Conradine
2019-06-21, 03:16 PM
" The man finished sketching out the infernal triangle
on the floor in the blood of the wife he had just killed. He
sprinkled powdered bone into the proper symbols of
violence, painstakingly crafting each one. It was not
good enough to get just the shap
e correct; bits of his own
hatred needed to reside within each sigil, giving the
necessary energy with which to complete the act.
King Orbora dwelled on what led him to this juncture
as he finished the final sym
bols. He was a master of
warfare. His armies had thrown a huge chunk of Lin-
scend into turmoil. He had incited hatred within his peo-
ple's hearts and fear within the rest of the continent-
realm’s souls. He ordered absolute conformity. Those
who did not meet the new standards were executed. En-
tire cultures no longer existe
d thanks to his pogroms. He
allowed nothing to stand in the way of his goals. In
short, King Orbora had done as he was instructed.
The Bloody King (a title he knew referred to him and
enjoyed, although he had kill
ed all brave enough to use
the term in the wrong place) donned his finest military
dress. At the center of the ma
ssive triangle, he placed his
army's standard and the greate
st suit of armor he had
taken from a deceased rival. He sprinkled the items with
the blood of a unicorn then
set the collection ablaze. He
then bowed low, touching his forehead to the ground.
The flames burned fiercely, s
upernaturally, for unicorn
blood was not combustible. The heat was unbearable. He
spoke the words he had used
eight times before. Orbora was pleased that he did not know precisely what they
meant. He suspected that such knowledge would have
killed him instantly.
He should have known something was amiss, but his
need overcame his caution. The flames roared from the
center of the symbol to consume the powdered bone sig-
ils. Orbora gasped as tongues
of fire licked his hair,
setting it aflame. Tears welled in his eyes but he dared
not wipe them away lest it spoil the incantation. Of
course, he never considered that the aggressive flames
were a sign of what approache
d. Just as the conflagra-
tion threatened to turn the sanctum into a pyre, Orbora
felt the arrival of his lord.
Rather than ease his suffering, the presence of his
master only intensified it. Although his hair stopped
burning, he felt fear so fier
ce it threatened to stop his
heart. He trembled,
but dared not speak until so ordered.
“Arise, slave, and behold my
glory,” the deep voice
he heard with his head rather than his ears commanded.
Quaking, the Bloody King obeyed.
Although the stone sanctum’s ceiling was only 10 feet
high, the creature that loomed before him was at least 18
feet tall and dark wings scraped the corners of the 30
foot wide room. Wrapped in marching flames, its red
form was partially concealed by suffocating black
smoke. It reminded him of
the gargoyles that perched
along the parapets of his castle, although this was a real
monster despite its lack of s
ubstance. Of the spiked head
concealed by an impenetrabl
e darkness all Orbora could
see were a pair of eyes. Like lightning, they glowed and
flashed as they struck his soul. Orbora felt as though he
was sweating blood as he faced The Warlord Bael, Lord
of the First Perdition of Hell.
“You have called to me, slave. What aid do you beg of
me?”
Licking his lips, the king began carefully. It would not
do to offend for he would be destroyed before he could
stammer out an apology. “My lord, you have granted me
much. I am but a lowly worm, not fit to beg you for a
single favor...”
“The point, worm. Get to it.” The Lord of the First’s
thunderous voice, that terribl
e projection that sounded in
the emptiness of Orbora’s soul but refused to echo, read-
ily conveyed the irritation that Bael felt at the fawning of
his servant.
Taking a deep breath, Orbora prattled on. “My lord
and master, if you could but tell me why, with all that
you have given me, we seem to be . . . losing, I would be .
. . satisfied.” He winced at the harshness of his words
and wished again that his language was as eloquent as
that of his master. Surely th
is request would not have
sounded so offensive in the Infernal tongue.
Bael snarled as he made
his reply. “You would dare
question me, you who has no knowledge? Gird up your
loins like a man, for I will question you, and you will
answer
me
.
“Did I not give unto you weapons beyond those of
your fellow man?”
Panicked, the king replied, “Yes my Master. His
Grace, the mighty Malphas, fashioned me items of in-
credible power and destruction.”
“And did I not bestow upon your forces cohesion and
fighting skill beyond t
hat of your enemy?”
“My army is reckoned to be
the finest in Linscend, my
Master. The counsel of His Grace Duke Abigor has be-
come law within the chain of command.” “And did I not command you to exterminate the people who would have stood in your path to greatness?”
“My Master, I force what remains of those people to
work my mines, to slave away toward their own destruc-
tion. They curse my name daily.”
Bael's countenance grew dar
ker at this. “Then they
still live?”
“Yes, my lord,” Orbora stammered, “but not what
you could call living . . . They are dead but in name only.
I have done your bidding.”
Bael strode forward, a crac
kle of energy flashing as
he penetrated the impotent barriers of the
summoning
circle
. His huge taloned hand snatched the man by his
chest, lifting him so that they were face to face. Orbora
shrieked as
he felt his face melt under the heat of his
master’s presence. He could smell his flesh cooking. The
hair in his nostrils withered
and fell out from the assault
of ordure and heat.
Bael’s projection was a roar. “My bidding? I do not
bid you! I command you! I commanded the extermination of those people! I commanded that this conflict give me the glory! What do they call this war? Do they scream my name in triumph or defeat? Do they name the rivers of blood that flowafter me or my court?
No!They name you its instigator! The people name you their "master!” The land howls curses to your name! The terrified masses quake in fear of you!
And what are you?
Nothing!
”
Orbora babbled feebly, painfully as Bael shook him
as an abusive child would a small, mangy dog. It availed
him naught. He had failed. He had been handed the tools
of destruction and he had failed
to use them properly. He
had not followed his master's dicta.
Bael flung the man against
his sanctum's wall. His
crumpled body landed on top the woman whose blood
had summoned the great warlord. Barely alive from
burns and the impact with the stone edifice, the man
struggled to rise. His gaze lock
ed with that of his dread
master's. Bael spoke but nine words.
“You have failed me, worm. Your soul is mine.” A
single digit of that clawed hand dug deep into the man's
skull. Orbora had never experien
ced pain so pure or so
swift. He screamed a hundred days if he screamed a
minute. His body went rigid
as his bones locked and his
bowels tightened. Then, he looked down and saw his
burnt husk and realized that he – what remained of him –
was hanging like a thread from Bael’s talon. The Lord of
the First held the struggling sp
irit with the strength that
had doomed demons and damned a
like. As pit fiends and
cornugons swept from the ope
n portal with legions of
lesser devils, Bael returned
to Hell, dragging King Orbora’s screaming soul with him."
https://www.dropbox.com/s/54vgy5s9ypeyh5g/TGoH9.pdf
Page 328 for the profile of Bael.
So, what level could be King Orbora? He ( barely ) survives being taken, burned, shooked - and probably crushed in Bael's hand - then thrown against a wall. It takes then a quick claw jab to finish him.
on the floor in the blood of the wife he had just killed. He
sprinkled powdered bone into the proper symbols of
violence, painstakingly crafting each one. It was not
good enough to get just the shap
e correct; bits of his own
hatred needed to reside within each sigil, giving the
necessary energy with which to complete the act.
King Orbora dwelled on what led him to this juncture
as he finished the final sym
bols. He was a master of
warfare. His armies had thrown a huge chunk of Lin-
scend into turmoil. He had incited hatred within his peo-
ple's hearts and fear within the rest of the continent-
realm’s souls. He ordered absolute conformity. Those
who did not meet the new standards were executed. En-
tire cultures no longer existe
d thanks to his pogroms. He
allowed nothing to stand in the way of his goals. In
short, King Orbora had done as he was instructed.
The Bloody King (a title he knew referred to him and
enjoyed, although he had kill
ed all brave enough to use
the term in the wrong place) donned his finest military
dress. At the center of the ma
ssive triangle, he placed his
army's standard and the greate
st suit of armor he had
taken from a deceased rival. He sprinkled the items with
the blood of a unicorn then
set the collection ablaze. He
then bowed low, touching his forehead to the ground.
The flames burned fiercely, s
upernaturally, for unicorn
blood was not combustible. The heat was unbearable. He
spoke the words he had used
eight times before. Orbora was pleased that he did not know precisely what they
meant. He suspected that such knowledge would have
killed him instantly.
He should have known something was amiss, but his
need overcame his caution. The flames roared from the
center of the symbol to consume the powdered bone sig-
ils. Orbora gasped as tongues
of fire licked his hair,
setting it aflame. Tears welled in his eyes but he dared
not wipe them away lest it spoil the incantation. Of
course, he never considered that the aggressive flames
were a sign of what approache
d. Just as the conflagra-
tion threatened to turn the sanctum into a pyre, Orbora
felt the arrival of his lord.
Rather than ease his suffering, the presence of his
master only intensified it. Although his hair stopped
burning, he felt fear so fier
ce it threatened to stop his
heart. He trembled,
but dared not speak until so ordered.
“Arise, slave, and behold my
glory,” the deep voice
he heard with his head rather than his ears commanded.
Quaking, the Bloody King obeyed.
Although the stone sanctum’s ceiling was only 10 feet
high, the creature that loomed before him was at least 18
feet tall and dark wings scraped the corners of the 30
foot wide room. Wrapped in marching flames, its red
form was partially concealed by suffocating black
smoke. It reminded him of
the gargoyles that perched
along the parapets of his castle, although this was a real
monster despite its lack of s
ubstance. Of the spiked head
concealed by an impenetrabl
e darkness all Orbora could
see were a pair of eyes. Like lightning, they glowed and
flashed as they struck his soul. Orbora felt as though he
was sweating blood as he faced The Warlord Bael, Lord
of the First Perdition of Hell.
“You have called to me, slave. What aid do you beg of
me?”
Licking his lips, the king began carefully. It would not
do to offend for he would be destroyed before he could
stammer out an apology. “My lord, you have granted me
much. I am but a lowly worm, not fit to beg you for a
single favor...”
“The point, worm. Get to it.” The Lord of the First’s
thunderous voice, that terribl
e projection that sounded in
the emptiness of Orbora’s soul but refused to echo, read-
ily conveyed the irritation that Bael felt at the fawning of
his servant.
Taking a deep breath, Orbora prattled on. “My lord
and master, if you could but tell me why, with all that
you have given me, we seem to be . . . losing, I would be .
. . satisfied.” He winced at the harshness of his words
and wished again that his language was as eloquent as
that of his master. Surely th
is request would not have
sounded so offensive in the Infernal tongue.
Bael snarled as he made
his reply. “You would dare
question me, you who has no knowledge? Gird up your
loins like a man, for I will question you, and you will
answer
me
.
“Did I not give unto you weapons beyond those of
your fellow man?”
Panicked, the king replied, “Yes my Master. His
Grace, the mighty Malphas, fashioned me items of in-
credible power and destruction.”
“And did I not bestow upon your forces cohesion and
fighting skill beyond t
hat of your enemy?”
“My army is reckoned to be
the finest in Linscend, my
Master. The counsel of His Grace Duke Abigor has be-
come law within the chain of command.” “And did I not command you to exterminate the people who would have stood in your path to greatness?”
“My Master, I force what remains of those people to
work my mines, to slave away toward their own destruc-
tion. They curse my name daily.”
Bael's countenance grew dar
ker at this. “Then they
still live?”
“Yes, my lord,” Orbora stammered, “but not what
you could call living . . . They are dead but in name only.
I have done your bidding.”
Bael strode forward, a crac
kle of energy flashing as
he penetrated the impotent barriers of the
summoning
circle
. His huge taloned hand snatched the man by his
chest, lifting him so that they were face to face. Orbora
shrieked as
he felt his face melt under the heat of his
master’s presence. He could smell his flesh cooking. The
hair in his nostrils withered
and fell out from the assault
of ordure and heat.
Bael’s projection was a roar. “My bidding? I do not
bid you! I command you! I commanded the extermination of those people! I commanded that this conflict give me the glory! What do they call this war? Do they scream my name in triumph or defeat? Do they name the rivers of blood that flowafter me or my court?
No!They name you its instigator! The people name you their "master!” The land howls curses to your name! The terrified masses quake in fear of you!
And what are you?
Nothing!
”
Orbora babbled feebly, painfully as Bael shook him
as an abusive child would a small, mangy dog. It availed
him naught. He had failed. He had been handed the tools
of destruction and he had failed
to use them properly. He
had not followed his master's dicta.
Bael flung the man against
his sanctum's wall. His
crumpled body landed on top the woman whose blood
had summoned the great warlord. Barely alive from
burns and the impact with the stone edifice, the man
struggled to rise. His gaze lock
ed with that of his dread
master's. Bael spoke but nine words.
“You have failed me, worm. Your soul is mine.” A
single digit of that clawed hand dug deep into the man's
skull. Orbora had never experien
ced pain so pure or so
swift. He screamed a hundred days if he screamed a
minute. His body went rigid
as his bones locked and his
bowels tightened. Then, he looked down and saw his
burnt husk and realized that he – what remained of him –
was hanging like a thread from Bael’s talon. The Lord of
the First held the struggling sp
irit with the strength that
had doomed demons and damned a
like. As pit fiends and
cornugons swept from the ope
n portal with legions of
lesser devils, Bael returned
to Hell, dragging King Orbora’s screaming soul with him."
https://www.dropbox.com/s/54vgy5s9ypeyh5g/TGoH9.pdf
Page 328 for the profile of Bael.
So, what level could be King Orbora? He ( barely ) survives being taken, burned, shooked - and probably crushed in Bael's hand - then thrown against a wall. It takes then a quick claw jab to finish him.