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.