Fate - First Reply Molthal's sweet Spring song

[Koltûn]

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.​

 

[Afanas]

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?"

 

[Koltûn]

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​

 

[Afanas]

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."

 

[Koltûn]

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 ​

 

[Afanas]

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.

 

[Koltûn]

He raised his hand.

- “Enough.” - His voice boomed firmly over the sound of crushed metal, and of innards being ripped outside of their natural place. The orcs’ offensive - that of the lucky few that were still alive, that was - ground to a halt.

As his minions retreated behind him, the half-giant then took a step forward, intently examining the scene. Though his expression remained inscrutable, the flicker of sunlight shining upon his fiery gaze did betray a hint of… disdain? Amusement? Or maybe even approval? - as it shifted lazily between the bloody remains on the ground, and the man that had just ripped through some of the stronger combatants in Molthal like they had been made out of dough.

- “Not bad, Afanas, son of Vlakhos.” -

Silently, he tilted his chin upwards and forwards; a signal to the remaining orcs to clean that mess. As they did so, Koltûn instead shifted his gaze back to the newcomer. He tilted his head slightly backwards, as though he was trying to size-up Afanas. The foremost question on his mind though, was not quite to do with the man's martial prowess, however.

- “What is my father to you?” - ​

 

[Afanas]

Koltûn

Afanas stood in the midst of the quiet aftermath, the air still and undisturbed but for the traces of violence he'd left behind. His eyes moved slowly over the scene—not with panic or pride, but with a calm, clinical detachment. Blood clung to his hands, stark and wet, catching the light like some quiet accusation.

He held them up for a moment, examining them as one might study a tool dulled from use. His expression didn’t shift much, only the faintest narrowing of his eyes, a slight downturn at the corners of his mouth. Regret, laced with disappointment--not in the dead. In Koltun.

Then, with a small shake of his head, he let his hands fall to his sides. Koltûn's men had come here with steel and loyalty and they died for nothing.

"An associate of my father, if you must know. Menalus, in his eternal wisdom, deemed it necessary that I shadow your steps—for he considers you impulsive, ruled by folly more than sense. In exchange for my watchful presence, he permits me certain indulgences… to devour, whenever I so please, the local soldiery and their savage war-beasts."

Afanas licked his teeth, lips parting to show mucosal surfaces, glossy, taut as polished rubber, pulling back over bone in pitch black folds.

 

[Koltûn]

There it was.

Menalus being worried about him? Absolutely senseless. Menalus thinking him an imbecile that needed to be chaperoned, so as not to besmirch the honour of Molthal? Now, that made more sense.

The fire giant thought all of his progeny were idiots, after all… and it did have to be said that, for the most part - looking at his beloved siblings - Koltûn tended to agree, even if it cast him in a poor light with the King.

As it was, neither Menalus’ opinions of him, nor Afanas’... strange appetites phased him all that much. After all, in this mortal world, the strong did as they pleased, and the weak endured what they must.

If Afanas proved as reliable as he was lethal, the half-giant would be more than willing to let him indulge in whatever fits of gluttony he saw fit.

- “You’ll soon find, Master Vlakhosid” - Koltûn turned on his heels as he spoke, motioning for Afanas to follow him. - “that the King’s favour waxes and wanes as it does.” - Leaving the bloodshed behind, the Prince then took the path that led further into the city, towards the towering citadel of Menalus.

- “But prove yourself to me on the battlefield, and I’ll give you far tastier prey than mere Blightlander rabble.” -

Afanas​

 

[Afanas]

Koltûn
Afanas walked in silence beside the towering fire giant, his strides light but deliberate. The ambient noises of the blightlands dimmed in his mind, backgrounded by curiosity that now burned brighter than the midday sun filtering through swamp fog.

He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to see Koltûn from a different angle. His sharp, stygian eyes scanned the giant with open inquisitiveness—not rudely, but with a hungry interest of a scholar.

Eventually, he hummed—not a tune, but a thoughtful sound, like one testing the edge of a note before deciding whether to play it.

"Do not mistake my meaning—I hold no fondness for Menalus. Our arrangement is steeped in convenience, nothing more. And mark me, there is neither man nor beast he might toss into my maw that would tempt me to linger in Molthal much longer. This bleak parcel of earth is a misery to behold."

Afanas, pursed his lips and readjusted the wide-brimmed travelling hat perched upon the crown of his pale skull.

"But you seem to be serving your father's interests well enough, even if unwillingly, or perchance, unknowingly."

 

[Koltûn]

- "We all do as the King wishes." - He replied dryly. - "Though you’ll find that there’s more to Molthal than just slums and pits." -

With their extended stride, the two of them would make it through the Outer Town of Molthal rather quickly. Swiftly, their step would lead them, past the grime and gloom that seemed to permeate the hovels of the Blight orcs, all the way to one of the colossal inner walls of Molthal.

At the sight of the Prince, the great, heavy doors folded before them, revealing through the portic, an altogether different picture.

True to the half-giant’s hint, this part of the city looked an alien place, when compared to the sea of filth and debris they had just exited from. Here, the streets were immaculate, the façades polished - even if not ostentatious - and the denizens dignified - well, more than usual at least. This was Inner Mothal, where Menalus’ favourites lived.

As they continued past the gate, the two of them would come into a grand, wide square. Opposite the street they had just come out of, a group of blight-orcs, riding large hyenas seemed to be engaged in a training of some sort, the mounted company looking rather out-of-place in their environs.

The half-giant started making his way towards them.

 

[Afanas]

Koltûn
Afanas stepped from the choking fumes and sullen forge-fires of Molthal into a place that seemed carved from some forgotten dream. The clamor of hammer and anvil faded behind him, replaced by an uncanny stillness. Here, the streets ran smooth and black as midnight—slabs of obsidian laid with a mason’s pride and sorcerer’s precision, catching the light like oil on water.

Gone were the jagged towers and gaping vents belching smoke into the sky. Instead, bold structures rose on either side, their lines clean and proud, forged not merely for utility but for the quiet glory of craftsmanship. Basalt columns flanked tall archways, their flanks etched with curling flames and serpents locked in battle. Lanterns of copper and smoked glass burned with steady flame, casting a warm, amber glow that danced upon the polished stones.

The air was different here—cooler, cleaner, though still tinged with the memory of fire. A fountain stood in the heart of the square, its waters whispering as they spilled from the fanged mouth of a dragon wrought in black marble. The scent of moss and stone replaced the usual reek of brimstone. It was a place untouched by the rot that gripped the rest of Molthal; a bastion of the new order, perhaps, or the vanity of giant king Menalus.

Afanas paused, his stygian eyes sweeping the scene with a swordsman's alertness but a poet's appreciation. The hardness in his face slackened—just a little—and something almost like reverence passed through him. He had seen the hellish guts of this city, where men sweated and died in the name of fire and might.

His gaze lingered a moment longer, drawn to the silent grace of the place—a flicker of civilization amidst the furnace-born savagery of Molthal. Then, as if rousing from a reverie, Afanas turned back to Koltûn. The grim line of his mouth softened, and he gave a nod—firm, deliberate. There was steel still in him, but it was tempered now with something steadier.

“Even if the whim took me, I could not linger long. In but a month, I am summoned to Alliria, where a seat upon their so-called council awaits—granted not without bloodless struggle and the slow grind of diplomacy. Should I arrive tardy, they might strip me of the commission. It would not end me, perhaps, yet I have paid dearly in coin, time, and subtlety for this shadow of authority. To lose it now would be... tiresome.”

 

[Koltûn]

At that moment, one of the hyena riders seemed to notice them. The orc urged its uncanny mount towards the two newcomers, though, given the unevenly crescent pace the hyena took as it headed towards them, it seemed as though the soldier seemed to lack a firm grasp over the beast.

He did manage to bring the animal to a halt, though only as it came face-to-face with Koltûn; the unruly savannah beast showing its file of yellowed, razor-sharp teeth to the half-giant. The Prince, for his part, didn’t so much as flinch, instead just staring down the wild mount.

- "Shame." - Though the half-giant’s fiery stare was still fixed on that of the hyena, there was no doubt that the word had been meant for the elegant man that had arrived with the Prince. - "We won’t depart for another fortnight, though the North Ixchel stone lies within a month’s march." -

A light nod of assent followed. This time, the rider understood it to be meant for him. The orc pulled his mount’s reins, and rushed to rejoin the main group.

- "If you wish, you may leave for Alliria then." - Koltûn continued, addressing Afanas once more.

- "Though in the meantime, you are welcome to join us at the King’s citadel." - With that, the half-giant set off once more, trailing the hyena riders as they headed towards Menalus’ colossal fortress, at the very heart of the city.

---

Two Weeks Later - Molthal

If the Inner city of Molthal had already marked a stark difference to the slums of the outer city, then the prodigious citadel of the King was something else entirely.

At the behest of his royal patron, the Allirian would be treated to all the ostentation that the grand fortress of Menalus could muster. For two full weeks, Afanas would enjoy the finest quarters at the citadel, with servants beyond count to attend to his every need… and that not to mention the increasingly exotic… delicacies made to fit the guest’s peculiar proclivities.

During this time though - all the luxury notwithstanding - the Allirian would see little of his hosts. Of the King there wouldn’t be the faintest trace, and even of his Princely benefactor, Afanas would see very little of.

Koltûn instead spent most of the day engaged in martial training in the gargantuan lower halls of the castle, while at night a veritable throng of servants scurried to and fro his quarters.

In that particular morning, the Prince could be found in his usual stalking grounds: the training sands.

Bare-chested, built like a bull, with a towering height to boot, and a canvas of tribal tattoos and patterns etched onto his skin, the Prince struck quite the presence in the arena. Wielding the Fyrestone - his molten-rock hammer - its head blazing with fire magic, he stood opposite two enormous mountain trolls; his opponents for the morning.

Not that they were much of an opposition, as it would soon become clear.

Uncoordinated, and unorganized, the two fell beasts rushed at the half-giant, spiked clubs wielded high as they charged at their opponent.

The first of them to meet its target was greeted with a simple dodge, the Prince’s mighty frame shifting with a speed nothing short of astonishing, for someone his size. The troll, robbed of his target, and thrown off-balance in the process, would stumble against the stone ring that encased the combat sands, his club flailing wildly in the air.

As it turned out however, the second troll would await a fate worse than simply looking like a mindless dimwit. As he dodged the first attack, Koltûn would quickly reposition for the counter-attack.

Suddenly, a shift occurred; the Fyrestone pulsated, and from the warhammer’s head, the subtle flames that flickered feebly into view from time to time suddenly flared up, their hue changing from plain, fiery crimson, to take on the full pallet of the rainbow.

Beyond aesthetics, the true power of the multi-colored fire would become apparent when, upon making contact with the troll’s flabby torso, it catalysed an explosion so great that it sent rent pieces of the beast flying throughout the colossal halls.

With his gore-covered minions deliriously cheering him on, Koltûn then headed towards the benches that stood above the stone ring.​

 

[Afanas]

Koltûn
Afanas reclined upon the basalt bench like some lean-limbed shadow cast in human guise, boots planted wide apart, hat brim hiding all but the knife-edge gleam of his eyes. Through the whole brutal bout he had watched in stillness, the trolls’ ruin mirrored in those black-flint pupils: rainbow fire bursting from the hammer’s head, the thunder of bone and meat flung across the sands, and the roar of orcs drunk on slaughter.

When the half-giant’s stride brought him near, Afanas inclined his head a finger’s breadth—no fawning bow, merely the acknowledgement one predator grants another. The brim lifted just enough for Koltûn to glimpse a pale, statuesque face carved in chill marble and cut with the hint of an amused smile.

"Impressive," he said, voice even as a drawn blade. "My father has a fondness for maces and hammers, much like yours. Watching you swing it… reminded me of him. I reckon he would have found the spectacle amusing, was he here to witness it."

 

[Koltûn]

Although the fight had clearly been won, it was not fully over yet, and as he headed back to the benches, the Prince was reminded of this fact by a thundering roar to his flank.

With a swift turn of his heels, Koltûn repositioned just in time to parry a strike from the first troll - the one that had returned from tripping his way over to the edge of the ring.

The intensity of both the attack and the subsequent parry however, sent the beast staggering back once again, thus leaving it open to a counter attack.

At that, as if sensing the imminent end of the fight, the Fyrestone seemed to settle, its colourful, mottled flames dying down, and resuming their former orange-and-gold hues.

As the prince brandished the warhammer, it would appear as though there would be no fantastical explosion this time. Instead, a clean, precise strike would wipe the troll’s head right off his shoulders, sending it crashing against the stone walls with a squishy thud, while below the body collapsed to the floor in a nigh-on comical way.

Having now vanquished both his enemies, Koltûn at last made his way to the stands, coming then within earshot of Afanas.

- “The spectacle is routine.” - He said haughtily. - “To keep one's senses sharp, and the masses entertained.” -

It was then though, that the half-giant’s gaze suddenly snapped past Afanas, and over to the great, black iron doors that led down to the lower halls. There, unnoticed in all the commotion, a lone blight orc strode down the benches. Though such an individual would normally not arise much in the way of suspicion, his filthy leather apron, as well as a thick layer of soot that seemed to intermittently cover him from head-to-toe, marked him as something else other than a rank-and-file legionnaire.

To the half-giant, it became clear soon enough: the blacksmith had finished his commission.

It was time to leave.​

 

[Afanas]

Koltûn

Afanas rose from the basalt bench with the unhurried poise of a shadow slipping free of its moorings. Blood-spattered sand still hissed where scraps of troll-flesh smoldered, and the headless corpse lay twitching at the ring’s edge, but Koltûn had already turned his lion-shouldered back, the firestone hammer cooling to a dull, embered glow in his grasp.

Silent as dusk, the Psuchephage fell in behind the half-giant. His stride was long yet languid, boots whispering over obsidian tiles that rang to the cheers of orcs drunk on gore. He cast a single, cursory glance toward the apron-clad orc as he emerged from beyond the heavy iron gates. His gaze was followed by a curt nod: acknowledgement without camaraderie, the glint a sword might give to a whetstone.

They passed beneath the vaulted lintel where braziers guttered in the draught, and only then did Afanas speak, voice even and cool, every syllable honed to a knife-edge.

"A spectacle indeed," Afanas said, voice level, bearing the faint chill of something far from the hearthfire. His tone might have passed for praise — if one missed the razor hidden beneath it.

He paused then, as if weighing something behind those flint-black eyes. When he spoke again, it was slower, more pointed. "I wasn’t told you had a taste for sorcery."

Another pause, longer this time — not from hesitation, but the surgical consideration of a man choosing where to make the incision.

“Yet I notice you favor foes who charge headlong into your strengths—creatures of sinew and dull ferocity, convinced that muscle rules the day. They serve for sport, perhaps, but you are iron, Koltûn, and iron is tempered not by soft blows. It calls for heat and relentless pressure. Half-witted trolls”—his gaze flicked back to the ruined trolls with clinical disdain—“seldom provide either. Choose, next time, an adversary whose edge bites against yours. Only then will the hammer ring true.”