Autumn

By: Xaiquo Posted on: December 22, 2008

The Savannah is rather warm this time of the year. By no means is it hot, just warm. The sun has taken over its noon position by about three hours, casting shadows that dance implacably upon the windswept grasses. A tall, dark figure slowly walks through the dust, leaving cold, empty footprints. Dark, ash-colored fur covers the entire body of this twisted tiger-man. A mane of the darkest ebony has been meticulously intertwined with gold and crimson charms, gently chiming in the soft breeze. His cold, emerald eyes glance upon the open distance without empathy. He's heard word of being followed and, unlike others, heeds this sort of caution. Fortunately, he's kept track of his pursuer with his mind's window. He knows what's about to happen.

Life is hard. That's what he's found out. After learning the sad truth of the world, he abandoned all he'd over known for a life of knowledge, of power. She said it would come to this, and as usual she was correct. From a nearby tree, he hears the soft pat of feet delicately hitting the ground. It's time.

"It's been a while, boy! I'm still in shock that you just up and left! Maybe I should teach you lesson..."

A wry grin crosses the face of the Shallamese jester. He's a truly unique sight, indeed. No one would expect him to be such a killing machine, but perhaps that's his true strength. He's not muscular, nor is he out of shape. His fur dances casually as a light breeze catches its sandy hues. His feral eyes stare down the dark form in front of him, studying his posture carefully. Rajamalan senses tingling, he discreetly begins to balance on the balls of his feet, preparing for an incoming strike.

A soft, dark glow begins to drift off the dark figure, hinting to the chaotic power of which he's come into possession.

"You're correct to prepare for an attack. Clever as always," the dark figure says, his voice low and unwavering, but with a hint of playful elegance. The branches of smoky energy quickly spread out and entangle one another as the figure distorts his aura, sending out a lash of energy at the jester. Yes, he has come to enjoy this new power.

"You'll never learn, will you," says his witty opponent, summoning all his dexterity. He quickly somersaults backward, landing gracefully on his feet. Without hesitation, he pulls out a brightly decorated blackjack and leaps at the dark enigma.

The occultist turns around quickly, sending his black robes flying open. Seemingly out of nowhere, a Tarot card flies from his sleeve and explodes into a moss of ropes. Unfortunately for his opponent, they quickly wrap themselves around his form. The occultist nonchalantly steps to the side, allowing the entangled jester to plummet to the ground at his feet. "I won't?"

Unfortunately, he forgot a rather important detail: jesters are known for their infamous shady tactics. As soon the jester hits the ground, he skillfully rolls out of his bindings and in one, continuous motion back flips into the occultist, causing him to stagger backward. "Nope," says the jester, his callous grin showing off teeth of ivory white.

Without a moment's notice, the occultist quickly makes a strange gesture and softly whispers, "Pyradius." A portal of swirling chaos opens beside him, ejecting a dark firelord. "Attack!" cries the occultist. His command is instantly obeyed as the entity bursts into flames, sending a wave of searing crimson toward the jester.

"That's a new trick," mumbles the jester, instinctively rolling to the left. But alas, even with his finely-honed acrobatics, he's a bit slow for the searing fire of the chaotic minion. The flames lick about his form, charring his plain clothes. To the jester's surprise, the flames recede as quickly as they came.

"Now, now. We can't have that, sonny!" His voice clearly irritates the young occultist. That may be his intention. After all, he has that gift. "You still haven't a clue, kiddo."

It is in this instant that the occultist understands why the jester stood still for so long. Pulling a wooden puppet from behind his back, the jester cackles as he breaks its arms. The occultist cries out in pain as the bones in his own arms break with an audible "Crack!"

"Damn you, father!" Calling upon his internal fortitude, crackling energy wreathes about the occultist's limbs, mending that which as been broken. A look of sheer tenacity crosses his face as he dramatically raises his freshly healed left arm. Clenching his fist before the jester, a shimmering wave of energy flies forth, sending his opponent flying as his flesh warps painfully. It is clear he's enjoying this - maybe a little too much.

The jester is shocked. He's never seen such power. He's never felt this sort of pain. Stumbling for his thoughts, he decides to take a chance. Under his breath, he mutters the words, "Hocus Pocus." Perhaps this will buy him just enough time...

Vines suddenly spring from the ground, wrapping around his son's form. The thorns seem to rend his flesh, but strangely he does not flinch. At the top of his lungs, he screams out the name of another Chaos Lord, the sound almost painful to the jester's uninitiated ears. "Danaeus!" Another vortex opens, this time above his head. Dark clouds snake out of the portal and quickly form a sentient chaos storm. The storm seems to understand what's happening and shoots a ball of fire towards the acrobatic jester.

The jester has never seen anything like this! How could his son, his own flesh and blood, be capable of this? Flipping forward, he dodges the fireball with grace. Unfortunately, the storm seems to anticipate this. A bolt of black lightning flies from the chaotic cloud and strikes him mid-flight. He falls to the ground, traces of smoke rising from his singed fur.

He knows this has to end quickly. He has no other option. It's a choice between life or death, and he's starting to realize it. "A taste of your own medicine is in order!" Quickly pulling the puppet to his mouth, he screams the word, "BURN!"

Bursting into flame, the occultist loses his concentration. Even though his astralvision saw through his father's illusion, it could do nothing to prevent his puppet attack. He rolls around on the ground, patting at his robes to put out the wicked flames. The jester takes this opportunity to finish playing with his puppet. Rubbing his finger over the puppet's chest, it springs to life, perfectly rendered.

"Now you're in for it, boy!" He prods his finger into the back of the puppet's head, causing the occultist to stumble to the ground. Before he has a chance to recover, the jester instills upon him the curse of Chronos through his likeness. His movements become slow, hindered by the very fabric of time itself. Seeing the opening, the jester shuffles a Tarot card from his deck. Rubbing his fingers on its surface, he sends it flying toward his son. The hangedman bursts into ropes, entangling the occultist's form. "This, my dear child, is how it's done!"

The jester's grin has never been bigger. He's about to show his son why he should have never left Shallam. He begins to slowly mangle each and every limb of the puppet. Surprisingly, the occultist does not respond to the pain. "Maybe this will help, then!" Pulling out a vial of prefarar, he imbibes the doll with the venom. Cackling hellishly, he throttles the doll, attempting to choke the life from his opponent.

The occultist hasn't moved. No matter what he does to the puppet, nothing happened to instill a reaction. "So, I take it you're done? It's about damn time, kid. See what you've done to yourself?" The grin slowly melts off his face as a cold thought crosses his mind. He's killed his own son.

"Piridon is possibly my favorite Chaos Lord." The voice is coming from behind him. Before he has time to react, he is struck by the immense force of the deadly chaos rays emanating from his son's hands. His mind becomes muddled, and he begins to slur his thoughts together. He can't bring himself to move!

"I'll never understand why you don't use the really good cards, father." A burn mark on the occultist's chest flares as he flings an aeon Tarot towards his stupefied opponent. Before the card strikes, the incredible form of a Devil springs from the ground, flinging a card inscribed with the moon. The cards strike in a mercilessly quick succession and the Devil is gone.

Seeing his opening, the occultist rushes forward. Summoning his fortitude, he calls forth his knowledge of chaos and passes his hand slowly over his father's face. The curse takes hold, as his opponent's features contort in a painful confusion.

"Now, father, let me show you what I have learned since leaving Shallam!" Placing his hands gently on either side of his father's head, he looks carefully into his eyes. He summons forth the truths of the world which he has discovered. Images of pain and torment flow from his mind into that of his father. Unable to bear it any longer, the jester screams out, "Please stop! I cannot take it! I beg of you, stop!"

Backing away slowly, the occultist lets go of the pitiful fool. His twisted form falls to the ground with a satisfying "thud." He is still alive, but has clearly gone mad from what he's seen.

"Allow me to put something in perspective for you, father. Shallam boils forth with hypocrisy. You preach love and understanding, yet murder those who have done nothing to you. You claim to be of Good. You claim to walk in the Light. All I see come from Shallam are murderers. History has begun to repeat itself. The Church is full of radical zealots who want nothing more but to slay all those who do not follow their will blindly. No longer do you seek to protect the innocent. Instead, you wish to delude yourselves, thinking that you can kill your way to a utopia. You are mistaken, father. I ask you this, and I expect an answer in time. When The Burning Times begin again, will YOU be the one turtoring me? I hope you enjoy watching your own son being slowly torn apart, simply for believing there's more than blind faith. I love you, father. Do not disappoint me."

Without a second thought, the young occultist gracefully turns. Before his robes have a chance to settle about his form, he begins walking away. "Thank you, mistress. It was you who showed me the truth," he whispers to himself. "If it was not for our meeting, I would be the one lying alone, broken."

With a soft smile, he casually tosses a hermit Tarot to the ground and is gone in a flash.