[scribbled at the top of the page] My search for a necrotic battery capable of powering the Alls Ends ritual continues, but I may have just had a breakthrough!
“... I speak now of a particularly fearsome demonhead, of which I have had the supreme misfortune of holding at one time. It was through no ignorance on my part, I assure you, that my bare flesh caressed the greasy black steel of the mace’s shaft, for I was fully possessed of the knowledge that grasping one of these artifacts would pit my naked will against the demon lord dormant within, test all my faculties in a spiritual tug-o-war with none other than Falogust the Witherer. And if I proved wanting, my mind, body and soul would become the fertile bed from which a new iteration of the demon lord would spring.
No, I was not so eager or so foolish as to purposefully try such a thing. Rather I was tricked, difficult though it is to admit, for I have since bested a long line of demon princes and dark viziers. Perhaps this incident served a lesson, that no matter how powerful a witch may perceive herself, no fortress is entirely impregnable. This bald, blackened bludgeoner, named Bashreel’shun by the elves and Grazim-Borgag by the lost Grimtandians, and which I dub in grim remembrance Blight, caught me unguarded, proving an insipidly intelligent thing.
My six companions and I had just penetrated the lower vaults of Lost Samaragd, the coiled halls of the inverted pyramids of Zedhir. Keoghtom was certain he’d disarmed the leering, iron cobras and the fanged pedestal, and Murlynd and Quaal finished up the last of the malison guard. Heward was already examining a stunning dagger of white gold and rubies, claiming he’d found some ancient dowry of a Glorian viscountess, but as usual Nolzur argued his appraisal bordered on delusion, and that it was in fact one of the Five Claws of Tasilid.
My mentor at the time, knee-deep in treasures that would sate any dragon’s greed, was frowning. He’d been searching for something very particular and extremely dangerous, which could not be handled directly. I’d already deduced what it might be, but I did not see it amongst the heaps. It was not the first time months of careful research had turned up nothing. We spent the next several hours cataloging our findings, and divvying them between the seven. As I was the newest in the party, charter deigned I would receive the last pickings, which perturbed me little in a chamber so flooded with ancient wonder. Little did any of us know just what would find its way into my pile, a black short staff of seemingly worthless make, old, crooked metal with a greasy look about it. I considered leaving it, save that curious glisten along its length, hoping to engineer some new alloy or discover it an unassuming wand. Unassuming indeed.
Upon first touch in the vaults, I felt nothing magical, but refused to abandon it until it could be more thoroughly examined. I know now Blight was lying in wait until I was alone and truly susceptible to its power. And that night I gave it the proper opportunity, as the companions returned to their respective keeps and I my Sanctum Maleficum (still in its early stages of construction after the fall of the lustful cretin Tsojcanth). That night, I scanned my collection with closer scrutiny, and set aside preliminary tomes with which to conduct more extensive research.
At last I came to the crooked short staff, unconvinced it was anything special, but when I lifted it, a gong-like concussion shook the foundations of my stronghold and I was thrust hard against the far wall. It proceeded to drag me up to the ceiling, despite the enchantments on my anklets, and grind me into the stone. The staff began to change, straightening and blossoming a dull, round head. I tried to release it, to cast it across the chamber, but it would not budge. My flesh bubbled and fingers fused about it. It hummed at subsonic pitches, rattling my bones, scrambling my thoughts. A jaundice light radiated outward, then, which illuminated my chambers in a sickly light and cast long, quilled shadows over everything. Where the light touched, stone crumbled, leather weathered and decomposed, bone fell away to dust, flame went out, and my poor familiars in their cages instantly mummified. Such necrotic power I’d never encountered before, and have seen matched few times since.
I could feel his malevolence taking root in my heart, his rasps in my ears, and the first ebon quills sprouted across my forearms. I defied him, and for my insolence he unhinged my joints and stretched my limbs in sudden agony. I’d barely time for screams, much less countermeasures, but I was not a complete novice. Even in those days, I’d dealt with enough Tanar’ri to erect hasty barriers. Falogust was not some Abyssal peasant, above the prestige of even princes, one of the firstborn Horrors spawned of the Queen of Chaos’ festering womb. He shattered my wards in moments, but moments enough for me to regain my composure. I willed my limbs back into place, forced the quills back down, and over the course of twelve hours, perhaps the hardest twelve hours of my long life, I managed to exorcise the Beast of Entropy back into Blight. I fell to the ruined marble, every ounce of my strength spent, and all fell away into the haze and dark of exhaustion.
When I awoke, my mentor stood over me. Blight was no where to be found. He looked upon me with new eyes, and I sensed, behind obvious awe and begrudging pride, a droplet of fear. To have one’s teacher recoil at your potential in such a way, so see in his eyes that undeniable confirmation... it sustained me through years of further study, until which time he refused me his final secrets and I absconded with what was rightfully owed me. In that vengeful night, I saw among his troves that most despicable black mace. And I left it there, despite a yellow flicker.”
No comments:
Post a Comment