The Prodigal Son

[Zezimus 1523]

The Prodigal Son

 

 

A chilling breeze filled the morning air as the young Imperial Prince of Oren, Yakov Carrion, sat mounted upon his horse, his gaze unbreaking as he stared back upon the great city of Petrus. For all these years, his sleeps had been plagued by nightmares of such endless destruction and death… His hours of torment seemingly without cause or reason, and yet through all his attempts to end such a fate, his efforts had been made in vain. As he reared his horse along the northern road, he dug the tip of his boots into its side. From there, it jolted ahead at an astonishing pace, leaving behind it a great cloud of dust in its wake. Yet a solemn darkness filled the Prince’s eyes, his thoughts drawn far away from the task at hand.

 

By the time the path had begun to disappear from beneath its hooves, the horse had slowed remarkably, the land ahead becoming increasingly steeper and more difficult to climb. Peering on to what stood before him, Yakov looked up into the sky above, the clouds parting to reveal a great mountain range, stretching far off into the horizon. A long and arduous climb, though tired and fatigued, the horse finally reached its summit after some hours had passed. There as he looked about him, a heavy wind brushed against Yakov’s skin. He leant his head over his shoulder to look back along the road he had travelled and for a moment, his mind delved deep into thought of all he had achieved in Oren… The memories that had gone and passed. Far off in the distance, he saw a crow flying high above Petrus, the city in which he had spent much of his youth living, yet now nothing more than a distant blot on the horizon. He knew in his heart that he had but one final task to perform.

 

 

The descent down the mountain was no less difficult than the journey up. The cliff face was steep and rough, small chunks of rock splintering away from beneath the weight of the horse, tumbling down far into the valley below. At the foot of the mountain, there stood a great forest, its branches and brambles towering high into the air. By the time he had neared the treeline ever closer, he had begun to notice that much of its bark was rotten with decay, a thick miasma lingering within. Whatever curse lay upon the forest, it would surely not welcome such men as he. Yet his determination unwavering, Yakov pressed on regardless of what dangers he knew to be present.

 

As he approached the treeline, he stood down from off his horse, looking on to what stretched before him. Set to uncover the deepest and darkest secrets that the forest had shrouded within, he pressed forwards once more without any sign of hesitation or dismay. From there, a strange smell filled his nose as his eyes searched curiously around him. Within mere moments, he had caught sight of a large ruin up ahead, one that appeared at first glance to have once been a village of some sort. Overgrown and mossy, many of its buildings were crumbling and worn, but only a memory of what had once stood in ages past. Yet as Yakov’s eyes scanned around through the desolate ruin, his gaze halted suddenly at the sight of what appeared to be the remnants of a graveyard. Brushing the undergrowth aside with the flat side of his blade, he stepped forward, cautiously ensuring not to trip over any protruding roots or branches. Leaning his head up once more, he saw that stood before him was an ancient crypt, its stonework bearing symbols of an unknown origin. From there, a crooked smile formed across the Prince’s face, as he made his way forward, descending down into its darkest depths.

 

 

There he remembered… Remembered the searing pain running through his bones, as he had let forth his final breath. His mind delved into shadow, far beyond the boundaries of the mortal realm. He saw stars, memories, visions of his past life. All that he had lost and gained throughout his short but tragic existence upon the world he lived. Simple memories, yet those he yearned more than anything else to experience but one last time. Yet as his thoughts grew clearer, they were no sooner torn from the deepest depths of his soul, replaced with emotions of anguish, pain and an all-encompassing desire for power. He had emerged from this torturous ritual a changed man... A cursed man.

 

For when he awoke, he lay stretched out upon the ground, his body shrouded in a thick veil of darkness. No longer did he feel the pain he had once known, but in its place, a cold and harrowing emptiness, down to the very core of his body. As he slowly begun to lift himself to his feet, he looked up to see a familiar face staring down at him. Its voice crept out from within its lungs, harsh and cruel beyond measure. “Who do you serve?” asked the Prophet as he loomed above his latest initiate. Yakov’s head tilted slowly upwards to reveal a skeletal face, the flesh having partially rotted from the bone. As his lips begun to curl upwards, a small stream of blood trickled down from the corner of his mouth. His words fell like poison, as a rasping, blood curdling voice crept out from within. “I serve… I serve you, my master.”

 

 

The words echoed in Yakov’s memory as he strolled into the inner sanctum of the tomb. From that day forth, he had been relentless and unyielding in his quest to extend his dark master’s control over Athera. In his mind, no matter the cost, nor consequence of his actions, he would one day succeed. For what little humanity he had left within him had long been quelled, torn from within his very soul. Left was only a tool of destruction and death… A bitter shadow of his former being. Alas, he had always known that a day would come where the veil would finally fall.

 

As he continued on, the ground beneath his feet begun to shudder with every step he took. All the while, his skin crumbled and flaked away to dust, a thick cloud of shadow and flame enveloping the air around him. For as he emerged, the illusion had fallen. What stood amidst the ruins of the crypt was not the man he had once been, but one known only as the Inquisitor. A dark and deceptive being hailing from within the deepest depths of Drauchreim, a long cloak flowed after him, as he gripped between his skeletal fingers a sceptre of pure gold. Within the centre of the crypt a large tree had grown, radiating in an intense aura of pulsating energy. In that very moment, Yakov unleashed a rasping cackle, as he raised the staff into the air, a great bolt of lightning crackling down from the skies above, striking at the centre of the tree. Deep within his black and tainted heart, he knew that the full extent of his betrayal had only just begun…

[Porko 397]

Segmentum grins maniacally.

[Lark 2227]

"Welp. This ain't good." Avgust shakes his head in despair, mustering all his blacksmithing skill for the coming days.

[Parkins 550]

*Ger'Veran scowls as he hears the news*

 

"Find me everything about these spies. We must know of them before things like this happen. We must plan around these things if we are to succeed." he says, looking down at a cultist, before retiring inside his tower

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.