7. The Fall Of Ak-Dovurak

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The hustle of the castle always intrigued him. His children marching down the long stone halls, busy with their tasks; they found meaning and fulfillment in these daily responsibilities. He was tired and in pain, but as he sat upon his throne, he felt a deeper pain. Something was coming. And it was close. He sat up, cancelling the healing wards that hummed deeply on the arms of the Guilded Altar.
"Father?" One of his aides asked, her ears perking up as Zavoyevatel slowly stood. His wings tensed, and he felt a deep, primal fear slowly come to life in his soul.
"Run, child." He commanded softly. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she turned to run, her body obeying her god-king's command before her mind had finished processing it. As the tome she had held fell to the floor, the the throne room door exploded inwards. A member of Zavoyevatel's honor guard flew through the debris, bisected and trailing blood and bile as he slid across the floor, stopping at Zavoyevatel's feet. The God-king held out his hand as his sword fell from the high branches of the Zhizin, landing squarely in his grip as the assailant flew through the rubble of the door and spun a scythe as long as a dragon's tail towards Zavoyevatel. He saw the air split before the scythe's blade, and his eyes widened as he realized who his attacker was. He leapt to the side as the scythe obliterated the Guilded Altar, slashing it into a thousand pieces.
"YIELD!" Zavoyevatel commanded, his roar shaking the whole of Ak-dovurak
"I WILL YIELD NO MORE!!" An equally powerful voice screamed back, full of hatred and heartbreak. His child stood there in defiance, his every heartbeat shaking his body as his hands held Wraithe in a white-knuckle grip. Every breath made his entire body shiver as he stared at his creator, pure hatred pouring out of his pitch black eyes.
"I have followed. For millennia I have followed. And to what end!?" He said, his teeth gnashing as saliva foamed at the edges of his mouth. Zavoyevatel knew he had become unhinged. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.

"My son, do as I command." Zavoyevatel began, his horns glowing as he poured power into each word. His child recoiled, screaming as he dropped Wraithe and clawed at his head.
"Heed my command, and sleep." Zavoyevatel commanded, his eyes glowing. But Reaper continued to scream.
"NO!! NO NO NO!! I WILL NOT YIELD!! I WILL NOT OBEY YOU!!" He roared, snatching Wraithe up and slashing the ethereal scythe's blade towards Zavoyevatel. Zavoyevatel rolled under the blade and brought his blade down on top of Reaper, but he had already moved, and was on his knees by the remains of the Guilded Altar, coughing out blood. Defying the commands of a Dragon King was taxing on one's body, to say the least. Zavoyevatel flew towards him, spinning and bringing his blade up into Reaper's chest. Reaper raised Wraithe at the last second, absorbing the impact and sending himself hurtling through the walls of the castle, coming to a rolling stop far beyond the throne room in the gardens of the Zhizin. He pushed himself to his feet as Zavoyevatel shot through the hole he had created and brought his blade down onto him. Reaper hardly moved at all, but Wraithe created a massive blade before him, severing Zavoyevatel's blade in two. A second blade appeared at Reaper's side and thrust towards Zavoyevatel at the same time. Zavoyevatel rolled to the side in mid-air, the blade slashing through his second right wing, rendering it useless. He crashed into the wall and roared in fury at Reaper, emitting a pillar of deep red flame that slammed into a blade that appeared at Reaper's side. The blade's edge seemed to shimmer and distort the air before it, and the pillar of flame split on it's edge, passing by Reaper relatively harmlessly; but the intense heat caught his pitch black fur on fire and melted the stone around him. Zavoyevatel raised his hands as the ground underneath Reaper, still red hot, lurched up to encompass him. Reaper turned and locked eyes with Zavoyevatel, and the god-king felt a deep fear lock around his heart like nothing he had ever felt before. His magic choked out and the ground fell back into it's place as Reaper walked towards him, gripping Wraithe so hard his hands bled.

"You have no idea what it's like. Do you. 'Father'?" Reaper demanded as he drew closer.
"Yield, and you may yet live. You still have a purpose to serve, Reaper." Zavoyevatel said, standing tall before his errant creation.
"Ha! A purpose you say!? DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT!?" Reaper roared, sending out a shockwave that blew out the fires swirling around them.
"DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW WHY YOU CREATED ME!? DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE!?" He screamed, tears flowing down his cheeks. Zavoyevatel found himself lacking words, as if an icy cold hand held his tongue still.
"EVERY TIME I AWAKE I SEE HER!! I SEE HER FACE, I SMELL HER FUR, AND I KNOW I MUST HAVE HER!!" Reaper screamed. Zavoyevatel was silent, but he focused his power as the claws on his lower left wing began to glow, hidden behind his leg and obscured by the smoke that swirled around them.
"But every time I have her, I hear your voice." Reaper said softly, his voice almost stolen in the winds and crackling of the embers.

"And I cannot tell you no. So every time I have her, she has to die. A-" Reaper choked on his words as he stared into Zavoyevatel's eyes.
"And it must be by my hand... It can only be by my hand. She won't give anyone else the chance. But she lets me close. Every time. How many times is enough father? How much longer must I go on?" Reaper asked softly, the blood dripping from his hand slowly creating a pool at his feet. He lowered his head as his tears hit the stone beneath. Zavoyevatel saw his chance and took it, swinging his wing towards Reaper at near the speed of light, sending out a lateral shockwave that obliterated the topmost branches of the Zhizin and wiped his castle out of existence, scattering it to the winds as a fine dust.

The smoke cleared as the great tree moaned and roared in pain, and Reaper stood there, unphased; his arm held up stiffly, and his claws digging deeply into Zavoyevatel's wing. The force of that blow would have been sufficient to obliterate a mountain, but Reaper had stopped it with a single hand. He had exerted a force equal or greater than Zavoyevatel himself. The god-king knew then what he needed to do.

"Child. Heed my command." He said, pouring power into his words as he pulled mana from the world around him, casting the most powerful spell he could muster.
"And DIE." He commanded. Reaper felt the claws of the Dragon King inside of his mind and sank to his knees as Zavoyevatel held out his hands and focused his power through his claws, pouring mana into Reaper, fueling the spell he had cast on him. Reaper screamed in agony and sank to his knees as eldritch flames began to pour out of his eyes and mouth. He clawed out his fur as he roared in pain, sinking to the floor as Zavoyevatel strained, his skin smoking as he pulled more and more power into himself, focusing it into Reaper. Reaper knew he could not resist his father's command for long, even as powerful as he was. He poured every ounce of willpower into his arms as he reached out and grabbed Wraithe. He screamed one final time and as his skin began to blister and burst into flames, he swung the ancient weapon outwards, creating a cut in the fabric of space and time and triggering an explosion so unbelievably powerful, there exists no word to do it justice.

On the outskirts of Ak-Dovurak sat a man, perched atop a fence. He could smell his meal through the linen even before he unwrapped it. He pulled back the layers of linen and took a deep breath through his nose before moving in to take a bite, but before his teeth touched the sandwich a blinding and deafening explosion shot across Ak-Dovurak, sending him flying into the distance. The explosion wiped the Zhizn out of existance and hundreds of thousands of the wilderfolk and humans inside Ak-Dovurak were sucked into the sky and vanished. The shockwave was felt across Theresia and blew the clouds above Ak-Dovurak away. The mountains ringing Ak-Dovurak had their inward-facing side blasted smooth, many of them caving outwards and tumbling into dust completely.

There is an ancient magic that only the Dragon Kings know. To call it shapeshifting would be an understatement. It is deeper than that. They have learned how to transform energy into matter, and vice versa. It takes years of concentration, or a massive, certainly lethal amount of power. In the case of Zavoyevatel, it was the latter, for he lacked the former. Tumbling through the void, he heard the screams of his children that had been pulled through with Reaper and himself. He knew that if they survived the trip, they would not last long wherever they landed. He cast a spell, linking them all to him so they would not be scattered across the dimensions, and prepared himself for unthinkable pain. He dug his claws into his chest, and try as he might, his voice would not roar in pain, for there was no air here. Only fire. He tore open his chest and cast a spell so powerful that it blasted his dragon form into ashes.

The spell shot through the void like a bolt of lightning,  ricocheting through the wilderfolk that had been pulled into the void with him, and infusing them each with a piece of their father's power. The power rendered them immortal, and thus immune to the lethal effects of the void. But it did not protect their minds. As they were hurtled through the void, they heard maniacal laughter, screams of pain and anger, but above it all, they heard their god-king's voice, calling them to him, telling them they would be safe. But they tumbled through the void, no up, no down, no way to control their descent, or ascent, as the case may be. They flew, or fell, for what may have been seconds, or millenia. There was no concept of time here. Only pain, never-ending, and ever-present. They could not breathe, they could not sleep, and they could not die. Brilliant lights flashed before their eyes, and images of worlds they had never seen, and worlds they could not comprehend filled their tortured minds.

But they had the voice of their father guiding them, always there, always calling. It was a small modicum of comfort as they were burned inside and out for what seemed to some of them years on end. It seemed that this torment would never cease, but as they were thrown across the cosmos, they saw something hurtling towards them through the blinding light. It was the charred, torn, and blackened corpse of their father, his wings cast in solid stone, acting as a net that snared them out of the fires of the void. One by one they landed in his massive arms, and saw he had grown to ten times the size he had once been. Out of the void fell no less than a thousand wilderfolk, all caught in their father's last embrace. Though no one could speak, or even breathe, they all wept, clinging to the charred and wasted flesh of their god-king. One of them looked up to see a massive black orb hurtling at them, and tried to scream, but, unsurprisingly, nothing came out.

The orb, as it enveloped them, was revealed to be a hole in the void, out of which they fell, into a cold, empty space, and beneath them a blue planet loomed. There was no air to breathe here, but they did not suffocate. The light burned them, and the shade froze their skin, but they did not die. The corpse of their father plummeted towards the blue planet, and as it neared, he began to disintegrate, his massive wings bursting into flames as the stones themselves vaporised. As they clung desperately to the fading body of their father, they saw that a vast number of them had vanished, leaving only a mere twenty hanging on for dear life. As the body faded into ash, they clawed their way closer together, where the body was still intact. One of them felt her claws dig into something more solid. She looked to behold a man's hand, covered in small, impenetrable scales wrap around her wrist. The body of their father faded into wisps of smoke and she saw a man open his eyes wearily, holding her wrist tightly, but gently. He smiled, tears of happiness flowing out of his eyes as he pulled her into his embrace. She sobbed against him, knowing at once who it was. Their father was alive. She felt air rushing past her and saw the ground rushing up to meet them. She managed to take a breath and whispered: "I love you, father." before they both slammed into the ground, flattening a massive mountain, and at long last, a deep, nightmare-filled sleep took them both.

It was the year 1086 in fuedal England when the unthinkable happened. Something impossibly massive fell from the heavens, by all accounts a dragon as tall as a mountain. It fell, and faded into ashes, and from it's body fell a dozen or so smaller balls of fire. They slammed into a massive mountain, wiping it out of existence. Ten years later, at the start of the first of the crusades, a large group of pilgrims wandered the wilderness, having eagerly left their homes to seek ascenscion to heaven at Jerusalem, they had been ill-prepared for the journey. Having lost their way long ago, and many of their number lost to frostbite and wolf attacks, they marched forwards, driven by either madness, or a fervent, fanatical belief that their salvation lay ahead.
"Forwards brothers! Salvation lies just ahead!" The latter, it seemed, was their cause.
"Can you not feel his presence!?" Brother Jean shouted over the howling winds, his voice nearly stolen from him. They pressed further forwards until the sun began to set. They found a cave in the side of a rock face, and once the advance party declared it safe enough, they all piled in. They gathered what sticks and leaves they could find, that were not soaked from the torrential rain outside, and created a fire to warm themselves by.

"You smell like a wet dog." Micheal said roughly, coughing and nudging brother Jean.
"Aye. As do you, Micheal." Jean said, grinning even as his teeth chattered. He realised the smell had intensified as they had crawled into the cave. He guessed it was due to the large number of unwashed men soaked in rain packed into a small cave. The smell was unpleasant to put it mildly. But Micheal noticed something. He had never learned to count, or read, but he knew there was more people around the fire than had entered the cave. He stood and pulled back his rough hemp hood, and drew his sword. Everyone looked up to him quizzically, save for one.

"You." He said, pointing his bloodstained, rusted sword at the figure cloaked in bearskin. Everyone stood, and those with weapons drew them as Brother Jean opened his molded tome and began chanting in broken, stuttering latin. Micheal had no idea what he was saying, but he figured it was a prayer for them. The figure reached up towards it's hood, revealing dark brown patches of skin on it's hands and forearms, regularly shaped and spaced. He pulled back the hood to reveal an ancient man's chiseled visage. Cold, piercing light blue eyes, nearly white, glared at Micheal. His hair was thick and long, and a pitch black, in contrast to his apparent age. Beneath his eyes rested the same colored patches, almost like lizard scales, receding in size further down his face, before growing in size as they neared his neck. His skin was deeply browned, almost like leather. And even though he had no weapon, he showed no fear. Only what seemed to be distaste for the men he saw before him.

"Yes?" He asked, his voice hoarse and somehow inexplicably dusty, as if every breath emitted a cloud of invisible smoke, his ancient throat dry and coarse.
"Where did you come from?" Micheal demanded.
"I will answer that, if he will stop reading that wretched book. It would not be so bad, but he's mispronouncing almost every word." The man said in a foreign accent.
"Does the word of God offend you, Heretic?" Brother Jean said. As he did, the men gasped and stepped back, readying their weapons. The man grinned at them, revealing slightly yellowed teeth, all sharpened to a point. He stood up, revealing his true height to be over seven feet tall. As he stood, the bearskin clothes fell off, and it became clear that these brown spots were actually scales, covering his skin. He now wore only a white fur loincloth as he towered over the men, the mass of his muscles apparent in the flickering campfire's light.
"Lay down your arms, humans. The misspoken word of your God does not offend me. But I do not fear him. Or you. There is no god of yours here. There is only I. Zavoyevatel, the God-King." He said, spreading his arms. He had expected them to bow before his glory, but was surprised when one of them instead shouted in righteous indignation and attacked, his sword shattering against the god-king's side. He looked down at his shattered sword hilt, and back up at Zavoyevatel and whimpered, backing up slowly. Zavoyevatel moved faster than their eyes could track and had his left hand locked firmly around the man's neck.
"You would assault a god, mortal?" He asked, embers flickering out of his mouth.
"I could kill you with a thought." The god-king said, holding out his right hand open, but nothing happened.
"Ah." He said, sighing as he dropped the man.

"I forget. This place is impotent. What a pity." He said, looking at his right hand.
"I have a question, humans." He said as the others readied their weapons.
"Have you seen my children? Any of them? I feel them, but this place is dry, so I cannot find them. I call, but they do not answer." Zavoyevatel said.
"A demon cannot bear children! Attack brothers! God will guide your hands!" Brother Jean said, backing out of the cave, the puddle on the ground revealing he had soiled himself. The god-king rolled his eyes as the group all charged him at once.

Brother Jean ran headlong into the freezing rain as he heard agonizing screams, fervent prayers screamed out and cut short, and pleas for mercy from the men he had left. He had gone no further than a few yards when he heard something hit the ground behind him, he looked down to see the top half of Micheal, eyes wide with shock and terror, attempt to claw it's way through the mud to him. Micheal died with terror-stricken eyes, and a hand reaching out for Brother Jean. Jean was rendered immobile as he watched Zavoyevatel walk out of the cave, pulling his bearskin coat over himself and wiping blood off of his hands. He walked over to Jean and looked down at him.
"What is your name, child of man?" He asked.
"I-" Jean's words died in his throat as his bowels released.
"I will not kill you if you can prove yourself useful, human." The god-king said.
"I am Jean. Brother Jean. I am a priest of God, ordained b-"
"Very nice, Jean. That's enough." Zavoyevatel cut him off.
"My children, Jean. Have you seen them?" He asked, kneeling down to look Jean in the eyes.
"I-..." Jean's words failed him again.
"They are like you, somewhat. But they are half animal, not unlike the wolves and foxes of these parts. And they smell better. And are better groomed. And braver. And are immeasureably smarter. That being said, they're not much like you at all, are they?" The god-king said, smiling at Jean.
"I h-have n-not seen them... My God." Jean managed to utter, dropping the tome he had carried all this time.
"I am not your God, Jean. I am the god-king of the wilderfolk, not the humans. You have your own God. One I would like to speak to someday, perhaps. But I am not he. Pick up your tome, priest." Zavoyevatel said. Jean snatched up his sacred tome.
"Was I useful?" He asked.
"No." Zavoyevatel said, his hand moving faster than Jean could react to, and smashed the

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