Rick the weasel yells at no one in particular as he flicks a switch, detonating several charges placed around a heap of stone. With a defeaning boom, the solid rock is blasted into several hundred pieces, flying in every direction at breakneck speed. Several chunks bludgeon the edge of the cliff face that Rick uses for cover, and he musters a nervous laugh at the intimate peril of standing near feet away from what would otherwise be his untimely demise. He waits about 15 seconds for the dust and debris to settle to an acceptable degree, then emerges to observe the fruits of his labor.
Sure enough, an enormous stone archway stands with a remnant of its former majesty, etched with ancient language and various medieval-era depictions. This monster could’ve admitted 10 versions of him, 5 standing on the other 5’s heads, all at the exact same time. Darkness looms beyond, but several more archways are visible farther in.
Rick’s face twists into a nasty grin. “I damn well knew it!” He laughs, pulling out his flashlight from his satchel and confidently striding through the kingly gateway. “You thought you could hide from me, eh, Ralendaan the Mighty? Well, get ready to suck it real hard!”
He points his light every which way as his soft leather explorer boots echo across the soulless resting ground, monopolizing his eardrums. Several remarkably incongruous sights greet him; a decrepit wooden table with a pair of giant empty ale mugs, a giant moldy barrel with a tap built right in, evidently housing the aforementioned ale, and most eye catching of all... the knight’s eternal silvery companions. Large bulky pieces of steel armor lay scattered all about the floor, hung on the walls, even draped upon one another in some places. Swords lie among them too, strikingly long and quite ornate in design, along with large round shields bearing the immortal icon of Rick’s quarry, a fearsome draconic face with a pair of swords intersecting behind it.
Rick recounts the briefing he’d been given of the legendary historical figure by his mysterious client. Ralendaan the Mighty, as he’s so fondly referred to, was a legendary knight from back in the dark ages, who led his beloved nation through an unprecedented series of victories and conquests that was largely credited for the persistent geographic domination of the country that stands in its place today. Accounts from rivaling nations had described a terrible, ferocious and pristine force overtaking their lands virtually unopposed, yet minimal blood was shed so long as the invaded party was willing to comply.
But their prowess in combat, surprisingly, could not be credited for the incredible endurance of Ralendaan’s conquest; that honor went to their astounding recruitment rate within the very nations they conquered. No matter how fervently they resisted Ral’s invasion, how bitterly they cursed his name, once a nation fell to him, he would swiftly, unfailingly, proceed to recruit a significant portion of the opposing army, in some cases every last man, converting them to his colors and leading them to fight alongside their former enemies in order to impose Ral’s will still further across the land. Once within his ranks, all semblance of loyalty to their lost cause of a nation ceased completely, and they became indistinguishable from the force that subjugated them in the first place.
Ral’s forces swept across the land at an astounding pace, and he seemed poised for global domination... so it was an even bigger surprise when his advancement simply... ceased. Ral disappeared without a trace, last seen at the regal tomb of his forefathers, cited as displaying dissatisfaction with what he’d accomplished. He was hence presumed to have committed suicide, and therefore became the centerpiece of that very tomb. Without his hand to guide them, the warring ceased quite abruptly, and a long age of unified peace followed. But not everyone believed he was truly gone... since then, a long enduring legend has foretold that one day Ralendaan the Mighty would return once again to finish what he started.
Naturally, none of this was of particular importance to Rick; the only thing on his mind is the payout from that shady guy that sought out his services... and holy hell, was that ever a payout. And in order to get ahold of said payout, he’s been tasked with retrieving Ralendaan’s fabled armor, fearsome and flawless, always featuring quite prominently in any tale born from his exploits.
The odd thing was, he was given a copious amount of warning not to put on said armor, with a particular amount of emphasis being put on the boots. Evidently word had gotten around about his... unusual fixation. Not that he really minded that. But what could be so dangerous about an old, rusty set of armor? And why would this weirdo pay such an enormous fund to have it retrieved? This questions popped into his mind quite a while after the deal had been made... then was promptly discarded. Why should he care? All he needs to do is snag the prize and make his bank. It’s always been his philosophy in life to not not bother with little details that don’t pertain to him... it certainly hasn’t led him astray yet.
The thought of that sweet, sweet bounty just about has the weasel salivating as he ventures on through the gross abandoned tavern, toward the depths of the decrepit tomb. Ominous darkness looms for what feels like miles, the tunnel seeming to get more claustrophobic by the second. Rick remains as confident and haughty as ever, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel just the tiniest pang of foreboding. Surely some dude who’s been dead for centuries won’t pose any sort of threat, right?
At last, he emerges into some sort of sanctum, towering a cool 30 feet within the rock. Rick’s never had much of an eye for architecture, but even so he can’t help but gape a little at its sheer majesty. A ring of huge, ornate coffins dominates its space, etched all over with those same archaic glyphs as the entryway. At their center lies an even more majestic casket, standing upright and facing the entrance. The ruthless, emotionless face of a dragon is etched in the stone, glowering down at anyone who enters.
“There you are.” Rick saunters up toward the central dais, still remaining wary of any traps that may be sprung. He leers up at the slab of stone that houses the long-expired body of Ralendaan, inspecting its form to see if it can reasonably be worked open. The sides seem to be nothing but pure unpenetrated stone, but upon further inspection Rick spots a remarkably thin crease within it, marking the place where the lid meets the container. “Mmm… nothing a bit of prying won’t fix. Let’s get ya out of there, eh?”
The weasel rummages through his small tool bag and pulls out a hammer, chisel and crowbar, and begins to pound away at the crack. It’s so hard to identify that it takes a few attempts for him to even pound in the right place, but eventually he hits the mark, and drives the point in with increasing force. Bit by microscopic bit the crack widens, until he’s managed to get a full millimeter of give. He then sticks his long, extendable crowbar in, and heaves with all his might, grunting and groaning, putting a boot up against the back of the coffin to get as much leverage as possible. He heaves, and heaves, and heaves, until…
With a deep grinding sound, the thick stone lid comes loose, and with the inevitability of a tsunami it teeters and ponderously falls toward the ground. It lands with an earth-shattering crunch, creating a web of cracks in the ornately tiled floor and sending a monster of a sound wave through the whole cavern, causing Rick to cry out and cover his ears until the thunderous din echoes and fades into an acceptable level. Once he’s recovered from the ordeal, he shakily puts his tools away, takes a deep breath, and stumbles back around to the front to have a look at what he’s uncovered.
He braces himself for a rather ugly scene of ancient well-weathered bones and rotten flesh… but all that greets him is a full suit of armor lying within the stone confines. So they buried him in his swag, eh? At least that saves him the trouble of having to look for it. It really is a magnificent piece of work, the metal plates seeming to interlock perfectly to cover the entire body, and gleaming with stunning cleanliness despite their extended stay in a dusty tomb.
“Huh... guess that’ll do.” He reaches in gingerly to grasp the figure by the sides of its torso, and gently pulls it on out... which promptly causes the pieces to fall away and tumble out into the ground around Rick. Just metal and padding... no sign of any sort of body inside them, living or dead.
He stares down at it, dumbfounded. All this fanfare and reverence this dude got, and they somehow managed to forget to put his body in the one place it was meant to go? The idea that some thief has been here before him is laughable... the coffin would’ve shown clear signs of having been opened, and who the hell would steal gross old bones while leaving the armor and all these riches behind? But a better explanation for this oddity fails to come to mind.
After studying the situation for a few more quizzical seconds, he shrugs and begins to assemble them into a pile. This conundrum certainly isn’t any of his business; he came here for one thing only, and that thing is lying right in front of him, and not a single lick of danger has shown itself. So why question further?
He scrapes the pieces together into a large pile, then pauses. “Hmmm... probably should’ve, uhh, gotten a big bag or something...” He grumbles at his gross negligence, thinking about how he could go about this. It takes an embarrassingly long time to come to the most obvious solution.
“Oh, duh…” He eyes the armor and reaches down with a glint of hunger in his eyes, then hesitates. Didn’t the creepy guy say something about not putting it on? Especially not the boots? His eyes lock with the steel footwear lying on the very top of the pile, while occasionally glancing down at the leathery pair he has on now. Those things look damn comfortable… very stylish too, and obviously handy in a tussle. So why was he warned not to put them on…?
“Heh… probably didn’t want me getting them all dirty and musky. I’ll just clean it right back up afterward if he’s so sullen about it!” With some reluctance he kicks off his own boots, then snatches one of the big ones with its nice big metal plating. His foot slides right on in without a fuss, and his toes touch down quite snugly. It’s a damn near perfect fit! He laughs with glee and snatches the other one, hastening to get it on too. In a matter of seconds he’s strutting around the sanctum, clomping about with his oversized steel boots. They feel incredible! And shockingly not that heavy, either. The weasel grins like a fool, having the time of his life.
“Alrighty then, time for the full package!~” He marches back to the big pile of gilded armor, and rummages through them until he locates the shin guards. His hands close tightly around them the moment he lays eyes on them, almost painfully so. Wow, is he really this eager…? He shrugs it off, placing them on each leg and fastening the straps into place. Now his entire legs are encased in pure metal; he can feel every pound of the stuff weighing on him, yet somehow he doesn’t feel impeded at all! He does another lap around the circle of ancient kings, feeling like he owns the place. He approaches the pile once again, seeking out the enormous chestplate meant to cover his entire torso.
Suddenly, he begins to grow a little dizzy. He grunts and stumbles, squinting in confusion. What’s the deal with that? Why does he feel so… light-headed? And how did his arms just reach out and grab the chestplate without any conscious thought whatsoever?
“Wha…” His confidence fades just a little at the oddity. He decides to take a moment to settle down and collect his thoughts… but his body doesn’t appear to have gotten the memo. His arms, in direct defiance of his mental command, proceed to lift the large hollow shell up over his head, and allow themselves to be swallowed up by its depths as it falls down over his body.
“H-hey, what- Stop it!” He tries to shake his body to fling it off, but he only manages to wiggle a bit, which only helps it sink down into place more quickly. With a soft clang it connects to his leggings at the waist, and Rick’s rebellious arms pop back out through the arm holes. Once again, the plate fits him astonishingly well, the padding beneath pressing gently against his body, not chafing at all. At this point things have just gotten too damn freaky; Rick increasingly resolves that he’d rather just lug the whole thing out the hard way… if he can just get it off. And things sure don’t look too good on that front, as he reaches down to pick up the arm bracers from the ever shrinking pile.
Rick grimaces, breathing hard as he attempts with increasing desperation to wrest control of his body. It’s no use; all he manages is the occasional pause or tremor. Otherwise, his whole body seems to content to ignore all cognitive input as it fastens the bracers to his upper arms. Once again, a small click as it makes contact with the shoulder pads, locking into place. It finally starts to occur to him that that clicking isn’t a sound that old ass armor should be making… it gives the impression that the pieces are locking to each other, and by extension locking him inside. Rick begins to whimper, genuine fear settling in for the first time in years. What the hell is happening to him?!
As he reaches down to grab the gauntlets, he feels an eerie wave of calm settle over him… his breathing slows, and his eyes droop. The armor really does feel wonderful, even if he hesitates to admit it at the moment. He feels nigh invincible… like… he could take on an army… take command… conquer…
Click! click! His fingers slide gracefully into their holes as though they’ve rehearsed it millions of times, and the gauntlets seal themselves into place. This feels so… familiar… yes, this is his rightful garb… wait, no! Where did that come from? Why is it so hard just to think… to do anything, for that matter…
As he turns his attention to the final component, the magnificent helmet, a gentle smile comes to his face unbidden. Then, unable to help himself, he speaks with an entirely different voice, smooth and rich, yet somehow incredibly ancient.
“Mmm… how I missed this.” As soon as he finishes the sentence, his eyes shoot wide with horror. “Wh-What the fuck? Why did I- Grrrrgh…” Still he remains helpless, scared and confused as his body calmly kneels down to delicately clutch the helmet with reverence. At this point he has no control of his body whatsoever… all he can do is watch and sputter. At least until the other voice returns, and his face settles back into a knowing smirk.
“Foolish traveller… you should have known better than to trifle with ancient relics the likes which you could never fathom. Your body will serve quite sufficiently, I think.”
“M-My…” Each word is a struggle to get out; he feels his control over his very mind being slowly pried away. “Who… what is…”
“I should think that the signs have been quite obvious enough for a miscreant such as you… quite fortunate that I shan’t need to rely on your lesser wit.”
With a momentous air, “Rick” lowers the helmet over his wavering face, trapping it in darkness and sealing away the last visible traces of the conniving weasel. In a bid of pure instinct, he whirls around and plunges a gauntleted hand into the sarcophagus from whence the ancient conqueror’s restless soul came, and retrieves a wicked long sword he hadn’t noticed before from its depths, and holds it aloft. His body’s new occupant speaks with a booming, commanding voice that seems to shake the very stone around him with every syllable.
“I am Ralendaan the Mighty, the rightful ruler of this fallen Earth! And I have returned once more to fulfill my duty!”
Finally, Rick feels his grip on his very self slip away, leaving him no choice but to fold into Ral’s mind. He’s… a conqueror, yes. He came so close before, but felt that it just wasn’t time yet… but now? Now, he decides it’s about damn time this world learned to respect him once more. All of his memories of being an arrogant, irreverent mischievous weasel fade into the aether… and only the noble, confident, assertive mind of an ancient dragon remains.
Ral inhales deeply with bliss, completely and permanently in control. He’s overwhelmed with pride that his enchanted armor has dutifully stayed strong and immaculate, housing his soul and attracting a proper host for him. Now, it will accompany him once more for his new conquest of this new world.
He hoists his sword once more, this time with a more deliberate motion; deep down the hall, the sounds of clamoring and clanking can be heard, like thousands of pots and pans being knocked off a countertop in succession. Finally, figures emerge into the sanctum; hundreds upon hundreds of suits of armor, marching limply at Ral’s command. They won’t be doing a whole lot of fighting in this state, but that’s easily remedied… all they need is a proper host, someone who has a brave knight within them waiting to be revealed. And there’s sure to be a whole lot more of those in this brand new world, no matter how much soul-searching it may take.
Ral takes a few more seconds to take in the moment and wait for his soon-to-be-army to march into position, then throws his faceplate up, revealing not the face of a weasel… but of a fierce, handsome and elegant green dragon. “Let the Age of Eternal Steel begin.”
Originally uploaded on FA on 12/17/20. Written for day 13 of the 2020 Hypnovember art challenge, the prompt being “Artifact”. Commission work.
An arrogant weasel seeks out an ancient treasure… and instead turns out to himself be the very treasure a certain malevolent spirit has long been waiting for.
Additional disclaimer: The preview does not retain italics when I copy/paste, and there's no way in hell I'm going back through each and every one of these uploads in order to fix it. As a result, keep in mind the RTF file might make for a more readable experience.
