What Makes a King? (Final Breath of the Sanguineous Druid)
The leathery man doubles over in a hacking, wheezing laughter. It crashes off every rime-slick surface like frothy waves beating against an unassailable cliff. Each cackle meets the last in a rhythmic, lyrical round, echoes, meeting echoes, meeting echoes.
The robe that graces his shoulders is thick with grease and grime. Once, perhaps, pristine white and blossoming with a bright, yellow peony, it is now grey and black and brown. The stains of sweat thick and evident across its pits and tracing a long, triangular peak down its front and back.
His foot snaps forwards, catching you by surprise in both its speed and strength. Your feet leave the floor, air rushes past your ears, and your back cracks against the base of the stairs. Pain lances down your every limb, and the man, the thing, stalks down the frozen flight towards you.
His hand rolls in a flourish by his ankle and he plucks up the lolling head of the Red Jester. Its weight strains against his iron grip, its mass dangling a half foot below, bound to his claw-like fingers by a clutch of long strands of its hair. The Jester’s neck bounces against every step and landing along the descent until at last it meets your boot, your foot still quivering inside, trying vainly to shift even an inch. Your arms and legs are just as helpless. Something in your back had shattered and while pain still wracked your limbs and the cold still seeped in through every pore, they would not yield to your will, flapping uselessly with every strained attempt.
“Thing, it is. Thing, it will be. Until the Not and Never King calls-”
Hefting back his shoulder, the beastly creature brings down the Jester’s skull to meet your own. Again and again. Your nose sunders first, and then your lips burst open. Your neck cracks along with the ice you lay upon and the back of your skull. The sharp pain suddenly relieves you of the roaring ache through your limbs, but reprieve is horridly brief as the silence of your arms and legs and ribs, like a void, draws in the searing fire lancing across your face and head. That single point shining in endless darkness becomes the brightest and cruelest star.
“-it will lay with Things of before, Things of after. Until the King calls.”
The rime and ice shatter with the final crash of Jester brow meeting yours. You are dead, you are sure, but even this is not relief. Your body sinks backwards, slipping from its perch and diving deep into the inky-black waters beneath. Your eyes still stare in resentful wrath, watching the man slowly shrink above you, so distant now, and unreachable. The Jester’s head sinks past your own and a clack of bone meeting bone tells you it found its final resting place. Your own body and head settling amongst the bones and skulls of hundreds others like yourself. Bearded and wan from decades of aquatic entombment. This underwater sepulchre groans with the wail of generations. Enough, enough. Call us, King. Call us. Call us.
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Ahead of you rises a great cavern. Its walls and ceiling are slick with rime. Light reflects off of every surface, becoming more twisted and warped the further into the cavern it travels. Your boots echo with every step, and from somewhere deep within, something sighs.
Your legs move and you stagger forwards, the chill and the hunger rattle your very marrow, and yet you must press on. Hours, maybe days, of lethargically slumping from one stride to the next finally brings you to a massive hall of cascading stairs and altars. Braziers, cold and dark as the mountain peaks flank every feature, long decayed corpses litter the floor and crunch under your heavy footsteps. The rear of the hall calls to you, and you see an enormous throne of black iron. Seated in the king’s haughty height, is a thin, leathery man of hoary skin, shrivelled and bald.
By the time you make it to the great, black throne, your curiosity has long since perished, and become instead, annoyance. The sheer size of this place. Seeing the leathery man sitting there, you click your tongue against your teeth. He speaks, and you let out a low growl.
The leathery man doubles over in a hacking, wheezing cough. It crashes off every rime-slick surface like frothy waves beating against an unassailable cliff. Each snort meets the last in a rhythmic, lyrical round, echoes, meeting echoes, meeting echoes.
The scraps of cloth that grace his shoulders end barely an inch from the collar. Whatever it may have been, now long since atrophied in the cold and dark cavern, leaving him bereft of even the simplest modesty. He slumps back into his throne, appearing all the world like an ornery thistle defiantly clinging to the stallion’s flank. He moans weakly, words barely forming.
“So… the cur… Moribund… cave… no escape… The Lover… I… I… resist…?”
If it lacks the strength, or will, you are not sure, but it lies before you, defenceless and weak, but with a pounding heart of black sludge. Your stomach growls, a beast all its own, it demands to be fed and your hand already reaches out to clutch the thrumming twist of meat with your fist.
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… Isolation… A death most ignoble. Lacking glory, lacking purpose, lacking meaning. Alone in the darkness. So far removed, it hangs in a void. But in isolation, like the void, even the faintest anything is… exceptional.
“Who… eats… who…?” You strain to be heard, but your words never mattered. Not to the man with his hand upon your heart, not to anyone, not to Her. A useless man, lord of his domain, but Tyrant of nothing.
She is there, then, at that moment. The woman from your dreams, your lonely hallucinations. Beautiful, but serene and cold. Her Raiment clings tightly to her body and leaves nothing to the imagination. A veil alights her face, pitch black lips and the stark wells of her eyes the only discernible features. You had received all you asked for and more, but it was still, ultimately, nothing. And she stands there, behind your assailant, the latest in seven centuries of hunters come to devour your power. And she weeps for you. Only dry tears, eyes long since turned to glass with nothing left to shed, reveling in the moment of epiphany, but pained to her core that it had to be this way. This awful way. How else could you see? How else could anyone, see?
But here, now, a change. She holds out her hand towards you. Would you accept the Oblivion she offered? And end to the suffering, but for only one… small… task… first…