A Call to Arms...(Private)

[Sinister]

The plains were smooth, like poured cream. A breezy solar spell, the ground felt like lifting clouds. The sun shined without burning. The wind whipped without freezing. And in all the land, the humble cry of crickets were the only blessed sound. It was the sort of peace that time forgets. But then…time has proven itself forgetful.

The fading sentiments of man and his influence had been gently blended into the scene. Tall ionic pillars, blessed white and boulders tinted with lichens, were totaled in a circumambient fashion. They defined a serene green clearing about one hundred feet in diameter, a pious hill.

It was here… The very spot. It had been selected with irony in mind; described in a note scrawled on royal stationary in bold red ink. That note had passed into High Paladin Oskar's hands.

"Too long. Too long has the credo of our assemblage been meek and feckless. You have become weak and by proxy so has our congregation. I challenge you. You know of the ancient henge out on the plain. I challenge you to be there this very day. Come at you leisure.
I will wait."

The note was without a sender. It was blunt and insulting to a degree, scrawled with sharp jagged letters. The very note was folded into Oskar’s hands as he achieved the hill.

But the hill was vacant and peaceful with no outward signs of another occupant. Peaceful, truly a land of milk and honey.

It was to detriment…only to mar, that the poured cream of the plains, curdled as a fog blanketed it. To this recipe was added the cold howl of a wolf just as the sound of crickets died. The sun, daring, shined through the fog, illuminating the figure of what seemed a man…

Jafar’s coat tussled in the wind, as it swept his fog away. His wide brim hat kept his eyes free from God’s sunlight. It was necessary as it was God’s sunlight, and not his. His visage was all one of insect length. His purple coat, black hat and great lanky limbs made him seem a great purple mantis. The tinted glasses he wore pretended to hide the windows of Jafar’s soul, had there been one. His face was stark and sharp, with locks of blonde hair framing it, the rest pouring out the back of his hat. The tinted glasses were directed at an approaching figure, shelled in armor.

Jafar knew.

Though there were words to be said, Jafar’s mind was with the grip of Woundlicker, his great black stiletto. They were cold murderous thoughts and they disturbed Jafar greatly. It was his mentor, his friend, his leader that those thoughts targeted. The thoughts were unreal to him, simple primordial thoughts. Almost...planted.

Kill…REND, slaughter. Murder Resistor
Inaction, You will succeed. Shifting pieces. Dismember. Changes nothing!
Missing trust! Don’t impress… Binge Cringe
NOW is the only thing that’s real. Pure Blood…hunger…food

“Welcome,” Came Jafar’s dry report. It sounded mechanical. His brows scissored his bleak red eyes into bloody razors. Thinking of adding a little dramatic scare, he smiled lightly and added: “Oskar.”