Tiny Dungeon

POV Far'Leign, Fae Lord

Far’Leign moved through The Other, following a path only he could see. His Authority swirled around him, its golden motes halting the surrounding land’s fluctuations and bringing them into alignment with his will. It was so much easier here in the InBetween places that lay outside of the established Domains. The perpetual haze that lay upon The Other gave way to a misty forest as his Authority acted.

The Fae Lord growled as he pushed through a particularly chaotic stretch, the hazy shifting nature fighting against order before he, at last, reached his destination. He brought his Authority back to himself, the path he had taken falling back into anarchy as he did so. A clearing took shape around him, a place of inherent Authority, a place that existed within the chaos without the need for a more ordered mind to exert its influence.

Golden beams of light cast themselves from a misty sky upon a doorway of exquisite beauty, that rose from the emerald grass like a monolith. Runes in a language that hurt to read blazed across its surface like purple fire. Far’Leign, despite his urgency and general irritation, couldn’t help but stop and stare for a moment at the beauty of a Wild Gate. An old Making from the ancient past, Wild Gates were portals to elsewhere, no matter where that location was as long as it existed upon the plane.

It was for that very reason that they were rarely meddled with when found unless someone had the Authority to lay claim to the clearing they resided in. Even then they were dangerously chaotic, having spent ages isolated among the energies of The Other. Far’Leign had scoffed at the stories but as he began to enter the clearing he gained a new appreciation for them as the weight of the Gate’s Authority settled over him.

It was dangerous to be within another entity’s realm of Authority but the Gate wasn’t sapient and only nominally sentient. “It will be fine,” Far’Leign growled, irritated by the undercurrent of fear in his voice when he said it. He pushed forward, his own Authority acting like a shield to hold back the weight of the Gate. The grass was silky smooth beneath his feat and the beams of light that fell in the clearing had none of the glare of a proper sun.

It was idyllic and Far’Leign couldn’t help but be impressed, despite himself. “When I have come into my inheritance I will return and claim this place,” he vowed to himself in a whisper. He knew he could do it too. Once he had proven himself superior to the mortals, they would fall over themselves to provide the Authority he needed to establish himself as a power to be feared.

First, however, he needed to open the Gate to the destination of his choosing. Such an endeavor was difficult as the Authority present within the various Wild Gates fought against any form of control. Still, it could be bargained with in a limited way. Far’Leign stepped forward, his cloak flapping in the calm pseudo-wind that blew perpetually through the clearing. As he did so he brought forth his offering, a satchel of Fae Dust rich in Aether and even contained some Potential.

It was a costly gift and Far’Leign would feel the cost for centuries if his plan fell through. Through a deft manipulation of Authority and Aether-Craft, the Fae Lord reached out to the Gate and made his request. The clearing shuddered and the stone doors of the Gate shrieked in protest as they were ripped open. There was no time for second-guessing as the monolithic structure absorbed the satchel, there was only an open door and the lingering sense of acceptance from the Gate.

Far’Leign darted inside before the structure could decide anything else and immediately was elsewhere as promised. There was no waiting in the void, only an abrupt transport and vertigo. His eyes opened upon a scene of abject brutality and horror, the lingering burst of power that had transported him fading away to reveal blood and destruction.

He was standing in the middle of a stone circle, runic lines carved in whirling circuits around its circumference. They glowed a dark red, seemingly drinking in the blood splattered across its surface. Far’Leign wasn’t a newcomer to extreme violence but even he was struck dumb by what he was seeing. Lines of bound creatures made a procession up stone steps until they stood at the entrance to the stone circle.

There, like a shadow painted across light, was a bent and twisted figure holding a jagged knife. Even as the Fae Lord watched, the dagger rose and fell, sending yet more blood to splatter across the circle. More horrifying still the body had no chance to fall, as with a wet gurgle the figure seemed to lurch out and consume the corpse whole after it had been bled. Far’Leign, eyes glued to the figure, attempted to move but found his feet had been caught in dark red liquid.

He pulled and strained, still trying to keep a low profile but when he looked up again, he met black pools of despair. The figure was before him having moved so fast that Far’Leign had no time to act or even flex his power. The being’s eyes drilled into him and the aura drifting off the creature had him retching in disgust. It was a miasma he had only heard stories of but had never actually seen in his short stint as Fae Lord.

“Caught…SOMETHING!” The creature half spoke half yelled into his face and then Far’Leign truly retched. The creature’s breath was fetid and diseased and its mouth was horror all on its own. A maw of ringed lamprey teeth within a humanoid-shaped head. The shadows that covered its frame heaved and writhed as if alive and Far’Leign could only watch in horror as a shadow sloughed off to form another smaller horror that scuttled off.

“Unhand me, foul creature! Do you know who I am?” Far’Leign could hear the weakness in his voice and loathed himself for it. Even his words were an automatic response that he had used time and time again when young but something he knew would be futile here. To his surprise, however, the creature nodded.

“Fae Lord.” It said simply and Far’Leign felt a sliver of hope beat in his chest. Then the creature smiled grotesquely and all hope fled with its next words. “LUNCH!” it roared and lunged forward. Far’Leign reached for his power but it refused his call and his eyes widened as the creature’s ringed jaws closed in. There was a flash of grey-black light and the creature was gone, flung across the stone circle to crash, whimpering, upon its surface.

In its place was a figure of dark power, straight, tall, and beautifully haunting. A gaunt face, male in appearance, looked down upon Far’Leign and he flinched back from the intensity present in that gaze. The figure held out a hand to the side and the creature from before whimpered even as it scurried over. It crouched, its humanoid form bent over and subservient. Far’Leign opened his mouth to speak but the air grew frigid and his jaw locked up, refusing to budge.

The figure lifted a finger to his lips even as his other hand petted the grotesque creature at his side. He continued to stare at Far’Leign before snapping his fingers. There was a moan from the creature but it began ripping a shadow off of its body. There was a tearing sound and a screech of pain and then the figure was holding a small humanoid creature. Far’Leign watched, helpless, straining for his power, as the figure placed his hand upon the small being and it erupted into grey-black flame.

With a snap of a gaunt grey-skinned hand, the flaming creature was placed upon Far’Leign’s chest and he screamed as he felt teeth sink through his fine clothes. The pain didn’t prevent him from hearing the whispered words of the figure before him. “Survive,” it crooned, “Survive to be of use to us. Fall to live, live to fall. Fall, never to rise again. Survive to serve the Fallen.” There was a flash of grey-black light and then Far’Leign knew no more.

POV The Figure

The Figure looked on as the transformation took place. The once Fae Lord would prove to be a powerful ally. What luck that their ritual had drawn in such a prime specimen from the Other. The Figure looked down at his loyal familiar who was still weeping, in its own way, at the harsh treatment. That was the way of the Fallen, the powerful ruled over the lesser and bound them to their purpose. The Figure looked out over the Procession of Blood and knew that the time had almost come. It would be a month, maybe two, and then they would move to accomplish their master’s will,

The Figure tasted the air, relishing in the pain and misery as his soul had been twisted to do, but inwardly it was his own soul that was twisted and in pain. Brushing past the reality of his existence with an ease born of long experience, the First Fallen of The Grey Men allowed himself the brief pleasure of cursing his master in the privacy of his mind before deftly turning the thought away before the chains could tighten. He would see his master’s will done as he had every time before. The gods' special Dungeon would fall before the assembled might of Absolith’s Fallen Legions.

“All hail Absolith of the Fallen.”

End of Book 2