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Rated: E · Fiction · Fantasy · #2095825
Cast into shadows in days of yore, only to return to reconquer what he once had before.

Child of Nyuvreth


It began with a distant sound. A sound that grew louder and louder still with each passing minute. The sound of chains clinking against each other reverberated throughout the quiet, windless night. Dragging itself across the spotless marble floors, slowly heading towards the great white door at the end of the hallway.

The chains were connected to the hands and feet of a tall, lean figure who was wearing nothing but a loincloth that hung loosely around his waist, leaving the rest of his body bare for the whole world to see.

He was decorated with horrific scars and lacerations from head to toe. Most of them healed and left nothing but white lines - but there was one wound on his abdomen that oozed small amounts of blood, trickling downwards and staining his loincloth in the process.

His mane of jet-black hair were tangled in knots, having not been groomed or brushed through in centuries. Over time, his facial hair grew steadily thicker in volume, it was as rough and bedraggled as a haystack; becoming quite soaked with all the blood coming from the deep gash on his forehead.

Despite the injuries, he did not seem to be affected in any way by them. He walked confidently and with ease, exuding an air of grace and haughtiness.

The disfigured man flung the heavy doors open without difficulty. The room was of a circular shape with a domed roof, where a telescope and a globe of the entire world stood in the centre of the room. Giant bookshelves were placed against the wall, filling every space available.

The man entered, where his gaze immediately fell upon a short, elderly man cloaked all in white. The older man stroked his great, white beard and sat in a red, velvet chair, with a large book nestled comfortably upon his lap.

The older man looked up. He gasped in shock and quickly stood, the book landing on the floor with a loud thud. Slowly, he lifted a long, bony finger and pointed it at him, shaking.

"You!" growled the elder man.

"Othmund, look at you," the tall man rasped maliciously, "you've grown older last we met."

"H-how did you get out?!"

"Oh never mind that," the disfigured man continued, "I'm here for one thing and one thing only."

"And what is that?"

"You know what I'm talking about Othmund," the disfigured man said, as he began to walk slowly towards him.

"I'm sure I know not what you're saying," Othmund carefully moved backwards.

"Don't play games with me, Othmund," the disfigured man snarled, "it is not wise of you to do so."

The disfigured man continued to walk towards Othmund until he had the poor man helplessly cornered against a bookshelf.

"Tell me where it is," the hideous man said, glaring down at the shorter man from his great height.

Othmund glared back at him, but did not answer.

When it was clear that Othmund would not give him what he desired, he promptly grabbed him by the neck and slammed him repeatedly against the bookshelf; causing a few books to topple downwards to the floor. Othmund groaned in pain as his head started to bleed.

"Where is it?!" he shouted.

"Somewhere out of your reach," Othmund smiled, despite the pain.

This infuriated the disfigured man and he began to tighten his grip around the old man's neck. Othmund gasped desperately for air, the colour quickly draining from his face.

"My patience is running thin, Othmund," hissed the disfigured man. "You best tell me where it is now."

"You'll get nothing from me, scum! Once Ravangar hears of your escape, he will hunt you down and throw you back into the Pit where you belong!" Othmund spat.

"Do not speak to me of Ravangar!" the disfigured man roared in anger, his coal-black eyes turned a darker shade as rage overtook him.

His hands still gripped tightly around Othmund's neck, he threw him to the other side of the room as if he were a rag doll.

With great speed, he pounced on Othmund, yet the old man managed to roll away.

Othmund heaved himself up and his calm, grey eyes locked with the wrathful coal-black eyes of the eight-foot tall figure across the room.

Both men stood face to face, determined to vanquish the other. Othmund raised his hands and blasted his enemy with torrents of flames that emitted from the old man's palms.

The disfigured man merely laughed and deflected them with a snap of his fingers, turning them into a pile of ash that fell at his feet.

"My turn." the disfigured man smiled evilly.

Wisps of dark smoke emanated from him and in a flash they flew towards Othmund, engulfing him. Othmund fell to the ground, screaming and writhing as unimaginable pain seared through him.

There was only silence. Othmund moved no more.




© Copyright 2016 C.M.Morrison (ar_morrison at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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