Qo'noS - A very long time ago

Posted Aug. 7, 2018, 9:17 a.m. by Civilian Kvaar'Ton The Builder (Klingon Warrior) (Jeremy DeSpain)

Posted by Civilian Kvaar’Ton The Builder (Klingon Warrior) in Qo’noS - A very long time ago

Posted by Civilian Kvaar’Ton The Builder (Klingon Warrior) in Qo’noS - A very long time ago
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

Duroc had not even landed when the massive hand of Kvaar’ton swept open the flap of his family tent. Arg had done well only failing in the direct kill of Kvaar’ton himself. Kvaar’ton wish the man had yet lived so he could crush the life from him once more. The inside of the tent was splattered with blood, pink flecks darkening in the flickering firelight. His beloved children stolen from him, not even in a warriors death, but in a fit of impotent rage, deceit and betrayal. His beloved, his wife, she held knitting needle in each hand they were tinged with her assailants blood, she had died with glory, she would make it to Stov’a’kor. Even if Kvaar’ton himself would not. He felt the damnation of his soul, and the break of his heart, as he bellowed not in rage, or anger, but in absolute sorrow.

Had there been a man asleep in the camp the sound of the pain of their liege would have awoken them. Kvaar’ton’s head was thrown back as he bellowed at the moon and stars themselves. Why had the old gods forgotten him, had the Demons truly taken their place. Kvaar’ton turned from the scene, he needed battle, he needed violence. He would not wait for the crest of the sun, he would go now. He would do what he must do. As he cleared the flap of the tent unto the waiting eyes of the men that had followed him into this certain death. The thunder of fist to heart as they saluted him was rumbling quake beneath the trees and among the tents.

There was a thin reedy cry threaded among it that Kvaar’ton ignored for the moment. It was his only reason yet to live as he heard it, he knew what it was without seeing. Duroc climbed his feet, mostly uninjured though the might of Kvaar’ton had sent him forty or more feet away.

“You whom have followed me even into this pit of death, I salute you.” Kvaar’ton said slamming his own fist to his chest in return salute. “Yet no longer will you follow me, for I have been slain, my body does not yet admit that. You are all Free men, free to find the lives that you deserve, and make your own way with in the worlds. For each, your wages shall be paid in full, until my coffers are dry. Go now, and return to your families if they will have you.” As Duroc approached him Kvaar’ton turned away from his dearest of friends, and closest of advisors.

“If you go forth to die, I g…” Duroc was silenced by the large hand of Kvaarton, as he was swept into a body crushing hug. Kvaar’ton had always known there was an oddness to Duroc, never had he taken a wife, never had Duroc children. Duroc himself knew the truth of his feelings and thoughts but Kvaar’ton, suspected the bond of their brotherhood went deeper for Duroc. And for that he could not bring the man along with him to die, besides he had yet work for his brother to complete.

“You will not go this time, I have more important things for you my Brother. Beneath my wife’s body lies my greatest treasure. You will take it, and you will protect it with your life.” With a grunt Kvaar’ton released his closest friend, and then removed the dagger that still remained in his own flesh. “Take this piece of me to aid you.” Kvaar’ton said handing the dagger still slicked with his own blood to Duroc. “Where I go you must not follow, you must tell them you have Slain Arg, who hath slain me.” Kvaar’ton clapped Duroc on the back, and turned towards the Campaign tent it was time to make ready.

Kvaar’ton the Destroyer

At his words the men silently began saluting one after another. Not the same as before, but a goodbye to a man that honored. They were prepared to let him go die a glorious death as a Klingon. Then as Duroc returned to the for he started to speak, He was not about to allow his brother to die alone. “Kvaar’ton, I go with..” he cut himself short as Kvaarton lifted a gauntleted fist and slammed it to his chest in Salute to his oldest dearest friend.

“Duroc do you recall the first thing I taught you about battles?” Kvaarton asked simply.

Duroc paused and thought for a moment, “Always know how the fight will star....Oh Targ Swallop!” Duroc exclaimed in realization as the other massive hand landed upon his head like a hammer upon a nail in one of the buildings Kvaar’ton was famous for designing. As Duroc sank to his knees like someone had cut his strings, Kvaar’ton snorted.

“And that was how the fight started, and ended my friend, remember the treasure I told you of. It means everything to me” Kvaar’ton said as he turned towards the Campaign tent once again. Emerging moments later in his full combat armor, dripping with weapons and gear for the work to come.

The was a sloshing squelching sound as the massive bulk of Kvaar’ton stepped off into the swamp. Hammer in hand and slogging his way forward, he knew that the sun would not crest the edge of the bowl that sheltered the swamp before his death. The water was icy cold and there was a heavy fog clinging to it. Kvaar’ton sung a battle hymn to himself as he went.

“They say Qo’noS is breathing
With each warrior that finds Stov’akor
Their souls rise in the evening
For to open the Gates of Stov’akor
Thier eyes are the stars in heaven
Watching o’er us all the while
And Their heart it is in the Glory
Deep within the Honor of a House’s Story”

There were the sounds of the swamp to accompany him as he went. The slosh of water against the trees, the creeking sounds of the Tangs in the rushes. The distant howl of a Targ hunting. As he prepared to sing the next part of the hymn he could tell he was no longer alone, there were other shadows among the fog. They joined in on the chorus as he went.

“We are Warriors against demons
In someone else’s bloody war
We know not why were fighting
Or what we’re dying for
They will storm us in the morning
When the sunlight turns to sky
Death is waiting for its dance now
Fate whispers, Today is a good day to die

Qo’noS I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone
I am reaching out won’t you take my hand
I’m coming home Qo’noS

Oh the Kahless he lay bleeding
I can hear him calling me
These men are yours now for the leading
Show them to their destiny
As I look up all around me
I see the Warriors tired and torn
I tell them to make ready
‘Cause Klingons Don’t wait for the morn

Qo’noS I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone
I am reaching out won’t you take my hand
I’m coming home Qo’noS

Now the fog is deep and heavy
As we forge the dark and fear
We can hear their Demons breathing
As in silence we draw near
There are no words to be spoken
Just a look to say good-bye I draw a breath and night is broken
As I scream our battle cry

Qo’noS I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone
I am reaching out won’t you take my hand
I’m coming home Qo’noS
Yes I am home Qo’noS

We were Warriors against Demons”

Klingon warriors did not cry, but Kvaar’ton found himself sweating from his vey eyes as he realized that his men had followed him despite his words. Urg’tohn the old Sargent at arms, materlized as smoke from the fires they had been sitting around an hour before, and K’vorth the scout, his brother Q’ragh the fiercest if smallest warrior that Kvaar’ton had ever known. Two score more followed Kvaar’ton unto the lair of the demons, with a simple.

“Home lies on the far side of this valley, and freemen take the shorter path.” Kvaar’ton did not see the face of the Warrior that had spoken the words, but he understood them. They were freemen and that there was nothing he could do to stop them from coming with him.

Like avenging wraiths the Warriors emerged among the demon sentries, sending them on to be servants in Stov’akor. Battle was truly joined when Kvaar’tons hammer rang loudly upon the closed portal into their lair, resounding like a bell across the valley as he opened it in the only way he knew how.

It was some time later that Duroc stirred from his near comatose state after the blow from his liege lord, brother, friend, and the only person he had ever loved. His head was filled with fog and cobwebs that he attempted to shake. Something about a treasure nagged at him. With a heavy saddness for the loss of his brother, Duroc entered the tent of his brothers family. Unlike Kvaar’ton’s rage and sorrow, Duroc was filled with cold hearted vengance, and deadly intent, those responsible would pay, even if meant killing Kahless himself.

Shifting the body of the woman his brother had loved, Duroc gasped at the dark eyed face that stared back at him, the baby, the baby yet lived, his brothers line was not dead. Duroc knew what he must do to make certain that remained true. The baby had been born during the Campaign few knew it had ever lived, let alone yet lived. Wrapping it in the cload of its mother and slinging it to his body, Duroc left the tent. Never once did Duroc look back. Not even when the bell pealed across the valley announcing that his brother had joined the battle truly. It was some hours later that he crested out of the Valley, and looked back in time to see the Demon’s lair vanish in arc of bluish white fire and lightning, leaving swirling crystal flowers floating on clear purple waters.

Kvaar’ton the Deceased

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