"...or...m..l..d...my..l.rd...my lord!"
I leaped to my feet in an instant, a dagger already poised at the throat of the individual who had the audacity to interrupt my slumber. My gaze swiftly scanned the figure looming over me, noting the stern and unmoving expression etched onto his face. A thin stream of dark liquid begun to trickle down the blade I held firmly against his neck.
After a moment of consideration, I slowly returned the blade to its sheath strapped to my thigh, making sure to clean the blood off on my coat first. Throughout the entire process, the figure remained completely impassive, showing no reaction whatsoever.
"What happened?" Was all I asked, my eyes critically examining our surroundings. We were in a meadow, vibrant with various types of fresh grass, flowers, and buzzing insects. The sun shone brightly, causing my pale skin to prickle uncomfortably. "This is not Svartalfheim," I remarked, noting the obvious difference.
Algrim, for that was who the figure was, simply waited for me to gather my bearings. Once I had finished surveying the area, I glanced down to assess my equipment. A black coat, a sword, and a few knives. It would suffice.
Once I regained my senses, Algrim stepped back to my side. "What do you remember, my lord?" he inquired. Now that was the question, wasn't it? I searched through my memories, searching for the answer. There was...war, oh glorious war! Blood, guts, and grime. The agonized screams of the dying, the triumphant cheers of the victors, and the despairing cries of the enslaved.
A smirk stretched across my face, reaching back to my pointy ears as I reveled in the memories of others' suffering. I glanced at Algrim, noting how he visibly relaxed at the sight of my smirk. Interesting, huh? "War, my friend! Glorious, glorious war!" I exclaimed, nodding to myself. "The best, greatest experience of them all."
"It is good to know that you remain sound of mind, my lord. Many of us lost our memories, not much but some essential things." Sound of mind? My friend, you have a very peculiar definition of 'sound,' I mused to myself.
I looked at the gathering of my soldiers who were standing off to the side. Some of them were inspecting their weapons- a gathering of swords, shields, an odd spear but mostly blasters. Some were inspecting the area cautiously, waving their blasters and pistols around just waiting for something to jump their way. The last group was putting together a perimeter, setting up machine guns and an odd cannon.
I looked over the dark elves under my command, trying to count them. The moment my hatred for math showed it's head I turned to Algrim. "Is this it? Where's the rest?" I tilted my head, the grin still marking my lips.
"I am afraid so, my lord. We lost most of our forces when we retreated from the battle with Asgard. Our ship crashed somewhere in the forest that way." He pointed off to the dense forest. "We could have fixed it, if we had the parts...and time."
I turned to him. "Time?"
"Indeed, my king. Momentarily after leaving the ship we were attacked by walking trees and something that looked like light elves." He looked off in the direction of the ship with a look of conflict on his face. "We had to retreat, there were too many of them."
There was one thing that cought my attention there. "Walking trees? And why did you say they looked like light elves?" He was about to start explaining what he ment but at that exact moment I heard the sound of snapping branches and footsteps in the distance.
Shifting my eyes in that direction I realised Thai I was the only one who heard that. All the other dark elves, even Algrim, failed to react. I raised my hand to stop him. "it would appear we have company my friend." I pulled on my swords handle freeing it from the scabbard. With a crisp sound of metal sliding against metal my sword was in my hand, pointing at the forest.
Unlike many other warlord's minions, my dark elves didn't dare question me and grabbed their weapons ready to fight. The cannons and machine guns were manned. A contingent of heavily armored druchii warriors with shields and spears established a shield wall to protect the missail infantry from whatever may crawl out of the dense forest.
Wait...druchii? No, not now. We fight now and have an identity crisis later. My left hand went automatically up clowning up into a fist and uncleanching to reveal a ball of pale purple fire.
The suspension dragged on, the elves under my command starting to hear the approach of some great beast.
Finally, the thick obstruction that was the forest gave way to a giant towering treeman...two...three... The giants kept coming, their gangartuan feet fearing dirt patches in the grassy meadow. And right after them, humanoid creatures in green wielding bows, spears and swords, some riding dear.
Ah, the wood elves. That would explain...much. "Fire." My previous cheer disappeared, replaced by grim hatred for all things wood elf. This singular command falling from my lips consigned tens if not hundreds of Asrai to the not so pleasant meeting with Nagash.
Bolts of purple fire raced towards the charging, underdressed masses of feral elves. They fell in droves, marking the soil of Athel Loren in their savage blood. Above them, their tree friends were buckling under the cannon fire of higher calibre plasma shots, trickles of pure amber dripping down there damaged forms in a pathetic mockery of blood.
Even though their comrades fell around them the ones not yet struck by the superheated bullets charged on only to be cut town in a hail of plasma fire mere seconds later. One after another the treemen fell, crushing their smaller compatriots into bloody mist.
Finally, I glimpsed the leader of this sorry excuse for an attempt to dislodge us from the forest. She was covered from head to toe in a cloak of brilliantly fresh green leaves. In her hand lied a sceptor of curling branches and twisted animal bones.
A magic caster. One most probably, judging by her attire, usind the lore of dark magic. The same typo of magic I was most proficient in. She gazed out onto the battlefield with a grimace, her eyes shifting from one scene of carnage to another.
Finally her sight landed on me. The moment her eyes reached my dark form I threw the doombolt her way. The ball of pure dark magic sailed straight at the spellweaver causing the grass in it's way to shrivel and blacken as it passed overhead.
The spell made contact with the turquoise tunic the wood elf was wearing, burning a palm-sized hole through her clothes, skin and bones. As the bolt passed through her body the elven sorceress hunched forward as if to catch some imaginary breath into her cooked lungs.
As the projectile broke through the cloak the elf was wearing she simply stood there, blank eyes staring threw me, perhaps seeking help with Isha. Right before the elven goddess of nature could step in to rescue the soul of her devout follower I felt the winds of magic change.
The purple winds of magic, Shyish, clashed with the forces of nature and one other. A flash of dark purple and light pink drowned the light of the forest green. After eliminating Isha from the equation, the force of she who thirsts and the great necromancer started devouring each other, fighting for the fate of the Asrai soul.
But eventually the princess of pleasure failed to defeat the god of death, retreating to the realm of chaos in shame. Triumphant, nagash snatched up the freshly freed soul, chomping down on it with great relish as the soul was spirited away into the realm of the dead.
All this transpired in mere seconds. The Battle continued on, the combatants not aware of what just happened. But I knew. I sensed the battle of three gods for the fate of the soul of the wood elf magic caster.
What...just happened? No, not now. I would ponder all this later. I manifested another spell, the tornado of blades of purple wind gathering a bloody harvest in asrai blood.
Finally, with all of the treemen dead or dying the elves broke and started running away. I spoke one name. A name so horrendous and vial if I wrote it down on parchment it would have been set ablaze. The wood elves running for their lives froze. Some weak willed fell to the ground and screamed in agony, writhing in invisible torment.
Others who weren't so weak, grit their teeth moaning in unimaginable pain. Their bones wanted to crawl out of their bodies, their blood vessels started cannibalising each other, their nervous system twisted into unposible knots of pure agony. Yet, they still tried limping away from the scene of mass murder, desperately trying to save their own pathetic lives.
My own soldiers felt a mere shadow of the torment I inflicted on the retreating combatants yet still they shuddered in pinpricks of discomfort. When they went to stop fiering their weapons I spoke up again, in a far more normal voice. "Gun them down." My monotone voice sliced through the silence that permitted our camp. My Druchii were shivering, their eyes widening.
They were afraid of me.
Good.
After a second of hesitation the machine gun fire renewed, tearing the retreating soldiers into bloody slag, painting the grass and trees red.
I turned to my trusted lieutenant, Algrim. Unlike the rest of my minions he was stone faced, although I could still sense some apprehension from him. "Enslave those who are still alive and more or less mine. Thoes who are to dameged...well, we didn't capture any of thoes did we?" I grinned at him, my pearly white fangs gleaming in the light of the now setting sun above us.
"Yes, my lord." Thoes were the only words Algrim, let alone the rest of my soldiers spoke that day. They grimly set to the task I gave them, gathering the suitable slaves and killing thoes who didn't make the cut.
This...weakness would have to be eradicated going forward. I couldn't allow my soldiers to feel such unwelcome emotions like pitty or guilt. These marvel dark elves were nothing like the Druchii I was accustomed to, let alone the Drukhari I would prefer to have under my command.
I went to the command tent Algrim pointed me to when I asked him about my temporary place of residence.
Now, about that identity crisis I mentioned earlier. Who...exactly was i? Was i the Witchking Malekith, lord of the black tower, king of the Druchii And the rightfull king of all elves? Or was I Malekith the accursed, the creator of the aether, lord of the Sfartalfar, the wielder of the casket of ancient winters the lord of the wild Hunt?
After a longer deliberation I came to a conclusion. Perhaps I was both. Perhaps I was neither. Perhaps I was someone, or something, entirely different. In the end, it matters not who I once was but who I am now.
I am Malekith, the one true god of this world.
And I would take what is rightfully mine.