A Rude Awakening

The world was quiet.

Too quiet.

There were sounds, but they were muted, tinny. Morpho tried to sit up, but her head was still swimming. A wave of nausea swept over her. Whatever had taken her down was still in her system. She tried standing again; this time she managed to get to her knees before she once again was overwhelmed by waves of nausea, only this time she wasn’t able to hold down her last meal.

After several minutes of lying on the cool, smooth floor, she was able to stand to her full height. She surveyed her surroundings. She couldn’t believe it at first, but she appeared to be in a glass beaker, held in a rack with several others.

She stretched her limbs, twisted her neck until it cracked, and then slowly beat her wings. The beaker was large, more than twice her ten inch height, with a neck slender enough to prevent her from flying out, though it wasn’t stoppered. The fairy balled her little fists in frustration. Morpho continued to scan the room, trying to get some bearings on where she was, on who might have kidnapped her.

She pressed her face to the glass wall that surrounded her, looking over the room. Burners and glass vessels lined wooden tables. Open faced cabinets were filled with jars upon jars of powders, liquids and dead creatures floating in alcohol. Some wizard or alchemist had captured her. But to what end?

She moved to another part of the beaker, and then pressed her face against the glass again. She saw the beaker in the rack next to her own. It was filled with a bright green liquid. Something was floating in it. Morpho blinked a few times, and then looked harder. What she saw almost caused her to vomit again.

Suspended in the green liquid was another fairy. Her face was locked in a silent scream of terror, her arms and wings floating out from her body, held by the liquid. Worst of all, she had been slashed across her midsection and her organs were drifting about the beaker in a grotesque line from the cut. Morpho fought back tears. The face of the dead fairy was familiar, but she didn’t dwell on it. She steeled herself against the despair welling up inside her. So this would be her fate if she didn’t find a way out.

She turned away from the other beaker, taking care not to look at any of the other beakers. Her dizziness was fast fading, quickly being replaced by a powerful rage. She reached deep within herself, finding her center and tapping into the magic inherent in all of her diminutive race. She focused the magic welling inside her to her right palm and placed it on the floor of the beaker. Within seconds her hand was glowing bright red, and less than a minute after that, so was the glass. She continued to focus, to direct the heat of her magic and her anger to her palm.

She felt no pain; the magic directed outward, but the glass was fast becoming liquid. In no time, she was able to push her hand through the softened glass, pulling it to one side, and then pushing the rest the other way. She tucked her wings in close and dropped through the hole. Immediately her wings began beating and she fluttered down to the table top. She walked over to a polished metal cylinder to take a look at herself. Everything seemed in place. Her wings were stiff, but that was to be expected after being unconscious for so long.

Her wings were still the brilliant blue of the butterfly for which she had been named. Her eyes were the same color, and her waist length hair was a lustrous black, in stark contrast to her pale skin. She was still dressed in her light dress, which hardly seemed appropriate considering her current situation. Morpho leapt into the air and flitted around the room, taking care not to peer to closely at anything that looked like it housed anything that was once living, not wanting to witness any more mutilated fairies. She kept her eyes opened for something to better protect herself.

She checked several of the open faced cabinets to no avail. She happened upon a chest at the back of the room. She was barely able to lift the lid, but managed to crack it open far enough to climb in. what she found was a treasure trove of fairy equipment. Her sensitive eyes were able to see in the blackness of the chest, and she picked over the pile. She discarded her light, delicate dress in favor of a soft leather pair of britches and a tight silk shirt.

Her eyes brightened considerably when she found some weapons in the back corner of the chest. Morpho strapped a pair of sword belts over her hips, one on each side. She drew both tiny blades at once, each one no more than a few inches long a piece, but wickedly sharp. Morpho put both blades through some quick routines, making sure she was comfortable with their weight and balance then snapped them back into their sheaths.

Now she was better clothed, and armed. Whoever had kidnapped her and her kin had erred greatly. While fairies had a reputation for sipping dew and dancing by the moonlight, they were also known to defend their homes viciously. And to accomplish that goal, they had an army.

Fairy warriors were rare, powerful creatures, and among their ranks, Morpho was elite. She had knack for offensive spells, and could weave blades as well as the finest elven sword masters. She began fluttering her wings at a rapid pace, rivaling that of a hummingbird, then stretched her arms upward, palms flat and leapt straight up, shoving the chest lid back open.

She had to find a way out, but before she left, she would gather what clues she could to identify those who had, in her mind at least, declared war on the fairies. She scanned notebooks for leading words, a name perhaps, or information about what this person could possibly want with her and her people; for there was no doubting that the other shadows in other beakers were fairies, and the vague recognition she felt upon seeing her neighbor in the green-filled beaker left her little doubt that her people had been massacred.

She paused to take in the room more fully. It was dimly lit by a low fire in the hearth, and grey light from a rainy day drifted in through the windows. A net filled with various skulls hung from a hook in the ceiling, and skeletons of small creatures sat on display all about the room. Everything from a rat, to an imp, to more exotic creatures was represented.

Morpho flew over to an oversized wooden desk tucked into a cubby at the far end of the room and flipped through several pages of a book that was resting in a stand. After reading a few lines of a spell, she paused, a cold feeling creeping into her limbs. She turned and viewed the room in a new light. Skeletons, skulls, an overwhelming feeling of abundant death permeated the room. And the lines of the spell she had just read implicated the binding of a soul to an inanimate object.

She focused on the emanations of the book; the inscriptions of a spell were enough to convey its type to magic-sensitive creatures, like fairies. Morpho opened her eyes, her fears confirmed; whoever had kidnapped her and killed her clan, so she assumed, was a necromancer. Her mind swam with the awful implications therein. Whoever this was, he or she was resourceful or powerful enough to capture and kill fairies, no small feat. What designs could one who lived surrounded by death have for beings that represented nature and life?

Morpho turned and headed to the windows, hoping she could open one and fly away without alerting anyone. Luck was not on her side, for when she passed the room’s door, it creaked open, and a short, thick man waddled in. Morpho froze the instant he came into view, for his soul had the distinct reek of death magic. He stopped short, obviously surprised to see the sapphire-winged fairy fluttering directly in front of his face. He started to say something, but before a single syllable could escape his lips, the fairy reacted.

Both blades flashed out of their sheaths and snapped out, catching the surprised man on either side of his open mouth, widening it by several inches on either side. Morpho darted off, the man shrieking as he fell to the floor, clutching his slashed face. She barreled straight toward one of the window, rolling her left shoulder forward to absorb the impact, hoping to force it open. There was a loud clink! as she collided with the glass pane, and a small spider web of cracks emanated from where she impacted with it, but the glass held and the window didn’t budge; it was simply too heavy for her slight form to budge.

She shook off the stun of the collision, and frantically looked around for another exit. She heard the man slurring some words through his torn face, barely recognizing the words as names. Her mind screamed for her to find an exit, and quickly, for she recognized the names as belonging to fairies.

Dark fairies.

There was a slight buzzing sound that came from outside the door, and then two small, slender figures darted into the room. Both were Morpho’s height and build, one male and one female. They wore black outfits which matched their eyes and hair, and both carried long (for fairies) blades, gripped tightly with both hands. Morpho scowled deeply when she viewed the two. So that was how they had been captured. Dark fairies had a terrible knack for impersonating their lighter cousins, though it was rare indeed that a light fairy could be duped by their ruse.

However, with the aid of a necromancer…

The two looked over the room quickly, and then their faces cracked into evil smiles as they viewed Morpho. Their dragonfly-like wings hummed evilly as they darted after their lighter cousin, teasing her as they commenced the chase.

“Methin, it looks as if our light cousin wants to play.” Purred the female. Methin laughed back “Oh, Vessa, I do so love to play with fairies… especially their organs!”

Morpho shuddered at the enthusiasm in the male’s voice. She lead them on dazzling chase, darting through metal racks, under tables and between jars. When she had the opportunity, Morpho knocked over fragile looking components and anything glass she could get close enough to. Fairies, even good ones were know for their vindictiveness.

She feinted heading for the open doorway, over the man who was just then getting to his feet, his robes covered in blood. At the last second, she darted behind a large book that had been set up on end. Methin cried out in rage “Don’t be leaving us yet, my dear! I’ve yet to open you up!” he flew with all speed toward the open door, not seeing Morpho’s trap until the last second. As he blew by, she snapped one of her swords straight out in front of him. He tried to dodge, but she was too quick, and the move was far too unexpected.

The light fairy’s sword neatly severed his arm just below the elbow, and sheared off two thirds of his right wing. The evil sprite plummeted from the air to slam face first into the wall opposite the open door. He did not move when he came to a stop on the floor. Morpho flitted out from behind the book, ready to meet the other fairy on even terms.

Vessa eyed her with unbridled hatred. “You will pay for that.” Morpho laughed in her face. “Perhaps, but you will pay a thousand times over for my kin.” She slid out her second blade. Vessa twirled her blade once, slowly, then grabbed it tight in both hands and charged toward the hated blue-winged fairy. Metal rang out as their blades collided, sounding much louder than the tiny blades should have. Vessa came in fast and aggressive, but Morpho was a trained warrior, and her two swords easily defeated the single blade of her foe. They continued on for several moments, Vessa angrily slamming her sword in, and Morpho easily defeating each attack. She was biding her time, allowing the other’s rage to play out and tire her, allowing Morpho to strike with impunity.

Garbled chanting from behind changed the situation instantly. Morpho could hear the man she felled preparing a spell. Though she could not tell what it would be, anything a necromancer who kept company with dark fairies threw her way could not be good. She allowed Vessa a few more strikes before she reversed the momentum of the fight, suddenly switching from defensive blocks to strikes. She swung in from the outside, hard, simultaneously striking from the left and right at once, forcing the dark one to parry one and dodge the other. Vessa kept moving back as Morpho pressed in. Then the light fairy feinted with a left hand swing, a wild, overbalanced chop, which Vessa easily defeated.

And left herself open to s strike from the right. Morpho’s right hand came straight in, the handle of the sword lending strength and weight to the blow, and smashed the fairy right in the cheek bone. She swooned under the force; this light fairy was too strong. Her grip on her blade weakened, and she was vaguely aware of the sound as it clattered to the floor.

Oremorag finished his spell at that second, sending a line of black light directly at the pair. He missed though, for as soon as Morpho had connected with Vessa’s face, she snapped her swords into their sheaths, and in the same movement, slammed her forehead into the dazed dark fairy’s face, knocking her further from consciousness.

Morpho grabbed the dazed one and flew toward the window again, Orem’s bolt striking the wooden ceiling above her, instantly turning a large section of the wood black, which promptly crumbled under its own weight.

Vessa became vaguely aware that she was somehow still flying as she began to come to. She noted curiously that the window already had a crack in it as she sped toward it. Then there was a blinding white pain as her head slammed into it at full speed.

Morpho let go of the dark fairy, whose legs dangled limply from the hole in the heavy glass window she had just been put through. She was far beyond consciousness at that point, and didn’t feel the glass bite into the backs of her legs as she was pushed through the rest of the way. Morpho looked nervously at the sharp edges of the glass, fearing the damage she would do to her delicate wings if she tried to crawl through the small opening.

She needn’t have worried, for her musing was shattered a second before the glass pane as the enraged Oremorag hurled a skull at her with a scream of frustration. He wailed in agony as the scream brought fires of pain through his torn face. Morpho smiled grimly, and offered him a half hearted salute of thanks for opening the window for her, then flew off as fast as her wings would carry her.

She dared a glance over her shoulder as she flew off into the rain, and her heart sank even further. Truly, her clan was gone. It had to be, for the building she was fast leaving behind was Willowbough Keep, and the only way someone as foul as a necromancer could have stepped foot in that magnificent building was if Lady Shandrelle was dead. When she was a safe distance away, Morpho settled down on the branch of a large oak, and allowed herself to cry for all she had suddenly lost.

The Necromancer

The half moon created shafts of pale light through the trees surrounding Willowbough Keep. The entire area appeared in shades of grey, save for a single window lit with the yellow light of many candles. The servants had taken their rest for the night, and only the night guard and a single noble were stirring at this late hour. The entire valley was swallowed in mist, as it was every clear night, starting in early spring and lasting through the mid fall.

Ehrvis Svartendelikt flipped slowly through the yellowed pages of a tome his assistant had a acquired for him, absently eating either sliced apple or strong cheese from the platter the servants had brought to him that evening, or sipping the fine red wine from the local vineyard. He perused the pages casually, as one might browse a book of pictures. This book, however, contained much more than simple pictures. It contained incantations, sigils, and recipes, all revolving around the study and art of necromancy.

Ehrvis paused on one page, setting down his wine after a partial sip, his eyes scanning the words of the page. He gulped the little bit he had in his mouth then let out a low, pleased whistle. This particular spell would allow him to crush the heart of a victim simply by uttering the words and crushing a parchment cutout of a heart. He reached over and pulled a strand of cut silk cloth to mark the page before continuing on. Oremorag had done well in procuring this book. It was filled, gilded cover to gilded cover, with powerful spells and enchantments. It was rare that one as practiced in the mystic arts of death as Ehrvis could find something truly new, and so far this tome had not one thing that he already knew.

Orem would be rewarded handsomely for this.

The Necromancer’s thoughts drifted away from his new book and his loyal henchman to Orem’s apprentice. Shan had been missing for weeks now, and Ehrvis could only conclude that he had failed to get out of Deep Fire’s dungeons alive. It was a shame, he thought, but no great loss. Shan had been ambitious, and was actually quite a talented wizard, but he was an evoker by trade, attempting to break into the school of necromancy. But his skill in the black arts was lacking. It was one thing to learn how to wiggle one’s fingers and shoot balls of flame, or blasts of lightning, it was quite another to meddle with the very essence of life and death itself. It required discipline, and above all patience.

In Ehrvis’ mind, necromancy was an art, and only the truly talented could become accomplished in it. Orem was a prodigy. Ehrvis had discovered him early, and the young man, back then, had a true knack for the dead. No one he had ever met had more skill with raising the dead. Give Oremorag access to dead bodies, and he could conjure up zombies, and walking skeletons. Given enough time, he had even shown Ehrvis how to mold several bodies into a single, hulking undead abomination.

Ehrvis had a black heart, devoid of any feelings of warmth or empathy for any other, but he had a small warm corner for Orem. He truly loved him like a brother. Orem had agreed to take Shan on as an apprentice, mostly because Ehrvis had convinced him that he could be of use in doing away with the little Willowbough wench, Vildree. The plot had been simple enough; Orem and Ehrvis had previous dealings with the dark dragon Deep Fires, a black beast from the deep underworld that fancied itself a god, complete with a cult of zealous followers. The two necromancers had amused the creature with undead “toys” as it called them.

They arranged for Vildree Willowbough, the only child of the widow Shandrelle, the new bride of Ehrvis, to be kidnapped by the cult, for mutual gain. The cult would sacrifice the girl in one of their rituals, to the greater glory and pleasure of their god figure, and remove the only heir to the Willowbough duchy. Some clever charms had helped in getting Ehrvis married to the widow in the first place, though it hadn’t been easy; she had been an accomplished sorceress herself. It had taken a great deal of work and time to manipulate the woman after the disappearance of her daughter to transfer the inheritance to her new husband, but not too difficult. Ehrvis played the role of the doting husband well, and never let on about his necromantic pursuits, going so far as to avoid practicing or even reading about it once he was living in her home, to erase any possibility of suspicion.

He had been patient, gaining the trust of her and her daughter, not to mention the many servants in the household. Once the girl had been taken, and his position had been solidified as the living inheritor of the duchy, the duchess had suddenly fallen gravely ill. Her loving husband waited on her during the short, painful run of the disease, and even wept openly at her funeral.

He maintained a somber attitude in front of the helpers, not wanting to let on his elation at the woman’s demise. In less than two years, he had moved his position from a petty viceroy of an outlying protectorate to the Duke of Willowbough’s lands, an official member of the government, with money land and power.

Shan’s disappearance had him a little concerned, however. He had been sent out with a rather formidable group, hired to bolster the illusion that he wanted his dear stepdaughter back at his side, especially with her mother so ill. Had Shan been caught and summarily defeated by the group? Perhaps, but he was confident that the mixed group of a human, half elf, dwarf and their wolf was not equal to the task of rescuing a girl from a band of bloodthirsty cultists and a dragon that drew its might from the very darkness of the underworld.

Power Hungry

His throne was set atop the peak of a great mountain. He sat upon it, day and night glowering at the lands below him. Rivers of molten rock poured from great gargoyles carved into the sides of his volcanic perch, spewing from their mouths like glowing drool from ravenous, hellish beasts. The basalt throne neatly plugged the cone of the volcano, forcing its magma through the open mouths of the gargoyles, its glow illuminating the low, black clouds that perpetually blocked the sky.

The great beast that ruled this land sat alone. At nearly four stories in height, he was imposing, even to the largest of giants. His form was an outward manifestation of his arrogance and greed. Though he was extraordinarily large, he was stooped at the shoulder. His face and skin were reptilian, his face more an animalistic snout than the flat face of the more intelligent races. Thick, black crocodile-like skin covered his body, a fitting compliment to the sharpened teeth that protruded from his blunt mouth, again like a crocodile. His eyes appeared to be great orbs of solid obsidian, glowing with red-orange pinpoints, illuminated by his insatiable hate for everything.

He was a great demon, banished from his home in the circles of Hell, forced to sit alone on this world, this finite world of stone and water. Fhina, the weaklings that populated the world called it.

He hated this place, this world; A place where even the gods were weak. They were dead, to a one, so it was said. In the centuries he had lived on this wretched world, he had seen it to be true. A great war over the pathetic creatures that they had created had lead to their demise.

It was that lack of an overriding pantheon that had prompted, and allowed his former colleagues to banish him to this place. Grohvahl was his name. Arrogant, even by the standards of devils and demons, he had thought himself a god on his home plane. Among the very largest of his kind, he bullied and dominated all who could not escape him, securing a large portion of Hell as his own domain. But that same tenacity and determination, as well as his own self image as a god among demons, had prompted his closest advisors and colleagues to see him as a threat, and so they combined their strengths to remove him from their world and place him where he would be diminished, and unable to return.

So he had arrived in this land, devoid of divinity, devoid of power. He had carved out a home in this land of darkness, the volcanic wasteland of the Black Mountains in the far-east, out of range of populated lands. He had minions at his call, a vast army of black orcs, a contingent of disgusting bluebottle elves, but they weren’t enough. They were loyal, to a one, but he didn’t crave simple loyalty. He craved fealty. He desired to be worshiped.

Recent rumblings and rumors had caused the great Blackheart, as he was known to his followers, to reconsider his place on this lowly ball of dirt. If the telling was true, then several of the old gods were returning, solidifying their place through the influence of select mortals around the world.

And in the place of the ones who weren’t returning, others were rising to fill the voids. This world would once again have its pantheon, and soon, by the reckoning of one who’s life was measured in millennia. Blackheart meant to have place among that pantheon.

As his network had spread out among the world, the giant demon had made a contact in the world of humans. A human of no small power and of great patience; a person who desired the same thing the great demon did: Godhood.

The ancient evil gods of this world’s past had worked together toward a common goal, to reshape the spawn of the good gods in their own images, to great success. So too, he surmised, would the gods of the future. He had begun working with the human, connecting lines of information and supplies, organizing and solidifying the various, disparate evil races of the world into a single, unified force.

Together, with this human, he was working to find others like themselves; beings of power and ambition who would gladly don the mantle of deity. A rare smile found its way to his toothy face. The thought of solidarity was an odd one to him, especially since his lack of it had landed him on this world. However, he was not a stupid beast, and had learned well from his past mistakes. This human would have made a worthy opponent, so, he surmised, it would make an even more worthy ally.

His mind drifted to a future place, where he sat upon a similar throne, in a similar place, but with thousands of worshippers singing his praises, begging him for a piece of his power, and spreading his dark influence like a plague. He watched the fell beasts that lived in this torn land drift on the rising currents of heat, and began to laugh. He would supplicate them first, he decided. He had watched them, idly for centuries, never once paying them enough heed to know what they were or why they circled about.

They were evil that much he knew. Base cousins of the great dragons, they feasted upon his orcs when they were careless, taking great delight in dragging sentient beings into the air and dropping them to their deaths on the rocky ground below, or holding them over the molten streams, relishing their screams as they cooked alive.

His interest grew, knowing that the prayers of any thinking being were the footsteps to the power he so craved. He began to laugh, softly at first. It rolled out like the tremors of a mild earthquake, growing into a loud, avalanche cackle. He stood before his throne, moving from it for the first time in decades, a great howl of laughter erupting from him; his hands clenched in fists at his sides. The magma streams from the gargoyles grew; the volcano an outward reflection of Blackheart’s emotions.

He gazed at the largest of the beasts, a giant bully who stole from the others when he didn’t feel like hunting, sometimes simply eating his own if orc pickings were thin. Come to me. He commanded with a thought. He watched the great monster’s flight as it twirled around a column of hot air, its leathery wings spread wide. His gaze narrowed, thinking he would have to force the beast, but before he issued another command, it turned, flapping its wings and flying straight toward the demon.

Blackheart nodded happily as the creature alighted upon a crag some thirty feet below his throne, its head cocked curiously. "Do you know who I am?" he asked the creature in a deep, grating voice. It stared at him for along moment, and then shook its head. The demon sneered, locking the thing’s eyes with his, forcing his will upon the leathery monster, dominating its will with his own. "What are you?" he asked.

"Wyvern" hissed the creature. "Who am I?" he asked, drilling his aura into it. The wyvern cowered under the bombardment, its mental defenses collapsing under the assault of Blackheart’s strength.

"Massster?" Came its sibilant response.

Good, thought the demon. Progress was quick, as was to be expected. He let up on his dominating assault, understanding that though fear was a powerful motivator, greed was far better in ensuring loyalty. He flooded the wyvern’s mind with images of feasts, of his snaking reptilian form dropping not orcs, but sweet blooded elves onto jagged rocks, of great meals of oxen, of slithering masses of supplicant females writhing around him.

The wyvern cracked what could have been called a smile for its race. Blackheart soaked in that smile, the sudden eagerness to please him he felt from the beast he had so quickly claimed as his first true follower, his first true faithful.

"Who am I?" he asked, this time, in a calm, expectant voice.

The wyvern cocked its head again, thinking long and hard about its response. And for some reason it wasn’t surprised by its own words.

"God."

The demon called Blackheart laughed for a second time that day, a sound of pure satisfaction.

Seltor, the large wyvern, glided back out towards the others circling the columns of hot air rising off the flows of lava, his duty clear to him. It was not unlike what he had done all along, before his new found faith, but now he had purpose. He swooped toward the closest wyvern, flying beside it and buffeting it hard with his wings.

"Land!" he croaked. The other wyvern sneered at him and tried to veer away. Seltor growled, a long, hissing sound, and darted toward the smaller wyvern, surprisingly nimble for a creature of his size. He clamped his clawed feet around the other beast’s slender torso and wrenched it violently. "Land!" he repeated "Or I will feast on you and share the words of my God with another!"

The smaller wyvern seemed terrified and confused all at once, and when Seltor released his grip, it did, in fact land. Seltor landed next to the waiting wyvern and wasted no time. "I have been gifted with a great message." He hissed at the cowering wyvern before him. "Our God, Blackheart, has tasked us with spreading his word."

"Our God?" the other dared to ask.

Seltor held back his urge to tear the other’s throat out, his message from his deity overriding his instincts. "Yesss!" he hissed excitedly. "Blackheart holds many promises for his faithful! Those who spread his word will be rewarded. Feasts! Females! Fairies and elves to dine upon!"

The other perked up at the promises. Tentatively, he asked "What does the Blackheart demand of us?"

Seltor smiled. "Faith." It seemed so simple. The other wyvern sat and thought about it. "We only need to spread the word, and offer prayer. Fealty is a small price for power, is it not?" his sibilant voice growing more excited with each passing word.

The only proof the smaller wyvern needed was that Seltor had visited the giant beast on the volcano and was still alive. How could the gigantic creature be anything less than a god? It had come from another world, and had been sitting there among the flame and lava for as long as any of them could remember. "Spread the word?"

"Yesss…"

"Blackheart is God?"

"YESSS!"

The smaller wyvern nodded, then hopped from the stone he was perched upon, slowly flapping up to the next nearest wyvern, bearing the message from Blackheart through Seltor. Seltor smiled, he had done well, he knew, as would his God. Like a spark landing on dry grass, it would not take long for the message of Blackheart to spread among the wyvern.

Seltor flapped his wings, lifting from the ground to spread the flames.