As far as can be seen is a ruination in white marble, lone pillars standing like silent sentinels over the blasted and forgotten landscape, even the air seems to not wish to stir a commotion. In the distance a curved wall, perhaps once the back of some temple or theater, now simply another reminder that once an entire city stood on among these rough and broken cobblestones. In the twilight sky above, a scant few stars in the sky, an orb floats above everything.
Not quite an orb, though. Not whole, but instead it appears as a bubble of oily water, the inside surface of which is latticed with a strange shifting fibrous glass as it spins in a slow rotation. As Duke first sees it, he thinks it is some strange moon, but soon realizes it is closer than the distant wall, set over what at his current vantage seems to be the center of the city. He licks the back of his teeth and takes in a deep breath, taking note of the cold and almost sterile air.
The guard puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently forward as he hears bootsteps approaching from around a hill of stones and pillars to his right, instinctively straining his arms against the restraints holding his wrists behind his back, the dampness of his white button-up pressing to his skin as he does, the chill of the air biting at him as the guard barks some noise from inside of his helmet that Duke takes as a “move” or “go” command.
Rounding the hill, white cloak scraping the dust behind him, comes a figure dressed in a combination of what looks to Duke like modern flak armor and a medieval armor, similar to the guards that Duke has seen. The difference with this one, though, is that instead of the gunmetal grey of the guards the metal is an almost blood-red with the sheen of gold, glittering on his epaulets, boots, belt, and gloves, as well as his own unique adornments of scaled strips hanging from the belt in what looks almost like a skirt. Like the guards, his helmet is featureless and smooth, but the blood-red gold is polished to a reflective shine that can be seen as a mirror even from the long paces that separate Duke and him.
“This,” the man said, gesturing towards the orb in the sky, his voice echoing and mechanical, as if from speakers hidden in his armor, “Is the Engine. It is the heart and soul of my world, and the greatest power to have ever existed.” The figure turned with a flourish, cape swiping in a swishing arc behind him as his arms spread, seeming to gesture all around, “And this is the ruination of the people that built it, dead and dust long before I set boot in this open-air tomb.” The man stands imperiously, hands behind his back, “And I, am the Orichalcum King, ruler of this world.”
Duke nodded at the statements, then licked his lips, “Not sure what this has to do with me being here, brother.” He feels the guard tense, braces for a hit. It is stopped with a wave of the King’s hand.
A thin, reedy laugh comes through the armor, coloring his voice, “Oh, everything!” He claps his hands together excitedly then moves towards Duke, putting a hand on his shoulder and once again gesturing towards the orb, the Engine, with his other hand. “You see, the Engine has chosen you from all of the people of your world, to be brought to mine!” Duke glances down and notes the blade and scabbard strapped to the King’s thigh, tensing his arms against the bonds fruitlessly.
“You see,” the King continues, now pacing away but still gesticulating towards the Engine, “the Engine is cyclical. It rises in strength, and then once it is at full power, it performs its work and then resets to start again. And,” wheeling on his heel and gesturing toward Duke, “when we receive a new… guest, we know that it has enough power to be operational.”
Duke blinks slowly, pursing his lips, “So, your ball there kidnaps people from my world and brings them here?”
The blood-red gold helmet shakes, the reflection in it rippling with the ridge along the center, “No no, neither anything so crude nor repetitive. Just one, from a world it has selected.” Laughs again, “We are not sure of the criteria it sets, sadly.”
The pause is pregnant and irritating, and so Duke breaks it with what he knows the King is waiting for, “And then what?”
A slight bow of the helmed head, “When it is at full power, it will carve a section of your world out and bring it here to become as one with mine.” The King laughs softly at Duke’s tensing, gesturing all around them, “Do not fret, most of my world is not in ruins. It is vibrant and lush, as long as it knows its place beneath my heel.”
His voice lowers, “There are, however, entire regions that have had to be taught that lesson, so that others may learn by their example.”
Duke sets his feet firm, though his stomach worms and twists, trying to keep his face impassive but showing his rage and disgust as clear as the black of his hair, reflected back at him in the King’s helmet, “So,” he says, practically spitting the word, “you’re a monster then.” He tenses his arms against his bonds again, feeling them bite into the skin of his wrists, to no avail.
The King laughs, a warm mirthful laugh as if he had heard a shared joke among friends, “I am a King. Given that the Engine answers to me, one could even say I am a God, but I am not so prideful as that.” He draws a deep breath under the helm, lifting his cape over one arm and approaching Duke. “You will learn. You see, I am so terribly bored as of late. You will be my entertainment.”
Duke spits into the mirror of the helmet, the guard grabbing at Duke by the throat before the King waves him back once more, wiping the spit from his helm with the cape, almost as if he had drawn it up for that purpose.
The King pats Duke’s cheek softly with a gauntleted hand, “Don’t worry, I take no offense. In fact, I like spirit in my game.” He spins on a heel, dropping the cape and raising his hands to the Engine, “I will give you some time to find your footing, of course, once you awaken.”
Before Duke can respond, he feels an electrical jolt at the base of his skull and the world fades to nothing.