For minutes, hours, days – what length could hardly be known as the depth of concentration bent time to the power of perception.
After an age of golden calm, the man in scarlet inhaled. The force of that breath, taken in preparation for speech, rent the walls. The floor of granite began to writhe and heave and splinter. With a deafening crash the four pillars shattered into countless shards of jet black that reflected the grisly patterns and lights of the room and sent them sprawling only to be arrested in space a moment later. All power to progress had been stolen away by an intense and binding curiosity. Every piece of stone, every gem and every particle of dust stood in hallowed, reality defying reverence to listen to what might be said.
Adamant darkness become my armour,
a cov'ring to bear anew the burdens
of life set against the power of heav'n.
Capricious tyranny unrestrainéd
Rules the mortal races. Time bends its knee
to the maddening folly of Angels.
So flame become wholly my shield and sword,
the core of my essence be couched in pow'r
thus unbridled and great as to oppose
the Author of life; the unrighteous god.
No more shall The POET's power hold sway
over me or my ilk. We shall drink deep
of the fountain of immortal chaos,
and steer the world to blissful anarchy.
By silence long endured and stolen gift,
force of creation bear me hence upward
above the throne of the Almighty Lord,
and fashion me the Herald of Discord,
a dragon immortal, god of chaos!
All light and heat fled from the room as a whirlwind of darkness enveloped the man in scarlet. The tornado of shadow sundered the man's weakened frame beneath its weight. His eyes rolled back into his skull, and a spectral wail reverberated off every unseen wall without the least shred of humanity. His flesh tore from his bones with the sickening sound of a vicious beast ravaging a carcass. A hungering void assaulted what was left of his physical form, dissolved his bones and incorporated his essence into itself. The outcry ground to a halt as the last of his being was swallowed, and the storm of sable night ceased its turnings and took shape.
The darkness formed the silhouette of a great serpent with spikes of obsidian jutting from the tail, then grew powerful hind and forelegs on which to stand. From its back the tendrils of black wove together to form massive, effervescent wings. The serpent's head sprouted ten horns of obsidian arranged as a crown. The eyes opened, pools of magma glowing amidst and through the shadowy figure. A deep rumble emanated from the belly of the dragon, and its mouth opened wide to display teeth of black adamant. Noxious fumes escaped its gullet and poured upon the sundered stone ground forming a miasmic cloud of poison. The wings rose high above the dragon's form and, with a sudden downward burst, sent it rocketing through the chasm in the ceiling towards the world far above.
- CHAPTER I
The king slouched on his gilded throne eyeing the room with the wary enthusiasm of a fully-fed hawk. His eyes shone through the sockets in his carved golden Masekha. The gilded mask bore a steady expression at total repose and was almost featureless save a single flawless ruby inset like a third eye over the brow. He wore a silver robe with an embroidered lion in gold over his heart and on his back, and he fiddled with the lion's-head pommel of his sword. The great doors to the hall opened and a hush fell over the crowd as a weary wreckage of an old man came forward. Mareth’s skin sagged as if trying to escape the muscle which had long-since atrophied atop brittle bones. Yet, he staunchly refused to die.
He padded in on soft leather soles, the flow of his deep purple robe a train behind him. People moved around him like little human waves from the keel of an ancient boat. His simple staff resounded off the stone floor with each step. He passed between twelve pairs of stone columns which held the weight of the great mass of stone which was the roof. Dragons, angels, demons, legends, fables, timeless, and gods were captured there in engraving and painting. Their aspects bowed, some willingly others by unyielding force, to the Great being that was a mere silhouette in the blinding brightness set in the center of a weeping sky. The shades and colours of the painting showed it to be the eventide, the time of dusk just before the setting of a crimson sun.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Each strike of Mareth’s staff resounded across the floor made of marble which bore a series of ancient flowing glyphs in black etching upon it. Beside each pillar stood a crystal statue of an armoured man resting on his sword. The statues dwarfed even the largest of men in the hall a small envoy of the Orias, half-giant tribes living far in the north. The King sat on a marvelous throne with six steps to its peak. It was crafted of granite overlaid with pure gold.
Inlays of ivory with the same arcane sigils that marked the floor of the great hall flowed across the gold of the throne. At either end of each step sat a golden lion in regal splendor facing the room. Their eyes were precious gems, ruby, sapphire, and diamond. Two more lions were formed into the seat itself and sat on either side with their heads as armrests for the King. Nothing like it had ever been made for any other kingdom known among men.
A low hum filled the hall as all the men and women were engaged in their varied conversations. Attendants and councilmen either stood in clumps or sat on the benches which lined the edges of the Great Hall. Some fifty advisors and the four councilors of the realms had gathered in session with the King at the behest of the Old Man Mareth who finally reached the foot of the throne and spoke in a guttural rasp,
Wisdom is hidden, must be discovered.
She cannot be taught, only uncovered.
As mistress she reigns o'er all and o'er naught,
elusive to men, by child may be sought.
Beseech her in silence or all in vain.
From pleasure she flees, while dining with pain.
Ev'ry hardship bears you closer to her.
For the darkness of men, she holds the cure.
Mareth finished, and the hall stood still. After a time, the King spoke, weariness a weight on every syllable.
"Mareth, why do you tire me with your ceaseless riddles? I do not know how my forbearers ever bore your cryptic counsel..."
"But, my Liege, you are Mishorer-Rex, King of the Shir, Speaker of Truths, Master of Verse, why should you be weary of the very power that gave you that Mask of Command and holds your kingdom in peace? You, more than any man living, should deign to hear verse and apply to its teaching."
"Oh, Mareth, why can we not speak plainly? Why can you not simply tell me of wisdom and of this 'darkness of men' which has so consumed you of late? Surely a far better explanation could come if you lay to rest the restrictions of verse and spoke plain. This Kingdom has already stood nearly one thousand years. What could possibly threaten what we have accomplished?” Here the King paused, his gaze rising from the floor and out across the room full of his advisors, past them to ponder the crystal statues which lined the hall. Their regal splendor paid homage to times of great tumult, but also great honor for which the King longed. He spun the hilt of his sword again. Its scabbarded tip whispered against the stone floor.
He continued, staring off at the statues, his questions hollow, "Are not our laws complete, fair, and just? Does not justice stand exalted in our midst? Are not men already of sound mind to be governed with ease, or even to govern themselves in far affairs? We have not been given over to barbarism, chaos and savagery for more than an Age of the living world, why should we fear or fret? The Shir made and remade the world. In less than a year's time we will celebrate the Festival of Ages, another millennium passed, this one an Age of Song, of the Shir. Should we not expect a steady growth and progress in mankind? Men are, after all, basically moral and upright creatures, are they not?"
"You pepper me with questions to which you have already devised answers, Your Highness. Folly asks what it dares not hear, and hears only what it wishes. I do have a task for your court, Sire..." Mareth's voice was cut off by the sternness of the King's response.
"Task?" The King raised an eyebrow and ceased spinning his sword. "I am King and do not take tasks from lessers in my court, nor suffer my musings to be called folly by any man. Not even my former teacher. You misunderstand your place."
"Sire," Mareth began but was stopped by a raising of the King's hand.
"Your counsel is noted, but ignored outright, Mareth Timedodger. I don't need riddles and games. No quests or tasks." A deep sigh escaped the King, "The days of battle are long gone. The time for delighting ourselves with talk of knightly deeds and vain hopes for glory in hard times are past, faded into a waste of peaceful years. I doubt I even need this blade any longer."
The King stood. His silver embroidered robe hung just above his knees, the dark leather of his greaves revealed simple, protective functionality. His chest plate of dark steel shone beneath the robe. He pulled his blade from its sheath and raised it skyward, twisting it in his hand as he inspected the folds and craftsmanship. The warm affection from its core was tangible, a wave of fellow-feeling which had bonded them for years, ever since he had completed the keening as a young man. That such a blade should go on in disuse, caged to a scabbard for eternity, was a brutal wrong. His eyes were drawn into the labyrinth path of its temper patterns, the layers of Adamantine folded in and through and between one another.
When the King tore his gaze from the sword and looked up, he found the room empty of all men. Mareth, the counselors, every advisor or friend vanished from his sight, and only the torches hung upon each pillar while a deepening silence remained to keep him company. The King gawked, straining to see what had just been present a moment ago. His restlessness was stolen by shock as he stood before the throne and clenched his fists against his fear. Shadows grew out of the runes on the marble floor and crept towards the torches in steady strides. The flickering torchlight shifted with sinister intent as long black tendrils swayed and stretched over every wall. The sable fingers closed about the ceiling and the floor. The lights waned with every passing moment as shadow waged war on what little glow remained. In a matter of seconds, the King was plunged into pitch; an abyss of unearthly night. For the second time in his life he felt the fangs of fear pierce his throat, their poison paralyzing his muscles. Then came a whisper in the dark, the accent foreign to the living realms,
You seek a man living long in a tomb
humbled by sorrow and shackled by doom
He is not of this world, nor of the next.
No man could slay him or lay him to rest.
In silence, of betrayal he does sing,
and tortures himself with thoughts of his King.
He tells hard tales of man's true desire,
the blade he holds can quench the coming fire.
#
"Sire?" the pause lengthened like the shadows in a growing dusk until the steward placed his hand gently on the King's trembling shoulder. "Sire, are you well?"
The King's eyes were dark, pools of black that betrayed no sense of sight. Slowly, the black gave way to the natural platinum of his eyes and he turned slowly to gaze at his steward. The room was full of his counselors, advisors, and friends. A nervous servant filed into the room with a goblet of wine for the King while Mareth trudged toward the door preparing to leave. The King stood with cold sweat dripping off his brow– horror etched upon his face.
"Keep your sword, My King." Mareth breathed as he paused before the lofty doorway, "By Eternity, you'll need it." The King tried to reply, but the words perished in his throat. Silence hung like millstones upon the room until the great door slammed shut behind Mareth, and the King’s breath returned.