Jan 12 2022, 01:45 PM
A silhouette stood against the pale sky of a desert and barren land, its colors dreary and dull, monochrome ashen and shade. He was looking down upon the Empire from a vista atop the Black Tower, named for him, the Black Wolf of Verin. It was his to control, his to oversee, his to do with as he pleased, and this included any captives that found their way into the Wolf's Jaw: his own personal dungeon for savages and others of that ilk. The thought of them curled his lip. That such blights plagued them even yet!
The Wolf was clad in deep black armor that rose into points where it could—from fingers to shoulders, toes to thighs—and a stylized wolf-like helmet with a large grin of fangs. Draped about him was a long cloak with a plush collar of real fur. Beneath the openings of his helmet, one could spy his pale skin and the sharp ice blue eyes that spied back. At present, as he faced the bleak Verinen landscape, his hands were clasped behind his back and he was lost deep in thought. Behind him was a room full of waiting souls, but none dare disrupt their thinking prince.
The Black Wolf of Verin
Finally, he turned to view them, cloak twirling with an exaggerated swoosh. They were at the top of the tower in a circular room, its windows and doors barred by the soapy sheen of magical barriers. In its center shimmered the glowing circle that the witches had painted and enchanted, and now sat kneeled around at sparse intervals with some empty spaces that suggested some had been removed. Now there were seven of them, shivering and waiting and sneering as the Black Wolf stepped toward them. Heavy boots clicked against chiseled obsidian floors, mock claws scraping the shine from its polished surface. He stopped before the lifeless body of a recently culled witch who had dared defy him; a few other bodies lay pushed against the walls.
"Mmm," he hummed after a drawn breath, "Now that we have all taken a moment of reflection, let us begin anew. Your mission is the same: summon a beast for me that may feed my hunger for answers." Though his voice was deep, it did not have the growl of an elder or seasoned man; he was still young, roughly in his early twenties. Despite that, his eyes were empty of the shining wonder many young men held, empty of the life long ahead of them. He had been tempered and beaten into hardened indifference toward his fellows, and searing distaste for all others; but of witches? Their vile and wild nature disgusted him, much in the same way that of animals did, whose fur and leathers he'd sport with all the pride of an accomplished exterminator.
The guards in the room stepped back into the recesses afforded to them within the walls for safety as the circle in the room sparked to life, the remaining witches' hands outstretched over its inner ring. The prince did not fear magic like others did, however, and he remained to stare down the center of the circle through the holes in his helmet. Magic could be controlled because witches could be controlled—and he was good at control.
Clouds of dense magic erupted from the circle with pops of lightning arcing throughout. Its color changed from blue to green to, finally, pink. The bulk of the activity was a spitting aura dead center where a shadow was starting to form.
The prince clenched a fist and stepped forward more, over the body fo the dead, until the claws of his boots dared touch the magic ring. Finally, finally—! As the shape became solidified—indeed, some kind of beast was soon to be standing on the black stone before him—he could feel the rise of adrenaline in his blood, the ambition, often greedy, as was wont of his father, the truth and power of Verin blood! It was here, in the hunt and control of the witches, they would conquer Let!
With all the loudness of thunder directly bursting in one's ears, the magic ceased with a powerful force that tumbled the witches backward, but the Black Wolf remained standing as his cloak billowed back to his ankles. As the glittering smoke cleared, the darkness of a beast was soon to be realized, and for a moment, he waited for its form to clear even more—except it was just that, a cat-sized black shape.
No, it was a cat.
"What..." he began to chide the witches but paused. No. Their magic was undisputed. If his will had been this, then this is what was willed forth. No matter. He would not question it. Indeed, magic was savage and disgusting, so he would not suffer its unknowns or why it might summon itself in the shape of a cat.
"WHERE IS THE PHOENIX KNIGHT?" burst his voice as he stepped forward again, into the circle, towering over the tiny creature who had been thrust forth onto the surface of the moon of which she lived, where the air was thin and smelled of blood and smoke.
The Wolf was clad in deep black armor that rose into points where it could—from fingers to shoulders, toes to thighs—and a stylized wolf-like helmet with a large grin of fangs. Draped about him was a long cloak with a plush collar of real fur. Beneath the openings of his helmet, one could spy his pale skin and the sharp ice blue eyes that spied back. At present, as he faced the bleak Verinen landscape, his hands were clasped behind his back and he was lost deep in thought. Behind him was a room full of waiting souls, but none dare disrupt their thinking prince.
The Black Wolf of Verin
Finally, he turned to view them, cloak twirling with an exaggerated swoosh. They were at the top of the tower in a circular room, its windows and doors barred by the soapy sheen of magical barriers. In its center shimmered the glowing circle that the witches had painted and enchanted, and now sat kneeled around at sparse intervals with some empty spaces that suggested some had been removed. Now there were seven of them, shivering and waiting and sneering as the Black Wolf stepped toward them. Heavy boots clicked against chiseled obsidian floors, mock claws scraping the shine from its polished surface. He stopped before the lifeless body of a recently culled witch who had dared defy him; a few other bodies lay pushed against the walls.
"Mmm," he hummed after a drawn breath, "Now that we have all taken a moment of reflection, let us begin anew. Your mission is the same: summon a beast for me that may feed my hunger for answers." Though his voice was deep, it did not have the growl of an elder or seasoned man; he was still young, roughly in his early twenties. Despite that, his eyes were empty of the shining wonder many young men held, empty of the life long ahead of them. He had been tempered and beaten into hardened indifference toward his fellows, and searing distaste for all others; but of witches? Their vile and wild nature disgusted him, much in the same way that of animals did, whose fur and leathers he'd sport with all the pride of an accomplished exterminator.
The guards in the room stepped back into the recesses afforded to them within the walls for safety as the circle in the room sparked to life, the remaining witches' hands outstretched over its inner ring. The prince did not fear magic like others did, however, and he remained to stare down the center of the circle through the holes in his helmet. Magic could be controlled because witches could be controlled—and he was good at control.
Clouds of dense magic erupted from the circle with pops of lightning arcing throughout. Its color changed from blue to green to, finally, pink. The bulk of the activity was a spitting aura dead center where a shadow was starting to form.
The prince clenched a fist and stepped forward more, over the body fo the dead, until the claws of his boots dared touch the magic ring. Finally, finally—! As the shape became solidified—indeed, some kind of beast was soon to be standing on the black stone before him—he could feel the rise of adrenaline in his blood, the ambition, often greedy, as was wont of his father, the truth and power of Verin blood! It was here, in the hunt and control of the witches, they would conquer Let!
With all the loudness of thunder directly bursting in one's ears, the magic ceased with a powerful force that tumbled the witches backward, but the Black Wolf remained standing as his cloak billowed back to his ankles. As the glittering smoke cleared, the darkness of a beast was soon to be realized, and for a moment, he waited for its form to clear even more—except it was just that, a cat-sized black shape.
No, it was a cat.
"What..." he began to chide the witches but paused. No. Their magic was undisputed. If his will had been this, then this is what was willed forth. No matter. He would not question it. Indeed, magic was savage and disgusting, so he would not suffer its unknowns or why it might summon itself in the shape of a cat.
"WHERE IS THE PHOENIX KNIGHT?" burst his voice as he stepped forward again, into the circle, towering over the tiny creature who had been thrust forth onto the surface of the moon of which she lived, where the air was thin and smelled of blood and smoke.
@Wilder