Undocumented Exchanges

“You understand the implications of supporting this ploy, don’t you Dawnpride?” Ithilien folded his arms, rather confused by the Red Magister’s sudden change of heart regarding the approval of what could be the most destructive weapon ever conceived. “I do, Magister, Just as I know you’ll never grasp how this game is played. Make no mistake, I will fervently disagree with this idea in the public eye to the point of bastardizing myself; But behind closed doors where the prying eyes of the many may not linger… This could prove fruitful for me.”

The Judicial Magister raised a brow, growing more concerned by the minute. “Fruitful? How could the wholesale destruction of a political foothold in your push for a shift in alliances be fruitful?!” Anetho could only sneer, golden blonde locks of hair scintillating and turning blood red as they fell over blazing fel green eyes. “I’m playing a game many centuries in the making – Imagine what manner of arcane fallout could result in the region, that raw focused energy released with the Focusing Iris at the moment of impact… Now imagine a vessel with the means to entrap those energies over a long period of time as they continue to pervade the land.”

The young woman tossed and turned in her sleep, Felorian standing vigil along the wall that he might attend her candle light. She always seemed so fearful of the dark, to the point that when she’d awaken from frequent bouts of disturbed sleep, she’d shriek. This coincided with his recent bids against insomnia and restless thoughts racing within his mind at all hours of the day and long after the sun had set. This young woman – much like his brother – was soon to be pulled from him and he left to his own devices. There was a bittersweet satisfaction to the entire affair to the Arcanist’s mind.

She mumbled inconsistently, half-words prying his attention for a moment before he’d peer back into the flickering candle dancing about with no whimsy but that of the breeze from the nearby window, cracked just so. While proud of her, he was also glad to be rid of her – the rate she was assimilating all the knowledge and curriculum he utilized vexed and pleased him all at once, as did the one whom entrusted her to his care so many years prior. He wondered just how long ago it seemed, now that the thought occurred to him. This dirty blonde haired young man and his equally disgruntled female companion… The very same who would later become the Red Magister and the Cannibal Temptress.

“This is a new height for your insanity, Dawnpride. No such artifact or object exists, nor would it be possible to harness or direct such intense flows of mana.” The Red Magister ran his right hand through his crimson locks, closing his eyes and offering a sincere, and at any other time, gentle, smile as he replied in a soft and tender manner. “Simply because you may not perceive such realities, does not make them any more imaginary than the air you breathe.” He pulled at a drape revealing the Tomb of One. The entire exterior glistens as the light of the torches nearby dance along it. “Th-Thats…!”

“Yes. A small part of a much larger plan – I do not intend to outlive this tired conflict, nor do I expect to remain atop my perch of authority for much longer than it need suit me. You, like all the rest, are but puppets danced about.” He produced a small purple gemstone from within the fold of his robes – it glowed faintly. “Now, let me conjure you that the soul is a gateway… Something of a conduit for magic to take another form. What if it was also used to condense it into a more malleable form?”

Ithilien’s hands buzzed with mana as he anticipated an attack. “You speak of the darkest magicks – I tolerate that practice only for the lengths it may serve the city-state and no further. What you speak of is genocide to twisted ends.” Anetho laughed so hard he coughed up flakes of blood. “And what then would you consider the Horde’s angle, which in turn, would be the city-state’s prerogative? The answer you’ve stated yourself; Genocide to a twisted end. I don’t plan to take that away from anyone, nor could I if I wished to… T’is a fools errand to hope against a rushing tide, but I may yet ride the wave into something even more delicious.”

Seven long years ago, gone in the blink of an eye – he’d watch this young, ambitious, vengeful man ascend into the ranks of the Magistrate and tear through anything in his way; Pushing and pulling at anything and everything much as a child in the midst of a tantrum, but with all the grace of a professional dancer. The girl, ever eager to please him and indulge her own sick eccentricities to feast upon the flesh of those with conscious thought. No stranger two in all existence, or so he imagined at the time. He betrayed the trust of those around him in hopes of shedding some perceived shackles of grotesque making beyond the physical world – to the point he thought himself a monster; And she betrayed him in order to become that monster she idolized him for.

She burned in fire – he burned in fury. In the aftermath of the ashes, he continued to blaze without purpose and it crushed him morbidly; He manipulated and lied without cause, or so it seemed. Forced his way with no agenda for he knew not how to live as he so desperately wished to; But as with all flames, he too inevitably winked out of existence… Only to leave a single ember slowly stoked overtime in such a manner that it’d only be extinguished with as much labor as was committed to it’s continued existence. Independent of the flame that birthed it and yet forever linked just the same.

“Tread lightly, “Magister”. I reinstated you, I can just as quickly disavow you a second time, cast you in irons and see you hang for this conspiracy and indeed all your crimes, be damned my hand in them; what you speak of is lunacy.” He pointed an accusing finger at Anetho, feeling out the immediate area through the flows of mana, expecting a Succubus or other veilled assassin nearby – to his relief it was just the two of them, and the butler whom had first showed him inside.

“No one power is absolute, nor is any one artifice of magic. All of this, I do to craft my own individual artifact. Is that perhaps to much to hope? That I might create something from this destruction?” Ithilien shook his head. “What could you possibly want to conjure from this!? What -could- you make of it!?” Anetho’s reply was sinister in the cordial and polite manner it was presented – almost mockingly so. “Life, Judge Magister. I want to create a life.”

The young lady’s thumb found it’s way to her mouth and she suckled at it; He frowned in response, how terribly unrefined she looked, still caught in the throes of a stressful dream. He knew better than to wake her, as Nostricus had warned against it some night prior when she first complained of vivid nightmares. ‘It is a necessary experience that we must all share in to best understand the worst within ourselves that we may make the best of who we are.’ Or so he had said. The Forsaken was nearly as enigmatic as the Red Magister he conspired with.

“LIFE!? Where does that make any form of sense!? I will not back you in this affair, nor shall I allow it one step further!” He launched a firebolt at the Red Magister, only to find it dissipate as it left his fingertips. Anetho had distorted the flows of magic via an Arcane Torrent. “You already have. You cast the vote that negates my own declination; Thus I predict it to be the tie breaker. Funny how they weren’t in any fuss over delving into my illusions or imperfect impersonation of you… Perhaps they want this just as badly.”

“You… You would…!?” He drew a dagger, backed against a wall. His mind raced. “I would – because I desperately wish to look into this mirror and know that my good labor saw it’s due.” He drew the runeblade from it’s sheathe, the intricate designs blazing to life. “Orpheus, the golden casket there, and the souls of the Twilight’s Hammer acolytes whom wronged me… I possess the means, and now the Magistrate is going to serve up the tribute required. After the passing of mere months my legacy will take form and I shall have the life I wish to birth.”

“I never should have trusted you to settle my debts… I’ve incurred a price greater still.” The Judicial Magister’s palms crackled with magic once more as the flows of arcana settled at last. “Indeed you have – and I’ve come to collect; I am owed this much from the mockery of fate given me by envious and fickle Gods… No price is too great for this single desire I’ve held for so long.”

“I want to be free… Even if it means damning everyone and everything. This is my curse, to exist as a monster that desires to live as a man… And so I shall do as the monster that I may live as that which has evaded me so long… And I will go through you and all the rest if I must. That is the fire I’ve been tempered within – I’d have expected you more than anyone to understand.”

“Not even the insane could understand you, Dawnpride.” Ithilien spat, preparing another fireball. “I am sorry, Judge Magister, that it had to come to this… I’d hoped that my legacy might entail you, but never in this manner…” He extended the orb towards Ithilien, and horrendous black magicks pulled at the man’s very core – grasping at his soul. Within seconds, he could see it being pried away from his chest. Intolerable pains took hold, before all he knew fell to darkness – not a chance to resist.

The orb in Dawnpride’s hand grew a brighter purple. “…Though it is of no consolation to you or the others… I will not remember such atrocities when I pass. Your vengeance and theirs comes with my death; and my own follows in the creation of a mirror that may reflect my legacy and all it’s potential.”

Her eyes flew open, and she shrieked as he knew she would – every night for three weeks she awoke this way. He would comfort her with a glass of warm milk, and a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. But very soon this vigil would befall another – and he felt hers was going to be a trial greater still with no promise of reward as his was; For he had what he desired… She would only be so fortunate if she knew to make the best of the worst.


~ by anethodawnpride on November 7, 2014.

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Destiny has two ways of crushing us -- by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them. ~ Henri Frédéric Amiel

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