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He had triumphed… hadn’t he? There had been rage, betrayal and sudden attack. Wounds given and taken on both sides. (He’d felt every cut, slice and blow; each crippling spell.) Then, as his (or the other’s) manna failed, the simulacrum crumbled to dust. Next came a violent explosion and utter blackness.
He’d risen from dust and smoke and settling rubble, not at all sure… But of course, he was himself. Sent here (and always present, somehow). Meant to capture and bind that Old One- Tarandahl- cur and hold him in place for a killing sword thrust. Doing so would bring Chaos and free Sherazedan… or maybe himself.
Not one who delayed when there was a task to perform, he used Far Keep’s power to port himself up to Aerie Station, where his target was hiding. He arrived to find something of a reunion in progress. Only, he despised family and all of the drek that came with a clot of worthless relations. Sneered,
“Touching. I do love a big, sloppy family reunion.”
Or something like that. They turned at his comment, surprised and alarmed, reaching for weapons that mattered not even a little. There were three elves, an orc, a tabaxi, two beasts and a construct.
His head felt ready to split in half from confusion and a terrible need for haste. Might have said more, but wasn’t quite sure who would speak through his mouth, if he did. Instead, the fallen elf-lord used earth powers to break up that floating rock.
With a thunderous rumble, Aerie Station broke apart, releasing the cable that linked it to Rainbow Base, down below. The line fell in a long, lazy arc to the barren planet, shining in sunlight like twisting confetti. The floor shifted and cracked underfoot, slanting sideways. Alarms shrilled and lights flashed, but he wasn’t finished yet.
The ‘General’… an elf of mixed descent who’d writhed and screamed under his blade… leapt at him, shouting commands to the others. That raging mongrel actually got in a cut, moving with spell-boosted speed. He put a hand to his neck, staring at pallid fingers that came away stained with blood and dark sludge. But he was himself. Not… couldn’t be…
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Pivoting, he drew his own blade and feinted in high-stance to keep back that snarling scrub-elf. The orc, the construct and the Tarandahl cur were the next to reach him. Their mistake.
He ported backward, focused the shrine’s manna, then blew out the great, curving window behind him. It shattered in a glittering storm of needle-sharp pieces, driven out to the void as the station’s air screamed away. A sort of magical shield flickered up to cover the opening, trapping a last bit of atmosphere and stopping the vermin from being swept out into space. Meanwhile, the station creaked and flexed, scraping free of the broken rock underneath. Magical gravity failed, spreading them all like a handful of grain on the surface of water.
The vermin had power, were doing their best to stabilize Aerie’s shrine. Maybe they’d do it. Made no difference whatsoever to him. The only being present who mattered was that accursed wandering elf and his scrap of a god. Firelord, reduced to little more than a glowing phantom.
Needing to hurry, he savagely drained the station’s remaining manna, leaving the lot of them nothing to work with. Turned his attention to the traitor, who’d gone suddenly limp. There was dark magic behind that sudden lassitude, he sensed. A sleep or draining spell sent from very far off.
…And the worlds were nearly aligned. The orc threw her axe at his head. He blocked the weapon with a muttered spell, then sent it hurtling back twice as fast. A giant ape leapt at him, only to be sliced nearly in half by his backswing. Blood and entrails arced away in the path of his blade, forming red globs that flew off without falling. Voices and sirens were thin, high-pitched and terribly faint.
…And he had no more time for delay. He used magic to seize that drifting, cartwheeling Old One. Ducked under a stream of metal slugs from the construct’s arm-cannon. Pivoted to face another attack, snapping the tabaxi’s spine with a powerful kick and a sharp crack. Then, smiling a little, he magically cut off the station’s power, causing lights, alarms and escape pods to fail. Signed,
“You’re quite welcome,” sketching a brief, mocking bow. Then, task accomplished, the fallen elf-lord ported back down and away with his prize, leaving Chaos and blood in his wake. Never noticed a small, streaking black bug as it landed upon his unconscious burden.