Eidolons: Awakening - pt. I

Prelude for "Eidolons: Awakening"

You do not play with Darkness and expect 

that She won’t play with you in return.

- Anphis val Keserim

The house was on fire, the flames were held for a while by the old enchantments bestowed on the manor, but now they spread quickly, and the smoke already reached the far-off chamber where the two siblings sat on the floor, shivering.

On the stair, the few remaining guards were holding back the mob, knowing they could not count on mercy anymore. The time to desert was long past, and even so, none knew what became of the ones who made use of it.

“We have to go, Aylin. Old Serech is coming with us - he has returned, remember? We will hide together in the dungeons, like we used to in the old times. And then we will come back and all will be well.” The words sounded hollow in his ears even as he spoke them. He compensated by trying to caress the shivering girl, though she never liked to be touched. 

“Is father coming back soon? I had a bad dream about him, I think he may die soon.” Looking at her, Anphis was struck by how beautiful - and how unchanged - his sister was. Still a girl of thirteen, as if her life somehow stopped after the horrors of that night, one for which Anphis had not been there to protect her. From Serech, he learned that Aylin's mind expelled everything that happened, the caretaker having long despaired to bring his charge back from the darkness that had claimed her. Yet it seemed to him now, looking in her eyes, that she kept it buried deep inside, never truly forgetting.

“He will be waiting for us on other end of the rat-tunnel” Anphis lied.

“I want to finish playing. Why is it so noisy?”

A ram was slammed against the heavy barred door and smoke snaked from the slit below it. The door broke. Anphis gave the last of his sorcery to slay the half dozen men charging in, and peered through the opened door to see a fiery hell.
Between the roiling mob marauding the house, there was cart rolling down the wide corridor, and on it was a star-cross. The charred corpse nailed to it was not recognizable, and the new Lord val Keserim was grateful for that. She must not see this, must not…

The room melted in smoke, and soon they were running through the dungeons, hand in hand, the deep tunnels leading them to the watery cave where his new friends waited for him.

Together they would do great and terrible things, Anphis knew. The whole of Mograve would burn for what was done to him that night.

But it wasn’t enough. Already he saw how the human vermin screamed as they were charred to black ash, but they were mere puppets… All Ardai must burn, and the other Realms as well, if only to smoke out the pious rats from their highland monasteries and ancient catacombs.

The fires shifted and his vision spun, his mind falling through a loose web of intricate spellwork until he stood again before the crumbling Void Spire, its icy surface glinting in the first rays of dawn.

At his feet, dozens of figures knelt, beaten but still defiant. The Templar were chained with glowing blue threads of conjured Aether, their power drained.

They were silent, no one begged for mercy. They received none, and the crowd behind him cheered as he dealt out death with the most exquisite bits from his arsenal of pain.

Here it comes, the final scene…

     

<><><><><> 

Lord Keserim woke in pitch black darkness, bemused. As ever, he was calm and instantly alert. It was his pattern, refined to perfection.

He liked to separate his true self from his mind. The latter was a traumatized thing, he could not deny it, dangerous and fallible. It had been deceived, conditioned, bested.

The former was divine though. Through all the years, even as he killed, betrayed, condemned hundreds to agony and torture, his core remained intact. Otherwise, he would not have survived the Weave… He stayed true – to the original vision of having unlimited freedom and power in this world. Once it was so that he could drive the wheel of progress, now it was… just so. Perhaps it went deeper than that – the dream was nothing, but the joy he derived from playing the game, even if it was the only joy he had left, and brittle at that. Yes, that rang true with him.

To simplify things, he decided his mind was the boy, while he was the man, the higher will, the ultimate law. Arrogant? Insane? Certainly, but so was every great wizard in his own way, I merely push the boundaries a little bit further.

The mind was only a tool. And so he constructed that dream for his mind, to keep it focused on the Game he was playing. The memories he chose were something most people would call nightmares and seek to forget. Not so Keserim. To stay true to himself, he had to inflict pain on his mind. Then the killing would bring joy…

Once, a different construct had been imposed on his mind, aimed to keep him chained to his fears and wounds. Only by dis-identifying from it did he rise over the nightmare… With his own work too, his mind had long learned that it was too well-aligned, too specific to be a natural phenomenon. So it awoke well before it was over, and it watched, and it listened, and every time Keserim woke with a new detail revealed to him.

In any case, it was the only way to keep the other dreams from entering his mind. Dreams of Helene, of Regulus, of his friends… Or of Fiona falling into the fires, slain by his own hand, in the fury of discovering her betrayal… Don’t.

But tonight something alien entered into his perfect symphony of ruin and pain. He felt it stir on the very edge of his consciousness, but it might as well have shouted in his face – nothing happened without a reason, least of all in dreams. This intrusion is more than a little disturbing, isn’t it boy? He felt vulnerable for the first time in years, and intrigued.

Perhaps some of the archfiends he believed to have vanquished in the Warped Realms have returned to exact vengeance or bring him back into their power? No, too subtle for their kind, they would employ some boring manipulation, this here is far more subtle. Whatever or whoever it was, needed to be handled quickly, one way or the other…

The room he was given was beyond luxurious, it was decadent. Good change for the cave he had to occupy for his hunt of the silver ring. Yes, this hideout was as good as any he had spent a night at. A wealthy sympathizer provided the mansion, and the brotherhood turned it into a veritable nest.

The best, if not biggest, in the Ersidrian capital. From here, the brethren watched as Orodris grew restless with rumors from the south, some of them spread with their help. It came so far that the Archduke tasked his lapdog baron Urdstein to rally his mercenaries and the Ravenguard into a real fighting force, and the baron did well so far. Congregation watched him carefully, while Keserim enjoyed watching his mind come up with plots of how these efforts could be turned to their gain… Our? Or mine?  

They worshipped him, adored him, these poor wretches, zealots and thralls, enslaved by the promise of freedom from abuse they never really knew.

For them, he was the Apostate Lord, the Great Master’s right hand, the Dark Avenger, the liberator of Mograve, leader of the first Coven, the very vanguard of the Revolution. 

But I care nothing for the revolution now. Even if the whole of Allkingdom yields to the Congregation’s demands, accepts their ultimatums, I will not stop…

Outside was still deep night, revelers of the decadent capital were in full swing of their drunken debauchery. The house too had to appear ordinary, and that meant there had to be loud revels entertained late into the night, and lights burning.

But Keserim was not disturbed – when he decided to, he slept, or rather, he put his mind to sleep. His will was sleepless. That being said, he slept seldom of late, the Game was too enjoyable to miss, especially at night. But that night he allowed himself rest – he had done well, and rest was the least reward he thought to claim. They cheer me for the thing I hardly recall doing, yet my real triumph will remain unrevealed.

And some triumph that was. Nine more Strix agents dead, and an eidolon artifact finally procured. A curious bit, that. A silvery ring with an unmatched potential for enchantment, a medium so extensive he could project his own psyche onto it and make it an extension of himself.

He would do this, that very night, and then off to Tal’Mereth

Those were dreams of the future, and to channel them was an art form or a curse. His best friend had once been a victim of such ‘talent’. Now he was gone, deceived by Andahar, the one of two Elder Magi, a man he had trusted, to him doom.

Ironically, Keserim was now serving the second of the immortal wizards, Ignacius. Only I don’t trust him farther than our mutual need of each other’s power, momentarily.

Then a voice came to his mind, familiar and nonchalant, but growing more insistent by the minute. Not so much a voice as an impression and a summoning. Timely. I never stop wondering, if there is a deeper pattern to the Inner Weave, or do we merely give coincidence too much credit? Ignacius… Already aware of my victory? Or merely concerned that his bloodhound may have lost his pace?

The Great Master bid him take a direct leap to his tower, and Keserim could indeed do that - he had the key to the chamber, its magical footprint clear in his mind. Traveling would be safe and easy and fast, but… there was always the possibility of a trap. If the Great Master decided to get rid of him, it would be all too easily done during his traversing the subtle paths.  

Keserim decided to play it safe, even if it meant showing a level of mistrust. Ignacius knew he was no longer the naive boy rallying his comrades for a foolhardy riot, if anything, he should respect him more for taking precautions, an act of a mature, experienced mage.

Not bothering much about secrecy, Keserim lit the luxurious dark room with flames of sorcery, squeezing the energy out of the Essence surrounding him. Energy needed to bend the hardy laws of Aether and cut a shorter path to where he needed to go.

End of part 1.