Difference between revisions of "By The Pricking Of My Thumbs..."

Latest revision as of 01:24, 24 April 2013

It is deep into the night under the new moon, the perpetual clouds blocking most of the stars from view, casting the land of Palamecia and the castle of its Emperor into deep darkness. The villagers and soldiers are deep asleep, unaware of their lord and master sitting upon his throne in the indeterminable time between late night and early morning.

Only shadows remain at his beck and call, and flickers of gold scatter throughout the grand hall as the darkness writhes. But it never encroaches beyond its borders, never tests the limits of its boundaries. It is held, it is controlled, but it is left free unto itself.

Emperor Mateus reclines over his throne, one leg lazily hooked over an armrest with his elbow planted on the other and his jaw resting on his upraised fist. He wears not standard Palamecian clothing or armor, but a smart black suit with a deep royal purple collared shirt with a loosened gold-flecked tie hanging from his neck. An interesting expression is on the sorcerer's face: contentment, bemusement, scorn, even arrogance. His lavender eyes even glint in the darkness, though not with light from within or the torches—but a strange, violet-tinged 'black light'.

Crystal orbs float above and around himself, never falling lower than his own eye level, spiraling in varying intervals and orbits no differently than the concept of a 'solar system'. His free hand slowly waves through the air, shifting through the invisible atmosphere as one would move through water, stirring the floating orbs as a gentle current would shift bubbles.

His hand stills, wrist gracefully twisting as his palm turns upwards, and the orbs tighten their spirals onto the same orbit above the limb, lazily bobbing after each other. They each suddenly erupt in purple-black flame forming a fiery ring of black light. “So intriguing, this new concept of reality. Worlds merging and gathering, seeking protection from the night, and their inhabitants acting no differently. They only understand what they want to accept, reject what is beyond their concept of morality...”

An orb drifts down from the ring as an image coalesces in its midst. It is of Maira, sitting on the beach magically playing with her fire. “...Naive in their concepts of 'good' and 'evil', leaving themselves corruptible and weak. Even the brightest of stars burn themselves dark in places.” He carelessly tosses that orb off to the side, where it shatters upon hitting the ground in a flare of black light writhing like it is in pain.

Another orb spins around his raised wrist, an image forming of Souji Murasame walking along a dirt path with suitcase in hand. “Eager in the chance to take, without taking a chance to suspect. Taking what is mine always has a price, no matter how low or high, and contracts not writ in stone cannot be set as such.” He flicks that orb high into the air, watching as it shatters on a support beam high above, but nothing drifts down nor falls upon the Emperor.

The ring flares, the building flames twisting into themselves like a visible cyclone, and an image of Guadosalam blooms in its midst. “Content in hypocrisy, ambivalent at best and apathetic at worst. These strange peoples in particular are neither enemy nor friend... but perhaps, someday, useful.” The dark fire consumes the image of the great tree before dying back down to the blacklit fiery ring.

Another orb sinks, this one trailing down his arm to rest in the crook of his elbow. Rena Laradyne’s image appears, seated on the ground with two coeurls prowling around her curiously. “Full of mystery, of darkness as yet untapped. Full of wonder for the unknown, yet so world-weary that escape is preferred than spending another moment trapped within it.”

The image zooms closer to her face, keen interest focusing on that orb as a hawk would view a wandering field mouse. “I have offered much, my dear, and my honesty and calculated ‘vulnerability’ has revealed much about you indeed. What you plan to do with my gifts is yet to be seen...” He flicks the orb into the air, letting it hover near his head like a dark will-of-the-wisp. “But there is time enough. I am of a patient sort, and the best things in life take time to bloom and bear fruit.”

He slinks out of his chair and rises to his feet, the wispy orb following his every move, and he removes his hand from under the fiery ring. The remaining two orbs slow noticeably, dispersing the ring they created in their wake, before beginning a new series of loops, of intersecting orbits around his neglected staff propped up and hidden at the back of the throne. The strange gem at its top glows, the staff hovering and following the Emperor as he begins descending down the stairs, and the remaining two unmarked orbs still wreathed in dark fire swoop to hover before him.

One shows the strange black-hooded visitor he met only once. He touches the orb bearing the robed visage with fingertips parting the flame, eyes narrowing in consideration. “I keep what is mine, regardless of what import others find in them. My people, my tools, my land, my knowledge.” He lets the orb fall, shattering into nothingness against the carpet that covers the stairs. “But with that said... I keep my word.” The dying flame curls into a fading image of his Dark Knight before dissipating. “As you have yours.”

His gaze finally falls upon the final orb, bearing the countenance of one flamboyant Alexandrian advisor, whom is proving to be a hero’s bane as of late. “And perhaps ‘tis time I extended the hand of diplomacy once more. Common ground should not be churned under the hooves of war.” He reaches out to envelop the orb, crushing it in his grasp as one would crumple paper. “But if war is truly what you seek, then we shall see where matters stand before commitments are required.”

He spreads his arms out wide, a cruel smile tearing his youthful face as his chin gracefully dips towards his chest, and his staff spins rapidly above his head as it is enveloped in dark flame. His voice drops to an ominous tenor, an almost lullaby-like quality tinting his tone. “~Come, my children. Rise, my minions. Know your master’s voice.~”

The shadows around him surge, the flickers of gold solidifying into pairs of golden orbs and multiplying by the moment. Flashes of metal could even be picked up in the waning torchlight threatened by the encroachment of the Dark. He lifts his hands above his head, the staff stilling between his hands without touching them so it is parallel to the ground with the staff’s claw-like tip pointing forwards.

“Let us feed,” his staff rights to point straight down at his feet from above his head, “and feed well.”

With a snap of the arms back down to his sides, the staff drives down like a piledriver to the floor, a pulse of purplish energy rippling through the Darkness around him. In the very next moment, the light of the torches flares back to their full brightness, revealing nothing and no-one left in their illumination of the throne room, which has been left undisturbed.