Birth of the Blight

Polished — 42m18s — 2023/09/30

Polished — 40m16s — 2023/11/16

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—many that even graced the royal gardens of Danya—but these were easily outdone in both quality and quantity by those he didn’t know.

Among these trees were birds. There were thousands of birds. Charms of finches, bevies of pigeons, even a dance of cranes graced the far side of a large pond. There were hawks, falcons—and although he never saw the owls, he heard them at night quite frequently. Indeed, it was an untamed wild of richness and splendor, full of vigor and fecundity.

There were giants among the animals. The wilder-elk were bigger than moose, and the spirit bears were nearly as big—and incredibly stealthy despite their conspicuous patchwork of white and black fur. Once they were noticed, the massive beasts were impossible to ignore, until they moved on—but twice now he’d been shocked to see a bear uncomfortably close. Thankfully, the beasts always moved on.

Family after family of flat-tails dammed up the rivers to create their log houses and fishing ponds. Little bears roamed the night with dark eyes and thieving paws. The slight grasses were filled with vermin, slithers, hoppers, and snails.

This was the quality of the valley when the Dreadlord found it—but it did not last. Now, nearly two hundred years later, only the strongest plants and the most foolhardy animals attempted to grow in this blighted land. Even the shrubs and stunted oak were brown, dead and dying, as their limbs sagged under the mere weight of a smattering of under-developed leaves. The few trees that remained were scraggly and tragic, and mostly hugged the corrupted streams and ponds of the valley. Only the fetid waters offered any respite from the Dreadlord’s crushing magicks.

The only animals that were about anymore were scavengers and scroungers, looking for anything that might have been chased from the bordering lands, that had come here to die, likely diseased, and often in terrible condition. When they died, as they almost always did, their corpses formed a transient oasis for the only life that really thrived in the valley: beetles, flies, mites, and other imbibers of rot and decay. Which isn’t to say that the valley was empty. There were the lumbering amalgamations of death, dross, and dirt among the waste; elementals melded with the impressive blood and earth magicks of the Dreadlord. They sat or 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. Lasitus had to call them back nightly, so they would not get lost, smashing at the verdant life that stretched from the edges of the blight. Left to their own devices, these mud golems would eventually batter themselves into nothing—though they’d create a thick line of death and destruction in their wake. Over the years, how many had he lost, especially when he first started making them?

The wilds beyond were proof that there was still resistance to the Dreadlord’s domination. Indeed, even among the blighted valley were harbingers of life tucked between the rot of logs and carcass, usually at the edges of the streams. In many places the streams were lined with a thin veneer of cottonwoods and oaks that leaned heavily into the water, in study of the life-giving liquid as it rippled and passed over their roots. These trees seemed to have their backs turned to Lasitus, as if hoping to ignore the evil that festered in the valley, persistently staring into the 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 were still bent to his purpose. The waters offered up a conundrum: the resilience of the streams were keeping Lasitus alive—but his inability to completely dominate them meant that he still aged. Unless he could conquer the streams and turn them completely to his use, he would eventually die. Indeed, 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 the only bounty of life into his valley that he harvested in several ways, for his numerous needs—but he knew there was still untapped potential. If only he could increase his harvest, one day he might be able to put off aging altogether—maybe even turn it back—and so he now concentrated his efforts on these waters as they poured downstream.

There was more to Lasitus than his frail and faltering physical form. He 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. At the edges of his blight, his despoiling step claimed thin ribbons of the virginal forest, as he 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 intoned the spells that bound the land. It took him days to circle his domain. He always needed more, and as the circle expanded so too the time it took to circle it. Yet he could only stay away from his body for so long before he had to return and go through the slow rituals that kept him as strong as it was. It’d been years since his domain had grown by more than a couple hundred feet in any given direction. The growth of the blight was slow—but grow it did.

Lasitus didn’t have to ask how long it'd been since he came to this valley. Indeed, he counted the years, months, weeks, and days, one after the next, jealous of each second that slipped away. He first came to the valley 216 years ago, at the height of summer, shortly before the refugees of Tallia arrived with Tronde and Rigel. 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 137 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—one of the few copies he had not spoiled or corrupted before. He also stole the king’s Nnak Stone, and numerous smaller treasures concerned the spellings, curses, sigils, and alchemies of the royal academy—most notably of the blood magick so popular among the ruling elite. Then he fled, so he might study in peace.

In his first century, Lasitus 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. A few of them were formidable. A few he feared. But that was all so very long ago—back when there were any men that caused him fear. Now there was only death to respect. Only death offered a challenge. Indeed, Lasitus was his own king. He had been so for so long that he could not remember the face of the old king. He was master of all he saw, and unlike other kings, he refused to die. Now he was more of a god. One day Lasitus hoped to see Oblarra wither and crumble away, taking her blasted red light with her. Then he should have quite the puzzle to solve. How was he to survive the destruction of the earth itself when it should finally die? Still, he imagined there were centuries available—if not millennia—for such ruminations…

Since the day he left, nearly 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 anyone that knew him still survive? He’d murdered the man he considered the greatest among his colleagues, and without a Nnak Stone, the king and his fops could not create the Immortal Taste.

They called it a taste because although it kept them alive, it could not make them immortal. Now that he had the Kingdom’s only Nnak Stone, those that needed the Taste were forced to look to Minist, where the Baradha had the other four Nnak Stones. At the time, they’d kept one in Umsuppa, and another in Tikatis. Was there still a third in Hof Hebrin, and the final one in Borzia? He could only speculate.

Lasitus smirked as he thought of Minist. He was quite convinced that Minist was a place where blood magick went to stagnate and fester—and rarely progress.

Not Lasitus. His talents stretched and his magick increased. Now Lasitus considered the Immortal Taste akin to pablum, thin and weak, only for those in their infancy. Not to say that the Nnak Stone didn’t have its uses. Indeed, it was his most prized possession and key to many of his most potent magicks. It was a wonder beyond wonders.

Suffering the unending cycle of birth and death, was it even possible for the Court of Danya to remember anything about the Dreadlord and his stolen magicks? He often hoped some desperate lord would uncover the old robberies and venture north with an army—that he might harvest their vigor. So far, no such thing had happened. A few of the locals might come and poke around, to scurry and scamper about the edges of the blight, only to turn home—or to die if they persisted. Of armies, there was only ever the one pursuit to deal with, even though he’d expected others, had even taken measures. He still remembered setting traps and ambushing the king’s men as they followed, all those years ago. The first attack only killed a handful of men; as he lured them through a maze of snares, poisons, and punishments. 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 talent dwindled and their number decreased, the king’s army limped along after the Dreadlord in a pitiful fashion, while he gutted them of their remaining worth. In the end, there was the most oblivious of officers and common of commoners that he could pick off at will—until they realized they had lost. Only a few score of his enemy were left when their spirit finally broke. Whatever else their faults, the king’s army was very disciplined.

The fighting lasted for weeks, maybe so long as a month. Then, one evening—for he preferred to hunt in the evenings—Lasitus discovered the remnants of the army were running south. He pursued with glee. Some got away, those that were the first to turn: the healthiest, the swiftest. Lasitus picked off the rest: the weak, the injured. He killed them slowly and savored his victory.

Once he’d destroyed the pursuit, Lasitus wandered deep into the Bunderhilt, until he came upon this valley. The ranging mountains nearly formed a complete ring of steep, high walls. He explored the wide and well watered valley, surprised to discover inhabitants—a tranquil and helpful people, of which there were not too many—and shortly after decided to make this place his home.

Back then, there were several small villages in the valley, home to a few thousand Yak natives. They were a simple people with plenty of food and water, women and wine. He spent years with them, sharing supplies, wisdom, and shelter; all while studying how he might control them. Most had weapons of hard stone, though a few had weak metal swords, made ages ago, and by people living far from this place. He came only a few years before the refugees of mighty Tallia, with their ironworks, and war-like ways—and these were some of the most backward of the Yak, living far from their brothers and sisters, still wearing clothes made from hides and bark. The only thing that truly impressed the Dreadlord was their knowledge of the forest; which was intricate, reverent, perhaps a touch obsessive. For a score of years, he studied with their elders and learned their earth magicks: ponderous, yet formidable. Indeed, it was in large part thanks to their magics that he could lock the hearts of their young men in the abominations that still roamed the valley, the mud behemoths that protected his citadel.

In the early days, before he revealed his true self, many of the locals came to revere Lasitus. He looked different in those days; his hair was dark, his eyes an electric emerald. His skin was young. Despite over a century of living, 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 or too quickly.

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

Once he had the people fully under his thumb, the Dreadlord Lasitus devised a use for these people; for their numerous strong backs, feet, and hands. 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 the work deserved. Despite what they might think, they toiled on the massive project all the same, for not working was a death sentence.

The number of the natives that fled only increased—yet now that he had a use for them Lasitus hoped to keep all that he could. He would not be finishing his citadel on his own! To this end, he devised traps and ambushes for those that were running away—then left their grisly tortured corpses where any others that hoped to escape were sure to find them. 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 best were gifted with various tainted pleasures; to hook them, to keep them clamoring for the Dreadlord’s favor. All too often, he succored them with vice.

As the natives continued their work, Lasitus wandered the valley, as he now hated being among the people. They had become petty and contemptable—though he’d taught them to be just so. Their increasing reek, constant bickering, and absolute joylessness made them intolerable. It did not matter that Lasitus had groomed—even enforced—these terrible qualities into them. He checked back at will, staying and leaving as he would, making sure construction continued, making sure the natives were not escaping in droves.

In his wanderings, Lasitus 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 her.

Chelle 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 cream, though summer saw it heavily freckled by the sun. 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 over 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 keep continued to grow. The outer walls were finished. Eventually the natives began the intricate work of his inner sanctum. This was to be the jewel of his citadel; his true home, his final study.

The inner sanctum took form and Lasitus devised an eternal roll for his aging lover, as Chelle was no longer the young beauty he had first discovered. The delicate bloom had matured and was beginning to fade 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—though there were a dozen more doors which led to dead ends set with traps. He stood Chelle in the center of the room and did the incantations as he painted 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, as it boomed and echoed off the walls. 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—a month that was very hard for the people, and also hard for Chelle, though her suffering was never physical.

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, as he ordered. 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 feeling her own end. Despite the fetid taste of the concoction, she smiled, stared, and sang 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 felt the tip of the blade. She squirmed and tried to escape. Did it really take her so long to realize she must die? He overpowered her easily enough, 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 her eyes grew faint and steeled to gray. Her spirit broke from her body, a slight blue pearl that was almost the color of her eyes. It lifted and dimmed as it rose. Lasitus whispered the words, and her essence stopped. Using the careful magicks he’d prepared and preformed at least a dozen times prior, he anchored the blue pearl of her spirit to her cold dead body once more.

Having brought her back to life, Lasitus entombed Chelle in the wall, her spirit forever locked to the decaying flesh, unable to pass the great seals he’d put at the entrance of his inner sanctum, and also at the door that led out. As long as the seals stood, she’d remain to guard him. On the rare occasion when a stranger should enter this rotunda, the lesser seals would remind her of his great betrayal. Then she should come out of the wall: murderous, vengeful, and quite capable of killing—yet another layer of security so he would not be bothered.

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 only two 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 mud elementals for that matter—their service was unblemished for nearly a hundred years.

After so much time, how was it that a minor court official managed to make it through the wastes and find his way to the great rotunda? Lasitus walked the valley in his astral form when the harem of dead women that protected his frail body called him back. This stranger begged their ghosts for an audience with their master. Lasitus called back to Chelle, to tell her that they were not to kill him. Not yet. The stranger’s words echoed through the dark of the sanctum as he beseeched the warlock to hear him out. He needed a new master and was willing to do whatever the Dreadlord might ask. He’d traveled from the far reaches of the Saot Kingdom, and he’d brought a number of precious gifts.

Returned to his body, Lasitus slowly sat up and smiled. To think that after centuries he was still remembered in the kingdom! Questions blossomed in his mind as he stretched, then crept from his study, and went to see about this unexpected visitor. Was he likely to see more?

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