Disclaimer: Obviously, considering I'm writing fan fiction, I don't own rights to any canon materials or characters. The awe-inspiring Mrs. Paul owns all that.

Author's Note: Yes, I am aware that Pretender is supposed to represent the Devil and all that, considering the Dragon Keepers Chronicles are Christian fiction. But let's put that aside for right now. Let's look at the series from a completely secular and literal point of view, as if it were simple fantasy. And now let's dabble around with the evildoer, since he is, as always, a very interesting subject. Suddenly, BAM, you have a crazy fan fiction speculating on Pretender's rationale and intention, past him generally being evil.

Warnings: A bit AU, because of the secular viewpoint. Lord Ire may say/think some undesirable things about Wulder. There will be a major OC.

Full Summary: Despite a few dastardly schemes and behind-the-scenes advances against the forces of Wulder, Pretender has yet to do any real damage. His Low Races are, in the end, mere pests-moronic and cowardly ones at that, and they generally stay out of the way of Wulder's people. There hasn't been any evil activity for decades. And the people have grown complacent. The wizards' more important duties now involve attending social functions. Even Paladin is on the verge of letting his guard down, for real. But Pretender is merely lying in wait, stewing over his vendetta against Wulder. He is gathering his forces, constructing plans, and honing his newest weapon, a weapon he believes will finally win him a following, and, more importantly, his revenge. Lord Ire is preparing to finally live up to his name.

There were very few members of the High Races willing to serve Lord Ire. Even when they did so, he held no illusions that they were anything but the worst lot, a self-serving and avaricious bunch that held no sense of honor or loyalty, people who'd somehow missed out on Wulder's gifts. The real people of Wulder looked down upon Lord Ire's creations, and, in turn, looked down upon him. Yet, despite his fearsome name, he could not bring himself to feel hatred at this. His creations were inferior, aptly dubbed the Low Races. He knew it was true, and so he could not fault the people of Wulder for their disdain. However much he wanted someone other than himself to blame, there was nobody. Deep within his soul, he felt he deserved their scorn. Even with all the impossible things he'd accomplished, he just wasn't good enough. Lord Ire was nothing but a Pretender, a farce. By claiming immortality without obeisance, he had knowingly defied Wulder, and for this, Wulder had destroyed him. He'd vowed to return the favor, but how could one defeat one's foe when said foe was a nearly omniscient entity without body? There was of course Wulder's earthly messenger, Paladin, but Lord Ire knew the mockery for what it was. Paladin and he could be twins at a cursory glance. People said that they could tell the difference, that Lord Ire had frown lines and cold eyes because he was evil, but in reality, the two were no different in body.

Lord Ire clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall, sending a jarring pain through his hand, which he steadfastly ignored. Normally, he would have dented or perhaps even cracked the stone wall, but the room he currently stood in was far too infused with magic to be damaged by a mere blow, even from a man like him. This place was Lord Ire's greatest pride, and yet from it came his greatest shame. It was his ritual chamber, a dark, dank place charged by his very life force, and it was where each of the seven Low Races had been born. Lord Ire was not going to make another attempt at creation. He was certain that he would never reach the level of power Wulder had displayed. Wulder was nothing less than a magical source. There had been very little to limit His power when he'd created his races. Lord Ire had long realized this by the time he'd given rise to his third being, his third mockery of life. That was exactly what it was, and Lord Ire knew it. It was a twisted, stupid creature, and it sought only to eat and sleep, and cause pain when it could. Lord Ire understood now that it was his emotions that fueled his limited power over life, and that he could never do as Wulder had done and create with love. He'd tried, at first, but the emotion had been far too weak, and he'd only made a wretched, cowardly thing. Wulder had taken his heart. He wanted power and obedience now, not love, but his dominating nature had only gotten in his way. But there was no changing that. He'd long given up on his dream of surpassing Wulder's creations, and he had deliberately created four races imbued with cruelty and mindlessness, just so he could spite his enemy and have seven races of his own, even if their quality wasn't exactly up to par. He had actually gotten somewhere with his second creation attempt, made beings with intelligence who were capable of following orders, but he'd quickly learned that it meant they were also capable of betrayal.

He was done with the messy process of creation. Lord Ire was in his ritual room now for something else, something better. This time, he would have a weapon. He'd been given something special through his dreams, and he would use it to his advantage. A small, silver ring sat in his palm, a ring which would summon him a servant from elsewhere. Where exactly this elsewhere was, Lord Ire did not bother to consider. It could be another dimension, another planet, for all he cared. All he knew was that the ring would give him his ultimate weapon. His dream had said as much, and, from prior experience, Lord Ire knew never to dismiss his dreams, however much he wanted to. They had, many times before, predicted his defeat, down to the last detail. Now, they would predict his victory, his rise to power. He would finally be respected for his accomplishments, and perhaps he would have one over Wulder. How satisfying that would be. Unfortunately, he couldn't savor the expression of defeat on his enemy's face, since Wulder had none, and Paladin's face was his own. But it didn't matter. Such things were superficial, petty. It would be enough to know that he had done something right for once.

So, even if his rational self felt silly trusting a dream, of all things, he listened and stood in the center of his ritual chamber, holding up the silver ring and twisting it three times in the air, just as his dream self had done. He felt a thrilling streak of magic course through his fingers and down his arm, spreading to the rest of his body before settling comfortably around his navel. Lord Ire closed his eyes, projecting his true emotions. Waves of pride, ambition, anger, and a desire for control entwined with the magic around him, coalescing into a colorful, swirling vortex and bringing light to the underground room. Lord Ire felt a powerful blast of cold air surge around him, yet he had the distinct impression that he was on fire, though he felt nothing. A muted blue brightness filtered past his closed eyelids, flickering playfully. As quickly as it had come, it ended, and the room returned to its previous state of dim lighting

"You called for me?"

The voice was low and raspy, as if the speaker hadn't used it in awhile, but it was still unmistakably young. Lord Ire opened his eyes slowly, and was greeted by the sight of two large, yellow irises with split pupils. It was almost painful to look into those eyes. He surveyed rest of the creature before him, and, to his annoyance, found himself quickly comparing it to the people of Wulder's High Races. It looked remarkably like a young o'rant boy, except for its strange eyes and the fact that it had a small pattern of scales on its neck and chest.

"Yes." Lord Ire finally said. There really was no other way to respond. He wanted to ask the creature what it was, but he was reluctant to admit his ignorance. As it turned out, the decision was made for him.

"Do you know who I am? Do you know what I am?" the creature asked pointedly. Lord Ire had a sudden feeling of vulnerability, one he hadn't had since he'd achieved his goal of immortality. He brushed it away, chiding himself for being foolish. If the creature turned on him, he would be able to defend himself. Lord Ire was anything but helpless. But he still had no idea what the thing was.

"No." he said. To his supreme annoyance, the creature smirked at this.

"A risk taker, are we? I am the Ancient Close. Since you have come upon my talisman, I can only assume you're my new master." it said. For some inexplicable reason, the creature's tone grated on Lord Ire's nerves. He scowled. The Ancient Close, or whatever it was, grinned, and added, "but if you're not up to the job, I can always kill you and find someone else."

"That won't be necessary." Lord Ire ground out, closing his eyes in unexplained exasperation. What was it about this thing that infuriated him?

"Very well then, master. Just understand that I'm not like the other Ancients. I'm not going to grovel at your feet or something ridiculous like that. I don't care if you're 'immortal.' I can rip the soul from your very body, so don't try anything funny." Close said pointedly. Lord Ire finally realized why he felt annoyed. This was supposed to be his servant, his weapon! He didn't expect it to be so... insubordinate. But if Lord Ire had anything redeeming about him after all those spiteful years, it was patience. He wouldn't be bested by the thing's attitude, or it's supposed powers. From what his dream had shown him, he could still tell it what to do, and that was enough.

"Of course. I don't plan on dying anytime soon, before my score against Wulder is settled."

"Wulder?" Close asked, apparently in genuine curiosity, its yellow eyes now blinking innocently.

"The so-called Creator? The great one?" Lord Ire prompted. He could hardly believe that this thing had never heard of Wulder, or how satisfied that fact made him. Everyone had heard of Wulder, and that was what made him so angry.

"Like religion?" Close's voice was blank and inquiring. Lord Ire shook his head.

"Religion? Just know that all of the High Races are completely enamored with Him and His principles, because they have never seen His terrible side." he said, trying his best to explain. Close rolled its bright yellow eyes.

"I just came from another dimension. You will have to pardon my ignorance of your world, master." it muttered, "But I'll catch on. Besides, all people die when their soul bonds are removed, no matter where they're from, so I'll get by." Close smirked viciously at this, revealing a mouthful of carnivorous teeth. It was certainly no o'rant, that was for sure.

"Quite." Lord Ire said, still unsure of exactly how he should deal with the creature. While it had been speaking, he'd analyzed it carefully, and he was already formulating a picture of its character. It acted carefree and childish about everything, however gruesome, but Lord Ire could sense an underlying bitterness about its tone. Close had claimed that he would be its master because he had its "talisman." He deduced that while the threat it had given at first was very real, it was more of a halfhearted attempt at garnering some respect, some pride, before its enslavement. Because that was what it was, Lord Ire realized, for anybody would be bitter about such a thing. "I can always kill you and find someone else" it had said, and from this Lord Ire understood that it would have a master somehow, no matter who this master was. Close was undoubtedly very powerful, if the burst of magic and its claims of traveling dimensions were any evidence. If it turned on him, it would be a formidable enemy. Lord Ire knew that whatever he did, he would not have the creature betray him.

"You haven't told me your name yet, master." Close's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"I am known as Lord Ire." Much to his chagrin, Close smirked at this.

"That's what you're known as, my lord. May I address you as my lord? Anyways, it isn't your name." it declared proudly, as if it had discovered something remarkable. Lord Ire fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"My name is beside the point." he snapped. Close looked contemplative.

"Will you tell me your name if I tell you mine?" it asked hopefully.

"Why are you so insistent upon knowing? I stopped using it long ago, when... when He took them from me." Lord Ire lapsed into a brooding silence, unwillingly revisiting the past.

"Who, what, where?" Close asked, seemingly ignorant of his thoughts.

"Wulder. He took my family, everything, I-" He clenched his teeth, wondering why he'd even spoken. "Never mind that. That is the last you are getting out of me." he snarled. A thoughtful glint appeared in his eyes, and he smirked slowly. "Tell me your real name anyways, Close."

Surprisingly, Close recoiled at this, before recovering itself. Gritting its sharp teeth, which did not present a pretty sight, it relented and spoke. "I was once Nettle of Lye before I became this." Its yellow eyes burned fiercely, as if it were trying to glare him to death.

"Oh? And Close... or Nettle, can you disobey me? Answer truthfully." Lord Ire knew that there was a severe problem with his inquiry. If Close replied, "no," he would still know nothing. If it said "yes," he knew it was true, but that was an issue in and of itself. Either way, the situation was not ideal.

"Yes I can. I..." Close began softly, glancing down. A moment later, it raised its head and made eye contact, and Lord Ire saw some desperation in those yellow depths. "I won't, but calling me by Nettle is the first step to pushing me towards it. You are sensitive about your name... your past. A- Allow me the privilege of being protective of my own." it cried. Now Lord Ire saw under the playful and cheeky mask. He'd already gathered that whatever Close was, it forced it to seek a master. And in its moment of vulnerability, he saw that even its anger and bitterness was a facade. Under it all, Close was afraid, simply afraid of losing its free will, and so it tried its best not to do anything that might lead to such. Apparently, betrayal was certainly an option.

"I see." Lord Ire said thoughtfully. Close flinched. He could tell that it knew what he'd seen. "Do not turn traitor to me, and I will never mention it again." He looked into its eyes, and they both knew that it was a truce. Close nodded once, slowly.

"Very well, my lord." it murmured.

"Come." Lord Ire said, turning and heading towards the grimy rung ladder that reached up and eventually made its way back to the surface. They would not be going all the way, only to the bottommost reaches of his underground castle. It was a long climb to reach the surface, but he would not risk invasion by having a magical means of entry to his castle. Magical wards could always be breached. It was much harder to predict an enemy's physical traps. For one, Wulder, being a magical entity, never bothered to warn his people about pitfalls or poison, while he always attempted to nudge them away from harmful spells. It was a weakness of his enemy that he used to his best advantage.

It was many minutes spent climbing up slippery rungs in a dark, narrow tunnel scented with rust, before Lord Ire and his newly summoned servant finally emerged on the tenth floor landing of the underground fortress, incidentally the only landing that came equipped with an entryway instead of a number of lethal traps. Even so, as soon as they opened the hatch to enter the building proper, they were faced with the poison-tipped spears of two burly bisonbeck guards. Lord Ire nodded in approval. At least these ones were doing their job. He knew well enough that Wulder's fighters could easily dispatch the guards, but poison was such a lovely thing. A single hit was enough to kill in seconds, and there were people and traps around every corner. Around the hatch was also a powerful anti-concealment ward, layered on top of an alarm ward, a pain ward, and finally a self-destruct ward that spanned the entire tenth floor, which was simply a gigantic entryway. If any invader noticed and disabled the anti-concealment ward, which was likely to happen, considering the wizards on Wulder's side, they would trigger the alarm, and be struck with pain and attacked by guards. If all else failed, their way in would be destroyed. Lord Ire prided himself in his intricate security system. To make things simpler for himself, the wards on the entire thing recognized his magical signature, which was impossible to duplicate, even by Wulder's standards. That way, he could use a spell upon entry to get inside his actual home without hassle.

"Very nice wards you have, my lord. Could I suggest a nightmare spell tied into the alarm, and a soul capturing one underneath it?" Close said lightly as they passed by the guards. Lord Ire was impressed that the creature could tell what spells were on his entryway, and apparently knew of magic that even he did not know was possible. He knew intimately the powers of almost every wizard alive, and he had the capability of creating very lifelike illusions, but he could do nothing to kill so violently and directly as Close apparently could, by ripping away the soul.

"How are such spells done?" Lord Ire inquired, looking over his shoulder. Close smiled wryly.

"It is my specialty as an Ancient. I am sure my lord is familiar with the basic mind arts already." it said.

"Mindspeak?" Lord Ire projected. Close nodded.

"Precisely. Take it a step further. Give images, not words. Send ideas. Invade their minds. Give them nightmares. And finally, you can weave your power into a spell." it said inside Lord Ire's mind. A rush of vindictive emotions and a general feeling of foreign terror swept across his consciousness, before being quickly withdrawn.

"I see." he said aloud. "Don't do that again, by the way."

"Of course not, my lord. Merely a demonstration." Close replied.

"And your... interesting talk about souls?"

"It's an exclusive ability, I'm afraid. I can sense that you've long lost the grasp over Dark magic required. But I am at your command, my lord, remember that."

At that, Lord Ire was struck with the urge to use his servant, his weapon. He wanted to strike back at Wulder, take away the belief that fueled his strength. He wished to destroy, to kill, to crush hope and spawn fear, and he would be the one to bring back peace, an return to normalcy. And he would be their savior, not Wulder.

But not now. Now was far too early. He did not know Close's limits. He was far from a fool. He did not trust it to stay loyal. It could betray him; it had told him as much. And no matter how powerful Close was, how easily it could kill, Lord Ire knew that he would still need an army. More importantly, he knew that this wasn't a physical fight, not really. He didn't want to start a war. Killing people wouldn't help anything at all but to slake his thirst for vengeance. And that was secondary to his goal of turning the people from Wulder. He wanted to show the Entity of Light, the Creator, that He wasn't the only one with power, that Lord Ire could be something more than just a Pretender.

In order to do such a thing, he needed to take belief, not lives. If he caused terror, the people would flock to Wulder for help. If they knew it was Pretender behind it all, they would shun him further, and never would they abandon Wulder's gilded and wondrous ideas. Lord Ire would be not a murderer, but a seducer. It was tricky business. He would have take down those irredeemable lovers of Wulder, those utterly devoted to Him. They had never seen what Wulder could do to those who encroached upon his power. They didn't know that what they thought was an abundance of magic was only a meagre allowance by Wulder to people so blind they would listen to His every glorifying word. These people allowed themselves to be controlled, to be tools for a self-interested entity. Wulder's one great weakness, though, was his reliance on these tools. While His magic created them, that was long ago, when He still possessed wild, chaotic magic. But the wild magic had grown tame in His hands, and the Creator had lost His powers of creation. His very life now depended on the beings he'd made. Lord Ire smirked at the irony. He himself was also without those powers, for in his blind rage, he'd forgotten to study his enemy's actions. He'd always wondered at the number of High Races. Seven. Why stop at seven? Why not eight, or nine, or ten, or a hundred?

He'd learned why, first hand. The wild magic had never been his forte, but he'd wielded it best he could, and created his own races in an attempt to surpass Wulder. But once his seventh race came to life, the chaotic power escaped him. He could still feel it, the ambient magic swirling thickly in the air, but it no longer came to him when he called. It swarmed around him, caressing him tauntingly from time to time, but that was it. In the end, it was wild magic that controlled them all, he supposed. Even Wulder. Wulder could do nothing but guard His creations jealously, using them to keep Himself alive, now that the chaotic magic had abandoned Him.

Something struck him as odd. What had Close said? "you've long lost the grasp over Dark magic required." What did that mean? Could it be... ambient, wild, chaotic, dark magic... Did that mean that Close could wield this power of creation?

"Dark magic?" Lord Ire inquired carefully, halting. Close stopped beside him, nodding.

"You used to have it, my lord. It's a special gift, but you must have offended it by giving it nothing for its help. It will take you much effort to regain its trust." it said cryptically. Even with the strange wording, Lord Ire was sure that Close was talking about wild magic. But he hadn't known that it was conscious. He said as much.

"Regain its trust? It's sentient?"

"Why, of course. It is the one who keeps the dimensions in balance. You must give it much sacrifice in order to borrow its power." Close replied.

Lord Ire nodded absently, and continued walking. "I see." he said, though he didn't really see at all. Close only smiled knowingly.

They soon arrived in Lord Ire's personal chambers on the fourth floor. While the lower levels were dark, desolate, and built with grimy stone, the castle proper was lit brightly and whitewashed, giving the halls an austere feel. The Lord's rooms were no different, clean and proper, sparsely furnished yet welcoming.

"You'll sleep in the chamber adjacent." he told Close. "But first... is it possible to send nightmares long distances?"

"Well, it's a difficult technique that takes years to master. The mind arts are no small matter. You will have to-"

Lord Ire cut it off, "What did I summon you for? Can you send nightmares long distances?" he demanded irritably. He could tell that Close was being long-winded on purpose. The cheeky attitude that masked and shielded its uncertainty was nearly back in full force, and it annoyed Lord Ire as much as it had at first. Close smirked.

"Yes."

"I want you to give nightmares to a woman named Kale Allerion." Lord Ire ordered in clipped tones. Close's smirk only grew.

"My lord, that tells me absolutely nothing. I don't know what she looks like or where she lives." it replied, looking far too smug. Lord Ire scowled, knowing that what it'd said was true. He smiled darkly a moment later, and quickly smashed images and memories of Kale together, catapulting them into Close's mind. Its smirk quickly morphed into a look of consternation, and then pain.

"Go."

"Yes, my lord."

-o-O-o-

In a Wizard's Castle far away, a castle that looked like a veritable patchwork of architecture, a certain Light Wizard tossed and turned in bed, clutching her sheets fitfully. Two small dragons, green and mottled purple in coloring, awoke and flew down to her, but nothing they tried seemed to help. They attempted to speak to her, but she only continued to writhe in the throes of terror, flinging them away.