There are only so many evils one can commit in a lifetime before those who take an active part in their schemes find a loose end coming to strangle them ever so subtely. Such loose ends are dangerous, and the slimmest tend to slip and slide between the cracks of carefully crafted master plans, resulting in their utter ruin.
The creature known as Final Glimpse was one of those ends.
He walked through the shadows, the empty void his only companion on a journey back to his base of operations. A few moments later he reappeared in what had once been a grand hall, now only a ruined shell of its former glory.
Where once there had been beautiful tapestries there now hung dingy and torn rags. Gleaming silverware had been reduced to dull iron and a long red carpet was now a brownish and blood-stained mat.
But all this was of little interest to Glimpse. All he saw was what lay in the room's center. To any normal eye, it was simply a hole.
That was far from the truth.
This hole was something equatable to a black hole, yet so much more. It was a gate, a portal, and it was one that if something entered it would never find its way back.
Final Glimpse drew the marble from his belt, gazing deep at the squirming mass of green ooze contained in its center. His eyes narrowed in a fit of rage before he threw it into the hole. It hit the surface and simply seemed to just disappear with no sound, no flash, no explosion of power. It was just... gone.
***
Blightlord sat upon a throne of black marble, staring deep into a mirror with a twisted iron frame, spikes curving outward in menacing designs. He gazed into its glass, a dirty surface cracked along the top left side. He gazed not into the affairs of Burning Brawler and his family or into the actions of the Freedom Phalanx and Arachnos, but into his own reflection.
Or so it seemed.
They both appeared the same: Rotting face cleanly exposed with eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red. He wore an armor of what looked like black flesh made into a rotted cover. Green veins seemed to run up along him, the color from the liquids flowing constantly through this series of veins. Claw-like nails tapped impatiently on the arm of the throne and a ventilator covering his mouth did little to hide his expression.
He flexed his shoulders, attempting to settle himself to digest his thoughts. As he did, black skulls with green eyes moved with them similar to the one adorning his belt. A shredded black cape shifted beneath him. What would be seen as odd was that his reflection did not do the same. Instead, it spoke to him.
"Then you will attend?"
"Of course," he replied, settling further into his throne. "When will the gathering occur?"
"I've been assured that we will know when the time comes."
Blightlord nodded. "Then our discussion is ended."
The reflection faded away, leaving Blightlord alone with his thoughts. He looked off to the side where Grime normally would stood. He still kept the Lich under close watch. His last betrayal still rang clear in the master of undeath's mind. Unfortunately it may be necessary soon to restore his 'faithful' servant.
What a pity...
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
Deep in sleep, Rachel Warrens felt her mind filled with wondrous visions. As her subconcious took in everything the minds around her thought, it was all woven into one large, fantastic dream. All at once she was flying, falling, then soaring through the air, across the sea, over the jungle.
She saw hopes and dreams as they were fulfilled. She saw loves reunited and joys shared. In all this, Rachel felt comfort, security.
She sat in the pew of an enormous cathedral, watching a dream wedding well underway. Rachel looked down to see herself in a stunning gold dress. The bride was gorgeous, the groom straight from a fairy tale. The lights from the stained glass window lit them as if they were from heaven themselves, and the birds that flew off when the rings were exchanged! The colors were breathtaking.
Rachel's smile was nearly ear to ear when a sudden banging turned all the heads in the chapel.
Rachel and the guests whirled to see a woman stalking up the aisle. Her dark black hair was cut short and gleamed in the light. Her eyes were dark, as was the red, leather trenchcoat she wore, it's V cut flapping behind her. It was open to reveal a black top that exposed her entire middle, as well as a large, black leather belt, same color as the boots that rose up her legs.
Rachel got up to stop the woman from further interrupting the ceremony. She moved to block her way to the couple, but realized that's not who she was after.
The woman held out her hand, and Rachel suddenly felt her mind being torn as waves of psychic force began their assault. She cried out, collapsing to her knees, frightened as every defense she rose was quickly tosses aside.
The people began to rot and turn to skeletons, cobwebs and dust overtook the grand cathedral. The stained glass become murky and all light dimmed as the colors were dulled to near grays. Rachel gasped as he dress was torn to shreds, and became an all too familiar garb resembling that of a slaves.
A bright red M was dominant on her chest.
"Please... stop!" she managed to cry.
"I was never this weak," the woman muttered, her scowl deepening. She clenched her fingers, and the pain tripled.
Rachel shot out of bed, crying out. Her outstretched hand fell as she realized she wasn't in the chapel, but at home. She raised a hand to feel her sweat drenched face when her mother burst through the door flannel pajamas and all, readied into a fighting stance.
Danica looked around, seeing only Rachel. She still didn't drop her guard, however. Are you alright?
Burning walked in at that moment in boxers and a tank top. "The apartment's clear. No entry wards were broken." He looked to his daughter, concerned.
"Just a nightmare," she said, voice soft and rather embarassed.
Danica nodded, crossing the room to kiss Rachel on the forehead. "Try to get some sleep."
Rachel nodded, settling back into bed. But she knew there would be no more sleeping tonight as her parents stepped out of the room and shut the door.
That was no ordinary nightmare...
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
Hundreds of undead milled about the city, mindlessly shuffling about to their daily tasks. Some might have recognized this place as the once proud Rogue Islands. Now its many lively inhabitants were no more than unthinking corpses.
The place formerly known as Grandville was nothing but an endless drone as the moans of the undead rang in an unending dischord. But it was not to last...
The world seemed to shudder violenty as one after another, the undead fell, melting away into a black and green ooze. As the slime pooled it seemed to shrink, then vanish.
At the heart of the city, a man stepped from the tower. He clenched his hands, the blades attached to his wrists retracting. He held up a small black and green marble, so similar to the ooze. There was a small glint in Final Glimpse's eye just before he vanished through the shadows.
-------------------
Danica watched as Rachel slowly picked at her breakfast, sliding her eggs around her plate with her fork. "Something wrong?" she asked.
Rachel looked up. "Oh, nothing."
"You know," said Burning, sitting down with a box of cereal in his hand, "Dreams often have deeper meanings. Do you remember much?"
"I-" Rachel started. She looked down, frowning as some of the images came back to her. The pain had seemed so real...
"It's alright," said Danica. "Can you pass us what you remember."
Reluctantly, Rachel nodded. Danica and Burning both sat back as the first images went through their minds' eye. Their faces grew concerned however as the scene of the wedding began to twist with the arrival of the woman. They each exchanged uneasy glances then both turned to watch their daughter who was deeply focused on keeping it all together.
When the dream ended, the room was silent for some time. It was Burning who spoke first. "It was probably just a nightmare. I know you've been under a bit of stress lately, but school's over now. Maybe it's time you tried to relax a bit, get your mind clear."
"We can do some meditation later today," said Danica with a faint smile, but her eyes couldn't help but dart toward her husband for a moment. She knew he was lying, and that Rachel shouldn't be able to pick up on that with the mental walls they had in place, but it still made her that much more concerned.
Rachel nodded. "I'm just gonna go up to my room for a bit," she said, sliding her chair back and leaving a half-eaten breakfast.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Burning began waving a hand through the air. "I think I know where to start."
"I'll stay here to make sure she's okay," said Danica.
Burning nodded and with a flash, was gone.
--------------------
Blightlord sat back in a throne of made of black marble traced with green veins. He accepted a goblet held by a bowing Lich who quickly made himself scarce.
He took a moment to look around the long bone crafted table he and the others sat at. This meeting would seem almost typical of evil overlords, except one minor detail:
They all looked, more or less, the same.
Blightlord and his other selves from almost a dozen dimensions sat, each looking concerned and watching the others carefully for signs of treachery. Each of their thrones were slightly different, one of polished bone, one comprised entirely of skulls with rotting flesh still attached, another made of severed limbs.
At the head of the table sat a Blightlord in the form that was The Muck. But it was not the slithering mass of ooze. It was solid, humanoid, and even more menacing than those gathered around it, still in their flesh wrapped forms.
He stood, goblet in hand. The Muck turned it for a moment, watching the blood swirl about. "You all should know why I have called you together. This is the first time we have gathered in nearly two millenia, but it seems now there is a threat worthy of our collected attention..."
A Blightlord near the center of the table cleared his throat loudly. The others turned to regard him. The black hood over his head and the green glow in his eyes set him apart from the rest, as did the flames dancing across his throne. "And what exactly makes you believe you are the one most fit to be conducting this little meeting of ours?"
The Muck chuckled. "Revel in your possession of the Brawler mortal for what little time it lasts. I am heading this meeting for two reaons. The first being that it was I who first identified this threat. The second is that unlike the rest of you, I have succeeded in my goals."
"I would say I have as well," responded the hooded Blightlord with a chuckle, a flame dancing on his open palm.
"And yet, as I recall, you are still under Elitist's thumb."
He settled back, the flame dying away. "I encountered a minor setback," he said, his voice low.
The Muck nodded. "Indeed. In any case, you may have noticed a larger portion of our number is missing than I expected. There is an assassin currently making his way through the dimensions and eliminating our other selves, even in worlds already completely lost. Which leads me to believe he is not out to restore any of these, simply eradicate us."
At this the Blightlord's began to speak at once, each more or less proclaiming the unlikelyhood of their demise or the inferiority of those who had fallen.
"Silence!" shouted The Muck, both hands held up. "I have gathered you here that we may all be made aware. From the moment you entered this room, we were all linked. If one of us should fall, the others shall know it. This link is for all of our security, so I suggest you do not remove it." He said this casting an eye on each Blightlord in turn.
"We shall work together to ensure this assassin can do no further damage, and then continue on with our respective worlds. You are all dismissed."
The Muck vanished then. The Blightlord's observed the others, their faces distrusting, as if this could be some plot of the other. Then, one by one, they to disappeared.
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
"Return to me."
The torches flickered as the winds rushed. From the floor, a portal opened to a lower plane of existence. The calls of the damned could be heard, screaming for mercy even as the roars of the fiends overtook them.
Blightlord held his hand over the portal, pulling upward. As he did, a Lich rose, it's robes even more tattered, eyes dimmed. But the creature held itself proudly, standing strong as it was set to land on the floor.
With a sharp gesture, Blightlord closed the portal. He turned to regard his servant. "We have much work to do, Grime."
The Lich's chilling smile grew. "Of course, my lord."
--------------------
The Final Glimpse sat not on the cracked throne atop the great dais, but at its steps. It was what he had always been accustomed to, a habit he had never broken. He looked around at all the mirrors lining the walls of this central chamber. Unlike the dining hall, this room was shaped as a dodecahedron, and each wall held a mirror the height of two men, its surface usually covered with filth or cracked.
There was a time that each of these mirrors held two, three images each, for indeed these were scrying mirrors. Now there was just one in each frame, like a grand portrait.
Or a hit list.
To many, the sight of Blightlord alone would be terrifying, the sight of him and eleven other versions from the vast dimensions would be enough to bring a man to his knees. But for the Final Glimpse, it was fuel. Fuel for his hatred, his rage. His desire for Vengeance.
He would see each of those images fade forever, no longer able to trouble his mind. He would have revenge and he would have his peace. And nothing would stop him.
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
Rachel Warrens walked through the park, quiet and thoughtful. She came out here to relax, to have a nice day. And why shouldn't she? The day was clear, the air comfortably warm, and if it wasn't she could have made it so. But still memories of her dream sent shivers down her spine. The pain had felt so real...
Her parents told her not to worry about it, that it was likely just a nightmare. People capable of telepathy often experienced intense nightmares, it comes from being able to hear the thoughts of all those around. Not everyone's mental world is sunshine, butterflies, and rainbows.
But the thoughts were soon broken by an alarming thought. Thoughts of savoring the feeling of ripping open flesh with bare hands and extracting supple organs from a warm cavity. Rachel ran for a nearby tree, leaping up and, with a little help from the wind, grabbed a branch to swing herself upward.
Safe in the cover of the leaves, she waved her hands in mystic passes. A small portal opened up, hardly big enough for a person. She reached her arm inside, pulling free her new costume.
It was something. Black tights with deep, pink lightning bolts printed down the legs and arcing over her shoulders. A cape with a pink inside and a black back sat on it, and the dark gloves and boots matched the material of the rest perfectly.
But she didn't allow herself to reflect on her new choice in costume. She cast a nervous glance to the sun, realizing it was rather bright out. A light mist rolled in around the tree, offering some protection from prying eyes as she changed. Pstorm quickly stuffed her street clothes into the extradimensional portal, willing it shut as she lept from her perch and into the air.
It was little surprise to her that she would find a Vahzilok surgeon and a small group of 'undead.' The man's skull mask was disgusting, bits of flesh still clinging to it. Obviously he was a new and... zealous- recruit.
The man held a pair of surgical scissors in one hand, the other gloveless, fingers moving in anticipation as he cut open his victim's shirt, a boy not much older than Rachel herself. He raised the scissors to stab down into soft flesh, his thoughts beginning to feel with the urge to worm his hand down into the small opening the stab would make and begin his grand work.
But Pstorm had other plans. She threw her palm outward, overloading the man's mind with pain. He staggered backward, gripping his head and screaming as his vision blurred. The zombies looked around stupidly for the source of the confusion and soon found themselves flying backward as a small tornado ripped through the group. Pstorm redirected it, the rapidly spinning air picking up the victim and placing him safely on a nearby rooftop.
She dropped down in front of the Vahzilok then, creating a small stormcloud over the alley. Lightning bolts zapped the zombies one by one, leaving just the surgeon. He held a meat cleaver in his hand. Still dizzy, he tried to charge Pstorm. The girl was ready though, a burst of wind building behind her.
But suddenly the man stopped. Utter shock and terror was clear on his face, and the thoughts of murder that he had nearly screamed now turned to a piercing note in Pstorm's ears. She grimaced, forced to hold a hand to her own head, the sound was almost unbearable.
The surgeon's eyes began to bulge as blood rimmed the bottom of his eyelids, begging to drip like long tears. He dropped to his knees, arms dropped, and sat back as more red liquid began to dribble from his ears.
Pstorm stared in shock, the noise gone, and only her and the man who now sat, literally mindless, before her. Her lip quivered for a moment before she turned and ran, all thoughts of the boy still on the roof far from her mind as she sought to just get away.
She needed to get away.
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
Pstorm floated, suspended in the air by magic as her father made his examinations. She'd ran home and told them everything, caught between shock and hysterics at her loss of control. The moment her tale was finished, she had been brought to this room.
"I don't see anything out of the ordinary. No compulsion, no blocks, no illnesses. Just a lot of stress," said Burning, shaking his head. "You'll have to stay in until we can get this all sorted out."
Pstorm didn't protest, merely nodded as she sat on the cold floor. "I don't know how this happened."
"Don't worry," said Danica, moving in to comfort. Powerless she may be, but this job she could do. "Everything will be fine."
Burning stepped out of the room, taking the few steps in the apartment until he had reached the broom closet. Opening the door revealed a rather extensive library that forced a smile to tug at the man's lips. The wonders of pocket dimensions. He stepped inside, hoping that the answer to his daughter's condition lay inside one of these books.
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
Achieving your every goal except for that which you placed above all others would be maddening to most. For others, it left them with a twinge of dissatisfaction that would be hard to place.
For the Blight Brawler, it was the former.
Day after day he strove to find a means of destroying Elitist and it always came down to the problem he knew would arise from the day this struggle began: the man had grown too firm in his position. Of course killing him would be no difficult task, but the fallout and civil war it would cause between the members of the Masters of Mayhem would tear down everything he'd wished to rule.
Ultimately it left him disgusted, remembering the day when he had a very important choice before him. It was the same day he'd destroyed and inhabited the fool Burning Brawler. But there was no altering his timeline, for that would be admitting a mistake. No, all his plans came to fruition, it was merely a matter of when.
This was the contemplation that fueled and haunted his every waking moment, a contemplation that was broken by the sound of an alarm.
The Blight Brawler's eyes lit with a sickly green flame. The Masters of Mayhem's base, formerly the tower in Grandville, was supposed to be the pinnacle of modern security.
It seemed that the last remnant of Techno Tyrant's memory was a poor one indeed.
He was aware of the slight hiss of shadow becoming solid. That sound was all that saved him as Blight Brawler leapt forward, narrowly avoiding the assassin's strike. Flames wrapped themselves all around his dark frame as he stared down his attacker. "You are the one who has been causing so much trouble for my other selves? Quaint."
Flames leapt from the Blight's hands, seeking to enwrap and incinerate this intruder. They found nothing as the man disappeared into the darkness. It was then that the possibility he could meet the same end as the rest dawned on him, and he knew that it was only a matter of time.
A swift, fiery backhand caught the assassin as he crept from behind. Another jab allowed him to get a grip on his dark, green cowl. The Blight lifted him into the air, watching with amusement as the man caught alight. He amusement turned to surprise as a swift strike from a punch dagger sheared the top of his skull like butter.
The assassin held no satisfaction in his eyes as his opponent fell away, no feeling of pride as the shadows put out the fires around him. He merely watched, waiting.
And there it was! An ooze slowly seeped out, making its way toward a grate. The assassin, the Final Glimpse rolled another orb toward the fleeing ooze. As it was brought into the cold embrace of it's prison, all that the assassin could feel was disappointment.
He knew by now they must all be aware of his strikes, paranoid as Blightlord is he would always keep a watchful eye on his biggest threat: himself. The Blight Brawler was supposed to be one of the strongest, if not the most defiant, of them. And yet he'd hardly raised a fight.
The Final Glimpse scooped up the small orb just as the Masters guards burst into the room. He gave them one piercing look, then vanished.
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
Rachel Warrens sat in her room, feeling confused and sick. No, it wasn't the first time she'd seen death, but it was the first time it came as a result of her lack of control. Her mentor had always made sure that, above all, she was in control. Thinking back to Sybil, she felt a deeper twinge of sadness. And as she became lost in her memories, a fog rolled through her mind.
She remembered the night of the coup, when she'd been forced to leave the timeline. That had always been the plan of the Resistance, should something terrible happen. Rachel would live to warn the past and save her parents. And she did. But she couldn't bring herself to return to her time and it left her feeling selfish, like she didn't belong.
'A little girl, lost in her mind.'
Rachel looked up then, trying to clear her mind of the fog. She couldn't. She ran toward the closet to put on her armor, then found herself on her knees, unable to will her limbs to move.
'When we're done with you, things will be quite clear. I promise.'
Rachel saw a woman through the fog. She started, recognizing her from the dream, the same blood-red trenchcoat and short black hair. She fought harder now against the restraints that she knew now were mental, but to no avail.
"Who are you?" said Rachel, hoping to buy a few moments time.
'No one is coming. And you may call me Mistress Psykes. It's more fitting than my weakling name, don't you think?'
"What do you want from me?" Rachel's eyes locked with her tormentor's, and her own grew fearful.
'I am going to set your timeline right, starting with you.' Her hand reached out then in a claw-like gesture. She raised her arm as if to strike.
Just then, the fog blew apart in a burst of flame. The Mistress cursed as she faded back, arms shielding her face from the fire. Pstorm felt a warmth as her bonds loosened and broke. Her father stood over her, chest heaving. "I think I have a better idea of what we're up against," he said, then collapsed.
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell
Vengeance is a terrible thing.
A figure crawled in desperation toward a large mirror held in an ornate, golden frame.
It can inspire the most single-minded cruelty imaginable.
An severed arm lay a few feet behind him, a trail of black and green ooze marking his path.
It can obliterate all feeling, leaving you with one desire: To hurt those who caused you pain in the most destructive way imaginable.
The crawling man placed a hand on the glass, gazing at his own reflection, a red and broken helmet with a skull etching displayed the rotting face beneath. A black and green blade sliced downward, removing that hand and spilling more of the black and green ooze.
He growled in frustration, rolling over to see his attacker. The large red skull plate on his chest stared up as well. His grand armor, once of gleaming black with blood-red ornaments of the dead now broken and scarred. His once flowing cape now a tattered and shredded mess.
He stared up at the face of his attacker, his murderer. He watched the same blade that took his hand plunge deep into his skull.
The body began to crumble to pieces, flaking off bit by bit. The armor disintegrated, flowing away as black smoke leaving only the green and black ooze.
It was then that this ooze began to flee, rushing for a grate at the base of the throne. It was nearly there when the attacker seemed to step in front of it out of the shadows. The ooze slid into a portal of shadows instead of its intended escape route. With a rush of air, the portal vanished.
The attacker picked up a small black marble, looking inside at the green mess in its center and pocketed it. He stepped forward into the torchlight to gaze at the destruction the battle had caused. As he did, the man came into clear view. He too wore skulls, a par of black ones on his shoulders with green eyes. He wore armor of a plated material, set in a flexible pattern. A black cowl covered his face, skin of the same color and hair with a green tint. White eyes stared out with hatred. His arms and legs were protected by separate green plates of armor with wicked-looking spikes branching from it decoratively. It was from the plates of his arms that two black blades with green edges extended. He clenched his fist and the blades snapped back into their place under the plate, no longer visible.
The room was a mess, the entire stone floor strewn with the bodies and pieces of the undead that had been guarding their master. A Lich lay on the other end of the room, severed head several feet away.
Twin Grave Knights were slumped together, pinned like that by their own swords, locked together in a way that was difficult to untangle.
He turned toward the mirror, reminded he was completely done here by a rather frustrated thumping noise. A spectre hammered violently, its face twisted in agony in rage as it tried in vain to break free of the glass. The pain it felt, trapped between our world and the world it had escaped to that no longer existed was unbearable.
The man stepped forward and raised his fist. He shattered the glass, the spectre's wail unheard in our world. He was its Final Glimpse of reality.
Arc ID: 475246, "Bringing a Lord to Power"
"I'm only a simple man trying to cling to my tomorrow. Every day. By any means necessary."
-Caldwell B. Cladwell