Chains, Bread, and Deicide

[satin 7600]

Spoiler

 

It's important to note that this is a post written from the perspective of Yandel. His interpretation of the intents and actions of other characters is just that: his interpretation.

 

His head was bowed, and he knew loss. Yandel sat in a prison, alone and defeated, gazing at the darkness of the Black Cells. Dragons and flame coiled at the edges of his vision, a consequence of the curse of Xan’s devourment, though he knew that not. 

 

How had it come to this?

 

These cells had not been so bad before. He had had his Paladin magicks; he could simply wave his hand, and bring forth Golden Mists, which would suitably illuminate the area. But now Xan was dead, and he had no magick, and his skin was marred and corrupted with draconick scales, ornate designs of butchery and flame at the hands of the Arch-Drakaar etched into his flesh.

He wept, beating the wall with his chained hands, again and again and again until they were bruised and bloody. He did not blame himself - events had been utterly out of his control - but he did blame one creature:

 

Azdromoth.

 

He could feel that black hatred, not loud, but deep, coiling inside his gut. And he knew that that hatred was what had brought him to defeat and imprisonment in the first place, but Yandel no longer cared. He sat in the black for many days and nights, swearing oaths of vengeance and dreaming of his slaying the Arch-Drakaar - of the glory that would come with the righteous slaughter of the Nephilim. It was an act of monolithic insanity, to dream of the murder of a God, and Yandel could feel the duress this hatred was putting his soul and spirit under. The darkness of the Black Cells was driving him towards madness, and though he pleaded with his captors, they would not let him leave. They wished for him to turn to their side - he knew that. The Oyashiman woman had clenched his hair and tugged his head about, mocked him and bound him in chains, treated him like her pet, because she had known that there was nothing he could have done.

 

Such humiliation!

 

The loathing carried on, but it could not last forever. Yandel soon exhausted his stores of hatred, and then it was a matter of numbness. It was either eventually turn or die - he knew that. But he no longer cared if he died. Yandel did not look to be a martyr, as there was no longer a deity to martyr himself for; there was no Order to fight for. The war was irrevocably lost. Yandel no longer wished to live.

 

———«»————————————«»————————————«»———

 

He had felt his soul empowered, as all Paladins had. His body had glowed with sapphire, and he had found himself comprehending magicks and Holy sorceries that he previously had not. He had tried to heal his leg - the Oyashiman had swiftly put a stop to that, but he could not help but feel that victory was certain. How could it not be? 

She had bound his legs and feet to a chain, which she had attached to her belt. He was stumbling after her, dragged about as she and her Draconic comrades had set upon the centurions attempting to invade the Throne room. It was not a particularly hard-fought battle - the Paladins were promptly slaughtered. He had deeply mourned them, in those moments, but then he heard the death of Elden and Satar, and his heart had leapt in his chest. Dragons were perishing! And as that monstrous cleave had rendered the room apart, scattering the Azdrazi and sending the Oyashiman and Yandel scurrying behind a stone wall, he had rested against the rock content. He could feel his heart beating against his chest, thumping, thumping, thumping…

 

And then Xan died.

———«»————————————«»————————————«»———

 

He was fed, daily, by the Oyashiman woman. Her fingers would roll the bread into a paste, and gently place the morsel directly into his waiting mouth. He would eat, and she would look at him with a pitying gaze - and, in silence, leave.

 

This was a manipulation. Yandel understood that well. She had torn his world from him, quite literally forced him to watch the death of his God - and now she pitied him, and acted gently, and fed him herself. She sought to replace the community that he had formed with Aurae and the Paladins; after all, by this point, he had nothing and no-one else. He would never escape Tor’Praeth, the Black Cells, and so her daily visits were all he had. And though the greater part of his soul was deadened and numbed for hatred and sorrow, some lesser part looked forward to those daily visits; to the sorrowful look in her eyes, the feeling of being worth something.

 

To the feeling of belonging somewhere, even if it was a jail cell. To the feeling of meaning something to someone, even if she was a Herald of the Arch-Drakaar. Even if she was not as caring as he wanted to think. Even if this was just a delusion.

 

———«»————————————«»————————————«»———

 

It had begun with a scorching agony, the immolation of the soul. Yandel had seized over, gasping and clenching at the stone floor; he could feel something fundamental within him withering. His eyes, blurred for tears of pain, had seen his flesh begin to mutate; he had watched, with veritable horror, as draconick scales had begun to etch ornate designs upon his flesh, as patterns of slaughter and Asiothic ritual had been carved upon his skin. He had slumped back against the stone wall, exhaled, and there had been no sapphire upon his breath.

 

And he had known. It was over.

 

———«»————————————«»————————————«»———

 

[Java17 2216]

The sounds of chains and distant footsteps reverberated through his door. "Destiny burned bright, this night." a soft spoken voice said.

 

Then, silence.