03-31-2019, 03:41 PM
Nikolai eased himself upon the chair, hands folded on his lap, and listened: truly listened. Passion permeated Armande’s voice. It diffused vibrancy through the thinness of his skin, seemingly reinvigorating the old man with energy and vitality. Nikolai would not allow himself to judge on appearances alone, but the flush was surprising. All the venom and vile of their previous conversation was diluted by the waters of real conversation. He found himself surprised by how easily the tide ebbed and flowed naturally between them. In one moment, he marveled at the pattern of fate woven by the hands of a power incomprehensible. If small nuances were traded, perhaps he might have been Regus of the Atharim and Armande ruler of the earth. The man exuded wisdom and calculation, discipline and decisiveness. Qualities necessary of a great strategist and unto now, grossly underestimated by Nikolai. If he departed anything from this virtual face to face, it would be with a greater respect for this enemy.
Unfortunately, fate was already decided on its course of action. Nikolai saw his journey rocket into the future unlike never before. He was here to reshape the world and re-anchor the Atharim while he was at it. He knew what he had to do; Domovoi was grossly insufficient to the task. Their group required immediate expansion, and they would all come to see that even underground cults were subject to the rules of market competition. He knew exactly who would be the man for the job, too.
Meanwhile, Nikolai dipped his head, assenting to their mutual duality. It was never his goal to convert Armande to the congregation of Ascendancy worshippers, metaphorically. It was always his goal to learn everything he could about his enemy in as short a time as possible, and such was truly accomplished.
He rose to his feet, palms upturned with the gesture of departure. Shadows flickered his face as his clothing returned to the billowing robes previously displayed, but this time, stretched, haunted faces blurred within the smoke as if trapped souls from within meant to escape their eternal torment. He allowed himself the faintest smile, but no cruelty razored his eyes.
“Thank you for speaking with me this day, Regus. The next time that I see you, it will be on the day of your death,” he said, voice calm and factual, sympathetic perhaps, as though the future was certain.
Standing near, he dropped the chain of a necklace upon the table for Armande’s study. From the golden links dangled the charm of an hourglass. He assumed the Regus knew its symbolism, but regardless, Nikolai knew the symbol would inspire curiosity. Why would he show it now? Was he one of them? Was it something else?
Recalling the epithet of the man cradling a monster in the Siberian tundra, “Memento mori,” he said as though imparting wisdom to one in need of the reminder. The faces screamed silently from his garments as the lord of the dead exited the construct.
Unfortunately, fate was already decided on its course of action. Nikolai saw his journey rocket into the future unlike never before. He was here to reshape the world and re-anchor the Atharim while he was at it. He knew what he had to do; Domovoi was grossly insufficient to the task. Their group required immediate expansion, and they would all come to see that even underground cults were subject to the rules of market competition. He knew exactly who would be the man for the job, too.
Meanwhile, Nikolai dipped his head, assenting to their mutual duality. It was never his goal to convert Armande to the congregation of Ascendancy worshippers, metaphorically. It was always his goal to learn everything he could about his enemy in as short a time as possible, and such was truly accomplished.
He rose to his feet, palms upturned with the gesture of departure. Shadows flickered his face as his clothing returned to the billowing robes previously displayed, but this time, stretched, haunted faces blurred within the smoke as if trapped souls from within meant to escape their eternal torment. He allowed himself the faintest smile, but no cruelty razored his eyes.
“Thank you for speaking with me this day, Regus. The next time that I see you, it will be on the day of your death,” he said, voice calm and factual, sympathetic perhaps, as though the future was certain.
Standing near, he dropped the chain of a necklace upon the table for Armande’s study. From the golden links dangled the charm of an hourglass. He assumed the Regus knew its symbolism, but regardless, Nikolai knew the symbol would inspire curiosity. Why would he show it now? Was he one of them? Was it something else?
Recalling the epithet of the man cradling a monster in the Siberian tundra, “Memento mori,” he said as though imparting wisdom to one in need of the reminder. The faces screamed silently from his garments as the lord of the dead exited the construct.