It's a long one, but I think it's kind of worth it. But why wouldn't I?
***
"Lord Travail, why did you
summon me out here?" The voice belonged to a wiry youth, his
long hair curling around his face, dressed in silk and velvet. He
sniffed sharply, plucking at the folds of his tunic, and glanced
around the landscape once more.
The sky arched rich and purple
above them, a yellow moon sailing slowly across it. There were no
clouds, but the debris ring of the planet sparkled in reflected light
from the red giant that was this system's sun. Stars were few and far
between, but they blazed with blue fire against the violent backdrop.
The ground was a shattered
expanse of rock, upthrusting at bizarre angles, sharp from the force
of the sundering. Plants were scarce, mostly lichens and a few
twisted trees. Crystals sparkled in thick veins across the faces of
the land, nearly glowing under the moon.
To a mortal, this planet was
desolate and harsh, unbearable in the fierceness of its conditions.
To a Chaos Lord, such as these two, it was beautiful and wild, and
the perfect place for a pet project.
Travail, in his current form,
towered over his guest, nearly nine feet tall. His shoulders were
wide, his hips were narrow, his legs were long, his fingers were
supple. He walked with an eerie grace, his leather skirt moving as if
it were alive, his chest covered in ritual scars and piercings, metal
spikes glinting along his spine. Travail's hair was bound in bone and
wire, swept back from his triangular face. "Acheron, you will
witness my triumph," he whispered creakily, turning to face the
youth.
Acheron suppressed a shudder,
turning from the high ranked Lord before he could see Travail's eyes.
The youth was only considered a mid-level Chaos Lord, his powers not
as strong as others. Yet he was a diplomat amongst his people, going
between each of the powerful Lords, especially those who could not
stand to be in each others company.
Travail was one of those Lords,
and Acheron was his favorite messenger. Acheron found himself drawn
to the creative, beautiful aspect of Chaos, and was looked down on by
some of the darker Lords. Travail was a dark creator, experimenting
with raw forces of Chaos and living things, seeking to make dangerous
creatures and efficient soldiers. Acheron appreciated the depth of
Travail's work, and could not find himself repulsed by the outcome,
no matter how some of the other Chaos Lords acted.
"What triumph do you speak
of?" Acheron asked softly, yet his voice carried over the
gusting wind. He allowed his hair to play in the treacherous claws of
the wind, but kept his clothes stiff and still. Acheron couldn't
think of Travail's latest experiments, and was ragingly curious about
his presence.
Travail passed along the canted
edge of a crevasse, stroking his hands along his forearms. Acheron
looked up, noting in passing the scales along the other Lord's arms.
There was something distinctly reptilian about Travail this day, and
Acheron briefly envied the casual way Travail changed his form. "I
think I have harnessed the forces of life."
Acheron stepped closer as the
wind rose in pitch. He smelled Chaos in the air, a storm racing in to
envelope the planet. His skin crawled pleasantly, and he burst into a
giant grin. Acheron loved being in the heart of Chaos storms, the raw
power of the universe stroking his soul, filling him, reshaping him,
giving him strength. He reminded himself to thank Travail for this
experience.
"We all have the power of
life," Acheron said, seeking the target of Travail's attention.
"We have the power to
create, surely," spoke Travail, his voice like a musty tomb. In
the crevasse, jewel-colored eyes blinked up at the two men. Acheron
heard one of the creatures hiss, clearly aware of the oncoming storm,
and continued to listen to his host. "We create, we conjure, we
warp, we adjust. But there is no permanence to what we do. The lives
we bring about fade away, become nothing. It is fleeting. It is like
grains of sand between our fingers." Travail turned swiftly, a
jerking motion, and speared Acheron with his gaze.
Acheron tried to look away, but
was not quick enough. The instant he met the elder Lord's look, the
youth trembled, his heart freezing. His mouth went dry, and he
whimpered low in his throat. No matter what form the changeable Chaos
Lord took, Travail's eyes were always frighteningly empty. They
would be markedly less frightening if they were just void,
Acheron thought.
Instead, Travail's eyes were
always gaping wounds, weeping softly, oozing flesh boring deep into
his skull. There were never eyelids with which to hide the sockets,
nothing to block the fleshy caverns. Acheron had never been a queasy
fellow, but he was deeply disturbed by Travail's eye sockets. Despite
the lack of eyeball, there was always a sense that the Lord saw
everything around him.
"What are you proposing?"
Acheron whimpered after several silent moments. Travail turned his
head, and the youth shuddered, wrapping his arm around his chest. He
could still feel Travail's disconcerting gaze, almost as if his soul
had been laid bare. Part of him desperately wanted to leave, and part
of him painfully ached to know what Travail was doing.
"I've found a way to
create new life."
The wind paused, punctuating
his statement. Acheron stared in astonishment, even willing to see
Travail's gaze again. "What did you say?"
Travail knelt at the crevasse,
reaching for the animals hiding in the cleft. "I can create new
life. I'm going to create true life, permanent life. You shall
witness my triumph, and you shall tell others."
The Chaos storm enveloped them
suddenly, and Acheron cursed himself for not realizing it had gotten
that close. Power surged through him, and Acheron gasped, his back
arching sharply. His being seemed to expand, his senses stretching to
all corners of the planet. Acheron thought he cried out, thought his
voice lifted in pain or pleasure, but all he heard was the humming
song of the storm.
Time paused. Time flew. Time
stretched out to the limits of the galaxy. Pain lashed every nerve.
Pain had never been a part of his life. Pleasure was leeched from
every inch of his being. Pleasure became the entirety of him. Colors
had tastes. Sounds had texture. His skin breathed, his eyes walked,
his heart screamed with lust. Everything that could be, he was.
Then it stopped, suddenly, like
a lamp being extinguished. He was on his hands and knees, breathless
with laughter, tasting blood as it slowly oozed from his lips.
Pushing back to rest on his heels, Acheron ran a hand through his
hair, enjoying the ravages of the storm.
Travail stood nearby, head
tossed back, hair wrapping around anything it could, skirt fluttering
in the remaining breeze. At the Lord's feet were a pair of the
creatures; they walked on four legs, with thick tails, bellies nearly
dragging on the ground, teeth sharp, scales a dusty gray-green like
the landscape, and bright eyes. They cowered against his feet, hiding
in his skirt, making softly hissing noises. Despite their fear, they
seemed to want to be with Travail.
Acheron watched his host,
noting how the storm was fading away as if someone had pulled the
plug on it. "Why did it stop?"
Travail turned, hands extended
above his head. His mouth was parted slightly, lips flushed, sweat
beading across his forehead. A miniature storm danced inside his eye
sockets, wisps caressing his cheeks. For the first time in memory,
Acheron found Travail's gaze beautiful and captivating.
"It stopped because I took
the heart of it." Travail's head tipped farther back, and
Acheron followed the path of his gaze.
Swirling translucently above
the Chaos Lord was a beast. Acheron gasped, the air freezing in his
lungs. Malevolence pooled into the air, and he started to see the
strands of color take more form. Acheron choked on hunger, and
cringed back. He'd always avoided Chaos beasts, simply because of
their sheer destructive capabilities. They were sentient in their own
way, and that way was incomprehensible to even the Lords who studied
them.
What was Travail considering?
Time dilated again as the elder
Lord began winding strings of Chaos magic together. The beast
screamed in the subsonic range, hurting Acheron's brain. It thickened
as Travail's power gripped it, becoming more solid, swirling with oil
slick colors. The two solid animals at Travail's feet hissed, then
moved slowly away from his skirts, as if under compulsion.
Acheron watched as the two
creatures stood side by side, facing Travail. The youth moved away,
circling Travail, trying to keep from getting involved with the magic
about to unleash. The malevolent scream of the beast continued, like
broken glass in his head, yet its focus was clearly on its tormentor.
Acheron could feel it struggling to break free, lashing against
Travail's bindings, trying to overpower him.
Travail continued to hold it
tight, shaking faintly with the effort. He gestured, and the power
tightened. Acheron cried out in pain as the Chaos beast was ripped
into two, its death shriek puncturing their surroundings. The waiting
creatures slithered forward, their jewel-colored eyes dull, their
mouths hanging open. Acheron suddenly realized what was going on.
The dying screams of the Chaos
beast echoed through the area, painfully sharp, and the voices of the
lizard things rose to match it. They lifted their heads, snouts
pointing toward Travail's hands. Acheron trembled, watching, focused
on Travail, feeling the other Chaos Lord's power wind around the
native creatures, drawing the wounded beast inexorably closer.
As if seeing an escape, the
beast lunged toward the captivated animals, each half diving into the
waiting flesh. Silence fell, heavy, and the two men waited, breaths
held, hearts lodged in their throats. Acheron watched in awe and
wonder, amazed by Travail's daring. Travail was watching with the
intense stare of an artist about to unveil his masterpiece.
The creatures seemed frozen,
not even breathing. All the light left their eyes, and Acheron was
sure they were dead. The wind whispered around the group, but did not
touch them, as if afraid to disrupt the diorama.
Just as Acheron began to tire
of waiting, the tension broke. The creature on the left screamed
first, tipping its head back, mouth opened wide. The scream wrenched
through the watching Lords, reverberating with pain and rage, forcing
the youth to cover his ears. The scream went on and on, seemingly
never ending.
The other creature began to
react, though not as vocally as its partner. She, and Acheron knew it
was female suddenly, could taste her sex on the air, hunched to the
ground, closing her eyes. Her entire body shook, and she keened lowly
as her skin began to ripple. Her mate continued to scream, lifting up
off his front legs, and she began to morph.
Acheron gasped sharply with awe
as her skin erupted with changes. It pebbled at first, then became
blade-sharp scales. Her color ran liquid across her limbs, then
became onyx and vibrant. Her body stretched, filled out, pulsed with
new muscles.
The male creature's scream
mutated as he also began his metamorphosis. He remained reared up on
his hind legs as his chest swelled out, deepened through the
shoulders, grew heavy with muscles. His back legs changed position,
the feet becoming broad through the toes, the heel rising and
stretching, his thighs bulking out, his knees dipping forward. His
tail grew into a lashing whip, disturbing the rocks and dirt around
them.
Travail held still, but Acheron
slid back as the couple began to grow in size, their necks stretching
out. The male's voice quavered with the growth, becoming deeper,
resonating into the very rocks of their surrounds. The female rose to
all four legs, her forelimbs beneath her torso, the feet dexterous
and nimble. She arched her neck, saliva dropping in heavy ropes from
her curved teeth. Acheron inhaled sharply as the saliva plopped
heavily into the dirt and began smoldering.
Acheron stared in shock.
Travail crowed in triumph as his creations began to settle into their
final forms. They were covered in spikes and knobs of bone, theirs
scales were sharp and layered, eyes like inky jewels. Teeth curved
wickedly, talons arched sharply, breath huffed hotly through deep
nostrils. They stared down at the two Chaos Lords, and Acheron stared
helplessly back.
Travail trembled softly,
grinning deeply. He radiated pride, and triumph, and Acheron felt an
echo of that himself. Travail had given raw Chaos a body, had found a
way to keep it bound in flesh. Acheron could feel the difference
already; these forms were stable, and would not shift again. They
would not revert, they would not keep mutating.
"You are gorgeous,"
Travail rasped with love. Acheron crawled to his host's side,
breathless with joy and amazement. He was inclined to agree with
Travail.
The male roared, an echoing
bellow across physical and telepathic senses. The female hissed, her
head lowering toward the ground, lips pulled up in a snarl. The pair
of Lords stepped back in shock as each of the creatures sprouted an
enormous set of wings. The air popped as leathery skin and muscled
arms came into existence, immediately spread, posturing against the
darkening sky.
~We are dragon,~ spoke
the new life forms as one, their telepathic voices sharp and deep and
full of hunger.
"Awesome," was all
Acheron could say in response.
