63rd Day | 38th Year of Onyonkapom | Kingdom of Eyjavo | The Grand Plains of the Middle

A battalion of red charges at King Regele Mansomi the II, staff of raging fire hoisted over their heads. Amongst the cacophony of noises an army of voices raise a single chant. “Off with your head, demon, off with your head!”

Regele chuckles to himself, ‘that's the Kaloan army alright’. Kaloans, considered the holiest tribe amongst Eyjavo’s scattered sixteen, would never miss a chance to proclaim their adversary a demon and prosecute them in the name of ‘purification’. Only, in Regele’s case, they might have actually been right. But Regele never thought the tribe he trusted the most – his wife's tribe, the tribe he adored – would stab him in the back in such a fashion.

“What shall I use?” King Regele asks himself, or rather, to the voice that sits within.

“The army charges at you with staffs of fire. It'd be kind of poetic if you bested this treacherous army with a weapon similar to their own,” muses the inner voice. Use the burning spear . . . and do it right this time, kid.”

“Hey! I messed up just once during training, okay. And kid?” King Regele scoffs. “You know you're the only one who's called me that in my life. Even as a child, no one ever talked down to me so.”

“Really?” The voice asks, bemused. “Well then, I must again be the one to teach you so. It is good for a king to be knocked down a peg or two once in a while.”

The king chuckles at this. “True,” he says, “then keep doing so. I'll be in your care, teacher.”

“Draw the spear already.” Says the voice within, doing a mental eye roll.

“You got it,” Regele says, plunging his right hand into the sac laden at his feet. What emerges along with his hand is a weapon of utter brilliance. A shaft made of red, gleaming metal which was soft on hold but rock hard on impact. Regele spent countless hours pondering on its miraculous existence. The neck: gilded with strings of twisted rope – made of the same metal – was further adorned by two stones on each side; one fiery red and the other amber gold. And at the very top was the spearhead, a blade that made the weapon an utter brilliance, a work of peak craftsmanship, absolute art. The very design of it was that of fire. He was told, from the voice within, that it could burn for days, months or even years, yet every time Regele touched it the blade felt as cool as winter.

“Off with your head, demon, off with your head!” The chants grow louder, nearer; the battalion is almost upon him. Changing hands with the spear, Regele hit the earth with it twice, and each time a fire of greater height rose from the blade. Regele was once warmed by the voice within to never beat the earth with it six times—he wished to try it today. “Aaaa!” Screamed the army, still charging at him.

Beating the earth once more raised the flames twenty meters into the sky, and with it Regele swung—a horizontal slash. That was all it took to reduce the hundred man army by half, half their bodies that is. The leg-only army stood for a minute more before toppling down like a stack of bamboo cards.

Happy with the results, Regele stood chest puffed, proudly appreciating the vividly hellish landscape of the battlefield before him. A devilish smile stretches across his face, however, and he hits the ground twice further. A tower of raging fire extends from the spearhead, the top of which extends beyond the clouds. The flames dance over his head, burning with a vengeance. The patch of green around him has evaporated by the blazing heat alone, yet he stands as cool as a Mid-year breeze.

“Don't do it, you fool.” The voice within him cries. "The fire you unleash will be Hell’s fire.”

The warning has an opposite effect, however, and feeling more edged on by the restriction, he makes a show of thrusting the spear into the earth. ‘Burn’ he thinks as he sees another battalion of his once trusted tribe rush to him with staffs of ember.

Pffff

With a puny cry the spear whizzes out of his hand, crumbling into ash and flying off into the smoke around him.

“Ahahahah,” roars the voice within him. “You thought that I would allow you to call forth the ever burning fire of Hell?” The voice roars in laughter. "I'd been told men are weak of conviction when in lust, I'm glad I got to see that for myself today. Be grateful that I gave you a weapon of my own, if only for a while.” With that the voice inside him vanished, and for the very first time Regele felt a profound sense of loss within himself, his legs wobbling under him, threatening to give out.

He looked left, then right, none were his allies. A fresh battalion of troops charged towards him, rejuvenated by his now frail state. They chanted their curses at him with fresh vigor. “Demon, off with your head, demon.” Regele’s shoulders sagged, this might be his end.

“Your Majesty,” shouts came in from behind, a voice he knew. Regele turned to see the whole of his king's guard charging to him, the banner of the Royal Mansomi waving behind them.

“I thought I ordered you all not to come,” says Regele, his voice a howl, not a shadow of his previous vigor left within.

“I saw the pillar of fire whizzing out and thought you had exhausted your source,” says the head of his king's guard, the stony faced Tullark, only now his face gleamed with emotion. “I am sorry for defying orders, my king, and if you wish it you may cut my head off. I only request you to do it after the war is won.”

“Then I must raise your head by a title first, for coming to this arrogant king's aide when he needed it the most, but knew not how to call for it.”

The king's guard smiles, raises his sword against the incoming army, and calls for his brothers to raise their shields. A softly glowing blue bubble of energy forms around them, shrouding them in a veil of protection. The king falls back into the center, and his head king's guard takes his place at the front. He then pokes the front of the bubble with his sword and it changes shape with it, now a pointy bubble. With the formation complete, they charge, running through the heated wasteland right at their battalion of enemies.

. . .

The war is over, and the king has won.

In his empty throne room, at the center of an expanded runic construction, he sits cross-legged, gently rocking back and forth and contemplating the complex runic patterns being drawn before him. His most trusted Circle of Sorcerers circle him, quietly completing the pattern he sits on. “It is almost done, Your Majesty,” assures Agnes Kaun, the chief of his Warlocks.

“Take your time,” the King says, he's in no hurry. “Best not mess up the array in your haste.”

“Never!” gasps Agnes, looking hurt, “I would never put Your Majesty in harms way. And besides, the exorcism demands extreme precision. It was the summoning that was the easy part.”

The king nods graciously at this, takes a deep breath, and dives inward. “I guess this is farewell, old friend.”

“Old for you, but a mere speck of time for me,” says the voice within, "but fret not. Receive solace in the fact that we might reunite sooner than you thought.” The king laughs at this, a sad laugh. His cackles descend into coughs, blood red wheezes of phlem come out of him in knots. A year of possession has taken a lifetime away from him. His body grows frailer by the moment, and he would most probably pass away moments after the extraction is completed. So he had his extensive family brought together and near. His successor was already chosen and sat in the room next door. The boy was much trained in the art of ruling, but the dying King had held him close and imparted some last minute wisdom onto his son. Especially wisdom he came onto in his tumultuous last year of life. And he'd told his son to hold that wisdom closer than what he was taught.

"My friend, do not misunderstand me. Your death saddens me too,” says the inner voice, "but death holds a different meaning to me, and what I see happening to you is but the passing from one plane of existence into another. So I may appear less distraught than what you wish to see of me. But I also wish to relieve your worries, enlighten your mood. So I wish to offer you a parting gift as I go.”

“What is it?” The king inquires.

"Your body was not a fit vessel for me, hence you rot away so,” explained the voice within, the verbal jab hurting him more, "but if you agree to it, I might come to your predecessors, generation after generation, and mold your lineage, so that when the time comes, and your descendants call upon me, I may find myself in a vessel more suited to accept me.”

The king looks to his Head Sorcerer, consults him with the contents of the offer. Upon hearing, the Sorcerer grows wide with greed—greed of the intellect.

“If Your Majesty would allow it, I would like to enter into a stasis with the entity within you, through you. And with its help, I might be able to fashion a spell of the old tongue that your predecessors may call upon in times of extreme distress. But I must warn you, Your Majesty will most certainly die if we do this.”

The tired old King smiles, closes his eyes, and tells his head Sorcerer to wait. He dives within completely, losing himself within his soul. He lands on a sight he thought he'd never get to see again. He stands up, a little sideways, on a meadow of fresh scented grass. Below him, and before him lies the climb of a low hill, at the tip of which sits an old Olansa tree, its huge spreading branches red with leaves. He trudges up this hill, to his old friend; a hazy spectral form of blue. Grunting in his own corporeal form, he sits across from his old friend. “What do you think?” He asks.

"Your head Magician is green with greed, and what he speaks of will most likely sap whatever life force you have left within you.” informs the old friend. The king looks down, his mouth quivers a little. But then he inhales, quite visibly, exhales slowly and looks up, a small smile painting his face. The dancing flames around his spectral form cools down to waving blue embers, and he continues. <span style="font-family: " book="" antiqua",="" palatino"="">“However, it makes no difference. Your head Magician is a loyal subject. And even if his loyalty were to be momentarily lost in his greed of intellect, you are meant to pass away soon anyway. At least this way I'd be able to help the fool fashion something that can be embedded into your bloodline.

"So that when their bodies give way and their bones shiver. This song of old may escape their soul, and cry to their ever present friend of old.”