Metamorphosis: From Dretch to Demon Lord - Ascension Released!
- Thread starter BLACKDIRGE
- Start date
John Q. Mayhem
Explorer
blackshirt5 said:
It's better than Salvatore.
edit: added smiley, just in case.
Last edited:
ledded
Herder of monkies
Smiley, nothin'.John Q. Mayhem said:It's better than Salvatore.
edit: added smiley, just in case.
Blackdirge's story makes Salvatore look like a hack.
Of course, it's my opinion that Salvatore doesnt need much help with that (no offense to the Salvatore-lovers out there).
Thomas Hobbes
First Post
BLACKDIRGE said:Alright Thomas, if you're dragged off to the abyss tonight by a horde of leather fetish loving dretches, you'll know why.
Oh dear. Uh, let's, uh, translate that through a rose-tinted Comprehend Languages spell.
Alright Thomas, if you're dragged off to the abyss tonight by a horde of leather fetish loving Succubi, you'll know why.
blackshirt5
First Post
I want a succubus for Valentine's Day.Thomas Hobbes said:
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BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Ok, the next installment is very long, and it's not fair to you guys to make you wait any longer. So I will break it up into smaller segments. These next updates may be a bit smaller than you're used to but at least they will come in a more timely fashion, I hope.
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Part XII
The Death of a Demon Lord - Part I
Pain hung like a red haze over the throne room of Pyrak’s floating citadel. The demon lord sat slumped in his throne, cradling his great black sword, and fighting the agony induced delirium that threatened to overtake him. His left arm hung useless and numb at his side, the great open wound in his shoulder disabling the limb completely. A foul stench arose from the demon lord’s motionless form, a black miasma of rot and decay that served as an ever-present reminder that death lingered close.
Pyrak sensed his impending doom, felt its brutal caress with each labored breath, each excruciating throb from the wound in his shoulder. He lamented only that his end remained idle for the moment, and that the pace of his demise was a slow and torturous fading, and not the instantaneous destruction gifted to those who fell in combat.
Fiendbleeder had been conspicuously silent after the battle with Bel, perhaps satisfied for the moment with the arch devil’s destruction. Pyrak knew that he had lived this long, only through his contact with the sword, it was sustaining him for some unknown reason, prolonging his life – and his agony – with its fell magics. Fiendbleeder’s silence had left Pyrak’s mind completely his own, but this was no boon. It took every ounce of his will to stifle the screams that rose within his throat with each radiating burst of pain. He would have welcomed Fiendbleeder’s intrusion, if only to focus his mind on something beyond agony.
Pyrak wondered if Dreadskewer, the great spear that had inflicted his mortal wound, had left Bel’s mind in his final moments, leaving him to experience his own death fully. Dreadskewer like Fiendbleeder possessed a dark and driven personality all its own, and had undoubtedly laid claim the arch devil that had so recently wielded it. The spear had been recovered from the battlefield, and now lay at the foot of Pyrak’s throne, the demon lord’s black blood still staining its lusterless gray metal.
“My lord?” A voice suddenly cut through the haze of Pyrak’s pain and despair. “I have brought a poultice for your wound.”
Pyrak raised his head and tried in vain to focus his eyes on the figure that stood at the foot of his throne. It advanced cautiously, holding an object before it. Pyrak half hoped it was one of his generals come to finally end his misery.
The scent of cinnamon mingled with blood filled his nostrils, and Pyrak finally recognized the six-armed figure of his marilith general, Heskara.
“Leave me.” Pyrak whispered, his mouth filled with the acrid taste of his own decay.
“This will ease your pain, my lord.” Heskara held out the poultice she had made. “Let me apply it to your wound.”
In truth, Pyrak doubted he would have the strength to stop the marilith if she truly wished to disobey him. But Fiendbleeder, always Fiendbleeder, insured that his rule would last for a little while longer.
Let her. The sword said simply, its monotonous drone stifling any resistance Pyrak may have had.
Pyrak merely nodded, barely finding the strength to raise his head. Heskara advanced at her lord’s acquiescence and Pyrak felt the cool tough of her six slender hands upon his body. There was a momentary bolt of pain as the marilith packed the putrefying wound with whatever healing herbs she had managed to put together, then the pain resided and Pyrak felt a minute, but noticeable lift in his strength and spirit.
“Why?” He croaked, as Heskara finished her careful ministrations. Pyrak’s wound had been remarkably resistant to any from of magical healing; he wondered how the poultice Heskara had applied worked when the mightiest of curative spells had not.
“What do you mean?” She replied.
“Why do you help me?” Pyrak said with effort, struggling to keep his head from sinking onto his chest.
“You are my liege. It is my duty to serve you.” Heskara searched Pyrak’s eyes, puzzled by his line of questioning.
“You sound like a baatezu.” Pyrak chuckled weakly, enjoying the rage that darkened Heskara’s features at his insult. “Here I sit before you, weak as a child, your opportunity to take my place growing closer with every breath, and you do nothing. Why?”
Heskara folded her six arms across her chest, her eyes deep in thought. When she finally spoke, the lie she concocted rolled off her tongue in a silken purr, convincing, but not nearly enough to fool Pyrak. “You have won a great victory for the Abyss. There is more honor in serving you, than in destroying you. I wish only to remain at your side after you recover and lead the tanar’ri to greater glory.”
She lies. Fiendbleeder whispered.
Pyrak ignored Fiendbleeder’s obvious statement, for the lie Heskara had wrought held the truth within it, and the demon lord saw it plainly. Heskara needed Pyrak to live to hold onto the tenuous power that she now maintained. There was little doubt that the idea of simply slaying Pyrak and usurping his place had crossed her mind, but she knew that she could never hold the throne. She had far too many enemies to rule for long. On the other hand, at Pyrak’s side, as a trusted general, she enjoyed prestige and a modicum of safety afforded by Pyrak's own personal power and reputation. Alone, she would certainly fall victim to more powerful demons. So true to her demonic nature, Heskara had found and chosen the best possible way to stay alive, and hold onto the rank and prestige she currently had.
“You are truly a faithful servant, Heskara.” Pyrak said, making no attempt to hide the biting sarcasm in his voice. “Now leave me.”
“My lord, I cannot leave you now, you are too weak.” Heskara whispered, pulling close, urgency in her voice. “Hedrenatherax is on his way here.”
Pyrak’s grip on Fiendbleeder tightened, he felt the ominous implications of Heskara’s words, and a spark of rage flared to life within his battered body.
“He will try to kill you if you are alone.” The marilith said simply. “He might reconsider if I am here.”
Heskara was a skilled sorcerer, but Pyrak doubted that she would be a match for the brute strength and savage ferocity of Hedrenatherax. In his weakened state, he knew that the balor would slay him easily, regardless of Fiendbleeder or Heskara.
“Does he come alone?” Pyrak said, his eyes smoldering.
“No, Gemnez is with him.” Heskara sounded almost hopeful at the mention of the rogue baatezu’s name.
That was odd, it was well known that Gemnez despised Hedrenatherax. What could the two of them be doing together? .
“Go and find Grimclaw and bring him here.” Pyrak ordered. “Make sure he comes alone.” Grimclaw, the leader of his Dreadwings, was the only demon that Pyrak would even consider trusting. It was Grimclaw who had dragged Pyrak from the battlefield, while the stunned army of baatezu watched their leader bleed his life away onto the scorched earth of Avernus. The big vrock was that rarest of demons, for he understood and valued loyalty.
Heskara opened her mouth to protest, but the fire had returned to Pyrak’s eyes, and mortally wounded or not, his tone brooked no refusal. The marilith turned and slithered from the throne room in silence to do her master’s bidding.
Well sword, can you sustain me for a bit longer? Pyrak asked Fiendbleeder when Heskara had left the room.
The poison is strong. Can you not feel it? Fiendbleeder droned, ignoring Pyrak’s question. Your death is at hand demon, and who shall wield me when you are gone?
I care not, but Hedrenatherax must not rule. Surely you see this. Pyrak answered.
Hedrenatherax is a powerful demon; I could do well in his possession. His mind is weak, but his body is very strong. He could not defy me as you do.
Pyrak’s rebuttal was instantaneous, and filled with scathing reproach. They will not follow him, your crusade will come to an end, and you shill spend your existence in the hands of mindless automaton. He spoke the truth, Hedrenatherax was physically powerful, perhaps even as powerful as Pyrak himself, but he had no foresight, and his savage demeanor would win him few allies.
Perhaps you are right demon. There may be another suitable candidate. These ominous words gave Pyrak pause. The sword was dangling some vital piece of information in front of him, but he knew it would not elaborate. What other? The abyss was filled with mighty demons, but none had ever enjoyed the kind of success in the bloodwar that Pyrak had. In countless millennia, no archdevil had fallen to a demonlord, only Pyrak could claim that honor, however costly the price. If Fiendbleeder had chosen a new thrall, Pyrak had no idea who it might be.
Then you will aid me? Pyrak pressed.
Yes, when the time comes, I will aid you. Fiendbleeder said at last, exasperation evident in its monotone.
Pyrak felt Fiendbleeder recede from his mind, and he savored the silence of the empty hall coupled with the silence within his mind. One last moment of quiet before the weight of his destiny came crashing down. He glanced down at Dreadskewer, and wondered if the spear was merely speeding along an inevitable course of events that was beyond his power to control. He had held power for millennia, but no demon lord, no matter how powerful, could permanently stem the tide of chaos that assailed them constantly. Eventually, a demon stronger than he would take his place, and Pyrak had accepted this long ago; it was simply the price of power. In truth he did not fear death, it held release form the prison his life had become, a prison that Fiendbleeder ever held shut, a prison he desperately wanted to escape.
Pyrak had only one desire in these hours he knew to be his last. If he were to die today, then Hedrenatherax would accompany him into that final darkness. The balor had been a fine servant, but his brutish tactics and lack of intellect would destroy all that Pyrak had created. Fiendbleeder would dominate Hedrenatherax completely, and force him into conflicts with the Baatezu that were beyond his power or resources. Everything Pyrak had built would crumble, and above all the demon lord wanted his legacy to remain even if he could not.
Pyrak ran one taloned hand down the onyx length of Fiendbleeder in a lingering caress. “Once more sword, you shall taste the blood of tanar’ri by my hand. Once more and then you shall release me.” Fiendbleeder made no reply to Pyrak’s ominous words, and the demon lord closed his eyes, quietly awaiting his destiny.
************************************************************
Part XII
The Death of a Demon Lord - Part I
Pain hung like a red haze over the throne room of Pyrak’s floating citadel. The demon lord sat slumped in his throne, cradling his great black sword, and fighting the agony induced delirium that threatened to overtake him. His left arm hung useless and numb at his side, the great open wound in his shoulder disabling the limb completely. A foul stench arose from the demon lord’s motionless form, a black miasma of rot and decay that served as an ever-present reminder that death lingered close.
Pyrak sensed his impending doom, felt its brutal caress with each labored breath, each excruciating throb from the wound in his shoulder. He lamented only that his end remained idle for the moment, and that the pace of his demise was a slow and torturous fading, and not the instantaneous destruction gifted to those who fell in combat.
Fiendbleeder had been conspicuously silent after the battle with Bel, perhaps satisfied for the moment with the arch devil’s destruction. Pyrak knew that he had lived this long, only through his contact with the sword, it was sustaining him for some unknown reason, prolonging his life – and his agony – with its fell magics. Fiendbleeder’s silence had left Pyrak’s mind completely his own, but this was no boon. It took every ounce of his will to stifle the screams that rose within his throat with each radiating burst of pain. He would have welcomed Fiendbleeder’s intrusion, if only to focus his mind on something beyond agony.
Pyrak wondered if Dreadskewer, the great spear that had inflicted his mortal wound, had left Bel’s mind in his final moments, leaving him to experience his own death fully. Dreadskewer like Fiendbleeder possessed a dark and driven personality all its own, and had undoubtedly laid claim the arch devil that had so recently wielded it. The spear had been recovered from the battlefield, and now lay at the foot of Pyrak’s throne, the demon lord’s black blood still staining its lusterless gray metal.
“My lord?” A voice suddenly cut through the haze of Pyrak’s pain and despair. “I have brought a poultice for your wound.”
Pyrak raised his head and tried in vain to focus his eyes on the figure that stood at the foot of his throne. It advanced cautiously, holding an object before it. Pyrak half hoped it was one of his generals come to finally end his misery.
The scent of cinnamon mingled with blood filled his nostrils, and Pyrak finally recognized the six-armed figure of his marilith general, Heskara.
“Leave me.” Pyrak whispered, his mouth filled with the acrid taste of his own decay.
“This will ease your pain, my lord.” Heskara held out the poultice she had made. “Let me apply it to your wound.”
In truth, Pyrak doubted he would have the strength to stop the marilith if she truly wished to disobey him. But Fiendbleeder, always Fiendbleeder, insured that his rule would last for a little while longer.
Let her. The sword said simply, its monotonous drone stifling any resistance Pyrak may have had.
Pyrak merely nodded, barely finding the strength to raise his head. Heskara advanced at her lord’s acquiescence and Pyrak felt the cool tough of her six slender hands upon his body. There was a momentary bolt of pain as the marilith packed the putrefying wound with whatever healing herbs she had managed to put together, then the pain resided and Pyrak felt a minute, but noticeable lift in his strength and spirit.
“Why?” He croaked, as Heskara finished her careful ministrations. Pyrak’s wound had been remarkably resistant to any from of magical healing; he wondered how the poultice Heskara had applied worked when the mightiest of curative spells had not.
“What do you mean?” She replied.
“Why do you help me?” Pyrak said with effort, struggling to keep his head from sinking onto his chest.
“You are my liege. It is my duty to serve you.” Heskara searched Pyrak’s eyes, puzzled by his line of questioning.
“You sound like a baatezu.” Pyrak chuckled weakly, enjoying the rage that darkened Heskara’s features at his insult. “Here I sit before you, weak as a child, your opportunity to take my place growing closer with every breath, and you do nothing. Why?”
Heskara folded her six arms across her chest, her eyes deep in thought. When she finally spoke, the lie she concocted rolled off her tongue in a silken purr, convincing, but not nearly enough to fool Pyrak. “You have won a great victory for the Abyss. There is more honor in serving you, than in destroying you. I wish only to remain at your side after you recover and lead the tanar’ri to greater glory.”
She lies. Fiendbleeder whispered.
Pyrak ignored Fiendbleeder’s obvious statement, for the lie Heskara had wrought held the truth within it, and the demon lord saw it plainly. Heskara needed Pyrak to live to hold onto the tenuous power that she now maintained. There was little doubt that the idea of simply slaying Pyrak and usurping his place had crossed her mind, but she knew that she could never hold the throne. She had far too many enemies to rule for long. On the other hand, at Pyrak’s side, as a trusted general, she enjoyed prestige and a modicum of safety afforded by Pyrak's own personal power and reputation. Alone, she would certainly fall victim to more powerful demons. So true to her demonic nature, Heskara had found and chosen the best possible way to stay alive, and hold onto the rank and prestige she currently had.
“You are truly a faithful servant, Heskara.” Pyrak said, making no attempt to hide the biting sarcasm in his voice. “Now leave me.”
“My lord, I cannot leave you now, you are too weak.” Heskara whispered, pulling close, urgency in her voice. “Hedrenatherax is on his way here.”
Pyrak’s grip on Fiendbleeder tightened, he felt the ominous implications of Heskara’s words, and a spark of rage flared to life within his battered body.
“He will try to kill you if you are alone.” The marilith said simply. “He might reconsider if I am here.”
Heskara was a skilled sorcerer, but Pyrak doubted that she would be a match for the brute strength and savage ferocity of Hedrenatherax. In his weakened state, he knew that the balor would slay him easily, regardless of Fiendbleeder or Heskara.
“Does he come alone?” Pyrak said, his eyes smoldering.
“No, Gemnez is with him.” Heskara sounded almost hopeful at the mention of the rogue baatezu’s name.
That was odd, it was well known that Gemnez despised Hedrenatherax. What could the two of them be doing together? .
“Go and find Grimclaw and bring him here.” Pyrak ordered. “Make sure he comes alone.” Grimclaw, the leader of his Dreadwings, was the only demon that Pyrak would even consider trusting. It was Grimclaw who had dragged Pyrak from the battlefield, while the stunned army of baatezu watched their leader bleed his life away onto the scorched earth of Avernus. The big vrock was that rarest of demons, for he understood and valued loyalty.
Heskara opened her mouth to protest, but the fire had returned to Pyrak’s eyes, and mortally wounded or not, his tone brooked no refusal. The marilith turned and slithered from the throne room in silence to do her master’s bidding.
Well sword, can you sustain me for a bit longer? Pyrak asked Fiendbleeder when Heskara had left the room.
The poison is strong. Can you not feel it? Fiendbleeder droned, ignoring Pyrak’s question. Your death is at hand demon, and who shall wield me when you are gone?
I care not, but Hedrenatherax must not rule. Surely you see this. Pyrak answered.
Hedrenatherax is a powerful demon; I could do well in his possession. His mind is weak, but his body is very strong. He could not defy me as you do.
Pyrak’s rebuttal was instantaneous, and filled with scathing reproach. They will not follow him, your crusade will come to an end, and you shill spend your existence in the hands of mindless automaton. He spoke the truth, Hedrenatherax was physically powerful, perhaps even as powerful as Pyrak himself, but he had no foresight, and his savage demeanor would win him few allies.
Perhaps you are right demon. There may be another suitable candidate. These ominous words gave Pyrak pause. The sword was dangling some vital piece of information in front of him, but he knew it would not elaborate. What other? The abyss was filled with mighty demons, but none had ever enjoyed the kind of success in the bloodwar that Pyrak had. In countless millennia, no archdevil had fallen to a demonlord, only Pyrak could claim that honor, however costly the price. If Fiendbleeder had chosen a new thrall, Pyrak had no idea who it might be.
Then you will aid me? Pyrak pressed.
Yes, when the time comes, I will aid you. Fiendbleeder said at last, exasperation evident in its monotone.
Pyrak felt Fiendbleeder recede from his mind, and he savored the silence of the empty hall coupled with the silence within his mind. One last moment of quiet before the weight of his destiny came crashing down. He glanced down at Dreadskewer, and wondered if the spear was merely speeding along an inevitable course of events that was beyond his power to control. He had held power for millennia, but no demon lord, no matter how powerful, could permanently stem the tide of chaos that assailed them constantly. Eventually, a demon stronger than he would take his place, and Pyrak had accepted this long ago; it was simply the price of power. In truth he did not fear death, it held release form the prison his life had become, a prison that Fiendbleeder ever held shut, a prison he desperately wanted to escape.
Pyrak had only one desire in these hours he knew to be his last. If he were to die today, then Hedrenatherax would accompany him into that final darkness. The balor had been a fine servant, but his brutish tactics and lack of intellect would destroy all that Pyrak had created. Fiendbleeder would dominate Hedrenatherax completely, and force him into conflicts with the Baatezu that were beyond his power or resources. Everything Pyrak had built would crumble, and above all the demon lord wanted his legacy to remain even if he could not.
Pyrak ran one taloned hand down the onyx length of Fiendbleeder in a lingering caress. “Once more sword, you shall taste the blood of tanar’ri by my hand. Once more and then you shall release me.” Fiendbleeder made no reply to Pyrak’s ominous words, and the demon lord closed his eyes, quietly awaiting his destiny.
John Q. Mayhem
Explorer
AwesomeAwesomeAwesome! I wanna be like 'Dirge...
And Ledded, I DO like Salvatore's books, but I also think BlackDirge is better.
And Ledded, I DO like Salvatore's books, but I also think BlackDirge is better.
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
John Q. Mayhem said:
Thanks John Q and Ledded. That's a mighty big compliment, and I appreciate it.
But where's my book deal?
Maybe I should pitch WoTC with the Chronicles of Grummok or something...
Dirge
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