Fan fiction:The Fall of Nightmares Revisited
The Fall of Nightmares Revisited is a fan fiction piece by Kire, originally posted in the Diabloii.net Fan Fiction Forum. This story was posted on March 17th 2011.
--Notes: On this day, one full year after its original post, I continue with my story. Below is an extended version of the prologue and a sample of the first chapter. I need to do more revising before I post the entire chapter, but I'm steadily progressing now. I intend to keep on the project diligently this time, so hopefully it wont be another year before I update. ;)
This expands on the latter portion of my fanfic Compendium of the Orue Agea, found in the forums and on the wiki site.
Any comments, critiques, and corrections will be greatly appreciated (be gentle, I'm just an amateur!). Anyway...enjoy!!
Contents
The Fall of Nightmares
Revisited
By Kire
Prologue
The Chaos Sanctuary. He crossed its threshold and gasped in contentment at the pure malice permeating his mind, from which he could only smile. Long had it been since he had stood within it. Even as he waited, he felt the immense power radiated from this hallowed source of darkness –it invigorated him. He basked in its aura, taking in the stained glass illustrations of past demons and the wickedness of their sinister deeds, and could not resist running a hand across the ebony columns of the arches. The corrupted souls of the fallen were imbedded in the walls themselves, forever frozen in solid stone in writhing, twisted pain with desperate screams that would never escape their silenced throats. Of all the ominous edifices that rose above the hellfire, the Sanctuary was the unholy temple of darkness, consecrated by the eternal sins of all creation, in which demonkind worshiped the everlasting power of hatred, destruction, and terror. He had missed its empowering halls. The years of campaigning on the mortal realm had made him almost forget the strengthening power of the Burning Hells, and yet he had been called from the mortal realm to speak directly with his master, Diablo. The Lord of Terror had always been satisfied with his talents on the mortal realm; he was instrumental in influencing mortals to side with the forces of Hell –often unknowingly. To have a private audience with him would have to be a great honor for him…or a great punishment to come. That sense of unease left Run Azar on edge. A master of nightmares and minds, even he felt anxious in the presence of a Prime Evil.
But he willingly served. Many of the Lesser Evils, such as Belial and Azmodan, felt that the campaigns on Sanctuary were a waste of energy. They preferred the days of direct conflict with the High Heavens; thus chafing at this goal of influencing the mortals. Yet Run Azar understood. The mortals, thought weak, had great potential –their souls contained unfathomable power that could be bent to Hell’s needs. Whichever side had control over the mortals’ souls would have the advantage. Thus, influence. This was why he was so favored by the Prime Evils. Diablo, Mephisto, and Baal allowed him to lead the Nightmares –insidious demons capable of subverting wills and creating terror in the minds of foes. It was his reason for being: to twist another’s mind, corrupt their resolve, manipulate their actions unseen, and glory in their despair as they offer themselves freely to the will of Hell. To this end, he was unquestionable in his skills.
Suddenly, he felt the unmistakable swell of power as his lord appeared from his innermost sanctum. The seal glowed with blazing red light, forcing Run Azar to turn away his gaze. Then…he was there. At last, Diablo was before him, and he quickly kneeled.
“How may I serve you, my lord?”
The daunting form of Diablo regarded him slowly. The massive red figure of claws and horns belied the sinister mind of the Lord of Terror. Try as he might, Diablo’s visage remained concealed in lurid flame and shadow to the general’s view. Run Azar himself often ruminated on the true countenance of his master, for no creature had ever seen the true face of Diablo –it is said his face reflects that which terrifies each person. Of his brothers, his strength was the most subtle…and terrible. Those that had made the mistake of underestimating his cunning had paid for their folly and now resided in the deepest, most miserable places in Hell. One only need behold the feeble forms of the imps known as the Fallen and their miserable fate in order to understand the price of treachery against the Lord of Terror. Fear was his greatest weapon, and all knew of the deadly extent of his abilities. His burning eyes appraised the general before he replied.
“You will manifest on the mortal plane, and travel to the mountains of northern Kehjistan. An old clan dwells within those mountains with secrets that I require. You will invade the city of Melatras of the Orue Agea.
He hid his disdain for having to return to the mortal plane so soon. Though he enjoyed the terror he brought to the humans of Sanctuary, he was rarely afforded the chance to immerse himself in the splendor of his home. Normally, he would consider such a task as invasion and devastation to be carried out by mindless swarms of feral demons. If the Lord of Terror had chosen him for this task, then manipulation was undoubtedly the goal.
“Have we any influencers among them, my master?”
“None of Hell nor those of Heaven –the foolish mortals are neutral in their allegiances. Yet they know much about the ties of reality. They have no alliance with the Angels, and are limited in their mortality. But beware their strength, for their wills are not easily bent.”
Foolish indeed. He had infiltrated and subverted followers of many orders, yet none were so troublesome as those that aligned with the light of Heaven. Such ones were naturally resistance to corruption –resistant, but not invulnerable. In the end, all fall to corruption; even those of the light become impure. If these scholars had no relations with Heaven, they would be of little difficulty.
“That is my purpose, master.”
That, at least, granted him a wicked smirk.
“Indeed. That is why I have chosen you. Your Nightmares must corrupt these Orue Agea and discover all that you can of their mystical arts of binding. Such knowledge would allow one to bind creatures to the mortal realm. This is your sole intention…general. Do NOT fail me!”
He shuddered involuntarily at the insinuation of what would happen to him. The punishment for such a failure was more than Run Azar was willing to dwell on, but the promise of success was too promising. Here was his chance to be the one to bring the Angels to their knees. What opportunity…the power to trap an angel on the mortal plane. He knew well that those of the High Heavens and Burning Hells began to lose strength once they left their own plane, as they were deprived of the energy of their home; exiled demons and other such beings completely cut off from their home were far weaker on the mortal plane than in their natural element. The war would turn against the Heavens, as no angel would dare manifest on man’s world for fear of being trapped –Sanctuary would be left for Hell alone once these scholars surrendered their secrets. Bending wills was his talent, and no mortal would stop him for proving his worth to his lords. Again he prostrated himself before his lord, and vowed his loyalty to the task.
“Yes, master, we shall crush the Orue Agea, body and soul, and wrench their secrets from their minds! The Heavens themselves will not fail to notice my works!”
---
As Run Azar took his leave from the Lord of Terror, another figure stepped out of the shadows. The malevolent visage of held a sneer as his chaotic form drew closer. Diablo chuckled darkly; Baal’s demeanor obviously expressed his doubt.
“Will he succeed?”
“Only as I have designed. As he said, the Heavens themselves will not fail to notice.”
Baal was not so easily appeased. He knew full well the repercussions should their plan fail –a consequence that he would not allow.
“But is it wise, allowing them to have such knowledge?”
“Patience, brother. Soon, we shall bring our power to the mortal plane, and the Heavens will know their mistake far too late. What Mephisto has learned from Izual is the foundation of our ascension, and the Oruegian secrets will set all things in motion.”
In a moment he shifted from his place in the dark corners to directly before his brother. The anger in his eyes glowered at Diablo. Any other demon would cower beneath the glare; Diablo simply hardened his stare and permitted his brother to express his doubts. The walls shook in the terrible vehemence of his voice and the shape of the world around him warped in his chaotic anger. Baal never employed much subtlety in his actions…his nature it seemed.
“Izual is one of them! A servant of the Light! Corrupted, yes, but he is an angel, how can we trust him?”
Baal was ever the realist. But the Lord of Destruction knew, as did Diablo, of the potential that Izual’s information provided. He had told them of sacred stones that could bind and even trap otherwordly creatures to the mortal plane, and sustain them with the power of souls. All that was lacking was the spells to accomplish the binding. These "soulstones" could be the key to their triumph over Heaven.
“Have more faith in Mephisto. The Lord of Hatred has learned much in his interrogations. And Izual has turned against his own kind. Heaven trusts no fallen angel. The soulstones will be our means of gaining the upper hand.”
Baal nodded briefly at his brother’s assertion, apparently pacified for the time being. Of the three, Mephisto, with his intense hatred for angels, was best suited to extract every useful piece of information from the fallen Izual. Even now Baal could imagine Izual in the Embrace of Hatred, his magnificent wings withered away and his skin scarred by hellfire; being forced to feel the sorrow and pain of the eternally damned over and again; the golden, crystalline ichor in his veins turning to odious black bile as the corruption overtook him. No pity or respite would come for the angel, which greatly satisfied Baal. Izual’s fall indeed would be their ascension, and Baal would do what was needed to put their plans in motions. The air shimmered as he began to depart while a grin of malice spread across his face.
“And as for Run Azar? He is one of our high generals.”
Diablo considered this. A pity, but this opportunity could not be allowed to simply pass by. The plan had been set in motion, and soon Terror, Destruction, and Hatred would consume the Light.
“The force of the binding spells must be proven by another’s hand to preserve the deception. It is necessary.”
Part 1
Chapter 1 - Mornings
In a lonely courtyard, two still and silent figures regarded each other with stolid expressions, silhouetted in the glow of the coming dawn. One could have mistaken them for statues of ancient swordsmen were it not for the fluttering of their garb in the light breeze. The first was a larger, well-built young man with hazel eyes and sandy hair; the other was a lithe, toned youth of olive complexion and longer, dark hair with warm brown eyes to match. Every muscle on their frames was taut with anticipation and the stoic eyes beneath their furrowed brows locked with each other in resolute stares. As the sun climbed above a distant peak and sent its first rays onto the square, their blades caught the light and blazed in a fiery glow. In that moment, two swords became golden blurs as the two opponents sprung at each other. The dark-haired boy flourished his blade as he advanced while his foe settled back in a defensive posture. He struck high and quickly withdrew in a feint, taking advantage of the opening his opponent left in the failed block to slash right. The lighter-skinned fighter quickly retreated and created more room to maneuver, successfully warding off the surprise attack with a solid block before pressing his own assault. Tightening his grip on the hilt, the muscled warrior pushed his sword horizontally against the other’s, denying his attempts to pull away and regroup. The limber boy ducked beneath the attack and dodged to the side to give himself space…he didn’t get it.
Without hesitation the larger boy was on him again, hammering away with methodical, unyielding blows that inevitably tore away at his defenses. With each step came a blow; with each blow came another step in advance –taking ground without mercy or relent. He was in full retreat, desperately attempting to open himself up in order to counter-attack; he was being slowly boxed in. Then he made his own opportunity. In a daring move, he switched from his defensive stance to an aggressive, precise thrust –passing right past the other’s blade and nearly piercing his shoulder. His opponent was forced to spin to the side to miss the strike, and in doing so threw himself off-balance. Seizing his chance, he advanced on his enemy with acrobatic maneuvers: twisting, somersaulting and flipping in rapid succession to disorientate him and build momentum for his assaults. The quick fighter danced around his larger opponent in unpredictable movements, switching from high to low slices, front to backhand holds, all accompanied by masterful footwork. The other combatant channeled his strength into creating an impassable defense with his movements, refusing to give much ground or allow his opponent to overtake him. Keeping his sword close to his body, he weaved his blade in complex, disciplined patterns to minimize exposure. Instead of lashing back, he relied on simple logic to regain the upper hand: eventually, the boy would tire out from his vigorous style while the larger youth conserved his energy.
It was true. Even now, the determined young man could feel his muscles aching from his exertions and the damp sweat permeating his shirt, dripping off his chin. Though he tried to control his ragged breath, fatigue was setting in and he had to push past the burning in his arms and legs as he kept up his offence. Looking into the hazel eyes set against him, he inwardly despaired at the relatively fresh appearance of his foe, knowing that time was against him now to penetrate that defense. Deflecting a flurry of slices, the larger one pushed forward and locked blades, forcing the boy to expend even more energy to repel the stubborn blade-lock. About to overpower the tiring boy, he suddenly felt a bump behind his left foot and discovered he had been backed against a sculpture on the edge of the courtyard; he had failed to consider his surroundings…and the young warrior had succeeded in boxing him in. The attacking fighter gave a slight smirk of understanding as he pulled back and flourished to gather speed and savor the moment. Abandoning any finesse, his cornered adversary planted his feet and swung straight across with pure strength. Amused at the desperate attempt, the fighter positioned himself to parry the strike and redirect it harmlessly to the side, then deal the critical blow to the completely open target. It never came.
The furious sword clashed against the other, never slowing as it shattered the blade and continued on towards the face of its mark. Instead of parrying and offering riposte, the smaller boy found himself falling back in a desperate attempt to evade the tip of his foe’s blade. The length of his own blade skidded uselessly across the cold, stone ground, leaving him only a hilt and less than a foot of sharpened steel while he tumbled back into an impromptu roll. Only his training had allowed him to use the force of his roll to propel him back onto his feet, though that seemed to matter very little now. His mind didn’t even have time to contemplate the improbability of his sword breaking as he prepared right himself and attempt to disarm the larger fighter somehow. He never got close as the razor edge of the other sword came right in front of his throat. He grimaced at the hopelessness of the situation, knowing full well that the battle was over. And he could only glower at the chuckle emerging from the victor. The combatant stepped back and sheathed his blade, sticking out a hand to haul him to his feet. His eyes laughed in triumph as he dusted the defeated warrior off and gave him a playfully mocking bow.
“I guess this one goes to me.”
---
The clamor of the meal hall rung with its typical chatter and the clank of utensils. Sri-Kurah carried his piece of fruit and goblet of juice to his usual spot. He plunked down on the bench and started his breakfast instinctively, his mind working out the events of the early morning. Sulking was the best way to describe it. He wasn’t angry, just confused at what had happened. Sri-Kurah knew he had the advantage, knew victory was an attack away…and Ilseun just broke his sword. He had lost before, but that was the most bizarre way he had ever lost so far. As he nibbled on a piece of fruit for breakfast, Ilseun dropped down beside him with a perplexed, and amused, look on his face.
“Something on your mind? You look distracted,” Ilseun stared at him with an eyebrow cocked and a slight grin on his face.
He glanced up at his friend curiously. “What makes you say that?”
“Well…” he drawled, “you’re eating your sucri without peeling it. Not exactly typical behavior.” He looked down and saw the oblong fruit was indeed still covered in its rough, orange skin, a chunk of red-veined yellow flesh showing through where he had bit in without thinking. “Great, as if I couldn’t be any more obvious,” he said to himself. No wonder the fruit tasted a little harsher than usual.
He had to laugh at just how absurd he was being. Shaking his head, he set to peeling the sucri and told him, “I just don’t get it. How did you do it? I’ve never had a sword break on me.”
Ilseun just chuckled and took a swig of his milk before answering him. “You remember I told you I was working on new ways of tempering steel?” he asked. I nodded. “Well I found one. A new method to heat the metal. The metal’s lighter, more flexible…but just as strong. I used it on that sword I had.”
“That’s incredible!” He told him, actually excited at the discovery. “I thought you were faster today. Have you shown master Hethra yet?”
“Not yet. I wanted to test it first before I told him. But it looks like it works!” he beamed in pride. Then Sri-Kurah felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.
“What works that’s got you so excited?” He heard his sister’s soft voice ask leisurely. The shapely, stunning young lady scooted over by Ilseun, her midnight hair falling over her shoulders and her dark brown eyes regarding him endearingly. Sri-Ajota plucked a sucri from her brother’s plate and held her palm above it. Slowly the skin split down the sides and peeled away without her even touching it, the fruit perfectly peeling itself on her command.
“Show-off,” he teased her playfully. He and Ilseun spend their days perfecting the body and its tools –she focused on the power of the mind.
She giggled and wink in his direction. “Just practicing something master Vost has been showing me. It takes a lot of concentration to cut just the skin and not the fruit.” She resorted to a knife to carve a piece and sampled a bit. “Now…what is going on that has you two so excited?”
Ilseun beamed at her brandished his sword. “The new tempering method works! Broke Sri-Kurah’s sword in half this morning.”
She burst in a laugh as she looked over and her brother’s sour expression. “I knew it would work if you kept at it. And it wouldn’t hurt your attitude to lose every so often,” she taunted, much to his indignation.
“Don’t take it so personally, brother. You may have superior skill, but this time I had superior firepower,” he smiled smugly.
“Yeah, yeah,” he deflected, “anyway, you really need to show master Hethra. After all, the sword you broke was one of his…he’ll definitely be impressed.”
Ilseun paused from his breakfast to consider the thought. Would Hethra be impressed, or inquisitive? He needed to perfect his technique first. There was unknown potential in this new technique, and he wanted to be absolutely sure that it was successful before he decided to tell his teacher.
“And I’ll tell master Vost when I get back to the library. Your father will be happy to know all that time over the last months secluded in the forge have paid off.”
“Hmph…I somehow doubt it. Librarians rarely appreciate a good sword, especially the High Librarian,” he chortled doubtfully.
“Maybe not. But he does appreciate you,” she told him warmly. Sri-Kurah shook his head in amusement, his sister always found a way to bring out the best in any situation. Ilseun wore a wholly content expression and kissed her hand.
“How could I start my mornings without you?” he cooed quietly to her. She flashed a beautiful smile while her brother rolled his eyes at the extremely sappy statement. The years had accustomed him to their displays, but ever so often they still managed to be more affectionate than he could stand. “Unfortunately,” he said getting up, “I need to get back to the forge and work out all the details before I announce my results. Finishing his milk and grabbing a roll to take with him, he leaned over to Sri-Ajota and grazed a light kiss on her cheek, whispering to her, “I’ll see you at lunch. Come get me if I forget.”
She smirked at him and exclaimed, “Trust me, if you forget, I’ll make sure to remind you. You can’t spend your whole life in the forge, you know.”
“This coming from someone who spends her whole life in the library?” he replies. She pouted, he laughed, and then he was gone…until his voice rings from around the corner, “Good match by the way brother!”
The scowl Sri-Kurah had was only matched by the delight in his sisters eyes. Love him as he may, Ilseun was always talented in using his quick wit to poke at him, even though he would always be there to support him. It had been like that since he had met him.
---
