Chapter Two: Consequences
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Vorador shifted uneasily, watching the stranger from behind two rather exaggerated pikes, conveniently held onto by a pair of identically freakish deviants. If the mere sight of Tom could so readily offend the vampire, than these two well endowed lads, were pressing his patience to the utmost limits.
Vorador: What brings a creature such as yourself, within my kingdom, little one?
The stranger seemed outwardly amused, cocking his head to one side, whilst absent mindedly tapping his foot on the ground in a strained rhythmic beat. There was an outward confidence that mocked the fained persona's of all presently concerned. The young man seemed to have just acquired two decades of existence and was wrapped in a concealing ominous robe. There was an abundant cheekiness that suggested an awkward illusion implying a deeper evil. Yet, the youth sported fine blond hair, that neatly descended into half curls upon his shoulders. Vorador would have believed the man an interesting addition to his maintenance staff, if present company wasn't eyeing off a certain extremity that suited the green count, attached. In an awkward mark of defiance, the vampire pulled his robes collar just up to those enormous ears, covering that jaded neck.
Stranger: Ah Vorador, I had such plans, quaint though they were, things have changed from this... abstract perspective.
There was a distinct uncomfortable air in the atmosphere, as Vorador noticed the unnerving proximity several of his brides were enacting. They seemed somewhat attached to the bulging viking like figures that had casually tore down the bedrooms hulking doorway. The Stranger had adopted a keen interest in the slightly quivering figure of Tom.
The young man was once considered the bravest amongst many in his homeland. That was one of the many reasons the Sarafan Keep had originally adopted the lad. However most acquisitions contain their flaws, especially when the bravest of the brave from that settlement, were already signed up, leaving a slightly aloof child behind to fend off predators and such. It's safe to say the critical battle that defined Tom's career lay in his fight against a Hylden called Kreal'Gar'Nith the small. Whatever precedent was set, the Keep always required able-bodied men, to weed their future frontiers.
Stranger: Tell me, what is your name, child?
Tom: Tom, your grace.
The gardener believed it best to compliment those, that quite assuredly would soon place certain extremities on a rather large pike.
Stranger: Are you happy, here, Tom?
Vorador didn't like where this was going, his beloved vixens were eyeing off the invading parties soldiers and the gardener seemed hypnotized by this deadly cobra.
Tom: Well sir, slightly more than The Keep.
Stranger: Ah, this fiend obviously tore you from the righteous path that the Sarafan assuredly created for you.
Vorador: Nonsense, I showed him what true power, wielded by dark gods could achieve!
Tom: Yes, a lifetime of gardening, cold nights and suicidal romps with buckets of water for the blasted daffodils!
Stranger: There is more in this harsh world, Tom. Limitless possibilities.
The vampire enjoyed the sounds of this creatures banter, surely a new tyrant would be a nice change from the old. After all, Vorador barely acknowledged the male children he sired. The paternal neglect clearly issued a toll on Toms conscience, these past few centuries. Picking flowers, weeding and dicing with constant death. Shelter was a luxury in the swamplands, rain poured constantly enforcing the tired cliché of rampant evil that the forest symbolized. His master barely listened to the league of gardeners, houseboys and kitchen hands complaints. A revolution was required and this human seemed to have all the answers.
Tom: Very well, if you can deliver the goods, the staff is behind you, sir!
The stranger nodded and vaguely smiled at Vorador, than hinted to his entourage to escort the vampire to a nicer place.
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Anacrothe was slightly ill at ease, all knew what The Necromancer was capable of in fits of foul rage. At the moment, Mortanius was pacing his study whilst hissing foul obscenities towards The Alchemist.
Mortanius: Oh, I know you, Anacrothe. Craven logic rules those minuscule thoughts within that tedious little mind. I can see it now, The Guardian of States stands aside for a mere second, then the world falls into oblivion!
Anacrothe decided that direct eye contact as this precise time, hardly enlisted the desire to continue on living, so he ogled the carpeting. This however was an ill conceived cognition, as the contents below hardly instilled a sense of calm. Pieces of rotting flesh slowly slid down the skull of what The Guardian hoped wasn't Mortanius's two o'clock. The man then decided to chose his words carefully.
Anacrothe: Surely, a new Guardian will be summon-
Mortanius: (snapping) And whom will train this child? You? Don't even try to lighten your predicament with such a foolish brand of humor. Besides, it no longer matters.
With a flick of the wrist The Guardian of Death, revealed a small pool of water in the center of the chamber. It was housed in a distinctly ceremonial bowel and echoed a similar structure to the one that lay in the Sarafan Keep. The water shimmered and revealed the pillars, now containing the spirit Aerial.
Mortanius: The Pillar of Time is rotten to the core! Nupraptors madness has effected us all and Moebius was removed from the game earlier than expected. This will have dire consequences, my dear, bumbling fool!
Despite Anacrothes better judgment, his concentration lay elsewhere. After all, the pool managed to project the Pillar of Time and a rather buxom beauties endowments at the same moment. Such consequences of ill conceived actions were present to this day, Nupraptor had ensured this. With a startled squawk, the Alchemist fell to the floor and started to hunt for grain. At the same time he made territorial clucking noises to a large coat rack, Mortanius had acquired from Willendorf. The Necromancer sighed, often he wondered why the pillars chose such idiots. Then he realized, maybe it's not his to reason why, but to relocate strange Alchemists into conveniently placed chicken coups.
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Earlier that day:
The vat was rather large and for some very inconvenient reason there was no ladder for escape. This displeased a floating inhabited robe, desperate to be removed from the murky green liquid. It was not so much the fall, but the humiliation of his predicament that ate away at the mans soul. That scheming little bastard surely, intended such an outcome. Nevertheless, what use could the child foresee in prolonging his life?
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Authors Note: From the Blood Omen perspective, once a guardian is destroyed the pillars will be cleansed/ purified. However in this fic the nature of Moebius's release defines the Pillar of Times state.