A Heart's Crucible

Successful parties merge alike; the buzz, the vibe, and the atmosphere. But foiled parties fizz unique.

Confusion and shock greeted a trio of Peri eyes, ready to revel. Within seconds of swooping into the Great Serpent Mound, Joq saw trouble. The venue for festivity lay silent.

Yesterday Joq and her friends Zarella and Perdita spruced for fun. Minutes ago, they flew in a group, skylarking, trend-setting late. Now the future held what? Where were their Peri playmates?

***

In the dim realm of Abandon, yesterday vanished without importance. Useless minutes passed through this day. Only tomorrow promised for the reign of darkness.

Chains clanked and rattled in a bored tempo reminiscent of pounding rain. Yet inside a sealed cavern, no cloudburst occurred. Instead, only spittle flew, flecked spurts of rage through the gloom.

The chain’s pace perked, a regular clinking on stone. Ahriman’s temple throbbed in the bowels of Mount Kaf. His scaled, ebony body writhed as his flailing chains lashed the air. They chipped the basalt throne on which he perched. His four horns flexed and lit up with a hellish reddish glow.

The Dark Lord whiffed dead fish. Death, Ahriman, swept the taste across his tongue. But his lips craved Peri flesh. Wings and hearts, the detail of the Soothsayer’s mystic instruction.

“Capture the one thousand Peri, bar none,” the seer of Idalion said to his ghouls.

Yet Ahriman sagged on his throne. The capture of flighty Peri proved challenging. A task beyond ghouls because the gits couldn’t fly! The Dark Lord squeezed his palms. His ghouls surrounded him — Unbalanced Soul, sullen yet loyal. He rubbed his hollow eye and rattled his spiked mace. The second Dying Ember seared broken bones with blue-fired fingertips. Beside him, Thirsty Sea quaffed alcohol from a horn. He drooled; his half-tongue slurred. Whilst Crumbling Dust scratched his skin and scattered rib cages with big hob-nailed boots. The youngest, Gasping Wind, whistled a tune of torture, ‘hurts so good.’

Ahriman touched the black diamond ring holding his power. The signet allowed the ghouls to portal earthwards in the gap of dawn or twilight. A journey denied the Dark Lord imprisoned in Kaf for challenging God.

A jingle, a jangle of chains, became the only sound in the chamber. Ahriman clambered and inspected the nearest of a thousand cages. Every cavern crag and ledge held pens for the pesky Peri sprites.

Ahriman’s cheeks puffed, and his nostrils flared. The Soothsayer’s message appeared unequivocal. The seer stated the Dark Lord lay trapped in Kaf unless the impossible occurred. He must seize every Peri roaming the earth and feast on their colourful wings and beating hearts. The unlikely only fueled evil’s fixation on woe happening.

Luck provided Ahriman with his black hole of opportunity to overturn the undoable. By accident, the winged Dev emerged, ready to net the Peri. Years ago, Unbalanced Soul stumbled on a lump of meteorite in Death Valley. The ghoul brought the obsidian back to Mount Kaf, where the stone gathered dust.

One day, long past, the knickknack, neglected beside the throne, mixed with a blast of the Dark Lord’s snot. The combination spawned an inky childish imp — the first of the Dev.

“Woo-hoo,” and restless chaining raking followed.

Trained by his ghouls, a horde of manic amoral brethren emerged—the growth of a winged army capable of capturing the Peri.

Prepared and aided by a planetary alignment and a lunar eclipse, Ahriman roared, after the stroke of midnight, “The Dev.”

Unbalanced Soul bounded in a zigzag, rattling the soon-to-be-filled cages. The Dark Lord’s shrill voice broke basalt from the cavern ceiling. Shards smashed on the central chamber’s black sapphire filleting slab. In the shadows, a fluttering of dusky wings became a humming swarm.