Dst – ToR: The Beginning of the End (1/2)
Intro: This is the short story I mentioned before. I wrote it a long time ago. It was good, though I did look it over and update it some. The changes are largely cosmetic. This marks the portion of Ren’s story when he first started his road toward ultimate power and the long road of moral trivial. The darkness had taken him by this time and held him until the destruction of his world. But that’s a story to perhaps be detailed another day.
A Tale of Ren.
Mutilated bodies lie upon the charred ground, scorched black by infernal fires. The stench of death and brimstone hang as thick in the air as do the plumes of greasy black smoke and haze. The forces of Lord Drisbane have had a hard fight compromising His lair, but perseverance has seen them though. These grounds before the dark keep; littered with human and infernal dead lay as testament to the lengths they have gone. And now, there is a gaping hole in the keep’s perimeter wall. Within, the cries of battle ring as the last of two shattered forces remain locked in a bitter struggle. Unbeknownst to the valiant warriors of Drisbane, they have already lost, the demon hordes within the walls there to delay them while a single dark figure in the highest tower seals their fate.
In the keeps highest dank chamber the sounds of battle are naught but a low din. Background to the smooth, rhythmic chant uttered by the single diminutive silhouette that occupies this room. Laid before him are all he needs. One dark furred finger traces slowly along the written lines of eldritch text he speaks firmly. An ancient incantation taken from the Book of All Souls. A book many would destroy nations to possess.. he should know as he has destroyed much in the search for this very tome. But now it was his and he had little time to waste on remembering such trivial things. Not when his moment of triumph was so close he could taste it on his tongue. He knew his minions were weakening. Their defeat was imminent and once they were no longer his buffer, the soldiers of Lord Drisbane would come for him. They would not snatch his victory when it as so close.
In a bowl was mixed the noxious brew that the book dictated… dragons blood, flavored with essence of Mandrake, a distilled juice from the fruit of the First Tree among several more obscure ingredients, stirred with a wand created from the finger bones of betrayed innocents. And now as he stirred the bubbling mix he spoke words of power written before him, channeling his magical essence into this evil brew. Slowly as he concentrated there was a rising glow… his eyes glimmering a shade of dark violet, reflecting the light with their metallic cores.
“..Dorem’iontio Narkis’tianioimuate Chian Torestiam’dalani’revstaniast..”
The final words spoken, his soft voice fell silent. Quiet apprehension welled in his chest as he stared at the brew, continuing to stir slowly. At first there was nothing…had he done something wrong? Missed the pronunciation of a complex phrase? His wave of bitter apprehension was banished a moment later as the reddish fluid sparked, then erupted into a fiery glow. His reflective eyes narrowed to glimmering slits as his hand lifted away from the eruption of light, arm lifted further to shield his eyes from the spectacular transformation.
“Yes! The Elixir is completed.. Eternal life… limitless power!”, he cried out in exaltation and triumph. So many years had come to this.. so many years of toil, trial and tribulation have culminated into this..
With a thunderous rapport the door to his ritual chamber was forced open by a powerful kick. His eyes opened wide as armored men thundered into the room. Steel glinted in the low light of candle and torch as three of Drisbane’s champions charged into the darkness, wielding their blades with skill and fury.
The dark, cloaked figure curled his lip into a snarl.. No, they will not shatter his moment of triumph. He thrust out the arm that once shielded his eyes from the light of his final creation, fingers splayed as words of dark magic leapt with relish to his lips. Bolts of heat and ash formed from his hand grew fat with power as they flew forth to do the bidding of he who called them into existence, consuming the first two armored men as if they were bales of hay wrapped in ineffectual metal. The third managed to dodge the worst of the fire and reach the dark one, striking down at the diminutive figure with a vicious overhand swipe.. only to hear the rapport of steel to steel. An ornate, rune carved knife drawn by the smaller dark figure.
The burly human growled as his killing blow was paused, peering into the dark gloom of the shorter figure’s hood. From within, he could see reflective violet eyes returning his gaze with an unmistakable malevolence.
“Now you die, human trash”, the dark one spoke in a tone both soft and forceful. With a hard shove, strength belying his diminutive frame, the cloaked one pressed back his foe. He glided to the left, away from the table as the warrior righted himself, surging back with a mighty roar. As he swung his broadsword, forged of tempered steel the dark one swung his knife in a precise arc. There came the ring of steel upon steel and a shower of sparks that temporarily lit the dark room before fading away under the rush of gloom returned.
With a clatter, the blade of the warrior’s sword struck the ground, cleaved in twain by the rune etched knife. The warrior was stunned, his mask of disbelief melding into a grimace of agony as his foe launched forward to plunge his knife though the man’s armor and into his gut. The dark cloaked figure glared at the large human as he sagged forward, feeling his life sapped though little blood escaped his wound. A wrench of his wrist twisted the blade, eliciting a dreadful groan of agony from his victim. Then a step back and hard jerk removed his blade with a soft squelch, the human sagging with a clank of metal to stone, his death a little more lingering than that of his fellows. The dark one, not mindful of the drops of crimson that stained his robes and dark hand, glanced at the blade. THe knife’s runes shone softly with red, having supped on a liberal portion of the fallen human’s soul. Smirking, he returned to the table holding the glowing concoction, clean blade placed back into his robes where it belonged. Without further hesitation, he took up the bowl and drank deep of the draught which shone with a soft red light.. there was no apprehension nor mistrust this was his destiny.
As the last of the vile brew slipped down his throat, nearly choking him, his fingers seized. The bowl fell away to shatter against the stone at his feet. The draught burned horribly in his belly as energy surged though his veins, infusing him with its power. Despite the furious joy he felt in this liberating power, he could only croak in pain, then wail as he sank to his knees. The cry was a ringing keening that echoed long thought the dim room and emanated outside.