Sebon's dark skin and charcoal gray hair allowed him to blend in with the rest of the Skraag. He tried to be different any chance he could, which is why he silently reveled in having the red slashes on his skin; it was wonderful seeing color in a world where there was none. The gray granite stone he chiseled day in and day out, the black ceiling of onyx covering Sector 3, the slate sea of Kelornian Skraag just like him as far as his eyes could see—all of it made color a rarity. The sick delight in seeing his own skin produce such a deeply rich crimson color was his new palette. According to Sebon's overseers, Jjyn Cormulan's eyes were blood-red. He wondered if he would ever get to see them. The longing drove him, the revenge heightened his senses, and the memories of his useless life consumed him.
It won't be long until I break free from this, he deceivingly told himself with each stroke of his pickaxe. He knew there was no possibility of freedom...
...but he had hope.
* * * *
The skyline above Kelorn grew dark and gray, clouded and sullen. Winter in Kelorn didn't fall the same way it did in other lands of Vaaluna. The snow would cover the top of the tower and other structures, but melt quickly when it descended into the hot core of the sprawling city. Industrial fires from burning fuels and forges gave little chance to winter's cleansing gift.
Jjyn had his windows closed so the soupy fog wouldn't disturb his meditation. The time spent talking with his father would not be interrupted by anything, and whoever or whatever did was risking everything to do so, even the weather.
Having retreated to the solitude of his private chambers, he positioned himself evenly on the floor pillows. He was stripped down to nothing but a loincloth, which was essential for the absorption of the herbal smoke; it licked his skin and wrapped him in its warming embrace. The trance-like state was key to the ritual; the spirits of the Planes came to visit only when the mind was void of all selfish desires and sins. Jjyn breathed in the smoke deeply through his dark nostrils, exhaling evenly out of his mouth. The trance began almost immediately. His arms stretched out loosely before him, his eyelids heavy with the induced intoxication.
The face of his late father appeared in the midst of the flames dancing within the shrine before the Kelornian king. The specter of Jy'Shandan Cormulan had accepted the offering his son had prepared for him.
"Son,” the hollow voice called out. “You have come to seek my counsel once again. What troubles you?"
Jjyn's body was covered in sweat, glistening in the flickering firelight. His eyes were tightly closed, his hair pulled away from his dark face as ordered by the gods. Purity and perfection were required when speaking to the dead; the skin had to be exposed, nothing hidden. “You don't know, Father?” he questioned. “I would have thought this would have been the highest of all counsels. The news brought forth to me today was enough to convince even the most doubting of souls: our world, Vaaluna, is changing. You have spoken to me of the Planes and their laws, but I am not a Walker and I cannot see what the future holds."
"My son, do not be fooled by the tricks of lesser beings,” Jy'Shandan said. “I know of the news you received this day, and it indeed warrants a response by the cleansing power of the Kelornians. You must lead our people into war for the good of Vaaluna. The destruction of Sheevos is in our grasp. Only then will I be free to be with you once more. If there was ever a time to embrace your destiny, your revenge, it is now."
Jjyn swallowed hard, his muscles shaking from the effects of the herb fumes. “I had to punish one of my sector governors today. There is a search going on for another. I was hoping to get your opinion on this matter. Whom should I call? Kylan was, I thought, one of the best choices. I will not make the same mistake again."
"It was wise of you to call on me to advise you on this,” the spectre noted. “There is one whom I have been watching for sometime now who will rise to the challenge of our Master's calling, but not to be a governor. He is young Sebon of the Skraag."
"A Skraag, Father?” Jjyn asked doubtfully. “But, the Skraag are the ones born to fuel our city, our way of life. If I make a hero out of him, the others will look to him for hope in the future. That cannot happen if we are to maintain control."
"He is alone, and void of all happiness since his father and mother were killed for their insolence.” The specter's burning face grinned. “This will fuel his resolve to find redress, but in the end he will kneel before you in allegiance."
"How, Father? How will he come to trust me? Though he has never seen anything beyond the Roof, he'll no doubt blame the Elite."
"Not if you do what I tell you to do. In time he will call you Master."
"I will do as you ask and trust your judgment in this matter. I will summon the Skraag named Sebon, and train him in the ways of the Elite."
"In time you will know the wisdom in this decision. Sebon's hatred for life will be your greatest ally in times to come. Go, now, and prepare an army the likes of which Vaaluna has never seen. Haarath will need a lieutenant when Vaaluna has been conquered...it must be you he names. My fate, and yours, rests upon the swift resolve of Kelorn. Sector Nine's governor will be chosen in due time; this is far more important."
"Very well. Where do I march our mighty army, Father?"
"North to Dunandor, across Merchindale. Align yourself with the Trolls of Sharumar, for they possess the unnatural power you will need for the battle. Somewhere in Dunandor lies the hidden city of Trunith. No one has seen it for ages, but it is said to be the resting place of the final Elfstone fragment broken and hidden by the gods. Two of the pieces have been found; one is fleeing east across the sea toward Dunandor as we speak, and the other is in Haarath's possession. If you are able to secure either of the final two, it will ensure our survival when He is risen!"
Jy'Shandan's specter dissipated, and the flames died down in the shrine. Jjyn opened his eyes. His body was wracked with pain and perspiration; he crawled to his bed like he always did after the ritual. No servants were allowed in his chambers for a time as he rested. It would be several hours before he had the vigor to eat or to speak.
The sky turned darker, and the night zephyrs gathered outside the tower to watch over their subject. Controlled by His hand alone, they were His silent saboteurs, under His command to keep a watch over His most prized puppet. Carefully, He continued to manipulate those who would serve Him best for the coming war. Over and over again, He removed those who would stand in the way, who put the meticulous design of the plot in jeopardy. Kylan was gone, sent to the abyss to suffer for eternity for his transgressions, lost forever in the never-ending spiral of the void created for such beings. Now, Sebon would take his place—a Skraag low-life whose anger and hate swelled with each fallen stroke of the pickaxe.
So much to do, and time is running out.
Several days and nights passed in Kelorn before they came for Sebon. He remembered it well. The Elite guards came to administer their daily dose of punishment for his jesting and laziness, but this time they did more than just whip him. They nearly beat him to death, subduing his body and mind enough to render him unconscious. Those around him thought the guards had killed him. Finally, they no doubt thought. No more getting us into trouble. The other Skraag went back to work relieved, not shocked. Just what Jjyn wanted. The guards dragged Sebon away, bleeding and broken, to their own hospice located somewhere between the Roof and the underground mines. No one would ever find him there.
Over the next several weeks, Jjyn oversaw the governance of Sector Nine himself while Sebon was healed and cared for by the Kelornian physicians. They used dark magic to heal him, weaving the subtle deceptions into his body where they would be exploited later. Thus the dark magic of Wrantha worked, planting seeds deep to grow, fester, and reveal themselves when the time was right. The worst thing about Wrantha Wild Magic was its incredible patience. Most Wild Magic found in Vaaluna was so wild and uncontrollable it was sought out and locked away by the Order of Light—their primary function after the fall of Hydra
is. But, because of the way the Wrantha Wild Magic functioned, it was difficult to discover those who possessed the unnatural curse, typically finding out only when it was too late. The link between Sebon and Jjyn was growing, planned out from the beginning by a force intent upon manifestation.
Outside, where the weather could actually be seen by the Kelornian Elite, the snow of winter was falling thickly. The wind blew down from the Creshtuns and gathered speed when it was whipped around by pressure changes due to the clash between the heavy cold air and the rising hot air of the city's core machine. However, the clash between Sebon's mind and body with the overtaking power of the Wrantha magic was an even harsher one. At one point, the physicians despaired of the dark elf surviving the process. Several portions of the magical injections he rejected; others he readily accepted, a sign that key components of his psyche were absorbing the hatefilled properties of the magic. Reason still remained, they knew, and it must be snuffed out. Only when all reason was gone would the power of Wrantha take hold.
Small bands of black energy snaked from a physician's hand and into the micro-aperture formed when the magic touched Sebon's skin. The skin yielded to the magic's power by simply parting to allow its forceful entry. “Good thing Haarath delivered the book to us when he did,” he said to another while they watched Sebon's dark skin turn pale during the magical injection. “We'd have a rough time doing this on our own."
"Yes, good thing,” the other agreed. “The failure of the Order of Light will be their doom. If they had only known how powerful the book was and what knowledge of the Wild Magics were contained inside, things would be much different."
"I don't know,” said the first, stopping the injection momentarily. “Our Lord Jjyn seems to have a mystical energy surrounding him, wild like this magic. I'd be willing to bet on his ability to accomplish like tasks."
"Your faith is quite reassuring,” said a quiet, somber voice from the other side of the room.
The two physicians turned suddenly, then bowed upon recognition of the presence in the room. “Lord Jjyn. I...I...was just talking about your great skills."
Jjyn pursed his lips, his eyelids half open as usual, measuring whether or not to dispose of the servant. “Yes, so I heard. How is my subject coming along?” From the darkness of his face and the heavy tone in his voice, he did not want to hear the wrong answer.
"M'Lord,” the one ventured after a brief moment of awkward silence while he and the other physician made a silent wager about who was to answer, “the Skraag is making progress.” A simple but suitable reply.
"Hmmm...” Jjyn mumbled. He shuffled across the floor, stopped next to Sebon's bed, and laid his bony hand on the boy's forehead. “Indeed,” he mused, moving his hand around in small circular patterns. Then, satisfied, he stopped, turned, and left the hospice.
The two physicians looked at each other, confused. “What was that all about?” one asked of the other.
"I don't know, but if we don't want to find ourselves lying amongst the Skraag's mines, I suggest we continue to make advancements with this one."
The two set about their work again with greater resolve. Jjyn's sudden visit and inscrutable display only proved to increase the physicians’ dedication to placing all the magical infusions required. In time, Sebon would become a member of the Elite Guard units patrolling the upper Roof sections above the iron plates shutting off the light from the world of the Skraag below. Though the boy didn't know it at the time, he was being given the tools he would've interpreted as the way to revenge, the way to Jjyn Cormulan.
Sebon's dreams were a torrent of nightmarish things; veils of darkness pulled over his mind's eye while his body feverishly both rejected and accepted the magical invasions brought about by the wicked creatures outside. He was standing inside a holy temple, clean and white on the inside, watching helplessly the world outside fade and crumble, only to then witness the same force mar the beauty within. He was being changed, he knew, even unconsciously, but he didn't know why or how. He had stopped his conjecturing shortly after the first injection poisoned his mind, reducing him to little more than a tool to be used for an evil purpose. Conjecture was met with horror, causing him to cower in fear in some far off corner of his mind. No more questions, no more questions, he repeated to himself. The dark purple-black liquid sped through his veins and ripped through his flesh and tissue like acid sent to devour him. Sometimes he felt his stomach open up without even the slightest argument, the cold air from the outside world smiting his senses while he writhed in pain to rid himself of it.
After a time, he began to weaken from the effort of fighting the invasion. Too many attempts were made at shooting the liquid into his body; too many incantations were performed commanding the liquid go here and there to work its physical tasks. His screams were snuffed out, silenced. His wounded skin healed, black scars replacing the crimson red stripes granting him the pleasure of another world of color and beauty. He could see himself from the outside, an out-of-body experience achieved only by sufferers pushed far beyond their limits.
But, what Sebon saw wasn't entirely repulsive to him. His skinny and malnourished frame was toned, sleek, and defined. His hair was different; oiled locks of the most beautiful onyx color shimmered in the soft firelight of the place. The black scars on his arms, chest, and the rest of his body gave it character, but he couldn't figure out why he enjoyed them so much more. They were different; he felt a new, dark vital energy pervading his being. The color of his blood was now a distant memory, a memory of another time and place amongst the Skraag slave mines.
I am a warrior, the hero I have always sought to be! He relished the first clear thought he had since the invasion had begun. The weak outer shell of his being fell away to reveal the machine within, wrought with the devices of war. His consciousness started to return to him, his mind's turmoil replaced with something resembling reality. He still hurt all over, terribly, but it was different. Now when he thought of it, it made him smile, not cower or whimper.
Such a transformation had never been attempted prior to Sebon's. Everywhere in Vaaluna, the black Wild Magic of Wrantha burned through lives, woven delicately by forces watching through the fragile, but impassible, threads of the Planes. Sebon wasn't the first of these subjects to the Darkness. Events had transpired and continued to evolve, and Sebon, however unwilling to accept the reality of what was happening to him, was added to the list of unwitting participants to the unseen master's hand.
When he woke, the room around him was quiet and still. Nothing moved within or without. Dim light was provided by a lone lamp sitting on a shelf at the far corner of the room. Sebon recognized his surroundings as an infirmary, but which of the hundreds dispersed throughout each section of the city he couldn't tell. One thing was for certain: he wasn't in any of those reserved for the Skraag. There was more elegance in this one: cleaner instruments, proper disposal facilities, and none of the familiar death stench. This place was the finest he'd ever been in. The bed was so soft and comfortable he nearly forgot about the dreams.
The dreams! He sat up abruptly, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and placed his feet on the cold floor. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Cold,” he said aloud. The floor was soothing, the memory of the stone ground he used to walk on instantly abolished.
After savoring the moment a bit longer, he opened his eyes and stood up. He felt strong, like a Weremount poised to strike. He knew what he wanted to see. The mirror wasn't far away.
At the same time, in the chamber of the spiked tower, Jjyn Cormulan met with his physicians.
"Lord Jjyn, we have great news."
"Spare me the gory and technical details,” he said coldly. “Just tell me...it was successful.” He wasn't expecting an alternative answer.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the lead physician answered proudly, “Yes, Lord Jjyn, it was successful. Sebon's body accepted the procedure."
Jjyn turned and walked slowly to the window. The physicians looked at each
other, unsure of what was to come.
"And does he harbor the same objections to the Elite he once did?” The Kelornian Dark Elf-Lord asked, searching. He folded his hands deep within his robes, never looking at his subjects.
The lead physician started to get nervous. “Well, Lord Jjyn, we have not tested that yet. He just awoke mere moments ago. But, my colleagues and I believe he has completely forgotten his life as a Skraag and harbors no hateful feelings toward the privileged among us."
"Then why did you answer untruthfully when I asked you if it was successful?” Jjyn pressed, toying with them. Deep inside he was overjoyed by Sebon's taking to the dark power within him so eagerly, but he couldn't let the physicians know. After all, Jjyn watched over Sebon every moment, traveling to him during his nightly meditations, helping the transformation along.
"M-m'lord Jjyn...I...I did not mean to lie...I...I thought you would be delighted t-to...hear our operation was...s-s-successful.” The physician nearly choked on his own tongue.
"Indeed,” Jjyn replied, turning to face them. His long, dark face was like a stone, emotionless. “Leave me now, and go to the boy. Tell me when he has had his first hot meal; then we shall see if you were successful or not."
The physicians filed out of the chamber fast, thankful to the moon god for saving them from a dive out of the window. Jjyn let out a sly chuckle when the door to his chamber had been sealed. He casually left the chamber hall and went to his private room.
Sebon looked over his oiled body in the mirror intently, shocked. He barely recognized himself. He traced a line from his forehead, down around his chiseled cheekbones, then felt the warmth of his lips, which used to be chapped and cracked from dryness. From there he ran his hands through the new locks of jet-black hair, which contrasted with the charcoal color of his skin. Then he noticed the scars, the sealed mementos of some past life, a life he couldn't remember anymore, yet knew was there. The scars made him look like a warrior prince, marked from battles with great beasts of legend. He smiled. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, strength swelling within them, ready to be unleashed. He smiled again.
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