An edgetastic Blog about rhyming, darkness, and my ALT rp characters K'rick Peyrik and Rhyme on Balmung. And cookies....evil edgy cookiesAll poems, unless noted, are originals.
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Rise of a Desert Stray Part 4
Days had become weeks as Crate and Krick slowly traveled north. Their path was a winding one and slowly the lands shifted from the deserts of Thanalan to outskirts of the Shroud. Crate said the two of them would not be welcome inside those hallowed halls of tree trunks and ensured they only dipped in briefly for food and aether. as they slowly circled the Shroud. Eventually they began to climb the cold but green slops of Coerthas and then deep into mysterious, lost hinterlands.
Krick was in awe. He’d spent his entire life in Thanalan. Desert, sand, and harsh desperation were what he thought life was. So when he saw how much WATER these other regions enjoyed, he felt like a king as he awkwardly splashed away in shallow pools. He rolled in the water, splashed it over himself, laughed even.
But other than these water-induced moment of mirth, the two spoke little. Crate mostly kept to himself and occasionally asked Krick random questions. Krick was growing frustrated at the silence because he wanted power and every time he asked what he was going to learn from Crate or where they were going, the white-haired man just droned on about patience being a virtue.
But that patience was rewarded. After over a moon of traveling, they finally arrived at a small, secluded stretch of mountain where Crate lead Krick into a cave. There, before a set of stone doors built out of the wall, Crate turned.
“This is where we part.” Crate said quietly. He waved his hand and the door opened to a black tunnel beyond.
“What?” Krick looked at this and pulled a knife.
“This is the ‘Door to Destiny.’ Beyond this is a trial that will test your limits of mind, body, and power. Should -any- of those be lacking, you’ll die. But, should you have the required attributes, you’ll come out the other side to become my apprentice.”
“Shouldn’t I train for this?” Krick snorted derisively at Crate.
“Oh, without a doubt!” Crate laughed. “But I am a busy man and don’t have time to spend cycles training someone who will just fail this test anyway. I’m tired of putting effort into failures.”
“We just walked for over a moon and you complain of wasting time?” Krick blinked.
“I was watching you and testing you in my own way. Had you ever bored me or made me doubt that you have a sliver of a chance to survive, I would have killed you along the round.”
Krick swallowed. He had attacked Crate several times along their journey and Crate had defeated him in seconds every single time. Crate’s power was immense and there was a emptiness in Crate’s eyes that told Krick taking a life was nothing to the white-haired miqo’te in the floppy hat.
Krick looked at the dark maw behind the doors and flicked his tail.
“And if I refuse?”
“I kill you now.” Crate flicked his tail in return. “Death is behind you. Death is before you. Pick how you will meet it.”
Krick snorted.
“Not really much of a choice.” The barbarian muttered as he ran a hand through his blond hair. He growled and surged forward, the muscles of his powerful frame rippling beneath the animal hides he wore. He stepped into the dark and the door shut behind him.
Crate looked at the doors and suddenly he exploded into his cloud of purple smoke.
—
When Crate returned to the world as a solid being, he was in a chamber of grey stones. Blue light emanated from runes craved onto the walls. In the middle of the room was a large, round table whose center glowed and teemed with a mysterious light that emanated from within. Around the large table sat nine chairs.
Crate casually walked over to the table and ran his hand over the smooth surface. He could feel the power within. He grinned to himself. Only he truly knew what lurked inside the table. Not even the arch-deacon of his order knew the truth.
But why should a puppet know the truth?
“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen you Crate.” As if on cue, the arch-deacons voice floated out to him. Crate flicked his ears before he turned to give the speaker a bow.
“My work is never done, Speaker for the Dead.” Crate glanced up to see a tall woman wearing grey robes and a mask made of mirrored glass. White hair flowed behind the mask as she strode gracefully across the room towards him. Behind her followed two others, dressed in grey robes as well though they wore no masks. One was a young-looking hyur man. The other was an ancient and shrivel lalafell woman. Crate recognized both as members of ‘The Council of Nine’, the ruling body of this ancient order.
“No, but you also only return when you need something. So,” the tall woman known as ’The Speak for the Dead’ came and sat down in a chair, her blue eyes watching Crate as she and her colleagues seated themselves. “Why are you here?”
“Well!” Crate clapped his hands together. “I just put a new candidate for membership into the Trail. Should he live, I intend to make him my apprentice.”
The three whispered among themselves.
“How long have you been training this individual?” the hyur asked.
“OH I haven’t.” Crate shrugged.
“You just threw him into the trial with no training?” The Speaker of the Dead inquired.
“Yup.” Crate nodded.
“Then he’ll be dead soon.” The lalafell snorted. “You are such a fool, Crate. Proof the Nymian culture deserved it’s fate.”
“Is that so?” Crate gave a dangerous smile towards the lalafell as his eye twitched.
“It is so!” the lalafel shot back. “You may enjoy wasting your time but stop wasting ours. I was excited to hear you finally took an interest in a candidate after two decades of finding no one worthy of you. But now you play this foolish game? You have been slipping slowly into madness and childish antics. I’m growing bored and annoyed by you.”
“Both of you, enough.” The Speaker of the Dead waved a tired hand. “Crate, we train our potential disciples for cycles to past the test and become true members of our order. You know this. So why just throw the first person you see with potential at the trial without training?”
“Two reasons.” Crate replied, sticking his tongue out at the lalafel woman. “First, I am not wasting any more of my valuable time on training someone that will fail that hellish tribulation. It is a matter of willpower more than anything and that is not something you can train quickly. Second, I think this candidate already has the willpower and the ability to endure it. And a special power that should, if he is clever, survive.”
“And if he dies?” the hyur male asked.
“Then I go back about my business.” Crate shrugged. “Is this really so hard to grasp?”
“No.” The lalafel woman snorted. “But it’s foolish and idiotic.”
“Then I will make a wager with you, Anon Nonnon.” Crate looked at the lalafel woman. “When he survives this trial, I will train him to one day kill you and take your seat on the Council of Nine.”
“Ha!” the lalafel woman gave a wicked sneer. “I will happily murder this whelp of yours. Too bad he will be dead before dinner.”
“Anon. Tyr. Leave us.” The Speaker of the Dead ordered calmly. Both looked at her in surprise but rose and bowed respectfully before leaving. Crate looked at the Speaker of the Dead, his unknowing puppet, and cocked his head.
“Crate. You have taken less apprentices than any other during this order’s history. And most of those died. The few that lived either serve as our most capable agents or as part of your personal operations. So I know this selection of yours must mean something.” The speaker folded her hands into her lap. “May I ask why?”
“Honestly, my lady, I can’t totally say.” Crate chuckled. “He’s got an ability that could prove useful. But there is a will of iron inside his eyes. He’s a broken, shattered ruin of a man. He’s impulsive. Boisterous. Haughty. Yet clever. Strong-willed. And…” He shrugged. “He’s never once bored me.“
“I will allow you to make him your apprentice should he survive. And should he kill Anon, he can have her seat.” The Speaker sounded amused and Crate was reminded why he liked her. Puppet though she may be, she was clever and capable. In another life, Crate could have truly obeyed her orders without selfish gain as the motivating factor.
“But.” The Speaker of the Dead said with a raised hand and Crate raised both eyebrows. “In exchange for granting you this pupil, the desire to defeat Anon, and forgiveness for your cycles long absence, you will take the empty seat on the Council of Nine.”
Crate frowned.
“You haven’t filled that still?” Crate glanced at one of the chairs. “It’s been half a decade.”
“And there is no one else worthy of the seat in our ranks.” The Speaker said, sounding regretful of that. “The Order of the Radiant Dawn has made several successful offenses against us in these last few cycles and any possible candidates were slain.”
“Be that as it may, I do not desire the seat. I didn’t desire it the first, second, or third time you offered me a seat. I still don’t.” Crate shrugged.
“Crate.” The woman said softly. “You are the strongest among my ranks. You can bring your wisdom to this Council.”
“My lady.” Crate said, bowing. “I do not wish this. I am loyal to you and this organization. But I have my own ambitions and goals. A seat would only distract me.”
The Speaker of the Dead sighed.
“Then you may take this applicant as a apprentice if they survive. But they may not kill Anon unless you take the seat.”
“Oh good. I got some time to decide.” He laughed. “I’m no fool. I know Krick won’t be ready to kill Anon for awhile.”
“Krick?” The Speaker of the Dead seemed curious. “How did you meet this rare gem that caught your eye.
“Tell you if he lives.” Crate grinned. “For now, if I will have your blessing, I would like to shower and rest. We have a few days until Krick could be done with the trial at best.
The Speaker of the Dead nodded.
“I have been able to smell you from here so I think that is for the best. It is good to see you again.”
“And you as well my lady.” He bowed again and meant those words. Even if she was a puppet, she was a good one.
He turned and strolled out. He had a few days to kill and he’d been away for a long time.
The morning walk following the departure from the trader’s camp was silent again. Krick had never been one to enjoy idle conversation. That wasn’t how his tribe had raised him. Words were cheap. Only action ultimately mattered. Even his mother, wise and clever as she was, still stressed the value of action over the flapping of one’s lips.
Thinking of his mother made him growl and his aether flared. Suddenly he gasped and clutched at his chest as he suddenly felt weak. Too much aether had been used.
Krick sank to his knees. Crate turned.
“Krick?” Crate’s eyes glowed purple as he studied Krick’s aether with his own and understanding dawned. “You cannot generate aether naturally can you?”
Krick wheezed and snarled. He sense the aether in some shrubs near him and he began to reach out and try to suck in their aether like he was some sort of parasite. He drew and drew until the aether was totally gone from the shrubs.
Crate watched the vegetation shrivel and die as the very life was drained from them to feed Krick’s body. He flicked his tail. He had sensed something wrong with Krick’s aether earlier but hadn’t known exactly what the reason was until now.
Krick was coughing, still weak.
Crate pulled out a stone that glowed and teemed with stored aether and quietly tossed it aimlessly up and down.
“What is…that stone.” Krick muttered, staring at the stored aether like a man dying of thirst. How appropriate the metaphor Krick had used earlier that morning.
“A crystal filled with aether. I create them so I can draw on their power should I need extra aether in a fight. But it seems YOU need these just to stay alive. I’ll give you this. If you tell me how you came to have such a fascinating defect.”
Krick hissed at the word ‘defect’ and charged Crate. Crate snorted and blasted Krick aside easily with a surge of power. Krick went tumbling across the sand and rocks as the energy blast hit him.
“Give it…” Krick skidded to a stop and immediately grabbed a rock as he rose. He rushed Crate, clearly intent on braining the white-haired man with the stone.
Crate watched the wild barbarian descend on him. He saw Krick’s eyes glow green and green levin suddenly shot from Krick’s left hand. Crate deflected the spell with a simply flick of his tail. His face grinned as Krick swung at him. But the moment before the stone hit, Crate morphed into a cloud of purple smoke that swirled wildly. Krick, off balance from his attack, fell onto the ground.
Krick lay there, panting and wheezing. He had sent out too much energy with that levin attack and was barely able to keep himself breathing as his stolen aether slowly drained.
“Well.” Crate said as the cloud congealed back together and solidified until Crate stood there as before. “Seems you may be dead soon. Want to cool your temper and answer my question or die?”
Krick snarled and then coughed. He felt the world growing dark. He then heard Crate boots walking off and he realized Crate would leave him to die.
“Crate!” Krick wheezed. Crate was humming a song.
“Crate…I…the Amalj’aa captured me and did something to me during a ritual. They broke my aether and now I have to do this. After I was rescued the Thaumaturges’ Guild kept me alive to run tests. It’s how I learned to not die okay!” He began coughing blood as the world grew dark. Krick began to realize he was truly dying! Krick tried to find something to steal aether from. But in the desert there was nothing that would save him. Crate was blocking his ability. Krick hissed and raged in anger. Furious that he would die like this. Not knowing many years from now the woman who would become his wife would fix this condition.
Suddenly life flowed into him. Aether, more than he had ever guessed could be stored in a stone, poured into him as Crate thrust the crystal into Krick’s hand. Krick held the stone tightly and just let life come back to him as Crate kept him from Thal’s domain.
“You need to get the temper locked down.” Crate commented calmly. Yet he was clearly amused. “Emotions are wonderful. But you let them run amock, you’ll fuck up in a moment. Now, stop taking a nap and lets go. We’re wasting time.”
Krick snarled and, with his strength restored, rose and sent another blast of levin at Crate. Crate deflected again and this time he simply made a stone fly up from the ground and smash into Krick’s manhood. Krick grabbed his now bruised pride and collapsed in a heap of grunts and curses.
“Do try to catch up once you can walk.” Crate laughed. “I’m tired of wasting time. I see I’m going to have a lot of work ahead of me if I’m going to temper you into a decent weapon. Especially with your temper. HA! I do love a good play on words.” Crate casually turned to stroll off. Krick lay there for awhile, growling. He was tempted to just abandon Crate. But the man had so easily beaten Krick. Time and time again, Crate had defeated him with powers Krick wanted to learn. He laid his ears flat, swallowed his pride and began to limp after Crate.
The Rise of a Desert Stray: Part 2
Several nights after Krick and Crate had met, the blond found himself at the desert’s edge inside a small collection of tents and shoddy huts. This collection of temporary structures formed a small trading post that was trying to become a permanent addition to the world.
Hunters carrying basilisk scales and small animal hides would come here to sell their wares for coin and goods. Meanwhile, merchants from the growing city of Ul’dah would purchase these goods and ship them back to the rising desert star. After all, with Sil'dih defeated three centuries ago, who was left to withstand their might?
The desert wind sang softly and tugged at the sides of the canvas tent Crate had rented for them to sleep in.
But Krick wasn’t interested in sleep, even as the stars twinkled down at him.
He was too fascinated by the people. He watched several women dancing around a large fire as other people drank and spoke. Some played a game on a wooden board. Life seemed…peaceful here. Or was it because he now lived in a world free of his father’s shadow?
“You seem to be enjoying yourself.” Crate mused as he returned to the tent and sat down beside Krick. He offered Krick a mug of cool beer and followed Krick’s gaze. “One of those dancers have your eye?”
Krick looked at the beer for a moment and then removed one of his hands from the skull in his lap to take it. He sipped the drink and perked his ears at the taste. It was far better than he had expected a beer in a place like this to be.
“They all have my eye.” Krick admitted as he finished his sip.
“Well, don’t bed them here. I need my beauty sleep and you seem like a loud one.” Crate chuckled. The two had not talked much the last few days. Crate had been quietly studying his find as they had marched almost without stop. The blond had never once complained about the heat, the pace, or the lack of water and sleep. He was resilient for sure. But Crate had many more tests to perform before he’d let himself truly connect with this man. Crate had seen too many potential recruits die to care about one more.
“Before you go.” Crate said thoughtfully, looking at Krick. “A question to help me gauge you. Today, you saw the goods being sold here. To you, what is the most valuable good here?”
Krick blinked at the question. He studied Crate with instant distrust. Crate approved of the distrust. Never trust anyone.
“The bolt of silk.” Krick eventually answered.
“Why?” Crate asked, taking a sip. Krick grunted and sounded almost annoyed.
“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to know why as well?
“Because your answer interested me.” Crate grinned as he shrugged. Krick was silent again for awhile as he though, drank his bear, and watched the women dance.
“Because it gives me anything I need.” Krick admitted. “If I had that, it could give me many things I might need. If I was dying of thirst, I could buy a glass of water with a few ilms of silk. If I was being attacked, I could use more ilms to buy a weapon or use the bolt as a distraction to seize a weapon. If I needed a mount, I could buy one. If I found a naked person, I could offer them the clothe to cover themselves in exchange to them working for me.”
“So you see the bolt of silk more as a tool to get what you need, and not a prize?” Crate was thoughtful.
“Water is the only prize that matters.” Krick snorted. “Everything is worthless to a man dying of dehydration save a glass of water.”
“A surprisingly deep answer for such a simple concept.”
“I was raised in a world where you’d kill a man abd drink their blood so you wouldn’t die of thirst.” Krick glared at Crate, feeling judged by the white-haired man. “Do not think you understand me or my ways.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear barbarian friend.” Crate’s tone was mocking and Krick flashed his fangs.
“Oh do put those away.” Crate sighed as he finished his beer and climbed onto his cot. “I need sleep. Go do whatever it is you sand-soaked water-lovers do. We leave early however.”
Krick growled, got up, and went to go dance with the women now that he had beer in him
—
The next morning, Krick awoke in the arms of a woman he didn’t recognize and a headache that told him he’d indulged in many more mugs of beer. the miqo’te shoved the woman off him, even as she complained, and went outside. He found his clothes outside the tent and had just gotten dressed when Crate walked over to him.
“You stink.” Crate made a face as he caught wind of Krick’s stench of beer, vomit, and musk. “Remind me to teach you how to take a bathe in water at some point.”
Krick rolled his eyes and muttered something in his tribe’s hunt-speak. He was surprised, however, when Crate tossed him something.
A bolt of silk.
Krick blinked as he held the valuable item and looked at Crate with confusion and suspicion in his eyes.
“I liked your answer.” Crate replied. “Consider it a gift from me to you. The first of many gifts you can use to get all the water you desire in this life. Follow me and never need water again. Or stay here and see how long one bolt of silk lasts you. Oh.”
Crate then tossed Krick a satchel made of hide. Inside was water, some food, and a silk bag that housed the skull of Krick’s mother.
“Let it never be said I do not reward those that follow me.” Crate winked. He was playing a part. Luring Krick in with rewards. He wanted this man to follow him. He wanted to Krick to survive his tests and be his pupil.
Krick thought but before he could speak, Crate was already walking north.
“Oi, you slept with my wife!” came a cry. Krick looked over at a very angry looking hyur.
“Here.” Krick tossed the bolt of silk at the approaching man. “Buy yourself another one. She’s rather used.”
Krick turned from the shocked and flustered hyur to chase after Crate. Crate had handed away water, food, and silk like it was nothing. He had never shown fear in their time together. And there was a power and presence to Crate that Krick found irresistible. What was a bolt of silk when compared to the bolt of power Crate was offering him?
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The young, blonde miqo’te male rested with his back against the base of a large cross. The man looked out at the sun-baked sands before him with dull, unfocused eyes. The shadow of the large cross at his back covered him and stretched out across the nearby dunes. The cross was a grim testament to his victory over his father and his father’s tribe.
“It is done, mother.” The blonde man whispered, slowly running his hands over the skull that rested in his lap. The man couldn’t look down at the skull. It still hurt to know that this grim trophy had once been the smiling face of the woman that had raised him and protected him as best she could against a hideous world and a monstrous progenitor.
Wet liquid dripped and the man looked up. Blood was dripping from the man nailed to the cross. It was obvious they were father and son. The son sneered at the crucified and dead father.
“Who is the nunh now you bastard?” The son slapped the base of the cross made from the bones of his family and looked away from his father’s transfixed corpse. Making the cross from the bones of his family and nailing his father to it had been his revenge three decades in the making. Victory had tasted sweet.
But now, as he sat against the cross holding his mother’s skull, he realized he had nothing left in his life.
He was alone.
Lost.
Without purpose, family, or friends.
A lone grain of sand among the desert of reality.
The son looked down at the skull.
“Well isn’t this a strange sight.” came a chuckling voice.
The son jerked his head up and looked toward the place the voice came from.
Standing there was a white-haired miqo’te dressed in white and wearing a ridiculously floppy hat. The stranger looked with his purple eyes at the son and gave a grin as the son rose and made aether flare around him.
“Whoa calm down there, blonde.” the stranger laughed at the son. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already. I simply came to investigate the unique aether I sensed last night. Guessing that was you and your magics I sensed? Seems your aether is a bit broken.”
The son growled and nodded but did not relax as his eyes glowed green.
“Well.” the stranger took off his hate and gave a bow. “My name is Crate the Great and I’d like to extend you an offer since our paths have crossed.” Crate looked up at the cross and the man nailed to it. He laughed. “Ha! ‘Crossed.’ That’s poetry right there.” Crate put his hat back on.
“I represent an ancient and powerful group that is always looking for ‘unique’ people that might help us achieve our final ends. I can’t promise you will survive our tests but you do seem to have what it takes.” Crate looked at the cross again and then the blonde.
The blonde son looked at Crate with a confused scowl as he held onto his mother’s skull. This was certainly not how he had expected this day to go.
“I’m a broken freak that just wanted to get revenge for my mother’s death. I don’t want to join your organization. I just want to be left alone.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I love freaks. The more broken the better. Ever heard of the Kugane practice of kintsugi?” Crate asked. The blonde shook his head. “It’s where, when something like a vase breaks, you fix it with gold. It makes the cracks beautiful and makes the broken thing even more unique. I’ve found that there is beauty in the broken and the discarded. The foul and the tainted.”
The blonde son blinked and met Crate’s purple eyes. That was one of the deepest and most beautiful things anyone had ever said around him or too him. Something his mother might have said. He clutched at the skull and swallowed. Crate saw that his words had impacted the blonde and had to hide a smile. He had him. He had this mysterious, broken blonde now. The power he sensed in the blonde son was immense and would be a useful tool.
“What is your name?” Crate asked.
“I-” He paused. “Is your name really Crate?”
“What’s in a name? A rose by any name would still smell as sweetly after all. It is not my real name if that is what you mean but you will never learn my true name. Everyone in my organization renames themselves.”
The man looked down at the skull. He had been born as an ‘X’ Tia to his father’s branch of the ‘X’ tribe. His mother had been one of his slaves. A witch from the ‘K’ tribe. The blonde son looked at the cross. Made of the bones of all his kin. And decided in that moment -all- his father’s tribe had died, even his real ‘X’ tribe name was now dead. He would no longer be known by his real name. The name was dead and his father’s bloodline would die with him.
“K’rick.” He said after a moment of deciding on his new name. He looked back at Crate. “I am K’rick. Named after my mother’s brother.”
“Well, -K’rick-.” Crate smirked. “A surprise to meet one of the ‘K’ tribe here in ‘X’ tribe lands. But I do suppose it is a small Eorzea after all. The pleasure is mine.” Crate bowed and K’rick realized he’d never been bowed to before in his life. He rather liked it.
“I-” K’rick paused.
“Don’t say anything else. If you wish to hone your powers and be more than you ever thought, come with me. If you wish to remain here, I won’t force you. But you will never see me again. This is a rare moment in life where you stand a ‘cross’road.” Crate chuckled again. “And will make a choice that will change your life dramatically. Chose wisely.” Crate turned, slipped his hat back on, and strolled off.
K’rick stood there, clawing at the skull from comfort and support. He glanced up at the dead body of his father and then at the retreating form of Crate. K’rick swallowed and then ran after Crate.
“You swear you will teach me?” K’rick asked nervously, feeling his still unknown abilities and broken aether twisting inside him. Crate turned and suddenly cupped K’rick’s face as he gave the blonde a reassuring smile.
“I swear I will try. Can’t promise my training won’t kill you. But if you do survive, you may just be my greatest creation ever. I have a good feeling about you K’rick.” Crate beamed and, for some reason, K’rick believed Crate’s words.
K’rick smiled back.
Monk was the first class I played way back when I started in ARR and I have leveled it every xpac to max, even though I haven’t really played it as my main class since HW. (I went tank and heals for fast ques lol). I -Really- like how it plays through Endwalker now and honestly I feel that the current version of monk is the most fun I’ve had with the class ever. So here is Krick as 90 MNK to celebrate! :D
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So this post is two months overdue at least. I wrote it to explain why the antagonist of my FC’s plot was wounded and absent during the XPAC release and the holidays so people could focus on RL. I finally finished it and while it’s no longer relevant to the FC plot, I wanted to post it at least since put time into it. Hope you enjoy if you read.
The dark sky was thick with low hanging clouds that obscured the cold, distant light of the twinkling stars. Very little moved in this dark, night world save for the lose sands that were tossed into the air by the cold, moaning winds of the Sagoli desert. These sweeping currents of air raced and played about the empty expanse and tussled the dark hair and darker robes of a man that stood in the southern reaches of the sand-filled waste.
The figure’s green eyes glowed in the dim light as the feline ears on the man’s head twitched about, straining to hear something he knew was coming. From these twitching, fur-covered triangles, emerged a pair of long, swollen centipedes that began to crawl over the man’s face and neck; one of them wrapping itself around the man’s throat and giving a reassuring squeeze much like a comforting hug. His black-furred tail hung still despite the wind tugging at the fabric of his black robes. The man could feel the blowing sands slipping into his attire and staining the white-fur trim that accented his clothing. Yet he paid this sensation no mind: he was from this forsaken region of the world and the sensation of sand grating against flesh was a familiar to him as the act of breathing.
His ear flicked as a small hiss filled the air. His nose caught the distinct odor of the void and the dark magics it took to wield such unnatural power.
“Been waiting for me long, Krick?” came a flamboyant voice. It was a smug, giggling voice that was distinctly unique to one person. Krick turned his head and the centipede around his next squeezed as his green eyes beheld the white-haired figure of his former teacher, dressed as always in floppy hat and an over-the-top outfit with many pointless zippers and chains sewn into the fabric.
“No.” Krick answered, his voice calm and controlled. The two men could not be more opposite now. Where once they had been of similar mind, disposition, and mannerisms; the years of stoic study and lifestyle on Krick’s part had forever split them into distinct persons. And purposes.
“Oh, good.” Crate giggled and his own eyes began to glow a dull violet as he started to circle the other man, ensuring a constant distance remained between them. “I was worried I’d spent too long boning Kira. She’s –really- good by the way. Not that you’d know. I hear you’re the only man that ever turned her down. Never thought I’d know the day you’d turn down a smokeshow like that.”
Krick’s initial desire to gag at the mere mention of Crate and Kira fornicating was thankfully easy to suppress with this confirmation of feared facts: Crate had found a way to bring Krick’s mother-in-law back to life and her return greatly concerned him as she was one of the few people he felt to be a true threat to him and his organization.
“Well, have fun with her stabbing you in the back.” Krick commented coldly.
“Oh she probably will.” Crate cackled and hugged himself as he spun on his heel before resuming his walk. “But that’ll just be part of the fun of all this.”
“This is just –fun- to you?” Krick narrowed his glowing, green eyes as Crate met his stare.
“Of course! That hasn’t changed Krick. Unlike you, I remain set on having a good time sowing chaos as I slowly bring this world to ruin.” Crate exclaimed excitedly. “Look at you, dressed like you’re some sort of important person. You’ve lost what made you fun. All rules and order now, all about balance and control. Where is the man that used to sink ships and resurrect sailors to play against him for bliztball practice? Where is the apprentice I first discovered right here?” Crate slammed his foot down and ground his heel. “Where is the man I found crucifying his own father?”
“Some of us grow up as we age, Crate.” Krick stressed the name, reminding Crate that he was no longer his master.
“You really think you and your slut are my equals?” Crate giggled. “You’re a few centuries too young to match me there, boyo. Tell you what, you give me Hojo and Rhyme, and I’ll run off and give you time to rise to my level.”
“You’ll find I won’t cooperate with that request.” Krick retorted with a mocking tone to his words..
“Why? To protect Hizu? I’ll just take Rhyme. I don’t –have- to kill him to get what I want.”
“See my previous statement.” Krick reminded his former mentor.
“How droll.” Crate sighed. “Why do you deny me, Krick? First, you betray me during my ascension ritual fourteen years ago, and now, you seek to stand against me. Why?”
“You really never figured it out?” Krick raised an eyebrow.
“I just want to hear you say it, stupid.” Crate flashed white teeth.
“Then be disappointed.”
“Oh I am.” Crate said sadly. “You became so obsessed with the idea of balance, order, and control that you lost your way and decided to cling to a power you understood in a world you understood. You finally felt strong after daddy was so mean to you that you couldn’t stand destroying your own power.”
“More like I didn’t want to cease to exist.” Krick sneered. “You want to destroy –everything- because you decided suicide was your goal but only if you got to destroy the world along with yourself.”
“Can’t blame me for going big.” Crate grinned.
“Go big all you wish. I will prevent you. One way or the other, I and my family will endure.”
“Blah Blah. Blah. I’m Krick. I’m studying cosmic necromancy now. I wanna be more. Save my new family. Blah Blah Blah.” Crate mocked his former apprentice with gusto, his voice high and shrill as he did so. “You are a joke.”
“Sorry that I understand the philosophy of the art you taught me better than you ever did.”
“Excuse me?” Crate paused and cocked his head, almost done circling Krick and leaving lines in the sand as he did so.
“You forget, all we do in the end is recycle what already was there.” Krick stated factually. “Bodies, souls, energy. All we necromancers do is recycle and transform. We do not create from scratch. I can make a hundred corpses into a monstrous ogre but it was still recycling and transforming. But that philosophy applies to all states of matter and existence. You’ve become so focused on destruction that you forgot the truth of our art.”
Crate paused just short of finishing his circle around Krick.
“You always did like to prattle on didn’t you?” Crate flicked his white tail. “I will give you one thing Krick, you were the only apprentice to never bore me or stop surprising me. But you did, in the end, disappoint me like alllllllll the others. The true meaning of our art is that everything dies. Me, you, the universe. Gods. All of it dies in the end. Where you see a circle of existence? I see a line. One that ends. And I intend to just get it all over with and end it.”
“Then even in the end we couldn’t agree on what necromancy itself was about.” Krick mused. “Seems conflict between us was inevitable between us.”
“Eh, maybe. Do me a favor though, -apprentice-.” Crate stressed the title as a form of mocking. “Try to at least make this fun for me as I tear you and your family apart to get Rhyme.” Crate swept his leg and completed the circle. The line in the sand suddenly glowed violet as it revealed itself to be a ritual circle that Crate had been weaving as he spoke. Runes glowed and lines began to start growing inward from the circle towards Krick.
Suddenly the lines stopped expanding and Crate frowned as he looked behind him. About a mile or so away, a green glow could be seen growing in intensity around them. An even larger circle, drawn by Krick earlier that day, ringing the pair and Crate’s own entrapping circle. The larger ring was blocking Crate’s magic and made it impossible for him to complete the seal he had tried to draw around Krick.
“Not bad.” Crate mused. “Though did you –have- to make it so big? I know your cock isn’t that small to justify something so compensatory.”
“Like you said: go big.” Krick said and there as a smirk on his lips as he said it. Crate glanced back his Krick and chuckled as he spoke:
“And then there are moments where I see the glimpses of the –fun- you. Alright, let’s get this over with. I’m recharged and ready for found five with Kira.” Two slits of void opened in the air beside Crate. From the holes in reality began to slither forth all manner of horrific void creatures. Broken bodies with far too many eyes and mouths moved as they turned their hellish sights on Krick.
Krick snapped and from the sands emerged a force of his undead constructs, equally horrible in their stitched-together forms. The void beasts roared as they descended upon the legion of ghastly ghouls that met them in silence for combat. The sounds of ripping and tearing filling the air as the forces fought.
Crate growled, watching as Krick’s creations began to overcome his void summons. The undead horde continued to fight, no matter how ruined their bodies became. These undead constructs were more dangerous because even if a flesh golem was rent into two parts, it would fight on, often times each part now acting independent of the other, while a ripped apart void beast simple became black mist.
Crate grew more and more agitated. His eyes narrowed as he spread his hands and weaved more spells that began ripping open more void portals. More beasts poured forth and the ranks of his force began to swell. Slowly, the reinforcements from the abyss began to shift the conflict in his favor as the beasts of the void were able to overwhelm Krick’s finite abominations. The ground was littered with organs and blood and Crate gave a smile as he saw Krick surrounded at last with only a handful of undead things left to defend him.
“Impressive Krick. You always were a master fleshmoulder and puppeteer. But your army is no match for mine.”
Krick shifted a foot and stepped on a slab of rotten organs that had once been one of his zombies. He looked across the gut-strewn expanse at Crate and smirked.
“It was never an army, Crate. It was a dagger for your back.”
Crate suddenly felt something stab him in one of his kidneys. Crate looked down and saw that a massive stinger made from somethings rib had just lanced him. The rib was attached to a long tendril made from the splattered organs and flesh of Krick’s creations. This tendril of gore had been slowly knit together during the fight as Krick’s creations died in a line between the two necromancers. Crate realized Krick had wanted his creations ripped apart where they had been so Krick could weave this tendril together while Crate was distracted with the battle. And now that tendril ran from Crate’s kidney to Krick’s foot.
Crate hissed something in Mhachi as he tried to direct one of his voidspawn to cut the tether but it was too late. Crate saw Krick’s eyes glow, the tendril glow, and then felt Krick’s magic seep into his body. He could feel a miasma spreading through him. The tendril was cut as Crate ripped out the lance of bone. His insides felt like they were on fire.
Krick looked at Crate’s void portals and sensed them fluctuating. The voidsent were still attacking his remaining abominations and he didn’t have time to gloat. Even without Crate’s orders, the beasts were sentient enough to keep pressing their attack.
“Not bad, Krick.” Crate cackled, blood pouring from his mouth as he focused on pouring his magic into himself to halt the miasma’s painful spread. “Almost like you learned something from me. But not good enough. Be seeing you soon.” Crate was suddenly gone in a cloud of black smoke. The man’s portals faded but his summoned beasts did not and Krick knew that his own creatures wouldn’t last much longer. Drawing deep on his reserves of aether, he raised his hands and then sent out massive bolts of green lighting from his fingertips. The bolts of crackling energy leapt from beast to beast, charring, frying and twisting their bodies. Most of them were reduced to black smoke as they were struck. Some of the larger things were only harmed but the pain was enough to send them crawling off into the desert night. Eventually the last remaining voidspawn turned and fled into the dark. Krick let them go, too exhausted to pursue.
The necromancer felt his shoulder’s droop as he staggered slightly when hit by a gust of wind. The green in his eyes flickered out and the few remaining flesh-constructs collapsed to the ground as Krick’s animating aether and will left them. Krick fell down onto his butt and sat there for a moment. The distant east was slowly starting to glow a dull purple as the sun started to illuminate that distant horizon. In the growing light, Krick surveyed the mutilated forms strewn about. He ran a hand through his hair and felt both disappointment and satisfaction.
His attempt to confront Crate and end the man’s threat was likely to have failed. The miasma had been too slow acting to consume Crate’s entirely it seemed. But it had badly wounded the man and, even if only for a bit, any damage done to Crate was good. Plus, it had, at least in Krick’s mind, put them on even footing. Crate was not yet an unstoppable being of destruction. He could be stalled and his plan foiled.
Krick looked at a ruined mound of meat that had been twisted into the form of cross and mused. He’d nailed one father-figure to a cross before, he’d one day see Crate skewered to one. Crate had been wrong about most things he’d said this evening, save one: all things ended. And the necromancer would see Crate’s end one day with his own eyes; after all he had no choice but to do so. Krick’s goals of protecting his family and ascension could never exist in harmony with Crate’s desire to destroy everything. They were two opposing forces that simply could not co-exist.
The sun rose higher and Krick recalled a similar sunrise the day Crate had first found him at the feet of his father’s cross sneering up at his progenitor. How alike they had been back then; two men that just wanted to watch the world suffer for all it had done to them. How ironic they were now so opposite.
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