Blink, blink. Courtroom. Silence.
The round chamber bustled with activity as elves milled around the tables and chairs. Thin, graceful-looking people took their seats, and through the murmuring voices and scraping noise of wood on wood came the overwhelming silence of the moment. It cut the air like a keen sword. Sound came from the mouths of the elven and there were various background noises, but suspended in time, the sheer essence of the place was quiet as a church. Or, the man reflected, a sepulchre. Leaves rustled outside as a slight breeze caressed him like a lover's touch, and the man realised that he did not care. Once, he would have enjoyed the soft motion of the air over his taut skin, but now, that emotion, as with all his emotions, was gone. Memory was all he could cling to, and even that had been rendered flat and lifeless, like a monochrome painting. A memory that had no meaning. Dead. Like the void in his heart, where magic burned in the place of feeling. There was nothing left where his soul had been. Nothing but cold apathy. Echoes.
And silence.
His body still ached with a physical pain after the procedure. He remembered the dagger-like fingers of magical energy searching through him and ruthlessly tearing his core out of his chest. But the lingering ache did not concern him, as far as he was capable of being concerned. It was the fact that he did not care. The elves had stolen his identity, and he was filled not with concern, but with a frozen, unfeeling need for revenge. One deceptively-thin finger brushed the fresh stitches that marred the edges of his face, and he remembered, but did not feel. His lifelong work (which they had interrupted) had fallen to pieces only yesterday. The fools who had interrupted him caused an explosion of magic that had literally ripped his face off; the elven healers of the city had crudely sewed it back on with a combination of curative spells and needlework, perhaps unfortunately for him. The face of a traitor.how fitting. No-one would ever forget him, because his visage would never grow old and die. Unlike him.
"All rise! The court of Suldanesselar is now in session," said a herald, and all the elves came to their feet. Full of grace and poise. One of the guards poked him in the back with a sword blade, and he jerkily stood before the courtroom. Unlike most elves, his frame was heavy and muscular, built like a human fighter rather than the slim and delicate bodies of his counterparts, and did not lend itself to such smoothness.
Three silver trumpets sounded, and a grand pair of doors opened with dramatic slowness, allowing the royal parade entrance into the chamber. First came the phalanx of guards, then the personal attendants and handmaidens, and finally the queen herself, Ellesime. Ellesime. The name had once evoked emotion. She had been.kind. Affectionate. A loving and benevolent ruler. But now it meant nothing. Her elegant features were just that. Features. Nothing more than a series of lines and curves and dimples on her face that made her different from the other residents of the city. Blonde hair merely a tangle of coloured fibres that sprouted from her scalp. Ellesime was an elf. She also happened to be queen. And because of that, his fate was in her hands. If the enchanted metal fetters did not bind his hands, a simple wave of his hand could have unleased a magical storm to strike her down, thus freeing himself. But the elves had seen his power and so shackled him.
Ellesime walked up onto a podium, and the man noticed that her eyes refused to meet his as she read the introduction and his charges. The list of crimes he had committed was brief, but he knew deep down that they were considered most foul (an opinion reinforced by the gasps and shaking of heads in the crowd). He stared impassively at her up until she asked the key question: "Do you confess yourself to be guilty of these crimes?"
There was a pause that hung in the room like a thick blanket until he parted his pale lips and spoke with one resounding word. "Yes."
"That is it?" one of the lesser judges asked. "Just a 'yes', man?"
"Yes. I committed those offences and, given similar opportunity, would do so again."
The assembled elves drew in a breath at this blatant display of unrepentance. Ellesime looked haunted and sad for a moment, then raised the Sceptre of Justice and stared straight into his gaze. "Very well. By the powers vested in me, Ellesime, Queen of the Elven and ruler of Suldanesselar, I pronounce you and your sister.exiles. You are hereby barred from ever entering the Sacred Forest of Tethyr again. The city itself will stand against you, whatever the cost. I cannot ever allow you to harm our people like you have again. To that end, we have punished you, and you shall no longer be part of the elven kind. At the conclusion of this trial, you will be taken to separate rooms and cast out into the Realms." A note of eloquent sadness and pity crept into her eyes, but her voice was dripping with carefully-controlled rage. "Do you understand, Shattered One?"
"Yes," he said again, voice as dead as his heart. "I understand that you people are so short-sighted and weak that you cannot see what you can become. Potential is there, but for some inane reason, you refuse to reach out and grab it. I have tried, and if it had not been for your meddling servants, I would be able to show you how powerful indeed you could become." He sighed. "Of course, the rigid and unwavering rules of this society keep you penned like the beasts of burden that the humans use to plough the soil. Call me 'Shattered One' if you wish, Ellesime, for thanks to you, that is what I have become. But know this: I will be back. Banishing me to the far corners of Faerún will never hold me, because I have moved far beyond the frail boundaries of my former kind. There will be vengeance, and I shall have it."
Ellesime looked momentarily startled at the man's promise to return, perhaps even intimidated. But she did not show it. Her grip on the Sceptre wavered only for a moment. "So shall it be. And on your head be your death if you dare show your face here again. Guards! Take him to be banished." Her placid grey eyes had now become churning pools of remorse, hate, and loss.
The guards took a shoulder each and led him out of the courtroom as the attending elves dissolved into a rabbling crowd. He did not resist. The elf known as the Shattered One let his thoughts dwell not on his impending journey, but rather on his companion in exile, his sister. She had probably undergone the same torturous treatment that he had. And, he had to admit, she probably would have coped differently to him. She was not as strong as he, and certainly didn't possess the same affinity for the magical arts. Was she dead? He truthfully couldn't feel concern for her, but he wondered if she had survived the treatment. It would be an interesting test of her strength. He was roughly shoved into a small brick room, where one of the fabled elven war mages opened a tear in space that led into nothingness. Much like my own soul, he reflected. The dimensional door convulsed as he was pushed into it, then swallowed him like a shark snapping up a tiny fish.
Power crackled around the Shattered One that fell through space. His last thought before the obsidian blackness claimed him was, revenge shall be mine. It shall. It shall.
Blink, blink. Oblivion. Silence.
The round chamber bustled with activity as elves milled around the tables and chairs. Thin, graceful-looking people took their seats, and through the murmuring voices and scraping noise of wood on wood came the overwhelming silence of the moment. It cut the air like a keen sword. Sound came from the mouths of the elven and there were various background noises, but suspended in time, the sheer essence of the place was quiet as a church. Or, the man reflected, a sepulchre. Leaves rustled outside as a slight breeze caressed him like a lover's touch, and the man realised that he did not care. Once, he would have enjoyed the soft motion of the air over his taut skin, but now, that emotion, as with all his emotions, was gone. Memory was all he could cling to, and even that had been rendered flat and lifeless, like a monochrome painting. A memory that had no meaning. Dead. Like the void in his heart, where magic burned in the place of feeling. There was nothing left where his soul had been. Nothing but cold apathy. Echoes.
And silence.
His body still ached with a physical pain after the procedure. He remembered the dagger-like fingers of magical energy searching through him and ruthlessly tearing his core out of his chest. But the lingering ache did not concern him, as far as he was capable of being concerned. It was the fact that he did not care. The elves had stolen his identity, and he was filled not with concern, but with a frozen, unfeeling need for revenge. One deceptively-thin finger brushed the fresh stitches that marred the edges of his face, and he remembered, but did not feel. His lifelong work (which they had interrupted) had fallen to pieces only yesterday. The fools who had interrupted him caused an explosion of magic that had literally ripped his face off; the elven healers of the city had crudely sewed it back on with a combination of curative spells and needlework, perhaps unfortunately for him. The face of a traitor.how fitting. No-one would ever forget him, because his visage would never grow old and die. Unlike him.
"All rise! The court of Suldanesselar is now in session," said a herald, and all the elves came to their feet. Full of grace and poise. One of the guards poked him in the back with a sword blade, and he jerkily stood before the courtroom. Unlike most elves, his frame was heavy and muscular, built like a human fighter rather than the slim and delicate bodies of his counterparts, and did not lend itself to such smoothness.
Three silver trumpets sounded, and a grand pair of doors opened with dramatic slowness, allowing the royal parade entrance into the chamber. First came the phalanx of guards, then the personal attendants and handmaidens, and finally the queen herself, Ellesime. Ellesime. The name had once evoked emotion. She had been.kind. Affectionate. A loving and benevolent ruler. But now it meant nothing. Her elegant features were just that. Features. Nothing more than a series of lines and curves and dimples on her face that made her different from the other residents of the city. Blonde hair merely a tangle of coloured fibres that sprouted from her scalp. Ellesime was an elf. She also happened to be queen. And because of that, his fate was in her hands. If the enchanted metal fetters did not bind his hands, a simple wave of his hand could have unleased a magical storm to strike her down, thus freeing himself. But the elves had seen his power and so shackled him.
Ellesime walked up onto a podium, and the man noticed that her eyes refused to meet his as she read the introduction and his charges. The list of crimes he had committed was brief, but he knew deep down that they were considered most foul (an opinion reinforced by the gasps and shaking of heads in the crowd). He stared impassively at her up until she asked the key question: "Do you confess yourself to be guilty of these crimes?"
There was a pause that hung in the room like a thick blanket until he parted his pale lips and spoke with one resounding word. "Yes."
"That is it?" one of the lesser judges asked. "Just a 'yes', man?"
"Yes. I committed those offences and, given similar opportunity, would do so again."
The assembled elves drew in a breath at this blatant display of unrepentance. Ellesime looked haunted and sad for a moment, then raised the Sceptre of Justice and stared straight into his gaze. "Very well. By the powers vested in me, Ellesime, Queen of the Elven and ruler of Suldanesselar, I pronounce you and your sister.exiles. You are hereby barred from ever entering the Sacred Forest of Tethyr again. The city itself will stand against you, whatever the cost. I cannot ever allow you to harm our people like you have again. To that end, we have punished you, and you shall no longer be part of the elven kind. At the conclusion of this trial, you will be taken to separate rooms and cast out into the Realms." A note of eloquent sadness and pity crept into her eyes, but her voice was dripping with carefully-controlled rage. "Do you understand, Shattered One?"
"Yes," he said again, voice as dead as his heart. "I understand that you people are so short-sighted and weak that you cannot see what you can become. Potential is there, but for some inane reason, you refuse to reach out and grab it. I have tried, and if it had not been for your meddling servants, I would be able to show you how powerful indeed you could become." He sighed. "Of course, the rigid and unwavering rules of this society keep you penned like the beasts of burden that the humans use to plough the soil. Call me 'Shattered One' if you wish, Ellesime, for thanks to you, that is what I have become. But know this: I will be back. Banishing me to the far corners of Faerún will never hold me, because I have moved far beyond the frail boundaries of my former kind. There will be vengeance, and I shall have it."
Ellesime looked momentarily startled at the man's promise to return, perhaps even intimidated. But she did not show it. Her grip on the Sceptre wavered only for a moment. "So shall it be. And on your head be your death if you dare show your face here again. Guards! Take him to be banished." Her placid grey eyes had now become churning pools of remorse, hate, and loss.
The guards took a shoulder each and led him out of the courtroom as the attending elves dissolved into a rabbling crowd. He did not resist. The elf known as the Shattered One let his thoughts dwell not on his impending journey, but rather on his companion in exile, his sister. She had probably undergone the same torturous treatment that he had. And, he had to admit, she probably would have coped differently to him. She was not as strong as he, and certainly didn't possess the same affinity for the magical arts. Was she dead? He truthfully couldn't feel concern for her, but he wondered if she had survived the treatment. It would be an interesting test of her strength. He was roughly shoved into a small brick room, where one of the fabled elven war mages opened a tear in space that led into nothingness. Much like my own soul, he reflected. The dimensional door convulsed as he was pushed into it, then swallowed him like a shark snapping up a tiny fish.
Power crackled around the Shattered One that fell through space. His last thought before the obsidian blackness claimed him was, revenge shall be mine. It shall. It shall.
Blink, blink. Oblivion. Silence.