Querbus
03-03-2008, 08:37 PM
Dark. Cold. Empty. Immobilized. This is a dream. Lady Jenaiva opens her great book and begins reading aloud to me, her voice as polished and innocent as a pearl.
In the mountains of northern Lordaeron squatted Castle Ambess, an ancient fortress not so much built atop a crag as embedded into it. From a distance it looked part of the mountain range, a natural rock formation, but drawing closer would reveal a squareness not occurring in nature, and soon became clear the stout towers, the ramparts, the flickering firelight in the windows. Here Lord Ambess ruled over his harsh mountain-land, Lord Ambess in his heavy furs and rolls of fat, his children and servants, his gold mines. His militia guarding the gold mines, the Golden Hounds. His personal guard, the Golden Wolves. His personal orchestra, the Golden Starlings.
This is the tale of the great battle of Hound, Wolf, and Starling.
Hound, Wolf, and Starling
Now it came to pass that one chilly winter's night, the Starlings were entertaining Lord Ambess and his guests, some restless businessmen trapped in the mountains by an unfortunate avalanche three weeks ago. Dessert was served and resting fragrantly on several white-clothed tables. The Starlings had just begun to play Tachekovy's Year Six Overture, written to commemorate the victory of the Alliance of Lordaeron over the vile orcs. The stringed instruments droned on sweetly for two minutes or so, and just as the brass began to join in and increase the song's tempo, the ballroom doors were thrown open and in marched every single Golden Hound.
"My mines," rumbled Lord Ambess from his chair of black pine, "are neglected."
The Golden Starlings paused their play but resumed at a hasty and angry glance from their lord. Percussion and triumphant trumpet building up, then retreating, somewhat subdued.
"We have a list of grievances," announced the man at the front of the pack of Hounds. "One, you pay us shite. Two, it's fucking cold. Three, we're bored, hungry, horny, and hate your fat guts."
"Keep playing, Starlings!" Anticipation growing into stately fury, the music played on. Lord Ambess raised a fat sausage-finger, ringed with gold, and pointed sharply at the captain of his personal guard, Sir Yarrow. Sir Yarrow, in his gold-plated armor and cloth-of-gold cloak, a long and thin sword in each hand, black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, long sharp nose crooked over a handsome sneer. Sir Yarrow made a gesture and with a thromp of boots striking tile, the Wolves stood at attention.
Among their number stood Querbus Softhead, protege of Sir Yarrow...
Twitch. A twitch of muscle in the dark. Still dreaming. Cold and dreaming. Querbus. Me.
Querbus Softhead, so called for his fear of sword practice without a helmet. A young man, a quiet man, a man of action, not of words; of swords, not roses. Still Lady Jenaiva, youngest daughter of Lord Ambess, fancied him, and touched herself when she did so. This same Querbus used not a shield, but like his tutor favored a sword in each hand. With the guard he advanced across the tiled dance floor, coming to a stop between the nervous Starlings and the irritated Hounds. The Wolves, quick and quiet, drew their weapons.
Their lord spoke, saying: "Go back to my mines, Hounds."
"Eh what?" called out their spokesman. "Who's going to rob you in this fucking cold and snow?"
"So I don't need you?"
The Hounds exchanged glances of mild confusion tinged with alarm.
"Very well, it's always good to cut costs. Wolves, attack. Starlings, play on--my daughter so loves this part."
Here the music turned altogether cheery, led on by the wind instruments and a percussionist striking chimes, the strings droning on. A romantic dance tune. To this kind and gentle sound, the Wolves and Hounds began to dance.
Restless businessmen cringed as metal struck metal. The Hounds danced with a fury, and great baying. The Wolves let them lead, taking on the feminine follower role. The Starlings' song turned ominous and as the dance wore on, the ominous feeling given by the Starlings grew into an exciting and hectic tune. And what was this? Were Hounds and Wolves alike truly dancing in time to the music? For at the first great crash of percussion came the first severed arm: a wounded Hound.
The frenzy of the Starlings was matched by their canine counterparts suddenly clashing together with more zeal and anger. A bloodied Wolf was thrown into the audience, towards the great black pine chair, and as the spectators scattered Lord Ambess called: "Starlings, play on!"
And once the sweeter sounds of woodwind and string won out, the Hounds and Wolves slowed, circling one another, making menacing motions with their swords. At a bark from the Alpha Wolf, that is, Sir Yarrow, five Wolves dispatched from the melee to guard the Lord and his youngest daughter; as the other guests thought, "What about us?" and the orchestra resumed its pomp and grandeur, the Hounds and Wolves resumed their attack in earnest, the Hounds attempting to push towards the fat Lord and his fair daughter, the Wolves keeping them back. From the Starlings came bell and chime, brass and drum, string and flute and clarinet.
I can hear the music. My fingers twitch in time with it. Empty fingers. Cold.
From the Starlings came sounds of victory and triumph, each songbird trilling as loud as it could to mask the discordant clang of metal and the screams of terrified guests and mortally injured soldiers. As the Starlings' furor increased now, so did the fighting reach a crescendo. The Starlings were struck with flying food, furniture, and severed body parts, but still they played on, madly, closing their eyes to the spray of blood and bread pudding and praying their delicate instruments would survive the night.
The last minute of song, the infectious glee of it, drew on the last reserves of energy possessed by Hounds and Wolves. Its grinning, smug conclusion found the Hounds showing their bellies, begging for mercy, with the red-gleaming sword-teeth of the Wolves at their throats.
A sigh of relief, and several fainting spells, followed, and there was a moment or two of stillness.
Then the first chair violinist stood up and raised his bow into the air, calling out, "And all of that without a conductor!"
Yes. He was ill that day. I remember. So long ago. Voices murmuring. Echoing. Beneath stone. Cold. Surrounded by murmuring voices.
At this moment, in the crypts beneath Castle Ambess, Frebelda the old cook was lowering a torch to Querbus' bier. As the licking flame touched his bare toe, Querbus' eyes popped open and he sat up swiftly, with a great and terrible yell, arms outstretched before him like a corpse risen from the dead.
Which is just what he was.
"Eh, you? Softhead?"
"Yes, Lord."
A cavernous bedroom. Holes in the walls, tapestries flapping impotently, letting in the snow. No one minds. Lord Ambess is propped up against his headboard, covered in an inch of frost.
"Wipe the frost from my eyes, Jenaiva, let me see this risen Wolf cub."
His dutiful daughter did as she was told, for unlike her father she still had fingers, and hands, and arms; though her jaw was crumpled like unwanted paper and the skin of her face sloughed off, maggots writhing in the hole at the side of her head. He without his strength, a limbless torso; she without her beauty, a faceless ghoul.
"Uh-huh! Softhead!"
"Yes, Lord."
"Softhead eh?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Softhead Softhead... What would I ever do without you?"
Lose your arms and legs, apparently. Querbus did not voice this. He remained kneeling and took the question as rhetorical.
"Good to see you, old boy, good to see you. You see what they did to the Castle? Arthas directly by way of his marauding Scourge, the Alliance indirectly by way of colossal failure?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Avenge me, Softhead. Go to Tirisfal, and join the ranks of the filthy Horde. This will be your license to slay as many Alliances and Arthases as you wish. As I wish."
"How many do you wish, Lord?"
"Five thousand. Slay five thousand Alliance dogs and spit in Arthas' eye, and then return to me. Return to me, Softhead, and if you do as I command I will give you the hand of fair Jenaiva."
Lady Jenaiva turned to Querbus and batted her eye.
"Yes, Lord."
"Go!" Querbus stood to leave. "Read on, fair Jenaiva, read on."
Jenaiva spread the tattered leaves of the book in her lap, looked down at the pages, and began to warble incoherently.
In the mountains of northern Lordaeron squatted Castle Ambess, an ancient fortress not so much built atop a crag as embedded into it. From a distance it looked part of the mountain range, a natural rock formation, but drawing closer would reveal a squareness not occurring in nature, and soon became clear the stout towers, the ramparts, the flickering firelight in the windows. Here Lord Ambess ruled over his harsh mountain-land, Lord Ambess in his heavy furs and rolls of fat, his children and servants, his gold mines. His militia guarding the gold mines, the Golden Hounds. His personal guard, the Golden Wolves. His personal orchestra, the Golden Starlings.
This is the tale of the great battle of Hound, Wolf, and Starling.
Hound, Wolf, and Starling
Now it came to pass that one chilly winter's night, the Starlings were entertaining Lord Ambess and his guests, some restless businessmen trapped in the mountains by an unfortunate avalanche three weeks ago. Dessert was served and resting fragrantly on several white-clothed tables. The Starlings had just begun to play Tachekovy's Year Six Overture, written to commemorate the victory of the Alliance of Lordaeron over the vile orcs. The stringed instruments droned on sweetly for two minutes or so, and just as the brass began to join in and increase the song's tempo, the ballroom doors were thrown open and in marched every single Golden Hound.
"My mines," rumbled Lord Ambess from his chair of black pine, "are neglected."
The Golden Starlings paused their play but resumed at a hasty and angry glance from their lord. Percussion and triumphant trumpet building up, then retreating, somewhat subdued.
"We have a list of grievances," announced the man at the front of the pack of Hounds. "One, you pay us shite. Two, it's fucking cold. Three, we're bored, hungry, horny, and hate your fat guts."
"Keep playing, Starlings!" Anticipation growing into stately fury, the music played on. Lord Ambess raised a fat sausage-finger, ringed with gold, and pointed sharply at the captain of his personal guard, Sir Yarrow. Sir Yarrow, in his gold-plated armor and cloth-of-gold cloak, a long and thin sword in each hand, black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, long sharp nose crooked over a handsome sneer. Sir Yarrow made a gesture and with a thromp of boots striking tile, the Wolves stood at attention.
Among their number stood Querbus Softhead, protege of Sir Yarrow...
Twitch. A twitch of muscle in the dark. Still dreaming. Cold and dreaming. Querbus. Me.
Querbus Softhead, so called for his fear of sword practice without a helmet. A young man, a quiet man, a man of action, not of words; of swords, not roses. Still Lady Jenaiva, youngest daughter of Lord Ambess, fancied him, and touched herself when she did so. This same Querbus used not a shield, but like his tutor favored a sword in each hand. With the guard he advanced across the tiled dance floor, coming to a stop between the nervous Starlings and the irritated Hounds. The Wolves, quick and quiet, drew their weapons.
Their lord spoke, saying: "Go back to my mines, Hounds."
"Eh what?" called out their spokesman. "Who's going to rob you in this fucking cold and snow?"
"So I don't need you?"
The Hounds exchanged glances of mild confusion tinged with alarm.
"Very well, it's always good to cut costs. Wolves, attack. Starlings, play on--my daughter so loves this part."
Here the music turned altogether cheery, led on by the wind instruments and a percussionist striking chimes, the strings droning on. A romantic dance tune. To this kind and gentle sound, the Wolves and Hounds began to dance.
Restless businessmen cringed as metal struck metal. The Hounds danced with a fury, and great baying. The Wolves let them lead, taking on the feminine follower role. The Starlings' song turned ominous and as the dance wore on, the ominous feeling given by the Starlings grew into an exciting and hectic tune. And what was this? Were Hounds and Wolves alike truly dancing in time to the music? For at the first great crash of percussion came the first severed arm: a wounded Hound.
The frenzy of the Starlings was matched by their canine counterparts suddenly clashing together with more zeal and anger. A bloodied Wolf was thrown into the audience, towards the great black pine chair, and as the spectators scattered Lord Ambess called: "Starlings, play on!"
And once the sweeter sounds of woodwind and string won out, the Hounds and Wolves slowed, circling one another, making menacing motions with their swords. At a bark from the Alpha Wolf, that is, Sir Yarrow, five Wolves dispatched from the melee to guard the Lord and his youngest daughter; as the other guests thought, "What about us?" and the orchestra resumed its pomp and grandeur, the Hounds and Wolves resumed their attack in earnest, the Hounds attempting to push towards the fat Lord and his fair daughter, the Wolves keeping them back. From the Starlings came bell and chime, brass and drum, string and flute and clarinet.
I can hear the music. My fingers twitch in time with it. Empty fingers. Cold.
From the Starlings came sounds of victory and triumph, each songbird trilling as loud as it could to mask the discordant clang of metal and the screams of terrified guests and mortally injured soldiers. As the Starlings' furor increased now, so did the fighting reach a crescendo. The Starlings were struck with flying food, furniture, and severed body parts, but still they played on, madly, closing their eyes to the spray of blood and bread pudding and praying their delicate instruments would survive the night.
The last minute of song, the infectious glee of it, drew on the last reserves of energy possessed by Hounds and Wolves. Its grinning, smug conclusion found the Hounds showing their bellies, begging for mercy, with the red-gleaming sword-teeth of the Wolves at their throats.
A sigh of relief, and several fainting spells, followed, and there was a moment or two of stillness.
Then the first chair violinist stood up and raised his bow into the air, calling out, "And all of that without a conductor!"
Yes. He was ill that day. I remember. So long ago. Voices murmuring. Echoing. Beneath stone. Cold. Surrounded by murmuring voices.
At this moment, in the crypts beneath Castle Ambess, Frebelda the old cook was lowering a torch to Querbus' bier. As the licking flame touched his bare toe, Querbus' eyes popped open and he sat up swiftly, with a great and terrible yell, arms outstretched before him like a corpse risen from the dead.
Which is just what he was.
"Eh, you? Softhead?"
"Yes, Lord."
A cavernous bedroom. Holes in the walls, tapestries flapping impotently, letting in the snow. No one minds. Lord Ambess is propped up against his headboard, covered in an inch of frost.
"Wipe the frost from my eyes, Jenaiva, let me see this risen Wolf cub."
His dutiful daughter did as she was told, for unlike her father she still had fingers, and hands, and arms; though her jaw was crumpled like unwanted paper and the skin of her face sloughed off, maggots writhing in the hole at the side of her head. He without his strength, a limbless torso; she without her beauty, a faceless ghoul.
"Uh-huh! Softhead!"
"Yes, Lord."
"Softhead eh?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Softhead Softhead... What would I ever do without you?"
Lose your arms and legs, apparently. Querbus did not voice this. He remained kneeling and took the question as rhetorical.
"Good to see you, old boy, good to see you. You see what they did to the Castle? Arthas directly by way of his marauding Scourge, the Alliance indirectly by way of colossal failure?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Avenge me, Softhead. Go to Tirisfal, and join the ranks of the filthy Horde. This will be your license to slay as many Alliances and Arthases as you wish. As I wish."
"How many do you wish, Lord?"
"Five thousand. Slay five thousand Alliance dogs and spit in Arthas' eye, and then return to me. Return to me, Softhead, and if you do as I command I will give you the hand of fair Jenaiva."
Lady Jenaiva turned to Querbus and batted her eye.
"Yes, Lord."
"Go!" Querbus stood to leave. "Read on, fair Jenaiva, read on."
Jenaiva spread the tattered leaves of the book in her lap, looked down at the pages, and began to warble incoherently.