Defeat [Zar'akal Death POV]

[SethWolf 2340]

 

 

 

Hubris

 

 

 

 

 

It should not have happened this way.

 

Kroza’kiiz had the mortal in his clutches.

 

Their life for the taking. 

 

He had won.

 

Yet, this Twisted King made one fatal flaw.

 

He was unable to imagine how far one might go to save their soul.

 

 

 

 

---

 

Judgement

 

 

 

 

His soul awakened in a nameless void. A black, swirling nothingness that stretched on in infinite horizons in every direction. Here he was neither man nor beast. A formless collection of dark blue embers and infernal flames that gave off no light or warmth. 

 

Behind him stood a woman. A hooded wayfarer dressed in silks of azure, boasting a hood that disguised her face. The woman held a shepherd’s cane with a rustic lantern dangling from the hook. A word did not yet escape her. 

 

 

 

“What is this place?” demanded Kroza’kiiz, his voice ethereal and laced with inherent rage.

 

“Where you were always destined to arrive, Siegmund.” The woman spoke with a displeased cadence, akin to a mother after having witnessed a child do something foolish. She offered no further comment.

 

Kroza’kiiz stewed on that answer for a long moment. He understood. This was death, or some version of it. His enwreathed form outstretched a limb of swirling flames to gaze upon it thoughtfully. What was to happen to him now? Was this annihilation? A form of purgatory? These questions raced in his mind as the hooded wayfarer merely watched him wordlessly tackle these questions of life and death. Though the Tyrant would never admit it, he found a terrible blackness welling up in his chest. A horrible sinking feeling of fear and despair.

 

Taciturn anxiety then turned to desperation as he suddenly snapped out a flaming hand.

“Release me from this place.” 

 

The woman gave a bemused chuff. “I am not your jailor, Siegmund.”

Just to the right of them appeared a simple wooden door of oak. 

 

Without question or sense, Kroza’kiiz threw its flaming form towards it, seizing the handle and yanking upon it with all of its might. To his dismay, it refused to budge. Kroza’kiiz could hear something just on the other side. It was a low din, indiscernible yet unmistakable. The angelic songs of the Skies. Waiting just on the other side. 

 

A wicked snarl came from Kroza’kiiz as he ferociously threw himself against it. Again, the entryway refused any attempt to negotiate it - no matter how hard he slammed his fists against it, or yanked on the doorknob, or threatened to bash it down…

 

The door remained closed.

 

All the while, the woman watched.

 

“You have to go now.” She finally spoke, “Perhaps we will meet again.” Her mouth twinged down, in a form of deep regret and twisted disappointment. “Goodbye, Kroza’kiiz.”

 

Before Kroza’kiiz could form a retort, a nefarious influence invaded this formless space of nothing. The woman had simply faded from sight as he found a flaming pentacle spinning into existence below his feet. Flaming hands reached out to grab at his soul. He fought and struggled, desperately holding onto the frame of the door until a snapping of wood came from the object, his desperate grip savagely ripping a chunk out of it and sending a cascade of splinters across the formless ground. Kroza’kiiz was dragged down, and down, and down. Straight to Moz’Strimoza.

 

 

 

 

---

 

Reckoning

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kroza’kiiz’s form fell for days through the endless expanse of the Hells. Past falling continents of alien worlds that had succumbed to Moz’strimoza, through ruins of once proud kingdoms of other planes, and penetrating layers of brimstone and sulfur until his broken form finally slammed against the cold hard floor of his domain. 

 

His body was ruined. The fall had beaten and broken nearly every bone in his form, yet his mind was fully intact - unable to censor the pain and powerless to move. Those burning souls that shuffled about his throneroom nearly seemed to mock him with how easily they waddled about past and around him.

 

And in all this time, nothing so much caused him pain than the simple knowledge that for the first time, he was defeated. It did not matter how, or why. The simple irrefutable truth that Kroza’kiiz had failed was like a searing hot brand against this foul creature’s mind. Tortuously he remained there, laying on the floor broken and damned as his soul began the slow process of reconstitution. 

 

For so long as he was condemned to remain here, any wayward souls that happened to pass by his domain in this plane of existence would hear the maddened roars and pained cries of a terrible beast, broken and ashamed. 

 

Nothing besides remains. 

 

 

 

Spoiler

OOC Note: Heya, this is a post explaining my Zar’akal’s POV after his death that inter-mixes the lore of the family he was once from with the Hooded Wayfarer, and of course his tortuous time in Moz’strimoza afterwards. This is the first time that my Zar’akal has died, and so I thought it appropriate to use this post to do a little creative writing. Many thanks to @ChainedDragons for providing me with an excellent fight and allowing me to finally let my Twisted King know the cruel sting of defeat. They also wrote a companion piece to this if you'd be interested in checking it out!

 

 

 

[ChainedDragons 1374]

Though he won, Nickolai lay within Aldunns hospital. His body broken from such a feat. Nothing worth achieving is without cost. The omen would remain under careful care as his shattered ribs were mended and his brother tried to find someone to replaced the destroyed amatii arm.