RP:Memory Lane

From HollowWiki

Background

This is part of the Kurgan's Run story arc.


Xiang, servant of Eldritch, seeks the 'interlopers' who might try to stop Jolie from killing the Obsidian Pool - and Kurgan with it - and has visions of the Chaos Lords and their secretive beginnings in a disused wing of Xalious' famed Mage Tower.


On The Prowl

There were traces of them, everywhere. The ever-reforming matter of the fortress, the way it liquefied and regrew, shifted shapes and warped itself, would be of little help to Xiang, for these ‘traces’ remained, like imprints on the matrix of the place, as echoes and phantasms, some remnants of actual events past or present, some drawn from the mind of the monk himself in those moments when madness struck the original tenant and the inky fingers of Kurgan’s insanity groped for purchase on the minds of any who walked within the walls of the building which served as its shell. Thus, he’d be led on several wild goose chases. Now and then he might glimpse a figure fleeting by in the distance, only to find that the distance did not exist, and a wall stood in its place. As the sineater’s ritual further disturbed the Pool and its relative and torn apart factions, things only got more strange, more frustrating, and not only for Xiang.

Xiang continued on his quest to find and remove the associates of the sin-eater from the equation, as deemed by his master, the Chaos Lord Eldritch. And indeed, with every twist and turn this fortress threw at the monk, he was growing ever more infuriated. From the corner of his eye he swear he saw the silver eyed lycan known as Mahri, only to look in the exact spot and find a wall, and then look back to where he was previously to see a mirror with a reflection of himself, staring back at him with a devious and egotistic grin. But then the image twisted, and swirled as if all the colors were being swirled together all at once to create and inky blot within the mirror. And then, as quickly as it had started, a new image appeared, of a woman in her early twenties, lying upon a bed mid-birth. Her screams cannot be heard, but Xiang feels as if he knows she was in great and terrible pain. The monk seems temporarily transfixed upon the image, a strange feeling of having seen this woman before haunts him. Then, from the dark corner of the room appears a man, garbed in a black pin-stripped suit, with a finely cut beared and long straight back hair. The woman looks to him with longing in her heart, and Xiang can almost feel that love that she possesses, can feel its embrace. But.. the dark figure's smile turns wicked, and he utters words of dark power, causing the woman to go back into pain filled fits of labor, to such extremes that its almost unbearable for the monk to look at. And then, the child is born, from love that was twisted into pain and misery. The woman wimpers, pleading with the man, asking him, no.. demanding to know why! And then he laughs, taking the babe into his arms, and uttering one last curse upon the woman, before the beautiful life within her is snuffed out. The dark man holds the child, and his voice can be heard as he speaks one word that utterly shocks the monk to his core. The man, who haunts the monk's memories says. " Xiang." The terror, sorrow and rage the monk feels all collides, and the mirror that stands before him is shattered by some unseen force as a thunderous cry of raw emotion escapes the monk. Why was he shown this image? Was this some trick of the one known as Kurgan to try and misdirect and confuse the man ordered to ensure he was once again imprisoned in this place? The sorrow, the pain he feels at the sudden revelation of his birth. It is all twisted into hatred. And as if the chaos that lies at the core of this cursed fortress senses such, a new path opened up, and Xiang could see the faint image of another standing down the long corridor. Feeding off the rage that has now burns deep within him, Xiang takes off down the corridor in search of anyone who is unlucky enough to cross his path.

Things were not… right. Not that they’d ever been right, since the days of that door with the number ‘7’ painted upon it in green, the clandestine meetings they’d held as wild and brilliant boys, too talented for their own good or that of anyone else. Not since Einar had embraced his new name, and become Eldritch, revealing the master plan that would have the Seven banished from the world in all but the barest of spirits. Nothing had been right for a very long time, but presently it was a great deal more not-so and the sundered illusionist who’d been tricked, sacrificed, torn apart and remade into this, the fortress and its foul well, was clinging hard to ever-thinning shreds of sanity. Where was Lola? Her light had always been his beacon… Where was Lucien, named for the Light, even as his mother was the Darkness? Like a symbiotic worm, he’d burrowed deep into the boy’s consciousness and hidden there, found sustenance and power to heal the horrendous breaches in himself, at least a little. Not enough. In the Space-Between, the dread sub-void, Eldritch’s cold fingers still plucked the strings of Fate and held the controlling interest in Kurgan’s wretched, severed soul, the inky pool its manifestation. Now and then Kurgan could remember how to feel and think, and then he could manipulate the arcane matter forged from his own stolen body, mind and spirit, but right now… the Master held sway and the sineater was chanting, and nothing, nothing good was going to come of it… The illusionist flitted about like the ghost of a bat, crazed and mindless, terrified and unknowing, until he’d smacked into the mind of Xiang. Ah! Here was a nice nest! And what eggs lay in it.. He’d crack them open, one by one. And what fell out were the wings of memory, bent and wet, not ready for the light of full awareness.

Xiang ran and ran down the corridor, his rage fueling every action as memory after memory played before his eyes in rapid succession, filling in the gaps of his life and revealing that all he knew was a lie. A flash of his biological father, looking down upon him as a babe with disgust, then turning his back upon him and leaving him in the cradle to die. Only to watch, as men in grey robes came and took him, to raise him as one of their own in the temple of their god of war, all the while with the man in the shadows watching him. Whispering in his ear. Calling him his son, his creation. Another flash to Xiang at age seven, training and playing with his childhood friend, Chu Ling, another orphan who was raised in the temple of Aramoth, the two inseparable, always together always getting into trouble. Chu was his link to a normal life, the man in the shadows, with those enthralling green eyes, always wanted him to act out, to defy the order that the temple tried to instil within him. Terrible nightmares plagued the young Xiang, but Chu was always there. She was his everything. Until that day. This memory is indeed painful, and was buried deep within the monk's mind and locked away by the sheer power of his will alone. But Kurgan has unlocked it, and it now flows forth, bringing to the surface feelings long forgotten. Unwanted. Terrible to bear. The monk falls to his knees as flashes of Chu's lifeless body appear in his thoughts, the monk's of the temple shocked and appalled by what has transpired. Xiang had taken the girl's life with his own hands, having awoken from a truly terrible nightmare, brought on by the man in the shadows, and lashed out and struck Chu. His friend, the only one who understood him, cared for him. Loved him. Again the monk cries out in pain filled anguish, his rage reaching new heights as he rises, and once again begins to search for something. Or was it someone? It was starting to become harder to remember why he was here in the first place, with a Chaos Lord having his way within his mind. Down the path he goes, twisting and turning, trying to outrun the past once again...

The monk’s life, his memories, spilled out of his deepest mind and into Xiang’s awareness, and as they did so the ruined mind of Kurgan would clutch at them, like a child raised in isolation and darkness might clutch its first toy, revel in its first taste of candy; this was life, this is what it was to be whole – relatively speaking – and the illusionist greedily lapped it all up and transmuted Xiang’s past into a kind of weak glue that might hold his own fragmented consciousness together for a while. Thus it was the monk’s memories grew sharper, bent themselves toward revealing the truth rather than cruel lies or worse, a void where memory ought to be. Kurgan could feel the taint of his old rival here, a sickly sense of something foul slithering through synapses, staining the threads of the monk’s thoughts. The illusionist recoiled, which Xiang might sense as an abrupt vertigo, as Kurgan realised that Eldritch would be able to sense him, too, in the same way, find traces of him like footprints, fingerprints, left behind. Kurgan knew it, in his dim and barely-conscious way, and so grabbed for every thread he could, pulling and tugging them, untangling the terrible truth, ripping apart the terrible lies. As he fed on these and grew stronger, he’d begin to whisper, tell stories in pictures, flashes of images that moved and spoke and revealed things Xiang ought never know, nor any man alive. A green door… The number Seven…


Meanwhile, Several Millennia Ago

Kurgan was running late, as usual. The winding stair that led up into the wing of the tower where the senior students lodged had rarely seemed so long and arduous a climb as it did that evening. He's been out the night before, sharing a few drinks with Jarrock and Durbin, and had overdone it just a little. He still didn't recall how he'd gotten home, and the morning bell for commencement of lessons had about split his head open.

Kurgan groaned at the thought of the humiliation he'd faced, falling asleep mid-lecture and being kicked soundly for it by the chronically distempered wizard who taught the class. At last, huffing and red-faced, he reached the disused corridors of the eastern wing, riddled with condemned dormitories waiting much-needed renovation, running on until he got to the worm-holed door marked with a green '7'. It was, as usual, locked. Kurgan raised his knuckles to rap out the secret code that would gain him admittance. Nothing. He rapped again. Nothing, again. Glancing from side to side to ensure he was alone, he knocked louder, hissing, "Einar! Open the bloody door!"

Einar sat within a chair he had managed to secure from of the teacher's lodgings, finding its dark leather and oaken furnishings befitting his royalistic tastes, reading from tomes that most students would never be able to comprehend. The necromancy is roused from his own thoughts by the rapture at the door, celadon green eyes rising to meet the wooden portal as the secret knock to enter the inner sanctum of the group of friends. With a few occult verses, and a flourished wave of his left hand, the undead servant that Einar summoned to do the common chores is sent to open the door, the necromancer returning his gaze to the tome before him, after taking a sip of fine wine procured from a fine establishment in town. The door swings open slow, the skeletal servant bowing low as it grants Kurgan entrance into the room.

" You’re late, Kurgan." Flipping the page of the ancient spellbook, he finishes with. " As usual."

Kurgan wrinkled his nose at the hunched-over corpse, stepping past it quickly. “Sorry. Old Flingol kept me in…”

There was a snort of laughter from the far end of the room, where Makhal and Durbin were throwing darts at a board that would suddenly shift into the likeness of the mentioned wizard.

“He fancies you,” said Makhal, in his clipped, perfect common. The youth was dusky-skinned, desert-bred, and had been sent to the academy of Xalious as a form of penance, after shaming himself and his family by being caught amid an illicit ritual involving a servant-girl and her sister, and a bucket of camel’s milk.

Kurgan ignored him, and stepped into the room, nodding to Durbin and Gilias, offering Jarrock a crooked grin.

From a seat beside Einar, Timeo cooed, “I hear he likes the chubby ones.”

Makhal snickered madly.

Kurgan glowered at the chronomancer, his lip lifted in a sneer. “June sends her regards, Tim. Quite the little goer, isn’t she?”

The time-mage sneered right back, half-rising from his seat, “I’ll punch your damned face in, you turd…”

Einar did not even raise his eyes from the book again as Timeo rose from his seat to confront Kurgan when their back and forth banter reached personal levels. The necromancer waves his hand and commands the undead servant to close the door, the magical wards that keep the seven mage's sanctum secret from other, outside, influences. " Why don't you both quit being childish." Flipping another page over, Einar continues on with. " And as far as that washed up old fool Flingol is concerned, he just realises you outclass him on every level, even though you lack the self-discipline that can help you obtain greatness far beyond the mortal norm."

Makhal and Durbin exchange glances, knowing that when Einar starts ranting about greatness, there is usually some task following close behind.

Jarrock runs a hand through his long flowing hair, as he looks to Kurgan and Timeo and says. " Good going.."

Timeo didn't carry through with his threat; of all of them, he was most obedient to Einar's whims and commands. Staring at Kurgan as though looks could kill, he lowered into his seat again. The others drew around, took battered chairs or foot-stools, or sat on the worn rug, all aware that the meeting had begun in earnest.

Kurgan silently promised Timeo that they'd continue the discussion later as he sat, cross-legged, his back against the arm of Jarrock's chair. "Greatness," he said, offering Einar a flat look. "You keep talking about it, like it's going to happen any time soon." Jarrock poked him in the back of the head. Kurgan swivelled, "Stop it. I can say what I like." The illusionist turned back to face Einar, eyes blue as the sky levelled on the imperious youth with blatant challenge. "Since we all have equal voice, here. Don't we, Einar?"

Einar lowered his gaze, a mesmerizing shade of green that could enthrall any who gazed long enough into their depths. His skin was flawless, even if he was as pale as any of the corpses he raised from the grave. His shoulder length raven hair framed his face well, and with the black pin-stripped suit he wore, one could tell that when he spoke of greatness, he held very high standards. The necromancer closed the ancient tome that rested within his lap, and set it aside, after he finished editing and correcting a spell that was written down upon its ageless pages. If one looked hard enough, the leather held a strange fleshlike tone, and it shone with such dark magic that made one wonder of its origins. But, if any were doing such, Einar would capture their attention by clearing his throat as he replies to Kurgan. " Indeed we do, Kurgan." For a second the two lock glares, as the rebellious nature of Kurgan and the dominating spirit of Einar clash for what has to be the thousandth time. " We all, in this room, hold a mastery over our chosen art that only the land’s archmage can truly understand.." He allows this compliment, as it were, to settle before he continues on. " But if we are to truly obtain greatness, we will have to rely upon one another to do so." He allows his gaze to wash over Timeo and Kurgan, mainly Kurgan, as he says. " We will have to set aside all petty notions, and focus upon creating something that will last eternal, something that will forever cement our names as masters... nay, Lords of Magic."

These words carry with them something for each of these men gathered, as Jarrock thinks back to his family and the hopes his father had for him. Makhal is reminded, yet again, of the shame he brought upon his family’s house and how claiming the title Lord of Magic, would indeed erase such from anyone's memory. Each of the mages thinks similar thoughts, and all are enthralled by this notion. Einar allows them to have a few moments to ponder upon it, before continuing with. " But..." The necromancer's words almost echo through the room. " We have much to do before that day comes."

Durbin kept his eyes on that flesh-bound tome a while longer than any of them, the conjurer making no secret of his lust for the knowledge contained within, and his resentment at being denied it. “Like what?” he asked, his tone slightly surly. The tow-headed youth, his hair cut badly and his clothes unkempt, was the antithesis of Einar in every way. Where the necromancer was natty, Durbin was perpetually careless of his appearance. Where Einar was smooth and urbane, the conjurer was coarse, a product of the peasant classes and proud of how he’d risen, despite his simple origins. One thing they did share, however, was a lust for power. “I’m getting sick of parlor games.”

Gilias had been, to this point, his usual silent self. Quick-witted and always ready for a prank as he was, he was never one for volunteering conversation and thus his words tended to carry weight with group, perhaps only for their rarity. “We can’t simply flaunt our power,” he said, shifting on the footstool he occupied to face the conjurer. “There’s laws.. and the rules here. I’m not risking my position for the sake of stupid japes.”

Timeo scowled, and butted in, “Gods forbid the teacher’s pet should get his hands dirty.”

Amid the minor squabble this comment caused, Einar simply relaxed into his chair, smiling.

Kurgan too declined to participate, his blur gaze set on the necromancer. When things quieted down some, the illusionist cleared his throat, “He’s right, you know.” The whole company turned their attention to him – when did Kurgan ever agree so readily with Einar? “He’s right about us needing to do something. Look at us, fighting like a pack of little kids. Bugger that. If this group is to mean anything, achieve anything, we have to focus. Get organised. Think things through.” His voice, firm and cool, seemed to calm the others, who were nodding and making noises of agreement.

Einar leaned back in that dark leather chair of his, fingertips coming to rest upon one another, allowing his own family ring to catch the light of the room, thus the ruby that lies within the platinum banded ring, with its elegant designs, is a symbol of the life the necromancer has left behind. Indeed, all these men have come from various backgrounds, various degrees of life. But they all share a common goal. To achieve greatness, the likes that has never been done before.

A few moments pass, Kurgan's supportive comments having almost thrown the dark magus for a loop, before Einar says to the group, a slightly devious smirk upon his thin lips. " I have been working upon a theory... the like of which no mage has dared even try to." He allows this preamble to settle, before he continues on with. " This concept deals with the controlling, and mastering the unnatural forces of chaos, to achieve levels of magic thought unobtainable by mortal men."

Durbin looks on with eager anticipation, the words of gaining power having already enthralled him into whatever plot the necromancer had devised. Timeo, while always cautious, seems interested enough. Jarrock and Gilias exchange glances before Gilias says. " The masters here have warned us of the dangers of mucking about with such power Einar.. we would be expelled for such an attempt, no doubt about it." Jarrock inclines his head in agreement.

Einar simply continues to hold his smirk, and replies. " If you all are too scared, and stay within the limits these "masters" try to shackle you with, then so be it." The necromancer waves them off, sneering at the lot of them. " For I shall not allow myself to be restrained by the warnings of old fools who are scared of the power I -will- achieve!" Those green eyes of his finds the six before him for a moment each, none having a retort for his comments yet, and says. " Now if you want to obtain the power that you are capable of... you will listen to what we must do." He pauses, and says. " If not, this is your chance to leave. For there will be ~no~ turning back from this."

Back to The Present, and Xiang

Xiang cannot escape this little house of horrors, as the life of others play out before him. Yet, he knew each and everyone of them, didn't he? Jarrock, Timeo, Makhal, Durbin, Gilias, Kurgan and... The monk's heart almost stops. Those eyes from his memories, they burn into his mind. The name, Einar, it sounds empty, false. Another name, darker more malign calls from the recesses of Xiang's mind. And with it comes a realization that is more horrific than any other. For he knew the name, and knew it well. It was a name that has been whispered to him since birth. The name his mother called out in fury before her life was snuffed out. The name he yelled at the top of his lungs when he clung Chu's body in his arms at the age of seven. The name that once he spoke, caused something within him to stir with a hatred not his own. Eldritch, the Lord of Chaos. A new image appears in the mind of the monk. The man in the shadows. His sea green eyes piercing Xiang's very soul, his laughter echoing across eternity, mocking the monk who he so easily manipulated over the years. The man, who now found a purpose in his life. A drive that has redirected his path towards another destination. Xiang Lao, former puppet of the Chaos Lord Eldritch, now makes his way towards another force that beckons him towards it. The Obsidian Pool.