Old Enemies, New Allies

Recorded: April 13, 2014
Characters: Malekith, Fafnir (NPC)
Location: Nastrond
Summary: Malekith visits Nastrond in search of other forces to pit against Asgard.

The lair of nothing. An empty cavern of a long-dead civilization. The ruinous city in the midst of Natrond echoes only with the sound of occasional stones falling from the ceiling of the dark cave that encompasses the realm. If there is life here it hides well. The dim, sourceless light of the cavern shows only the signs of recent battle: Collapsed rock, crushed ruins and scorched stone.

Quiet footsteps fall across the craggy land as Malekith surveys the aftermath of the destructive combat. His pale eyes adjust to the low light without issue. The disappointment makes no effort to hide on his face.

The Dark Elf's presence does not go unnoticed. His footsteps are muffled by the rumble of moving stone from a massive mound to his right. "Who is it that wanders the streets of Nothing?" The deep voice echoes from all directions.

Malekith freezes midstride, tilting his head aside to try and ascertain a direction of origin for the booming hail. He takes a moment to consider his current condition in the grand scheme of the world tree and raises his voice with confidence and a tasteful dash of mirth. "I am Malekith the Accursed. Master of the Hounds, Archmage of the Dark Elves. Lord of Svartalfheim. I seek the Lord of the Nastrond so that we may make make merry sport of Bor's legions; but, I find naught but a cavern of ruin." He playfully explains, flinging a glance into the depths over his shoulder. "…and who would you be who so boldly stands vigil over this vast tomb?"

The stone mount grumbles as it expands, then retracts in height. Then it moves, sliding along the craggy ruins as effortless as a whale in water. Green scales shimmer beneath the moving hillside before it settles into a newly formed gravel dune.

The ground trembles near Malekith and a pair of stout, moist cave openings rise before him. Wind gusts from each hole, flavored with the scent of dirt and sulphur. The holes briefly threaten to draw his hair in with a change in the wind's direction. Then the caves rise upward at an angle, exposing a wall of keeled scales that is split horizontally.

"I am the King of Nothing." The horizontal line reveals itself to be a mouth broad enough to swallow Malekith like an aspirin. "So crowned by Odin, the All-Father of Asgard. Share with me your aspersions for the Bor clan, and perhaps I shall share mine."

Malekith shoots his gaze towards the emergent behemoth and leaps away, readying a spell in his hands as he anticipates a defense. When Fafnir's cavernous maw speaks he releases his energies to dissipate around him. "I wish for them to suffer! I long to see them squirm!" Malekith nearly sings, lifting a feeble fist to shake towards Fafnir. "My arcane might over chaos is vast, Lord Dragon. I came to Nastrond searching for a kindred soul."

The pile of rubble that conceals the rest of Fafnir's head is gradually shaken aside as the great lizard lifts himself out of the ground. He leans backwards like a large man half-submerged in a tub of water, tapping the ground near Malekith with a single massive claw. A claw that could easily spear the lanky elf if the King of Nothing felt like doing so. "Then you and I are brothers," he declares after a period of thoughtful tapping. "For I can smell the truth in what you say. You have had recent dealings with Borson. Dealings that did not go so well, otherwise you would not be here." His broad arm gestures towards the ruinous city. "I too have had such an encounter, in the distant and recent past. The Asgardians think themselves the ultimate tenders of the World Tree, and we as mere termites to be torn from its bark." His great fist clenches close to Malekith. "Death is not fitting for one who thinks so highly of themselves. No, the son of Bor must be gifted a far greater suffering."

"I propose an alliance most terrible." Malekith coos, sauntering towards the staggering bulk of Fafnir with his arms open at his sides. An impish smirk has fluttered upon his narrow face to reveal a hint of pearl. "The world tree has fallen into a dreaded imbalance of order and tranquility; all but the Jotunn and the flames of Muspelheim are under the rule of Odin Borson's thumb. Svartalfheim, too, has risen from darkness to illustrate the vast inadequacy of Bor and his wretched spawn."

Stalactites drop from their fixtures as Fafnir's laughter echoes through the cavernous realm. "Then let it be so! For I wish only to see Odin suffer as I have suffered all these millenia." He reaches into the crater where he rests. "There is no greater torture for a king than to stand helpless as his people are torn from him. To see their lives shattered before your very eyes and lack the power to act as their champion. I have relived this nightmare every hour of my continued existence." The cavern trembles with his grumble. "But I have not been idle in this nightmare, oh no. I have spent countless hours devising ways in which to repay Odin's actions." Fafnir leans forward, once again lowering his massive maw to Malekith's level. "If you would wield my weapon of vengeance, you would have my power at your disposal."

Malekith deftly spins aside as a Stalactite crashes into the ground beside him. "I am eager to hear what horrors you would reveal, o wrathful wyrm!" He trills back to Fafnir. He raises a hand to brush the silken locks from his eyes and vanishes in a wink of warp, reappearing with a lilting chuckle at the dragon's shoulder. "If it is wished for me to supply the vehicle then let it be so; but, thou art forewarned that my own merry games shall bleed them outside their golden walls!" He calls, narrowing his eyes to a deadly, crimson edge. "I suspect, lord Wyrm, ye know well the ways of the gentry. I will bleed them from the shadows as you bleed them from their hearts."

"Asgardian blood will flow like wine from an aged cask," Fafnir declares and raises his hand. Two of his fat fingers seem pinched together but as he maneuvers them close to Malekith, it is clear that the tips of his claws balance a small, glass bottle. A grey liquid swirls in the potion bottle, looking as alive as it does deadly. "This is one of many ways I've wished for Odin to know the gift that he has given me. You need only administer it to a few of his people and the plague will do the rest. It will take its time, it will be agonizing, and all that become afflicted by it will weaken and die…"

Fafnir grins broadly. "Most importantly, I have blessed my foul plague so that Odin is immune. He will watch his people die, and he will not be able to do anything about it, for the cure has been lost to the ages, just like the people of Nastrond."

Gnarled, bony fingers reach out to snatch the bottle and lift above his head so that Malekith may better peer into the contents. "A bold plan." He muses aloud, twisting his head aside at an awkward angle when he cranes another manic smile to Fafnir. "So shall it be done, Lord Wyrm." He replies, reaching aside to grasp his cloak then wave it before himself. He spins into a rapid swirl of impenetrable shadow until his motion stops; though, the man standing before the scaled king is no longer the twisted and wild elf but a proud and normal Einherjarr.

"Upon the blood of the fallen, with the soul of all who cry for vengeance and dread; I shall deny them their peace."

Fafnir grins dangerously when he sees the end result of Malekith's transformation. "Report to me all that happens. Every detail of their suffering. I wish to revel in Borson's despair as it unfolds before his cursed eyes."

The shining warrior creases his lips into an unwholesome smile, flicking his honorary cape into a minute curtsy. A hole rips through the realm around Malekith, claiming the ensorcelled mage and winking out of life in a lingering puff of tangible shadow. In his place, the cold and lifeless body of the true Einherjar complete with a fey dart lodged in his throat.

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