Final Say
Ozzob looks around from the rooftop, his hands; he can feel his own strength. The aura that surrounds the sorcerer tells the world that he knows what is about to happen, he looks intoxicated by the sights. He begins to blur out, moving too fast to pick up the details; bending the flow of time to his will.
The sorcerer reaches out with both hands. Likened to a chain of magical fireworks, each of Ozzob’s outstretched fingers explodes into a writhing pestilence. Ripples of energy flow to the sorcerer, the green land around the town immediately begins to wither and die. Independently, the eight bolts of suffering and disease inch across the gap that separates the two living mystic conductors--the sorcerer that dose not know himself, and the god… that just came into being.
Consigned to the result, Ozzob steps down from the edge and allows the bolts to take there own course. Time returns to normal, from the god’s perspective the blighted projectiles appeared instantly, already halfway across the gap. With only a moment to react, Glash slinks down and tries to get out of the way; the restore almost works.
The first inflamed stream of magic strikes the beatific creature’s skin and begins to slide off. For a moment, the god believes the attack will not harm, but that sensation is fleeting-replaced with pain. The spell’s energy begins to slice through the deity’s protective shroud. The first bolt churns under the skin, contaminating flesh. Soon, more of the magical streams land against Glash’s skin.
Six of the eight spells hit home and begin to tear debilitating rips through flesh. Godly skin cracks open, the tendrils of pestilence writhe deep into the deity’s body. Each wound expels fragments of rotted flesh as the bolts of physical poison dig deeper. Uninterrupted, each of the six deadly projectiles passes completely through Glash’s body leaving fleshy tunnels.
Rays of light shine through the deity’s riddled body; magma-like blood flushes from the six wounds. Muscles ripple out of control, as they no longer connect to anything. Glash unloads a deafening groan while trying to stay afloat. A few moments pass, Ozzob scrutinizes the lasting effects of his attack; he basks in the glory of his work.
It looks as though the mighty beast will shake off the wounds; the deity level entity burls up and readies to crush the town in a single fierce blow. At some indefinable point, willpower breaks and Glash begins to soften, melt away. Slowly, muscle mass begins to shrivel, the beings skin becomes a hardened shell with nothing but vacant space inside.
The weak structure collapses, unable to maintain support. Black ash explodes from the wilted flesh, covering the entire area in a layer of pestilence-infected particles. Ozzob scans the roofline of the town, no casualties, save one, the god…
#
I remember feeling as if the world was under me, maybe even a bit beneath me. I had created something on a whim, a being I did not intend to create. A deity in essence--Glash was a creature commanding supreme power, and could have destroyed me; but I did not allow it.
I
remember standing on the roof of Baddlack’s
They reacted to my every move; they viewed me as if I had changed. There eyes did not show me the concern that I expected to find, they feared me. Had I changed? I felt no different in form, but my mind was circling in a quandary. How was this possible? Had the day’s events changed me? Who was I?
At the time, I could only consider one possibility… that I did not know myself, and that someone out there had to know… someone had to know more about me than I did.
#
As Ozzob steps down from the seclusion of the rooftop, he throws a hand back over his head. The dead greenery around the village begins to re-grow-ragged, gnarled vines replace beautiful bushes. The parcel of land that was Woodwake will forever be a patch of lingering, diseased death.
In the stairway, Dedrick, Tolvis, Baddlack, and Kis’larn all watch in silence as the sorcerer passes them by. An aura surrounds Ozzob, almost visible; a radiant energy field that interacts with everything it brushes. Without a word spoken, each of Ozzob’s friends turns and follows him down the steps.
Hitting the streets, the group disperses in silence to assist the citizens of the village. Ozzob carries himself, one-step at a time, to his front door. Beyond the door, he can feel answers to his past. For a fleeting moment, he considers that things should stop here. He could simply never go in, never seek the answers to his questions.
Releasing a slow sigh, Ozzob grabs the doorknob, “Things have gone too far to turn back now.”
Regrouped a few streets away, the companions break from the crowd and find a quiet spot to talk things over.
“What was that?”
“A compulsion…”
“I couldn’t say anything.”
“Me either…”
“I’m worried about Ozzob.”
“I am worried about us…”
“I do not think this is over.”
“Im thinkin ye is right on that one.”
“Is this the calm before the storm?”
“No, it is over.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I want to believe it.”
“Pray that we will never know.”
#
“So it is done.” grieves the voice of finality.