Wrymlung the Decayed

Hollow

"How much do you know about the end of the Elven Kingdom?"

"All I know is that which is known by all, they performed ancient hollow magic that destroyed them all in the end..." Wrymlung looks over the ancient text, his hand hovering over the page, "Why does this appear to be after it all happened?"

"It is not... This is the poorly contrived dream of the fool who was the one to cast this magic in the end." Ahmose sets the book down and flips to the page with the diagrams of the magic circles used for the ritual but Wrymlung can't make head or tails of it.

"What is the purpose of all of this?"

"Power. The elves already had a natural affinity for hollow magic, you see. Still, with the rise of the church and holy magic, they believed their only course of action was to empower themselves further."

"What were their hopes in achieving more powerful hollow magic?" Wrymlung gives up on trying to decipher the ancient magic and looks around at Lord Ahmose's study, his eyes trailing over the strange mechanisms scattered around.

"Hollow magic is the natural antithesis to holy magic. It is the one thing in this world that can truly stand up against the Soarone Theocracy."

"That's heresy-" Wrymlung whirls around only to be met with Lord Ahmose's massive frame and immediately falls silent, stumbling back a bit.

"Is it?" the demon lord leans down to meet his eyes, "In what way are the forces of this world heretical? Do you mean the opposition of holy light? Or, do you mean that even the mere suggestion that it might be defeated is blasphemous?"

"It is simply not possible. Nothing, not even the depths of night can quell the light of Ianthe. To suggest that something, anything can do such a thing is in opposition to the goddess," even as Wrymlung says this, staring into the eyes of a demon lord, he finds himself doubting his own words.

"And here you are, whispering doubts into the very fabric that the goddess and her followers weave. This fabrication of words is at the core of their power and hollow magic is the hook slowly unmaking it even as it is made. Ultimately, hollow magic reinstills the truth of this world," Ahmose motions to a workbench, and Wrymlung follows obediently.

The demon lord places a candle upon the rough, wooden surface before producing a spark of holy light, an act of heresy in a moment that feels far too casual for the magnitude of the revelation before Wrymlung's eyes. All light in the room, even that of the sun spilling through the windows seems to dull in the presence of true holy light. Wrymlung reaches out once the candle is lit, his hand hovering over the flame, letting the warmth wash through him and closing his eyes as it gets steadily warmer and warmer until he cries out in agony. He snatches his hand away and looks it over for the searing hole he feels in his hand to find it whole but the pain remains, his blood pounding in his ears. His eyes can't move away from his shaking hand, dread sinking deep within his chest. Lord Charnelscorn cradles Wrymlung's hand, his talon-like nails delicately spreading Wrymlung's hand apart, drawing his other hand from the other side of Wrymlung to tap the palm of the glove. The holy light is drawn slowly from Wrymlung's hand at the tip of Ahmose's talon, letting the ever-present chill of Wrymlung's body sink back in with a deep sense of relief. Wrymlung breathes deeply and comes back to himself only to tense at the feeling of his back pressed against his lord's chest.

"You are a piece of my forest now..." Ahmose places the sphere of golden light into Wrymlung's hand, curling his hand around it, "You have a natural resistance to the light of creation but if you let it in unabated it shall consume you whole... for you are destruction."

Wrymlung shivers, staring at the light burning in his hand, "Yes, my lord." His hand wraps around it tighter still, snuffing it out.

"Here," Lord Ahmose moves Wrymlung's hand to hover closer to the flame once more, his massive hand dwarfing Wrymlung's, "Focus on this symbol..." He traces a four-pronged symbol in the air that twists like a serpent and glows a pale blue. "You know the feeling of your magic..." Ahmose lowers to speak next to Wrymlung's ear, his large fangs just a breath away from Wrymlung's exposed flesh, "Let it trace the path of the symbol."

Wrymlung steadies himself and casts the magic from his palm, a delicate, spidery web of light threading through the air to surround the candle in a haze of green, putting out the candle. Lord Ahmose pulls away, nodding in approval.

"Expertly done," Ahmose walks away a short distance to pull out a small, leatherbound book, "If you wish, I can teach you the three magics, all of which I am adept in. I am certain it would help you in your endeavors."

Wrymlung flexes his hand experimentally, "What do you wish of me, my lord? You have still yet to tell me."

"Ah, yes," Ahmose hands him the book and rolls out a map, "Are you familiar with Drakemont?"

"I have never traveled that far, but, I am familiar with the legends."

"Through much investigating, I have discovered the locations of the last full-blooded elf in all existence." Pointing to a spot just north of the mountain, Lord Charnelscorn continues, "She is here, at Dragon's Tear Lake."

Wrymlung stares down at the map, completely aghast, taking a long moment to fully appreciate the words of his lord. Looking up at Ahmose, he sees the flames within the sockets flare with what he can only describe as excitement.

"Do you know what you are suggesting? Introducing an elf back into the fold of the current political landscape would spell chaos. I am but a lowly knight, my lord, but I know that it would only be asking for troubles to come if not outright warfare."

Ahmose pulls his hand away and looks out the window with a deep sigh, "I have meditated upon this extensively..."

For a breath, Wrymlung stares at him before ducking his head, "Then I shall do as you command, my lord."

"You will not try to dissuade me?" Ahmose continues to look out the window.

"I am sworn to you, my lord," Wrymlung nods, falling to one knee before his lord.

Lord Charnelscorn gazes down at him, "I am no fool, Ser Wrymlung, and I do not act lightly. My course was set upon learning that Soarone has acquired an ancient text describing the plight of the elves as well as the efforts of the reigning queen to spirit away her only daughter."

Wrymlung's head snaps up, his eyes wide with horror.

"Now you understand. Soarone does not instigate the nobility of Alteria without reason," Ahmose rolls up the map, "Imagine the power, the influence they would have with the goddess's chosen and the last full-blooded elf both in their hands. No, this cannot be."

"I understand now, my lord. I should not have doubted you," Wrymlung curls his hand into a fist, his heart beating hard in his chest.

Ahmose lowers himself to rest a hand over Wrymlung's shoulder, "It is no matter. I have yet to garner your trust. However, I bid you that you remember that I do not seek a mindless tool within you."

Ser Wrymlung swallows, his eyes trained up at the demon lord, and thinks him a great enough mass of darkness to blot out the sun, "I will endeavor to do so... my lord."

"I have every faith in you, Ser Wrymlung," Ahmose draws Wrymlung to his feet and taps the book he gifted Wrymlung, "This contains the answers you seek in your new existence. What I have done to you: most would consider to be a curse. I hope you might one day forgive me for my selfishness..."

Wrymlung looks at the book, "I do not see it so, my lord." The knight takes his lord's forearm in a soldier's greeting, "You have given me another chance at life. I will not waste it." He squeezes the massive forearm, "Please, teach me all you know, my lord."

Lord Charnelscorn returns the gesture and nods, "Of course, Ser Wrymlung."