(no subject)
Prompt: Andy and Merrick as Doom Lords AU... thing
The Fortress Trekknar simmered in the distance, jagged towers barely visible through the blackened, ash-ridden air that lazily circled through the city's limits - Brekka continuing to rot into dust under the garnet sun - another demon-conquered quarter sloughing off into the sea. Eroding through the reigns of six hundred and nineteen kings and two minor deities, the city now remained upheld only through the effort of careful magic strewn into place. The spells - like the rest of Brekka's crumbling walls - dated back beyond collective memory, past the centuries of vassal warfare, and into a time marked only by magescribes' faded records as they wrote of how their new and shining city.
Thaddeus rang the tower bell as the Doom Lords approached, armored horses pulling to a trot next to the council sanctuary's dry fountain. Fingers folded around each other, sheepskin gloves rubbing against the coarse rope, he pulled again, gritting his teeth through a smile as the metal banged out another chime. His cousin Nicholas the Browned had gotten him this job; hunting was slow work in the dead of winter, especially with half the animals dead already from demon dogs and deepcrows, and keeping an eye for the business of the council wasn't a half bad way to make a handful of copper at all.
He craned his head out the tower window, squinting down through dark bangs at the cloaked figures making their way into the sanctuary, accompanied by a trail of barbarian warriors and glowing, raving birds, and other nasty things that he preferred not to think about. Everyone in the known kingdoms owed allegiance to the Doom Lords, immortal and bloodthirsty, mages and warriors and demon human dogs with breath of fire and eyes that could rip your skull out of your skin if you dared cross their path.
Although really, they didn't look so bad from here, Thaddeus thought, leaning further out and contemplating waving at one of the glowy birds.
---------------
Philip of Matthews was not an enthusiastic fan of the ominous feel that constantly trailed the Doom Lords' entourage.
The armored warriors were marginally tolerable, but the flock of god-forsaken birds was just too much; however, he valued his tongue and so he held it, hiding narrow eyes behind a deep bow as he welcomed their Lords to his sanctuary. Three of the five had come to meet today, he noticed before busying himself with a pile of books, as one figure moved to the center of the room and pointed to the sky angrily.
“YOU GUYS. THIS IS NOT COOL.”
Mentally wincing, Philip stacked another tome onto the shelf. The Doom Lords' voices always seemed to resonate off of his skull, some miraculous combination of eardrum-ripping power and screeching baselines. The birds however seemed to not mind.
“I'M TOTALLY SERIOUS, GUYS. THIS IS REALLY NOT COOL. THIS IS LIKE, THE OFFICIAL DEFINITION OF NOT COOL,” The Doom Lord Continued, pacing back and forth over the dark tiled floor of the sanctuary, candles' cowering flames roaring into life as he passed. “WE HAVE GOT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THEM.”
“YEAH,” the slighter lord chimed in, raising one clawed hand in agreement as the air crackled and layers of ancient dust flew in response. “THEY'RE TOTALLY GIVING US A BAD REP. NO DEMON SUMMONING, NO FIGHTING OTHER LORDS FOR THEIR FIEFS. ALL THEY DO IS STAY IN TREKKNAR ALL DAY.”
“I HEAR THEY'RE BUTTFUCKING.”
Philip smothered a strangled choking noise, distracting himself with the alphabetical organization of the sanctuary's collection of ancient histories and trying desperately to not even begin to imagine what that would look like.
A pause stretched between the Doom Lords as they seemed to carefully think this over. “NO, REALLY, THEY'RE TOTALLY BUTTFUCKING. MARTYLL THE ODD TOLD ME DURING NOUGHTS AND CROSSES THE OTHER DAY.”
“THAT'S...” the third lord chimed in, tenors grating across the air and threatening to shatter the stained glass windows. “BUT WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO BUTTFUCK INSTEAD OF DOING OTHER STUFF? LIKE SUMMONING AN ARMY OF UNDEAD DEMONS FROM THE PITS OF HELL TO RULE FOR YOU? I MEAN, THAT'S WHAT I'D DO WITH MY SATURDAY. I THINK THAT'D BE REALLY FUN. WHY WOULDN'T YOU EVER WANT TO DO THAT?”
The original sighed, hanging his head sadly. “I JUST DON'T KNOW.”
Philip meanwhile carefully climbed upstairs to lock himself in the library.
The Fortress Trekknar simmered in the distance, jagged towers barely visible through the blackened, ash-ridden air that lazily circled through the city's limits - Brekka continuing to rot into dust under the garnet sun - another demon-conquered quarter sloughing off into the sea. Eroding through the reigns of six hundred and nineteen kings and two minor deities, the city now remained upheld only through the effort of careful magic strewn into place. The spells - like the rest of Brekka's crumbling walls - dated back beyond collective memory, past the centuries of vassal warfare, and into a time marked only by magescribes' faded records as they wrote of how their new and shining city.
Thaddeus rang the tower bell as the Doom Lords approached, armored horses pulling to a trot next to the council sanctuary's dry fountain. Fingers folded around each other, sheepskin gloves rubbing against the coarse rope, he pulled again, gritting his teeth through a smile as the metal banged out another chime. His cousin Nicholas the Browned had gotten him this job; hunting was slow work in the dead of winter, especially with half the animals dead already from demon dogs and deepcrows, and keeping an eye for the business of the council wasn't a half bad way to make a handful of copper at all.
He craned his head out the tower window, squinting down through dark bangs at the cloaked figures making their way into the sanctuary, accompanied by a trail of barbarian warriors and glowing, raving birds, and other nasty things that he preferred not to think about. Everyone in the known kingdoms owed allegiance to the Doom Lords, immortal and bloodthirsty, mages and warriors and demon human dogs with breath of fire and eyes that could rip your skull out of your skin if you dared cross their path.
Although really, they didn't look so bad from here, Thaddeus thought, leaning further out and contemplating waving at one of the glowy birds.
---------------
Philip of Matthews was not an enthusiastic fan of the ominous feel that constantly trailed the Doom Lords' entourage.
The armored warriors were marginally tolerable, but the flock of god-forsaken birds was just too much; however, he valued his tongue and so he held it, hiding narrow eyes behind a deep bow as he welcomed their Lords to his sanctuary. Three of the five had come to meet today, he noticed before busying himself with a pile of books, as one figure moved to the center of the room and pointed to the sky angrily.
“YOU GUYS. THIS IS NOT COOL.”
Mentally wincing, Philip stacked another tome onto the shelf. The Doom Lords' voices always seemed to resonate off of his skull, some miraculous combination of eardrum-ripping power and screeching baselines. The birds however seemed to not mind.
“I'M TOTALLY SERIOUS, GUYS. THIS IS REALLY NOT COOL. THIS IS LIKE, THE OFFICIAL DEFINITION OF NOT COOL,” The Doom Lord Continued, pacing back and forth over the dark tiled floor of the sanctuary, candles' cowering flames roaring into life as he passed. “WE HAVE GOT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THEM.”
“YEAH,” the slighter lord chimed in, raising one clawed hand in agreement as the air crackled and layers of ancient dust flew in response. “THEY'RE TOTALLY GIVING US A BAD REP. NO DEMON SUMMONING, NO FIGHTING OTHER LORDS FOR THEIR FIEFS. ALL THEY DO IS STAY IN TREKKNAR ALL DAY.”
“I HEAR THEY'RE BUTTFUCKING.”
Philip smothered a strangled choking noise, distracting himself with the alphabetical organization of the sanctuary's collection of ancient histories and trying desperately to not even begin to imagine what that would look like.
A pause stretched between the Doom Lords as they seemed to carefully think this over. “NO, REALLY, THEY'RE TOTALLY BUTTFUCKING. MARTYLL THE ODD TOLD ME DURING NOUGHTS AND CROSSES THE OTHER DAY.”
“THAT'S...” the third lord chimed in, tenors grating across the air and threatening to shatter the stained glass windows. “BUT WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO BUTTFUCK INSTEAD OF DOING OTHER STUFF? LIKE SUMMONING AN ARMY OF UNDEAD DEMONS FROM THE PITS OF HELL TO RULE FOR YOU? I MEAN, THAT'S WHAT I'D DO WITH MY SATURDAY. I THINK THAT'D BE REALLY FUN. WHY WOULDN'T YOU EVER WANT TO DO THAT?”
The original sighed, hanging his head sadly. “I JUST DON'T KNOW.”
Philip meanwhile carefully climbed upstairs to lock himself in the library.