“Fate has brought us here. It is the Will of Our Savior.” Templar Oron insisted.
Damnation. The Archprophetess couldn’t help but grind her beak. It was impressive, the Shifting Monolith, how it floated above them, in its Holy Magnificence.
She folded her arms behind her back. Maybe that would make her look more contemplative than panicking, but she doubted Oron would be fooled. He hid it well, though, as she noticed with a sideway glance.
A weapon of great power, a relic of the Age of Chaos, used at the behest of Archaeon himself.
She cursed to herself in silence. Could it look any more majestic? It certainly didn’t help that they had just trekked through the deepest of jungles, cut down some plants, and suddenly, that monolith appeared in a massive clearing veined with streams of lava.
Of course they would see it as a sign of Our Burning Saviour!
Sytarith turned around, being presented with the sight of her followers standing as if on parade, shimmering Golden armour, the red banners of His Templars unfolded, tensely awaiting her next words.
She could see it in their eyes, full of hunger. They all were drawn to it. As Tzaangor, the fascination of the Monolith’s magical properties were impossible to withstand, even for the lowliest Sariant warrior. Herself, she felt it too.
Sytarith’s mind went blank.
No. Nonono. This was too big for her, far too big. At Old Brass, she had been lucky. Luck was everything that kept her afloat, here in Furyoth Dell – it would not last forever, though, and this certainly, most assuredly was the time it finally ran out.
Taking control of the monolith was an endeavor that was as high above her as the tip of the monolith above her physical height. Figuratively speaking.
Still – the Archprophetess had no choice, she knew. The pull on her and all of her followers was just too big.
“His Templars!” She addressed them with a booming voice. “Our time here in the Furyoth Dell has not been in vain. Through all our hardships, Our Burning Saviour has led us here. By His Divine Will we have been blessed! This Divine Monolith is what we came here to find, and before its Radiant Holiness our enemies will Scatter and Despair! Glory to the Flame!”
She could not do this. She had no choice.
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Nine caged Skinks screamed in unison, as their life force was forcefully sucked away from their bodies by potent, dark magic, their physical bodies losing all colour and writhing in agony as they emaciated in seconds to pitiful shadows of their already pitiful former selves.
One of them knelt, bound in chains, next to the Archprophetess. She stood, upright, in the exact center of the elaborate ritual circle, staff raised towards the Monolith, and chanted a Sacred Hymn. The clawed fingers of her plated glove slowly, cruelly pierced the skin of its head, just as it erupted into bright blue flames, burning off its flesh, but leaving her hand unhurt.
Its screams were music to her ears, and they added to the cacophonous chanting of the religious rite.
Sytarith understood the monolith. A weapon born of Chaos, she had a fundamental understanding of its built, the magic used not unlike her own; but more than that, she understood its essence, its very being.
It sought destruction. It sought to spread the gifts of Chaos. It sought Change. In its core, a Tzeentchian alignment was obvious, and Sytarith would make use of that. Sytarith felt power coursing through her veins, and to her horror, she noticed that she felt confidence rising.
Trying her luck, she reached out, into the shimmering dark, stretching, grasping, and she found something vast and unknowable.
It was unlike anything she had encountered before. An Ancient Will, no consciousness, no – but a Will, alien and intricate.
Focusing her power on the monolith, Sytarith sent visions, a magical lure and captivating promises of flesh to change, mortals to destroy and corrupt. She promised Seraphon, many of them, and the sacrificed spirits of the Skinks around her lent credence to her promises, and she could feel their essences being pulled shrieking into the Monolith’s deep, dark core.
Slowly, subtly, from the visions she began weaving strings around it. The Archprophetess worked feverishly, bringing forth its deep desire, binding it to itself, and in her intricate net.
She showed the Will visions of the warriors of order, melting, merging. Dozens of Seraphon crying out, in abject horror and pain – in true worship, as their bodies and minds underwent the blessed change.
The images she sent were dark, hectic and feverish, little strings she affixed to the will.
Slowly, subtly, Sytarith pulled on the strings.
The Monolith followed.
