(no subject)

[skull_bearer]

Finally finished the last of my assignments! That last one was by far the best. I had a brainwave to flick through my book of Rodney Matthew artwork, I swear, that guy is inspiration INC. I was planning to write one based on the pic 'Heavy Metal Hero', a massive, fantasical steam engine, but the bunnies didn't bite. Not until I got to the pic 'No Mean City', at any rate.

The pic is here, if you want to look at it, it gives an idea about what I wrote about.

The full story is here, but I had to cut out the end for the assingment because I went 470 over the limit.

After such a crappy day, the evening has proven to be wonderful, particularly because the lovely Roachspit wrote me a squee-worthy Raistlin/Dalamar ficlet and dedicated it to yours truely. Maybe tomorrow I'll be in the mood for it, because... well, read the story, you'll understand.

Everyone's familiar with the standard, good vs. evil plot. But what if evil won? What sort of world would it be? Set years after the Dark's final conquest, follow the life of Krull Snark, petty thief in the city of Rafters.

This was inspired and named after Rodney Matthew's wonderful picture, 'No Mean City'.

No Mean City
(Or, a Day in the Life of Krull Snark)

This is the night of the lonely winds
Here the light no longer guards
and the darkest one sits high on his throne
In the endless bitter night
-Night of the Blackwinds, Kovenant.

The day did not dawn. In never dawned any more. Krull supposed it had once, at least, that's what was whispered in the so called 'Havens of The Light'. He himself could not remember a time when the Storm had not wreathed the sky in it's black shroud.

Still, Krull knew when the day dawned. The mythical sun might not shed light, but it did shed heat, and soon he was woken when his bedcloths grew too warm.

Hissing to himself, he rolled out from his all-too-hot cocoon and flexed his claws before opening the shutters of the one window in his small room.

Daylight, ha! So much for the prattling of these so called 'desciples of light'! But then, these same fools named him and his kind- the Rackbones- 'aberrations'. He'd ripped the head off the desciple who had dared call him that. No-one insulted Krull Snark without consequences!

But then, that's how things were in Rafters. You couldn't let the lightling's whining about 'morals' and such rubbish soften you up. Being soft was alright for bedriders and such, but they were paid to be soft, you wouldn't pay them to share your bedcloths with them otherwise. But out there, in the streets of Rafters, you had to be hard, hard as nails and sharp as razors.

Krull shook himself out of his reverie, another thing you couldn't indulge in if you wanted to keep your bones, or your life. His skinless face set in a permanent rictus grin, he turned to get dressed.

The beltcloth went on first, as usual. It wasn't a fine one, not the sort you saw the Nightking's boot-lickers were in the bazaars, but the belt was made of good hide and he had sewn pieces of scrounged metal on the cloth skirt.

Then came the chest-piece, not that he really needed one. None of his race did really, the bony rib-plates that covered their chest were protection enough, and even an assassin would be hard-pressed to find a vulnerable spot in their cadaverous, wiry bodies. Still, the chest-piece was a good one, not fancy, but decent. Tough boiled leather plates over more flexible cloth.

Then boots, Krull was exceedingly proud of his boots, tough leather studded with metal caps and spikes. Other than the two razors he always kept polished to a shine, they were his favourite weapons.

It was those very razors Krull picked up next, flicking out the blades to inspect them for nicks or rust. He had checked last night, but this was as much part of his morning ritual as getting dressed.

The Storm had come to visit, Krull noted as he stepped out of his home, mist shrouded the streets, a mist as black as the eternal cloud above him.
There was no point in locking the door, he never left anything valuable in there and you couldn't wreck the house anymore without tearing in down. And that, Krull thought, would probably only improve it's market value. If his skull jaw had been capable of smiling, he would have.

He would head for the upper city, Krull decided. His usual stomping grounds were in the docks by the river, but the mist could provide enough cover for him to creep into higher ground- and richer pickings.

Rafters had been built on a mountain, long beyond living memory. The Lightlings boasted how their ancestors had built the city oh-so-many generations ago, but no one paid much attention to them unless it was to drive a fist through their skulls. All Krull knew was that it had clearly once had pretty impressive defences, before the population had overrun the walls and flooded out to the river, forming the 'lower city'.

The 'upper city' was still occupied, and it was there that Krull was headed.

The 'lower city' had been built without former planning, with switchback roads and little coherence. Inhabitants were as likely to climb across the slopping roofs as to walk the streets, the houses were packed closely enough to jump across streets with ease. Also, taking the 'sky road' took you out of reach of the feral dogs, people and jawrats that infested the streets. Not to mention the occasional patrols.

Krull prefered still prefered the 'dirt road' though. His razors were sharp enough to see off any attackers, the patrols were more interested in humans than Rackbones, and to take to the roofs mean leaving yourself open to hungry stormhawks. Krull had seen a stormhawk before, a horror with spined wings, claws sharper than his razors and a beak strong enough to crunch even his tough bones. No thanks.

He saw a few while walking up, slowly circling dots almost lost in the roiling clouds of the Storm, but they, and the half-starved hound skulking in the gutting, were the only living creatures he met.

This was puzzing, normal the streets were, if not thronging, then at least fairly busy, oh well, there was probably an execution or pit-fight going on.

Guttering lanterns hung from the roofs, the only light left now, it sent Krull's scrawny shadow dancing up the steep dirt incline.

This part of the city was known as the Climb. It had been built on the side of the mountain, and was so steep that Krull had to bend himself almost double to compensate. There were jokes made of those who lived on the climb, how they had one leg longer than the other, and would fall over on flat ground.

Krull had tackled the Climb before, and he could believe it. Not that you saw many inhabitants normally. They hid away in their lopsided houses and rarely came out. Too many patrols, Krull supposed, they were close to the upper city. Even by the river, everyone had a healthy respect for the Nightking's patrols.

It would have been better, people agreed, if they had been violent and rude. They understood violent and rude, you saw violent and rude every day in the lower city. But the patrols...

Krull had been stopped by them only once, generally they didn't bother with Rackbones, the Rackbones prided themselves on being the first to support the conquest of the Nightking and rarely caused trouble. What they were really after were Lightlings.

It had been because of them that Krull had been stopped, and it had indstilled in him a deep respect for the patrols and a vicious hatred for the Lightlings for having him stopped.

The patrol members had each been dressed meticulously in black laquered breastplates, shining like obsidian, matching helms, a belt cloth made of steel plates, black like the breatplate and heavy cloak of luxurious fur. Krull's jaw had almost fallen off his face when face with such finery.

They had been incredibly polite, if colder than cloud ice. Did he know anything about a so called 'Haven of Light' gathering in the area of Miredown?

Krull had known better than to lie to the patrol, for all that three of them had been Rackbones. He could see the well-oiled hilts of their sword peeking about the hem of their cloaks. Each one of them was worth more money that Krull was likely to see in his lifetime, and they sure as Storm weren't there to look pretty!
Yes, he did indeed know of such a gathering, they were down the north end of Miredown, good luck in catching the pasty-faced basterds, sir.

The partol leader had reprimanded him for his language, then thanked him for his cooperation before pressing three bones in his hand and setting off towards Miredown.
Proper bones too, ivory, not the dog bones some fences tried to fob you off with. He'd bought his boots with that money.

The old wall was in sight now, just as well, his boots were getting heavy from scaling the climb. In times forgotten, before the Storm if you believed the Lightlings, this had been the first line of defence, built to protect the city from attacker, from the Nightking.

But that defence had failed, and the Nightking had beaten the forgotten people into submission and taken the throne as his own. At least, that's what Krull had heard. He had been born after the conquest.

There were serveral gates into the 'upper city', all guarded, but if you were clever and careful and, above all, lucky, you could sneak in. The partols didn't allow cutters like himself into the city, no matter how much you offered them. Still, the mist was his ally.

There were, as usual, two guards, one on either side of the gate. They wore the same uniform as those who had stopped Krull, from the shining boots to the faceless black helm.

Krull stopped for a moment, the mist would hide his worn clothing so the thing to change would be his posture. Those from the 'upper city' sometimes came down here, usually because of the cheap spirits, bedriders, or gear, so it was fairly common for one to pass through the gates.

Krull straightened from his usual hunch, throwing back his bony shoulders and raising his head. Nonchalently, he strolled towards the gate.

The guards spared him a quick glance, then ignored him. He wasn't human, and Rackbones were much less likely to cause trouble.

Krull only allowed himself to relax once he was out of sight, nodding to himself in satisfaction. Now the only question was how much he could palm off before he was found and tossed out. The patrols were notoriously easy on Rackbones, he would simply be thrown out on his ear. A human found doing the same would be formally thrashed before being expelled. And if a Lightling was found... well, no one knew quite what happened to them, but they never left the 'upper city'.

Krull paused and looked around, the area was curiously empty, there must be something going on, some event or entertainment that would be both amusing and that would provide plenty of chances to exercize his skill as a cutter. All those wealthy people, who would, at a snick of his razors, become suddenly somewhat less wealthy.

The 'upper city' was, like the Climb, built on a slope. Unlike the Climb, it was a mass of stairs and terraces, much easier to scale. Up and up it went, the top most building being the most important. The Black Temple, the Academy Sorcere, and the Nightking's Tower. The last was the tallest, actually piecing the Storm like a spear.

It took only a few minutes of wandering before he heard the far off cheers. They seemed to be coming from the bazaar. Sliding his razors within easy reach, Krull stalked forward eagerly.

The bazaar was full to bursting, the hundereds of stalls had been dismantled to make room for the mass of skelkons, humans, Rackbones and others. Patrols lines the edges of the huge plaza, and Krull sidled away from then, elbowing his way into the crowd.

Near the center, a structure of wood had been erected, a sort of stand from where people could watch whatever was going on.

Krull drew his razors and starting pushing his way through the throng, occasionaly pausing to snick off an inviting money pouch. Occasionally, the crowd would cheer, causing the Rackback to wonder if it might not be an execution. These were fairly common, Lightlings might be regularly hunted down in Rafters, but outside the city roaming bands of them scavenged the countryside. All of them preaching pipe dreams of casting down the Nightking. Krull shook his head, the idiots.

It was an execution, he noted as he shouldered his way to the front, and the stand had been raised for none other than the Nightking himself. Krull was tough, a hardened denizen of the 'lower city', but even he couldn't help but shudder at the sight of the dread being.

There were a thousand myths surrounding the Nightking, some said he had been a human, the air to the throne of this very city, cast down for fell sorcery in a time when the sun still shone, others whispered that he was no mortal at all, but a fiend who's very rage had burnt his body to ashes.

He was an imposing figure. Tall, clad is scorched-black armor from which ash drifted, as if the Nightking had been caught in some inferno and had only just found his way free, no doubt the root of the fiend myth.

The Nightking sat motionless on his barbed throne, eyes like flame fixed on the execution, his gauntleted hand gripping the hilt of a black iron blade.

Krull tore his eyes away, still unable to repress his shivers, and focused on the entertainment.

It was a different sort of execution than he was used to, far better than the crude ones in the 'lower city'. There the tortures were basic, and the condemmed tended to die far too soon, here though. Well, now Krull knew what happened to Lightlings. It was exquisite. The Nightking's torturers would practice their skills on each subject, each trying to outdo the others for their master's favour.

There was a smile on every face capable of it as the victim's screams echoed around the bazaar, going on and on, before finally dying in a hoarse death rattle.

Krull tucked his razors away and joined in the applause as the next victim was dragged in, her crimes read out for all to hear by the Nightking's herald. Treason, conspiring against her rightful lord, theft, plotting assassination, ecetera, ecetera.

"A true God strike you down!" The woman screamed, interrupted the recitation, "Damned are you, tyrant! We will end your foul rule!"

There was a moment of silence, the Lightling stood proudly, face flushed with anger, breathing heavily.

Then the Nightking laughed.

Krull cringed, the unearthly noise twisting his insides. It was cold, shattering the air to icicles and sending cold shudders through all present.

Fighting down the sick feeling, Krull turned back and stared at the woman, now white-faced with terror. He felt soemthing almost akin to sympathy for her. Her and her kind had no chance. It was too long, too late. The light was gone, swallowed by the Storm. It would never return, and the Nightking's rule was forever.

Krull shook off the emotion and turned back to the spectacle, such emotions had no place in Rafters, not if you wanted to keep your life and bones.

Skull Bearer.