Fantasy Helkor's Lockstone

[Ire]

Outskirts of Silverdeep


How long had he possessed the trinket? All the years seemed to blend together. Throughout random intervals of the day, it was not uncommon to see him entranced with the world that was inside the lockstone. It had been an item crafted thousands of years ago by entities unknown, and now it was in his hands.


But not for long.


The archmage of the Magisterium sat bound to the steel-wrought chair, four silhouettes staring at him in the dimly lit room. Braziers brandishing flame crackled in the corners, their wavering illuminations casting shadows across the stone brick walls.


The four figures were clad in purple-embroidered black robes, their faces mostly obscured by hoods, but able to be seen every time the light of the braziers flashed in their direction. One of the robed individuals stepped forward. As they neared the bound form of the archmage, their countenance came into view—a woman stood before him, painfully obvious now that she removed her hood. Long silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, providing a blatant contrast to the black and purple of her apparel. Her pale-hued skin held no blemishes in the dim lighting, and her bright green irises stared down at the helpless archmage.


Contorting into an expression of disbelief, the archmage twitched slightly as he took in her identity. “Adrasteia…?”


“Shut your mouth Helkor!” She commanded, her hand striking the left side of the archmage’s face with a forceful slap. “You will speak when spoken to.” The enchantress paused for a moment, her lips curling into a foul smirk. The long nails of her deceptively delicate hands traced against the now-crimson cheek of the archmage. “How long have you held power over me—over everyone that has ever belonged to the Magisterium?” She murmured, her gentle touch beginning to lower to Helkor’s neck and finally to the circular emblem of the lockstone he wore.


Upon the touch of her hand against the cool silver chain and the fiery purple stone it bore, Helkor’s eyes narrowed and his body strained violently against the enchanted ropes that kept him from moving and performing magic. Adrasteia laughed at his struggle, allowing her hand to retreat for the time being. “How useless your rage is. Have you not considered your surrender, even after being imprisoned and beaten like an animal?” She teased, her grin still plastered across her impish face.


The sorceress spoke the truth, however. The archmage had suffered the torturous acts of Adrasteia and her associates, and it was painfully clear with his bloodied and broken nose, his red-veined eyes that lacked sleep, his bruised flesh, and his lips that were coated with dried blood.


“I cannot surrender. Not with the task that I have been given,” Helkor replied weakly, his fatigue replacing the rageful outburst.


“Who gave you the task, Helkor? What entity gave you such responsibility over such a powerful trinket? Who thought you deserved the lockstone!?” Adrasteia said, though her voice raised to shouting as the questions continued. Her hand was in position to strike the archmage once more, but she didn’t finish the motion just yet.


Helkor continued to stare at the stone floor of the dungeon that held him hostage, his demeanor feigning ignorance.


“Tell me!” The sorceress screamed, her body lunging forward and slapping the archmage harder than before, her strands of silver hair flailing about her.

Upon the immediate impact of her hand against the archmage’s face, his eyes shot open wide. “NO!” He roared, purple energy streaming forth from the stone stationed in the center of the lockstone he wore around his neck. The purple energy was flame-like, its fiery tendrils bathing his body. Adrasteia fell backward in shock along with her three other associates as the arteries and veins along Helkor’s throat strained against the skin. His power grew until the ropes that imprisoned him snapped and the steel chair shattered like glass.


Helkor stood before them, the royal energy still radiating from the lockstone. Adrasteia and her three minions looked on in shock and awe, cowering before their archmage. But alas, the power was only temporary, and as the purple flames began to recede back into the stone, the weakness in Helkor’s eyes returned.


Adrasteia wasted no time in taking her one opportunity. She fired forth from her cowering stance and snatched the lockstone from Helkor’s neck. The archmage’s eyes blasted open as if he had been skewered with a spear, his mouth quivering as he slowly collapsed to the floor and began groaning in sheer agony. “KILL HIM!” The enchantress screamed, and with that command, blasts of fire and bolts of electricity fried the archmage into oblivion.


Watching Helkor’s flesh char and melt, Adrasteia laughed wickedly and smiled, holding the powerful lockstone before her eyes. The flame that burned Helkor alive flickered in the background of her vision, and she knew she had everything she had ever wanted.

 

[Ire]

Two Weeks After the Death of Helkor

The court room of Grimdour Fortress was filled to the brim with as many influential people from Silverdeep as possible. In the front of the room was nine thrones, the center and largest one being inhabited by Viscount Bharris Del’Kroux. The other thrones were adorned with the figures of his eight-man council. Bharris was clad in royal apparel—a lavishly-collared, blue velvet, long-sleeved tunic with puffed shoulder pads; tight-fitting pants that were tucked into his pointed shoes; a plethora of jewelry, ranging from golden rings to bejeweled bracelets and necklaces. The entire outfit was embroidered with studded gems.


A gray beard lined his jaw and wrapped about Bharris’ lips, coinciding with the gold circlet that rounded his bald head. Brown eyes stared out at the throng of men and women of the court. He paid no heed to the attendants today, and allowed his council members to speak for him while he sipped away at drink after drink of his red wine. The court had been boring this morning, just as it always was, but that soon changed as the court room’s broad doors were thrown open.


Sharp-pointed shoes tapped against the marble floor managed to draw the curiosity of Bharris Del’Kroux. As he glanced upward from the podium he was seated in front of, his chocolate brown eyes became fixated on the robed form of Adrasteia Vethdarai. Her silver hair shone in the dimly lit court, and her green eyes seemed to be daggers that pierced into Bharris’ soul. One of the viscount’s council members was in the middle of speaking to one of the more unimportant court attendants. Bharris interrupted without a moment of hesitation, and the court silenced around his voice.


“We’ve been expecting you, newly-made archmage of the Magisterium. It’s good your appointment was scheduled for today, because this morning was looking to be a bit of a bore,” Bharris said aloud, his spectrum seeming to grow as he straightened his back and rested his spine against the circle-shaped pinnacle of the throne behind him.


Adrasteia was followed by three Elemanters donning full steel plate armor and black hoods. “Not really an appointment, Viscount Bharris. You summoned me. What do you and your entourage need?” The sharp-tongued elf said quickly, her eyes already narrowed slightly and her tone dangerous.


“I’ve heard of your recent promotion. Though, it really wasn’t a promotion, more of a move-up in the ranks to fill a rather empty position on your Magisterium board. Am I correct?” Bharris inquired, smirking slightly.


“You are, Viscount Bharris. I see no need for this conversation. We all know you know of Helkor’s demise,” Adrasteia countered.


“I think everyone in Silverdeep does. We were just wondering how he came to be murdered in the first place,” Bharris exclaimed, drawing gasps from the gathering in the court room. Adrasteia’s countenance feigned disgust as one of Bharris’ council members on his left-hand side slid closer to him.


“Sir, there is no conclusive evidence that Helkor was murdered. It’s been common knowledge that he committed suicide,” the advisor said. Bharris nodded but did not turn toward the council member, keeping his brown eyes locked with the green of Adrasteia.


“I’m fairly certain he wasn’t murdered, Your Majesty. Everyone in Silverdeep knows he put himself to death by fire. Only thing that remained was his lockstone, and that was handed down to the next in line for archmage—me,” Adrasteia explained, her voice on the brink of snapping. She struggled to keep her composure, but she knew she had to while in the presence of the viscount and his well-trained garrison.


“Well, why would someone burn themselves alive when taking their own life? I hear it may be the most painful way to go as it is,” Bharris retorted, laughing openly. The eight other council members banged their gavels against their respective podiums.


The advisor leaned in once again, whispering frantically into Bharris’ ear. “Your Majesty, you’ve been drinking too much wine, it is not just to wrongfully accuse someone of a foul deed in public affairs. Especially not the archmage!”


“I will say when I have drank too much wine! Do not tell me! And I will accuse who I wish, when I wish!” Bharris shouted, standing forth from his throne. The rest of the council proceeded to adjourn the court. Adrasteia and the viscount made eye contact one more time before her Elemanters escorted her forth from the court room, followed closely by a handful of the city guard.


The yelling of the viscount became more subtle as Adrasteia drew further and further from the royal court. She raised her hood over her head, concealing the smirk present on her lips to those following behind her.

 

[Mordecai]

On a list of things Gwen was not, poised was the crowning item. A surprised yelp escaped her as her pinky toe connected with the edge of a table leg as she moved through the Magisterium's library. It was early evening, edging towards the eight o’clock chime, and Gwen had already invested several hours of her post-dinner time in the library. At some point, she happened to take her boots off to make herself more comfortable (that, and no one else was in the library at the time, making it considerably easier to get away with foolish things like taking one’s shoes off). Of course, it was only after about fifteen minutes without her boots did she decided to get up to fetch a second book when she managed to lackadaisically smack her foot into the table leg. Pain unlike she had ever felt before coursed up her foot and took a grip on her spine, making her whine and collapse into one of the luxurious, leather lounge chairs and pull her foot up towards her chest to inspect the damage done. While she may have always had a flair for the dramatic, Gwen was convinced, convinced, she was dying.


Within a few moments time, that didn’t quite seem to be the case, for the pain dissolved into a dull throbbing as she let her foot fall back to the floor with a sigh, not being bothered to get up a second time to fetch the book she had been after. She hadn’t been doing much of anything except studying since teatime, and she didn’t feel like she had gotten very far in that, either. No, her thoughts were drifting off elsewhere. Naturally, she had heard the news of Helkor, though it did little to shake her as she preferred to key her nose in her own damn business. If the top dogs wanted to go about murdering one another, that was fine in Gwen’s book, so long as she didn’t get swept up in their stratagems; after all, she had a blacksmithing business to think of. Murder just wouldn’t be good for business.


Shoving the books further across the desk and sitting back, Gwen tucked her arms against her sides and sunk into the plush leather surface of the arm chair, staring out across the expansive library. It was a two story library with two sweeping, dark oak spiral staircases against the far walls. Bookshelves were forged into the walls themselves and were cast from exotic woods filigreed in gold and silver plating. Thousands upon thousands of book spines made their appearances along the shelves that climbed all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. There were a handful of chairs and tables, much like the one she was sitting at, in two rows down the centre of the room. The line was broken only by a small fountain in the dead centre of the bottom floor; the sound of gushing water over the porcelain base cast the entire atmosphere in a soothing lull.


Of all the beautiful rooms in the Magisterium, the library had always been her favourite. Even from a young age, she would spend countless hours amongst the shelves, picking out book after book. It had been well over ten years since she had first laid eyes on the library, though she rarely saw the same book twice.


She loved to read and she had tried to entice herself with some interesting choices of literature, but she couldn’t seem to entice her mind to focus. Instead, she found her eyes closing, sinking deeper into the seat.


The library was empty… people rarely came in at this hour… what would be a few minutes nap?