The Devil My Only Master
Upon a throne of salt in a dying waste populated by mutated monsters sat a King. The King of Nothing, Black Brother of Alcadeas, the dark child of Alnaeus, the Great Father of All. A Father who was now...gone. The King brooded this fact. It had expected to feel twisted joy upon the death of their father. It was a triumph. The Creator had evaporated, having spent all of his power creating this world and then...gifting it to his children? But why? Xanaros drummed its claws in thought. It had never imagined things going this way. It had imagined, bleakly, that its divine crusade to overthrow their father and damn all of creation was fruitless. But now Alnaeus was no more, his children were near-Mortal, and all of Creation trembled before the Will of the Gods.
So why did Xanaros feel so empty? So...defeated?
I did not ask for this, Father. The thought was a whisper on the poisoned wind. It was the only time that Xanaros had, or ever would, acknowledge the Creator for what he truly was. As the Father's divine presence left the world, the King in the Waste felt that Father's love burning within. I will not change for you, or for this world. The King slithered off its throne and began to walk. The miles of the Blistering Sea burned past. But this world may live a little longer. For you, if Nothing else. And it will know me. It will know fear. The King passed through the mountains Ira had created, which it had dubbed "the Hindering Hills" to itself, and then in to the Idimmu-infested grasslands beyond, which Xanaros similarly had named "the Chittering Expanse."
They will know pain and death. In the guise of a dark-skinned human clad in robes of red and gold, the King appeared in a dark cave in the wilderness of the southern peninsula. Its Cultists shrank away in awe. Light from a low fire cast flickering shadows on grotesque paintings and horrifying fetishes strewn throughout. You will love me. You will hate me. Xanaros strode forward and gently held the face of the Cult leader. In Xanaros's other hand it held a scepter of bronze ending in cruel spikes. The Cult leader held it in a trembling grasp. "What does this mean, My Lord?" Xanaros explained.
"You will pull forth the bones of the earth," it whispered in mortal guise. It reached forward and ripped out a concealed chunk of copper behind the cave wall. The Cultists nodded rapidly, eyes dancing in the firelight. "You will gouge her skin and reveal her blood. You will rip out her hair and burn it to ash. It waved its hand, and red clay bubbled forth from the ground to create a crude structure somewhat resembling a bread oven. Logs burned within, creating a raging inferno. "Gouge. Blood. Rip. Burn." the Cultists chanting, swaying back and forth. They moaned, and sweat dripped off their ecstatic bodies. "But why, Dark Majesty?" their Leader panted, barely able to stand in presence of the Dark Father.
And Xanaros reached in to the furnace and withdrew an object like a long knife. Its grip was obsidian, its pommel and crossguard of ruby, all crudely carved and polished. From the guard blossomed a leaf-shaped blade of bronze, the flickering fires of the cave making it appear to be drenched in blood. "A gift from me to you, Amelia," the King said in an amused voice, only confusing its Cult Leader more. The King held it out to another Cultist, who gripped it fervently, even as the hilt steamed and burned the woman's flesh, sealing her hand to the sword.
"THIS is why," the King hissed. "Make these. Make many of these. You will make tools to gather what you need, to make what you need, and you will use it to kill, and destroy, and take whatever you want." The Cultists cried aloud, and they wept with dark joy at the gift their Dark Father had given them. As they celebrated and made feverish plans for mining, smelting, and forging, Xanaros stepped back in to the darkness from whence it came.
In a Land Grim and Dreary
It came to pass that the King in the Waste would come to Stark Wilds, the God of Nothing's second half-hearted attempted at Creation. Truly a reminder of the futility of it all. Others might see the beauty in the Stark. The King parted fields of soft heather, furze, sage, and bracken. It climbed over strange monoliths covered in luminous moss. It walked through forests of birch, its clawed feet leaving colorless tracks in the humus. Utterly silent moths, massive purple shapes in the twilight gloom, swooped above. The King saw only an ugly stain, a lazy, back-handed insult against their Father. And he was gone now.
The King knelt in a sucking bog. Black and brown mushrooms sprouted from the murk, competing for nutrients with ferns and pale vines. It dipped its hand in to the mud and scooped out a handful. In quiet contemplation, in an almost off-handed sort of way, the King began to sculpt. It sat back, in an almost childlike pose, against a rotten tree stump. A creature began to take shape in the King's clawed hands. Vaguely human in profile, it was deformed, bearing folds of sagging, poxridden flesh. The King made it of monstrous size, near ten feet tall it cared to rise from its hunched posture. On its hands were long, yellowed claws, and in to its twisted frame the King gave it a giant's strength. Tufts of oily black hair sprouted from it at odd angles; yellowed eyes peered out of a melted face of nightmares.
The Thawn
The King sat up as the creature took on its full form. It crouched in fear and self-loathing, much like the King's own, at the edge of the mire. The King was proud. The God of Nothing had made something that was a dark reflection of its own self-hatred, its strength, its malice and cunning. It had made a hunter, a scavenger, a bully of the weak, a repulsive predator of the night. The King whistled, a sound like rusty metal scraping against stone, as it made another. And another.
"Go," the King said, in a voice that was almost tender. Loving. Hateful. Spiteful. "We have much work to do."
Upon a throne of salt in a dying waste populated by mutated monsters sat a King. The King of Nothing, Black Brother of Alcadeas, the dark child of Alnaeus, the Great Father of All. A Father who was now...gone. The King brooded this fact. It had expected to feel twisted joy upon the death of their father. It was a triumph. The Creator had evaporated, having spent all of his power creating this world and then...gifting it to his children? But why? Xanaros drummed its claws in thought. It had never imagined things going this way. It had imagined, bleakly, that its divine crusade to overthrow their father and damn all of creation was fruitless. But now Alnaeus was no more, his children were near-Mortal, and all of Creation trembled before the Will of the Gods.
So why did Xanaros feel so empty? So...defeated?
I did not ask for this, Father. The thought was a whisper on the poisoned wind. It was the only time that Xanaros had, or ever would, acknowledge the Creator for what he truly was. As the Father's divine presence left the world, the King in the Waste felt that Father's love burning within. I will not change for you, or for this world. The King slithered off its throne and began to walk. The miles of the Blistering Sea burned past. But this world may live a little longer. For you, if Nothing else. And it will know me. It will know fear. The King passed through the mountains Ira had created, which it had dubbed "the Hindering Hills" to itself, and then in to the Idimmu-infested grasslands beyond, which Xanaros similarly had named "the Chittering Expanse."
They will know pain and death. In the guise of a dark-skinned human clad in robes of red and gold, the King appeared in a dark cave in the wilderness of the southern peninsula. Its Cultists shrank away in awe. Light from a low fire cast flickering shadows on grotesque paintings and horrifying fetishes strewn throughout. You will love me. You will hate me. Xanaros strode forward and gently held the face of the Cult leader. In Xanaros's other hand it held a scepter of bronze ending in cruel spikes. The Cult leader held it in a trembling grasp. "What does this mean, My Lord?" Xanaros explained.
"You will pull forth the bones of the earth," it whispered in mortal guise. It reached forward and ripped out a concealed chunk of copper behind the cave wall. The Cultists nodded rapidly, eyes dancing in the firelight. "You will gouge her skin and reveal her blood. You will rip out her hair and burn it to ash. It waved its hand, and red clay bubbled forth from the ground to create a crude structure somewhat resembling a bread oven. Logs burned within, creating a raging inferno. "Gouge. Blood. Rip. Burn." the Cultists chanting, swaying back and forth. They moaned, and sweat dripped off their ecstatic bodies. "But why, Dark Majesty?" their Leader panted, barely able to stand in presence of the Dark Father.
And Xanaros reached in to the furnace and withdrew an object like a long knife. Its grip was obsidian, its pommel and crossguard of ruby, all crudely carved and polished. From the guard blossomed a leaf-shaped blade of bronze, the flickering fires of the cave making it appear to be drenched in blood. "A gift from me to you, Amelia," the King said in an amused voice, only confusing its Cult Leader more. The King held it out to another Cultist, who gripped it fervently, even as the hilt steamed and burned the woman's flesh, sealing her hand to the sword.
"THIS is why," the King hissed. "Make these. Make many of these. You will make tools to gather what you need, to make what you need, and you will use it to kill, and destroy, and take whatever you want." The Cultists cried aloud, and they wept with dark joy at the gift their Dark Father had given them. As they celebrated and made feverish plans for mining, smelting, and forging, Xanaros stepped back in to the darkness from whence it came.
In a Land Grim and Dreary
It came to pass that the King in the Waste would come to Stark Wilds, the God of Nothing's second half-hearted attempted at Creation. Truly a reminder of the futility of it all. Others might see the beauty in the Stark. The King parted fields of soft heather, furze, sage, and bracken. It climbed over strange monoliths covered in luminous moss. It walked through forests of birch, its clawed feet leaving colorless tracks in the humus. Utterly silent moths, massive purple shapes in the twilight gloom, swooped above. The King saw only an ugly stain, a lazy, back-handed insult against their Father. And he was gone now.
The King knelt in a sucking bog. Black and brown mushrooms sprouted from the murk, competing for nutrients with ferns and pale vines. It dipped its hand in to the mud and scooped out a handful. In quiet contemplation, in an almost off-handed sort of way, the King began to sculpt. It sat back, in an almost childlike pose, against a rotten tree stump. A creature began to take shape in the King's clawed hands. Vaguely human in profile, it was deformed, bearing folds of sagging, poxridden flesh. The King made it of monstrous size, near ten feet tall it cared to rise from its hunched posture. On its hands were long, yellowed claws, and in to its twisted frame the King gave it a giant's strength. Tufts of oily black hair sprouted from it at odd angles; yellowed eyes peered out of a melted face of nightmares.
The Thawn
The King sat up as the creature took on its full form. It crouched in fear and self-loathing, much like the King's own, at the edge of the mire. The King was proud. The God of Nothing had made something that was a dark reflection of its own self-hatred, its strength, its malice and cunning. It had made a hunter, a scavenger, a bully of the weak, a repulsive predator of the night. The King whistled, a sound like rusty metal scraping against stone, as it made another. And another.
"Go," the King said, in a voice that was almost tender. Loving. Hateful. Spiteful. "We have much work to do."