The gentle crackling of fire echoed in the hallowed room, the eerie noise brought a strange comfort to those that listened. It had marked a drastic change in the mood that had been set just moments ago; transforming the dead room into a somber hall of authority. Still there was a grim feeling about a harrowing and dreadful truth that was primeval in its nature.
Its source was the ancient monarch wreathed in flames; his resplendent form stood as a living embodiment of a forgotten candor. His mere silence inspired great terror and reverence to the three slaves in front of him; their pitiful quivering forms bowing down before him in silent deference.
Yet his gaze set upon them did not last long, as a low chuckle escaped his mouth. This single action caused the slaves great distress; as it rang out with a domineering edge that implied dark things. They dared not recoil back in fear, for they understood the intensity of the monarch’s power. Instead they lowered themselves, prostrating against the grey tiles of the room. It was an act of utter respect and of hopelessness. They were no longer capable of resisting or fleeing; not against such a being like him.
Like an impassive god, he drew his attention away from them and towards the corpses that littered his sacred room. His mouth parted to let out a sigh of distaste, as the sight defiled the solemnity of his room.
“Remove the carcasses of these lesser beings, their bodies have no place here.” Overflowing with arrogance and mockery, he spoke as he motioned to the bodies. He needed not to say more, as he turned to walk back to his throne, so he may sit upon it and ponder his next actions.
There were many things he needed to consider, to think about and to look into. Yet none were so pressing than what to do with the three slaves. As they had bowed before him without so much as a hint of reluctance, offering themselves fully to him in grand desperation. In their minds, he was a better alternative than to the mortal men that had blasphemed their bodies.
‘Must they think of me as some savior?’ The monarch thought to himself, his flames flickering in amusement at his own question. ‘Oh how misguided, to think of me as a savior.’
Heartbeats after he had sat down, five of his knights moved to follow his orders. They moved with silence and method unseen since millennia ago; undead that walked with fluidity and grace that was not found in their modern variations. The monarch, for a moment looked to his knights that burned just as he did.
They were his Royal Guard; elites of his undead legions. Yet they were not mindless, none of his undead were. Within them he felt emotions of pity, compassion and condolence towards the three slaves. They knew, as much as any of his undead, that he was unlikely to save them. For what use were they to him? They were broken and used; their psyches likely to have been shattered long ago, rendering them useless as a source of information.
But they were not mortals, they were Angelis. Their people had long supported him in his endeavor to preserve the world so long ago, that he was honorbound to treat them with respect. So he had decided to give them hope, in the form a grand show of ability.
‘I honor those who fight with me. It is only fair.’ He reasoned to himself as he spoke again, whispering a single name that resonated with great power and meaning. The very name itself caught the attention of the three slaves, making them look to him in bewilderment and surprise.
“Zurel.” He said, raising his right hand and holding it out as if someone was there to hold it. On that skeletal hand of his, a small sublime glow formed around it. In divine splendor the glow turned into a hand, then soon an entire body. For a time it was as if a being of pure light was there, holding the skeletal hand of the ancient monarch. One might misunderstand it as an attempt of purifying the malign nature of the burning figure; to turn him to the path of righteousness that its holy glow implied.
Yet the figure would kneel; bringing its featureless head close to his hand. If one looked closely, it had purposely placed where its lips should be to one of the rings of the monarch; a ring of great authority and power. Then at that moment, six golden wings sprouted from its back; illuminating the room with a cascade of golden light. Despite this, the emerald glow of the monarch outshined it, signifying his utter dominance over the being.
With a firm hold from the being’s hand, the light that wrapped around its form suddenly dimmed into nothingness. It revealed what it truly was, an ancient angelis whose luscious pink lips kissed his ring. Who then parted her lips to speak in a reverent tone pregnant with adoration and zealotry.
“First of the Dead. Lord of Ashes. Monarch of the Emerald Lands. My glorious liege Azariah, I have answered your call as I have sworn to you tens of thousands of years ago; when death had held my heart in the final battle to save the world.” Zurel spoke in the angelis tongue, a language of solemn song and methodical words. Her hymn-like tone spoke great volumes of her dedicated will to the monarch, who was every bit the anathema to her kind.
But Azariah moved the hand she kissed, holding her chin and caressing her cheek with his thumb. Zurel allowed this, smiling softly as her lustrous skin was touched by the dull white bone of her liege. She was a heavenly beauty, far surpassing the three angelis slaves behind her in every way possible, as she came from a time where the world was still young. Where mortal men was not as twisted as the five that harmed others for they could do so.
Silver haired, golden eyed, and marble-like skin, her very form would steal the hearts and breaths of many mortal beings. As her shapely form was coupled with an ample bosom, lovely thighs and near-godly childbearing hips wrapped in contrasting black armor.
The armor in question was a near perversed thing, it deviated from normal designs in what one may think as armor. It did not fully cover her belly nor her thighs, as its protection only came around fully on her arms and legs. Yet despite this, it was a dark work of art, with its theme highly revolving around the undead. This was clear on its pauldrons, where it was formed to a malevolent screaming skull that spewed emerald flames. This was an honoring to Azariah, yet he did not comment upon it.
“Zurel.” He intoned, continuing to caress her face as his thumb soon touched upon her lips. Zurel blushed for a moment in reaction to this, but Azariah paid it no heed as he continued. “It has been millennia since your death Zurel, millennia more since you’ve last seen my glorious form. Will you stand with me for eons to come, among my hallowed legion and undying warriors?”
At his question, Zurel smiled as she replied, holding his hand with soft laughter escaping her lips. “Your grace, I am yours as I have sworn so long ago. I will stand with you for eons to come, to be the angelic guardian that watches over you if you wished it so.
Whatever you ask, I shall do. If you will command me to slaughter, I shall, if you will me to be yours as a lover then I shall do so wholeheartedly. No matter what you choose, my answer shall never change.”
With a slight nod Azariah allowed silence to fill the room once more, as in his mind he felt a tender warmth from her that was anything but normal adoration. He thought over it, as his eyes turned to the slaves.
‘Without a hint of hesitation or doubt, not even a sign of reluctance in your words. You treat me as you should; a monarch that you respect and love with all your soul. Not because it was due courtly etiquette, rather you wanted it. How honest of you Zurel.
For the sake of your life, let it endure.’
As seconds turned to minutes, he finally raised his left hand. To point behind her as he let go of her head, letting her turn to look at what his other hand had pointed at.
“Are those… Slaves?” She asked in confusion as she saw the scarred pitted forms of the slaves, she did not recognize them as one of her own kind. As in their malnourished and badly beaten state, they looked just like any pitiful human slaves.
“Indeed. Slaves. Of your own people that is. Do you not recognize their strangely still pale skin? Or perhaps the sacrilegious actions of man had debased them so well, that not even you an Archangel can see them for what they are?” He confirmed with a light displeased tone, his voice ringing clearly in the tongue of her people this time. It was intentional, so that the slaves could understand him as well.
Stolen story; please report.
“Who dares do this to my people?” She asked in horror as her gentle face soon expressed rabid anger, to the extent that she stood up and manifested a deadly spear of pure gold. “Who has desecrated the sanctity and honor of my fellows?!” But she did not get an answer from Azariah, as the monarch supported his head on the jaw with his right hand.
As quickly as she realized, she knelt back down with her spear set on the floor with a loud clang. She had disrespected her lord by standing without his permission, and she looked to him with regretful eyes. She truly believed her unsightly reaction just moments before would earn his ire, and for that he laughed.
“I will not punish for that. For your reaction is well warranted. You’re, as you’ve always shown me, one to care for your people and the ones you hold dearest. As I have said however, the actions of man did this. Mere mortal men, whose hold upon this world is not backed by anything concrete.
What do you wish to do with this knowledge? What will you do, to the mortals that dare commit this blasphemous act to your people?” With great ease he spoke his words, managing to say it naturally with overflowing confidence within himself.
“My liege, I would smite them down as your vengeful angelis. With fire and fury they shall be cleansed from the lands of Nesmartes. Their souls shackled and made to experience perdition in the void between worlds, only to be devoured by the soul-searing flames of yours as offering and kindling to your righteous form.
None would be speared from this act, for this is an act of war. Such barbarous beings need not pity or consideration!” Fervently she answered Azariah, shaking with barely bound excitement and anger. The monarch only nodded as he motioned again to the slaves, his flames flickering with a bright glow of amusement and something unknowable.
“These kindred of yours, fallen as they might have been to the glory that you know of. Is a fount of information. I do not think their minds are wholly tethered to the material realm, they might have fallen already to the depths of madness. But they look upon you with hope and of awe, so you shall aid them in healing. Regrow their wings if need be… But make sure they give me what I wish to know.
I know you to be quite the compassionate one Zurel, I respect you for it. So do well in using it to heal these three, even if it is for my selfish desire to know of the world millennia since I last walked.” With his order given, Zurel nodded as she bit her lower lip for a moment. She wanted to say more, but chose not to as she lowered her head in respect.
“It shall be done my liege. I will not fail you.” She says before he nodded again. With a snap of his fingers she and the slaves were bathed in ethereal light, before their forms were be whisked away to someplace else. In their absence a stillness overcame the room once more, only broken by the sound of crackling flames that came from his idle form.
In this tranquil silence, Azariah raised his hands and examine them. All ten of his fingers were covered in a multitude of ornate and magical rings, yet one stood out which was the one Zurel had kissed as a sign of respect. It was ring much more ancient than the rest, and held the design of solemn yet reluctant honor of being formed into an armored thing. Where upon its middle was a large polished stone with the symbol of a rose covered in flames.
He examined his hands in no particular reason at all, as his hands would soon then be placed down back to the armrests of his throne. There was no method as of now in his actions, for he did not know of the situation beyond his walls. But as he had briefly looked about his room, there was only unnatural darkness where stars did not shine at all.
He inferred from this that it was nighttime, where day would soon break. Yet it did not explain much as to why the light of the moon did not shine down from the windows of his room, it could only mean that he was underground which drew from him an unsatisfied growl.
“So many uncertain things… Such manifold possibilities arrayed against me. Oh Lady Fate, do you truly care for this world as much as my dearest wife did? That will not avail you any comfort… As it will burn in cleansing fire as I’ve sworn long ago.” With only himself to talk with, he allowed his thoughts to be vocalized as he willed spells from a single thought.
There before him, where warlocks and grand archmages would take months if not years of preparation to achieve, a multifarious set of runes formed and intertwine to form some nefarious thing. There Azariah had done such a grand act easily with a mere thought. The runic sets were large in its scale, easily taking mortals years of activity to simply get the primary set complete. Yet from memory and will alone, Azariah formed it with his power.
It was then by coincidence that all eight of his guards returned, with the head dragging a young human by the neck without much of a care. This knight walked reverently towards his throne as the human it held spoke profanities.
“L-Let me go you sloven brute! My father shall know of this!” He exclaimed with a modicum of arrogance, yet it faded once he noticed Azariah. “What will you do to me?! I can give you anything! Please spare my life!”
To the eyes of a mortal, Azariah was a being of miasmic and baleful qualities. The flames of his body burned with noxious power that the human mind rationalized it to be an impossibility, a thing of great sinister qualities that it made one fear it with great irrationally. But to the monarch himself, it was natural and it made him laugh in malign joy at the sight of the human.
“Ah, another mortal I see. I should have expected those fives to have had a master. Noble attire… Young soul, twisted eyes filled with a wealth maliciousness. You enjoy treating others like cattle, you enjoy making them suffer. You’re a rotten thing. I see.” Imperiously without even hiding it, Azariah spoke as his knight held the noble in place right before him, not letting the human move an inch as they were overcome with primal fear when faced with the monarch.
“Silenced by my glory? Or is it the primitive mind of your kind that has made you so overcome with fear? Pathetic. But you shall be useful.” Understanding what was needed to be done, the knight that held the noble would let go. Pushing him then to the center of the web of runes Azariah had summoned through will alone. The noble would still be beset by a primordial fear, where the body believed it was already dead. Rendering him incapable of moving at all as he was pushed to the center.
“You need not beg for your life, or offer me bribes. You will do as I say, for it is only natural your species serve those high above them. Take comfort in the fact that, out of you your pitiful existence. You were graced with the honor of serving me.” Conceitedly Azariah raised his hands once again, only to grasp out thin air and burn brightly with his flames. To those that could feel and see magic, they would only see an excessive flood coming from the monarch. An unimaginable amount that only the Gods in their peak form could ever achieve. Yet he once more showed ability that rivaled them in every way possible.
“Take heart mortal. You’ll be a vessel for something greater. So kneel, kneel and become the container for the Waking Horror.”
One by one, the runes flared up in ominous life. As reality distorted around the floor that the runes were set upon, as if some other reality began to bleed over to the material realm. There was no power to be felt from here, only a deep empty void that soon gave way to an eldritch sight.
A sight of tentacles and twisting flesh that came from the distortion and pierced the noble in every orifice he had, not even a strangled cry came from him, as his body had given up long before he was violated in such a way. Bit by bit the distortion grew bigger, until a maddening vision could be peered into it. A massive unending mound of eyes, maws and malign power which edged itself into the world. Using the violated male as a vessel, somehow filling itself within a small and constricting host.
“You’ve become much bigger than I remember, how long has it truly been? How long has it been for you to honor me in such a way, to show me this! A mature outer thing from the realm beyond our own, where dreams and nightmares are but a primordial truth that gives birth to such entities like you.”
Azariah smiled then, his posture relaxed as he enjoyed the grotesque sight of a man being forced fed tentacles and what not, with the very sound itself sending shivers to mortals that could hear. Yet to him, it was a source of amusement. For it marked the first tool he would unleash upon the world.