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Night fell quickly in the foothills. Pulling the hood of his greatcoat more securely around his head, Stregobor grumbled as a spatter of rain trickled through the forest. He checked the map he’d magicked back in Oxenfurt, when he’d first found mention of the relic, and was relieved to see he was getting close. He’d been laughed at, of course, when he’d asked for more books on the magic of the region, but the librarian had eventually obliged him with more books on the ‘myths and legends’ of the region. When the rest of the books had confirmed his theory, he’d retired to his rooms to do a bit of magic of his own. Three days of work, excruciating ritual, and he’d had his map, leading him to the power he’d found.
After Sodden, after the... events at Loc Muinne, he’d lost standing, political power, had been relegated to nothing . And now, now the rabble didn’t even believe in magic, even when it was all around them. Lip curling in a silent snarl, he checked the map again, continuing to pick his way through the deepening dark, making his way steadily upwards. He’d regain his power. He’d show them all. Show them why mages had been respected, feared .
A plop of forest matter landed on his shoulder and jarred him out of his thoughts, and he bit back a curse, resisting the urge to burn it off with chaos. It wasn’t worth the display of strength.
Soon.
It’d be near midnight when he reached his destination, he estimated, but indeed, the timing was ideal. Night was the best time for this, he suspected. The legends had spoken of an old power, a dark power, that had been shattered into pieces, each piece forged into a relic and buried somewhere in the world, to keep the power from being fully claimed. These relics were supposed to be powerful in their own rights. Power he would take . The books had been vague about what the supposed dark power had been, just that it had been ‘fearful and terrible’ and ‘the embodiment of chaos’. He’d take that chaos, that power for himself.
Climbing up and over a small pile of rock and debris, he found himself on top of a barren hill, the clouds clearing away to reveal mountains silhouetted against the star-speckled sky. Empty. Nothing where there should be something. Stregobor swore under his breath and began walking the perimeter of the hill, senses open, seeking any sign of the structure he knew had to be there. Spiraling inwards, he found the first shiver of power buried in the ground. Oh, it was here, it was . Crouching in the loam, he grimaced then sank his fingers into the dirt, letting the power wash through him, easily finding the spell responsible for hiding everything. It took time, crouching there in the darkness, to trace the thread that would undo the spell. The sharp edges of the spell told him that if he didn’t take care in this process, he wouldn’t live to regret it.
Time passed as he crouched there, following the threads and lines of the spell, until finally, finally he found the place to pull. Lancing his own power into the spell, he destroyed the weak spot, the rest of the spell unraveling. A building appeared in the middle of the summit, a psychic scent of old, dank things, rotting things; the ozone scent of chaos and something... else , something oily and thick appeared along with it. He stood, brushing his hands off on his coat, and strolled towards the building, conjuring a magelight to hover at his shoulder. An opening was partly walled up, dirt and rock spilling from it. Grumbling under his breath, he used another burst of power to clear the opening, pulling the dirt and rocks from it and out to the sides. It left a high arched entrance into utter darkness, reminding him uncomfortably of a mouth for a moment.
Gritting his teeth, he stepped forwards towards the opening. He hadn’t come all this way for nothing. He couldn’t stop here. As the light breached the interior, it revealed just a simple rounded structure, with a small stone altar at one end. On that altar there was a gleam of gold, a flash of green and red, and he twitched his mouth in a grim, but smug smile. He’d been right. It was here, the legends were true. Now all that power was his for the taking.
Approaching the altar, he reached out tentatively with his power, feeling for any more wards or spells preventing him from retrieving the relic, and found nothing. That wasn’t quite correct; he found the artifact itself, a snake with two heads, twisted into a geometric shape. The power he sensed in it was deeper, older, somehow an oily, stygian thing. A thing that was rousing at his touch, reaching back to him.
*...who...*
“Fuck,” he said, startled. It was alive , or at least, sentient. It had thoughts. Reaching out, he touched a finger to the jade of the snake’s body, shuddering slightly as it felt as though scales, somehow oily and yet desiccated with age, roiled under his touch.
Power reached out through that touch, closing around him like the coils of a great serpent, still gentle, feeling him out. He was caught in that grip, like a fly in a web, and he held still, reserving his power.
*...what do you seek...*
The words came with images - riches, political power, magical power - though behind it all loomed a darkness, formless and vast.
“Power,” Stregobor hissed, letting his rage at being ignored and sidelined for years go free. “And revenge.”
The entity took that rage and desire and seemed to pulse with satisfaction. It showed him how he could get power and revenge, that it could help him destroy his enemies and gain more power from their deaths. All it wanted in return was a fraction of that power. Stregobor would be the master, it would be the instrument, and together they would wreck destruction on the weak, the rabble, and all those who doubted.
Gathering the relic up, feeling the slide of scales against his skin, Stregobor laughed. Oh yes . He would get what he wanted, what he deserved . And the world would come to regret the way it had treated him.