Until the Sun Sets

Here he was on the alabaster stone courtyard. It must had taken them years to assemble it's vast expanse. Every single stone cut perfectly, no an angle missed, what beauty he bled upon this day.

His eyes shifting from the enemies around him to the craftsmanship beneath him, if he falls this day, at least it would be here, on this pride, on this level of love for something more..... More than fitting.

His eyes shifted up to gaze at the cousins that surrounded him, hungry for his flesh, howling with the want of more of his bloodshed. How many, he could not tell exactly, but enough that he saw no end to the sea of teeth, steel, and scarred skin. Like a wave about to crash into him from all sides.

Every blink was a brief moment of escape for the sight of it, the sight of his failure.

The maul, he knew it's touch, and it's weight were heavy in his hands. Despite that he had known it so long, that just this sunrise it was no more a burden than a sheet of parchment to him. He was exhausted. More defeated by his own pride than the wounds that now tormented his limbs.

What was he willing to risk for the dream he had slept with every night since he could remember, his empty hand gripped the massive hilt strapped to his back. It ended in fear and guilt but the initial touch of the weapon filled him with a longing, a sense of companionship, maybe a smile crested his lips for a moment.

What was he willing to wrought upon his kindred for the sake of his dream. The more he thought of it, the deeper his claws gripped into the leather wrapping the blade. Was it the courage to do what he must, to justify the dream, that he felt or was it his own survival..... Or worse, had he no longer the capacity to feel the good in even the most gruesome of beings any longer. Had he lost what had stopped him all those year ago. He wondered this as he felt his arm slide the blade from it's sheath, nearly weeping.

He held the blade out for a moment, his maul catching the tip to us it out for inspection, the crowd surrounding him drawing in, bloodthirsty..... But what he held in his hands could never be quenched.

His eyes welled at what he was about to do and as a single tear touched the blade he whispered shamefully the words he had vowed he never for speak. His voice a trembling growl, "I need you, my friend". As he threw the blade in the air with as much strength that he could.

And it seemed as though every shadow in the crowd was stolen from it's master, forming a swirling black cloud that nearly blotted out the light of the high sun.

The crowd swarmed in, one cowardly for charged from his flank but the sword was falling and then nothing but the sicking crunch of bone splinting as the shadows fell. Black armor forming at his back.

Korgul gazed at his own feet, blood pooling around them. Leaning his head back he felt the solid figure behind him and his golden hair draped across his white robes....

Korgul had never felt more safe than he did right now.

He was tired. A liquid rolled slowly down his back, he wasn't sure if it was sweat or blood but either was welcomed as the breeze from the shattered window drifted in. He had begun to clean himself, adjust his long black hair in its normal fashion by pulling his bangs back. His hair was smooth and soft unlike others of his race. He took pride in changing its coarse nature, maybe he thought it would change him or make him a different breed. It didn't. He wasn't. He only had hope unlike others of his race.

He dusted off his aged white robes that had tarnished yellow over the years. They were now stained crimson in small patches, the blood of his kin, the blood of this day's enemy. The robe was long and dragged the ground despite his nearly eight foot stature. He had removed the sleeves to present his numerous battlescars and impressive strength. A cultural trait he had never seemed to break. The large hood he had left so that he could hide his face and what others saw as a grotesque appearance.It wasn't embarassment he tired to hide when he pulled the cowl over his head. By his race's standards he was beautiful, but the disappointment for the stigma that his people had created for themselves showed heavily on him.

It had been a long day. The day's memories came rushing in on him now that the instinct of battle had loosened it's hold on him. The scattered visions, a collection of broken bodies and cries of pain flooded in on him. A dizzing barrage of suffering and carnage. How many of his people had he dispatched today? How many lay wounded or crippled by his hand? He tried not to think about it but he knew that his number of wounded out weighted his death toll greatly. The same would not be said of Vyradeth's. Sacrifices had to be made and if it wasn't for his merciless companion he may not be king, let alone alive. He had taken his title by force through representation of strength and fear. The very thing he found himself unable to accomplish at the height of his youth. But traveling with a man like Vyradeth would evolve you.

Now he knelt in a broken throne room filled with rare dwarven architecture. The light from the setting sun throwing brilliant colors on every surface from the stained glass windows. Glass canvases that portrayed ancient victories and honored warriors of their once great clan. These intricate works from master metalsmiths and glass artistans took years, some even passed from father to son, but the end result was enough to even draw appreciation from the elves. The broken window on the far wall was a terrible scar on the otherwise surreal scene.

He had heard the stories of the last king of the orcs. A warrior who had the might to bring together a hundred savage tribes to conquer this citadel and name himself king against all challengers, first among the beasts. His rule was short lived when the shadow elf wizard eliminated him with only a glance of his cold ancient gaze. Though he had never met this wizard he prayed each night that his gratitude would reach his ears. That shadow elf mage had given him this chance to fulfill his dream. To provide to his kindred what all of the other races of Faerun had known for thousands of years, civilization.



Vyradeth continued to pace back and forth. He had no intention of letting anyone into the keep. He would destroy this clan to the last child if necessary, his companion needed time, and he would have it.

His long, waist length blonde hair, now matted to his spiked black armor with the life blood of enough of Korgul's kin that he long ago lost count, shined dully in the coming sunset. The bloody tip of his greatsword dragged upon the grandiose white stairway leading to the keep behind him, leaving a trail of dark crimson. He looked down into the eyes of the last enemy that had attempted to charge his way into the keep.

The battle scarred orc layed before him, broken, mouth opening and closing as though he couldn't quite remember what to say, tried in vain to reach out for his axe with an arm he no longer owned. Had Vyradeth possessed the capacity for pity, surely now would be the time for it. As it was, a black-mailed boot slammed down on its skull with a sickening, wet, crunch.

Without so much as glance at his victim, Vyradeth turned back to the ever dwindling group of orcs that still believed he was just a man. He locked his cold gaze, electric blue, upon the next would be kingslayer.

The fear was intense, he could taste it. He felt them look about the battleground, taking in the sight of the mangled and broken bodies of their brothers. They looked at him, and they trembled. Inside of him, his soul was singing. The loss in the eyes of the soon to be dead shined like a beacon through a dark night. His Lady was trembling, he was certain he could almost hear the expectance, the approval. This bloodletting would sate her this night. He could not take his gaze from it, as though it was a tragety so unspeakable it had frozen him in place. He examined it from every angle, running his large clawed hands over every inch of its surface. Where was it?, he thought. Seconds turned to minutes as he scoured it for the source of it's power. The power to decide the fates of all that bended knee in its presence. This ornament that others waged their lives upon and would spill blood in the name of. The burden was growing heavier in his hands as it filled him with pity for it's blind worshippers. The sounds of screams or cheers echoed off the glass and stone as he let the jeweled burden slip from fingertips onto the throne's stone seat. Of all the weapons in the world it was a crown like this one that was the most deadly.

The singing of the mythril crown on the stone throne was conquered by the growling battle cries of yet another warrior testing his strength. Roars of determination floated up to Korgul from the stairs outside, a split second before the ringing clash of steel on steel. Once, twice, the sounds of grunts and steel. Three tiimes, four times, a victorious howl and steel. Too many, Korgul bemoaned, Vyradeth was toying with his prey. Inspiring hope so that the loss of the battle would be that much more exceptional to the orc. Five times, the determined howls aburptly transitioned to wails of pain and then silence. The Orc called humans "brittle bones", what fools we were to think that all men were created equal. Perhaps Korgul had brought the one weapon more dangerous than a crown.



Slowly, very slowly, the orc slid down the six foot length of Vyradeths sword. Eyes still looking around, still trying to find out what happened. He was sure he would be the pride of his people, the one to slay this terror. He looked behind him, toward the last three of his unit, the last push to take the keep and secure the crown. Deep inside him, he was torn with disgust and rage, they were putting down their weapons...how could they surrender? How could they give up the hope that began this war? But he knew...he was also torn with understanding. Fear. They wanted to live. He slipped into death holding onto the hope that at least they would live, they could bide their time and take up the banner anew in the future, but for now, they would live.

He never saw the slaughter that occured immediately after they were disarmed. They knelt and pledged fealty and loyalty to Vyradeth..they didn't live long enough to finish the thought. • His hands were steady, moving in cautiously as he place out each item from the old linen bag he was brought with him. Each item handled with a respect usually reserved only for those warriors who gave this last breath to a cause far greater than themselves. He had performed this every night since it fell into his protection. He guarded it, honored the power even though he knew now where it came from. That didn't matter anymore, he knew it was part of him now, nothing confirmed that more than now as he pulled the dark violet silk from the bag. Even through the fine cloth he could feel it, pulsing with desire in his clawed hands. With each pulse he knew, he could feel the power flowing through his companion. Through all these years it had connected him to Vyradeth or perhaps he connected himself to Vryadeth though it, either way it was there. The silk slid smoothly off the blade, slowly falling as he carefully pulled along the edge revealing each letter one by one. That phrase that had come to haunt his thoughts, the first word he knew well.... Sorrow