Is a Gamble Worth a Gander?

Chapter 8: Duties to Fulfill

Chapter 8

Duties to Fulfill

Λ

A glorious countenance shines eerily as it gazes deeply into a pool at the foot of a gargantuan stone throne. The brilliant light emanating from under the hood of its shabby robe shimmers in time with the glistening mere of fate beneath. Now locked onto a single path, showing the events yet to come to the divine visage, the shifting forms within the pool are not nearly so wild as they had been. Yet even still the colors change and contort, forms birthing and dying within the shimmering waters.

The being sits on its throne, as it ever has since time immemorial. A colossal monolith carved into the center of this void-like space. Almost as if a capricious afterthought, the throne seems made of simple granite that matches well the realm devoid of detail within which it sits. Its form is colorless, given breath and reason only by the will of the splendor rested upon it. It stretches far into what passes for the sky in this place, reaching into the infinite maw stretched out above.

Upon the bottom of this monolith, sitting with its face rested upon both hands, the being remains ever vigilant over its chosen source of intrigue. Arguably omnipotent, omniscient and utterly divine, still it merely sits and watches. Almost eagerly it stares as its face bares brilliant countenance upon the mere of fate shimmering below.

Barely visible, almost as if formed of a mere consideration for proper form, the being's face gradually lost just the slightest bit of its inherent brilliance. Though none could have guessed for whom this show was put on, most likely for the being's own narcissistic whims, a smile gradually crept onto the perfect face as it gazed deeply into the pool of fate.

If one were to be willing to risk madness and blindness eternal, loss of sight and mind even unto their soul, the grinning visage could have been seen to be mouthing words at this very moment. Speaking without breath so as not to be heard by any, though none existed there to hear, it muttered some small words of encouragement as it watched.

Ω

Lincoln gritted his teeth hard, nearly ready to crack under the ferocity of his disappointment in himself. His right hand gripped a short sword, an inheritance of sorts left by his great-grandfather, with great fervor. Veins popped up visibly along the stressing arm, now pushed to its utter limits with the furious grip upon the short blade. Knuckles turned white as pain began to gradually course through his wrist, alerting the young man that he was quickly reaching his physical limit.

A bead of sweat lazily dripped from the crown of his head, passing over his brow and resting itself painfully into his wide-open right eye. Without so much as a twitch of pain, Lincoln only continued his stare into the hateful eyes before him. Glowing red and full of murderous intent, the kobold glared with equivalent fervor at the man before it.

Both were battered and beaten, now a few minutes into their deathly melee. Neither had given much ground and neither showed any real signs of being willing to give in. The bloody fur of the kobold, formerly a soft blue color, now sat matted to bruised and lacerated skin. The claws upon its right hand were now mostly shattered, the left hand being entirely devoid of fingers at this point. It opened and closed its ragged mouth as it took haggard breaths, now missing nearly all of its sharp teeth due to a bite launched earlier upon the young man's armor.

Lincoln conversely showed signs of duress, his muscles aching as he exerted a manic grip upon his sword. His arms and torso were covered with bruises and cuts, some deeper than others, and ached with a fury to attest to the vigor of his training. His face was misleadingly calm despite the many signals of pain racing through the mind behind the olive-skinned visage. Mahogany eyes stared furiously upon the battered kobold before him, their cold gaze never for a moment betraying the murderous rage behind them.