Please note that I don't own the characters or locations used in this. They are the property of Wizards of the Coast.
Reality Sculptor
They called him lord, yet here was little nobility in his bearing. His eyes, blue as sapphires, were constantly moving, anxiously searching for signs of the great destroyer. His hand, weathered and blistered, drummed upon a railing, marking his impatience for the destiny which awaited him.
Before him a kingdom sprawled, brought force by his mind and his hands. Yes, hands. He'd had two then, but he hadn't been better off. No, the dream had been fair, taking an arm to grant him a guardian.
She came to him now, this guardian, this deathbringer with feathered wings. Her face had once brought lust to him, but no more did it do that. Now he knew her, knew she was not the love stolen from him by the great destroyer. She was merely a similacrum, a copy of form but not of mind. She was his guardian, not his love. His jailer, not his liberator.
"They come, lord," she announced with a bow, though he was neither lord nor god, and surely only a god should have such a creature bow to them. But, he did not argue; he had long given up on doing so.. Instead he nodded, his tormented gaze drifting toward the wall of his palace even as a portal formed in its pearl encrusted surface, revealing his perfectly sculpted realm stretching toward the horizon.
Ah, the horizon. He could see them when his cerulean gaze focused upon the edge of his realm; a dark cloud of hideous demons circling above a black tide of infernal beasts. And there, somewhere in the midst of that forbidding tide, he could feel her, the soulless one, the nightmare who'd stolen the light from his life.
"So she comes," he noted in a leaden tone, speaking more to himself than the angelic warrior who remained on the dais before him. "Leave, angel." he instructed grimly even as he reached for his stave, "Ready my creations, for today we deliver justice."
Without a word, the angel departed, her wings hastened by thoughts of the divine vengeance soon to be delivered to their foes. Behind her, her master stood ready with steely eyes. He felt almost satisfied that they had chosen to attack him here. Last time they had held the power. Here things were different. Here the rules of their reality no longer applied. No, their reality had exiled him. But that hadn't harmed him. No, he had become a sculptor of reality. He was Ixidor, lord of all he could imagine.