Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-31049256-20171111145041/@comment-28358106-20171231010811

(S9/Markel)  As Markel stands, Victivius withdraws and towers before him. Thunder echoes from some unseen storm, no lightning illuminating his surroundings. It rumbles as if in answer to an unseen question, the question that no doubt lingers in the back of the old Sorcerer's mind. But then, Victivius speaks, filling every possible crevice of his consciousness, gripping his heart and freezing his bones.

'"The echoes that haunt the unseen realm are to remain under my will, and you will continue to tap them, unabated.  The wheels of my will turn when I deem.  Your hand moves not because you wish it, but because you have looked upon the Abyss, and have seen yourself thus.  You heeded there its call, and your answer was not found wanting." '

The words of praise are not hollow, but they echo of the unholy things that Markel thought he had left behind when he left the Cult. His mind races to the hidden Realm Victivius speaks of, and the connection there. But before he has time to reflect on this, the Dark Lord continues.

"The Soul Cairn must not be destroyed, and its place shall there remain.  Your work shall not be interrupted, and the quailing flesh that stands before you shall not discover it.  You will be the creator of the instrument of my wrath, unleashing upon my enemies a wretched horror for which there is no name.  They will crumble, and they will die.  But in due time..."

His hand extends, fingers splayed, twisted like a dead tree. A black miasma bolts from it, wrapping around Markel's right hand, the hand that caught the light ring earlier. A pain that tears at the edges of his very soul wracks his body, but he can feel a power surging past his wildest expectations, overtaking his own magic, drowning it, making it a disappearing speck in an abyssal ocean blacker than the petty sins of murder and hatred and malice. It is an unspeakable ocean that thunders with tidal waves of potential, typhoons raging against his mind, screaming with unimaginable voices to be unleashed upon a world that has never before seen such terror.

'"In you shall be a fraction of my power, granted you to stop any who would wreak destruction upon your work.  It will draw from me, the very thread of the Void, vast and terrible, and beholden to none other.  When done is the threat here, it shall return to me.  Do not withold its use while it yet is within you.  If the fools will not bow..." '

His voice becomes a blade in the dark.

'"...Lay their suffering upon my altar." '

There is a peal of thunder and a snap of darkness.

Markel is standing where he was before. Everything is as it was...