username: deimar
( On this occasion, King Deimar in silvered splendor: tussled, armour scratched and drenched in blood and soot, surrounded each way by his men or Rathakku's creatures. He screams, just as harpies swing in: )
Fall back — fall back, fall back — ( An infantryman politely keels over, arrow driving through his ribs. Deimar stops to stare — ) ...maybe with less enthusiasm than that.
( But then, he's led to take cover off the field, and he can mutter into his pendant: )
Greetings, greetings. Your king speaks. Deimar. ( As if, perhaps, some need the reminder. ) Let's cut through pretence: Alem is lost. The merchants are offering their... obscenely costly help with evacuation. If we had any alternative or dignity, we would decline. It won't surprise you that I've agreed, gratefully. Go to Hassir. Yes, it's a monastery old and true. No, you cannot bring your wine.
( And gentler, firmer: ) It will have you. All of you who go, Hassir will have you, and it will save you. Make a new life, away from this mountain. Away from our blood's burden, away from Hell.
( Then lighter, in this breezy tone: )
...which, I regret to inform you, is opening nice, creaky and wide beneath our floorboard. You've heard the old stories: the Motherless Children beget their devastation, bolstered by whatever souls they consume in their putrid wasteland. They're breaking through. Terrible creatures. Filthy. Ugly, too.
To all men and women of Alem who are strong, gifted and able: I won't tell you to take up your weapons and join me below in glory. If you die there, no one will mourn you, no one will weep over your bones. No one will even remember you. No, they'll live peacefully, happily and oblivious to your sacrifice. But they'll live.
So. You have your choices: Hassir or Hell below. What say you?