Wrath-Amon and the Crown of Vatelos

The Khemi Pyramid, where sat the True Seat of Power within Stygia. Inside, a series of long halls, many small rooms and a solitary cavernous throne room for Set’s Favoured. Beneath its opulent exterior, a dark damp network of interconnected dungeons, corpse piles, and storage rooms.

It was inside one of these smaller rooms, with only one narrow hall leading to it from one private sleeping chamber - and hidden thusly from all prying eyes - that the current Favoured of Set the Serpent God stood.

Wrath-Amon, for more than 200 years the Chief Servant of Set, carrying out his Will on Earth, armed with the Black Ring of Set charged with a mere portion of the Snake God’s Power. Said mere portion being far greater than what many Wizards could ever hope to wield. A Power that allowed him to sustain his still somewhat reptilian, lipless face.

And - save for one **** incident - it was only here that he dared lift the mask he wore, safe from the certain derision that would be thrown his way were his subjects ever to learn the truth.

Not a serpent-man as he claimed to be - and quite believable if the glamour was broken by Star-Metal - but something else altogether.

Without the Black Ring’s ultimately finite power to sustain it, what would be seen - had anyone been there to see him - was a humanoid Lizardman with two-toned scales, rich emerald-green and sandy-tan. Clad in nothing but a crimson cape held by spiked shoulder guards, a bladed gauntlet attached to his right wrist, and the Black Ring on his left index finger. A leather loincloth/hip-guard pushed down to his ankles by a thick tail which combined with his semi-hard external genitalia, further separated him from the serpent-men he led in Set’s Name.

For once however, seeing this form didn’t trouble Wrath-Amon, the reason he for which was in his clawed hands.

“Finally.” He hissed, a harsh raspy tone far removed from the deep bass when he assumed his usual form. “The Gauntlets of Vetalos.” Said gauntlets producing a strong blue glow that illuminated the small room he occupied.

For they were made of the very Star-Metal that Wrath-Amon had been tasked by his God and Master to collect, to be fashioned into seven discs to be placed atop seven pyramids to enable his release from The Abyss where he’d been trapped for countless Eons.

But that was not the primary purpose of his acquisitioning of them, kicking aside his leather-plated fundoshi to a corner as he set them on an otherwise empty shelf where they’d remain for the time being, daring not to allow any risk of their new location becoming known.

For they formed one of four items that once belonged to Vetalos, which according to Legend - which he had verified over literal decades of painstaking research - had enabled the ancient Atlantean King to secure Total Control over the known World in his time thanks to the immense powers contained within these artefacts. Combined with the gauntlets - which if worn would climb to Wrath-Amon’s elbows - there were the matching metal boots/lower leg-guards he’d secured many years back that would reach his knees. Now all that remained were the Amulet and Crown of Vetalos.

Windfang - the four-armed draconic he’d remade Venturas into a full two centuries back - had been dispatched to search out the most promising leads for the Amulet some time back. His most capable servant.

“That being a low bar.” Wrath-Amon quietly hissed to himself, fully aware that his predecessors attempt to create a supremely competent, skilled servant to serve his own ends had resulted in the former Gila Monster lizard seizing his position as Set’s right hand man at the first opportunity, becoming Wrath-Amon in the process.

But Windfang would stay loyal to him, he’d seen to that.

“But, thiss will prove a more difficult prize to claim.” His attention turned to the many open books lining one wall, one of which showed clearly the Crown in question.

He even had general location for it. The problem for him being that the island it was reported to have been laid to rest was not a place he would wish to approach. An island that possessed a powerful anti-magic barrier that spread beyond its shorelines, any and all forms of magical energy were as nothing within its vicinity.

No, he could not risk travel there just yet, not until he had the rest in his possession. Then clad in them, the hearts, the minds, and the bodies of those who walked this Earth would be his to command. With only his God’s power surpassing it.

“And even if it were to fail,” Wrath-Amon mentally prepared himself for such a possibility, “they will still serve as Star-Metal, for the sixth Disc.”

The book he read, detailing well how the Artefacts used by Vetalos worked together to allow him to dominate over All. And, more importantly, how whoever wielded them had to have all four together, or they would of no use.

“Wrath-Amon!” A higher pitched raspy screech tore his attention from his research, straight to the unguarded entrance where the least competent of his minions, the ever-sycophantic Dregs slithered in. “Wrath-Amon!”

“DREGS!” Wrath-Amon could not restrain from an enraged screech of his own, thundering down on the helpless naga hoisting him up to eye level by the throat. “How many times must I tell you? NEVER ENTER THIS ROOM!?”

Dregs, for his part, could only feebly wave a note he struggled to hold onto, as he in turn struggled for breath. Something Wrath-Amon did notice even in his rage, roughly swiped it with his free hand, letting the pathetic being drop to the cold stone floor.

Perhaps realising how in the Wrong he had been, barging in on his almost-unclothed Master’s most private chambers, though most likely just grateful for being spared worse. Dregs wisely began to back away into the dark hall while Wrath-Amon’s cold, slitted eyes bore into the new information presented to him, picking up the discarded loincloth.