Journal Entry - Obtoxicullous

Humans are wonderful warlords. Their intellect and adaptability coupled with their propensity for contradictory and unpredictable behavior makes them both the single worst and best enemy. Their fascination with and fear of magic has always been a double-edged sword on which they fall often.

For nearly their entire existence all three kingdoms have had a turbulent relationship with regulating magic. So much so, that at the end of the great kingdom wars, the Citadel of Magic was formed to house and educate human mages and to manage arcane relations.

In actuality, it was a concept that humans were against from the beginning, and had to be persuaded into by the Yirket and Elven nations. Only after several years of delegations was it agreed upon that the Citadel would finally be built.

But where to put it?

Of course, not in any one kingdom, for the other two would always wonder if it were going to be weaponized against them. So, the logical conclusion was to put it out in the sea, on a solitary island—a no-man's-land.

It's not hard to see why mortals fear magic so, whereas we ageless races find it as natural as breathing, to humans it is just another threat to their power. A king, who possess little, or no magic will feel weak and inferior to one with it, so the answer must be to make it illegal and heavily regulated it so that no magic deemed too powerful or harmful, could ever be lawfully used to uncover secrets that might be used against the honorable nobility of a country. Clearly the answer is to rip every child who presents with magic at a young age away from their parents and cart them off to the Citadel to be trained or if they refuse this ideology, imprisoned. When the people ask, tell them that it is for their safety and well being and when they revolt, call them rebels, terrorists and sympathizers.

You know, the most remarkable thing about mortals is how quickly they forget. In only a few short centuries, they soon believe "This is the way it has always been." Because it is all they have ever known.

***

Ardaik 5th - La'Trest, Lorellia

La'Trest, the capital of Lorellia, Jewel of the Eastern Coast, was burning.

Alarm bells had started to ring throughout the city, alerting the guard posts and towers, but the siege was already underway. The streets were packed with undead and fleeing citizens, clogging entire roadways so that no one could get through to fight the growing fires. Those who were trying to collect water from the docks or escape were faced with the giant toads which now numbered in the dozens as they crawled out of the bay into the city.

High above it all, loomed the massive black shadow of a dragon, Augaunall, who focused his attention on the towers, blasting them with flame until the alarm bells had no one left to ring them and fell silent. With La'Trest's defenses in shambles, the dragon changed direction for the castle, swooping over the walls and ramparts and landing in the central courtyard. The castle's archers let loose a barrage of arrows the moment he landed. They were treated to the same greeting that the towers received—a stream of fire that cleared the courtyard of any remaining guards and turned the trees and flowers into nothing but cinders.

The deep rubble of a laugh, echoed ominously through the embers of the courtyard, like a distant rumbling of thunder.

"Was that all? I expected more of a fight..." the dragon scoffed as a figured clade in black slid off his back.

"Fighting requires bravery... something Lorellia finds itself in short supply of, my friend." The eloquent words drifted out from under a hood before the tall figure turned and started towards the castle. The ash and soot grinding under his boots as he passed through the flames and up the steps to the entrance.

The massive oak and brass doors swung open, tossing the guards posted behind them several feet, despite the fact that the mage hadn't laid a hand on either of them. Now that he was inside the castle, he removed his hood, as any gentleman would. Besides, it would just obstruct his view of the Lorellians' faces as he joined their little celebration, that he had been so rudely uninvited to.

They gawked at his appearance. At his long, pale hair that hung limply around two distinctly pointed ears, and well past his shoulders. His eyes smoldering in a sickly yellow-green glow that radiated magic... His skin, the color of white ash; lifeless and gray and carved in raised arcane symbols—quite the opposite of their rosy, human faces; flushed with blood.

To be frank, it wasn't at all how he'd imagined his grand entrance in his head.

For one, only a few jaws hung a gape and none of the women fainted. They did look shocked; perhaps even terrified, and he could take some pride in that at least.

As he arrived at the center of the ball room, he paused and turned slowly in a half circle. No guards had mindlessly rushed him, and while he couldn't say he blamed them, he was mildly disappointed. For who doesn't like to show off in front of an audience? But there was a more pressing matter.

"I've come to negotiate terms. Where be the King?" he wondered, his words resonating back to him through the silence.

After another moment, the intruder received his response. "Most request an audience for negotiations prior to determining that a show of force is appropriate." The king's deep voice echoed as he made his way towards the center of the ballroom; guests tensing even more and guards tightening closer to the man. But despite the steadiness of his voice, or the coolness of his demeanor, there was already a sheen of sweat clearly visible across his brow.

The king's words brought a smile to thin gray lips as the necromancer lifted his chin. "Perhaps... but I am not just anyone. I am Obtoxicullous, Master of the Undead, Lord of Darkness, Ruler of the Silent Slough, and..." he paused as he realized he was being rather boastful and decided to just cut to the end. "And, well... you may just call me Obi, new Ruler of Lorellia. You can accept my terms, or die." The way he stated it was stern and yet, either from pure arrogance or ignorance, he seemed to hold no tension in his face. The warlock sounded more like a parent dealing out consequences to a child than a man negotiating terms of what could be no less than war.

The queen inched closer to her lady's maid, who whispered something out of the corner of her mouth, eyes still fixed on Obtoxicullous. The poor women both looked quite apprehensive, and they weren't at all the only ones.

Obi wasn't apprehensive, however. In fact, he was completely confident in his ability to put down any resistance that the king or anyone else might make to counter him. After all, he had an army that never tired, and every one of their men, women, and children that fell on their side, would join his ranks in short order.

Oh, if only they hadn't outlawed magic centuries ago. If only they hadn't banished or killed any mage born in their miserable kingdom, perhaps they'd have some way to stand against him. The poetic justice of it all brought a wicked grin to his face.

A snort left the king, one that moved his shoulders and diaphragm with it. The rest of the court stayed quite still. Apparently, they were either unable or unwilling to share in their king's amusement. Or they were just smart enough not to indulge. "Your terms are 'you rule Lorellia now'?" The king's expression darkened. "The withering bodies of the dead don't frighten me, Mage. You're in La'Trest, not Tulot. But since you seem to be quite confused, Sir Obtoxicullous, possibly even unaware, perhaps I should introduce myself. I, Cristaldo Tito'Di Felice Viotto, am the ruler of Lorellia. I'm also a patient king, and a kind one, so I'll give you some real terms. You will withdraw your companions from my capital and my country at once. Refuse, and I promise you a very public execution."

For a moment, disdain plainly played across the mage's features until it shifted into a polite smile.

"Oh, right... Honey over vinegar," the necromancer said almost more to himself than those before him. Clearly leading with death was too harsh, so he tried a little rewording. "Give me the relic of Kamuhr and you'll not die," he said, as though his new demand was of a far more considerable nature.

"Absolutely not," the king sneered before looking towards his men. "See this lunatic elf out of here." Without even a parting glare of disdain, he turned his back on Obtoxicullous—his faith solidly in the hands of his royal guard.

Obi's smile faded into a bored scowl. He was being quite reasonable. Polite, even. But did he expect that to matter to the humans? No, of course not. But now no one could say that he hadn't at least entertained the prospect of a diplomatic solution, as he lifted his staff.

Before he could utter a word, one of the guards, that he'd admittedly not been giving enough regard to, took a hold of his arm—and that was when he'd really had enough of this entire charade.

With hardly a mutter of an incantation and a turn of his desire, frost began to quickly climb up the guard's arm, from his fingers to his elbow then his shoulder. By the time the guard began to make some sort of stammered sound of surprise, the ice had already reached his mouth, rendering him silent—frozen solid.

The necromancer moved past him only to find another guard between him and the king and more guards on the way. He was going to need an entourage of his own. So, he tapped his staff on the marbled floor tile three times. Flecks of green flames began to flit and dispense around him, materializing into shambling abominations; part flesh and part bone, there bodies mangled and disfigured with no clear distinction of what they had once been. Perhaps man or animal, or maybe even a bit of both. They had no clear face or head—just a mass of limbs that propelled them forward to engage the guards and complete their master's will.

No sooner had the horde of creatures been summoned, than a knight's pretty polished blade sang across the necromancer's upper arm, but the killing blow was when he drove his sword right into the mage's chest.

For a moment, Obi looked utterly stunned. However, the expression didn't last for long as his gaze turned downward to meet that of the knight's.

"How unfortunate," he growled, and with a wild swing of his staff, knocked the guard back. He was beyond talking now, or any foolish notion that this would end in any polite manner. Now, he was just filled with an indignant rage as he pulled the blade out of his chest, and tossed it aside—stalking towards the king.

"Fine! IF THIS–If this is what you want, then so be it!" he huffed as he flung his hand towards the king. The same sickly green color erupted from the necromancer's hand, and slammed into the king but it didn't knock the ruler back.

In fact, Cristaldo felt very little at all beside what he'd describe as a faint breeze brushing past him. He checked himself for harm but found nothing save for a small black mark on his hand, and by now the necromancer was already making a hasty retreat back to his dragon waiting in the courtyard.

A number of the guards followed the fleeing mage out of the ballroom; while guests, attendants, and his wife, flooded to the king's side. He wiped a finger across the black mark, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Are you alright, your majesty?" "What did he do?" "Who was he?" "Why did he want the relic?" "Your majesty?" The swarm of shrill, anxious questions buzzed around the king at an intolerable level. It was all causing a horrid pain in his temples... No, perhaps it was his stomach that was the source of the pain. Yes. He felt ill almost. Weak—as though he'd spent most of a day without a meal—shut away in his office, pooling over sanctions, and deeds, and—

"Enough!" he croaked.

"Cristaldo, you look pale. Please, let's sit," his wife pleaded, gently cradling his marred hand in her own as she led him towards the banquet hall.

"Yes." He nodded. "Where is Sebastien? And where is my son?"