• nikiflorica

Phantom tyrant. Thief of the throne. Meet Tasnil the Usurper.

Updated: Jan 4, 2019

To commemorate the New Year (and the birthday of The Heir of Ariad's primary villain, Tasnil the Usurper), I decided to give you a glimpse of the character whose wickedness and insanity are slowly squeezing the life from the world of Ariad.

This scene is the first meeting of Tasnil the Usurper and Thunderfoot, the leader of the Storm Realm, but it's also the reader's first glimpse of the villain responsible for the suffering in Ariad. There's bad blood between these two- a lot of history, and a lot of distrust. I've doctored the clip to prevent divulging too much, but as I'm sure you'll see, Thunderfoot's not too crazy about the idea of making an alliance with the Thief of Ariad's throne....


Tasnil of Rosghel had once been handsome, but twenty years, it seemed, had fed unkindly upon his appeal. He was seated upon a throne, upon Aradin’s throne, his pale, milky blue eyes following Thunderfoot’s every rigid step as the doors swung closed behind him. Long, white hair hung combed about his face, framing sunken, piercing eyes, thin, white lips, hollowed cheeks and pockmarked flesh and a wicked, waiting smile.

Thunderfoot felt a careful chill ride warningly along his spine.

As ever the throne room was the essence of Skyad beauty. White, pure, and unblemished, the walls polished to mirror quality, floors laced with veins of silver. Pale columns upheld a vaulted ceiling, engraved with ornate images too intricate to distinguish at a passing glance. A balcony upon the north wall overlooked the watchtower, the city, the square upon which a Silver had beaten Thunderfoot’s Grey warrior to death. A dark curtain half-obscured the view, choking the light. He focused upon details, upon practical, tangible observations, rather than his sudden, mad desire to strike the smile from Tasnil the Usurper’s face with a fist. Or a knife.

“Lord Thunderfoot,” the Usurper purred, seated languidly upon his stolen throne. “I am so pleased to see that you have received my summons at last. Welcome."

Thunderfoot nodded, forcing a diplomatic smile. Worm.

Tasnil gestured to a gold-gilt chair that was comically small in comparison to his grand, white throne. “Please, sit.”

I shall sit precisely when and where I wish, you miserable, wretched, thieving, murderous—

“I insist, Storm Lord.”

Thunderfoot sat.

Tasnil made no move to stand, but even seated he was a giant of a creature, broad-shouldered, long-legged, and folded into the stolen throne that seemed, somehow, too small for him despi