He shouted, and spittle flew from his mouth and landed on the side of the General’s face. The action had been unintentional, but the seneschal watched in horror as the General slowly raised her hand and wiped the moisture from her face. She raised her hand in front of her face. She silently studied the man’s spit on the fingertips of her gloves.
“It’s a shame,” she said quietly. Her tone sounded thoughtful but there was an undercurrent of madness that the seneschal could sense. She lowered her hand to her side and cocked her head. She stared at the Vallyr in front of her, and her gaze resembled something a stablemaster might wear when appraising a horse.
“It’s a shame that you’re not pretty,” she said sadly.
She didn’t move as the two soul-forged creatures groaned and gripped the seneschal between them.
“Wait, General, I apologize for causing offense! I request the mercy of becoming a soulbound servant!”
The General looked into the man’s eyes, suddenly interested.
“You would change your name to dar Bludtyr?” She asked him lightly.
“Yes, mistress, I would!” the sound of the man calling her mistress excited her, and she considered his proposal.
“What family do you hail from?” She asked him, her voice hissing like a serpent.
“I am a minor member of the dal Deene family, mistress. I was sent to Crosstyr to learn from Idor.” The man was stumbling over his words. He knew that his life depended on how valuable he would be as a soulbound servant. The taking of a soulbound servant had to be willingly entered into by other Vallyr parties. It was a great shame for the family that became bound. Not only would the seneschal become a Bludtyr servant, but any of his progeny would as well. Many chose not to have any children to keep from compounding their shame.
General Bludtyr chuckled. “I don’t need anything from your line. We’re at war, boy, haven’t you heard?” She crooned.
“All I need are more soldiers for my army like these two strapping men here.” The General gestured to the flayed men that held the Vallyr. She winked at the man as the flesh on his face paled at the implication. She drew the dagger from her side without another word, and with a practiced nimble flick of her wrist, the blade tore a jagged line down the front of the man’s chest. For the most part, it was only his clothes that were cut away. The two flayed men pulled on the rags until the man’s clothing on his torso had been torn apart. With another movement, the General did the same for the man’s trousers. She even cut away his boots.
I’ll make you leave bloody footprints throughout this keep. She thought to herself happily. The Vallyr didn’t resist as the soul-forged abominations removed the rest of the man’s clothing. He shivered in the middle of the keep, naked, afraid, and cold. His only hope was that the General would grow bored of her play and leave him alive. Otherwise, there wasn’t a soul in the keep that could keep her from her this game.
“I think I’m going to try my hand at art,” she chirped. “You really aren’t pretty, but maybe we can fix that.”
She made another gesture with her hands, and the flayed men gripped either arm of the seneschal and held him still. It wasn’t necessary—he hadn’t tried to escape—but Bludtyr wanted to make sure she wouldn’t miss her next action.
She drew closer to the seneschal and ran the tip of her blade down his jawline and down his throat. She rested the knife in the space between collarbone and throat, and the man had tears of blood began dripping down from his eyes.
“Oh,” the General said softly. “Please don’t cry, this will be all over soon.” She gave him a smile that was meant to be supportive. Instead, the tears began to fall more steadily.
She brought the knife even lower and drug it down the seneschal’s chest. This time the blade bit through and the man whimpered as his flesh parted around the razor-sharp edge. Once the blade passed over the center of the man’s sternum. She paused there and dug the knife even deeper until it completely touched the bone. The man didn’t scream, but he did try and jerk away. However, the flayed men held him almost perfectly still.
“Shh,” she warned him. “This is going to be over soon, I promise.” She spoke as if she were soothing a frightened steed.
She held the blade in position with one hand while her other lit up with violet energy. Abruptly, she pounded her fist into the pommel of the dagger, and it plunged through the bone of the man’s sternum with ease. He finally screamed, and the sound echoed down the halls. It was a guttural, instinctive, and an animalistic wail of torment. At his scream, she could hear the sound of boots cracking against the flagstone as the guards in the keep raced toward the disturbance.
Let them come, she grinned. We can all play!
The purple mana that originated from her fist flowed down the length of the blade-like water before splashing into the wound that she had made. It pooled there before spreading over the entirety of the sternum and then coalescing to the heart. The General waited patiently for the magic to run its course, and she pulled her blade from the man’s chest just as the first sentries were closing in on her position. The skidded to a halt as violet light spread from the seneschal and suffused the hallway. The General merely took a step back and waited for the show to begin. This was her specialty and the reason she was feared within the Collective. Her powers alone were enough to put down any insurrection, and these idiots who invited her displeasure would soon see why.
As the assembled Vallyrians watch, the light that was spreading from the seneschal’s chest cut off as if it had never been there in the first place. The seneschal was very much alive as he looked around with wide eyes at his assembled compatriots.
“Oh no,” he said with tears of blood running freely down his face.
The assembled men and women heard a hollow cracking sound before the seneschal’s chest exploded outward with a wave of gore and bone. His ribs had gone into their natural position with no sternum to hold them tight. The spreading caused his torso to open up outward and reveal his organs on displays. It was clear that the seneschal had died instantly, but what remained of his corpse yet stood in the center of the hallway as its eyes transitioned from the eyes of a Vallyr to the purple fire that mirrored the soul-forged flayed walkers.
The Vallyr, used to casual displays of violence and debauchery that would silence any other race, stood transfixed. Such barbarity was hardly rare onto the lesser races, but it was a real rarity amongst their limited number such that some had never even seen a Vallyr perish before in their decades of life. It wasn’t the blood or the gore that held their feet to the ground or their blades in the scabbard, such sights were ingrained into their race and faith from birth. No, it wasn’t the gore, not even the death of one of their kind would shake their hearts in any real way, it was the shining purple gem that took residence in the seneschal’s body where his heart had previously been that terrified the faithful followers of Nocturnus. The gem glowed with malicious light, and, as it glowed, every person in the vicinity couldn’t help but be enchanted by its light.
General began laughing loudly as tears of blood started running down the faces of the warriors who had been supposed to attack her. Soon, one after the other made popping sounds of their own as their chests exploded from her magic run rampant. Their own chests contained purple gems, one for every beautiful corpse, and their dead eyes gazed at the General for future instruction.
“Bring me the high lord,” General Bludtyr said while clapping her hands. “I don’t feel like having to find him.”
As the soul-forged constructs walked away, their flesh sloughed off like sparks off of a campfire. Soon, they were all flayed men, and Bludtyr became frustrated. She still had not been satisfied. There wasn’t a pretty person among the massed opponents.
I do hope this high lord is pretty. She sighed.
CHAPTER 01: THE IMPERIAL AMBASSADOR
THE THRONE ROOM was completely silent as Slate assessed the Guardian’s declaration. Honestly, he had never imagined that the Ignatu
m Empire would send a representative to Bastion so soon because, frankly, they hadn’t won any significant victories against the Collective. The thought made him suspicious of their intentions. It wouldn’t take much to understand that an Empire of all things sought to pounce upon the Collective the moment they were distracted by the Scourge within their borders. It’s what he would have done if he were the Emperor.
All this sudden appearance of an ambassador told Slate was that even before the Collective had fallen, he would have to contend with a power grand enough to claim such a title as Empire. In a world of magic and gods, that title meant something.
Slate’s demeanor remained entirely unchanged, leaning to one side, his face resting upon a lightly clenched fist. Despite appearances, he made his annoyance clear to his closest advisors through the Scourgemind; We haven’t even defeated the Collective and more adversaries we’ll need to overcome already plague us. Although he trusted Fidem about as far as he could throw—wait, he thought as the familiar expression passed his mind—I can throw people relatively far now. I’ll need to come up with another phrase.
His mind pondered as his court silently conversed amongst themselves through the Scourgemind, the lack of natural noise in the hall would be suffocating to any who were not of their kind. Eventually, Slate’s unique sense of humor settled upon: Although, he trusted Fidem about as much as a Vallyr prostitute… Regardless of his natural cynicism of Lucidus, and even greater distrust her loyalists, Fidem was still the First of the Enticers to this supposed Goddess and a direct line into the mind of the Lord of Cleansing Light.
Despite Slate’s qualms about Lucidus and her powers falling far, far short of his expectations of an omniscient liege, he had still resolved himself to make more of an effort to comply with her demands. Since power came with genuine belief, he had, in recent days, decided to alleviate some of his own skepticism with rational conclusions where his materialistic mind refused to yield. After some challenges, Slate finally found that he could lower his defenses in respect of a power higher than what he presently had and supposed that would have to be a start. If Lucidus was someone worth giving the chance to earn his loyalty, she would be pleased and not scorned by the sentiment. She had chosen him above all others after all.
Slate’s meditations only lasted a moment, and his gaze renewed itself to look about the throne room and gauge the reactions of his Scourge. By their expressions alone, he could see that they were mulling over his question. He had noticed that, of late, he needed less and less actual conversation to know what his Scourge were thinking. He wasn’t sure whether he was becoming more familiar with their body language, or his connection to them was manifesting in a greater understanding of them. Regardless, to his surprise, Serena was first to respond to his question by winking at him behind his back. He didn’t see the gesture, but he could feel it.
Surely, the Progenitor of the Scourge, Scion of Lucidus, Wielder of Light and Flame, isn’t afraid of a big, bad Empire. Her tone was light and mocking, and Slate couldn’t help but laugh in response.
I think maybe you’re overestimating my abilities, Serena. Unfortunately, the Lord of Light hasn’t seen fit to give me enough power to defeat both the Collective and an Empire in the present state. Slate’s tone sounded weary. None of his advisors appreciated when he was maudlin like this. His confidence, or lack of it, would trickle down to the rest of the Scourge if he weren’t careful. The Scourgemind cut both ways.
For some reason, I don’t think that’s true, Serena scolded, as she walked up from her regular position behind the throne, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. She leaned in carefully and whispered into his ear. “The Scourge stand behind you. We’re ready to do your will.” Her warm breath on the back of his neck made his mind turn to things other than politics. Her use of the double entendre guaranteed it.
Shale felt the change through the Scourgemind and met Serena’s eyes. She gave the other woman a small nod in approval. Sometimes her King needed to be reminded of other things besides his problems, and it was their job to ensure that was done correctly.
Shale commented on the issue as Serena turned to her former position. We’ll deal with the ambassador, and then the Collective, and then the Empire. All will be led to the Light; it is only a matter of time and planning. Her eyes were sharp and full of religious fervor. The instinctive beast that resided within the Scourge glimmered just beneath the surface, and Slate could feel her bloodlust simmering.
Practical, Slate mused to himself. He enjoyed Shale’s simple mentality. It helped focus him on what was important. Worrying about a nation before he had even heard from their ambassador was foolish. There were two types of events in life; those that one could control and those that one could not. He would work out a plan for the former and leave the latter to the fates to decide. In either situation, it wasn’t worth being anxious over. It was simple and to the point philosophy without any care for subtle nuances.
He had almost forgotten for a moment that these events, the war against the Collective and diplomacy with the Empire, were just steps upon a particular path that needed to be done. Their victory was inevitable. He needed to believe that. He couldn’t let the influence from continually bathing in the primal instincts of the Scourge weaken his political confidence and aptitude for taking risks. Along with his instincts and base emotions, his fear of risks and consequences had, unbeknownst to him, returned as well.
The moment Selena’s statement made Slate aware of this, his heart grew ever colder as the unwavering will of a conqueror encased the chill of fear. There would be no point in continuing if he were afraid of taking risks; victory was certain only if his confidence didn’t waver for even a moment. After all, it wasn’t just his own heart he had to shield from the weakness of despair; it was all those who were connected to him. The Scourgemind didn’t make distinctions between which emotions were transmitted to his followers.
He allowed his countenance to grow grave and his resolution to flow passively through the connection they all shared. A leader’s will was just as crucial as any tactical genius. The Scourge needed to know that their Scion would o the distance to accomplish victory. As he glanced around amongst the faces of his Firsts amongst equals, he saw nothing but nods and affirming looks.
Slate was a master at reforging broken men into useful tools. In that way, he became the cord that held all others together. Many of the newly reborn Scourge came to his armory as broken tools or lost weapons, and it would be Slate who sought them out individually, to sharpen, polish, or even reforge their lives entirely. With his stewardship, each member of the Scourge became a weapon that not only felt they were needed but also felt the flames of purpose and faith in their hearts. The fire of passion burned the hottest, and Slate was a master of such artistry. That is why they believed their master upon this world was chosen. Their Lord, Lucidus, had found a champion who had never been human, not really. He may have worn the body of one, but it had never been more than a carefully maintained disguise for the predator underneath. Slate, Scion of Lucidus, felt as if he had spent his whole life watching life pass by as if halfway to omniscience himself.
Perhaps reality was different, but neither Lucidus nor Slate would correct their respect and worship. Slate was Lucidus’ champion upon the world of Somnium, and it was never more accurate to say that he was born for the role he now filled. Jonathan Slate observed humanity but was never truly a part of it. He watched on, learned their ways, and controlled himself like the unseen passenger in a vehicle whose destination was the fulfillment of his every desire. He said whatever he needed to say, felt however he needed to feel, and lived the way he needed to live to convince those around him of his humanity. The emptiness within his heart paid the act no mind. Most predators used camouflage for hunting their prey, and he was no different.
Lucidus had merely gifted him a body that reflected his soul. The perfect tool for the ideal plan, Chaos and Order, Instinct and Strategy. If the Lord of Light wished to rec
laim this world, she required such a device, and if her Scion wanted to remain alive, he needed his newfound Lord. Regardless, if two likes could ever truly attract, the die was cast the moment Slate arrived upon Somnium, and the new age of the Immortal War had begun.
Very well, Shale We shall deal with this ambassador, then. Slate’s deep and powerful voice echoed through the Scourgemind. It was intense, vast, and oppressive. The sound of it alone brought an equal measure of awe and comfort to the gathered Scourge. In this new world of monsters and warring gods, the strength and steady aura that Slate brought to the Scourge was comforting. To his followers, it was akin to an army at your back, a natural bedrock that formed the foundation for all Scourge.
Matek raised a hand at his Scion’s command to the bead that contained his connection to Bastion, the avatar of the city. He whispered into it, issuing orders that Bastion would then relay to the Guardians throughout the palace. Slate had heard of this new invention and had been impressed with its ingenuity. The Scourgemind had been useful for speaking to fellow members of the Scourge, but it did little if he wanted to communicate unobtrusively with Guardians or Faithful. The small device provided the capability to communicate over long distances, and Slate had spent several hours contemplating how extensively he could, or should, spread this tool. The benefits of near-instant communication throughout the castle, and settlement within, held many benefits. The only downside was that every person had to speak to Bastion.
No matter how great an effort one put into suppressing their urges, anyone who encountered Bastion, aside from Matek, displayed an outright adverse reaction to the avatar be it his voice or appearance. It was a phenomenon that still baffled Slate as even he was outright disgusted by the avatar’s form despite his absolute indifference to its wretched appearance. The city management system, on the other hand, had grown downright cheerful as of late; if you could call a slightly raised tone and the occasional smile cheerful. Granted, that didn’t necessarily mean he had become any less abrasive, sarcastic, and generally unpleasant to deal with. No, perhaps it just meant the avatar was pleased to have more targets to annoy.
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