Difference between revisions of "Meeting In The Park"

Latest revision as of 12:42, 22 March 2014

Central Park has long been a haven for the dispossessed of Manhattan. It offers branches to shelter from the sky, benches to shelter from the earth, and discarded papers to shelter from the cold. Though it is no substitute for the warmth of a home full of family and friends, many of the homeless know no other sanctuary. The Park accepts them. The Park loves them, even if no others do.

It has never been entirely safe for the ordinary people of Manhattan. But it is beautiful, and in its own way, it is special.

Over the last few months, however, "not entirely safe" has become a supreme understatement. Crime rates are up nearly forty percent in the Park and its surrounding areas. Police are baffled. Private organizations have been called in, but so far, nothing has been found but unruly bums and angry hobos, the so-called dregs of the lowest classes acting out for their own benefit. Everything that could be blamed has been, in this new, magical world New York has found itself placed in. Heartless, wizards - literally anything and everything anyone could possibly think of has been hurled into the pile. So great is their fear of that which they do not fully understand, the Acting Emergency Council is even considering closing off the Park until the mystery can be solved. They imagine a great curse has been laid on their land, and think that perhaps one of the many Adventurers that have become commonplace might be able to do something about it.

But it is not a curse that is at fault. It is a man.

Well. Perhaps calling him a man is not entirely accurate. Indeed, it has never been accurate, for the 'culprit' has never been anything human at all.

Oh, he certainly resembles a human. At this very moment, the culprit lies in the dark heart of Central Park, covered in newspapers and trash. He wears a woolen cap to hide his head, a ratty old scarf to hide his face, tens of scavenged coats to hide his frame. His eyes, twin pinprick stars of yellow, stare at passers-by brave enough to venture this far, willing them not to notice him. He lies not on a bench, but on the earth itself, and where he lays, the poison of the land seeps like a cancerous infection. Those who pass him feel that poisonous darkness creep into their hearts, too. And they begin to hate.

They hate slowly at first, natural aggression spiking to unpleasant highs. They hate their boring, dead-end jobs. They hate their unfulfilling relationships. They hate their jerk bosses, the traffic, the government, big business. They hate, and hate, and hate, until soon, natural aggression gives way to unnatural aggression, and the darkness at the heart of Central Park overwhelms them. And then they simply hate to hate, hate for the joy of hating, for the release and simplicity of hate. For hate's sake.

It is a mere fraction of the hatred that lurks in that homeless man, laying in the sickly dirt. It is nothing but a fraction. But it is sustenance. Their hatred spawns fear, and fear and anger and distrust mingle into the finest of ambrosia, the sweetest of nectar, for that homeless man with pinprick yellow eyes. And, for that moment, he is as close to content as he has ever been.

He is not truly content, of course. He cannot be. He is not a man, after all. He is Lich, First of Fiends. He is Lich, King of the Dead. He is Lich, the Earth-Rot.

And he hates. He must hate. He is born of hate, forged of hate and magic and the essence of the Earth itself. He was hand-crafted from the most terrible and exquisite hate in all the worlds, a hate so powerful it shattered the constraints of time and space. His hatred feeds him as much as the hatred of his victims. And so he hates.

Lich, Earth-Rotter, hates the smiles on the faces he poisons. He hates the lights in the windows of the city, lights of happy families knowing joys he never can and never will. He hates the heroes who slew him long ago, who forced him back into the depths of the darkness from which he was spawned. He hates the Pretender-Fiend, Scarmiglione, whose presence he can sense through the Crystal of Earth, the upstart usurper from another world who has claimed his title. He hates the chains wrapped around his neck, the metaphysical chains that tie him forever to his fate, the chains he would tear off in an instant if he had even the slightest chance. Those chains are loosened, now, true - but who knows when they may begin to tighten once more?

Lich, Fiend of Earth, hates.

But there are none he hates so much as himself. And why should he not? Once, he was a glorious thing - a glorious and terrible nightmare unleashed upon the world at large. He was almighty, the ultimate king of the poisoned Earth. All living things trembled at his name. He was a nightmare writ large, an evil god in a shadow pantheon, subservient only to the one who slew the gods of light and forged that pantheon from his own blood. It took four great heroes to slay him, and even then did he rise again, so great was his power and his hatred and his fury. Now look at him. He lies in the dirt of an alien world, spitting curses into the hearts of young lovers and street dregs, drawing what he can from those little spats and these petty crimes. Once, he held the Earth Crystal in his palm, and all who saw him feared.

Now? Now...he is pathetic.

And it is the fault of the Dark Elf. The foolish Dark Elf who sought to usurp the power of Chaos for her own ends! She gave him the hope of freedom, but was too weak to sever his chains, too weak for him to bind himself to her hate! Her hate was nothing compared to the hate that spawned him! Her hate was simple-minded, simplistic, the hate of a mewling child spitting at the world! What was that, to the hate of a *god*?

Lich draws the newspapers closer around himself and rolls over. He has no desire to continue looking upon the happy faces. He has only one desire - the freedom to do as Lich and Lich alone pleases. The freedom to found a kingdom, in some far-off world. The freedom to create a family to rule it. The freedom to love someone with all the black, possessive desire Love brings. Sarah.

The thought leaps to the Earth-Fiend unbidden, and immediately, he knows. He knows, and terror seeps into his mockery of a heart, for that name was not his to Love. That name was not part of him. It was part of another, a greater force by far. Slowly, the terror filling his every bone, Lich sits up, and turns his head to the bench.

There, upon the bench, is a man. He is dressed far too well to be this deep in Central Park, Lich knows - a handsome black tuxedo that seems to roil with shadows, as though it was spun from the darkness itself, sits upon the man's broad shoulders. White hair spills down those shoulders, unkempt and wild, the hair of a warrior. Perfect, unspoiled black shoes lay at the end of that man's feet, each shoe more like a spike or a blade than simple protection for the feet. Leaning against the bench is a cane - a perfect black cane with a silver head, from which uncurls two horns and two terrible red eyes.

Lich knows. He knows, and he scrabbles, falling to one knee. He hates this man more than anyone but himself - hates this man more than anything else that has ever existed. But he knows better than to wield the power of Chaos against this man.

What good is the power of Chaos against Chaos Himself?

"Rise," the man bids, "And sit beside me."

Lich stands. He walks over to the bench like a beaten dog, plopping himself down onto the wood with the rattle of bone. He tilts his head slightly to look upon the man's face - angular, hard, cold, with a humble white beard wrapped around his mouth and the middle of his chin. The man's eyes are a deep and horrible red, and Lich does not look into them. He knows better. He focuses on the beard, and the smile - the terrible smile, the smile that is so vacant and absent anything like joy or delight or happiness, the smile that conjures only despair. That smile is not the smile of a man. Once upon a time, it may have been filled with light, but ten thousand years of waiting in the darkness have beaten the light out of that smile as a blacksmith beats the dents out of armor. No...a blade. That smile is a blade. That smile, like everything else about the man, is a weapon of unparalleled lethality.

"M...Master," Lich intones, bowing his head slightly.

"So you do remember," rumbles Garland's terrible voice, and Lich quails. Of course he could not hide from Garland forever. Garland had known where Lich was all along. Garland had permitted Lich this taste of freedom, and now he was about to yank it away. Hate wells up inside Lich again, bony fingers clenching to bony fist inside his mittens, but there is nothing he can do.

"I have need of you once again, my Lich. There is something you and you alone can do for me." Garland's red eyes flick over to Lich's, and Lich locks eyes with Garland for an instant before turning away. It is not out of fear. Lich is made of Garland's Darkness, a piece of the black Heart that once lurked in that shell. How could Lich tumble into an abyss he was already part of? No, it is only respect...at least, that is what Lich tells himself. To feel better. To feel...stronger.

"Wh-what service is that, Master?" Lich demands, his voice high-pitched and chattery, like a cartoon haunted-house skeleton. He wrings his hands together, and the sound of rattles echoes through the immediate area. Garland's head turns to face him, and Lich's head dips low, as if in obeisance. In truth, Lich simply hopes to avoid that gaze - that terrible gaze that picks him apart piece by piece like the skeleton he is, dissecting every word as it stares right through his facade. Then Garland turns away, and Lich raises his head again, peeking at his Master hopefully.

"One that might earn you that which you truly desire," Garland declares slowly. Lich's head jumps straight up, his spine straightening as though a rod were just shoved alongside it. His yellow pinprick eyes stare at Garland, but Garland's face is impassive. Did Garland mean that? No, of course not, Lich thinks cynically. Garland would never release him. Garland would *never* offer him freedom, not truly. Not so long as Lich was useful to him. No, Garland could only offer him one thing...but that one thing was tempting enough to get the wheels in Lich's skull turning. Could Garland really give it to him again? Could Garland really grant him what he longed for?

"The Earth Crystal?" Lich demands. Garland's head inclines, the slightest of nods, and Lich's excitement grows. With the Crystal back in hand, he could poison the land. He could build his terrible kingdom. He could spread Darkness throughout the worlds, all the worlds. His might, his majesty - he might even be able to find a way to free himself, now that he knew he desired freedom, and was not merely a puppet of this dark king! After all, if Garland had wanted, he could have simply *forced* Lich to do as he desired, yes? So...so perhaps, the chain was already weakening! Perhaps...

That glimmering Perhaps was all Lich needed.

As Garland had known it would be.

"What would you have me do, Lord Garland? I will go to any lengths to hold my Crystal again!" Lich exults, standing. He casts off his clothes and kneels once again - not as a homeless man, but as the undead Sorceror, clad in his terrible robes. Garland stands, and his disguise melts away, shadows wrapping around him to form his majestic cape and armor once again. Garland waves his hand, and the world parts before them.

"There is something only you can retrieve for me, my loyal Lich," Garland declares as he moves for the Corridor of Shadow, "And I would have you retrieve it."

Lich rises, scrabbling after his Master. At last! After so long...first, he would take care of this job. Then, he would retrieve the Crystal.

Then, he would have his revenge. His sweet, sweet revenge. And the worlds would once again tremble at the name of Lich...