The air was filled with a reverberating ambience that night, upon the streets of Gdénsk. It grew, like the graceful build of a Dressolini bel canto amidst an opera. It was the clatter of chains, before anything: a sort of chiming of metal upon metal, much like church bells on an autumn morning. The metallic chattering grew in its magnitude, filling the side streets, much to the nervous disposition of Gdénsk's local guardsmen. There was an air of uncertainty, though panic had yet to strike the minds of Gdensk's Vladno citizens, who were enjoying their evening wine, safe and intoxicated in the comfort of their city manors.
Perhaps it was the writing upon the walls, that first struck flame of panic within the hearts of Gdensk's aristocracy? Marked in a red chalk across the brick arches of the city
"Death to the Masters"
It struck a fine chord of fear within the passing nobility; none so much as Lud Yukov, who was returning from the slave market with a slave of his own. The fat Vladno's visage became grim at the sight of the writing, his hands clasping tight around his nelfin slave's chains. Lud's eyes squinted, as to his disbelief the darkened Gdénsk alley started to light at its very end. A dull orange glow, which grew closer and closer.. Until at last he could hear the chanting. "Death! To! Masters!" The voices would scream. Lud went pale, turning to his nelfin slave, though not sharp enough to prevent the girl from lunging at him with her chains. The girthy Vladno threw the frail elf to the ground, and without second thought began to sprint with all his will and might, as the orange glow grew closer - all the while "Death! Death! Death!" growing ever closer too. The Vladno's steps echoed through the alley, until at last he came to a halt around the edge of the street, his face scarlet, and drenched to an inch in sweat. The shouting had became louder - so loud, that the man had to cover both ears, as to avoid pain to his sensitive drums.
It was in this moment of reprieve, that Yukov regretted deeply his pause for breath: upon him laid the eyes of three Varran slaves. The cat-men bore their fangs, howling their lungs to address the larger crowd of enslaved. The booming steps of the mob rushed towards them, Lud barely made a struggle as they tore him from the confines of the small alley, and dragged him to the square with mauling hands - all the while, Gdénsk began to burn around them. Elves of all creed, Varrans, Orcs, and Songaskians, all filled the tight center of Gdensk, their inhuman eyes tracing over the Vladno who had been dragged to the central plaza. To Lud's left, a statue of the local Hetman was plunged to the ground with black iron chains, its head tumbling down with an explosion of chipped stone, the flames dancing in the distance. To his right, Vladno aristocrats dangled from rope, suspended from windows, trees, and whatever vantage point the slaves could find - their bodies swaying like Imperial flags in the breeze. Perhaps the worst sight of all, for the deeply Unionist man, was the sight of Gdénsk Cathedral: ablaze in an orgy of flame like none other before.. Lud bellowed as the slaves continued their chant, yet to this day none could make sense of his words. A medley of Vladno curses? A cry for help? A beseechment to the Spirit? Or perhaps something much more primal, and base: "Cyka!" he screamed with Vladno fury, as they strung him by the neck, his body dropping with a crunch as the rope drew tight.
Gdénsk burned throughout the night, as the slaves ran riot. Even today, it brings a pained heart to Folostans to remember the night of broken chains - and rightfully so. Many slaves fled the city into the country, and many more by boat. Those who stayed were put to the sword by a zealous band of Vladno, bent on revenge for their fallen loved ones. The golden domes of Gdénsk were nothing more than molten metal - the palace of House Bolshakov, a ruin, like one of Seraph nature. Gdénsk was a shadow of its former glory by sunrise, and merely a fragment of this by dusk.
"Death to the Masters"
It struck a fine chord of fear within the passing nobility; none so much as Lud Yukov, who was returning from the slave market with a slave of his own. The fat Vladno's visage became grim at the sight of the writing, his hands clasping tight around his nelfin slave's chains. Lud's eyes squinted, as to his disbelief the darkened Gdénsk alley started to light at its very end. A dull orange glow, which grew closer and closer.. Until at last he could hear the chanting. "Death! To! Masters!" The voices would scream. Lud went pale, turning to his nelfin slave, though not sharp enough to prevent the girl from lunging at him with her chains. The girthy Vladno threw the frail elf to the ground, and without second thought began to sprint with all his will and might, as the orange glow grew closer - all the while "Death! Death! Death!" growing ever closer too. The Vladno's steps echoed through the alley, until at last he came to a halt around the edge of the street, his face scarlet, and drenched to an inch in sweat. The shouting had became louder - so loud, that the man had to cover both ears, as to avoid pain to his sensitive drums.
It was in this moment of reprieve, that Yukov regretted deeply his pause for breath: upon him laid the eyes of three Varran slaves. The cat-men bore their fangs, howling their lungs to address the larger crowd of enslaved. The booming steps of the mob rushed towards them, Lud barely made a struggle as they tore him from the confines of the small alley, and dragged him to the square with mauling hands - all the while, Gdénsk began to burn around them. Elves of all creed, Varrans, Orcs, and Songaskians, all filled the tight center of Gdensk, their inhuman eyes tracing over the Vladno who had been dragged to the central plaza. To Lud's left, a statue of the local Hetman was plunged to the ground with black iron chains, its head tumbling down with an explosion of chipped stone, the flames dancing in the distance. To his right, Vladno aristocrats dangled from rope, suspended from windows, trees, and whatever vantage point the slaves could find - their bodies swaying like Imperial flags in the breeze. Perhaps the worst sight of all, for the deeply Unionist man, was the sight of Gdénsk Cathedral: ablaze in an orgy of flame like none other before.. Lud bellowed as the slaves continued their chant, yet to this day none could make sense of his words. A medley of Vladno curses? A cry for help? A beseechment to the Spirit? Or perhaps something much more primal, and base: "Cyka!" he screamed with Vladno fury, as they strung him by the neck, his body dropping with a crunch as the rope drew tight.
Gdénsk burned throughout the night, as the slaves ran riot. Even today, it brings a pained heart to Folostans to remember the night of broken chains - and rightfully so. Many slaves fled the city into the country, and many more by boat. Those who stayed were put to the sword by a zealous band of Vladno, bent on revenge for their fallen loved ones. The golden domes of Gdénsk were nothing more than molten metal - the palace of House Bolshakov, a ruin, like one of Seraph nature. Gdénsk was a shadow of its former glory by sunrise, and merely a fragment of this by dusk.
