A Tale of Ashen Wings - Chapter 1: Upon Ashen Skies
The skies were overcast and heavy over Blackhold that morning, as though the gods wished to make the world their stage and the execution their play. But as Akalgan saw it, there was no way drama or emotional connection that Imperial playwrights often crafted within their own works would be found in today's events. The mighty Dragonian stood out amongst the crowds in both muscular and foreign appearance as well as attitude and stance. All around him were Dark Elven citizens and their odd few Beastman servants accompanying them, all excited and headed towards the parade grounds of the castle. Some spared the Dragonian their mixed attentions, with many eyes absorbing the striking features of one of Arkathia's children so far from home.
However, Akalgan did not return the courtesy of their notice, and kept his arms folded behind his head, relaxed as usual. His scales were grey like the ash that fell from Mount Kilikadros, with fierce amber eyes that sharpened his look. The great wings that were the pride of any Dragonian remained closely folded behind his back to keep any odd fool from running into them. His figure was well-toned and fairly muscular, befitting of a warrior whom had seen many battles. Two straight and sharp horns adorned his draconic visage, and his facial structure was common of any Dragonian. He wore the garb of his vagabond mercenary stature: weary leather armour with hide tapering and studded leather boots that provided more than enough protection and plenty of mobility, his outfit in general coated generously with patchworks and minor scratches. Across his chest and over his shoulder was his potion vial strap that also held his quiver of arrows to his back. His crude but sturdy hunting bow was slung over his other shoulder. But what was the most notable feature of the fierce wanderer were his swords: three to be precise, two of them short and made of steel, and the last of them long and forged of ebonite.Often, Akalgan would cast a glance to the clouded heavens and think of other places than where he was at the moment, caught amongst a crowd of gossiping and murmuring people who were excited to watch men die. The thought of it disgusted Akalgan; that killing men was apparently a rare and exotic commodity, or perhaps a luxurious form of entertainment to common people who more than likely would have no idea how to wield a stick in the face of adversity or conflict. Although, at the same time, there was the thought of the same people who will be cheering for the executioners being sent screaming and fleeing for their lives if even just one of Akalgan's past foes pursued them. That thought brought comfort and amusement to Akalgan's mind. But even then, he would still be reminded of how pathetic the people were when he would inevitably overhear one or two conversations that went along the lines of "Hurry up, we'll miss the beheading!" or perhaps "I hope one of them begs for mercy!"-- As though you would not do the same... Akalgan thought with disdain, glancing about the multitude of Dark Elven faces staring onwards with either glee or expectation. Akalgan shut his eyes for a moment, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer carelessness that seemed to outdo his own. He then resolved to try and pick up his unconcerned demeanour by looking to the sky once more, when he felt someone tapping on his side to draw his attention. "Excuse me, sir," a little voice began. Akalgan cast his gaze downwards and found a young Dark Elven child staring back at him, his hand clasped inside his mother's own as they walked. "Are you a dra-go-nee-an?" he asked. He seemingly struggled with the rather-simple name. Akalgan tilted his head in slight annoyance, as he had little-to-no patience for children of any race or culture. "What of it?" He asked in response. The child tilted his own head in awe at the gruff voice. "They say you breathe fire like the dragons, but walk like Humes!" The child exclaimed. "Can you really breathe fire?" He then asked. His mother expressed disapproval by tugging his hand closer to her. "Dear, enough of that..." She murmured. But the child was persistent as he stared unblinkingly at the Dragonian. "Pleeeeease?!" He whined in ignorance of his mother. Akalgan rolled his eyes and then glanced around his headspace, making sure there was nothing above him that would catch fire. He then decided to humour the child, for his own amusement totally. Akalgan unfolded his arms from behind his head. He then hung his head back and puffed his chest slightly as he took a deep breath. If he could see the child getting visibly ecstatic, Akalgan probably would have burst out laughing instead. But Akalgan kept his eyes to the sky as he let out a ferocious plume of fire into the air. At that moment, everyone around him suddenly ducked and shuffled in panic and surprise, and the closest of them felt the heat of such intense flames. Akalgan cut off his breath of fire when he had everyone's attention. There they made a visible circle of isolation around him, and the crowd had stopped moving to stare at him in shock. Akalgan glanced to the child, whose mother had pulled him away instantly and cradled him in her arms, but she could not shelter him from his own wide-eyed and dumbfounded awe. Akalgan snorted a laugh and kept walking as the people made way for the frightening warrior. His arms were once again folded behind his head ever-so casually. Akalgan walked past murmuring people after making such a scene. He did not care for the gossip of people about him, however. On the contrary, he preferred it over the gossip that normally preceded an execution, and was quite pleased that the common folk made way for him in perhaps fear, awe, or both. The Dragonian liked to think of himself as different--perhaps even better, than the common folk he walked alongside to the same event. He was a weary traveller who wished to know all there is to know about the location, including how they executed those sentenced to death. He had only arrived the day before and heard the news over a drink at the inn he paid rent for a room to stay at. While he was at it, Akalgan took the time to note the architecture on either side of him a bit more. Blackhold lived up to its infamous name with buildings and structures constructed with blackstone. Thus, the city itself appeared to be a dark and imposing place that overlooked surrounding lands near the border-mountains, as Akalgan had witnessed on his way to the city. However, the use of blackstone was purely for aesthetic purposes. Blackstone, from what Akalgan had heard, was only slightly stronger than the common stone that built most cities. Other than that, the building style was very typical of Dark Elven culture, as the architecture bore a sort of rough-cut form of elegance that reminisced of Herefell's ashlands. The middle to upper class seemed to have more intricate designs as befitting of their station, whereas the lower class had more common looking buildings, but they did not look by any means much lesser than those of the middle-class. Hm... Just like Aka-Rokun... Akalgan thought of home for a moment, but then decided against comparing Dark Elves to the proud Dwarves and Dragonians of Arkathia. He drew his eyes back to the streets once more, and continued the foreboding walk. Eventually, the main street that Akalgan followed emptied out into the parade grounds before the Black Citadel. The sight of Blackhold's pride at so close a distance was enough to convince Akalgan to pause and look upon the magnificent centre of power. Within inner walls was a structure that towered well above any other within the city by far, as though to reach for the skies. Elven-like towers and spires sprouted about the citadel, connected to the main structure by covered bridges. Jutting out from the highest levels of the citadel was a bridged bastion that overlooked the parade grounds and the city onward. Akalgan could only imagine the omniscient vision that the vantage point provided. The citadel itself was covered wherever possible with great statues of heroes past, worn by time and circumstance. The sight was enough to inspire respect from Akalgan toward the city, as he recalled tales of how the demon hordes of the 2nd Ending were thwarted in this very place. However, the tolling bells and gossiping voices brought Akalgan back to the present, and he returned to what he was doing. The Dragonian followed the rest of the Dark Elves to join growing mass of onlookers gathered before a great stone dais. Seeing over the many common citizens was no issue for Akalgan, and he watched intently as the Ordinators--the martial hand of the Dark Elven theocracy, lead the sentenced prisoners toward their decided fate. Already on the dais was the executioner--dressed in robes of black with his hood up and a skull mask to hide his face, whose arms were folded with expectation. Beside him was the grandmaster of the city's ruling house, the House Sendalas. Akalgan recognised this only by the symbols embroidered onto the Dark Elf's exquisite robes, and figured the city's leader himself would be present to condemn the accused. It was a visibly pain-staking walk for the prisoners up the stairs and onto the dais. There were seven of them in total, all burly Nords who were a little far from home. Their padded armour and garments of their homeland were worn and tattered, and Akalgan could only assume their stay in Herefell was an unpleasant and unwelcome one. However, despite standing before death and a jeering audience of many people, there was no fear in their eyes. Akalgan tilted his head curiously at the sight and situation the Nords were in. Do they not fear death? He wondered. Akalgan did not get the chance to dwell on it any further. The grandmaster Sendalas turned to the crowd and cut the air with a firm hand and the masses fell silent at his command. Even the bells that had tolled for the last hour were stopped. The timeless moment was enough to make Akalgan raise an eyebrow. Once the parade grounds were so void of noise that only the breath of the wind and clinking of shackles could be heard, the grandmaster spoke. "People of Blackhold," he began clearly with his hands clasped behind his back. "Today we shall witness the Tribunal's judgement delivered upon these unworthy fools!" The crowd eagerly shouted in agreement, and the grandmaster continued. "The Ordinators themselves have found these Nord pigs guilty of conspiracy to assassination! The Law of the Three prevails!" He shouted out with his fist held aloft in a leading gesture. The crowd shouted back with an enthusiastic cheer. The grandmaster then turned towards the sentenced Nords, and smirked as he held his hand towards them. "And thus to you, I extend the hand of death; may the Three have mercy on your souls!" He announced to them. The grandmaster subsequently glanced to the executioner and nodded.