In many ways he still resembled a man: two legs, two arms, a human torso, and even a face that still resembled his own. However, for every similarity, there was a striking difference from an ordinary human. He was well over eight feet tall. His skin was smooth and purple. From his forehead protruded two massive horns, each pierced by the ends of a chain connecting each horn to one of his wrists. This kept his arms from ever extending to a comfortable angle. His hands were human hands, but each was covered in a flame that never consumed his flesh. The pain was that of sticking one’s hand in flames and holding it there, but without the relief that would normally come when the flesh and nerves burned away. The constant excruciating pain had once driven him to madness, but he liked to think now that he had long ago become accustomed to the pain. He wondered to himself if ever being free of the pain would drive him to a new madness.
Once, he had been a normal man. He had been transformed into his current form as part of his punishment for trying to take the throne from the rightful king.
Of his 700 years of imprisonment and solitude, he had known how to free himself for the last 400. Yet, he had continued to bide his time, to grow in power, to wait until the day was right for the inauguration of his carefully crafted plans. That day had finally come.
He closed his eyes, relishing the fact that his long imprisonment was coming to an end. He concentrated on the chains connecting his wrists and horns, snapping each in the center, so that they dangled uselessly. The Usurper opened his eyes and stretched his arms for the first time in 700 years. Magic was all that had kept his muscles from grafting permanently around their awkward shape over the centuries. It had increased the misery of these long years, but he knew that one day he would be free, and decided it was worth it to have use of his arms when the time came.
With the chains broken, he had to move quickly. Surely, the chains had been set with wards and alarms, so word of his escape was now beginning to reach others in the kingdom.
His cell was barely large enough for him to turn all the way around, and had but one remarkable door and no windows. His imprisonment was for life, so they’d considered just walling him in. Yet, King Rale wanted to be able to visit The Usurper occasionally to be sure he was broken and defeated, a performance The Usurper had perfected until several centuries earlier when Rale had grown bored of his visits and left The Usurper to rot in solitude. The Usurper grinned; it would soon be time to repay the courtesy of Rale’s early visits.
He waved his hand before him, and with a grinding screech, the massive metal door tore from its hinges and flew off into the distance.
He walked to the door, looking down some 400 feet from the lone prison tower. Below was nothing but waste and wilderness. They would never have risked placing his prison anywhere near people, they feared his influence would extend beyond the walls; that he might recruit allies to aid him in an escape.
He breathed in free air, and looked up at the hazy sun. For a moment, he rested his hand against the wooden doorframe, the fire surrounding his hands charring the doorframe. He smiled; a lonely, tired smile. It was finally time to reenter the world, finally time to take his vengeance, finally time to make things right.