[center] [h1][b][u]Brundt[/u][/b][/h1] [/center] [hr] He passed with the night. Which night was... Uncertain. For the past week King Amurat the Third’s loyal guards had held the door to his room, forbidding anyone to pass into his chambers. This wasn’t unheard of given the rotund King’s habit of occasionally sequestering himself, and given the news he’d received just before doing so? It was understandable. Even if... Inconvenient. At the Lord Captain’s order an army had, some time ago, been dispatched without the King’s permission. It would have reeked of sedition, if the Lord Captain hadn’t been so transparent about his desire for vengeance against the barbarians that’d killed his son. Even still, it was a hideous slight to the King, but that in of itself that hadn’t driven the King into seclusion. No, that had happened when word reached the city that the Lord Captain had not only been defeated in the field, but had his entire force destroyed. By barbarians. A barbarian [i]king[/i]. Or at least, that was what they said. What they said was more than Amurat could handle, evidently. These days the King rarely moved, and court was often held at his bedside, but at his word both noble and guard were banished from his presence. That had been a week ago. A person might think a city of [i]tens of thousands[/i] wouldn’t be paralyzed by a single man's tantrum. That person would be wrong. No soldiers had been rallied. No legions raised. [i]For an entire week nobody dared bother the king[/i]. It was only now that the smell had become so much worse than normal that anyone had dared check on their sovereign. What they had found was the stuff of nightmares. Left to fester in his magically warmed chambers the King had bloated to such an extent that he more resembled a ball than a man. When the high nobles of the city finally gathered only the first few dared look. Those poor soul’s expressions were proof enough. It was a tragedy, something that had come at the worst possible time. Or, as some refused to admit in public, the greatest opportunity at the time it was most desperately needed. Amurat had consigned the city to anarchy when he’d ordered the Guard not to intervene in religious affairs. Who was to say he’d run a war any better? It wasn’t an [i]uncommon[/i] thought. Nor was that the King had died without an heir. Perhaps, in another time, that wouldn’t have been so shocking. As it stood though? Amurat’s line had ruled Ketrefa for near three hundred years. Successions had not been a point of contention in all that time. Mainly because, as many cynically noted, the Kings and Queens of the great city only ever had one child. Even if they had many. There was, eventually, only one. A helpful trick to avoid dynastic infighting, but one decidedly less useful to those left behind when the system collapses. Amurat had had a daughter, but she was dead. He had not sired a child since. So, as the many nobles of Ketrefa gathered in the Royal Palace at the top of the city, the great question on every mind was thus: Who is the ruler of Ketrefa? For the first time in over a decade, Milos Karras set foot inside the palace. Such a rare occurrence would have drawn more than a few eyes, if not for the man standing next to him. “No!” a lady shouted. “You can’t bring that [i]thing[/i] in here!” Brundt turned his head and glared at her. The sight of his scarred face made her gasp. He wore all the finery of a wealthy noble, but nonetheless seemed out of place. “Brundt is the heir to House Karras,” Milos said flatly. “A house that is older, more prestigious, and dare I say [i]wealthier[/i] than yours. Has your family fallen so low that you forgot your place?” “Have you forgotten your [i]senses!?[/i]” the lady shouted. “He is-” “A strong man with a sharp mind and a stout heart,” Grandmaster Varsilis said, stepping through the crowd. “I dare say we will need such a man, in the days to come. Let it be known that the House of Perfection vouches for him, and to insult his honour or his competence would be to insult Cadien’s judgement. Now, both of you, carry on. This is not the time for such drama.” Carry on they did, though the woman sent Milos a parting hateful glare. Brundt himself was silent, his face kept carefully neutral. He resented the woman’s words, but in truth he himself did not feel like he belonged here. They carried on into the throne room and found their places. More nobles trickled in, until at last the room was overflowering. The gilded and cushioned throne was empty, the Opal Crown resting on its cushions. In front of stood a short, reedy man by the name of Nimos Laventis. He was from an unremarkable family, but had somehow managed to become the King’s steward; tasked with recording the collection of revenues and resources. It was he who had called this meeting. Someone had to. There was no set procedure for what to do when the monarch died heirless. That the normally meek and hesitant steward would be the one to call it came as a shock. But, at least with him hosting it, there was little chance of foul play; he was never particularly ambitious. He was just high-ranking enough to be worth listening to from time to time, and just low-ranking enough to have no chance of claiming the throne for himself. Now, everyone looked to him expectantly. His lips moved, but the words were lost over the gossip. Then he shouted. It was a rare thing for him to raise his voice. The room went quiet, and all heads turned to face him. “We are g-gathered here today,” he began, his voice somewhat shady. “To decide the matter of… succession. The King has no heirs, and we are at war. The matter must be decided swiftly.” There was a pause, as the room waited for him to continue, but it seemed he had no further words. The silence went on for far too long. “How are we to decide it, then?” One lord finally asked, stepping forward. “We… we shall vote on it,” Lord Leventis decided. “Who wishes to make their case?” Dozens spoke at once. Some tried to make their case. Others protested the vote itself. Noble lords cited their lineages, or their personal accomplishments. Vague mentions were made of improving the city’s wealth or reducing crime, without clarifying how. Suggestions were raised, both sound and terrible. Promises were made, both sincere and false. It all blended together into a cacophony of rhetorical nonsense. Nimos Leventis paled, clearly uncertain of how to proceed. “Quiet!” A voice cried over the others in the room. The High Judge of the House of Order, backed by a small cadre of her peers, somehow managed to speak over the arguments and bickering, “Leventis has called a vote, but that doesn’t mean all of you can [i]run[/i]. I’m withdrawing the House of Order or it’s initiates from any pool of candidates, and I expect the intelligent ones among you to do the same, if you haven’t the resources to take this seriously.” Her words were met with more silence. Then, Grandmaster Varsilis stepped forward. “This vote is a waste of time,” he declared. “A Ketrefan army was beaten and broken. While we bicker over the crown, our enemies move against us. We don’t need a King. We spent the last twenty years without one.” His tone was bitter as he shook his head. “What we need is a Lord-Captain. Someone who can raise an army to lead it to victory. Leave the city in the hands of the advisors, and settle the throne after this crisis is over. Those who would claim the kingdom should first do their part to defend it..” The High Judge nodded her agreement, and one who’d been conspicuously silent spoke. The Captain of the Gates, a figure more than capable of upending this entire affair, voiced his opinion, “The Grandmaster is right. If you want the crown, kill the Barbarians and their King, not each other.” There were several murmurs at that. The younger and more hot-headed among the nobles had a gleam in their eyes, no doubt dreaming about winning glory on the battlefield. Others - those who were too old to fight, or were unskilled in the art of war - looked sullen or resentful. But the majority seemed to be in favour of the idea. “How are we to decide the Lord-Captain, then?” a voice asked. “Shall we vote on that?” “I have a better idea,” Varsilis said. “We let Cadien decide. Who better than the patron god of our soldiers to decide who leads them?” “The gods don’t speak to mortals, Grandmaster!” a voice shouted, but Varsilis ignored it. “In the Temple of Cadien, there is a hammer,” he went on. “Everyone here knows of it. Decades ago, when it first appeared, I announced its existence to the city. It is made by a metal our smiths have never seen before, and none but those who are worthy may lift it. I issued a challenge, for every man and woman within this city to come try it. Of those who made an attempt, none succeeded. Not even I, with the Ring of Cadien and the enhanced strength it provides.” He slammed a fist into his palm. “I propose that we try again. We have fresher faces now, and those who failed all those years ago have hopefully grown wiser with age. We shall choose our army’s commander from those who can lift the hammer, and if none succeed, we will find a different method.” The High Judge and Captain of the Gate’s both voiced their assent, and although many - especially those who had converted to the Cult of the Horned Goddess - [i]disagreed[/i], the united front was more than enough to stifle any protests. And so, the nobles of Ketrefa began their march to the Temple of Cadien. [hr] The Temple, although lavish and luxurious, was smaller than the palace, and unable to fit so many highborn in one place. Those of less prestigious families had to wait outside, or in the various side rooms. Some seized the opportunity to take advantage of the temple’s other services, and sought out massages, or unsuccessfully attempted to flirt with the temple’s acolytes. Meanwhile the crowd had parted to allow a line of people to form, leading directly to the altar - all those who wished to make an attempt to lift the hammer. One by one, they approached the altar. One by one, they grasped the hammer. One by one, they failed. Eventually, the nobles began to grow bored, and chatted amongst themselves. Only a few paid any attention to what happened at the altar. Many actually began to go outside for fresh air, leaving space for those who had to stand outside to finally go in… only to be disappointed. Some had actually gone home. Hours had passed. Some had taken note of the tall, black-haired, scarred man standing in the line. Those in front of him or behind him told him he shouldn’t even bother. A barbarian, even one who learned to read and dress well, was still a barbarian. Some found it amusing, that he thought he had a chance. But he had glared at him, and that had been enough to intimidate them into silence. Then, finally, his turn came. He wrapped his hand around the hammer’s shaft… ...and lifted it, as if it was nothing. “Oh fuck, he wasn’t lying,” The High Judge muttered, and then the room exploded. Nobles who saw the feat screamed of fraud, and those who didn’t started screaming to see what happened and who was lying about what. The temple had been secured by the Guard, and with a nod from the Captain of the Gates they immediately began breaking up the crowd, often mercilessly and without respect to their birth. The Captain, Trehe Manzprius, allowed his men to terrorize the stunned nobles for a self indulgent moment before he spoke, his wrinkled face seizing the attention of Guard and Nobility alike, “The Lord Captain has been chosen. Until a king is selected [i]there is no higher authority[/i]. There isn’t time to protest, you will accept the verdict or I will see you made to accept it.” Despite his words, as soon as he was finished the explosion resumed. It was quieter now, as there were some who had been fine with the decision in the first place, and others who were now cowed by the Gate-Captain’s words. “He’s a savage!” “He’s never even fought a battle!” “You can’t force us to follow him!” “I never even agreed to this!” [color=violet]“SILENCE!”[/color] a deep baritone voice boomed like a thundercrack, from within the very minds of those assembled. All gasped and stared in astonishment. It was Grandmaster Varsilis who recovered first. He exchanged a glance with Milos, and then Brundt. All three men had heard that voice before. He stepped up next to Brundt. “You agreed,” he said, “to follow Cadien’s champion. The one who could lift the hammer. It was a majority vote. The God of Perfection chose this man, and who are you to disagree? Retract your decision or insult Him further, and you invite His wrath.” He glared harshly at those who had objected the loudest. “Now, all of you. Go. The matter has been settled. When the call to arms comes, I expect you to answer.” [hr] [hider=Post Summary] The King of Ketrefa is dead. After finding out about the Lord-Captain’s defeat, he locked himself in his chamber where he eventually died of natural causes. Probably induced by stress or rage. Anyway, he didn’t have an heir. The various lords and high-ranking officials of the city meet up to decide the matter of succession. Unfortunately, nobody knows how to proceed, and nobody can agree. So Varsilis suggests that they choose a Lord-Captain first and worry about who becomes King after the war is over. How to decide who becomes Lord-Captain? See if anyone can lift the Hammer of Ketrefa. Hours pass, as hundreds of people give it a shot. Then finally Brundt’s turn comes, and he succeeds. Outrage ensues. The crowd is eventually quieted, and Brundt is named Lord-Captain, but many are unhappy with the outcome. [/hider] [hider=Prestige Summary] [u]Brundt[/u] [b]Beginning Prestige:[/b] 8 +5 for 10k+ characters. [b]Ending Prestige:[/b] 13 [/hider]