The origins of a nemesis.

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The origins of a nemesis. Empty The origins of a nemesis.

Post by DM-Christian on Tue Apr 18, 2017 2:00 am

Lorem: A world of elemental themes and sensitivities, where every race has a place in the great elemental balance, and where the void exists as an antithesis to that harmony.

The elves of Lorem are an ancient and rigidly traditional society, to their credit and to their discredit.  "Because that's how it's always been" is not an excuse that more open minded societies will accept, but it is the foundation of elven society, for their traditions live and breath the very wind that defines them.  The elves of Lorem speak regularly with the spirits of their ancestors, and so the traditions that have defined them for millennia cannot be forgotten.

Take, for example, the way their women are treated.

Enshrined in poetry, revered with mind and soul, the women of the feudalistic, hierarchal elven society are married politically, whether they like it or not.  The higher the family, the less "love" came into who their mate would be, for a beautiful daughter is a heavy political gamepiece in forging alliances and currying favor with higher echelons of the highly religious and yet also military society.

Lorindalle was such a woman.

At a time where "The Divine," the religious leader of the elves was teetering on the edge of obscurity in that seat's everlasting political warfare with the Shield of the Divine, the military leader of the elven people, anything that could be done to remain in the good graces of the Shield was done by those that knew which way the wind was blowing, so to speak.  In the late days of a civil war where the Shield had had the help of a demonic human prince, the Shield was desperate to maintain and capitalize on that momentum, and so his closest houses scrambled to remain as such.

House Kinnoth, a house in deep with the Shield of the Divine, needed to keep its face pristine and in good standing.  Silwyth, a house assassin placed close to the human prince at his youth, (to whatever end that might be needed) had gained high honor for the Shield over the course of his service.  As that very prince became the Void demon he was destined to be, Silwyth maintained his place close by, even risking disgrace in doing so.

But during that time of risk, Deverin, a general of House Kinnoth's armies, would "of course" need a wife.  Politically there were many possible matches, but he was offered Lorindalle, of a rising house pining for the recognition of Kinnoth's proximity.  Doing his duty, he took the match, as bloodless an affair as it may be.
What Deverin would discover was that he married a double edged knife.  On one hand, Lorindalle realized the opportunity she had.  She was a force for gamesmanship both political and social, and filled the holes in Deverin's proficiences, he being an "all business" general.

The problem, understandable as it may be depending on one's perspective, is that Lorindalle *hated* her arranged marriage as an idea, as a prison, as a doom, with a burning passion, and that hatred poisoned any sort of relationship she might have with her new husband.

So she did what she could.  She used her savvy to elevate her husband, and thus herself, all the while loathing with every fibre of her being that all she could ever be was the power *behind* the general.

Deverin, for his part, did not mistreat Lorindalle, on the contrary he disliked the coldness with which their marriage was facilitated and tried to make her comfortable and even happy, but their marriage bed, soon plural, was always cold.  It was as cold as their mealtime conversation, as cold as every private moment.  Only publicly would Lorindalle play the role of dutiful wife, and she would do her duty to elevate this pile of skin, hair, bone and steel that was her "husband."  Deverin, in time, grew a respectful  fondness for her guile, her intelligence, and he tried to compliment her on it, but he was always the shackled marriage of convenience to her.  Every bouquet of flowers rotted where it was placed, every gift went unopened.  She did her job, she slept in her own bed, the least he could do was leave her alone, she had work to do... for him... for "them."  For her.

The problem, the fatal problem, was that Lorindalle was *too* good at her job of politcal maneuvering, and at a rare moment when she was alone in Deverin's personal quarters, she was shot through the lung with an arrow.  "Friendly" fire in a maximum security area of the command camp.

As she lay drowning in her blood, she made sure with her last breath that she took from a private pocket on her person a letter she had prepared for just such an occasion.  Sealed with her personal sigil and unmistakably in her writing, this was her personal epitaph:


If you are reading this, I've either erred terribly and rarely, I've been killed, or both.  Probably politically motivated, not that you would understand such things.

At this moment, I would have you know one thing.  I hate you.  I hate what you are, I hate what you represent, I hate what you perpetuate simply by breathing.  I have always hated you.  I hated you when you were a nameless inevitability that my mother told me as a girl was my future, that my father told me was my duty, my honor.  I hated you when we were "wed," I have hated you every day that you even asked to touch me.  I saw the "love" growing in your eyes, and you should know that that only made me hate you more.  That is how they deem to control us: in hopes that eventually we will soften, we will grow to love, we will kneel and we will fall in line.  I will not kneel.  I will not be controlled by you, who are nothing more than a suit of armor with differently shaped loins beneath.  I am not a pawn on some great game's board, I am, and always have been a queen, shaved forcefully down into a pawn, and I hate you for being part of that process, of that reality, of that game.

And so I die, either as a consequence this note being found prematurely or from the moment that had me leave it out for you... And I say to you now that I would rather die, I would rather be one with the Void itself than spend one more minute steeped in the expectations of this world, of this society.  If I died because of politics, it was at the hands of those posturing, merely to get at *you*, and so I am dead by your hand.  Let that sink in alongside memories of all of the flowers you left for me.  May my blood stain your festering soul for all eternity.

All of my hate,


She held the note rolled in her wedding ring, rested that hand across her breast, and smiled through the pain as her life bled away.

When Deverin found her, he was stricken, broken, and went absolutely mad.  Slaying countless men of his own army, he mounted and charged...

That is where he met the demonic prince... and he embraced the Void willingly, becoming immortal and eternally hungry for souls, while also becoming a slave to the demon prince, used to turn the tide of the war.  The rest, as they say, is history.

Deverin's  history, anyway.

Lorindalle's story, however... would go in another direction.

Omedon would eventually absorb the Void, mastering it and condemning the tyrannical Demon Prince, claiming Deverin's unending loyalty in that moment.  Omedon's greatest Rival, the Archlich and then-demigod Vecna, would seek the Void's opposite, as a way to potentially best Omedon, the master of past and present, now the Lord of the Void.  Like Omedon, who had made Deverin his champion,  Vecna would also need a champion...

... And Vecna knew just which grave to speak to to make the offer to help him find and destroy Omedon, his allies, and especially Omedon's champion...

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