It was a battle that was worth of a King.
For years to come, Runt would only remember parts of it; like shards of a vivid, stark naked dream, sheathed in emotion and outlined in vague details. Even when it was happening, he felt as if he was moving in the presence of the divine, that destiny had already chosen the outcome and he was merely following through.
They moved quickly, their instincts never quite letting them believe that the parley would be enough to escape the presence of the hallowed king unscathed. Gregor, his jovial face sharp with determination as he pulled what appeared to be raw earth from one of his pockets, quickly rolling it between his fingers as he chanted heavy notes. He rolled the clay with his palms in such an unusual fashion that Runt briefly worried that the stalwart man had caved to the madness that plagued their hazardous occupations. Giving one last vocal tone, he bellowed it out like a hammer as he rolled his right hand over his left, splaying the clay into a wave and suddenly the very stone ledge that the King of the North’s throne rested upon shook itself like a dog waking from a slumber and rolled itself up over the throne, trapping him on gilded seat.
The King of the North raged at this action, his cragged face twisted in outrage as he drew a massive Greatsword that immediately burst into flames in his hands, licking at the air with a barely strained hunger. He struck at the stone itself like a smithy working at his forge, chunks of stone spraying about has he fought to gain purchase with his legs.
The rest of the party didn’t hesitate to strike true during this time. Magic was thrown with precision and focus, Roken grew to meet his match with the King’s ghostly right hand cleric, who stood to the bitter end in defense of his ruler. Tathnya rolled away from the Wall of Fire that had strung up in the middle of the room and nearly ran with Runt hip to hip up the stairs, waiting to attack. Jathyn had thrown his mass of black, writhing tentacle net around the struggling pair, sectioning off the battleground for most. Runt ground his teeth in anticipation, his blood rolling in his veins; the passionate embrace of combat sang in his ears and drove him to the edge of the black net, his feet practically levitating.
Blow after blow struck the aged ruler, he fought to hide a rough cough that choked every other breath he attempted to take. Runt felt his heart tug a little at the sight and caught himself shaking his head. Striking an old man down, is this not weakness? Why did he seek such a bloodied end? His humanity waivered his resolve a bit, he almost caught himself pulling back when a growl rose up in his own mind, deep and primal. The growl vibrated his very bones as he felt an answer be forged in near feral words.
No; there is no death more fitting of a king of the wilds than to die amidst the defense of his kingdom – to lie down and allow it to be taken would be as if he never deserved to wear the Crown at all.
Tathnya’s battle cry next him roused him out of his mental interlude, swiveling his head back to where the groans of stone and steel meeting violently emanated. He watched as Roken dispatched the spectral cleric’s earthly flame, the King roared in response and drove his sword clean through one of the sections of stone completely. A bolt of brilliant light struck the King solid in his chest, throwing him back into the slab of the throne, his eyes bulged out, his hands thrown up in the air as if to defend off the strike. He shuttered hard, his body convulsing as he wheezed, his lungs failing him as fought to hold on. A cough punched through his chest so hard that it forced him forward, bloody spittle flew from his lips as he was thrust back forward, his face twisted in pain as his body fought against his will. Every vein seemed to pull hard against his skin as a deep wheeze pulled out from his frail frame.
It was about that time that a sound caught Runt’s attention over the King’s death rattle… it was the sound of something scraping on steel; his ears whipped his eyes downwards and saw that the King’s claws were digging into the throne, gouging it like it was cheap wood and it dawned on Runt that the king had hands moments ago.
Oh. Gods.
The wheeze that was pulling itself out of the King deepened in tone, like someone had dropped it into a well, as the dracomorph’s eyes went from a watery hazel to flaming, passionate burnt copper. His face chased the growing wheeze that was rapidly transforming itself into what was clearly beyond the mortal plane – a growl that made the root of Runt’s very body start to tremble as it grew. And grew. And grew.
His legs swelled far beyond the strength of the stone work; the molded granite burst into pebbles as the King pushed away from the throne, like a Sparrow lifting off of a sapling branch. His form lifted up as it continued to change, the rags of riches he once wore curled off of him like dirty smoke as his wings sprouted from his rolling, expansive back and unfurled as he climbed higher and higher, like a nightmare that drifted out of their very troubled imaginations. Every inch of Runt’s skin stood at attention as the King of the North, one of the last great Dracomorphs twisted his elongated, triangular head back towards the puny, annoying mites that had infiltrated his domain, narrowing his eyes in disgust, the way a God must look at ants that have absentmindedly wandered into their chambers. His body had finally caught up with itself, his brilliant and terrifying scales shimmered with promises of certain death and violent dismemberment; his wings effortlessly holding his massive weight as he idly flexed his four claws, deciding which ant he would like to obliterate first.
Runt found himself suddenly standing on the other side of the room with the rest of the party; huddled together within a 15’ area when Jathyn started casting. Snapping his head back and forth, he barely got his bearing before he realized that the sorcerer was twisting the magic necessary for them to take flight. The King of the North sneered at them with a cocked head, amused at their efforts. Runt felt the words shift the air around him and just has Jathyn completed, Runt caught the eye of the King of the North just as he pulled his head back and unleased a volley of flames their direction. Taking immediately to the air, Runt rolled out of the way of the fiery breath, pulling his momentum around with him while unwrapping the spiked chain from his body. He flew with near sloppy grace at the massive beast, his spine screaming at him to run away but his will shutting it out completely. This will be done.
Runt was lining up his positioning when Roken found footing against the wall and shoved off of it with shout, like a lightning bolt striking the heavens in reverse. The ancient foe saw him coming and with what appeared to be barely any effort at all, he fell the stoic monk as readily as an ant with wings. His broken body fell to the ground; his blood pooling on the floor like so much spilled ink from a storybook yet to be written and told.
He didn’t have to look at anyone else to know that they all collectively took one solid, meaningful pause and charged just the same. They all screamed a battle cry as bodies, magic, and weapons were all hurtled towards the king for such senseless and unnecessary death. He would pay for such an act, crown, or no crown.
A tail slammed against Runt as he got close, although his armor took the brunt of it, it rattled his teeth and he nearly dropped the spiked chain as he felt his nerves spasm a bit. Going off a hunch, he spun himself around to gain momentum, hooking his arm as he twisted around, his stomach lurching as he hooked his spiked chain around and struck at the dragon’s glimmering hide. He watched in shock as the spikes struck true and deep as he feel the chain gain purchase around the back side of the creature’s underbelly. He pulled hard on it, its hide rending into pieces, his head rearing back with burning eyes that promised it would taste his heart’s blood for such a blow.
That is when the Bardarian struck.
Her eyes flashing like a thunderstorm on an open plain, her falchion cut the very air as it carved chunks out of the front quarter of the beast, making Runt’s attack seem like an opening act. The dracomorph roared in pain and struck wildly at her for it, another blast of magic striking it in the chest as Runt repositioned himself. Drawing back, he aimed true yet again, aiming for the same area as he struck before, his chain disappearing around the back side of the dragon and once he felt it catch, he pulled back on it with all his might.
He knew he didn’t strike its heart, it wasn’t possible, it was too far inside its massive chest yet… He could feel the beat of the great bloodied thing, pounding against its own rib cage, panicking as it felt its shelter being torn into, it quickened itself as it could tell the great body it belonged to was dying. Runt felt the chain pull free finally, his hands covered in rich, heady bloody as the largest dragon he ever saw drooped downwards, his head crashing to the ground, his body following like a limp rag doll. He watched as the bloodied and heavy shook the ground a bit as it completed its all, it’s limbs twitching.
Without thinking about it, Runt flew down to the head of the King of the North, the wheezing had returned but he seemed to have a sense of … prideful resolve about his large, reptilian face. His eyes caught and tracked Runt and nodded a bit, as if to thank him for a proper, fair endgame; so he might die with honor and dignity. Coughing blood out of his throat, he willfully opened his eyes to look at Runt and stated in what was left of his voice in draconic a request, in words that even Runt could understand.
“My sword. Please.”
He could hear those who understood him panick a little but Runt flew up and fetched the sword just the same, making it a point to put it in his proper hand so that he might pass over armed. Runt stepped back and wished told the King of the North that he was an honorable opponent and worth to die by, in his best draconic. The King seemed both amused and pleased at his attempt at such a statement, as he fought no longer to stay in this world. His last breath slipped out of his body like a summer breeze as the rest of his long, near immortal life finally came to a close.
Runt dropped to his knees beside the beast, resting his hand on its hide and sighed.
Gilded Gibberish. 