 |
War. Always a reason. Never a good enough one. The Nemesis Crown had been found somewhere in the Drakwold forrest. All of the races were searching for it... fighting amongst themselves pointlessly at the mere hint of it’s unholy prescence. Even the High Elves, whose race ever fades into memory were drawn in.
Many princes gathered their armies and marched to war. Colonies from Chrace, Saphery, Caledor... All came. One such Prince, Rem’el Oron shel Hanar heeded the call and battled his way to the center of the forrest. Countless skirmishes. Gaining ground here. Losing ground there. Any rumor of the taint of chaos would set his forces to march.
His army came upon a small town that called itself Tupmanar. The mayor, Tupman, spun a tale of woe worthy of any gleeman. He spoke of the curse upon his town. His people were preyed upon nightly by reflections of themselves who left torment and mutation in their wake. He said the armies retreated to the southwest before the sun rose in the morning. Although sometimes, on the cloudiest of days, you would hear rumor that someone outsided the walls had been attacked by their reflection.
Surely this was sign he was waiting for. Rem’el led his banner southwest through the forrest. After three days of trudging through dense undergrowth the army came to a clearing. Thick black clouds covered the sky and the rain drove down with the force of a flood. On the other side of the clearing an army stood waiting for them. Every elf there gasped as he saw in the crowd opposite his twin. But... better. Better looking, more at ease. Armor shining despite the rain. Of the hole, only Rem’el’s twin seemed absent.
The Prince road his horse forward and faced his army. “Brothers and Sisters fear not. Do not let the daemon’s trickery addle your minds. We fight for the Asur, and the good of the world. We will see tomorrow’s dawn!”
With that he road forward, his army behind him. They clashed with the force of dopplegangers and where daemon died they shattered like glass, purple ichor splashing everywhere, covering everything. Rem’el road through the shining host and saw a cave at the edge of the clearing. There it was, a reflection of the Prince himself. It smiled at him and walked down into the darkness. He felt such hatred that he indeed thought that this imposter was a more perfect aspect of himself than he ever could be. It burned in his chest, and he road, frenzied, toward his adversary.
At the cave he dismounted and ran in, the gem in his chest illumating his surroundings with the Flames of Asuryan. Down he went till he came upon a giant room. The daemon was there before him, sword drawn. From it’s chest came a dark purple glow contrasting with his yellow. The battle was swift, such was the rage of Rem’el Oron shel Hanar. The daemon shattered and in that instant the Prince knew the battle had been one. He began to walk back up and realized that the walls shown like mirrors. Everywhere he looked was a scarred likeness of himself, sword drawn.
Rem’el fought for his life. Foe after foe shattered on his blade in an explosion of purple goo. Every time one fell the next would be slightly more scarred, slightly less perfect... slightly more mutated. He reached the top and saw a warrior in dark purple armor. His head was bald and rounder than an elf’s. Jagged teeth shown in his smile. The Prince drew his sword once more, realizing that this finally was the true form of the daemon who plagued him. But as he stode forward, it diluted away into the background, like it couldn’t hold itself in this reality any longer. The mirrored walls no longer moved to attack him.
Instead he only saw himself, and couldn’t believe his eyes. He was clad in dark purple armor. The jewel in his chest was black and reflected with malice. His skin was almost translucent, his head bald. His teeth were like knives. The runes on his sword should have burned out his eyes but now they danced seductively. He was perfect.
The fighting outside had ceased. The figure strode forward to the army waiting for him. Their armor mirrored his, tainted by the ichor. He pointed his sword at them. “I am called Mourning, and I am your Lord. The world needs us my Brothers and Sisters. Too many dawns have gone without our prescence being felt. A perfect world is out there, for the taking. Twilight calls us home.”
The sun set as he mounted his horse and rode out among them. One by one they bent knee to him, swearing servitude.
|
 |
Reply
