Darkest Black

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Mevolent was frustrated with losing the war. He'd been losing since the "miracle solider" cheated death, so he naturally didn't question when a stranger showed up in his room, clothed in the darkest night, wanting to commit genocide. That was his normal. He was slightly suspicious about the fact that he didn't have a track record. That intrigued Mevolent's merciless curiosity. Everyone had a track record. He personally made sure of it. If you wanted to crush your foes and spill their guts like a lemon into a strainer, you had to know them first. So Mevolent ensured that everyone recorded to exist, friend or otherwise, had a track record, just in case. What really ticked him off though, was this strangers time of arrival. Didn't his mother ever teach him not to interrupt a psychologically disturbed man's beauty rest?

Mevolent sat up in his bed without using his hands, which, when you think about it, is quite an impressive feat that requires excellent core strength. He twisted to the side and stood up. The armoured figure processed Mevolent's attire and tilted his head in confusion. He smirked. No way was this necromancer going to catch him in pyjamas. Pyjamas were for the weak. Instead, Mevolent went to bed the pinnacle of organisation, wearing his official uniform, polished shoes and immaculate hair. He brushed the imaginary creases from his coat. The creases were never real, he would never stoop as low as too wear creased clothing. He turned and faced the silhouette. He didn't need to ask what he wanted.

"Since you haven't sliced me like a capsicum in my slumber, I'm going to assume that you are a new and powerful person who wants to join forces with me and assist us in summoning our dark gods and desolating the sanctuaries." He paused, expecting whoever this was to answer. All he received was a nod. That miniscule gesture made Mevolent aware of how still the rest of his body was. He was so unnaturally still that he didn't appear to be breathing. 

Mevolent pushed past the armoured man, to his door and glanced back at him. "Are you coming, or are you going to wuss out and scuttle back to your little temple?" He teased arrogantly. The armour seemed to spike in slight fury, in tune with its owners emotions.

"I murdered most of the people in my temple." Rasped a quiet, grating voice from deep within the mask. Mevolent grinned, unfazed by the subtle threat. He knew there were a lot of necromancers in the Irish temple. He also knew enough about necromancy to know that this man would have had to have stronger magical capabilities than all the Temple combined, to make it out alive. Though most of all, Mevolent now knew that this man was the Death Bringer. The title given to the messiah of a death cult, spoken only in hushed tones. Mevolent beckoned to the Death Bringer with his hand.

"Come. I want to offer you a place in my army, but first, your name."

It was a name Mevolent would never forget for as long as he lived. "Lord Vile."



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