A Curse Conjured

What is worse than killing a child in front of his father?

It is a question I had long contemplated.

I had thought the answer was an eternity of torture.

Take a son away from his father.

Subject him to suffering beyond imagination.

In turn, the father would be tormented, knowing there would be nothing he could do to save him.

This, I thought, was perfect revenge.

But an old friend provided me with an alternative.

What is worse than killing a child in front of his father?

The answer: Turning the child into something the parent detests.

What is it you hate more than I, Atriarch?

Or should I say, who was it you despised so long ago?

The Verakpir.

The thirteenth clan of Un’Kabaal.

The Ones the Sun Forgot.

The ones you made Sarcadia forget.

The abhorrence you harboured against them so was great you eradicated them entirely.

Though they no longer are, I wonder if the Verakpir still slumber deep within in your memories.

Perhaps I shall resurrect the forgotten memory of them.

Perhaps I shall make everyone remember.

Octavian. A Verakpir.

No, something fair worse.

This is possible.

And it shall be so.

When Belzabardos suggested the idea, I thought it sadistic.

And perfect.

I went directly to the source.

The one ancient Tenebite, Nekvourntis.

The Blood Tyrant.

Nothing more now than a mummified husk.

I revived him and nourished his thirst with my own blood.

He was mine – mine to do with as I pleased.

For years, I have experimented with his blood, weaving dark magic and spells to create the perfect curse.

A curse to inflict upon the naïve and innocent Octavian.

Nekvourntis insisted I keep feeding him more of my blood to strengthen his power.

He repeatedly told me: ‘The stronger I am, the stronger your curse shall be.’

He spoke truth, though I knew his true motive.

I would feed him though never enough that he would be able to overpower me.

I knew what I was doing.

I was upon the verge of completing my work.

But jealousy, it appears, is a far greater curse than the one I shall soon perfect.

My Chatterer of Secrets would betray me.

He woud kill my subject before I was done.

Before I was to end his life.

Such a pity you betrayed me, Belzabardos.

Now you will never witness the completion of my work.

With my work complete, I needed a vessel to deliver my gift to Octavian.

My ever-faithful Emriana sent to me her most beautiful of Succubi.

A vixen named Chiara.

She understood what her Dark Mother desired.

She knew what would happen to her as a result.

But she cared not for it, for her name would live in infamy forever.

The necessary alterations were made to her and now she seeks the All-Father’s favourite son.

All I can do now is wait.

Oh, how I cannot anticipate what your reaction will be, Atriarch.

What will you do when you look upon your son when he has been transformed?

Will you cry?

Will you help him?

Or will you turn your back on him in his time of desperation, just as you turned your back on me?

We shall find out soon.

— “The Elysia Monologues: A Curse Conjured”, Bruce Boward, 216 AO

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