Chapter Fourteen, Waning of the World

Dawncrest 10th, 19th year of the Aeon of Drakkon, Felhenge Hill

A befouling mist, spawned of stillborn spring, rolled in from the hillside. Their company pressed on in that fog, spewed over the world, tainted by the flourish of rising eclipse. Few was their throng leading to the Summit. Drakkon kept the bulk of their host at bay, waiting below the ridge to stand for his signal. Not wanting to retread the steps to tyranny by simply marching up the Summit. Yet the obstinate obscurity over the central hill waxed his folly. For the moon’s carmine rays did more to mask the way, shifting its coat more than penetrating it. What sign could any see from below save the pregnancy of ill omens gestating in the sky.

Stones dragged Drakkon’s gut. Dread splashed where it pooled there, warring with his resolve. With every breath he felt his lungs running shorter. Felhenge’s breadth scared off all else from its shadow. Its peak careened the course. Vision tunneled towards that hill. The pillars atop, stark lures to stake his summons before world’s court. This Henge to be where is fate and worth are put on trial. Before those he once called subjects, to be his judges & jury. Could he confess the full picture of his crimes, of how pathetic he & his imperium truly was?

He pulled his gaze from misty snares of death-thoughts to gawk at Corinna. Her presence, even when under ashen spell, restated to him that there were more hearts on the scales of judgement than his. Yet she was still so far from his heart even as she strode by his side. The orbits they spun seemed from that glance to be worlds apart, divided on a more fundamental layer than the plane of appearances. Seeking source of confidence, some validation, he found no such comfort in his Lady’s distant glare. That yawning wound between them, never fully sewn though stitched over to heal. Leaving an awkward gulf between these wayward ships, exchanging flares in the night before being swept to their drifting course. A couple, only in name & for the presentation to the public. No remnants of tender affection to be twined together, they walked on in an unspoken stupor of love’s decay and the tethers of resentment, not fully forgiven for how far he had driven the deepening darkness between them.

Though his desire for her still burned, yearning taunted as singing coals, knowing he could never win her heart back over to his. That chance perished before him. She’d allowed him in only in a sundering second of mutual desperation, a slip that shamed them both. That well of trust had dried up. Longing, tarnished by ignominy of their past, brief, embrace. She’d but succumbed to passing passion to let him play the lover one last time before signing him off from the part, casting him off from the stage of her life still shining light without him.

Corinna’s whisper widened this opaque gulf, affirming aloof tread. “Might I remain with the sentinels below? The Sight ov spirits shows me only vile effigies shall glow upon that ridge. Those stones will cut as steel to imprison the hapless court till they are bled beneath the eye of wrothful Selene. The goddess of the moon is ever watchful over the nights and thus she knows us for our worst sins. I cannot face her ire so high up and naked to the spirits already!”

Fog shaded his sigh. Hid his expectation of her reticence. Grimly he humored her. “Let this veil then see you safe. Enclosed in vapors that shall seal off judgements of moons and mortals.” Her departure could be glimpsed only sparsely through the brisk red rays beginning to illume the fog wall about the druid mounds. Yet the remembrance of her, this vision beyond current abandonment, would be then as a guide for his ghost to seek sacrifice worthy of her soul.

Making the ascent to Felhenge’s Summit, embers of a lurking fire beat beneath breast of longing. Propelled by this need to be more than – to be freed from – this harrowed husk.

My passing into course of the Hels, that is what shall earn them a place in the heavens. I am charged by Malderath’s whim alone: a feast for her under-fields of rot made fertile to reclaim Elderath’s forlorn fertility from these bones. That my blood soak the rains and, through storm, summon better seasons to follow, full of harvest. Let plagues & curses lie with me. To stop the flinging of daggers at fellows and brothers. So much done in my name must be unveiled, yet must I pretend awhile longer, pose as lord onto to abdicate for their redoubled sovereignty? For one last evening of pomp and pretension, if only to show them the way past my burial.

Shadows arose from the nether ahead, where the veil flashed fleeting illumination. Night-Gaunts & Dusk-Fiends hovering, suspended with cloaked shapes lining barely human figures. Beacons were alit ahead, and the shades illumed, revealed to be no accursed phantoms but sages of the Ty-Drasil. They spoke with the cold breath of the night winds, their voices (near in unison) emerging from beneath their hooded faces. “Praise be upon you, lost lord. The Summit is called and awaits only your presence. Please let us guide your procession with proper accord.”

Drakkon nodded at their ushering on, slightly unnerved by the readiness with which they welcomed him. He began to step towards them when the third among the sages enlarged his posture, blocking his path though not without courtesy in his approach. “I must ask you to leave your steel at the gate, per request of Elder Keeper & High Pontiff Albrecht. This is a sacred site, the peace must be observed for the safety of all in attendance, even those secular rulers. I pray you understand these reasons, Lord… I merely ask you not allow your men to carry no sword, steel nor spear beyond the pillars of Felhenge for fear of what bloodshed would be spilt, what with so many rivals sharing the space beneath this sundering moon.”

Drakkon gave the reluctant sign, to humor this request. His men, disorientated & dreary, withdrew their weapons and presented them, tentatively over to the sentinels that manifested around the sages. Though he gave an intense glint to a couple of his party, those with cleverer means of keeping some safety blades & bludgeons hidden on hand. He held tight to his obsidian blade, which reflected the lunacy from the heavens on its surface. “I will however reserve the right to withhold my ceremonial blade, for this is my Rite ov Athame. My acclaim to the Summit is ordained above Albrecht’s word.” He pushed past the pale, baffled sage to ascend the torturous steps. “I will not shirk the past which stains this sword. Nor do I seek to wet it further. Let me keep it. Ye shall have plenty of awful angles by which to assail me with aspersions.”

The dense clouds ahead disperse for shining flames, spotted atop the winding path. Fresh torches surround the scene, breaking up the mire. Colors of crimson, black & gold, laden with the serpent sigil could be gleaned; warriors of astral asp encircling their humble flock. Rising from the mournful gloom, a towering figure cut faces of dark by beacon. – all proud in their countenance, smelling victory. “By order of Grand Vizier & Arch-Druid, Abraxas, the eternal eminence of Vizzarion incarnate, you will relent all notions of hostility toward this assembly.” The crooked crowing of Albrecht scraped their ears. “& by my whim as Keeper and Pontiff of Ty-Drasil. We are to take you to the high hill – in peace & safety - for your trial this fateful evening. Truly all the heads of this world have gathered to witness its waning, your death will signify the dawning of the new order. Yet I fear you’ve too many in attendance!”

Instinctually, at the sound of an agonized grunt and the penetration of bare flesh by a blade, Drakkon leapt into the miasma with meteorite unsheathed. As the pontiff’s blood-guards lunged to cull the tag-alongs he brought his black edge to their master’s throat. This sanctified sage & Keeper squeaked as a weasel. Writhed with fear as the sharp obsidian traced the line of his neck. He signaled his men to halt, and the skirmish ceased. “Albrecht, if you value your ‘most high’ head as much your many titles then you will allow us to move on. Honor the peace ye claim to herald without your ilk giving slaughter. Else I will ensure the brevity of your pitiable life.” The threat whispered coldly in the craven’s ear.

Albrecht spat slime. His demeanor shifting fickly between noxious ire and soul terror. “Know I betrayed neither god nor man, in you. For thou art antithesis of both. I upkeep the oath to my blood - ov Abraxas. Just as thou art but bastard ov mad bear, born rabid. Be eaten by the gnawing justice ov the Dread Serpent’s flame. Quartered and exposed as mortal before a loud following. Be sacrificed upon the altar of Vizzarion’s rebirth! Tomorrow an everlasting reign shall be borne, but thine eyes will be melted from thy skull and unable to catch a glimpse of our glimmering dawn!”

The carrion-fiend cackled a meek farce but was unable to affect any impression over the one he aimed it at. Drakkon tightened his grip on the coward’s neck, cracked his laughter off. With one contraction that mocking mania fell to whimpers. His guardsmen moved for sheepish lunge, but Albrecht relented, waving them off. Though their glares were mutually sharpened, most of the steel remained sheathed as they the great council waiting on them. Before the snake could hiss out any ill commands that ceremonial relic kept his breath at bay. This sword, to ensure that the ample tips of the others were not so eager. Though he nearly dropped this negotiating tool when his jaw drooped in awe at the sight atop the mount.

Massive councils from the tribes assembled in their proudest attire, encircled within the ancient pillars about the hill, jutting up to the heavens. Most of the faces there were painted grim by the brush of cruel circumstance. A faint glow emanated from a nascent pyre and a throng of torch bearers centered about the stones, which revealed on the horizon the visage of Aris Abraxas poised on the stone throne seated beneath the towering sculpture of the sword that stretched high above all their heads. He wore an elaborate gown of black, gold & crimson that reflected the sheen of the moonlight and a circlet designed in the shape of a deadly serpent. Besides him six other magistrates aligned around his throne, all bedecked in serpentine threads; with silver & red crowns that ruminate their regal shine through the volatile assembly.

Aris caught Drakkon’s approach before the others and turned his head to face his guest. The malice flared like a rogue wave from the sun raging in his pupils at the sight of Albrecht humiliated as a hostage before his carefully ensnared Summit audience. The group of warriors following them up the hillside presented their pikes in readiness as Aris arose from his stolen throne to address this infamous guest. “Oh, how the Living Light shines within you as you wrangle my poor brother captive with brutish manner. How noble, truly! And here we had prepared a toast in your honour! But you repay this, our warm reception with hostility… Will you not set aside this impotent rage which is so unbecoming for your stature? Yet you come without a crown, a Lord without legions or even a single fyrd behind him? Shall you not speak to this Summit with unguarded honesty, or do you bring one sword against hundreds of spears?”

The insinuation of murder hung low beneath the threads of his cords. Death was imminent and Drakkon heard the dreadful call swirl through the pit of his being. Yet he held tight to his wanton wroth, with no care for custom or presentation. He pushed Albrecht and held Aris’ stare. “Your wretch of a brother propositioned bloodshed first! Should I not rend something precious from you before you seek to steal everything beneath the moon!”

Aris stepped from his seat and glided over to his accuser, his mane showing beneath his regal crown as now near entirely pale – those alabaster strands of his birth which had long divided his hair had consumed all in deathly shade. He approached Drakkon without fear of retaliation, assured of his aim to save his blood brother. “We recommend you drop that barbaric relic to wield reason instead in open council with all our greatest minds and bloodlines. We hear the call of the coming eclipse, in all its nocturnal glory – the hymn of ascension – how it demands blood before it’s crimson eye this evening… But this assembly wishes a vote, a moot to find the right sacrifice. The death knell tolls for those who plunged the world in darkness and chain the world’s progress to their own avarice. That may be thee or it may be us, but a fair trial must be made without desperate threats of annihilation.”

“Forgive my brother and forget this ire, especially when I come bearing a gift.” Aris offered his sacrifice the horned crown which once warmed his father’s crest, bidding Drakkon don lordly profile and take up those thorns of guilt & familial curse. An ursine skull had been affixed to the helm, masking all but the mouth in monstrous countenance.

The dubious druid’s manner was unnervingly composed despite the intensity of all that surrounded them. His eyes were ever covered in their steely gray and emitted no sign of a soul. Albrecht stirred, pushing back slightly out of Drakkon’s hold and flung his forked tongue. “These people will welcome your death, oh Lord. It would be such cathartic relief to see the source of their woes exiled to oblivion. I fear you make it so hard to be loyal! How ungrateful! Were it not for us, our brothers’ bond to reclaim our heirlooms, you would never have lived to be crowned emperor! Think of how we could hath crushed that fledgling cult of the Drakoni in infancy, yet we showed mercy. We allowed your growth, till it festered, and you gnash at us?”

“I refuse to be diminished to merely a tool in your diabolical machinations! You should be the rightful ‘sacrifice’ to this ‘new moon’ for your treason! If I move this blade a little the cost will be paid - for I will never owe a scoundrel like yourself anything anymore in this life!”

All this consternation from the confrontation: suppressed between the three of them without spreading yet to the assemblage. Aris simpered with arrogant amusement and wove himself around Drakkon’s shoulder. Smirking as he tensed, coming not with sharp hands but stinging words. Wizard-white locks absorbed the moon shade & fibrous fog. “Should you lift a hand against my brother again, bastard boy, I will reveal the truth of your birth. Albrecht was present at Kassan’s visit and understands how your divine appearance – your ‘immaculate incarnation’ - came to be… May we not talk as equals instead? Respectful opponents, yes? For a time.”

I will not hide from my blood even as it yearns to burn me. Let me not abscond from the laughter of the Fates, thought the deposed emperor. Snatching the antlered coronet to place it upon himself, molding it as his likeness for this last eve. Spoke he: “If we are to be but equals let it be beneath the summit of their judgement. Let the people find voice to verse choice above ours, who know ourselves mortals. Should they find that foresight which I forsook they shall see thee as more envious lord than even I. Let them reveal their wills and give fair court.”

Drakkon forbade his hold on the traitorous Keeper to take up this relic of the self he was cursed to be. That blade forged of Living Light groaned as he sent it to slumber in the ground. Forgoing it to adorn those horns to cast him to the congregation as a lord of nightmare. This usurper of Thunder & Flame approached the balefire as an actor of foul signage and misbegotten monstrosity. Naught but a man ensnared in visage of bestial divinity, caught in the same snags of the cosmos as this fleshy court. Ringed by faces, wan and weary from waiting upon this flux of lords’ wills and wretched auguries from above. His mask, the omen of annihilation. But a vestige of ruler with nothing more to claim save his father’s thorn-ridden crest, from which sprout the horns of pilfering violation. More vestigial than any of these petty chieftains assembled.

Albrecht scampered away into line of red robed magistrates. “We presumed Mordaunt would be in attendance, having called the Summit. Yet we found delight to hear of your recent ‘resurrection’. That you could be in the folds of our hands. Your presence more than makes up for his absence. What a pleasure that a Lord of your… ‘radiance’ could partake in our council in his place! Truly miraculous even!”

An unnervingly envious, gluttonously loathing look upon Aris’ brow as he butted heads with Drakkon, clasping his hands about his shoulders in false comradery. All the tension of his hatred seeped through. His teeth & tongue stabbed daggers, staring into the hollowed-out frown of his adversary. “Between us, old thrall, we are both but mortal men. Yet I am to become so much more. To touch and draw something truly eternal. I hath journeyed long to win that celestial crown. Soon I am to be set a living god and all off the back of thee, o star sacrifice of tonight. Won’t we indulge divine diplomacy over bullish resentments, hear the people hail this change with their hearts instead of showering excess crimson?”

“For a wanting demigod you indeed seem well aware of your mortality,” Drakkon mustered a short, sardonic rebuttal, “given how you fear the mob so. That you relieve them all of arms shows a great strength. How even more vain an angle your truth of power must be directed than my ailing imperium. Should we not both be judged before them, those we sought to bind & rule through ruse? Let them judge your worthiness in wrestling thunder from this corpse. Their fates are not mine to relent, but now are their own. To seek or spurn our bloated designs.”

Aris, standing upon garish, platformed footwear to boost his status as self-proclaimed diety, scraped his lips in surveyance. Through pursed chatter he seethed at the mob and the man beside him. Gray gaze taken by red from the flaring Eye above. “Know that you did truly inspire me. In the scale of how great a mantle a mere man can claim. Fear not that I shall expose you for this, though I will destroy you. For this dusk of your world’s waning is my day’s beginning. The coil of my Will shall wrap about all. Unlike you, I have the means to see my inspiration through. Already I martial the greatest muscle, honed by your exile in the eastern wastes. My legions wait across that next hill, with more in Crestwoad. Through them all shall come to know and worship greatness. The path of Imperator I steal from thee, o thrall-kin & slave-lord!”

Aris steered their regal conglomerate to their high perch. The indecipherable murmurs blew back in the wind as his Eminence addressed the Summit from his pedestal beneath tallest pillar. “Lo! To all to thee gathered this night! Bleeding signs fire the sky! It asks a rite to be performed beneath its eye, to redeem us all through offered blood. We must decide who this chosen kindling of our rebirth shall be. After all the ruination befallen our homes, it is by wisdom that this shrouded star, Drakkon, should stand to answer for his crimes. Congregation, I grant thee voice that thy sound be the only Thunder left for this lord’s husk. A great choice, this: to reckon for the desolation drafted by Drakoni cult. To decide what else dies with his imperium.”

“Whether he be divine or a duplicitous charlatan, the weight of our dying world crashes on his shoulders, alone. He must be justly punished. By the Greater God.” Albrecht added. “To know more shall grow from this harvest of empire. Augury is one with thy choice tonight.”

Drakkon played captive witness. Bound by baleful tirades spinning round and spear tips. He held no hidden tarot against Albrecht and Aris, the apparent progenitors of his bane. No sign nor savior’s notion braced him. The cloud vapors over the hilltop were lugubrious and wan. Congealing about them, transitory fog-walls consumed themselves to birth greater miasma. Gravity dragged the air; welkin threads burdened with dreadful signs. Any breath from the Summit cast a hailstorm of ghosts, an ectoplasm from the wraiths filtering through their lungs and webbing their mortal doubts.

Poised along the ancient slab, Aris’ elegant threads took in the maroon light of the moon. Supernal gales surge through the magister’s profile as his arms reel in the firmament’s fire. “All of heaven’s eyes are set on this Summit and look to hear the righteousness of our council! Who among you may offer testimony before their judgement, in ascent or rebuke?!”

The assemblage bore grim, begrudging faces, many among them so blatantly scowling in discontent while others cursed their own impotence during events. Who will be the first to humor this strange master or challenge him? One of the captains, a fiery redheaded shield-maiden, stepped forth boldly and pointed an accusatory glare towards Aris.

“Our Lord delivered us from such shackles and disgrace! Lifted us up o’er fallen crests of dread coil. I hath roamed in freedom ne’er known to our ancestors, enthralled, and embittered by Vizzari venom. The miracles glimpsed in my youth are yet Living in him, though we hath not earnt our fields. ‘Twas the usurper, Mordaunt, who set pikes & palisades against what was all our own. His, the head that this should fall on! But his shoulders hath been cleaved already for his crimes and we are all left to stand the fallout of his fling with stolen power. We see now that the throne he coveted was not curtailed. Drakkon returns to dwell amongst us at the waning hour. I, Verana, ov Herathi et Farrow, shield-sister to cousin & covenant stand for my Living Lord!”

Verana’s impassioned cry came against callous coughs & jeers from the cloaked magisters surrounding Aris. But many of those good people of the realm – who’d suffered under Magistrate & Imperium alike and been reshaped in the soot of those obscene storms – frothed with eager frenzy, hollering sharp acclaim. The warrior woman aimed her voice like an arrow above the embittered congregation and let fall onto their ears her ardent call. “‘Twas only when the bard and the winged boar in the false steward struck violent demands, cawing for more, that his hand turned harsh against his lands. ‘Twas our folly that tailored wroth rebuke. Look past the mocking visage of idol’s mask and see the glow burning there. His eyes are alight with repentance. For us and to carry our conscience. Mercy shines there! & a light towards another day where we might strive for harmony, without being buried under scales of a vile State!”

Among the throng of attendants herded around the pillars of Felhenge another decided to address the Summit. It was a familiar, though now older, face he saw parting the crowd. The blindfold wrapped over his eyes made him unmistakably that same boy as Drakkon ordered blinded. Vilas spoke. “Thou would decry what befell my house as trifling pittance? A symptom of our own ill when we were but blighted by this ruler, born ov blasphemy?”

Drakkon gaped at the lad he’d condemned to a world of darkness, having stolen his sight as sentencing for a crime he had almost forget under the mudslide wreckage of his own sins. A bolt of shame & shock struck at him to see this wizened boy still enduring and he shuddered at the hate he must possess for him, and rightly so. Another council member gently guided Vilas to address the circle. “The mercy of this lord was to ‘spare me the sight of my kin’s suffering’. Yet I heard in detail the fate he forced for them. This ‘Light’ of heaven is a reaver of more than mere sight and is the bane of our people. No such a creature should be deemed worthy of worship.”

The young exile, eyeless and weathered from the rack, pointed at Drakkon, the flame of hatred sensing where sight failed. Then Vilas jabbed a fresh curse towards the throne, to Aris. Knowing where he sat from the black radiance prying into gauzed sockets. “That is why I say: that the same scourge of hubris which knows no mercy and cares only for its own corrupting vanity is shared by that aspiring tyrant! The Dread Serpent and its servants must stand to be tried at this summit lest that shadow linger and grow to enshroud all that was once warmed by the sun… Prithee, let not pestilent leeches such as him prop themselves up over their fellow man any longer. I plead we evoke an oath against all those desperate despots who would masquerade as deities and usurp the freedoms & prospects of us all. Let those they burn serve as augurs for their end.”

“Though I hold no standing among ‘cultured’ courts I ask this that sensibility might surface and that the gods – all gods; yours, mine and the humble sects worshipped only in the far wilds - may rest from the madness of us mortals.” As Vilas continued several Vizzari soldiers with faces of graven helm in farcical visage inched near to him. Yet he turned towards the sound of steel unsheathing and scolded the baring fangs. “Fool, wyrms! Strike me and scribe red this truth I warn! The spawns of serpent grant us speech only if it avows their thought. They would have thee dance upon spears as jesters. Take this to heart or take ignorance of menace to the grave!”

With his heresy branded, the helots helped Vilas back to their fugitive convoy. Though he sunk slowly towards the sparse shadows ringing the slope he did not slink as craven. Disappearing into the obscurity which became him, Vilas’ last declaration rang, restless over the Summit.

There followed a schism in the vein. A division of mixed temperament permeating through the unruly throngs gathered round, dividing them more. Before Aris could retaliate with his own words, another speaker, a vicar from one of the many tribes there, lunged out from the anonymity of the crowd to confront this brazen warrior. The new speaker appeared in form of a robust older man with balding crown where veins of anger bulged from creases. “Burn Drakkon! Set to the stake he who enflamed the one who ruined my hearth! His steward, Mordaunt, did the worst of his work in Drakkon’s name! My daughters died, fled in shame from unchaste demands of his ‘champions’! Those drakes that know no chivalry! Damn the despots all!”

“Why? Why should this misery befall my House? Because I refused them their ‘Rite of Hospitality’? Denied that wicked ruse mandating we let any soldier with the ‘star ov imperium’ in our house? O, they wanted our house for her, they slobbered as beasts though she was but budding. I would not let them in, let them have her as they wished. They conjured charge of witchery & planted sigils of rebellion to hang her by our cypress! When my littlest one ran to her sister’s side, they strung her up beside… Mordaunt may have been the one who empowered those mongrels, but you empowered them! Propelled by the malice of your ‘Living’ power! Making him successor, you slaughtered my kin and plucked bare our harvests for sake of naught! Endless sacrifice for a god who cares not and gives nothing in return! This fiend is the true villain, and the tumor that blights our crop! Curses our children and rots prosperous farce!”

A couple of others joined in cries of ascent at this derision of Drakkon. Their howls were hateful and grotesque in ascendant volume. Some litanies of his woes drew others to listen through their loud radiance & rage. “Baron was to die for bravely singing the truth! That is how the Thundering One treats his subjects – his friends & ‘children’! Spoke how the blood running through the tyrant is that of the bear! Monstrous Ferali rivers pour to his heart!”

“Where is Baron now? He failed to strike down this aspect of terror. He is fled when this ursine shade is yet among the living! Curse that craven! Yet more so the cub that endures after him!”

“He is unstable! Mad! How can I tell my tribe to have faith in a feral lord?!” Another shouted. The crowd continued to rouse itself up with exclamations and damning judgements. “How long is the list of towns and homesteads burned by his ‘Light’?! How many heretics had to be enlightened to pay the cost of our common horror? How many, how high the toll, and for what?”

“All the old gods abandoned us, left us to the Dread Serpent long ago! Drakkon is a failure, a contradiction of the cosmos and avatar of a stagnant creation that hath been traded to entropy! Ordained our suffering! We need new stars to fire in the night, fairer lords to lead us, not dying gods!

“A curse he is! A pretender! The plagues hath punished us long for the blasphemy we embraced for countless nights! We must repent and beg forgiveness for our how far we hath strayed from the light of the true gods! Offer up the scheming sorcerer to burn as an effigy of all our collective heresy! His death is demanded of us to be free from this forsaken blight!”

“That is no god I would worship!”

“Blasphemy! Doubters & despairing crows all!” Decried Verana, resisting nascent riot.

“Nay, he is the god of death! A false idol shaped of wicked Malderath and her wroth whims. No light comes of his return. For his seed is of the ilk of underworld! Tis truth, not heresy!”

“Hang ‘im like a bloody thief! Gut ‘im like the killer ‘e is! Cut ‘im down & rend our shackles!”

The maddening maelstrom of deplorable shouting and loathsome shrieks supersedes all sanity upon that hill. A detesting heat rises from beneath every rage-beaten chest of the tribal attendees. The gusts of long festering animosity, envy & retaliation sweep up flurry of the masses fury. All standing and shouting over the crumbling carapace of the promised eternal Imperium, a final balefire smoldering beneath the floor of that ancient site where bygone druids & seekers had erected their monuments to the forces that reigned in the earth and its seasons.

All my actions have wrought this. I cannot blame Azarra. I succumbed to evils. ‘Twas mine own idiocy in heeding the sowing of sweet deceitful stories which I followed as a plodding babe. All that corrosion poured of my mind comes to horrible consequence. Curses of self-condemnation made morose ripples in Drakkon’s mind. The sway of the lunar tide pulled the mood of that ungainly court deeper into madness, all of it swirling in nightmarish stew, the soup of mental strain. He suppressed his tears, having absorbed again the sorrow, and regret he felt for all his past sins and let them stream out. His pastel shade was bathed in the halo of the moonlight’s malefic stream. The defeated emperor, although receiving these legion blows and feeling deserving of them and worse, showed no real reaction, a grand stone in a greater storm.

Though his body was wracked with tremors he did not cry out in begging at the hearing turning against him in the majority. Drakkon’s horned head hung in resignation of his fiery demise. No pleading nor weaseling speeches to seduce the ground and convince them of his worth. He held his tongue and simply spectated, for he did not yet feel the time had come to address the Summit. The pose must remain enough for him to earn some shred of dignity, to undo as much as he could (of what he had done under the guise of divinity) while retaining it enough that there might be a net to keep all from falling to doubt or deeper despotism once that already waning image dimmed entirely, to leave the people in the midnight hour without a living god among them. Only their neighbors & rivals in mutual humanity, the pool which they must pour their hopes & purpose into.

Albrecht pounced to speak over the crowd, beginning before his brother. “Well then it seems practically unanimous that the council desires Drakkon’s death, or ascension from the mortal world as it were. For the horrors he hath committed against all of you, great souls, it is only fitting he be drowned beneath a crimson tide! Mordaunt’s haunting memory shall be burned in the pyre aside his master. Let the blood flame eat his flesh! Allow legacy of crooked throne to melt with bone! Are we settled upon this course? Do ye see what our sacrifice must be?”

Tense silence tread behind his interjection. Many among them feeling robbed of their voices’ value by this slippery sage. In others, doubt breathed in that gap. And a wariness of the armed foreigners stomping about as the arbiters of this global Summit. Among those who loathed Drakkon there were still some who held fast to his cause in their secret hearts, believing him the only lord fair enough to avert the rebirth of the serpent god. One such souls announced her dismay against Albrecht & Aris, shattering their assurance of a glorious reception.

The flame haired Verana raised dissenting question. “Some of ye would condemn the lord for being of ursine blood. But if we are to judge all by their fathers than should we not also burn this brood? This ‘magister’ and ‘keeper’ of a line hailing from the oldest serpents?”

“I say we stand upon our merits, not the names of our fathers! A soul’s deeds denote the worth of its incarnation.” Aris redressed her quarrelsome push before Albrecht aided his thought. “Hear the gains we come to grant you through a shared heritage! One, not of birth, but earnt by becoming as serpent scales and flesh ov revived Chimeria!”

“No merit is earnt by the serpent for strangling us! Let us not lower our heads and bow the fate of our children, should we be mothers & fathers ourselves. The right to family & fair fortune must be ours to earn! Not rationed out by despots’ fancies!” Verana pointed to the lesser of the brothers Abraxas. “That creature there, staining the garb of Elder Keeper of hallowed Ty-Drasil, is one deserving of death ever more so than our merciful Lord! This Albrecht crept up like a ghoul into the ranks of the sages, scheming to become high pontiff only to hand the keys over to our ancient adversaries in his House! He should burn as a blaspheming warlock! He spun snares of wickedness spindled by his avarice disguised as high decree!”

“Aye! Burn that rotten fiend! The gods smile not upon us while the shadow of his stolen crown is cast over us. We are blotted by ink of blasphemy, and we will be forever on the brink of destruction unless we win pack the fates’ blessing by feeding him to the fire!” Came the cry of a battle scarred Sylvani clansman. More called out, hoots from fellow tribes sharing sentiment amongst the crowd. “We must cleanse all filth in the view of the eclipse! Turn ‘em to a cinder before the gods’ eyes!”

Aris’ eye affixed on Albrecht. His sidelong glare seared into his elder brother’s incompetent skull with a silent shout of, “Well done, brother. You have once more made us their enemies and stumbled so stupendously that you knocked us all several steps back!”

“Burn the rot away! Saathar & the Red-Sister in Selene demand sacrifice this eve to stave off the tides of misery they pool! Set him to the stake and let the snake’s slithering by the flames he sought to steal sate their yearning and let the next cycle under their spheres be one of building & regrowth! Nothing can rise from the ashes when devils are allotted to lead the institutions of Man. We Stewards of Elderath must hearken to her woes and heal them, with alms of our arm!”

Rattle sprung about the Summit’s populace, resentment stirring between the factions which were seated adjacent to each other. Albrecht quivered from his podium and quickly stooped back low into his seat as the chaotic clamor of those angered by his continued existence rose against him, his heart battering in his chest.

Verana pounced on this weakness to call aloud to the crowd. Her roar rang volumes through the ears of those in attendance, most rearing up with a readiness to give fight to these foreign fanatics. And many there were perched at the cliff of full open combat, even if unarmed, so moved by this warrior woman’s impassioned outcry. “The blood moon is soon to ascend to its peak. It is the pretenders and deceivers among us who shall burn as tribute to the gods’ graces!”

But not all were so swayed by these speeches and others were still reticent to struggle when they were naught much more than a large group of captives, herded as cattle onto this hill by shepherds wielding spears & cleavers. As such another attendee from a neighboring tribe announced his own sentiment amid her incitement of riot. “Quit babbling, mare! Stuff & shut that horse mouth! Aren’t Herathi sows supposed to be clever and not brain-dead toe-suckers scuttling to drain the dew off tyrant’s feet?!” Shouted another belligerent voice among the emissaries.

“That pretender pillaged our soil & blood for his throne to be raised ever higher! If that Vizarri will help rid us of him then I’m grateful for their kindness. No matter what way, and for any toll, Drakkon must die! Let Vizzarion sprout of his splayed stake!”

“Let us welcome a new Aeon with an offering of the avatar of our wounded Age! Give Drakkon back to the gods! That the earth might again belong to us, to plow and tend with blessings renewed for having cast out what anchored our ships to harsh tides and to the depths!”

When the rambling debates wore themselves out Aris raised his hands and let his voice echo about the stone circle to quell all voices that weren’t his own. “Good people of every line, it is the destiny of the Serpent to coil around the world. This man, this vessel of your ‘living light’ is to serve as the sacrifice to Vizzarion’s hunger. For through this the cycle shall be fulfilled and as the serpent devours its own tail the world will be remade for the better. But only for the better of those who do not deny the truth of Vizzar. For the stars hath aligned for our ascent! Look now as the eclipse begins and all light is bathed in the veil of blood’s sheen!”

The waves of lunar light bathed in ethereal crimson gathered & danced about Aris’ crown, which now cast the gleam of glory & the shadow of the serpent. “I, the renewed shape of Vizzarion, have not come to bring the jagged spearpoint but to offer a hand to embrace order & unity. Your kin slaughter & butcher one another over the highest stone on a pit of mud. Vizzarion is ascendant! We, the chosen heirs of old Chimeria, extend our offer to thee as one of great privilege & peace! What was once Dread shall become Delight and ye shall bask in the decadent serenity of Sainthood for the dawning aeon!”

The newly declared successor of lost Chimeria, of this re-forged state of serpent-cult reborn, clasped his palms together, tipping fingertips to form a triangle as projection of his extending clout. “We ov the Serpent come to share with thee a dream of unity. To worship the state which we shall know as one. To be lifted high upon luminous crest of civilization. To tame the Wilds and the Nights, that no superstition wage woe to thee within our enlightened reason. Let collective prominence be thine: as scales in the coil of lasting peace!”

Aris’ aura pronounced over much of the assembly in their nervous fiddling and ragged confusion and his peers in crimson. Yet, especially in the afflicting glow of the moon’s phase (so bathed in bloodied rays), this radiance of his was horrible in that light. He appeared a deranged wizard from primordial myths when magick was younger and stronger. So knowledgeable and learned were his eyes and yet they hung low with a weighted willpower, a need to be great, which made his pale mask morbidly wizened. Formed of wicked in its cracks, lines & age-marks.

“Vizzarion, and its foremost herald in Abraxas, are but the stars to guide the way. Not the shackles of decay ye know in Drakkon’s wars of hubris. Let us raise thee from this crimson lake into our golden pool!” The white strands of his hair reflected sheen of beaming evil from above. “But those who stand in the way of the serpent are decrying their own lives as but fodder for the Serpent’s inevitable march… Drakkon shall serve as sacrifice or ye shall know naught but Death & Despair for all those of your blood!”

“Now:” The sentinels assembled there readied spears & pikes for punitive strikes should the attendants prove too shifty or any unwilling participants who deem themselves bold enough for a possible escape attempt. “Who shall stand for the new age & live? And who shall be shed as old skin & be buried for denying this renewal of our world’s spirit?”

For a while there no sound answered but that of the raging wind which now gave thunderous roar as that of a lioness celebrating the capture of her prey. Above them the cloud blankets parted for the moon’s approach. The hosts of mists fled down the ridge or else were called to flight upon her wings. Bold eclipse showered them, spectating the Summit’s lunacy. Struck by light of bane, most of the emissaries & prominent tribesmen bent low their heads. Stunned, they offered the torch of worship to Aris and to Vizzarion, as he had deemed himself. Like a tide pulling in the beach, eroding sand & shell, more & more people surrendered to that sway of submission to that Dread Serpent – whose fangs seemed to siphon Selene’s blood into its ravenous maw.

Then came the final call and cry of dissent & rebellion was heard from the throng of tribal leaders. It was Verana who now raised her voice to accuse Aris, stabbing her finger at his grandiose poise. “Nay! I shall not bow to a gloating usurper and a snake worshiping such as thee! Nor shall my people bear the horror of living beneath the heal of foul traitors & leeches! If death be the only freedom, we can be granted than I shall fight for that freedom with the last cadence of my breath!”

“Enough with dubious ‘unity’! Deny this hand we know as hiding diablerie!” Bellowed a noblewoman.

“Pay tribute in the blood of these leeches, pretenders all!” Followed another unseated aristocrat. “Curse them, the sons ov serpent and black bear alike! Let us tear these false threads they’d weave for us! Bare our boldness before the bodies of Selene and her stars!”

More cries of righteous ire echoed through the crowd, several more even joining to stand beside Verana as she raised her defiant fist at the would be master of the world. “Damn you to the belly of the nether! It is you who hath turned us against one another for your shadow play & wicked lust for that what is not – and will never be – yours! I sought this Summit to give speech to a god. Yet if we must meet our gods ‘cross next threshold let it be by wings of Valkyrie! We will ride swiftly to that higher hearth with righteous roar to announce our coming! Let them ready proper feast for so bold an entrance of ours, baring against these dread fangs!”

With this outcry came the toll of a bell. One rung by a sinisterly shrouded sage and one which boomed with a banshee scream to ring out the sign of violence & misery in the heads of all those gathered there to fight for a dream of their homeland and for of their own lives. This great gong beckoned the bravest of them to give skirmish to the Vizzari warriors. Their shuffling and their fearless struggle confused a portion of their foes simply for the unexpected display of tenacity.

They expected a cowering circus they could tame with their whip & their furious pomp, but the people of these lands possessed hearts hardened by their adversity and now that ripple of resistance exploded into a mad dash against the foreign spearmen. Aris lunged, thrusting his feral disdain at this riot into serpentine horn. Rumbling forked signal to the soldiers on the next hill, who answer with thunder of steel & brass banging on breastplate and shield.

Albrecht gave a split a forked scream. “Let their blood soak the hillside! Hail Vizzarion forever! Hail to the Serpent’s coil which soon shall shape the fate of our planet and cleanse it’s stitched scales through annihilation of the unworthy!”

But before the servants of the serpent could sate their fangs on tender flesh Drakkon stepped forth to counter their momentum. With deafening screech, he bent the ears and eyes of all in attendance towards him. “Do not surrender your lives, your dreams of a future for merely my sake! Do not perish when tis I who am accused. This is my curse, my appointment. I am anointed to it. Let me surcease into darkness, not thee!”

The lord loomed over the riled congress, the horns of his father, and his abyssal helm, waxing wan as carmine light from the night’s candle fused the skull-snout to his. Though muffled by this farcical face affixed to his, he rolled thunderous passion. His roar shrank the propositions from Aris’ cords to garner all the wonder and fear of the Felhenge audience. Eyeless gatherings on the adjacent hills craned to hear him. “Nay, this Summit must not become the sight of massacre and the ruin of all thee who still seek to be free when moon descends and dawn returns! For I shall willfully serve as sacrifice that none of my people’s blood shall be spilt unnecessarily… I will go to the pyre, but that your hearts should be lit with hope in themselves and not despair. Not for mine own redemption – for I am no longer a fit vessel for the infinite – but for thine, that all the rest may retain that divine spark of life!”

Aris signaled his legion to stave off their avalanche. Then wordless bid his brother to play the royal executioner. Albrecht stepped forward with foul wire in hand. Drakkon did not resist as he and several rough tempered grunts of the new Vizzarion came to restrain him. “My last design in honour of thee. Tis tailored perfectly to fit your claim to Creation’s Flame. Be lashed to thorn & sap of divinity.” The Magus-Keeper’s satisfaction slithered through his sacrifice as snaking threads of emerald sap & jagged thorn were wrapped about him.

Drakkon drooped low in somber acknowledgement. Defeat was all he deserved as all subsided before this current pulling him under. He did his best to dam the floodgates of his tears though a thousand conflicting emotions swirled about his soul. And yet there was some semblance of true matter still alive therein, a glimmering shard (not of illusory divinity but) which shone true passionate light. Before his arm could be wound about the kindling stake, he loosed a last blow. Not to lash at his executioners but to smash this shell about his face, shattering fist and half his bone-mask. As he let his hand be tethered to the top, impaled, and sewn there by serrated tooth and sap-laden cord, the condemned shouted final sermon. Feeling the veil torn from him, he tore his throat to proclaim:

“Would that it was the will of all ye people - good, lost & struggling, all – that I should slave away the rest of my mortal days in retributive servitude & gruel myself laboring after penance. But the shadow of my mortal side’s hubris is long, as is the scar & charred trail my campaign of bringing noble fire to thee brought. My wake should be by the very flame I rode upon, that I consumed so many others in, & by that torch I cursed thee with be should I be burnt myself.” While it pained him grievously to speak, some meaningful (yet unknowable) substance inside leaked though his waning soul. Coming out as a lion’s last vigil. What authority he retained in this pose of godliness, even as a god humbled & beaten by a larger mortality, broke through his shambled self to hark to towards the valor retained by them.

Ghosts gathered to glower from the shrinking mists. Though the murky drapery hung low about the hill, this moonlight filled it with pregnant phantoms. Cloudless rain hinted at its entrance by pulsating width of that very fog, damp and dire. Heavy with the brunt of imminent fall, the storm which was to burst forth blooming spring readied to bound to earth. Cast by shine of blood, with mortal drops to echo their tinted tumble. The lord whose ruin they might douse drank up the magick in the air; the possibility on the precipice of flashing being. Tridents of potential, searing the crisp air as rattling electricity to hammer the cosmos. Indeed, Drakkon felt then that his thought could command lightning against this crest or call himself up with the winds to fly before the witherance of his cumbersome vessel. For the dark light linking the stars now awakened, with vision granted by the eye of gestating Selene.

“You who have been scorched by heaven’s eyeless barrage must shine brighter than your former Lords. You must hold the fire in your hands as you would your gardener’s tools, for only with your modest wisdoms & your own furious dreams can you keep that incandescence light enough to not set aflame all that beauty around us that the ‘highest’ felt too below them. Do not tear the welkin down to clamor up towards empyrean mounts but rather build up from Her motherly grounds that you, Nature’s children are owed. But my time among you is past, so too the decadence of any god among you now that divinity can be your own!”

The overseer of this execution frowned towards his brother and agent. That smirking cretin who slipped on the cloak of Magus & Keeper thus encased Drakkon in a thorny rope of fetid sap, that he could not run from the stake. Delight was evident from his sadistic shine. A terrible glee from a helpless enemy prostrated before the waxing fyre. Albrecht laughed as Aris sauntered over to the pyre, a torch in hand and addressed the masses.

“Alas this - your would-be ‘god’ – meets his end by heretic’s treatment. With this death we usher in new life for the world in the form of final state! Let not his lies reach you past the scorching of his hollow shell! Let them be lost to ash instead! Reflect on your sins, those who were loyal to this dying light, and ask for mercy by the glow of his balefire. I evoke the era, its shapers, movers & redeemers! I evoke the highest conquest of heaven! I declare myself Vizzarion in flesh! Let us all bathe and be baptized in the glorious firmament! Heaven’s eye is upon us, aching for sight of this traitor’s death!”

Fluctuations in rabble and silence took the crowd gathered, some baffled in awe while others gaping in horror. Drakkon, seized by a surreal dissociation, felt the wings of death, or some higher pull of spirit lift vision from body to gaze at those assembled through the eyes of the world. They laughed, they wept, they smiled, they kept still out of docile courtesy. He felt himself poured out before the world as the crackling embers began to eat their way towards his mortal flesh. Aris’ minions stoked the fire and burst pustules into plumes.

“All those whose hearts still have ears, hear me now! I burn here that the Living Light shall shine in your dreams. To burn bright in your being for realizations of your path! Be found in passion’s fire and do not let that beacon be snuffed by tyrants & thieves! Let them burn by righteous wrath while you know yourselves equal in divinity & opportunity! This mortal vessel of mine hath been corrupted by worldly despair and thus it must perish… But let this sacrament of flesh & ash give wings to the spirit for it is alive within you and shall only rise this hour should you take the torch into your chests! Let your hearts swallow it!”

The tongue of the fire licked away at Drakkon’s feet, the mouth of the inferno widening to swallow him. Through the haze of blood, fire & dream he could glean a familiar face cloaked amongst the crowd. Corinna’s gray eyes pierced at him on the pyre, reflecting her desperate intent of woe & worship. She was hidden among the magistrates, garbed in one of their elaborate cowls and standing by one of the many torch bearers who illumed Aris’ stone throne. Before the inevitable screams took him, he gasped one final plea to his funereal audience. “Let those whose hearts do not burn for their passions and their people be bound to the flame as I! The new day is yours if you claim it!”

The waves of Drakkon’s life subside. His being ebbs away from tide of the world, dissolving into a black pool of oblivion as all around thrashed about in the wake of madness. He knew naught the sensation of his screams as consciousness flees from the earth. Alienated from this his husk left to the slag of the pyre. Helwinds howl to hold him forever, as the fire gnaws at corporal ties. The wings of death took him in flight, to whatever dimension that spirit may dwell in. Yet in final flash under Malderath’s glare, something truly supernal moves through him and transforms him unto death. The glow of his antlers extends as blazing pillars, piercing the sky with tridents of ash.

The self-ordained incarnate successor of Vizzarion, sat gloating on his slab throne. As the moon in its glorious eclipse poured its rouge, lava-like flow from its volcanic fountain of light to melt the film of the firmament into singular shade of anguish over the earth. Selene glared witness. Her sphere now prouder in sheen & scale than sunlight of Solaris. For Aris it was a specular show, this circle of olden pillars & stones the theater of his ambition unfolding so richly, was about to give a last toast, a speech of ascendancy over his rival’s death cries when another raised a more potent spectacle. One to entrance more than the feigned thunder of his voice and the flame of a dying lord could command.

Corinna comes upon the circle singing somber chant. Her funeral aria and pale, glowing countenance calls on all to attend her. Such lamenting accord infused in her operatic showing, rouses spirit from her chords and holds even the forked tongues of the magisters of the wyrm in awe. Melody mesmerized the pale-red congress, swept them by sorrowful serenade.

In that evocation of her presence, Corrina made unwitting way for another. From the peripheral of the fallen stone throne flashed bolder inspiration to draw forth the currents. An eye in the moon, wreathed with rings of flame and Saatharian shade across its iris, gleams infernal design for the firmament. It’s welkin stare fixates there, on their foremost hill. Carmine rays shone halo upon the throngs of the toppled throne of Druidry. There, a woman wreathed in transparent mist dyed red, with gilt & silver mane and hooded eyes of fire, traces the sign of heaven across her throat, where cauterized scar serves the shape of her lightning.

Azarra hidden behind the magistrates encircling the nexus, strikes flint against scattered circle of draconic powder. Intuition & ire alight, her hand sends Dragon’s Breath to engulf the covetous court about stolen throne. “Your warning to me was quite warming. Let me return your grace in kind as kindling.” A pained, whispering curse and half chortle croaks from her scarred throat through her apprentice’s to scrape the aspiring hierophant’s ear. Words aflame, as the sprinkling of cinder-sap she set for them.

Aris squirms and wriggles as his decadent robe, and Albrecht beside him, catch flame by clever hand. These judges, unable to keep their gowns & costumes from witch’s torch become chorus of abject fear & agony. The brothers Abraxas crumble as feasts for fire. Wailing ghoulish cries while manes wilt to ash with faces to follow. Choking on their curses before soot becomes their regal skin.

Azarra, swathed in dress of phantom vapors, stood there reeling in the lunar iris. Living flame alight in her eyes as enrapturing screams escape the seared stitches along her neck through those of others. Howling chorus of anguish & ecstasy. Spheres of green & blue stake upon the immolating husk of her son, born as cursed as blessed. His fate linked with Aris’ to the flame, as precursor to illumination. Then settle on the serpent army readied to strangle all gods but theirs. Her voice roars not from her wounds but through the endless and invisible chorus of the winds. Her sign, a true trident of lifelong wrath flashing into form. Her coven of reverent rouse as a river flooding the stone crests. As the tendrils from above, form conduit of her rage: aurora of bloody spring.

Her strained cords ignite flares of the Hels to meet the distant crest where Vizzari steel stood as a silvery tide contesting the angered atmosphere. Drawn by metal and magnetism of thunderous fire evoked on that adjacent hilltop, two tridents shot from the eye to awash those armies in dual surge of azure & jade. The Azarine flock, disguised in frocks of sages and magisters, hearkens the faint summons of their mother. With the accompaniment of her prime disciple in Dahlia and the howling of her cub they join the Summit with discord. With more of their cavernous coven coming upon the henge from the fringes of the fallen forest.

As astounded as distressed, the rest of the mob flail against their would-be captors. The crowd, enflamed, batter & trample the sour-faced spearmen, overwhelming them with the brunt of their frenzied numbers. They rally with primal screams, convening in the chaos to repel their unifying death sentence and turn it upon the attempted executioners. Yet among them the mad Azarine sprawl as sheet of steel & wolven fang. And among the breadth of bedlam fight many still frenzied from gods’blood. Slicing at the crowds to spill any throats that sung for the burnt lord. A culling to quell that immolation of man-made deity. To douse those devout to dying thunder or serpent of ash, snuff smoldering fumes by silencing those of devouring sects.

Corinna too was almost upturned by the surge of arisen anarchy. Near losing her way to the thorny brush of turmoil. Yet she tilted her head back to gaze at the dying effigy of her lifelong suitor and swallowed the last glint within his eye into her own before being engulfed entirely. A hundred emotions smoldered within her spirit, but she wielded this insatiable flame. Turning distortion & the pitch of despaired confusion into a torch to blaze through this dismal night.

The crimson eye of eclipse descended over the scene of their struggle. Unblinking as more people rallied to rabid defiance. Though lacking in arms, the congress had now the numbers to overpower the last warriors of the Vizzar. All were deafened by the lance of lightning so near and numbed to all but violence. Vicious vengeance wracked the vicars & cultists until the mob attained catharsis by way of piling torn limbs by the swelling stake.

Selene’s glare bore down upon their dismal Summit, casting the old stone pillars of Felhenge in its dark radiance. Those rays of illumination deepened the shadows and crevasses between people’s causes. Alit their madness for what it was. Divining light drowned the stage of the Blood Moon in fullest flame, all visages under reflecting the ruddiness of bloodshot frenzy.

The tides of the winds bent to the beckoning of that ruby sphere. Waves of the cosmic ocean came crashing down upon that hill to sweep them all into spiraling maelstrom of apocalyptic havoc. The heavens: drawn & drained of blood, leaked through their reddish-black streaks tearing through sky. The Night laid bare by blazons of the moon’s dark red hue. Peering from its perch, near so close as though to collide with this weathered old hilltop where bewitchment brought the assembly to batter each other with unabated blows.