#jkfljskaldhgslghgsgg

[womanlives]

@lolthswornd cont. from here

HIS ARMOR IS A PRISON OF ITS OWN MAKING. His own making.

Ketheric Thorm leans back against his throne. It’s cold and uncomfortable, which is what all thrones should be. There is no room for complacency when you wear the crown. Or its jewels. One of his hands reaches up to idly run along the netherstone welded to his chest. He can’t feel it. All he can feel is stiff leather from his gauntlet.

General —

His other hand lifts. Just like that the room quiets and his chosen war-warden drops her head in deference. Ketheric’s features twist in displeasure. At his side, four steps back in deference to his throne, he hears Disciple Zrell hiss in a sharp breath. There is a disgusting thrill that curls from her direction. She anticipates pain, and it excites her. Ketheric locks his teeth. If only that bitch-spawn had fixated on the half-orc instead of the drow.

If only they hadn’t ruined her. Imagine! He is, and this is the true source of his contempt. Minthara Baenre, pride of House Baenre, first of the drow. Nightwarden — odd, that — and raidmother, reduced to a cowering wreck at his feet.

And yet — what’s this? The slightest act of defiance. She raises her gaze and for a fraction of a moment his eyebrow lifts. Ketheric blinks, and before him isn’t Minthara. It’s Isobel — darling, dearest Isobel — with hair spun like liquid moonlight.

Moonlight. Selûne. Rejection. Hate. Guilt. Resignation. Nothingness.

Ketheric reaches out to Minthara’s mind and bats it to the ground. Obey.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t scream, like Orin. Doesn’t wheedle, like Gortash. Doesn’t need to. He simply leans forward in his throne — steel whines against stone! — and studies her. What a disappointment. “You say this,” and his voice is smooth and reasonable, because you cannot doubt him, you should not doubt him, and if there are any faults they are yours and yours alone, “but you have returned to me empty-handed.” His gauntleted fingers part. He grasps at air. “The grove lives. Your forces are decimated. Now, why you even bothered to return at all — ”  

Fear and faith. Blind, useless, idiotic faith. Gods, they’ve ruined her. No. Not gods.

He looks down at his fingers. Not gods at all. His hand curls into a fist. At last, he stands. “I will allow it. Show me your devotion.” So deceptively soft. He reaches out with his mind and imagines his gauntlet, larger than life, hovering suspended over the room. Then, slowly but surely, he brings it down. The room erupts in a fever pitch of pressure that he and he alone cannot feel. Far below him, he imagines a brain — larger than life — pulsing, as it grants him absolute power. Absolute authority. All across the throne room, his cultists collapse into themselves and fall to their knees.

He locks his imaginary gauntlet around Minthara. “Stand.” Command. Verbal. Contradictory. This will be her testament of strength. “Show me what happened. Show me what you will do about it.”