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[Sethos]

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Sethos sat alone, in front of the Skull. He had been doing this every-night for weeks. He had been trying to come to understand this relic, this artifact since his arrival. It seemed to speak to Tyranthraxus, he had been watching now, his gestures his mouth, he had been watching. Since his arrival Sethos had questioned his new Lord, devouring the tidbits of information, every fact about the Order and Necromancy. At first he acted as his brethren did, with hesitation and fear, but now he felt he could become a little bolder then the rest with this Tyranthraxus.

The Order thus far had disappointed him, All but this “guide” lost in their own little worlds, their minds filled with paranoia and false pride. Even the spell-casters, so showy, their gestures so beautiful, their spell’s words so perfect but they were amateurs. The knew no more then any mage who owned a spell book and spent some time in practice. Even the vampires, their abilities interesting but so decorated and unnecessary. Tyranthraxus was different, very different. He did not seem to be great, nor powerful. The bearing of a noble but the garb of a slave, his words humble, his motions lacking the normal cultist’s decorative flavor. Yet, in an instance he could destroy them all. This was not what Sethos had expected from Tyranthraxus.

Rising a he took a few steps forward, close to the skull. Holding his hand over it he hesitated for a moment, the relic’s eye sockets quickly illuminating, it was aware of his motions, No, Oblivion was aware. Small amounts of entropic energy entering his hand, he felt the chill, the cold touch of the Dark One upon his soul, this time he did not recoil he did not move. Suddenly he felt his mind being prodded, his lies being recalled by some alien force. A light laughter resounding in his ears. The Dark One was amused, over a month and no fact of his life given was valid, save for his age given to but two individuals. Then his life, his parents his home pulled into memory, his history, the Skull was learning, nothing was hidden, Oblivion saw all.

With a thrust of his hand some unseen force pushed his hand upon the relic, a horribly cold flash of pain came over him, he fell but his hand remained held in place, as if by some greater unseen hand, he did not scream, he could not.

His mind was ablaze, his passions his desires burning within his brain:

Knowledge…The arcane, ancient lore, secrets, he wished to know it all.

Power…to rule, to be feared, to be loved.

Revenge…We shall rise again, They will remember.


Then a sudden calm, his mind went blank, all around him became dark save for the Skull, his hand still stuck to it by the powers that be. Then a figure, in the emptiness around him stepping out, familiar yet different came into view. With a blink of an eye it was standing directly in front of him, his face to it’s boot. Slowly his eyes trailed up the figure slender but terrible. Clad in heavy ornate metallic armor, the tip of it’s boots, it’s knees, finger tips, knuckles and shoulders capped by horribly thin and sharp metal spikes. Heavy ebon runes adorning the armor and the fine garments, a cloak draped over the left arm nearly touching the floor bore the image of a skull. Then just above the gorget a face young and beautiful, not tired or worn. Painted, a thin line of color as black as night surrounding the eyes and lip-line. The eyes, green, emerald, the hair jet black. A thin crown atop his head, studded with onyx and ruby gems. He could not be older then seventeen. Their eyes met, No, his eyes met. Sethos looked at this glorified image of himself for a few moments dumb-founded then with a smirk it knelt grabbing him about the collar moving him to eye-level pulling him close and into a standing position his hand still held to the skull.

“Build an Empire my dark prince…for Oblivion, for Tyranthraxus, for us. Be what it was you were born to be.”

With that the figure suddenly threw him away, the force holding his hand to the skull released as well, and with a thud he smacked into one the columns about the Skull’s altar the present time and place coming into view. Sliding down and laying flat on his back, his eyes gazing into the dark and star less night he laid there, in perfect silence, all the while his warped and twisted soul’s laughter echoing in his mind.

Within the halls of the Ebon Tower, in a kingdom long forgotten, upon a throne older then time itself a dark lord smiles…