Thine Eyes May Deceive

         Jonathan A. Scott

Part 1: Thine Eyes May Deceive

The master shifted in his seat, now resting his chin upon an armored palm. Procession and protocol were necessary evils to the ebon clad tactician's way of reign. He needed to keep order, and the illusion of diplomacy was one way of doing such things. That didn't stop the wants and needs of peasants, even those peasants who bent the knee to him, from being petty endeavors in a grand scheme of true dominance.

         After the bawling ramblings of the boy ceased - Diokles having not paid attention for its duration - there was a silence that suggested the ruler should speak to the issue.

         "Listen, kid. I've got no time for... what was it you needed?"

         Matted hair, plain white livery clothes, toeless boots, and dirt-smattered skin wrapped in a body tested by hardship regarded the ruler with the congealment of these qualities in his fearful blue eyes. "Food, sire."

         "Yes. Food. You NPCs keep asking and grabbing at these things like you're somehow deserving of them. Tell me, what have you done lately that has impacted my rule of this land?" The emperor leaned forward in his seat, awaiting an answer with a condescending grin upon his lips. After a moment's stuttering on the part of the kneeling boy, the lord of the fortress continued. "Get out of my site!" He snapped.

         The guards started on the young man when he did not move, still pleading with eyes full of tears.

         "Please m'lord, my sister yet starves. Ma mutha is sick and won't get out of bed for fear of her dyin'! It's the winter season in the land and the food is scarce! Please m'lord! I traveled long and hard to see you and all your glory! All I ask is coin to spare for food and water!"

         The pleas fell on ears reserved for much more pressing matters. Diokles, rather enjoying the site of the boy being dragged off and likely thrown into the cold and snow outside, was approached by the nearest guard with whispered news.

         His black armor, adorned in dragon skulls at the knees, elbows, and pauldrons with matching ebon steel greaves, shifted slightly to the left, his bald head inclined to hear the news the soldier brought. "Is that so?"

         Loyal to a fault, the henchman nodded stiffly and gave the Reservoir salute, an outward swipe of the hand from left shoulder to the right side of the waist. "Yes, master Diokles. She slayed four of our number alone, but we captured her nonetheless. She remains intact and coherent, but refuses to answer questioning."

         The dark-steel warrior got up from his seat just as the next peasant NPC approached upon the red carpet, his excitement renewed by the apparently positive news. "That'll be all from these shits today," he proclaimed with his booming, yet stark voice of command. "I've got something more important that needs my attention."

         One of the more pragmatic guards in attendance along the hallway spoke. "What about the rest of the line of NPCs, sir?"

         Diokles gave a readied, albeit annoyed, nod of acquiescence in the direction of the hired hand. "Send them away. Anyone who refuses to leave can find lodging in the fortress. Particularly in the dungeons below."

         The Emperor of the region sauntered out with the anticipation of a child ready to be at play with a new toy.

         Diokles had a personal connection with the dilapidated bricks, stewing chamber pots of filth, and leftover skeletons of his personal dungeon. Only four cells wide, barred primitively, yet efficiently, and sealed from the rest of the realm, he had all the privacy in the world with his personal prisoners. The only light shone through the cracks at the base of the door and the thinly oiled goblets of flame, a dim reminder that even light was a resource deprived of the inmates.

Lacking sufficient accommodations, the upper dungeon was no better than the ones underground, though these were the hand-picked cells meant for Player Characters - those who had nothing to lose by logging out of the game and coming back another time to try and leave. It was no coincidence that Lia had been locked her for some time, lacking both food and water.

"What have we here? The little troublemaker herself?"

At the sound of his scoffing voice, Lia pounded upon the inch-thick steel bars of her cage, a beast held at bay only by a runic prison both ancient and efficient at holding creatures of magic.

"Whaaaat? No dragon in my prison? I could've sworn that was what you were the last time we met, and here I find a little girl, half-dressed, half-starved, and wholesomely pathetic!"

Just a hair's breadth from her reach, the black paladin grinned coldly beyond the protection of the prison bars. He paced a few steps back and forth before his quarry calmed, realizing her rage was slowly dissipating in favor of the notion that her tirade was pointless.

"There's a good little monster," he snapped malevolently.

Lia did not return his sadistic stare, knowing it would only fuel the growing pit of rage in her empty stomach, and stroke that pompous little ego of his. "Diokles..."

"Lia, the Devourer. I hear you haven't eaten all day - doesn't make much sense of your title, does it?"

The little dragon slumped against the wall of the prison and slid her back down its rough caress until she was seated upon the dank flooring. "You have business with me, or what?"

Diokles twitched at the impudence, but decided firmly that this day would go well for him, regardless of his prey's lack of willingness to cooperate with his desire to see hopelessness in the eyes of his sworn enemy. "I do, actually. But you already knew that. You've been a thorn in my side ever since Shadow Pheonix, and it's high time I had my revenge."

"Well, here I am, all revenge-y."

Diokles gave a smile that angled itself like the letter V. "Cute," was all he offered in response to her childlike assessment. "But I have motives that go beyond keeping you here and starving you to death. I recall you associating with one Wraith, yes?"

Lia did not respond vocally, but the glower in Diokles's direction alluded to admittance.

"I know you've associated with him in the past, Lia. He happens to be yet another one of those foolish enough to make an enemy of me. I know he'll come for you once he discovers that you're missing. It's simply a matter of when."

The grim recognition of the pieces being put together put the blue little warrior's expression in a state of deep dismay. "Don't you hurt him. He's my friend!" Stifling tears, she crawled to the bars and grabbed them, pursing her lips with bitten down sorrow.

This was what Diokles lived for. That childlike, unabashed showing of hopelessness; the broken will of a dragon trapped in the features of a little girl. "Silly little wench," he chuckled. "I'm going to hurt him because he's your friend."

She gnashed her teeth, the tears now flowing steadily. Still, there was a tendon of anger the ebon tactician could not hope to touch within her spirit. "Others will come," she muttered between the throbbing of her chest. "Wraith is never alone!" She shouted defiantly through the bars. "Wraith is a friend of many!"

The blackened Emperor swiveled a hand of conjured black magics, sourcing an inventory from seemingly nowhere. From what seemed like a crimson and black wisp of smoke came a small stack of five sheets of paper that floated directly into his armored grip. "That he is," he responded plainly, still milking the sense of pride in his prize. Ceremoniously, and without concern for her woes, he read from the dossiers. "One Argul, known as the Shadow Reaver. A ninja with no true allegiance to anyone but his closest allies. Wields a single blade, several shurikens, and rarely attacks in the open."

Diokles placed the front page at the back, and read on. "Zawind, Blade of the Tempest. Much like Argul, only a little faster and a little louder. Insufferable in conversation, I hear."

Again, he flipped a page, and again he read. "K. Wolfe, the Master Strategist. Unrivaled with his approach to strategy, and skilled with a blade that has electrical properties. Yes, he'll be a formidable one indeed, but I fancy myself as a bit of tactician myself, hence these dossiers.

"Rhivaun, the Levin Master. Not a whole lot on this one, but he's clearly a mage of considerable power; an affinity for lightning, given the title.

"I have more - Tacori, Lylia, Torvik, Maki, Windie - the list goes on and on, but I have contingencies in place for every occurrence, little girl. Wraith and his friends are doomed whether they come or not. I would find them on my own time, eventually, or they will come find me. In any case, I win, since the battle is on my terms."

The parchment stack faded into the nothingness whence it came, and the dark lord began walking to the exit. "Rest easy, child, for what comes next rests with your mistake of being captured."

Lia had no words. Only the silent sobs of a dragon. A dragon with a little girl trapped and afraid. Trapped, afraid, and soon, very much alone.

         Part 2: Broken Swords