefly stroked his slightly pointed beard.
What happened next, however, was a little unexpected.
Aldous’s eyes narrowed as Solomon’s Aura began to manifest, whipping around the young man’s body like a raging flame. He watched as the Aura pulsed, running up and through Solomon’s arm as if compelled by some unseen force. Then came the blast, impressive to say the very least, but certainly not the most impressive thing he had seen in his career. Still, he had to hand it to the young man. He had something a lot of people his age did not - an impressive amount of power. Clearly his time spent taking part in military jobs had helped this kid get a step ahead of his peers. Good, he was going to need that - all of it - if things went the way Barnett hoped.
"THAT, is what I do." Solomon declared, finally answering the question with words. Aldous responded with clapping, tugging the sleeves of his dark tunic up around his elbows. “Fantastic, Mr. Moon. Absolutely marvelous.” He responded with a laugh. “Believe me, you’re going to need that for what I have in mind for you.” Approaching Solomon, Aldous placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder with a heavy pat. “I need you to do something very…special for me, Solomon.” He added, almost whispering to keep the words between the two of them. The King’s grayish-green eyes focused on Solomon’s sole golden one.
“The reward, of course, would be sizable in comparison to the job.” Aldous added, stepping away from Solomon before sitting and motioning for him to return to his seat. “I’m hearing stories - that the Princess has been found and in good hands. While that’s great news for the people of Rift, for me - for us - this is a problem. I need her found and brought to me right away, to avoid any...trouble. Is that something you think you can do?” |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Sept 1, 2016 21:37:35 GMT -6
Sol clenched the fingers of his left hand, a motion not unlike that of a steel trap snapping shut in both swiftness and strength, scattering the smoke that continued to pour through the seams in his glove with a satisfying "puff". A bone deep ache had settled into the appendage, as was typical for the moments following a discharge of his semblance, and were one to check they would find the palm scorched and fingertips bruised from the ordeal. His golden eye lay unflinching upon Aldous, his expression a study in frigidity, as if what he'd just done were not remarkable in the slightest. Of course this was hardly true.
What Solomon had done, even by the standards of hunters, was a heart-stopping display of raw power, and the one eyed warrior knew that better than most, for he wielded a kind of might that could kill even an experienced hunter if it caught them off guard. Only a ready aura shield would protect an average human from immediate death before such an expression of his spiritual might. Sol knew this, and he knew it was why many treated him with weariness and fear, because the fact that he could unleash a lethal explosion at will was a terrifying prospect to all but the most foolhardy, especially when he could do so without providing any kind of warning. The manifestation of his aura prior to the blast was an act of theatrics, a courtesy for his audience, to make plain what it was he'd done, and how. If the need arose, Sol could unleash just as much fury without providing any warning to his target, short of their body suddenly being subject to the pressure of a thousand atmospheres, and by that point it would be far too late for it to matter.
While many children were told by their parents that they could be whatever they wished if they worked hard and believed, Sol had been told since the earliest ability to recognize the meaning that he would be a weapon, and by the time his semblance expressed itself, it was nothing but a fact of his life.
The source of his indifferent countenance was actually a reflection of the self control he had to exert control such raw strength safely. To a certain extent his semblance was field by his emotions. It was no surprise that Sol also considered emotions to be treacherous things, when something like anger, or fear, or frustration, at a careless moment could spell doom for a warrior, and for Sol that counted double when he wielded a semblance that could reduce the immediate area to a twenty foot deep smoking crater. In some cosmic joke, the universe had provided Sol with a temper of legendary volatility, as well as a mechanism by which that very temper could literally destroy him. This meant that the only true safety he could enjoy when so close to harnessing the power of his soul, was to divorce himself from emotion entirely in times when such power was not required of him. Seen in this light, a light only possessed by Sol himself, it became clear why his sentiments seemed to exist in one of two binary states, that being icy callousness, or fiery rage, with little examples of what existed between.
Perhaps this shell of disdain was why it caught Sol off guard, when Aldous responded to the display with what appeared to be genuine praise and approval. The clapping made Sol blink, breaking his fixed stare on the other man in a way that would have been a full jerk of the head in a less composed man. Sol would have had to travel back far into his memory, at the cost of great emotional distress, to find another example of anyone praising his semblance and it's destructive capabilities, but Aldous seemed genuinely proud and amused, in a way that actually twisted a splinter of grief in the young man's chest.
“Fantastic, Mr. Moon. Absolutely marvelous.” The king said as his hand struck Sol firmly upon the shoulder, a gesture that had as much affect as whistling at a tree. At least it would have seemed that way if one hadn't been watching the one eyed lord's face at the time.
Though his body, constructed of sturdy materials and molded by training and environment to be an almost perfect example of athletic prowess, did not seem to respond to the impact in the slightest way, save for a muffled grunt, his face told a different tale. That stony expression, worn more like a mask than anything, plummeted from his visage and shattered upon impact into something resembling weariness and confusion. Sol knew he should be suspicious of the charming ex-hunter, with his golden smile and his dead eyes, but in spite of that his approval seemed to lift a weight from the young dragon's shoulders that he had not even realized until it departed. It was a horrifying realization that Aldous was winning him over, that his approval actually mattered to Sol.
That golden eye, having drifted to the blood staining the table at some point after Aldous started clapping, snapped back to find the hazy green of Barnett's right there to meet it. The noble's grayish eyes were sharp like the point of a dagger hovering between Sol's shoulder blades, whilst seeming only half aware of their surroundings and instead fixated on some distant and potentially sinister goal. A thought crossed Sol's reeling mind that if those eyes ever drifted from their far flung objective and settled upon him instead, that it could very easily be the most terrifying experience of his life. Sol experienced visions of those eyes sliding into horrible relief upon his own, and they were not pleasant in the slightest.
All the same, the gaze of the smiling king was impossible to look away from, because the fear of breaking line of sight and allowing that alien intellect to exist unchallenged in his peripheral vision was somehow an even more terrible alternative that meeting it. How had he gone from displaying a power that could reduce a man to red vapor in an instant, to feeling so damn helpless? What's worse that even if he wanted to, Sol didn't think he had the strength to look away, and he felt like the world's largest marionette, with invisible threads stretching from the depths of Barnett's gaze into Sol's own, and suspending him beneath the other man's power, whilst his whispering siren song of a voice wove a net around Sol's mind.
“The reward, of course, would be sizable in comparison to the job."
Sol had to fight to remain upright as Barnett broke the contact of his eyes, and the spell that had been holding him up with it. Sol slumped into the nearest seat, the ajar one with a pool of darkening blood drying in on the table in front of it, before he even realized what he was doing. He tried to tell himself, not for the first or last time, that it was just nerves, that he was just imagining that faintly defined dread, that it was just his imagination that every moment he spent in Barnett's company was another step towards a pitfall of barbed spikes, but it did no good. He could not refuse the seat, and he knew he could not refuse whatever offer the sly king made him. He became aware of the leash that he'd adorned upon his neck when first taking the noble's contract, as it finally slipped snug around his throat. He could certainly resist, he could absolutely struggle, and he could put up a fantastic fight, but it would accomplish nothing. The reality of the situation was simple. One did not refuse a king, one simply did as one was ordered, like a good soldier.
Sol toiled to return his expression to something that did not betray the dread that filled him, and succeeded in concealing the sickness that this situation had installed within him. He listened patiently as Barnett explained his mission, and Sol's heart sank into the depths of his chest like the ball of lead it was. Sol should have known. The princess was still alive, the successor to Rift's former ruler, and she was a threat to Barnett's rule. It was typical monarch politics at it's finest. As long as the line of the former ruler persisted, Aldous would always be beneath the threat of a challenge to his claim upon the throne. Sol's expression darkened with each syllable uttered, as the reality of what the king was really asking, nay ordering, of him sunk in like a blade of ice. By the time Aldous had concluded, Sol's face was bleak as a graveyard, and as grim as a pool of endless shadow.
Aldous had no intention of letting the princess survive to cause "trouble", and both men knew it.
Sol had been a great fan of heroic literature in his youth. As he had trained and sacrificed to meet the pressures of his station, he'd always imagined that he would be one of the great handsome heroes from those stories, the kind who slaughtered monsters and rescued beautiful damsels. As he had grown older, and the duty he felt towards his house had matured into a kind of devotion rarely seen outside of churches, Sol had imagined the name of his forefathers enduring and becoming great with him at the helm. Though he'd saved a total of zero maidens from the clutches of mighty dragons, and had slain more men than he had monsters, those two parts of him, the boy he'd been, and the man he'd become, had coexisted, though the former had fallen out of relevance with the death of Terrel, Sol's father. However now, those apposing sides had taken up arms within him and were forming up their ranks to wage war, and the sounds of their trumpets met in his heart like a cold front crashing upon a heat wave and givng birth to a swirling storm that was twisting his insides.
Though the war had yet to be fought in earnest, for that conflict would need be resolved at a later date, -likely when Sol finally tracked down the unfortunate target of his mission-, Sol knew who the victor of this first battle must be. He could not refuse Aldous. One look at the stain on the table made clear that this was not the man who one disappointed with abandon. With Terrel dead these past four years, and his only son too inexperienced to lead the family forces in anything but name, the House of Moon was as vulnerable as it had been in generations, and to refuse a man who had manufactured the circumstances where he could call himself a king after a single battle fought would be certain suicide for Sol and his line. If his house was to survive obscurity, it needed allies, ones that took a more proactive stance than Legion. Sol needed Aldous, and the latter knew it, and that was surely why he'd picked Sol for this task.
There could only be one answer.
"Tell me where she is, give me the equipment I need, and the freedom to operate without interference, and I will find her for you."
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Post by Aldous Barnett on Sept 2, 2016 21:12:18 GMT -6
On the branches in the ditches, it's now silent and without life, And breathing becomes oh so hard for me Woe is me,
oh woe, And the birds sing no more 658 • Solomon Moon • the vault awaits | "Tell me where she is, give me the equipment I need, and the freedom to operate without interference, and I will find her for you."
Barnett’s twisted grin grew even more devious as he glanced towards the exit from the dining hall. He had never really taken the time to observe the strange patterns etched in the wood, and for that brief moment he could make out what exactly covered the large door. It was a mural of sorts, recounting mankind’s resurgence into the world - pouring from the mountains, battling the Grimm, all up until the establishment of Rift. Aldous had heard the tales of Orrick von Eisenheim, the first king, and the various legends that surrounded the man and his people. Despite that, there was one story in particular that always piqued Aldous’s interest - the legend of Eisenheim’s Vault.
His sharp eyes flicked back over to Solomon. It wasn’t a story the young man would be familiar with, instead remaining quiet among Remnant’s most noble of families - the rulers. Still, there were things he wanted to show the young man. “Follow me, Mr. Moon.” He said in a calm tone, sliding back in his seat with a heavy screech. Aldous led him through the large door and out into the halls, the two of them trailed by his black knight guards. Their almost glowing red eyes were the only sign of something within the dark suits of armor, the two occasionally bumping into one another and responding with animal-like snarls.
Whenever such an event occurred, Aldous simply raised his hand, and they were silenced like obedient hounds.
As the two passed through the halls, the King’s ears tuned in to the sound of their footsteps on the floor’s hard surface. His steps were heavy, despite his smaller frame, a testament to the metaphorical weight he allowed to rest on his shoulders. As King of Rift, of a new kingdom all together, Aldous would be against the world. If all the pressure were to take hold at once, his dark hair would likely completely fade to gray. The further they progressed, the air grew almost damp. They were going further and further underground, the end of their journey uncertain to all but the King. “What would you do if you lived in a place like this, Solomon?” Aldous inquired, turning his head just enough to eye Sol in his peripheral vision.
“I’ve never lived in a palace, and I can’t say I fancy it very much.” He added, his eyes shifting forward. “I’m used to living far more modestly, in Legion’s very own central tower. Beautiful view and all that, I’d suppose.” Another low grumble emitted from one of the black knights, the figure stopping as the group approached a large door. The other knight almost went further than allowed, the former knight grabbing it by the shoulder with a serpentine hiss. Aldous didn’t regard the two in the slightest, instead motioning for Solomon to continue following him. “Here we are, Solomon.” He announced, standing before a massive gold-plated door.
The features of the door were similar to those of the dining room door, but there was a little more. Figures pulling crystals into a pit, then sealing that pit with other crystals. Of course, this was likely Dust, but that didn’t matter to either of them. The pit was behind the door, the answer to many different legends that made the Kingdom of Rift the powerhouse that it was. This was Eisenheim’s Vault. Resting his hand against the door latch, Aldous smirked, forming laughing lines on his thin face. “Do you have any questions before we go through the door?” |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Sept 3, 2016 23:06:31 GMT -6
Sol sat in his seat, back stiff and straight as ever, but shoulders sagged. It was a posture that said as much for his mood as being slumped entirely over a half mug of ale would have said for another man. For what would not be the first time, the orphaned lord regretted his answer to that fateful question, though in time he would look back on this moment and scold himself for his optimism. He'd crossed a line, in assenting to kidnap and deliver an innocent woman for execution to a man who had all the makings of a tyrant. Far down the line, he would still believe he'd made the right choice, but only in such a way as execution by decapitation was preferable to burning at a stake.
For the moment, it was taking much of his self control to cling onto what composure remained to him, and to his credit, one would not expect that he believed he'd just signed away his soul, at least not by looking at him. For all outward appearances, Sol looked a bit shaken, startled even, but otherwise was the model of a perfectly loyal soldier, for this is exactly what he was. Before he'd been a lord, before he'd been commander of the Moon forces, hell, before he'd ever been born, he'd been declared a soldier, and more than anything that was what defined him. However, while he would have wasted no thought if asked to hunt down and destroy any given enemy of his liege lord, being asked to do what amounted to the same of a woman, -an orphan like himself, though Sol didn't realize presently that he felt any sympathy towards her for it-, seemed wrong. It seemed very wrong, but that was the nature of Sol's character, that he would do something he believed to be wrong if it meant keeping his word. After all, a mercenary who was not worth his word, was not worth anything at all. In a world where so much was illusion and lie, that was the closest a man could come to being true.
He stared at the mechanical form of his right hand, and realized that it was clenched into a fist. Damn treacherous limb, with a mind of it's own as usual. Sol did not suspect in the slightest that the limb might have a better connection with him than he could imagine. If anything, being that it was the only part of his body that could be influenced toward action by his aura, as apposed to vice versa, Roar was actually a better judge of his own mood than Sol himself.
Sol was in the process of tamping down the disturbed soil of his mind, slowly but surely pounding his morals into a solid foundation that would support his actions to come, when Aldous' seat screeched away from the banquet table. Sol was out of his seat, following his liege without any need for instruction, and no more than two steps behind the king as he passed through the doors that bore an incredibly detailed mural. The sight of such craftsmanship, and of the noble legacy that it proclaimed in it's sweeping lines and glorious depictions, stirred something in him. Being that he was in the vital process of hardening himself, he ruthlessly battered that impulse into submission well before it could undo his tempering, and long before he could suspect that what he felt was appreciation for fine art, and a sympathy for the history of the family he had agreed to doom.
Sol centered his gaze on Aldous, unconsciously warding himself from any other sights that would trigger such unwelcome sentiments as the one he'd just murdered. This had the effect of narrowing the world down, at least from Sol's point of view, to the sight of Aldous' back, and the sound of his twisted obsidian minions as they squabbled behind. It was actually something of a relief when Barnett spoke, his voice thin and rich like a wisp of incense in the barren and seemingly empty halls.
“What would you do if you lived in a place like this, Solomon?”
It was a peculiar question. Not in so much as it was a strange thing to ask, rather, it did not seem like the kind of idle chatter that someone like Barnett would use to fill a silence. Being that even the lowest rank of Legion soldiers were schooled well in comm disciplines, and that frugal use of language was a common quality of the Legion military accent, this meant that again, Aldous was not being idle or rhetorical. He had some point to make, and in spite of himself and his situation, Sol once more found himself enjoying the engagement of wits. Stretching mental muscles was as important as warming up physical ones, and anything to distract him from the tumultuous storm in his mind was a welcome.
"I would marshal more guards, fortify the walls, add some murderholes and portcullises, and deepen the stores." he replied, mind keen to the strategic weaknesses of the palace, "It is shameful that so much wealth should be employed to serve no purpose but grandeur. It is not grand, it is pitiful, weak."
A thought occurred to Sol no sooner than the words were out of his mouth, but the sound of Aldous' voice stole his opportunity to continue.
Motioned ahead by the king, much to Sol's relief the sinister bodyguards, -the one eyed swordsman was all but assured that neither was human-, remained behind. Free of their wicked escorts, the pair, a warrior in blue banded mail, and a king in long sleeves and practical shoes, had reached a massive fortified door that seemed to embody the misguided sense of protection that Sol had just finished criticizing. A golden door, for a vault was the absolute absurdity. In addition to being a poor material in regards to sturdiness, one might as well go so far as to include a town crier on the step outside, to declare that something valuable was stored within, just in case someone mistook a door made of the element most associated with wealth for leading to a pantry.
"Here we are, Solomon."
Sol did not need to be told where "here" was. Though the details eluded him, rumors of the Sabliers concealing a great wealth had begun circulating among the mercenaries almost as soon as the city had fallen, but being that men who waged war for the highest bidder seldom had much imagination, wealth in those whispers had translated to a stockpile of precious minerals, or jewels, or even pre-fall lost technology. Looking at the door, with it's etched chronicle, and being of much better breeding than his peers and of an education in the histories of neighboring states, Sol had no doubt that this was the famed Eisenheim vault. However, he doubted that silver and jewels waited behind that door.
That mural gave him chills. Icy fingers raced across his skin, and burrowed into his bones as his eye fell into those grooves and followed the impressions of the workers toiling in golden relief upon that gleaming surface. There was something captured in their depictions that suggested a desperation in the frozen motions of the laborers, something dark, something lost to silent millennia. One might have thought it was sinister enough that they appeared to be amassing vast quantities of dust crystals, as even the most benign examples of such condensed elemental forces would represent awe inspiring might in such incredible amounts as were depicted. A yawning chasm, that stretch who knew how far into Remnant's crust, filled with dust. It boggled the mind by itself, to think that all this time Rift had been perched above the mouth to a well that overflowed with the very material upon which all civilization relied, and by itself that fact alone would have been enough to strike Sol dumb, but that was not all the mural showed. The last entry in the chronicle, occupying the spot to which all other entries guided the eye, depicted those same weathered workers, as they SEALED, the well. They were not making a stockpile, they were imprisoning a weapon so dangerous that they dared not use it.
Sol shivered visibly as goosebumps flowed down his back and arm. A less composed man, experiencing the sudden weight of the revelation Sol had just reached, would like have whimpered and then fainted.
He turned his golden eye, drawn to it's widest extent by the nature of his understanding, towards the grinning king. It bounced in it's socket between the gilded door and Barnett, like a brilliant lion as it nervously paced the from one end of it's cage to the other in search of escape.
"If I am right in what I believe to be beyond this door. I have but one question..." He said, laboring visibly to keep his voice steady, "Have you opened the well?"
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Post by Aldous Barnett on Sept 6, 2016 10:46:53 GMT -6
On the branches in the ditches, it's now silent and without life, And breathing becomes oh so hard for me Woe is me,
oh woe, And the birds sing no more 801 • Solomon Moon • the pitch | "Have you opened the well?"
Solomon’s inquiry was, for the most part, exactly what Barnett expected. With a deep, suppressed chuckle, he scratched at the faded scruff on his cheek. “If by well you mean the vault locked within this room, the answer is no.” He replied, his voice growing weary. “We haven’t been able to get into it, because we lack the key.” Lifting the heavy golden latch, Aldous pushed his body weight against the door, slowly inching it open until it was ajar enough for them to squeeze through. The inside of the room was mundane at best. For the most part, it was the standard gray bricks that made up most of the castle.
The room’s beauty rested in two things.
First there was the stained glass windows, depicting a number of different scenes from Remnant’s history. Some of these scenes had their place in folklore, such as one glass window depicting the legend of the Four Maidens, and another telling the tale of the Silver-eyed Warriors. Others were closer to reality, much like the two doors they had passed through, telling stories of mankind’s resurgence into the world and the establishment of the four new Kingdoms. Those magnificent murals in glass paled in comparison to the floor beneath their feet, however, and even Aldous found it hard to escape the majesty of what rested below.
A massive circular plate, clad in gold, silver, and a number of incredibly valuable jewels. The King had tried many times to estimate the size of the plate, guessing that it weight almost as much as one of Legion’s own airships despite being so much smaller. The circumference of the plate was imbued with Dust crystals of every variety, in a pattern that spiraled towards the center and met at a hollowed out socket. Presumably, this is where the missing key would be inserted to open the door. At one point, Aldous resolved to blow the door open, but the Dust gems within granted the door with enough protection to prevent such damage. Whoever had activated the crystals, whoever had created this vault door, had been powerful indeed.
Many images covered the face of the vault door, ranging from ancient depictions of the creatures of Grimm to battles between the newly emerged Hunters and the beasts. One section stood out more than the rest, revealing a depiction of the Four Wills in exceptional detail, so much so that their very eyes seemed to glow like embers similar to the true monsters. Grabbing a broom that rested against the dull walls, Barnett went to work sweeping the dust from the floor, causing the precious metals to almost glow vibrantly as the light shining through the windows fell upon it. Once the dusting had been completed, Barnett tossed the broom aside and turned towards Solomon.
“This is it, Solomon. Eisenheim’s Vault.” He proclaimed, opening his arms as if beckoning the young man to look around. “It is believed that, beneath our very feet, lies one of the most powerful devices to ever exist. A machine capable of such compelling force, that every single creature across the world of Remnant - man, Faunus, or Grimm - would be forced to bend to its will.” Aldous drew in a deep, tired breath as he approached Solomon. “I have reason to believe that Amberleigh possesses the key we need to open this vault, and with the device that lies beneath, make Remnant a better world.” He added, looking away for a moment to glance at the massive golden door beneath them once again.
Aldous chuckled aloud, his eyes returning to the young one-eyed soldier that stood before him. “If you help me achieve this goal, Solomon, I told you the reward would be great.” He added, his tone becoming much more serious as he continued speaking. “As much as I’d like to, I am incapable of fathering an child, and Amberleigh taking charge should anything…unsavory happen to occur…would mean that all of this would be for nothing. I cannot have that.” He paused for a moment, giving what he was saying a chance to sink in. “If you help me, Solomon Moon, I will name you as my heir and successor - to ensure the Kingdom we are building isn’t stripped apart at the first opportunity.”
Taking a few steps back, Barnett’s attention drifted away from Solomon and to the ornate glass windows up above. “So, Solomon, what say you?” He added after a brief moment of silence. “Do we have a deal?” |
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