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Eleven years ago, Four Years after Quartreville, Vel Anir
Lazlo Harkon was a dead man.
He hadn't eaten in twelve days, or drank water in seven. His eyes were sunken and haunted, and his hair was disheveled. Yet, when the jailer shuffled across the room and unlatched his door, he looked upwards.
Four dreadlords. Each with powerful wards enacted. One was an Archon.
"It ain't right, sir," said the Warden, looking onwards. Rotten bread and spoiled soup sat around the disheveled man in the cell, "He's not supposed to be alive, but all he does is stare..."
Lazlo would be impressed if he wasn't so depressed. As it stood, the spirits whispering that he needed to stand, needed to run, was just enough to bring him stumbling upwards. His lips were chapped in dry, his mouth was full of sand... his head struggled to lift, though he managed.
The warden was horrified. His knees shook, while the unease in the junior dreadlords was palpable. Only the Archon seemed unintimidated... though he was clearly fully alert.
"We will take it from here. You have done your part, Warden," came the reply. This was like a lead weight, sinking down an endless well.
Commander sir, whispered the spirits, Run, sir. Go!
Lazlo stumbled forwards, knees buckling.
"Today's the trial," announced the Archon, the only one capable of speaking at this emaciated, forgotten hero, "it's time to answer for your crimes, Harkon."
The Dreadlords moved forwards; they were the only ones brave enough to touch Lazlo, able to magically ward off the supernatural fear that radiated from the possessed man. Both arms held, Lazlo was practically dragged out of his cell. He stumbled, trying to stay steady, trying to keep up. The cobbles were soft and moved away from his feet, pushed like leaves across a pond. Colors swam and suddenly pain flooded his being.
Sunlight, for the first time in four years, touched him. He couldn't see, shut his eyes. He wanted to cry, wanted to yell out. Mercy was something he had been denied, and now he was to be crucified even further to exonerate the guilty. He couldn't even open his eyes to see his Vel Anir one last time, too bright was the sun.
When the brightness diminished and Lazlo could see once more, he was in an unfamiliar room. It was grand, gold and color and marble and incense. It was a high court.
"Lazlo Harkon," called down the cold voice of a judge, an authority on his fate. That the charges against him were false did not matter; "You stand accused of Treason, Sedition, Concealing Magic from the State, Consorting with the enemy, and of the unforgivable offense of Necromancy."
The court, as he looked around, had few familiar faces. Even less, friendly. This was his jury? Countrymen who did not know him, who did not serve, did not see? It had taken his beloved homeland four years to prepare this trial, pruning the jury and judge til only the most suitable would be picked. Waited until his deeds and acts were forgotten by other, more trivial matters.
"Submit your plea," came the command. For the first time, voice hoarse from lack of use and raw thirst, the ruined, pathetic man offered only one word:
"Why?"
He could manage no more, whispered as it was. The court grumbled, some sighing in pity, others red with rage.
"Your crimes," explained the judge, irate, "committed during the so-called 'Battle of Carrion Gulch', where you did purposefully and with intent command you regiments into a deathtrap. Where you did so instruct the Dreadlord in your command to utilize Dark Magic, and at their refusal, utilized your own unlawful potential. Where you did, through your ignorance and failure as a magician, conjured Hellfire that still burns, to this day, in Cortos!"
That wasn't how it had happened... he had been ordered. There was a Dreadlord, but they were away. They had left to persue something else, taking a full three divisions with them, despite orders by the General. He had followed orders, he had protected his soldiers, he had tried to stop the Hellfire himself...
And it was being framed solely upon him.
Lazlo Harkon was an innocent man; anyone there, despite his hidden magic, would have vouched for him. He was a member of the Guard, he was a hero, with several campaigns to his name. He had served diligently. And yet...
"No," was all he said. It was his plea. It was his only response to this. Despair sagged on him, the weight of the dead pressing down on him like an avalanche of corpses.
"Very well. I call forwards the first witness: Speak now on the nature of his crimes, and the weight of his wrong doing," commanded the judge. Lazlo looked over; he couldn't make out this figure. The light was still too bright.
The trial of Lazlo Harkon, celebrated war hero, scapegoat, and a man possessed by the dead, had begun. He would have all manner of slander, of exaggerated traits, of false charges thrown against him. All of it backed by fabricated evidence and the words of Dreadlords.
Lazlo Harkon was a dead man.
Lazlo Harkon was a dead man.
He hadn't eaten in twelve days, or drank water in seven. His eyes were sunken and haunted, and his hair was disheveled. Yet, when the jailer shuffled across the room and unlatched his door, he looked upwards.
Four dreadlords. Each with powerful wards enacted. One was an Archon.
"It ain't right, sir," said the Warden, looking onwards. Rotten bread and spoiled soup sat around the disheveled man in the cell, "He's not supposed to be alive, but all he does is stare..."
Lazlo would be impressed if he wasn't so depressed. As it stood, the spirits whispering that he needed to stand, needed to run, was just enough to bring him stumbling upwards. His lips were chapped in dry, his mouth was full of sand... his head struggled to lift, though he managed.
The warden was horrified. His knees shook, while the unease in the junior dreadlords was palpable. Only the Archon seemed unintimidated... though he was clearly fully alert.
"We will take it from here. You have done your part, Warden," came the reply. This was like a lead weight, sinking down an endless well.
Commander sir, whispered the spirits, Run, sir. Go!
Lazlo stumbled forwards, knees buckling.
"Today's the trial," announced the Archon, the only one capable of speaking at this emaciated, forgotten hero, "it's time to answer for your crimes, Harkon."
The Dreadlords moved forwards; they were the only ones brave enough to touch Lazlo, able to magically ward off the supernatural fear that radiated from the possessed man. Both arms held, Lazlo was practically dragged out of his cell. He stumbled, trying to stay steady, trying to keep up. The cobbles were soft and moved away from his feet, pushed like leaves across a pond. Colors swam and suddenly pain flooded his being.
Sunlight, for the first time in four years, touched him. He couldn't see, shut his eyes. He wanted to cry, wanted to yell out. Mercy was something he had been denied, and now he was to be crucified even further to exonerate the guilty. He couldn't even open his eyes to see his Vel Anir one last time, too bright was the sun.
When the brightness diminished and Lazlo could see once more, he was in an unfamiliar room. It was grand, gold and color and marble and incense. It was a high court.
"Lazlo Harkon," called down the cold voice of a judge, an authority on his fate. That the charges against him were false did not matter; "You stand accused of Treason, Sedition, Concealing Magic from the State, Consorting with the enemy, and of the unforgivable offense of Necromancy."
The court, as he looked around, had few familiar faces. Even less, friendly. This was his jury? Countrymen who did not know him, who did not serve, did not see? It had taken his beloved homeland four years to prepare this trial, pruning the jury and judge til only the most suitable would be picked. Waited until his deeds and acts were forgotten by other, more trivial matters.
"Submit your plea," came the command. For the first time, voice hoarse from lack of use and raw thirst, the ruined, pathetic man offered only one word:
"Why?"
He could manage no more, whispered as it was. The court grumbled, some sighing in pity, others red with rage.
"Your crimes," explained the judge, irate, "committed during the so-called 'Battle of Carrion Gulch', where you did purposefully and with intent command you regiments into a deathtrap. Where you did so instruct the Dreadlord in your command to utilize Dark Magic, and at their refusal, utilized your own unlawful potential. Where you did, through your ignorance and failure as a magician, conjured Hellfire that still burns, to this day, in Cortos!"
That wasn't how it had happened... he had been ordered. There was a Dreadlord, but they were away. They had left to persue something else, taking a full three divisions with them, despite orders by the General. He had followed orders, he had protected his soldiers, he had tried to stop the Hellfire himself...
And it was being framed solely upon him.
Lazlo Harkon was an innocent man; anyone there, despite his hidden magic, would have vouched for him. He was a member of the Guard, he was a hero, with several campaigns to his name. He had served diligently. And yet...
"No," was all he said. It was his plea. It was his only response to this. Despair sagged on him, the weight of the dead pressing down on him like an avalanche of corpses.
"Very well. I call forwards the first witness: Speak now on the nature of his crimes, and the weight of his wrong doing," commanded the judge. Lazlo looked over; he couldn't make out this figure. The light was still too bright.
The trial of Lazlo Harkon, celebrated war hero, scapegoat, and a man possessed by the dead, had begun. He would have all manner of slander, of exaggerated traits, of false charges thrown against him. All of it backed by fabricated evidence and the words of Dreadlords.
Lazlo Harkon was a dead man.
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