(lol, time for Malchor to kill off all the loose ends. )
Before anyone could answer the King's remark, before anyone could act, something happened. Something sudden and deadly.
"FEAR ME, FOR I AM GOD!"
This voice suddenly let loose, like a cannon, in the throne room, rebounding across the huge entranceway and the corners of the room. It continued on for what seemed like eternity, but was actually a second, or less; no one could tell after where it had come from, or if it had come from anywhere at all. This would not matter in a moment, however. Quite as mysterious as the voice was but evermore frightening, a bolt, a blast came down from the heavens, a spear of nightmarishly powerful magick, energy condensed into a pillar, which broke the roof and exploded, the immense power of it causing the whole throne-room to collapse as the very foundations it relied on blew apart like cheap metal hit by a mace. A strike from the orbits, from the stars; a strike familiar to many in the world of wizards but barely known by the commoners, the peasants, even some of the rich. Who had caused this intense damage in this one moment? And why?
Malchor the VIII. That answered both questions.
As the pillar of intensely powerful energy disappeared and the carnage became apparent to all attending, or whoever had survived the blast, which had only been the important people attending, the measly old wizard became noticeable, a horrible maniac grin spread across his golden features. The light shined onto those odd features, and his demonic, metal eye stood out, not looking like a regular eyeball at all, but more like a demonic eye, a horrible maw in his socket. The deadly wizard wheezed and hacked and coughed in a gross manner as he hobbled to the King and the remainder of the people left, the important ones, as the rest had been killed off in the explosion of the pillar. He looked, for all effects and purposes, to be a homeless person - a golden homeless old man. But that was too far from the truth of his nature...his insane nature.
The old man continued to hobble up to the King, the thoughts on his mind still hidden by his absolutely insane grin. He had come here at a request for help, the White Rose Kingdom versus the Blaze kingdom. Why they approached him, he did know - he was, after all, the best wizard in the god damned world, or at least on that planet. This had been made obvious by the explosion that had just rocked this building, killing off all the Court officials that Malchor thought were loose ends, simply vaporizing the lot of them. It was the first step in any operation involving the wizard - his paranoia had no ends, and even now he was still on his guard; this Malchor was a simulacrum, a copy, one of seven the wizard had made in his times across the world. He had sent this one to talk and deal with the King - after all, they were identical in mind and body and soul, except for their power levels. Now, as the simulacrum approached the King and came nearer to the last remnants of his little party, he spoke.
"Malchor bids hello, fair King - and he apologizes. He did not have the time to tell you that extermination of the Court would be vital if he was involved in your operations, for matters of secrecy. I am but a simulacrum of my master, an exact duplicate in all respects except power - I have but a seventh of his abilities. He does not wish to meet here, he would feel more comfortable in his lair. I have been sent to negotiate with you all - to hear you. I will relay whatever I am asked to my master, and also my decisions - after all, I am him. We are identical...as are my other six brothers."
The copy bowed, and waited for a response.
(LOLDEATH >D)
Before anyone could answer the King's remark, before anyone could act, something happened. Something sudden and deadly.
"FEAR ME, FOR I AM GOD!"
This voice suddenly let loose, like a cannon, in the throne room, rebounding across the huge entranceway and the corners of the room. It continued on for what seemed like eternity, but was actually a second, or less; no one could tell after where it had come from, or if it had come from anywhere at all. This would not matter in a moment, however. Quite as mysterious as the voice was but evermore frightening, a bolt, a blast came down from the heavens, a spear of nightmarishly powerful magick, energy condensed into a pillar, which broke the roof and exploded, the immense power of it causing the whole throne-room to collapse as the very foundations it relied on blew apart like cheap metal hit by a mace. A strike from the orbits, from the stars; a strike familiar to many in the world of wizards but barely known by the commoners, the peasants, even some of the rich. Who had caused this intense damage in this one moment? And why?
Malchor the VIII. That answered both questions.
As the pillar of intensely powerful energy disappeared and the carnage became apparent to all attending, or whoever had survived the blast, which had only been the important people attending, the measly old wizard became noticeable, a horrible maniac grin spread across his golden features. The light shined onto those odd features, and his demonic, metal eye stood out, not looking like a regular eyeball at all, but more like a demonic eye, a horrible maw in his socket. The deadly wizard wheezed and hacked and coughed in a gross manner as he hobbled to the King and the remainder of the people left, the important ones, as the rest had been killed off in the explosion of the pillar. He looked, for all effects and purposes, to be a homeless person - a golden homeless old man. But that was too far from the truth of his nature...his insane nature.
The old man continued to hobble up to the King, the thoughts on his mind still hidden by his absolutely insane grin. He had come here at a request for help, the White Rose Kingdom versus the Blaze kingdom. Why they approached him, he did know - he was, after all, the best wizard in the god damned world, or at least on that planet. This had been made obvious by the explosion that had just rocked this building, killing off all the Court officials that Malchor thought were loose ends, simply vaporizing the lot of them. It was the first step in any operation involving the wizard - his paranoia had no ends, and even now he was still on his guard; this Malchor was a simulacrum, a copy, one of seven the wizard had made in his times across the world. He had sent this one to talk and deal with the King - after all, they were identical in mind and body and soul, except for their power levels. Now, as the simulacrum approached the King and came nearer to the last remnants of his little party, he spoke.
"Malchor bids hello, fair King - and he apologizes. He did not have the time to tell you that extermination of the Court would be vital if he was involved in your operations, for matters of secrecy. I am but a simulacrum of my master, an exact duplicate in all respects except power - I have but a seventh of his abilities. He does not wish to meet here, he would feel more comfortable in his lair. I have been sent to negotiate with you all - to hear you. I will relay whatever I am asked to my master, and also my decisions - after all, I am him. We are identical...as are my other six brothers."
The copy bowed, and waited for a response.
(LOLDEATH >D)
Last edited: