Darius Nomikos

PAST | PRESENT | FUTURE

Darius Nomikos has lived a long life, under many names. He was born under his birth name on the streets of Al-Kasar, of obvious foreign ancestry, he lived as an urchin until a band of gypsies took him in and gave him his second name. There he learned tales of the world, the gods above, and the hells below, the great cities of the forest and plains. He learned stories of ancient cities and the heroes who founded them, and he learned how unfair life could be.

The woman who took him in passed away, after being refused help by the local lord, and despite all efforts of the troupe. He raged and cursed the gods that night, and perhaps they heard, for the next day the troupe was attacked by bandits, leaving a scant few survivors. Darius survived, but was forced to watch helpless as the rest of the survivors slowly died from their wounds, he himself limped into town, a broken leg badly healed and nothing but the clothes on his back and a flute he had taken from one of the dead performers.

There he learned that the bandits had been led by a local noble, but as he was the only witness, any objection would likely have meant his death. And so he adopted his third name, and bided his time, living as a street performer. The opportunity arrived with the news that a famed alchemist and magician by the name of Sargon had appeared in the area, and was looking for an apprentice. Many competed for the position but through cunning and raw need, Darius was the one that claimed it. From the master he learned chemistry and science, the secrets of the alchemists. The sage eventually learned of Darius’ plan to eventually assassinate the noble who killed his troupe, and cast him out.

It was too late for that, Darius’ appetite for forbidden knowledge had been whetted, and he adventured to lost tombs and fields of long ago dead to acquire secrets long lost to the world. He learned of poisons and curses, of sigils and runes of power. Darius returned with a new name, and assassinated the old Lord before his son’s eyes.

Darius joined the court of a nearby city state, becoming adviser to its King. His wife he met in court, a dusky beauty of grace and charm who loved him without reservation. Their child grew strong, sent to the levy where all young men of the city state were required to serve. The seed of dark deeds had hatched though, and the neighboring city state, now ruled by the son of the Lord that Darius had slain vowed revenge. Their armies crushing the levy outside the walls of the city, starting a war that would blacken the countryside for years to come.

It became obvious that they were losing, and Darius went to the Oracle, attempting to find a way to save his adopted city. What he found was knowledge of his wife’s adultery, and his city’s negotiations to sell him to the enemy for peace. Incensed he pulled secrets from those dusty tomes, and sacrificed his wife in a blood bargain for longevity. He faked his own death and escaped the besieged city, taking a new name and swearing vengeance against the gods that had taken from him at every step in his life.

He was a man without a country, traveling the world with an insatiable hunger for knowledge, in search of more secrets, more power, enough that would let him challenge the gods. Or at least save him from the hungry darkness that awaited him on the other side of death. He has come close to death many times, each time escaping or outliving his enemies, on one occasion he was imprisoned for nearly a decade before he was able to escape. Wherever he goes however, trouble seems to follow, and he bears the fading scars as reminders of the close calls he has survived.

CLOSER INSPECTION

THE SAMPLE

“Do you not love me?” her voice held a plaintive note, a gasp of desperation.

“My dear.” he replied, tightening the strap that held her legs down to the alter. “I love you more than anything save life itself. That is why you were the perfect, in fact the only choice for this. No mere stranger’s blood would have nearly as much power to those beyond as one’s true love would.” The blood had nearly filled the runnels, a circle set in stone.

“I loved you, Darius, I loved you.” Tears filled her eyes dark almond eyes as she cried. The sobs wracking her body even as the strength flowed out from her, lifeblood draining from her body.

“Don’t patronize me dear, I know about your affair with the Prince.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead, brushing the hair from her eyes. “Immaterial now though. I went to the Oracle for a way to save our land, I returned with no desire to do so. There is a coming darkness, the light and learning of the world doused by flame and blood, and I intend to live beyond it.”

He could see her struggling against the bonds. Her lithe frame, limbs that when free were straight and swift as a striking lance. Her lips moved, but no words bubbled forth. The distant sound of drums, like a heartbeat accompanied their last moments of privacy.

“The only reason you are still awake for this is my love for you. The long years I have acclimatized you against the lotus and the nightshade. Now silence my dear, there is work to be done.” he said, pacing the room. “The barbarians are at the gate, and what awaits me beyond the veil of death is too horrible to bear imagining. I have, made pacts with things, drove bargains, to get all that I had dreamed for, and now the toll is something I will do anything to escape. At least until I know more, enough to battle the hungry ghosts the reach for me, enough to curse the gods with my dying breath that have taken it all from me.”

“Perhaps if I was son of a lord I could have had it all easily, had you easily. But no, I pulled myself from the slime, I plumbed frozen tombs and the gray sand swept wastes for the knowledge and the power, pried forgotten books from skeletal fingers. I was set out upon this path at birth, and there is no turning back now.” His face clouded as the sound of drums and thunder drew closer. The candles in the room flickering, sending shadows racing across the walls that were lined with books and vials, decanters of death and tomes of mad prophets. .

“Your prince draws closer.” said Darius, walking across the room. “But it is too late for you, and soon too late for me.” He pulled down a vial, tipping its contents into his mouth. His face contorting against the bitter fluid. Extract of the Lethe plant, it would still his heart, slow his breathing. He would be like the dead, and then soon he would rise again, an old trick learned from his teacher, and delicate. One misstep in the process of creation and it would kill him, or awaken him in the hands of the guards who would only too happily execute him on the spot. But Darius Nomikos was nothing if not careful and precise.

He resisted the urge to chase the tincture down with something, and instead took a long wooden flute from the shelf. It had acquired a thin layer of dust over the polished wood, too many nights of long study, trying to learn how to avoid this fate. The instrument was well worn by use and time, and yet it sounded clear and true as he brought it to his lips.

“Here my dear, your favorite song.” The notes were slow and mournful, and he played to his dead wife until the instrument slipped from his numb, cold fingers. The flute’s clatter on the stone floor overwhelmed by the crashing thunder of the battering ram at the door.