I wrote this out of sudden inspiration in one night. Hope you all like it.
A Rude Awakening tale
A sizeable crowd stood before him. The man clad in blackened steel stood above his subjects-to-be in sheer height, helmet in absence. Though he was not of the size of a jirapa giant like ol’ Big Tuma, his belonging to the Elite caste of skrall still made him taller than non-Elites. He walked forward betwixt the crowds twain, they kneeling as he approached them. Skrall of both types, even male and female together, knelt in union before him, as did the agori servants of both Nealite breeds (small Kontes and tall Pisiles). He walked confidently without body guards: anyone that posed a serious threat had since been delivered to Greani Ateir in the next life, and even those that wished to challenge him he would welcome with open arms before their swift demise. None did so from either sheer fear or complete respect and allegiance. The only one accompanying him was a scared tall man of sand-blue color, even his height being down-played by the great presence before him. He was only here because his noteworthy skills in chronicling, his existence being a sign of taboo and making him the cause for many a hunt, in-turn causing the man to have paranoia; and now here he is in the wolves den. The truth of the matter is that he was nearby and was forcibly ‘convinced’ to come here as none of the skrall here could read or write, including their new lord. “Make him look good, scribbler”, he was commanded by his captors at blade-point before their arrival. And the chronicler did as prescribed, for his fate was completely in their hands.
The bulky man of great prestige walked to the end of the aisle of sentients, where a great door laid shut. He took a deep breath, briefly glared out of the corner of his eyes to what he saw as an abomination before shutting his eyes, and exhaled, thence opening the heavy doors with ease. More people were inside the long building, the genders playing different parts. The women, who all wore hooded robes, stood silent with their heads down and kept them as such until the man of the hour walked past them; the men were all garbed in gears and arms of war, they all bracing their shields and their swords or axes. Everyone said his name thrice, “Stronan, Stronan, Stronan!” With the men having melted to the back of the crowds, the women proceeded to throw violet-blue flower pedals high into the air into the middle aisle as the black-clad champion and the unwanted guest passed by, whilst the men behind the women began to stomp their feet, bang their sword or axe onto their maze-decorated shields, and exhale short howls, this beat of noises slowly getting louder. Even outside, the rhythmic uproar could be heard. Stronan, or Stronius as the Nealites flavored his name, walked with his scarred red-pink face proud, his bearded chin tastefully lifted, and his hairless lips slightly smirking to one corner, conveniently the end away from his scribbler.
He finally stopped a few cubits from the stairs, and his only living suitable rival, the champion Branar, approached with a sharp, gold pointed crown of emerald and onyx decor in his hands. Stronan knelt before his scared-strait servile swordsman, causing the whole of the area to mute in complete silence, and Branar carefully placed the jagged crown upon the warlord’s head. When this happened, the chronicler removed himself from the scene, placing himself near it at the front-most of the crowd. The crowned Elite looked up past his new champion, and looked at his throne, cut from black rock in the likeliness of their former-homeland of the now-destroyed Black Spike Mountains. It was decorated with the carvings of the unique torso maze patterns of his dead rivals, symbolically ruling atop their corpses, and many empty patches had been left there for future generations to etch on if they were to conquer similar foes. The throne had pillows installed into it and it was carved in a way to be most comfortable, no-doubt having been in the works for years. His eyes then looked past his throne, and focused on the symbolic stained glass shipped straight from Vulkanus. It contained white cupped hands pressed together at their sides, the symbol for Grunchar the Primordial Potter, displaying his gift to the world, the ancient green Skrall hero and saint, Greani Atier. Greani stood there, helmed shirtless with a mail sleeve and skirt, both hands touching another in their grasp of the lost holy sword, the Arm of Grunchar. Atop Greani’s helmet was a crown, exactly like that of Stronan’s, which made the veteran warrior smile.
As Stronius stood up, Branar symbolically knelt before him and bowed his head. Stronan climbed the low staircase, turned around, and with everyone’s eyes glazed at him, sat down upon his throne. At that moment, Branar yelled while still kneeling and closed his eyes, “All of Spherus Magna behold, the King of the Skrall, king Stronan the Strong!” Horns blared thence and the building became alit with rekindled noise, the uproar becoming deafening. The chronicler was obviously displeased with the noise volume, who rolled up what little he had writ up his armpit and plugged his ears with futile fingers, as did follow some of the agori. Stronius raised a single hand, and the place soon died in decibel once more.
He spake thus in his deep voice of power, “Branar, arise!”. The man did as such. “Your business with the crown is not finished. Fulfill what you swore, or become of my decor”. In agreement, Branar removed his glove to reveal a scarred hand, and then sliced his thumb up one of the sharp spikes of the crown, blood trailing down the crown and even onto the king’s stolid face. His life by sign of lifeblood was now tied to the crown of the King. A kontes agori slave brought out a cup of Tesarite wine for Branar to put his wound in, which he did as soon as he got out of the way.
Stronius then stood from his seat, yelling to all: “What has been achieved here today, is that which has not been achieved in an age. No longer will we Skrall bow to anyone. Our Jirapa giant overlords see their end over the horizon, and the Nealites to the south who have disgraced our honor before by means of Mata Nui now cower before the likes of too many an enemy. The ancient Spirit of the Mountains has returned from under his hiding rock and seeks to enslave us once again. Anyone who is caught seeking to join this false-god will meet their end by my hands. Anyone in-general who crosses me will meet their demise by my grasp, is this understood?” He walked over to the slave that brought Branar the medicinal drink and slew him horribly with his bare hands and sheer strength to serve as an example with a stomping finish, which with that some in the crowd slowly began to stomp in rhythm. Gazing at the pieces and whipping his hand down a few times to get some of the liquid off he looked at the crowd, and said, “You will all then come to find mercy in death by my mighty club and serpent saber if there be even a whiff of transgression, as they are but my instruments and not of my body, my being”.
The chronicler was awestruck in fear and disgust by what he had just witnessed, and threw up in his mouth at the realization of what he sees now and that he has been touched upon by carcass's crimson spray. The king turned to him briefly with a japing face of disbelief at how 'weak' the historian hybrid reacted, then back to the crowd. Already the men were beginning to rise in their pounding noise of praise; the younger women were whooping with excitement, while the conquered remnants of the now-powerless, elderly Sisters of the Skrall were merely clapping. The men were chanting in a scary, barbaric rhythm while horns were blown to the beat. Stronius grabbed the cup of bloody wine from Branar and filled his mouth with it. He swished the funny liquid around and then orally poured the wine onto his hands, thence wiping the mess onto a given towel. The towel was thrown at another slave, whom the king then tasked with also feeding the bodily remnants on the floor to a spikkit. Sitting upon his new throne now, Stronan began moving his head to the rhythmic dark uproar of savagery with a closed smile.
Later that night, noises of a festival from inside the great hall could be heard from the chronicler’s prison as the preserved heads of the lord's former-rivals were delivered beyond the big doors upon pillows one by one. Apparently, Stronius saw further use of the poor blue man, which meant nothing good. While writing of the events that transpired that day, the man was visited by Branar, the new champion of the fresh king crowned. “Here, I believe I am done. Is it fitting, my lord?” Branar took it from the chronicler’s hands and read it.
“Hmm, it is good. ...Too good“, the skrall smirked, “I heard that you enjoyed truth.”
“I do sir, but this court has forced my hand”, he replied. "if it is of any consolation, I was planning to write words of accuracy once I was released, but now that doesn't seem to be the case...".
“Only by their claw's reach”, Branar began, then opening the gate, “Go now, and spread the truth of this animal despite his wishes, beyond said thing's grasp. These people have replaced a monster with a monster, and thus are fools; and by Greani’s example, all monsters of darkness must perish. Stronan’s day of felling will come, and only then do I want you to return: only upon this I will tell you everything. In the meantime, I am forced to stay here, leashed. There is a rock steed waiting for you outside the prison, and the guards here will not be a problem for you, trust me. Oh, and you'll be needing this, wont you?", the standard skrall of pale-pink pigment spake, holding the hybrid's tattered brown hooded robe, then throwing it at the up penman.
"Good bye, Iaredios”.
The chronicler said his farewells to the true king of the Skrall, not feeling like he got the full picture, and fled south.
Edited for better wording.
Edited by Iaredios the Hip Historian, May 08 2016 - 11:59 PM.