Requiem of the Four Realms

The Fall of Angra Sayahad

As uncovered by Sansarra's research

“You gave her WHAT??” Lady Jakarra’s voice rang off the walls the way light glitters off the diamonds after which she took her Nom de Nobilite, “Diamond of Spite.” Streamers of magic coalesced around her feet, swirling cloudlets of bright, sickly green pawing at her ankles and shins.

“You have not gone to your precious “Tea Palace” in over two hundred years! It was a simple lover’s token, nothing more.” Angra Sayahad’s voice was slick, oily, conciliatory. A few of the chains coiled about his body tightened and loosened with a quiet jingle, and a very slow snake of chain made its way out of sleeve and began coiling in his palm.

Lady Jakarra let out a wordless shriek and flung one arm forward, sending an eye-searing blast just inches from Angra Sayahad’s head, striking a priceless statue of him. The platinum and gem-encrusted likeness, three times the height of a man, vanished instantly into a puff of glittering dust that hung in the air.

“Now now, pet, there is no call for disintegrations here! You and are both quite aware of the terms of our… marriage arrangement. The Thaumocracy is happy enough to have us wed and off the market. And we both engage in our little dalliances, and everyone is hap-“ His last statement was cut off as the smoke around Jakarra’s ankles coalesced into a half dozen sickly green snowballs, which pelted his face one after another, the mere impact hard enough to shatter his jaw and snap his head back. The acid snow eating into the flesh of his face and eyes was a mere afterthought.

“Don’t you ‘pet’ me Sayahad, oh Prince of Chains. That palace was NOT YOURS TO GIVE!!” She snapped an angry finger and every stained glass window in the solar in which they fought was shattered. The fragments hung in the air, oriented themselves toward her like compass needles, and swooped in to orbit her left hand, menacing with sparklingly sharp edges.

Angra, meanwhile, had finished dispelling her last attack and growing back the face, bones and eyes of his favorite humanoid form. “Acid in the face, really? So we’re going to be like that, tonight, I see…” He took hold of one of the chains run along piercings in his left forearm and tugged it sharply, and a black armored giant three times the size of the bickering Mage Lords burst in through the solar’s roof, holding its helm-head under one arm and a twelve foot long squared off greatsword in the other.

“Oh, very nice Angra, call your little pet to comfort you… what was its name… Durahan? Hah. Let your steel puppy make you feel better. Trust me when I say you will need it. You see, my love (the phrase was nearly as acid as her snowballs), I’ve brought a guest along. Oh Mab darling, won’t you please come in?”

At that summons, a chill wind roared around the room, whistling through the now empty window frames like valves on a flute. There was a sudden anti-flash of darkness in the room, and when it cleared, Queen Mab, Queen of Air and Darkness, Queen of the Unseelie Court of Faery stood among them, shedding snowflakes from her clingly black dress.
Angra was surprised by this gambit on his wife’s part, and worse, unprepared for it. What would Mab be doing with Jakarra anyway?

After making a brief nod of acknowledgement toward Jakarra, Mab sashayed toward Angra, speaking as she went.

“Oh Angra my dear, things were going so well, and you had to go and ruin them. DON’T. I see you inhaling to speak, to lie, to excuse. Don’t bother. If there is one thing you should know about my kind, about ME most of all, it is that dividing line between truth and lies, respect for contracts, loyalty to oaths. And you… you would gift me, who has no need of mortal trappings, a palace that belonged to someone else? That which was not yours to give? You know so little of our people. The debt to Jakarra for her palace, Angra? It falls upon ME to settle, thanks to you.”

Angra gulped and telepathically signaled Durahan to take a cheap shot at Jakarra, to win himself time to think. The hulking suit of armor had barely raised its sword when Mab made a brief gesture in the air and a half dozen Rust Monsters swirled into being in the shadows of the room, immediately moving to circle Durahan and strike out, each attack gouging pounds of steel off the enormous form. Like frenzied jawfish, they rendered the giant into naught more than a pile of rust in which they snuffled and rolled and chewed like puppies.
Angra was distracted from this scenelet as the full ire of Queen Mab beat against his body like a physical wave of heat and pressure, as though some savage machinima country-levelling weapon was constantly exploding in this modest solar.

“Please, Mab darling- You Highness. Please. Let me make amends, I can make this ri-“ He cut off his own sentence to fling out the chain he had gathered in his hand, catching one of Mab’s wrists and tethering it into the stone wall of the solar faster than the eye could follow. As his other hand rose up, rapidly filling with black iron chain that would spell doom and anathema for the Fae Lady in front of him, he realized he has lost sight of Jakarra. The cloud of class shards orbiting her perforated his back with a hundred deep puncture wounds, from heels to the back of his head. The damage was enough to give even a Magelord pause to stop and heal, pause he did not have.

What followed does not bear repeating, save only to say that both aggrieved ladies got their pound of flesh from the Prince of Chains. Hell hath no fury, after all. At the end of their play session, the Ladies parted with regal gentility, exchanging respectful nods over the glistening exposed and snapped ribs of the Prince of Chains on the floor between them. Lady Jakarra left first, summoning her solid diamond unicorn mount as she went.
Mab remained behind, summoning one of her Fae Knights to her side. “Allorel, you will take up this body and bring it to the most noisome, pathetic hole this speaker-of-lies constructed in life. There you will create a prison for him out of space and time, that he may reflect upon his sins.”

She bent down, gently caressing the exposed cheek muscle of Angra’s flayed face, planting a gentle kiss on the lipless, blood-smeared teeth.
“We shall not kill him today, nor for a very long time. He might have his uses yet. Allorel, go, get this mess out of my sight at once.”

Allorel, Fae Knight of Space bowed low to his queen, gathered up the ruins of the Prince of Chains, and took them to be interred in a pocket dimension in a noisome little necromantic laboratory known as “Shallow Grave.”
- Personal Remembrances, Qadath the
- \Keeper of Skulls, Imperial Year 4356

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The Fall of Angra Sayahad

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