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Fairy Tale Tournament w/ @Murkletins
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sorry i'm late i was away at the beach
A knock came at the door—three short raps, standard doorwatcher’s code. Two of his thronewatchers came up to the massive, gatelike door, unlocked it, and dragged open. Behind it was a positively blanched doorwatcher—Arvold was his name, if the king remembered correctly—and even further back was a mountain of a man dressed in a thick leather trench coat that swayed with great weight as he strode past the doorwatcher into the throne room. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his features. Everything about him was soaked in darkness, the coat seeming to be made from shadows, the hat carved from obsidian. With him he carried a massive, log-shaped object wrapped in animal furs and rags, which he set upon the floor in a gruff yet effortless manner, as if in offering. He turned his head upwards, and the king thought he caught a glimpse of his face—cold black eyes, a vile, toothy grin—but it disappeared into the inescapable darkness as soon as it came. He nudged the package with his foot. It shifted more than it should have, almost startlingly so for such a soft push. The stranger cocked his head.
The king, shocked out of his reverie, realized the awkward silence. “Welcome, good sir.” He paused, searching for the words. “I’ve heard tales of your exploits. My allies in Selholm say—”
“Spare me the theatrics, your majesty,” rumbled the stranger, his voice like rocks crashing against thunder. “And allow me, please, to take it from here.”
The king had the suspicion that awful grin had returned to his dark and menacing face. He began to wave his hand for his guards to teach him a lesson for interrupting royalty, but before he could finish, the strange man had ripped the hides off of his load and unveiled a twisted, horrid-looking mess of metal and stone, burnt and blackened in all the wrong places, curved and sharp and jagged and twisted. On each side was a gaping maw. As the rags were torn off, smoke seemed to jump from the machine, blowing up dust in a sickly explosion to mark its arrival.
“W-what is it?” asked the king. He hadn’t meant to stutter, but in this particular case he felt it was justified.
The stranger sighed, the sound an avalanche of ash. “It’s a dragon killer, your majesty.” He spat the words your majesty from his repugnant mouth like they were bad oysters.
“Don’t act surprised. You think you’re the first monarch who’s asked me to rid his territory of those pesky hellkites? Isn’t that what you want?”
“I suppose so.” He nearly stuttered again, but composed himself in time. “Now, if you would just sign these…”
The terrifying stranger was already leaving. “Don’t waste my time, your majesty. Before I go, remember to…” He searched for the words. “Spread the word, let's call it. If anyone asks, I’m the perfect solution. Understand?”
The old king sat stunned for a moment, then nodded. Just barely.
“Good. Oh—” He mimed the thought slipping from his mind. “I’ll be taking him.” he gestured towards poor Arvold, standing in the corner, shaking. He seemed to wilt at the mere mention of it.
“Why on earth—” the King began.
“Because, your majesty, problems,” here he mimed again, this time a mockery of a cruel dragon, “require sacrifices,” now his massive fingers arched toward Arvold, “to be solved.”
And with that, he slung the horrific weapon up onto his shoulder, swept Arvold up by the collar, and stalked off.
“What about your price?” Called out the king.
“You might as well prepare it now.” The king felt that grin again, sending shivers across the room. “The Huntsman never fails to deliver.”