The Arbitrator's Crumbling Obelisk: Glacies and Ajoris

The Clouded Yearner
“Where might we find them?”

“The reckoning draws near.”

“In both life and death, I shall serve you alone, my lord.”

“There may be an ambush. Should we not summon your brother, Lord Glacies?”

A small party of cloaked individuals stood upon the height of a cliff in an expansive desert land. Their master, the so-called Lord Glacies, lowered the hood of his elaborate robe while jeering at the mention of the man he called brother. “I require only my own blade; my blade and faith alike,” came his resolute response.

Lord Glacies, in his prominent but youthful glory, led an enlightened group of humans gifted with the power of a god, a position he shared with his sworn elder brother and a woman outside his family. To his brother, he was irreplaceable as both a man and a consort; in the eyes of many followers, however, Glacies was but an inconsequential ornament forever lingering in the shadow of the cult. Glacies dared not speak of resultant disdain to any but his most trusted retainers, but the founder sought to prove his worth as an individual beyond all else.

Glacies turned to his loyal followers, a genuine simper on the crispness of his face. “Ne'er fear, my venerated subjects, for as you would willingly die in the name of my honor, so too would I die for all you hold dear as individuals… for we are all equal parts of aught greater, naught less.”

“Lord Glacies!” came a frantic shout from behind Glacies' subjects. One by one, the subjects stepped aside so that nothing stood between Glacies and the newly-arrived entity that caught their attention.

“Lord Glacies, our master formally requests your audience,” calmly spoke the visitor, a tall and hardy cloaked man kowtowing before Glacies. The addition on golden embroidery along the sleeves and bottom of his distinguished him as a familiar of another faction, or at the very least a missionary of Glacies' own occult organization he held no prior knowledge of.

Nevertheless, at the man's unprecedented appearance, the founder suspiciously raised an eyebrow. “Name yourself,” Glacies demanded.

An ominous grin spread upon the man's concealed face almost before the founder finished his sentence; the air grew tense with the sound of his muffled titters. “Why entertain the ignorance of a dead man?”

But Glacies paid no respect to the man's provocation, raising his hand to calm his followers as they collectively drew their weapons in retaliation. “Very well, then. I would speak with this man you call master… but I shall not go alone.”

The man took a moment to clear his throat before standing up straight. “We expect nothing less. Come.”

After the man proceeded to unassumingly draw closer before leaping down into the vastness of the desert, Glacies remained atop the cliff, eying the man's every move. The founder could sense something amiss with his soul, as though he held an unfamiliar power of some sort. That alone was enough to convince the founder to pursue him, for if nothing else, he was witnessing the movements of a rival cult emerging from the shadows—one with the power of a new god.

“Give chase ere he loses us,” Glacies ordered of his followers, being the first to descend from the cliff.