Prologue:
Sirzec sat on his self-appointed throne of corruption, gnarled hands intertwined, pointed chin resting upon them as he hunched forward in the lightlessness. His monstrously huge, twisted figure remained unmoving, locked in a paralyzed fixture of concentration. The long hall that housed his royal seat stretched for hundreds of yards in length, lit solely by blue-fire torches; they cast an eerie glow over the walkway, a dim luminescence to devilish to be called light.
The being who was Sirzec was a gruesome creature. His skin, like everything else involved with him, was pure black, hairless and smooth like marble. A single ebony horn protruded from his forehead, a short pointed spear. His body was immense; an 8' frame rippled with muscles. His face was elongated, as if someone had pulled it downwards and stretched it. His chin was pointed, his cheeks thin, and the skin surrounding his horn tight and unwrinkled. His nose resembled that of a wild hog's, large and wide. His mouth housed miniature daggers, blood-stained fangs that rotted with decay.
Sirzec sat, and watched the three worlds with the eyes of his mind. He watched his plans unravel, his emissaries die and his messages falter—the tables had shifted. His was the next move in the game, but he was lost as to what it should be. He thought deeply in the matter, shutting all of his dimension out, giving his entire being into his planning.
It was a long time before he remembered the Resurrection Stone. He had stolen it from his adversary years ago, stashed it away in his fortress along with the countless other artifacts he had taken. As he remembered the red stone, his eyes opened. Black, unfathomable endlessness was contained within them, sinking forever into his irises. A smile crossed his ugly face, the cold, hard corruption of his soul emanating from his pupils. He sat back in the chair, his move finished.
"Your turn, Aiynae. Let us see what your pitiful mind can concoct this time. I will not lose, this time. This world is MINE!" The galactic warlord raged, hate encasing his words, verbal venom oozing from his tone. Sirzec relaxed in his seat, and closed his eyes once again, waiting for his opponent to complete his turn.
Sirzec sat on his self-appointed throne of corruption, gnarled hands intertwined, pointed chin resting upon them as he hunched forward in the lightlessness. His monstrously huge, twisted figure remained unmoving, locked in a paralyzed fixture of concentration. The long hall that housed his royal seat stretched for hundreds of yards in length, lit solely by blue-fire torches; they cast an eerie glow over the walkway, a dim luminescence to devilish to be called light.
The being who was Sirzec was a gruesome creature. His skin, like everything else involved with him, was pure black, hairless and smooth like marble. A single ebony horn protruded from his forehead, a short pointed spear. His body was immense; an 8' frame rippled with muscles. His face was elongated, as if someone had pulled it downwards and stretched it. His chin was pointed, his cheeks thin, and the skin surrounding his horn tight and unwrinkled. His nose resembled that of a wild hog's, large and wide. His mouth housed miniature daggers, blood-stained fangs that rotted with decay.
Sirzec sat, and watched the three worlds with the eyes of his mind. He watched his plans unravel, his emissaries die and his messages falter—the tables had shifted. His was the next move in the game, but he was lost as to what it should be. He thought deeply in the matter, shutting all of his dimension out, giving his entire being into his planning.
It was a long time before he remembered the Resurrection Stone. He had stolen it from his adversary years ago, stashed it away in his fortress along with the countless other artifacts he had taken. As he remembered the red stone, his eyes opened. Black, unfathomable endlessness was contained within them, sinking forever into his irises. A smile crossed his ugly face, the cold, hard corruption of his soul emanating from his pupils. He sat back in the chair, his move finished.
"Your turn, Aiynae. Let us see what your pitiful mind can concoct this time. I will not lose, this time. This world is MINE!" The galactic warlord raged, hate encasing his words, verbal venom oozing from his tone. Sirzec relaxed in his seat, and closed his eyes once again, waiting for his opponent to complete his turn.