The Fire of the Zealous
High in the northeast of the Accordlands, where the mountains of the Shattered Lands run into the ruins of Old Deverenia lay a once mighty volcano. The still, cold crater at its peak the only testament to its once awesome fury. In the back of the caldera was a cave — cold, dark and still. And in front of the cave, stirring the embers of a campfire, The Corvit waited in the dark.
Diabolus Ryden was late, but The Corvit had seen his coming, and anything The Corvit had ever seen was inevitable. His gnarled hand reached out towards the fire. The Corvit drank in its heat and its energy, feasting on it as one would consume roast meat, while awaiting the arrival of his appointment. His patience was soon rewarded as the air was filled with the sound of leathern wings, and a flight of verdatha descended, landing in the center of the crater. The Corvit withdrew his arms into his robes, and stepped forward to welcome the riders.
The leader, clad in an almost ornamental regalia, motioned the others to stay with the mounts as he stepped forward, his voice echoing across the crater.
* * *
“Hail, friend of the Storm,” Diabolus Ryden said as he strode forward warily. He had heard tales of this creature, and no matter what promises had been made by his friends at court, he intended to keep his guard up.
“My Lord Belasco told me you were a true believer,” The Corvit said as he stepped forward. “Did you bring the staff?”
“My Lord Belasco indeed,” Diabolus frowned. He had little trust for Belasco, and the intricacies of the Royal Court. “Lord Belasco spoke of a trade. An ancient power of the earth in return for an antique staff. Was I misinformed?” Diabolus regarded the creature carefully.
The Corvit cocked his head slightly, like a predator listening to the wind, before speaking. “A magic of singular use to you. Follow me.” The creature turned, moving towards the cavern with its long cloak billowing behind it, giving the impression of gliding more than walking. Diabolus swept his cloak over his shoulder, and rested his left hand on the hilt of the mace at his belt. This creature was corruption incarnate. He would not be a pawn in what came next, but he would not leave without knowing what game Belasco was playing at and what this creature knew. Secure in his armament, he strode after.
The two entered the cavern together, standing side by side. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Diabolus Ryden knew instantly what The Corvit wanted to show him. In the middle of the earthen floor was a metal stake, and attached to it was a man, manacled by their ankle. Small, gaunt, and clearly ill, with blue patches of skin.
“A stormtouched? Why?” Diabolus asked, raising an eyebrow.
“A demonstration.” The Corvit smiled, one oversized eye alight with what could only be glee. The Corvit raised its hands, gesturing towards the hearth. “Stand back, Lord Ryden,” the creature commanded.
Diabolus stepped back as he was bidden, observing with curiosity the elf’s meticulous, almost ritualistic movements. Pulling back the sleeves of his robes, revealing malformed arms clad in an almost otherworldly skin, The Corvit knelt, placing one twisted hand palm down on the stone. The ground began to tremble ever so slightly. Diabolus took another step back, standing just in the mouth of the cavern. The stone began to glow, as if possessed of an otherworldly fire. Green and white flames licked through cracks in the stone beneath them, and the stone began to glow white hot. The heat was intense, and the stone grew so white in spots that Diabolus was forced to look away, spots flashing in his eyes until they readjusted.
Seemingly satisfied, The Corvit rose to his feet and took a step back, turning his attention towards the man chained to the stake. The Corvit made a sharp gesture, and the man collapsed as if unconscious. Diabolus felt The Corvit’s gaze upon him, he could imagine the self satisfied stare of the foul creature but he refused to acknowledge it. Whatever the point of this farce was, Diabolus wasn’t sure.
“This may be…unnerving. Sometimes they scream.” The Corvit said solemnly, as if to no one. With another sharp motion, The Corvit held out an arm toward the man chained to the floor. A sound split the still air, a sound like a thousand wasps buzzing, as from the man's eyes, ears, and nostrils, red droplets poured forth as if summoned by The Corvit’s will.
Diabolus Ryden summoned every ounce of strength he possessed to remain outwardly nonplussed, but the sight he beheld was almost sickening. The man’s blood began to swirl around the elf, before coalescing in a sphere above the dark creature's outstretched claw. Diabolus watched, partially in awe, partially in wonder, as The Corvit worked. The man fell back, cold and pale, as his blood swirled around the two men. Diabolus noted the poor man’s skin no longer had the blue patches.
“Watch closely, My Lord,” The Corvit said slowly, before making another slashing motion with his hand. Suddenly the sphere of blood drops reversed rotation, and began streaming back towards the man, manacled to the cavern floor. Diabolus watched as the man, now screaming, writhed with the force of the blood droplets forcing their way back into his desiccated form. Finally, the stream stopped, and the man fell back, unconscious. Standing in the center of the cavern, between the cracked slab and the unconscious man, The Corvit stood, almost triumphant, the sphere suspended above his outstretched hand no longer blood red, but an unearthly shade of ethereal blue. The elf-creature now moved faster than ever, his free hand reaching towards the cracked stone, small gouts of flame rising from the fissures, leaching from the earth towards the blue sphere. As if in reply to his ritual, the blue aura began to grow and coalesce as if nourished by the earthly energy of the dormant stone.
Diabolus froze as he realized what he was watching. The creature had removed the latent piece of the Storm from this human, and was channeling energy into it. And it was… growing. Stabilizing. The Corvit smiled, an unnerving sight, before making a slashing motion with each hand. The blue fog, crackling with energy, dissipated, and the earth began to cool.
“I see that you understand,” The Corvit’s grin was otherworldly. “I can teach you to channel fire into the vestiges of the Storm as it leaves the body of the stormtouched. And here, in the belly of this sleeping mountain lies enough power to grant your heart's desire. You only need learn to wake it.” The elf paused again, its eyes glinting, “Assemble enough stormtouched, and kill them in the fire of this crater...” The Corvit let trailed off, satisfied his message had been received.
Diabolus Ryden walked with the creature to where his acolytes waited with their mounts, his mind elsewhere, playing over the impossibility of what he saw.
“Hand me the staff,” he commanded. The smallest of the four regarded him solemnly, grabbing the staff strapped to the back of his mount, and pressing it into his master's hands. Diabolus turned, handing it to the elf. “Here is your promised payment. Teach us how to awaken the mountain. Attempt to leave before we master the ritual, and I’ll send you back to your master in pieces.”
* * *
As the men got to work, a shadow crossed the caldera, its long scaly form snaking across the dim light of Bascaron. The Deverenians were too lost in their own machinations to notice the new arrival, but The Corvit had seen Ashveil. The elf smiled, his hand gripping the staff. Another pawn in place, and another piece for the hoard.
—By Robert Denton
Original Posting
Scry by Chris Seaman, Lord Belasco by Jason Engle, Poisoned Blood by Randy Elliot
