Devil's Gambit

[wangxiuming]

Endgame, Part Five

\\ This paraphrasing doesn’t do the event justice …

Countless hours, days … eternities ... passed. His body broken and clothed only in tatters, his mind clinging to what little it could, he found himself in the tattered remnants of a decrepit room. Its furnishings were but charred ruins, save for the single bed that remained intact besides his crumpled body. A door loomed across the emptiness of his enclosure, but he was too tired, too exhausted to seek flight. A window opened itself to strange luminescence, but the barrage of horrifying images that drew his sight served only to make him wretch.

The air froze around him, sending cold chills through his body, only to be met by blistering heat not moments after. There was no water to sate his parched tongue or throat.

Suddenly, the elf felt the presence of another, both vile and familiar. A rolling chuckle announced his presence, even before his form took clarity: a fiend of putrid gray flesh and impeccably combed, white hair, his toothy smile flashing menace and delight and contempt all at once.

Vazbanicus.

The Fiend's approach drew an urgency from the Elf that overwhelmed his exhaustion - his terror - and forced him upwards against the charred ruins of the wall at his back. His tongue formed words with which to drive the devil away, but his dessicated mouth saw them collapse before they could be given voice.

Vazbanicus spoke instead.

"Your ... friends are going to try and separate us. This you know. But what is it they think they can do? Cast me out? Banish me for a hundred years?" The fiend bared its sharp teeth in a distorted smile again, glistening white in stark contrast to the decay all around them. "Perhaps ... but at what cost to you, I wonder?"

"Even if your body survives my departure," the fiend continued, "... your mind will not. I will see to that. You may live, but I will leave you a broken shell. Incapable of thought. You'll spend the rest of your life in this room while your friends watch your body rot.”

Indignation surged to the forefront of the Elf’s mind, and despite his dried tongue, words burst through his cracked lips in whispered fury. “I am not powerless! I will not allow this!”

With his words came magic, poured from his hands in a deluge, launched without thought against his captor’s physical form. The blast struck true, and for a second, he thought he saw Vazbanicus’ form flutter against the air - as though the fiend was but a shadow of truth.

“Temper, temper …” came the mocking reply. “It is good to see you are not completely broken, yet … this will be much more fun that way.”

Vazbanicus leaned forward, his fingers curling into dark tendrils that began to bleed from his palms. The Elf lifted his hands to defend himself, eldritch energies already twisting around his arms, but -- too late! -- the Fiend shot his talons forward, sending the twisting energies trapped upon his hand into the Elf’s eyes, forcing them down his throat.

The Elf screamed, but it was cut short by Vazbanicus’ assault. Chortling, his body crumbled against his will, against his desire, shuddering in agony. Still, even through the excruciating pain, he caught a glimmer of hope. A Shadow, its features familiar and its smile reassuring, caught his eyes.

The Shadow stole upon the Fiend, gliding behind it without step, without breath. As it neared its target, its hands sharpened themselves into obsidian daggers, foot-long and deadly. The Shadow’s eyes locked themselves onto the Fiend’s form. Vazbanicus prepared to renew deadly assault upon his victim, oblivious to the assassin behind.

The Shadow struck. Twin blades pierced the devil’s flesh, jutting past sinew and bone to break free through Vazbanicus’ chest. The devil collapsed, gasping in shock, looking up just in time to see the Elf’s renewed magicks lance forward from point-blank range.

The blast of magic sent him backwards a step, but otherwise left him unfazed. Vazbanicus smiled. The Elf watched in horror as he pushed the shadow-blades from his own chest, then lazily struck at the Elf’s ally, sending it careening to the ground.

“Brother!”

“Did you really think that they could save you here?” Contemptuous laughter poured from the Fiend’s mouth.

The Elf felt anger surge within him, compounded and magnified by his fear, his humiliation, and his disgust. As his emotions flared, he thought he saw Vazbanicus flutter and distort, once again.

The Fiend seemed not to notice. With a flick of his hand, Vazbanicus sent the Shadow’s translucent form hissing to the bed. There, he sprawled the Shadow out as though preparing it for triage; instead, he raised a single clawed finger and drew it across the torso of the Shaow, ripping through insubstantial flesh.

The Elf screamed, “No!”

But he was helpless to stop the Fiend from shoving his hand into the Shadow’s chest, retrieving a beating heart, dripping wisps of shade and darkness rather than blood. He cradled it in his scaly palms, caressing it, squeezing it lightly. The Shadow screamed, writhing in agony as more wisps of darkness oozed from its detached organ.

“Monster! Stop -- stop this!”

“Oh, my … now isn’t that interesting?” As the devil spoke, he lifted his left palm upward; it burst into flames as he moved it slowly toward the still-beating heart. “I wonder what this would do?” Vazbanicus’ maw widened in distorted and terrifying glee as the words left him, spoken in question but not meant to receive answer.

Hatred for his captor and fear for his brother sent the Elf into motion, lunging forward to catch the Fiend’s arm with his own. The impact seemed to hold off the blazing talons from their intended target, but the arm only seemed to grow larger, stronger, more powerful, as the Elf struggled against it.

Laughter poured from the devil’s maw, mocking and insidious. “YES! FIGHT!”

Furious at being forced to his captor’s whim, but unwilling to allow further harm to come to his shadowy friend, he complied. As Vazbanicus’ strength threatened to overwhelm his own, the Elf instead releases his struggle, focusing attempt to redirect the flame’s trajectory towards its creator. The clawed hand flies straight into the Fiend’s face, setting it aflame, rousing deafening screams.

Vazbanicus staggered backward, heart falling from his gasp. The Elf seized opportunity to summon his magicks once again, this time conjuring acid-green vitriol, slamming it into the Fiend’s form. Not waiting to see if his attack had any effect, the Elf whirled back, scooping up the Shadow’s heart to return it to his friend, only to find that --

… where his ally’s features had shown terror and agony only moments before, now they were distorted, twisted, in dreadful and terrifying smile, a maw widening in impossible proportion. A mirror of their captor’s.

Fear seized the Elf’s heart, and he turned back to the Fiend; to his despair, Vazbanicus seemed entirely unharmed, his wails of pain a mere show put on to propel his twisted game.

“No … no! This isn’t right … this … can’t be -- “

Vazbanicus could not help but loose his delighted revelry in rumbling guffaws. “Just a little fun, my friend.” With a wave of his hand, the Shadow vanished. “It is just you and me here.”

[wangxiuming]

Endgame, Part Five (Continued ... )

“This … is all you will know for the rest of your days,” the devil continued. “Madness … insanity. But, I can offer you a solution. A new bargain, one that would benefit us both: Ten years, I will give you. I will power you and only rise to the surface when called. At the end of those ten years, you will give me one hundred years’ use of your body, upon which completion we will part ways … forever.”

Comprehension finally sank into his mind, burrowing deep, threatening to overwhelm his will. He felt the weight of it; the futility of this fight, the emptiness of any victory. The Elf knew that even if it was not Vazbanicus, it would be the Wall that would consume him. If not the Wall, then it would be a vengeful God. What was the point of fighting? Why should he not just … give in?

Vazbanicus’ form fluttered once again.

Images flashed through his mind: his allies, who had risked everything to see him saved, his beloved, who had stood by him against nature, when she could have abandoned him to his fate. He could not abandon them now. Not after everything they had done.

The images continued. Himself, subjugated by twin moons and the flash of a woman’s insidious smile, as twisted and malevolent as his current captor. The looming symbol of a closed fist blotting out green light. Red cloaks and dungeons of blood and stone and magic. He had broken free of them. He had escaped.

He had survived.

He knew what he had to do. His expression weary, his complexion pale and white, his form limping and exhausted, he nevertheless steeled his resolve. “One way or another, Vazbanicus … this will end. And it will end now. I am done with bargaining with you. I will meet death and madness alike, and gladly -- so long as I spend not a moment longer kowtowing to your control!”

The Fiend roared its contempt. “THEN YOU WILL BEGIN YOUR DESCENT NOW!”

“COME AT ME THEN! DO WHAT YOU WILL!”

Even as the words left his tongue, the Elf knew this time would be different. His outstretched hands brought forth his blade and his aegis. His body cloaked itself in magic armor. He lunged forward, sword in hand and aimed straight for the Fiend’s throat.

Vazbanicus hissed, his hands fluttering in the air to summon a storm of acid and frost. The Elf was forced to arc his shield-bearing arm outward, to propel himself away from the magicks with a blast of his own. Recovering, he readied another lance of vitriol -- but the Fiend’s pursuit was quick; Vazbanicus’ clawed hand seized his arm before he could unleash its gathered energies, causing them to dissipate harmlessly. With his free hand, Vazbanicus had already began its assault, launching pummeling blows laced with negative energy upon the Elf’s form.

The Elf shrugged the pain off, screaming a Word of power into the air. In seconds, his hand, his entire body had exploded outwards into that of a giant, red-scaled, flaming-winged baatezu. The momentum of his transformation threw Vazbanicus backwards, smashing his body against the wall.

“You will never defeat me, fool!” Vazbanicus screamed as he picked himself from the wreckage, bounding forward, hands twisting to summon dread spells --

Too late. Just as the true Fiend opened its mouth to invoke his dark magicks, the Elf conjured the deepest reserves of his strength, his power. He threw his now scaled and taloned hands forward, surging eldritch energy straight into Vazbanicus’ throat, pouring it deep into the Fiend’s body, a deluge of overwhelming, uncompromising power.

“NO! I WILL DESTROY YOU!”

Against the torrential onslought of eldritch magic, Vazbanicus could do naught but shudder, twitch, and collapse to the earth. Bloodied. Broken.

And then, the Elf awoke.

It was cold, and his body was sore all over … but he could feel it again. His body was his own once more. He lifted his arm, marveling at his own palm. He used his fingers to touch his face, feel his skin. His mouth tasted dryness and cracked lips, but it was his to taste.

His tormentor was not gone, not permanently; he could still sense a trace of Vazbanicus’ presence in the back of his mind. He did not know how long this freedom would last, but it did not seem to matter. He had resolve again. He had hope.

A smile spread across his face as he settled down to wait for his friends.

It felt good.

[wangxiuming]

Checkmate

He sought the darkest secrets of the man's intellect. Where memories filled with shame, and anger, and fear struggled against a mortal will, desperate to hide tokens of an almost-forgotten legacy, both from itself and from the world. Where lost loves lingered and betrayals offered greeting at every turn. On the very edge between consciousness and the soul, where definition lost meaning.

Here, he found his prize.

Two rivers of viridian stretched out before him into crescents, their beauty the equal of any form taken by Selune; they seemed as vast as oceans, and yet he held them both in his palms, tying them to his hands, twisting and knotting their currents to himself as though they were rope. Soon, they began to wrap themselves - of their own accord - around his arms, his shoulders, his body ... like asps, coiling themselves to a Master's will.

He was not done.

* * * * *

As the mental walls before Vazbanicus crumbled, he felt himself grow strong once again. Dim light poured through eyes not his own, and yet he saw all the same through them. He stood within his months-long prison, trapped by binding magicks deep in a cavernous ruin. Four figures stood before him, two familiar, two not. The Shadow, and the Interloper, filled with determination to see the Host freed. Two others joined them; one, marked by silver armor and a cloak bearing the markings of the Watcher - the other, by attire and context he determined to be magus in the Watchful’s service.

He felt his lips curve upwards in wicked smile. “How I’ve missed you, dearest of friends.”

The Shadow beckoned. “Come on out of there. I have a gift for you.”

Echoing laughter poured from his mouth at the Shadow’s gesture. “You have brought so many allies to contend with little, worthless me, Shadow. You … greatly honor me.”

“You save me the effort to enlighten you then. Now, release Archer, and let’s have a little dance. You, and the rest of us.”

The Interloper’s hands readied scrolls for invocation and the Watcher readied his shield; their movements did not go unnoticed, but the Fiend ignored them for now. “You wish to slay your friend? And after all this effort to save him ... No, I would much rather get to know these two -new- faces.”

“Mage. Why are they not separating?” came the Shadow’s inquiry, directed to the Watcher’s Pet, concern clear in his tone.

The Pet responded with annoyance. “I told you, they are being separated inside his mind. Time is needed to advance the spell.”

So … that was how he had regained control. The mages had begun a ritual to expel him from the Host’s body. From his body. He turned towards the unfamiliar figures. “What bargain did my dearest Shadow and honored Interloper strike with you two?”

“Do it already,” insisted the Shadow. “The less we have to talk to this scaly imbecile, the better.”

“We are waiting for the mental separation to be complete,” said the Pet Magus, “Or you could render the Host’s mind incomplete.’

Vazbanicus’ deep and ravenous laughter poured from his mouth once more, echoing into the cavern. They thought to ignore him? He would not be ignored.

“Come! Why not parlay with me? Have you lost your tongues?!”

The Pet continued his explanation, unabated. “We must let it run its course, and you should all pray that the host continues to fight.”

“No. You should pray that his surrender will warrant you a measure of mercy!! Mage! Knight! Have you no minds of your own? Whatever pact you have struck with these middling scoundrels can certainly be voided in favor of one with ME.”

The Watcher’s eyes made exaggerated roll on their way to considering his Pet Magus, who finally deigned to speak in callous tone to the Fiend. “ … I must ask, do you really think you are the first bound being to attempt to barter with me?”

“ … and who are you, robed one? Give me name, that I might know you and all the power that it deserves.”

The Pet’s reply came swift and arrogant. “I am the end of this chapter of your existence, and the shaper of your times to come.”

Vazbanicus cackled, delighted and amused. “Mortal creature. I will survive you all.”

“Perhaps … but you will still be of use to me for whatever time I have.”

The Watcher spoke, in clear attempt to distract from the meaning behind his Pet’s words. “Do you not recognize death when ere it comes of the eyes of Helm; the Everseeing is present in blade and shield. Pray that you are bested where neither can touch you.”

It was too late; Vazbanicus had already deciphered meaning behind proffered discourse. The Watcher and his Pet meant not to banish him back to the Hells, but to use him. The sheer audacity of such a notion aside, Vazbanicus saw clear opportunity for a new being to wrap his tendrils around. They were fools - just as his host was - to think that they could take advantage of his power and pay not any price.

He spoke not a word though, content to allow the peasants before him to think such plan was against his will, when in fact, it would serve as the perfect contingency. Instead, feeling the ritual near completion, he released his hold, and allowed his Host’s mind to reassert itself.

The Four who now bound pacts against him as rivals hastened to complete the final separation. With the others’ approval, the Pet Magus withdrew a pouch and crushed it contents, simultaneously speaking a string of words that bore down into the air, heavy and draining. A cone of magick surged forth, striking the Host’s body, causing his form to visually tear into multiple versions of himself; one screamed in agony - the other releasing mocking revelry in deep, bestial baratone.

He was free.

… but he was not done.

[wangxiuming]

Checkmate (Continued ...)

Countless hours spent within the cavern had not been wasted fruitlessly. Though when bound, he could not summon allies to his aid, unbound, he now beckoned to the deepest recesses of his power. He would put these vermin in their place.

“Above!” came the Shadow’s call, the first to notice the lithe forms of fiendish erinyes descend upon the group in vast number, striking with spell and sword alike. The Shadow melted into the darkness, inches away from the creatures’ weapons, while the Watcher charged forward, felling fiend after fiend with each of his vigilant blades. The Interloper summoned his own winged champion, a Concordant Killer, which joined the Helmite in resolute fury.

The Shadow roused the Host’s form to safety, then joined the fray, his quick daggers striking with uncanny precision and deadly grace. The Watcher’s Pet Magus conjured forth his own magicks: shimmering missiles that poured upon the Fiend’s daughters with unrelenting accuracy. Pandemonium filled the caverns, its earthen hallways soon submerged in the dying wails of fiendish beauties.

Knowing that victory would be his to claim regardless of the battle’s outcome, Vazbanicus pooled the last reserves of his strength, manifesting his incorporeal spirit into flesh. His true form: skin pallid and wrinkled, hair white as snow, a half-elf’s ears, and scarlet eyes. In his hands, a great blade materialized from nothingness, shimmering even in the dimness of the caves, leaking bright-green vitriol, audibly cutting through the air with its every movement.

Laughter poured forth from his mouth in victorious declaration.

The Watcher lunged forward, twin blades in hand, readying to strike, but he did not anticipate Vazbanicus’ deft speed in his wrinkled meat suit. The wizened fiend dodged easily, arms already invoking dread magic. The air sizzled and electrified; jolts of lightning and surges of acid poured from the ceiling indiscriminately, striking at all present. A bolt struck the Host in his chest, slamming him backwards against the cavern walls and stunning him. A second arc flew towards the Shadow, whose agile reflexes allowed him to escape unscathed, only to fly straight into the pathway of a third projectile. The force of the collision sent him flying into the ceiling, holding him there for breathless moments before its release sent his human body careening to the floor, unmoving.

Vazbanicus had no time to savor these victories; already, the Watcher rallied his strength, concentrating his attacks; they came vicious and merciless, his swords roaring through the air as they chased their target. The Fiend blocked them with his own blade; the resounding crashes of metal against metal pierced even the vengeful storm’s cacophony.

From out of the corner of his eye, Vazbanicus saw the Interloper and the Watcher’s Pet ready their own spells. Still parrying the Helmite’s attacks, he surged a blast of magic forth with a free hand. The billow of energy slammed into both arcanists, leaving the Pet Magus in a crumpled heap on the floor, and the Interloper fleeing to the shadows.

The Watcher seized opportunity to try to land terrible blow upon Vazbanicus’ now one-armed defense; the first swing was parried, but the second struck into the Fiend’s chest. Even as the sword was withdrawn, Vazbanicus had already begun healing. A wicked smile revealed dazzling white teeth, his utter indifference to the wound evident. He lunged forward, greatsword in both hands now, its curved vitriol catching the Watcher off guard, striking the Helmite in the side with preternatural strength. His victim collapsed to the ground, winded.

From behind, he heard an all-too familiar word, roared with unbound indignation. Turning, Vazbanicus witnessed the Host regain his senses, his form now that of an enormous pit fiend. Spreading its wings to their full span, the creature soared forward in eager attempt to replicate their nightmare duel, scaled claws already conjuring forth deadly acid with which to attack.

… but he was not done.

Vazbanicus darted in with blinding speed, catching both his host’s crimson arms at their wrists. With all his corporeal might, he turned the claws before him back towards their owner. He saw the pit fiend’s eyes widen in shock, as Vazbanicus’ frail, old muscles forced his opponents’ own massive limbs to twist, changing the trajectory of their conjured magicks.

He smiled, wide and mocking, tongue flicking into the air to savor the taste of victory.

Without warning, a torrent of magical missiles struck forth from unseen locations, smashing into Vazbanicus’ form. Against his will, he let out a cry of shock and pain. Had the Watcher’s Pet recovered so quickly? Another deluge of mystic energy tore him from thought, causing him to release his Host’s arms, his efforts not enough to deflect their next attack.

The magic exploded forth; for a moment, all he saw was sea of brilliant green.

He felt himself falling, his form collapsing, his blade slipping from his grasp; the strength of both assaults overwhelmed even his constitution.

Even as he fell, he did so secure in the knowledge that opportunity yet awaited him; he needed only patience to take advantage of it. The battle had been lost … but victory could yet still be his. The Watcher’s Pet Magus intended to capture him, a fate he had escaped once with the Reds, and another with the Host. These arcanists would be no different; they all believed they could force him to their will. Time after time, he proved them wrong.

He was not do--.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw familiar form approach. The Interloper! It was not the Watcher’s Pet whose magicks had laid him low; the scum sun-elf wizard had not fled as he had earlier assumed.

Vazbanicus watched, helplessly, as the Interloper withdrew a ruby of incandescent purity. With one swift motion, the sun-elf slammed it into the cavernous earth, speaking the words of a powerful incantation.

“NO!” But the voice was not his - it came from the wounded Watcher.


Shimmering energy pooled into the gem, and then flashed outward, striking Vazbanicus’ prone and fading form. Blinding white light encompassed the remnants of his vision … and then all was gone.


... it was done.

[wangxiuming]

Epilogue

He was free.

His hands, his legs, his limbs. They were his to command once again. His fingertips reached for his scarred and once-emptied eye socket, traced the faint red line that now circled his left arm. They were tokens of his trials, ones that he would not forget. Could not forget.

Even if he wanted to.

The results of the exorcism were a mess that he could barely make sense of. He would have to sort it out, eventually. There was so much to do: gratitude to be offered. Debts to be repaid. Plots behind plots to unravel.

But for now, all he wanted to do was feel the world around him. The sensation of his clothes pressed against his skin, the smell of cool sea air and the taste of fresh water. The warmth of a friend's loyalty.

Her breath against his.

He made his way to the Lighthouse, eager to land sight upon her once again. His brimming anticipation to see his beloved was great - so great, in fact, that at first he did not even notice the haunting laughter that seemed grow louder and stronger with every step he took.

His laughter, echoing in the recesses of his mind.

He struggled to push it away, and for a time it ceased. It would always return though, when he least expected it, when his focus was weakest. He could not control it, he could not halt its inevitable return.

And so he wondered ... was it really over?

... was it really done?