Post by Northerner on Jun 29, 2009 11:26:13 GMT -5
Once, there was a mighty and powerful kingdom, ruled over by a ancient and noble line. They kept wealth, power and influence through constant war on all fronts. Always expanding their borders, sometimes in steps, sometimes in great leaps, their path to glory lay atop the bodies of those who resisted the empire. Soon, most of the Northern lands were subsumed by the glorious power of the empire, and the dream of uniting the North was nearly complete. Yet, as the unstoppable engines of war ground to a halt, running out of further lands to conquer, it was soon evident that peace was not to be had. After all, generations had been born and died with the sole purpose of fueling the empire’s war efforts. Now, those whom had spent their entire lives fighting found that this notion of “peace” was not to their liking. Additionally, there was dissent among differing warlords, each of whom felt entitled to a claim of power within the capital city of the empire. For the rulers of this empire had long commanded the individual warlords from the comfort of their palaces, growing fat off the portion of spoils and tribute they exacted from conquered provinces. Now their generals had returned to their doorstep demanding the power they felt that they and their men had paid in blood for.
Proud and foolish, the emperor of this city proclaimed the dissident warlords to be traitors, guilty of high treason and ordered them executed. Unfortunately, the soldiers of these generals knew no loyalty to the king, only to their warlord, who granted them their own portion of spoils and provided for them. To the individual soldier, their warband was a sort of family, a unit that could not be broken by some far away king and his crazed declarations. So it was that the empire fell upon itself, as different warlords banded together and fought amongst each other, some claiming the true right to the throne, while others were simply content to follow those warlords they had befriended among some campaign or another, seeking now to forge the most powerful alliance to unite the empire.
For years battle tore the empire apart, yet events took a turn for the worse when those provinces who had not welcomed expansion openly revolted against the empire. Seeing a gap in the power structure that had kept them in place for so long, they raised armies and warbands of their own to fight for their independence. As province after province declared themselves free of the empire’s clutches, it seemed as though the empire would be consumed entirely in the flames of war.
Yet, even in the darkest hours of the empire, a single warlord shone above the rest. Magnor Kolbyr was his name. When his own warlord had fallen in single combat against an opposing warband’s champion, Magnor took up his sword and slew the champion. Recognizing him for his strength and prowess in battle, his claim went unchallenged for his new rank of warlord. From there he set out, challenging and defeating warlords in single combat to subdue and subsume their armies into his own instead of fighting, following the examples of long ago when the empire was first expanding. Soon, most of the largest provinces had been thoroughly crushed, the capital city taken and the old royal family put to the torch.
Magnor Kolbyr, the victorious warlord, proclaimed himself new emperor. All would have gone well except for one fateful evening when, returning to the capital city from an outlying province with only a small handful of warriors, his party was ambushed by bandits and his retainers slain. Though normally none of these pathetic mongrels would have been a match for the conquering warlord, fate has a horrible way of laying the mightiest warrior low. Even as he bore down upon the last panicked bandit and ran the man through, he took a final, desperate swing, managing somehow to land a debilitating, mortal blow.
As he lay there dying, Magnor felt the crushing waves of despair as he felt all his life’s work slipping away for no better reason than the lucky strike of a desperate nobody. Refusing to accept that his time could be ended in such a fashion and all that he strove for undone in the process, he prayed to any god or deity that would listen, begging to be granted another chance at life, even if it cost him his own soul. Unfortunately, there is always something out there, listening and waiting, willing to bestow their terrible gifts upon any who are willing to pay the horrible price for them.
So was Magnor granted his dying wish and, even as he let out his final breath, he found himself within the realm of some terrible deity, pledging eternal servitude, before being returned to the mortal coil, a hollow shell of a man, yet still alive. Unfortunately, he had not returned to the empire he knew, but decades into the future, now a wasteland. For, during his absence, the empire he had been at the brink of forging had dissolved, and the land, already suffering from wars already fought, was literally consumed in flames.
Since that time, the Northern warlord has wandered across the Northern lands, attempting to once again forge a great alliance like that he once had. Yet, every time he came anywhere close to creating any lasting empire of warband, things always took a turn for the worse. Yet, despite being supposedly slain time and again over the years, he always returns, losing a little bit more of his humanity every time. Still, he continues on, steadfast, with some unknown purpose, as though fulfilling a greater destiny than even the Northern warlord could ever comprehend.
Proud and foolish, the emperor of this city proclaimed the dissident warlords to be traitors, guilty of high treason and ordered them executed. Unfortunately, the soldiers of these generals knew no loyalty to the king, only to their warlord, who granted them their own portion of spoils and provided for them. To the individual soldier, their warband was a sort of family, a unit that could not be broken by some far away king and his crazed declarations. So it was that the empire fell upon itself, as different warlords banded together and fought amongst each other, some claiming the true right to the throne, while others were simply content to follow those warlords they had befriended among some campaign or another, seeking now to forge the most powerful alliance to unite the empire.
For years battle tore the empire apart, yet events took a turn for the worse when those provinces who had not welcomed expansion openly revolted against the empire. Seeing a gap in the power structure that had kept them in place for so long, they raised armies and warbands of their own to fight for their independence. As province after province declared themselves free of the empire’s clutches, it seemed as though the empire would be consumed entirely in the flames of war.
Yet, even in the darkest hours of the empire, a single warlord shone above the rest. Magnor Kolbyr was his name. When his own warlord had fallen in single combat against an opposing warband’s champion, Magnor took up his sword and slew the champion. Recognizing him for his strength and prowess in battle, his claim went unchallenged for his new rank of warlord. From there he set out, challenging and defeating warlords in single combat to subdue and subsume their armies into his own instead of fighting, following the examples of long ago when the empire was first expanding. Soon, most of the largest provinces had been thoroughly crushed, the capital city taken and the old royal family put to the torch.
Magnor Kolbyr, the victorious warlord, proclaimed himself new emperor. All would have gone well except for one fateful evening when, returning to the capital city from an outlying province with only a small handful of warriors, his party was ambushed by bandits and his retainers slain. Though normally none of these pathetic mongrels would have been a match for the conquering warlord, fate has a horrible way of laying the mightiest warrior low. Even as he bore down upon the last panicked bandit and ran the man through, he took a final, desperate swing, managing somehow to land a debilitating, mortal blow.
As he lay there dying, Magnor felt the crushing waves of despair as he felt all his life’s work slipping away for no better reason than the lucky strike of a desperate nobody. Refusing to accept that his time could be ended in such a fashion and all that he strove for undone in the process, he prayed to any god or deity that would listen, begging to be granted another chance at life, even if it cost him his own soul. Unfortunately, there is always something out there, listening and waiting, willing to bestow their terrible gifts upon any who are willing to pay the horrible price for them.
So was Magnor granted his dying wish and, even as he let out his final breath, he found himself within the realm of some terrible deity, pledging eternal servitude, before being returned to the mortal coil, a hollow shell of a man, yet still alive. Unfortunately, he had not returned to the empire he knew, but decades into the future, now a wasteland. For, during his absence, the empire he had been at the brink of forging had dissolved, and the land, already suffering from wars already fought, was literally consumed in flames.
Since that time, the Northern warlord has wandered across the Northern lands, attempting to once again forge a great alliance like that he once had. Yet, every time he came anywhere close to creating any lasting empire of warband, things always took a turn for the worse. Yet, despite being supposedly slain time and again over the years, he always returns, losing a little bit more of his humanity every time. Still, he continues on, steadfast, with some unknown purpose, as though fulfilling a greater destiny than even the Northern warlord could ever comprehend.
