Dark Times.

[Seheren]

Boot falls echo off the stone walls, a heartbeat of metal on stone. Each fall echoing a dark purpose, the force of each a threat. The figure fills much more space then his medium frame should. Often his presence is felt before his form seen. The cold feeling of fear and dread clinging to his form, and seeping out for a fair distance.

Slaves, and all manner of inhabitants of the structure, skitter out of the figures path. His hooded, armored, frame moving swiftly through the halls and twisting corridors. His single eye sweeping, searching the faces of those in his path for a weakness, or fault, worthy of his wrath. Many cower before him, the aura surrounding him dominating their will, filling them with fear.

A last sharp corner, a small flight of stairs, and his destination is seen. The candlelight of the room flickering off the dark stone into the hall. His boot falls come louder, sounding alarm to the slave within.

A gaunt man skitters about hastily, abruptly stopping his cleaning of the chamber, to cower in the corner and await the figure, who's footsteps bring him fear. The mans hands shake, and his palms sweat as he feels the hateful presence grow near.

Stepping into the room, the figure sneers, grotesque on his disfigured face. He finds the cowering slave, locking his one eyed glare on him. He scans the room, for a reason to strike the pitiful being, finding none. His hate for the slave burning brightly in his eyes.

Knowing far better then to look into the figures face, the slave keeps to his knees, eyes at the mans feet. Moving slowly forward to beg his leave, that he may escape the presence of the dangerous man. His groveling is met with a contemptuous glare, and a ornately carved plate boot to his jaw, sending the gaunt man sprawling. The impact, leaving a large gash on his cheek and lip, sending blood spraying. A spattering around the otherwise tidy chamber. The figures scowl gives way to unbridled hate, and fury, at the bleeders offense.

"Silence, Slave!" The figure demands, abruptly stopping the mans whimpering.

"Yes, Striking Hand.." The gaunt man replies "Yes, master." he adds quickly, his blood staining the front of his drab and tattered attire.

Enraged by the mans voice, the figure intones a word of power, his hand emitting a dark glow of baelful energy. He lunges forward, contact of his gauntleted hand, and the mans bare neck send the dark power coursing through the slave. Convulsing under the power, the man gasps and clings barely to consciousness. Giving the slave only seconds to recover, the man barks his order, a voice filled with hate and malice.

"Clean your filth from me, and begone, infidel!" He steps closer, looking down on the weak, prone, man. His blood stained boot inches from the slaves face. Moments later, the slave scurries from the chamber, feeling lucky to take breath.

As the last sounds of the slaves labored breath offend his ears, the figure takes his attention to several bound books, and unrolled parchments. The scripts varying, though the symbols and meanings similar. Rituals, and prayers of power, Dark power. The man intones a supplication to his Dark Lord, part of his never ending litany of servitude. Prayer completed, the figure pours over the scribbles and scrawls of the parchment, studying the runes and words with care.

After no more then ten minutes, the figure stops his study. The sound of boot falls fast approaching the chamber, his anger returning in a flash. He turns his head to see the outline of a Dark Figure nearing the door. The hateful sneer on the figures disfigured face enough to wilt a warriors resolve.

"Striking Hand Tehk, your presence is requested.." The figure says weakly, making no eye contact

[Seheren]

Verror returns to the small chamber within several hours, a flicker of relief shows behind the sickening smile coming to his twisted mouth. The grotesque expression unsettling at best. The smile sticks unwaveringly to his face as he lifts an obsidian bowl, etching of intricate symbols around the rim. He looks over the bowl, finding it undisturbed, the spell on the bowl keeping its contents, blood, fresh. He takes several scrolls, the bowl, and a brush, and makes way from the chamber.

Finding the large chamber suited for his needs, he arranges the items around him. He lifts the bone shafted brush, dipping it into the dark liquid in the bowl. Wearing only his priestly robes, he makes little noise, soft rustles as he moves his scrolls.

He studies his scrolls at length, sometimes for near an hour at a single symbol before tracing it to the chambers floor. Thick and still warm, he traces deep red lines on the floor of the chamber with the enspelled blood. Runes, encased in a great circle, large enough to hold a large beast. He works tirelessly, neither eating nor sleeping for nearly a day as his work is done, the pain in his eyes and stomach fighting his concentration with every step, a battle the pains could not win.


His lines drawn, he pours over the runes and designs for many more hours, taking only a few bites of his stale bread as respite from his task. He studies each symbol intensely, often finding no mistake, only to come back and check again.

Long hours pass, a day passes, and he completes the checking of his symbols. His disfigured face looking more gaunt in the dim light, thinned. His face like that of a corpse with dark circles under his eyes from lack of food and rest, having not slept at all, and eaten only a small loaf of stale bread in two days.

This part of his preparations complete, he unfurls a small bed roll and rests. Waking only a few hours later, he resumes his task.


Verror moves about slowly, reading his scrolls, placing blood red candles, and a large iron brazier about the chamber. Taking the same great care of their placement as was done with the symbols. Each candle, carved with a symbol of power, are adjusted and re-placed frequently. Hours pass before he finally stops, satisfied each candle in its proper place.

His tedious work done, he makes one final check of the chamber, making several minor adjustments, staring at length to keep the image set firmly into his mind. His work done, he makes his way from the chamber, shutting and barring the wooden door behind him.

He speaks several words of power, tracing symbols in the air before the door, warding the chamber from being disturbed, before turning to leave. The rare smile adorning his face does not diminish as he finds his own personal chambers, finding rest and food, before he will return to the large chamber, his dark purpose bringing him pleasure and a deep sleep...