(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

d underneath the Lucid Bastion and stared at his first prize. Behind him, guards and other arcanists were confused, dazed or missing. They would never know it was him. They would blame the empire, becuase they were stupid and short-sighted and obsessed.

Served them right, he thought. For all the times they’d rejected him, rejected his thoughts and studies and possibilities. They said it was a god, but he knew better. He understood time and space and the power that it pulsed with and he had to know more.

Ludinus Da'leth, the wizard who had reached out to him in his fury, waited. Ludinus had given him a little tour of the things his Cereberus Assembly would do, the ways they would explore this new prize. Ludinus, he could already see, was callous and manipulative and powerful and brilliant.

He should have left, at that moment. It was a brilliant plan but it was delicate; he knew that there were things he had not planned for. Even so, the pulse of it called out to him. He felt it in his chest, in the magic in the room, in a hum in his new soul.

He glanced behind him. Quiet. Then, steadying his hand as to not let them shake, he reached out and put his hands on two sides of it. It was warm and solid to the touch. Drawing upon the threads of the dunamantic potential in the room, he reached out with a thread of own power.

He saw

- a great, stupid war, and men and drow dying, and the Bright Queen in her war clothes -

- a group formal drow surrounding him, forcing him through a march of some kind, with blood in his hair and wearing only rags -

- he was on some sort of bright beach, holding a bright pink parasol -

- ludinus and him, staring out of a tall window, observing a crumbling castle -

- a red-haired human holding him with unbelievable tenderness, soft lips pressing against his own -

- he sat in the bright queen’s throne, staring down at a council who looked upon him with spectacular fear -

- he laid in a bloodied heap, unmoving -

- he was in a ship cabin, surrounded by a menagerie of travelers -

- he laughed at something said by elegant human with a long hood that played with a mote of fire between his fingers, like a coin -

- he was alive -

- he was dead -

- he was successful -

- he failed -

- he learned -

- he forgot -

- he gained -

- he lost -

– he —–

With a cry he yanked himself from the beacon sides and tried to see straight. Every muscle in his body ached and pulsed, and the magic in him felt like a bruise, throbbing in his spirit.

He looked over his shoulder, quick. Still no one. He grasped the beacon by the handles and was gone.