Retold Stories: The First Vexxia-Mly War

Chapter 1: Re-arise
Part 1-1: The King, The Lord, and The Hatred.

"Hmmm." Vex knelt down in front of the cell, looking at the strange, quivering black mass. "Yep, he's definitely still ... alive. In some sense."
"That can be changed," Lord Nephian grunted, tapping the head of his hammer against the floor.
"Sadly not, seems. Don't waste your energy. He shouldn't be able to escape this," Vex replied, tapping idly against the thick, transparent partition.
"I don't trust our enemies to be weak, sir."
"Well he is. I'm sure of it. Hard to kill, but ultimately weak. Maybe if we study him in here we'll find out how to destroy him once and for all."

There was a long silence. Finally, an unsteady voice called out angrily. "Aaaauuuuugh!" Vex flung over backwards at the loud, angry sound, then quickly regained his wits and sat up again, watching the now violently throbbing, mildly shifting black mass. "... You cannot ... destroy hatred. ..."
"Oh? And is that what you think you are?" Vex replied.
"I'm ... close enough," the voice growled gutturally.
"You look more like a pile of shit on the floor!" Nephian barked.
The black mass emitted a truly beastly low snarl, drawn out over several several seconds. "And you look tasty. ..."
"What's that supposed to mean!?" Nephian pounded his hammer against the floor angrily.
"Calm down, Nephian," Vex replied. "He's not a very elaborate-thinking menace; I assume it means he quite literally wants to eat you."
The black mass practically jumped momentarily, churning awkwardly. "Nephian, is it? What weapon did you use ... before you were gifted that symbol of futility?"
"Irreverent, you ... you creature!" Nephian barked angrily.
"Don't let it anger you. That's--" Vex's words were cut off.
"Oh yes, that's how it wins! ... No, no. You'll see how I'll win. I will bring doom to every one of your lords. Even Nephian over there. ... And then I will bring doom to you, Vex."
Vex smirked and stood up, folding his arms. He looked down his nose at the unrelentingly hateful black glob, and said "You're powerless, and I'll tell you why: if you even leave your cell -- and that's assuming you can in the first place -- I'll destroy all that you hold dear." The room fell silent. The sickening black mass offered no response. At that, Vex turned sharply on his heels and walked away. "Come, Nephian. This is going nowhere."

In the now-empty room, the black mass shifted oddly, revealing the beginnings of an armored hand, and a strange, silvery plate of some sort. "Ehehehahaha. ... It takes more than death to stop me, you fools. ..."

Part 1-2: Absorption.

2 days later ...
Nephian sat in his chair, hammer across his lap, staring down at the monster before him. "I still can't believe it ... stuck guarding this disgusting ... thing."
"And you can't even smash me," chimed in the awkward, partially formed humanoid creature sat in a pile of thick, black muck. "... no matter how bad you want to!"
Nephian almost snarled at this remark. "Piss me off enough and my official orders won't matter."
"Why do they have to matter in the first place!? C'mon, give me your best shot!"
"You asked for it, you punk." Nephian unlocked the partition at the side and slammed it out of his way, then slammed his warhammer down upon the cell's lone inhabitant. Instantly, its form jerked and throbbed when struck. It shriveled, and some melted away, forming into the same black goo it was caked in.
"Oh, yes. I know now ... I've felt that kind of strike before, but it was sharp. You were trying to cut me, weren't you? ... A battleaxe! You preferred the battleaxe, Nephian. An admirable choice."

Nephian knew the beast's every complimenting word was wrapped tightly in sarcasm and loathing, and slammed his hammer down again, even harder. It recoiled still further, greatly melting away. "Shut up, you pile of shit. If I had my battleaxe I would've found a way to cut you into pieces too small to put together already! But no, Vex wants to study you instead."

The half-blob, half-humanoid just laughed. "You cannot destroy hatred, Nephian! No matter how long you fight, no matter how hard you hit ... you cannot destroy hatred. I lived and died nine times over, before you even looked me in the eye. A tenth was nothing. An eleventh will be nothing. A twelfth, nothing. A thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, ... nothing!"
Nephian grumbled and left the cell, shutting it tightly and sitting back in his chair in front of it. "Well that was mostly pointless."
"Your every effort against me is pointless, Nephian. All in vain, delaying of your inevitable destruction. You want my advice? If you want to live, run. Run far away, far away from Vexxia, abandon your life as one of Vex's lords. Don't just cross the border to Weskylia and suck up to Ymgir, leave. Flee the continent. Go be a tramp somewhere in Faraway or something. It would be a better fate than certain doom, and even if you survive, the entire continent isn't. Your life would be infinitely more miserable here!"
"Rrraaagh!" Nephian screamed out and attacked full force ... forgetting about the partition, and shattering it to bits. Dazed by the knockback from the awkward strike against it, he stumbled awkwardly backwards. After a long moment, he sat in his chair again.
"Ehehehahaha! Angry, aren't you!? ... Don't worry. I'm not in very good shape to get up and leave yet. So nice of you to provide me with hospice away from the battlefield, though! Eheeheehehahaaa, hahahaaa!"
Nephian just ran his long, pale fingers through his thick, jet-black hair. "Why do you exist? Why do you still exist? Why won't you just die!?"
"Because you cannot destroy hatred! Now, let's have a little less aggressive chatter, shall we?"
Nephian stared blankly at the creature.
"You've seen the wild-eyed, utterly loony young girl in the capitol city, yes? Bakira, that's what they all call her. Nobody knows who she really is. Utterly nameless, anonymous, really effectively formless. Always wearing a mask of some sort or another."
"Why do you ask about her?" Nephian asked, gritting his teeth and trying to expect the answer to be anything but more mockery.
An odd, vaguely face-shaped silver place with two big, black holes for eyes and simply "7P" etched on the right cheek surfaced from the disgusting goo, along with what looked to be the beginning of a head. "Ahahaheheheh. ... No reason."
Nephian grabbed the haft of his hammer with both hands and bended it until it felt like it was on the verge of snapping in his hands. "So that's--!"
"Oh yes, Nephian. That is indeed how I'm so strong. If I had my way, I would've taken far more than that. I would've gobbled up all of her. ... And that shy, squishy boy from the west harbor, the one you fools sent to practically command the battle of Efhawe. And Captain Aeolus, when I took the battle aboard your ships. And even Ymgir, when the forces from Weskylia arrived! All of them gave me part of what will make the new me. How does it feel, Nephian!? How does it feel to realize the man who you follow as god and king of Vexxia, the man whose judgement you trust as perfect, ... to realize that all he did in killing me was give me the perfect opportunity to create a better me!? Can Vex -- Can your 'godking' escape death!? Can he defeat me, who so effortlessly eludes death for all time, whose every battle ends in only inevitable victory due to my sheer refusal to relent!?"
Nephian hid his head in his hands, hands which were now awkwardly clenched and throbbing with sheer anger.
"It took the combined forces of Efhawe, Weskylia, and Vexxia to wear me, just one of me down last time ... and what do you think it will take next time, when I'm stronger!? Do you honestly think you have that many able-bodied soldiers left!? That you ever had that many to begin with!? That the world could hold that many!? Accept it! You cannot destroy hatred! You cannot destroy Mly! You could hardly slow down my ninth form, and you think that the tenth will be any weaker, with all the training, all the capability, all the knowledge you basically force-fed me!? You cannot destroy me, Nephian; you will bow before the only one here who truly deserves to be your god ... or I shall destroy you!"

Nephian stood and let out an inhuman, bellowing roar, and slammed his warhammer down with all his might upon Mly. And again, and again, and again, ... Over and over, relentlessly. All of Vexxia and far beyond quaked from Mly's impossible, blood-curdling, agonized screeching, and truly throbbed in time with the strikes.

Silence. An unsettling silence. An uncanny silence. A terrifying silence. A deafening silence. After it was over, silence consumed the room, consumed the building, consumed the city, consumed all of Vexxia. After some time, the only persistent breech of this silence -- Nephian huffing from the sheer strain -- faded slowly away as he reseated himself. In the dark, silent, lonely prison room, the formless blob quivered almost ecstatically. It looked more pure liquid than a thick goo. A pure black, massive liquid drop, glossy and reflective. Horrible words swirled through the air. Words seemingly not strictly said, but words that always seemed to be there, waiting for the right moment to strike. "You cannot destroy hatred. But oh dear, you've made quite a mess, haven't you? ... Evil ... pure, unrestrained evil, you cannot destroy, ... you cannot banish, you cannot even touch, cannot even behold without going mad."

Nephian couldn't comprehend these ideas. He stared at the implacable oddity known only as Mly for a long moment, and then hung his head, pressing the palms of his hands tightly against his eyes.

Part 1-3: The Unshakable Mind.

17 days later...
Mly sat in his cell, curled up in a tight ball, legs drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped about them. "Tomaizo, was it?"
"I'm not going to take part in your sick mind games, creep." The tall, thin man with golden locks didn't even turn around from his desk full of devices and effects to face Mly as he spoke.
"I only asked your name," Mly replied.
"Yes. Yes, my name is Tomaizo. What's it to you? Are you going to use my own name against me?"
"No, of course not! How on Internia would I do that ...? Moreover, though, why would I? Seems like it wouldn't be very fun, killing someone with their own name. Maybe their own weapon ..."
"You couldn't use my weapon if you tried. Stop making empty threats."
"Ooh, temper, temper! You're tense, Tomaizo. Are you scared of one little ol' Mly?"
"Scared of an impostor who looks nothing like Mly, who is even more pathetic than Mly was, who is trapped in an inescapable cell and unable to cause any harm to a strong mind like my own? ... No. No I'm not."
"I drove your eldest brother completely glad without laying a finger upon him, you irritating, pointy-eared, pale, squishy meal."
"You have no proof of that."
"And where has he been for ... two weeks and some excess now?"
"With how relentlessly annoying you are, I'd think guarding you for two days would make him want to take a nice, long vacation to Goldensand Harbor."
"... He lives in Goldensand Harbor," Mly mumbled.
"No, Whitesand. Over on the other end of the coast entirely."
"Sand is sand, coast is coast, and an inexplicably vanished Nephian is an inexplicably vanished Nephian. I was last to see him, you'd think my testimony would count for something."
"Yes, well. You'd think that, but then you'd realize you're a pathological liar and not welcome anywhere in Vexxia outside of that little ... clear block they've got you in."
"I go where I please, Tomaizo. It just so happens that I'm perfectly fine staying in here ... for now."
"I'll believe it when I see you break out unaided," Tomaizo's words were practically sighed at this point.
"Give it a few days, pointy-ears. ... Why were Nephian's rounded, anyway?"
"Nephian is my brother by divine link only, not by blood. Unlike many of us lords, Nephian earned his place with skill. He's not even Vexxian. He was borne of the Ents, but when the forests of Uutz'nhaett were burned away by raiders from Yjihuul, Ayolimme, and Efhawe, he managed to find a more modern body. South Ezoan. Round-eared, tanner flesh, a not too distant cousin of the Vexxian man, that species is."
"Ooh-hoo-hooh!" Mly practically chirped. "Aren't you clever? I'm sure you know of all the silly racial pride between the various sub-races of you ... Internians. But, to me, it doesn't matter. Flesh is flesh. Edible. Tasty. Fun to rip up and bruise. ... I didn't know Nephian was so old, though. An ent at the end of the first age ... why, he might be almost a tenth of my age! ... Maybe. I doubt it."
"Oh? And how old are you? I must admit I'm a bit fascinated by you, you anomalous ... thing. Strange that you're being so ... docile, at least so much as you seem capable of within your inherently uncivilized nature. Please, tell me."
"I'm older than you, older than Vex, older than Nephian, older than your earliest ancestors. When the strange, bulky-headed, hobbling things whose flawed, inbred genes passed on to you over so many, many years first discovered that pointy sticks make killing things easier, I had already lived and died two times. And as you pathetic creatures discovered more and more deadly tools, that number began to increase much more rapidly. And I began to gain resistance to each and every one of them. I remembered when the Ents roamed the entirety of Internia, not just Uutz'nhaett. They were so, so kind to me. They let me roam among them, quietly, for nothing but a promise to not destroy them. ... And then you squishy monsters started crowding in, and you all hated me, and you hunted me. And I began to get tired of it, so I thought I'd hunt you instead. ... There are still some ents, you know. Hidden, somewhere deep underground. They carved the Deep Paths. I think, once I've exterminated every single one of you, I will go down there, and I'll tell my old, woody friends that I've saved us all. ... 'Us' being myself and them, not you and your disgusting ilk. You will die. You will all die, because you so relentlessly refuse to simply grant me my peace. You will die of war, battle against an impossible to defeat foe, because you are too stupid to allow peace."
"A touching story, Mly. Now, is any of it true?"
A hand grabbed Tomaizo's shoulder from behind, and two words were whispered into his ear: "Who knows?"

...

A humanoid form sauntered happily out of the gates of Castle Tomaizo, covered head to toe in heavy, pitch-black armor with blood-red patterns running intricately all about the surface, save for one place: the face, covered with a shiny-silvery mask, the only break in color the pure-black holes for eyes, which seemed to lead to the void itself, and with "7P" etched flawlessly into the right cheek.

"17 days later...
Mly sat in his cell, curled up in a tight ball, legs drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped about them."

That's what im talkin about.

Chapter 2: Tension
Part 2-1: Encounter.

4 days later ...
"Fresh air, so crisp, fresher than the plains, much fresher than the city, so much fresher than that pointy-ear's castle! Pretty trees, taller than most and prettier than all! It's been too long since I've been here!" Mly exclaimed to the cool air of Northreach Forest, stopping so suddenly along the scantly-beaten path to spin around, arms out, reveling in the scenery all around him.
"Still alive, I see?" called out a soft, calm voice.
"Ah, Zure!" replied Mly. "How ... fun. Shouldn't you be in the more whimsical parts of the forest, playing your silly games?"
"You killed the whimsy to the north, Mly. Burned it all away with the trees themselves. Vex may not have a keen and listening ear to the wind, but meanwhile, in Weskylia, Ymgir is much more attentive. He's put a price on you, Mly. One unlike any before it. Five hundred fifty rods, and one hundred eighty thousand Vexxian gold, large. So, dear Mly, for ruining my home, killing so many of my beloved friends, and being worth so much, ... I shall kill you in return!" Zure screeched.

A sickening black tendril lashed out from nowhere, stabbing straight through Mly. "G'ack! ... Well. That's new," Mly said, strained. The tendril slowly slid its way back out.
"Surprised? They always are. Unlike you, Mly, I'm quite good at disguising the truth of me. I'm a master of disguise. ... And a master of puppets!" The tendril suddenly retracted rapidly, sliding back out of the freshly made hole through Mly, then flung down, slamming him against the ground.
Mly slowly got up on his fists, looking around. "Well. Aren't you quite the actor."
"... Of course, there are a few who know many of my secrets. There are some you can simply trust, some who are on your side. Kasara, Dazamus?"

At that, two figures emerged from the woods. Tall, strong-built men in heavy, dirty steel, the finest Vexxian make. Both with immense, elongated kite shields, identical, cobalt-blue and white, also dirtied from the woods, all the parts running inward to strange, pure-black, spherical stones in a central setting. Kasara held an immense two-handed sword, Dazamus an equally large battleaxe, both in only one hand.

Without words, they attacked. Dazamus swung his axe down upon Mly and cracked wide Mly's breastplate in the back. Kasara quickly leaped forward and stabbed his sword through Mly's helm, cracking it wide as well. An agonized screech emanated from Mly as he quickly flung himself to his feet and leaped far backwards, rebounding off a tree and going up to the treetops. "Hah! Can't get me up here."

"They can't, but I can!" Zure showed himself; a freakishly pale, disgustingly emaciated-looking humanoid form in camouflaging robe, with twelve tendrils springing from its back. He sprung up from the trees and rammed into Mly, ripping him from the treetops. In the blink of an eye, Mly was held in place by four tendrils wrapped about his wrists and ankles, pulling tight around the trunks of two trees. All the strings led back to Zure, making Mly dance like a puppet in the air for a moment. "Ehehahaha! Thought it would be that easy!?"

Mly's head slowly rolled up to look forward. Through the massive crack in his mask, a rusty-red eye stared at Zure. "You know, I like your style. And such an interesting ..." Mly jerked his arm violently, making his entire form jostle. "... skill you have." Mly suddenly shoved his upper torso forward, almost turning himself upside down and twisting Zure's tendrils across themselves before he rebounded back from the tension. "I think I'll make good use of it all, when I assimilate you!"
Dazamus and Kasara now took their places behind Mly. "You won't have the chance, whelp," Kasara grunted.

Dis gettin' good.

Chapter X: Extra
Part X-1: Empty Man's Lament, Sub-Part 1.

Meanwhile ...
Vorta waited anxiously at the door out of his cell. A crack of light shined through, and grew slowly wider as the reinforced door slid away. His eyes clenched shut tightly as they adjusted. Just like every morning. But this wasn't every morning. This was a new day, the day he was made a free man.

He stepped slowly, skittishly out, holding a bag of worn clothing and a small book with a quill pressed between the pages. Clothes on his withered body and a tightly capped inkwell hung on a string haphazardly put around his neck; these things he carried were his only possessions now.

A young-looking, sturdy man simply turned and began walking down the hall. Vorta watched him go, and then suddenly he stopped and turned back. "Come on, damn it!" Vorta obeyed and quickly caught up with the man, following thereafter.

It was a long walk down the twisting and winding halls, up the many flights of stairs. 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, ... . Vorta realized that, in all his time here, he hadn't paid attention to the odd tag bound about his wrist. Idly going up the stairs, he flicked it about and read the worn text.

"Weskylia Hlrs Guilds
United Oversight
Patient 49-C9-174
Admiral Iritaine F. Vorta
Diagnosis: Mly-rltd soul loss
Severity: TRM EXT CRT SEV AVG MLD
Spec. Flags: XM HR CH NG
Designation: Facility M
Recovery level: 0 3 7 10 Exit-ready"

39, 38, 37, 36, ...

"Long walk, isn't it?" Vorta asked. The guard did not respond. The only break of the silence was the guard's large, booted feet hitting rather loudly against every other step, and his, bare, coming down almost-silently against those and the ones between. He grabbed the rail on the edge and decided to take a brief look down by leering to the side to look over while still walking. A hole. A hole with no bottom. A hole that stretched far below his cell on floor 49. A black abyss at the perceived bottom, where he could see no further, but he knew the floors stretched far beyond even that. He watched as the black rose up as high as he did with each step, entranced, for a great while as he continued to mindlessly ascend.

22, 21, 20, 19, 18, ...

Vorta could feel his legs starting to tremble slightly, becoming uneasy. A growing feeling of an utter lack of energy to continue climbing. He tried not to focus on it, and for a while, he could, ...

8, 7, 6, 5, ...

... but then he couldn't help but notice it. It became unbearable. By the top step, he could barely stand any longer.

3, 2, 1, 0.

Floor zero. There were no rooms of any sort, just three hallways that connected the four staircases at the corners of the complex to each other, and in the front, another hallway, ramping up and around, up and around, up and around, ... And Vorta now stood in front of this final hallway.

Save for, perhaps, the other end leading somewhere into a very low level of the Deep Paths, -- which surely no one would escape into and live to tell the tale -- or blowing a reinforced outer wall wide open into a nearby cave or higher level of the Deep Paths -- also a horrible idea for survival chances -- this was the only exit from Facility M.

Given the amount of blast doors, the narrowness of the path, and the strange, arcane seals that are told of, in a blinding flash of light, burning all who would try escaping to a crisp, Vorta thought to himself that even the Deep Paths would be preferable to the certain doom of this exit. One can run from the horrible, shadowy beasts that guard the Deep Paths, -- at least in theory -- but not a pure white light that fills the entire hallway. Absolute impossibility in any kind of escape; this facility guarded its patients -- perhaps prisoners -- very carefully.

"Go on, boy. Freedom awaits." Vorta snapped back to reality, to see the first blast door open in front of him. Far down the tiny hallway, clearly so small that many would have to duck the entire trip, the obliteration seal sat, staring him down. He entered, and the first blast door slammed tightly shut behind him. He gathered his breath and sighed slowly, shakily, as he pulled his sack of clothes over his shoulder and held his book tightly to his chest. The first step was awkward, as his eyes adjusted to the nigh-complete blackness of the hall not unlike his cell, and his stance adjusted to the incline of the floor.

Many minutes passed, nothing but moving forward in the slanted hallway. Suddenly, light. Dim, at first, but growing ever brighter. Vorta just accepted this convenient lighting for a few moments, before realizing its source. Instantly, he sprinted forward. "No, no! Please, no! Stop! I'm scheduled for release! I swear, I'm not escaping! Can anyone hear me!?"

Vorta was suddenly consumed by the light, as it grew ever brighter and ever closer from his sprinting and the seal's charging, and shortly thereafter slammed into the seal itself. He hammered his fists violently against it, screaming, crying, begging, pleading. "Stop! I don't wanna die! Not like this! Lemme out!"

Black. Silence. Motionlessness. An utter lack of feeling. "... Am I dead?" Vorta thought. Suddenly, he felt as if he were being picked up and pulled far, far upward. And then, there was blinding light again ... for a moment, before his eyes adjusted. The white dimmed into a dull gray, save for a few puffs here and there. The dull gray sky of the agonizingly cold northernmost territories of Weskylia. He suddenly jerked upward, to see a familiar figure.

An immense man, fourteen foot, maybe more. Bright cyan eyes, wizened, that seemed to so effortlessly pierce through the cold air and all disguise and trickery, seeing all there is to see. His pale flesh, with the slightest blue hint, seemed perfectly fine with this weather, which Vorta, glancing around at the dead, snow-covered landscape and feeling the cold stab relentlessly at his bones, realized was indeed relentlessly, agonizingly, murderously cold. His black hair was about shoulder-length, draped flatly about all sides of his head save the one with his face, with his large, pointy, angled ears poking out at either side. His pure-white robe blended perfectly with the ground and clouds, and almost-perfectly with the sky itself. Yes, there was no mistaking that calm face: this was Godking Ymgir of Weskylia.

"Admiral," he said. His loud, deep voice thundered so greatly that some nearby birds foraging for bits of food in the snow fled at its sound. "I knew you'd recover from the war. How was the facility?"
"... Cozy for a prison, that's for sure."
"Prison? No, it's a hospital. It provides hospice for injuries and diseases that few recognize: those of the soul itself. Vex sees those tainted by Mly, those who survived the war, but changed, ... as criminals, enemies of the public. Mly is a ... curious creature, who has terrible effects on the typical Vexxian soul, not just the body. There are of course many other ways for a soul to become severely sick or injured, with various results, and ones usually dangerous to both those affected and those around them, ... but Mly affected millions in a few short months. You are, so far, one of just two people to make a full recovery from the sheer soul-sucking effect Mly's strange assaults seem to have. And your case was the second-worst of all documented. Very incredible that you survived in spite of the odds against you. ... To some it no doubt would be, at least; not to me, who knows you so well."
"... And who's the first-place winner of that horrible prize? Who's the other one that's recovered?"

At those questions, Ymgir held up a hand, thumb pointing to himself. Then he knelt down and offered the same hand to Vorta. "Come, comrade. There's much to discuss, and no doubt you'd freeze to death were it all to be discussed out here." Vorta grabbed Ymgir's hand and got to his feet. "Many of your once-superiors didn't make it through the war, Mr. Vorta. I'm promoting you."
"... There's no rank above Admiral, is there?"
"One," Ymgir responded. "Grand Admiral of the Weskylian Airfleet and Lord of Whitesky Province. The airdocks of Whitesky are at your immediate command, the docks of all Weskylia, your slightly-less-immediate command."

Vorta could find few words for this turn of events. "Th-thank you, my liege."

I've gotta postpone updating this indefinitely. Been busy as hell lately. Plus having endless PC problems.