Thought I’d share another chapter with you to tide you over until the next Walking the Scar release tomorrow. Keep in mind this is all subject to change- please enjoy.
CHAPTER TWO: AN UNLIKELY TURN OF (MIS)FORTUNE
The Sun shines brightly through the stained-glass window, harboring the new day upon this strange, cube-shaped planet that this monstrosity calls home.
From a bed wrought from the bones of his enemies, he rises, looks to the sun and greets it with a hearty “I’ll conquer you too, one day.” The overlord takes a stand and then inspects himself in front of the mirror, a prize he stole from an ancient kingdom long past.
Blacker than pitch, light-absorbing body, large, perfectly circular eyes that glow a powerful and perceptive white. He is tall, slim, angular and sharp, he is Overlord Chaos, the most wanted being in all the realms with a current bounty of 1,000,000,000,000,000 sins upon his head- enough money to buy an entire, officially-registered plane of existence. Chaos takes a second more to inspect the two long, blade-like antennae jutting from the back of his head, and he nods in satisfaction- he is dressed to oppress, that is for certain.
He exits his room upon the five hundredth floor, and makes his way down the one thousand flights of dimensional tower steps it takes him to get to the ground floor, which triples as a moderately-sized kitchen and charming sitting room decorated with the heads of many of his fallen enemies – he feels it lightens up the atmosphere to have their foolish, weakling faces staring down at him grotesquely. With a wide, angular contortion of his great jaws, he stretches out a grin, and swings into the room passionately. “Cooking Minion! Has my breakfast been prepared?” He says this with a great exclamation, like an excited father preparing to kiss his wife and go off to work.
Of his monumental tower’s twenty thousand plus floors, he is the only living thing that’s left.
It takes him a moment to get this reality through his head, that in fact the Cooking Minion he’s referring to has not spoken to him in years and left his service due to his downfall. Slowly, his expression changes from an ecstatic, euphoric readiness, and diminishes into a simple smile, his face unable to process his situation properly. “Ahh, that’s right,” he says, “They all abandoned me- the cowards.” With perfect composure he steps up to the kitchen, draws water from a tap and speaks a single word over it. The water sparks and rises into a boil the moment the final syllable passes through his jaws. Into the cup Chaos places a teabag of Refreshing Irish Breakfast, courtesy of a village from another dimension that he had the grace to spare considering how pathetic everyone was over there, also considering that they offered him tea was a solid plus in his books; Chaos loves tea.
With another word over the cup, the bag’s contents are perfectly infused into the water. He takes up the tea bag, tosses it into his extra-dimensional waste basket and he takes a step out of his tower to check the mail. His tower, only one of the hundreds of his secret bases, is quite, for lack of a better word, towering, stretching well above the clouds and then some. To avoid detection he’s held an invisibility enchantment cast over it for hundreds of years, only allowing one to see it once they’ve approached ten meters of the structure- quite useful when curious humans decide to lame up the North West woods like they tend to do at times. He steps up to a cheery bright red mailbox labeled under one of his secret personas, “Macaroon Deathasaurus” which is for some reason a name he finds subtle.
He flips open the little lid, and retrieves the mail once he enjoys a devious sip from his morning tea. The lid is then replaced, and he casually glances over the mail. It’s mostly the same sort of stuff: advertisements from trans-dimensional sales agencies, fan-mail monthlies to things either he or his minions subscribed to, or the rare and most enjoyable threat letter from someone who figured out his address through some miracle. He flips through the letters, throwing each into his “junk mail” dimension, specifically created by his great magics to contain limitless quantities of unpleasant, time-wasting posts from ages long past. It seems as though the day will be uneventful as usual, but then Chaos’ dark hand gets down to the last letter in the daily cache. This one, instead of having a plain and official demeanor or the occasional blood splatter, is a petite vanilla envelope with the subtle scent of something the overlord cannot quite place in his mind. Chaos, looking at the front of the letter, checks the name the note was addressed to, thinking it was sent in error. The name on the letter is indeed none other than his, and in beautiful cursive writing as well- How intriguing.
The letter is from “The Captain of the Royal Knights of the Old Kingdom” (being one of her more prominent titles,) Order. He pauses, never having imagined receiving a letter from his greatest adversary. This, even with the feminine style and scent of the letter, is something Chaos wasn’t expecting in the slightest; as, to his recollection, he has never received any letters from Order before this one. Any message he thought Order would send him, being his greatest foe and all, he would expect it to be carved into the back of one of his old ex-minions, well, perhaps not, he’s often unsure about the nature of others, as he often forgets what people are like.
The cloud headed Chaos shrugs and decides to develop his opinion after he has read the letter. The smiling fiend carefully opens the letter, being cautious of any malicious spell cast on the letter’s seal in an attempt to fell him. Surprisingly enough, the envelope and its contents are all quite normal, allowing Chaos to pull out the pretty piece of white stationary and begin to read with perfect comfort:
First I will presume that this is gotten to the correct address. The Mail Service refuses to tell me someone else’s address even if that person is a damn overlord, so I had to trust that they know where your mailbox is. Anyway:
I understand the strange nature of the letter and in most cases I wouldn’t dream of writing you unless it were to (pardon my honesty) somehow kill you, however I have been thinking of all the times we’ve had trying to destroy each other and was wondering for the last one-thousand-or-so years what you were like on a personal level. I’ve long dreamed of sitting with you and perhaps trying to better understand your motivations for murdering so many and destroying so much. For this reason I’ve decided to invite you to my annual tea party over at my place, 1:00 D on the 5th of Rainser, that being tomorrow if this letter arrives on time. I know clothes aren’t your thing, so I won’t even bother, but do come with a smile on your face.
Also, I absolutely forbid you to hurt a soul at the party, though I’m certain that you will probably attempt to defy this just to spite me. I would really, really appreciate it, however, that you would put forth your best effort to at least not kill anyone at the tea party. Knowing you, I’m certain it will be a struggle, but I’m confident that someone of your ability can do most anything he pleases should he commit himself to doing so.
With all due respect to an ancient mortal enemy who killed my husband, child and the majority of my old friends either directly or in secret,
Lord Knight Captain of The R.K.O.K.R.
P.S.: Bring Hate along with you; this is a party neither of you can afford to miss- I promise.
Finishing the letter, the overlord raises his face from the note with a look of blankness about him. Gradually, a smile forms across his face, looking most devious. He scoffs, quietly in a chuckle at first, and then growing into a maniacal laugh. He looks over to his quaint cat-themed calendar, and sees that tomorrow is the 5th, just as the letter predicted. He takes up a pen and piece of stationary, and begins crafting his reply:
Dearest little Order,
Salutations and good day to you. How is your husband and son doing? I certainly hope my lack of activity of late hasn’t put the thought into that mind of yours that I have been bested. I can certainly tell you that your passive-aggressive missive of sorts has not swayed nor delayed my plans for your ultimate destruction.
It is true that the two of us haven’t met since our last encounter several years ago, it is not because I have been avoiding you. I have simply been preparing to exact revenge for that day five years ago, and will do so with such precision, such ferocity, that you, nor your little dog will foresee the looming travesty approaching you. I just need a few more years of motivation, a few more villages, I feel, and then I shall be ready to visit on my own terms and tear that snow-haired head from that neck of yo-
Chaos halts his pen in thought and pauses while he looks over his letter. He sighs, burns it with a single word, and nods. “Now would be a good time,” he says, his deep voice reverberating through the chambers of the tower. In a flash, his plan is formulated, and he moves to action. The overlord starts up his many stairs and enters a deep, dimensionally-augmented room containing his many armaments. He passes a multitude of defensive spells made to fell any thief, and he steps up to his most prestigious of weapon racks.
With a large, angular smile Chaos picks up the first of the two swords on the center-most rack: an excessively-large, dark-metal sword, with two large circles cut at the base of the metal right over the handle. Its name is Grave-maker, a moniker he gave it himself to make it sound more scary and Overlord-like. It is an “over-enchanted” sword that, when its wielder focuses mana, the organic source of all magic, into the blade, he can change its size and mass as he sees fit- all he needs is an enormous amount of magic. Chaos found this mighty blade at a Spirakandrin sword vendor for 100% off the original price on the grounds that it was “Literally impossible to use!” in the words of the salesman himself, quite oblivious to the great potential that the sword possesses to someone who could actually use it capably. Grave-maker in grasp, Chaos rests his other hand on the middle of the blade, and pressing down on the metal, burning in a barely-noticeable red seal on it, an enchantment to be used for later. Chaos then proceeds to store the large blade in his dimensional throat, and takes up his other beloved sword, called The Small Gate. He can’t quite remember why he called it the Small Gate, but he’s certain the reason was awesome.
This small two-edged gladiatus, possessing a sickening amount of magical runes from the tip of the blade down to the hilt, was crafted and enchanted by the Evil Lord himself, and him being an exceptional sword-smith, was able to place not one, not two, not three, but eighty four different enchantments on the blade, ranging from doubling the weight of anything it hits, to opening irritating plastic wrappers to open up a new specially-ordered collector’s edition box set. Chaos places the same red seal on The Small Gate and stores that in his spatial stomach as well. With these two swords inside his dimensional realms for safekeeping, Chaos will be well prepared to dispatch foes, or get revenge.
Next Chaos fishes around inside his jaws looking for something. He finds what he’s searching for, pulling from his dimensional stomach a small, colored jewel attached to a chain for safekeeping. He effortlessly sends a small jolt of mana into the stone, activating its magic. The stone lights up and Chaos, raising the rock to his mouth, says something into the stone as if it were a phone of some sort.
“Pardon me,” he says and then waits a moment. No answer. Chaos smiles sarcastically, and takes a deep breath. “Honored High Overlord Hate, I beckon you,” Chaos says again into the stone. The stone gets brighter as it responds in turn.
“And?” a voice at the other end responds, pulsing brighter with each syllable. The voice sounds almost afraid, but expectant, as if masking confidence.
Chaos sighs. “Oh, Lord of All Destruction and Majesty. Lover of Infinite Woman and Owner of The Universe. I beseech the honor of thy presence.”
Chaos can hear snickering from the other line. “Yeah. Hey. It’s been awhile, little buddy. Wha’cha need?”
“Someone thought it would be cute to invite me to a tea party and have me bring you along. I am certain you would love to come along, knowing how you worship the company of admirers so.” Chaos says.
“Really? Uh . . . Yeah, alright, I guess. To whose place are we going?” Hate says from his own stone, playing down his excitement.
“. . . Our very own beloved knightess, Order’s,” Chaos educates. The stone is silent for a moment with Chaos grinning from side to side. The two share a scoff.
“Sure, buddy, I’d be ‘honored’,” Hate answers.
“Alright then, get dressed up and I will meet you at… your tower,” Chaos slips, doing his best to sound as friendly as possible to the one he intends to murder.
“Sounds good, little dude. What should I wear?”
“Nothing special- I’m going naked as usual,” Chaos answers. The stone’s voice snickers.
“You never were really the person to wear clothing; not that you have anything to cover up or anything. I’ll see you then,” Hate finishes as the stone dimmers slowly until no light remains. Chaos devours the rock, sending it back to one of his storage dimensions, and smiles. The Two-Color King rips open another trans-dimensional portal, and steps through. It won’t be long before Hate pays for his betrayal.