I have a few personal projects as well as a ton of WoW/GW2 stuff. Hmm. I think I'll post my Warlock story here. He's from World of Warcraft!
The story deals with the culmination of events spanning months -- specifically an exercise designed to restore his tainted and tattered soul. Enjoy!
The story deals with the culmination of events spanning months -- specifically an exercise designed to restore his tainted and tattered soul. Enjoy!
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Grier's Gambit, Part 1The time had finally come. Years of intertwining events had convened to hinge on a single plan of action...and failed. The ritual remained unfinished; even the steps of it that had been completed were horribly flawed. The inception of his Fel Heart would not come to pass. The gamble had been a heavy one, he weighed his entire existence on the series of steps required to seal his immortality. Failure meant that his soul would not be able to sustain ties with the rest of his being. In his efforts he had spent much of it, and severely tainted what shreds remained. His final estimate had offered him days to live, to exist. That was days ago. There was no mistaking it.
Hexon Grier was dying.
Despite the looming prospect of an unsavory demise, the man remained healthy in his usual appearance. At an average height of six feet, two inches, he sported a body well honed from physical trials, swathed in rich, dark skin that seemed immune to blemish. Raven back length hair flowed behind him, usually tamed via means of a tied tail. He was often granted the compliment of possessing exotic handsomeness, attributed to a sultry pair of reflective grey eyes, full pink -- almost red -- lips, and a symmetrical, well-shaped jaw. Dressed in quiet, pragmatic black cloth, he did not at all look like a man on the verge of death.
The warlock remained composed, however, as he carefully traipsed down a treacherously slick winding of stone stairs into the deep dark. Hands gloved in dark cloth clutched the damp walls, seeking for whatever traction his fingers could find. The downward, spiraling tunnel that hosted the stairs was pitch black, leaving him to navigate as a blind man. A fall down would be most uncomfortable, inconvenient, and perhaps deadly. The Warlock dared not cast anything in his descent; instead he chose to save the last of his casting capacity for what was to come.
It amused him really, that despite how dire his situation was, he could not feel it. Naturally he was aware and quite able to detect the required energies that led him to formulate his estimates, but there was no slowing of his blood, no seizing of his heart. No fatigue. No emotional distress. No mental incapacity. It seemed to him that he would be snuffed out feeling as if he was in his prime. Fear occurred to him, but he chose to ignore it. There was no time for such a thing.
The descent reminded him strongly of the chain of events that led him to his current predicament. Specifically among them were the creation and destruction of The Fel Heart and the subsequently failed ritual; the Travels of the Seven Sins. The Fel Heart had proven to be a formidable and volatile exercise in creation, his own attempt at playing Titan. The monstrosity that resulted had not only endangered scores of people, but him as well. It thrived on its own cruelty, aiming to spread misery, death and suffering simply for the sake of it. Hexon's original intention had been to use the construct as a weapon, but the unthinkable had occurred. While seemingly programmed to follow Grier's ultimate instructions, the Fel Heart had developed its own will, based on the unforeseen results of Hexon having injected a sizeable portion of his own soul into its creation. The malevolent entity had concealed its independent sentience and outmaneuvered its creator, only to be struck down by a band of Argent Crusaders. While Hexon himself had emerged no worse off than before, the loss of such a potent and irreplaceable weapon had been a frustrating thing to endure.
The Warlock had not given up hope, however, and moved to change the plan. Instead of working to produce an individual of sentient obedience who he would imbue with the darkness of the Fel Heart, he sought to bind the Heart to his own body and soul. It involved a massive ritual that would literally span the world, designed to produce the energy patterns required for generation. Generation alone would not have been enough; the created Fel Heart needed a source of energy to sustain itself through the first few hours of existence before adapting to produce its own. To serve that purpose, Hexon had planned to use the wild, churning energies about the Maelstrom-- run them through runic conduits and feed the darkened power. Things did not get a chance to escalate to that point. Very early on, the ritual had failed. He had been unable to finish the primary steps.
At the end of his rope, a new adversary had arrived; a Sin'dorei warlock. The caster had proven to be extremely powerful, resourceful and confident...and therefore gullible. With very little effort he had managed to steer the warlock back toward the very ones who had sent him, the Argent Crusaders themselves. Now, with his two largest problems embattled against one another, he found the freedom to continue to the next step.
Contingency.
As if triggered by the prospect the complete darkness began to lift, making way for a slight indication of light further down the spiral tunnel that made bare, smoky outlines visible. Hexon proceeded with no less caution than before, taking his time on the treacherous incline despite his time constraints. Hastiness would only jeopardize his endeavor.
Always a believer in backup plans, Hexon had prepared well in the event of the ritual's failure. For the greater part of two hears he had scoured the world, appropriating souls he found favorable and storing them for later use. Ninety six of them eventually remained in his custody. At a considerable cost, he employed a technique demonstrated by his former student-- forming threads from his own soul. Instead of using them for probing as was his student’s wont, he harnessed them to stitch and bind the ninety six souls together and to him. The cost, of course was the extension and the sheer volume of his spirit it took to maintain such a thing. Having already spent so much of it, the additional exertion left him with the pathetic remnants that threatened to snuff out at any moment.
In the risk slept the gain. Those souls would now provide him with what he needed to survive. No Fel Heart would form within him, but wholeness...it was an excellent consolation prize. The process was a simple one; he had spent months preparing the formations, runes, circles and reagents for it. The ninety six souls were to be broken down into the energy needed to reconstruct his in entirety. Given the accuracy required that not even his calculations achieved, he expected the waste to be phenomenal. His estimates of the waste had arrived at a staggering result -- only one forty-eighth of each soul's energy would end up successfully converted. Coupled with an eighty percent chance of that being accurate...in the end he decided that ninety-six was an appropriate amount to cover the margin of error and waste. He made tentative arrangements to capture some of the diffusing energy via runic channeling circles designed to run in a loop until harnessed or broken. Those, however, were not important in the end, though it would be nice for them to work. What would happen to the corrupted remnants of his soul, he could not positively say. Perhaps diffusion into the new structure was its fate, or to remain as a sickly abscess latched on to the pristine.
The shape of the winding stairs became clearer as Hexon continued to slink his way down, and soon he could make out the muddy green of the moss covering the dank passage. It was close, prepared and waiting in its venue. Streaks of yellow torch light glistened upon the wet stone, and suddenly, the tunnel opened into the cavern. It was not vast, but spacious enough to hold items for lodging in times he needed to lay low. A small square room with a low ceiling housed a small yet comfortable looking bed and a shelf of books. A small arch opened into a greater chamber, the house of his preparations. A large, convoluted runic circle was painted onto the floor in dark red blood that never seemed to coagulate or dry. Several foci within the construction hosted reagents, ranging from crystals to an actual human arm. There was a space in the structure for him as well, toward the southern arc, equipped with palm-rests for both regular and emergency channeling. The middle of the circle hosted the most important reagent of all.
The human man at the center of the runic circle had only recently lost his mind to despair, reduced to a catatonic husk. Hexon thought himself fortunate to have run into him while attempting surveillance on the Scarlet Monastery. Ironically enough, the Warlock had intended to take one of the Scarlet soldiers for this very purpose. Instead, a very viable adventurer had landed right in his hands. Strong in both body and soul, he served as the perfect main reagent. The fellow sat, naked and blank-eyed, barely moving at all save for the steady rise and fall in his form that his breathing supplied. Hexon hadn't even bothered to restrain him; his loss to terror had been complete.
Time was of the essence, and despite his careful journey down, Hexon knew that he needed to begin soon. With practiced deftness, he shed his own dark attire, vest, trousers, mantle, boots and gloves. Rings, pendants and little trinkets went in a neat little pile atop the discarded black cloth. Laid bare, the warlock lifted his hands to free his hair of the tie that bound his dark hair in a tail. It spilled down his shoulders and back with the thickness of oil. He stepped into his receptacle within the magical structure, the smell of both blood and Fel reaching his nose. Adrenaline worked within him with astonishing suddenness, giving way to trembling anticipation. His senses heightened as a result; the feel of the cold stone beneath his feet, the yellow torchlight that gave the blood-painted magic circle an extra slickness, the smell of excitement in his own sweat, the taste of Fel on his tongue, and the sound of his own quivering breathing.
Slowly, he lowered himself into a cross-legged seated position and placed both his palms onto their painted spots. There would only be one chance, one cast for this. It was all his soul could manage before being lost to oblivion. He had calculated complete success given his provisions, yet he knew the universe was a cruel usurper of even the most meticulous plans. Taking a deep breath, Hexon Grier fluttered his silver-grey eyes shut and focused on channeling. He sensed the energy flow from him, taken by the blood and coursed to populate the circle. The world around him began fading as his essence struggled to maintain its hold on existence.
Whether obliteration or rebirth, the moment had come.
Hexon Grier was dying.
Despite the looming prospect of an unsavory demise, the man remained healthy in his usual appearance. At an average height of six feet, two inches, he sported a body well honed from physical trials, swathed in rich, dark skin that seemed immune to blemish. Raven back length hair flowed behind him, usually tamed via means of a tied tail. He was often granted the compliment of possessing exotic handsomeness, attributed to a sultry pair of reflective grey eyes, full pink -- almost red -- lips, and a symmetrical, well-shaped jaw. Dressed in quiet, pragmatic black cloth, he did not at all look like a man on the verge of death.
The warlock remained composed, however, as he carefully traipsed down a treacherously slick winding of stone stairs into the deep dark. Hands gloved in dark cloth clutched the damp walls, seeking for whatever traction his fingers could find. The downward, spiraling tunnel that hosted the stairs was pitch black, leaving him to navigate as a blind man. A fall down would be most uncomfortable, inconvenient, and perhaps deadly. The Warlock dared not cast anything in his descent; instead he chose to save the last of his casting capacity for what was to come.
It amused him really, that despite how dire his situation was, he could not feel it. Naturally he was aware and quite able to detect the required energies that led him to formulate his estimates, but there was no slowing of his blood, no seizing of his heart. No fatigue. No emotional distress. No mental incapacity. It seemed to him that he would be snuffed out feeling as if he was in his prime. Fear occurred to him, but he chose to ignore it. There was no time for such a thing.
The descent reminded him strongly of the chain of events that led him to his current predicament. Specifically among them were the creation and destruction of The Fel Heart and the subsequently failed ritual; the Travels of the Seven Sins. The Fel Heart had proven to be a formidable and volatile exercise in creation, his own attempt at playing Titan. The monstrosity that resulted had not only endangered scores of people, but him as well. It thrived on its own cruelty, aiming to spread misery, death and suffering simply for the sake of it. Hexon's original intention had been to use the construct as a weapon, but the unthinkable had occurred. While seemingly programmed to follow Grier's ultimate instructions, the Fel Heart had developed its own will, based on the unforeseen results of Hexon having injected a sizeable portion of his own soul into its creation. The malevolent entity had concealed its independent sentience and outmaneuvered its creator, only to be struck down by a band of Argent Crusaders. While Hexon himself had emerged no worse off than before, the loss of such a potent and irreplaceable weapon had been a frustrating thing to endure.
The Warlock had not given up hope, however, and moved to change the plan. Instead of working to produce an individual of sentient obedience who he would imbue with the darkness of the Fel Heart, he sought to bind the Heart to his own body and soul. It involved a massive ritual that would literally span the world, designed to produce the energy patterns required for generation. Generation alone would not have been enough; the created Fel Heart needed a source of energy to sustain itself through the first few hours of existence before adapting to produce its own. To serve that purpose, Hexon had planned to use the wild, churning energies about the Maelstrom-- run them through runic conduits and feed the darkened power. Things did not get a chance to escalate to that point. Very early on, the ritual had failed. He had been unable to finish the primary steps.
At the end of his rope, a new adversary had arrived; a Sin'dorei warlock. The caster had proven to be extremely powerful, resourceful and confident...and therefore gullible. With very little effort he had managed to steer the warlock back toward the very ones who had sent him, the Argent Crusaders themselves. Now, with his two largest problems embattled against one another, he found the freedom to continue to the next step.
Contingency.
As if triggered by the prospect the complete darkness began to lift, making way for a slight indication of light further down the spiral tunnel that made bare, smoky outlines visible. Hexon proceeded with no less caution than before, taking his time on the treacherous incline despite his time constraints. Hastiness would only jeopardize his endeavor.
Always a believer in backup plans, Hexon had prepared well in the event of the ritual's failure. For the greater part of two hears he had scoured the world, appropriating souls he found favorable and storing them for later use. Ninety six of them eventually remained in his custody. At a considerable cost, he employed a technique demonstrated by his former student-- forming threads from his own soul. Instead of using them for probing as was his student’s wont, he harnessed them to stitch and bind the ninety six souls together and to him. The cost, of course was the extension and the sheer volume of his spirit it took to maintain such a thing. Having already spent so much of it, the additional exertion left him with the pathetic remnants that threatened to snuff out at any moment.
In the risk slept the gain. Those souls would now provide him with what he needed to survive. No Fel Heart would form within him, but wholeness...it was an excellent consolation prize. The process was a simple one; he had spent months preparing the formations, runes, circles and reagents for it. The ninety six souls were to be broken down into the energy needed to reconstruct his in entirety. Given the accuracy required that not even his calculations achieved, he expected the waste to be phenomenal. His estimates of the waste had arrived at a staggering result -- only one forty-eighth of each soul's energy would end up successfully converted. Coupled with an eighty percent chance of that being accurate...in the end he decided that ninety-six was an appropriate amount to cover the margin of error and waste. He made tentative arrangements to capture some of the diffusing energy via runic channeling circles designed to run in a loop until harnessed or broken. Those, however, were not important in the end, though it would be nice for them to work. What would happen to the corrupted remnants of his soul, he could not positively say. Perhaps diffusion into the new structure was its fate, or to remain as a sickly abscess latched on to the pristine.
The shape of the winding stairs became clearer as Hexon continued to slink his way down, and soon he could make out the muddy green of the moss covering the dank passage. It was close, prepared and waiting in its venue. Streaks of yellow torch light glistened upon the wet stone, and suddenly, the tunnel opened into the cavern. It was not vast, but spacious enough to hold items for lodging in times he needed to lay low. A small square room with a low ceiling housed a small yet comfortable looking bed and a shelf of books. A small arch opened into a greater chamber, the house of his preparations. A large, convoluted runic circle was painted onto the floor in dark red blood that never seemed to coagulate or dry. Several foci within the construction hosted reagents, ranging from crystals to an actual human arm. There was a space in the structure for him as well, toward the southern arc, equipped with palm-rests for both regular and emergency channeling. The middle of the circle hosted the most important reagent of all.
The human man at the center of the runic circle had only recently lost his mind to despair, reduced to a catatonic husk. Hexon thought himself fortunate to have run into him while attempting surveillance on the Scarlet Monastery. Ironically enough, the Warlock had intended to take one of the Scarlet soldiers for this very purpose. Instead, a very viable adventurer had landed right in his hands. Strong in both body and soul, he served as the perfect main reagent. The fellow sat, naked and blank-eyed, barely moving at all save for the steady rise and fall in his form that his breathing supplied. Hexon hadn't even bothered to restrain him; his loss to terror had been complete.
Time was of the essence, and despite his careful journey down, Hexon knew that he needed to begin soon. With practiced deftness, he shed his own dark attire, vest, trousers, mantle, boots and gloves. Rings, pendants and little trinkets went in a neat little pile atop the discarded black cloth. Laid bare, the warlock lifted his hands to free his hair of the tie that bound his dark hair in a tail. It spilled down his shoulders and back with the thickness of oil. He stepped into his receptacle within the magical structure, the smell of both blood and Fel reaching his nose. Adrenaline worked within him with astonishing suddenness, giving way to trembling anticipation. His senses heightened as a result; the feel of the cold stone beneath his feet, the yellow torchlight that gave the blood-painted magic circle an extra slickness, the smell of excitement in his own sweat, the taste of Fel on his tongue, and the sound of his own quivering breathing.
Slowly, he lowered himself into a cross-legged seated position and placed both his palms onto their painted spots. There would only be one chance, one cast for this. It was all his soul could manage before being lost to oblivion. He had calculated complete success given his provisions, yet he knew the universe was a cruel usurper of even the most meticulous plans. Taking a deep breath, Hexon Grier fluttered his silver-grey eyes shut and focused on channeling. He sensed the energy flow from him, taken by the blood and coursed to populate the circle. The world around him began fading as his essence struggled to maintain its hold on existence.
Whether obliteration or rebirth, the moment had come.
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Grier's Gambit, Part 2As quickly as Hexon Grier’s surroundings blurred they snapped right back into focus, along with a shooting pain along his arms. The agony began on his palms, which were pressed slickly to the blood, and trailed a searing path up every last nerve on the limb. The muscles tightened and bunched even as his fingers clutched at the floor in an effort to maintain their hold. He kept his focus on the cast, waiting for that critical moment when the circle received enough of his energy to activate and work without his continued effort. An intermittent blur took to his vision and for one lurching moment he wondered if he no longer had enough. Yes, he assured himself, yes he did have enough. He had set himself a proper threshold to cater to this. With a careful squint, he peered across the circle to the main reagent. Along the pattern they were linked by a solid line flanked by symbols in cursed Eredun, each one marked in the same dark blood as the rest of the formation. The reagent’s receptacle had begun to change; the lines of blood crept and flowed toward him, converging in a predetermined pattern to make contact with his bare skin.
The second contact was made, the circle flared to life in hissing green flame, fuelled now by the very life force of the helpless man within it. Hexon breathed a sigh of expected relief; the baton had passed. What little was left of his own vitality now stood preserved, just enough for him to perform and witness the next stages of his spellcraft. Sluggishly he rose his palms off their holdings, both now dyed in the sticky, fresh-smelling liquid. With the index and middle fingers of his right hand, he smeared twin stains from his left deltoid down his chest and stomach, finally connecting the blood with the small ouroboros-shaped tattoo just below his navel. His skin was hot, and filmed with adrenaline-stinking sweat. For a moment he wondered if his own perspiration would undo the pattern he had just drawn. Upon observation, however, he saw that the blood was thick enough not to be rinsed away. Using his left hand he traced the symmetrical counterpart of the pattern before pressing the palm itself directly onto his breast. His quickened heartbeat induced a slow, almost lazy smile on a face tense with anticipation.
Hexon continued to monitor the circle, the main reagent in particular. He disallowed distraction, and so the very visible, green-splashed walls and ceiling of the cavern went entirely unnoticed. The doomed adventurer’s torso had been marked in identical fashion to the warlock’s the blood from the circle having crawled up his body like a sentient stain. Fel flames licked at him wildly, but left no burns. Hexon knew that the fellow’s soul was what they feasted on so enthusiastically. As the warlock observed, several reagents along the circle vanished in columns of roaring flame, activating a myriad of runic instructions and conduits within the greater structure.
The warlock barely had time to prepare himself; one moment he sat looking ahead; the next all he knew were screaming, raging patterns of energy, felt through a sense that transcended sight, hearing, taste, touch and smell. He remained self-aware – to his surprise, he had expected to be insensible during this portion – enough to recognize the distinct surge of energy that signalled the spending of yet another reagent. Suddenly, he could see again. As planned, his soul had been planted in a carefully constructed eye, very similar to the one he used to cast to perform remote surveillance. The vision granted to him bore a heavy tint of murky green, but through it he could witness the flows of energy that his naked eye could not hope to detect. He beheld his own form, drenched with sweat and marked with blood, finally slump to the side onto the space allocated to it. Also visible was the pull of vitality from the adventurer, flowing freely into the spellwork, slowly killing him. Hexon had no problem with this; it was the one part of the design that did not involve waste. The man would be consumed on every level imaginable.
The true spectacle floated lazily between Hexon’s body and the main reagent. Through the extracorporeal sight it appeared as a massive, rotating sphere of almost pure white; punctuated with stitched bindings composed of corrupted, slowly decaying threads woven from his own spirit all those months ago. The ninety six, bound together in one convenient package, ready to eat. The eye’s focus moved to the circle from which more consumed reagents triggered the emergence of several conduits, rising from the structure to make contact with the bountiful soul-harvest. Hexon wondered if the serpentine tendrils wreathed in green flames would be visible to the naked eye. They coiled about the sphere, latching on tightly and ready to take anything given. Relief fluttered through the warlock’s being as that bit of preparation executed without difficulty.
Sudden waves of despair and terror lashed at him in jarring blasts. Disoriented, Hexon remained puzzled for several seconds before realizing that the powerful emotion wasn’t coming from him. The eye swivelled to the adventurer, who now writhed within his appointed space, his mouth gaping and stretched in a scream that could not be heard. Hearing it would be much more merciful than feeling the peripheral anguish, Grier surmised. Yet, eagerness took him as he beheld the next stage of the design. The energies of the circle forced the adventurer to his feet – or rather, hoisted him like a banner, his arms open wide on either side of him and his instep dragging on the stone floor. The last thing Hexon witnessed from the man was a motion of his lips as fear bled from him. Not the most effective lip reader, the sequence of mouth motions was one familiar enough for him to decipher immediately. “Please,†The man cried to the cavern in his final moment, “Please, Light save me.â€
There was no Light in this place.
Soundlessly the doomed adventurer was instantly shredded into a fine red mist, the globules of which remained suspended in the air as if caught in a gnomish photograph. The runic circle greedily lapped up the remnants of his spirit and vitality, the flames roaring high as yet another reagent along the pattern was consumed. Hexon knew very well what the flames had just licked up; the item that contained in its blood the very blueprints of his own, magnificent form. Those blueprints fed the circle instructions on what to do with the raw flesh, blood and bone that now hung above the structure. Excitement pulsed from the warlock’s presence for a moment…then nervous dread. The moment of truth had finally arrived. He knew quite well that he was indeed a fading shred and any significant failure in what was about to happen would end him entirely.
The fel-soaked, torn scrap of a soul that was Hexon Grier gravitated toward its ordained spot above the burning circle, held fast by tendrils of energy. As much as he tried to hold it at bay, fear ravaged him. His fear of death and the absolute horror the prospect of nonexistence brought him tore through unmitigated, jarring his focus. Slowly, with as much relative effort as it took to move a man-sized boulder, the warlock calmed himself. The flesh, blood and bone were being tended to, and the ninety six were firmly coiled in their conduits. All he needed to do was release them. The threads that bound them, though apart from himself, still responded to his will. With the release, he hoped that the structure held.
Trepidation gripped him as he gave the command, surrendering himself to fate. The threads vanished. The flames roared as they struggled to contain the surge of spirits that whirled about like disturbed fish in a bowl, each one frantic with the sudden realization of freedom…false freedom. Hexon was vaguely aware of the body he left behind being incinerated – his last bridge back literally burned, used as the final reagent. Appropriate runes activated, and all at once, the ninety six living souls were reduced to nothing but raw energy, the personalities, memories, experiences and growth accumulated among them suddenly swept from existence. The act in itself was so vile that Hexon could feel the precious shred of his own soul flay even further into ruin. It made him uneasy, he could barely afford that at this point.
The concussion from the energy’s release was incredible. Given no time to react at all, the warlock’s crafted eye bore witness to the cavern filling with pure white. The energy obliterated the viewing construct then, and Hexon’s entire world was thrown into senseless darkness.
The second contact was made, the circle flared to life in hissing green flame, fuelled now by the very life force of the helpless man within it. Hexon breathed a sigh of expected relief; the baton had passed. What little was left of his own vitality now stood preserved, just enough for him to perform and witness the next stages of his spellcraft. Sluggishly he rose his palms off their holdings, both now dyed in the sticky, fresh-smelling liquid. With the index and middle fingers of his right hand, he smeared twin stains from his left deltoid down his chest and stomach, finally connecting the blood with the small ouroboros-shaped tattoo just below his navel. His skin was hot, and filmed with adrenaline-stinking sweat. For a moment he wondered if his own perspiration would undo the pattern he had just drawn. Upon observation, however, he saw that the blood was thick enough not to be rinsed away. Using his left hand he traced the symmetrical counterpart of the pattern before pressing the palm itself directly onto his breast. His quickened heartbeat induced a slow, almost lazy smile on a face tense with anticipation.
Hexon continued to monitor the circle, the main reagent in particular. He disallowed distraction, and so the very visible, green-splashed walls and ceiling of the cavern went entirely unnoticed. The doomed adventurer’s torso had been marked in identical fashion to the warlock’s the blood from the circle having crawled up his body like a sentient stain. Fel flames licked at him wildly, but left no burns. Hexon knew that the fellow’s soul was what they feasted on so enthusiastically. As the warlock observed, several reagents along the circle vanished in columns of roaring flame, activating a myriad of runic instructions and conduits within the greater structure.
The warlock barely had time to prepare himself; one moment he sat looking ahead; the next all he knew were screaming, raging patterns of energy, felt through a sense that transcended sight, hearing, taste, touch and smell. He remained self-aware – to his surprise, he had expected to be insensible during this portion – enough to recognize the distinct surge of energy that signalled the spending of yet another reagent. Suddenly, he could see again. As planned, his soul had been planted in a carefully constructed eye, very similar to the one he used to cast to perform remote surveillance. The vision granted to him bore a heavy tint of murky green, but through it he could witness the flows of energy that his naked eye could not hope to detect. He beheld his own form, drenched with sweat and marked with blood, finally slump to the side onto the space allocated to it. Also visible was the pull of vitality from the adventurer, flowing freely into the spellwork, slowly killing him. Hexon had no problem with this; it was the one part of the design that did not involve waste. The man would be consumed on every level imaginable.
The true spectacle floated lazily between Hexon’s body and the main reagent. Through the extracorporeal sight it appeared as a massive, rotating sphere of almost pure white; punctuated with stitched bindings composed of corrupted, slowly decaying threads woven from his own spirit all those months ago. The ninety six, bound together in one convenient package, ready to eat. The eye’s focus moved to the circle from which more consumed reagents triggered the emergence of several conduits, rising from the structure to make contact with the bountiful soul-harvest. Hexon wondered if the serpentine tendrils wreathed in green flames would be visible to the naked eye. They coiled about the sphere, latching on tightly and ready to take anything given. Relief fluttered through the warlock’s being as that bit of preparation executed without difficulty.
Sudden waves of despair and terror lashed at him in jarring blasts. Disoriented, Hexon remained puzzled for several seconds before realizing that the powerful emotion wasn’t coming from him. The eye swivelled to the adventurer, who now writhed within his appointed space, his mouth gaping and stretched in a scream that could not be heard. Hearing it would be much more merciful than feeling the peripheral anguish, Grier surmised. Yet, eagerness took him as he beheld the next stage of the design. The energies of the circle forced the adventurer to his feet – or rather, hoisted him like a banner, his arms open wide on either side of him and his instep dragging on the stone floor. The last thing Hexon witnessed from the man was a motion of his lips as fear bled from him. Not the most effective lip reader, the sequence of mouth motions was one familiar enough for him to decipher immediately. “Please,†The man cried to the cavern in his final moment, “Please, Light save me.â€
There was no Light in this place.
Soundlessly the doomed adventurer was instantly shredded into a fine red mist, the globules of which remained suspended in the air as if caught in a gnomish photograph. The runic circle greedily lapped up the remnants of his spirit and vitality, the flames roaring high as yet another reagent along the pattern was consumed. Hexon knew very well what the flames had just licked up; the item that contained in its blood the very blueprints of his own, magnificent form. Those blueprints fed the circle instructions on what to do with the raw flesh, blood and bone that now hung above the structure. Excitement pulsed from the warlock’s presence for a moment…then nervous dread. The moment of truth had finally arrived. He knew quite well that he was indeed a fading shred and any significant failure in what was about to happen would end him entirely.
The fel-soaked, torn scrap of a soul that was Hexon Grier gravitated toward its ordained spot above the burning circle, held fast by tendrils of energy. As much as he tried to hold it at bay, fear ravaged him. His fear of death and the absolute horror the prospect of nonexistence brought him tore through unmitigated, jarring his focus. Slowly, with as much relative effort as it took to move a man-sized boulder, the warlock calmed himself. The flesh, blood and bone were being tended to, and the ninety six were firmly coiled in their conduits. All he needed to do was release them. The threads that bound them, though apart from himself, still responded to his will. With the release, he hoped that the structure held.
Trepidation gripped him as he gave the command, surrendering himself to fate. The threads vanished. The flames roared as they struggled to contain the surge of spirits that whirled about like disturbed fish in a bowl, each one frantic with the sudden realization of freedom…false freedom. Hexon was vaguely aware of the body he left behind being incinerated – his last bridge back literally burned, used as the final reagent. Appropriate runes activated, and all at once, the ninety six living souls were reduced to nothing but raw energy, the personalities, memories, experiences and growth accumulated among them suddenly swept from existence. The act in itself was so vile that Hexon could feel the precious shred of his own soul flay even further into ruin. It made him uneasy, he could barely afford that at this point.
The concussion from the energy’s release was incredible. Given no time to react at all, the warlock’s crafted eye bore witness to the cavern filling with pure white. The energy obliterated the viewing construct then, and Hexon’s entire world was thrown into senseless darkness.
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Grier's Gambit, Part 3An opening had formed. Not enough to allow complete passage, oh no. In fact, this opening was far less accommodating than the ones the Entity had tried to get through on earlier occasions. The interest in this opening, this window, lay in what was just beyond it. Energy so intense, so plentiful, that it presented the illusion of being boundless...delicious, pure and raw. The waves of it bent space itself, weakening the threshold between places. The interested entity dared to move closer, settling near to observe. Pulses of energy leaked through, teasing it like drops of water on a thirsty man's tongue. Oh, what it would do to feast upon it all. The Entity was sparked with curiosity as it recognized the plane from which the tantalizing waves flowed. As far as it knew, bursts such as this one were not common upon that plane. Closer inspection ensued, and astonishment followed.
There were patterns, extremely familiar patterns within the bombarding explosions of white. With closer scrutiny, the Entity recognized the flow of a directed process, automated by instructions wrought in a stunning array of runes. Though much of the power was lost in flaring bombardment, a great deal of it was routed through several conduits, fueling a remarkable system designed to...
The Entity lurched. It couldn't be. It knew of very few on that realm capable of such atrocious intricacies. With care, it struggled for some sign of the familiar spirit, the decaying, Fel-tinted tatter that it knew to be none other than the creator. The search proved to be as difficult as finding a wet needle in a needle-stack, but it detected him soon enough...or what was left of him. The Entity was unable to tell if that smear of a soul was capable of holding together for more than a few moments within the maelstrom of energy that raged around it. Something that small, that unstable, could only be -- but wait, no...impossible! Something was happening to it. It was growing. The Entity reeled. It wasn't uncommon for a soul to be restored or healed, but that was a process that took time and a nauseating degree of altruism. Right as it witnessed, the fading stain of its creator's soul began stabilizing and filling. With another careful inspection of the system, it saw. The construction was made to harness energy and use it to rebuild a soul. Absolutely impossible! Yet, the entity could not deny what took place through the window it had been drawn to.
So much of that delicious bounty was being wasted. Yet, every last ounce of it that pulsed through the window was consumed immediately; the Entity was loath to let it escape its clutches. Each tasting brought with it a swelling of vitality and potential, and a sharp sense of recognition. This power was born of a soul. Many souls, judging by the sheer volume of it. The Entity was sure that less than one hundredth of the power slipped through the window, yet it was already drunk on it. It let out a cruel laugh, the sheer evil and desperation that the creator would have endured to do such a thing must have been mind-breaking. Of course, it noticed that a significant amount of the energy was being saved, oscillated into loops that ensured storage for later use. How far had that man thought things through?
For the first time, The Entity beheld the physical; the spectacle had been taking place in a cavern. Most of it appeared to have collapsed from the blasts, but what was left housed another astonishing find. It was a body, empty, lifeless, preserved by the very flows about it. It beheld a familiar. Raven hair, dark skin, a fit build. The Creator's vessel. A lusting hunger took the Entity completely. A vessel. All it ever wanted. An item with which he could roam that deliciously vulnerable plane and consume all he dared and pleased. How frustrating it was to be unable to travel through the meager window? Just one chance, and the Entity would usurp the vessel and leave the ever strengthening soul floating without a place to go.
Jealously then, it observed, with the languishing resentment of a starving man viewing a banquet...or rather, a greedy dog lapping at table scraps; it did feast on the trails of energy, after all. With the meal came entertainment, watching the reconstruction of the potent soul. The Entity observed the ruined tatters of his Creator's soul as it was literally copied, sans the cancerous corruption of Fel. Genius, it marveled. Pure genius. Once the copy was made, the tatters dissolved and fed the process, now guided by the newly aware form. He took stunning control, harnessing the stored energy within the looping arrays to augment both himself and his eventual vessel. He opened a clear path between soul and body before traversing it with what seemed like eager haste. Envy shook the Entity to its very core.
Suddenly, a surprising opportunity! The window widened with such force that the way forward was suddenly clear as a moonlit road. It so shocked the Entity that it stood unable to initially react. The question arose as soon as it collected itself. Why had the way opened? A moment of thought rendered clarity. It had to laugh; the Entity could not help but thank its foolish creator for his avaricious addiction to the magic of Fel. He had to connect himself in order to use the power, and in doing so had solidified the bridge between planes. The opportunity would not be passed by. In a rush, the construct of darkness made for the gap, with one goal in mind. The vessel would be his. Surely at this point the tethers between soul and body would still be weak enough to cut loose; surely it would be able to cast out that freshly made -- the prospect boggled it, a created soul, human and whole -- soul and commandeer the vessel with which his desires could be sated.
Exhilaration fueled the crossing as it emerged, a sinewy construct of sheer black, possessing long, multi-jointed arms and short, bandy legs. Its torso was long and lizard-like; shadow fell from it as cold air would from a hunk of frozen meat. The formless, crushed-looking head shook and spasmed, turning toward its prey. Seeing without sight. Tasting without tongue. Above the flaming circle it reared, towering such that it scraped the cavern ceiling to bring down even more of the ruined structure. The entity, The Fel Heart, would finally be reborn, and walk Azeroth once more in the most ironic of vessels:The creator. Hungry, excited and primed, it rushed to take over.
The moment it descended it realized its folly. Impossible. Impossible. OUTRAGEOUS. For how much had that blasted creature accounted? To what level had he planned for, to what end did he forsee? The Fel Heart acknowledged it's creator's genius, but for him to have done this...it was atrocious!
The energy that had been cleverly circulated to compensate for waste was consumed in an instant, offered up to fuel yet another pattern of instructions among the cursed runes. The Fel Heart felt itself seized, and held fast. Control of its form was taken from it, and with rapidity, tendrils of energy coiled it. A trap? Had the opening been a lure? Or had this just been precaution? This cannot be, it lamented in anguish, I cannot suffer such an inglorious end! Not to someone so inferior, weak and limited! Yet, as the circle began breaking the Entity down and feeding it to its Creator, it realized that all it was to him was a pet...a pet that he had no hesitation eating as meat. Loud rattled curses roared through the cavern in coarse Eredun until the moment the mangled head dissipated into dark matter, funneled through conduits and into its final resting place.
The flames died.
Lying on his back on the blood marked floor, surrounded by the rubble of several ceiling collapses, the human man twitched. His mouth gaped open and drew in a breath which fed his blood precious air before being expelled as a roaring sob of agony. He writhed, trashed and convulsed, even as a black stain inked its way across his body. A circular point in his middle back stretched six stripes, three on each side. One pair rose above his shoulders on either to settle on his upper breast, the second pair snaked under his armpits to stop just above the nipples, and the last wound around his lower flank to point toward his navel. As suddenly as it had begun the spreading stopped, leaving the groaning man with an impressive tattoo.
The moment the formation of the mark ended the painful cries changed in pitch, escalating from agony to mirth and psychotic exhilaration. The sound echoed off the ruined walls, heard by none, but perhaps fear-inspiring all the same.
Within the darkness of the depths, Hexon Grier opened his silvery-grey eyes, tossed his head back and laughed.
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[url=http://dawnbrotherhood.enjin.com/forum/page/2/m/4366667/viewthread/3876788-griers-gambit-wip#]
There were patterns, extremely familiar patterns within the bombarding explosions of white. With closer scrutiny, the Entity recognized the flow of a directed process, automated by instructions wrought in a stunning array of runes. Though much of the power was lost in flaring bombardment, a great deal of it was routed through several conduits, fueling a remarkable system designed to...
The Entity lurched. It couldn't be. It knew of very few on that realm capable of such atrocious intricacies. With care, it struggled for some sign of the familiar spirit, the decaying, Fel-tinted tatter that it knew to be none other than the creator. The search proved to be as difficult as finding a wet needle in a needle-stack, but it detected him soon enough...or what was left of him. The Entity was unable to tell if that smear of a soul was capable of holding together for more than a few moments within the maelstrom of energy that raged around it. Something that small, that unstable, could only be -- but wait, no...impossible! Something was happening to it. It was growing. The Entity reeled. It wasn't uncommon for a soul to be restored or healed, but that was a process that took time and a nauseating degree of altruism. Right as it witnessed, the fading stain of its creator's soul began stabilizing and filling. With another careful inspection of the system, it saw. The construction was made to harness energy and use it to rebuild a soul. Absolutely impossible! Yet, the entity could not deny what took place through the window it had been drawn to.
So much of that delicious bounty was being wasted. Yet, every last ounce of it that pulsed through the window was consumed immediately; the Entity was loath to let it escape its clutches. Each tasting brought with it a swelling of vitality and potential, and a sharp sense of recognition. This power was born of a soul. Many souls, judging by the sheer volume of it. The Entity was sure that less than one hundredth of the power slipped through the window, yet it was already drunk on it. It let out a cruel laugh, the sheer evil and desperation that the creator would have endured to do such a thing must have been mind-breaking. Of course, it noticed that a significant amount of the energy was being saved, oscillated into loops that ensured storage for later use. How far had that man thought things through?
For the first time, The Entity beheld the physical; the spectacle had been taking place in a cavern. Most of it appeared to have collapsed from the blasts, but what was left housed another astonishing find. It was a body, empty, lifeless, preserved by the very flows about it. It beheld a familiar. Raven hair, dark skin, a fit build. The Creator's vessel. A lusting hunger took the Entity completely. A vessel. All it ever wanted. An item with which he could roam that deliciously vulnerable plane and consume all he dared and pleased. How frustrating it was to be unable to travel through the meager window? Just one chance, and the Entity would usurp the vessel and leave the ever strengthening soul floating without a place to go.
Jealously then, it observed, with the languishing resentment of a starving man viewing a banquet...or rather, a greedy dog lapping at table scraps; it did feast on the trails of energy, after all. With the meal came entertainment, watching the reconstruction of the potent soul. The Entity observed the ruined tatters of his Creator's soul as it was literally copied, sans the cancerous corruption of Fel. Genius, it marveled. Pure genius. Once the copy was made, the tatters dissolved and fed the process, now guided by the newly aware form. He took stunning control, harnessing the stored energy within the looping arrays to augment both himself and his eventual vessel. He opened a clear path between soul and body before traversing it with what seemed like eager haste. Envy shook the Entity to its very core.
Suddenly, a surprising opportunity! The window widened with such force that the way forward was suddenly clear as a moonlit road. It so shocked the Entity that it stood unable to initially react. The question arose as soon as it collected itself. Why had the way opened? A moment of thought rendered clarity. It had to laugh; the Entity could not help but thank its foolish creator for his avaricious addiction to the magic of Fel. He had to connect himself in order to use the power, and in doing so had solidified the bridge between planes. The opportunity would not be passed by. In a rush, the construct of darkness made for the gap, with one goal in mind. The vessel would be his. Surely at this point the tethers between soul and body would still be weak enough to cut loose; surely it would be able to cast out that freshly made -- the prospect boggled it, a created soul, human and whole -- soul and commandeer the vessel with which his desires could be sated.
Exhilaration fueled the crossing as it emerged, a sinewy construct of sheer black, possessing long, multi-jointed arms and short, bandy legs. Its torso was long and lizard-like; shadow fell from it as cold air would from a hunk of frozen meat. The formless, crushed-looking head shook and spasmed, turning toward its prey. Seeing without sight. Tasting without tongue. Above the flaming circle it reared, towering such that it scraped the cavern ceiling to bring down even more of the ruined structure. The entity, The Fel Heart, would finally be reborn, and walk Azeroth once more in the most ironic of vessels:The creator. Hungry, excited and primed, it rushed to take over.
The moment it descended it realized its folly. Impossible. Impossible. OUTRAGEOUS. For how much had that blasted creature accounted? To what level had he planned for, to what end did he forsee? The Fel Heart acknowledged it's creator's genius, but for him to have done this...it was atrocious!
The energy that had been cleverly circulated to compensate for waste was consumed in an instant, offered up to fuel yet another pattern of instructions among the cursed runes. The Fel Heart felt itself seized, and held fast. Control of its form was taken from it, and with rapidity, tendrils of energy coiled it. A trap? Had the opening been a lure? Or had this just been precaution? This cannot be, it lamented in anguish, I cannot suffer such an inglorious end! Not to someone so inferior, weak and limited! Yet, as the circle began breaking the Entity down and feeding it to its Creator, it realized that all it was to him was a pet...a pet that he had no hesitation eating as meat. Loud rattled curses roared through the cavern in coarse Eredun until the moment the mangled head dissipated into dark matter, funneled through conduits and into its final resting place.
The flames died.
Lying on his back on the blood marked floor, surrounded by the rubble of several ceiling collapses, the human man twitched. His mouth gaped open and drew in a breath which fed his blood precious air before being expelled as a roaring sob of agony. He writhed, trashed and convulsed, even as a black stain inked its way across his body. A circular point in his middle back stretched six stripes, three on each side. One pair rose above his shoulders on either to settle on his upper breast, the second pair snaked under his armpits to stop just above the nipples, and the last wound around his lower flank to point toward his navel. As suddenly as it had begun the spreading stopped, leaving the groaning man with an impressive tattoo.
The moment the formation of the mark ended the painful cries changed in pitch, escalating from agony to mirth and psychotic exhilaration. The sound echoed off the ruined walls, heard by none, but perhaps fear-inspiring all the same.
Within the darkness of the depths, Hexon Grier opened his silvery-grey eyes, tossed his head back and laughed.
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[url=http://dawnbrotherhood.enjin.com/forum/page/2/m/4366667/viewthread/3876788-griers-gambit-wip#]
Show Content
Grier's Gambit, Part 4
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Grier's Gambit, Part 4Hexon Grier managed only a few barking peals of coarse laughter before pain visited him again in merciless waves, seizing his chest and abdomen in a vice of agony. Still sprawled on the floor on his back he lurched in an arch so severe that his hind left the warm stone while his shoulders and heels dug into it. In a reversal of the manner by which his cries had escalated to laughter they became shouts and sobs once more. His nerves sparked to life and brought with them an overwhelming barrage of sensory input. His organs began function; blood flowed through veins under sensitive skin. Nevertheless, he endured the uncomfortable activation of his body with savage pleasure.
His back hit the stone with a resounding thud, and he immediately rolled to the side, retching. A clutching gripe took his stomach on the heels of overwhelming nausea and he vomited. The congealed, red, fleshy discharge that spattered onto the floor did not alarm him; it was simply the unused material from the main reagent. The man, after all, had been a bit larger than him in stature, there was bound to be some left over. The instructions inscribed onto the runic circle had assigned the waste to the purposes of acting reagent. Any left over was to be deposited in his stomach for expulsion upon completion. Hexon spat a final, red wad into the crude puddle, grimacing at the fresh, metallic taste that flooded his mouth. Contrary to what people may have said about him, he had no interest in the taste of human flesh. Regretting the waste, the warlock swept his long, dark hair back to avoid dipping the ends in the bloody vomit.
Getting to his feet proved to be a fiasco that only patience mitigated. Laced with cramps shooting from never before used muscles, Hexon struggled, pushing himself up onto all fours with all the grace of a newborn calf. Twice he buckled and fell, lashed with searing pain from protesting limbs. The third time, however, he remained steady. His head hung low, as if he had prostrated himself before some unseen king, long black hair falling over his head to spill onto the ground like some sort of viscous tar. The markings on his back were still fresh, visible in the residual, seemingly sourceless green glow of the half-collapsed cavern. A stark black, fist-sized circle centered at the middle of his back trailed three pairs of equally ebony strap-like etchings around his torso, two at the shoulders, a pair under his arms, and the last set about his lower flank. The 'straps' were about only an inch thick, yet wrapped imposingly about his musculature, undulating as flesh rippled beneath dark skin. Hexon braced himself, pushing with both arms to rear up in a stiff, slumped kneel. Despite his difficulty, he could feel ease coming to his movements; it was only a matter of working through the initial kinks.
It was there with his knees on the stone, splayed apart at an awkward angle to support the rest of his slouched physique that thoughts and emotions hit the warlock with the force of an airship. It had worked. It had worked, and he was whole again. A great, heaving sob left him; shameless tears of relieved euphoria burned at the corners of his silver eyes before spilling freely down his cheeks. In a matter of seconds he was overcome, bawling like a child in the dark, grasping at his own torso as if to confirm that he was indeed solid. He was alive. He had managed to stretch himself to the very last vestiges of existence and come back as even more than he had ever been. Years of planning, research, trials and testing finally realized. His spine curled and he hunched, hugging himself as whimpering sobs shook his body. Pride had no place here. The raging maelstrom of emotion soon gave way to clarity of thought, as he remembered the last few moments of the circle's function.
Hexon frantically patted at his torso, running his fingers along the tattooed black straps. They were symmetrical and tapered off into sharp points at the edges. Two descended from over his shoulders, two emerged from underneath his arms to cradle the muscles of his chest, and the last pair swept down his flank like the hands of a lover to point toward his navel. The warlock's breath steadied and shuddered again with exhilarated excitement. Though he had prepared for the possibility, he hadn't at all expected to be so fortunate. The remnants of The Fel Heart had come for him, and in so doing had sealed its fate. The only evidence of its existence remained now in the black markings. Previously, the problem had been the construct's sentience, which led it to direct its staggering power as it pleased – mostly into chaos. For someone as structured as Grier, The Fel Heart turned out to be no good at all for a weapon. Thanks to his preparations, the weapon's sentience was no longer an issue. The weapon had become a part of him, just as his ears, nose or toes were. The downside, however, was that the process of breaking it down rendered it significantly less potent that it had been. Hexon would hardly be able to achieve what The Fel Heart could in terms of raw power. While designing the safeguard he had realized this, and so ordained the essence of his creation for another purpose.
Eager and near lost in the possibilities the integration of The Fel Heart afforded, Grier found himself staggering to his feet, wiping tears from his cheeks with shaking arms. He wanted to test the system he had made for himself as soon as possible. It irritated him that so much had to be done first. He could not, as much as he wanted to, traipse up out of the deep in nothing but his ink and begin. Not just yet. He stood, tall and bare, surveying the chamber. Great chunks of the ceiling had crumbled down onto the exhausted, blackened blood that composed the runic circle, warded away from him and his reagents by protections set within the structure itself. They glowed with residual entropic incandescence, lighting the rest of the cavern in a dim but sufficient green. All the reagents had been consumed, the only remnants being the sanguine regurgitation that formed a spattered pattern on the floor. The enormous energy was no more, harnessed, used, wasted. Hexon considered giving all those who footed the bill of his existence a tribute of thanks, but refrained. He owed them nothing. It was his own genius that had brought him to this point; they had all been wasting their lives with fruitless, ultimately pointless purposes. Even with the waste, he had put them to better use.
Thankfully, the small living quarters were mostly unmolested. While there had been no collapse there, the bookshelf had fallen forward in an avalanche of bound tomes and the cot was tipped in its side. The looming darkness of the passage upward stood beyond. The clothing he had shed before the ritual had been incinerated along with the rings and trinkets he possessed. They no longer mattered, at least, not in the long run. The stone was still warm under his feet as he padded to the cot, righting it and gathering the blanket into his hands. It would have to serve as ample covering until he managed to acquire more. He wouldn't need it just yet, however. As long as he roamed down in his sanctum he would remain in the raw and appreciate his own majestic form, ever grateful for his success in rendering it into possibility. Enjoying the minimal exertion, he righted the fallen shelf, replacing the books upon it with careful reverence. Though these books served no purpose other than sidelong distraction, Hexon Grier had boundless appreciation for the written word. Extinguished torches lined the quarters, one on each wall, having been snuffed out during the release of the ninety-six. Hexon dedicated his first cast in the new form to them, raising a pair of fingers and a simple, murmured incantation to invoke flame. The magic came easily to him, as usual. Very smooth, fast and potent. There was no Fel in these casts; he just wanted fire.
The torches provided a glazed, orange glow that revealed quite more than the entropic diffusion had. Even after fresh rebirth, Hexon found himself in less than pristine condition. Dirt from the floor clung to his skin and his shoulder was bruised from his clumsy fall earlier; a small price to pay for what had happened. The more he reflected, the higher his mood elevated. Everything had gone swimmingly; the only complication had been catered for in a manner that actually benefited him. The possibilities were astounding. As long as others paid the cost for energy, he could push himself to his limits and come back every single time. All at the cost of ninety six souls…not a bad deal at all, in his mind.
Brimming with drive, the warlock tucked the blanket under his arm and moved toward the stairway up. That, at least had not changed, just as dark and damp as it had been during his descent. This time, he reached over to grab a torch, guaranteeing himself the guide of light. He knew that the glow of the torch-lit quarters would not last past more than a couple turns of the spiraling passage. With ever declining patience, he began the careful trip up. It wouldn't do for him to hurry, slip and break his neck after being reborn. Hexon refused to allow himself the possibility of such a stupid finish, and so he took his time. There was much testing to be done, and the slick, orange lit walls of the passageway up provided an excellent backdrop for thought. The test would determine how he proceeded, and could go one of two ways.
One result would see him return to some sort of hiding to live his days and bide time until he could find a way to engineer things toward the other result. That other result would see him unleashed in a rain of vengeful fury upon all those who crossed him. As he ascended, possibilities of test subjects flit across his mind, arranged in priority of entertainment value. It took him less than twenty steps to decide.
A languid grin spread across his face, and his red-tinted tongue swept out to lick at his lips and teeth. The thought of his plan alone sprang water within his mouth. Ninety eight souls had perished tonight in his name. What better than to make it an even hundred?
His back hit the stone with a resounding thud, and he immediately rolled to the side, retching. A clutching gripe took his stomach on the heels of overwhelming nausea and he vomited. The congealed, red, fleshy discharge that spattered onto the floor did not alarm him; it was simply the unused material from the main reagent. The man, after all, had been a bit larger than him in stature, there was bound to be some left over. The instructions inscribed onto the runic circle had assigned the waste to the purposes of acting reagent. Any left over was to be deposited in his stomach for expulsion upon completion. Hexon spat a final, red wad into the crude puddle, grimacing at the fresh, metallic taste that flooded his mouth. Contrary to what people may have said about him, he had no interest in the taste of human flesh. Regretting the waste, the warlock swept his long, dark hair back to avoid dipping the ends in the bloody vomit.
Getting to his feet proved to be a fiasco that only patience mitigated. Laced with cramps shooting from never before used muscles, Hexon struggled, pushing himself up onto all fours with all the grace of a newborn calf. Twice he buckled and fell, lashed with searing pain from protesting limbs. The third time, however, he remained steady. His head hung low, as if he had prostrated himself before some unseen king, long black hair falling over his head to spill onto the ground like some sort of viscous tar. The markings on his back were still fresh, visible in the residual, seemingly sourceless green glow of the half-collapsed cavern. A stark black, fist-sized circle centered at the middle of his back trailed three pairs of equally ebony strap-like etchings around his torso, two at the shoulders, a pair under his arms, and the last set about his lower flank. The 'straps' were about only an inch thick, yet wrapped imposingly about his musculature, undulating as flesh rippled beneath dark skin. Hexon braced himself, pushing with both arms to rear up in a stiff, slumped kneel. Despite his difficulty, he could feel ease coming to his movements; it was only a matter of working through the initial kinks.
It was there with his knees on the stone, splayed apart at an awkward angle to support the rest of his slouched physique that thoughts and emotions hit the warlock with the force of an airship. It had worked. It had worked, and he was whole again. A great, heaving sob left him; shameless tears of relieved euphoria burned at the corners of his silver eyes before spilling freely down his cheeks. In a matter of seconds he was overcome, bawling like a child in the dark, grasping at his own torso as if to confirm that he was indeed solid. He was alive. He had managed to stretch himself to the very last vestiges of existence and come back as even more than he had ever been. Years of planning, research, trials and testing finally realized. His spine curled and he hunched, hugging himself as whimpering sobs shook his body. Pride had no place here. The raging maelstrom of emotion soon gave way to clarity of thought, as he remembered the last few moments of the circle's function.
Hexon frantically patted at his torso, running his fingers along the tattooed black straps. They were symmetrical and tapered off into sharp points at the edges. Two descended from over his shoulders, two emerged from underneath his arms to cradle the muscles of his chest, and the last pair swept down his flank like the hands of a lover to point toward his navel. The warlock's breath steadied and shuddered again with exhilarated excitement. Though he had prepared for the possibility, he hadn't at all expected to be so fortunate. The remnants of The Fel Heart had come for him, and in so doing had sealed its fate. The only evidence of its existence remained now in the black markings. Previously, the problem had been the construct's sentience, which led it to direct its staggering power as it pleased – mostly into chaos. For someone as structured as Grier, The Fel Heart turned out to be no good at all for a weapon. Thanks to his preparations, the weapon's sentience was no longer an issue. The weapon had become a part of him, just as his ears, nose or toes were. The downside, however, was that the process of breaking it down rendered it significantly less potent that it had been. Hexon would hardly be able to achieve what The Fel Heart could in terms of raw power. While designing the safeguard he had realized this, and so ordained the essence of his creation for another purpose.
Eager and near lost in the possibilities the integration of The Fel Heart afforded, Grier found himself staggering to his feet, wiping tears from his cheeks with shaking arms. He wanted to test the system he had made for himself as soon as possible. It irritated him that so much had to be done first. He could not, as much as he wanted to, traipse up out of the deep in nothing but his ink and begin. Not just yet. He stood, tall and bare, surveying the chamber. Great chunks of the ceiling had crumbled down onto the exhausted, blackened blood that composed the runic circle, warded away from him and his reagents by protections set within the structure itself. They glowed with residual entropic incandescence, lighting the rest of the cavern in a dim but sufficient green. All the reagents had been consumed, the only remnants being the sanguine regurgitation that formed a spattered pattern on the floor. The enormous energy was no more, harnessed, used, wasted. Hexon considered giving all those who footed the bill of his existence a tribute of thanks, but refrained. He owed them nothing. It was his own genius that had brought him to this point; they had all been wasting their lives with fruitless, ultimately pointless purposes. Even with the waste, he had put them to better use.
Thankfully, the small living quarters were mostly unmolested. While there had been no collapse there, the bookshelf had fallen forward in an avalanche of bound tomes and the cot was tipped in its side. The looming darkness of the passage upward stood beyond. The clothing he had shed before the ritual had been incinerated along with the rings and trinkets he possessed. They no longer mattered, at least, not in the long run. The stone was still warm under his feet as he padded to the cot, righting it and gathering the blanket into his hands. It would have to serve as ample covering until he managed to acquire more. He wouldn't need it just yet, however. As long as he roamed down in his sanctum he would remain in the raw and appreciate his own majestic form, ever grateful for his success in rendering it into possibility. Enjoying the minimal exertion, he righted the fallen shelf, replacing the books upon it with careful reverence. Though these books served no purpose other than sidelong distraction, Hexon Grier had boundless appreciation for the written word. Extinguished torches lined the quarters, one on each wall, having been snuffed out during the release of the ninety-six. Hexon dedicated his first cast in the new form to them, raising a pair of fingers and a simple, murmured incantation to invoke flame. The magic came easily to him, as usual. Very smooth, fast and potent. There was no Fel in these casts; he just wanted fire.
The torches provided a glazed, orange glow that revealed quite more than the entropic diffusion had. Even after fresh rebirth, Hexon found himself in less than pristine condition. Dirt from the floor clung to his skin and his shoulder was bruised from his clumsy fall earlier; a small price to pay for what had happened. The more he reflected, the higher his mood elevated. Everything had gone swimmingly; the only complication had been catered for in a manner that actually benefited him. The possibilities were astounding. As long as others paid the cost for energy, he could push himself to his limits and come back every single time. All at the cost of ninety six souls…not a bad deal at all, in his mind.
Brimming with drive, the warlock tucked the blanket under his arm and moved toward the stairway up. That, at least had not changed, just as dark and damp as it had been during his descent. This time, he reached over to grab a torch, guaranteeing himself the guide of light. He knew that the glow of the torch-lit quarters would not last past more than a couple turns of the spiraling passage. With ever declining patience, he began the careful trip up. It wouldn't do for him to hurry, slip and break his neck after being reborn. Hexon refused to allow himself the possibility of such a stupid finish, and so he took his time. There was much testing to be done, and the slick, orange lit walls of the passageway up provided an excellent backdrop for thought. The test would determine how he proceeded, and could go one of two ways.
One result would see him return to some sort of hiding to live his days and bide time until he could find a way to engineer things toward the other result. That other result would see him unleashed in a rain of vengeful fury upon all those who crossed him. As he ascended, possibilities of test subjects flit across his mind, arranged in priority of entertainment value. It took him less than twenty steps to decide.
A languid grin spread across his face, and his red-tinted tongue swept out to lick at his lips and teeth. The thought of his plan alone sprang water within his mouth. Ninety eight souls had perished tonight in his name. What better than to make it an even hundred?
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