Chapter Ten– A Thousand Shining Eyes

The wolf sat, perfectly still, as motionless as the black statues of demons and Death that dotted the crumbling palace. Embers, from fires lit long ago, illuminated the darkness enough so that the wolf could see the shadowy mirrors embedded in the floor. Its own cloudy white eyes stared back at it from the floor, and nothing else. No other reflection.
The wolf tensed, the only sound in the long-abandoned halls it's harsh breathing and the steady drip of blood from its jaws. The wolf threw its head back, blood coursing down the matted black fur of its neck, and it howled. The palace shook, stones raining from the ceiling as the wolf howled again and again, screaming frustration.
Finally, it quieted, the eerie ululations echoing through the passageways, fading farther and farther away.
Beneath the palace, beneath the earth, something stirred. The wolf snapped its jaws and growled.
(No, Underdark. No, Underworld. Your time passed . . . now it is ours . . . . we have bound you as we were bound . . . our time is now . . . we rise from our ashes, a bloody phoenix . . . now your time is ended . . . these dark halls, these fires, this night power is ours . . . .) The wolf cocked its head, eyes closed, breathing in the dry air. (We will rend . . . yes . . . .)
The ground shuddered again, some of the dark mirrors of the floor cracking and buckling. The wolf snarled, and leapt into the air. As it fell, it faded, gone before it would have hit the ground.
Something shrieked. The palace creaked under the stress of warring powers.
(Too hasty, Underdark. This time is ours. A millennia underworld again, our gift . . . .) Grating laughter gnawed at the edges of the mirrors. A million pairs of clouded white eyes blinked and wavered in the remaining mirrors, casting soft light towards the cracked ceiling, which was smeared with dried blood. Under the blood were exquisitely worked frescos, each slightly more disturbing, in a way that scratched at sanity.
(Their sweet blood is ours alone now . . . Ours . . . . and the grass shall be fed with their crimson life . . . .)
The eyes shut, and the embers died, leaving only the devouring darkness and the thousand broken mirroes.


Author's Notes:

Okay, sorry, a bit short. The next chapter will be much much longer.