A/N: Two weeks late and not even on the right day... this is what happens when I try to stick to a schedule. But I have an excuse! Four papers due, and then someone stole my bookbag! In case you're wondering, the bag's showed up, minus $200 worth of stuff.
As far as sheduling the next update, I can shoot for next weekend, but no more sticking to a set date, there's too much going on for that.
This chapter is a lot of talking and setup, but the next one appears to contain some action. Also, Malchior is booked for a return later on.
Disclaimystuff: if you recognize it, I don't own it. Of note that I don't own this chapter are Slade, Kidflash, and Starfire (or is it Blackfire? hmmm)
Screaming. Blood. Death.
From the central temple of Azarath, the noble house of the same name watched it all. The wide paved streets were like man made canals of blood, funneling the liquid symbol of carnage away from the city.
While the city's ruling class observed all calmly, the common folk and visitors waded about aimlessly in the destruction, flailing for escape or release. Here and there the great golden towers of knowledge and learning toppled down into the death-scape below. The few who managed to reach the titanic walls surrounding the metropolis wailed in dismay, for each and every one of the great gates was barred with spell and steel.
A few bolts of mage-fire soared up towards the sky, but none reached their target. The purple-black dragon reigned supreme over all, incinerating some, mauling others, and swooping down to brush away buildings like dead flies. When at last the city had become quiet save the crackle of fire and gurgle of blood, the monster turned towards the central temple.
All of House Azarath stood calmly on the steps, staring down the fell beast.
In one mighty bite, the once proud house was no more.
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Rorek rolled over, unconsciously dragging a fluffy white pillow into his face. The down stuffing nicely muffled the insistent pounding... pounding...
The white haired mage sat up with a start, throwing the pillow across the room into a window.
BAM! BAM! BAM! "ROREK! ROREK OF NOLE?" His heavy oak door trembled with every blast, bringing down masonry dust from the surrounding door frame.
With a dark look about his face, Rorek staggered across the cold stone floor to the entrance. Before letting whatever pest on the other side in, he habitually straightened his nightshirt and ran a hand through his long silvery hair.
"IN THE NAME OF H-" the young boy stopped mid sentence as he tumbled through the now open door into Rorek. In a flurry of misplaced limbs, the two crashed onto the stone floor.
A glowing white hand appeared above the tangle and grabbed the intruder by his mop of orange hair before hoisting him up a few feet off the ground.
Suddenly the newcomer was screaming and thrashing in the air. Rorek sighed, and the magical hand lowered the boy's feet back to solid ground. "Why are you here?" he demanded.
Recovering at an amazing pace, the bobbing head of orange bowed as the boy replied, "BartholomewAllen,sentbyHouseMetriontotellyouthatA-"
"HALT!" Rorek shouted. The boy complied, forcing his jaw closed with an audible snap. "Slow down and start from the beginning," the mage commanded.
Obviously taking great pains not to slur his words together, the boy tried again, "Bartholomew Allen sentbyHouse Metrion to tell you thatAzarathhas been attacked and destroyed by a giantfirebreathingdragon. Youare to present yourself atthepalace immediately."
Rorek simply glared. "You come here, nearly knock my door down, wake me, fall on me, and then expect me to believe you're a royal messenger sent to tell me that the greatest bastion of magical learning has been attacked by a dragon and completely destroyed. Leave!"
Bartholomew jumped back. "AH! Nono,Ihaveproof!" His hands shot into a small leather bag at his side. "It'sheresomewhere!Youhavetobelieveme!" After nearly a minute of rummaging, during which Rorek contemplated throwing him out of the same window that the discarded pillow lay under, the boy produced a small silver token. On one side was a scripted M – the symbol of House Metrion. The other side was blank, save for the blue-green shimmer of mage-fire.
"Leave," Rorek commanded again, although this time in a softer tone. "Tell one of the gargoyles to give you a coin..." With a rough push he helped Bartholomew out of his room and closed the oaken door behind him.
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"Look! It's him." A lightly tanned hand shot out to point at a dark speck ascending the massive plaza of white stairs leading up to the five story high golden entrance to the palace.
A few questioning glances were given by the small group clustered near the top of the stairs. Excepting a few strokes of red, green, and the occasional white, each man and woman bore black as their defining color.
"If Kor says it's him, it's him," Kyrie stated bluntly.
The tall woman who had pointed out the rapidly approaching speck nodded in agreement. She turned to face the assemblage. "Please friends, Kyrie is closest to him, she should be the one to approach him in his time of need."
"Why are we here if Kyrie's the only who'll do anything?"
Kor's eyes flashed, "You are here to offer your support and condolences. If you demand more of a role in this affair than that, you may leave now." Her last two words carried the force of an order.
No one moved.
"Very well. Kyrie, you shall speak for us." Kor's imperious tone challenged the entire group to argue with her. No one did.
The incoming figure was indeed a confused and slightly upset Rorek. Azarath was greater than any dragon – assuming, of course, that there was a dragon - of that he was sure. But there was no reason for any member of the House to claim such a fanciful idea without some sinister motivation. Lost in thought, Kyrie was standing in front of him before he could even register the presence of anything beyond his footsteps against the white marble.
"Oh Rorek, we're so sorry..." Kyrie paused when Rorek raised his head to gaze at her in pure confusion. Suddenly nervous, she glanced back to Kor and the others.
Wordlessly, Kor raised a slender hand and beckoned for both of the friends to follow her.
Neither word nor gesture was needed to cause the great golden doors to swing open before them. Kor strode imperiously in the front, followed by Kyrie and Rorek, and then the remainder of the gathering. The tall woman led them across nearly the length of the great hall – past unfathomable wealth in material possessions and magic – towards one of the small side doors that dotted the sparkling white walls at regular intervals in the niches formed by the great columns.
Like every other door in the complex, the smaller oaken construct opened without a touch, closing with a soft but satisfying click in the wake of the party.
Kor continued on, through countless corridors, some well lit with windows and daylight, others brightened only by tiny were-lights scattered across the walls. After seemingly hours which had truthfully been no more than a half hour, the group reached what few among the living ever saw, the morgue.
The cold room was full of bodies waiting a well deserved state funeral. Fully clothed in all their grandeur, few appeared to simply be asleep on their raised black marble slabs. Limp sleeves hinted at missing arms, while magical masks disguised missing faces. Mages turned morticians huddled around one a clump of blackened ashes and a portrait, raising a full illusion of a body.
As if in a trance, Rorek's feet carried him forward, and then to a deserted corner. There was only one cadaver; it was male, draped in blues and silvers. A bronze plaque proclaimed the body to be Raguel of Houses Metrion and Azarath, Archmage, Hand of Justice... and the list went on, detailing every detail and accomplishment.
Kyrie moved to stand slightly behind her friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry... Raguel is dead, and you are to take on his responsibilities and title as Archmage this evening.
The white haired mage ignored the hand and continued to stare at the body until the threads of the illusion shimmered to reveal a pile of bone fragments and ash.
"These are only the members of House Metrion. The other houses have taken their own dead," murmured Xavier – one of the men who'd joined Kyrie's challenge against Azarath the night before. "All of us who stood against Azarath are suspect."
"Which is exactly why you should all consider go to the remains of Azarath and determining the exact cause of its destruction, be it dragon or treachery," a deep, rolling voice stated from somewhere behind the group. A massive man clothed in black and bronze stood, towering over the rest of the room. A discreet spell shadowed most of this face; the darkness grew deeper around his right eye. "To... prove your loyalty, of course."
The cluster of Rorek's friends seemed to draw closer into itself as if the shadows that practically dripped from the man were squeezing the space around him.
Without smiling, the man continued, "In fact, as a Supreme Commander, I'm ordering you all to leave immediately."
As one, the group turned towards the door and filed out of the morgue.
"Ah, Rorek. I'm afraid you won't be able to follow your friends around like a lost puppy looking for sympathy. Joining my House as an Archmage, with all that entails, on such short notice will require quite a bit of preparation..." at last the man smiled. "Stay."
Gritting his teeth, Rorek nodded to the man and then left the room.
At last Slade smiled. "Good boy."
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