I stood musing over the corpse-riddled battlefield, the scene of my victory and final vengeance over the vampire lord, Comte Vyspasian de Ryeat. I had been … misled into attacking him. Deceived in the furtherance of schemes of the Weaver of Destinies, the vile god Tzeentch, I had found my way through their pitfalls and snares by luck and (I hope, or at least, Léofolat does) the watchful guidance of the God-King.
I toyed idly with the golden torc at my neck, recently Vyspasian’s and now mine. A precious thing, hard fought for and hard won, I played with it absently, not calling upon its powers yet. It was a key, to something I had been unknowingly seeking for many years, a key to doors I had thought were to be ever locked against me. Opportunities had opened up, and all because of the torc, ring, amulet, whatever. It wore several guises but all of them were false. It was built into its very nature to deceive but with its power I could reach beyond my previous constraints and perhaps brush fingertips against freedom, perhaps (and I barely dare think it) redemption. Using its powers was like balancing on the point of a pin, the slightest wobble could backfire, with potentially disastrous results, however I had started to learn the knack of it.
My newfound awareness of my true nature, revealed during the battle with Vyspasian, allowed me to see more clearly now, mind unfogged by my own delusions. Strange that I had to be driven mad to clearly see the insanity I was already existing within. My mind had shattered under the barrage of rapid assaults both internal and external, delusion and illusion, Liversplat’s truth and Léofolat’s demand to exist. Now though, the weight of my delusions had fallen away from me and I could drop Léofolat and pick up Liversplat without any effort.
Right now, the ghoul king splinter of my mind was aware of a presence. Out there towards the mountain range that encircled the centre of Concendia, a different delusion brushed against the edges of my own. Alfonso was close. Far closer than I had expected after their losses against the Excremental Herd and the Delarosa’s. I had intended to leave Concendia by as swift and as direct a route as possible to begin exploring some of the possibilities that Vyspasisan’s torc had opened to me but to sense my old ally so close by gave me pause.
Backed with the power of the torc in place of the magicks of the Tzeentch daemons who had sought to be my puppetmasters, I had no reason to fear meeting Alfonso. The powerful illusions and my own delusions would hold firm in his presence and prevent him from absorbing me deliberately or inadvertently into his Court. In fact, it was possible that should I wish I could overwhelm his own delusions, in the same way Vyspasian had used the torc on me, and force Alfonso to join my own “Court”. Possible, but not necessary, Léofolat had naught but respect for Alfonso and that, well that was the problem.
I feared his headlong rush to reach the centre of Concendia, to find the source of the strife on this island and to neuter it. I feared it was a doomed venture. We were more than friends, I had come to realise that we were brothers by virtue of the curse of the Carrion-King.
I wanted him to live, my friend, my brother in damnation and so I turned my back reluctantly to the outlying forests and distant shores of Concendia. I had no wish to face what power lay in the heart of the island, indeed I feared it greatly for I believed I could feel it’s madness raging, straining against its chains, lashing out and striking sparks off my own sensitive, splintered psyche. This island of Concendia nestled within its heart a curse, much as both Alfonso and I did, but with one major difference.
This curse had not yet slipped its cage.
