The fire had burned low, and the air was chilled. The Campaign had been long, his men were tired. These were all things that Kvaar’ton knew. He also knew that he had been sold out. There would be no reinforcements come morning when he took his men into the Valley to take on the demon directly. That was the way it was to be. Once he had been the vison of what it had meant to be a Klingon Warrior, Broad of shoulder, built strong, and tall, handsome, at least many a maid would have attested to that then. Over the times since they had been forcing the demons from the lands, Kvaar’ton had suffered, been changed. He was not a handsome being, many believed that despite his glorious victories, his legendary deeds, that he was a man cursed. He was grotesquely huge and misshapen now, hunched with a hump on his back. Wicked horns, one of which had been partially broken off and sat upon his writing desk as a dagger now, growing down turned from his head, in the helm he could no longer remove. The helm glinted and glimmered in the dying firelight, embedded with Demonic metals, bone, and stained with their blood. His feet were bare, as they had been transformed as well, mangled and malformed into broad plate like cloven hoof affairs. His armor stretched over his bulk, glinting, and glittering like the helm, created from the scales of of the enemy. Many did not believe the tales of Kvaar’ton, until laying eyes upon him. How could a being be so tall, nigh ten feet, or so broad, over half a ton of muscle bone and sinew, yet still move like a controlled avalanche of fighting skill and power. Though the Batleth was catching on as the warriors weapon, Kvaar’ton rarely carried it. He preferred a long handed hammer, with a spike on the bottom and on the reverse of the head itself. He could clear swaths of enemies with his hammer.
None of his men dared, but many called him the Demon Ox King behind his back, well and truly behind his back. Kvaar’ton snorted as he read from the same passage for the nineteenth or twentieth time of the evening. Sleep was not to be found, his men were tired but restless, it was soon to be time to forever go to Stov’a’kor. It was a place that Kvaar’ton secretly believed no longer held welcome for him, he believed he would be spurned at the gates, and sent away, no longer good enough for the people that he had given everything for. That was for later musings, if he survived the day he could lament this thought. Soon his under officers would arrive, and the planning would be finalized. In the Valley below one of the Demon Lairs was mired in the swamp, and it was time to rid it of its inhabitants. Kvaar’ton did not look back from the fire as he heard the fabric of his campaign tent open, he had been expecting guests. His nose twisted a bit, its snout like cast, had made it more sensitive. Arg’kiv Son of house Juv had arrived first, Arg had never been an ardent supporter of Kvaar’ton, seeing the fact that he was here to be a slap in the face by the Patriarch of his house, sending him to fight with a pathetic twisted being such as Kvaar’ton, if ever there was a man that hated his liege more, it had not been written about that Kvaar’ton could find. Still the man was loyal, and did his work as required, he would lead the fifth and sixth sticks into combat. Kvaar’ton, paid the man little mind as he heard him rummaging about, pouring himself refreshments, and pull a hunk of meat off the remainders on the table.
Kvaar’ton allowed the man his refreshments it was the least he could do for the condemned. Today was a good day to die, that was the philosophy of the young, the old men that survived the young man’s days learned better. The only good day to die was in front of your fire in a home tended by the wife you loved, surrounded by your children’s children’s children. Only then had you lived trhe time you were alotted. Kvaar’ton did not court death like a randy buck on the first of the spring thaw. She was an old friend that had been with him on many days, and always they parted ways as companions not rivals. Kvaar’ton knew today was not the best day to be lost in the musing of the old, but it was what he had at the moment. The maps would not change, the enemy would not vanish, and the men would prepare themselves. Kvaar’ton grunted it was a low sound that ruffled and echoed slightly in the tent. At first he thought the man had offered a cuff to his side in affectionate friendship, the understanding that in precious few hours they would die together. Then the ripples of the pain hit, and the pink foam frothed at his lips. The grunt grew to a bellow as the massive beast of the Demon Ox King turned to face his attacker. Arg son of house Juv, had been loyal if distant, yet in his hand he held the dagger, the one crafted from Kvaar’ton’s own flesh and bone. It dripped with fresh blood, the surprise on Arg’s face was genuine if short lived. He had placed the dagger as he had been taught, it was perfect even now Kvaar’ton drew less breath, less life, life seeped from the massive body. It was just not going to be enough to save Arg of house Juv, as one massive calloused hand shot out engulfing ridged forehead to strong jaw of the face of Arg. Others were drawing near at the sound of the bellow.
Duroc of House Kilp was the first to arrive, he was the most loyal, and trusted of K’vaartons lieutenants. Duroc manged to turn away as the gore and bone splatter sprayed from K’vaar’ton’s strong grip, under the crush of Arg’s skull. With a beastly snort Kvaar’ton let the lifeless body drop. A glob of pink foam was spat to the floor as Kvaar’ton sank into his camp chair. It groaned and creaked in protest, but held its ground for now. Kvaar’ton snorted again and stood as he noted the dagger tucked in the back of Arg’s trousers. It had been the one he had gifted his wife on thier wedding day. Arg having it meant one of two things, with a long determined stride, K’vaar’ton exited the tent heading for his family’s tent. His breath came in shuddering heaves, his anger boiled beneath the surface. Already he knew the truth, he knew what he would find in the tent. Ever loyal Duroc stepped between his lord and the tent.
“Do not look” Duroc stated calmly, he knew it was for naught, even before his vfeet left the ground and he was swept aside by K’vaarton’s powerful arm.
Kvaar’ton the Betrayed
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