fantheoriesandfoodporn:

genresalad:

What if you were reading a fantasy novel and there was some king or nobleman whose coat of arms seems to appear everywhere and is constantly noted in the narration, but it’s not until the dude appears in person that the coat of arms is actually described.

Only it’s not a house symbol or anything pretentious like that. Dude’s wearing a literal cloak made out human arms. How fucked up would that be?

It was that mark again. His mark. That same damned coat of arms stamped on every disaster the Duke left in his wake.

There were stories about the coat of arms – dozens of them – and if even one of them turned out to be true I don’t think I’d do much sleeping anymore. Some said it was a gift from the devil, already fashioned from parts unknown. Others say they were taken at the point of a sword, either from brave men who died standing up to him, or gentle villagers who would never have raised a hand against him. A few say the arms were given willingly by noble patriots who gave their bodies over to the Duke’s cause. The ones who say that don’t tend to have a lot of self-respect

The story of where it came from was never very relevant, it’s always what the coat was that mattered. It was more a shawl than a coat – a waist length piece of oilcloth only visible at the neckline where it was buckled with a rune-inscribed clasp. The rest of it was hidden of course by layers upon layers of human arms.

There were a hundred of them, each of them grey as a corpse yet prehensile as if their owners were still using them. They were skillful hands – every one of them remembered their trade and needed no instruction, only that the Duke demanded their service. Among them were the arms great warriors, with ten men’s strength and flawless skill with the sword, spear and longbow. There were the hands of clever tinkers, ever busy with their craft and never ceasing to produce enchanted items fro the Duke even as he slept. There were pickpockets and surgeons, shield-men and knife throwers, and among them even a number of wizards whose wizened arms still carried the wards and spells of ancient days.

Among all there was but one mismatched pair unlike any of the others. A man’s right arm dangled to the duke’s left, and a woman’s left hand tightly clasped his right. One would think that a hundred-strong man would have nothing to fear in life, but the wicked old Duke held his mother and father’s hands for courage all the same