A/N:
I originally intended to send this out when I complete but I know that many have waited for long enough.
To all those keeping track and to all those that are still reading this story, here is a Teaser for the next chapter that you all have waited nearly a year for.
The rest will be coming by the week's end and the Tale of the Arbitrator shall continue. Judgements and glory all.
So for now, allow me to satisfy your cravings for a story long overdue.
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Whispers among his followers called it the Red-Eyed Wraith. One glimpse of the beast was enough for Blackfyre to consider the name appropriate given the one red eye that blazed like hellfire on its head. But the answer to the question of what it was still eludes most.
Some thought that the Wraith was a demon spat put of hell. A believable tale given what many had been seeing throughout the whole 'Purple Star Incident' that fell Gotham into chaos. A popular one saw it as a ghost of a long dead ancient. Stirred from its sleep in the chaos of the Underworld, now it feasts on souls with a bottomless hunger. An evil that followed them up to the surface.
The most entertaining rumor however was the one shared by the Cult's few enemies in the Underworld. That the Red-Eyed Wraith was their judgement for their sins. A creature conjured by the great powers to challenge the dark magics and gods that Blackfyre adhered to. An opposing force to balance out the evils that Blackfyre and his Ilk manifested onto their world. He did well to pluck those stories out of his people's minds before they broke out to the surface.
Despite of Blackfyre never paying much thought of such tall tales, he understood enough of its effect on morale. There was also too much in stake in his grand design to pay heed to these rumors. Whatever the creature is, it was no more than another obstacle that the Deacon would soon overcome just like the rest. To his surprise, that time would arrive when it arrived near his plan's final stages when it boisterously entered their abandoned cafeteria hall. There it stood before what remains of the Blackfyre Cult. The Red-Eyed Wraith with its blazing eye that never blinks.
"MaSTeR?" Brother Peter croaked. His eyes widened in alarm from under his hood.
"Continue the ritual. I will handle this." Deacon Blackfyre said indifferently. Waving an impatient hand at his children. "Nothing can interfere us."
"BuT mAsTer…" Brother Peter protested. "We cOuLD baReLy mAIntAiN tHe rITuAL AlreaDy wITH oUr nuMbErs. WitHoUT yOU—"
"Nothing can interfere." Blackfyre repeated with a venomous hiss.
The other Acolytes never had a chance to declare their own objections. The Deacon silenced them by leaving the ritual circle. Tearing himself from the spell, Blackfyre forcefully commuted the pit's hunger to his subordinates who could do little else but carry their master's burden. But not without staggering or wailing from the added energies being sapped from them for the greedy pit.
"Hold fast, my children. It will not take long." Blackfyre assured before turning away. Leaving his Acolytes to ask amongst themselves to whom did the Deacon's words entail.
The Acolytes could only watch as the Deacon face off against his foe alone,
The rusted bell hanging on his crooked staff rung with his every step. A herald of Nurgle's words. A note for Blackfyre's spells and magics. Every toll summoned a stream of blinding smog that surrounded the Deacon like a cloud pregnant with rain. Every ring awakened tendrils of miasma from the ground around the feet the Red-Eyed Wraith treaded.
Each grew in size and in power until the final toll fell silent. Blackfyre was no more than a stone's toss from the Red-Eyed Wraith, far from touch but within sight, before he sent it all to flight. Rising high to the ceiling like a curling wave before crashing its entire weight down onto his hated foe.
Blackfyre's laughter filled the entire chamber along with the torrentuous smog that spilled throughout the room. He watched with delight as the Red-Eyed Wraith disappeared behind the dark repulsive mass while a rising tempestuous pillar of miasma that swirled around it. A storm so thick that even its infamous red eye drowned beneath its crashing waves.
A boot would have sufficed in stamping out a little gnat like this Wraith. But Blackfyre needed to let off some steam given many troubles this particular gnat gave him. But at the same time he wanted to test out his new powers he was granted by his godly patron as a means of feeding his ever growing ego. Who better to receive the hard end of the stick other than the wretched bastard who caused him much havoc at the most critical stages of his plan.
Blackfyre would have his ego challenged however when this particular gnat proved itself peculiarly resilient. He found his mouth gape open when he saw the Red-Eyed Wraith emerged from the toxic smog and the the pestilent miasma unscathed, untouched, and unmoved. An unbelievable sight given that Blackfyre had thrown a literal avalanche of rot, plague, and poison at the damn…thing.
Deacon Blackfyre, Master of the Blackfyre Cult and first apostle of the Almighty Nurgle, was left utterly dumbfounded. Nothing about it was believable despite the fact that the truth was standing right in front of him. The truth that was still breathing heavily across the room as if everything that Blackfyre threw at it gave it nothing more than a mild cold. Apart from that, the Wraith still lives. The Wraith still stands. The Wraith still hates.
Nothing could have survived his spell. Nothing could have denied the might of his magic. So why was this…creature still standing?
"MaStER?" He heard Brother Peter ask from behind him. Asking the master of the Cult for commands his fellow followers would obey.
"I believe…I shall commune with this creature." Blackfyre spoke with certainty and confidence.
"SuReLY yOu cAN't, mY Ma-" Brother Peter objected
"As a matter a fact, Brother Peter, I am more than sure." Blackfyre said with a stamp of his staff. "I still intend to kill this…intruder. But not before I speak to it. I must admit that I am rather curious about this 'Red-Eyed Wraith' as you would call it. I wish to know more of it. And to know how much of what your lot say about it is true."
His Acolytes could do little else but obey. Allowing their Deacon to approach the dreaded nightmare alone. Blackfyre however displayed not an inkling of doubt or fear in his attempt to face this Wraith. And if power will not stay the Wraith then perhaps his wits and his silver tongue will.
"The Red Eyed Wraith, I presume? Alas, you grace us with your presence. At last we meet." Blackfyre spoke. "Quite the display you have shown us. I am most curious. I have heard many things about you. Each got harder to believe the more I've been told abou it. Until now. Now that you stand before me, I would like to hear it from you."
The Wraith says nothing. Though expected, Blackfyre had a sliver of hope that he would get something out of it. To answer the riddle that was this creature, this otherwordly being, that was standing before his very eyes.
What he got from this confrontation instead was a peculiar sensation of utter contempt for the Wraith. A feeling not of his own yet felt instinctive enough to trust it. A notion that's further enforced when it includes a unnatural repulsion from it .
But these were not the answers he needed. Not the answers he was looking for. He needed to dig deeper. He needed to set the right keys to open this door.
"You stand before the presence of Deacon Blackfyre." Blackfyre continued. "Founder and master of the Blackfyre Cult. Followers of the true god—."
Blackfyre was cut short when a shrill whistle suddenly pierced the air. Before he could ponder more, a thunderous crack exploded next to him. His ears havent finished whistling when he saw his bell fall from his staff. It chimed its last when it struck the floor where it fell dead at the Deacon's feet.
Next to it lay the crooked hook of his staff. Next to that were three fingers scattered around it. Fingers that he was sure was not there before. The blood on its stumps and the blood that dripped on it revealed its ownership.
Blackfyre found each bloody digit on his left hand cut clean. A hand that was sputtered black blood and pus from open veins. It did not take long for the shrill whistle to return. There was not enough time for Blackfyre to deduce the mysterious sound but it was enough for him to discover the one responsible for it.
Past the curtain of curling smog stood the Red-Eyed Wraith with its right arm curiously outstretched. The clouds infront of its fingers swirled with a twist of its wrist. A faint song began tickling Blackfyre's ears as if a siren, hidden in the shadows, hummed a high monotone note. Blackfyre only realized what it was until the shrill whistle returned and the thick smog parted in front of him.
What emerged was a silver whip with a row of rattling blades. Each a sharpened razor that shimmered with murderous intent as it materialized from a shadow. Each one eager for a bite. Each one salivating for something bigger than a few fingers. A second was all it needed for its strike. A second that Blackfyre denied by catching it. And catch it he did in midair as easily as grasping falling leaf before the whip could let out another thunderous crack.
"MAsTeR!" The Acolytes clamored at an uproar from behind him.
The ritual pit shuddered from every foot that vacated its unholy circles. A piercing screech emanated from the pit and shuddered the ground beneath everyone's feet. The marked symbolse surrounding the swirling pit screeched.
The light emanating from the symbols and the beacon flickered to a dim for each Acolytes who abandoned their post. One by one, they disobeyed their master for their vain attempt to defend their master. Starved off the powers that fed it, the ritual pit roared and the swirling mist of its maw was set aflame. Lashing out its tendrils to consume anything within reach.
"CEASE!" Blackfyre turned to his minions with a bellowing roar. "STAY AS YOU ARE! IF YOU KNOW WHATS GOOD FOR YOU!"
Another second wasted and it would all have fallen apart. But the Deacon acted fast and – gods willing – in time. All that they have bled and sweat for till this day would all have been for nothing if this final piece of his grand design were to falter because of his followers' ignorance. But the gods were kind. None of that was to be. The game was still ongoing with Blackfyre having most of the cards.
His Acolytes were foolish but that was to be expected. It was their loyalty that he relied on and it was something they have proved time and time again. A quality they did so again when they obeyed back to their posts without a retort or a question.
Averting the great danger that Blackfyre perceived, he returned his attention to the Red-Eyed Wraith once more.
His beady eyes stared at the chains that curled itself around his arm. He watched the blades bit deep into his skin. He turned to face his foe behind the foul smog that not melded away. Clearing a path for Blackfyre to see the Red-Eyed Wraith for what it truly was. A discovery that etched a wide devilish grin on the Deacon's chapped broken lips.
"You wouldn't believe the stories they tell of you. Of horrors you have done. Of acts you have carried out." Blackfyre spoke to the Wraith slowly. Matching his pace with his every step as he closed the distance between him and his foe. "A cycloptic fiend who turn men to stone. A herald of death that feasted on souls. A bastard spat out from. No different than a demon. Though admittedly, reality is often so dissapointing."
"Behold! The power of the Red Eyed Wraith!" Blackfyre proclaimed.
He raised bis right hand for all to see. And all watched him crush the iron with a hardened fist. Shattering the blade beneath his palms before melting the chains of steel to rust.
"No more than toys..." Blackfyre tossed the whips' rotten remains at his Acolyte's feet. "In the hand of a child."
Just like the broken chain that freed the Deacon, so too were his cohorts who freed themselves from the shackles of terror wrought unto them by tales of the Wraith. The grand shadow it casted over them was shrinking while Blackfyre's was growing ever greater along with their awe of him.
Here was Deacon Blackfyre, they would tell themselves. Their liege. Their savior. Their messiah who shall lead them out of the shadows.
This shift in power was shown by their difference in height once Blackfyre stood face to face with his foe. The Deacon stood a full two heads taller than the Wraith. Towering over the creature he came close to consider fearing. And from there Blackfyre has shed light to the mystery that was the Red-Eyed Wraith.
"Behold!" Blackfyre declared. A bony finger pointing at the Wraith. "The horror of the Underworld. Nothing more than a runt wearing scraps. A sickly wheezing wretch playing make believe to a lie. A sniveling child hiding behind a mask. A crippled fool who thinks himself a hero. See my children. See how he says nothing. See how he still does nothing. It is because he can do nothing. The veil is lifted. His insignificance is revealed. His own helplessness assured. His mind left in despair and consumed by fear."
Blackfyre raised his mauled hand for all to see. The blood had already settled. Bright pink flesh coated his stretched closed wounds. And from under those wounds his blood churned and took shape. From there it pushed its way out from bone, to sinew, and to flesh. Limbs that replaced his missing fingers in a matter of seconds for all eyes to see.
"You are way out of your league, boy." Blackfyre spat at the Arbitrator's feet. "You stand against powers beyond your understanding. It is time to end this farce. Once and for all."
Deacon Blackfyre's hand swelled like ripe fruit before a horror of bulbous sores manifested on his skin. Each paved the way for a host of black flies to emerge and take flight. Swarming to a shapeless momstrocity at the tips of his fingers. All the while growing a black aura that oozed with decay.
"Tis time to end this farce. Once and for all." Blackfyre hissed as he raised his hand with each finger assuring a promise death by rot. A long and excruciating one to all poor unfortunate souls.
"Yes. It is time." The Red Eyed Wraith spoke at last with a rasp that as coarse has grinding stones. A voice that declared finality before its open palm tore Blackfyre's entire world asunder.
to be continued...