The Chess Match

The Stories of a Dead City

Emmet patrolled the dead streets of the once great city with his squad, still scarred from the recent battle. Rounding a corner, they spotted it at the same time it spotted them. The thing was clad in armour black as night, breastplate carved with screaming faces. Even its blade was malevolent crackling an evil green. As his companions cried out in shock and fear, a complete void filled Emmet as he gazed into the beast's eyes. The soldier fell to his knees and dropped his weapon, as the creature rushed his squad. In an instant, two of his closest friends were dead, their bodies being sucked into the blade of the creature like a vortex. Emmet stood helpless, unable to move his limbs as his comrades in arms were cut down one by one. Accepting his fate, Emmet closed his eyes and lowered his head as the thing turned towards him. As it blinked toward him, they were both blinded by a brilliant light. Emmet opened his eyes and fell backwards at his regained ability to move. Between blinks, he managed to catch moments of combat between the dark figure and what looked like a mere man. Emmet heard a cry of agony from the creature before he was hauled to his feet. In an instant, the man was gone, and Emmet was left alone with the quickly decomposing corpse of his former enemy.

Qjaran was a legend. Many mortals worshiped him as a deity, recounted his feats in music and poetry, held festivals in his name. And despite all this praise, he was still forced to bow beneath the weight of those above. By now, Qjaran was a prisoner in his own mind. Forced to observe his life like a ballad of those he killed, tossing aside walls that had weathered a hundred battles, yet crumpled like tissue paper before the battering of a hurricane. The massive, tangled, numerous arms of the giant heaved an entire mountain peak above his head, breaking it into dozens of smaller boulders, launching them in unison as the living legend watched in abject horror as they crashed into the palace. The last of his kind, enslaved, operated like a puppet on a string. Forced to serve as a murderous machine for some warring human faction, the Sphominster was it? It didn't matter, these mortal nations were all the same, he thought bitterly. Jolted out of his thoughts by a shock of pain, Qjaran stumbled back from the impact of a massive bolt in his shoulder. Roaring in anger, the creature snatched a war elephant from near its feet, and threw it at the line of the ballistae, scattering or destroying them like a dandelion when facing the wind. As the battle drudged on, Qjaran settled back in and continued to reminisce bitterly about what was, and what could've been.

The King sat in the empty throne room, it wouldn't be long now. Centuries of dominance ends here. Glancing out the window, he catches a glimpse of the battle. A massive army lay outside the walls, mere pawns of their commanders, who are pawns to their commanders, and on and on. Thousands died by the moment, all while in service of incomprehensible beings, battling for some unknowable goal. The man bemoaned his fallen kingdom, knowing it was the last bastion. Maybe if he had heeded the warnings, maybe if he hadn't been so foolhardy. The King sighed, perhaps there would be another that would avenge him, avenge them all. As he returned to his seat, the seat he once ruled the world from, the last thing he heard was the whistling of the rocks as they fell.