Claim
Written By: The Author, Jacob Folkler
Set in the war-scarred kingdom of Fahrenwald, this dark fantasy tale explores the aftermath of the death of Highlord Vin Grautha III, a tyrannical ruler whose final wish curses the throne itself and plunges the realm into political chaos. As the celebrated usurper Morrighan Lorelei discovers that victory alone cannot grant legitimacy, noble houses, mercenary guilds, and ambitious claimants race to uncover the missing heart of the fallen Highlord—a relic tied to an ancient and powerful Claim. Blending themes of revolution, power, destiny, and the burdens of leadership, this fantasy narrative weaves together political intrigue, magical succession, and the enduring struggle between tyranny and hope in a kingdom desperate for change.
The Horns blared. O' how they sang. The Lord is dead. And with a head gone fallen into a basket once meant for fruits, now stained in Black blood and worried cries of change. The Lord is dead. Where now doth his body lie. Its accursed skin and hair soiled with cud come rushing from its freed neck.
Why aren't you singing, ill omen? Sing like the horns. Like the churchbells. For even he knew death was better than torture. Than change. Though what bad is it? Change. A strong word. A man's word. He invented it, did he not? That now our families must comply. That our streets be riddled with the bodies of our children. That we abide. We abide to a promise printed to us in every ledger, every newsletter, every song sung by every Bard in every tavern that knew better than wait every night in silence. That same Bard. That same man who would see his fellow bandmates hanging in the street. Silence was death. Their bodies cleansed of Sin. Of suffering.
We were cleansed. That is what the mantras will hum. What the scriptures will inscribe.
We were cleansed by that man. That man who promised change. Who promised us.
"We have nothing to hide. Our sin is cleansed. And our ancestors are dead so we may live in freedom."
He was the Highlord Vin Grautha the Third. Son of Grautha the Putrid. Son of the Tyrant Apostle.
Now, he is dead. Thanks to the Frail Council's betrayal, and the Starving Children for their mercenaries, and the Usurper herself.
Alas, what good is a dead Lord if their throne stay unobtainable, ill omen?
Precisely, no good at all. But that, sweet thing, is precisely the right cause for a good story, is it not?
Who knew that the land of the oppressed would hate the most, of all things, the Usurper Morrighan Lorelei? When she saved them from their oppressor. I was there. I know why. I know it is not what the rumours say about her. About her scandalous behaviour. I know it is not because of her intention neither. For all of Fahrenwald begged for her rump to adorn our throne. She would best Grautha as leader thousandfold.
Oh Gods weeped that day, ill omen. I would have heard it had I not wept too. That Lady Lorelei would beckon the one order, so rushiedly, so foolishly. The one Power that everyone forgot Grautha had.
"What might then be the last words of Grautha the Fallen?"
There comes a time, where even the mightiest must bow their heads, and every tongue must proclaim. Evil strikes best only when Good has won for too long.
The air still. The Highlord thinking from his bleeding temple, teeth grit. The people in silent fear. Every word this man had was poison. Who knew this poison was so... Everlasting.
"I..." He breathed iron and saliva.
"I... Wish."
They say the archer garrisoned to strike his throat never fired a single arrow that day.
"I Wish that my throne remain empty. That it be only claimed by that which finds my heart..."
"STOP HIM, CARVE HIS TONGUE OUT!" Bellowed the Stallion Usurper. But it was too late.
"That my heart be lost to these lands." He finished.
They also say the guillotine never made it to his neck before he died. Some believe its on account for his Heart being rapidly transported out of his chest. Some say Grautha's body gave in to the beatings he endured in captivity. I like to think, Ill omen, that the Gods themselves finished him, tired of a dead mans ranting.
However, the damage had already been done. His wish. Last wish at that. Burdened unto the world like an unwanted babe. That when Lady Lorelei attempted to do what everyone desired of her come her coronation day. There now did her earned throne reject her. Like a repellent. Oh how they tried. Sages and mages and clerics and God witnessed elves of the undying. Not no spell, no prayer, nor any further wish. Nothing was allowed on that throne.
So burn it? Hah! Oh, Ill omen, if only it were that simple. You see the Frail still heed her words. But the men? The People? The Neighbouring lands? Drone on they would, salivating over her words yet remembering none of em. Because what Claim would she have? Would anyone have? Not against a Wish. They are orderless. Though shout you might. Now, Charm magic is the only way around here. Ask a friend to help you? Tough luck. Favours only work once you get to the Banks, or any of one of the Compass ends. Politicians, noble houses, see they have influence. But influence buys you time. Not new workers. Not people you can make demands of.
Though fret not! For Vin Grautha did not leave us with nothing! Oh how kind. He left us his most important gift yet. Fear.
Fear works like a charm here. A line Lady Lorelei in her own desperation is considering crossing. But if a lady with as many souls as her falls to such temptation. Then we will have truly lost.
And so now, Ill omen, one question remains. A question every Lord, Lady and Monarch is asking themselves. A question every noble house and Mercenaries guild edges over. Anyone who has ever tasted power. By blade, by birthright, or by what was between their legs.
Is what he said true?
Watch now as the banners march free from the West bank. The Usurper is on the hunt.
And so is half of Fahrenwald it seems. Say his heart is out there. Who would know what it looks like, where it might be, whose hands it might fall into?
I can promise you this, times ARE changing. For better or for worse is something only the future can hold. We have had tyrants lay claim to our Kingdom. We have had them ruin us for far too long.
We need change.
And maybe. Just... Maybe. That change cannot be brought by some reckless Usurper with the desire to rule better. Maybe we need someone who needs that Claim. Someone who understands how important this time is for us.
Perhaps now is the time for a ruler choked out by the Smokes of War, yet still keeps the humility of the people desecrated by it.
That when that person takes what the world robbed of them. And uses it to give us back the dues we endured for centuries.
That day I will pray again, Ill omen. That day I will not be silent. Nor will I sing the songs of a false god, or a man. But a champion who fills me with pride. One who holds Claim. Who holds the people. Who leads us all to a better world.
