 |
| Rogue Disciple |
| The Bloodhorn, Sessrendale
1 Hammer, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR) Thraxata wheeled high above western Cormanthor, skeletal trees and thick snow a brown and white blur beneath her. She flew with casual power, catlike flexes of muscle and sinew propelling her through the thin winter air. She was content to glide, slow, beating her crimson wings slowly, almost lazily, every few minutes, circling the expanse of her demesne on an updraft blowing off the ridges of the Thunder Peaks. The little folk called these lands Deepingdale, Sessrendale, Archendale, Semberholme... but it was hers, and she exulted high over the territory that no mortal creature could hope to claim, that no mere human or elf could possibly wrest from the grip of her claws. Swooping low over the blasted ruins of Sessrendale, Thraxata smiled. She loved the ashen soil of this place�the Dead Dale the little folk called it�pocked here with a burned-out smeltery, there with an abandoned smithy, roof-rent, anvil open to the winter sky. She had been but a wyrmling when the Swords of Archendale had rode in on their horses, letting blood and seeding salt, annihilating their rival with a finality that had impressed her in her formative years. With the fearsome Dusk Lord dead, she had been able to claim the Bloodhorn as her own. Waiting, watching, gathering gold and spies, knowing that in the fullness of time she would emerge from her volcanic peak with a rage that would shake the world. Riding the cold winds, she lighted on the ledge that held the cavern she used as her lair, using ten tons of pure power to move aside the boulder that plugged the only entrance. Her pupils widened to adjust to the failing light, until only the slight glow of the passage far ahead illuminated the cavern. She breathed deep, relishing the perfume of iron and sulfur that suffused her home, stretched her paws forward like a great red cat, and padded forward. She dropped down the hundred feet to the cavern floor with a slight murmur of wings, scattering lava and ash as she hit the ground with a rumble that shook the earth. There was a scent in the air that did not belong. One she had expected, but did not welcome. �Disarion,� she thundered. �You presume too much. I should shred your bones to splinters for this intrusion.� Disarion bowed low, unmoved by the awe of Thraxata�s form, unafraid of her power. As the half-dragons beside him knelt low to show their respect, he merely swept his skeletal wings behind him, tatters of once-living flesh wafting the scent of decay towards her. �My lady,� he said, in a rasp that could easily have carried mockery as respect, �I merely wished to be punctual on this most joyous of occasions.� He spoke long and slow, with an undercurrent of... menace?... and a strange accent from lands far to the south. His eyes glowed amber in hollow sockets and his teeth shone through putrefied lips in a permanent grimace�or a permanent grin. With the undead, one could never be sure. Thraxata narrowed her eyes, struggling to control her hatred. She despised Disarion, this double abomination. Not merely a creature that had traded the glory of flesh for the promise of eternal life, but a mortal who dared aspire to the perfection of a draconic form. She could not stand the chemical stench of his stretched and still-rotting scales. He stood before her, without a hint of deference, as if he were an equal. �I take it, then, that you have not failed to prepare the knife?� she asked, sheathing her words in a tone that promised bloodshed if he had not. The half-dracolich reached into his rotten robe and withdrew a black dagger, long, serrated, and glowing with a ghostly radiance. He held it before her for inspection. �Of course.� �And the spirit?� �A cunning marilith by the name of Lurash, called the Lady of Blood by the legions of the Abyss.� Thraxata snorted in derision, a plume of smoke spouting from her nostrils. �A marilith? Is that the best you could do, Disarion? I wished for the heart of a fiend lord. If I am to follow the path of Ashardalon, then I require a heart like that of Ammet, the Eater of Souls.� Disarion sneered�his expression did not change, but he most definitely sneered�as he waved the soul-infused blade in front of him dismissively. �Well, my lady, I suppose you must content yourself with a marilith instead. If you wish for a balor to bind to your spirit then I suggest that you find one yourself.� A short gasp, a breath hastily sucked in by several of the half-dragons beside him. Thraxata roared, rearing back on her hind legs and flapping once with her massive wings. A brief gale of wind pulsed in front of her, sending coins scattering and stones falling from above. �I grow tired of your insolence!� Disarion stood through the display, unmoved by Thraxata�s fury. �And I grow tired of your preening and strutting. I put myself at great personal risk to accomplish this task for you. I would expect more from you than outrage and idle threats.� Thraxata fumed, but she calmed the rage that quaked within her heart. He was right, the insufferable bastard: it wasn�t like her to swagger and bully like this; it was petty, small-minded, like the antics of an overproud green. She did not put on displays, she exuded grace and power; she did not intimidate, she destroyed. This bloody-minded wrath was a shadow that had been growing in her mind, a kind of madness that claimed more control over her each day. �You sense it, don�t you, my dear Thraxata? You feel the Rage pressing itself into your mind, growing like a cancer, overwhelming all thought and reason. Don�t deny it, my lady. It is why you asked me to come here. I understand.� Smug son of a copper whore... how dare he patronize her like that... but again, he was right. Thraxata was proud, but not so proud as to deny the only source of her salvation. �You realize, of course,� he continued blithely, �that I cannot guarantee the success of this course of action. None among the Cult have ever heard of this Initiation that you claim to have discovered. It is not written of in Sammaster�s Tome. It is an unknown that may not stave off the Rage.� �I shall be the judge of that, human,� she replied, accentuating the last word with scorn. Disarion stood impassively; if he was bothered by the insult then it did not show. �It is not too late to change your mind, my lady. Only the Ritual of Ascendance will deliver you. Only by transforming into a dracolich can you be sure of your sanity.� He reached into his moth-eaten robe again and produced a vial smoking with poison, promising death... and unlife. Thraxata muttered an arcane word and the vial shattered. Disarion glanced down at the shards of glass and the precious poison of the dracolich brew, already evaporating in the superheated cave. �I wish you had not done that,� he said simply. Thraxata shrugged. � �My armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death.� An ancestor of mine once said that to a thief he found in his lair. I shall surpass him, and when I rip the life out of the next pickpocket that dares to pilfer from my hoard, I shall add, �My heart flows with demon blood, I command the powers of hell.� I have made my choice. I walk in the footsteps of Ashardalon.� Disarion chuckled, a sound somewhere between bones grating against rock and a animal drowning. �As you wish, Thraxata.� With a silent gesture he conjured a quintet of huge manacles, each sparkling with pure force. She flicked her tail apprehensively, curling her lips back to bare her teeth. �If you�� �You will crunch my bones between your teeth, yes, yes,� he said impatiently. �Had I wished you ill I would not have gone fiend-hunting through the Abyss. The manacles are merely for the protection of my minions; I would not want you lashing out during the Initiation. From what I understand of it, this should be quite painful.� The scales around his teeth pulled taut, cracking slightly with the pressure. �One might even say excruciating.� Thraxata growled, enraged as much by Disarion�s irreverent tone as by his interruption. It had been... thirty winters since anyone had dared to interrupt her? And she had repaid that impatient wizard by eviscerating him and strangling him with his own entrails. She did not trust Disarion, but she had no other choice. She placed each mighty claw and her neck in the spell-chains, each snapping shut soundlessly. The half-dragons formed a circle about the bound Thraxata, softly chanting the words that Thraxata had discovered and taught them. Kothardarastrix austrat... Disarion brandished the dark blade before her. It thrummed with the power of the bound marilith, pulsing with evil and sheer malignant power. The chant continued in sibilant Draconic, throbbing on the tongues of the present members of the Black Covenant. Irlym valeij vur valignat... Thraxata lay helpless, taut with fear, suddenly terrified of her vulnerability. Disarion stood over her with the demon blade as if taunting her. She struggled reflexively against her against the spell-shackles, but they held tight, closing around her muscles tighter as she struggled. Kurlik vaecaesin, ariaesthyr gixustrat... The blade pared aside the scales of her breast, dark adamantine slicing through chitin like leather, laying bare her exposed flesh. Thraxata�s pulse quickened. The chant sped, growing louder, infused with unholy power. Mrith Ashardalon austrat. Muscle parted with a spurt of dark blood, thrown aside like curtains in a raging wind. Flesh began to smoke, veins cauterized by metabolic heat. The odor of sizzling flesh mingled with sulfur and the scent of fresh blood. Thraxata howled in pain. Kothardarastrix austrat... Irlym valeij vur valignat... Kurlik vaecaesin, ariaesthyr gixustrat... Mrith Ashardalon austrat. Disarion scraped against the curve of a titanic rib, plunging through living flesh in search of the immense heart at the center of the beast. The sound of its beating rang in his ears, drowning the chant�s growing crescendo. Thraxata surged against her bonds, overwhelmed by the maddening pain. The pain! She slavered with bloodlust, reaching for the treacherous Disarion, he must be doing something wrong, or be intent on killing her, the Initiation could not possible cause such pain... she snapped in vain to reach the half-dragons that met her screams with louder and louder chanting. Kothardarastrix austrat! Irlym valeij vur valignat! Kurlik vaecaesin, ariaesthyr gixustrat! Mrith Ashardalon austrat! Disarion carved through the last slab of flesh, exposing the furnace of the dragon�s heart. It was as tall as he, as wide as a wagon, with a patchwork of arteries spilling around it the size of a giant�s arm. Thraxata thrashed beneath his dagger, screaming for his blood or whatever it was that liches bled, heaving against his spell-bonds until he feared that she might break her own bones in her fury. He laid his hand against the massive, surging heart, feeling the lifeblood flow through it with his dead hand. Kothardarastrix austrat! Irlym valeij vur valignat! Kurlik vaecaesin, ariaesthyr gixustrat! Mrith Ashardalon austrat! He laid the burning dagger against the iron-hard striated wall of muscle. The blade smoldered with unholy radiance, a sickly glow that made the blood-drenched flesh look withered and necrotic. He began to whisper the words that released the marilith as he cut into Thraxata�s heart, allowing the released demon to flow into the surrounding flesh. He cut a long shallow line through the mass of tissue, the light glowing brighter and brighter all the while. KOTHARDARASTRIX AUSTRAT! IRLYM VALEIJ VUR VALIGNAT! KURLIK VAECAESIN, ARIAESTHYR GIXUSTRAT! MRITH ASHARDALON AUSTRAT! The chanting came to a sudden halt as he plunged the blade up to the hilt into Thraxata�s heart, binding the demon soul to her own. Thraxata lay among her hoard, her eyes clouded with a haze of pain. The wyrmlord among Disarion�s minions had healed her to the best of his ability, but Thraxata knew that the wound she had suffered would not heal so easily. She would bear the scar forever�and with it the power of Larash, the Lady of Blood. She felt a ripple in the Weave that signaled teleportation magic; the scent of undeath filled her nostrils. Thraxata groaned in protest. She had had enough for one day. �Leave me be, Gulthias. I must have time to recover.� She heard the flutter of robes behind her, didn�t bother to look. Even the silent movements of a master vampire were like hammers ringing in her ears. �I take it, then, that the Initiation was a success?� His voice was like silk, so unlike Disarion�s grating rasp. And whereas the dracolich-abomination stood preternaturally calm even in the midst of her bind rage, Gulthias� words carried a slight edge, some urgency that signaled the touch of madness. �Yes, Gulthias. The accuracy of your instructions was admirable.� Gulthias laughed. �This Disarion must be a fool, if he simply believes that the secrets of Ashardalon�s Disciples are lying around to be discovered like so much detritus. Only the Faithful of the Great Rogue can know the secrets of His greatness.� Thraxata sighed. Disarion was no fool, but she was in no mood to argue. Let the vampire believe what he wanted. �I am glad that you decided to join us,� Gulthias continued, patting Thraxata�s flank delicately. His fingers were cold, lifeless. She gritted her teeth. Undead were disgusting. Gulthias had been useful so far, but now she no longer needed him. Once her recovery was complete� �You are probably thinking that you have gotten what you wanted from our bargain, and can now dispose of me� She tried to stifle her surprise. �I have known many Red Wyrms in my day, Thraxata, many children of Ashardalon. Most possess his cunning, some his power. But only a few are wise enough to realize the worth of the Faithful.� Thraxata snorted, but the movement sent waves of pain up through her chest. �Worth? What more could you hope to offer me?� She braced herself for the pain, swiveling her head around to look at the vampire. Gulthias� face split into a grin, baring his long fangs. �The Prismatic Orb.� Thraxata blinked. The words meant nothing to her. Gulthias continued his ghoulish smile, whirling around with a flourish of his robe. �Oh, I assure you, it is worth your attention, despite the fact that the rest of Faer�n seems to have forgotten about it.� �A magic item then?� she guessed. �An artifact of great power. The secret of the Great Rogue�s rebirth. If you wish to follow in his footsteps, then you shall need it.� Thraxata sighed wearily. Perhaps disposing of Gulthias wouldn�t be so simple after all. He might be bluffing; the Prismatic Orb could simple be one of his flights of fancy. Then again... �And what do you want?� Gulthias began walking into the dim light of the volcanic cavern. �Oh, not much. My spies tell me that there is a giant called the Storm King who fancies himself something of a conqueror. He plans for an invasion into Deepingdale soon, supposedly to punish them for something or other.� �And?� �I want you to help him.� �Why?� Gulthias grinned in the darkness. She didn�t bother looking; she could tell somehow, without causing the pain of moving her neck, that he was grinning that diabolical smile that made her want to burn the vampire to cinders. �All in the fullness of time, my dear Thraxata... my Rogue Disciple.� |
| Home | Allies | Anthynian's Journal | Dalelands Map | Dialogues | Graveyard | House Rules | Interludes | Magic Items | Members of the Hand of Valor | Seeds of Prophecy | Spells |
 |
|