Maramon the Mad pt1

"You are a God amongst mortals, king." Said a voice from the darkness.

"They are all beneath you." Cries another.

"Kill them all." Whispers yet another. "Show them your power."

"Who are you?" Shouted Maramon at the darkness. He reaches to the right of his bed and draws a sword while he removes his covers. He stands upright holding the short sword with one hand. He struts without fear. He cocks his head and peers into the dark corner of the room. Only moonlight shines on his bare thick chest and long black hair. He inches closer to the noise.

"Reveal yourself and save yourself a slow death." He called out angrily. "I don't like to miss my sleep."

The room became eerie with a sinking feeling of foreboding. The fearless was now filled with dread. Maramon holds the blade with two hands now, clasping the handle tightly, poised and ready for whatever may come from the emptiness.

"I am king of Anariòn, fourth of the house of Belmund I demand you show yourself!" Commanded Maramon.

From the depth of his room, a face peered. A floating ivory mask permanently smiles at the king. It comes closer slowly revealing the rest of its being. Another mask sits next to where the left ear would be and another on the right. A long and lanky body follows crouched like a toad with its long hands and fingers between its shoulders like a mantis. Maramon jumps back knocking over a candle onto his bed. The covers quickly catch fire and illuminate the rest of the room. Maramon grabs the burning sheets ignoring the flames. He tosses it onto the creature and watches it sit still and unbothered by the hot tounges of fire. The creature lifted its grey body and extinguished the flames. Maramon stared in awe and in fear keeping his guard low with his sword pointed high.

"What are you demon!?" Demanded the king half in confidence and half in dismay.

Very smoothly the creature crept down onto the floor with its elbows while its hands carry its face under its chin.

"It is strange isn't it?" Whispered the fiend with the voice of many souls. "That power cannot recognize power." It chuckled. The creature flicked Maramon's sword away quickly and effortlessly. "I mean you no harm king. I should expect you to show the same decency."

"I don't commune with devils. I hunt and condemn them." Replied Maramon.

"Yes. They call you demon slayer. Many of my own children have been destroyed by your own hands. Such power has not been seen for many many centuries. No doubt you could probably destroy me as well given you had your weapons." Smiled the beast.

"I'd destroy you with my bare hands."

"You have strength and confidence. So sure of yourself. Others may claim hubris. But I see your true potential. You are a slayer but I see much more than that."

"You cannot seduce me demon."

"Seduce? Oh, you are far beyond that king. Why trust a demon such as myself." The fiend slithers around Maramon popping in and out of the darkness. "I am merely here to offer you something. A gift."

"I'll bloody kill you with it."

The fiend chuckles and laughs hysterically as it switches its mask to one that is stuck laughing. Polished tears stick to the cheeks frozen in eternal jubilance.

"You won't kill me. I'd like to think you'll be thanking me. In time."

"Why would I thank you?"

The lanky being reaches into its chest like reaching into water. Its chest ripples as it pulls its long limb from itself. The branch-like appendage reaches over to Maramon with its fist closed. Its fingers open up like a spider done spinning its web. In its palm lay a small black amulet. It is a perfectly dark sphere. So dark that not even the moonlight shone off it. A plain silver chain linked around it. Maramon was taken by it.

"I see that you fancy this gift." Ploys the fiend. "But alas you would not accept it."

"What Is this charm beast?"

"You are a slayer-king. The world knows this. What the world has not seen is a nation slayer. A kingdom killer. A conqueror. I know you seek to challenge your might. You know you are better than the average man. Prove to the world you are."

"I have done what no other mortal could." Maramon thought aloud. "I would build a legacy one that will span the rest of time, from the northern cities of Galaden to the volcanic mountain wastes of Azzokar."

The demon smiles deeply as Maramon reaches for the amulet. His hands inch closer before reeling back quickly.

"I will do it without your damned amulet."

The creature switches its mask to one filled with anger. Thick eyebrows angle towards the bridge of the nose.

"You would refuse your destiny?" Cries the fiend."You would refuse a god?"

"I will not make my name with the help of demons." Maramon confidently stared at the masked being. His chest pushes out and his fists clenches tightly. His dark brown eyes narrow and glare at the demon without fear.

"I am Decitara!" Screams the being as it jolts over to meet face to face with the unmoving king of Anariòn. " You do not turn down my gifts."

"So you do have a name." Chuckled Maramon.

The beast did not like his tone but decided to smile anyway. It creeps down once again to his eye level.

"I cannot break your will great king." Claims Decitara. " I leave you with your decision." It puts the amulet on a small table behind Maramon. "Greatness or mediocrity."

The creature slips back into the shadows of the room and vanishes leaving the king with the amulet. Temptation filled the air. The longer he stared at the amulet the more time seemed to pass by and the heavier the air became. The king peered and peered deeper into the black stone. Deeper and deeper still. ____________________________________________________

"That is outrageous!" Cries Lord Theran. "Forgive me my king but you speak of no normal feat!"

Theran stands up out of his cedar chair. In front of him lies a circular table with a detailed map of the known world sculpted from clay upon it. It stretches five men wide. He is joined by the other houses and their lords and King Maramon.

"This is folly!" Yells Sir Manfred Landon. "The nations of the world will descend upon us. The elves have their magics, the orcs have their hordes, the dwarves and the nightcrawlers are impossible to face in their mountains and forests."

"What is the purpose?" Says Lord Duncan Rodrickson.

Maramon sat on his throne unbothered by the outcries of his subjects. He gazes into his hand constantly toying with the black amulet.

"My lords." Says Maramon calmly. "I have faced many foes and many monsters. Yet here I still live. I would call that divine providence. Be it The god Archeus or Orision. And you would dare question gods?"

"How are we to believe this?" Says lord Aravel Lorien. "There haven't heard such words coming from the priests."

"What should I do to convince you. Lord Aravel?" Maramon smoothly asks. "I've killed demons that no man could. I have bested a dragon and I have never lost a battle. What else could I do to convince you?"

The room becomes quiet as if it were empty. You could almost hear the wind outside brushing its cold hands against the castle's stone walls. Maramon stands. He wears grey trousers and black boots with small plates of steel around his shin and toes. A red roughspun tunic sits undone around his chest. And to tie it all together is a great heavy cloak. A thick collar made out of a slain dire wolf pelt nearly swallows his face while black and red linen drapes to the floor. His black hair is now pulled back into a bun revealing small scars across the left ear and cheek.

"Or perhaps you would like to help me prove it lord Aravel?" The room begins to murmur. "Or any of you that claim to be ambitious enough. Prove me wrong. I put It on my life should I not be blessed by the gods then call me a heretic and burn my body or take my head!" Maramon angrily screams.

"Your lordship," says Aravel. "Surely you can't. What with any rebellious curr simply finding you in your sleep, or an unhappy cupbearer slipping some poison."

"I said what I said Aravel and I mean what I say." Maramon declares. "Let any being, be it man or not, my death shall make them king over all Anariòn."

The room falls silent if for but a moment. Nothing but the ghastly echo of the wind howls through the stone halls and sweeps into the large chamber where the council is seated. It brushes against the long red curtains making the gold frills shake and bend. The creaking of encumbered wood chairs joins in the silent chorus as the lords and knights move uncomfortably in the awkward stillness. Still, it remains quiet if for but a moment.

"This council is dismissed." Declares the king.

The king sits alone in the dark and grim hall. Surrounding him are his trophies of times past scattered upon the grey walls. Adventures and quests that made him the most feared man in Anarión. Hides of great beasts and heads of monsters all whispered to the king challenging him further. Maramon glares at the walls with anger. His eyes begin to turn pitch red and his veins bulge and buckle underneath his skin. The voices grew louder and more discernible. Then an image of the demon from the night prior burned into his mind.

“I am king of men, lord of mortals and god of Theras. I am king of men, lord of mortals, and god of Theras.

I am lord, I am god. I am a god amongst mortals. I am a god amongst mortals!”

The words ring true with the king as he looks with jubilance.

Days pass and word spreads like wildfire to the edges of Anarión. Lords, sellswords, paupers, and knights came to the capital. Many flags, banners, and crest pepper the ground. Unheard of houses and those of renown. A herald of the keep walks from the large doors overlooking the courtyard.

“My lords.” He begins. “Sellswords and fortune seekers. Here lies your conquest. Slay the king in combat and replace him and all his riches and power.”

All the warriors stand ready to take their prize. Banging shields together with their weapons. The tournament grounds are decorated with vibrant flags and banners strewn across the boundaries of the arena. The crowds gather in a close huddle as Maramon approaches. His hair drapes over his face and bloodshot eyes. His armor lacks. A simple tunic over leather pants and leather spaulders. His sword however induced fear. A black edge curves behind a silver blade with runic symbols of unknown origin. His baelet sways hypnotically as he enters the center of the arena.

“Many of you came!” He exclaims. “Many of my own lords and champions who swore fealty. Yet you face me now ready to take the mantle.”

Every soul was silent.

“Come now my lords.” Maramon boasts. “Strike me down. Claim that which you covet.”

First to stand in the sand in front the other clad knights and warriors is Osimer the Strongman. A giant layered in plated armor. He stands over three heads above Maramon and is as wide as two grown men. His gnarled breathing and hissing pierce through his thick helmet. A broad great blade rests on his shoulder as he cracks his spine.

“My king.” Osimer groans.

“Osimer. I do not wish for you to fall upon my blade this day.”

“I swear loyalty to the house of my lord Fredrickson.”

“That old man threw in his bid as well. I am surprised.”

“I am only his weapon king Maramon.”

“Then come. Prove to Orision who he should place his bets on.”

Osimer readies his blade feared low. Maramon leaves his guard open standing with his sword backward like a dagger. He removes his tunic and fights bare-chested as if he were an orc kin brawler. Osimer heaves forward swinging his blade swiftly. The force of the blade hits the dust of the arena scattering to each corner. Maramon glances the heavy two-hander nicking it on its edge. Osimer grunts as he swings his blade over his head wildly but shattered it on impact where the nick was. Osimer falls to his knees with blood flowing from his face. A huge gash opens up from one corner of his face to another. Maramon approaches the blinded warrior.

“You serve me!” Your king. Maramon kneels and pulls Osimer closer within whisper distance. “I have my plans for you.”

A gut-wrenching growl pours from the blood-filled mouth of the giant. Maramon’s blade shone through Osimer’s back.

“Next!” Maramon exclaims. “My lords?” He points.

Hesitantly Sir Manfred steps forward. “This hubris end here.” Sir Manfred dons his black armor decorated with his sigil, the black dragon. His helm also resembles the dragon's maw. His sword and shield are also stained black and emblazoned with the dragon. Sir Manfred moves forward and pokes and prods at Maramon. The king would simply parry, letting the sound of the edges grinding against each other ring. The fight went on until Manfred grew tired and sluggish while Maramon still nimbly moved from side to side. Sir Manfred fell to his knee and planted his sword into the dirt. Maramon approaches and rests the tip of his blade over Manfred’s neck.

“Who else?” The king calls as he easily slides his sword into Sir Manfred causing blood to pool into his mouth.

Many foes came through the afternoon. Arrows drew no blood from his wounds. And swords were cracked and broken against his. The arena was filled with his allies and bannermen along with their aspirations. The wise knelt to the king and retreated from the arena.

“And so you shall gaze upon the chosen of Archeus, and Orision.” Maramon exclaims. “Those who would claim to usurp my crown lay before you here. Buried in the dirt or on their knees. My own bannermen.”

Maramon gazes at the kneeling men and smiles. “Mercy will not be my weakness.”

Maramon orders the guards to kill the remaining men swiftly. In his hand, he clutches the amulet and smiles dastardly. The soldiers around him hesitantly kill their guests while Maramon walks among the blood-soaked field. What was once sand is now mud, a mixture of earth and flesh. His boots leave their heavy prints in the red ground and leaves the tournament grounds.

In his mind Decitara's voice echoes. "Cleanse them all. The Old Ones are dead. The three do not answer. But I do. I shall protect you, great king. As you cleanse the world anew. And create it in our image."