Bad Story Exercise: The Lone Rider of Mysterra: Chapter the Ninth

Brenton, the last in the line of the ancient kings, stood before the Warlock Lord, seated on his black throne, in the vast antechamber. Blade in hand, he slowly strode towards the figure clad in black, his boots clacking on the floor, stopping before the stairs leading up to his dark seat. The towering black marble pillars vaulted above them, opening to the inky sky, a sky devoid of the comfort of light. The only light source stemmed from the Warlock Lord, as he wielded a greatsword which flickered with crimson flame.

“So,” the Warlock Lord rasped, his voice calling out from behind the pale mask he wore to conceal his visage, “You have come to challenge me. How noble. I shall reward you with the honor of a quick death.” His words penetrated Brenton like icicles, filling him with a chilling dread. Nevertheless, Brenton raised his dragonbone sword, pointing it towards his enemy.

“It is my duty to slay you and return peace to this land,” Brenton shouted with conviction, though every fiber of his being shook with fright. Standing in the presence of the Warlock Lord alone was enough to strike fear into any man, let alone challenging the dark titan to a duel.

The Warlock Lord laughed his cold, terrifying laugh, which resembled a mixture between a cacophonous death rattle and a moan slaked in eternal pain. “Defeat me? My child, you are not the first to attempt such a feat, and you will not be the last to fail.” The Warlock Lord rose from his throne and descended the staircase, almost gliding down the marble steps. “Perhaps instead of killing you, I shall turn you into one of my servants. Your abilities will be most useful in my army.”

“I will never serve you, abomination!” Brenton charged forward, thrusting his blade outwards, hoping to penetrate the villain’s heartless chest. The Warlock Lord side-stepped his attack, and Brenton stumbled. As he lost his balance, the Warlock Lord smacked the back of Brenton’s head with a gauntleted fist. Brenton fell and crashed upon the marble staircase, swiftly turning around to face the Warlock Lord from his less-than-preferable position.

“Why do you fight?” the Warlock Lord asked. “You have no chance of victory. My darkness shall consume all. Why resist the inevitable?”

“Because I have things worth fighting for,” Brenton shouted. “Honor, homeland…” He clutched at the golden locket around his neck, “…love.”

The Warlock Lord laughed again, this time shrieking with amusement. “Love? Such miserable palabra shall not save you. Now, die!” The Warlock Lord stabbed his sword downward towards Brenton. Brenton held fast his locket, thoughts of the beautiful Amarra filling his head, as he closed his eyes and braced for the bitter end.

The evil Lord’s blade never reached Brenton, however. A burst of light emanated from between his fingers, pouring forth from the locket. Brenton became surrounded by a golden bubble and, when the Warlock Lord’s blade struck the bubble, it cast him back. The Warlock Lord flew through the air before stabilizing himself and floating to the ground of his throne room.

“What sorcery is this?” he barked at Brenton.

“Love,” Brenton stood up, readying his blade, staring confidently at his enemy. “My love gives me strength, and it is love that shall defeat you!”

“Very well, fool. Let us see pit your love against my hate.”

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