"Some legends are told;"
"Some turn to dust or to gold."
"But you will remember me;"
"Remember me, for centuries."
"And just one mistake,"
"Is all it will take."
"We'll go down in history;"
"Remember me for centuries."
Centuries - Fall Out Boy
The world has not always been as you see it...
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Location Unknown
Date Unknown
"Papa! Papa! Look what I got, Papa!" a young girl cried as she rushed towards her father, arms laden with sticks and branches that she'd successfully gathered from the surrounding forest. And her sudden appearance had the anxious look disappearing from weathered features, a proud smile replacing the worried frown that had been marring her father's lips as he accepted the bundle.
"This shall be more than enough for tonight, Little One," the man stated encouragingly as he placed the bundle beside the pile he'd already gathered.
"Axgivu and Iketu helped," the girl stated just as two furry beasts the size and look of small hounds - yet decisively weren't - appeared, yipping and growling as they ran around the camp and causing the young girl to let out a peel of laughter at their rather playful antics.
"I am glad that they were with you," her father said, bending down to give one of the beasts a pat as it passed. "But you know better than to go running off into the forest without an elder," he continued, voice turning into something more firmer and reprimanding and succeeded in having the girl's happiness wilting slightly.
"Sorry, Papa," she apologised as she launched herself at her father, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face into his chest; hoping that he wasn't too upset with her for having wandered off.
"It is all fine now," was offered in comfort. "Though you must remember that even though the forest may provide the means of our survival, it can also lead to our very demise. Just like we get hungry and need to hunt, so to do the great dæmons and beasts of the woods; and they would not look passed the opportunity to snatch up a little girl who had wandered into their domain without their expressed permission or supervision."
Sniffling, feeling upset that she had gotten into trouble, the young girl still listened to her father. And when he was finished, she could only nod against his stomach, knowing that he was right.
"Now, why don't you go and see if your brother needs any help cleaning the fish for dinner," the man continued, nudging his daughter in the direction of where her brother was sitting beside a firepit already hard at work. "I need to go on patrol soon, so I want you to stay close to camp until your mother returns and gets you."
"Okay, Papa," his daughter replied before rushing off to do as asked, leaving her father alone with the two yapping beasts.
Frowning, the man glanced to the hounds, a shimmer of gold passing over his dark eyes as he asked, "Don't you have your patrolling of your own to do?" before he too left.
Oh sure, the sun still rose and set, the moon superseding its predecessor every evening. Stars still glittered within the darkening firmament as night did replace the once-blue skies of day, and the seasons still came and went like the passings of the tides; the snows, rains, and even droughts all taking their toll upon the earth.
But there had also been a time, oh so long ago, wherein the people of this planet - both the Magical and Muggle societies - did thrive in harmony with the Dēofol of the Scīran Sīdolnes.
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Scīrāfeall - Dēofolces Rōse, Ægyptum
Cirice 3,000 - 2,500 ǣr Crīstes nīþercyme
On the cusp of twilight, when the skies above the sacred River Nile bled hues of amber and rose, Ankhus, a man inextricably linked to the lifeblood of Egypt, knelt in the dirt just on the outskirts of the great Dæmon-City, Rosa Diaboli. Here, as weathered hands carefully moved and toiled through the rich and fertile soil, the air was thick with the ethereal energies of the immortal realm, and the distant silhouette of the dæmon city loomed, its spires piercing the heavens. Ankhus, however, was far removed from the tumultuous heart of the dæmonic citadel, dwelling instead within the small village of Shadefall on the banks of the Nile with his twin children, Rauðsótt and Rauðsviðr.
As the soil yielded to his touch, the man's thoughts danced between the realms of the mundane and the mystical. Each furrow he carved into the earth held a silent prayer, a communion with forces unseen to the naked eye. And the white rose he did carefully cradle in his hands, its petals pristine against the earthly backdrop, was more than a mere flower; it was a token of gratitude, a gesture of thanks to the Dæmon-Gods of Old and the protections they continued to bless upon his village.
The planting of the rose was a yearly ritual for this single father of two, one that he felt to be woven into the very fabric of existence as an offering for the continuation of life; the sun dipping below the horizon and painting the heavens in such celestial hues as Ankhus knelt, his silent prayer for another year of bountiful harvest and safety, of love and family, being carried away by the gentle zephyrs that whispered through the lush vegetation around him.
His children, however, approached this yearly ritual with a mix of curiosity and nonchalance. Rauðsótt, vibrant and unpredictable, swirled around her father's kneeling form like a pale gust of wind, her red hair ablaze under the light of the setting sun. "Father, why must we do this every year?" she questioned, green eyes gleaming with an unholy mischief even as she watched her father's actions with a disinterested air.
"Oh, Rauðsótt," Ankhus could only sigh with a mixture of paternal affection and subtle exasperation, patting the soil down around the newly planted rose even as he answered his daughter. "It is but tradition, my fiery-haired dæmoness. A way to show our gratitude for another year of life and love; of the generous bounty from this prosperous land." His gaze lifted from the bloom, meeting those emerald-green orbs who did belong to a tempestuous spirt with hair aflame; reminiscent of the hues that did adorn the skies during these sacred moments. Rauðsótt had the wildness of the river running through her veins, an untamed force that her father knew was just itching to break free from the confines of everyday life.
"Gratitude?" Rauðsótt rolled her eyes playfully, a smirk beginning to tug at her lips. "But isn't it more fun to live on the edge, to dance with danger?" she did enquire 'innocently'.
Chuckling, Ankhus shook his head. "It is more than just a flower, a ritual, my spirited one. The planting of the rose marks the connection between us and the Immortal Plane. The Dæmon-Gods watch over us and protect us, and this humble offering is our way to show our gratitude."
"Father, do the Dæmon-Gods truly watch over us?" another voice questioned and drew Ankhus' gaze to the bank of the Nile and wherein his son stood; piercing golden eyes turning away from the swirling waters of the river and towards their adopted kin. "I mean, we live within the borders of Rosa Diaboli, a city teeming with the dæmonic. It there protection not already assured?" Rauðsviðr continued.
Ankhus offered a gentle smile and a single nod of his head in agreement. "Indeed, Rauðsviðr. The Shadowed Sanctum watch over all within their dominion, but this yearly ritual is a reminder of our connection, a pact between the mortal and mystical. It is a thread that weaves through the tapestry of life and ensures our bond with the forces that govern the river and realms alike."
As he spoke, the shadows cast by the nearing twilight seemed to dance around them, and the ethereal energies of the dæmonic realm hummed in response to the words uttered by one of their own on the banks of the sacred Nile. Rauðsótt's eyes, ever keen on mischief, gleamed with an emerald satisfaction, whilst her twin brother listened to their father's words intently, absorbing the wisdom that Ankhus was sharing with a quiet contemplation that belied his age.
"Come, my children," Ankhus invited, gesturing for his son and daughter to join him. Rauðsótt complied with a grin as she joined her father before the rose he'd planted, whilst Rauðsviðr approached with a more contemplative yet curious expression.
Gesturing to the white rose, smiling as his son took it upon himself to fix his clearly imperfect attempt at transference; the young, redheaded boy patting down the places around the base of the rose that he felt just weren't compacted enough, Ankhus felt it was about time his children learnt of the depths of their connection to the realm many feared would bring them nothing but their ultimate demise.
"This rose, usually a symbol of purity and gratitude, is more than just an offering to the Dæmon-Gods of Old," he explained, ruffling his son's hair as Rauðsviðr finished his task; something of which only earned himself a scowl from the boy as Rauðsviðr battered his hand away. "It is a conduit through which we express our connection to their realm and allowing us to become a part of their eternal cycle, the very ebb and flow of the mystical energies that course through these sacred lands."
Rauðsótt smile had turned somewhat into a frown as she listened to her father, emerald eyes studying the rose he had planted. And unable to help herself, she reached out to gently poke the bloom before turning her gaze to Ankhus, asking, "But, what happens to our offerings? Does it reach the Dæmon-Gods?" with a curious air.
Ankhus' gaze turned inward - thoughtful - as he contemplated the question, and his reply was a slow and measured one. "The energies we infuse into the rose, the magicks of our family, transcend that of the physical realm," he begun. "It becomes an essence, a... token, if you will, of our appreciation that resonates within the folds of both the Immortal and Mortal realm. Whether the Dæmon-Gods directly receive it, or whether it just becomes a part of the energies that help to sustain Dēofolces Rōse, we may never fully comprehend. It is but an act of our faith and acknowledgement nonetheless; allowing us to give back to the realms that had provided us with far more than that of the very gift that is life."
"Father...?" Rauðsviðr, ever the inquisitive one, spoke up; golden eyes glimmering in the fading afternoon light as they too rose from the rose and toward the darker man. "You often speak of the Dæmon-Gods as benevolent beings - protectors. But, there must be malevolent forces as well, right?"
Ankhus' expression shifted to a more solemn one at his son's rather thoughtful question. And once more he could only nod at his child, a small yet tight smile pulling at his lips. "Yes, my son. Just as the Mortal Plane has their so-called 'demons', there are forces within the Immortal that do not share the benevolent intentions of their kin. The balance of the Planes is delicate, and for every benevolent being, there exists a malevolent counterpart. It is why we, as sharers of the Planes, must remain vigilant and respectful in our interactions with the mystical forces that surround us."
"Does that mean we should be wary of the dæmons?" Rauðsótt couldn't help but ask, that mischievous smile returning to pull at her lips. "What if they decide to pluck us up and take us away?"
Her father could only laugh. "Fear not, ye fiery dæmoness. The Dēofol of Rosa Diaboli, though sometimes unpredictable, are not creatures of malice toward those who show reverence. Our connection to their realm is a symbiotic one, built on mutual respect and understanding. We offer our gratitude, and return, the Daemon-Lords extend their protections."
As the sun continued its descent, casting an ethereal glow over the Nile's waters and the lush vegetation that lined its banks, Ankhus, with a glance toward the distant city of Rosa Diaboli, continued with a touch of nostalgia. "Rauðsótt, Rauðsviðr, my children, this yearly ritual has been one passed down through the ages. It binds us not only to the Immortal Plane, but to that of our ancestors who, too, knelt by the sacred Nile and planted the symbolic rose."
And as the family lingered by the banks of that very river, a sense of unity enveloped them. The rosy-peach hues of the sunset mirrored the familial bond that transcended the very blood that ran through their veins, and the whispering winds carried with it the unspoken promises of protection and guidance from the mystical forces that dwelled far beyond that of mortal perception. The yearly planting of the rose, a bridge between the two realms, continued to weave its threads through the tapestry of life along the sacred River Nile, and Ankhus could only be thankful for the gift such a ritual had provided him with as he looked to his children.
Before this time, however, and within a period simply referred to as the Age of the Forgotten; for Humanity had to be yet introduced to that of the secret language of the Wards, the mortal beings of this planet built what they could during the day, labouring over fields and gathering what resources they could scavenge - just so these fiends of the Abyss could destroy all that they'd constructed each and every night. They were dreadful beings, feared by all who did dwell within the shadows of their cruelty; these 'dæmons' revelling in their ultimate dominion over the dark and completely shunning the conceptual concept of peace and compassion.
It was a terrifying time for Mortal Kind - yet there weren't many of these Dēofol, and they could not kill everyone. And as Humanity did manage to survive their relentless onslaught, they evolved - adapted. They learnt to hide food and water and livestock from these fiendish beings. But most of all, they had learnt to avoid them. They lived in holes in the ground so that they could not be found - just like bunnies. They lived anyway that they could, scavenging and surviving in order to live out one day with the hopes to see the rise of the next, until, that was, a small group of these mortals were discovered by Him.
Eorþeslēoht was a wise yet cunning Dēofol who, unlike his uncultured kin, beheld visions of a future beyond that of the grim and unending cycle of death and destruction. He had come to foresee the impending doom that would surely pass should their shared existence continue on its allotted path, and was determined to change the course of not only Immortal history, but that of the mortals' as well. Driven by his ethereal insight, Eorþeslēoht delved deep into the study of ancient scrolls and sacred texts, and it was through these cryptic manuscripts did he stumble upon a long-forgotten lore - a whispered secret that spoke of a disremembered treaty between the Dæmons of the Stygian Abyss and the mortal inhabitants of the cosmos. This treaty had once forged a delicate balance, a symbiotic harmony wherein all had found solace.
However, and with the passing of the centuries; eons that had been marred by nothing but war, strife, and fear, had seen this once-fragile unity shattered and forgotten even to time. Eorþeslēoht, though, knew that if he could somehow restore this balance that the Dæmon-Gods of Old had once helped carve between themselves and these mortal individuals, he could bring about the rise of a new era, an Age not filled with terror and death, but of peace, cooperation, and coexistence - if only, of course, this former Dæmon-Lord could convince both Dēofol and Human of his idealist vision.
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Se Heofonlīcē Torr - Scīran Sīdolnes
Cirice 8,000 - 6,000 ǣr Crīstes nīþercyme
In the veiled depths of the Scīran Sīdolnes, where shadows coalesced into swirling mists of darkness, an enigmatic Dæmon stood as a harbinger of change amidst the tumultuous echoes of eternal strife. His form, draped in an eerie darkness, seemed to meld seamlessly with the obsidian valleys and cliffs that twisted and turned like serpentine veins through the heart of the Stygian Abyss. Yet it was here, within the very labyrinthine expanse of this infernal realm, did this former Dæmon-Lord seek audience with the very Dēofol he'd once called kin; the very arbiters of darkness and dominion known simply as the Skaduwe Sceaft.
The air itself hung heavy with the weight of ages past, carrying with it the whispers of forgotten lore and lingering echoes of ancient battles waged in the name of power and conquest. Though Eorþeslēoht, guided by an unwavering conviction and a flickering beacon of hope that could not be extinguished, pressed forward through the shrouded landscape, his steps echoing like ominous drumbeats against the cold obsidian ground.
As he approached the Astral Spire and the location of the very Dæmon-Lords he did seek audience with, however, the very fabric of reality trembled with anticipation - and a sense of foreboding suddenly gripped at Eorþeslēoht's heart. The towering doors, adorned with cryptic runes that glimmered with latent power, loomed ominously before him, a threshold to realms unknown as truths veiled in darkness.
But with a solemn breath, the dæmon raised his hands, fingers moving to trace the intricate sigils etched into the surface of the ancient doors. The runes shimmered with a faint luminescence, responding to the presence of the visionary Dēofol who'd once resided within their walls with a subtle reverence that spoke of ages past and destinies yet to be revealed.
Eorþeslēoht began his quest by first meeting with the Shadowed Sanctum, a kreed of five powerful Dæmon-Lords who did watch over the Scīran Sīdolnes, leveraging his powers of persuasion and influence to win their support. He ardently argued to his own brethren that peace would not diminish their strength - as some did rightfully fear - but instead amplify it; that their powers would not be lost, but instead preserved for generations to come.
The immense doors groaned open before Eorþeslēoht, revealing a grand chamber that was cloaked in an otherworldly gloom. Shadows seemed to come alive with his presence, swirling and coalescing into indistinct yet haunting forms. And in the centre of the chamber, which ceilings' dared to try and reach the heavens, upon their thrones crafted from obsidian stone, sat the five overseers of the Stygian Abyss - five formidable Dēofol whose power resonated with the eons they had spent protecting the realm of shadows.
Lord Lufþegn Þēodnes, a towering figure with hair as dark as the very shadows cascading from his form, spoke first, his voice resonating through the room even as his obsidian eyes seemed to stare into the depths of Eorþeslēoht's very soul. "Master Dryatka, former Lord of visions and dreams, what business do you have with the overseers of the Abyss?"
"Lord Þēodnes, Dæmon-Lords of the Sanctum," Eorþeslēoht begun, undeterred by the imposing presence of the five dæmonic beings before him. "I come with a proposition that shall transcend the echoes of our chaotic ancestry. I bring tidings of a future untangled from the web of death and mindlessness chaos."
"A peaceful future?" a wrath-like figure, whose crimson eyes glistened like liquid fire, hissed with clear scepticism. "What use have the Sanctum have for such mundane frivolities? Our strength, as you well know, lies in that of the very shadows of the Scīran Sīdolnes, in the dance of death and the whisper of fear."
Eorþeslēoht's gaze narrowed, piercing through the dark of the room as his voice resonated with his unwavering conviction. "Lady Corvusclivus, I ask you hear me before passing judgement. The shadows that bind us have grown into shackles, stifling the potential of our existence. I bring to you the echoes of an ancient treaty, a bond between Dēofol and the very mortals of the Planes that had once forged a symbiotic harmony wherein strength and unity coexisted."
"An ancient treaty, long forgotten and discarded by time," was questioned as Lord Mjǫllsverðr leaned forwards in his chair, the Dēofol's pale features a stark contrast to the dark that did weave around his form like serpentine tendrils. "And why should we heed its call?"
"I have discovered the remnants of this pact within the scrolls of forgotten lore. It speaks of a time when the Dæmon-Gods of Old and the mortals of the cosmos found solace within a shared existence, where our strengths were not divided but multiplied within the folds of unity."
"And what do you propose?" Lord Mjǫllsverðr continued, regarding Eorþeslēoht through a narrowing golden gaze. "That we abandon our dominion over that for a life shared with mortals, dilute our powers for the sake of some ancient dream that not even Time did honour with remembrance?"
"Nay," the former Lord denied, his eyes meeting Mjǫllsverðr's gilded unwavering. And his denial weighed heavily in the air, mingling with the ancient energies that permeated the Astral Spire. "I do not propose that we abandon our dominion, but rather transcend it. This pact I speak of offers us the opportunity to wield our powers in unison with mortals, to forge a new era where strength and cooperation do intertwine."
The Sanctum exchanged wary glances, the shadows flickering with uncertainty around their forms. And their thrones, hewn from the very essence of the Abyss, seemed to absorb the ambient darkness, emanating an aura of primal authority. Yet, beneath the veneer of their formidable presence, a seed of curiosity had begun to take root within their collective minds.
"Unity with mortals?"
The question sliced through the growing silence, Lord Godricus Aquilifer's voice but a rumbling cascade of sound as he added, "Such a notion is unprecedented. What guarantee do we have that such beings would even dare to uphold their end of the bargain, that they will not falter in the face of our ultimate dominion?"
"The treaty is a bond forged within the very annuals of the cosmos; a covenant between our kind and the mortals of the Planes. It is upheld by the very fabric of existence itself, woven into the tapestry of cosmic balance. They will have no choice but to honour the pact, for it will be just as much their salvation as ours."
With features etched with scepticism, Lady Aethelstan Corvusclivus leaned forwards in her throne, her piercing crimson gaze fixated upon Eorþeslēoht. "And what of our sovereignty? Will we be reduced to mere servants of mortals, shackled by the whims of their ephemeral existence?"
Eorþeslēoht shook his head, his mane of shadowy tendrils swaying in the ambient darkness of the Spire. "Our sovereignty is to remain untouched, Lady Corvusclivus. The pact is a symbiosis, a merging of strengths that will amplify our dominion over the Planes. The mortals, they shall become allies over that of masters or prey within the tapestry of our shared existence."
"And what of the consequence of failure? Should these mortals falter in their allegiance, what price will we have to pay for their transgressions?" Lady Salinda Slyðerin did ask; regarding the dæmon with a measured gaze. Her pale visage betrayed no hint of emotion, her eyes veiled behind a shroud of inscrutable darkness, and the former Lord's expression softened, a glimmer of empathy shining in his luminous eyes.
"Failure is not an option, Lady Slyðerin," he did affirm. "This pact would bind us to a shared destiny, a destiny that has been forged within the crucible of unity. Should either falter, the other shall guide them back to the path of enlightenment, for the fate of all depends on it."
The Spire fell silent even as the echoes of Eorþeslēoht's words lingered in the air like wisps of smoke. The Shadowed Sanctum exchanged solemn glances, their thoughts shrouded in contemplation. The weight of the proposition that the former Dæmon-Lord had brought forth hung heavy upon their shoulders, a choice that would shape the very fabric of not only their existence, but also that of the mortals as well.
Of course, the Shadowed Sanctum were originally sceptical of Eorþeslēoht's overly idealist vision, yet his words and unyielding conviction for a future united did manage to eventually sway these ancient Dēofol; each of whom did also agree to assist Eorþeslēoht with his quest.
Next this Dēofol did turn his attention to the Mortal Plane.
Disguising himself as one of their kind, walking amongst the humans unseen, Eorþeslēoht learnt of their ways - and of their struggles. He grew disgusted by their plight, and felt compelled to offer them something he did believe to be irresistible; something of which this former Lord did so hope would be the foundations towards a unified future for all.
At first he chose to share the ways of agriculture with the mortals of the Northern Lands, and with his guidance, they learnt how to cultivate the barren realm they had been driven to; something of which did help to ease mankind's suffering immensely. Without their perceivable knowledge, however, and with all the cunningness he did possess, Eorþeslēoht did also begin to impart the secrets of the Immortal Plane to these humans, sharing all he knew of farming and irrigation, of protection and vitality - and of the secret language of the Wards. And with this dæmon guiding them, the tribes of North Africa begun to sow the first seeds of a bountiful harvest; marvelling at the miraculous transformation of desert sands into fertile fields.
It was a revelation that would come to forever alter the course of their existence.
It took many a year building relations and gathering the mortals trust, yet such a period of time was not a nuisance to an immortal being already as ancient as Eorþeslēoht, and eventually he knew that it had become time to reveal himself to the humans he had once saved. Some, of course, were terrified at first, for to them the Dēofol of the Scīran Sīdolnes had always been creatures of great power and malice. But with immense patience and much proving, this former Lord did manage to eventually convince these mortals that not all dæmons were monsters, and under his continued guidance, the treaty that he had so desperately wanted to reforge, one of peace and cooperation between Immortal and Mortal Kind, was ultimately born; a pact that was sealed with an oath and the promise of a future brimming with both unity and prosperity.
In a grand ceremony held beneath the gleaming Ægyptum sun, the former Dæmon-Lord of the Shadowed Sanctum saw his vision come to fruition as both Human and Dēofol gathered to witness the forging of this extraordinary treaty. It was a promise to live in harmony, with the overseers of the Abyss using their combined powers and influence not to terrorise, but to protect and help guide their mortal brethren instead. And the years that followed saw the once-barren lands of Dēofolces Rōse flourished into a realm of abundance, a kingdom wherein both mortal and immortal alike did thrive. Eorþeslēoht, hailed as a visionary leader by both, revelled in the success of his accord; overwatching as the coexistence of the Planes once again flourished under his guidance, the realms thriving within the folds of a unified harmony.
But, and like with every pact, therein lied the potential for division and conflict...
The 'Treaty of Earth's Light', despite the unity it did indeed bring, also did help to sow the seeds of conspiracy and discord and ultimately propelled an Age not marked with prosperity and growth, but of gods, war, and death. For with the unification of the Planes, a division of power was ultimately born, something of which did lead to unforeseen consequences for all, along with the emergence of a new chapter within Ægyptum's rich history - an epoch that would give rise to a 'God of War', and the chaos He would ultimately reap.
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Rosa Diaboli - Dēofolces Rōse, Ægyptum
Cirice 2,500 ǣr Crīstes nīþercyme
As the sun rose brightly over the city of Rosa Diaboli, the capital's grand buildings and opulent temples standing tall on the banks of the sacred River Nile like a testament to the prosperity that had been achieved by its founder, the streets were alive with fervour as the kingdom hummed with the preparations of the Grand Festival of the New Moon's Light. It was a well-loved tradition of the people of this thriving metropolis, a time set aside each month to celebrate the bountiful harvests and give thanks to their immortal guardian's continued blessings, marked by the renewal of the moon in the night sky.
This magnificent city, whose architecture a fusion of both immortal and mortal design, reflected the unique bond that had been forged more than a few millennia ago, was alive with a budding sense of anticipation; the atmosphere thick with a tangible excitement that emanated from every corner of this unified municipal. Decorated boats floated down the Nile, carrying offerings and blessings for the divine, and along the bustling streets the people of this great city were hard at work, adorning their homes with colourful tapestries and hanging lanterns that would illuminate the evening's festivities.
Children of all ages weaved between the busy adults, their laughter and playful chatter a testament to the joy that filled the air; some playing games with sticks and makeshift balls, while others watched in awe as artisans crafted intricate decorations with skilled and nimble movements. As the adults continued to prepare their offerings, their baskets of freshly harvested fruits and vegetables being carefully arranged under critical eye and fragrant flowers organised into breathtaking displays, in the quieter alleys, bakers and cooks filled the air with the tantalising aromas of freshly baked goods and spiced dishes, ensuring that no-one would go hungry during the renewal of the moon that night.
Meanwhile, merchants were hard at work setting up stalls that were brimming with exotic spices, colour fabrics, and glittering trinkets, ready to tempt any and all festival-goers. And the soft, rhythmic chants of priests could be heard throughout the city as they invoked the favour and protection of their dæmonic guardians. The intoxicating scents of burning incense could be smelt faintly through the air, adding to the already heady atmosphere of reverence and excitement, and within the opulent home of the founders of this grand city, preparations were in full swing. Servants and nobility alike bustled about, arranging opulent feasts and draping sumptuous fabrics to ensure that every detail was perfect for the grand event, and music filled the air as dancers practiced their graceful moves in anticipation for the night to come.
It was truly a joyous occasion for all.
Well...
All, that was, except for one.
Amidst the vibrant preparations and the laughter of children at play, one figure stood apart. Detached from the jubilant atmosphere surrounding him, Vepar Aquilifer, youngest son of the Dæmon-Lord, Godricus Aquilifer, and his Immortal Wife, leaned casually against a towering column, his dark-violet, almost black eyes filled with a shimmering resentment as he observed the feverish activity going on around him; the priests and slaves attending their duties whilst the noble courtiers prepared an elaborate garment for the upcoming celebration.
Yet Vepar continued to remain aloof, uninterested in the festivities that had captured the hearts of all - and none more so disgustingly than that of his nephew, Hæðcyn.
Hæðcyn was a nauseating mirrored image of their shared kin, yet possessed the heritage like that of his Half-Breed of a father, continued to radiate an unmatched charm and charisma as he addressed the courtiers and diplomats who had gathered within the Palace's grand hall. His honeyed words and placating smiles won the Half-Breed favour with all, and the nobility all adored him for his accommodating nature. Unlike his uncle Vepar, who had inherited the strength and resilience of a full-blooded Dēofol thanks to that of his immortal parents, Hæðcyn was a Dēofol with more mortal descent than immortal, yet of whom possessed an unnatural mastery with words and diplomacy. And as the Dæmon-Prince pursed his lips, tongue running over the sharpened points of his upper canines whilst his features contorted with a clear disgust, Vepar could not help but wonder how someone who was far more human than not could hold such a position of power over the masses.
'You tire of the attention of your half-breed of a nephew does receive, don't you my Prince?'
A familiar voice, like a whisper upon the wind and dripping with its own kind of honeyed malice, echoed within the darkest recesses of Vepar's mind; slithering deep into his thoughts like a serpent of manipulation as it coiled around the roots of his growing resentment. And like unseen, yet permissible hands, it began to guide the young Prince's thoughts, helping to shape them into a twisted narrative wherein his Half-Breed of a nephew's adoration was merely a mockery of their shared weakness; something of which Vepar did believe wholeheartedly.
'Mortals, your father does so foolishly believe in his ignorance, view him to be a symbol of strength. Yet little does he know, they laugh behind his back, mocking not only their 'Lord', but that of his and his kin for the knowledge that we are all bound by an oath not to bring them harm.'
As he listened, however, the Dēofol Prince did not notice, as his eyes narrowed upon the form of his nephew and the mortal whelps that had flocked around Hæðcyn, that his father and current ruler of Rosa Diaboli, already resplendent in his golden regalia, had turned his own gaze towards his youngest and only living child; a mixture of pride and disappointment swirling within their hazel depths.
The red trimmings he could see being sown into Vepar's own ceremonial garbs had the elder dæmon frowning, though he did not question his son's obvious rebellion against what was considered appropriate. Instead, the Dæmon-Lord of Rosa Diaboli approached his only child as he asked, "Vepar, my son, why do you not join us? You do realise that this is an important occasion for us, and you nephew is proving to be a shining example of how our kind should continue to adapt to the Mortal Plane. Eorþeslēoht did not leave us to watch over his people so you could just glower at them."
His words only caused the raven frown of his son's eyebrows to deepen, however, Vepar's voice laced with a heady frustration as he snapped back with a sharp retort. "I have no intention of playing the role of a charlatan, Father. The Festival of the New Moon's Light happens exactly how often a year? And besides that, are we not the rulers of Rosa Diaboli? Am I not a Dæmon-Prince set to rule the very Sīdolnes that gave us life? Why would I want to bow to their mortal whims and act the jester just for their entertainment?"
Godricus sighed; a deep, resonating sound that sent visible shivers rippling through the air. "You are my son, Vepar, and I do love you. But you must come to terms with the delicate balance that we maintain with these mortals. The survival of the Planes ultimately depends on it."
"Hrn."
"Vepar, you know that Grandfather speaks the truth," Hæðcyn, happening to overhear the pair's conversation, could not stop himself from trying to help in some way. And his brown eyes, flecked as they were with an unusual honey-gold and marking him as the clear Half-Breed he was, were filled with nothing but kindness and hope as he turned them towards his uncle, his expression completely genuine as he continued. "Is our familial ties not already a symbol of the unity between Dēofol and Human? Together, and with no little thanks to Master Eorþeslēoht, who did help to show the Shadowed Sanctum the way, we help to oversee a kingdom unparalleled; a world far greater than any before us could have ever envisioned."
The Dæmon-Prince could feel his heart only harden further at the words his Half-Breed of a half-nephew was spewing, and his indigo gaze narrowed upon Hæðcyn. "Unity?" he spat, his lip curing with his growing distaste. "Unity implies equality. Yet even between us, I am the one set to be King, and you nothing more than my subject." His chin lifted, back straightening as his gaze flickered to the mortals watching their exchange like they were spectators at some fight to the death before he was once more addressing his nephew. "And unlike you, Half-Breed, I am a Dēofol Prince first and foremost. I would never-" violet eyes cut back to the mortal whelps and caused each to quickly avert their gaze as his expression turned almost murderous, "-allow myself to become a jester just to humour the slaves."
The features of his nephew's face, whilst still managing to remain as polished as his silver tongue, could do nothing for the irritation and pain that flashed within the depths of his chocolate-brown eyes. "I understand your concerns, uncle," Hæðcyn stated slowly, managing to maintain his gentle demeanour despite the edge that had begun to echo within his words. "But you underestimate the knowledge of your own kin, along with that of the strength that comes with unity. You may one day be King, Vepar, but know that the prosperity of your kingdom relies on that of the cooperation of its people; be they Dēofol or Human. It has never been about lowering oneself, but that of building a better future for all - together."
Purple-black eyes, orbs as dark as the very Scīran Sīdolnes, did only glint with continued defiance. "The future you speak of is nothing but that of a mirage, Hæðcyn," Vepar revealed, his voice as cold as the marbled floor beneath his booted feet. "A dream dreamt up by a welp of a Dēofol who'd spent far too long away from the Plane that had birthed him and caused the very Sanctum you speak of to strip him of his lordship. Humans; they are born, they live, and then they die in all but the blink of a Dēofol's eye. What use do they have other than being but pawns in our grand schemes?"
As each word passed Vepar's lips, resonating through the hall, the tension in the room thickened like the desert air at high noon; to the point where even the courtiers in the corridors beyond could feel the full weight of his proclamation.
"Vepar..." Hæðcyn begun before he trailed off, deciding to try a different tact that he hoped might just get through to the stubborn dæmon he did so fondly call uncle. "Look, I know that we are different in many ways, but are we also not kin? Should we not stand together in the face of adversity rather than apart? Let the Festival of the New Moon's Light be a symbol of that unity and strength," he finished, taking a step closer to his uncle with his hand outstretched before him.
Much to the internal surprise of Vepar's father and Hæðcyn's grandfather, Godricus having decided to allow the pair to try and dissolve their differences on their own, the Dæmon-Prince regarded his nephew's outstretched hand with a mixture of disdain and - would the Dæmon-Lord dare say - curiosity. The room itself seemed to hold its breath as Vepar hesitated for but the briefest of moments.
But then, and with a jerked shake of his head, that damnable scowl once again returning to contort his lips, the Dæmon-Prince refuted the offer.
Lord Godricus Aquilifer could only close his eyes with a growing disappointment.
It seemed that there was still much that his son had to learn.
"I am a Dæmon of the Abyss, Hæðcyn," Vepar stated with a low growl; all but a warning to any Dēofol with ears that signified his Half-Breed of a half-nephew was now treading upon very treacherous ground. "Eorþeslēoht's 'treaty' may have brought the lands of Dēofolces Rōse prosperity, its mortal inhabitants immortal protectors, but it has also done what the former Lord had sworn it would not; weakened our kind, and one day, you will see the truth of my words."
Hæðcyn withdrew his hand with as much dignity as he could manage, trying to hide his own disappointment as he did so. The tension between the two Dēofol remained palpable, a divide that was almost as deep as the very River Nile itself. Yet the Half-Breed couldn't help but understand his uncle's concerns, no matter how much they may have hurt him when hearing them spoken aloud. And as he watched Vepar's form disappear through the double doors of the hall, the Dæmon-Prince clearly no longer happy to even consider 'entertaining the masses' with his brooding presence alone, Hæðcyn turned to their shared kin.
"Grandfather," he begun. "I fear that Vepar's bitterness stems from a deeper place. He knows of how Master Eorþeslēoht had found a way to save our kind from the madness that plagues the dæmons beyond our borders; knows that it was his foresight and cunningness that led to the treaty we have with the humans today, one that does establish us as benevolent guardians rather than ruthless killers. Yet he does not believe that is the path we should be following."
"And the humans, he thinks they revere us as gods," the young Half-Breed continued, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper that only Godricus could hear. "Thinks they believe it's their devotion to us that brings them prosperity, something Vepar... my Uncle has always seen it to be nothing more than a façade, a mask they hide behind in order to laugh in our faces. He feels we are being forced to fit their expectations, and longs for the time when dæmons could be themselves, where the Shadowed Sanctum were unburdened by the mortals of Rosa Diaboli and the oath that binds their hands."
Gazing at the only child of his late son, his heart feeling like nothing but a heavy weight within his chest, the Dæmon-Lord of Rosa Diaboli could only agree. "I too understand his frustrations, my dear Hæðcyn," he admitted just as quietly. "Yet I have hope that your Uncle will eventually come to see the wisdom in preserving the peace that our former Lord had secured us, and that Eorþeslēoht's treaty, once born out of necessity, evidently became that of our salvation. Perhaps, if he is given more time, Vepar will come to understand that our unity with these mortals ensures that our people survive."
"I do hope so, Grandfather," Hæðcyn sighed, the gesture genuinely empathic. "For I fear that his continued defiance may lead to consequences that even the once-lord could not foresee."
Vepar Aquilifer, better known throughout history as Deus'Vepar, the self-proclaimed 'God of War', was a Pureblood Dæmon with ambitions that defied the very fabric of the Planes. He harboured the desire to 'turn back the clock'; to resurrect an Age wherein the Dæmons of the Stygian Abyss were not bound by the promises of protection and guidance, but did roam the realms as the top predators, terrorising all whilst they ruled the shadows. His visions were but an echo of the ancient days when dæmons did revel in their primal nature, of an Age before Eorþeslēoht's treaty had been instilled.
And so this Dæmon-Prince did embark on his own quest. However, and unlike that of the former Lord before him, Vepar's journey was one that aimed to reclaim the former glory of his kin; one that would undoubtedly unravel the delicate threads that held the very Planes of Veracity together. His path was to be one shrouded in mysterious secrecy, nothing but a whispered rumour within the darkest corners of the Abyss. He ventured deep into the forgotten realms, seeking the forbidden knowledge and wisdom of beings long-expired from the pages of history.
His vision took him to places untouched by Eorþeslēoht's unifying prosperity and deep within an obscure realm of never-ending purgatory, and it was there where he did encounter a being who remembered the Age of the Forgotten, an ancient Dēofol who did still hunger for the pleasures of their former dominion. The Dæmon-Prince of the Stygian Abyss became both student and master of this Dēofol's dark and obscure ways, absorbing the forbidden truths that had been hidden from all, but would also grant him the powers to reshape not only the destiny of Rosa Diaboli's unifying kingdom, but that of reality itself.
Rumours, however, are known to spread like wildfire through the Planes, and Vepar's quest to alter the course of history did not take long to reach the ears of the reigning Dæmon-Queen of the Scīran Sīdolnes and the Prince's very own mother, Lady Ælfehrōs. Yet, and even as the once-unified from that was the Northern Lands begun to crumble under the murmurs of a rebellion; tales shared like echoed whispers upon the wind revealing that of a 'Great Cleansing', Lady Ælfehrōs did dismiss these rumours as such; unwilling to believe that it was her very own son at the heart of such baseless tales.
Though, and whether or not this Dæmon-Queen did believe, the balance of power throughout the Planes would imperceptibly shift as Deus'Vepar's influence grew. And in the shadowed recesses of the Abyss, this 'God of War' did forge alliances with many a discontent Dēofol, promising them a return to the age of supremacy and accelerating the shattering of the societies ruled not only by his father, but that of his mother as well.
And as this rising God's power did swell, the discontent within Rosa Diaboli reached a boiling point.
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Skaduwe Sceaft, Godeghym's Keep
Rosa Diaboli, Dēofolces Rōse, Ægyptum
Cirice: 2,500 ǣr Crīstes nīþercyme
"But, Lady Slyðerin! The Sanctum is holding an emergency session. You can't just barge in there!"
"Am I not still a part of that Kreed?" Lady Slyðerin growled as she came to a stop in the middle of a rather dimly lit corridor, the ancient stone around her barely being illuminated by the flickering of torches that lined the walls as she turned swiftly on her heel to face the Dēofol who'd been all but running in order to keep up with her lengthy strides; silver eyes narrowing as she added, "Or has that too slipped your mind, Pretender?"
"Bu-well, of course not, my Lady," the false-lord did splutter, quickly shaking his head from side-to-side even as his miss-matched blue-gold eyes widened with fear. "It's just that they're-"
"They're... what?" Salinda did question oh so quietly the moment the dæmon before her had been silenced by a force not his own, taking a step towards false-lord and closing the distance between them as she waited none to patiently for an answer.
Her move had the pale-haired Dēofol taking an unconscious step back, the smell of his fear permeating through the narrowed hall as he realised what it was that had just been about to slip passed his lips.
"I-I-"
Without a word, Salinda closed the remaining distance between them, roughly grabbing a hold of the younger dæmon's chin and forcing their peculiarly different coloured eyes to meet her own silver-white. Blǣdhelm trembled like a leaf in her hold, barely able to keep his eyes open and locked onto her silver gaze; the knowledge of not only what he was hiding from one of the very Dæmon-Lords of the Shadowed Sanctum, but that that very dæmoness was about to discover - that she was about to see that very same secret for herself in probably one of the most painful ways possible for the false-lord in her grasp - it had Blǣdhelm wanting to deny Salinda access.
The Dæmon-Lord, however, didn't give him the chance to throw up even the slightest of defences against her, fingertips mercilessly digging into the tender flesh of his chin at the same time she dove into his mind with such force it almost caused Blǣdhelm to stumble from her hold with a pained scream. Yet Salinda's grip only tightened, fingers beginning to resemble something more akin to scaled claws as she tore her way through the false-lord's mind - his memories - in search of what it was someone clearly did not want her to know.
"I got ya somethin'!" a redheaded boy, one who couldn't have been older than thirteen summers, did proclaim as he has hastily shoved a box into a younger boy's hands. His eyes were like the very river he did reside on the banks of, a tumultuous, rolling mix of sapphire and cerulean-
"You must be the false-lord."
A voice cut through the silence of the sitting room - and almost caused the pale-haired Pretender to drop the tray he was carrying, never having expected that he would actually want to speak to him.
"Prince Aquilifer, your father calls for your presence within the Grand Hall!"
Yet, and before Blǣdhelm could even register that the Dæmon-Prince of the very Stygian Abyss had in fact spoken to him, another voice sliced through the air and Vepar Aquilifer was nowhere to be seen by the time the young Pretender had turned to answer, the reply he'd been about to give dying behind slowly frowning lips.
"Bane! Get back here, you brat!" a young Blǣdhelm did shout before he was suddenly tearing across the field; something small, furry, and running on all fours only a few yards ahead of the dæmon.
"Blǣdhelm, wait! Father warned us not to leave the gardens!" another voice called even as they went chasing after the blond.
He was there again...
Blǣdhelm could feel his gaze even as the young dæmon wove his wave through the many shelves of the Palace library and towards its back.
A mauve so dark they were almost black.
Piercing.
Heated.
...wanting?
"Who are you?"
Violet eyes narrowed at the overly intrusive question, the young raven-haired boy of whom that dark gaze did belong to frowning as he glanced to the speaker.
"Who are you?" was shot right back as the boy straightened from the ground, turning his body away from whatever it was he'd been doing so that he were now facing the intruder at the same time said intruder took a step closer, a curious expression marring their own peculiar features.
"Pretender," was offered almost automatically by the pale-haired Dēofol, not even realising as his miss-matched eyes - and attention - were been diverted, shifting to the stick that the violet-eyed boy was holding the moment the false-lord realised that the end was damp - and a fresh, coppery scent filled the air. "What are you doing?" was added just as curiously as his peculiar gaze re-met a darkening purple.
"Nothing," was huffed as the boy tossed the stick away, and Blǣdhelm let out a startled sound of protest as he stumbled, barely managing to stay on his feet as the violet-eyed boy then shoved his way passed him.
Yet, and when he had managed to regain his balance, spinning on his heel to yell that what the other dæmon had done hadn't been polite in the slightest - Blǣdhelm found that he was alone.
Blǣdhelm stood before the Sanctum, gaze lowered in respect and body completely unmoving as he felt their piercing gazes wash over his form.
His face was blank, devoid of all emotion like he had been taught, though on the inside, the young Dēofol was barely able to control the urge to shift his weight from one foot to the other.
"I was so close," a platinum blond complained as he sat beside his friend, his palace robes glimmering like the very sand beneath his feet under the light of the midday sun.
"What happened?" the blue-eyed teenager questioned in reply, barely managing to hide the frown that wanted to appear on his lips as his gaze met miss-matched blue-gold.
"That bloody servant," was all Pretender huffed.
"It will only be for a few years, Rauðsviðr!" Blǣdhelm hissed; hands curling around the mystifyingly spotted kit in his arms as he glared at his best friend.
"A few years?" the redheaded Hybrid shouted right back, cerulean-blue eyes narrowing as his own hands formed into fists at his side. And his jaw clenched, gaze flickering momentarily to the kit in Blǣdhelm's arms before returning to the Dēofol in question as he added, "Seven years, Father says, is the average time it takes to do an apprenticeship, Blǣdhelm. And that's when your name actually means something!"
"I will be chosen!" Blǣdhelm countered at the same time the green-eyed kitten he was holding hissed and swiped out at his friend.
"Tea?"
Blǣdhelm almost jumped out of his skin as, with but a wave of a hand, the tray that he'd been holding suddenly shot out of his grasp and set itself upon the table without a drop of the contents being spilt. And as he looked to the one responsible for having just done his job for him, the Pretender found that he could only swallow - heavily.
He had never, not once in the many moons since he'd started working within the Palace in a desperate attempt to restore what was once lost to him, heard of the Dæmon-Prince offering anything to anyone - let alone someone that the Prince knew to be below him in both station and power. Any time in the past, every time the Dæmon had even registered Blǣdhelm's presence, the young Pretender had easily waved each encounter off because of his pureblood heritage.
Though to think that now not only had the Prince of the Stygian Abyss actually spoken to him, but had also offered tea, clearly wanting to be in false-lord's presence when all Blǣdhelm had ever seen in the past was the tail end of his shawls...
"J-just milk, please. No sugar," was all the pale-haired Dēofol managed to murmur-
The hold that Lady Salinda had on the false-lord's chin turned bruising, her eyes no longer their unusually pale silver but instead an almost obsidian-black as everything both she and Blǣdhelm had been seeing suddenly came to a screeching halt; the memories that the Dæmon-Lord had been tearing through freezing in place as if she'd just placed them on pause.
"So, you're the one who managed to bewitch our Prince. Oh, have the Sanctum waited a long time to get their claws into you," was all but growled under breath before, and not even a heartbeat later, the protests that had been wrenched from Blǣdhelm's lips went ignored by Salinda as his memories were once again flashing before their eyes, this time in reverse as the dæmoness sought the memory that had captured her interest.
He was there again...
Blǣdhelm could feel his gaze even as the young dæmon wove his way through the many shelves of the Palace library and towards its back.
A mauve so dark they were almost black.
Piercing.
Heated.
...wanting?
The atmosphere within the secluded corner of the library where Blǣdhelm planned to study seemed to ripple with an unspoken tension as he did emerge from the shadows; violet eyes beholding an intensity that matched the dark desires that swirled within the air and rooted the Pretender to his seat.
Yet the pale-haired dæmon, feigning innocent to just how much Vepar's very presence affected him, met those same violet eyes with a subtle smirk as he rose from his chair; his own different coloured eyes reflecting the subtle dance of candlelight against ancient tomes as he moved to stand before his Prince. And blue-gold eyes fluttered shut, the Pretender's head falling to the side and revealing the pale flesh of his throat to the Dæmon-Prince - who took it as the invitation it was; ecstasy chasing its way through the false-lord as Vepar's sun-kissed hand wrapped itself around his throat at the same time warm lips crashed against his own.
Their clandestine rendezvous amid the dusty volumes had not been their first; nothing but a sacred and shared secret between the pair - and understanding that went far beyond that of mere words. Though, and as they huddled together in the aftermath of their mutual desires, the dimly lit alcove held a whispered conversation that wove a tapestry of treachery and deception; Blǣdhelm's sweat-riddled locks shielding his gaze from view as he leaned closer to the Dæmon-Prince, Vepar unable to stop himself from reaching out and returning the wayward strands to where he thought they rightfully belonged as their voices continued to mingle with the distant echoes of the Palace.
"They're blind to the potential you hold, Vepar," Blǣdhelm did mutter against the flesh of his lover's hand as it began to travel its way south, his voice but a dark whisper that mirrored the almost black depths of Prince's violet gaze. "The throne should be yours, not his. Does Rosa Diaboli not deserve a leader who understands the true nature of power?" was added as the Pretenders own hand landed on the back of Vepar's, grasping the limb tightly as he felt the dæmon freeze underneath him.
Dark eyes, once burning with desire, now glowered with a darker intensity as the Prince listened to the Pretender whisper his council, pale hair once again cascading over even paler shoulders as Blǣdhelm remained seated upon his lover's lap; fingers gently tracing subtle patterns and runes on the back of the hand in his grasp, each a touch of silent affirmation of their shared machination. The Palace library, once a sanctuary for knowledge, now seemed to bear witness to a covet exchange of secrets and ambitions as it cast an ethereal glow over the pair's intertwined forms.
"Your father, he lectures about unity, about how Dēofol and Human must coexist for the survival of all, yet he divides that of his own kin," the false-lord did continue to hiss into the dark, his voice carrying untold years of hatred and resentment. "He places you in the shadows like some unruly child he does not want seen, all the while parading that Half-Breed's spawn around like he'd been blessed by the very Dæmon-Gods Themselves; letting Hæðcyn stand in the light of your family's success - basking in the glory that by all rights should be yours."
Vepar's jaw tightened at the mention of his half-brother's Half-Breed of a son and scion of both mortal and immortal lineage; Hæðcyn Aquilifer. The news that the Half-Breed was to rule Rosa Diaboli whilst he was to remain nothing more than the Dæmon-Prince of the Scīran Sīdolnes, a position completely devoid of the ties his kin had long-ago helped fund, had sparked a flame of dangerous determination within not only Vepar, but that of the very Dēofol sitting on his lap.
Hæðcyn, a mortal dæmon, ruling over the greatest immortal city in Dēofol history - it was an affront to everything both believed in. The ancient traditions of the Dæmon-Gods of Old, the dominance of the Shadowed Sanctum that did oversee the Mortal Plane, the very unity that Eorþeslēoht had created; they were all now being threatened by the ascent of a mere Half-Breed's Half-Breed.
"No more."
Vepar's voice sliced through the silence that had followed his lover's council, the Dæmon-Prince's words resonating with a newfound finality through their secluded alcove. "The reputation of my kin will no longer be allowed to be tarnished by that of my brother and his spawn - I will no longer be regulated to the shadows," he continued, the atmosphere of the library beginning to crackle with a malevolent energy as Blǣdhelm's grip on his hand tightened; the complex web of their deception already intricately woven and fuelled by their shared desire to reclaim what they believed did rightfully belong to them.
"You are the true heir to Rosa Diaboli, my Prince," the Pretender did affirm. "And with you to lea-"
Yet he was suddenly cut off as Vepar's hand slipped free from his in order to turn his head, allowing Blǣdhelm to gaze upon the determination that did burn hotly within violet-black eyes.
"Us," the Prince proclaimed with a heavy emphasis, a predatory glint appearing in his gaze as that same determination was reflected back at him within the depths of blue and gold orbs. "I will not lead without you by my side, Blǣdhelm. Once, I was so convinced that you were but a crux, a weakness. But now..." His hand gentled against his lover's cheek as an old pain flickered across pale features. "Now, however, I know better. Just as I know that the moment I am King, you and your Father's position within the Abyss shall be restored."
The false-lord felt himself freeze at his lover's declaration, his throat feeling as though it were being squeezed despite the fact that Vepar's hand had never left his cheek; the other still wrapped tightly around his waist as if the Prince were afraid his most secret yet prized possession would be snatched away without warning or notice.
"Y-you-"
"The Sanctum thinks your Father to be a fool," Vepar cut in once more, his hand dropping from Blǣdhelm's cheek to join the other around his lover's waist, holding him tighter - closer - as his voice took on a dangerous undertone. "They think that the loss of the Hallows mean that Mjǫllsverðr was unfit to lead - to rule." Purple eyes glowed like mystical flames within the shadows of the library as a dangerously murderous glint did appear within their depths. "But I know better. I know that without those Hallows gone from the Niðersceaft, Eorþeslēoht would have never been set upon his path to discover those journals, that his 'treaty' would have never come to pass. There was a reason that the Dæmon-Lords did banish Lord Mjǫllsverðr from the Planes. Your Father, he may have been stripped of his title when he handed over Guðr Dauði's Hallows to Mortal Kind, but he still remains to be one of the most powerful and respected Seers within the Abyss."
Blǣdhelm's breath caught at Vepar's revelation, something of which had never been shared with him before. To hear that his father, even after having been stripped of everything for being the one responsible for handing over the Hallows to mankind - and all for the sake of unity one former Lord of the Sanctum had wanted - had still been left to rot within the bowls of dæmonic purgatory with only his name in all but worth... the gravity of his father's sacrifice, the weight; the manipulative decision of the Sanctum to have cast such a powerful Dēofol aside for the sake of a unity they had never even heard of before, it all became so very apparent to the young Pretender.
"He knew..."
The words had been but a whispered breath, a murmured acknowledgement of the unspoken sacrifices that had paved the way for their clandestine alliance, and Blǣdhelm could feel the way his lover's lips did twist against his skin at his sudden realisation; a smile that was as devious as it was cunning scorching a path across the flesh of his back - and shot a spike of desire straight through the Pretender, who was unable to stop himself from shifting in place until the arms wrapped around his waist tightened and all but forced him to remain still.
"Oh, your Father knew all right," the Prince confirmed, whispering the words against the pale blade of Blǣdhelm's shoulder and caused the Pretender to squirm once more upon his lap; something of which only caused Vepar's smile to twist into something more wicked. "And the moment I ascend to the throne, my first decree will be to reinstate both your positions within the Abyss, and the Planes will have no choice by to recognise your combined wisdom once more."
Feeling his heart quicken at not only the whispered promise against his flesh, but that of the speak of his family's redemption, caused a flicker of hope to ignite within Blǣdhelm's dark heart. He had known that his father had long ago been stripped of his position, his influence and power within the Abyss all but diminished for having handed such immortal items to such mortal beings. And to hear that it had all happened despite how much such a thing had been done for the sake of the very unity that Eorþeslēoht had so craved; Mjǫllsverðr still having been left stranded within the Niðersceaft; Vepar's promise of recognition, of restoration ignited a glimmer of optimism within the Pretender; not only for his father but that of the resurgence of the ideals that they all held dear.
"We will reshape the Scīran Sīdolnes, my love," Vepar declared as his hands shifted to grasp Blǣdhelm's hips, grounding the Pretender in the reality of their joint conspiracy. "The Age of Gods shall rise once more, and we shall be the architects of its resurrection."
Yet it was but a moment later when Blǣdhelm felt the Prince's grip loosen, arms once again coming to wrap themselves around his waist before they had pulled him flush against a firm chest. And before he could question his lover's actions, the Dæmon-Prince's voice was but a rumble against the shell of his ear, a murmured promise that had Blǣdhelm's heart skipping a beat - and another spike of desire shooting through his system as teeth did suddenly snap harmlessly but intentionally against the soft flesh of his neck.
"I shall claim you as the Dæmon-Lord you should be," Vepar growled, "Not this demeaning 'false-lord' the kreed does see fit to think you are. Your title may have been lost along with that of your Father's banishment from the Abyss, Lord Blǣdhelm, but I shall restore it with the power vested in me. And when your title is yours and yours alone... then you shall finally be mine."
Blǣdhelm was but a trembling mess in his lover's lap, emotions he wasn't daring enough to name scorching their way through his system. "The Dæmon-Gods of Old could not have asked for a better successor, my Prince," was all that he found he could offer, feeling as though his heart was about to give out on him at not only having heard such a thing from Vepar's very own lips, but also feeling the way the arms had tightened once more around his waist at the claim he had too placed upon the Prince. "With you to guide us, the rightful order shall be restored, and Rosa Diaboli, along with the Sanctum - the very Abyss, it shall all be yo-"
The pretender was cut off as a hand landed roughly over his mouth before his head was turned so he could me a pair of dark eyes.
"It shall be ours," Vepar's voice rumbled through the air before his hand shifted to his lover's cheek so their lips could once more meet. "I swear to you, I will not rule either realm without you at my side, my love," was but a whispered promise in the dark as they parted.
Lady Slyðerin gritted her teeth at the same time a low, dangerous growl escaped her throat. The grip she had on Blǣdhelm's chin tightened even more as the gravity of his deception became abundantly clear, Salinda almost able to taste the bitter flavour of his betrayal upon her tongue; a vile concoction that churned in the pit of her stomach.
Yet, before she could do or say anything, the memory that had been playing out before her obsidian gaze shifted abruptly - and the Dæmon-Lord was surprised to see that it was replaced by one wherein she herself stood within the very chamber she had come to believe were currently holding council.
The air was thick with tension, building every second Lady Slyðerin stood before not the rest of the Shadowed Sanctum as she'd been expecting, discussing the very war currently ravaging their lands in the most utmost intimate of details, but a group of Dēofol who stood under the banner of none other than Deus'Vepar Aquilifer, the one and only Dæmon-Prince of the Scīran Sīdolnes.
Silver-white eyes slowly begun to darken with an obsidian glint as they swept over the assembly, recognising the twisted visages of many who'd once sworn allegiance to the Sanctum's leadership, before they came to a stop upon the Dæmon-Prince who stood at the forefront of his followers; violet eyes meeting Salinda's narrowing gaze with a dangerous air - and the Dæmon-Lord felt her heart sink to her boots at the sight of someone who'd shown such promise and potential at the head of such a rebellion.
It was never supposed to have gotten this out of hand!
"Dæmon-Lord of the Shadowed Sanctum, Lady Salinda Slyðerin..." A cruel, malicious smile played upon Deus'Vepar's lips as he stepped forwards and away from his loyal followers. "...did you really think that the kreed could trust just anyone?" was added with a sneer.
Salinda's mind raced, the dæmoness trying to grapple with the unexpected yet sudden shock and disbelief that was threatening to overwhelm her - only to spin on her heel as the very double doors she'd just stepped through were slammed open and revealed none other than that of the very Pretender himself; Blǣdhelm quick to offer the Dæmon-Lord a rather mockingly shallowed curtsy in greeting the moment his miss-matched eyes landed upon her stunned form.
"Mother," was spat as the false-lord straightened, blue and gold eyes momentarily locking with Salinda's before they shifted purposely to the left and towards the dæmon standing at her six. "The last of the Sanctum, Deus'Vepar," was added before the Pretender was heading for the Dæmon-Prince's side; something of which did surprise Salinda immensely as she watched the usually aloof Vepar accept Blǣdhelm's move by wrapping a protective and possessive arm around the younger Dēofol's shoulders; an action that clearly told all as to exactly what side - and to whom - the false-lord did belong. And the smug expression that was marrying the Pretender's features as he nestled into his Prince's side, the truth of his duplicity revealed for all to witness, did strike Lady Salinda like a dagger through the heart.
"Is this how you repay a lifetime of loyalty?"
The Dæmon-Lord's voice was but a rumble through the chamber, a mix of anguish and fury that sent visible ripples through the air.
"Loyalty?" Blǣdhelm's own voice was like poison, a dark laugh that reverberated through the hall and had many of the Dēofol behind him echoing their agreement. "Loyalty is a currency used by fools and accepted by the ignorant," the Pretender did sneer. "There is only one truth, and that is power."
As he spoke, the dæmons behind both Blǣdhelm and his Prince brandished their weapons, preparing for the inevitable confrontation. Yet Lady Slyðerin; feeling stunned, betrayed, and utterly surrounded, did only steel herself for the battle set to unfold.
Once-pale eyes, now black with outrage, turned abruptly from the haunting scene playing out before them - and the dæmon it had come from. Salinda felt nothing towards the anguished cry of pain that escaped Blǣdhelm's lips as her talons tore through the flesh of his face, leaving the false-lord bleeding in the hall as she instead strode towards the trickery a certain Dēofol Prince had concocted.
Though, if she had noticed the shift from pain to surprise upon the Pretender's features, Blǣdhelm realising that she was still going to face her fate, Lady Salinda Slyðerin did nothing to show for it except a single word that sliced through the air and effectively silenced the false-lord; Salinda turning abruptly back to face the dæmon as fury contorted her features. The dim torchlight of the hall flickered with uncertainty and magick as once-pale yet now black eyes met miss-matched blue-gold, casting shadows that danced across both Dēofol - even as Blǣdhelm found that no sound could escape his rapidly opening and closing lips.
"I have a meeting I fear I must attend," the Dæmon-Lord did spit, the bitterness of not only the false-lord's betrayal but that of the very Dæmon-Prince himself etched into every line of Salinda's features. Yet a sardonic smirk begun to pull at her painted lips as she continued, offering the Pretender the very same mocking bow that had been gifted to her within the memory they'd shared before she turned away once more and continued to head towards her fate. "Any by the Dæmon-Gods of Old, my son, I best not keep your dear Prince waiting."
Her words dripped with sarcasm, the very air around her form rippling with not only her rage, but that of her very magick as well, and Blǣdhelm could do nothing but watch his mother leave, an expression of shock twisting his features; surprised that even despite everything she had just seen, Salinda was still just the fool he and his lover did believe her to be. For, and if she had just glanced back, even for a moment; had taken the chance to look upon her son's pale façade before she had disappeared through the double doors that would lead to her ultimate demise, the Dæmon-Lord may have just noticed the way thin lips had slowly curved upwards into a cunning and deceitful smile; the spluttering and pitiful Pretender nowhere to be seen as blue and gold eyes instead burned with an unholy victory within the dim hall.
'It seems that you were right, Deus'Vepar,' was thought as, the moment the doors had closed behind his mother, Blǣdhelm's form was bathed in a sudden and unnatural darkness as the torches lighting the corridor unexpectedly flickered out. 'She fell for it, just as predicted.'
The Mortal Plane, once a realm of unity an purpose, had become nothing more than a hotbed of intrigue and treachery, and Lady Salinda Slytherin, one of the four Dæmon-Lords of the Shadowed Sanctum residing in the dæmonic city of Rosa Diaboli, now faced with the absolute reality of the growing dissent that not only the Prince had orchestrated, but that of her very own flesh and blood, was forced to take indisputable actions in order to try and address the grievances of the people she was vowed to protect.
But the die had been cast, and Deus'Vepar, the self-proclaimed 'God of War', had been born, his deception and insurrection something that could no longer be contained.
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Godeghym's Keep, Rosa Diaboli - Dēofolces Rōse, Ægyptum
Cirice: 2,500 ǣr Crīstes nīþercyme
Beneath the vast expanse of the known universe, a single moon hung suspended within a star-studded firmament. Known as Quen'Tani to the realms, though more fondly known as 'Queta' by the immortal inhabitants of the planet it did orbit, this moon's pale surface soaked up the gentle rays of its one and only sun.
Nestled within this far lesser galaxy, this sole orb of pure energy and light held a unique gravitational influence, tugging only a select few planets and sub-planets to dance within its cosmic embrace. And this phenomenon granted Queta quite the powerful position, being one of two sole sources of warmth and light for the world it did circle. Yet, upon the planet of which this natural satellite did circle, however, was a world embroiled in war and chaos, and where but a small group of intrepid warriors, deep behind enemy lines and far from the safety and comfort of their homes, did hope to achieve the impossible. For it was their goal to infiltrate the formidable Godeghym's Keep; the very building of where the Shadowed Sanctum did reside.
The Keep was a bastion of power within the war-torn lands of Rosa Diaboli. However, and under the ever-watchful gaze of Queta's radiant beams, these warriors did slip through the night, cloaked in the shadows that whispered secrets of old. Each step they took was a testament to their honed skills, a delicate dance between the echoes of destruction and the shimmering promise of victory. And guided by the moon's light, they divided into two factions.
The first?
Well, their purpose was to create a tumultuous distraction at the imposing gates, all the while their comrades in the second sought out the hidden passage that would lead them deep into the very heart of this stronghold. And as these two groups dispersed, the moon's gentle glow disappeared if but momentarily behind a cloud, casting their forms into darkness. It was as if Queta herself offered the small group a silent blessing, urging them forwards into the absence of her serene radiance - and surge forth they did.
The warriors of the diversionary force fell like a wave upon the gates of the Keep, their rallying cries a defiant challenge to the guards who did stand sentinel. And while they drew any and all attention solely onto their aggravating forms, the other half of their group moved like whispers in the night; following a trail that did wind its way towards Godeghym's concealed yet no-longer-secret passageway.
However, as they stepped into this undisclosed tunnel, traversing deeper and deeper towards the Keep's very heart towards their goal, unease did thread its way into each of their steps. The once-echoing chambers and grand halls, some of which these very soldiers remembered to be filled with life and laughter, now stood barren, all but haunted by an eerie stillness that whispered the secrets long ago concealed. The warriors shared puzzled glances as they went, the air heavy with the unspoken question that was crossing each and every one of their minds: Where were the rest of Godeghym's defenders?
Their answer seemed to come in the form of an earthquake the moment they stepped into the Keep's main chamber and wherein the Sanctum did usually hold court, a sudden and unexpected tremor shaking the very foundations of the building and causing a chilling realisation to seize each warrior as debris rained down from above - at the same time She did appear from below.
It happened so fast, the group having no time to react as the very ground underfoot cracked and quaked; a monstrous creature born from the very depths of the Scīran Sīdolnes erupting through the shattering floor and unfurling upon the warriors a storm of magick and chaos. It was a mighty Stige-Dreor the likes none had seen before, a dæmon gifted a godly visage; none other than the Dæmon-Lord, Lady Salinda Slyðerin, herself.
Combining the serpentine elegance of the mighty tunnel-wyrm with the fiery, avian feathers of a dæmonic drake, this Dēofol's sinuous body was undulated with sleek, silver-grey scales that shimmered with an otherworldly, obsidian iridescence, a reminiscent of the very shadows that danced within the heart of her ancestral home. And sprouting from her back were wings that mirrored those of a dragoon, yet were adorned with feathers that appeared to have been dipped in the very Abyss themselves.
Lady Slyðerin's eyes gleamed, exposing hues that shifted between vapid shades of shadow and the mysterious depths of the dæmonic realm; piercing through the dark like twin orbs of ever-shifting light as the battle was met with fear-inspiring awe and ferocious determination; the warriors' weapons clashing against Salinda's seemingly impenetrable scales as they went straight for the kill. But it was as if they fought against an elemental forces, unyielding and utterly relentless in its assault; half the group falling to the Stige-Dreor's savage onslaught, their valour rendered futile in the face of the dæmoness' merciless power and might.
It was a plight that seemed completely hopeless, and despair had begun to threaten to swallow the warriors whole. Though still they did not stop, did not yield; not even, as from the very darkened shadows that did surround the battle, a solitary figure emerged.
With staff in one hand and a determined expression marring his features, a pale-haired Dēofol did step into the fray as if they were stepping to the very fabric of reality itself; nothing but a sentinel of unfathomable energy and power amidst the chaos that was battle. Gilded eyes, like the most treasured honey, held a cold yet calculated detachment as they observed the turmoil; falling to each victim of the mighty Dæmon-Lord before they shifted to that of the Lady Salinda herself.
Though, and as this unusually fair dæmon did watch the remaining warriors continue to fight against the dæmonic entity that Salinda had become, the twisted staff in his hand begun to crackle with energy at the same time pale lips begun to call upon the very powers of a purgatory realm simply known as the Niðersceaft.
Incantations, both ancient and forbidden, flowed from the Dēofol's lips, and the very air begun to pulse with the energy of his intent; emerald-green light bathing the room and causing all eyes to turn to his still-unmoving form. And without warning or premise, a torrent of that emerald light did surge forth from the gem cradled within the knotted top of his staff, the formidable power unleashed slamming into the Stige-Dreor with such a force it weakened Salinda's arduous defences.
The warriors still standing gaped in wonder and uncertainty at the unexpected turn of events, torn between gratitude and suspicion towards the newcomer's unexpected aide. Although the pale-haired dæmon paid them no mind, his role but a dance of shadows that were elusively his and his alone as each and every arcane gesture and spell he did unleash, Salinda Slyðerin faltered, the Dæmon-Lord's roars of agonising fury echoing through Godeghym's vast halls and chambers.
Yet, and despite their suspicions towards the dæmon's assistance, renewed determination surged through the remaining members of the small group of fighters; each having witnessed their former-Lady's vulnerability. Though before they could strike upon those weaknesses, the aiding dæmon's voice rang through the air, an anciently powerful resonance that did unleash a cataclysmic curse that seared through the very darkness that had suddenly engulfed the Keep.
"Bikuro'Elzeol!"
The battle reached its crescendo at the same time the dæmon's powers surged to their zenith. The air crackled with anticipation as the stone that was cradled with the twisted wicker in his hand drank in what light did exist, leaving those not only within Godeghym's Keep, but that of the very valleys and planes of Dēofolces Rōse; encapsulating all within a complete and impenetrable darkness.
Then, in an explosion of emerald light, night was transformed into a jade dawn as the once-lord's curse was unleashed.
The Dæmon-Lords of the Shadowed Sanctum, blinded by their commitment to Eorþeslēoht's treaty, failed to recognise the true depths of Vepar's deception; their ignorance costing them not only their lives, but also that of the very mortals within the lands they had sworn to protect. And the Dæmon-Prince, having proven to all that he was just as deceptively manipulative as he was powerful, did finally turn his gaze to the very Stygian Abyss itself; challenging his very own mother for the right to rule over the dæmonic realm - a declaration of war that would shake the foundations of the Mortal and Immortal Planes.
Mother and son, Queen and Prince, once bound by the very ancient unities of blood and familiarity, now stood on opposite side of a conflict that threatened to consume the very essence of their existence. And the Scīran Sīdolnes was to become nothing more than an ancient battleground wherein these unravelling forces would clash in a frenzy of chaotic magick and primal power.
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Aedes Obscuritatis - Scīran Sīdolnes
Cirice: 2,500 ǣr Crīstes nīþercyme
Within a realm concealed by darkness and consumed by sinister enchantments, there lies a land of great dread and malice. It was a place that was thought to exist deep within the Earth's core, and was aptly named the Scīran Sīdolnes - or the 'Stygian Abyss'. It was within this treacherous domain where dæmonic entities of all natures roamed, their malevolent presence dancing like shadows amidst the flickering flames and molten rivers, tainting the very essence of the realm and creating a foreboding and nightmarish scene within the Plane they did call home. And at the very heart of this damned and forbidden realm did exist a formidable building known simply as the Temple of Obscurity.
This structure stood as a haunting testament to the unholy existence of the Dēofol that did dwell within the Abyss; a building that was forever shrouded in swirling mists of sulphuric fog and brimstone, and did resonate with unspeakable powers and forgotten knowledge; the very atmosphere pulsating with a crackling dark energy as if the very fabric of reality trembled in the presence of the infernal entities that did haunt the Temple's vast halls. Though, and amidst this noxious, ethereal mist, one that almost looked to dance with a life all its own; at the very heart of this formidable structure, a towering black throne did loom. It stood as a symbol of authority and power within the Scīran Sīdolnes, of an eternal an imperishable existence that its dæmonic ruler had maintained since time immemorial; nothing but a chilling reminder to all within the Stygian's folds of the forces that did rule over their accursed realm. And it was upon this throne that the Dæmon-Queen, Lady Ælfehrōs, the reigning monarch of the very Scīran Sīdolnes itself, did sit; her dæmonic features radiating an aura of dark, majestic majesty.
Said to have been forged within the crucible of the very Niðersceaft itself, Ælfehrōs' dæmonic form embodied a dreadful and unholy sight. She sat tall and imposing, her lithe yet powerful figure commanding the attention of any and all. From her temples coiled menacing brown-black horns, further enhancing her fearsome features, and within the dimly lit throne room, hidden deep within the Temple of Obscurity, her eyes blazed with an ethereal radiance, one that was reminiscent of the very infernal realm that had supposedly birthed her.
Through the swirling mists and shadows, this Dæmon-Queen's piercing violet gaze revealed a sharp mind and keen intellect, something of which had once only been matched by her insatiable thirst for both power and dominance. Ælfehrōs' accent to the throne was one that had been etched into the annuals of dæmonic history, having unfolded more than three millennia prior and shrouded in mystery and destruction. In those distant days, her might and dominion were unparalleled, echoing through every corner of the Planes. Her powers had reverberated throughout the realms and had caused entire kingdoms to quake under her command; the mere presence of this Dēofol having been said to have made even the bravest of soul cower; her wrath legendary, decimating entire armies whilst her very will alone shattered their fortresses in cataclysmic battles.
Yet across the room, standing before the reigning monarch in a display that was filled with utter defiance and determination, stood Ælfehrōs' own son; the Dæmon-Prince and heir to his mother's dæmonic rule, Deus'Vepar Aquilifer. Clad in obsidian-red armour that was all but dripping with a primeval, dark energy, the Prince of the Scīran Sīdolnes stood tall before his Queen and mother, emanating an aura of regal defiance. And although his dæmonic stature was far less imposing than that of Lady Ælfehrōs', it was embodied with the very essence that was chaos and oblivion; dæmonic energy all but dancing around his lithe form. His raven-black wings were unfurled behind him in a clear threat, their feathers shimmering with an otherworldly iridescence as he continued to stretch and expand them, his mesmerising violet eyes burning black with a fierce determination as he dared to challenge his mother's - his Queen's right to rule.
It was a scene reminiscent of a dark fairytale, one wherein the lines between dreams and nightmares did blur; the forces of good and evil clashing in a symphony of chaos and despair. The atmosphere inside the Temple's throne room continued to crackle with anticipation and tension, the air thick with a silence that was filled with unspoken accusations and the weight of generations and rivalry as it bore witness to the culmination of a tale steeped in betrayal, deceit, ambition, and the allure of absolute power.
Though it was also here, amidst the backdrop of writhing shadows and ethereal flames, wherein the very fate of this dæmonic dynasty would be decided.
The silence within the room was suddenly shattered as a thunderous roar reverberated through the air, one of which had the walls trembling with its resonating power. It was a sound that caused the shadows to recoil back into the comforting embrace of the Dark; Lady Ælfehrōs ascending from her throne as she eyed her only son. Her voice was laden with a chilling, wrathful power, filled with an underlining innerving authority that all but commanded attention as she bellowed, "You dare challenge me? Your own Queen - blood?!" each word intermingling with equal parts of disdain and disappointment as she met Deus'Vepar's narrowed-eyed gaze.
However the Prince remained undeterred by her imposing presence, his own voice just as sharp yet mixed with a youthful defiance and bitterness as it sliced through the tension-filled room.
"Queen?" he spat, his words but shards of icy venom seeking out his mother's heart. "You are no Queen - no blood of mine. You have grown weak, Lady Ælfehrōs, your hunger for mortal flesh extinguished," was added sardonically. "Your own kingdom is but a pale reflection of the very name you do hold, miniscule in the face of our true dæmonic dominion - nothing but a fallible façade of might and power."
The room held its breath as Deus'Vepar's voice lingered in the tension-filled air, each word passing his lips only adding fuel to the already smouldering flames of their conflict, and his mother's violet gaze narrowed, piercing through the swirling darkness as she regarded the young Prince before her; a mixture of sorrow and determination marring her features. There paths as mother and child had clearly and irreversibly diverged, and Ælfehrōs knew that it did mark the onset of an impending confrontation; one, it did seem, that had already been relentlessly bashing against her doors.
"Young fool."
Her voice was but an echoed whisper through the room, yet filled with the weight of an ancient wisdom. And Ælfehrōs could only shake her head at her son, a cruel irony beginning to twist at her lips as she realised the striking resemblance between her son and that of her own past; one that was all but pulsating from the oppressive presence before her. Memories of her own 'coming of age' flashed before lilac eyes, and the rather warped amusement that the Queen had found with her current predicament only caused that twisted smile upon her lips to grow; the fact that she was, quite ironically, standing before a shadowed replica of her own past mistakes causing a chuff of tickled laughter to escape her.
"You speak of power, Deus'Vepar, but you understand none of its true nature," Ælfehrōs continued, her words all but feeling as though they were a script she were reading from, one that did originate from the pages of her own history; the clear weight of her own past experiences backing each and every one that passed her lips. "The strength of our blood lies not in the pursuit of dominance and strength, but that of the balance we do maintain between chaos and order. You have become blinded by your own arrogance, my son, and for that I do apologise."
The Prince could only sneer at his mother, a condescending smile of his own beginning to turn his lips. "Blind, you say? I am not the one standing blind here, mother," he corrected with a self-assured air, his voice all but oozing with a self-felt superiority. "I can see clearly the weakness that does plague lands, and believe that it is finally time for a new era to rise - an Age wherein true strength and power shall reign supreme. And that power... it does not reside with the likes of you, but with me."
A flicker of sadness danced across Lady Ælfehrōs' eyes, and she shook her head in disappointment at her son's continued defiance. "I had hoped that you would have learnt from my past mistakes, my son; that you would have come to embrace the weight - the responsibilities of our heritage. But you have not, have you? Instead, you have chosen a path of darkness and destruction, of complete and utter pandemonium."
"Darkness?" Deus'Vepar scoffed. "Is that not our birthright, mother?" he shot right back as he unsheathed the gleaming silver sword strapped to his side. "Destruction; is that not but our childhood? And as for pandemonium... do our people not deserve more than your feeble attempts at preservation? They-" his blade sang as it sliced through the air, tip pointing in no specific direction at the same time his violet eyes narrowed upon his mother, "-crave a ruler who will stand tall amidst the chaos, a King who can guide them back to true greatness."
The bonds between mother and son continued to be shattered with each and every cutting remark that passed the Prince's lips, leaving behind nothing but an unbridgeable chasm of irreconcilable differences; Deus'Vepar's words morphing into that of lethal weapons that struck out with the force of his unwavering convictions. And the battle escalated into that of a physical clash of powers as Ælfehrōs, having had enough of her son's continued defiance, launched herself at Vepar in a surge of primal fury; claws honed, razor-sharp, slicing through the air with a deadly precision - all but a testament to a lifetime of battles fought in the name of their infernal blood.
Yet Deus'Vepar, undeterred, met his mother's wrathful onslaught head-on, driven by his youthful arrogance, pride, and an insatiable hunger for dominance. And the collision of their chosen weapons reverberated through the Temple, tearing through the fabric of the very Scīran Sīdolnes with the sheer force of their collision. Dark tendrils of energy lashed out as the pair met again and again, leaving behind nothing but complete destruction in their wake. But neither combatant paid the growing chaos any heed, Ælfehrōs and her son's lethal dance weaving a tale of aggression and strategic manoeuvring, one that did unfold with an intricate display of violence and desperation.
Each strike of tempered steel or dagger-like claws carried the weight of their conflicting desires, the pair's every move calculated with a piercing precision in order to cripple the other. And the Temple of Obscurity trembled beneath the relentless intensity of their battle, threatening to crumble under the sheer magnitude of their combined powers. Blood stained the air, a testament of the wounds both had inflicted and received, each bearing the marks of their brutal conflict, and the Prince, who's once-flawless visage was now marred by deep gashes and oozing wounds, did grit his teeth against the searing pain, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword as he deftly evaded another slash of his mother's venomous claws.
But with each one of these painful meetings of steel, claw, and flesh, doubts had begun to creep into the young Dæmon-Prince's mind; mingling with the searing agony of his wounds. He probed upon his decision to challenge his mother, to have called such a formidable Dēofol weak and questioned upon her authority as Ælfehrōs continued to deflect his attacks with the skill of a seasoned warrior. The Dæmon-Queen's strength was far greater than Deus'Vepar had initially perceived, and he found himself being reluctantly backed into a corner by the overwhelming might his mother did possess.
As the Prince continued to ponder the path that he had chosen, each blow that the Dæmon-Queen did land managed to not only exact a physical toll upon his body but also that of an emotional one; one that did continue to wrench at the delicate fabric of their already fractured relationship. And as he deflected his mother's latest attack, returning the slicing blow with one of his own; watching as his mother's violet gaze narrowed at his continued refusal to yield, a sudden realisation struck Deus'Vepar like a feathered bolt straight to the heart.
It was oh so very clear to him now, having seen that his mother did still possess the formidable strength that she had displayed when she had first ascended to the throne; so very clear to the young Prince that in challenging that strength, that in having called his mother weak, her ruling fallible, the Dæmon-Queen was no longer willing to hold back; Lady Ælfehrōs fully prepared to take their fight to the death if it meant proving her right to rule - and to get her point across to her obstinate son.
With each strike that the dæmoness landed, she did so with a bone-shaking impact that exposed her son to the absolute raw power behind her fury. However, even in the face of his growing doubts, in the face of his sudden and heart-stopping realisation, Deus'Vepar still refused to stand down, to yield under the might of his mother's wrath. Instead, the Prince chose to embrace his pain, channelling it just like he had been taught into that of a renewed determination, and with a surge of power, unleashed a sudden and unexpected torrent of blue flames towards the Queen, the cerulean-blue fire roaring with the fury of a thousand tempests as it bore down upon Ælfehrōs.
In infernal blue flames engulfed the chamber and illuminated the shadows with its malevolent glow, yet Ælfehrōs remained resolute, her body but a blur of motion as her own magick interwove with the ancient runes that adorned the walls and floors of the throne room, forming a protective barrier that defied the destructive onslaught and shielded both the room and its Queen behind their protective enchantments. And the clash of their combined powers echoed throughout the Temple of Obscurity, causing the walls to tremble with the collision.
Deus'Vepar, fuelled by his arrogance and hunger for dominance, continued to attack with an unmatched ferocity; his every strike that followed aimed with the precise precision to shatter his mother's formidable defences. Thought still his mother persisted, sharp yet weary eyes filled with their own unwavering determination as she deflected each of her son's attacks with a grace born from centuries of battle and war.
Their duel continued to unfold like a macabre dance of the death, each movement both made being a calculated step towards victory of oblivion. And whilst the Queen's attacks carried the weight of experience and strategic finesse, her son and Prince continued to unleash nothing but raw, untamed power that was fuelled by his insatiable thirst for supremacy. All doubts had left the young Dēofol's mind, his focus solely locked onto the battle at hand and the victory he could just taste upon the air as the throne room continued to resonate with the thunderous meetings.
Guttural growls and snarls of dæmonic entities begun to appear in the darkened shadows, drawn to the ongoing spectacle. And as the battle between the two continued, the relentless exchange of blows taking their toll on both combatants, the very fabric of the Scīran Sīdolnes seemed to strain under the weight of their conflict; as if the very forces of darkness themselves were holding their breath, awaiting the outcome, wanting to see who would rise as victor.
However, as the battle raged on, Ælfehrōs found her once-formidable strength waning, her movements growing slower, strikes becoming less precise as the burden of her ancient powers begun to take their toll upon her aging body. And Vepar, driven by nothing but raw determination, seized the opportunity he felt gifted to him and struck out with an unmatched precision. With a surge of power, the sound of metal piecing unguarded flesh resonated throughout the Temple as the Dæmon-Prince's blade finally managed to slip between his mother's seemingly impenetrable defences.
A roar of triumph tore itself free from the Dæmon-Prince's throat as he delivered the decisive blow, and Ælfehrōs staggered backwards, her eye locked onto her son-come-adversary. Her form flickered with fading energy, her lifeblood already beginning to stain the floor and feed the runes that marred its surface, and a momentary hush descended as Deus'Vepar stood tall over the fallen form of his mother; chest heaving with exhilaration and adrenaline as he revelled in his hard-one victory.
He ignored the regret and sorrow that did mingle with the intoxicating taste of triumph within his heart, violet eyes never leaving their predecessor's as they watched the light within their predecessor's slowly fade out.
"You fought for what you believed in, Mother," the Dæmon-Prince uttered quietly, though his voice was like that of a rumbling storm within the still-silent hall. "And so shall I," he continued, the promise falling from his lips without thought. "Your legacy may have ended this day, but it shall give way to the rising dawn of my own."
The dæmonic realm resonated with his words, carrying the weight of his audacious proclamations far and wide. The shadows seemed to whisper to themselves, dæmons of all kinds having borne witness to not only the Prince's victory over his mother, but also that of his unwavering conviction to his beliefs. They watched with eerily glowing eyes as Deus'Vepar relished in his newfound dominance over his bloodline, watched as he turned away from the fallen form of their former Queen and lift his violet gaze towards the looming throne and the dark that did engulf it.
The Scīran Sīdolnes, a Plane once shrouded in mysterious reverence, now appeared to be nothing more than a playground for the young monarch's dark ambitions, and Deus'Vepar Aquilifer, guided by his own hubris, could not stop the way his lips did twist into a wicked smile as he realised, with a profound relish, that now, and as the only heir to the throne, the towering obsidian chair before him; as the Dæmon-Prince-come-King of the Stygian Abyss, he did now possess the power to reshape the infernal realm in his image.
Yet, and as he basked in the triumph of his victory, the moment he was about to ascend to the very throne he had just slain his mother for, a sudden and unexpected chill swept through the chamber and caused Deus'Vepar to pause. The air became thick with an ominous presence - and did have a shiver chasing its way down the young monarch's spine.
Violet eyes widened as he spun to the one who would dare interrupt his most glorious moment, the surprising and horror marrying his features unable to be hidden at the sight of who he saw.
"You-you're dead!"
In the final confrontation between mother and son, Deus'Vepar Aquilifer, unravelled by the dark forces he had ultimately unleashed, did manage to strike a fatal blow against Lady Ælfehrōs. The Dæmon-Queen fell, and the very fabric of the Abyss shuddered in response as Vepar, triumphant yet stained with the blood of his kin, declared himself to be the new sovereign of the Scīran Sīdolnes.
But victory was to be short-lived for this self-proclaimed 'God of War'.
The Abyss, despite reeling from the shockwaves of his deception and conflict, did reject the Prince's rule. The ancient pact, though fractured through war and death, still held remnants of its former power, and in an act of desperation, Deus'Vepar was banished from the Planes, cast into the shadowed realm known only as the Niðersceaft.
However, and even as this Dæmon-Prince was cast into the dark depths of dæmonic purgatory, the very Planes he had been banished from had been left scarred and forever-changed by the chaos and destruction he had wrought. The once-unified societies of Dēofolces Rōse now faced the aftermath of a war that had reshaped the very nature of their existence, and the Treaty of Earth's Light lingered in their memories as nothing more than a testament and warning of the fragility and imbalance between mortal and dæmonic kind. The great city of Rosa Diaboli, once a brimming metropolis filled with life and laughter, now stood on the precipice of a new era, one marred by the echoes of conflict and left both Human and Dēofol alike entangled within a web of destiny that would continue to unravel in ways never seen before.
The Age of Unity, of Eorþeslēoht's visionary future, had ultimately come to an end, and the people of the Planes now faced the uncertain dawn of its ne-
"It's rather intriguing, isn't it?"
Mjǫllsverðr's hand recoiled as if burned, jerking away from the cube, the Eclaveinid - the Hallow - as if it were a viper poised to strike. His heart thundered against his chest, a wide beast cages within the confines of his ribcage vying to be free. He spun on his heel, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear, only to find himself face-to-face with the very embodiment of death itself.
The very Dæmon-God of the Dead, Guðr Dauði, stood before him, an imposing figure wreathed in shadows and the chill of the grave. His presence filled the chamber they were in, all but suffocating the pale-haired Dæmon-Lord with the weight of centuries-old secrets and the solemnity of mortality.
"You, my friend, were thought to be dead," Mjǫllsverðr could only stammer, his voice barely above a whisper against the oppressive silence of the room. And each one tasted bitter upon his tongue, a foul reminder of the folly of his actions.
Guðr Dauði regarded the Dæmon-Lord with a gaze that was cold and unforgiving; orbs as dark as the very depths of the Niðersceaft burning through Mjǫllsverðr and wanting the pale Dēofol to spill all his secrets. "Death, dead?" the ancient Dæmon did muse, a wry smile playing at the corners of His lips. "You do realise how ridiculous that sounds, right?"
"Oh, you know what I mean," Mjǫllsverðr snapped, growing somewhat of a spine as he bristled at the mocking tone; pride wounded by the Dæmon-God's jest.
"Yes, sadly I believe I do," was all Guðr Dauði said in reply, the smile twisting His lips fading. "Yet that is a tale that shall be left for another, for I do believe I asked you a question first."
Golden eyes, like the most sweetest of honey, flickered to the Eclaveinid, the source of his visions; the harbinger of his destiny. "It's rather plain, shows only visions of what's to come," he confessed, knowing that he could not hide the truth from Death Himself.
But as the words left his lips, Mjǫllsverðr felt a sudden chill in the air, a premonition of impending doom, and he glanced back up to meet Guðr Dauði's obsidian gaze, only to find the Dæmon-God's eyes ablaze with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine.
"Plain? Only shows visions...?" Guðr Dauði's voice echoed like the tolling of funeral bells. "Nevertheless, you have yet to lay a hand upon its surface, Lord Mjǫllsverðr, barely scratched the surface of its... powers."
Mjǫllsverðr's heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat as his gilded gaze was drawn back to the rather plain looking cube. "What do you mean?" he whispered, voice a mixture of trembling fear and unquenchable curiosity. Though he could not help but shiver as the Dæmon-God stepped forward, entering the room completely and allowing His presence to envelope him like a shroud.
"You have glimpsed upon only one of many futures, my friend," was intoned, His voice reverberating with the weight of something far more than just that of eternity. "But what if I were to offer you a better look, offered you the chance to see all that is to come?"
Mjǫllsverðr's mind was reeling at the prospect of what was being offered, the allure of forbidden knowledge beckoning him like a sirens song. And as a Dæmon-Lord of the Skaduwe Sceaft, he knew full well of the dangers that lurked within the depths of Guðr Dauði's domain, the perils that awaited all those who dared to defy the natural order of things.
Yet, and despite the warning bells that were now blaring in the recesses of his mind, the Dæmon-Lord found himself unable to resist the temptation; resist the offer he knew would never be extended again. "Show me," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath of wind within the chamber - and did cause Guðr Dauði's smile to return, a dark promise being etched upon His formidable façade.
"As you wish," the Dæmon-God murmured, His words a sinister melody that echoed in the silence of the room.