Gamer/Fiction writer geekery alert: if you aren’t interested in reading something that I hashed hastily together without the help of an editor, then you have been warned and have no one to blame but yourself. If you’re down with that, proceed.
This teeny vignette is set in the Warhammer World, specifically that of my Legacy of the Gods story arcs. It takes place the morning of Uhlrik’s secretive departure from Athgorond/Schloß Drache, within that fortress’s confines. I previously posted a couple little tidbits from his journey in this journal (here and here).
Anyhow, on with the fiction:
A pair of withered, desiccated aquiline talons clutched the carved surface of the large stone orb, which hovered some few inches above a basin resting atop a pedestal. The owner of the talons stood as still and silent as the grave, its horned head lowered and long dark-feathered wings encircling the pedestal as if to shield it. Beneath bushy eyebrows, empty sockets blazed with malevolent red light. The dead thing standing there could most certainly see, though what it saw was hardly present in this chamber deep within the heart of Schloß Drache. Instead, its perceptions extended outward from the walls of the fortress as if that were the being’s true body.
It watched dispassionately as a rust-red wyrm bore an assortment of passengers to the ground far below the floating fortress in the darkness prior to sunrise as horses and gear were lowered surreptitiously on the lifts. It continued observing as the little band rode off into the northern snow with the selfsame dragon soaring above them in escort until all were out of sight.
“The die is cast, to either glory or ruin,” a cold and emotionless baritone voice echoed from the figure’s vicinity. Though its mouth moved almost in sync with the words, the voice seemed to come from some indeterminate other location.
With a mental command, the withered thing directed the great floating fortress southward and away from the tiny party of travelers.