Quoth the Raven

The Intrigue of the Prelude

The cowl lifts but a fraction as Avarren's attention raptly locks upon the figure exiting the citadel, enough to reveal his glistening eyes, a pale yellow, touched with swirling specks of green, the slightest traces of madness tweaking the corners into a blinkless stare. A permenent, wide grin creases a corrupt face, erupting in uncontrollable, hyenaish mirth that he reflexively muffles with a billowing scarf that swallows all sound. Wrapped in a shroud of nebulous cloth, nary a trace of his body is seen, though his proportions indicate he is of smallish stature... obviously no bigger than a five year old human... were he human.

The power courses through him. Exhileratingly, maddeningly. His shoulders rock up and down in the throes of his muffled laughter as he watches the Undead Lord's manservant direct the cleanup of offal about the Citadel. The scavengers are run off, slinking back to the forest, peering on the loss of their banquet with hunger filled eyes and poignant sorrowful howls and caws.

Snorting derisively at the disgusting beasts, Avarren glides past the milling undead, unseen, unnoticed, undetectable. He pauses near the butler, a million devious plots and ploys playing through his mind, each precipitating its own laugh, before he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and moves on.

Into the very depths of the den of the Undead Lord he traverses, taking stock of the amassing troops, the sheer number of dead being raised by necromancers, the neophyte vampires lingering in the shadows awaiting the call of the dread master. Weaponry is being prepared. War looms upon the horizon. He laughs again, its just too deliciously intoxicating for him to take it all in. It draws him, like a moth to flame, he feeds upon it... the intrigue... the tense energy... the emotions of the place swirl, unseen by the inhabitants... tantalizing.

"Covetous of a title." *laugh* His weaselish voice sidles through the interior of his own mind as he shakes his head slightly. "Traitors... traitors... and more traitors in the midst." Gliding onward and ever inward, through the depths of the hall, he goes, unseen, unknown, even by the Demon Lord himself, mentally ticking off figures and statistics like an abacus.

Avarren's malicious thoughts tickle at his mind, prompting action, a plan of sorts takes form. His impromptu raid finished... he cannot help but snicker, shifting like the falling grains of sand through a crack in the wall and away, as formless as a shadow.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Lightning strikes across the sky as the small figure appears at the gates of the great castle. An ominous sign, to be certain, perhaps of wicked portents, ill meaning designs set in motion. Approaching the gates, the figure whispers in a conniving voice to the guards, "I have information for the Dark Liege." His voice grating to hear, like nails raked across slate. Supplicating himself appropriately, he hides a wide grin and muffles a laugh.

Stirs le Darke

At long last I am FREE. Free of the endless void of nothingness and eternal torment. Such delicious, chaotic torment, but upon none to visit it. Pent up and restrained, I have saved up much wrath for those that placed me hence, so very long ago. They shall all pay, far into the reaches of their descendants' inheritance. Cursed and loathed, suffering beyond the normal ken.

My claws twitch for the throbbing beat of life's last measured sounding. Mine ears long to hear the sigh of release. So much time wasted in the confines of the void. And now, so much more time to foment that chaos which screams for release.

I long for the first kill. It has been so very long. I smell blood, ichor, viscera all around. The weak so close, demanding to be culled from the herd. So close... so very, very close...

The Lunar Listener II

(Continued from D'Sarian Lore, Lunar Listener, January 25, 2005)

The smell of carrion is intoxicating, surrounding this place, the Infernal Citadel, drawing scavengers from far and wide to the bounty of easily gained sustenance. That which is not used by the Infernal is cast off in the charnal wastes, to be set upon by flocks and packs of ravenous beasts - jackels, vultures, buzzards, and even crows. These, amongst the multitude of creatures upon which I hold sway, upon whom I rely to watch the movements of the brood. That which passes before their eyes, through their ears, becomes known to me.

Upon this chilled, moonlit night, the Dark God hath come forth, atop the heights of the Citadel, surveying the view.

I have not forgotten our last encounters, the timultuous conflict which met with no resolution. He, the parody of life, the abomination of Order. An evil incarnate, swathed in regal bearing, with power to seduce, obfuscicate, and enveigle the innocent to corruption. He is everything which I am not, everything which I loathe, despise. The Darkstar, the antithesis of all I hold and define dear. He bears close observation.

Tonight he seems unsettled, staring upon the moon with vapid eyes, speaking to himself. Perhaps he has finally gone mad, a most fortuitous event should it come to pass. His speech of armies and movements is most intriguing, echoing down amongst the uncaring scavengers, whispered within the depths of my far reaching mind.

"Time and tide is on our side. The momentum swings our way. If this battle brings on Armeggedon, then so be it. In the end, ONE shall be crowned king and the undead brood shall stand by the throne at my right hand! THIS I SWEAR!!! " Darkstar bellowed to the unswayed moon, his lips curled revealing the predatory fangs of his brethren, a rabid dog on a mission, surely.

His tirade is cut short by the arrival of his manservant, who like a sheepdog, leads his errant charge back to the depths of the citadel, and out of the chill blustered night.

I sever the connection, leaving my charges to their gormandic delights, cleaning away the stain left by the undead host upon the land.

"He covets that which he may not attain." A crazed voice speaks, echoing about the simple chamber.

"What do you care if the Dark Liege removes the pale poser with but a sweep of his broadsword. Surely the thought of the Beast cut in twain will not prompt tears to thine eyes." A weasilish voice snidely whispers.

I ignore them, as I ever ignored them, my thoughts taking in the depth of meaning of all that which the Undead Lord disclosed. A grin plays across my face.

SJ 3-1-05

And the ill suffering mind produces thus. One guesses that fever fugue is good for something at the very least. The symbol of the Dark Seraph: