Melancholia
"Hand over your ward." Sarevok boomed. Tonight, he was feeling peevish. Not only aware of the mosquitoes, he also didn't feel like being theatrical. All he wanted was slaughter, conquest, and then more conquest with Cythandria, drink, and a spot of murder. He didn't even finish his preprepared speech.
"You're a fool if you think-"
Sarevok didn't wait but charged. Beside him, Tamoko cast 'silence' and the two ogres went after the boy at the old man's side.
Ordinarily, he would kill his siblings himself but that little brat would run so he might as well set the hounds to harry him first.
The old man hefted his staff, but Sarevok ran him through; Tamoko cast 'hold person' as the whelp predictably took flight and then he stopped. The ogre pair hauled the whelp back and as the light faded from the old man's eyes, Sarevok dashed all hopes and dreams and the boy broke into golden dust.
Sarevok stomped off, still in the middle of nowhere, still peevish, still aware of his armour and the mosquitoes. It just wasn't as satisfying as he hoped. His thoughts soon turned to Rieltar and a garotte. That usually cheered him up. Tamoko was blathering again, and a grim smile formed under his helm. As soon as the rest were dead, his fingers would wrap around her throat and the life would leave her. That would be exquisite. Then his mood soured. Maybe he'd just attain godhood instead; murdering mortals was petty when there was far greater conquests out there.
*
Another scamp ran off that night, clasping her hands to her mouth as the tears streamed.
Sarevok's 'cohorts', a polite term for degenerate, reeking bandits, were good at three things: possessing a druid's lack of hygiene, ambushing the weak like craven beasts, and tracking the defenceless.
So it came as no surprise when they found another set of boots. Tamoko practiced divination and earnt another tenday's grace, and in the Candlekeep Inn, Sarevok, garbed as a monk, found the teary-eyed girl turning down the sheets. His large hands wrapped around her throat from behind and this time, he took his time before his fingers snapped her neck. By the time she was purple and her feet hung limp, the thrill was over, and so he ended it. She broke into golden dust.
"Heh."
Then his mood returned to its usual dourness. There was a lot to do and none of it seemed worthwhile. Mortals, slaughter... why hadn't he taken the time to savour it, to toy with these whelps before a final duel? This was like crushing eggs. Somehow, it just wasn't satisfying.
...
If he had a chance to do it over again, maybe he would enjoy himself more, take longer to savour things, follow through on his declarations. This... this was just unsatisfying. As much as he didn't want to admit it, it reminded him of Tamoko. At first there was the thrill, the delicious newness of the chase, of bringing her low and then the succulent, sweet taste of conquest. But then... then it started to lose all appeal, too much of the same, too... mundane. No thrill, no chase, no conquest. None of the dance, none of the... he had no equal, just those he had conquered and those left to conquer. That was the trouble. He needed a challenge, something to crush that was worth his time and effort.
Maybe he would just head south to Saradush, alone with his retainers instead of amassing a host. Just a few cohorts to witness him storming the petty dens of his remaining siblings. Losing himself in a massive battle sounded fun, but how long until it just became three tendays of Tamoko? If murder was the most exquisite form of killing, why wasn't he savouring it? There was an art to it, skill... but it somehow wasn't worthy. He desired more. Maybe sacking a city or two would help. Surely that would draw someone worthy to cut down?
Strangling Rieltar would provide some relief but without a long betrayal that crushed all the man's hopes and dreams it wouldn't be satisfying. True murder was the utter dominion over the now hapless, after breaking them.
Irritation flared through him. Tamoko was blathering again in that demure, subservient tone. He could strike her and she would roll over and accept it. That is why she meant nothing; at least Cythandria bit back, even though she was as hapless as Tamoko. He should just kill them and be done with it.
His eyes drifted back to the Kara-Turan. She studied him, lowered her eyes, then lifted them. Concern. He wanted to strike a tree but she believed it was beneath him. She was right.
He couldn't roar around her. Those judging eyes... disappointed...
He was going to Saradush.
*
"I am Melissan,"
Sarevok didn't listen to the rest but let his lackeys handle it. Tazok the half ogre fingered his axe; his most faithful kept watch, Tamoko pursed her lips, and Cythandria dripped venom through a sanguine sweet smile.
What was that? A shepherd of Bhaalspawn sheep?
"Heh."
The Sword of Chaos cleaved the Blackhearted's head from her shoulders. He briefly considered a garotte but he had no need of another stepmother.
He began cleaving a path through the streets, setting Saradush crimson like the skies above. The sheep fell; mortal, Bhaalspawn, all perished. Finally there was the keep with the Bhaalspawn Gromnir. No moat, merely archers and battle mages. Sarevok had his own battlemages and cleric. Davaeron snd Cythandria made a hole and he stormed the first enclave.
Gromnir sat on a throne he didn't deserve and ended his day in agony, the sword of chaos impaling him before the theatrics were exchanged.
It was over much too quickly. Drenched in blood, innards, and other fluids, Sarevok cast a dismissive gaze as the fire within faded. Two years ago he would have celebrated his triumph with drink and his women but now he simply walked away, not caring for the spoils or any depressing journals of his kin.
He turned his eye to the window and the approaching host, fire giants amongst them. His lip curled, "Heh."
"My lord?" Tamoko inquired, then followed his gaze before rapidly barking orders as she and Tazok took charge. Sarevok ignored it, his eyes fixed on the lead giant. Davaeron muttered and Cythandria rolled her eyes; Sarevok considered. What would bring the greatest satisfaction? Hunting them down one by one was getting stale...
A grand battle between the last of them. The cowards would never agree...
*
Yaga-Shura collapsed, hamstrung, Sarevok's lackeys creating anti-magic fields allowing the Sword of Chaos to do its work. Then it pierced from behind, crunching through the fire giant's skull and thrusting out of his eye. Then Sarevok sliced and slid his blade free. As Yaga-Shura became dust, his army faltered. In a moment of irritation, Sarevok demanded they serve him, their new master, or die with their old.
Most agreed. He allowed the deserters, slew those who refused, and after letting them loot Saradush, he sent his new host against the cowards who refused to crawl out of their dens.
It wasn't long until the last of his kin fell.
Sarevok ascended and it wasn't long before he sat broodily on a throne, eyeing the Blood War, Mount Celestia, and wondering what else he could crush... it barely seemed worth it. Maybe the elven pantheon. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.