Jake Reynolds
Wordslinger
- Joined
- Sep 24, 2010
- Messages
- 638
Thanks to all for the ocmments on the previous section, pt 2 here and thne I'll end with a (very short) part 3.
As he lit the candles at the four points of the cross he had drawn on the cellar floor the rats scuttled away, perhaps unsure of his intentions but certainly aware that he was no threat. He took no offence, for those that lived in the dark would always shy from the light. He gazed upon the cross, its arms curved so that it almost resembled a swirl. Man’s soul descending unto Ruin, perhaps. It was crude, for he had drawn in charcoal, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that at its far edge, just inside the circle that scribed its cardinal points, hung the manacled man that was Aphasto’s latest project.
Flesh hung from him in stripes down his torso, and one of his hands was stripped to the bone, the iron tourniquet Aphasto had screwed onto his wrist preventing death from blood loss. His fluids pooled beneath him, filling half the circle. He was close, this one. Not much time left. He was unconscious, but Aphasto had herbs in his case to rouse him.
His mouth and jaw were covered in black dots, the heads of the tacks that Aphasto had so carefully hammered into his gums to ensure his silence. There were some lumps among the viscera at his feet; presumably the strips of flesh that hung from him had tempted some of the more intrepid rats, their bodies black as if scorched when they had intruded upon the Circle.
Aphasto began the day’s work, clasping his hands together before him and closing his eyes.
“Great Ruin of man,’ he said quietly, his voice causing a stir both among his friends and in the awareness of his project. ‘I offer you this man’s pain, this man’s fear, this man’s life. I offer you this in return for your bounty, though I am but a mortal.’
‘We shall see.’
The voice caused him to whirl in fright, though the rats had done nothing. Odd that they had not warned him, but then again, as he realised who it was, he supposed they had not deemed the Master a threat.
He immediately fell to his knees, careful not to intrude upon the cross. ‘Master.’
Kareshi stepped further into the light, the candles whispering across his dark skin. He wore the white linens of a citizen of the Dominion, with a wide scarlet sash over which was belted a scimitar, an Azhani weapon. Had Aphasto been insolent, he might have wondered at Kareshi’s confidence in walking the streets of Shaboleth so armed. Such an offence was punishable by death.
‘Stand, Drathis, my most loyal of subjects,’ Kareshi said, stepping into the circle with no ill consequence. ‘I see you are hard at work. I apologise for interrupting.’
‘One a week, as you said, pain and suffering to the circle just as you said.’
‘How many?’ Kareshi asked, though Aphasto suspected he well knew the answer.
‘Two hundred and twelve, Master.’
Kareshi leaned forward, his face just inches from the project’s. He sniffed before standing straight and taking a step back, assessing everything. Aphasto waited with the nervousness of his birds. ‘Two hundred and thirteen, it seems.’ He spun to face him, clapping his hands together, a huge grin on his hairless face, which alone should have marked him as a foreigner. None but the God King was clean shaven.
‘I…yes, it seems so.’
The Master began to stroll around the circle that Aphasto dared not step into. ‘You alone, my dear Aphasto, you alone have served me without question, without lust for power, without failure of any kind. How go your studies?’
The question surprised him. ‘I, well, I have developed the pack awareness sufficiently, but the warmbloods and the birds, they just…’ He dropped his head, still kneeling, ‘I…I cannot make demands of them, Master. I have failed you.’
Kareshi crouched before him, the white linen soaking up the blood. He didn’t seem to care. ‘Aphasto, the warmbloods are the province of Taedrin, Spirit of the Land, the birds of Yvadu, Spirit of Air, as those in the sea serve Scyreen and those in the desert dusts serve Flarron. You could not break such holds, even had you a lifetime.’
‘Then how can I serve you, Master, if I cannot-’
‘Hush now, Aphasto. Dry your tears, for the Ruin has servants of its own. Already you have touched upon them, with your furry little audience here. Just as only some men will serve the Ruin, so it is the same with the world’s creatures.’
‘I do not understand, Master.’
‘The swarms, Aphasto. Those that follow blindly, those that become part of some greater drive that sweeps their resistance away. The rabid, feeding swarms shall be your allies in what comes, and none may stand in your way. You think your God King can resist such will? You think a sword can stop a wave of pestilence? You shall be unstoppable, Aphasto, the first among my Shades, the highest of the high. You shall command a legion, millions of creatures that serve without thought save that which you give them.
‘You need only step into the Circle.’
Aphasto looked up with a sharp intake of breath, the Master’s hand stretched down toward him. He felt as if he were on the ground, looking up at some mighty statue made eons before, some great god that stood without fear before a world that hated everything. Tears pooled in his upturned eyes before breaking the banks of his lids and streaming down his dark skin. How he loved him!
‘My Master, I…I am not worthy of such-’
‘I trust you, Aphasto. The other five, they will receive similar gifts from the Ruin, that is true, but you alone have claimed to be unworthy. Your lack of ambition is what compels me, Aphasto. Stand, rise and break the fetters of mortality as you once shed the shackles of slavery.’
And so he took the Master’s hand, weeping still as he laboured to his feet under the weight of his love for the Master and Ruin that served him. ‘What must I do, Master?’
‘Just one step, Aphasto, a single step.’
And so he stepped, weeping still as he gave himself to the Ruin.
Kareshi sighed in what Aphasto hoped was satisfaction, and there came a sudden lashing about his body as if he was being whipped, the shabby linens he wore stripped from his flesh as if they were an insult. As he staggered another step into the circle it felt as if a bubbling blackness filled his veins from his feet and his heart twisted and charred as if roasted by the fires of the Ruin. His back arched as pain suffused him, agony so consuming that it seemed his mind would shatter, his hand gripping Kareshi’s like a vice, his world seared by the purifying fires of mankind’s evil, his soul charred by its clarity.
And then there was stillness so complete that he wondered if the pain, like his elation, had been a dream.
As he lit the candles at the four points of the cross he had drawn on the cellar floor the rats scuttled away, perhaps unsure of his intentions but certainly aware that he was no threat. He took no offence, for those that lived in the dark would always shy from the light. He gazed upon the cross, its arms curved so that it almost resembled a swirl. Man’s soul descending unto Ruin, perhaps. It was crude, for he had drawn in charcoal, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that at its far edge, just inside the circle that scribed its cardinal points, hung the manacled man that was Aphasto’s latest project.
Flesh hung from him in stripes down his torso, and one of his hands was stripped to the bone, the iron tourniquet Aphasto had screwed onto his wrist preventing death from blood loss. His fluids pooled beneath him, filling half the circle. He was close, this one. Not much time left. He was unconscious, but Aphasto had herbs in his case to rouse him.
His mouth and jaw were covered in black dots, the heads of the tacks that Aphasto had so carefully hammered into his gums to ensure his silence. There were some lumps among the viscera at his feet; presumably the strips of flesh that hung from him had tempted some of the more intrepid rats, their bodies black as if scorched when they had intruded upon the Circle.
Aphasto began the day’s work, clasping his hands together before him and closing his eyes.
“Great Ruin of man,’ he said quietly, his voice causing a stir both among his friends and in the awareness of his project. ‘I offer you this man’s pain, this man’s fear, this man’s life. I offer you this in return for your bounty, though I am but a mortal.’
‘We shall see.’
The voice caused him to whirl in fright, though the rats had done nothing. Odd that they had not warned him, but then again, as he realised who it was, he supposed they had not deemed the Master a threat.
He immediately fell to his knees, careful not to intrude upon the cross. ‘Master.’
Kareshi stepped further into the light, the candles whispering across his dark skin. He wore the white linens of a citizen of the Dominion, with a wide scarlet sash over which was belted a scimitar, an Azhani weapon. Had Aphasto been insolent, he might have wondered at Kareshi’s confidence in walking the streets of Shaboleth so armed. Such an offence was punishable by death.
‘Stand, Drathis, my most loyal of subjects,’ Kareshi said, stepping into the circle with no ill consequence. ‘I see you are hard at work. I apologise for interrupting.’
‘One a week, as you said, pain and suffering to the circle just as you said.’
‘How many?’ Kareshi asked, though Aphasto suspected he well knew the answer.
‘Two hundred and twelve, Master.’
Kareshi leaned forward, his face just inches from the project’s. He sniffed before standing straight and taking a step back, assessing everything. Aphasto waited with the nervousness of his birds. ‘Two hundred and thirteen, it seems.’ He spun to face him, clapping his hands together, a huge grin on his hairless face, which alone should have marked him as a foreigner. None but the God King was clean shaven.
‘I…yes, it seems so.’
The Master began to stroll around the circle that Aphasto dared not step into. ‘You alone, my dear Aphasto, you alone have served me without question, without lust for power, without failure of any kind. How go your studies?’
The question surprised him. ‘I, well, I have developed the pack awareness sufficiently, but the warmbloods and the birds, they just…’ He dropped his head, still kneeling, ‘I…I cannot make demands of them, Master. I have failed you.’
Kareshi crouched before him, the white linen soaking up the blood. He didn’t seem to care. ‘Aphasto, the warmbloods are the province of Taedrin, Spirit of the Land, the birds of Yvadu, Spirit of Air, as those in the sea serve Scyreen and those in the desert dusts serve Flarron. You could not break such holds, even had you a lifetime.’
‘Then how can I serve you, Master, if I cannot-’
‘Hush now, Aphasto. Dry your tears, for the Ruin has servants of its own. Already you have touched upon them, with your furry little audience here. Just as only some men will serve the Ruin, so it is the same with the world’s creatures.’
‘I do not understand, Master.’
‘The swarms, Aphasto. Those that follow blindly, those that become part of some greater drive that sweeps their resistance away. The rabid, feeding swarms shall be your allies in what comes, and none may stand in your way. You think your God King can resist such will? You think a sword can stop a wave of pestilence? You shall be unstoppable, Aphasto, the first among my Shades, the highest of the high. You shall command a legion, millions of creatures that serve without thought save that which you give them.
‘You need only step into the Circle.’
Aphasto looked up with a sharp intake of breath, the Master’s hand stretched down toward him. He felt as if he were on the ground, looking up at some mighty statue made eons before, some great god that stood without fear before a world that hated everything. Tears pooled in his upturned eyes before breaking the banks of his lids and streaming down his dark skin. How he loved him!
‘My Master, I…I am not worthy of such-’
‘I trust you, Aphasto. The other five, they will receive similar gifts from the Ruin, that is true, but you alone have claimed to be unworthy. Your lack of ambition is what compels me, Aphasto. Stand, rise and break the fetters of mortality as you once shed the shackles of slavery.’
And so he took the Master’s hand, weeping still as he laboured to his feet under the weight of his love for the Master and Ruin that served him. ‘What must I do, Master?’
‘Just one step, Aphasto, a single step.’
And so he stepped, weeping still as he gave himself to the Ruin.
Kareshi sighed in what Aphasto hoped was satisfaction, and there came a sudden lashing about his body as if he was being whipped, the shabby linens he wore stripped from his flesh as if they were an insult. As he staggered another step into the circle it felt as if a bubbling blackness filled his veins from his feet and his heart twisted and charred as if roasted by the fires of the Ruin. His back arched as pain suffused him, agony so consuming that it seemed his mind would shatter, his hand gripping Kareshi’s like a vice, his world seared by the purifying fires of mankind’s evil, his soul charred by its clarity.
And then there was stillness so complete that he wondered if the pain, like his elation, had been a dream.
