Memory rises. ( Elrum Reborn?)

[Dyshanka]

··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 authoritative—sounds 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'— 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 piety…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 eventide’s phantasmal death-shroud.

 Faintly igniting, flickering tween flocculent ebonized fires [AterIgnis— 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 hidden—and 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 recall— 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 Atra’Lamia!" 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. “Men of Ayenee, reap the slaughterous harvest sown...may your blades drink deep.”  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. “I am… only a man…”.

 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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[Baalthus_Vane]

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))

[Guardian]

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 didn’t 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 Atra’Lamia 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.


  “ Ay lord Belgorion … are we to camp do we have orders?”   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.


  “ Guardians we be needin  to gatha  .. hes losing it …. The madness has him… “  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 Guardian’s 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. “ This is for me to do …  â€œ  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€œ 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… “ Death mother ….do you not understand .. there is no death for me? You cant kill me .. no one can … “ 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.