Suggested Listening

Somewhere, deep in the wilderness, lay a temple of finest marble. Crafted by gods, shaped to be the seat of power to a world-empire, it stood abandoned for centuries, with but automatons to maintain the art, beauty, and mystic mechanisms that could grant one the power to walk from one end of the world to the other with but a handful of gestures.

Long had it stood, a testament to men who would rule man, nature, and the laws of reality. Longer had it remained in ruin, its makers long since dead and its inhabitants reduced to shadow and mythos.

A tall, slender woman of ashen skin and wings of smoke walked through this forgotten fane to the wildest dreams of Man. Nearby, the beasts lurked, but they had learned not to approach the being of power which masqueraded as a thing of flesh. The bodies between the portal which brought her to this place, and the throne she approached, were her own shrine to the wisdom of caution.

A flick of wings took her atop the marble platform once called the Pillar of Creation. She thought little of those ancient mortals, but today was a day of nostalgia for those they left behind. "Oh, Lord of Darkness," her voice oozed with sarcasm. "I bring you news."

"Ugh, must you call me that every time? It wasn't funny the first time, it hasn't become funny in the centuries since." He shifted, stretching sinuous wings and muscle that had not moved in years.

"My apologies, would you prefer to be called the Son of the Blighted? Or perhaps He Who Casts Darkness on Darkness?"

A burst of black lightning shot from his fingertips, missing her by inches. Several deep crevasses were added to the cracked marble floor. They began pulling themselves back together, the shattered stone stitching itself back together one fleck of dust at a time. One day, the magic would deplete itself, and the pillar would crumble as had the dreams of its creators.

"I told you never to speak those names!"

"Why, My Lord, I am certain you have not." She appreciated the damage to the stone, dead purity wounded yet struggling to survive. Her opposite in all conceivable ways. "The mortals invented them between my last visit and today."

"Oh?" He settled back down on his throne of ebony, set atop the pillar of Ivory. "My mistake. There are so wearingly many, I cannot be expected to keep track of them all."

"You should be more careful, My Lord," she taunted. "Any closer, and you'd be forced to do these tasks for yourself."

"Here to beg for your death yet again?" He shifted, waking slowly. "I thought you grew tired of this game you play."

She had, long ago, but it had not yet become the 'game' her master pretended. She swallowed, then called on all her strength for the final act of accusation and hate. "Freedom does not appear possible, which leaves me one refuge."

"As I told your predecessors, if you can find one more competent than yourself, I shall grant you freedom or death, whichever you desire."

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"I fear you ask the impossible, My Lord." No pride, no anger, she had not the resolve left for more than resignation.

"I fear the same, and yet I do not stop." He clenched his fingers, crushing the obsidian throne upon which he sat. Its own magic set about repairing the damage inflicted, silent and without judgment. At one time, there was finery on this throne, of deep red and gold, with lush cushions such that even a mortal would not be uncomfortable seated here. They had rotted to dust centuries ago. "I suppose that trait, we have in common."

"Yes, My Lord." Her wings wafted around her, knowing what would come next.

Now that he was approaching true wakefulness, he wanted only to get the remaining tasks completed so he could return to his long slumber. "Now, what is the true reason you come to me?"

"Scratch has found himself a new host."

"Is that so?" He huffed, what passed for a chuckle. "For a dead man, he has been quite active. This makes one from him per century for how long, now?"

"Four, if we measure by years rather than turnovers of calendar," she said. "A less cynical person might believe he's trying to kill you."

"He does have a habit of finding the most fascinating toys, doesn't he?" In spite of himself, he found he was growing excited, or at least amused. "I believe the last one was a eunuch, and the one before was the arctic mermaid?"

The most recent to have inflicted pain upon her in battle. If she had been but a little stronger, she might have been released from this abominable farce. "This one appears to be a little girl of twelve years."

Another soft chuckle, this one almost genuine, escaped his lips. "I've forgotten the last child we've had. When the decade is up, I'll be ready."

"My Lord, I don't believe we'll need wait that long. This one is ready for cultivation, now."

"So young?" He grinned, and acid dripped down from a jaw that might have been handsome centuries prior. "Then we set the stage for what promises to be an unusual Deathbringer."

"I have prepared the Bean Sidhe in anticipation of your orders. Initial scouting suggests the region has few external threats, but is on the cusp of rebellion. I also located three artifact caches in the region that might play well in our plans."

"Then fan the flames of revolution throughout..." he hesitated. "Where are they?"

"The Empire of Engeval," she answered. "The Temple knows it as Ciron's Citadel."

"Right, the god of the centaurs," her dark lord muttered. At his mental command, the ancient machinery returned to life for a short time, to force open a portal network built by the Goddess of the Void, then harnessed by her descendants. They were long gone, but he would put their work to use destroying all which they had brought to the world. "Such vibrant creatures, perhaps..."

"I'm sorry, My Lord," she cut him off. "They were unable to adapt to the changes and went extinct almost four hundred years ago."

"Go!" He shouted, as he swung his fist backward into his throne. The stone exploded with enough power that shards of obsidian sank into the marble pillar.

For the first time in aeons, she felt fear in the face of the being that she had just tried to goad into killing her. She fled through the opened gateway and found herself standing in the air above a stable, but still-hot caldera.

"Ciron, awaken." She demanded of the volcanic deity. "The Goddess Kalla demands it."

A shift of energies, a preparation of defenses and retaliation. With a wave of Kalla's hand, ice coated the interior of the volcano. It was a minor display of power, for either of them. The speed and ease at which she performed that feat marked her as stronger than the being below her. The chaos unleashed by her magic would be felt for years, but chaos served Kalla's purpose.

"Awaken or I slay you where you sleep and drive what remains of your sheltered children into the true wilderness."

Shockwaves rumbled across the land, startling civilian and priest alike as Ciron responded to the threat of the interloper with what passed for acquiescence. He would obey her, so long as she left his people alone.

"Impossible," she said. "But with your cooperation we can limit the casualties to, perhaps, only a million or so."

More rumbles, more echoes of power, and the stink of priests begging guidance began wafting in on the aether winds. Now that their god served her, it was time to begin her true work.