One by one they looked up from their meditation, each with eyes latticed by a web of red, spiderlike marbling betraying their fatigue, shamefully nodding their affirmation.
"Perhaps I have placed too heavy of a burden on you. Perhaps I have assigned you an impossible task," he said as he walked to the center of their circle to stand where the now blackened corpse had been placed. He knelt down and examined it closely. What had once been a greying corpse, preserved through the effect of one of the dark rituals he had been taught, was now spent as a dark-grey, charred mass resembling nothing of humanity. When he completed his examination, he rose and addressed them again, "Or perhaps, I have not provided the necessary vessel and sufficient power."
As he turned to the doorway, silently motioning with his hand, four Acolytes entered quickly and removed the burnt corpse. A second group of four followed, carrying a large but limp corpse. Even though this body was void of life, it was still an imposing figure. They hurried over, as much as they could, and placed the corpse where the burnt one had been, the size of it almost surpassing the circumference of the dark rune that had been drawn on the floor.
After his Acolytes exited, taking a moment to bow in reverence to him, he walked over to the necromancer sitting at the prime position of the ritual circle, inside the rune of pride, and motioned that he remove himself. Mordin watched as he silently stood up, turned, and walked out of the room. Mordin then slowly turned, and eased himself into a cross-legged, sitting position, mimicking the posture of his remaining nine necromancers. Sitting opposite him was the second strongest. This was necessary because the two with the most power needed to both be sitting within the runes of pride as pride was the beginning of all hate. "Let us begin," he said closing his eyes, the others doing the same.
He began by establishing the link to his dark fountain and used it to enhance his meditation of pride, that which was uniquely the result of his own efforts. For that is what pride is, the distinguishing of oneself above another because of one's own efforts. His counterpart did the same, and after a few moments, a faint pulse was felt emanating from the blood-runes within which they sat. Pride had been activated.
Within his understanding of pride were the components necessary for the next portent of hate - division. For without pride, one cannot see the differences between each of us, ultimately judging them as inferior. And with that inferiority came the natural focus upon that which was different. And what had been seen as different, was now a potential of interruption to our pride. For how can one be prideful if there exists a different source of pride? With that understanding, the link was created by the next two necromancers directly to the left of Mordin and his counterpart creating another faint pulse. Division had been activated.
Directly related to the focus of differences, thereby emphasizing that which divides us, is the natural progression into jealousy - the animosity toward any and all differences for the sake of difference. And as the focus on division grows, so too does the propensity to be jealous of that which divides us. If one exhibits pride in that which differs from us, then comparison between objects becomes the consequence often times leading directly into envy. And if we cannot have what another does, jealousy is then amplified. A third pulse emanated from the third pair of necromancers. Jealousy had been activated.
A natural result of jealousy born from emphasizing the reasons for our division instead of the reasons for our unity, is the presumption that controlling those differences can lead to a reduction of our jealousy, and therefore, an increase in our pride. So, control then becomes the activation of jealousy and is the kinetic manifestation of the portents of hate. As Mordin felt the fourth pulse from the fourth set of necromances and the runes beneath, he knew Control had been activated.
But control was not the end of action. He knew the goal of control was complete domination where the effort to control was completely eliminated because there was nothing left to the differences being controlled. Hence, there would then be no need for division because everything would be dominated to the point of similarity. Thus, domination was the end manifestation of hate. With the pulse signaling the activation of the final set of blood-runes, Domination had been activated.
As the lines connecting the five sets of blood-runes linked to each other, he began the process of linking them to the last and final rune, the blood-run of Hate, inside which lay the large corpse. As he allowed the dark energy they had developed from its five portents to flow toward the center, it was necessary that his entire being become a reflection of the hate he felt. But because he so readily felt the entire progression of the portents within his own hatred for Jesolin, it was a matter of allowing it to flow in a direction. As a result, the action of direction required no effort except to funnel.
When the power housed within the outer blood-runes met the central rune, it began to glow a faint and dark red. Aiding the runes, Mordin poured his power within them allowing motion to begin. Not motion from the vessel Jesolin had provided, but motion within the power. As before, with the other corpses, it flowed into this new corpse to the point where he doubted its ability to withstand the surge. But this corpse was strong, as was his own power. So, when the body began to glow itself, and he could sense the apprehension from his necromancers through the links they had established, he did not echo their fear of failure. Instead, he grew in his confidence for great was his hate, and great was his control.
And that was the secret to the success of this ritual. Hate cannot exist without the manifestation of control through the assertion of power. His necromancers simply lacked the sufficient levels of power to control the flow of hate into the corpse. When the previous five corpses began to disobey the wills of the practitioners and started to show signs of being consumed by the infusing of power, the Necrons were ill equipped to adapt. However, Mordin, the Prime Necron, did not just know the paths of control, he possessed the power to manipulate them to their fullest. So, when the behavior of this new corpse in response to the power it was being directed to hold deviated from his intent and it began showing the beginning signs of being consumed, Mordin adjusted the nature of the runes. Had he not, they would have continued with their initial purpose and poured all of the power they held into the corpse without any regulation. However, by altering the blood-rune’s focus from imbuing the corpse, to controlling it, he began achieving what his Necrons could not. Yet, control was merely the beginning, for with only control, there is still choice and still existed the choice for the runes and corpse to disobey his intent. So, through the link provided by his dark fountain and catalyzed by the combined powers of all present, he asserted his will and advanced control to utter domination. In that moment, when the possibility of choice was consumed, Mordin, the Prime Necron, the first True Necromancer, demanded his creation to rise.
And rise it did. Emanating the unholy combination of all five portents of hate, what once was one of Jesolin’s Warbringers had been transcended into the reflective consciousness of leashed wickedness. Bractos had been a massive expression of mortal perfection, a mountain molded into flesh; but he had still been limited by the finite condition of mortality. However, the hard lines of limitation were not only blurred, they were completely erased; for standing before them now was a body not built by the fleeting nature of cells and tissues, nor fueled by heart and blood. Instead, its bones were infused with Pride, strong and resolute in their substance. Its muscles were bathed in Division capable of rending separate that which was together. Its veins, void of blood, were filled with Jealousy. Its mind had become the embodiment of Control, lacking its own independent thought, but craving that of its creator. And its will, the source of all choice, had been fully Dominated, reflecting only a singular focus, that of its master, that of Mordin.
Having completed the ritual by allowing the flows of power to slowly diminish, the master of necromancy slowly stood up and walked to stand in front of his newest creation. This was not the first time he utilized his powers to animate the dead.
Though effective and profitable for what they were, his Dead Guards had been simple constructs only. They were not infused with the powers of hate as this creature had been. No, they were nothing more than animated masses of flesh and bone, vacant of everything except the promise of tasting human tissue.
“Who do you server?” asked Mordin.
“The Master,” answered the beast of hate in a voice deeply resonating of the Five Portents.
“And who is The Master,” asked Mordin again.
“You,” it said causing Mordin’s lips to curl at their ends in a sinister grin.
*******
Naked, he knelt down inside his rune of meditation as he did so many times. Each time before, he was motivated by attaining a higher understanding of his master's will and hate. However, this time was different. This time he needed answers. He had been a loyal and faithful servant. And quite readily too, as he owed everything he had become, everything he had attained, to the providence of Satan. Because of his unwavering obedience, he rarely questioned his master's reasons. He learned from a very young age that questioning him was not nearly as important as obeying him. All things worked though the machinations of his master to benefit him, and in that, he realized the power of blind trust. But even in his blindness, there were times when questions intruded into his understanding. And while his previous questions could be quelled without answers, these could not. For these centered around his father, the man called Eriboth; the only man to contain almost no evidence of the painful scars all life contained.
Very few things could penetrate his obedience to the hate he held, but the emergence of his father was certainly one of them. While on the field of battle the instantaneous emotions dominated his actions and allowed him to emerge victorious through the revelation and manifestation of a tangible focal point for all of his hate; however, with the dissolving of those reflexive emotions into those more profoundly developed, he was not sure that hate was all he felt.
Yes, there was an impossibly large growth of it, but underneath it, to the roots of his questions, breathed the beginnings of curiosity. Who was this man? Or asked more precisely, what was this man's identity? And further yet, was any part of his identity reflected in who Jesolin had become? As powerfully defined by his Master's influence, these questions were proving too insidious for his walled defense of hate to prevent without further investigation. And who better to investigate with than the one who had always been there for him? As he sank into the ocean of his dark fountain, accessing its power to fuel his meditation and connection to Satan, he allowed his questions to flow.
Yes, my son, you have many questions about this man, stated Satan.
"Is he my father?" asked Jesolin.
He is
"Why?"
Long have I watched him. Long have I seen him and long have I influenced him, though he knows it not.
"What do you mean, influenced him?"
Do you not think my hands have tightened their grasp on everything in this world? Do you doubt the intricacies of the plans I have set?
"You know I do not."
Then why do you question?
"I meant no disrespect, My Lord, I meant only to understand your purpose of allowing our battle. You did know he would be there did you not?”
Ah yes, the mortal need for understanding why. How binding it is, to be limited by the finite and inconsequential understanding of what you cannot possibly understand, answered Satan, pausing momentarily before continuing. Yes, I did know he would be there. His presence, while jarring for you, was necessary to set in motion other events, events necessary for your rise, my Son.
“Had I not discovered he was my father, I do not think I would have bested him. He is like nothing I have ever faced before. His mind was impenetrable, as if it was not even there,” stated Jesolin. “How can that be?”
You are correct, my son. His mind has been usurped by blind obedience.
"To what?"
Illusion.
"How will I defeat him?"
You will not, you cannot.
“You said you would grant me the power to defeat all of my foes,” said Jesolin.
He is not your foe. He is mine.
“I would have killed him for you had it not been for the dragon,” responded Jesolin, still deep in his meditation.
You are a faithful servant and Son. I have no doubt you will fulfill your purpose. You have done well.
"Thank you, Father."
Do not thank me yet, my son. I have a gift for you.
"What can you possibly give me that is greater than what you already have? Father, I am full."
Yes, you are full. But even you can use assistance to help ease the burden I have placed upon you.
"With you, I can do all things. You are enough for me."
I am enough for you, but you are not enough to complete what you must complete.
"But, Father, you have given me assistance in the Warbringers. Surely they are enough to assist me."
They are formidable, but they are mortal, human, and failing in nature. In the end, they will fail you, my son. Has Vismorda not already failed you?
Jesolin knew this question was not meant to elicit a response or debate. Vismorda had failed him. She did let his two little Ravens escape. And yes, as devoted as she was to him, she was nothing more than an illustration of how devotion expressed through a mortal vessel was still mortal and capable of failure. “Of course, you are wise. I am grateful for any assistance you can provide.”
Do you remember the Portents of Hate and the Runes of Power I taught you?
"Of course, father, how could I forget them?"
Good. They will be instrumental in this next lesson.
"What is it?"
I will show you how to Gate. But to do it, I will need all of you.
“You already have all of me,” responded Jesolin.
No further words, whether audible or otherwise, transpired between Satan and Jesolin, master and student, father and son, that evening. As the presence of Satan left his mind and the residue of his exhilarating foulness departed from his soul, Jesolin was left with no greater understanding of Eriboth than what he had possessed prior to his meditation. But that did not mean he was unchanged in reference to the questions of his mortal father. Somehow, the reassurance from his Lord, Satan, rendered all of his questions insignificant. It no longer mattered what fraction of his father’s identity he carried, nor how much of it was imbedded within his own identity. No longer did he need to know for what purpose Satan had allowed the two of them to battle. And no longer did he need to know what part Eriboth was to play in Satan’s grand plan. Having the burden of facing and defeating him lifted by his master, Jesolin felt an unexpected freedom and lightness of mood.
However, the removal of such a burden consequently brought other burdens into focus, for there was much work still to do. Emboldened by his master’s selfless act, he confidently began the first of those burdens, to solidify his assistance. As his inclusion into the world of Satan and Hell progressed through the years, and his sensitivity to all things evil increased, what had initially begun as detailed conversations through which Satan instructed him in the complexities of several rituals and nuances of The Dark Liquid had transformed into a sort of intrinsic knowledge. So, while Jesolin was drawing the complex blood-runes covering most of the surfaces of his chamber with complete perfection without practice or preparation, he was not surprised. When the runes were completed with all the ability and instinct of one performing them since birth, he motioned for the young woman who had been silently standing in wait, to approach.
He kept them, all of them, for moments just like this. There was a power seeded within the blood of mortality. Something happened when it was spilled on the runes, or when it was used to draw them. However, Satan had not yet chosen to impart unto him the knowledge associated with its magical mechanism, but that did not mean his dark magic would be any less potent. And considering the amount of blood th
is particular ritual was calling for, its potency would rival anything he had felt from his master before.
As the young woman made her way over to him and kneeled down in front of him, her eyes showed nothing more than a blank obedience to his will. In fact, they reflected his will and contained nothing more than what he allowed her to contain. She had been broken as they all had and all would. Even Vismorda would be broken. How deliciously he would enjoy consuming the entirety of her will and replacing it with his own. Regardless of the new dimension she had shown him earlier, she would eventually wear out her usefulness entirely. In that moment, she would break. But Vismorda was not kneeling in front of him.
So, he focused on the young woman who was and gently raised her chin so he could look into her eyes. Somewhere, within the deep brown that had once been so reflective of youthful life, was a soul hanging onto a ledge with white knuckles trying to hold on as long as it could before it fell and was snuffed out like the faintest of candles by the faintest of breezes. For a time, the candle lingered and flickered, almost being extinguished on several occasions. But, try as it might, it could not resist the breeze forever, and neither did she. Thus was the breaking she endured, a slow, painful descent into a state of being void of hope and life. And in this state, she had one final use left to offer. So, when her head was raised and their eyes met, he pulled the short, sacrificial dagger from the belt around his waist and slit her throat from ear to ear as effortlessly as if he was cutting the wind that had been used to snuff out her candle.
From the moment her blood spilled onto the dark rune, he felt its power catalyzed and move. First, as it was with all rune-based magic, its power gathered inside the rune itself, not to be simply held, but to be propelled; however, for what and to where, he did not know. But he did not need to know. So, when the runes and his intrinsic understanding of the ritual bid him to focus his power, all of it, upon the location just above where the second rune had been drawn on the floor, not more than ten feet away from the rune he was standing inside, he did without hesitation.
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