Chelle

Partially reworked… got as far as the introduction of Grim’dron, but I have to go to bed now, so I can work in the morning — 1h35m39s — 2020/10/08

Polished the first half. Going to get tacos — 50m35s — 2020/10/10

Polished almost to Grim’dron… I’ll get there soon — 43m04s — 2020/10/11

Polished to Chelle. I feel like the first part is getting pretty slick — 1h38m27s — 2020/10/11

Polished to where the old king sends his army… gotta go to work— 14m23s — 2020/10/13

Polished to Grim’dron. Tomorrow I’ll finish the chapter — 48m07s — 2020/10/14

Polished to Grim’dron once again. Its getting silky and I like it more and more — 1h44m25s — 2020/10/16

Finally made it the whole way through. I chopped off a large segment at the end. It was all about Grim’drom and was not impressive or important — 1h29m25s — 2020/10/20

Lasitus found the valley in the middle of summer, lush with life. The mountains were painted with trees, both familiar and strange. He noted a wide range of flowers, some that even graced royal gardens, but these were easily outdone in both quality and quantity by those he didn’t know. Charms of finches, bevies of pigeons, even a dance of cranes graced the sky. There were hawks, falcons, and although he never saw the owls, he heard them quite frequently.

It was an untamed wild of richness and splendor, full of vigor and fecundity. And there were giants among the animals. The wilderelk which were as large as horses. The spirit bears were even bigger, and strangely stealthy with their conspicuous white patchwork fur. Once they were noticed, the massive beasts were impossible to lose, until they moved on. Thankfully, they always moved on. Family after family of flat-tails dammed up the rivers to create their log houses and fishing pools. Little bears roamed the night with dark eyes and thieving paws. The slight grasses were filled with vermin, slithers, hoppers, and snails.

That is how the Dreadlord found it—but it did not last. Now, only the strongest plants and the most foolhardy animals attempted to grow in his blighted valley. Even the shrubs and stunted oak were brown, dead and dying—their limbs sagged under the mere weight of leaves. The few trees that remained were mostly bare, scraggly, and tragic. The few animals about were just the occasional scrounger or loner, chased from the bordering lands, likely diseased, and always in terrible condition. When they died, as they almost always did, their corpses formed a transient oasis for the only life that now thrived in the valley; beetles, flies, mites, and other imbibers of rot and decay.

There were also the lumbering amalgamations of death, dross, and dirt among the waste; elementals melded with the impressive blood and earth magicks of the Dreadlord. They shambled about in a thoughtless manner—until they observed the trespass of something living. Then they became dauntless and formidable hulks, bent on death. All too often, they drifted to the edge of the blight, then charged into the bordering wilds, thrashing about the brush after rabbits and sparrows. Nightly, the Dreadlord called them back to the wastes, so they would not get lost in the wilds, smashing at the copious and verdant life that stretched on seemingly forever.

The wilds beyond; proof that there was still resistance to the Dreadlord’s domination. Indeed, even among the blighted valley were harbingers of life, at the edges of the streams. In many places the streams were lined with a thin veneer of aspens and oaks that leaned heavily into the water, in study of the rippling liquid as it passed over their roots. They seemed to have their backs turned to Lasitus, as if hoping to ignore the evil that festered in the valley, persistently staring into the fish laden water. The streams all branched together and formed a fan of thin green fingers overlaying the dusty wasteland. Despite their resistance to the Dreadlord’s dominance, the thin waters of the valley recognized his prowess. As might any petulant subject, they offered up a conundrum: the resilience of the streams were keeping Lasitus alive—but his inability to dominate was forcing him to age. Unless he could conquer the streams and turn them to his use, he would eventually die. His bones were old, lacking the muscle of years gone by. His skin was sallow with dark growing splotches. His posture was slumping, strangely twisted, and often quite uncomfortable.

The water of the streams spilled before him, implacable; proof that nature is not nearly as fragile or malleable as she might appear. Despite his many years, there were numerous aspects of the natural world that Lasitus could not yet fathom. The various streams brought a bounty of life into his valley that he harvested in several ways, for his numerous needs—but he knew there was untapped potential. If he continued to increase his harvest, he hoped to one day put off aging altogether—and so he now concentrated his efforts downstream.

Despite his distressing physical state, the Dreadlord wandered about the valley, late at night, all too happy there were no native eyes to witness the fall of his once beautiful form. At the edges of his blight, his despoiling step claimed thin ribbons of the virginal forest, as he picked and stripped the fine ingredients of blood and spoil that fueled his intricate blend of earth and death magick. He muttered his curses, verse after ever shifting verse, his territory slowly growing with each twisted footfall as he muttered the spells that bound the land. He always needed more—and now his domain was spilling out of the ring of mountains and into the forests beyond.

At dawn, dusk, and during the day, Lasitus often left his body in the inner sanctum of his keep, where it might rest. At these times he stalked the valley in his astral form, more than capable of defending his territory, even as a mere phantom. He didn’t have to ask how long it'd been since he came to this valley. He’d counted the years, months, weeks, and days, one after the next; jealous that each should slip away. He first came to the valley 361 years ago, at the height of summer. It’d been so long that the old life—indeed the old lives—were in many parts faded.

Still, the Dreadlord remembered the highlights. He was 32 when he committed the crimes that forced him to flee Danya for the wilds of the far away Bunderhilt Mountains. He poisoned a guard and murdered one of his teachers that he might steal rare copies of the Abr, Acad, and Ab'ra Scriptures. He also stole a Nnak Stone of the old Tallium Empire, and numerous other treasures concerning the spellings, sigils, alchemys, and transmutations of the blood magick so popular among the ruling elite of the kingdom. Then he fled, so he might study in peace.

The senile King of Danya must not have cared to much for the return of these treasures, as he only sent an army of a thousand men to apprehend the warlock. Thrice, the army engaged Lasitus, and thrice he turned them back. He proved to be more than a match for mere knights and hedge wizards—though the sheer number of his adversary did prove a touch difficult. He'd learned well under his parochial teachers—whom were all too often little more than snide charlatans and confidence men, looking to conceal more than they revealed. But Lasitus was a quick judge of who might help him, and to what degree. Some of them taught him great lessons—and some he taught great lessons.

But that was all so very long ago. Now, Lasitus was his own king, and had been for so long that he could not remember the face of the king before. He was master of all he saw, and unlike other kings, he refused to die. Now he was more of a god. Indeed, he hoped to one day see Oblarra wither and crumble away; then suspected he’d have quite the puzzle to solve when the sun and the very earth itself finally passed from the universe. He felt he still had a number of centuries to ruminate on such issues.

Over a dozen generations had come and gone among the courts of Danya. He wondered if they remembered him at all. He imagined he was just a name; a thief that managed to escape with a few of the king's curiosities. Did any that knew still survive? He’d killed the man he considered the greatest among his colleagues, and without a Nnak Stone, they could not create the Immortal Taste, as it was secretly known.

They called it only a taste because although it kept them alive, it could not make them immortal. Now, with his talents stretched and his magick increased, Lasitus considered the Immortal Taste akin to pablum—but the Nnak Stone still had its uses. It made his vision so much greater—though he could not see all the way to the knigdom.

What could the others possibly remember? He often hoped some desperate lord would uncover the old robberies and venture north. So far, he had not been so lucky. There was only ever the one army to deal with, even though he’d expected others. He still remembered setting traps and ambushing the king’s men as they followed. The first attack only killed a handful of men, even though he lured them through a maze of traps. There were a couple skin-walkers among his pursuers that managed to cause trouble, though they could not bring him down. A handful of wizards also proved difficult to defeat—though he managed them all eventually. Even several of the fighting men were hard to kill—but most of the army crumbled under the slightest pressure. As their number decreased and the remaining talent dwindled, the king’s army limped along after the Dreadlord, in pitiful fashion; while he gutted them completely of their talent. In the end, it was just the most common of commoners and a few of the most inept and obvious of officers. He picked them off at will.

Only a few score of his enemy were left when their spirits finally broke. One evening—for he preferred hunt in the evenings—Lasitus discovered the remnants of the army were running south. Some got away, those that were the first to turn; the healthiest, the swiftest. Lasitus picked off the rest; the weak, the slow, the injured. He often killed them slowly, wanting to savor his victory.

Once his pursuit was gone, he wandered deep into the Bunderhilt, until he came upon this valley. The ranging mountains nearly formed a complete ring of steep, high walls. He decided to make this valley his new home; then, as he explored the wide and well watered place, he discovered inhabitants. There were several small villages, home to a few thousand natives. They were a simple people with plenty of food and water, women and wine. He spent years with them; studying their temperament, sharing supplies, wisdom, and shelter. Most had weapons of hard stone, though a few had weak metal swords, made ages ago, and by people living far from this place. Their clothes were made from hides and bark. The only thing that impressed the Dreadlord was their knowledge of the forest; which was intricate, reverent, and often obsessive. For a a score of years, he studied with their elders and learned their earthy magick.

Many of the locals came to revere Lasitus. He looked different in those days; his hair was dark, his eyes an electric hazel-green. His skin was young. He stood strong and as tall as any of them. Many among the natives considered him handsome and as the decades passed, they wondered that he aged so slowly. Some desired such powers. Some became sycophants as the Dreadlord doled out small magicks, often tempered with errors, so they might not learn too much too quickly.

The murders started slowly, but grew until they eventually became too much to cover up. For this, some among the natives challenged his rule. One, two, or even a dozen of them might stand against him—but it did not matter. None was his match with magick or metal. Several times the Dreadlord was even ambushed. He lost a number of faithful servants, and was even injured on a couple occasions—though he eventually overcame them all. He put down these small uprisings in a brutal fashion, with wives and children often suffering for the acts of their husbands and fathers. Eventually, the insurrections ended, and the people of the valley accepted their subjugation.

Fully under his thumb, the Dreadlord devised another use for these people; for their numerous strong hands, feet, and backs. With carrot and stick he persuaded the natives to build his keep. They were his laborers; some even willing at the start—though many became lethargic and resentful as they realized their compensation would always be so much less than their work. Still, they toiled on the massive project, for not working was a death sentence.

Some of the natives fled—yet Lasitus hoped to keep them, to finish his castle—so he caught a number of those that hoped to escape, butchered them, and left their grisly tortured corpses where those that fled were sure to find them. Some continued on anyway, to be waylaid by traps, and devoured by the wilderness. Others were too keen on living, and so they returned to the valley and toiled under the whip of the Dreadlord’s enforcers.

Over time, some of the natives became careful craftsmen. Long hours, repetitive labor, and a dauntless master taught them their business. Those that served well were gifted various tainted pleasures, to hook them, to keep them clamoring for the Dreadlord’s rewards. As the natives continued their work, Lasitus wandered the valley, as he now hated being among the people. Their increasing reek, constant bickering, and absolute joylessness made them intolerable—even if Lasitus had groomed and enforced these terrible qualities upon them.

He checked back at will, staying and leaving as he would, making sure construction continued, making sure the natives were not escaping once more. In his wanderings, he met Chelle. She was young at the time, free and wild, as few still were in the valley. She was old enough to marry, perhaps—and then, perhaps not. Lasitus didn’t care. He would have this girl, like so many others before. She was far from the first he took, and nowhere near the last, but she was singular among the others. He often wondered if she did not practice some subtle forms of her own witchery against him—though he was never able to catch her doing anything that he considered untoward.

Yes, he remembered Chelle as being quite separate from the rest; her eyes were silver blue and sparkled with mirth. Her blonde hair rippled like the shallows of the stream. Her skin was tan and heavily freckled. Although none of her attributes were unique among her people, she wore them better than most. She was witty. Above all, she had a mysterious influence on the Dreadlord. She was often able to calm his fury, to intercede when he felt like punishing some ineptitude. She was a balm to her beleaguered people.

Lasitus allowed Chelle to do as she wished; so long as she didn’t get in the way of his study, so long as she shared his bed on cold nights, and so long as her kind presence encouraged the hard work of her idiot people. Years passed. The outer walls were finished. The keep continued to grow. Eventually the natives began the intricate work of his inner sanctum. This was to be the jewel of his castle; his true home, his final study.

The inner sanctum took form and Lasitus devised an eternal roll for his aging lover. She was no longer young. The delicate bloom had matured, hardened, and all but faded from her; so he summoned her to the great rotunda of his sanctum, a giant circular room with a dozen alcoves. There was only one way out, and only one way further in. He stood Chelle in the center of the room and did the incantations as he painted about her the sigils he would need to lock her soul forever in this place. She smiled as he did this, adding her own words—a song he’d never heard before, bright and lively. She dropped flowers about the floor and sprinkled her own tinctures, though she was careful that none of her silliness should touch the great work of her master; a thing that might spoil his spells, and thus make him irate. Once before she had disrupted the sacred sigils that powered his magick. Lasitus did not beat her, as that might spoil her perfect beauty. Instead, he forced her to watch as he beat and crippled a child. He made it known that the next time she disrupted his magick, she would have to watch him kill. After that, it took him almost a month to spread her legs.

Chelle was beautiful, and as smart as any of these idiot savages, but she was still dumb enough to gather the herbs that Lasitus would spoil and use in her eternal damnation. She certainly drank of the tincture he’d prepared without qualm, simply putting it to her lips and downing the mixture. She could not possibly know what it was meant to do, or she would not have drunk it at all. Either that, or she was finally given to death, to feel her own end. Despite the fetid taste of the concoction, she smiled and stared as she continued to stand in the middle of the foyer.

Lasitus felt a pang. Was it conscience? Was it love? The sensation was strange; a mix of longing and loss, something he was quite unprepared to endure. Yet the moment came, and he wrapped Chelle in his arms, his chest to her back—then stuck a slow knife between her ribs. Chelle struggled of course, as soon as she saw the blade. Did it really take her so long to realize she must die? He overpowered her easily, and despite her screams, the others knew not to interfere. The shrieks and panting seemed to go on forever as he slowly twisted the knife deeper and deeper. He was meticulous about it so he might be sure of the exact moment she died. Finally, Chelle gasped and rattled as the silver blue of her eyes steeled to gray and grew faint. Her spirit broke from her body and started for the void. He whispered the words, and her essence was anchored to her cold dead body once more. He entombed her in the wall, her spirit forever locked to the decaying flesh, unable to pass the great seal he’d put at the entrance of his inner sanctum. As long as the seals stood, she’d remain to guard him. On the few occasions when a stranger entered this rotunda, the lesser seals reminded her of his great betrayal, and she came out of the wall, murderous and vengeful, quite capable of her own killing.

Despite frequent cullings, the population of the valley continued to rise. Once the keep was finished, Lasitus decided the natives took more time to attend than he could allow. He was still aging and needed time for his study, to fight the decay of his own flesh. He shuffled through his materials and found the summoning he’d once done to bring forth a demon from the abyss—but this time he would not pull one as great as Khinsae. Instead, he brought forth a minor imp that he hoped would prove too much for this maligned and broken people. Thus, Grim’dron came into the valley.

Grim’dron stood a few feet tall, but he had the fires of hell—not to mention the formidable powers of Lasitus—behind him. Together, they slaughtered the survivors wholesale, then made elementals of their bones and the blood soaked soil.

Although the Dreadlord was not fond of the imp, or the elementals, they service was unblemished for nearly a hundred years. Then a lowly court clerk snuck through the valley, scaled the outer wall, then scurried into the great rotunda of his inner sanctum, and finally begged for an audience. He beseeched the warlock to hear him out. He needed a new master and was willing to do whatever the Dreadlord might ask. The voice of the stranger echoed high into the keep, and as he slowly sat up, Lasitus smiled. to think that after all these years, he was still remembered in the kingdom.