Warchildren Scene 10

   

     The withered old man lay dozing in his chair dreaming of power. He snored loudly amid his dreams of conquest. His hands and feet jerked in response to comforting thoughts of bloodshed. He remained like this for a time in front of the ever present fire. He was always cold these days. His body was weakening but his mind expanded ever farther from the frontiers of mortality. Or so he hoped.
     A mighty snore roused him from his comforting slumber. He slowly rubbed at his eyes and blinked in brightness of the roaring fire. He grabbed a nearby blanket and stood on shaky legs. When he finally had his balance again he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders with the slowness of encroaching decrepitude. He searched the floor thoroughly and found his slippers lined with sheep's wool. Satisfied, he shuffled across the room toward a silver bowl on a stand. He picked up an ornate knife near the bowl and slid the blade across his wrinkled and well scarred palm. He squeezed the blood into another small golden bowl and put the bloody knife down next to it. He reached over with his unwounded hand and lifted a taper from the table and lit it from a red candle nearby. He then turned and shuffled over to the center of the round room were an intricate pattern had been crafted into the very stonework. The old man had rarely seen its equal and they
were always in places of great magic.
     He threw the taper into the center of the pattern and a great flame erupted from the floor. The old man flinched back from the expected heat but it never came. The flames were cold and lifeless. A figure formed within the flames and a shadowy darkness coalesced within them. The form took shape slowly. Arms and legs extruded from the mass of shadow. A head sprouted from newly formed shoulders. Horns began to extrude from the shadow's head and great beating wings were flung wide, darkly majestic, from the shadowy creature's back. Burning coals for eyes sprung to life and blazed with infernal energies.
     “Why do you want old man?” The shadow thundered.
     “Eternal life,” The old man wheezed, “and vengeance.”
     “You must spread the darkness.” the shadow replied, thunder rolling from his tongue.
     “What must I do, Mi'lord?” the old man dropped to his knees and pleaded.
     “You must kill a god.” The shadow said and began laughing till the thunderous bellowing shook the tower.
     “Which god? What must I do?” the old man pleaded once more on his knees.
     “The spire west of here in the center of the vale harbors such a god. It sleeps away the centuries at the      heart of the spire. Find it and slay it before it wakes. Do this and you will take his place among the gods.”
     “Mi'Lord, there is no way into the Spire, many have tried for centuries to gain entrance but there is no way inside.” the old man managed to croak, voice choked with fear.
     “There is a key,” The shadow hissed and his image was replaced with that of a sword. “This was hidden away long ago. It will open the Spire and it will slay the god within.” The shadow spoke with dark passion and disappeared. The flames died quickly and the old man was left alone, deep in thought.