Kalok looked out over his realm, at his city, awash in it’s extravagant completion. Even now, farms dotted the landscape outside the walls, taking advantage of soils made rich from volcanic activity. Animals had been gingerly led in when possible, and kalokgogs had shifted earth and created water where necessary to make his lands more hospitable.
But it was not enough, and he was not satisfied, not yet.
Clad in Kharos’s form, Kalok walked the halls of his twisted basalt palace and pondered his next moves. He grew ever more impatient under the watchful eye of Krodnok and his army of the dead, and he decided it was finally time to do something about it. The reports from his agent in Unen seemed to indicate that something big was going down soon, a “spaceship” launch or something that was the talk of the town. If anything it would at least mean that there would not be so many eyes on Tla’loc’al, just enough time to make his move.
He finally found himself before his throne once more, and he ran his hands over the smooth ornate carvings depicting Ka’Rhug tribals of old repelling knights and other enemies of the tribe. Smirking, he reclined in the seat, and motioned to the legionary who stood guard at the far end of the room.
“Bring me the shapeshifter, I assume you know the one I’m talking about?” He asked sarcastically, to which the guard simply nodded, and walked briskly away.
Some time later, an unassuming looking olgog of slight build was put before him, and looked up at him coolly. Kalok always enjoyed fear, especially when it was directed towards him, but ones like these were just never any fun.
He looked the olgog over for a few minutes, really nothing special so far as he could tell. In fact she was just about the most ordinary looking thing he’d seen among the lot of them. Unimpressed, he turned back to the guard and said,
“Is this really the best we-”
He stopped as he noticed that the guard was now face down on the floor, and looking back he saw that the previous olgog was gone, and the same guard was also now kneeling before him. Or rather, the shape of the guard was kneeling before him, but was still wearing the same clothing as the previous olgog.
“I see.” Kalok stated simply. “You will do for now, your talents are of more use to me than my current avatar.”
And with that he flowed from Kharos’s body into the shapeshifter’s and acclimated himself to the new host. There were always tiny differences when switching from body to body, rather like driving a new car after getting used to a certain one, not that he would know. Nonetheless, soon he had the annoying spastic throes for freedom of the previous inhabitant quelled, and he stood his body up, and stretched from head to toe. Kharos’s body now lay in a comatose state on the floor next to the still unconscious guard, face down in a pool of drool.
Two new guards entered the room, and seeing their master laying on the floor next to the guard, and the shapeshifter olgog standing before them, they drew their weapons and slid into practiced fighting stances. Kalok simply raised his hand, and proclaimed, “Behold, it is I, your master and lord, Kalok.”
His quickly sorted through the olgog’s memories as if they were a book, and found the depiction of something he liked, an earther warrior this olgog had fought long past. It was a Church of One knight, one that had not survived the early conflicts of the Goblin Genocide, and thus would serve his purposes.
He swiftly began to change, wincing internally as bones shifted and ligaments and tendons stretched, his body growing taller, his skin changing and fur receding. His build changed, becoming broader and cruelly strong, muscles reorganizing themselves to fit the body he was creating. The guards’s eyes widened, and their blades dropped from shaking hands as they beheld what was before them. They knew both from their senses, and the ever present voice of Kalok in their heads, that this was without a doubt their master. Kalok flexed and cracked his neck, and picked up one of the iron blades from where it had fallen.
He observed his handiwork as he looked at his reflection in the polished metal. Dark reddish hair worn in the classic style of nobility fell about his shoulders, shrouding his new face, which was not quite the right tone of flesh, just a bit too pale. His skin also seemed to be stretched too taut over high cheekbones, and his teeth were sharp like daggers. The eyes though, at least the eyes were right he thought to himself as he stared at the pits of fire contained in his eye sockets.
Smiling, he handed the blade back to the shocked guard, and said, “Prepare a messenger to depart shortly, and also inform the kitchens that we will be expecting guests in the near future, that is all.”