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The Master and the Minion - IC Thread

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Madtrixr:
"How interesting. Sort of sounds like the training Norian had to go through...Minus the emphasis on Martial Prowress."
Aden sighed a bit then looked wistful.

"I got no such training. First, I had to do basic military service, and then, if you are shown to be a leader, they take you in...and send you off to a Military leaders school, Western Point."

He starts counting on his fingers: "Tactics, Deployment, Strategy, Military History, Greatest Battles, Naval Warfare. We have to learn it all, and use those to build on our stratagies in order to claim victory. I was one out of the 5 that made it, out of about 30 candidates. Didn't help that if you messed up, you could get sent out as a one man scouting party...a lot of people didn't make it back. It was rough, but the day I was allowed to command my own unit was the proudest day of my life. I could literally feel my Grandfather smiling upon me."


"Before you ask, the reason why I am here is that after a while, peace came, and I was getting restless. But what really did it was that I had recieved word that Norian had managed to go off adventuring by himself, mother and father be damned. Not to be outdone, I resigned, and started working for myself. I went to that tavern, and here we are now."

Aden takes a big breath.

"Sorry if I bored you with all that. I'm well known for my long winded speeches..."

Tavana:
The Dragonborn remained silent for a time, honoring his foe. He had worked hard to get to the position he held, and that took determination. Regardless of his aims, he had devoted his life to his work. There was honor in that. His prayer to Bahumat in Draconic was short, but Draconic was always a longwinded language. It said what was needed to be said in a roundabout and circling fashion - much like the dragons that it came from.

The slots in his scales on either side of his head contracted, what he was hearing was too much too contain. "Hold, friends. And yes, I do call you friends. I do not use that word idly. We have fought together. I have measured each of you in combat, and do not find you lacking. We have come here to get rid of this Overlord. That task is completed. But if what this...being has said is to be taken as truth, then it is only a step in the road to a final outcome we desire. I suggest we are united in meeting our future."

Saliak turns and walks to the armor, running a claw along it, testing for strength. "As for the spoils of war as it has been so tactfully said, we have honored this warrior in battle. He has perished. There is no longer any need to associate these items with that warrior. In fact, taking them and using them towards good ends would do the armor a service, something you perhaps did not think of."

Setting the armor down, Saliak turns and faces the group, standing to his full height. The strands of scales that extend over his back stand semi-upright as well, belaying the emotion, or perhaps simply the control in his statement. He points a claw at Ryltar. "You have good points to make, but please do not taunt the Paladin in this. We have just fought someone with similar skills to him, and he can see his own possible death someday. Perhaps he would like to have the chance to be honored in more than battle. This is his right."

The claw shifts to Tristan. "You are right to say that taking these items for petty means would be wrong. Examine our intent. Is the deposition of an evil Overlord a petty goal? Should Ryltar not earn something besides honor from this if he so chooses? That is his right. But furthermore: examine this corpse. Where is the body? Who are we defiling by taking these items? Shall ash and soot be defiled by using these items for the good of others? Even selling these items, melting them down, this would be a service to the metal. Leaving them here, or even in a tomb, these things would only be asking others to take them from their place of rest. I encourage you, friends. Think before you speak. There is much work yet to be done. Let us not undo ourselves before it can be completed."

Gargulec:
Tristan smiled.

'I appreciate your argument, runepriest, and indeed, I can understand your reasoning. But' his smile faded 'I can't agree with you on it. Items have meaning, and can became a part of a person. In a land I come from, the family sword and set of armour means a lot. It is passed from father to son, and if there is no one to inherit it, we bury it along with the body of the owner.'

He looked down upon the remains of the Castellan.

'This is all that remained from a great warrior. Even if ignoble one. If I had time, I would bury it somewhere. But I don't. Therefore, I insist on leaving it to be. We have enough weapons on our own, don't we? Let this tower become a tomb for this... man. It is all I want. Even if someone is going to rob it in the future. I firmly believe that taking it from here would... would just not be right.'

Xander Morhaime:
"Oh, you won't be taking it anywhere."

The new voice in the discussion was rather sudden, and its tone brought to mind the sound of a lead slab landing on a granite floor. You couldn't see the speaker at first, but the sound of fire bowls being ignited quickly drew your attention to the other side of the tall chamber, which had been up until now shrouded in darkness. The fire bowls did a wonder of lighting it up, though...

More importantly, they lit up the large oval chamber, the raised platform in its middle, the massive throne placed on it, and the armoured figure sitting on it. Where the Castellan could be called an imposing figure, this one was a giant, easily half again as tall as you, if not more. His armour was more elaborate as well, the metal plates inscribed with faintly-glowing runes. Underneath the helmet you could see two points of golden light, and propped up against one side of the throne - a huge mace.

Somewhat unexpectedly, the figure began clapping, the ringing of metal gauntlets coming together echoing through the tall room.

"I really must commend you," the figure began with a quiet chuckle. "For such a bunch of misfits, you really have managed to mess up my plans to an amazing degree. However, I'm afraid that run of good luck on your part has come to an end."

The figure rose from its throne, hefting up the mace, the weapon's flanged head leaving a trail of glowing cinders in its wake before it came to rest against the figure's shoulder.

"You've slain my lieutenants, my soldiers, invaded my home... you have more than earned punishment," the figure went on with a low, rumbling growl. "I would offer you the chance to surrender, but after all you've done I think it's more than you deserve. Any last words... heroes?"

Gargulec:
Tristan sighed with resignation.

'Just, before you proceed to kill us all in uneven fight...' he said, surprisingly calmly. 'What was the point of all of this? You could have stopped us before we stormed your evil tower, before we stormed in, slaughtering every minion on our way and mopping the floor with your lieutenant, while you watched.'

He sat down, heavily.

'You know what, Evil Overlord? That was not very stylish. And this gesticulation? Cheap. Clapping your hands in false amazement... Your kind is really, really repetitive. '

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