Stolen Destiny - part 1
Each of the hooded figures was chanting, but no two of them were doing so with the same words, or even to the same rhythm. The tumble of blasphemous verses clashed discordantly, yet still the monster at the centre of the ring smiled and hummed along.
His hands - one a brutal, metal claw - were held before him, clenched tight around a twisted brass rod, its head crowned with a slowly revolving cluster of eyes, each one dripping tears of blood into the mystical sigils inscribed in the stone at the monster’s feet.
From the crowd, a silver robed elf slowly strode, his head held low in deference as he offered up a chalice, almost bubbling over with crimson liquid. The monster stooped to allow it to be poured into his mouth, greedily slurping it down. With a roar, he reared up to his full height again, screaming to the heavens and sweeping his arms wide. The elf scuttled backwards, but too slowly, as the monster brought its claw forwards, spearing several taloned fingers through the ribcage.
“I thank you for your help,” the monster grated, watching the elf twitch its last moments.
In the moment of the murder, the ceremony had abruptly ended, the cultists awaiting the next order of their master. One of their number followed the trail the elf had walked, throwing back its hood to reveal a face all mandible and darkness. “Was it really necessary to kill Rigel?” Jautya Syne chittered.
The larger monster looked downward, jeweled eye glinting in the light of the Nexus. “Now he shall share his formula with no other. The Silvered Fount is mine alone to relish, as is the Channeling Rod of Bascaron.”
Some of Syne’s eyes darted to the weapon, observing the orbs rotating about it. “…Whose bearer also met an untimely end,” Jautya whispered. “My lord, this wholesale slaughter is wholly unnecessary. It lacks finesse. Observe how I dealt with the two humans earlier. Their destiny was to slay you, and it was a simple matter to thwart this fate by helping them, directing them onto another course. Death does not change destiny, it merely -”
“I am Malrog the Destroyer,” the other rumbled. “Destiny will do what I tell it to, and so will you if you want to live.”
“Indeed, master, but these brutal examples are counterproductive to our campaign. My cohorts are finding it ever harder to tempt the destined to join us. If we don’t gather the requisite number in time -”
Once more Malrog cut the shapeshifter’s speech short. “I have had my fill of associates and toadies, Syne. My first vision of dominance was centred around a group of near-equals, together powerful enough to crush the nations of the Accord beneath our collective heels.
“But the more members one invites, the more strained the links between them, and the greater the chance of our enemies finding a weakness. K’hallaek even thought to snare an angel from the heavens - shall we see how well that turned out?”
Malrog gestured, and it took all of Jautya’s years of practiced deception to hide his surprise at the increasing ease with which the NoThRoG manipulated the energies of the Nexus. The pillar of light darkened, revealing a glimpse into the Accordlands, yet this time not of a possible future to be stolen, but the past.
The scene was indistinct, but perhaps that was because the principal players demanded such attention themselves. The Celestial that Malrog had mentioned was sweeping an obsidian sword through ranks of elves and undead, the brilliance of his halo almost blinding.
His glow was matched by the warrior that faced him, an ethereal knight with death in his eyes. The angel laughed, preparing to strike down the spectre, but then a net - a simple fisherman’s net - dropped onto him from behind, binding his wings and dragging him to the ground with its weight.
A previously unremarkable cleric gestured for the knight to strike, sharpened teeth drawn back in a smile. Elves closed upon the fallen angel, and the scene froze.
“I could save him,” Malrog said. “I could step in now and alter his fate, preventing the fall of that fatal blade. And I could do the same for any number of other Medusan Lords. But I shan’t. They are not worth the effort, being of no use, save as a distraction to potential enemies. I believe K’hallaek’s sad little band can manage that most admirably.”
“So the Destroyer fears nothing and no one? What of the expedition to the Isles of Light and Shadow? Anyone could stumble upon the Ark, and all of this would be for naught.”
“The Free King’s adventurers? Pah. They seek a different treasure, and in the unlikely event they should cross the cohorts, I have agents in place to deal with them. Zevil and Skrim are expendable, trusted men.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean them specifically. But they could be a problem. As could a certain pair of heroes with a thwarted destiny waiting to reassert itself…”
“You would threaten me?!? A foolish move, Syne. I could crush you right here and now.”
“The cohorts obey me first and foremost. And the chest responsible for your miraculous resurrection is currently in their possession.”
Malrog raised his claw momentarily, but flexed and lowered it. “Do not forget your place, or I may forget to control my temper. This detestable alliance need not last much longer.”
“The Destroyer does not resort to violence? Truly a miracle. A pity that this change of temperament came too late for Rigel, or even that poor old man…”
“Hah; he was fortunate. His death was quick. The gods will find their ends only after a century of torment. Revenge, Syne: it is the sweetest -”
Uproar from the cloaked cohorts broke through the air, and Malrog turned to face the disturbance, Syne springing for safety in the opposite direction. An armoured man, his long black hair braided tight at the back of his skull, was charging through the cultists, scything them down with his sword.
To be continued…
Tags: Jautya Syne, Malrog, Rigel, Stolen Destiny, Story