How could darkness feel so tangible? How could an absence of light seem to flow over him, like the lightest touch over every inch of him? How could the Void feel like fingers pushing into his mouth, his eyes, while still more unseen tendrils pulled him apart? It was maddening, beyond maddening, to feel so full and so empty all at once. The hazy remnants of Aulvok's psyche questioned itself, for there was nothing else to entertain. He could not escape this place. He wondered if these sensations were caused by something in this awful place that he'd never seen nor heard in the immeasurable stretch of time he'd been here, or if he was creating the sensations in his own mind. There could be no real answers in this prison of nothingness. There were only the questions that lingered for so endlessly long that he began to call them friends.
When he was first cast into this prison, he'd relived all of his memories until he could no longer stand it. No matter how Aulvok picked at and peeled apart his past, he still couldn't find anything that would lead him out of his prison. He wasn't even sure what this place that contained and drained him was at the beginning of his internment. The downcast demon prince had finally surmised himself to be swallowed up by one of the Voids of Kin. That being, from which his own mother, the red goddess Malkir, and her benevolent twin had spawned, commanded all the unimaginable power of a collapsing star in a simple wave of its long white hands. There was no way to know for sure, though, if the darkness that flowed into and through him was the same one described to him by his mother, in the ancient epoch past when he was only a neophyte at her breast. All his remembering really did for him was remind him of a wicked paradise lost; the unholy legions he'd commanded, his fell-forged armor, the weapons with which he'd slaughtered countless thousands, and the hundreds of broken crowns, each still with its cracked skull, all that he'd collected over centuries had been snatched away from him. The glorious spoils of endless, terrible war were gone and he could see no way to regain his beloved treasures.
When remembrance finally yielded nothing, he fantasized. Oh, the wonderful, terrible things he'd longed to do to the beings that had put him here. Yes, once he finally escaped, they would pay for every moment he'd spent imprisoned. He would make them regret locking him away with nothing more to do than plot revenge. It was a very long time before Aulvok discovered his sadistic fantasies had been a mistake, as his unfulfilled desires became more and more torturous to the only creature they reached: himself. When he realized he would never hear their dying screams, he found that it was he who tried to cry out in the dark. He had tried to scream, but the dark tendrils... That was when they had first found their way into him. He'd choked on the velvet darkness until he could no longer remember anything but that place.
That was how he'd survived so long, finally, by letting the Void swallow him as he swallowed it. Acceptance had preserved him, like a specimen sheltered beneath a glass dome, protected even from himself. Unknown to Aulvok, his captors had gone to excruciating lengths to remove all traces of him from the world of men. While he was still begging his eyes to see something, anything, in the Void where they had left him, angels hunted every demonic centurion that had sworn fealty to Aulvok. Cabals of human cultists that still worshipped their fallen lord, unaware of his hopeless position, were slaughtered. The Four Heaven's legions scoured the land, destroying every thing that carried his seal or his name. Statues were shattered, paintings shredded, and books burned until all that remained of Aulvok was the memory of his horrors still haunting those mortals unfortunate enough to have witnessed his hellish campaign firsthand.
Aulvok had been imprisoned so long that even tales of him had passed out of history. Every witness to his deeds had long died and turned to dust. For a time, scholars had scoffed at the mention of such a boogeyman. It was merely an allegorical lesson on hubris, or something like that. A disaster incarnate like him could never have existed, for there was simply no evidence. His hellish siblings mourned in their own fell-kingdoms and the realm of men prospered. Generations lived and died until his name went unspoken altogether. At long last, Aulvok's captors rested. There was nothing to tethering him beyond the Void, and so there was no way to release him from Kin's vacuous prison.
Nothing, except a single book, so prized by its possessor that he had guarded it, even from angels, until the final day of his twisted life. The first and final slavish acolyte of the Demon Prince Aulvok had wretched his last breath with his gnarled fingers still wrapped around the tome. The single surviving image of Aulvok's visage, crowned with curved and twisting horns, was carried on the page facing the name that waited to be spoken again. The arcane verses that followed could drag the most wrathful child of Malkir back to the mortal plane. That tortured slave had been so completely enthralled by his master's wicked will that he'd been carried by it through all the centuries when benevolent soldiers had roamed the land in force. The book survived with ease once their countless wings were folded, thanks to the sacrificial devotion that had tended it for so long.
When he was first cast into this prison, he'd relived all of his memories until he could no longer stand it. No matter how Aulvok picked at and peeled apart his past, he still couldn't find anything that would lead him out of his prison. He wasn't even sure what this place that contained and drained him was at the beginning of his internment. The downcast demon prince had finally surmised himself to be swallowed up by one of the Voids of Kin. That being, from which his own mother, the red goddess Malkir, and her benevolent twin had spawned, commanded all the unimaginable power of a collapsing star in a simple wave of its long white hands. There was no way to know for sure, though, if the darkness that flowed into and through him was the same one described to him by his mother, in the ancient epoch past when he was only a neophyte at her breast. All his remembering really did for him was remind him of a wicked paradise lost; the unholy legions he'd commanded, his fell-forged armor, the weapons with which he'd slaughtered countless thousands, and the hundreds of broken crowns, each still with its cracked skull, all that he'd collected over centuries had been snatched away from him. The glorious spoils of endless, terrible war were gone and he could see no way to regain his beloved treasures.
When remembrance finally yielded nothing, he fantasized. Oh, the wonderful, terrible things he'd longed to do to the beings that had put him here. Yes, once he finally escaped, they would pay for every moment he'd spent imprisoned. He would make them regret locking him away with nothing more to do than plot revenge. It was a very long time before Aulvok discovered his sadistic fantasies had been a mistake, as his unfulfilled desires became more and more torturous to the only creature they reached: himself. When he realized he would never hear their dying screams, he found that it was he who tried to cry out in the dark. He had tried to scream, but the dark tendrils... That was when they had first found their way into him. He'd choked on the velvet darkness until he could no longer remember anything but that place.
That was how he'd survived so long, finally, by letting the Void swallow him as he swallowed it. Acceptance had preserved him, like a specimen sheltered beneath a glass dome, protected even from himself. Unknown to Aulvok, his captors had gone to excruciating lengths to remove all traces of him from the world of men. While he was still begging his eyes to see something, anything, in the Void where they had left him, angels hunted every demonic centurion that had sworn fealty to Aulvok. Cabals of human cultists that still worshipped their fallen lord, unaware of his hopeless position, were slaughtered. The Four Heaven's legions scoured the land, destroying every thing that carried his seal or his name. Statues were shattered, paintings shredded, and books burned until all that remained of Aulvok was the memory of his horrors still haunting those mortals unfortunate enough to have witnessed his hellish campaign firsthand.
Aulvok had been imprisoned so long that even tales of him had passed out of history. Every witness to his deeds had long died and turned to dust. For a time, scholars had scoffed at the mention of such a boogeyman. It was merely an allegorical lesson on hubris, or something like that. A disaster incarnate like him could never have existed, for there was simply no evidence. His hellish siblings mourned in their own fell-kingdoms and the realm of men prospered. Generations lived and died until his name went unspoken altogether. At long last, Aulvok's captors rested. There was nothing to tethering him beyond the Void, and so there was no way to release him from Kin's vacuous prison.
Nothing, except a single book, so prized by its possessor that he had guarded it, even from angels, until the final day of his twisted life. The first and final slavish acolyte of the Demon Prince Aulvok had wretched his last breath with his gnarled fingers still wrapped around the tome. The single surviving image of Aulvok's visage, crowned with curved and twisting horns, was carried on the page facing the name that waited to be spoken again. The arcane verses that followed could drag the most wrathful child of Malkir back to the mortal plane. That tortured slave had been so completely enthralled by his master's wicked will that he'd been carried by it through all the centuries when benevolent soldiers had roamed the land in force. The book survived with ease once their countless wings were folded, thanks to the sacrificial devotion that had tended it for so long.