Out of the Darkness #1 - The Puppeteer

Oh, and please don’t hold back with the criticism – after all, I’m not a native speaker, so there might be some language glitches in there.

The Dark Lord stirred upon his throne. His thoughts moved sluggishly as of yet, like a lizard after a long night's sleep, slowly flexing their metaphorical muscles, and ever so slowly stretching in the languid warmth of a new morning. They were preparing for the hunt that inevitably lay ahead. His thoughts did not usually dwell on things as trivial as the present, as it was his wont to occupy himself rather with the things that lay ahead of him – the strands of destiny that would unravel and shift, and then knot together again, forming one of a myriad of many possible futures. Always this had proven to be the edge against his adversaries, as he had been able to predict their plans and petty schemes long before they were even set into motion, and had been able to thwart them or lead them astray onto preset paths of his choosing, breaking alliances and forming new rivalries on a whim. But for once his thoughts returned to the present, deeming it necessary to grace it with their presence, as this was one of the many crucial moments of his grand machination, and would open the path that thus far had been barred by wars, lies, deceit and personal ambition. One scheme to end it all.

Vertron, Twelvth Lord of Cythania, Surpreme Lord of Dread, opened his eyes and regarded the scene that unfolded before him.

Several feet below him, a few feet removed from the base of his mighty throne, one of the bird-creatures – a vrock, he recalled – cowered, its eyes downcast before the majesty and presence of its mighty liege. Flanking it were two of Vertron's most trusted guards - which meant nothing more than that he had crushed their pitiful minds, quelling whatever resistance they offered, and taking away everything that remotely resembled the illusion these beings regarded as free will. They were puppets on a string, dancing at his leisure, and they served their purpose adequately. A mass of lesser devils was thronging along the room's walls - his usual retinue of sniveling courtiers, diplomats, would-be assassins, beggars and servants, their constant bustle a sussurrus that drowned out everything the vrock might have had to say.

Vertron hit the left armrest of his throne with a resounding blow, shattering the skull of a pit fiend in the process. "Silence!" his roar bellowed inside the minds of those present, and the hall immediately was hushed – some of them permanently, as the might of their warlord shattered the bastions of their mind, leaving them twitching and thrashing on the floor. Even the countless imps that usually swirled about his throne room immediately fell silent, fearfully refraining from their usual cheering and cursing. The vrock demon dared not lift its head.

"Thou may speak", the devil warlord rasped. "What are thy tidings?"

His minion, heartened by the request, opened its powerful beak. "Glory to you, Scourge of the Lower Planes" it croaked. "I return from afar with news of the traitor, Yael Jogaa."

Vertron took pains not to reveal the glee that desperately struggled to appear in his eyes.

"We encountered the Fallen One deep inside the Ethereal Plane, just as you'd arranged it to be, my lord. He was accompanied by three others, of whom we managed to slay one. We only lost some fodder in the process, and would have finished the rest of his little band, if not for an unexpected visitor – a filthy little 'yanki with powers of the mind at her disposal. She kept me occupied long enough so that the rest of the group could flee." The pitch in the vrock's voice shifted towards uneasiness, as it awaited its masters response to this obvious failure. Vertron, however, merely gave a thin-lipped smile, showing several fangs in the process.

"So our traitor hath surrounded himself with a band of other fools, eh? What doeth he hope to gain from them? I wonder if he thinks they make him ... safe from me?" The warlord barked out a lough. "Preposterous! But then again, he never was one to plan ahead ... Very well. One of them is dead, thou say? I shall think of the message as delivered and understood, then. Let him run for a while. We will catch up to him and this ... motley troupe soon enough. As long as he doeth exactly as he was meant to do, I shall allow him the leisure of a life in fear – but once he oversteppeth his bounds, thou may slay him wherever thou might find him, my servant." Vertron rose up from his throne, and his full height overshadowed the hall. "Take him away for processing.You shall be granted a new form, if only to prove your competence once again, Kyrrshak. But before that, pray tell – what news are there from your home?"

The vrock dared to smile. "Everything goes according to plan, my lord. Your minions await your orders, and are ready to unleash the storm at a moment's notice."

The devil warlord nodded curtly. "That shall be enough. Tell thy superiors that I was glad to be of service. But now – leave me. I shall have a lot of thinking to do."

Kyrrshak nodded hastily and bowed, making its retreat from the chamber. The court followed suit, used to reading the moods of their master well enough to know when they were unwanted.

He stood alone in his court, his shadow crossing with that of the overarching pillars that framed his field of vision. The low crackle of torches was the only sound nearby, and for a few moments he didn't even feel the heat of the plane on his skin, so immersed was he in his thoughts. Everything went according to plan. Soon, the Other would see. Soon, his machinations would come to fruition. There was power to be had, and it was his for the taking, as none of his pitiful enemies even had the slightest idea of what was in store for them.

The Lie-Weaver sat down again, resting the bulk of his body on the throne of bones, and as he did, his form shifted once again.