Tis War, then.
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It didn't take a political genius to know that the King and Obyn never saw eye to eye. It was no conflict of philosophy, morals differences- or principles. Indeed, the critical observer would note that they possessed far more in common than they did in differences.
Ambitious, unprincipled winners who sought victory at any cost, however, do not make for fine neighbors.
Obyn never quite let go of the notion that it was Matrim, not himself, that won the Crown of Arabel during the White Witch's War.
Obyn never quite let go of the fact that the adventurers of the land rejected him- it was him, after all, that guaranteed their victory. It was him, after all, that allowed the city to prosper. It was him that slew his Grandmother, rescued his sister, and cast down the enemies of the Kingdom. It was him- it was him, it was only him- to the exclusion all other things in the rampant, cruel megalomania of his mind.
Matrim, for his part, was content- he achieved his dream, and while he could certainly rest on his laurels- and for all his bullish, violent tendencies- his pragmatic cruelties, he was a man of his word. A man, who pledged to his patron a promise- and it was a promise that required him to put an end to a threat to the North before he could proceed.
When, at long last, a reason came- the rumors whispered of dark rituals in the Tilverton temples, the odious serpent known as Isaacson made itself known- Matrim seized it, and forced Obyn to confront the reality of his position.
He was alone.
Obyn's power was established on fear and terror, his brazen confidence and cruelty cowing his subjects- but outside his high walls, his reach could not extend as far, and local nobles, one by one, slowly turned on him. Reports failed to come, levies failed to appear- and Tilverton, slowly began to stand alone.
As Arabel rallies for the grand march- a bloody campaign will no doubt follow. The King, for his part, does not see the value of equipping and armoring his subjects- and while he sourced arms and armaments from the dwarves and local smithies, they aren't quality of the sort fit for an extended campaign. Rust already plagues iron swords and knives, bronze gear being in high demand. Farmers with pitchforks are more common than rogues with long knives.
It promises to be a slaughter- but a victorious one, as the King clearly intends to protect the core of his elites for other purposes.
A pragmatic, ruthless King, spending the lives of his people to keep a promise.
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In the days following the sacking and near razing of Tilverton, large chests of gold are seen being given. Even the lowest of conscripts find coin in their pocket.....
//players involved are to message Professor Misclick or try grab me in game//
