Avaritia

"What… What is this…?"

Gismor's bushy eyebrows furrowed as he watched the man before him fall to his knees. His lips upturned into a sneer, the sinister expression that only the 'privileged' were allowed to see.

He was not a cruel man. That was what he would have said if someone had asked him. His actions, however, spoke far more than his colloquial speech could. He was often mistaken for being a noble man. Noble, regal, and in some circles, handsome, though any woman with decent taste might have said otherwise—and away from his earshot, of course.

The man who was kneeling to him now deserved his predicament. This man stood in the way of Gismor's success. In order to grasp what it was he truly wanted, he had to be dealt with. He had to be eliminated. Without competition, Gismor could raise one more step up the ladder. That had been his goal this entire time. Opposition was to be crushed, annihilated, obliterated, and exterminated. If it had been war, which to Gismor, it could very much be defined as such, then he would have taken no prisoners. After all, captives didn't belong in a war. They brought about sentimental feelings and logic and heart had no place with one another.

Besides, as far as he was concerned, Gismor had no heart unless he benefited from the situation.

I'll have to thank Hanch later, won't I? She was most useful in this predicament. I may need her talents at another time down this grimy pathway I'm traveling.

His eyes grew wide and not even the dim light brought colour to his orbs of black. This man, Gismor, could not be seen as mere human. His lips parted and from the back of his throat came a cackle. It was not the same as genuine laughter. Then again, Gismor was so fictitious that there was a good possibility he'd never sincerely uttered a chuckle in the name of good will.

The sound echoed in the empty halls of the conference room. Somewhere off in the distance Hierarch Verdelet was walking with his apprentice, Seere. When they arrived, however, it would be too late. General Oror would have succumbed to his ill fate and Gismor would be long gone. That had been the plan and a splendid scheme it was.

As his laughter faded, a hand lifted and adjusted the brooch that held his black cape over his shoulders, "Oh, Oror. It looks like you're having difficulty. Here, let me help you up." His right hand extended and he leaned over, just enough to hold the weight of his body upon his feet.

The general of the Knights of the Seal looked up at Gismor with wounded eyes. This was how it felt to be betrayed by one of his most trusted allies? Oror realized it far too late, it seemed. He was a strong man, though. If only he could hold on for a little bit longer. He could get help. He could pull through this. He could return one hundred fold and even greater. If only he could survive this moment.

Foolishly, he grasped for Gismor's hand. He was hoisted briefly. Then the splitting pain of a boot met his sternum and he was thrown back. When had his opponent become so strong? His body, parallel to the ground used the strength he could conjure to lift his head once more and look to the dark-haired man. No matter how blurry his vision had become, there was no mistaking the gleeful expression Gismor held. His eyes betrayed him.

"Gismor…" he sputtered before his world fell into darkness.

"You are no longer a boulder in my road," was the response.

With a stiff turn, Gismor rested a hand upon the hilt of his sword. At any moment, Verdelet and Seere would be making their rounds. It was time for him to make himself scarce.

You played the part of a hero, Oror. And then you died like a hero. There are some who prefer to see their heroes die. That makes us a corrupted society, doesn't it? That we would be so thrilled by death. Even I acquire a strange magnetism for the idea of something that withdraws our souls.

"That is to be expected, however," he continued aloud, "for I play the part of the villain."

----------

Gismor had formerly been a soldier in the Empire during the war that had taken place over fifteen years prior. They were fighting against the Union, led by a naïve prince who likely had no idea what he was truly attempting to accomplish. The only good thing Gismor had pulled from the experience was that he admired the drive and the ambition of the young man leading the militia. He must have been doing something right, because he continued to chisel away at the Empire. At the end, unfortunately Gismor's side had lost. Quality versus quantity, perhaps, but the number of soldiers in the Empire had fallen by the time the Cult of the Watchers began to turn their means onto the monsters and creatures of the Underworld instead.

He had stayed until the end, however; he had wanted to see how it would play out. Could a young girl conquer the land? And if so, he had to have the power she'd somehow miraculously obtained. His plot at the time had convinced him to take everything she held in her juvenile fingertips. Yet the same naïve prince responsible for the Union's victory over the Empire had put a stop to that. Before Gismor had even the chance to inquire as to the explanation behind the cult, the young girl was taken into custody.

That grew not to matter, however. The man behind the prince took it upon himself to establish the Knights of the Seal in order to protect the world. It was a precautionary measure to ensure that never again would Drakengard fall into chaos and sit at the feet of monstrous babies as a sacrifice. Gismor had truly believed he would become food for the grotesqueries and had often questioned how he came to still live. Life was not to be taken for granted after that. Only those with strength and power would live to see the following day. If one was weak, then it was likely that a death was befitting him.

Members of the Empire and the Union had been joined together for the first time in the name of a common cause. Nearly seeing their beloved homes destroyed, and having lost many friends and family in the war, no one was eager to experience the same events again. As a result, they were able to resolve their differences and approach the security of the world with widely-opened eyes and broad perspectives.

This newly-found way of life, however, did not result in good consequences for all, however. It was the obligation of the Knights of the Seal to eradicate any and all threats. This began as a means of taking those who had supported the Cult of the Watchers and imprisoning them in the various districts throughout Drakengard. They were to be used as sacrifices to the Gods, so the rest of the land could live in prosperity for one more day. It was seen as a cruel and barbaric action, but done for the good of the majority, it was accepted. Those who had caused the destruction of the war seventeen years before deserved this ending. Therefore, without heavy hearts, and without regrets, the knights fulfilled their duties impeccably.

Gismor found himself in Oror's position. Verdelet had been kind enough to place him as the general of the Knights of the Seal. Gismor wore this title proudly. He was the perfect man to fill Oror's shoes, and not a knight disagreed. His methods were unquestionable. His will was absolute. What he said needed to be done was thought to come from direct orders given by Verdelet or Seere. The former was beginning to outlast his usefulness. Soon he would pass and his apprentice would take his place, and due to a pact, Seere would be lasting for an eternity.

Unfortunately.

It was a new obstruction placed before Gismor. He couldn't have the throne if Seere continued to live for eons. As a result, something would need to be done about that. That was one scheme he'd not quite put together yet. In order to keep the fire from starting beneath his feet, however, he'd taken quite a liking to having someone do his work for him. After all, that's what Hanch and the others were for. He could use them until they had expended themselves, and then he would simply need to replace them with other idiotic victims.

Gismor truly believed he would reach his desired caste without much in his way. This overconfidence emanated from him until Oror's adoptive son, Nowe, had entered the picture. Like his elder, he was a formidable opponent. He grew up in the company of the knights and had been raised with the belief that all actions performed were in the name of what was righteous. By this time, Gismor's blackened heart had already begun to corrode his being, the way damp silver would rust away when not properly attended to.

Influenced by the leader of a rebellion, Nowe quickly made his way from ally to enemy. The moment he'd begun to show signs of turning against his family, Gismor's full attention was placed upon him. Something had to be done. Anything. Oror's offspring had to be stopped, no matter what the cost.

Like father, like son.

Nowe would die the same way his elder had. Before that would happen, however, Nowe would hear exactly how the man he idolized had passed onto the afterlife. While it was so easy to acquire gratification by killing someone, there was something enticing about crushing a boy's spirit. Nowe had still been young, and not yet a man. There was the possibility that he would shed tears and reveal his true weakness to those who once considered him friend.

Everything had been perfect. At least, that was what Gismor had thought at the time. He employed the services of Hanch once more, pleased to find that his hypothesis on her useful nature had come to be true. With poisoned water, undetectable to the human nose, Nowe was cast into the same boat that Oror had toppled from. That was when things had gone wrong.

Something had happened to Nowe. Something. What that might have been, Gismor was unaware. Yes, Nowe had been known as the Dragon Child, but the general had thought nothing of it. He was a plain and simple boy, after all. How much conflict could one sniveling little brat bring about?

Plenty.

The moment a flash sprang from his young and lithe form, Gismor knew something would go awry. His own reflexes were nothing as they had been back in the days of the Empire. He could have been the strongest man in the Knights of the Seal and it wouldn't have mattered. With blinding speed, Nowe had come at him and he had been unable to defend himself. The sword the boy carried had sliced through his arm so cleanly that not even a spindle of bone broke past the perfect cut.

He'd screamed in pain.

And the soldiers were sent after the child.

After Nowe had escaped, the orders were clear. The Knights of the Seal were to hunt down the Dragon Child along with his comrade, the leader of the rebellion. He would be brought to swift justice. He would pay the consequences for Gismor's lost arm. When the general thought all was lost, he was approached by the Shadow, and to regain his dominant hand, he entered into a pact with it.

----------

Gismor brought his left hand to his right shoulder, gauntleted fingertips examining his appendage. His dark eyes looked over the throne room from his seat. He sat in the place reserved for Verdelet, and later Hierarch Seere.

Turning his cold eyes onto the knight at his right, he growled angrily, "Has the Demon Child been located?"

He was rewarded with a tremble and a rather meek voice echoing from the knight's helm. "N-no, General Gismor. We have received no update from the last aircraft you sent in the direction of the City of Rust. They are likely on their way to another district, though it has not been confirmed which one."

"Hmph," Gismor snorted with distaste. "He must be found post-haste. He must be found and destroyed. Relay the message to another aircraft before they depart that upon locating him, he is to be shot immediately, and his dragon as well, if they are together."

"And what of the girl?"

The girl. The red-eyed girl that invoked even a fear somewhere deep within Gismor. He had seen her before. He knew her from somewhere. At least, he thought he had. His years were growing old, but he knew better than to believe he was succumbing to madness.

General Gismor snarled before back-handing the foolish knight at his side, "Kill her, you blundering idiot!"

The knight saluted stiffly, shaken up by the gesture. Then with a rigid form, he turned and excused himself without hesitance. It had seemed that were he to overstay his welcome, Gismor would quite easily strike him down. After all, he was disposable. He could simply be replaced by another.

"Yes…" Gismor grumbled to himself. "Kill the Demon Child. Kill the dragon. Kill that obnoxious wench."

They must all die. Then we'll continue with Verdelet and Seere, but that won't be the end of it. Oh, no. That won't be the end at all. No one must stand in my way for the conquest of the throne.

Then his lips parted and once more he crossed the line that separated man from demon and his laughter filled the room, clinging to the tension in the air.

"Yes! They must all die! Kill them all!"

A man driven by his desire for revenge and the goal of destroying the obstacles on his pathway, General Gismor was in danger. His eyes, twisted with hate, his heart corrupted by loathing, his being consumed by the yearning for war; he was blinded. It would come to pass that he could no longer identify a difference between friend and foe.

A fitting end for a villain.