The Unquiet Dead

The one who is yet to rest and rise knows not why he was awoken. He is but to slay and bring down his foes to what he once was. But he will regret all that he has done. The release of death won't be an escape for him when he is risen again, and again, and again.

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1. Chapter I - The Adamant Council

In a grand hall of entirely iron, the flames and torches flickered on the walls, suspended by chains. From ceiling to floor, to statue to wall; everything was iron in the building. Everything was as cold as ice, yet harder than stone with not a sign of corrupting rust to be seen. The statues stood along the sides of the hall, against the walls like trees along a stretching boulevard. With the heads of horses and spears stood up right in their hand, bladed like glaives, ever they stood so still, dormant and lifeless, seeming ready and on guard to create an illusion of protection. A red carpet, lined with glimmering gold, extended all the way through the middle of the floor, running up to a shallow staircase. Atop the stairs sat two giants upon glamorous thrones of precise and refined detail; etchings of dragons and winding vines carved beautifully into the metal. On either side of them stood two knights, both of equal, if not larger heights to those on the thrones. One in black, one in silver. The silver knight wore a cape of chain mail and held a towering halberd, the bulky metal plates of his armour emblazoned with decoration. The black knight had a scale mail cloak about his waist and he gripped a huge shield, embellished with a crow that fanned out its wings. With his other hand, a highly renovated sword, etched with runes and onyxes. Towering proud to protect the Crowns, they saw what the statues looked upon, heard all that the walls could listen to, and trailed the Thrones as if they were their own shadows. Finally, a lone statue of a woman, her hands cupped together and her head bowed down, stood over and behind them all. Watching. Waiting. Guarding.
"Speak up!" the giant bearded man bellowed to those who were out in front of him. 
The behemoths on the thrones were both the King and Queen of the land, ten feet in height each; an unnatural size for their human-like appearance. The King was adorned in luxurious armour of whites, reds and rich golds, a fur lining around his neck and shoulders. He wore an iron crown of weaving thorn stems around his entire head and going across his forehead. The woman next to him was his Queen, who was dressed in glossy white and odd bits of iron dotted around her, like a breastplate, gauntlets and necklaces. She instead wore a crown of iron roses that, like her king, went around and across her forehead. 

"Well!" the King still roared. A mere insect to their monarchy, a humble youth knelt in front of his graces, sobbing. 

"Please your Grace, I wish only to speak of the recent assault on our town!" he cried out as his saddening voice echoed through the hall. Other important figures sat behind him on a separated, metal horseshoe table, welded into the floor and a gap in the middle for the walkway, the tables facing inwards to the thrones. "The Vovoarácks slaughtered us all for blood and to drink its bitter taste." The King's head ducked into his palm as his elbow leant on the armrest, his heart sinking as a sigh escaped his nostrils. "I hope it does not displease your Grace, but that was the last farming settlement outside of the city!" 

"Yes, I understand this!" the King interrupted impatiently and the frightened soul below coward intensely. 

"Do not be afraid, child. No harm will come of you within these walls of metal." the Queen softly spoke. 

"Yes, but for how long?!" a man at the horse shoe table cried out. "How long till those bloodthirsty invaders break through our defences?" His question was not answered, by not the King nor Queen, or the other councilmen around him. 

"Let them come." the silver knight hollered. "I will cleave through them like kindling if they set foot in this keep!" 

"Brother, whilst it is likely they will not get past our adamant will," the black knight turned as he exclaimed to his comrade, "I fear that the people of this city will not be so easily protected by our might." 

The other councilmen and women started to spark out into debate, like a flint and steel igniting hot oil. 

"We go out and meet them head on I say!" one cried. 

"We do not have the men, and we cannot throw away more of our defenders' precious blood!" another blared. 

"How about we plague them?! Diseasing their water with fowl od-" 

"That might as well be a good idea as poisoning our own people!" 
The worded stabs and jabs carried on and on. Minutes passed as the debate raged continuously at the table, council members standing up from time to time to cease prowess in height that did them no such aid. The humble youth still stayed knelt, wavering to move at all. The squabbles became like bickering sparrows until the King's patience run dry. 

"SILENCE!!" he howled as the hall quaked slightly under his roar. "Prophet!" he yelled with less tension. "Prophet, where are you?!" And through out of the black, a man in a white hood and robes stepped out from behind one of the statues along the walls. As he walked out from the statue, his mere presence made the suspended flames grow gently in more powerful light. 

"Your Graciousness?" he smiled. Hands behind his back, he walked to the middle of the room with his hood dipped low enough to cover his eyes with black shadow. 

"Great Prophet, we need your guidance once more. All that you have created for us in the name of the Lady of Life, is being destroyed by the perilous evil outside of this very city."  the Queen harmoniously exclaimed with her fragile voice. "All of the great wealth that we gained through your tremendous efforts are in jeopardy." 

The Prophet said nothing back. Not an usher of a word. But instead, he held out a floating blue flame that twinkled with delicate light from behind his back. 

"This is our key to success, your Graciousness." he whispered, but still heard as clear as crystal. Then out of the flame, it burst in a roar of dazzling flame and a bird of glamorous blue soared out of the flame. An owl, small and plump. 

"We have no time for magic tricks, Prophet! Death is at our door and my people are at their KNEES!" the King growled as he stood up, his gargantuan size shadowing over The Prophet. "If you are so bent on making magic tricks like a Jester, then make these so called 'Vovoarácks' vanish!" 

"Your Grace," the owl said, softly in a delicate angelic voice, "if you would not mind, I am no conjure of a mere Jester's magic trick." The King went silent, his face stone cold in bewilderment at a talking creature. The whole room did the same. The sound of the flickering flames of the torches was the only thing that could be heard throughout the enormous hall. 

"Your Majesties, this is Chitchin. She is a spirit of the heavens from the Lady of Life herself." The Prophet muttered as Chitchin rested on his shoulder. "And she is to find a saviour. She is the key to bringing life to the One who is yet to rest and rise." Chitchin bat her wings once off his shoulder and gazed into his eyes. "Bring me their soul." The Prophet ushered as the bird went on her way out of the door to find a light as faint as a suffocating candle.

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