• Graded • Princely Dominion

[Noth]

Vhalar 119, 717

It was an unfortunate truth of leadership that there would always be those who fought against whomever was on top of things. It was difficult to tell whether or not it was simply the nature of the mortal races to detest the idea of someone else being over them, lording them around, and forcing them to accomplish certain goals or pursue certain objectives, or whether it was a cultural phenomenon sparked by the ever-present nature of the Immortals war. It could even have been a trait that was amplified or reduced depending on the birthplace or upraising that each individual person received as a child. Whatever the case, whether it came from nature, or from the nurturing of rebellious parents, there were always those who clashed with and disputed the orders of their superiors, and such thinking had been the cause of civil and independence wars throughout the world.

The fact that there had been almost no resistance among Noth’s initial crew of soldiers was an abnormality, one likely created by a mixture of the savage nature that he had exhibited whenever he had absorbed the groups from the beginning, and the fact that he kept their greedy maws satisfied with a series of successful robberies. Once they had begun to recruit the survivors from the raids; typically mercenaries and guards who would otherwise have been slain, however, it seemed as though there had been an undercurrent of dissent that was whispered when they thought that he could not see them. No one had attempted to make contact with his most trusted, naturally, because it was evident that his personal retinue would not be so easily corrupted by the promises of the rebels, but it was beginning to become an issue of discipline, and the hybrid knew that he would need to deal with it before it blew out of proportion.

Locating the few traitors in the organization was not nearly as big of an issue as it might have seemed, because Ears was more than capable of listening in on conversations that would have been safe from other eavesdroppers, and he was perfectly willing to teetotal on them to the Prince. In only a short time, he had managed to locate five traitors among the ranks, those who were sneakily discussing how best to betray the monstrous man who acted as the leader of Al’Angyryl, and also attempting to convince others to join them. Thus far, they had been unable to deter others from their course, but if they were left alone, then they would fester the organization like a cancer, metastasizing until they had proven lethal to its ability to function.

Of course, the decision of what to do with the disease infiltrating the group was still left to him. There was always the option of murdering those who opposed him in the night when they had laid down to rest, but he wasn’t altogether sure that that wouldn’t discourage those who remained loyal with thoughts that he was a tyrant even to those who served him. More frustrating than that minor loss of morale, however, was the fact that there were only so many members who actually worked with him in the group, and to eliminate five of them would certainly put a damper on their operations for a short while until more could be recruited.

Thankfully, a solution presented itself in his having met with a young girl several dozen trials earlier, and having been introduced to a fascinating piece of foliage that he had been unaware of before; the Whipping Willow. He had gone out the trial previous and collected several branches from one such tree, ensuring that they were still fresh so that whatever toxin was present within them would be available for use when the time came.

He had ordered Thane and Oxy to ensure that a certain few trusted loyalists among the group were aware of what was to come, and then had announced to the entire group that they would be going to train in the woods. It was presented as an order, and no matter how resistant the traitors were, they were certainly not going to defy the twilight hybrid directly to his face, especially when they knew that there would be those who served him nearby, and so they were coerced into coming along with the others, convincing themselves that they would simply train for a while, and then return to their subtle scheming.

What they found out in the woods was a pillar. It was not a fanciful thing, but instead simply a tree trunk which had been deprived of its branches and leaves, with a long coil of rope sitting in a pile under it, and a series of branches laying in a pile on its opposite side. A few of the group members glanced at the scattered items with curiosity, glancing back to the Prince in question as to why they had been brought out to the pillar.

He answered their questions with a simple command, spoke in a voice which reeked of fierce anger, “Seize them.”

Immediately, the loyalists amidst the group would leap forward, two to a man, dragging those who had been previously convicted of treachery to the ground, and holding them down, stripping them of any weapons that they had clutched in their grasps. It was such a sudden assailing that most of the traitors barely had even a trill to think before they had been tackled, and those soldiers who had not been informed now stare in confusion, wondering whether they would be seized for some imperceptible crime.

“These ones whisper words of treachery. They intend to betray us all. It is truly a pitiful thing that they cannot accept our offer of mercy and hospitality, of work and nels.” He paused, running a talon dangerously around the throat of the nearest traitor. “Very well. If you will not be coaxed into showing loyalty by kindness, than you shall be forced into it. Tie them to the pillar, strip them.” He barked, and the traitors were quickly slammed into the pillar, tied to it by their necks and their feet, and promptly tearing away the tunics they wore upon their backs.

The twilight hybrid stalked over to the pile of branches as the work began, scooping one into his gauntleted hand; he was wearing his suit of armor, as was common, and testing its flexibility as he had done when he had first plucked it from its home. It still ran wet with the sap which gave it its painful infliction, and he nodded his approval that they had preserved since the trial prior.

“You’ve tested my mercy, and now I shall test you.” He uttered, bringing the switch upwards and lashing it across the back of one of those nearby, listening as they groaned. The first blow was not necessarily as painful as it might have been; it was just a stick, but the sap and the bark began to work their poisonous work, and the man began to shriek as he was brutally savaged with the switch.

And when the stick broke, he would simply gather a new one, and move to the next person in line.

They would see the mercy of the Prince.

[Djinn]

The thing about dissidents is that there is often a reason, whether pragmatic or fairytale. Rebellions weren't built on comfort and happiness, but rather the hard edge of survival. Much like the previous conquerors in history, Noth's assimilation of the mercenaries and guards he could have killed was seen not as a gift of mercy, but as the oppressive regime of a warlord usurping their liberties and giving them ultimatums. Fear does not buy loyalty. Not for long, anyway.

The troops of Al'Angyryl, twenty-five in total as they traveled to the woods, marched through the woods behind their leader. The half-Avriel led them at a rigourous pace, and with the dissenters in the center of the troupe, they had no time to plot or plan. Still, though, they could tell that the forced training was only a cover, and with every step closer to their destination, their dread grew. When they came upon the pillar, the whipping post, and the switches, it began to dawn on them. The chosen leader, Brego, clenched his jaw in anticipation, but the order came too quickly. The five dissenters were wrestled to the ground, and without ceremony, dragged to the pillar and tied around it in a circle.

When Noth began to explain to the rest of the group that the men seized were dissenters, Brego's cool eyes closed. He knew what the Prince of Eternal Mercies would do, and he would not give him the satisfaction. Brego was raised a warrior in the tribes of the Uzkernian Jungles, and he was not afraid of torture. This monstrosity, this creature... It knew nothing of pain and subjugation, of torture and domination. Brego would not speak out in defence of his fellow conspirators, instead choosing not to damn them with his concern.

The first of the lashes fell on a Sev'ryn woman named Zie'la, her long brown hair tied and pulled over her shoulder to expose the nut-brown skin. As the first lash fell, she bit her lip, eliciting a groan, and nothing else. Even the second and third she resisted, but that was all. As the Willow's sap went to work, the fire that surged through her was enough to evoke a scream of torment. The sound resonated in Noth's chest, bouncing around like a ricocheting arrow. Eight more lashes, and the switch broke in two, denoting the Avriel's strength in each swing.

The next was a human man, Jurga, whose point in the conspiracy was to maintain the records and keep straight the code names. Burly and bearded, Jurga was a strong specimen if ever there was one. Struggling against the thickly-corded rope, he tried to break free of the bonds to attack Noth. Struggle as he might, though, success never came. Instead, the whistling blow of the switch came, followed by an intense burning unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Jurga, though, would not scream. Not this trial. He'd die first.

"Ye think yer tough hittin' girls, eh? Yer not tough. Yer a freak. Plain an' simple. A brute." Jurga's voice was deep and thick, but with each lash, it grew more faint. Even his considerable endurance could not withstand the toxic sap for long. Still, he would not scream. The moment the switch broke, though, Noth stabbed the remaining piece of splintered wood into one of the open, stinging wounds, finally gaining his gratifying yelp of pain. Hanging his head in shame, Jurga's voice fell silent once more.

"Why do this? Because you are afraid of rebellion? Quell it, like a man." Brego's voice was heavy, layered with the accent of the Rhakrosii. In Etzos, that accent aroused suspicion, but Brego had made a name for himself as no friend of the Plague Whore. "You think this is a test? You are small, little bird. Smaller than any man I've ever met. You mean to terrify and gain dominance in that way. Iron fists have a way of being tempered."

It wasn't a phrase Noth was familiar with, but there were some on the Iron Hand who made the joke about their commanders. Initially meaning to teach the commander to love his soldiers, it took on an ominous tone when Hreth Sendene savagely choked his commander in his sleep, gaining the position half a season later. In Rynmere, it was a threat.

And Noth could assume the same here. Stopping before he flogged Brego, Noth regarded the man, who had craned his neck to regard Noth as well.

[Noth]

It was better to be feared than loved.

It was a profound statement, and one which had triumphantly convinced the twilight hybrid of its absolute truth. It was logical, though it was something shocking to consider at first, because most people believed that love was the most powerful of the emotions, but that was an untruth taught to young children to keep them loyal to parents who abused that loyalty wherever possible, and whilst it was true that some truly cared for their young, the world would not be quite so dysfunctional if those persons outnumbered those who birthed out of greed for minions to do their bidding.

Fear was better than love. The twilight hybrid adored Nightshade. It was something that he knew of himself, something that he made no pretense of hiding; though, it was a piece of information known to none among Al’Angyryl’s soldiers, because should they know that he was courting a mercenary who had been the cause for some of their defeats in the past, or for the imprisonment of their criminal family members, then he would have some difficulty explaining himself. Still, even if he had given her his heart, it had not changed his wicked actions. Though he had promised to do what she desired, and had meant it for a single trill, such glorifiable thoughts of honorable existence had vanished into the ether an instant after their conception. It was not his life. And so, the love that he felt for her had not changed his actions, despite its existence.

Love was false in its own nature. The person who loved their liege told them of how grand they were, and complimented them on how splendidly they ran their realms, and they spoke of their loyalty and obedience. Yet, when conflict arose, they sat numbly within their homes, awaiting for the storms and tribulations to simply vanish. It was not that they did not know what they ought to do, because love compels people to feel on a deep level what the right thing to do is, and yet, they still did not act.

The storm was mighty. The storm was fierce, and it was loud, and it was conspicuously cruel. The storm would threaten, and it would revile, deceive and promptly slide daggers into the backs of the betrayed without a second thought. The storm would rage down unnatural fury upon all that came across it, and for all of the pent-up emotion of those who loved their leader, they would not brave the storm, nor its wrath.

Fear.

Fear was always stronger than love in that regard. Love told someone what they ought to do, but fear commanded that they obey, or else they would suffer mortal agony unfit for any living being. Fear did not offer gold, nor services, nor false promises of graceful existence. Fear made it clear that if you did not obey, you would die. It made it clear that your family would starve, that your home would be burned to the ground, that all of that pent-up emotion in your chest would be released with the stab of an instrument of war.

The hybrid considered this as he gradually worked his way through the dissidents, taking no pleasure in his works, but throwing himself into them nevertheless. He was not a professional torturer, nor an expert in the process, but he did not necessarily require those before him to survive the process, and he did not know of any chance of overdose from the sap. That did not mean that it was not possible, but it did not truly matter if one or two perished in the process. In fact, though he had originally set out to allow those strapped to the pillar to survive, it was becoming gradually evident to him that their resilience would simply spark forth another rebellion. So then, in order to stave off any future retaliation, it was better to simply purge them from existence… he did not need the loyalty of the dead, only the living, and upon seeing his cruelty, they would know that their existence was simplified to a basic statement.

Serve and be rewarded, or fight and die.

He finished rather quickly with the first pair, managing to elicit a shriek of suffering from both for the sake of the audience observing the process. The third was instantly vocal, apparently having been galvanized into argument by the torture of his co-conspirators. He questioned why he was doing what he was doing, taunting him in a voice tainted with the accent of the Rhakrosii. Noth personally felt no revilement towards that national foe, though the same could not be said for all of those within his faction, and a couple of derisive growls sounded from somewhere behind. They had never agreed with the concept of accepting the foreigner into their ranks to begin with, but now that he was taunting their leader; an Etzori native, the fires of patriotism within them were stirred once again.

The taunting continued until it culminated with an unknown threat of alien origin. It seemed quite likely that it was something learned in Rhakros, though he could not recall there being a strong motif of iron hands within that cursed country. In the end, it did not matter, and he was not forced to grant a response to the death-row prisoner before him, and yet, he did grace him with an answer.

“Because you betrayed us. Quite simply, this is all because of your actions, because this is the punishment for the criminal offense of treason. You speak of small things, but what you refuse to realize is that you lost. You lost.” He repeated for emphasis, jamming a finger into the man. “We slew all those you served with, and we could have slain you too, but instead we offered you employment. We offered you work, an opportunity at glory and riches, an opportunity to be a winner instead of another victim, and you chose the life of the mire.”

“I may be a small bird… history will tell, but at least I’m not a traitor being flogged for his foolish decisions.”

A thought did occur to him though, one that internally worried him slightly until a solution presented itself an instant later. If there were others throughout the group who thought the punishment was too fierce, then they too would be disillusioned and perhaps might attempt a future rebellion against him. However, if he showed them pride… if he granted them gifts to their hearts content, and if they were treated amiably for their loyalty, then they would be encouraged to continue in their path. He could not simply stand before them and whip traitors… no, they needed a show of unity.

The hybrid stepped away from Brego, his voice deep and powerful as he called out to those gathered. “The goods of these traitors will be given to those who have showed their loyalty to our cause! In addition, I will personally grant whomever first takes up this rod, and strikes at these traitors with a suit of chainmail armor to adorn themselves.”

Greed. Bandits were greedy. It was effectively in their nature, and while fear or loyalty had managed to keep them in service to the hybrid, that did not entirely change their nature. A pair of volunteers had rushed to him immediately, apparently fascinated at the prospect, and he smiled warmly to each, ensuring they had a glove, and then granting them the rods.
“These ones shall both be rewarded!” He reiterated, taking a step back as they tentatively took up the work of flogging, starting out slowly, and gradually growing more attuned to the shrieks of pain.

[Maltruism]

The grey never encompassed anything for long. All things were made to give sway to the influence of something some time. At those times, the color rushed back to its perception, making the world a gloriously vibrant place; something to be celebrated, enveloped in, revelled in.

So many aspects of its concept went unrealized by the mortals crawling on this world. The rain sought to hydrate all that it touched. Did anything hit by its particles not get wet? Even that which shed the rain did so by the design of intellect, evolution or instinct; all the product of intentional rebellion against the insistence of the falling drops. The rain sought dominion over all it touched. And those elements that resisted, in turn, sought mastery over the rain; to rise above it, to be impervious to it.

But even such a near endless contest as that paled before the greater elements of nature. The wind sailing through the forest, set the branches it sent bobbing and swaying alight with its concept. Streaks of domination made the paths of the wind luminescent with its purpose. Stronger winds stroked broads paths of glorious relevance to the Diri's awareness. Trees bent by gales were vivid to its perception, yielding to the wind as it blew, yet reasserting themselves in glory as they straightened once again in defiance of the wind.

How many quakes of the ground itself had the Diri been enrapt with? Did it care to give count, it would long since have lost the number of times that surface features had fallen to the world's upheavals. And what could stand in the way of a volcano; or a flood, or an avalanche? The ruin of cities had been noted in history books; yet felt and made rapturous in the sensibilities of this entity.

But such extremes of spontaneous domination of elements were few and far between. Most frequent were the contests of men that registered in its consciousness. But even the strife of mortals took on exceptional extremes. In a city, there was just a dull, constant drone of discordant struggling, with few spikes of genuine triumph to bring blooms of hue and harmony to its senses. And in the natural settings, there was a surprising similarity found in the unending strife on predator and prey, host and parasite, packs and loners.

But now a new tone of domination reached his sensations. The fear and pain coercion was nothing out of the ordinary. But it's focus on a single individual gave a purer feel of domination. And even those that did not fear its source out of a current status of punishment had a deferential fear of failing the man they held above themselves.

It had been some time since the Diri had felt dominance that had grown to be enforced even by generosity. It was a draw that could not be resisted. The gleam of such vivid richness sang to its essence as if it were a violin and the force was a bow.

[Noth]

All things struggled.

All of the woodland creatures of the forest struggled against one another. The prey struggled against the predators, attempting to stave off their destruction at the end of sharpened fangs, and vicious claws. They further struggled against one another, struggled to find food for the chilling frost of future seasons, struggled to locate adequate shelter to keep them safe and warm. Even the plants around them, the beauteous foliage that could be seen perhaps most easily in the intense growth of trees surrounding them was struggling, each tree struggling with its neighbor for nutrients and water, each forest with its neighbor for the same.

It was a simple facet of the world that all things struggled, and that the weak were dominated and destroyed for the sake of the strong. That did not mean that it was right, and there had been many who had challenged the moral validity of such statements, who had demanded that there be justice granted to those who were too weak to enforce it themselves. It was not that the twilight hybrid disagreed with their sentiments, but he recognized that there would be no end to all of the struggle, at least, not without some measure of drastic change. The next best thing was to utilize the inherent combat, to ensure that he held control over others so that he could exert their impulses wherever he desired. The brutal torture of the traitors which had stretched on for over a break had spoken to that, because whilst it was true that not all of the bandits wanted to submit to such cruelties, they did recognize that they were going to benefit from the demise, and so none of them had moved to challenge his behavior either.

Brego was the first to die. That was not an incident which had occurred by accident, of course, but had been manipulated quite carefully by the twilight hybrid. Whenever it seemed that the others had reached the verge of unconsciousness, when it seemed clear to him that their blood had spilled out upon the ground in such quantity that they might soon meet their demise, he ordered that the rods be moved to the next person. When it came time to strike at Brego, however, the man who had so foolishly decided to speak of how ‘small’ he was, and how he was ‘weak’, he allowed the rods to remain far longer than the others. It was not simply a personal vendetta, but rather, he recognized that eliminating the spokesman would leave the other prisoners without a leader to turn to, and without a head to reprimand them, they might possibly be brought back into the fold.

It was a dangerous thought, and one that he did not particularly trust, but his mind had fluctuated already over the decision on keeping some of the traitors alive. Originally that had been the plan, but their outright defiance had sparked within him a recognition that they all must be raked across the coals for their actions until they were nothing more. Yet, to keep one of them alive would serve as a brilliant reminder to the others of the punishment that came along with treason, and even a semblance of mercy might prevent any treasonous sorts in the future from fighting until death, choosing instead to surrender themselves to whatever penalty their actions had incurred.

The Avriel moved to the Sev’ryn woman, Zie’la, examining her wounds and taking general note of her health. Her head now drooped wearily with the signs of exhaustion, her face contorted into a constant grimace of pain, blood leaking down her back in trickling rivers. In truth, he was not sure whether or not she would live to survive the encounter, and he recognized assuredly that she would not be capable of it if he continued, though, that was true for all of the remaining four.

“I am not without mercy.” He spoke, raising a hand to bring the proceedings to a hold. He would step over to the lifeless husk of Brego, untangling him from the pillar which had kept him upright. His form slumped to the ground into the bloody mud below, and the hybrid eyed him for an instant further to ensure that he was, in fact, dead. He nodded towards those few who had taken up the rod, directing them towards the corpse. “Take whatever you desire, my loyal allies. It is yours.” He smiled wickedly, returning his attention to Zie’la.

“Girl,” He began, immediately belittling her, “You know why you are here, and you clearly see the end in store for you.” He turned her head to the side so that she might view the vultures tearing away at the riches hidden in Brego’s pockets. He ran a feathered finger down the slight indent of one of her wounds, careful not to press, but reminding her softly of the pain she might yet feel. “Prove your loyalty… prove your repentance of your deeds… prove that those others mislead you, and I will let you live.” He spoke softly to her, aware that if she denied publicly that he might lose face, but her voice was far too weak to yell any longer, even if she desired, and her head simply nodded with a whimpering slowness.

With surprising gentleness, he untangled Zie’la from the ropes which had bound her, slipping her arm over his shoulder so that he might assist her in walking. A rapid glance upward revealed the curious look of Thane, and the others of his loyalists who were unaware of the deal he had made. Slow and pathetic steps eventually brought them to Jurga, the brutish and large man who had spoken of the atrocity he had committed by striking at girls. In truth, Noth seldom cared whom he slew with the exception of children, and so the thought had not crossed his mind until it had been spoken. Now, however, there existed the possibility for a terrible twist of irony, and for all the sadism that the Avriel lacked, it was simply too perfect a scenario to ignore.

“The rod.” He commanded, and one of those who had finished plucking Brego clean of his things stepped forward, passing off the weapon to his leader along with the striking glove which had been used to keep the poison off of their hands. Like dressing a child, he slipped the glove onto the palm of the remarkably weak Zie’la, holding her steady so that she might stand, and promptly granted her the poisonous tool.

“I am not without mercy.” He repeated, pointing the woman at Jurga. “Strike him thrice, show us all that you were misled, and you will be forgiven and treated.” He commanded, and with the most pathetic of nods, she agreed. It was difficult for her to muster the strength, and he had to assist her somewhat in raising her arm to the striking position, but each time he allowed her to bring the blow down. They lacked the viciousness of the greed-stricken bandits, and yet, each blow possessed a surprising strength, the true sign of desperation. Jurga for his part seemed betrayed, his eyes shuddered to the world so that it might not see his agony.

The Avriel smiled as she concluded her end of the bargain, and he called forth Thane and Slip so that they might lead the girl away and care for her as best as they were able.

The strong tore down the weak, and he saw the reality in that statement.

[Maltruism]

Brego twitched...

The body still lay by the stake upon which he'd been whipped to death. But death did not stop the twitch, which soon encompassed the entire arm. In truth, the lack of a living will to stymie the domination of his dead flesh, made the assimilation of the body all the easier. It was truly only the fact of the uncommonly large size of the corpse that gave the intruding will some obstacle to the swift dominance of the body.

Once having "spread" it's presence to the fullness of the extremities, the body began to lurch its way toward Noth's cave stronghold. By the time it got there, its stride was balanced and natural, even giving glares to those who started to make gestures to intervene. It was not so much the glare that dissuaded these intrusions upon its progress, so much as the fact of the lethal wounds still plainly evident on the body.

Looks of challenge quickly gave way to looks of horror as guards realized who it was that had come calling upon the campsite. In fairness, the same concept of existence that allowed this Diri, a Spirit of Domination, to impose its will upon the unresisting flesh of Brego's corpse, also sent commands of obedience to the judgement centers of the mortal brains around it.

A few immediately dropped what they were doing and hurried to find Noth. Other, more focused, minds wandered semi-aimlessly, as they tried to decide if the initiative being proposed was truly their own. A considerable minority stood their ground with little more than a wince, stepping to block "Brego's" path to their boss.

The current face of the Diri, smiled with dead cheeks and dull eyes, at their superior will, assuming correctly that these were Noth's most trusted lieutenants. He too, leaned back on his locked knees, arms folded to display his own patience, and awaited the appearance of the mortal with whom he would strike bargain. What were a few bits against the centuries he'd already waited...

[Noth]

Noth had seen many terrible and eldritch things in his lifetime.

There had been the corpses, each one stamped with a mental number, a constant tally system of death so that he could recall exactly how many he had felled in his life time. There had been the bodies that stirred even in death, their muscles stiff and unnatural, their hearts silent in their chests, their countenances growing ghoulish and vicious as time worked its way upon flesh that could no longer resist its entropic desires. He had watched one create the other, the monsters creating more bodies, fresh meat that could be forged into new abominations. He had seen shadowy entities beyond corporeal convention; both created by the godlings in their war, and created by Marrow in his servitude. He had observed as an elder being of innumerable arcs had consumed the raw energy of a body he had only just killed, had watched as life force itself was suckled into its maw. He had stretched into an unknown place, a place beyond memory, a place where time itself must certainly have gone catatonic and comatose, because when he had returned from that unknowable venture he had held his own skull in his possession.

Certainly, each time he stumbled upon some new shattering of convention, some new abnormality or fringe of reality he was shocked and stumbled and perhaps even frightened. There were things beyond his understanding, and beyond the understanding of most persons in the world, and he had faced far more fantastic occurrences than the average person was liable to ever have faced in their life time, and yet, that had tempered his mind to them. Where once there had been an inkling of terror, now he saw potential in the queer strangeness of the occurrences. Where once undead creatures had been something of fright, they were not a resource to be spent and squandered at his whim. Where once Maw had fought at his side, providing at least a semblance of distrust, now he must certainly lay dead in a ditch, likely slain upon one of his accursed hunting expeditions. Where the end of reality itself had once bespoken an unknowable absence in his heart, he recognized now that he had touched the end of all things, and that he must certainly have beaten it if he was allowed to return.

When the corpse of Brego stepped without paying heed to the consequence of its wounds into his cavernous home, when it had sent guards running for the shadows of the cave, fearful as rabbits, and caused even his chief lieutenants to grow cautious as vipers, when the words of terror reached his ears, he considered the implication and thought: Is that all?

Talons raked across stone with a rasp promising only death for anything that came into contact with them, and the hybrid promptly began to remove himself from the private room he had been using as something of an office, simply an empty space to store logistical documents or make mental notes on future plans and schemes. Admittedly, it had taken some work to remove the stone spikes jutting from the floor, but once those had been annihilated the room had already been essentially formed to his standards.

The twilight hybrid stepped past Thane and Oxy, nodding his thanks for their stern and steadfast devotion, but simultaneously assuring them that there was nothing wrong, and that all was going to plan. It was true that the entire event was something of a surprise, but it was the role of a leader at times to make it seem that surprises were simply things that occurred in myths, and to hint at a sort of prescient conscious so as to ease the worries of those with weaker wills. Crimson eyes examined the corpse, taking note of the features of its physiology that hinted at its truly being dead, and yet it stood before him. The only solution to that minor issue seemed to be the hidden hand of a necromancer guiding the string of a puppet they had discovered in the woods; he realized he should probably have buried the bodies, but it had seemed more fitting to leave them for the carrion birds. Nevertheless, another quick analysis of the corpse revealed that there was not the glowing energy that typically reeked off of the undead, and that drew a hint of suspicion at what other entities were even capable of maneuvering the dead.

“You know, it’s rather unkindly of you to assume the guise of an enemy and walk into someone’s home.” He spoke, his voice steady and calm, avoiding any provoking anger that might have otherwise been thrown towards an intruder.

[Maltruism]

The cold flesh of what was once Brego sloughed from the force that held it standing before Noth, sliding into a heap to reveal a Brego-shaped translucence that did not lose any of its former presence. This form gradually receded to a less defined shape as it spoke. It was not with words that it's communication took place; it was with a montage of faces, many recognizable, some not, and an accompanying mood of disappointment in each of them.

But first, there was the intimation of Noth's own words being relegated to irrelevance. The presence knew that if this crusader had really been offended by its bold arrival, he would already have acted in some more potent way. It imposed a flash into the mind of this half-blood of the benefit and necessity of being silent and opening his mind to its paths of thought.

With the ensuing montage, there were other connected emotions, likely those to explain the nature or cause of this disappointment. With Vuda, there was the sense of having been rejected, either by him personally or by some ward that allowed him to resist. With other ministers, it was fear of Vuda that provided the disappointment in their force of will; as well as the clinging to their own petty agendas making an alliance to unseat Vuda unlikely.

Bandits lacked the ambition beyond drinking and whoring, Pirates were of a mind to go to sea, and that would bring this visitor into the domains of other jealous and powerful spirits. With other notable figures, one of them being Nightshade Eld, there was the understanding of innate rejection of its very concept, the all-encomapssing unwillingness to impose domination over others. It would require such endless focus to keep this person in tow, that it would be too much bother.

Noth might even get a sense of a smile as it rounded through its roster to come finally to him, one with no restraining ties; no bothersome notions of rights and morality, only the desire to control at all costs; the clearly preexisting agenda to accomplish this, and the knowledge of obstacles to overcome. This Diri cross-referenced its own list of obstacles and found the two to be of nearly identical understanding. This "Noth" was already building a power base, amassing followers, making contingency plans. There was no doubt, this was his preferred agent of domination.

By the time it had come to this point, there was already the sliver of a communicative mental affinity growing between them. With some focused effort, Noth could begin to perceive this exchange as spoken words in his mind. "This one.... domination..... that one.... Noth..... Together..... conquest.... control.... completion."

[Noth]

Noth observed silently as the corpse that had stepped in before him suddenly collapsed as whatever strings held it upright were suddenly released. Strangely, the meat of the form, the palpable portion of it did slide away to the ground, but there remained a luminescent being in the shape of Brego, as though it were a sort of cosmic energy representation of him. The twilight hybrid did not believe that there were any beings capable of surviving after death in any way, and whilst there were stories of such events occurring, he sincerely doubted their likelihood, because if it was possible, then why hadn’t he been visited by his father?

The form which had looked humanoid in appearance gradually lost many of its definitional features, and reverted back into a less clearly defined shape. There was a brief flicker of thought which for an instant felt forced into his mind, and he was stricken with the utmost importance of remaining silent for the cosmic being. That was only logical, after all, because if it were an otherworldly entity, then it would be in his best interests to listen to whatever it had to say, and then to determine later what his course of action would be in regards to it.

The twilight hybrid fully expected there to be a barrage of words that would issue out of the translucent being, but instead of an arcane or eldritch language, there came to him a series of mental whispers, pictures and phrases confined to a simple montage of faces and emotions. There was the face of Vuda, and the hybrid understood as if on instinct that the being had been denied by him, resisted either by him consciously, or else by some aspect of his arcane repertoire.

Others were shown to him also, and the reasons for the disappointment that the eing felt towards them were revealed. The ministers were all sheep, living in constant fear of Vuda, and that fear made them little more than servants to him. The only part of their independence they retained was wasted on a gallery of ill-advised plots and greedy ventures. Bandits were shown to be one-minded in their pursuits of pleasures, and the hybrid assumed that that included mercenaries as well who were addicted to nothing more than coin.

Strangely, the reason given for pirates being refused seemed to be that the entity itself would come into conflict with others, and it was made clear that it did not wish to engage in such unnatural battle. He saw the face of his beloved, and grimaced for an instant, acknowledging almost before the being had even finished why she would not have wanted to work with it. He did not even need to know its purpose to realize that his darling was a free spirit herself, and unlikely to bind herself to any alliance, especially with a cosmic entity that she did not even remotely understand.

There was a sense of satisfaction, or perhaps even pleasure that pervaded him as the roster was gradually shortened until only he remained. He was not restrained by any semblance of morality that would refrain him from seeking his goals, nor was he so one-minded in his pursuits that he gave up on logical thought and reasoning.

Crimson eyes met the frame of the translucent luminescence, staring into it as if though it were seeking an answer to an unspoken question. Perhaps some semblance of an answer was constructed in the mental communication between the pair by a series of words. The hybrid listened intently, but still needed to consider them for several trills before coming to his conclusions. At first, it had seemed almost as if though the entity was threatening to subjugate him, but he soon after realized that it was simply identifying itself. It took on the role of ‘domination’, because that was what it was meant to be, the concept that it embodied, the role that it had claimed.

The final word struck him as particularly fascinating, because to him it curtailed the rason that the spirit had chosen to commune with him in the first place. It was its natural place to seek out completeness, to become perfect in whatever way that it deemed reasonable, and by controlling all things, it would have accomplished its goal. However, it was not as if though that goal would bring completeness solely to the being, but also to the twilight hybrid. If he was capable of controlling all things, then he would certainly be able to bring about the changes that he had always desired, to end the war with the Immortals and to bring true peace to Idalos.

Slowly, carefully, he outstretched a hand to the entity, palm outward in the universal symbol of a shake.

“I accept.”

[Maltruism]

The Diri entity looked at the offered hand in some confusion. Its mind raced in thought, 'Has some race of mortals adopted some means to detach their own limbs? Is that what happened to this one's other wing? has some other already claimed this one?'

This would have been a great disappointment to the Diri. But it did not sense the presence of any other of its type. The next was its thought that it was some new kind of magic discovery. But this also was dismissed as unlikely, given Noth's preference for up-close dominance. Well, there was only one way to tell.

Even in its misty, amorphous form, the shrug could be perceived as it extended an arm to Noth's hand. The two extremities passed through each other, generating no sense of contact. But unknown to it, the residue of the gauntlet clung to Noth's skin, borne of a time-distortion rupture that gave contact to an alternate timeline of dominance by the Raskalarn Empire. The Diri nearly swooned in rapture, as it sensed the completion of its purpose closer than ever before. How now to explain to Noth?

The Diri took a pose of calculation and assessment, though it would probably be difficult to tell through mortal eyes. 'This will be a problem.' it thought to itself. 'Other such sacrifices were arranged with serums to render the partner unconscious, while the limb was removed. And then he'd be put to the flame to close the wound shut against the bleeding. Clearly this one is not aware.'

He recalled how the spilled blood would briefly call to him before losing the spark of life altogether. But it would be through the dismembered limb that the connection would be established. The Diri now wondered how exactly to approach this mortal with the details of the grim sacrifice that would need to be made; especially with their clumsy communication.

"You offer hand to me...it is not given back...are you knowing this? I must body...touch to you, to build future we both are wanting. But body-touch must be of...part...separated from you. I could possess. There would need no hand. But effort drains me, little remains for sharing, just me being us both."

Then it's voice, once again oddly inserted into Noth's consciousness, grew again in eagerness, "Control and dominance awaitings us, Et...zos...and Korlasir, as was once before, and all between. Is worth hand? yes?"