Interlude Three - Prized Possession
General Summary
Arcaan lounged in his trophy room at the Cypher Lodge in Riddleport, a smirk playing on his lips as he admired his collection. Artifacts from distant lands and forgotten times filled the room, but his eyes always returned to his greatest prize - the Hand of the Dark Queen. The gauntlet, forged from obsidian, plated with gold and etched with glowing runes, rested on a velvet cushion inside a glass case. It was a thing of beauty and power, and he loved it.
He stretched, feeling the satisfying ache of muscles well-used. It had taken every ounce of his skill to create the gauntlet, following the Dark Queen's whispers as they guided his hands. Arcaan liked to think of it as his masterpiece. He was still smiling to himself when he felt the temperature drop, the air growing thick with an unnatural chill.
“Great,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “What now?”
The shadows in the room deepened, coalescing into a figure draped in tattered robes. The figure stepped forward, grey skeletal hands clasped in front of it, eyes glowing an eerie blue. It stood a full head taller than the half-orc, and the horned helm it wore made him seem even taller. Arcaan knew that helm. Everyone did. The Helm of Naraga was synonymous with the Whispering Tyrant, Tar-Baphon. This creature had made a copy or somehow liberated the helmet from the Whispering Tyrant himself. Neither thought was very comforting.
Arcaan’s hand drifted to the dagger at his side but he didn’t draw it. “You must be lost,” Arcaan said, leaning casually against a shelf. “This is a private exhibit. You want a viewing, buy a ticket.”
The lich’s voice was a low, ominous rumble. “Arcaan. I’ve come for the gauntlet.”
Arcaan raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Oh, have you now? Sorry, but it’s not for sale. Sentimental value and all that.”
The lich’s bony face twisted into what might have been a smile. “Oh? It was a gift, perhaps?”
“I made it,” Arcaan said. “But someone very close to me helped.”
The lich stared at him. “And who do you think gave her the knowledge to craft it? The Dark Queen is no master smith or powerful artificer.”
Arcaan managed to keep his surprise locked down. All other emotions escaped his grasp. “Don’t talk about her like you know her,” Arcaan snapped, a hint of jealousy in his voice.
“But I do know her,” the lich said slowly. “Intimately. I know that gauntlet as well. The original, at least.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Arcaan said. “It’s mine now. I made it. You want it? Learn to live with disappointment.”
The lich took a step closer, and Arcaan felt the air grow colder still. “I could just kill you and take it.”
Arcaan straightened, hand hovering over the dagger. “You could try. But I’ve faced worse than you.”
The lich’s laugh was a dry, rattling sound. “You really haven’t. I had hoped for a civil exchange, but you’ve chosen the path of pain instead.”
“Afraid so,” Arcaan shot back. “This is my place, my rules. So unless you want a building full of wizards to join us, I suggest you drift out the way you came.”
The lich raised a skeletal hand, dark energy crackling around his fingers. “So be it.”
Arcaan drew the dagger in one smooth motion, but the lich was faster. A pulse of necrotic energy surged through the air, striking Arcaan in the chest before the dagger could leave his hand. He felt his flesh wither, and his bones turn to ash. He crumpled to the floor, his vision blurred, but his mind remained sharp, defiant. He focused on the gauntlet, his greatest creation, his pride. He had made it at the Dark Queen’s behest, following her instructions to the letter. He had poured his heart and soul into it. And now it was slipping away.
The lich’s presence was a cold, suffocating weight. Arcaan forced his eyes open, glaring at the skeletal figure. “You... won’t... win,” he rasped, struggling for each word.
The lich didn’t even glance his way. “Consider this your final lesson. Tynathria never cared about you, Arcaan. The gauntlet belongs to me. It has always belonged to me.”
Arcaan’s fingers twitched, reaching for the dagger that had fallen just out of reach. If he could just...
The lich’s boot came down on his hand, crushing the muscle and tissue to a pulp. “Pathetic,” the lich hissed. “You should have accepted my offer.”
Arcaan’s vision darkened, but he wouldn’t give this monster the satisfaction of seeing him beg. “Go... to... hell,” he spat, blood staining his lips.
The lich crouched beside him, its cold blue eyes boring into Arcaan's soul. “I’ve already been there,” he whispered. “And I brought back something far worse.”
With a final pulse of necrotic power, Arcaan’s body erupted in a cloud of ash. The lich stood, opened the glass case and lifted the Hand of the Dark Queen. The runes on the gauntlet flared to life, recognizing their true master.
“Fool,” the lich murmured, slipping the gauntlet over his bony hand. “She could never love you. She could never love anyone but herself. I spared you the pain of that lesson.” He flexed his fingers, feeling the power coursing through him.
With a final glance around the trophy room, the lich turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving nothing but silence and the lingering chill of death. Arcaan’s legacy, like his ashes, was scattered to the winds. And the gauntlet, the symbol of his greatest achievement, was now a tool of darkness, ready to unleash untold horrors upon the world.
Report Date
09 Aug 2024
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