The Fall of King’s Crossing

The heat of the afternoon had failed to fade as the sun had set, lending an air of physical discomfort to the anxiety of Castille’s defenders. All stood ready before the Temple of Light, numbering in the dozens. They had awaited the coming enemy for what seemed an eternity, murmuring amongst themselves as to whether they may have escaped danger without a fight.

Some lay on the ground and contemplated a nap, apparently unconcerned at the prospect of battle. Others paced anxiously, eyeing the road for any sign of the enemy’s approach. Still others lamented aloud that the greatest champions of the town were absent, slowly turning the group’s hope to despair. None argued with these worries, for they weighed heavily on the hearts of all, even while they found voice on the lips of only a few.

Without warning, an explosion rocked the countryside. All eyes immediately turned upon the center of King’s Crossing, where the tavern had erupted in flames. Those who had languished rose to their feet at once, many drawing weapons and readying themselves for combat. The champions looked on in despair as the site of many good times was laid to waste in the blink of an eye.

“Hold the line! Defend the temple!” came the cries of those with the right and the will to lead. The fastest and stealthiest among them set out to scout the destruction for signs of the enemy, returning with word of an ambush. It was clear that the destruction was merely a plot to draw them away from their station before the Temple. They had been charged with the defense of an artifact of great importance, and while this fact had not escaped their thoughts, many secretly wished to seek out their foe rather than remain.

Silence came then, and the champions waited, growing ever more worrisome as time drew on. The face of their enemy still eluded them. Did they lie in wait? What of the commoners in the baronies? Uncertainty plagued their resolve.

What feelings of rage they may have harbored were then turned to horror. A ghastly rain of human heads fell upon the temple. Shields turned upward, but no defense could protect the champions from the sight of friends and loved ones, their heads staring blankly upward from the ground.

Cries of pain, rage, and anguish resounded through the crowd. Curses of the foulest sort rang through the air. “Stand firm!” cried the leaders, trying their best to sound resolute lest all morale fade. This was not war of a mortal sort. The vileness of their foe was palatable, like bile at the back of their throats.

Time was now no longer their foe, as it had already run out. Not just the tavern, but all of the baronies were now alight with flames. What would be left to save when they won? How could a victory be anything but pyrrhic, if it was to be a victory at all? Determination turning grim, all stood silent and awaited the inevitable approach.

They felt him before they could see him, so great was his darkness. The blaze of the summer night was tinged with a sting that chilled the soul. Whispers escaped the crowd, voices that spat the name Xuthal beneath their breath, as if it were offal in their mouths. The ground shook and shadowy creatures of immense size broke the tree line, clearing the way for their master.

Courage which already hung by a thread began to vanish as the dark army drew closer. Great demons sheathed in flame stood beside giant, undying skeletons, all grinning hungrily at the would-be champions. At their center, the dark lord smiled, as if nothing of significance opposed him. Fear hung over the Temple like a thick mist, obscuring everything but the approaching doom.

Neither side waited for the other to make the first move, both launching a full attack in massive, bloody melee. The healers of the Temple stood within their circle, restoring the wounded and the dying as they fell. Spells of might and protection were laid upon the warriors as they entered the fray, cleaving into the fiends with great ferocity. Strokes of magical power felled those foes that approached too close.

Still the dark lord smiled, unimpressed by the power or the devotion of the Temple’s defenders. Such mortals could not fathom what power really was, and so he would toy with them, dangling victory before their desperate grasp, and then snatch it away when he had been amused enough.

The dark army pressed forward, undaunted by the number of their dead. Exhaustion shown plain on the faces of the Temple’s defenders, harried as they were by the seemingly endless ranks of the fiends. The dead soon began to outnumber the living. The clerics and mages of the group struggled to cast their magics with depleted strength. It soon became clear that their fight was in vain.

Without warning, the dark lord stepped forward, seeking to taste their despair for himself. With a word and a gesture, he struck down the mightiest of the champions. Even the Crimson Cross, stalwart defenders of king and country, lay slain, cut down by the dark one’s power. Effortlessly, he strode past their weakened and dying ranks. Those who flew forward to oppose him found their blades to be useless, their spells to have no effect, and their lives extinguished for such reckless heroism.

At last he came to the door of the Temple. What few guardians remained to check his advance he slew without difficulty. The magical protections on the door vanished with a touch. He entered the Temple at last, the smile never having faded from his face.

Moments later, the last bastion of hope in King’s Crossing burst into flames. The champions who still lived, fighting desperately for survival, looked on in despair. The battle was lost. Despite their valiant last stand, the darkness had won.

The dark army withdrew of their own leisure then, leaving the champions to sift through the ashes of their defeat. The dead were covered and laid in neat rows, for there was no time for burial. Those with any remaining strength spread out to search the baronies for survivors, hoping against hope that their losses were anything but total.

Thus did King’s Crossing fall, swept away by the darkness. Only time would tell whether the survivors would have spirit enough to rebuild, or if the gesture would be anything but futile. For the darkness would surely return to finish what it had started, knowing now that the light did not possess the strength to oppose it.