You get bad days in this life, no one can disagree. You broke a unique Caster teacup with your breakfast, fell down the stairs on your way to the morning room, much to the panic of the servants. You know, the just darn right awful starts. Then there are the legendary bad days. The ones that could possibly mean the end of the world bad. Six of nine seals were gone, he knew the other three were safe as long as his life held out and that part he had covered in abundance. But six, six was enough. Still, some small comfort could be taken that the gate wouldn’t reappear for a good number of years yet.
Damned Prophets and their imprecise, illogical nonsense. He’d need to have another look for that book. He’d asked Karmic to get another but they were proving illusive, not surprising considering only ten or so of them were ever made. The next option was finding the author. Zeldin, that’d be an even more hopeless cause how’d that saying go? Never search for a Prophet, because he already knows your coming… He pushed such foolish thoughts aside.
Being 646 years old wasn’t easy, he’d seen dwarven friends grow old and die in his time, he’d even outlived a good number of Elves too watching them wither and fade into their eternal rest. Most of his current servants had blood ties all the way back to his youth. The looks of reverence most had for him was unpleasant, the last thing he needed was the foolish children to look upon him as a god. Such things could prove fatal to a man in his delicate position within the world.
He sat now in what he could now safely say was the most uncomfortable chair he’d ever had the misfortune to place his behind in. But alas it would have been rude to refuse Lord Delgans offer to sit in this Golden monstrosity. He envied the seat his old companion, Lictor, Lord Menori Isenhower, had been offered. Most likely the trussed up turkey’s wife’s with it’s exemplary quality craftsmanship. Second rate gold and silver covered everything, funny how some men thought, this was power it said, here I am, fear my prowess.
They’d be awake by now, the one’s Old Master Nethon had flagged up on his last fateful journey. May he rest well, decrepit old bastard, yet another servant with his time utterly spent. Still 250 years was a long time to be traveling the world, under a contract to never rest, never falter. The old boy had been exausted these last hundred years, wanting nothing more than to enter the eternal rest. Yes he’d done well.
He felt a touch on his shoulder, Isenhower towering above him,
“They’re on the move, so please try to stay with us.” he said with a slight, mocking, smile. Blasted man had ridiculously good senses, they’d literally only just begun to move toward them. Feeling there presences like drops of starlight, cold and harsh, five little pinpricks of light in the darkness.
As they entered the large gaudy greeting room he spressed a groan. Their clothes, not an ounce of refinement about them. As grotesque and vile as the abode itself glittering and stating his lack of Noble graces. Being a noble made the transgression worse, they were ment to be the warriors, fearless and proud. He doubted if the man had ever held a knife, let alone a sword. He’d need to have words with the little man.
Raising this little party hadn’t been cheap and many favours had been called in to keep it quiet. Even more to acquire a suitable testing ground. How could these possibly be the ones of prophecy, however the agents must believe it to be so, or his old friend Gavi Nethon would still be wearily travelling the world now.
A few months would see them suitably tested and give him time to secure a more permanent solution for the western province.
Despite how weak they were, it surprised him to see touches of Divinity within several of the party and something darker as well, that would bear watching.