The Palace of Westminster - 1547
One moment he slowly felt the warm embrace of sleep and blessed relief from pain, it had been a long time since he had respite.
He could feel his breath was slow, shallow as if he were slowing to a stop, his eyes fluttering darkness drew across the edges of his vision.
Distantly so very far away he heard the faint "He hath gone, the King is dead"
He struggled something clammy and restricting was wrapped around him, it had the feel of warm flesh but bound him tighter than chains, he shouted but the stifling shroud invaded his mouth, he felt as if he were drowning.
Around him he could hear muffled sounds, angry ones, he grunted inviting more intrusion as he was kicked in his chest, pain flared, his entire body felt bruised, another kick struck him fully in the head and knocked him backwards, he tried to cry in agony and outrage.
Something rent the shroud a little around the back of his head, a hollow voice hissed venomously close to his ear "Don't want you missing this Tudor!"
"Have care, do not remove his caul fully!" said another
He was manhandled roughly back to kneeling
"Why can't we send him to the forge like the other Royals" another hollow voice said
"Because the Anacroen has degreed he be send to Oblivion with no delay!"
"Tis a shame Lady Anne would no doubt like to see him suffer greatly"
"No doubt, but that is not our concern"
He struggled and tried to shout, but the caul as they called it held him fast
There was a moment of silence, he waited for pain then oblivion but instead the pause was broken by the sound of scuffling, momentary sparing of swords, a rushing noise and then silence again.
He tried to swallow but his body felt odd, suddenly the flesh caul was torn away, he blinked as grey light flooded a chamber.
He was helped to his feet as chains he hadn't been aware of were loosened and fell to his feet, looking around everything was black, white and grey.
Around him stood a small group of men and women, he looked down at his obsese form, he was oddly free of pain, his thigh and leg felt fine there being no festering wounds or ulcers yet he was fat, he looked in disapproval.
"Henry Tudor" his attention was drawn to a severe bearded man with long hair and a horrific wound down the left side of his face his eye lost amongst the ragged hole of his eye socket, regarding them he noted their skin was a mottled colour of greys and whites as were his own hands.
Addressing the man he responded "You are addressing a King of England"
"As are you" replied the man "This isn't the time or the place"
Henry frowned at the strange people, most of whom were dressed like old saxon warriors "And where is this place"
The figures roughly pushed him forward herding him from the chamber, through dim corridors and into some form of tunnel
"The Palace of Westminster" replied the man as the group hurried along the passages
"It lacks any finery" henry replied indignantly
"You'll grow accustomed to that"
As they rounded yet another turn "I was sure I was dying"
The figures stopped and looked at each other, the other king looked at him "You were and you did die, this is the place of the dead Henry Tudor and the dead of England have need of you"
"And you are sir"
"Godwinson" he replied as the group starting back into its hurried pace and they disappeared into the darkness
Blood Royale
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arcanus
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Blood Royale
Richmond Palace - 24th March 1603
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arcanus
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Blood Royale
Pole Hill, Overlooking Waltham Forest – The County of Middlesex – The Shadowlands 1582
Clouds of moist breath snorted from the horses, he’d grown used to a world of perpetual grey, the tempests winds carried black ash above the twisted treeline.
The Tudor looked upon the riders approaching from the forest line, each sat upon moliated steeds formed from soul crafted drones, for his part he would not ride on some sick misshapen mockery, he had captured his giant phantasm horse in the tempest marshes of Essex which he had named Governatore in honour of his once mighty warhorse.
In death he had learned to remould his deathly form, unrestrained by mortal sickness, obesity or injury of either body or mind, he had recaptured the ruthlessness and savagery of old, a practice that served well in the deadlands.
Some three decades dead, The Tudor had cut a bloody path through his opposition’s corpus, he would not be denied his establishment of The House of Tudor, decried a heretic and renegade from the moment of his caul was removed, he had learned quickly that death was more regicidal than life and for him more fun.
Not every mortal became a wraith, it seemed some were too weak or insignificant they just passed into oblivion or became mindless drones, haunting their fetters repeating tasks over and over, best to be harvested and moliated into more useful items such as soulsteel.
Kings and Queens of England it seemed had a fair number of strong-willed personages who more often than not incarnated as a Wraith, of course their predecessors where often not enamoured with yet another claimant to the rule of the dead and were waiting, a number of Kings and Queens had been sent to the forges without their cauls removed or moliated into subservience if of some use.
This was to be his fate at the hand of the High Anacreon of England, The Conqueror had agents watching all of the living Royals, ready to seize them should they incarnate, it was said some were even murdered as to expediate their deathly capture.
He however was aided by the Conquerors mortal enemy Godwinson and the fact that The Tudors acts in life had created many exceptionally strong Fetters and Relics had provided him considerable protection, he had opposed he Conqueror for his first two decades whilst he acclimatised before formed a truce, he now served the London Necropolis steadily accumulating power.
As it transpired, he and the Conqueror shared common enemies and opponents, such as the Boleyn family, a representative of whom rode up the hill to greet him this very morning.
“Mine own l'rd” (My Lord) bowed Thomas Boleyn
“Boleyn” replied the quiet but ominous voice of The Tudor
“Mine own l'rd, i hadst desired to parley to draweth upon aged friendships” (My Lord, I had hoped to parley to rekindle old friendships)
“Thee has't hadst three decades and thy daught'r hast done much to deny thy intention if 't be true yond beest the case” (You have had three decades, and your daughter has done much to deny your intention if that be the case)
“Aye but thy price wast mine own daught'rs headeth f'r a second happenstance” (Yes but your price was my daughters head for a second happenstance)
The Tudor chuckled, an unpleasant noise that made the complete blackness of the whites of his eyes shine “A bawbling price to payeth f'r mine own aid, but mine own aid wast not as well did seek as anon, wast t thomas” (A small price to pay for my aid, but my aid was not as well sought as now, was it Thomas)
Boleyn replied with nothing more than a resigned look
The Tudor smiled “Cometh thomas doth not beest so glum, alloweth us seeth what is agreeable” (Come Thomas do not be so glum, let us see what can be agreed), the one thing he could count on from Thomas Boleyn was his perchance for survival
The Olde Waltham Forest - The Shadowlands.
The white sun cast a pale shuttered light fleetingly through the trees, the damp forest emitted no sound just unnerving silence.
Not a bird sang, the great barghasts strained restlessly against their muzzles and leash, six armoured figures sat waiting, in the middle of the pack sat The Tudor who bridled with impatience, but his huntsman was the best in the Dead Counties.
Clad in the drab slate attire of a ranger, the skeletal Elias Cole watched and listened, as silently as the grave (which was apt) he readied his longbow, drawing air or what passed for it in the lands of the dead into his lungs he howled a high keening screech into the shadowy foliage.
The silence was immediately broken as a snarling twisted figure burst from the bushes, he fired the creature stumbling as the arrow shaft firmly impaled its chest, still it broke into an alarmingly quick sprint towards Cole.
Its features were contorted, any resemblance to the man or woman it had once been gone, its hollow eyes watery, face heavily lined, its features and skin distorted as if washed away or smudged, its sharp teeth caked with carrion and filth.
Cole winced as the first relic Matchlock roared, Compton’s shot flying wild, however Thomas Boleyns shot finding its mark, exploding through the mortgaunts jaw and destroying the corpus of its brainpan.
Sirs Brandon, Carew and Guildford released a volley into the woods stirring the nest as the Oblivion tainted drones or mortgaunt mob broke cover, some charging the party whilst others tried to flee, the barghasts straining against their shackles before being released.
“YAAAARRR” roared The Tudor digging his feet he spurred Governatore into a terrifying charge, at 18 hands the phantasm horse thundered into the slowest gaunts, The former King grunted in satisfaction as he impaled two of the beasts on his lance driving them into a tree trunk before drawing his mace
His accompanying Lords now engaged with the braver mortgaunts as he pursued the escapees, his Deathknights having waited until first corpus had been drawn, thundered after him, cutting a swathe through the scattering pack. The Tudor raced into the throng swinging his great soulsteel mace alternately from left to right whilst Governatore cantered in a circle preventing the beasts from grappling or dismounting his master.
The barghasts brought down other stragglers mauling them and tearing them apart.
Minutes of guttural growling and the crunching of spectral forms ended the bloodlust as over a dozen gaunts lay slain and disincorporating, Cole made his way from corpse to corpse ensuring each’s head was severed, once done his collectors dragged the remains to bound and taken back to the forges, let nothing go to waste.
The problem with mortgaunts was if you didn’t destroy them utterly or better yet smelt them, they rose again, howling back out of the tempests maelstroms whipped along by spectral masters to prey on the honest dead.
Cole rose, turned towards heavy hooves trotting toward him and promptly bowed, The Tudor whom he had served in life and now again in death, once called Henry VIII, his ornate Italian relic plate armour was covered in splattered gore, raising his faceplate hard inverted colour eyes surveyed the scene and fixed on Cole.
Removing his gauntlet Henry Tudor pulled the cloth mask from his nose and mouth “A good hunt and harvest Master Cole!”, the huntsman merely nodded as The Tudor trotted on, this attention turning to mirthfully admonishing Compton on his poor aim and bellowing at Boleyn as to what terms of alliance could be acceptable.
Clouds of moist breath snorted from the horses, he’d grown used to a world of perpetual grey, the tempests winds carried black ash above the twisted treeline.
The Tudor looked upon the riders approaching from the forest line, each sat upon moliated steeds formed from soul crafted drones, for his part he would not ride on some sick misshapen mockery, he had captured his giant phantasm horse in the tempest marshes of Essex which he had named Governatore in honour of his once mighty warhorse.
In death he had learned to remould his deathly form, unrestrained by mortal sickness, obesity or injury of either body or mind, he had recaptured the ruthlessness and savagery of old, a practice that served well in the deadlands.
Some three decades dead, The Tudor had cut a bloody path through his opposition’s corpus, he would not be denied his establishment of The House of Tudor, decried a heretic and renegade from the moment of his caul was removed, he had learned quickly that death was more regicidal than life and for him more fun.
Not every mortal became a wraith, it seemed some were too weak or insignificant they just passed into oblivion or became mindless drones, haunting their fetters repeating tasks over and over, best to be harvested and moliated into more useful items such as soulsteel.
Kings and Queens of England it seemed had a fair number of strong-willed personages who more often than not incarnated as a Wraith, of course their predecessors where often not enamoured with yet another claimant to the rule of the dead and were waiting, a number of Kings and Queens had been sent to the forges without their cauls removed or moliated into subservience if of some use.
This was to be his fate at the hand of the High Anacreon of England, The Conqueror had agents watching all of the living Royals, ready to seize them should they incarnate, it was said some were even murdered as to expediate their deathly capture.
He however was aided by the Conquerors mortal enemy Godwinson and the fact that The Tudors acts in life had created many exceptionally strong Fetters and Relics had provided him considerable protection, he had opposed he Conqueror for his first two decades whilst he acclimatised before formed a truce, he now served the London Necropolis steadily accumulating power.
As it transpired, he and the Conqueror shared common enemies and opponents, such as the Boleyn family, a representative of whom rode up the hill to greet him this very morning.
“Mine own l'rd” (My Lord) bowed Thomas Boleyn
“Boleyn” replied the quiet but ominous voice of The Tudor
“Mine own l'rd, i hadst desired to parley to draweth upon aged friendships” (My Lord, I had hoped to parley to rekindle old friendships)
“Thee has't hadst three decades and thy daught'r hast done much to deny thy intention if 't be true yond beest the case” (You have had three decades, and your daughter has done much to deny your intention if that be the case)
“Aye but thy price wast mine own daught'rs headeth f'r a second happenstance” (Yes but your price was my daughters head for a second happenstance)
The Tudor chuckled, an unpleasant noise that made the complete blackness of the whites of his eyes shine “A bawbling price to payeth f'r mine own aid, but mine own aid wast not as well did seek as anon, wast t thomas” (A small price to pay for my aid, but my aid was not as well sought as now, was it Thomas)
Boleyn replied with nothing more than a resigned look
The Tudor smiled “Cometh thomas doth not beest so glum, alloweth us seeth what is agreeable” (Come Thomas do not be so glum, let us see what can be agreed), the one thing he could count on from Thomas Boleyn was his perchance for survival
The Olde Waltham Forest - The Shadowlands.
The white sun cast a pale shuttered light fleetingly through the trees, the damp forest emitted no sound just unnerving silence.
Not a bird sang, the great barghasts strained restlessly against their muzzles and leash, six armoured figures sat waiting, in the middle of the pack sat The Tudor who bridled with impatience, but his huntsman was the best in the Dead Counties.
Clad in the drab slate attire of a ranger, the skeletal Elias Cole watched and listened, as silently as the grave (which was apt) he readied his longbow, drawing air or what passed for it in the lands of the dead into his lungs he howled a high keening screech into the shadowy foliage.
The silence was immediately broken as a snarling twisted figure burst from the bushes, he fired the creature stumbling as the arrow shaft firmly impaled its chest, still it broke into an alarmingly quick sprint towards Cole.
Its features were contorted, any resemblance to the man or woman it had once been gone, its hollow eyes watery, face heavily lined, its features and skin distorted as if washed away or smudged, its sharp teeth caked with carrion and filth.
Cole winced as the first relic Matchlock roared, Compton’s shot flying wild, however Thomas Boleyns shot finding its mark, exploding through the mortgaunts jaw and destroying the corpus of its brainpan.
Sirs Brandon, Carew and Guildford released a volley into the woods stirring the nest as the Oblivion tainted drones or mortgaunt mob broke cover, some charging the party whilst others tried to flee, the barghasts straining against their shackles before being released.
“YAAAARRR” roared The Tudor digging his feet he spurred Governatore into a terrifying charge, at 18 hands the phantasm horse thundered into the slowest gaunts, The former King grunted in satisfaction as he impaled two of the beasts on his lance driving them into a tree trunk before drawing his mace
His accompanying Lords now engaged with the braver mortgaunts as he pursued the escapees, his Deathknights having waited until first corpus had been drawn, thundered after him, cutting a swathe through the scattering pack. The Tudor raced into the throng swinging his great soulsteel mace alternately from left to right whilst Governatore cantered in a circle preventing the beasts from grappling or dismounting his master.
The barghasts brought down other stragglers mauling them and tearing them apart.
Minutes of guttural growling and the crunching of spectral forms ended the bloodlust as over a dozen gaunts lay slain and disincorporating, Cole made his way from corpse to corpse ensuring each’s head was severed, once done his collectors dragged the remains to bound and taken back to the forges, let nothing go to waste.
The problem with mortgaunts was if you didn’t destroy them utterly or better yet smelt them, they rose again, howling back out of the tempests maelstroms whipped along by spectral masters to prey on the honest dead.
Cole rose, turned towards heavy hooves trotting toward him and promptly bowed, The Tudor whom he had served in life and now again in death, once called Henry VIII, his ornate Italian relic plate armour was covered in splattered gore, raising his faceplate hard inverted colour eyes surveyed the scene and fixed on Cole.
Removing his gauntlet Henry Tudor pulled the cloth mask from his nose and mouth “A good hunt and harvest Master Cole!”, the huntsman merely nodded as The Tudor trotted on, this attention turning to mirthfully admonishing Compton on his poor aim and bellowing at Boleyn as to what terms of alliance could be acceptable.
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arcanus
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Blood Royale
The South Banks of the Thames, Greenwich, London - The Shadowlands 1553
The Shadowlands had a grim majesty to them, an austere place of black, grey and white, colour had little place in the realms of the dead and to those who survived in the afterworld it came as an alien thing when it was rarely encountered.
Perhaps that was why so many wraiths consipired to break Charon's edicts and flocked to the Skinlands like moths to a warm flame.
The Tudor stood with his retainers, each branded renegades due to their Lords alliance wth Godwinson, he was a glowering form full of an endless wrath and stood silently, expectantly.
His puppeteers and oracles had closely watched events in the Skinlands and read the Fatal signs, they were confident the boathouse of The Palace of Placentia would be the boys greatest Fetter, the Oracles looked nervously amongst themselves whilst the Puppeteers watched events from the other side.
The Tudor looked at the swirl of the thames, the opaque grey water bled streams of energy and power from its surface, it wasn't quite a breeze or wind but something more feral that hunted the waters of the dead realms great river.
Whilst it was wrong to call the atmosphere surrounding them air or the vapours it was a most applicable description, the Tudor turned noting a change in the stillness of the Boathouse.
Fortune had for once been with them, the English Hierarchy forces were concentrated in the Citadel of London, or ensconsed in the Greenwich Palace itself, none had thought to watch the Royal outbuildings in the grounds.
The Puppeteers rematerialised, flitting from the Skinlands within the Palace and appearing outside the boathouse
"It is done sire, the Young King has passed"
The Tudor nodded not taking his eyes off the disturbed air within the building, he quietly entered the building and approached, seeing a small thin twisting strand of pathos, he thought he saw the flicker of a face twist in a silent scream before it was gone, The Tudor looked his face twisted in a mix of sorrow and rage.
"I am sorry sire, he was not strong enough" said his counsel quietly from the doorway
He turned, his face twisted into a snarl the counsellor shrank, his pale face stricken in horror
"I meant no disrespect sire, you have my humblest apologies" he shreaked as The Tudor darted across the intervening floor, grabbed him and lifted him off his feet
"Henry, tis not his doing, the boy is gone, Oblivion has claimed him, not all make it across!" a heavy gloved hand squeezed his shoulder, he turned to look upon Elred, his foremost Knight provided by Godwinson, he nodded looking ominously at the counsellor before dropping him.
"We must be away" said Elred "Before our presence is detected" the Saxon Knight looked up at the Palace.
The assembled hurriedly returned to the awaiting barges and swiftly rode the winds of the Tempest away from Greenwich.
The Shadowlands had a grim majesty to them, an austere place of black, grey and white, colour had little place in the realms of the dead and to those who survived in the afterworld it came as an alien thing when it was rarely encountered.
Perhaps that was why so many wraiths consipired to break Charon's edicts and flocked to the Skinlands like moths to a warm flame.
The Tudor stood with his retainers, each branded renegades due to their Lords alliance wth Godwinson, he was a glowering form full of an endless wrath and stood silently, expectantly.
His puppeteers and oracles had closely watched events in the Skinlands and read the Fatal signs, they were confident the boathouse of The Palace of Placentia would be the boys greatest Fetter, the Oracles looked nervously amongst themselves whilst the Puppeteers watched events from the other side.
The Tudor looked at the swirl of the thames, the opaque grey water bled streams of energy and power from its surface, it wasn't quite a breeze or wind but something more feral that hunted the waters of the dead realms great river.
Whilst it was wrong to call the atmosphere surrounding them air or the vapours it was a most applicable description, the Tudor turned noting a change in the stillness of the Boathouse.
Fortune had for once been with them, the English Hierarchy forces were concentrated in the Citadel of London, or ensconsed in the Greenwich Palace itself, none had thought to watch the Royal outbuildings in the grounds.
The Puppeteers rematerialised, flitting from the Skinlands within the Palace and appearing outside the boathouse
"It is done sire, the Young King has passed"
The Tudor nodded not taking his eyes off the disturbed air within the building, he quietly entered the building and approached, seeing a small thin twisting strand of pathos, he thought he saw the flicker of a face twist in a silent scream before it was gone, The Tudor looked his face twisted in a mix of sorrow and rage.
"I am sorry sire, he was not strong enough" said his counsel quietly from the doorway
He turned, his face twisted into a snarl the counsellor shrank, his pale face stricken in horror
"I meant no disrespect sire, you have my humblest apologies" he shreaked as The Tudor darted across the intervening floor, grabbed him and lifted him off his feet
"Henry, tis not his doing, the boy is gone, Oblivion has claimed him, not all make it across!" a heavy gloved hand squeezed his shoulder, he turned to look upon Elred, his foremost Knight provided by Godwinson, he nodded looking ominously at the counsellor before dropping him.
"We must be away" said Elred "Before our presence is detected" the Saxon Knight looked up at the Palace.
The assembled hurriedly returned to the awaiting barges and swiftly rode the winds of the Tempest away from Greenwich.
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arcanus
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Blood Royale
The Traitors Gate - The Tower of London - The Shadowlands, 1601.
The River Temese was filled with the raging, roiling fury of the tempest waters, black entropic energy seethed and raged, for any wraith looking from the battlements it appeared like a line of a storm cutting its way across the lands.
The maleficent storm sat upon the churning waters crept into the bleak monochromatic shores and whipped at the bleak echo of the Tower fortress.
The great Maelstrom of 1599 had ravaged the Lands of Sorrow, so strong it was felt in the Shadowlands vomiting hordes of Spectres from the labyrinthe as Oblivion had been summoned by massacres in the New World, the English Hierarchy armies had met the raging hordes, driven them back to the Broken Marshes of East Anglia.
However the lands of the dead were not the same once the Maelstrom calmed, black winds still blew through the Shadowlands and across the Sea of Souls once calm waters were now named the Tempest, a raging cauldron where the energy of where oblivion now poisoned all of its waters.
In the midst of the rivers stormy surface, stood an imposing figure clad in black platemail armour, it had taken him five decades to master the power of the Argo Arcanoi and his mastery wrapped the fury of the tempest around him.
He looked upon the Tower, behind it the shadow of the London Necropolis loomed, the Hierarchy's capital fortress which lay beyond the shadowlands deep in The Land of Sorrows.
He concentrated, the wards of the Tower were signficant, it was a key fortification for the Legions watching The Temese, he searched for where the treacherous waters had crept into the foundations of the tower.
Wherever they ventured it allowed the Tempest to intrude and his pathway past the wards.
He sensed the ebbs and flow, the boiling hiss of oblivion laced waters and there he felt the waters ingress through the foundations of the stone, concentrating he willed the storms forces to carry him, he surged a column of tempest energy forming a tunnel that carried him towards the wall.
The Tower Chapel
Looking through the eye slits of his platemail helm the Tudor blinked as the tempest winds dissipated.
He looked around the shadowy grey chamber and growled, all his research, pouring through ancient lore, torture of scholars and yet he stood in an empty room.
"Welcome Henry Tudor" came a screechy voice
The towering form turned looking upon a pure white Raven, removing his helm he gave the creature a thunderous look
"What do you want familar?"
Not that you could tell if a bird were smiling, but he suspected this one was "Tis not what I want is it now Tudor, for thee are the intruder not I"
He snarled stepping forwards, but quickly pulling up short as before him stood a man sized creature, but one a mix of man and raven, it had extended its wing like arms now lined with razor sharp spines pressed up to his throat.
"You would have thought that after fifty years of death, a once king would know that there are greater things than he in both heaven and hell!"
The Tudor summoned his other Arcanoi however they harmlessly washed over the creature, which in response again changed shape into that of a short old man, the creature cackled.
"If you are going to continue to prove yourself foolish, I will bid you good-day"
Henry Tudor stepped back "What are thee"
The old man smiled "A guide for the dead, a traveller of the way, why are you here wife slayer?"
"YOU DARE"
"I have said something untrue!" smiled the old man
He glared but and breathed in slowly despite his ghostly form having not needing to raise its chest for half a century "I seek the Black Crypt"
"Ah I see, so the once king wishes to become a true ruler, you know that an ancient and evil being slumbers within this place, it claims to be the true ruler of Albion!"
"I know of no such creature"
"Well you wouldn't it has lived for a hundred generations before you, in life you wouldn't have known about it unless it willed it, yet your actions were entirely your own, your Reformation of no supernatural influence, that is both interesting and curious!"
"Your point creature!"
"So I will show you the Black Crypt Henry Tudor it will be interesting and unkdoubtably noteworthy to see what transpires"
The River Temese was filled with the raging, roiling fury of the tempest waters, black entropic energy seethed and raged, for any wraith looking from the battlements it appeared like a line of a storm cutting its way across the lands.
The maleficent storm sat upon the churning waters crept into the bleak monochromatic shores and whipped at the bleak echo of the Tower fortress.
The great Maelstrom of 1599 had ravaged the Lands of Sorrow, so strong it was felt in the Shadowlands vomiting hordes of Spectres from the labyrinthe as Oblivion had been summoned by massacres in the New World, the English Hierarchy armies had met the raging hordes, driven them back to the Broken Marshes of East Anglia.
However the lands of the dead were not the same once the Maelstrom calmed, black winds still blew through the Shadowlands and across the Sea of Souls once calm waters were now named the Tempest, a raging cauldron where the energy of where oblivion now poisoned all of its waters.
In the midst of the rivers stormy surface, stood an imposing figure clad in black platemail armour, it had taken him five decades to master the power of the Argo Arcanoi and his mastery wrapped the fury of the tempest around him.
He looked upon the Tower, behind it the shadow of the London Necropolis loomed, the Hierarchy's capital fortress which lay beyond the shadowlands deep in The Land of Sorrows.
He concentrated, the wards of the Tower were signficant, it was a key fortification for the Legions watching The Temese, he searched for where the treacherous waters had crept into the foundations of the tower.
Wherever they ventured it allowed the Tempest to intrude and his pathway past the wards.
He sensed the ebbs and flow, the boiling hiss of oblivion laced waters and there he felt the waters ingress through the foundations of the stone, concentrating he willed the storms forces to carry him, he surged a column of tempest energy forming a tunnel that carried him towards the wall.
The Tower Chapel
Looking through the eye slits of his platemail helm the Tudor blinked as the tempest winds dissipated.
He looked around the shadowy grey chamber and growled, all his research, pouring through ancient lore, torture of scholars and yet he stood in an empty room.
"Welcome Henry Tudor" came a screechy voice
The towering form turned looking upon a pure white Raven, removing his helm he gave the creature a thunderous look
"What do you want familar?"
Not that you could tell if a bird were smiling, but he suspected this one was "Tis not what I want is it now Tudor, for thee are the intruder not I"
He snarled stepping forwards, but quickly pulling up short as before him stood a man sized creature, but one a mix of man and raven, it had extended its wing like arms now lined with razor sharp spines pressed up to his throat.
"You would have thought that after fifty years of death, a once king would know that there are greater things than he in both heaven and hell!"
The Tudor summoned his other Arcanoi however they harmlessly washed over the creature, which in response again changed shape into that of a short old man, the creature cackled.
"If you are going to continue to prove yourself foolish, I will bid you good-day"
Henry Tudor stepped back "What are thee"
The old man smiled "A guide for the dead, a traveller of the way, why are you here wife slayer?"
"YOU DARE"
"I have said something untrue!" smiled the old man
He glared but and breathed in slowly despite his ghostly form having not needing to raise its chest for half a century "I seek the Black Crypt"
"Ah I see, so the once king wishes to become a true ruler, you know that an ancient and evil being slumbers within this place, it claims to be the true ruler of Albion!"
"I know of no such creature"
"Well you wouldn't it has lived for a hundred generations before you, in life you wouldn't have known about it unless it willed it, yet your actions were entirely your own, your Reformation of no supernatural influence, that is both interesting and curious!"
"Your point creature!"
"So I will show you the Black Crypt Henry Tudor it will be interesting and unkdoubtably noteworthy to see what transpires"
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arcanus
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Blood Royale
The Rise of Henry Tudor Mortuus rex Britannicus I.
I Thomas Elmham The Royal Chronicler transcribe this historical record of the ascend of our Britannic Liege in Mortuss.
The account of what transpired within the Hierarchy Tower of London in 1601 are known only to our Lord and Liege Henry Tudor, only that upon emergence he was more than a wraith, that news of his presence and power quickly spread throughout the skinlands and underworld of Albion and soon reached the ears of the Iron Empires Deathlords.
As in life The Tudors death had been both notorious and notable, for the first century of his deathly existence saw him rise in power as a renegade ally of Elred before a truce arose between he and the Hierarchy Lord of the Isle William the Conqueror.
This truce was not to last having seemingly acquired greater deathly power, The Conquerors forces once again set to hunting The Tudor, all that came were sent to Oblivion.
In 1603 The Tudors daughter Elizabeth I passed beyond Charon's walls, her will as strong as her fathers she was incarnated as a wraith and The Tudor was waiting, as in life once again in death she was imprisoned, it is said this due not soley due to the threat she posed to her father but also his anger that hshe once again proved stronger than his one and only son.
There were efforts to prevent Queen Elizabeths capture within the mortum halls of Richmond Palace by four of his Earthly wives, all bar Catherine of Aragon who it is claimed transcended to the Lords Grace upon the end of her earthly existance and Catherine Parr, who refused to be party.
The Four were aided by their leader Anne Boleyns father Thomas, despite the Boleyns having risen to prominence and power within the Britannic Underworld, their combined might could not overcome The Tudor's power and Elizabeth was successfully captured.
Throughout the years of 1608 through to 1656 The Conquerors Hierarchy forces skirmished with the growing forces of the Tudor, the ancient Saxon dead joining his ranks to finally banish the Normans, this culminated in the battle of the Citadel in 1657 where The Tudors forces besieged the Shadowlands of London and its underworld Necropolis.
it was during these bloody times that the Four Wives once again sought to stop The Tudors ambitions and effect his destruction, however their foolish efforts were in vain, of the Four only Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour escaped with their existances, this failure also leading to the Boleyn families fleeing to Stygiria, the price of treason against the Tudor has long been known.
The Palace of Westminster having long since descended into the Underworld and taking its place as Britiannias Necorpolis, the Conqueror met The Tudor in single combat and was destroyed, his plasm flayed from his soul and his deathly head soulforged into one of many regicidal trophies for The Tudor.
During this campaign Stygrias attempts to reinforce their outpost were repeatedly thwarted by raging maelstroms throughout the Tempests, only teh Ferrymen could have navigated the fury of oblivion and all refused, it is said that despite the Deathlords protests Charon also refused to become involved with what was a provincial matter.
In 1661 The Tudor was confirmed as the Anacreon of London, althugh characteristically he proclaimed himself the Lord of Britiannia and Ireland.
Over the past Century it has been noted that fewer and fewer English and subsequently British Kings and Queens have incarnated, our Lord has wisely observed that the lack of murderous device within court or failure to stand on the fields of battle has led to a weakness of character and power, that and dilution by accepting foreign monarchs.
For these past 80 score years we have lived under the watchful eye of our Lord and Leige Henry Tudor.
God Save the King,
Thomas Elmham - 1748
I Thomas Elmham The Royal Chronicler transcribe this historical record of the ascend of our Britannic Liege in Mortuss.
The account of what transpired within the Hierarchy Tower of London in 1601 are known only to our Lord and Liege Henry Tudor, only that upon emergence he was more than a wraith, that news of his presence and power quickly spread throughout the skinlands and underworld of Albion and soon reached the ears of the Iron Empires Deathlords.
As in life The Tudors death had been both notorious and notable, for the first century of his deathly existence saw him rise in power as a renegade ally of Elred before a truce arose between he and the Hierarchy Lord of the Isle William the Conqueror.
This truce was not to last having seemingly acquired greater deathly power, The Conquerors forces once again set to hunting The Tudor, all that came were sent to Oblivion.
In 1603 The Tudors daughter Elizabeth I passed beyond Charon's walls, her will as strong as her fathers she was incarnated as a wraith and The Tudor was waiting, as in life once again in death she was imprisoned, it is said this due not soley due to the threat she posed to her father but also his anger that hshe once again proved stronger than his one and only son.
There were efforts to prevent Queen Elizabeths capture within the mortum halls of Richmond Palace by four of his Earthly wives, all bar Catherine of Aragon who it is claimed transcended to the Lords Grace upon the end of her earthly existance and Catherine Parr, who refused to be party.
The Four were aided by their leader Anne Boleyns father Thomas, despite the Boleyns having risen to prominence and power within the Britannic Underworld, their combined might could not overcome The Tudor's power and Elizabeth was successfully captured.
Throughout the years of 1608 through to 1656 The Conquerors Hierarchy forces skirmished with the growing forces of the Tudor, the ancient Saxon dead joining his ranks to finally banish the Normans, this culminated in the battle of the Citadel in 1657 where The Tudors forces besieged the Shadowlands of London and its underworld Necropolis.
it was during these bloody times that the Four Wives once again sought to stop The Tudors ambitions and effect his destruction, however their foolish efforts were in vain, of the Four only Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour escaped with their existances, this failure also leading to the Boleyn families fleeing to Stygiria, the price of treason against the Tudor has long been known.
The Palace of Westminster having long since descended into the Underworld and taking its place as Britiannias Necorpolis, the Conqueror met The Tudor in single combat and was destroyed, his plasm flayed from his soul and his deathly head soulforged into one of many regicidal trophies for The Tudor.
During this campaign Stygrias attempts to reinforce their outpost were repeatedly thwarted by raging maelstroms throughout the Tempests, only teh Ferrymen could have navigated the fury of oblivion and all refused, it is said that despite the Deathlords protests Charon also refused to become involved with what was a provincial matter.
In 1661 The Tudor was confirmed as the Anacreon of London, althugh characteristically he proclaimed himself the Lord of Britiannia and Ireland.
Over the past Century it has been noted that fewer and fewer English and subsequently British Kings and Queens have incarnated, our Lord has wisely observed that the lack of murderous device within court or failure to stand on the fields of battle has led to a weakness of character and power, that and dilution by accepting foreign monarchs.
For these past 80 score years we have lived under the watchful eye of our Lord and Leige Henry Tudor.
God Save the King,
Thomas Elmham - 1748