Fate - First Reply Molthal's sweet Spring song

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Koltûn

Koltûn

Cleansing Flame
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The blight orc scratched his chin apprehensively.

How on Arethil was he supposed to tell one of the Bastard Circle that he had zero idea about how to craft armour for a fucking rhino? By the Conjurer’s prick, he hadn’t even known what a rhino was until Prince Koltûn had barged in with the beast in tow, just moments earlier.

The blight orc realised he had been silent for quite a while. He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable under the half-giant’s unflinching, fiery gaze.

- “I uh…” - The orc stammered at last, fiddling with his hands, as he carefully measured his words. He looked up again, and once more was met with the same unfriendly look. He sighed a sigh of defeat; lowly though, so as not to offend his overlord. - “It’ll be done in a fortnight.” -

In truth, the orc didn’t know if such a schedule was even feasible - bearing in mind it entailed measuring up a beast that really did not look all too keen on being measured - but he knew well enough that the Princes did not take too kindly on being kept waiting.

Especially this one.

Prince Koltûn had returned to Molthal some days prior, loaded with nothing short of a feverish dream’s worth of gold and riches, acquired from raiding his estranged brother’s decaying Empire.

Rumor had it though, that the young Princeling was looking to strike out again soon; him and his… strange company.

The orc glanced again at the rhino, as his liege Lord walked out, sighing heavily this time as he contemplated the monumental task ahead of him.​
 
Koltûn

The sun hung low over the jagged silhouette of Molthal, its blood-orange light casting long shadows across the ash-choked earth. The air was thick with the acrid scent of soot and the distant echoes of hammering—Molthal’s forge-heart still pulsing, though its glory could hardly be called such, for many a man manning it was there unwillingly.

Afanas stood at the edge of the settlement, perched atop one of its gargantuan parapets, a sleak figure cloaked in maroon, his wide-brimmed hat shielding his pale, porcelain-like skin from the waning sunlight. His onyx eyes, deep and unblinking, surveyed the path ahead. He was a being apart, a Psuchephage, his presence an unsettling blend of elegance and latent menace.

He had come at the behest of Menalus, an old acquaintance of his father, whose son, Koltun, was said to be somewhere within this soot-encrusted fortress-city. Menalus had spoken of Koltun's stubbornness, his refusal to be kept in one place for long. Afanas had agreed to accompany the young man, not out of obligation, but perhaps out of a curiosity that had been gnawing at him since Menalus's request.

In the distance, he spotted a figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with a mane of flame-red hair. Koltun.

Afanas approached, his voice surprisingly soft. "Koltun, son of Menalus, are you not?"
 
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As he left the armoury, half-a-dozen blight orcs coalesced around him. Heavily armoured, the group’s members seemed to stand a head taller than the average orc in the city, and while clad head-to-toe in the signature black metal of Molthal, a solid musculature was well perceptible beneath the plate. These were not the average rank-and-file of Menalus’ legions.

The small column quickly formed up, and then started marching towards the colossal citadel of the Ash King.

Their path however, was soon interrupted, as an outsider interpolated them. The march ground to a halt, and the half-giant took one good, long look at the newcomer.

He was tall: not nearly as tall as Koltûn himself that was, but still much taller than the average Blightlander, and posessed a polished appearance that seemed outlandishly refined for the confines of Molthal.

Koltûn’s gaze flickered up-and-down the stranger’s form, a long silence stretching after Afanas’ question.

- “Prince.” - Koltûn corrected, drawling the word in the coarse idiom of Molthal. - “Prince Koltûn, of the Council Most High.” - Another long silence stretched, as the half-giant glanced at the newcomer.

He remained unsure - and indeed, uninterested - on where such a distinct character could have come from, or even to what species it belonged to. It was not that uncommon for people from out-of-town to approach him - whether wannabe-adventurers, or some such low life - seeking to curry favour with the Prince of Molthal, and while he usually just had his orc goons drive them away, the elegance of the man's appearance, as well as the casual nature of his tone, suggested something beneath the veneer.

This one carried himself as though he knew he ought to be heard. In short, not the worse first impression to impart on the half-giant.

- “And you are?” -

Afanas​
 
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Koltûn
"Afanas, son of Vlakhos."

With a slow, deliberate motion, he extended his right hand toward Koltûn.

His fingers stretched out, long and jointed with unnatural precision, ending in black lacquered claws that curved subtly like obsidian talons. The surface of his skin was smooth and luminous, almost marble-like, but there was a faint sense of movement to it—an alien vitality, as though his flesh remembered other forms.

His expression remained unreadable, partially veiled by the cascade of dark curls and the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

The talon-like hand hovered in the space between them both, poised for a handshake—a gesture steeped in mortal tradition, yet made unsettling by the sheer oddity of the man offering it.

"Your father insists you not go unaccompanied. He has bid me to see to it."
 
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He merely stared at the hand being offered, his expression inscrutable, his frame unmoved. He glanced at it as though he were a cautious shopper in some far-off Kaliti bazaar, being offered a shady deal.

- “Is that so?” -

Menalus was many things after all, but a caring and concerned father wasn’t one of them. For the King of the Blightlands to express any interest whatsoever in one of his ventures meant that some ulterior motive was at play here… one which Koltûn was not particularly inclined to indulge.

Though it was undoubtedly true that one did not simply deny the great Lord of Molthal, it was also accurate that the Blighlands in general - and its capital in particular - were dangerous places, where lesser souls went missing all the time. If Menalus’ lackey was… dispatched, then Koltûn had his doubts about the lasting interest of the King in his business.

His gaze rose slowly to hold that of the newcomer. He then spat to his lackeys:

- “Kill him.” -

Afanas ​
 
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Koltûn

A wet crunch answered the first orc's swing.

With a deafening crack, Afanas shot forward, a blur of muscle and force, stepping through the blade's arc. With a huff, he drove a pale hand through the creature’s chest, the force of the strike sending ribs and gore exploding from its back in a crimson spray. The orc’s eyes widened in confusion—then glassed over as it slid off his arm.

Another came from the left—he stepped sideways with that same uncanny dash, blue energy rippling along the ground—and ripped the man's arm off with impunity, spinning to use it as a club. Bones shattered. Skulls cracked like ripe gourds.

A third circled him and lunged from behind, warhammer raised high—howling a savage challenge.

Afanas didn’t flinch.

CLANG—CRUNCH.

He caught the hammer mid-arc with one hand. Not the haft—the head of the weapon. Fingers closed like a vice. The metal screeched under the pressure for a breath... then crumbled, the warhead folding like untempered tin in his grip. Before the orc could process it, Afanas stepped in and divorced his lower jaw from his head with a brutal backfist.

"Do you always inconvenience your father's guests like this, Prince Koltûn?" he queried with an arched eyebrow.
 
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