A Far Greater Darkness This is what it is like to be Malchior, Scion of Darkness. Imagine, if you will, being different from everybody else. Not merely different in the way all humans are, but so radically different and new that you are cast out of your own home, scorned and hated, and believed to be the product of dark magic. Now imagine that the only thing keeping you sane, or alive, is your mother, the woman that gave birth to you. Your father detests you, and would gladly see you drown, or impaled, or locked up in the dark. Now imagine that, as bleak as this life is, it now gets bleaker, for your mother, the only person to have ever shown you any love, has now died from illness. You are just ten years old, yet you're already cast outside, into the chilly darkness. Now imagine that after about a week of wandering—starving, freezing, and morbidly depressed—you fall into the grave of a wicked king. Some would call this the last straw, but not you—you find yourself in a safe place, where the sun cannot touch you and people cannot see you. In this tomb you find the Book of Shadows, scribed by the damned and dictated by the bi-product of evil itself. Though illiterate, you teach yourself to read using this book, and are soon not only wise in the ways of the world, but dark magic as well. It soon makes you stronger, and fuels your vengeance even more. Now imagine one day, you gain the power to release yourself from this grave. The world has aged five years, and perhaps has forgotten you. Soon, though, it would never forget your name: people would whisper it in fear. You have command of the dead now, after all, and since you are now their king, you order them to march into your old village and wipe out the entire population, starting with your father and ending with every last child, dog, and cat. It becomes a literal ghost town, the cornerstone of your Kingdom of the Dead. But you are still lonely. Through the dark arts, you attain immortality, but you do not have eternal youth. Instead you must feast off the lives of others, taking their energy into your own body to sustain your youth for a few years more. They are then reduced to your servants, the walking dead, and you their king—their lonely, wasted king, still hated and scorned. But imagine, half a millennium later, you find the love of your life, the perfect mate for your soul, a woman with a scarred face and a pure heart, who loves you with such power that it even brings your own spirit to cleansing. Now imagine, deep in the flowering of your relationship, she is stolen from you, tortured, and burned at the stake. This is what it is like to be Malchior, Scion of Darkness. ...... "Tell me who it was. Who killed your lover, Garnet? I have heard enough about him; I'm more interested in his slayer." Garnet bristled as Malchior touched his neck. Their sexual escapade had not been borne out of love, but rather an alliance, an understanding between two men. Garnet would do something for Malchior—perform services in and out of the bedroom—and in turn Malchior would allow Garnet to have his revenge. The woman he sought, the one that had killed his precious Yan, would first be tortured, then mutilated, then sewn back together again and sucked of her life. She would then serve Garnet forever, as a zombie, dying and dying every day but never staying dead. It was a fitting punishment. "All right, all right, just shut up for a second. I never met the bitch, I just heard her name from Thirteen. He says she's called Beekay Power, or Kristen Masterson, or something. Look, it doesn't matter—she killed my boyfriend. She ripped his godforsaken head off with her bare hands! Does it matter who did it?" "I guess not. Thank you for answering my question, Garnet. You may continue." "I guess..." He sighed and knelt, kissing and kneading without any affection at all. With Yan he had been playful, tender, sweet and sensual; with Malchior, a man nearly ten times his age, he could equate sex with business. That wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy it: despite being over a thousand years old, Malchior looked, acted, and loved like a man in his late twenties. That he promised Garnet revenge was enough to make the younger man happy, and so he vowed to do anything he was asked, if but for a flash of retribution. After all, Masterson had killed his lover. Something like that could not be forgiven. ...... This is what it is like to be Garnet, the man with no other name. You do not come from anywhere, and you are not anybody. You will do anything that makes you feel complete, or makes you feel as if your running your own life—including sexual relations with a man far more evil than you are. You are alone—your last lover was brutally decapitated, leaving you with nothing but hatred. A man with no identity who now has hatred has now perhaps gained his identity; you are now Revenge, you are now Retribution, you are now Anger. You want her blood, you want to tear off her limbs, you want her to soak in acid, for she has taken away the only thing you had. When you discover the identity of the man you slept with, it first disgusts you. After all, he's over a thousand years old, and he performs acts that even you would consider disgusting. He eats spiders—but now he eats you, devours you, relishes and enjoys you, because he's taken many lovers before, and you're just the newest. After you come to terms with who this man is and what he does, you suggest something to him. Find my lover's killer, you say, and let me have justice for his death—I will do whatever you ask until then. He agrees. You find yourself in his grasp again, but your disgust is overpowered by the desire to hunt this woman down and destroy her. Perhaps once that is done, maybe you can pick up your life, reconcile with yourself, and go on, hopefully finding some solace. But vengeance is now your new identity; what will you become once you've reached your goal? Who will you end up being? You will be yourself, but something tells you that's not enough. You need something else. Of course, the mere fact that you "need" proves that you are, after all, still human. ...... "Can I come in now? Are you gentlemen presentable?" "Yes." In strolled the third member of the unholy trinity, a woman of seductive stare and lustful body, petite and simply-dressed. She noticed the stage of undress the two men were in—their shirts were off, piquing her interest and gaining the affection of a raised eyebrow—and cooed sadly, hugging the elder from behind. "Oh, did I come at a bad time? Drat. I was hoping the three of us could become better acquainted." "What a sick thought," muttered Garnet, shucking a shirt on. The woman smiled. "You forget who has the power here. You, dear Garnet, are little more than a boy, a foot soldier, with some scrap of strength and an irritation that won't go away. Malchior and I are different, bulging with power and wisdom, the likes of which you can't hope to understand. We are both well-versed in the art of the dead—I the communicator, he the summoner—and at any moment, should we feel you are useless, why...you'll be cast away and fed to locusts." "I wish you'd be silent," sighed Malchior, no more pleased at Kissa's appearance than Garnet was. "Give the young man some pity. He may not have our degree of power, but he has raw vengeance, borne from the hole in his heart created by the death of his only love. I understand that feeling all too well." "Is that why you're helping him?" asked Kissa. Malchior smiled foxily. "Well...he is excellent in bed, I can say that." "Nuisance!" she snorted, crunching her nose up. "All this talk about two men in bed as lovers...it gives me such a jealous streak. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you quit your tryst right before I came in!" Malchior smiled again, wrapping his fingers around her arm and staring seductively. "That's nonsense, Kissa; you know that. Our business was concluded. Now let's move on to another topic. You say you found a warrior of excellent standard, yes? Only one?" "This one may do," she said. "In life, she was a plague, and slaughtered many. Sound familiar?" The look on Malchior's face was enough; she scoffed and resumed. "In death, her soul is twisted. Suppose you summoned her and gave her a seat of command next to Garnet. Together they'd wreak all kinds of havoc." "Havoc is not necessarily my goal, but who did you have in mind?" "Just some child," Kissa mumbled nonchalantly. Her eyes twinkled when they saw the curiosity of her partner, and with a stuffy laugh, she added, "I haven't found out her name yet, but she calls herself the Reaper. Interesting title." ...... This is what it is like to be Kissa Hathor-Sakmet, ancient goddess of destruction. Originally, you were a court magician for a powerful Pharaoh, eons before the modern age. You and your twin brother, Ata, entertained and educated the Pharaoh for many years, using your innate ability to communicate with the dead to astound him—and to gain stronger footholds of power, for your ambitions were much higher than merely playing performers in the temple. When you got wind of a plan to usurp the throne, you jumped at the chance, and followed your brother into the tomb of the god of Death, where you would steal a vial containing the very Blood of Osiris. This would give you immortality and great powers, but at a cost so horrible that having it mentioned would curl steel bars. You succeeded in fashioning bracelets that allowed you to eternally feed off of the blood, but a traitor was discovered in your numbers that blew your plans to dust. As punishment, the Pharaoh had you and your brother buried alive, sealed in an unfinished tomb for an unpopular prince, bound and gagged in darkness. For three-thousand years you laid there, dead and yet not dead, your only means of communication being the very land of the dead, where thousands of souls wander in bliss or in agony. As the years passed and your mind was poisoned by the prejudices and jealousies of the dead, your plots moved from punishing the Pharaoh to punishing the country to punishing the world. If ever you were released, the wave of terror you'd inflict would be unmatched by anyone, past or present. There would be no future. Years later, you were freed by a hapless archaeologist. He was the first victim in your act; there would be countless others, more souls to accompany those that had died. You do not know what had happened to your brother, but you never recovered him, and this eats away at your desiccated soul. Over the ages you've been alive, you have bedded countless lovers and taken countless lives, but this venture with Malchior very well may be your greatest. A flicker of understanding is in his eyes—he too knows the full power of the dark side—so a union was inevitable. That he has taken a boyish vassal means little; it is his powers you love, and so you will cooperate him, until he surrenders you the world and leaves for his own new home, his restored lover in tow. ...... Malchior could, by himself, summon the dead and use them for his army, or else vacuum souls from the living and increase his followers, but what he truly needed for his plan were legendary characters, the stuff that stories were made of—the valiant dead who could not only fight for him, but could emerge victorious and carry him closer to his goal. This is how Kissa provided for him, by seeking out the mightiest of dead warriors and bringing them to his attention, so he could call on them and bind them to his will. Ultimately his goal was to acquire enough souls to fill his creations, the goddesses of death Kali and Celine, until they were both complete and could merge into one—his precious Venus, lost love soon to be found again. And in return, he vowed to leave the world in Kissa's hands, to do as she pleased. Of course he would help with her own scheme of vengeance, but generally would leave everything to her, including the bulk of his powers he reasoned he wouldn't need in his new home. She agreed to this, and the two forged their bond first through blood, then through sex. Malchior actually liked slitting his palm more than the romp in bed. In truth, the "unholy trinity" did not include Garnet; he was simply there because of his need for revenge, nothing more. His powers were nowhere near as morbid or strong as Kissa's or Malchiors, and in fact he feared them both. The true third member of the group was a man far more powerful and frightening than even those two, one who made very little contact with the outside world, choosing to let his operatives do that work for him. Kissa and Malchior had met him a few times, and had to admit that being in his presence frightened them. But a willing ally was nothing to fear, and the Cult of the Seven Deadly Sins, led by the man in black called Omega, was more than willing to help the two in their endeavors. This, therefore, is what it is like to be elite members of the Cult. You are Holivx Dirge, the man of Wrath, and first of the Seven. All your life you have upheld justice, fought for the good, beating back evil. All your life you have hated evil, in fact, and held righteousness so high in your mind that soon it became your obsession. You became an executioner, choosing to snuff out the criminal mind rather than let the corrupted courtrooms handle them, and for your wrath, you were excommunicated. But one man believed in you and your lust, and gave you the power to achieve far greater things, but in exchange, possibly, for your soul. You are Christine Velshoni, the woman of Envy, and second of the Seven. All your life, you have hated everything that was better than you. You were always poor, always ugly, always unpopular, always cast out by those that had more, more, more than you ever could. The people you hated most were the privileged kids, and celebrities, always so perfect and polished. In your deranged state, your obsession took over several times; first you attacked the head cheerleader at your school, torturing her and turning her into a wretch; then you attacked a visiting movie star, smashing her teeth with a metal pipe. Your master knew you were a perfect candidate for Envy, but even though you now have everything you could ever want, it shall never be enough. You are Edward Nashiyori, the man of Avarice, and third of the Seven. All your life, you have valued possessions, ranging from beautiful crisp bills of cash to the bodies of human slaves, and have spent your every waking moment amassing more, more, more, so you could fulfill your greedy desires. You are like a vacuum, sucking in the wealth of everything you come into contact with, and are so obsessed with your gaining that even your clothes are sewn with jewels and gold. Your quest for power has damned your soul; you happily made an ally with that devil, Omega, just so you could have even more. Perhaps you will one day explode from being so bloated. You are Frederick Revini, the man of Gluttony, and fourth of the Seven. All your life, you have starved and hungered, and though you soon commanded multiple chains of restaurants, expanding your palette to include every conceivable edible item, you can never be satisfied. You have robbed good hard-working people of their produce, and sent small countries into waste and ruin through methods of poverty and starvation, just so you could have the finest banquets on your table. You have even turned to cannibalism, finding the meat of other humans strangely sweet. You are the infernal devourer, a pleasing favorite of your master, and you shall never stop eating, even if it means your death. You are Hanz Ulric Himmler, the man of Pride, and fifth of the Seven, though you feel you should be first. All your life, you have only loved one thing: yourself. You have valued your own looks, your own talents, your own knowledge and upbringing above everyone else's, and to lower your head, save to look down upon others, is unthinkable. So confident are you in your skills that you have never lost, because you believe you never will, and your master, loving your narcissism, encourages this and empowers you. Only he is superior—but even that is soon to change. You hate him because he is higher, but you can bide your time and wait. Just because you are full of yourself, that doesn't mean you're impatient. Woe to those who tarnish your perfection. You are Walter Barsnef, the man of Sloth, and sixth of the Seven. All your life, you have never liked to work. Despite your genius you have always sought jobs that require the least amount of work: preferring to sit rather than stand, or lie down rather than sit. You have gone from job to job, annoying people and at the same time intriguing them with your inactivity. Prison to you was paradise—where you were not required to do anything, save lay there and be good. Life with your master, however, is even better, because now you do not have to do anything except stay, stay right there, and let your venom permeate everything. Death to you would be most pleasant; you don't even have to breathe. You can just sleep, forever, and be happy. You are Rosalyn Eden, the woman of Lust, and the last of the Seventh to join their ranks. All your life, you have been beautiful, far too beautiful for the best poets to describe, far too wonderful to even gaze upon. The sun itself cannot bear to shine on your flawless young body; everything was meant to worship you and whatever you touched. You have enticed and seduced thousands of men and women, never finding satisfaction, never achieving perfection, because they can never be as beautiful as you. Only your master seems immune to your charms, but he loves you deeper, as a true lover would, and allows you total freedom, just as he allows freedom to all his servants. Perhaps one day you'll meet your match—but there's no point in rushing things, eh! You are Omega—and that is all that you wish to say. You lead the Cult of the Seven, you are their master, and you have decided to join forces with Kissa and Malchior because you like the way they think. Chaos suits you just fine. With your cult, and their legions of living dead, you can bring about a far greater darkness than any force in the past has ever known. There are only four in the world that concern you: first there is the man in white you are to inevitably battle, and Pale, the fallen angel; third is Kali, goddess of death, an alien force you understand very well; and the fourth is that scheming woman, Dr. Yohko Kamaguchi. But that is merely the order in which they most concern you, and even "he" cannot withstand such a deluge of darkness. Nobody can. Next chapter: Pandora's Gamble
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