The God King

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With a crackle of thunder, a nacreous veil flashed into existence over the large granite basin, casting the chamber in a cold dead light. Prince Varis Kilvar stifled a fearful shout as the rumbling peal faded, replaced by demonic howls that burst through the luminous shroud and soared into the murky heights of the ancient temple’s domed ceiling. A shiver crept over his shaven scalp, rippled the muscles of his lithe figure, as those perverse cries slithered and crept over rotten stone with mindful purpose. Only a deep and abiding hunger rooted him to the spot, that which had first compelled him to journey to this wretched place. Fighting waves of dread, he waited and watched.

Rising from pale, dripping slime that covered the floor and walls, the moist reek of ancient death permeated the stuffy air. The gloomy vault of decayed stone was no place for the living. He glanced fully at the basin, which an ancient tome named the Well of Creation. The tattered book claimed that within the basin’s depths, waiting eons for someone to claim it, lay a source of power greater than any mankind had ever imagined … a power never meant for mortal hands. Old books said many things, some false, some not, but the woman of spirit, her voice heard clearly within his mind, had affirmed the tome’s claims.

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