Jhakkans, in the simplest terms, was a rotten creature.
Mankind was a hobby for the nasty creature. Now Mankind were a fairly unsavory lot in of themselves. Greed, gluttony, and lust fueled most, if not all, of their daily actions. This made Jhakkans quite happy to witness. But even more so he enjoyed aggravating these evils.
Sometimes he would whisper evil thoughts into the ears of sleeping lordlings. Sometimes he would take valuables from the pockets of noblemen, and place them in the hands of commoners, simply to watch the men convicted of theft. Sometimes he would take the chastity of young maidens on their weddings eve. Jhakkans was a rotten creature.
Jhakkans moved around alot, staying in one town for no longer than a week. Raising as much hell as he could in that time, then simply moving on. As fate would have it, Jhakkans was passing through a very well off city out in the middle of nowhere when something strange happened. The town itself was fairly unusual, having its streets and skies swarming with draconian beings or the crimson persuasion, so Jhakkans had to be extra carefull not to be caught while playing his games here. It was going to be his last night in town, and he planned on making his last prank really count.
Thinking himself quite clever and subtle, he had managed to sneak into the private tower of this kingdoms monarch. Perhaps taking a rare magical item and hiding it in a servants chamber pot...Or maybe he would inscribe one of the tapestries with some lude images of human women submitting to pack animals. He buzzed around, unseen looking for the perfect victim of chaos, when all at once he was hit with a smell so strong he fell to the ground in mid flight. It was the unmistakable smell of pure uncompromised evil. He hadn't felt any so strong since his last visit to the lower circles of hell. Curiosity seized him.
Sniffing and huffing he shuffled along the walls in the form of a large spider, speedily tracking this trail of evil to its source. Up and up he followed it, to the apex of the tower. There at the top of the spiraling stair case was a broken door and two dead humans. The room beyond was dark and smoky. The stink of flesh rot and unrepentant sin poured out in waves. Jhakkans looked on in awe of this spectacle. What force could create such a wonderfully rotten stink of evil? Slowly and silently his eight tiny legs tip-toed across the stone to get a closer look.
As a minor being of the underword, Jhakkans had some natural instincts he was compelled to follow. The first of these was the need to cause mischief, but the second and strongest driving factor of his existence, was to find the most evil, sinister, diabolic creature around, and attach himself to it. To pledge himself to help it in its evil deeds. To serve its will and feed off the darkness it created in the world. It was simply what his kind did. He returned to his natural body out of respect, and onward he crept.
It was a darkness even his devil eyes couldn't cut through. Sniffing hungrily at the air, his lungs filled with the sweet smokey evil. It was like candy to his twisted soul. He pressed on into the mist greedily feeding. So great was his enjoyment of this wonderful murk, he stumbled and fell onto something. Something resting on the ground. It was a hand. Cold, bony, and lifeless. It was attached to a dark form laying on the floor he could barley make out through the shadows.
Angrily he gave the hand a kick. Another dead human. Peh!
Then it swiftly latched around his small neck in an iron grip, still cold as death. Jhakkans struggled and pulled trying to escape from his captor, but was simply hefted into the air as the fallen figure rose slowly to its feet. His tail lashed out, stinging the hand over and over, but his vile poison seemed to have no effect on this creature. His body fell limp in fear as his gaze was met by two dark green glowing eyes.
"Oh fraxaz! Look look look look at cheew! Great great evil we can smell it. Look at chew! heheheheh. Now now now now. Calm calm! Look look. Jhakkans come to YOU. Jhakkans follow your nasty nasty stinkum. Jhakkans is here to make friend! Jhakkans here to taste more of the evil! You is true evil, Jhakkins can see. Look look look. You is a glorious statue of darkness in this fluffly fraxaz world of pink gushy humans."
The figures grip grew tight as his eyes began to glow even brighter. Its other hand moved calmly and produced a black sword from...what looked like his own body. The blade shone just as evil as the creature who held it.
"Please no kill Jhakkans!! Please please please! Look look! Fraxaz!! Jh-Jh--Jhakkans wants to help his master! Busy busy world it is master! M'lord! Yes M'lord, busy busy world. Hard to make all the evil by yous self! M-M---Master--M'lord! Jhakkans wishes only to SERVE M'lord. Look look!!"
The darkness of the room was corrupt. The smell of the room was vicious. Everything about this setting was dark and ripe with evil, but it all failed in comparison to the wickedness of the laughter that filled the chamber. First quiet, then echoing with power. Like three voices at once. A horrible rotten laughter. Jhakkans began to giggle along with it, still fearing for his life. The face of his new master twisted into a pale and horrific smirk.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Lord Alkadian Entaris Beldier III- Final Moments
All the pieces had finally fit into place.
The thought that from the moment they has set foot off the ship onto this untamed wild land an unseen hand had been guiding his every step was hard to imagine, yet here he was. Every major even of the past half year had lead up to this moment. The arrival of the mysterious Varkus Grey. Alkadians death at the hands of the air elemental. The underground passages leading them right where they needed to go. Even the destruction of his beloved Rog Bael. And now the meeting with the powerful King Wanden.
It was all according to plan. His plan.
**********
It wasn't until the third night staying in Wanden's kingdom, after their return from the fallen temple, that he was awoken by the whispers. A flood of chanting viral whispers drifting on the air around his bed. He looked around in confusion and anger, but the voices tickled his mind with the promise of secrets. Secrets he had been seeking since he was just a boy.
Rising from his bed he paced across the cool stone floor to the table that held his belongings. His Grey Elven eyes pierced through the darkness, seeking out the source of the whispers. It wasn't the same voice as before. It was not the dark lord calling to him. This was a new voice. As he desperately rifled through his belongings the voices grew louder. The secrets seemed almost at hand now. When his fingers made contact with the hard wooden surface, he felt instantly as though a bridge had been formed between his own mind and a pool of dark secrets long forgotten to both time and reality. This object had seen the world born, and then die, only to rise again. It held legends and dark truths no man was meant to know. The answer was there in front of him. The words he had been seeking for over 200 years....
He spent the rest of the night scribbling down runes and incantations frantically. His fingers bled. His parchment became depleted, so he wrote on walls, shelves, and the table, all the while laughing an empty laugh.
************
The next day King Wanden came to his room. He was very brief and very serious. He simply informed Alkadian that a room had been prepared for him in his private tower. It was well supplied and would be guarded at all times. It seems a higher power had insisted, and some people you just can't say no to. Another piece of the puzzle fit into place.
************
The process would take over a month. That much time was very valuable to someone of his lifestyle, but then again, time was really no issue to their new ally.
Just as he had been promised the room was stacked to the ceiling with old books, vials or rare components, spools of enchanted thread, and tools of the finest mithril. There was no time to waste. Alkadian closed the door without hesitation, knowing full well what trials lay before him. More pain than he had ever experienced. His mind would be cooked and stretched as far as his intellect could wane. Simply put, it would kill him. He locked the door and set to work without a second thought.
*************
On the final day of the ritual the room had become a dark and horrible place. The candles had burned out weeks ago. Alkadian had not slept. Not eaten. Not so much as rested his eyes. The smell of blood and death hung heavy in the air, like a tepid stew of decay billowing in and out of his panting lungs. His hands moved with care and focus, as they always had.
Over hand, Under hand, Loop, Knot.....
He whispered dryly over cracked lips. The smooth fabric felt so soft and warm in his hand. It was etched deep with runes he had kept safe with him since his days at the Academy of the Silver Tome. These kinds of items required the words that spoke of both life and death to be written and imbued with them. To ensure he never lost them Alkadian had scarred them into the canvas of his body, every morning for his centuries of life. Now they rested before him, slowly folding and wrapping around like wide ribbons. Ribbon made of his own skin. Attaching them to the blade was surprisingly harder than removing them from himself. A piece of the puzzle.
The blade he had carried with him through it all. A long elegant curved blade. Light in its elven design, and wickedly sharp. It was adorned with the symbols of his house, Beldier. The once cutting edge now wrested inside the hardening folds of living flesh. The thread that had once been used to hold together his powerful guardian Rog Bael now infused the item with a terrible stamina. Another piece of the puzzle.
He painted over the scrolls of skin with a dark red substance. The blood of an ancient dragon, supplied by the generous King. It filled the cracks and brought the runes to life. He chanted the words. He spelled out the secrets he had learned in an ancient language that had fallen from no living tongue in ages. He drew a map with his mind. The map of the trails drifting between worlds. He remembered them clearly from when he died. The rivers that connect the world of the living to the land of the dead. All the pieces falling swiftly and terribly into place.
He sang the wretched song. He chanted to the Gods of undeath. His voice was like that of a host of spirits. Each sang in an octave more terrible than the last, and together formed the harmony of immortality. He wove his pale bony hands over the glowing blade like a conductor leading a grand symphony. The blade, now wrapped in a hard shell of living canvas seemed to quiver. Like a worm tearing free of a cocoon the encasement peeled away and melted to a hot black viscous fluid. The runes still blazed brightly around the blade, as if floating on an invisible shell blanketing the now black metal. He was almost done.
There was no strength left in him. He slumped forward in agony, his body finally giving in to the tortures he had self inflicted these past weeks. All at once the ritual came crashing down around him. His eyes went wide and he whimpered in agony and defeat. All his trials..All his work. Gone....
No.
There was still one way to finish it. The last piece of the puzzle.
Drawing forth every last ounce of power he still held in his limbs he staggered to his feet. Calling on all the strength he had put into every step of his long journey he snatched up the blade. The power was quickly draining from it. It's pulsing glow had become a faint hum.
Alkadian shouted out curses against his father. He shouted curses against his friends. He called out curses against every foe he had encountered and those he was yet to meet. His words were iron in the air. His tongue cut through all that was once decent and pure, and the room shook under the force of his rage. The door, triple bolted and barred blasted off its hinges. The books and vials burst and exploded into torrid pillars of green flame. The guards looked in terror, and when their honest mortal ears became subject to the chain of arcane atrocitys Alkadian was weaving they simply fell dead, their souls ejected from their bodies.
With a cacophonous roar against the very world in which he lived, Alkadian lifted the blade high over his head. The stone walls shook and began to crumble around him. If felt as though the whole tower would topple under the force of his blasphemes towards all that was good, so mighty was his conviction. And when at last there was no more strength in his lungs to support his words the flames and tremors all snuffed out at once. With the swiftness of a striking serpent, Alkadian plunged his blade, his Phylactery, deep into his heart. Then he died.
The thought that from the moment they has set foot off the ship onto this untamed wild land an unseen hand had been guiding his every step was hard to imagine, yet here he was. Every major even of the past half year had lead up to this moment. The arrival of the mysterious Varkus Grey. Alkadians death at the hands of the air elemental. The underground passages leading them right where they needed to go. Even the destruction of his beloved Rog Bael. And now the meeting with the powerful King Wanden.
It was all according to plan. His plan.
**********
It wasn't until the third night staying in Wanden's kingdom, after their return from the fallen temple, that he was awoken by the whispers. A flood of chanting viral whispers drifting on the air around his bed. He looked around in confusion and anger, but the voices tickled his mind with the promise of secrets. Secrets he had been seeking since he was just a boy.
Rising from his bed he paced across the cool stone floor to the table that held his belongings. His Grey Elven eyes pierced through the darkness, seeking out the source of the whispers. It wasn't the same voice as before. It was not the dark lord calling to him. This was a new voice. As he desperately rifled through his belongings the voices grew louder. The secrets seemed almost at hand now. When his fingers made contact with the hard wooden surface, he felt instantly as though a bridge had been formed between his own mind and a pool of dark secrets long forgotten to both time and reality. This object had seen the world born, and then die, only to rise again. It held legends and dark truths no man was meant to know. The answer was there in front of him. The words he had been seeking for over 200 years....
He spent the rest of the night scribbling down runes and incantations frantically. His fingers bled. His parchment became depleted, so he wrote on walls, shelves, and the table, all the while laughing an empty laugh.
************
The next day King Wanden came to his room. He was very brief and very serious. He simply informed Alkadian that a room had been prepared for him in his private tower. It was well supplied and would be guarded at all times. It seems a higher power had insisted, and some people you just can't say no to. Another piece of the puzzle fit into place.
************
The process would take over a month. That much time was very valuable to someone of his lifestyle, but then again, time was really no issue to their new ally.
Just as he had been promised the room was stacked to the ceiling with old books, vials or rare components, spools of enchanted thread, and tools of the finest mithril. There was no time to waste. Alkadian closed the door without hesitation, knowing full well what trials lay before him. More pain than he had ever experienced. His mind would be cooked and stretched as far as his intellect could wane. Simply put, it would kill him. He locked the door and set to work without a second thought.
*************
On the final day of the ritual the room had become a dark and horrible place. The candles had burned out weeks ago. Alkadian had not slept. Not eaten. Not so much as rested his eyes. The smell of blood and death hung heavy in the air, like a tepid stew of decay billowing in and out of his panting lungs. His hands moved with care and focus, as they always had.
Over hand, Under hand, Loop, Knot.....
He whispered dryly over cracked lips. The smooth fabric felt so soft and warm in his hand. It was etched deep with runes he had kept safe with him since his days at the Academy of the Silver Tome. These kinds of items required the words that spoke of both life and death to be written and imbued with them. To ensure he never lost them Alkadian had scarred them into the canvas of his body, every morning for his centuries of life. Now they rested before him, slowly folding and wrapping around like wide ribbons. Ribbon made of his own skin. Attaching them to the blade was surprisingly harder than removing them from himself. A piece of the puzzle.
The blade he had carried with him through it all. A long elegant curved blade. Light in its elven design, and wickedly sharp. It was adorned with the symbols of his house, Beldier. The once cutting edge now wrested inside the hardening folds of living flesh. The thread that had once been used to hold together his powerful guardian Rog Bael now infused the item with a terrible stamina. Another piece of the puzzle.
He painted over the scrolls of skin with a dark red substance. The blood of an ancient dragon, supplied by the generous King. It filled the cracks and brought the runes to life. He chanted the words. He spelled out the secrets he had learned in an ancient language that had fallen from no living tongue in ages. He drew a map with his mind. The map of the trails drifting between worlds. He remembered them clearly from when he died. The rivers that connect the world of the living to the land of the dead. All the pieces falling swiftly and terribly into place.
He sang the wretched song. He chanted to the Gods of undeath. His voice was like that of a host of spirits. Each sang in an octave more terrible than the last, and together formed the harmony of immortality. He wove his pale bony hands over the glowing blade like a conductor leading a grand symphony. The blade, now wrapped in a hard shell of living canvas seemed to quiver. Like a worm tearing free of a cocoon the encasement peeled away and melted to a hot black viscous fluid. The runes still blazed brightly around the blade, as if floating on an invisible shell blanketing the now black metal. He was almost done.
There was no strength left in him. He slumped forward in agony, his body finally giving in to the tortures he had self inflicted these past weeks. All at once the ritual came crashing down around him. His eyes went wide and he whimpered in agony and defeat. All his trials..All his work. Gone....
No.
There was still one way to finish it. The last piece of the puzzle.
Drawing forth every last ounce of power he still held in his limbs he staggered to his feet. Calling on all the strength he had put into every step of his long journey he snatched up the blade. The power was quickly draining from it. It's pulsing glow had become a faint hum.
Alkadian shouted out curses against his father. He shouted curses against his friends. He called out curses against every foe he had encountered and those he was yet to meet. His words were iron in the air. His tongue cut through all that was once decent and pure, and the room shook under the force of his rage. The door, triple bolted and barred blasted off its hinges. The books and vials burst and exploded into torrid pillars of green flame. The guards looked in terror, and when their honest mortal ears became subject to the chain of arcane atrocitys Alkadian was weaving they simply fell dead, their souls ejected from their bodies.
With a cacophonous roar against the very world in which he lived, Alkadian lifted the blade high over his head. The stone walls shook and began to crumble around him. If felt as though the whole tower would topple under the force of his blasphemes towards all that was good, so mighty was his conviction. And when at last there was no more strength in his lungs to support his words the flames and tremors all snuffed out at once. With the swiftness of a striking serpent, Alkadian plunged his blade, his Phylactery, deep into his heart. Then he died.
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