Verzweiflung Varhergesagt

Chapter One

His skin tingled as the electrical currents of the lightening crackled through the air, striking great craters at his feet. The man leapt over the craters, heavy armor clanking together as he landed on the ground. Raising his shotels behind him, he sprinted towards the enemy's mage battalion, the cape on his shoulders twirling viciously behind him. A silver blur, he ripped through their meager formations, silencing their spell-casting with his curved blades. Standing amidst the corpses of his enemies, another battalion of soldiers began their assault. Two dragoons ambushed from above, their elemental spears rushing down. Bouncing back, he brought his blades together in a pincer-like motion, beheading the two warriors. Several more fighters advanced, only to meet a quickened end at the hands of cold steel. The pile of corpses grew even larger, his silver crown and armor soaking up their blood. He was standing in the eye of a bloody tempest that carves up the land and deposits gruesome mountains of corpses in its place. The world groans in agony as it drowns in the blood of men. Sheathing his blades, he cleared his mind. Using the ancient, inbred abilities of his race, he gathered the Pleca, the essence found in all forms of life, from the fallen bodies of the soldiers around him. He performed this sacred ritual so he could not only grow stronger, but so he may use the energy of others whose life was brought to an untimely demise. He thought to himself, I, Razael Irkeil Laveln III, shall end this war. The brutality of this omnicide must be brought to an end!
Shifting uneasily in his chair, Razael looked down at the map of the war campaign. His forces have been steadily pushed back, and are now placed merely kilometers from the border of his country. He grimaced and looked away. The wind bellows throughout the encampment, dancing with the entrance flaps of the tent. With the wind came a slight scent of ozone, promising rain to come by the hour. The rigidity of Razael's Warmonger armor causes him to fidget uncomfortably in the stiff chair. So far, the war has been going dismally, with major losses of life on both sides. His country, Laveln, is more heavily affected for being the smaller of the two. This particular war has been going on for centuries, having most, if not all, of the nations of the world engaged in it. But now, it only involves Laveln and the Empire of Krumblea, which has been conquering all of its foes thanks to a powerful group of mercenaries they hired a few years ago. These centuries of fighting have been named "The Warring Era" by the denizens of this world. Standing up, Razael began to pace his quarters furiously. The first sounds of rain began sounding against the tent's fabric. After standing by the walls of the tent for half an hour, listening to the mesmeric melody of the rain, a messenger busted through the entrance, dripping wet from the showers outside.
"Y-your majesty!" he shouted franticly, "T-the Supreme Magi Council demands an audience with you!"
"Those old codgers?" Razael asked with hate in his voice, "Very well, let us see what new 'wisdom' those relics can give us now."
He followed the man into the rain, listening to the eerily melodic tune sounding from the impact of the rain onto his armor. The wind increased its pace, blasting them with a wave of cold. Shrugging it off, they entered the Magi's temporary battle tent that had been set up last week. Razael stared coldly at the five old men, who donned robes of crimson and gold. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the room was an uncouth youth with shaggy black hair. He wore no shirt, and his lanky body was riddled with ritualistic tattoos. The youth turned at the sound of their entrance and gazed at Razael, piercing his very soul with cold, red eyes.
"You are slow for a king of your vitality," one of the Magi sneered.
"We have found you an excellent warrior!" exclaimed another. The Magi then proceeded to exhibit their annoying habit of finishing each other's sentences in sequence.
"But,"
"We,"
"May,"
"Have,"
"Given,"
"Him,"
"Some,"
"'Augmentations'!" they all said in perfect synch, much to Razael's irritation. The youth raised himself from the floor and bowed.
"People call me Boris, your Highness,” he stated blankly, “I hope that I can be of,” he smiled creepily, “service to you.” The atmosphere in the room thickened to a despairingly uncomfortable level, and the messenger beside Razael let slip a sharp intake of breath. The Magi seemed to be unaffected by the pressure, they even seemed to be enjoying it.
“Is this all?” Razael asked impatiently, wanting to embrace the much more pleasant icy wind blowing outside. The Magi nodded and he hurriedly left the chamber, pausing only to take another glance at Boris. His gaunt face gazed blankly at Razael, twitching a quirky smile that foretold of hidden psychopathy. Slipping out into the frigid wind, Razael spent an hour patrolling the camp and boosting the morale of his troops. The weary king managed to return to his tent and collapsed on his bed without removing his armor, weary from the night's encounter. I know not what tomorrow shall bring us, he thought to himself. Regardless, he embraced a much appreciated sleep.

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