The Dark Realmz
IC Central [RPG ONLY] => "Ayenee Nexus: Where Imagination Knows No Bounds => RP Archives 2005-2019 => Topic started by: The End of All Light. on January 25, 2016, 02:16:03 PM
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[align=center]Ｔｈｅ．Ｌａｎｄｓ．Ｏｆ．Ｂｌｏｏｄ．Ａｎｄ．Ｃｉｎｄｅｒｓ
ˑˑˑˑᴬᶰᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵏᶤᵉˢ ˢʰᵃˡˡ ᵗᵘʳᶰ ᵇˡᵃᶜᵏˑˑˑˑ
Scarlet pestilence and war--
has now refunded to the cold winds
The breath of all its peoples;
delivering now such ravenous gifts--
The decay in night's abysmal vault,
prepares all for departure.
From afar,
seest thou not the towering of wings,
like thunder on the sunset?
Eternally widening... those vans involve
and stifle half the light on the further stars;
Or worlds unknown of the outer infinite,
now intends the darkness of its course;
On planets haply poised,
making permanent the sable sun's eclipse...."
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Ｔｈｅ Ｐｒｏｌｏｇｕｅ
Several moons have passed since their arrival here and yet it still went unnoticed by the inhabitants of the Old World. Changes and developments within Ayenee over the last few centuries had been quite severe. (Domini Noctis) The Shadow Warriors of Rydin had conquered most part of the southern lands and Amasia was in coccineus hands, much to the disapproval of the original sovereigns of these once powerful metropolis states.
Members of the Darkfire aristocracy were trying to gather support among the other Ayenian states in order to initiate an uprising against their northern Rhydin rulers and the Eastern Tenarian Empires. Cimmerii-Equinius, Western Imperials (Eden), under unified banners are preparing their campaign move against the rebelling Empires.
It was time to strike indeed.
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Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴇᴇ ᴘᴀsᴛ ᴛʜɪs﹐ ᴘᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢs. Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴡʜʏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ.
There are countless worlds, empires, kingdoms and lands that exhibit the blemishes of war. Numerous legends about the chaos caused by the tyranny of warmonger and monarch; and though this may beleaguer innumerable nations, the price is unavoidably the same, no matter whose head holds the burden of a crown. Yet, stirring in the helix stillness of shadow and harangue; and as if brought down from the very heavens like hungry ravens across battlefields, she was not a stranger to such things. Abysmal maws gaping wide, an unforeseen cavity that sprawled before the feet of marching warriors emerging from behind the ebbing mass.
Within the abysmally twisted pathways of the depths of her mind, memories of old came flooding back in silhouette reflecting the tumult of snapping banners in the tempests. At the forefront, AtraâLamia, The Western Imperatrix of Eden, sat regally poised upon juggernaut, clad in vestments of battle. An unadorned archaic glory to behold, patent no doubt under stellar fortifications and weapons that ripped worlds to cosmic ashâstill, a presence to be admired. The black demonic crafted warhorses' front leg ploughed impatiently at the earth beneath, parched and stained with the hues of rust⦠snorting at the air creating miasmic fogs like wandering spectres.
Chin ascended to the air, permitting the talons of wind to rake back the thigh length cascades of iridescent ebony exposing the achromatic contours of picturesque face, as if the stars themselves had chiselled her beauty from the sacrificed radiance of ancient suns. Leathers of attire constricting, moaning like a lover in conquest at the turn of svelte thigh and slender waist; knees digging in deeper against the carved pelt of her mounts saddle while feeling the warmth of the beastâs inner fire permeating through the thick covering of armour and adornment. Gloved hands tightening around the studded leather of reigns, pulling them back only to compel the mounts head to rise as a copious tendril of anxious exhalation burst into the oncoming coolness of the descending gloaming.
Lashing wreathes of onyx danced in whip-song round the frame of her pale visage, thriving over her diminutive shoulders like gorgon-vipers striking out to assail the elements in rebelliousness-- flaying over those feminine curves like thousands of tongue to caress the pelage of tourniquet. From behind then, a menacing pungent smoke billowing from censors swung by chains from the âTainted Onesâ cloaked heavily in the tattered garbs of their âDark Orderâ. Resolute chanting of dark conjuration, battle exsufflation, shadow-hound howls intermingling with ominous war drums accompanied by the clamour of Chaos armour, hoof, and the thunderous quaking reverberations of heavy artillery.
Nocturne-storms seeking the horizons of landscapes that rose from the light only to asphyxiate it to the blackness, like pestilence swallowing the sun. A staggering formidable line formed within the scintillation of smoke and miasma. Their banners displaying the burnished image of a Black Phoenix against blood red flames, snapped and crackled in the harsh arctic plague-winds which howled, gnashing around the blackened swarm of conjured fiends. Horrors not even the sickest of imaginations could ever create in frenzied bloody hand-painted portraits scribbled upon stone asylum walls.
Haunted figures crafted by the vilest and most twisted of minds ever to have stained the lands with their vicious insanities. Not even hell itself had creatures to the likes of these, hankering for the thick, crimson ichors of all that fell within their path or that was crushed beneath synchronized infantry bootfall. Towering above the hording legions, ascending behind her, war-goliaths snuffed the lands with behemothic shadows; casting all within the eclipse of their bulk and majesty. Machines designed for siege and destruction. Trebuchet and assault ballista alike, lustrous in the skeletal design of contorted bone. Crafted by diabolical sorceries and umbrossis (shadow bone) âOsteomancyâ bone-crafting fused with sciomancy (a form of crystallized psychic energy aka psycho-plastic/bio-construct).
Frontline formed that stretched the entirety of the horizon. Blades of hate gleaming with macabre silver smiles in the puce liminal hour- where even the skies ruptured to the slaughter, reflecting every single droplet of blood as it trickled along razor-edged teeth. Maddened from the mayhem laced in broken bodies and streams of inflamed vermillion, only one of a sadistic, perverse mind could marvel in such scenes of destruction and death. And only one of like-mind to her could ever comprehend the magnitude of intention behind the massacre.
The quietening before war was always the most disturbing sound of stillness, how it eventually decreased into nothing but that intimidating âdeadâ readiness. Calm before the storm. From beast, hound to man all glared across the field below positioned in their regiment formations with their commanders lording over them from their mounts in regalia of their dark ilk and unholy devotions⦠ornate with blood-encrusted heirlooms of the lines of Edenic and Western Ayenee nobility. All armour bearing the numerous pitted scars of countless battles, festooned with the grim trophies of victory taken from the defeated.
Ekuxus Andel and Mephi'sax Arcius Cinderbane, the brothers of Chaos, clad in armours of insipid gold and blackened-hewed iron. The axe-yielding collectorâs of skulls. The Lords of Cinders and Darkness. Appellations truly deserving of Ayeneeâs Chaos Lords, and Imperial sonâs to the âThrone of Ashâ took their positions to either side of AtraâLamia. Their fatherâs once great allies in the long forgotten civil wars between blood and bond. Helms depicting the beastly facades of the Chimera (the Griffin-head with Baphomet-style horns), burning eyes of crimson scourging the stage with heinous contempt.
To their flanks came the sightless masters of the Cinderhounds, draped in sable-cerements completely concealed and hidden beneath the obscurity of hood. Gauntlet fists grasping the metallic collars (ensorcelled torque highly resistant to magic or psychic influences) of their umbral monstrous canines. Sinuous obsidian oily pelts phosphorescent with a sickly verdant aura comparable to balefire. Maws dripping with saliva as they peeled back to reveal the glistening of manifold fangs eager for the carnage. Lambent orbs perforating the calignosity with an anemic-chlorosis iridescence.
It was the cold breath of death that plumed its awakening across the lands; the Gates of the Fallen releasing in shrill clanks as the chains of the underworld broke from their irons. Who dared roused the Chrysostomosian chieftains from their beloved golden drinking halls? Mysterious winds shifted, sweeping up the arcane chants of the battle mages swinging censers of pungent resins- causing thick grey discolouration within the gathering fogs, congealing mists and smoke to an almost impenetrable barrier.
Disorientation and confusion settling amongst the warriors trapped within the lowlands⦠high death magick and necromancy wove their supremacy and virulent sway within the cinereal vapours. Venomous shades coiling to seek their intended targets of prolific and influential commanders as more banners broke the colours of Ayenee and Rhydin⦠emblems and crests that even AtraâLamia recognized in all the years of battle and siege within these lands. Instantly right gloved hand rose to a fist and the signal was given as the gyrating skies darkened with arrows smothering the last remnants of light that had managed to struggle through the onyx- gloom.
âThere is no glory, only an eternity of slaughter and the mirth of thirsting conquerors. Cast down the heroes of Ayenee! Destroy the icons of hope! Slay the dogs! Slay the infidel! Show these fools that they follow nothing more than forgotten days. Show no mercy, only wrath!â War-cry, weapon against shield arose in deafening roar breaking the silence, and the wave finally broke against the shore. Where Lord, beast and hound lay siege to the multitudes. There was something wondrous and magnificent about melee, impressively fascinating beneath the clash of shield against shield, and weapon against weapon, the mighty din of feet trampling terrain as bodies fall to failure of their measures.
Into the hellish roar her steed plundered, hooves assaulting the earth in heavy thuds, raping the soil of all its nutrients as it extracted all life-force and energy at its gait. Black hocks pounding only to rise and leap over the falling barricades which surrounded the outside of the village, burning to silvery ash then whisked away by the teeth of grinning winds. Right hand unsheathing the decorated, elaborate sword from her side, artistically sweeping it from side to side as AtraâLamia carved her path through the multitudes of faltering men that dared and tempered to topple the Titaness herself.
The combined Western Ayenee and Eden army was approximately 500,000 under arms, 33 legions (182,000 legionaries) and more than 400 auxiliary units (around 250,000 auxiliaries of which around 75,000 serve as cavalry).
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Gods, fates, the illusionary hand of a universe that seeks order in a chaos neither it nor its inhabitants can possibly understand. How he loathed their simplicity, the squandering of their moments day after day. Long he had lived locked away in the shadows, nothing but a memory of what had once been, a shadow of something which had once brought fear and dominance to the universe.
Battles uncounted he had fought with his hands. Blood had once stained the ground wherever his shadow would fall. He had been a warrior without parallel, a perfect creature of war and conflict. His had been the path of the conqueror and his will enough to crush the universe around him. Forged in a fire of pain and loss none would ever know, he had become a myth. The kind of thing for which demonâs checked beneath their beds at night, a blade which darkness always imagined creeping for its throat in the silence of the void.
King of kings they had called him and he had been without equal. Then she had come like a beautiful curse into his existence. Something so unfathomable and full of allure she had tamed the very fire that burned the lands in his wake. Where once there had been no equal to his wrath now she stood there mocking him by her very existence. There should have been a battle for supremacy. Two such beings should not have been able to coexist and yet they did for in her he did not see the coming of his greatest rival but the rebirth of the things long buried in the ashes of his past.
Never had he been stronger, more dangerous. With her at his side he was unstoppable but even the mightiest of men, even gods know the sting of a broken heart. She was like the wind un-tamable and without mercy and in the end conflict their very nature had driven them apart. Never would he know truly what had become of her, only of her madness of a great gauntlet ran. Apparently so desperate was she to undo his presence in her life that she would destroy herself.
Feeling the demons in his soul tarring him apart, realizing the inevitable he would destroy the world if he did not stop himself. The king had taken up arms against his own persona and launched a desperate action. His heart, his memories torn asunder placed into two different vessels, One the essence of his past, his strength, his virtue and honor. The one who would carry on his alias and presence in this world...Belgorion. The other the embodiment of his cold calculation the raging fire of his warriorâs spirit in solid form, the wrath of his ancient name in true form Dynesious. The second would be sealed away a creature of untold power that could not be allowed to walk unchecked upon existence.
In these two the fragments of his memories were buried and when only his true consciousness remained he would seal it within the void of pre-creation. Here for eons he had slumbered undisturbed. Forever in his dreams he watched the world he had left behind. Belgorion had grown into his mantel once more his strength surpassing even the expectations of the king of kings he had carried his name well. The world had never known the truth of what had happened on that day. That the man carrying his title was but a shadow of his former glory. Dynesious would slumber peacefully within the guardian and all for a time was right in the world. Now his prison shook with all of the beautiful fire of battle. Belgorion made war against a dark creature of his own creation and Dynesious was born unto the world oblivious to the part he was about to play in a prophecy written by a faded and broken memory at the height of its misery.
The personification of his warriorâs soul met a gallant death in battle. The lonely visage of his heart was finally broken and wandered into the desert the futility of its existence finally exposed In their falling misery as Belgorion took his life turning miles of desert into an endless sea of tainted green glass a presence would fall upon the world a king of kings would be reborn.
The land of dreams, the final reward of all fallen warriors a perfect utopia of rest and peace. Here the voice of war would rise from the ashes of the two fallen souls as they passed on. There would be a no peace, no reward. Only the fruition of a purpose neither of them had ever known while they lived. Their fires mingled becoming one once again and from deep within the shadows the memory took solid form. The chains that bound it to this place no more as they fell to dust within the void.
A call to arms, the seething imposing fire of war itself fell upon this word. They all felt it, every single one of them. The heroâs of legend whom had long slumbered in tranquility their blades silent and dull. Rising up they prepared for battle, their fire eternal in their souls driving them forward to meet what was coming. Even in death their instinct to never fall ruling over all else.
In legionâs they came their great banners rising into the sky. Their shields crashed upon in proclamation battle cries not heard for thousands of years echoed into the air as they dared call down the vengeance of the demon which had awakened of that which now weaved the flame of war within an iron fist.
No fear would be felt within the army of legend but even in their own cores unease would form as the enemy made itself known. This was a legend among legends it was death, it was the face of what it meant to truly be one of their number.
The king left none living none able to tell⦠The king took their heads and he sent them to hell. An insidious whisper would crawl upon the wind snaring its virtue and strength driving it into the ground and from the blackness of nothing the hiss of plague personified would come. A dark swarming cloud of destruction, billions of tiny voices in unison calling for the flesh of all whom would stand in their masters wake. The sickening darkness covered the ground, devouring the life within. Nothing but wilted and drying ashes left behind as it advanced upon the armies of legend. The clash of Ragnarok itself loomed and in the unending tide of death a thirst was growing. The collective longed for the taste of their lives, to spill their blood in glorious proclamation but it was not to happen as the masters hand pulled back upon their leash and brought it all to an end.
Like a pillar of sickening disgust the living mass of subversion would rise into the heavens. Fire born from within its depths forming pillars upon the clouds themselves and from deep within the chaos destruction reborn would come.
He walked upon the heavens like a god casting his spite down upon the world. Tall and beautiful six feet two inches tall wrapped in great blackened armor. Against his side hung a great dark sword the cries of tortured souls screaming from within its edge. Stark white hair billowing out behind him as he walked flames licking his lips as he grinned, resolve burning in perfect blue eyes a smirk upon his face. The unmistakable look of a man whom knew he could know no rival.
From high above he raised his blade over the heroâs and when he spoke it was with the charm and glamour of a god, with the conviction of a general calling his men to arms. â HOW LONG HAVE OUR BLADES BEEN SILENT?!! He boomed over them all the storm of chaos itself circling around him. âHOW LONG HAVE OUR DEEDS BEEN FORGOTTEN? OUR SACRIFICES MADE NOTHING BY THESE SELFISH FOOLS WHOM TAKE OUR UNIVERSE FOR GRANTED?? HOW LONG WILL YOU BE SILENT AND ALLOW IT TO HAPPEN?? â
War gave pause now letting his words sink into their minds feeling their will begin to stir the delight of the fire slowly igniting beneath him causing his soul to rage onward. âHear me my brothers .. our time is now. âHe spoke lowering his timber addressing them now as equals. â We have been forgotten, forsaken by those we protected and soon they will bring all we left behind to destruction. What I ask is if you will remain silent as it happens .. or return with me to the world bring the path of conquest back to humanity show them the light and error of their ways?â There was a conviction in his tone a confidence and of all things he turned his back upon them.
There was no insult in it, no as he did this the great striding wolf banner of a long forgotten kingdom would unfurl in his wake and he would gesture forward to a void that opened before them a gate to the world they had left behind. âTELL ME WHO STANDS WITH ELRUM WHO HAS THE COURAGE TO STAND WITH THE LEGENDS IN MYTH MIGHT AND SONG!!â He asked as he stepped through the curtain back onto the stage of humanity. He heard their roar in unison even as he passed between worlds âIN MYTH MIGHT AND SONGâ they roared into the heavens and soon they spilled through into the ruinâs of the ancient kingdom. The great general had risen again and with him the mighty banner of his kingdom Elrum had returned to the world once more. Far and wide his riders would venture even now carrying word of his coming, calling to arms those whom would stand with him and bring back to the world prosperity and salvation. Elrum would be a light for the forgotten a home for those whom had no place in the world which now dominated with stupidity and hate.
There were no orders to be given for his army was of the greatest. Already fortificationâs were being constructed, the ruins dug into and soon from deep within the rubble a great golden throne would be carried, the guardian king staring at it for a moment before slicing it in two. â No I will not sit upon a throne until our dreams are realized . .We stand equalâs on the field of battle I ask that you follow me but I shall not look down upon my brothers as if I were above themâ He said as he lowered himself to labor working with them to fortify the city.
He had lead men all his life and the one thing he knew for sure was that soldiers would die for a god and a king. They would stand without falling for a brother and a friend for a shared dream and that was what this new kingdom would be founded on. The ideals of honor and heroism of brother hood that the current world had long forsaken. Perhaps his eyes did scan the horizon for he knew they would come.. those whom had not passed for even in this world there were still heroâs. Perhaps in this world even remnants of his past remained and a confrontation loomed for he himself .. if he could draw it out.
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The sound of madness, the flickering light of a flame that would soon consume the world in all of its unending hunger. The past and present would meet but there would be no faltering. The banners of Ayenee unfurled, and war grinned his fiery grin the striding wolf banner of Elrum at his back. He walked calmly through the ranks of his brothers in arms. Oh indeed these were the forces of Ayenee before him in all their glory, but they would know his banners well. The war cry that hurled from his men even more familiar, for once Elrum had been a powerful ally in the time of the warlord Varsinax's rule. Her swords true and strength unmatched, for many moons Elrum had kept the wolves from Varsinax's own doorstep and thus surely any kingdom who claimed to be of Ayenee would know the tale of the land of destiny, and the army of hero's which stood at the back of her king. Even still perhaps they would know what she whom proclaimed to lead them, did not the name of the man whom walked calmly forward as his forces fell back. They would likely whisper truths this Siren of dark allure could not comprehend, for they knew what had driven him from the lands, what once had left him a shell of what he had been. Even more likely, they would know what walked toward them was not that shell it was the slayer of men and gods, the hand of death personified. In that knowledge perhaps his old name would be whispered .. Belgorion Ikorit Iamarsa, King of Kings.
The ageless guardian looked upon this storm of legendary recollection with a smile, for this was no futile endeavor, no slaughter. This was the music which stirred his soul. Great mages would spin their magics from deep within his ranks piercing the darkness feeding it, devouring it, melding with it, and it would only grow. The entity swarming up around Belgorion's form as the prophetic chants of ancient magic filled the air in righteous fury, and yet if battle raged he saw none of it. Were he moved death flowed from his blade, blood covering the ground so thick that soon his enemies would lose their footing simply from its substance... and yet he seemed to see none of it. The death he brought to this place, nothing but a collection of absent minded flicks of the wrist. These fools were not worthy of his blade or attentions, what he sought was an entirely different rush.. the taste of a sweet wine he had been denied for too long.
" Enough.. " He whispered to himself, it did no good to bring death without reason .. to kill in ignorance, this would not help his cause. However the reckoning he desired most certainly would. The entity whispered insidious intent upon his consciousness and he simply smiled at its crude mechanisms and thoughts. A being purely bent on consumption, but it served its purpose and yet even it was blocked out, forced to bend to his will in this moment. Rising up like a great wave of death and decay consuming everything in its path, breaking it down until nothing but ash blew behind him on the wind. His cold blue eyes stared from the cloud of the destruction he wrought, as if searching for something only a brief flicker in them to acknowledge... that he had found it.
Hands fell with a vipers quickness to his sides and in out stretched fingers a great blade appeared. The blade once synonymous with Ayen's rule, the very symbol of the power of the the throne. He knew the one he wanted would feel it, he knew the sight of it within his grasp would offend, and that was exactly what he wanted. As quickly as he had possessed it, it would be gone, and great blackened wings burst forth from pale white flesh. The entity falling away as it cleared those from his path who had dared to stand in his way, and left for a moment only silence.
The eye of this figurative storm that he had created looming over all.
War had started... his thoughts swirling. Look at it all, so wasted, so pointless. Soon he would change that, and nothing would stop him, not even her. He felt an involuntary twinge deep within his soul, but dismissed it as he tilted his head and roared her name on the air in challenge. "AtraâLamia!!!" He dared speak her name with rage and fire as no other would. He knew she was here, knew no other could bring forth the strength his eyes beheld, and for better or worse their time had come.
The winds tore through this place whirling his long white hair from behind him. The darkness settling all around him, those ancient eyes piercing anything they beheld and were she to come, perhaps they would bring confusion... for in them there was so much, and certainly Atra'Lamia was no fool. In those eyes there was love, love for her. He loved her like nothing no other or thing could comprehend, and yet there was also such sadness and pain, pure longing as if just seeing her again withered his soul to nothing. All of that and more lay within those eyes, yet he would fight her on this ground if she chose. This man with those eyes that spoke such truths that would cut her down, if she stood in his path, because that was what he did. The path of supreme conquest was the only one he had ever been meant to walk.
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Tʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs sᴘɪʀɪᴛ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴜʀsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛ ᴏʀ ᴅᴜsᴛ; ɪᴛ ɪs ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴡᴇʟʟ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ﹗ Bᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍs ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ﹐ ғᴏʀ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴀ ʟᴀᴡ﹐ ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜᴍᴇɴᴛ﹐ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ... ʙᴜᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀsᴛᴇ.
Miscreants, the very word echoed through Atra'Lamia's heart-strings as eyes of ebony watched a legion clash with other. She determined it as scuttling around like vermin and cattle. Oblivious to their bloody destiny; and hoped they would welcome death well...and if not they would learn their place by her blades, at the hands of domination and tyranny. Perhaps these warrior gazed upon her shadowy form, so fluid and eloquently poignant in mellifluous motion while cutting through the lines like brutal winds to ash. Unearthly in beauty while nightmarish in realization, that while the war-worthy gazed transfixed upon such magnificence; none would stake their affirmation of such desires before the Shadow Lords of Ayenee, or the Obsidian Lords of Rhydin, let alone her.
The helmet of a stranger turned in the direction of Atra'Lamia making way through the mass of gleaming crimson splashed against the lustre of silver, blade in adept glove. Though her juggernauts pace did not slow as gauntlet right hand ascended the cruel Longsword, 'Intorqueo Flamma'. Calculating the position in which the warrior moved in conjunction with the fast paced movement of beast. Nor did Atra'Lamia slow when burying the blade in the legionnaires gut, its impressive length erupting out the other side, impaling the man as if he were nothing but air. A soundless vibration slipped from betwixt lips as gasping esophagus gurgled helplessly, blood pouring from his mouth, barely acknowledging in appreciation for as a savage, delivered twist of sword sent waves of pain washing over the soldiers consciousness⦠making an expression of exquisite pain break upon the canvas of horrified face.
Halting immediately the impressively adorned beast, only to turn adroitly astride, leathers constricting in defiance against the stature of diminutive feminine curves⦠with statuesque features resting against the landscape of shoulder. It was then, with emotionless glare, onyx-hues watched⦠savouring every single moment of this the 'Warlordess' stood there towering above, as he bled to death, refusing to move until every last shred of heat had left the dying man before retrieving the blade and letting the male crumple to the blood drenched moist earth at the hooves of the Shadowmare. Turning attentions back to the battle surrounding from all quarters, then with a practiced ease Atra urged the stead onward back into the fray.
The asphyxiation of the sun from the conjurations of darkness brought with it the final sight of the mighty Capital of Ayenee, though it did not impede vision in the slightest. In truth the presence of her engraved oblivion in the souls of fallen men was more at home in the velvety folds of shadows, for although any light struggled to illuminate its ghostly luminosity seemed to simply part around the Imperatrix, the gloaming illuminating silhouette birthed a greater shadow amid the tenebrous, miasmic whorl of battle and death prestidigitation. Slowing the horses gait when entering into the true thickness of battle, movement greatly mired due to the depth numbers engaged in the melee of glory and defeat. Ordered to dismount by one who appeared to believe himself to be a commander of some chapter, of some unworthy status of authority. Offering a shrug in response before being receiving with such command with the swing of sword and striking against thigh only to have it break upon mesh and sable leathers.
In the blink of an eye the womanâs gauntlet hand had shot forth and slid about the perpetrators throat, exacting a fraction of strength able to be possessed to crush the fools larynx, collapsing the airways and then snapping the neck before moving on to the other three soldiers. Sliding seductively from the stallion's saddle in one swift and solitary action, using the first soldier's body as a shield to block the javelin of the second, spinning about quickly and raking armoured claws across the peltast mid-section, spilling intestines onto the ground before all who witnessed. The two remaining that faced the quandary of whether to fight or run gave nothing short of a look of terror before another of revulsion swept across features beneath their helms. Not only struggling against the trepidation that welled up inside of them but also an intense feeling of biliousness. Deciding to not dirty hands on another filthy traitor Atra's apertures parted for but a moment unleashing a stream of Stygian shadow-like fire that engulfed them, completely incinerating them to ash, such was the intensity of the inferno.
Barely granting them a second of ardent interest other than the one previously used as a shield, gauntlet digits perforating hungrily into the softest chasms of flesh, through to the chest cavity with a forceful directed greeting through the lower intestine with cold steel. With an ample flick of the wrist in another violent incision made to lavishly scorch cold flesh producing crimson streams. Ribs sliced to the loins, revealing the exposed cavity towards the heavens, then, rendering the inner costal cartilage and manubriums sluiced for the extraction of prized heart. Lifting the pulsating effigy into the air, like some grotesque offering to a god of destruction before consuming it. Dripping claret fell in suspended animation in Goetic tribute over Mithril, mesh then alabaster flesh, "A man must accept his fate, or be destroyed by it... from shore to crumbling shore."
Painted vermillion splattered features with tribal markings of war beheld the carnage widespread over fields, then casting downwards at the macabre display of what had been a man, now nothing but a crude vision, with last of its warmth hissing on the frigid winds. A beleaguered butchery, viscera tapering across the earth in arcane patterns like Haruspicy. Pitilessly a smirk slid across rubicund apertures, a conquering libation though he was hardly worth the celebration of glory. The teeming horde of soldiers that so many challengers usually fought to pass through, seemed to strangely part before the sanguine painted female, and not surprisingly so for she donned the dreadful representation of Darkbane in all its legendary glory. There was no greater evil than they. Impenetrable starless eyes, devoid of the faintest hint of pupils, extended their gaze across the expanse of land that stretched out until it was unseen behind the mantle of obfuscate fog. Intorqueo Flamma nestled tightly in right hand and ready to parry any schlemiel foolish enough to come forth and test their metal.
Glancing back upwards, following the course of a bolt of golden lightning that tore across the skies asunder noticing Mephi'sax, comfortably seated upon his armoured warhorse, a faint chuckle arose within the depths of Atra's chest only to break upon the surface of embouchements like a tidal wave of conviviality, "Your punctuality renders me amused, Cinderbane, you missed the first killâ¦would you like some?" Her voice was like that of ambrosia and darkness, yet it possessed a timbre of mockery hidden beneath its velvet. Laughing as the Cinder-Mithril clad behemoth writhed in abject disgust but voiced nothing of a reply. "No? You donât know what you are missing..." Absolute delight taken at the same time as unimpassioned flambeaus beheld the carnage of warrior alike falling to the steel pangs of their might and ravenous maws of the 'Hunters' (Shadow-hounds).
Parting like nocturnal tide, at the shift of alliances and the oncoming of other banners that roused the beastly helm of the Chaos Lord. Not to mention the whispers that drifted in ballads of ghost's past, among those whom had even ceased in mid-fight on each periphery of the 'Killing Fields' in clear sight of their unfaltering marching legions, making no course to divide or flank in order to pass. Banners of Wolf on fields of valiant white, and the Black Dragon fiercely stark against fire and blood- despite the Battle Mages did not withdraw their potent incantations of damnation. Battlefield thick with unfamiliar death magick, cantraps and countercharms echoed through impenetrable mists, solidifying to a profuse consistency of darkness. Decay, aphotic entropy and the conflagrant stench of flesh and bloodshed. Ekuxus, the younger of the Cinderbane scions. Rich with the opulence of flayed trophies and drenched with the fallenâs ichors of those he had slaughtered this day.
Their lives taken⦠unfortunate obstacles in the way; in reality their relevance to the kill-count mattered naught to the one, whose senses still soared with the sweet succour of their suffering, even after they were deceased, for such was the 'Path of Cinders'. Such was the fate of traitors. With a fiendish expression writhing its way across the Cinderbane knight's facade; a sadistic sneer that communicated his acceptance, even as the obsidian shell that snugly smothered his skin started to shift, almost as if it were alive with the souls of all that had perished to present and yesteryear wars. Appetite had barely been sated, but he retorted in a tenor that resembled thunder to both the monarch of Darkbane and his brother. "Seems the howl of victory may come swifter." Gesturing with blade in gauntlet fist, spanning outwards across the littered grounds of broken bodies and the dead, then towards the banners in advance.
"Not for your dogs of war, Ekuxus!" Sneering at the man's words, senses reeling from the presence of a something, a very particular weapon. Typically held by the Overlord Varsinax himself, but last time Atra'Lamia had seen it, was in the possession of his son, Dusa Utvara Darkfire. It was not possible for the Cinderbane's or those of her men, to know the true intensity that burned within Atra's blackened heart at the sheer burden of its existence, despite the fact she had faced a thousand such battles before and won every single one of them it had always been in the name of Darkbane, Ayenee and its Emperor. Expecting to see the Imperial Prince himself amongst the Darkfire regiments, except their banners were absent. Chilled globes gazed upwards at the crest that rose higher than the flags and bannerols of several emblems and coats of arms that eyes had not seen since the last wars of Tenaria and Eden.
Warfare raged in the insurgent nucleus; a tempest of clashing might, the dance of blades. Interjecting by a nonchalant gesture of hand when Mehi'sax went to speak⦠the name itself had carried far, "Belgorion⦠Ikorit⦠Iamarsa. King of Kings...", majestically riding the night winds. "Ayenee breathes with the lungs of chaos, fires burn at the hands of darkness and light. What name can comb the night with such destruction yet stay the blades of its armies?" Rage appeared to carry him when it was her name, AtraâLamia that broke above the songs of steel and coalesced amid the howling mistrals. A challenge? Thus silent as death, in purposeful stride leaving nothing but corpses in the tale of her majestic wake. Gaze blacker that the deepest hollows of the Abyss, words sharper than spear-points, the searing glow of trenchant steel in grasp, and bootfall brought the wither of ever-consuming shadows.
"Shall I notch another widow to my haft, and wreak red vengeance 'cross these lands? Is it not enough that men dream of being Kings without aspiring to the supremacy of Gods." Last words ushered towards the Cinderbane commanders before either of them had an opportunity to intercept. Voices heard throughout the ranks, both reputable and unknown. Murmurs of unrest which caused confused throughout the regiments at her prompt gait and the rise of Imperial forces. "Hearken, sons of the glorious Empire... for here we stand upon the Field of Blood..." A call of arms aggressively vocalized towards Captain and Commander alike, to even the lowest of the wasteland tribes. "Imperial Cavalry... advance! Ride them down! In to the fray! Spearmen, form into Omega Phalanx. Archers, notch arrows, prepare to loose. Sound the clarion! Our destiny beckonsâ¦"
With 'Intorqueo Flamma' in trenchant mercurial grasp, and sanity had been questioned⦠only the most loyal to her regiment would follow, those beneath the banners of Darkbane, leaving the rest to unleash their vehemence upon the army of Ayenee's traitors- the combined forces of Rhydin that had taken rebellion. Already armies had met upon the 'Field of Blood', the 'Killing Fields' of times long passed but never forgotten. It stretched lifeless before the aeon-veiled citadel peaks of Central Ayenee and Western Ayenee that were soon completely snuffed by the profuse shrouds of hex and gloom. A darkness unable to be shifted by enchantments of light or the holy. From behind her, the Cinderbane Cavalry tore gloriously into the foremost rank of the seditious -warriors, battle-magick rendering the squamous pseudo-flesh of the their armours completely vulnerable to the steel of the royal legions. The momentum of the second charge reducing numbers dramatically, the Rhydin vanguard falling back before the thundering resolve of the Imperial attack.
Atra'Lamia and those whom followed to fully engage on the forefront of the onslaught towards this Belgorion's forces. He had called her name in challenge and by all the Darkened Gods, she would hate to disappoint . Ensorcelled ebon blade hewing ten to the left and cleaving ten to the right, grim eyes gleaming beneath the ebony mantle of wraith-blown cascades and sanguine adorned features. Like a slithering tide, the shadows lapped at leather tourniquet thighs, as if neither spell nor curse could touch this ravening beauty in spite of adept conjuring and Cimmerian-charms. On closer observations, and not hindered or halted by the intervention of his men⦠let alone any without feeling the Blade of Executions sting. Chin ascending defiantly, features shifting behind the midnight veils of billowing tresses exposing ensanguined visage, though not meeting eye to eye, more of an oblique apathy to incite affront.
Flicking downwards then the apex of weapon, resting upon its elaborate hilt, while gore-gauntlet gestured forth with a manicured arch of brow, "Come then! Test that cursed blade of black steel against me if you dare! O' great king!" An evil grin would be prompted by chosen discourse...dark-liquored eyes glistening in heinous effluence, narrowing into daggered slithers as Atra's head ascended to greet Belgorion's gaze with her own. Gauntlet shimmered, the elongated talons extended in cruel inches from the middle knuckles of clenched digits, stepping to the left, studying him in scrutiny⦠mapping his features against the emptiness of recollection... and the ire only growing in the fleeting seconds of union.
It was not that is presence was insulting, but it certainly provoked an aggression of sentiment. Beneath black chain-mail and leathered bodice the hidden pendant burned against the coldness of skin- an item worn that evaded nostalgia and memory, nevertheless never removed. Never before had it reacted to sing throughout vein, soul or heartstrings⦠mayhaps it was merely tempered with the thirst of bloodshed and battle? Flanked on both sides with some of Darkbane's most fierce war-beasts and beserkers ready for the contest of whose blades were the thirstiest and most skilled in all of Ayenee (afterall it was what Darkbane was most infamous for).
A growl issued from twixt rubicund apertures, death-ravening in frost-tendril plumes in wraith-like exhalation⦠entwined in unexplained vehemence and passion. Ruby lips plaguing a barbarous symmetrical indifference, as eyes akin to curses in gleam of winter moonlight over black water, glanced over the King of King's form deliberately.
Machaera Vomica Vulcanus- Intorqueo Flamma|Cry of Agony/ Blade of Executions.
Also known as the sword of Balefire, except this weapon poses a significant difference to most already in circa. The difference being, this weapon is empowered with balefire in its most unholy and natural state, that of a sickly blue-green flame when summoned. The blade is fashioned solidified Umbra Ignis also more commonly known as Shadow Fire to those who are not of Chaos/Shadow Lord origins.
The sword blade is approximately the same size as a longsword except serrated and embossed with Oblivion runes and tormented figures seemingly reaching out from the blade matter. The runes are the indications that it is a runic activated weapon that requires a brief incantation. The apex of the sword glistens with a slight balefire hue signifying its potential. The hilt was created from forged Mithril though smoldered black and etched with battle glyphs and death runes. The hilt and pommel crafted into the shape of the Obsidian Cross, the arms outstretched like bat wings. It is a truly magnificent weapon to behold and to wield.
It is a rather heavy sword in weight, and only suitable for one who has the stamina and strength to handle without taking a penalty. However, the sword is highly intelligent and can not only communicate to who wields it but also the intended target. When the Balefire is summoned it mostly communicates by shrieks and howl. When a hit occurs the sword only causes minimal when not summoned, however, when summoned the aggravated damage increases,capable to pierce even the most resilient of armors and cause severe wounds to infernal beings, celestial beings or other immortal creatures. The sword literally feeds of the wounded target as each hit occurs and has been known to 'blood frenzy' which causes the sword to increase to another level of power altogether and to frightening abilities which include Daemonic Reaper & Shadow Reaver ....{Soul/Essence Eater}... {BaleFire}... {Blood Frenzy}... {Pestilence}... |only one in existence|
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Battle Magicks|Enchantments.
Veils of Blackhelm: Shroud of Darkness. Cancels Luminary or Holy magicks and casts a dome of darkness over a specific area. [LvL 2] [active conjuration]
Shadow Shield: Conceals within the shrouds. Offers resistance to Holy, Darkness|Ether, Frost or Fire spells. Passive. Soaks damage. [LvL 2] [active conjuration]
Shadow Blight: Smite of Chaos. Drains sentient|living magicks and sentient infused armours rendering them vulnerable to steel. [LvL 2] [activated spell]
RavenStorm: Plague Wind. Death spell. Breath Augment. May also be considered a hex spell. Multi-wound, infesting 'living' armour/weapon/flesh with rapid viral decay. Typically augmented by eupnea or exsufflation spells, combined with the Veils of Blackhelm or other contagion/cloaking magicks. [LvL 2] [activated spell]
LvL 2 signifies the second post with additional preparation extending from the first post as per turn and increasing.[/b][/font][/size]
-
The shadows danced in twisted in the dark cadences of the echoing drums of wars, washing over Baalthus like a living heart, amusing him somewhat for whom but those whom danced among the shadows we perceive how much like a beating heart, the rhythms of foredooming death would resonate to the essential sound of life itself. Atop the slight rise, overlooking the legions of Ayenee he stood silently, studying the ebbs and flows, seeing where sporadic fighting broke and crashed like waves upon the endless beach of willing flesh, yet something troubled him. The summons had come yet the chaotic renditions of ebb and flow were strangely silent unlike what one normally felt upon the start of war. For normally when the battle horns sounded the essence of chaos surged for were not battles the realm of controlled chaos. When anything could twist no matter how well planned and descend into madness that was the heart and soul of the battlefield.
He sniffed the air, a thousand flavours writhing across his tongue... Sweat, fear, pain, horror, disdain, callousness, hatred all there to be tasted... Yet he also tasted on the very edge of his senses something so familiar nod welcome that it shook him to the core. Yelling for a scout, he sent them outwards towards the unrecognised forces telling them to return with a banner, something from which to identify the supposed foe. It helped to have shadow striding wolven kind as scouts... Made things much faster, and you were far more likely to get good information then sending some poor mortal on horseback where your own forces were likely to kill them before their return.
Fifteen, twenty minutes later the wolf returned and Baalthus's nostrils flared, he recognised that scent, that smell, and when the ancient beat held out the banner he knew, knew beyond doubt... Snarling and turning on his left heel, fist rising to smash the face of the human advisor whose information had proven so wrong... "How did you miss this... HOW IN HELL DID YOU AND YOUR PETTY TIMESERVING SPIES MISS THIS?" He waved the banner before the bleeding man. Voice now like ice, shadows trembling with the intonations of every word, "This is the banner of Elrum, we are standing against the empires strongest allies about to make war on friends of the Emperor." Turning to face the wolf... "kill him" before striding off, yelling to aides to fetch him his steed and something to use as a white flag...
Raw unadulterated rage forming shadows mist around his legs as he strode to his mount, gaze flashing vitrescent ecstasy, every breath a shuddering growl, an angered Chaos/ Shadowlord was not exactly a pleasant being to get near and as he headed to his steed people ran, nay near fell to get out of his way, one idiot stupid enough to be facing the wrong way and walked in front of the elder man, only to have a fist slam into the back of his head throwing him several metres to fall unconscious. It was lucky for him that Baalthus couldn't be bothered wasting his swordsman's edge on stupidity, he may need it later. His steed had only devoured two of the groomsmen sent to bring him forth a fortunate day, his idea of justice, criminals brought before him were offered a choice, work in his stables and if they survived they gained freedom and honour, or perhaps not... Still the one leading the Chaos Steed had survived six months, whilst eleven others had died. Perhaps on his return he might take a moment to speak to the one whom had shown such courage to survive the steed from hell. But for now...
Twenty one hands of fire and brimstone, clawed feet instead of hooves, fangs and eyes of fire adorning the steed of midnights grace, sulphurous miasma flaring from the nostrils with every breath and an essence of hatred oozing from every pore. The beast smelled his masters approach and quietened down, for while aggressive, predatorial and dangerous beyond belief to any approaching, the beast was also highly intelligent, intelligent enough to know when what approached was an even more dangerous predator then itself. Mounting up, the beast snorting as the groom released it, then leaping forwards, knocking over two men whom were not fast enough. His own banner flapping he let his steed run to all its strength, towards where a disasters potential grew, where two beings whom could end the tainted dreams of Varsinax were approaching the mother of all battles... Shouting as he galloped through the ranks "HOLD... HOLD YOU BASTARDS HOLD... WE DO NOT FIGHT OUR ALLIES!!!" His rage amplifying his words so that even the two main antagonists Atra'Lamia and Belgorion would hear him, and perhaps for a second wonder why he was charging madly towards where they were...
-
Behind the advancing positions of the Imperial armies of Ayenee, the waning howls of death fell upon the deaf atmosphere of a barren land like shadows of a fading world littered with war and plague - an eternity, the unstoppable force, succumbing to an inevitable finale, an immovable object. Mists of blood travelled in the gusts like tangible aether at last revealing a physical presence, wafting endlessly. And through those diaphanous trails persisted life even with the spectre of necrotic rot lingering distastefully from the firmament down, threatening mortal existence, advocate to the pending apocalypse posing for the final swing of the juggernauts pendulum. These lands had witnessed battle unrivaled, crimson skies and bloodstained days stretching beyond the farthest recesses of memory, spiraling down toward the shores of everlasting oblivion.
Gusts fused blood and sand, sediment of the land drifting wayward to and from the battleground. And there, behind their scene of grandeur, iridescent gleams penetrated the spectrum, crawling along the vertexes of a spiral - gravitational force electively vacuuming select debris. Through resistance and friction come discharge, electrical static emitting from the ground and throaty, resonant popping. Dark shrouds stirred at the epicenter, and from within, light brightly boasted simultaneously. With the shrill whistle of voracious wind and the explosive burst of a failing gravitational pull, a thunder issued into the trembling ground to announce the presence of one who traversed betwixt the matter of worlds.
From a kneel he rose, sand pouring off of his clothing and minimally armored body. In his hands rested curved bone carved to edges and point - weaponized objects of afterlife. Along his arms, recessed markings - runes and foreign alphabet nearly indecipherable - filled with fleshy chameleon inks shifting between concentrated black and various hues perceptible by any eye. He carried no banner, represented no color and bared no imperialistic markings or symbolism - a being without home, without place. Soft eyes opened and gazed out through the eye sockets of a bone mask, carved skull of another man sun bleached white and stripe painted with crimson reds. The forehead and face covered all but the eyes and furtherest back part of cheek toward the ears, leaving visible only lips and chin, lower jawline and eyes that, despite a gentle nature, pierced from beneath akin to a gaze from father death. Beyond the measure of the skull-masksâ cover, shaven head muted color with ashen white paint, contrasting harshly with maroon knitted scarf and headless cloak.
As he stood, his right foot raked outward and hands extended to his sides, fingers calculatedly releasing and gripping the bone weapons until knuckles turned white. The gusts settled, a miniature series of dunes, sediment and debris surrounding him on the ground. Mists of blood once airborne clung to his flesh, sinking in and absorbing - breathing essence into him. Despite whatever power he mightâve possessed, necessary to appear in such a manner, itâd seem clear he did not belong upon such a battleground. At full height, he stood barely over one hundred, sixty five centimeters - hardly a man of stature, albeit deadly in other fashions, not comparable to the legions of war abound.
Three men, seemingly more creature than anything, began to approach him undoubtably with ill-intent. While their association was noticeable and perceptibly obvious, his become less and less discernible with every footstep of approach - holy, voidic, darkness, no stigma could be applied from afar.
âDignu ist mortii,â a calm voice declared with certainty. Heâd stand his ground, relaxed and unassuming, unchanging. âDIGNU IST MORTII,â he shouted as if to warn as their approach continued.
Unheeded, his warning fell upon deaf ears, stubborn mules marching to their death, feeling unparalleled by the might of their leagues. One last time he issued his warning, and the recesses along his arms - runes, lettering telling of magic - began to crawl, living immortal essence encapsulated by mortal flesh. The red stripe painting along the skull mask liquefied, streaming like blood and dripping, never-ending and sourceless. Within mere seconds, three consecutive waves of blast would strip the soldiers of flesh and blood - charring and disintegrating flesh in the first, opening deep wounds and searing others in the second, and revealing bone and organ in the third. As quickly as he seemed possessed, he walked forward again as a man unassuming and without semblance, although a single entity on the field would perhaps feel something all too familiar.
Dissonant Ceremony: Initial steps to incurring mass particle disturbance, relating to physics and interstitial and planar travel. Conjuration.
-
Some say that memory is but a blade of the mind, whilst others weep before its passing.
Ravaged, ruined, the lands of Ayenee bled anew before the onslaught of armoured feet and angered maw, a flame now doused, whose splendour had been snuffed by strife and millennia of war. Unto this earth Atra's sorceries crept, as tendrils of darkness clawed their way across the battlefield, remorseless as time, relentless as winter, an inexorable advance which engulfed whole regions and bred blight upon all that stood swallowed by its path. As the ground trembled, however, and the legions of Darkbane neared Belgorion's lines, a cacophony was born where once silence had reigned, for as the bleak miasma of darkness extended, and bathed more soldiers within its belly, there came a terrible sound.
Crunch, crack it went, pervading the cloud's vicinity with a noise so disconcerting it threatened to turn even the stoutest of stomachs, a chorus of bone rent asunder, which echoed in alarm from the midst of the midnight veil. A horseman sought to brave this terror, lance down and gaze keen as they surged onwards, but before they could penetrate its swirling depths, their eyes widened, and a mouth once so bold with battle-cries ached agape. Something stalked from the shadows then, something so large it struck the rider with a single fist and propelled them from their saddle with a sickening snap of splintering ribs.
Staring up in shock, the man witnessed his end, long before it deigned to reap his soul, for there towering above him stood a veritable juggernaut, a behemoth whose bulk kept height with the horse itself, a being bathed in obsidian plate, whose vehemence was palpable upon the air. Horror filled his lungs, and breath escaped him next, as the destrier's head suddenly erupted in an explosion of muscle and meat, staining the soil with its blood, whilst the stranger approached, gauntlet glistening with gore. Twin holes met the man's desperate pleas, black pits that devoured light and sapped the suffering from his features with insatiable hunger. Mercy melted upon his lips as a single boot descended, life left his flesh as his skull collapsed, but when his soul sought to flee, it struggled, strained, drifted toward those eyes like a mast caught within a maelstrom. The horseman was now naught but a stitch upon the tapestry of war, a herald of the beast's banner, as they tossed the broken body aside, as easily as one might a stone.
Silhouetted against the backdrop of the cloud, and framed by flame that danced in the distance, the warrior brandished a cylindrical shield upon their left arm, whilst the fingers of its right hand coiled like serpents around the hilt of their blade, birthing fresh blasphemy upon Ayenee, as a thrice-damned weapon rang free once more. Despite the scorched black hilt, however, and the crimson length that gleamed with infernal runes, the most noticeable thing about the figure in that moment was not their size, nor the skill with which they wielded their sword, but instead the fervour with which a symbol burned upon their breast.
For every war there is a lord, for every darkness dwelt a bane.
-
Let death take you⦠Experience it when possible, and perhaps be born anew. Lest we fall into shameful degradation of skill and instinct⦠Take the opportunity to die, seriously, for what it is⦠A chance to be caught in the moment, free of the burden to think⦠Let death take you, when and where you canâ¦
They had fought, that night in the rain. He had summoned her to him, so that he could test his hand at doing her a favor⦠And slaying her flesh. They had seemed to be rather well matched at the time, and for a fleeting moment (in the grand scheme of things) there had been nothing else but the two of them. And then, it had grown into something less than what it had at first been. Something⦠Boring. And they had gone their separate ways, no winner. No lust given into. No blood spilled by either. But perhaps⦠Just perhaps⦠They had both been only going through the motions?
Perhaps he had not truly wanted to kill her as much as he had tried to make it seem, oozing with malevolent and tangible murderous intent as he had been. But he was eager to die as well, if such were his blessing and curse. Was there not a point in trying? He thought there was.
Cyan sighed, walking alone, kept introspective and bound within his thoughts by the events he replayed in his mind, not long ago of that night. He knew he could provoke her. A priestess. How they always tend to be sacred in their purity. He could do so again. But why? Why summon her, if they were not going to kill each other? âAtraâLamia⦠AtraâLamiaâ¦â he said rather absent mindedly and to himself.
Walking amongst the woods, one of his favorite ways to think, atleast outside of the plane of Darkness Incarnate which he called home⦠Which he called himself, just as much. No, sometimes it was better to think, when walking without care or awareness of the passing things around one. Sometimes, meditation in the void that spawned him as his dimension of darkness had was more burdensome and difficult to achieve.
What was there left? No turmoil in the world. No bloodletting. No war. All he had now was to wander alone, perhaps⦠âAtraâLamiaâ¦â he mumbled again. Would it be worth the efforts to try again? Would she even respond? Perhaps, if nothing else, she might bring with her someone else for him to play and enjoy himself with? To share in a mutual spilling of blood? To engage one as elusive as she, he would pay any fee. Even die himself. The only way to grow, was to continually be reborn. Even if only metaphorically. But when possible, literal rebirth was a rare thing to achieve and reach. And thus it should be pursued doggedly.
It was what he sought. To grow again. Stagnation and emptiness of stimulus were not good for any entity. Certainly not something the likes of which Cyan Nightbane was. To be able to grow⦠he had to be challenged. There was nothing else to it.
His foot splashed water and he suddenly pulled his attentions from inward, and noticed he had stepped into a stream. He had not even noticed, as he had moved from the edge of the woods, into a brief opening where the stream ran through. The leafless trees of a desolate wintery wasteland of grays and browns surrounded him on all sides. He would issue a challenge. This was as good a place as any. âAtraâLamia⦠If thou hearest, then let thee answer. And come to my call again. Your hidden mind and quintessence are often so hard to find⦠And I am bored of looking. I have a proposition for you.â He would say to the aethers riding the winds.
He drew the sword from its scabbard, and gripping the blade at its base with his left hand, then slid his hand along the length of the blade while squeezing tight. The fang he carried cut deep into his flesh, and blood whetted his blade, as it ran from the wound. This was blood to use as a weapon, more then something that could be collected and learned from by any alchemist. His true vitae was kept elsewhere.
Dozens of drops had fallen from his hand to land by his left foot and begin to make a small puddle. He began sweeping the area around and in front of him with droplets of blood as he swung his arm to and fro, casting crimson luminance about as each drop shone and sparkled in the partially overcast winter sky.
He started thinking, as he stood there waiting for a psionic response, or an actual appearance, of the events in Tia. They had all been on the same side. They had all been in the midst of politics of a world beneath them. Of entityâs beneath them.
Though, while certainly entertaining in ways that were different⦠All that had occurred upon that world had seemed to be nothing more than pissing contests.
The inhabitants and beings of power from that world had indulged Cyan, Atra, and Malice and company with statements of superiority and displays of power they thought may be impressive, but none had engaged them. If memory served, Malice had summoned Cyan to fight alongside him, as Malice foughtâ¦someone insignificant, albeit presumably of might as measured by that worldâs standardsâ¦And Cyan had not been engaged. Malice had been the only one, truly lucky that day. To fight. And even then, it had ended in nothing worth the time or effort.
Another sigh escaped him, and he continued to wait. Hopefully this day would turn out better than that entire journey had beenâ¦
**************
He had waited longer than usual, and still there had been no response, nor even a sign that one might be forthcoming. He knew she must be busy then. If not altogether bored of their encounters. He could not disagree. They had become all but monotonous. Oh well., he thought, as he squeezed his left fist closed very tightly, and then relaxed it and opened it, spreading the cut wide as he did.
All of the blood he had sprinkled about and cast all around him, began to move, and slither back to him, meeting, over the course of a few minutes, at the puddle that had formed near his left foot. When every drop had returned, and joined with their crimson kin, the puddle at his feet began to reach upward as it extended itself, rather snakelike, or perhaps more tentacalian, as it continued to rise nearer to the gaping source from whence it had all sprang. Then, after a few moments of reaching, the slightest of contact between spilled quintessence carrying his intent and the wound in his palm, the rest of the blood all but shot upward in a nigh blink of an eye, and once every drop was returned to within, the wound closed itself with deliberate precision.
"Atra'Lamia..." he whispered to the winds, a smile now on his face for the first time this day. Clearly, if she were not dead, and if she were not in torpor... then surely, he reasoned, she was in the middle of something more 'fun' than this. And anyways, this stage was not a worthy one for their meeting, he realized a little late just then. "Then I shall come and find you, as I must..." he added, whispering unto the winds still. At the end of this last statement, he was pushed about lightly, as the wind took up a fervor filled and forceful presence, before blowing on it's path unto her ears and mind, wherever she might be.
He closed him mind from thinking, and eyes from seeing, as he thought of her, and visualized her before him. Not long after creating an almost tangible image of her within his minds eye, he faded from where he stood, carried onward toward his desire, as it waited to be fulfilled. He would find her. He would perhaps even face her. If not join her. Who could say. The potential paths to walk, in their number, were always endless, when one at least wished for them to be so, while maintaining a mindset that was meant to promote the generation of infinite possibility.
He was moving through the realm he called his home, the realm he called himself... on his way to her. He would arrive near to her, because he desired to do so.
â⦠you dare! Oâ great King!â her words rippled around him, and through him, as Cyan traveled. His consciousness had already arrived, at least partially, near her, but still he was transferring his physical incarnation through the fabrics of dimensions and tangible space. However, there seemed to be something disrupting his transference of his total quintessence. Something being formed by someone strong willed and powerful enough...
Cyan began to focus his mind, his resolve, and his vision of AtraâLamia. He was also forced into acquainting himself with the metaphysical makeup of the barrier as well as its source, Whatever was preventing him from manifesting, he would overcome, especially since it seemed to be an incomplete barrier as yet forming in his way. But who was its sourceâ¦? He wonderedâ¦
â¦
â¦.
⦠He did not know who it wasâ¦
But he thought he felt a familiar presence... in... Malice...? How peculiar. Something big was seemingly afoot, Cyan reckoned then, if even he had taken efforts to be present.
Nearly finished with his manifestation, Cyan now recognized then that his inter- and multi-planar travel and movements would from this moment be hindered impossible, as he had become aware of the growing depth of the barrierâs intricacy as well as its power. As if perhaps it would very soon not need whoever had formed it to consciously maintain it, if it even did at allâ¦
Cyan at last began to take shape, after he had finally become aware of all these things. He was not far from Atra at all, in fact⦠certainly within her striking range, and standing off to her right, and behind⦠sword already drawn, having never been sheathed since the gray winter wasteland where heâd just come from. Rather bold his arrival as always, he could not contain a tone of annoyance, or perhaps anger, that he had not been sent the invitation, and of thus he spoke edgily ââ¦And I received no invitation⦠Yet here I amâ¦â he would state. Making no move to attack her, no any of those around him. As yet, Cyan was still in the process of ascertaining what was going on around him, as he looked around. As yet, even he was unaware of what his part would be to play here, if any. But excitement rose within him. Perhaps he could enjoy himself...And just kill. Atra's men, and her enemies men, and any who came before him, in fact? With no bias or betrayal intended. He was undecided.
He was rather comfortable with surprising her, or at least trying. After all, it was quite a bit more probable that she had been aware of his coming, since he had first began to arrive. That is⦠with Cyan now assuming that she had not invited him for a reason, and thus perhaps had not cared to let his words of summons reach her, either.
Time would tell. Certainly sooner, not laterâ¦
Cyan decides that it is much much more fun in the land of Narnia cleaning fridges and vanishes in a puff of fairy-floss smoke "Clean yo fridges. Peace!!!" echoing as the band plays.....'Never Gonna Give You Up-- Rick Astley'.....
-Cyan has officially "left the building".
-
Time; the pitiful illusion of progress. he very essence of decay and degradation personified. Never had such a deceptive force been imagined, a device to steal from mortality its very strength its fire, the cruelest of fates manipulations. So many here had fallen to its sway. The greatest of warriors fierce in their resolve and yet powerless to stop some inanimate soulless force. No longer would this be allowed. The sand had been frozen in place it could fall no more. War incarnate had called forth the time of reckoning Ragnarok was at hand. Ancient eyes beheld the field with no enthusiasm. Another battle, another instance of chaos in a world created by petulant forces portrayed as gods. He had grown tired of this dance long ago but for now the table was set as it was and there was no other course of action than the one that lay before him. For her alone he would dance this dance one final time.
When he moved perhaps in his minds eye it was in another time, another place. Sand blew all around him a great battle raged and before him was only her. Beautiful and without equal. He had come then for of all things to save her and yet all there truly was to save was the fools whom dared attack her from the wrath she would unleash. He could see her as she had been untamed and fierce. All he had adored in war embodied of course he had become infatuated.Just like the cold steel of a fine blade she sang to him in her every gesture and motion. He hung upon her breath. Not since the time of his people, since the death of his guardian wife had he loved something as he had loved her. He might have stood with her for eternity.
That however had been a brief moment in an ocean of chaos and foolish manipulations. His happiness had been crushed scattered to the four corners by greed and anger. Not this time he would not allow it for that was not what he had fated. Never would he allow some god to decide his fate. He would forge the pattern of destiny in his own image and set all which offended him in this world ablaze in a shinning pyre for those whom would dare defy him.
In those once stoic eyes a fire would have now become lit. A maniacs grin filled with wicked intent as the legend came to life. No longer a broken warrior leading an ill fated charge but a myth come to life. The pattern illuminated all around him. Darkness and light swirling in a lashing storm of unbalance that had never meant to fall on this plane. The boundary between life and death was being shaken to is core and it was insanity to behold. One step he took forward the great silver horn of Elrum rising to his lips as to this party of the fallen he had assembled he added legends from his own time. The horn sounded upon the wind echoing into the heavens themselves far into the great corners of the land of dreams and with bright eyes they awakened his army, the fallen whom he had once lead for the fates themselves. His people who slumbered between life and death awaiting the day they would be called again that day was now.
Blinding white light would radiate from the horn obscuring for a moment Belgorion's form. Mist spiraling out from it and then beginning to ripple outward. They would be seen in the heavens themselves riding from the clouds no great number but the greatest of his people. The spirits of guardians past his fallen brothers. His mother and father the great Trodain and Kadara riding together, the first to land upon the field of battle. Here once might have easily seen what gave Belgorion the flare which inhabited his very essence. Trodain was small in stature much like his son save for the flaming red hair which radiated around his body and a glare which flatly stated nothing within his path would stand for long. His great green bladed sword Akio hanging at his side as it always had. Not the true blade of course but a spiritual shadow of what had once been preserved for all eternity. His mother was impossibly beautiful far taller than her husband with ancient green eyes that seemed to pierce the very soul. A great curved katana becoming loosed from her back as she touched the ground. They moved not mounted but still they were death incarnate. Their movements were nearly one in perfect harmony and sync blood flowed around them in great waves never seeming to be absent from the air behind them the others came. The great crimson thunder Calchulain his great spear raining lightening from the heavens burning a great rift through the enemy lines. Margrath Taibron his great cannons whirling in his hands as he spun upon the back of his steed Cardahn burning soldiers to the ground were they stood in a blinding light of plasma energy.
So many more to name many legends even in Belgorion's youth and around them the fallen hero's would rally, driven forward by the heat of their passion for battle. Belgorion would rise from the carnage great ten feet spanning white wings cascading out around him blood blighter raised to the sky in defiance. " GUARDIANS I SAY ARE WE STRONG?!!! " He roared into the heavens and a war cry like nothing to be imagined answered him in return. "AY IN MYTH MIGHT AND SONG!!!" The proclamation boomed shattering the air his men fought as if they were possessed now refusing to fall even when they should have driving on through pain and strife. The armies of fate three hundred strong would force the middle. The original detachment of soldiers pushing outward like a fan in all directions around them.
Here Belgorion could finally focus left to his task at hand his eyes fixed squarely on her. Those eyes so full of fire and vigor and yet tinged with something purely out of place. Love, he loved the woman he beheld with all of his heart and being and there was no escaping it. Even to her it might have been apparent. For with his soul around her neck she could feel his every emotion and yet he would fight her. He fought her because it was what they did, because it was the only thing he knew to do. He fought her because it had to be this way and most of all he would fight her because he lived for the thrill of battle and the intoxicating euphoria matching blades with a true equal would bring.
Others toyed at intervention, they imagined themselves important but the truth was they mattered none at all. Not to Belgorion and certainly he imagined not to Atra. They were two titans of another era another time about to discover one another yet again through the ring of steel on steel.
The alter entity would begin to resonate now on the Astral plane covering the corporeal in a wave of pure planar energy. The Zero entity taking hold of it pushing it waving it through the fabric of the planes themselves using it to to bind them shut sealing away all but the most basic of power within the place. Those whom thought they had come wielding power would fight as men and not cowards not blade on blade as it had always been meant to be.
In the heart of it all at the center of a great vortex of planar energy that obliterated all inside it and repelled everything outside the two of them would now stand. Destruction burned in his eyes and with one burst of his great wings the guardian would be flung into action. He split the air burning it away as he flew leaving only darkness behind and as he swung his blade aiming it for her right shoulder the wind would scream in agony at the fluid vipers strike he had thrown. The true battle would have finally begun and when it subsided either the world would be born anew or darkness would reign over all. For once the great king of kings could care less which it was. The world could be damned but he would have this reckoning with the one whom wore the emblem that proclaimed her his mate and yet could remember not even his face.
-
Deep within the halls of Elrum, he waited. A beast long since forgotten by the world--or perhaps never fully acknowledged. Such time was best used for slumber, but what need had he of sleep? No, slumber proved a malignant sickness visited upon him for time eternal. Poisoned against it, the beast found no enjoyment in rest, for it remained a constant reminder of his imprisonment, his nightmare. In truth, unlike so many of his brood, this devil cared nothing for the realm of Ayenee, no more so than he cared about any ant bed. It mattered not what soil turned asunder beneath his heel, or what craven jelly filled meat bags offered up their light; a deal was a deal and a soul was a soul.
Shameful, though it was, he did not consider himself a gourmand. His nature did not allow it, not in a game of numbers. The echoing clacking of heels upon stone heralded his journey to the conflict proper.
He remained, for all intents and purposes, a servant; rather, he bore the trappings of one. To assume, however, that a creature of such grace-- and in possession of a gait so determined and haughty possessed a servile bone in his body, proved an exercise in foolishness. The circumstances of his arrival were as trivial as his name; it held no bearing on the matter at hand. It was reasonable to suspect that he accompanied someone of great import and style, given his own aspect and design, but who that was had yet to be seen. After all, eyes tended to focus upon the burning stars and not the specks of cosmic dust that surround them.
The livery he wore appeared pressed, sharp, clean and easily worth the price of a lesser nobleâs entire wardrobe. Yes, pride proved ever the limp in the stride of his plans, but such was his nature. If forced to appear the servant, then let him seem the grandest of them. Ebony silk clung to his frame, fitted and embroidered with sigils both ancient and decadent. Pristine, bone white gloves clutched a small silver serving tray and a long stemmed polished glass, filled to the brim with amber liquor, sat immobile atop its reflective surface.
Crimson eyes stared back at him from within that surface, framed by stray obsidian tresses. He was pale, but neither sickly, nor unhealthyâmerely fair of skin. This too, like his servility, was a facade, but measures were necessary to maintain the ruse. This creature, who moved like a lynx, came to a decided halt, as black heels meet in a small click against the flooring. Setting the tray down, he raised the glass and drained it before dashing it against the floor. This was the call to battle, for the Guardians, at least. Strange how he found himself among their number. A tale for another time, to be sure.
At last, the time had come for another game.
Moving to join the throng of Belgorion's supporters, Zerothsumgar released his aura and allowed it to mingle with the atmosphere, a sensual poison tainting the air. Upon a mere hint of his aura, onlookers might find a familiar twinge--such was the nature of identical beings, their scent was nigh indiscernible from the other. For all intents and purposes the presence of Varsinax Darkfire would, no doubt, raise eyebrows and spark questions--a theatric Zerothsumgar couldn't bare to deny himself. Dusa and his Darkfire clan had never truly believed his ruse, but they were never certain, that thought always nagging that the being who claimed to be their erstwhile father, was in fact the selfsame devil. Now that Belgorion held the blade of Ayenee, he seemed the best chess piece to rally behind, for the time being, at least--and thus privy to Zerothsumgar's true origin.
Zero did not disturb Belgorion's thunderous call to arms, preferring to move forward and stand a few meters to the Guardian's side. The Archdevil peered out at the horde stretching forth and smiled...
"Guardian, I am at your service."
-
Fʀᴏᴍ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛʏ﹐ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs· ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀs﹐ ᴛɪᴍᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪs ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴘʜᴏʀs.
Dark spells weaved throughout the building energies. The vaults of eon-veiled horrors spawned forth the shadow-gates swelling, yawning wide, parting the vestments of dusk shackled to the parturition of hermetic darkness. Malodor billowing forth as if it were the baleful breath of âOblivionâ himself-- pungent odours of engorged flesh, atrophy and decay that had been sealed from this world for several lifetimes. Indecipherable long-dead tongues spoke in delirious skeletal choirs, grisly murmurs of nameless fiends with black jaws drooling blasphemy and howling in flesh-lust through the entwining frosts âlivingâ gloom granting litany to their presence.
With such gathering forces rose the names of those who had adorned the battlefield⦠some names of legends that even the bards themselves had sung of in the terrors of the darkest nights. No man nor beast would be held steadfast by the command, and instead what flag had been held waving in the carnivorous winds in flutter of white that even the shadows cast bruised hues over the stark of its refute. Regardless of the reputation of he who held it, the Shadow Warlord of Blackheilm himself, no surrender nor truce would be seen this day.
Thus⦠through the dark tide her laughter echoed, crackling in the whispering mane of the basaltic winds shattering blessed cromlech and custodial wards. Amidst these, the nine stones that had been placed at the quarters of the realm by Nesentra (one of the oldest of Ayenee's Guardians), to charge the lands with their protective thaumaturgy, long before even the cities or kingdoms had risen from the infant soil. Cimmerian shades, danced and waltzed astride the mystic torans before crushing them to powder and dust, as if they were nothing but the ruinous totems of a lore that no longer held prestige or effect.
Old magick's waned and with them the defences that had stood the test of time and the most powerful influences of sorcery and fulcrums. Infused by the potent conjurations of apt diablerie; cosmic infinity nor affinity was nothing compared to one such as herself, on a whim alone she could reshape the surface of worlds. And had without lifting so much as a finger of indictment or retribution. The long dead, were certainly in no place to judge when besieged with the legions that had stood the test of time, and ensorcelled blade. Not even a memory to those who had forgotten the ballads of the fallen guardians.
Invocations unleashed the veils of Blackheilm that in turn devoured, darkness constricting its dominance like a buffer. To counteract the planar shield which would either Belgorion disengaged, or it would consume the âmaterialâ anchors that constituted planar rule held no sway over the shadows, compelling ancient paths of natural leylines to rupture⦠spilling forth deeper and more archaic primal doorways from their oily locks to unfetter a new havoc where order sought to establish itself when chaos had yet to sample its sour meat let alone its weak and⦠weathered steel.
It was then at the precise moment, that the colliding and clashing elements were within a war of their own, the feminine seduction of Atra'lamia's lilt rose above all, encompassed all, and obliterated all in its cacophonous, insidious resonance, "Prevail with me... beyond the shadows... rule with me... a thousand worlds...!" Black flames erupted on the talons of raven-storm, saturating once proud citadels of the great antediluvian empires and the temples where once they had been worshipped.
Scorching, rendering, smouldering those caught within the holocaust leaving nothing but emaciated cindered-crests; throwing every ensnared ion straight into the malignant bosom of oblivion itself. "Fall only when your hearts cease beating, and your flames extinguished. Devils and Outlaws of Western Ayenee⦠my proud warriors of Blackheilm." 'My' beheld a great emphasis and formidable significance, the war-cry itself held a weight and poignancy only another Darkbane possibly admired let alone recognized, but so would those of distant familiarity.
A dark honour of their own, that did not require audible declarations of supremacyâharried from above as the shrouds fully tegumented and closed within it what energies and magick's had previously been coerced, and would not be snuffed like a candle flame in the soft libidinous night, no matter how hard the pinch sought to captured its incalescence. At Atra's command, the clarion was sounded to move the battle-hardened veterans of the Western Ayenee Army forward into a flanking position to unite with the remnants of the Blackheilm Imperial Cavalry and the Darkbane unyielding foot-soldiers. Then, like a purifying storm the allied Imperial forces clove into the swarm to deal pattern-welded death unto their virtuous foe.
Naught registered of call or sultry uttered names through the ethereal tapestries⦠it would not be a means of pact or amicable reverie, a black rune was cast and pushed towards their auraâs, and only it would portend the probability of their fates by the actions and deeds done. Written in the blood their blades would spill, or would they demonstrate spinelessness and submission, to an deity bejewelled in spurn and scorn from the endeavours of their own indiscretion? Ebonized fires leapt, engulfing the fields in cataclysmic phoenix-born barbs erupting across the skies from the catapults that snapped back in release. Warriors and mounts seared and burned from the enraged sky which fell like the rapture heralding the end of times. Twisted machinations of chaos had not even unleashed the last of the dread confrontation that rumbled throughout the melee⦠a tactical scheme utilizing the potential energies to the fullest extent of the darkest of arts alongside their vile emissions.
Augmented plague storms scathed the terrain and the Undead regiments, not even some of her own were spared the gluttonous appetite of necrotic pestilence. Mithril turned to rust, and bone to dust. Putrescine and cadaverine drifted pungently thick sickly-verdant nebulous mass, combining with the darkness and shadows previously resurrected. Unless controlled instantaneously like the string of a puppet-master they bore no real sentience or relevance, until the battle-mages and weavers gathered them up into a surging wave of psionic egregoreâever-widening, comparable to a Kraken's embrace.
"None exists. The tide has flowed, it ebbs forever, for all die." Disembodied susurration rippled in static, primordial, inhaled sharply with metallic fatigue⦠imitation to mimic human intonations sunk beneath the abysmal tides of demonic salience. From behind the glorious clash of Black Mithril Blackheilm sword against whatever tempered their ire, be it foe, or those caught twixt the tempest. Who fell, who faltered and who died never bothered one who held the Darkbane name with the darkest of superiority and honour⦠all that mattered was the blood smeared and what death lay behind from the harvest. Still the battle-mages continued their chants except one stepped forth taking prestige; bedraped in a stygian cloak and fuliginous cowl, exuding an aura of implacable malevolence, which unnerved even the bravest of the Ayenee Imperial troops.
Agitated statuesque facade flinched to the accent and expression of Cyan Nightbane, it was if the appearance of another cause an infliction of vex and not one of surprise. This was a battlefield, one that stunk from the eons of death and wane, carnage ebbed and flowed around them all in both vision and ambiance. Not some cavalier stroll in a garden of fragrant flowers, nor was he a refined gentleman seeking the silken hand of some painted courtesan. And had her blade not chosen its quarry, it surely would have sought the innermost sanctum of the soulless coffer noted as flesh and embodiment.
In the amelioration of the Blackheilm Warlord, holder of the Obsidian crown, Baalthus Vane with white flag held above his head in the objective of parley or truce received no recognition before it too burst into a conflagration of umbral flame. And in the prideful eyes of their War-Queen even as they looked upon the one before her with an insouciant icy glare, as he remained above her, suspended by majestic emblazoned wings beholding an expression that singed only the surface of that black heart. Nonetheless the deference of adversary was given its dues, not arrogant or narcissistic. In the brief seconds of their union, only silence lingered except for the symphony of slaughter behind them.
Almost as if an understanding passed betwixt them both, one that did not require words but sung through the blood, and even though Atra'lamia did not quite understand its reckoning nor its fervour, it too came with a hushed acquiescence. All the while melanoid eyes studied Belgorion, the flow and swiftness of movement to even the less subtle of body languages she was not negligent to an awareness of others, or his own loyal warriors and general's of war, nor ignorant to the impelling forces at play-- the spells and arcane's being intricately woven. Keeping the weapon directly to her side so that it rested parallel to the length of thigh. Tempered steel cold against the heat emanating from her physique adorned in the scintillating wreathes of black fires, also twisting around the curvature of blade naturally fitting the honed contours perfectly.
Bending wrist forwards, placing strength to the application by a slight change in standing position that in a single fluid motion brought her right foot forward. Hilt position at Atra's slender left hip, with sword pointing down and forward, false edge up in order to prepare for a cutting or thrusting manoeuvre. Shifting weight so it was distributed more on the front leg, with back leg in a position to quickly spring forward or change stance entirely... being well versed in the dance of blades and realm-known for utilizing false defensive positions in order to fool the less observant adversaries. Consequently, 'Intorqueo Flamma' was blood-committed to its pledge. Fulminate runes of oblivion glistened from the clement embrace of its mistresses palms, perhaps even the rouse of battle-call and expectation of an likewise skilled combatant had something to do with its awakening?
Before further dialogue could slip between sanguine apertures, darkness had descended upon Atra like the behemoth obsidian wave of dark energies and maelstrom of chaotic residues that washed across the fields like the eldritch Dead Sea of Grimsdalr. Quickly ascending blade, letting the adamantine steel clash and bite against the incoming of Belgorion's, aimed directly at right shoulder and having a great strength and precision behind its force. Using the projective force in flight against him, which certainly could not be as effortlessly stable to one whose feet were firmly placed to ground and would never yield to the shove.
Wrapping sharp edges around Belgorionâs sword in parting strike/or high blow downwards. Instantaneously Atra'Lamia followed the action, forcefully directing the tip of 'Intorqueo Flamma' aggressively upwards (right-side), slightly angular, and towards the inside of his blade, so that the false edge ideally would slide efficiently along the outer edge to mid-blade. Applying potency without delay at first contact, pushing blades downwards and away from right shoulder-- thus averting the attack, in fluid utilization, using his own impetus of incoming velocity against gravity itself. Leaning back on right leg backwards. Just giving enough space to allow the blade to pass only a breath away from svelte raven-leather thigh.
Perhaps forcing the masculine form of the King of Kingâs to impress himself against the diminutive physique of the raven-haired Imperatrix? Should it be so, in the passing second that it took from contact to deflect. An immediate adept flip of wrist using Belgorion's blade as a guide. Directly delivering an attack of oneâs own in punctual and sharp fierce thrust towards mid-section and abdomen⦠but also making sure to shift herself in closer. To disallow a possible counter-strike. Meagre seconds passing, however it seemed centuries compared to the speed and ferocity she was capable of, and no misgiving in the probability that so was he.
"Never quarter, never mercy, never retreat!" The final chorus to the duet⦠the martial preparations commenced in earnest. A brief and perfunctory exchange between the Cinderbane brothers held no surprises, as the Imperial banner of Western Ayenee was duly driven into the seared earth before Guardians and the Ayenee realms with a chilling finality. And again the vast siege engines and powerful ballistae were hauled inexorably but into a different position, as to the front alongside, appeared a succession of katapelte and petrobolos. Dreaded Battle-Warg (Fen-Dwellers) and War- Leopards, straining noisily against their iron-link restraints to the rear of the myrmidon, conscripts and auxiliaries in escort.
Battle Magicks|Enchantments.
Veils of Blackhelm: Shroud of Darkness. Cancels Luminary or Holy magicks and casts a dome of darkness over a specific area. [LvL 3][active conjuration]
Shadow Shield: Conceals within the shrouds. Offers resistance to Holy, Darkness|Ether, Frost or Fire spells. Passive. Soaks damage. [LvL 3] [active conjuration]
Shadow Blight: Smite of Chaos. Drains sentient|living magicks and sentient infused armours rendering them vulnerable to steel. [LvL 3] [activated spell]
RavenStorm: Plague Wind. Death spell. Breath Augment. May also be considered a hex spell. Multi-wound, infesting 'living' armour/weapon/flesh with rapid viral decay. Typically augmented by eupnea or exsufflation spells, combined with the Veils of Blackhelm or other contagion/cloaking magicks. [LvL 3] [activated spell]
Planar Warp: This generally permits a brief fissure in the 'closing' of gates/portals/doorways or allows a gap twixt barriers to permit transport that is not by conventional means. [Inherent supernatural class ability] [/size]
LvL 3 signifies the third post with additional preparation extending from the first post as per turn and increasing, these can only progress to two more levels before a new sequence of conjuration must commence due to energy levels deplete, naturally.
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sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs Pᴀʀᴛ I..
Tʜɪs ɪs ᴀ sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ Eʟʀᴜᴍ/ Aʏᴇɴᴇᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛs.
ＢＹ．ＴＨＩＳ．ＳＷＯＲＤ．Ｉ．ＲＵＬＥ！[/size]
The war between the dual imperium's and the allied Ayenian kingdoms had raged for years. Beginning as trivial disagreement over border territories. Conflict swiftly escalated into full-scale wars, and a vast series of grand campaigns, led by the Rhydin Crimson Emperor and the Overlord of Ayenee; both eager to smite their customary ancestral foes, and to succeed great glory and the adulation of their nations by seizing victory in battle.
Aʏᴇɴᴇᴇâs ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ʜᴀs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ sᴘᴇᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅâ to these darkened days when the borders have been breached by the renegade hordes of Rhydin and the rebellious usurpers of Ayenee against their present overlord, Varsinax of the Imperium Darkfire. Black legions of western and southern Ayenee have risen in defiance, ravening for blood.
And thus the oracle spoke through ebon-veiled of pungent smoke, "Stare deep into the raven-spurred fogs with your spirit-eyes. Look far, and tell me what you see. Do you see a land far to the north; an immense empire of dark endless fens and snow-crowned mountains. A realm of brooding kingdoms, monsters, beasts and warrior-kings who hail to no grim god but themselves? No? Then seek deeper child, for enlightenment hides within the mist-swathed vales of Ayenee...
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Tʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ɪs ᴄʜᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ sᴏᴏᴛʜsᴀʏ ᴀᴜɢᴜʀɪᴇs ᴏғ ᴅᴇᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ﹐ ʟᴏᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴϙᴜᴇsᴛ ᴛʜᴜs ᴘʀᴏᴘʜᴇsɪᴢᴇᴅ﹗
Tales told as if they were in dream had forever mentioned their legendary kingdom. Many lifetimes sung of the guardians and their chivalrous deeds in keeping the wolves of war from the gates of castle Ayenee. Upon shadowed lyre strings their bold songs within the sweet whispering's of hearts asunder, and some unrequited love. They also spoke of the grim and glorious battles of the warrior king of kings, Belgorion Iamarsa, his mighty wolves and Valkyrie-like women forging the battle-fields with undying strength and the shining realm of Elrum. In accompany, could it be that the overlord himself was in attendance to the legions of Elrum, marching with their wolven banners high, the Archdevil Zerothsumgar, the very likeness of Varsinax's inlecherous grandeur.
[align=center]Tʜᴇ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴡ sᴛɪʀʀᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʀɪsᴇɴ. [/align]
Black winds sending forth the ashes of battle and the impending brunt of civil war; soon the land ran red with the blood of the slain, crushed beneath the bootfall of the returning legions that had been at war within the lands of Rhydin. Ensorcelled blades gleaming in sunsetâs fireâand darkness concaved inwards in dreadful greeting towards the uprising traitors. Flanked by the splendour of the Darkbane black-flamed edged banners of the vast army stretching from field to the horizon in intricate shaped formations, and at the forefront of the mighty legions, astride an ebon war-stallion, rides AtraâLamia.
Magicks woven to utterly asphyxiate sunlight, planar bindings slowly enforced to shut the dimensional doorways preventing travel through supernatural or metaphysical meansâ buffered for a brief moment in time for the remaining shadow legions to come forth, and those who too sought fire, bloodshed and the flayed skins of trophy and viscera. the monolithic shadow of the Darkbane warlord, Malice eclipsed those who fell to Fiendwraith; shattered craniums to the benediction of gauntlet manifested the horror yet to reveal its true secrets and purpose.
Mists of blood and earth-shattering dimensional yawning sought to grasp the shades by its dusky throat, the servant of Ulyssiask perhaps heralded some baneful arrival. Battle-warg and fiendish cohorts howling at the flag of parley held by the Blackheilm general, Baalthus Vane, in attempt to quell the brewing conflict between the war-queen and king of kings, and even then the warlord of Nightbane, Cyan made his presence known, surrounded by legions of clashing swords and the dying. Bolstered by heavy cavalry, and squadrons of deadly scythed chariots, scimitar and halberd yielding calvary further reinforced by the imperial western frontier army of one hundred thousand highly trained Edeniac and Tenaria spearmen and archers. Never has this force met its match in battle or siege... and yet is it true that another great army stirs?
With baited breath the young seer edged forward, storm-crested eyes squinting to scathe the black mirror, looking up to the aged faced remaining hidden in the memory of its own shadows. "The outcome, master. Who left the field victorious? Who prevailed?" The mists dispersed... for now, the images fade as did the solemn form of the oracle. "That tale my boy, shall have to wait 'til another day..."
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Note: Names in bold represent [active] characters in the present scene or vicinity thereof.[/align]
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"Son of a Thelusian thrall whore" this was not going how he planned it. A moment in time but for those such as they it was eternity. His senses cast around even as he made his move. A fool made his way onto the field of battle brandishing a white flag and it took a moment for the recognition to find his mind. Alas even before that could fully register he found the others... One so like Varsinax and yet we was not and others still he had sensed in his long sleep. This was not supposed to happen the way it was and if he did not stop this now many would die. They knew not the power which would dance betwixt them, the destruction they were about to unleash. Oh how she moved a goddess of grace and poise the personification of fluid death. Nearly it was enough to cause him to falter bringing to mind another time another place whence they had met blade to blade for an entirely different purpose. The scent the allure of her sweat as they had clashed the mere thought clouding his mind with lust and remembrance.
Then there was contact. Perhaps if physics had prevailed the moment might have gone differently but his wings curved catching the inertia of his movement flinging him up over her and with a great gust he would fling himself backwards and way from her. His eyes fixed on her with such intensity. Never had he met the match for her. Never had any creature not even the allure of combat itself given him the rush that beholding her sent shivering through his very being. His eyes deep endless blues as his ancient and tattered mind drifted back unto the annuals of history to a page long fallen upon the floor and forgotten.
He saw it all in his minds eye and his heart for the first time in ages pounded inside his chest. The sweet intoxication of sweat and the fire of steel on steel. The timeless dance they had danced that day each one refusing to give any ground and in the end they had met under the stars in fated collision passion over flowing. Lips on lips, breathing each other in two beings made for one another lost in the temporary insanity of passion. The feeling overwhelmed his mind feeding unto her. He knew her as no one should for none had ever dared touch her so closely he felt passion for her that was undeniable the visions in his mind nothing less than loves heat incarnate.
Belgorion would shake his head still having not moved to meet her again. " His blood before her health, his life before her blood. Eternity at her side always her protector even if she had never needed it. This he had sworn and the oath of the bond he had given her now weighed heavily on his soul crippling his blade. " Oh bloody fucking hell " He spat as he finally completely absorbed this reality. This was supposed to be their reckoning not an all out war between nations. Nothing betwixt them could be simple. He had seen it so differently in his mind.. a ride back into the world of the living his armies to raise his city once again and a conflict between the two of them to make the spirit of war itself burn with fire and envy.
This was not that scenario his friends were going to die and Zero's arrival did not help matters. He had to end this now and he intended to in short order. He stopped it all right then, the energy the various portions of the entity had been gathering for combat grasped in his powerful will as he twisted it to other means. The Zero entity acting upon the pattern tracing the very threads of time itself beyond this life and into the other drawing in massive amounts of energy for a moment time itself would seem indeed to stand still. All three forms of entity pushing out the same energetic frequency in a tight tapestry that passed between the planes forming a planar anchor. His own will acting upon the pattern twisting it into a solid form stabilizing it as a great barrier faded through the walls of existence itself.
Graviton Polar source energy it had once been called. The result of the hyper acceleration of anti matter beyond light speeds a magnificent form of energetic solid that was near unbreakable. The field would spread out ward in self perpetuating growth driving the forces of Elrum and Ayenee apart until only he stood outside the vast area it would now occupy just staring at her unblinkingly. His words were soft for a moment. " You still move with all of the grace of death incarnate I see? There was such familiarity in his voice he did not take her lightly but it was if he felt entirely at ease in her presence and un-threatened.
He knew if she wanted she could attack him at any moment hell she might charge for his throat this instant. He just didn't care anymore it hit him so quickly he couldn't fathom it ... so long had passed and yet still the center of his universe was this woman standing before him. Even if so much of her was just gone. He couldn't see all of her behind those eyes anymore it was almost a void that sought to consume him just watching her. How had he allowed this to happen? He had been such a fool and now look at her look what this world had done to her. He should have been there by her side forever and a day and maybe just maybe that fire would remain .. that heat he had so adored. The Guardian's face would soften for a moment as he eyed her words that would make no sense to her falling from his lips. " I let you down didn't I? Look at you this is all my fault.. " He spoke his blade sheathed as his battle lust simply left him.
Never had such a look of defeat hung within his eyes. Seeing what this life had done to her was enough to crack his very heart. The wind would roar now rain falling from the sky as a single tear of ice fell from his face and shattered on the ground. Even his own armies backed away behind his barrier never having seen their leader in such a state. Only the guardians among them bowed their head in sorrowful understanding. His mother moved forward but was stalled by the hand of his father who shook his head. This was his battle no matter how much she might have wanted to take this pain from his shoulders.
What the hell did any of it matter? He was alive again but now it was only to remember why he had broken himself into pieces in the first place. Without her there was no warmth, there was no reason to fight this world was nothing to him. He walked toward her now talking absently. " You truly don't remember do you? Not a thing I don't know why I am surprised. " He said as he stopped barely out of striking distance. " How is it that once you loved me and yet there is no love in you is there? " He said asking of her a question that made him bleed inside. How could he make her see.. how could he make her understand that there was nothing but darkness without her? That only she could truly understand the twisted mass of scars he had become? That no conquest no war was worth fighting without her by his side?
The guardian would raise but a single hand the sword of Ayen coming into his hand. You couldn't tell someone they loved you. You couldn't make them feel as you did even when they were your world. He would pull from his hair the center piece to a cross amulet weaving it around the pommel of the blade before tossing it to hopefully and in the dirt some distance from her. This was the missing piece to the puzzle that had once been them. All of his memories recorded and once he had dwelled in them. Now he would no longer ware the other piece until the day she returned it to him.. the day he could call her his goddess once again.
" Long live Atra'Lamia" he said as he turned bowing his head. She could attack him and he would fight but there was something gone from him. That light and fire just was not there this was not what he had come back for. Was there nothing here for him any longer? Perhaps he should have remained dead ... indeed. He stopped short speaking over his shoulder. " I will move to the south .. in three days and begin to build defenses there .. a great enemy stirs and soon it will bring destruction to this realm not even I can prevent .. when you need me I will be here.. "
He would move through then the barriers shattering as his army fell in upon his heel. They would move some twenty miles away and set up camp. He would remain here for a time. Perhaps he was hoping she would speak to him.. perhaps he was testing the water or maybe he had just given up. He had Zero to contend with and perhaps others for the moment. There was a threat coming to this land that even the combined might of Elrum and Ayen might not be able to over throw and he had to make sure they were ready. He could not allow his heart to get in the way of that.
One might have expected him to rise to the mountain tops to brood as a down trodden god but they would have been disappointing as all too soon he found a fire and simply sipped a cup of mead. None save his father dared to approach him and then it was only briefly as he passed speaking under his breath. " Your not going to break your oath are you?" He asked and Belgorion simply shook his head to which the old man nodded and walked away. Love to a Guardian was not some fickle thing it lasted until death and beyond and of all people Belgorion would not be able to give up on it so easily but it might break him forever if he could not.
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Power is an illusion that few enjoy, yet many seek to profess.
Battle bled from one horizon to the next, as blades became a veritable whirlwind of steel, and suffering soiled the earth that many once had called their own, but the Warlord was not lost amidst this storm, not adrift within its eddies, nay he was the shore which such waves broke upon. Beyond bone and border, brick and battlement then, the demesne of the Great Devourer had been the Astral Plane for millennia now, its secrets laid bare before his lidless eyes, and sapped like succour from a still ripe vein. When Belgorion's will traversed the transient realm though, and sought to smother the prime with planar force, Malice merely inclined his head inquisitively, as his own mammoth might isolated his presence from the equation.
Despite this development, however, the Warlord did not meddle in the entity's efforts, maintaining a planar conduit to his resources within the Astral Sea, whilst other creatures were cowed by the majesty of the Guardian's machinations, a feat that, whilst impressive, would prove futile in the end. Men often courted Atra'lamia, caught like moths within the flame of her features, and yet the bond that the Warlord and Queen of Darkbane shared, was unlike the fleeting fallacies that such suitors clung to. Whilst Cyan, and even Belgorion themselves may have entertained such fantasies then, Malice's purpose was something far more sinister, a pact whose runes had been wrought long before Ayenee fell, and Elrum mustered such a military to oppose it. Instead of interfering in Atra's affairs, like so many others were want to do of late, the Great Devourer indulged his martial prowess, employing a sword now to cleave flesh, much as he did to destroy deities as well, for Malice had always favoured a good melee. Wielding his weapon with inhuman ease then, the Warlord tarried outside the vortex itself, witnessing the Queen's skill manifest, whilst he busied himself with lesser foes, at least for now.
First came a trio of challengers, bravado bolstered by Belgorion's rousing speech, warriors who sought to overwhelm the Warlord, but found ruin upon his blade none the less, as the juggernaut deftly side-stepped a spear that sought his chest. Utilising the assailant's momentum against them, Malice employed a swift riposte, allowing his foe's gait to veritably compel their frame toward FiendWrath's ravenous tip. Position remained key in this endeavour though, and so when the remaining duo's diligence led them to ensue, blades bared and ready, they found their compatriot's corpse drinking deep of their blows, interceding as it was between the bulk of Malice and their roving wrath. Next came the Ankharu's response, as humble flick led their wrist to twist, exploiting their harrowing reach to slice their opponent's hand from their arm, as casually as a farmer might reap stalks of corn with their scythe, for war was this monster's metier, and they began to hew a bitter harvest that day. Disarmed and discarded then, Malice dispatched this foe with a formidable backhanded slash, inverting rather than impeding the previous trajectory of FiendWrath's path, and thereby delivering a fatal flourish to the creature's femoral artery, before advancing upon their ally anew. The last note of this scuffle's song came in the moments that ensued, as the final quarry in the quartet unleashed a flurry of desperate strikes, meeting Malice's shield with each and every stroke until, after toying with the swordsman for several seconds, the fiend felled them with a single thrust. It had all been a matter of imposing his shield against the weapon of his foe, Malice supposed, as he reflected upon the incident afterwards, a decisive instant, when the warrior's blade became obsolete and the Warlord calmly penetrated his adversary's guard, piercing the tender skin beyond and gutting the guardian like a butcher might a pig.
Before he could relish this encounter further, however, a peculiar aroma wafted its way into his bestial nostrils, a scent that stunk of Baator and conjured a memory from within the depths of Malice's mind. So keen were the Warlord's senses though, that whilst the smell was certainly familiar, a distinction was discerned from that of Varsinax's own, after all Malice had banished the Overlord himself, those long years ago in Castle Ayenee, and so well knew that Zero was but a doppelganger in disguise. Curiosity clawed at his consciousness, as he wondered why only now this imposter emerged, when many years had passed since Varsinax last cursed the realm with their presence, and so he approached the fray with interest, absently shattering a soldier's sternum with his shield as he went and inferring that there lay far more power behind his bulk than his skill belied. Rather than dwindling though, like a star scorched from heaven by its splendour, the energy that encompassed the Warlord seemed to actually multiply now, as his proximity to the ballad of Belgorion and Atra was threatened once again.
Elrum's envoy sought to strip their surroundings of their strength, yet Malice had remained undaunted, and now as their fervour failed, they sought to separate tides of flesh like some proverbial red sea, a task that again the Warlord would defy, though not through effort or even necessity. Harnessing anti-matter was a dangerous feat, a thing that proved folly for those who dabbled without care, but Belgorion was not the first to delve such depths that day, for Malice had shrouded himself in sentience long before battle came to these fields, had bent beings to his will whose life now endured, through sacrilegious symbiosis. When energy encroached upon his position then, a smile curled at the corners of Malice's mouth, as his Abyssal Aura crept from the edges of reality and made itself manifest. Hewn from the Negative Energy Plane itself, this beast simply sapped the solidity of the wall from his vicinity, actively intercepting its attempt to materialize upon the prime and converting its caress into one that bolstered, rather than battered Malice's body.
Much like Belgorion's previous conjurations though, the Warlord again made no move to prevent it from affecting others, silhouetted as he was against the backdrop of bodies, but instead remained a stone that split the stream asunder, letting any in his wake endure the full brunt of Belgorion's blight, whilst his gaze remained fixed upon the proceedings, malevolent, merciless, and ever hungry.
In the interests of clarity, Malice's aura is constantly active, as per his character sheet, and therefore not only intercepts the particular portion of Belgorion's wall that would inevitably meet Malice, but actively impedes that section of energy from solidifying, thereby preventing a small alcove from forming. Since his aura is, in essence, composed of sentient anti-matter itself though, it also utilises the sudden influx of energy to bolster its own presence, and thereby that of its master as well.
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[align=center]â... A long time ago upon a time, receding to the beginning of an era.
When there was no one but you and me- again and again we have been separated.
I still believe in your unyielding splendour, even though you no longer believe in mine... â
From Hell is Within You, Atra (Contessa) [Dy]
* .w. .o. .r. .l. .d. .s. . . .c. .o. .l. .l. .i. .d. .e. *[/align]
[align=right]__x__x. finale.[/align]
Impetuous, the deluging and rampant waters of time cascade through all of existence, quietly singing the omnipotent and hallowed hymns of an undying eternityâs footsteps none could follow. The sorrows of man and immortal alike echoed through the fabrics of mere millennia, deafening to their own masterminded plots and pantheons but unheard by the vast coerced emptiness of father time. Life without death could not be beautiful, a concept lost unto many souls seeking their bleak and meager shot at the labyrinths of an ever-changing river of godhood. From the man aspiring to be as a god to the mere children laboriously worshipping their inexistent deity, gleamingly hopeful to sit beside a throne that could never be - all would succumb to the end of each and every falsehood. Time is naught but a fearful idea bred and brooded by the hordes of mortals, washing upon the shores of a far greater thing they could never hope to aspire toward or comprehend when they washed only upon the shores of their own subconscious and never farther, never lesser - the vicious cycle, so beautiful⦠so endlessly dying.
In this world or another, there certainly would be no exceptions, despite the esteems so many would hold their reflection in. While a storm approaches and the cauldron burns lively once more, an odious being would breathe the fiery taste of this world again; and even he would be no exception.
Alek, the dainty man - more thing than man, but man nonetheless - among valorous titans of war and legions quaking the earthen soils to its tectonic bones, stood fast and quieted. A plethora of images swept before his eyes, the undertaking of greatness preceding a warfront and a colossal letdown that would suddenly aspire to deflate egos and deny triumphant war cries of their chance to ride the winds. Heâd hardly gone unnoticed, but he was certainly unidentified and unrelated. Far be it from his will or capability to deny prying eyes of truth - he stood as but a cadaver, a puppet whose strings pulled and taunted his every decision. Behind pools of calm rested a vestige of more ancient evil, primordial, chthonic in spirit - a raging anger forever insatiable. And as the daunting allure of tidal-war sweeping in and ebbing away in a single fleeting moment, grandiose though it may be, more awaited this day. Pale, dried and nearly blistered flesh parted as breath ushered a strained voice through thoughtless apertures.
âAre you sated, or do you crave more?â As monotonous and unbearable emotionless as it could be asked, Alek spoke those words without intention to be audible to more than those intended. He stood nowhere near even the intended audience, and to most it would be meaningless; but to one, it would signify importance to a memory likely all but forgotten. Such a simple thing with such relevance, spoken when it should not be known by any - they were alone that day. Alek could not possibly know that conversation on his own, but he was hardly on his own.
[align=center]- WITCHKING OF THE COLD MOUNTAINS -[/align]
Awoken without significance to the day, brought forth from slumber by the tenebrous darkness, lithesome and caressing. Heâd ached a mortal pain once, but shed those miseries and awoke a God among mere boys - fewer men than eclipses witnessed in his lifetime, aphotic oceans of swirling death gazing upon the world and casting little more than judgement and bitter distaste - nightmarish eyes safeguarding the window to the inner temple of uncompromising apocalypse waiting to unfurl upon the tapestries of every unremitting world deserving of such a fitting fate. Ulyssiask had walked as a man among men, strolling the stone streets of a kingdom that couldnât recall him in a world thatâd made sure to forsake him. Heâd witnessed things just as they were prophesied, the footsteps of man in the sandy shores of time washed away by the tide. Heâd hardly left an imprint on the world and lost all that he coveted above everything.
He tired of toiling with mankind, ever weary of the ceaseless indignity they represented. And while he rested himself against cold stone, defiantly proclaiming and acting as something he was not and never could be, troubles stirred and the cauldron stirred. Heâd graced the gardens and tomb of Illias, but not gone uninterrupted; but his short time there, among the ruins, caught to cure the illness plaguing her sacred resting place. Ruins and decrepit gardens were not suitable for her to lie peacefully for the long sleep, and his presence commenced a change. Plant life flourished, flowers and roses of all manner and colour graced the ruins with magnificent beauty that would not go unnoticed. Theyâd soon realize the only possible connection and question him. And when one such guard did approach and question him, sooner than expected nonetheless, every inkling of the fullest extent of his thaumaturgical reach would pry loose from cold restraints. With an outstretched hand, a summons issued and from deep with locked chambers, âSentizaâ would stir and answer that call - psionic will allowing it to rip asunder walls and all in its way until in his grip.
In time, heâd become known as the Witchking, retreating from mankind and settling upon a stone throne deep within cavernous maws of Northern mountains. Man come to his doorstep, toe of the mountainous rocks heaving heavenward their infinite mass of unforgiving edges and alcoves, time and time again to wage war against that which they did not understand. And again and again, he would pound a staff against stone floors of the cavern and watch as men turned to ash, entire fields and armies reduced. He offered no explanation, and they held no sway - none of this world would ever offer what he desired or aspired toward.
Over time, it changed him, and he grew only darker, afflicted by so many things - the dark arts, âsentizaâ, solitude. His left had grew demonically and draconically misshaped, disfigured albeit subtle in darkness. Fingers curled more, nails turned to claw, his left hand casted the most venomous and dangerous spells, arcane and ritualistic musings inflicted upon the winds of ether by its touch, dually tangible and incorporeal. Eventually, as fallen souls culminated the barren fields beyond the base of the mountains, heâd tug at their essence to raise from the dead a single man each from dozens - undead shells to do his biddings. Alek, one of seven servants through the eyes of which Uly would stare upon worlds near and afar. Heâd sent them to search for his answers, and wait for far longer than he should. And in time theyâd return to him gifts, otherworldly items he held interest in.
Alek become perhaps his favorite when returning from such a foreign world dauntless with a cursed Gauntlet of Morg, a peerless assembly of demonic metallics possessed with spirits and power wildly beyond the understanding of mortal men who oft-times tried to tame its devilish taints. Uly would augment the gauntlet with his own powers and a shard of his own âsoulâ, quintessence of ungodly decadence. Heâd become far less a man, more a monster⦠ancient evil in the eyes of man, a devil cast out, set aside and all but forgotten - a whisper in the night, a horror story to tell children before bed, a rumor preying on the ears of eager men willing to disprove its merits. And heâd feast upon every soul that wandered in those dark caverns, not thirsty to drink blood, but always hungering for another soul to feast upon - just as the Gauntlet of Morg hungered, just as Sentiza ab Badon hungered, just as the wickedness that dwelt within him always would.
Heâd slumped against stone for so long, staring into a black pool through which he watched the worlds while surrounded by rot, lingering miasma and mephitic fumes of decay - bones piled and flesh wilting like a flower in a winter storm, overwhelmed by the petulance of spilled blood. Heâd waited for so long. And then Alek spoke, breaking a silence that made Uly cringe in due time; but Alek spoke those words, and he saw what Alek saw so distantly, so obscured and blurry.
No barrier could stop what was coming, no resistance would prove more than futile. Ulyssiask was coming, as sure as the night is dark. And with a single blink, the cavern would collapse to rubble. And heâd bring with him every soul heâd devoured, every soul laid to waste upon the battlefields of old, every lost soul at the foot of the mountains, every power and every hunger he possessed. Heâd bring with him plague and darkness.
[align=center]- UPSURGE, THE SECOND COMING -[/align]
Respectively, continued from the following: AtGoH (At the Gates of Hell) | Upsurge; Hellâs Gates | Hell is Within You; Ceko & Ayenee | Whence Evil Awaits.
[align=center]⦠Hell in Heaven â¦[/align]
In the very instant that Alek spoke those seemingly harmless words, Uly stretched abroad his might. The planes were for walking, rifts for destroying, gates for permission. Through the infinite expanse of the worlds within this existence or another, best summarized by some as a multiverse of sorts, Uly extended his reach and will in duality, exerting his power against the walls of every known dimension and making known his ominous presence. A ruse of omnipotence reminiscent of gods long dead would lead many astray, shedding his mortal image and portraying him as the immortal heâd become, but far from indestructible.
Near to where Alek stood, mephitic wafts arose and ash poured from the sky, fragments of elements unknown to this world raining down with dulcet whispers lingering on the air and cursed auras of every imaginable perversion adrift, ripe and alive as atmospheric energies surged to incandescent life. Akin to a fallen meteorite or the prodigal son, fallen angel and morning star cast from the heavens unto the unforgiving maws and deserts of earth - a deafening clash against the ground trembled the earth and ruptured the sky without familiarity or fire to light the path. Heâd tear no rift, walk no plane or transcend no dimensional gateway known to most, but bend the very ebbing boundaries of every known dimension and realm to transpose himself without the impending dooms and cataclysms associated with ripping dimensions apart for minuscule purposes.
Ulyssiask came to form without hesitation, no need to declare his arrival or grandeur. Heâd rise, plumes of cosmic darkness dancing around his body with every breath, back arching and knees bent as he leaned backward deeply, chest outstretched and arms reaching with elbows bent and fingers curling inward to clench with all of his strength. With neck bent and head dipping toward toward his own spine, heâd roar with pain and anger. Heâd grown dark hair nearly shoulder length. His skin had paled from prior darker tan of the battlefields, long since changed from the glory days of war and mortality, though still darker than most. His left hand appeared utterly demonic, tips pointed sharply and scars ascending the length of his wrist and forearm, while his right remained intact and heavily clad by the Gauntlet of Morg, a ghoulish beast of metallic wonders engraved with scratches and scars all its own. Upon the gauntlet rested three black gems - plague, sous, and the demons of Morg,respectively. And around the wrist a wreathing swirl of dark matter never still, always circling and seemingly disruptive to immediately surrounding particulate and gravitational field - a familiar power imbued with darkness and mystery, hiding somewhere beneath an unfathomable cloak a most ancient weapon perhaps even she feared or respected; one impossibly claimed from a long forgotten temple where the first fell - a place sheâd remember all too easily, a place they once dwelt in a moment of intimacy.
Heâd rise to full stature, asserting a leisurely gait to climb from the pit around him and stand upon hill, glancing down and across to the direction of all that occurred while old pits of blackness full of hatred and anger stared, stark and cold but reminiscent of something far more intangible.
âI am⦠only a man,â coy and tempting, mellifluously spoken while quoting himself, another part of the same conversation Alek referenced. If she remembered him, and every moment theyâd spent together for better or worse, she would surely find those words compelling, a mock of a falsehood spoken though true it may have once been or at least felt. Our realities and truths differ accordingly. Sheâd once asserted that she knew which of the evils she chose, âbut my beloved King, do you know of yours?â He never straightly answered her, but this day⦠sheâd surely know by itâs close.
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··Is ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛɪᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs﹐ ᴛᴏ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ·s ɪɴᴇϙᴜɪᴛʏ﹐ ᴏʀ ʙᴇɴᴇғɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴜᴛᴡᴇɪɢʜ ɪᴛs ʟᴏss﹖ I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʀᴇᴛʀɪᴇᴠᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇss ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʟᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ﹐ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴇʟᴅ ɴᴏᴡ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs﹐ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ɪs ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ... ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ.··
As if Belgorion was the very air itself, and moved ethereally with a distinguished grace. Bellipotent draught scathing Atra's opaline impeccable, regal and imposing features. Storm and war gathering spools of moon-shadow black hair, gaze lost in the opalesque furls of her own hair. Rippling fluctuations of flame and quintessence crashing against the elements that dared challenge the energies in conflict, spanning outwards and tapering on the threshold of tridimensions. Energies that conflicted with that of her own, vorticose and equally authoritativeâsounds whirling in disaccord, their cantillating shrill overtones too sung on the winds that assailed all in the carnivorous tide. Phantasmal emanations streamed from her form, in reverie to the storms of ashes that fall upon fair meadows, the beckoning avenues that lead to the horror of hellish dimensions.
Aesthetically primed, stance again shifting, placing agility to sinuous hip in the recoil when apex of weapon had missed its target. Atra'Lamia didn't pivot to face Belgorion directly, and cast the side of demurred cheek to rest against left shoulder. Fingernails resembling furian claws sharply tapped against the hilt of the sword, fist staining to the whiteness of bone beneath translucent flesh clenching it firmer in grasp, gleaming in a cold affection. Momentum force flicking the sword upwards, adroitly rising it just past the adjacent shoulder then swinging it around at an 'orderly' and 'close' 180 degree arch. Bringing the right flank of blade around with a flamboyant rotation at the wrist, in unison, lithe body nimbly following from hip and torso.
Responsive and flexible, balletic in elegant twist into a refined, poised step. Saving the theatrics of some moronic spin for the thespian. Never leaving back exposed, again Atra faced Belgorion, maintaining a strong defense and him 'on point'â potency to dismember reason, quicker than a wasp could sting. Atra'Lamia wasn't prancing around, or performing eccentric feats of aeronautics though pondering chosen defences an interesting tactic. Thoughtful reflection danced conservatively over his striking features with deadly starless daggers. Words designed to stir drifted on a seraphic-consonant melody, "A blade should never be swung, and it not bless its purpose in the sacred wine's of battle. Why cease the dance just because the music has changed?" Murderous orchids contorting into a cynical leer chasing the last lingering, rolling pronunciation intended to reach out... caress the provocation of the fight⦠instead it was thrown against the howling winds that shrieked already of hex and baneful tidings.
"Pity he did not obey the thirst of his own steel." Ushered through the dark labyrinths of psyche, the air heavy and oppressive... steadily congealing and curdling. Shadows trembling where they extended out from their coffers of flesh and bone. Their stillness more terrible than the Wraiths, whose rent claws tore somnolent warriors limb from limb. Strange melodies existed in the wind; reality itself collapsed within a thin veil of black breath; oblivion itself gaping like a ruptured orifice in its ravenous vitriol. Streams of zibeline ebony flowed to conceal flawless monochromatic beauty, except those lustrous asphodel lanterns glaring out from behind cascading aphotic mantles of darkness. "... try not to be bumptious; I grant a lesser credence to the intrigue, let alone than that of nostalgia." A sound of bile hissed nefariously on venomous lung... dissatisfaction when movement came forth, 'on point' of blade not abating aim signifying intent to pluck the Adam's Apple from its hearth. "Did you come here to fight, or woo with cavalier flowery words, of pietyâ¦the departed and flames of remembrance?"
Salacious timbre oozed with acidic cadence, rippling through the coerced tempered atmosphere as the firmament opened above them. Beads of rain luminous, black jewels darker than the blackest of Acheron's rivers. Rolling thunder shaking the world's axis in ear-splitting crescendos, reverberating down hump-backed Alps, across valley and vale. Erzulie-painted was Atra's features in the pallid light between sporadic flashes of lightening; saturated hair clinging tight against bodice and over one clad shoulder, trailing down, over tourniquet of pelt and chain. In a disembodied, other-worldly soft emphasis she spoke, "I believe the King to be a poet!". The only of ineffable thing about visible demeanour was the cinder-like smoldering glyphs and translucent sigils forming intricate patterns across flesh, entwining beneath the tautness of attire. Elaborate cuneiform inscriptions projecting an elusive phosphorescent flame of the overshadowed moon, entombed by eventideâs phantasmal death-shroud.
Faintly igniting, flickering tween flocculent ebonized fires [AterIgnisâ Sanctus Incendia], dancing along tapered limbs, hues of frost and fen-light with dim spectral blues. Insidious but indistinct waves of frost-fire rippling outwards from Atra's form. Albeit, dead-pan expression gave nothing away in regards to how his quintessence stirred something within, nor his poignant speech and chosen path not to give himself or his sword's conviction⦠irritated her. Any reaction, kept perfectly hiddenâand the only true manifest of interaction would be what dialogue subsequently followed in calm riposte. "Apologies?" Lips of sculpted rubies that soon bore the smile of jest, before additional speech flowed as wine and the sanguine raptures of her last victim's recesses. "You speak as if you are my Creator, gravely thwarted by all the death and carnage, cleaved in the name of the forgotten. You dare shame me, with what⦠an apology?"
Already knowing the answer, choral recollections of legend and epic boisterous orchestras of some monumental affection, 'sung' through the 'revered' lachrymiform amulet worn. Dark philosophy lost in the haze. Nevertheless since memory had granted Atra'Lamia tribute, of the talisman forever been suspended around her exquisite swan-like nape. Oracular visions tugged on gilded pearlescent strands of cognizance and recallâ where reminiscence purified itself of an adiamorphic Lethe's poisoned waters. He posed a magnetism she regarded quite problematical. An acclaimed and passionate love, the King of King's vaguely spoke of, utterly divergent in comparison to the grotesquery countless had attributed her. Atra'Lamia, the Battle-Raven, whose blades that had clashed with some of the mightiest lord, and whose gauntlet had harvested a myriad of souls and skulls used to construct the spires of Blackheilm charred black from its uncounted aeons... had known the entity accosted as 'love'?
Canting features to the side when the Sword of Ayenee and some fragment of himself was thrown to the wet earth, causing multiple questions to boil to the surface. Those question would wait for a more opportune time, and not during the heat of warfare. Observing all who gathered around Belgorion bearing either a sense of fealty or family, Atra gave a decline of features; a respectful nod and left the rest to the shadows. Left armoured hand outstretched palm in command of the swarming hordes of shadows to retrieve the weapon. Penumbra adumbration coiling around the consecrated blade like gossamer serpents. So subtle in influence that may have been considered 'affectionate' to any who lay to witness it. "Long Live AtraâLamia!" No sooner it was wrapped in that embrace of darkness, disappearing when the shades dispersed only to manifest in ardent left hand's grip. "Indeed", was the reply in sultry verse. Posture not lowering itself, remaining tall and arrogant⦠and for the entirety of the encounter. Intense focus never moving from Belgorion, but at the same time perceptions soared, unhampered across the 'Killing Fields', invisible were the spectral blades of pure intent, slicing against throats like a violinist would, with deft bow in strike against strings.
Matter and energy, wholly diverse from every subterranean, celestial and terrestrial states and forms gathered. Animate planar influences, amplified by countless metaphysical layered folds (creating a paradox of precarious intensity) and the dynamics of those too who were proximate, unleashed their theurgies with a great proficiency. As did the formidable Warlord, 'The Great Devourer' whose sword and prowess had never met its equal in dexterity or ferocity. Smiting bodies left and right, a head falling with each swing of Fiendwraith. Having cleaved a tremendous swath through many Kingdoms and armies, and now the Northern Dogs of Rhydin. Donning the flayed skin and skulls of the fallen, and in many infamous legend, as a fearsome God of War. A storm of shafts screaming form yew-bows, through armoured ranks, hitting true their marks in scores hundreds.
Towers of flesh toppled, drowning in a staggering sea of crimson mixed with the tears of the Gods, the crown of the heavens bent low in genuflect of weeping. Atra'Lamia watched Belgorion leave, thoughts were not given even a voice within the chaotic disquiet⦠giving a nod to the one that bore the likeness of Varsinax, knowing it was not. There was one item noted during the brevity of ebonized glance. An artifact given as a 'gift' did not adorn this ArchDevil with the prestige and esteem treasured by the Overlord. Regard given its due, and of course interest perked in curiosity to the nature's of reason or agenda.
Dual-armed with ensorcelled swords of dark-fable. Returning back into the tempest of conflict with the searing kiss of deadly steel, supping deep of the grim chalice of battle. Swifter than the arrows, and more bloodthirsty than the unfettered dread war-wolves with reddened jaws, silver grinned through the killing chill. Turning aside a vicious swordthrust, the Sword of Ayen snaked immediately out in deadly arc to hew the neck of the attacker. Iron head rending armour and biting deep into flesh in a deluge of dark claret. With another brutal impetus, applying strength into the pressure, sundering skull with a deathly blow, he fell to the ground in death-kneel, spilling steaming contents to the wilted-heather earth. Storm and hail extol their ancient laurels as did the fallen. Blood dripping from frost-encased sword, forming a crimson blossom upon the ice from the elements in entropic seizure.
Removing the leathered amulet, wrapping around slender wrist still yielding the Ayen blade (discoloured with the blood of a thousand foes) there was not many a sword with its repute, holding it bore a significant responsibility. Even its weight was heavier than her customary melee accoutrements. Standing there midst the massacre, senses awash in the intoxication of the fleeting souls still struggle to hold onto their shattered, earthly bodies. Predilection shattering like glass against granite... for each pellucid crystalline shard, a phantom memory glimmered of a former time. In that instant of awakening, an undeniable notion arose to disentangle beloved lavaliere, and cast unto the mire, lost for an eternity. Even though the urge had appeal, it had an prophetic embittered truth sewn intricately within her own epitome that was difficult to discard let alone disregard.
Finding saddle for a second time, the shadowmare warhorse drenched in the glamour of sorcery, materializing on this 'Fleshplane' like any other Calvary mount on the field, except for its impressive bulk and celerity. Manoeuvring unhindered through the enmities throng, spiked barding piercing a few strandard men, burnished black mithril metal croupier slick with vermillion; with lifeblood and the lifeless yet twitching marionettes of horror. Riding out to seize one of the Ayenee emblazoned silken banner's held in the clutched hand of its dead herald. Soldiers had lost their way in the disorientation of battlemagic and the condensing fogs, moving steadily unaware into the awaiting waylay of the Crimson Emperor's jaws. With the golden and red draconic banner of Ayenee attached to spear, and the Sword of Ayen held high to the bedimmed skies ensphered by sorcery and funereal effluvium. âMen of Ayenee, reap the slaughterous harvest sown...may your blades drink deep.â Passing the banner to a wounded warrior, then leading the thousand besotted warriors forth into where the fogs and fight was at its thickest.
Copperish aroma of vitae hung heavy on talons of storm-song, charred flesh; cadaveric incensed tendrils interwove betwixt Thanatonian clandestine rites. Sibilant shadows danced behind vesper-veils before fading again into the white nothingness. Cloying darkness closed in, flanking all inside its tenebrous embrace, bringing with it an uneasy sense of tenseness alongside the heartbeats of men echoing in thunderous din. Dark chants breathed throughout the cauldron's nebulous brume. What humanity this amorphous form perchance once possessed, was no longer remotely human, giving libation in a language never meant for mortal ears. Ensuingly, the discarnated tongues were stilled by the clangourous shutting of some massive portal, ringing across the fields from the fields, like the black gates of a cyclopean pit slammed against the dimming light shredding sanity into tattered wisps. âI am⦠only a manâ¦â.
Leather audibly constricting, hips squeezed back into the mount, left hand gripping the black rawhide reins wrapping the whipped lengths around bare knuckles before leaning forwards on elbows attentively listening. Long lithesome limbs pinned against the ornamental display of her stallions armour in shameless lean. Right hand gripping the hilt of sword firmer, adamant that it was about to strike mercilessly with all the fire assumed to have been extinguished or phlebotomized akin to desires and aspirations, of violent longings checked and frozen in their course. "No man is ever, just a man." Altercation privileged to no vocal mantra, aside from the change in the miasma's behaviour... descending to cloak their numbers at the subtlety of a fingers gesture; the heady scent of battle beckoning.
They had gone too far these Northron invaders, with their imperial Chimera emblem which they dared display in the manner of acclaimed superiority. Pompously laying claim Ayenee soil as their own. Marching across kingdoms and villages, expanding their empire all for the greater glory. Succession in the name of a vain and debauched emperor, reclining upon his ivory throne in the heart of sweltering Rhydin, not even accompanying his loyal men into battle.
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A span of moments only had vanished buried twixt the disquiet of shadows dancing and energies thwarting natures oblivious cares. A span of moments that in the heat of battle may well of been years, but to his advantage he remained on the feral nightmare that was his steed and while he had been absent, the accumulated body parts around indicated, that it had devoted tooth and claw to the desecration of anyone foolish enough to get near. Senses snapping to alert almost audibly, eyes scanning the field noticing that in his absence things had moved briskly, fingers dancing sending tendril of shadow into the ground to detect and advise of what had transpired.
A snort as nostrils flared, pondering for a moment what had so overloaded his senses, then sniffing more deeply, the richness of shades ambience in what Atra'Lamia had conjured, perhaps had taken him into the nulled zone that existed twixt shade and light... Something to break down after the drums had stopped. For now snap decisions had to be made. Gestures to aides getting forces moving to support those of Atra, screams, blood filling the air in sanguineous haze knowledge returning from tendrils indication Belgorion for now had left the battlefield and the Sword of Ayenee was in Atra'Lamia's hands. Others had come, beings of legend in war, Malice, Ulyssiask and one whom he paused in recognition, was that the Overlord himself on the field... A rare day indeed this one... But his focus was on the battle for these could take care of themselves.
Hands rising in ancient gesture, not bothering with drawing a sword from shadows edge, considering the ecstasy of penumbra flowing like virgins tears across the ambience instead hands stretching apart a heavy war bow and a quarrel of slender shade formed arrows. Grabbing an arrow and in single motion, drawing bow arrow twisting in heavy fingers to lay in alignment with targets. Releasing the arrow and in single motion gathering another redrawing, firing again, and again. Targeting not the person as such, but the dark obsidian twists of shade would pierce their shadows, rupturing them, tearing them from their physique and mortality.
Mortals didn't realise the shadow had weight and influence on their person, well they didn't until their shadows died , suddenly they found their throats closing in terror, their hearts spiralling in rhythmic cacophonous insanity until they burst. It would have a differing effect on those whom wielded potence, but to mortals it was a brutal death. On those of power if unnoticed it may cause harm eventually, but usually simply pinned their shade in place. Of course if they cast no shadow, then it was rather a pointless exercise in futility.
Then he heard the battle call, the portentous words raised above the din of doomed souls eradication "Men of Ayenee, reap the slaughterous harvest sown...may your blades drink deep" in the tones that had commanded spirits, souls, death and doom throughout time, and with a flip of his wrist, the bow would vanish replaced by a sword of ancient shadows blending and raising the weapon in salute to Atra'Lamia he would leap from his steed and dive forth into the melee, voice raised in tumultuous roar "FOR AYENEE" . Later when the arena was cleared he would concern himself with what had drawn this contention, for now, he danced with blade swinging, his steed off to the side, rending enemies limb to limb as he sliced and diced his way through those foolish enough to perform the Dance Macabre with a Shadowlord whom was angered.
((OOC Note -It's late and I am not 100% satisfied, but it got him back in the scene))
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Years by the hundreds passed in darkness, alone in unending regret as he tangled with the monster his mind had become. Oh how her face had brought him such misery and yet such hope. How did something so jaded and broken love? How could a heart made not even of flesh feel anything? The idea was preposterous and yet he did.
Age upon age of conflict he had seen. Written by his hand the destruction of entire civilization. In all of that time his only companion had been the sweet chaos of war. Never had there been a single thing which had ever understood his lust for battle.. The fire that drove him deep inside. He had been the supreme being upon the road of conquest and at his hand all others had fallen.
Then as he weaved his web this time playing the roll of hero in the lands of Ayenee she had come into his world. Beautiful and deadly, a creature without equal at times not even he could match her grace. In battle she had intoxicated him, entangled his every sense for the first time in all of his ages the king of kings had felt as if he were not alone as if perhaps the road of conquest could be a road reserved for two.
In his minds eye he could still see the fire that burned in her as she fought, it brought his inner inferno to a blaze. She had never been a conquest or something for him to own. No Atra was something he had never thought would exist. A sweet exquisite darkness which embraced his own, drew from him a level of strength even he never knew he possessed. With her at his side there was no sorrow, there was no conflict about who he was .. There was just them and the world that would kneel at their feet.
How he had lost her he would never know, for it never made sense to him.. One minute she had been there and then he had been cast aside. He had been a fool of course, his rage had taken him.. Never had he made an attempt to understand.. Realizing he would lose himself .. and destroy everything including her he too drastic measures.
He had severed his own being into three pieces and isolated his consciousness.. knowing that only for her would he ever return to the mortal realm. By his own hand he had removed himself from her memory. Never had he known darkness like a world without her .. A world in which there was no sound .. no thrill of battle nothing .. Just the thought of the piece of him which was forever missing without her by his side. Even without a body all of this time he had bled out with longing for her.
Now all of the pieces had come together and he was returned to this world. His only thoughts of her of that which he needed even more than he needed batttle, even more than conquest. There was nothing equal in his mind to the woman he had just confronted and what he saw in her face had shattered him.
This was his fault if only he had been stronger , controlled the rage inside him maybe he would not have seen her this way.. so much of her damaged he had been a fool.
Now as the the once destroyer of worlds stared off into the distance he was lost and more than anything he was angry. He had come here to play a role .. The great fucking hero but what was the point if he didnât have her? He could only hope she would come to him.. He could not tell her she loved him.. you could never do that and AtraâLamia was a beautiful dark flame which even the thought of trying to tame would only spoil.. She was so beautiful when the world knelled at her feet.
â Ay lord Belgorion ⦠are we to camp do we have orders?â His eyes would shoot upward narrowing on the man before him. Kail Tmarka once one of his best Cavalry generals in the era of Elrum .. and he was about to return to the world of the dead ⦠before he could move. No blade would sound, nothing but the subtle flick of a wrist as the entity lashed outward and the fools eyes widened in horror. Blackness nearly engulfed him but as fast as the strike was Belgorion was not prepared for the resounding clap of thunder that struck driving the darkness away. When he rose he would be face to face with the massive form of the Guardian of war the crimson thunder Calchulain.
He was a mountain of a man seven feet tall, over five hundred pounds of solid and deceptive muscle. One who assumed this man slow would end up with a blade across their throat he was a master with the great spear that hung at his side. Belgorion would laugh the sort of insidious thing that turned a human soul to ice but the big man just stared back at him.
â Guardians we be needin to gatha .. hes losing it â¦. The madness has him⦠â The madness .. something all Guardians feared. The bond a guardian felt with his mate was sacred and deep beyond any comprehension of what a mortal would call love. Without their other half Guardians went insane and usually died in battle swinging their blade until nothing was left. The king was spiraling into that abyss. Without her the world was shit .. without her touch at his side.. without the fire in her eyes this world might as well be ash.
They all gathered now the Guardianâs of his race. His mother stepping forward of all people first her raven hair blowing in the wind. His father tried to stop her but would soon find himself spun and crashing into the ground looking up at the purple hued katana that rested in her hand. â This is for me to do ⦠â She said as she leaped off of her left foot charging him her blade lashing out as if she mean to cleave his very arm from his body.
They would meet in a flurry of blade as Belgorion struck hers aside and she pressed him hard strike after strike bringing flames to the air as they danced across the ground. â Do you want death boy ⦠DO YOU WANT IT AS I FOUND IT? !! She roared at him as she lashed out landing a solid kick to his face that sent him flying backwards.
Belgorion would laugh as his nose crunched the entity swarming around his face repairing it even before he stopped his backward momentum⦠â Death mother â¦.do you not understand .. there is no death for me? You cant kill me .. no one can ⦠â He roared as if his mental state had shattered. Then he became death incarnate. She lept at him but there was such coldness in the way he turned her blade running it up the seem of her armor sending her toppling to the ground a great spray of crimson behind him.
Then they were on him Calchulain and his father like rage born into flesh. His blackened blade clashed upon ethereal green stone⦠Thunder rained down upon him but even as it burned the collective healed his wounds. He stepped through it grasping Calchulain by his throat flinging him into the air. His father was next his blade piercing Belgorions armor.
The sweet embrace of pain radiating through him the blade marred his form he just stared at it. Thousands swarming around it in black disease. He walked up it driving it deeper through his body his palm striking his father hard enough to shatter his armor then pivoting to drive him directly into the ground.
When would they learn the tainted one would scoff at their pathetic attempts at halting him⦠He was the king of kings .. The greatest warrior in all of existence and were once perhaps they had been his match in another life.. Now their puny arms were just too short to reach the pale flesh of the god of destruction and war.
Such simplicity he grasped the atoms of a single blade of grass, so vibrant and full of life. He caressed it with his mind feeling the energy surge through it and seizing control of the Zen he let the force of creation radiate through the Exodium drawing its particles to him. Tracing a great pattern through the thread of this blade of grass splitting its particles and as the atoms found themselves separate what would come was akin to the power of those of the first age .. The wrath of the gods in the form of an atom .. only it would be countless numbers of them simultaneously split .. Energized by the force of creation.
His fingers played across the cords disrupting both time and space and for a moment perhaps the great destroyer lived again. He longed for the screams, the dust of the fallen floating aimlessly through the universe. Then as if to defy his will her visage appeared in his mind. The scent of her, the very energy about her the intoxication that was her .. if he obliterated this place it might harm her ⦠he ⦠could not.
His hands would fall as he simply dropped right there pulling from beneath his armor a flask and started to drink. His eyes cast outward as he beheld the battle far in the distance. The threads danced entwined in an endless struggle and to him hers was beyond easy to pick out the most beautiful to him in all of creation.
He was merely an observer ⦠but he knew all in her path would die .. No action from his blade would be needed. He simply watched now even as dark seduction incarnate was mounted again her fury set upon the battle field . Perhaps there was a time for this but he would have to wait for now he would not cast his dye in this war not until the two of them had spoken. All around him the guardians mended their wounds but none held malice for they had all seen the madness in their time and it was a hard and cold thing to overcome ..one few ever did.