Post by Hellwalker on Jun 26, 2012 23:02:57 GMT -5
And so here he sat, lonely but not forgotten. This room would be his prison for some time, he knew, and as much as the thought disgusted him, Mahrek could not help but appreciate the irony of his current predicament. He did not often stop to truly ponder the events around him and his own actions, for he knew what had to be done and he knew how to achieve it, but here, in this bland little room of no particular features or accommodations save for a bed to sleep in, he found himself in a rare state of self reflection.
How had it come to this? It was only earlier he had finally freed Dreshae from her prison – a prison of the heart, mind and soul – only to find himself cast into a prison of his own. Had he taken her place? But for what? Was he simply lonely? Had he finally had enough of being misunderstood as all true performers must; those who wrap themselves in a veil of mystery to keep their audience at a distance, and to keep those who would ruin their work ever guessing? Had he seen an unmistakable kinship in that so-called paladin – a bond not of blood but of souls too powerful to resist?
“Tch... look where it got me, steering away from the path of the true performer and seeking kinship.” The man mused aloud to himself, for no one was there to hear him.
Even this murder he'd committed... he knew now the cost of his recklessness. Cormyr at large is not yet ready to understand him. Destroying the assassin that had struck Olivia was certainly no different from incinerating a band of orcs all too eager to tear his companions apart, and yet it had cost him dearly. Indeed, for one so apt in games of the mind, he had certainly been defeated this time – by himself.
“What good is a performer forced into the shadows of obscurity, unable to do his work?” He berated himself, tearing the plain robes he wore off to reveal his usual attire underneath, the robes discarded upon the ground.
However painful it may be, he would have to dabble in obscurity for now, for he could not afford to face execution and lose the sacred gifts bestowed upon him by his betters. The only way to show his respect, and indeed, love for his benefactors is to survive long enough to complete his masterpiece and loose it upon the world, he knew.
“I've no intention of being stopped, and here in the shadows I needn't worry about presentation. I'll do whatever it takes in order to be able to gloriously erupt once again, reborn from the ashes of obscurity.”
A flare of ambition rose in the sorcerer's amber eyes, and he reached into the belt pouch behind his back, underneath his cloak, producing a handful of tattered scrolls, badly damaged by some force not entirely attributed to the mere passage of time. In a place of ruin he had found these remnants of a wizard's spell book, little left legible by the destruction that had consumed the place. Only enough remained for Mahrek to understand exactly the purpose of one passage in particular.
“Sergeant Ramses of the thirteenth legion of the Rift of Corrosion, ” he read aloud from the scripture.
“Well now, Ramses... it seems I have some time on my hands. Enough time to bind you, that is. You'll be mine soon enough, and then I shall have the power to erupt from this wretched cage.” A sinister smirk formed upon the sorcerer's features as he kept reading from the page.
“I'll make you all proud yet. Even if I have to be hunted as a monster, I'll finish what I started so many years ago when the arcane fire exploded from my blood.”
No doubt or self-reflection tore at his mind now. Only the flames of clarity occupied his thoughts as Mahrek picked the robes off the floor, put them on and stepped out of his room, his hood pulled low. It was time once again to follow his inspiration, wherever it may take him.
“Beware, bounty hunters and Purple Dragons, for if you play with fire – my fire – you will get burnt.”
How had it come to this? It was only earlier he had finally freed Dreshae from her prison – a prison of the heart, mind and soul – only to find himself cast into a prison of his own. Had he taken her place? But for what? Was he simply lonely? Had he finally had enough of being misunderstood as all true performers must; those who wrap themselves in a veil of mystery to keep their audience at a distance, and to keep those who would ruin their work ever guessing? Had he seen an unmistakable kinship in that so-called paladin – a bond not of blood but of souls too powerful to resist?
“Tch... look where it got me, steering away from the path of the true performer and seeking kinship.” The man mused aloud to himself, for no one was there to hear him.
Even this murder he'd committed... he knew now the cost of his recklessness. Cormyr at large is not yet ready to understand him. Destroying the assassin that had struck Olivia was certainly no different from incinerating a band of orcs all too eager to tear his companions apart, and yet it had cost him dearly. Indeed, for one so apt in games of the mind, he had certainly been defeated this time – by himself.
“What good is a performer forced into the shadows of obscurity, unable to do his work?” He berated himself, tearing the plain robes he wore off to reveal his usual attire underneath, the robes discarded upon the ground.
However painful it may be, he would have to dabble in obscurity for now, for he could not afford to face execution and lose the sacred gifts bestowed upon him by his betters. The only way to show his respect, and indeed, love for his benefactors is to survive long enough to complete his masterpiece and loose it upon the world, he knew.
“I've no intention of being stopped, and here in the shadows I needn't worry about presentation. I'll do whatever it takes in order to be able to gloriously erupt once again, reborn from the ashes of obscurity.”
A flare of ambition rose in the sorcerer's amber eyes, and he reached into the belt pouch behind his back, underneath his cloak, producing a handful of tattered scrolls, badly damaged by some force not entirely attributed to the mere passage of time. In a place of ruin he had found these remnants of a wizard's spell book, little left legible by the destruction that had consumed the place. Only enough remained for Mahrek to understand exactly the purpose of one passage in particular.
“Sergeant Ramses of the thirteenth legion of the Rift of Corrosion, ” he read aloud from the scripture.
“Well now, Ramses... it seems I have some time on my hands. Enough time to bind you, that is. You'll be mine soon enough, and then I shall have the power to erupt from this wretched cage.” A sinister smirk formed upon the sorcerer's features as he kept reading from the page.
“I'll make you all proud yet. Even if I have to be hunted as a monster, I'll finish what I started so many years ago when the arcane fire exploded from my blood.”
No doubt or self-reflection tore at his mind now. Only the flames of clarity occupied his thoughts as Mahrek picked the robes off the floor, put them on and stepped out of his room, his hood pulled low. It was time once again to follow his inspiration, wherever it may take him.
“Beware, bounty hunters and Purple Dragons, for if you play with fire – my fire – you will get burnt.”