Murond the death city, an ancient scar on the face of a bygone age; across the lifeless wasteland of forgotten marvels, a bitter wind howled into the unending night. Gritty whorls of dust danced across the gray tundra, racing in and out of the husks of long forgotten civilizations on a blasted highway towards the pinnacle of design, a downed airship on a hoary tor. Here, on the wooden planks of this crippled beast, a war had been concluded; the last son of the Beoulves and his army of rag-tag soldiers had brought down The High Seraph Ultima, after a long campaign that had opened up the hierarchy like a wound and revealed the festering cancer of the church's corruption. It was that boy who's journey into manhood cost him his best friend, two brothers, and branded both him and his sister heretic enemies of the kingdom. Now, five years after he and his sister's death, nothing remained of their battle but ancient blood soaked into the planks.
Strewn about where it fell, the bones of the bloody angel stretched across the airship's rotted deck, swathed in a black stain where the monstrosity's flesh had putrefied and soaked into the hulk's wood. The power of the 12 zodiac stones had unleashed this god gone awry upon the people, part of the churches plan to give form to the shadowy threat of Lucavi, and return power that the monarchy had taken. Surrounding the skinless monster laid the marks of the battle; furrows burned into the wood from the beast's potent bolt and fire spells, holes in the deck from the engineer's firearm, sword furrows from the templar and the knight; the young hero's magic had blasted great circles into the deck, and the beast's last standing place was marked forever by the sanctifying sword spells of an eager holy knight. Despite the church's part in the scheme, it was her loyalty to humanity that spurred her on to look beyond the Beoulve's heretic brand and see the man she called friend, and eventually fell in love with.
With silence that made the wind pale in jealousy, the lone observer slid across the ancient planks and stopped before the strewn out skeleton. Lucavi looked down on the bones of his nemesis with moderate disgust, before crushing the elongated skull under a cloven hoof. The idea that she who had bested him would fall to a company of mortals was a nauseating mockery, and the sheer insult it implied could not go unnoticed. In slaying Altima, the unknowing mortals had freed him, and he would repay their unintended kindness with pain; new kinds of pain, and new senses to feel it with.
Lucavi exerted a fraction of his magic, willing his form to change into one that would allow him the anonymity he craved; horns receded into his scalp as rows of silky black hair began to grow, just as the hairy pelt that covered his body peeled away, revealing the all too perfect flesh of an Adonis. Lastly, cloven hooves, which left sulphurous burns wherever they touched twisted into perfect human feet. Now, Lucavi the goat man faced the world as Lucavi, man; he would walk the world of men, feeding off their selfish intent. Eventually, he would be king of the waking world, but not before he killed the five who had slain his great nemesis.
No, not kill them; that would be too merciful. A wicked grin formed on his perfect lips, showing just a hint of perfect teeth. Twist them, break them, defile them, and in the end they will beg for a death that will never come. Forming a circle in the air using his index finger, a purple ring appeared before him, showing a serene grassy hill just outside of a castle. Lucavi stepped through, the tingle of magic caressing his naked flesh, and in moments he was free of the Airship Graveyard, the scent of Ivalice in his nostrils. He walked gracefully down the hill, the fresh blades of grass tickling his feet, and strode into the encampment with a smile on his face.
Pandemonium ensued as the naked figure entered; women and children scampered for their tents, while the men drew their swords and formed a wall between him and the rest of the camp. The partition of warriors parted, allowing a merchant to approach the naked man. "I am Kraven Fairchild, chemist, and master of this caravan. Who are you, and how is it you have come to my camp in this state of . . . undress?" Lucavi smiled, and with a single motion, thrust his hand into the man's chest, his fingers penetrating the skin as if the flesh were water. He drew out the man's heart, dull red eyes flickering as the red organ thundered in his hand; although separated from its master, it still pulsed rapidly as adrenaline coursed into the merchant's veins. "Y . . . y . . . y . . . you . . . "
"I hold your heart in my hand, and still you live?" Lucavi finished the horrified merchant's words, "Is that what you were trying to say?" The caravan master licked his lips dryly, staring at the rapidly convulsing organ. "Yes, you are correct; you live, and will do so as long as your life source retains contact with my perfect flesh." The naked stranger laughed amusedly, though behind his elegantly formed words, there was no humor, only thinly-veiled malice.
The armed men held their positions despite the fear that soured their stomachs, and the merchant's gaze flickered to Lucavi. "What is it that you want, you monster . . ."
"Your clothes, your guards, your caravan," Lucavi smiled, his canines glimmering brightly in the unfiltered sunlight. "Surely your life is worth more than these material things?"
"Done," the greedy merchant said hastily, "Now, give me my heart and I'll be gone." He extended one hand, slipping the other around his back, hoping the demon before him didn't realize he wore a romada gun concealed there.
Lucavi tossed the organ to the merchant, who caught it in his outstretched hand, then fell lifeless to the ground. "Only so long as it contacts my perfect flesh," he reminded the corpse, his eyes never leaving the company of soldiers before him. "You all belong to me now," he said coolly, "Kneel before me to swear your loyalty, and I will spare you." One of the soldiers screamed wordlessly as he charged, swinging his long sword in a neck-severing arc. Lucavi smirked as he deftly caught the blade in one hand, the edge rasping dully against his flesh; the soldier kept his pressure on the blade, trying desperately to force the weapon through the monster's skin, but to no avail. Lucavi snapped the blade in half, and as the soldier pitched forward, he jabbed the shard of steel into the young man's sternum, eviscerating him in a single flick of his wrist. As the unfortunate man's guts splashed to the ground, activity erupted in the group, and the guards scattered in different directions; all save on, who held his position, kneeling before the naked form. "Tell me," Lucavi said as he approached the soldier, "why do you not run from me?"
"A lord is a lord," the man replied, not raising his head. "Whether I serve Craven, or Delita, or you, it makes no difference."
"I don't pay my soldiers you understand," Lucavi said simply, "To me, you are nothing but a tool."
"To live is to be the tool of one more powerful than yourself."
Lucavi chuckled, "Tell me, servant, what is your name?"
"Gilgamesh," he said as he rose, meeting Lucavi's gaze with dead gray eyes.
"Very well Gilgamesh, you will be my right hand. You will deliver my directions to my soldiers, and as such, I will give you power; power to control those weaker than you." He reached out and laid two fingers on the soldier's forehead, "That's what you said, isn't it? Men serve whoever is more powerful than them?" Gilgamesh said nothing, and Lucavi's eyes glowed a sickly green as a bolt of light arced from his eyes and rushed along his skin, passing into Gilgamesh. The soldier shuddered as the power coursed through him, but made no move to take his eyes from his master's. Lucavi smiled pleasantly as he took his hand away, "You are my general, my maker of war, and as such you will have the strength of any man you best in combat. Now go," Lucavi said as he drew the sword from Gilgamesh's hip scabbard, the silver blade turning a dirty red as the demon's magic changed it. "These soldiers would desert your army. I want their heads on pikes by the first rays of the moon, understood?"
"Yes, my lord." With strength and speed greater than most men, Gilgamesh turned and raced into the heart of the encampment. As his red blade swooped down, cleaving a soldier in half, a surge of strength coursed up Gilgamesh' sword arm, causing him to smile. He howled with pleasure as he butchered them all; men, woman, and children alike fell to his blade, until the sky was black, and every inch of his flesh was wet with slaughtered men's blood.
Leaving a trail of crimson footprints as he went, Gilgamesh returned to his master after completing the task given to him. The camp was now fenced in by a wall of pikes, each one sporting the head of a human being, their faces twisted into the most horrific of screams as their unblinking eyes scanned the horizon. Approaching Lucavi, Gilgamesh dropped to one knee, his sword pointed at the earth. With the quiet rustle of fine robes, Lucavi approached the blood-soaked warrior, his flesh now concealed beneath the regal raiment's of the merchant he'd slain. "Excellently done, Gilgamesh."
"What is your command, my lord?"
"We go to Igros, in pursuit of a hated enemy. Too long has man grown fat of their security, and a misappropriated sense of invincibility has poisoned the soul of both the politicians and the clergy. We will start a new kingdom on the broken backs of such foolish men. And we will start with the corpse of one such man, a self-righteous hero named Ramza Beoulve."