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 August 11, 2007, 10:59:19 AM
-
[align=justify:d22e9a2f37]Alone within the tenebrous darkness of her own mind- something reached out through the unknown barriers of dimension and time; although both time and space had no bearing upon the realm where the coveted was sustained and welcomed by others whom she called family. Those whom had shown the loyalty and respect that many had claimed and yet within a blink of the eye had attempted to steal what was clearly never their's in which to declare presidency or supremacy; those whom she now despised- wretched neophytes, the false children of that dark decadent Goddess these were the children of the faceless; bearing a name in which none had served or proven themselves truly worthy except for a very elite few who had long been scattered to the pungent oppressive winds.
This dark-Aphrodite had long rested her jaded head upon the back of the obsidian serpent; eyes lingering across the shadowy fissures of rebirth, reincarnation and incarnation- the very quintessence of both paternal and maternal epitome moulded into the singular diminutive physique; draped in the very filaments of dream and nightmare. Light and darkness merged to forth that gracious quintessence of cruelty, beauty and sinful tidings- the daughter of death, the daughter of life; the nemesis of heaven and hell all furled into that lithe miniscule form slumbering mind reaching out against the further regions of the abysmal Hyperion, the very velveteen thickness slowly asphyxiating any form of exit or entrance. The Gates of Ganzir long closed to the otherworld, the intruders who lurk- non void of any world or realm, only to wander like hapless shadows forsaken to this world and any other dimension whose barriers crossed the umbral-sea of pandemonium and sh'ol. Within this realm she had long toiled, aiding in the rebuilding of a great dynasty and hierarchy; the children and Grandchildren of Bly'al'al.
From the dreamscape, images flashing through enigmatic visions portraying the very pictures of this unknown realm, shadows reaching out as the voice of a siren harmonized through the intonation of allegro and low timbres- a haunting effect to that psyche reaching out as if to take the hand of a long lost lover- or that which had always been clandestine and lost to her, but now had somehow managed to be found; discovered deep within the obsidian mantle of void and dream- coercing, compelling- summoning. Even though this was not verbal synchronization of conjuration or cantrip it was clearly heard so vividly in comatose state; her form naked, floating upon the emanation and fluctuation of the ether- searching for that source. Leaping through barriers, exploring every vista of worlds in the incorporeal intangible apparitions- splitting every fibre of her being to seek those who held significance in many of her lifetimes- only a very select few would ever arouse her nefarious passions and considerations; all others were just fodder- of no significance or importance.
They were disposable puppets long severed from her controlling hand- nothing, naught- forgotten and gone and there would never be an ounce of reminiscence in their favour. To them, like her- they had long evaporated in the miasma of purgatory, now, the ghost was returning although never completely had it left. It dwelled in the most decrepit of places also dispelled to slumber- an eternal sleep, never to awaken and once again cast that malevolent shadow upon the mortal shore. Tarnishing and staining the barrens in death, corruption and depravities- how the rivers and streams once ran blood, even the tears of youth formed tiny rosette beads. Oh how the human soul cries when it is slowly ripped from the husk and implanted with the true seed of debauchery and sinister intentions. They acted by command yet deep inside they knew they were damned, humanity becoming a burlesque parody- hypocrisy now the earthly poison. Salvation is never received by those grovelling upon the ground like worthless insects, and she nor would her blood ever become one of the pawns of this realm.
A word would escaped twixt those lips of crimson wine- so sweet to kiss and yet blood-stained to taste, to tease with voracious tongue; salacious sounds unfurling from that sarcophagus of silent lucidity a harmony so honeyed, spectral in accentuation- sultry plumes ascending in frosty tendrils through the damp condensation of the ethereal seaââ¬Â¦although this name was unknown to her awakened perceptions it was another force which inspired that information- the very name of the secret so long held in careful smothering hands; the name of her true self. The very name lingered, spellbinding and enchanting in such dark musical tones- perhaps the one would recognize something of herself in that very sound barely a flung whisper upon the zephyr of her realm as she laid motionless upon the tower floor.
Soul extending for the other- twin flames of birth and blood; the reflection of beauty staring at each other through a veil caught between worlds and realms; blackened butterflies yet to emerge and spread their wings of wickedness over a realm which had little understanding of the true word evil... not that it mattered anymore.[/align:d22e9a2f37]
-
Only miles from their destination, three men indulged in their hastened exploration and leapt from rock to rock. Hoisting along their supplies and rarely revealing their matutinal expressions under the veil of cloaks that blended with the mountainsâ eastern face, Cyrussia and Llumeth reached far beyond their usual capabilities to stay with Ulyssiask; and despite their best efforts, there was no comparison to the coruscating movements their master exhibited from one second to the next. Still, Ulyssiask selected them to pursue this exploration with him because they were two of his best â loyal and continually vigilant.
There were rumors heard only two days before of a changing sky and fluctuating land masses near the northern center of Raa Deis. Out-posted legionnaires sent word by the hooves of horses and their riders, reporting signs of otherworldly creatures and structures blinking in and out of sight. King Ulyssiask and part of his Saqqaran Legion were stationed just outside of the eastern Seliire borderline. Theyâd crossed into the Czathe foothills and waged a small campaign against local rebellions just before entering the mountain ranges of the Czathian Peaks. From there it was easiest to venture in and out of the mountainous ranges through the farthest southwestern tip of Czathe, cross over the Tennastan River, and into the northeastern plateaus of Raa Deis. Ulyssiask selected his two finest men available out of some seven hundred able-handed men always readied for war. Every day, these men awoke and praised their leader â a man they considered more than King, but ruler of all and a divine deity, deemed so because of his infinite invincibility compared to the feeble mark of commonplace men. Ulyssiask was one of very few, inhuman not just because of his flesh and blood â unlike that of humans â but because of his mind and heart as well. Some even did in fact worship him as a god, a prospect he had very little adoration toward.
A sudden stop jolted Cyrussia even more awake. Llumeth was too not just a mortal man, but weaker than Ulyssiask still; and Cyrussia weaker than Llumeth still, for he was human. However, to underestimate his skills and ability to fight would be a lethal mistake and costly to entire battles. Ulyssiask had stopped for moments now, awaiting their arrival as their footsteps were not nearly as quick or agile as his. Again, there was no comparison to the coruscating movements their master exhibited. Behind them, miles of rigid cliffs and mountain peaks drifted in and out of sight between low drifting clouds and morning dew rising skyward under the heat of a rising sun. Ahead of them, the wooden and rope bridge that crossed over the Tennastan River and into the Raa Deis hills, which eventually dissipated into a flat and level terrain. Shafts of light cast glints into their squinted eyes through the diaphanous fog lingering over the torrents below. Only an hour later, they were walking into a small residential area in accordance with the Saqqaran Empire. What they saw was much more than what was expected, though. Part of the small trading city had been replaced by some part of another world, a place of fiery winds and wars riddled with rabid, demonic warlords or something of the likes. Some walls appeared crystallized, others reduced to ash, and still others a mixture of porcelain and the charred flesh of war victims. In all of his experience, Ulyssiask was simply perplexed over this occurrence that seemed anything but mundane. The shadows of strange and deranged creatures lurked in and out of allies and cornered darkness. He was reminded of a visit he paid to a small city in an Azbenn providence in his nonage, following the lead of his father who was High Guardian to the King of that time, A. Furaiâde IX, named supreme Ithae over Belderrom. Ulyssiask was Ithae now, having killed King Furaiâde, conquering all lands surrounding the great kingdom of his upbringing â the beautiful and infinitely reigning Belderrom. And here he was, walking again through a city reduced halfway to ruins, but partially left standing and functional too. Something was by far different this time.
As Ulyssiask stopped on his right foot, just stepping onto a street lined with clay bricks, so did Cyrussia and Llumeth stop with opposing stances to create a readied formation. Years of special training appeared in their stiffened joints and toughened bones and skin. And in their knowledge of these ways, they werenât just men. These were phantoms, creatures of war â from the beginning, just boys versus the wolf and natureâs cruel methods of raising her children. Now, they were men proudly wearing their battle-scars and blood tainted hands, same as their tainted steel swords, and ready to scream a battle cry thatâd announce the death of any man before them like the reaperâs swift scythe. They were anything but complacent; men such as these craved blood â especially the King, a man who could drink blood with a smile of content and eyes that blaze and tell a story of satisfaction only found in world of war. Each man, in sequential timing, dropped their cloaks to ready themselves for battle; crimson robes settle in the stiff air blanketed by smoke. Their muscles were already tired, weary from travel and the weight of armor and shields, though still light to bodies born to deliver death on wings of impending doom. From childhood, these men were infatuated with death, with everything dark. And then the unthinkable happened, something no one of the three could fathom. Darkness surrounded them, movement of those creatures on every flank â they were surrounded by the very thing they were raised to bring as their greatest weapon, and still fearless.
âStay steady,â Ulyssiask demanded their continual loyalty to him, no matter what. The winds picked up, crimson now flowing and the clattering of sands carried in the wind sounding against their armor and shields, and even their swords still unsheathed. Whispers became distorted and like sirens, though still ominous. Each of them stared into miasmatic chambers of death, blackened eyes of plagued demons whoâd readily feast on their flesh; but something stopped that. These men were already marked with death, rather from times past or some event yet to happen. Everything became opaque, just like those clouded eyes of sinful confessions and murderous temptations that reflected a tasteful desire of Ulyssiaskâs own. Then, Ulyssiask and his two men were in a completely different world, a place to which he knew no name for except the damnation of Hell, a place he didnât even believe in before. His beliefs werenât founded upon life after death, but life and then death and nothing more â a very good explanation to his ways of darkness, living life while he has the chance.
The Kingâs helmet distorted his view, so his hands lifted it from his head and away from the view before his eyes. His shield was heavy, so he sat it upon the ground and held it there, with his helmet in the other hand. There truly was no name to his knowledge for this place he was in, none other than the nameless pits of hell. What had become of the King and his men?
-
[align=justify:2083c6ee2b]Nothing is created from nothing, and nothing can return to nothing: or so they say; creation weaving but only ever complete when the cycle of death consumes it, however, even the end can engorge on itself causing a complete reversal of the effects⦠perhaps her coming into this world could have been a little more⦠delicate to the equilibrium of balance between all worlds? To be delicate when moving through the folds of time and essence had always been adhered to, had something changed in her own essence that she no longer cared what worlds crumbled to her will and coercions. The black rose in bloom would no longer be held gently in the palm of her hand; instead its petals were crushed and bruised, masticated between cruel fingers before being released to blow across the blackened charred fields with ritualistic callous libertines. Had it all really come down to this⦠shattered crests and metaphors to suggest recalcitrance? Was war so feeble a practice that all was doomed to die regardless of side and alignment?
The temples of Ur had served their purpose and that was only but a means in which to advance, or, in this circumstance descend to the pylons of the seven zones governed by the celestial spirits to prevent cataclysmic occurrences such as this. Most could only make this journey in the ephemeral sense not in actual full embodiment, at least in a more tangible solidity. Ceremonial ritual and remembering the principles when manipulating the gates to open wide and embrace her figure as a mother would to her child, cradling, even if in a lawless fashion to prevent the soul from becoming lost to the obsidian maws of the abyss and usually Atra would have complied, but care and empathy no longer existed in her ebony heart, and hadnât for quite sometime prior to this monolithic event. Before it had been for retribution⦠this time it was for the sake of being able to.
Arms extended, held elegantly in the Goddess pose above her head, feet stepped apart in conjunction with her shoulders- eyes closed while sanguine apertures flinched in expression. A muted whirr at first, humming from the nucleus of esophagus up through vocal chords becoming gradually louder as the drone vibrated from the back of her throat and tongue rested against the palate of her mouth, behind the teeth⦠an exaggerated hum more syndicate of a assiduous somnolent mantra moving through the threads of time demanding the notice of the keys of creation. Conjuring the watchtowers, not just invocating the compulsion of the operation but forcing it to be inaugurated instantaneously, not on just one gate but the entire seven and all in unison to the next and knowing the full consequences resulting in the sudden explosion of conflicting emanations.
A vacuum effect being caused shifting these âouterâ zones off their axis and forcing them through the barricades of âOther Worldsââ¦invading the delicate obstructions of all âinfernalâ or âabyssalâ dimensions, bringing unto them the murderous hordes of hell- the demonic renegades inflicting the wastelands with goeatic banners splattered in the blood of the fallen, the hounds of hell arching their dissonant napes and howling in blood-curdling cries of imminent war and blasphemy belligerent with the sulphur crested hyperion. The fourth gate, Uddu bore much revelation to the wars pillaging the inhospitable unfruitful landscapes contiguous to the Gates of Ganzir. Those gargantuan black mithril sentinels guarding the treasures beyond⦠the altar of Lilith and all the secrets locked from the grasp of thieves seeking to unveil the mysteries of the fallen âBlack Madonnaâ for her demise had long been set to stone.
Murdered by the hands of a Wamphyri, Ankhnesmira⦠a name long bereft beyond these shadowed gates; the name bore a crime of its own punishable by death, executed by the Lalartu, the spectral Priests of the Temple of Nehemiah where she still stood guard, eyes burning like a thousand suns as they stared downwards with reckoning. Left hand cast out towards the slaughter as if welcoming her dead back into that callous embrace only to tear their souls asunder, for this was no nurturing mother to behold. Right hand pointing towards the Blood Sea of Ishtar, beckoning the scarlet waters to rise and flood the sinners from her altar just like Cain had done to the cities of Nod and Enoch. With the inundation a dark blessing would come, one that promised rebirth and inauguration, a supplication of her dying wish, to never permit her offspring from reigning in her seat of Infernal power.
Betrayals bring warmth to a cold, merciless heart. Atraâs eyes remained closed, mind focused while he âinnerâ eye disseminated over the carnal images portended, relayed back through the sphere opening wider and wider like the gaping maws of Leviathan ready to swallow every world whole just to hear that sweet song lingering through the passages of time. As the sphere parted the way, a great unrest emerged disquieting the hapless wandering spirits in the Netherworld and Shadowlands causing them to retaliate as each slammed their phantom-forms against the barriers separating purgatory from that of the wraith lands. Her domination demanded⦠caveat over all that existed. The winds scourged the scorching plains of the desert as skies turned black, the land heaved beneath her bare feet. She, herself did not claim such a feeble proclamation of ego, and that was all gods were in her eyes, just a figment of some fools imagination and the need to seek salvage and purpose in the guise of false idols barely worth the spittle from the beasts of burdens let alone consideration for reverence.
There were no gods only fools decorating themselves in gilded trinkets, narcissism and fallacy⦠a delusion conjured by their own need to feel âomnipotentâ or âsubstantialâ when everything else in their capabilities failed the purpose they so purposely served. It was not people who served the gods; it was the gods who served the people for with each came a purpose to incite worshipâ¦and not filling that purpose inspired their extinction, hence their fall and descent into mockery. For they no longer served a formidable or benign purpose⦠they were void. It is also logical rationale that gods are only gods if you believe in their nucleus of power, if they are nothing to you, you render them powerless and it is here where Atra separated herself from the self-acclaimed upstart to that of ârealâ power; she already had it so why decorate herself in the garb of an effigy shrouded with the wills and whims of many? This land was lawless⦠it had no purpose of gods, devils or âsupremeâ beings, here they were all misfits and each brought their own murderous intents to the banquet of war. It brought mild amusement across her ruby-moist apertures, a nefarious smirk crossing those lips of fatal caresses and unbridled perfidy.
Now guised by archaic words, the seeker behind the serpent⦠the final key to the final gate disharmoniously reverberating to unlock the last obstruction though leaving the rest open while pushing through the next inflicted. A massive burst of electric magnetic waves deluged through the first opening of the sphere only to follow through to the pinnacles of the outer spaces, pulling down the kingdoms of other worlds. The ancient covenant had now been broken, worlds breached and the end of the beginning had commenced. Atra did not need to scream the names of those who held presidency over the gates into the night. Voracious grinning winds of unfurled hatred whipping through the mantle of obsidian black hair billowing like a murder of ravenâs in fugue. Naked porcelain flesh revealed through the separated fabric that had merged between the swathed tourniquets of raven-black leather and gossamer bandages. Strips and plethoric garlands surrounding svelte limbs barely enough to conceal the wandering imaginations and ambiguity where âwomanâ was concerned.
Mistress of the Dark Occultic Mysteries⦠this rapturous beauty held the very essence of damnation within her hands and juggled it all so heartlessly, it all meant nothing to her so why even dawn on empathy and mercy that would never be there. Condolences would never come from those fatal apertures laced with curses and vampyric libertines, hum turning into that of unfurled words in sinister unification as if many words interlaced to form one coherent lilt. Copious voices synchronize from ranges of celestial melody and choking skeletal choirs that reached the firmament to those sparkling gems blinking within the sky; the constellation of the Bear aligning to that of Saturn breaking the seal of Inanna, preparing the way for the coming of Nergal- the disease and plagues of terrestrial contaminations to ravage the earth once again causing fire to fall from the swollen heavens as the moon gave birth to Lammashta. âIa! Ia! Zi Azag Zi Kur. Alal Alla Zul, Uggae. Sha epishia u mushtepishti-ia, Absu Nar Mattaru.â
Most fools thought that the seven gates were subterranean, chthonic beneath the terra firma where man dwelled. That had always been their folly and through lack of understanding could never comprehend that the seven gates involved the alignments of Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Mercury, the Moon and Sun- âto step on the ladders of lightsâ the Ancients called it. The flaming chariot racing across the ebony blackness, entering through the coalition of summoned spheres, now had come the time to simply shift ones corporeal form through the barriers and enter her own place of origins, the Abyss. Walking the forgotten path, figure shifting to the incorporeal, insubstantial to allow for the metamorphosis of gossamer wings to spread and take Atra back to the world more familiar. Where wars still ravaged the lands, sanguine rapture spilled and harpies circled the inky darkness where squamous tentacles stroked the bleeding heavens perforated the seismic breach like a ruptured orifice.
Obsidian jagged peaks iridescent in the mitigated gloaming of scarlet infused midnight, stretching out across the Blood Sea like a smothering hand to stroke yet asphyxiate in the arabesque wreaths of vaporous miasma fluctuating to covet the raping throng of swarming hordes taking out those foolish enough to stray from the sanctuary of colossal obsidian stronghold gates. Transgressing from one place to another using the spheres as the focus, having made this journey more than once, it was secondary nature but what Atra didnât know was the serious effects that opening all seven gates would have upon every other dimension, sphere or astral plane. The human world have grown dissident, those like her were no longer revered by the puny mortals who now feared the immortals as monsters and tyrants who killed for perverse pleasure and self-gratification like bestowing their supernatural beauty and imposing intimidations. They once worshipped death, based their entire pantheons and traditions on preparing for death and the journey to the stars. The world was rotting, dying⦠failing to tantalize her desires, it was time to seek them elsewhere and on those far more worthy to be a befitting sacrifice.
The mortal shore was left behind, the gates closing to conceal her presence from their pathetic eyes; no longer would they know such beauty as hers. Feet landing on the blackened soil while particles of dust scattered to the spiteful infuriated winds contemptuous in retaliation against the Chaldean adversaries. Approaching the periphery above the âkilling fieldsâ, acrimonious nigrescent eyes narrowing heinously, stabbing the brutal panoramic burlesque spectacle below from where Atra stood elevated, her stare striking downwards in mockery of all that lay in front of her⦠broken impaled bodies still twitching upon the spikes of crudely cut dowels, lynched from their vocal chords from the summits of calcified trees turned to stone; hanging like windchimes as the blistering squall whistled through the incision to throat and out through the mouth like some perverse woodwind instrument. Blades singing as they interlocked together, metal hitting metal as they grinned with fiendish indulgence. Stomping feet shaking the foundations, shouts of battle-cries and agonies of the fallen ringing through the upheavals a thousand-fold.
Gracefully Atraâs right hand slid across her concaved naval, skin so smooth and supple to the touch. Deft digits furling around the hilt of her blade fastened within the scapulare at her left side with her twin scimitars. The hilt, forged mithril scorched black to form intricate patterns upon the silver surface. The pommel fashioned in the naked form of a demoness and sharp-edged wings in a striking pose. âVenenum ab Ater Abyssusâ or also known as the âPoison of the Black Abyssâ adorned with mysterious sigils and glyphs unknown to any outside the Wamphyri, these specific runes summoned the essences of both shadow and malady; poisonous. Branded with the 15 glyphs of death and entropy, able to extract her opponents physical energies for the blade possessed an intelligence of its own. Psychic vampirism and diablerie, especially lethal to vampires for the opponent may not soak lethal damage, this unique Katana is an anathema to the undead or immortal alike giving them the irrevocable benediction of Final Death. The cursed blade responded to her touch, a tingling sensation crept across the palm of her hand as fingers closed around it, slowly withdrawing the blade from its place of slumber.
Extracting it unhurriedly, smooth silver jutting out from the black mithril scabbard, exposing the ten jagged teeth of the outer limb of the sword only to watch it curve to a finely honed precision- razor-sharp and smiling impishly as the reflection of light skimmed over its surface provoking a evanescent flash of brilliant illumination demanding recognition. Hand trenchantly gripping the hilt, listening to the musical cacophony of metal scrapping against the lip of carapace in reminiscence of the Bladesingers from long ago, but this was just one of the traits of the âVenenum ab Ater Abyssusâ eager to taste metallic ichors spilling over its fangs with animalistic fury⦠of course this blade had an intelligence of its own and acted on its own accord once the blood frenzy takes presidency. It was in this state the blade was at its most deadly, feeding off the wounded target as each hit occurs bringing into fruition diablerie and soul-feasting attributes. Other than the Staff of Ereshingkal, it was the only weapon she possessed for the purpose of a quick death⦠usually she entertained herself well with the Damascus Egyptian scimitars that she used as if they were merely extensions of her arms.
Swinging the blade from her left side in elegant movement⦠flexing the outer arch of the blade outwards so when the apex of her sword touched the ground the jagged prongs of teeth faced outwards then rising the blade high into the air before her exquisite countenance, blood-stained apertures nearly resting against that harsh coldness of steel. Challenging all those below with a single war-cry âXATROS NIFER ROXAS RORTOS TERFITA SALIBAT!â the declaration insinuating that all who stand opposed would not see beyond this moment, for here their legacy would end. Bladed mithril fangs grinned over the battling renegades with an ill-omened sneer, what a controversy that the murderess whom had taken their Queens existence and rendered it annulled now stood right before their eyes in all her glory, ready to commence the caprice of her selfish obsession, their deaths. Their precious Nehemiah was dead⦠and even if they had managed to find a way in which to extract her essence from this very blade without Atraâs acknowledgment, it was extremely unlikely they ever would.
The fighting ceased at her battlecry, calling forth those disloyal to the Infernal hierarchyâ¦this latest insurgence was to claim Varloorni to the demonic pantheon to serve as kingdom for some guttersnipe Grand Duke, Zaitux who was more than prepared to grovel at Satanâs feet for the table scraps. This Atra would not have. All eyes of burning coals looked up from beneath blood-splattered helmets, their sharp features contorted into visions of sheer horror. Vitae dripping from their weapons and armor not to mention bloodied faces painted with the spillages of blood and gore. Mutated bodies decapitated, disemboweled, dismembered⦠already the harpies and ghouls ripped greedily into flesh, sucking the secretions from eye sockets or digging black talons deep into the wounds only to retrieve vital organs, intestines and bowel tracts through vicious claws only to devour the treats with black parched maws. Cannibalism and necrophiled addictions took place over the dead, not even their bodies would receive the respect of warriors⦠to every monster and creature there. They were simply slaughtered lambs.
Deep concentration held its fixation over the entire miles of plundered land and the spoils of wars. Not noticing at first the diverse differences in the landscape⦠two worlds/dimensions trapped inside the other. Interlocking⦠perchance both were at there most vulnerable. Their frail worlds savaged by eons of wars destroying the vital energies of influence along with the forces that stabilized the pillars holding the barriers fast. Either that or the dimensions just happened to be in the same sphere at the precise same time, a million to one shot, but possible. It was then that the arcane darkness shrouded the entire circumference of the wastelands before the Gates of Ganzirâ¦shadows and congealed elements constantly shifted like lovers underneath black satin matricide tilting the axis with violent shudder shaking the cliffs and shifting the plates beneath the harsh terrain moving the attention from the battle and the declaration of the Countess staking her claim over the trophy â¦Varloorni. The disturbance had passed and seen as nothing more than a storm breaking from the East, maelstroms were known to incite illusions and mirages from the lower layers that were crowned with the flames of the nadir, hence the battle recommenced as some of the opposition made their way towards Atra.
Adroitly and adeptly twisting her wrist to swirl the sword in an elaborate fashion, flowing with sword mastery even though it had been long since any fight or duel had been ventured into. Arm falling to her side with wrist slightly bent outwards to hone the serrated edge of blade outwards ready to strike and with rapid accuracy. Beating hooves were the first to heed for they came directly upwards from the edge where Atra stood. Black nightmares dripping with foamy sweat and blood, their riders draped in all kinds of fancy archaic armor of clumsy spikes and serrated adornments along with the plates protecting the beastâs legs but not their chests or flanks. Composure changing to take a defensive reverse stance⦠turning her slender diminutive body slightly to the side from the left, right arm lifting to jut her elbow slightly out behind her; raising the tip of blade to stick out from her right side, the Katana held secure by both hands preparing to thrust forwards with a fierce jabbing action towards the first juggernaut. Aiming between its flanks in order to perforate the breast then aggressively forcing the blade up through bone and cartilage, through the lungs of the beast then withdrawing the blade; pivoting her figure around to the right to avoid the collision as the nightmare faltered in its canter dismounting the rider and collapsing to the ground whinnying painfully as the poisons inflicted its system.
The other two riders circling around while the third came directly towards her in a clumsy attack as he rushed forwards bringing his sword upright and slashing first to her mid-torso, then swinging back again in reversal to the first. His attack was fast and should she have been a mortal would have easily been cut into two. His sword was heavy as with his armor in comparison to her Katana and wearing no armor, it only made sense that she would be quicker and more agile in movement. Atra parried both blows, bringing her weapon up towards his attack in a cross-wise action using the teeth of the blade to lock against his then forcing it back with a skillful flick of wrist and strength within her arms. Reflecting the attack but stepping forwards to bring her opponent directly off balance and having never stepped back from a fight even for tactical means. Retaliating promptly, swinging her body around so that she now faced him from the right side, stabbing the apex of her sword instantly towards his ribs. Noticing the pain in his eyes as metal inflicted his body, digging deeply into that chalice of quintessence only to be brutally twisted to masticate the bone entirely.
Left hand moving away from the hilt, moving her body around to frontal position, bringing her body close and up against his as that blade drove in deeper, sanguine apertures brushing against his lips while listening to the hooves approach closer to where both she and her victim stood, entwined. Again with the strength of her arm the blade drove in deeper, her free hand moving to his shoulder to hold him still, should he move his heart would be pierced like a peach on a warm summerâs day. Lustful apertures parting sensuously, moving away from his lips, staring into crimson eyes stunned in disbelief, however, soon it would be proven he was nothing to her nor would he ever be. Instantly her mouth moved to the side of his neck, fangs puncturing mercilessly, drinking in the metallic ichors to imbibe his essence rapaciously. Belligerent diablerie perfuming the perceptions, pulling back from her victim as swords were drawn high and swept across wise in hope to decapitate.
Senses reeling, but they would not be quick enough to make their mark. No sooner had she ceased feeding, just at that vital moment of onslaught, Atra ducked downwards though holding her plaything in the frontier of their attack to receive the dance of blades in unison. Head dislodging and falling with a sick âplonkâ to the blood-drenched soil before morbidly rolling along the ground, where once those burning fires alighted now they were nothing but vanquished suns. Sword retreating from wound slowly, the squelching timbre satisfying to the audible acumen. Left hand liberating his shoulder as sword fell away, the lifeless body slumping to the sodden earth. Ascending the blade to her lips, tongue protruding to seductively flicker over droplets of vermillion while watching the other cretins riposte around to make another futile charge. The vision stimulated her mind, devilish eyes reflecting the macabre scenery while licking along the sharp edge of her blade not only supping the last memories of her victim but to also bless the blade with the poisons from her tongue⦠the Kiss of Lilith.
Hankered snorting from the beasts of midnight, hooves digging up the earth in full charge, swords drawn high as one after the other they both simultaneously made their assault though their was not enough area between Atra them and the sheer descend to jagged juts of obsidian below that formed like the arrowheads of monolithic spears. To fall would mean certain death. Riposting unhurriedly⦠head lowered to look upon the sanguine splatters forming divinatory patterns upon the blistered loam, ravenesque cascades shrouding her face, hiding the homicidal fixation displayed in those eyes, soon she would reveal to them the hidden natures from within. A cynical smirk forming at the corners of the mouth, chin casually rising in a haughty manner, parting the midnight shrouded coveting what were mirrors of midnight now orbs of opalesque unnerving white mimicking spirits trapped beneath glass; emulations of ghostly seas.
Blade held ready in her hand as the first swept upon her then the second, dodging the first blow by tactfully sweeping her physique downwards away from the slicing momentum of the sword, bending at the knees only to flip and elevate her body directly into the oncoming assailant. Maintaining her blade instinctively at right side, moving closing to the target and getting one yard then striking with a stabbing thrust upwards towards the riderâs right side as silver penetrated through his right side, slicing open a massive gash. Scalpel sharp-edges delving cavernously into the base of spine severing the lumbar nerve rendering the male⦠paralyzed. Plucking the weapon from warm ruby orifice, maliciously, instantaneously the corpse tumbled limply from his mount, booming hooves beating against the sodden terrain in thunderous din as its hellish bulk vanished into the inky blackness. Discordantly nickering⦠sonorous in hedonistic high-pitched shrieking. Now the odds were more feasible, one on one though the odds were not in his favor.
Sauntering over to the body with voodoo pendulum sway, hips exaggerated in movement but eloquently sashayed. Katana cleaved downwards to sever and remove the head, crouching down; left hand grasping the thick matted hair and lifting the trophy to her very eyes, staring deeply into those lifeless whites, the eyes had rolled into the back of the cranium giving the orbs that haunted appeal. Atraâs other challenger had decided that attacking on the back of beast wasnât such a good idea after all, dismounting and approaching gingerly. Chin turning over left side shoulder at a 90 degree angle resting over the contour of arched bone, staring at the approaching fool patronizingly and smiling with jagged edges. âPerhaps you should put that toy away, or give it to one who is able to yield it competently. I cannot promise your death shall be quick, neophyte! Rest assured it will your demise celebrated nonetheless for you see, your method fails⦠your advance is callow⦠your conviction lacks passion and most important of all pointers⦠youâre just too insignificant.â
Sardonic words hissed pestilence and abhorrence. Legs pushing upright from the crouched position to turn and face him, her right arm bearing sword resting against her thigh along with the decorated surface of silver and crimson. Head cocking to the left as translucent orbs danced over his physique notifying her he definitely wasnât anything more than a grunt. Black chaotic armor decked his bulky strong physique, helmet covering the upper half of his face except for his burning black eyes where twin suns burned fiercely. The head of his comrade being thrown towards him, left hand swiping it away, knocking it some few yards away âSave it witch! Traitor of Varloorni, you are not worthy to stake your claim over the great city of Lilith!â his rapier tightened in gloved fist. Strong features of jaw line tensing only further provoked by the mockery of her laughter. âLittle fool!â Atra hissedâ¦
âYou blather of your devastated Varloorni, yet the idiom means no more to you than a parroted lyric from one of your tedious, oh-so-important screeds. What do you know of Varloorni- or even the fall of it for that matter? Did Lilith tell you of the sacrifice made to Baron at the expenses of all your legions? Of the screams in the streets as newborns gagged forth their blood for my sustenance? Oh women and children dragged naked to the altars of that very name in which you speak so deferentially, given over to the caresses of my throngs? It was my blade that kept the wolves from your door when your noble line was too blood-gutted to stir!â The transparent pearls of her eyes narrowing, acumen slithering to search his mind for a name and plucking it from his memory as one would a feather. âTiconisâ¦â grinning fiendishly as the sobriquet was hissed twixt white incisors, tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth to incite the louder pronunciation of last syllable. Left hand stretching outwards, hand curling as fingers pointed towards the swirling dark gesturing for him to come forth and place words into action; if he so dared.
It was then that he charged, sword drawn to stab directly towards where he thought her heart should be, jutting forwards and using the length of his arm for strength in fluid motion. Shaking her head, quickly lifting her sword to parry then block, forcing the jagged teeth of her blade to lock against his then pushing forwards against his weight to disallow the block to untangle. Left hand curling into a compact fist, instantly and neatly snapping her knuckles into Ticonisâs neck- [one], then plunging her fingers precisely into his eye sockets, honed claws digging harshly into the mirrors of his soul â two. Then a sequence of the prior action one-two straight into his throat forcing Adamâs Apple to break, the bone splintering as tiny shards shattered, vocal chords destroyed. Another one-two quicker than an infant could drawn breath and harder than what most lesser demons or vampires could strike⦠smiling tauntingly at Ticonis. The sword falling from his grasp, his hands clawing in panic at both ruined eyes and crumpled windpipe; no sight, no voice and no chance to invoke his otherworldly innate abilities. Now Atra could work at her leisure.
Battle still broke out below, but that was of no consequence to Atra who relished upon the screams of her latest victim, pushing him to the ground face down while she straddled his back, placing her sword at his side while left hand plucked the dagger from his scabbard. Right hand holding his head down, pressing viciously while he chocked on the dust below him, he could not scream loudly but it was still audible enough in animalistic grunts to know he was suffering, and suffer he would. Taking the dagger, pressing the tip of blade against the center of his spine, carving the wings of a raven into the flesh of his back and chainmesh, or at least that was what it looked like. In actual fact, Atra was cutting the ribs away one by one down to his loins. Not enough to kill him, but enough to keep him alive and howling (or at least if he had the voice to do so). After removing the ribs, she reached in, pulling out the lungs twixt clawed fingers⦠her victim slowly choking to death. The pain excruciating for with each forced intake of breath, would feel like a hundred incisions being inflicted within lungs and heart; squeezing the appendage so that it artistically burst to the pressure then elegantly standing looking down at the Ticonis with bitter malevolence.
âI see my reputation still precedes⦠you should have never underrated me, it is a mistake so many make. Disappointing.â Turning the body over, noticing Ticonis wasnât quite dead yetâ¦straddling the midriff section of his torso then flicking the dagger, the silver-flickers of blade spinning into the air before venturing downwards, hand clenching around the hilt only to drive the knife straight into his heart. Watching him die, leaning forwards so rubiescent apertures rested against his, placing a kiss upon those quivering petrified lips as his body decimated to nothing but ash and remnants of bone, eroding away like dust. Rising to her feet as right hand traced the hilt of her sword, picking it up from the dirt and placing it back into the scapulare at her left side. Grabbing the black leather studded lashes of reins, left foot sliding into stirrups hoisting herself up and over onto the saddle of the warhorse (nightmare). Violently swinging the mounts head around, whipping the length of lash against the rump of the beast causing it to rise upon back legs and lunge forwards in full gallop down the lesser steepness of the mountain range, balancing herself expertly and again preparing her sword for combat, pulling it from sheath and keeping it in right hand, galloping through those remaining, slicing and slashing from left to right, taking down as many as possible in that short space of time. The battle was no so intense for the causalities were severe, the wounded being dragged off by the hounds of hell along with ghouls tearing gluttonously at the carcasses and fending off what remained from the talons of the harpies circling above like vultures.
The thicket of the battle had moved to the westward quadrant of the Gates of Ganzir leaving only the dead, wounded and the curious. Atra had no interest for those wanting to follow in her shadow, grovel at her feet like sniveling dogs⦠Atra had already injured that from the name she once held albeit to her heart. But now it was nothing but a faded memory and nothing more, no longer her heart held love or loyalty to those who did not deserve the second thought. Those who claimed her as their mother had never been anything but a means to an end⦠their mistress cared naught for their âfalseâ achievement or over-weaning ego with nothing to proclaim as momentous. They were all weak in her eyes save for a couple who merged from the obscurity of mendacious artificialness. However they had long been lost to the frayed ends of time, her existence no longer lived for the name⦠now it was all for the means and desires of Ankhnesmira.
Another violent shudder rippled beneath the bloodied topography⦠the darkness parting to reveal a strange world from beyond anything she had witnessed before, three silhouetted figures merging from the melting darkness in the distance, having to squint her eyes to decipher what direction in which they traveled which appeared to be heading in the same direction to the âkilling fieldsâ. Gaze moving past the figures to study the world behind them as it was swallowed once again by the darkness and the thunderous roar of collapsing spheres and upheavals of the equilibrium of the zonei and manifested gates that were now beginning to close. If the wanderers did not venture back to their own world, they ran the risk of being trapped here for eternity. Turning her back on those who had crawled from the battle to juxtapose themselves to her imminence was ignored⦠she had no use for weak feeble warriors, she had enough of those in the past to last an oblivion of wars and conflicts, now, it was just her and her alone.
Kicking harshly into the rump of her mount, urging it forth to gallop over the stained plains towards the voyagers, sword still held adamant in her hand, reins held in left hand and balanced maintained by the strength and poise of her legs. Bracing pace from that of gallop to a more cavorted extravagant flaunted display, boisterous as the juggernaut approached the three. Renegades were still battling it out, Atra turning her head to witness the theatrics of a band of warriors then jadedly rolling her eyes as they came to focus on the three men. Halting no less than 10 yards away, opalesque eyes scrutinizing them with an intense stare of patronizing condescendence⦠yes she was arrogant and conceited, any creature could determine that without having insight or premonition- it was displayed rather impertinently. Sanguineous apertures roiling into a mordant smile indicating that she could not be trusted as an enemy let alone a lover- both intents of massacre usually came hand in hand. Looking over the men standing beside the other in the middle; making note of them as nothing but insignificant servants and instead focusing on the one in the middle who appeared to hold sovereignty and dominance at least over the wretched accompanying him.
Atraâs dialogue spoke articulately twixt ruby-tarnished lips with raspy, sultry timbres but also bore an underlying whisper of phantasmal conjurations and cold callousnessâ¦like a serpent entrancing prey to the constrictive embrace of death. âMyâ¦myâ¦my look what has sluiced upon the peripheral shores of Ishtar. So tell me, delectable stranger⦠why venture from the sanctity of your homeland into the clutches of the damned or are you unknowing of that what you have stumbled upon of your own free will?â Ruben apertures curled into more of a macabre smirk, a rasping snicker following her enquiryâ¦slender ravened brow arching like the bruised crescent moon over ashen skies portending detrimental omens. Amusement abound while arms leant forwards, left elbow on thigh as chin rested upon the knuckles of her hand, feigned contemplative as if enraptured by their presence, however more entertained by the possible outcome. [/align:2083c6ee2b]
-
At the sounding of hooves and the approach of the daunting beast â carrying this mistress of beautiful lips, curves, and a tongue readied for centuries of condemnation and torturous, hissing convictions as it seemed â Cyrussia and Llumeth readied themselves for battle. Cyrussia to the left and Llumeth to the right â each stepped back with their outer feet and faced their backs to one another, bending their knees and drawing their swords, and lastly raising their shields so that they were covered from mid-shin to shoulder. And still, Ulyssiask stood and waited for her to halt. When she stopped only a short distance from them, he conducted his behavior as a respectable man and heard her out. And in consideration of her last words, âof your own free willâ, the ominous king tilted his head and then stood in silence momentarily with the slightest of a remarkably unexplainable smirking expression across his face â still, he retained the discerning façade he always displayed.
Glancing over to Llumeth, Uly leaned his shield against his right leg and raised his hand to touch the tip of the blade his valorous friend held so diligently. The King looked his man in the eye, something of a scarce act for Uly to do, and nodded his head with a gentle expression now relaxing his face; and at his lordâs request, Llumeth lowered the weapon, stood up straight and sheathed the blade. Cyrussia did the same knowingly. Rather than immediately returning his gaze to this mistress and requesting or demanding a name, Uly continued to gaze to the right just beyond the peripheral silhouette of Llumeth and the warriors shield â off into the distant fields of war ruins and bloodstained grounds. Again, a sudden smirk and half of an exhaling breath resembling a slight laughter overcame Ulyâs face and escaped the flaring nostrils of a calm man. Only then, after a moment of pausing and contemplation, did his head turn back to face forward â but his gaze fell toward the ground where his shield pierced the dusty earth and then to the top of his helmet where the bright red horsehair plumes of the crest on his helmet danced in the slight breeze. He knew what to say, but rather or not he desired to say it was still in question.
Extending carpals to straighten and then curl so delicately around the bottom edge of the helmet, he gripped and lifted it from its resting place on his side near the hip. Uly took the helmet into both hands and gently set it down over his head and face â the stifling enclosure personified his appearance as a true warlord even more, even as the plume rolled crimson tides through its layers of straight hair. And as the helmet came to its destined resting place, a scar became more obvious. The mark of a death blow was etched and embedded in the hard steel above and below the left eye, beneath which scarred tissue in a straight vertical line crossed over the eye brow and onto the flesh between the zygomatic bone and the infra-orbital foramen. Now, it is nothing more than a memory of a battle nearly lost. Uly glanced back down to his shield, pushed it back from his leg and lifted it into the air with his right hand alone. The steel barely reflected the sound of every grain of sand sliding down the inner curvature of its edge and lip; and in a two simple movements Uly hoisted it into place, fitting his left arm securely into tough leather straps designed to hold the heavy steel beast in place and never break. Then the King stepped forward just once, and looked her in the eye as what he would consider to be an equal to his stature, speaking directly and without quivering lips or voice.
âSo it would seem... but of what sanctity do you speak, my lady?â In the midst of his strangely sarcastic inquiry, Uly made sure of a slight tilt and straighten of the head in movement of the neck, and an arch of the brow. âAnd if it is into the clutches of the damned I venture, then know this; that I have walked, not stumbled, into the lands of hell and out of my own damnation, of my own.. free.. will.â Once more, he paused. And without notice, his left arm forced the shield to clear a small gap from his body, and his right hand tightly gripped the hilt of his short, one-sided curved sword and hastily drew it from within the sheathe it slept. The sound of shrieking black steel against the metal mouth of its sheathe blazed aloud and emitted into the atmosphere â a disturbing sound unusual to the sound of any other sword being drawn and engaging battle. And as he spoke his next words, Uly held the sword directly out pointing to his left flank and slowly swept it to point toward the right to cover from eastern to western territories abroad in the distance, referencing them both verbally and physically. Proudly he announces his message, âAnd no clutch, no matter what its strength, can hold THIS free man..â He seemed tense for a moment, but then more relaxing sarcasm escaped him. âAfter all, my world is... hardly enough to conquer in size.â Again, a slight smirk crossed his face.
âHowever, I hope that you might forgive my men for their unsteady ways. Quite the warriors, but they lack in manners at times. I am King Ulyssiask, Ithae to all of Saqqara â an eastern nation from which I hail. Tell me your name, and perhaps we can be of considerable company to one another?â Ah, the more charming voice spoken softly; every king should know how to be both subtle and demanding. In this case, only hopeful â though âconfidentâ may be a more appropriate word. Uly lowered his sword, and continued a direct gaze toward the rider before him. The chest piece is in her court, now.
-
[align=justify:06a83d253c]Leather audibly constricting as hips squeezed back into the mount beneath her dominance and persuasive demeanor, hands gripping the black rawhide reins only to wrap the whipped lengths around bare knuckles before leaning forwards to listen and examine the situation from a perched position above the strange trio. An eyebrow arching steadily at the approach of the foot soldiers, or at least that is what she considered them to be merely by impression that the one who stood before her held the sway of order and supremacy. Still their antics amused her just as much as hers had obviously amused him⦠the idiosyncratic natures proving them not to be so different, not even remotely âalienâ to the other. The dark smirk transgressed over those deathly lips like a winterâs frost, callous and unsympathetic of the blood spilt this day- the fallen had received their final resolve, they were weak and thus not even worth a second thought.
A whimpered unrest plagued the lands, pained, screaming and crying for a mercy they could not bequeath unto themselvesâ¦fatally wounded without the means to end their miserable existence. Scraping fingernails raking the earth in the last throes of life, not wanting to let go for they feared death; it was more than evident in their eyes before rolled lifeless into the back of shattered craniums⦠the red coals finally extinguished. Casually leaving the attention of his words to gaze outwards over the carnage of fractured effigies, dismembered limbs, fermented innards and torn viscera- intestines draped over the charred earth like Goetic salutations for some kind of carnal ceremony. The stench of rotting corpses long ravaged by parasitic carnivorous carrions, gastrointestinal tracts shredded the acidic and rancid heady scent wafting across the lands with a viscous cadaveric persistence that did not dissipate even as the winds scoured the âkilling fieldsâ.
That stench of death, tapering on the senses brought everything back to focus, achromatic mirrors glancing back over the one who spoke ever so articulately, refreshing really to see at least one possessed an intellect. Satin tumbles of sable tresses flagging and tousling in the squall of the wastelands, whipcord around her albescent features granting her a monochromatic allure decorated by the rouged cramoisic symmetrical cambers of seductive lips curving upwards to lift the cheekbones into higher distinction. A chortle briefly escaping before a hiss emerged through the buoyant pretence, even Atra could act partially entertained by this encumbrance. Finally replying, voice a little less meant for intimidation and one more smooth and mellifluous, honeyed and dulcet though still acquiring the nuance of mordant derisiveness, he could take it any way he wanted, but would it be as she intended?
âAny place offers more sanctity than this, then again it is us who can make a heaven out of a hell, and a hell into a heaven⦠are we so blessed to think so selfishly? Do we delude ourselves so preciously? Damnation we weave so eloquently only to shroud ourselves in a shroud too thick for others to perceive. Such deceptive creatures âweâ are.â Imperceptive mirrors narrowing like twin scalded crescent moons hanging aloft in the black firmament like a cruel foreshadowing portrait behind divine eye-lids before they snapped open as if receiving an epiphany of elucidation. âNo clutches may hold this dove? Yet those already around the slender throat beg to differ, the wings broken and the heart nothing but a useless mechanism⦠the drum beat signifying the requiem of the lachrymose. But⦠that is for the somber fool even regretting, not for those substantial as we?â
Atra was not sure if her cryptic words would mean anything to him, or if heâd define them to similar quarters as they were poignantly stated, however it was doubtful theyâd be derived exactly how they were meant; it mattered little, even then Atra knew she wasnât dealing with a fool pretending to be a great man. Eventually her hands broke free from the leather lashes of the juggernauts bridle, right hand fingernails plucking a long strand of pulpy flesh from her attire and flicking it off with a blank expression. Awareness fully noticeable that the battle had moved south-eastwardly leaving them in the battle pits, the land stained with the essence of blood as if now nothing but a crimson wasteland. This land used to be scared until the first droplet of blood had been spilled, now it was forsaken to the order of Elysium and open for the taking.
Not that Atra ever believed in boundaries however had no intention into getting into a full on waged battle with Lilithâs many sorcerers. It was much more subtle to let the hordes and renegades curse themselves. Why yield an obvious plan when one could be far more Machiavellian and cunning? Rhetorical questions with conspicuous answers. Nefarious smirk widening still exposing ivory honed incisors extending from the upper canines, a chuckle void of breath escaped raucous and guttural in effect âNo world is large enough to conquer and no man an island in which he may desert himself from the⦠experienceâ Left brow arching even higher, the crimson glint gyrating within the blackness of her eyes, burning suns of worlds long conquered, blood long shed by gauntlet and blade, the insatiable hanker never quenched or satisfied for that was the passion of the Wamphyri.
Right hand gesturing with a nonchalant wave of her hand in regards to the ways and manners of his men, amused at the concept of a âKingâ apologizing for the said âunsteady waysâ, âYes, your men do seem a bit⦠skittish! Perhaps they have reason, and perhaps they do not. Letâs determine that by what happens next, shall we?â At his introduction, Atraâs head reared up, chin lifting with an arrogant haughty though titling slightly to a 45 degree angle listening to his âimpressiveâ title and even more interesting some place Saqqara unknown to even her ever-watchful eye; and somehow this place had managed to not capture the curiosity of the Countess. Then again, it could not worth much since he had âwalkedâ into a place less impressionable save for its reddish and black jiggered landscapes⦠maybe it could be determined as hell, there was after all little difference.
âWell⦠King Ulyssiask, Ithae to all of Saqqara, I am of less impressive title compared to thee but it suffices my purpose in existence. I would be Contessa Atra Satrina NexLamia or even more formal Al Marg Zagh, as per what myâ¦warriors refer to me as. Warlord of Naethyrn and western of all Starside and these are my spoils of war long bereft of resolution and long lost my interest to pursue other merits to my name. The wolves of war have long claimed these fields as the âkilling fieldsâ cursing this land for itâs the only way to force the release of Negahbâni, only then will those gates open.â A sinister smile taking over the smirk, the Negahbâni was a hideous beast formed from koldunic rituals and crafted from the bodies and blood of multitude bloodthirsty fiends⦠a Vinculum of 40 ghouls and warbeasts formed into one single hideous entity that was still undefeated.
Fleshless, the bone forming the thick impenetrable armor protecting its back and lower abdomen, amoeboid patches and course hair covering the rest of its bulky muscular frame that exceeded 40 foot when standing on back haunches when in combative attack. For years it has remained chained behind those walls, Lilithâs most precious pet and it hankered the tender touch of its mistress long dead and rotting in the swamps. Eventually, the scent of rotting corpses and blood would become too much bringing the creature into frenzy. It was this excitement that made her toes curl⦠all she had to do was wait and bide her time conversing with the delectable King and his merry men. [/align:06a83d253c]
-
Through all of what she had to say, Ulyssiask remained unremittingly still, his breathing shallow and poise firm with every waking moment. Though, given the bearing of such an intangibly hellish wasteland scarred by the hideous desecration of war and tattered with the entrails of men and women, it would seem more appropriately deemed that the king and his men were living in the midst of every dying - rather than waking - moment. The expression on Ulyssiaskâs face faded into a insipid void of emotion except a lingering sense of iniquity for a moment, and just as the last word in her first question peaked his insidious and more primal, long forsaken interest in true darkness, he turned and angled his head ever slightly with a nonchalant nod toward his men. At the speechless understanding of command, the two assumed a more informal posture and embarked upon a short leisurely hike away from the king and unknown mistress. At the moment of their departure, the words of her previous question lingered in his mind, âare we so blessed to think so selfishly?â And in the same juncture, she followed up with a second question that intrigued him even more so than the first.
While she continued to speak and his attention never departed from her, his head gradually faced downward with furrowed brows and partially squinted eyes. What interesting, cryptic messages she had to share so soon with him; and every bit of it kept him drawn to her, closer and closer still. Around the time he dismissed the two warriors, his right arm had come to a rest by his side, still holding the sword with the point drifting only inches above the ground. When she spoke of a man or beast with a title foreign to him, an expression of interest curled his lips with a minimal smirk; âNegahbâni? Interesting,â he silently recited its name to himself. Finally, he sheathed his blade and heaved his shield from his arm once more, lifting it up with both hands at its top curve and then thrusting it toward the ground. The loud thud emitted just as her last word blended into the distant cries of war and plunder and her lips showed a rather tasteful smirk. As a tendency, he hesitated before speaking.
âContessa NexLamia,â he nodded as though in greeting, eyes falling to the ground with brows furrowed then back up to her with an attentive expression continuing, âit is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Mind you, those are but useless titles in addition to my name, of little relevance - as the insatiable blood-thirst of cold steel won't be judging any man by his title in the final swift delivery of one's death.â Ulyssiask acknowledged the end of his proclamation based on personal experience with a hastened moment of silence, and then abruptly disturbed the momentary serenity with not just the dropping, but slight shoving of the heavy shield to the ground as though in carelessness. Itâs steel mass struck the earth, rolling in circular motions around the apex of its outward curvature in the center. Now, Ulyssiask was just a man with flowing crimson cloth hanging from his shoulders and around his neck, clothed around his waist and upper leg, armor only covering his cranium, shins and forearms, and a sword at his side. As such, he approached the beast of a steed that she rode and stared into its face with a discerned expression. Around to its left side he stepped, left hand raising and sliding across what would be the hide over its muscular shoulder; and he stopped at the arrival to Contessaâs left leg, rested upon the edge of the beastâs side and the mount upon it.
âI find it interesting that, when you speak, you say 'us' and 'we'. I see neither hell, nor heaven; but perhaps an interesting prospect.â Adding a conspicuously lightened expression to his appearance and angling his head once more, Ulyssiask looked into those eyes, ones beyond anything heâd ever witnessed. âI know not of you, but I am predator, not prey. And with shear gripping hunger and a great enough lust for whatever I desire, I need not such useless tools as a wing... or a heart, to go any distance. Damn the somber fool, and damn regret... Still, I know of what you speak.â A slight smirk and stare into the distance as his hand fell further down the side of the beast, near the upper part of its front leg and chest. âSuch... apathy. It should be law. Dare I say... I am blessed, and I am selfish - and that I will not deny my self. I care not for any other except blood, lest it benefit me. And my blood-kin are dead.â
Amid the center of that statement, his gaze shifted back into hers and met without breaking away or any shake or movement otherwise. And while he locked his eyes into hers, his left hand reached upward and grabbed hold of the leather reins halfway up their length, leaving slack in it to the head of the steed and room to grab at the bottom for her if she so chose for any curious reason. Simultaneously, Ulyssiask lifted his right arm, uncurled his wrist as well as each digit - he extended and offered his hand to her, following up his actions with an immediate inquiry. âSo come, tell me what it is you really, truly⦠want?â
-
[align=justify:cfd5da8e82]It was the most unlikely place that a chronicle would beginâ¦a trilogy of events that could make a world or bring down universes; there was no doubt this âKingâ was a blight all of his own otherwise why would he have come to these plagued shores of death and disease. Blood stained unfertile lands stretching further than what the naked eye perceived, even the lofty jagged heights of mountain gleamed with that unnatural reddish hue, sheen as if made from molten liquid then solidified by a millennia of blizzard-bitten winters. Why had their worlds crossed? The answer perhaps would never be theirs to relish in darker years that would follow, long after this union that neither would ever forget. His words were like honey, a congeniality not accustomed to her characteristics nor ever really experienced other than the use to allure and lead one of less wit into a sense of false security before cursing the wine with toxic poisons. Atra never underestimated an opponent, not that either herself or Ulyssiask were immediately examining the other for the prospect of battle⦠though the thought did cross her mind at least once during the conversation and between calculating ponderings and revelation.
Maybe even he thought of the same only to push it back into the hidden recesses of his mind due to the fact neither of them would benefit from engaged strife when both could be learning about the other since both appeared to be from strange unchartered dimensions- he was a specimen to study under the close observation of examination; even if admiration had to be the pretence in the factor. Death, blood and destruction were all dancing on the perceptions, they were carnivorous hexes on existence that drove Atra with such ambition to be the destroyer or worlds while gods or universal epics created them, born from the mother and neglected by the father- abandoned to fester in their sinful Edenâs like cryptic lovers seeking the advance to sustain life by procreation. Everything struggled to survive, even the pitiful insects known as⦠mankind. How this dreadful King juggled life and death so playfully upon the tip of his tongue and she wondered where Ulyssiask had obtained such glib of silvered tongue. His persona being both deceiver and the deceived⦠though one more feigned than the other, a puzzle to decipher, the essence of the equation and not the hidden denominator.
Listening attentively, ruby-lustrous apertures blossoming into a roguish leer, the corners of her flagrant mouth rising like a crescent moon within the ruptured heavens. Even as Ulyssiaskâs gloved hand rose close to her left side before adorning the obsidian juggernaut mount with that apathetic esteem, or at least that was how Atra defined it merely by action and never by assumption; she never made conjectures- only watched studiously to decipher by attitudes examined whilst he was in her presence. For the comments referring to âusâ or âweâ that in itself incited a low guttural chuckle, for it referred to her own essence and knowledge of these forbidden pockets in time, the truth that they were never alone and Atra was no exception even if she appeared to the contrary. Atra knew nothing of this Saqqara, even with all her knowledge it evaded her wisdom⦠that in itself was one thing that could never do, to know of every existence was the major key in universal and dimensional foray. Conquest on a far greater scale; one that surely any Warlord will appreciate⦠if she so chose to share- what a shame sharing wasnât in her moral fibre. There was nothing moral whatsoever about AtraâLamia, and her loyalty ran thinner than water.
Achromatic mirrors moved askance towards the east, the location of the Chaos War Camps bordering the obsidian cliffs and that of the wastelands where provisions offered and conditions more favourable to that of a King, fine food and wine along with the perks of savaging exotic shores, then maybe⦠and only maybe Atra could decipher what it was she truly desired or wished- but that allowed so many expansive possibilities, the thought caused a cold shiver of anticipation tickling along spine. If the rich flow of crimson blood that Ulyssiask wished to discover while drifting or wandering across these diseased fields, he would surely find it in abundance. A strong hand reaching for the leather straps of bridle, the mount with snorting protest snakily throwing its head upwards, onyx mane billowing from the swift jerking motion to the right, forcora shifting as knee brought its powerful leg to dig at the parched soil beneath its might followed by a snorted nickering forcing spital and foam into the sweltering atmosphere. Quarters tensing, muscles and tendons rippling underneath the fine hair and powerful limbs urging to move, to storm through the fields and feel that blood soaking its pelt. It appeared most creatures all lusted for the same one thing, perhaps if Atra felt amicable she would share the glory of it, if only a slice.
Shifting her wicked gaze downwards to look up his strong features, the way his jaw tensed even when speaking with pleasing tones- a tense spirit or at least one who didnât take his own words lightly; a conviction many lacked when speaking of themselves so highly and venturing across lands they didnât know, he was either extremely courageous or very foolish. No doubt Atra would decipher the answer to that at some point during the interlude and upsurge of carnivorous souls. A question placed on her own persona, one that permitted the leer to form into a delighted simper, it left so much to the imagination and in truth there wasnât much that Atra wanted or lacked- nothing that she couldnât take for herself at least, whether by force of compelled natures of manipulation or prompt persuasion. Breathless, the chuckle caroused like a choking choir⦠eyes dazzling with the reflections of the burning Hyperion, rubescent apertures parting to allow her speech to flow like the streams of Acheron, cold yet burning with unusual passion.âWhy⦠I want to be cherished, and my will to go undenied. I want not just this world but also every other world to crumble at my feet. Ambitious, am I not?â [/align:cfd5da8e82]
Sorry about the sucky reply babes, I had to do this at work. Next one shall be better, promise. -hugs-
-
"Why⦠I want to be cherished, and my will to go undenied. I want not just this world but also every other world to crumble at my feet. Ambitious, am I not?â Ambitious indeed, Ulyssiask was highly intrigued, so much that the amusement was almost clearly painted on his face by both adoration and creases formed by the expression crawling under and through the skin of his lips and eye-brows. Her words were perfect to him, flowing with what to his twisted perceptions sounded like pure innocence dancing against the raised hairs and sensitive chills along his flesh. Even so far as to be like the pleas of a young child tugging on the leg of a towering father in not want, but need of the flawless gift merely because she chose to desire and lust after such tangible things â what to most others would be anything but tangible or even imaginable. In fact, the thought of crossing such boundaries was something most could only ever find in their deepest and darkest dreams. At this point, he was beginning to question how far-fetched any such proposal could be. His perceptions were always lingering at the edge, but today they were drinking and bathing in the finest wine ever known; and in fact, he was quickly becoming drunk with its potent effects. She had a silvered tongue as well, though rather or not this was her intention would never be deciphered, and Ulyssiask knew not that she thought the same as he. Even a moment after her words trailed off in his mind for the second time as he contemplated, he hesitated on a response. He wasnât quite so sure of what to say this time; sheâd left him in a series of very complex and second-guessed thoughts and replies, something very few before her had managed to do. Though, it would be unknowledgeable to assume he had no response at all â the only hard decision was choosing which response to stick with, as at this point he felt like several men, all with voices of their own, trapped in one body.
At least a solid two minutes passed, and finally he broke his solid gaze into her eyes. There was no denying his courage at this point, not even a man who was foolish rather than courageous would have been able to gaze so deeply without flinching or showing some sign of true intentions. Then again, perhaps Ulyssiask was simply exhibiting a sign of slight insanity. Looking back on his life and his upbringing, many reasonable explanations could be derived and provided as primary and contributing causes to his instability of mind; yet he was shockingly calm, firm in his ways, and acted perfectly sane. In his mind, he was simply determined; thatâs all life had taught him so far, to be determined, stick by what he knew and believed, and to pursue his wildest dreams. If killing a King and taking his place as the new one wasnât a good start, then Ulyssiask should have given up long ago, at the young age of seventeen years. And to think, it was all over a misunderstanding. Either way, the self-proclaimed God King that preceded him deserved his fate, and it was a painful one at that. Death by the hands of Uly was always anything but a pretty sight, yet somehow it was always a beautiful tragedy at the end of the day and in some sick and demented fashion.
âI admire your words, Contessa. And to answer your question...Yes, you are. At least, I hope that you prove to be and I am not made into a fool. I see your eyes fall toward those settling battle grounds - some victory you recognize, I assume?â Heâd watched every glance and movement her eyes made until the most recent moment when he looked away, and the first place he looked to was the same place she looked to satisfy his curiosity. He was quick to catch on, onto hints and unspoken messages alike, even if she didnât intend to send any such message or hint. He perceived what he chose to perceive, it was his way of staying ahead and being the bold Ulyssiask that he was. âLet us travel in that direction, perhaps there we can clear our minds and find a more suitable environment. Though, I must say... a field full of dead bodies does seem quite suitable and fitting as it is. Itâs just not what I crave at this moment.â
After that, he released the reins from his grip and stepped away. Further and further back, almost as if he didnât desire her to leave his sight at all. Ulyssiask kneeled down only to slide his arm into the fitted straps and anchors within the shield that his arm and hand bared against or underneath; and heaving it upwards, he rose to turn around and relinquish her from his sight entirely. Toward his on-looking men he looked and raised his fist into the dead and still, lifeless winds above his head to signal for them to follow. Finally, he turned back to Contessa and gazed slightly upward to meet what would be her equally returned gaze as pale and thinly sealed lips parted for the second part of his statement. All but one thing about him was the same, and that was that he was more relaxed this time he spoke. Deciphering rather he had let down his guard or was playing a game, or perhaps even just comfortable with the situation as it was, would be a most difficult part to play. This intrepid man had many ways and just as many variations to his own persona. Such thoughts were useless to ponder over though, and the silence was broken then. âShall we begin?â
-
[align=justify:3e29906012]Could it be that this one was not seen or perceived as prey? Atra in her time had come into the graces of many great men, yet even they paled in comparison to this one⦠this one, whom held even the fates on his exhaled breath; who destroyed universes in those diverse eyes bearing reflections of all the horrors and destruction yet to be birthed. Much like the beast of revelations, the nemesis of existence itself- death in the guise of a stranger; an unsuspecting Trojan Horse waiting at the Gates of Troy, adopting and adoring beauty but in the same breath striving to eviscerate it. Of all the exhibitions and expressions to observe, this Ulyssiask didnât give much away other than inquisitive, then again, Atra didnât attempt to pluck at his thoughts like an angel would a harp⦠his words were enough to arouse the faintest of smiles, blessing the sanguine arches of those devious lips, highlighting chiseled features from the frozen landscapes displayed prior. Acrimonious flambeauâs pinned directly to his eyes before allowing the pleasure to animatedly fall and leisurely glance over his muscular physique, head titling to the left while long rivulets of midnight trailed over leather clad shoulder, black upon black like rolling waves of warp- to distort her own malevolency behind the visage that surpassed all the beauty the beloved seraphim.
Briefly attentions had passed from him to that of the distant triumphs ricocheting from the jagged barriers of the Obsidian Mountains, howls and blasphemous shrieks unto the ruptured firmaments of seismic breach; ash raining from the skies. Perhaps these were the scorched wings of those above, having been flayed from the backs of the Arch-Angels while they arched in rape and shame. Cinders as tears, blood trickling from the heavens in ruby-saturated globules only to burst onto the bodies of the broken, the fallen and the cursed; offering what little of benediction this hell had to proffer. The stench of Nergal rising from the festering masses of defiled warriors, impaled, dismembered, lynched from the inverted pylons of rising onyx- effigies of those who dare cross the Chaos Legions. For the moment the only sight which depicted the actual horror was that of the senses and imagination, the wars here raged for years, each battle quick and over with in a matter of moments before other legions gathered, preparing for the next onslaught and marched into tactical formats⦠setting up camp only to relish on the disaster of a blood-stained canvas from the millennia of conflict. It was a struggle to ascertain who was the greater of rouge evils, not even the Infernal Hierarchy dared involve themselves with the lawless, for should they fail⦠the renegades could gain control of the Infernal Empire, therefore Luciferâs empire would crumble to dust. Heaven forbid.
Black effluences beaming with the malign mischievousness of her âtrueâ passions and desire, from the words uttered twixt venomous apertures and honey-dulcet cadence Atra didnât need to ponder the response for it flowed ever so eloquently and mellifluously; like a symphony of darkness brushing against the wings of butterflies- barely a flung whisper⦠to capture his undivided attention once again. âIs it your mind you wish to clear, or has the curiosity gripped your soul that you just have to sate it? You state you have a craving⦠prey tell what this craving may be; perhaps I can accommodate you⦠somehow?â Leaning closer, slender figure draped in the tourniquet of philistine-rapture, shimmering like the variable dimensions of night. Nostrils flaring just slightly as Atra inhaled Ulyssiaskâs scent- chin ascending with the motion only but a touch away from his features while his hand still gripped the reins. He smelt of mortal man, something Atra had never really bothered with, none had ever been mortal whilst in her court⦠usually misanthropy took hold of her passions while blade severed their pitiful existence and it had possibly been only the potential written upon his destiny; that this man was destined for far greater things other than being but another victim to her insatiable cravings.
The reins of her juggernaut mount released, a step taken away from her just as Atraâs back straightened to fully elevated composure from her straddled position, long lithesome limbs pinned against the ornamental display of her stallion- back turned for a moment while he addressed his men and prepared for the advancement towards the camps that Ulyssiask suggested. Regardless of the fact his eyes had left hers. When he returned to stare back at Atra if would appear that not even for a second her gaze had left his façade or position, instantly returning just as his did and never allowing that contact to falter⦠an unnerving ability that many times had left her victims and opponents off guard, the creepy sensation of always being watched even when her eyes were busy elsewhere of significance and never of lesser importance. Leather constricting, the friction rasping against saddle even when she subtly moved, waist twisting to frontal position while hands wreathed in leathered grip forcefully snapping to provoke the attention of her stead to full military poise. Right hand gesturing with a flamboyant yet cynical wave in acknowledgement of Ulyssiaskâs words to commence in their now shared path.
âThese are uncouth men, not beholden to the graces you and yours have shown me- they are merely animals forged for war; those of whom my father betrayed and exiled them to wander the wastelands to be nothing other than food for the Lalartu or the soldiers of the seraphim⦠what a shame they didnât recognize the factor that warriors never change their ways and when thrown to the lions their will to survive is greater when revenge fuels and feeds their bellies.â Applying a kick to the mount, though keeping the pace at the same steadiness as Ulyssiask, bringing her mount around to his right side and never advancing forwards or behind that of his gait; she was neither leading them nor holding them as captives and until otherwise conceived they would be treated as either, hence why she remained at the side, head grandiosely held with arrogance and strictness while they passed the stragglers wounded by the battle yet still able to slowly hast back towards the camp. Atra would offer none any aid, only the weak fall here. âYour men shall be provider for, should you not wish for them to leave your side⦠then it seems my hospitality will indeed be stretched beyond that of the normal tolerances- yet it is a small price to pay for quality and not that of unfortunate slaves; I tend not to hold them in high esteem and you would be right not to trust me for I donât even trust myselfâ
A slight smirk spoiled the smile that had dawned over perfected symmetrical horizons⦠passing the first signs of pillaging decimation; bodies piled while the harpies pecked at the foul remains, ripe with rot and decomposition. Some pinned to the ground with massive hooked lances forcing them to drown in the dirt and blood unable to raise their heads, hands futilely grappling the mithril shafts only to find they have not the strength to save themselves, falling prey to the ravaging beasts that scathed and greedily plagued the rotting âkilling fieldsâ. Hands shakily rising, seeking salvation from a far colder savior than death, for none here would ever know the peace of it. Once condemned on these plains, they got to suffer for all eternity in the deepest and darkest bowels of hell, the Shâol. Sporadically Atraâs left hand would untangle from the reins, digits furling around the inflicting weapon only to shove it with her own powerful sway, and apply the last fatal blow through craniums and abdomens⦠help them along their journeys of torment and pain, for it was one thing dying in the conflagration of the Infernal Fires but being branded a traitor and conspirator to the Emperor was another. Their names were not inscribed on the virginal parchment pages of the âBlack Bookâ they were purposely omitted, knowing judgment or clemency would never be known so internally they suffered greater punishments than just the scourges.
Crossing the fields were the sights became even more deliciously debauched, for miles the scene was the pictorial of sin against everything that was holy- masses nailed inverted on the crosses, every limb smashed and broken by strength and stone. The whiteâs of eyes staring wide bearing the macabre torments of that what had been âmarkedâ upon their souls and names. Crests of the Infernal Empire beneath each, stating that they had belonged to Luciferâs legions and now nothing but fodder for the savaging carrions⦠banners torn, stained with filth and excrement marking the disrespect boldly exhibited. Casually Atraâs eyes moved askance to savor the vision, sanguine lips ever widening into that cynical smirk of appreciation, perchance if not even lusted by the thick prolific intoxications of coagulating ichors frozen within rigor mortis- the saccharine toxins permeating from the host while the demonic souls were ripped unwillingly and dragged down into the infernal darkness of the pit. The screams were music to her ears⦠and nothing could be more satisfying⦠well, not entirely true for she would think of one other thing that could mark this victory more benefiting to her whims; perhaps she would speak of it later or keep it to her own perversities. Ever curious, Atra watched for any reaction from Ulyssiask⦠it would be from this she would make her final conclusion. [/align:3e29906012]
-
Across charred soils and blackened stone the four began to venture, and Ulyssiask heard her words before beginning the thought of a response. The winds had become still and the skies were daunting in their red hues, the firmaments appeared as though they were ripped asunder. Perhaps Ulyssiask truly had fallen into the depths of hell itself, though heâd never believe that hell was existent until proven otherwise. Life had always been such a simple concept to him, being that his belief was to live, die and then be nothing more than a corpse overcome by decomposition â no prospects of an afterlife. Of course, he was raised and molded to believe such things and keep life simple rather than complicating it with the nonsense of otherworldly religious factors one couldnât even prove as factual. This time around, his responses were almost hastened and without resistance or hesitation; his mind was in par with the conversation and flowing as freely as ever. His gaze however shifted ahead of them as he began to speak, not gauging himself with her pace as any means of concern.
âA clear mind is desirable, yet curiosity is hard to cross when it is outweighed with apathy - of course, that depends on what we'd be satisfying a curiosity for... and of course you have my apologies, did I say that I had a craving? I thought I said that I didn't crave something.â Ulyssiaskâs voice was slightly kinder to the ears this time, though still as strong and rasp as it always was in its most primal form. As his last statement formed, a smirk slowly crept onto his face despite the resistance instilled by his will, the urge and muscle tension was too much to keep from showing the humor intended in his sarcasm. Suddenly a man left for dead near a boulder caught Ulyssiaskâs attention; the man was nailed against a thick wooden pole and raised into the air, then secured as the large post fell into a dug hole. He observed the scene for a moment before beginning to break away from the side of the large juggernaut and to his own path off to the side. Continuing forward he added to his response of her first question, âIn truth, sometimes even I do not know what it is I crave. Your accommodations sound most interesting, though.â
Towards the end of his statement, Ulyssiask had managed to break away from Contessa and his two trailing men, and around the backside of the large boulder that seemed to stand roughly nine or more feet in the air when atop its flattened peak. As Ulyssiask grabbed onto the ragged edges he noticed that his position would place him coming up from behind the man nailed to the large post, and that the bottom of the mans feet were less than a foot higher than the top of the boulder. All the same, below the man were nothing but the earth and jagged rocks appearing much like serrated teeth of an unimaginable beast to fall against. And as he began to speak once more, the barely conscious man was already pleading, somehow led into the misconception that Ulyssiask was approaching to help him down and release him from his agony and anguish. âTake for instance this man,â his words were once more stiff and rough in sound. Now he stood just behind and to the side of the forsaken martyr, reaching upward with his own bare hand. He drew a breath and grabbed hold of the nailâs edge protruding from the foremost flesh of the palm above the manâs head, forcefully twisting it loose and ignoring the cries of the man. In the same instance, he raised his voice over the cries, displaying such disdain and carelessness towards the suffering his actions were inflicting. âReduced and broken of his pride and esteems. I'm sure that these nails are quite painful.â Finally, once the rusted nail became loose from its thorough hold in the woodâs grains, Ulyssiask quickly ripped it out from the post and the manâs hands; and in doing so, the man began to fall forward, overcome with sensational pains. Before allowing him to fall, Uly released the nail and placed an open hand against the manâs chest, catching him and leaning him back against the post. Now the man balanced only on a nail through his mid-section, and a nail through his ankles.
Among all of the movement, the martyr of a warrior â or dead man â became almost lifeless due to the excruciating sensations. Ulyssiaskâs more grim and odious behavior was beginning to show, displayed brilliantly by the expression that had suddenly become solidly embedded against the slight smile and burning eclipses within those concentrated eyes he possessed. After pausing for a moment and observing, he went on further to finish what heâd begun in enjoyment. âHe probably wants that pain to be relieved. And these cuts and wounds, he is probably craving anything but salt right now, even his own sweat burns as it drips down, dries and leaves only that very salt on his bare flesh. And let us not forget the thought of being stripped of his fate, ah yes... nailed against an upright pole, doomed and forsaken - left for dead even! He'd probably like to be pulled down, and perhaps for you to heal him with your kind and gentle touch for the next several days. I mean, would you really consider that a craving?â He posed an interesting question and held his right hand out openly to his side while glaring toward Contessa. His voice had slowed to a calm and apathetic tone, resonating and literally symbolizing the cruel intentions heâd deviously plotted without showing any caution or foretelling sign to any of the others.
âIf so, then by all means... I should probably help him out and... give him what he wants. Relief - that is what he wants isn't it?â Ulyssiask rested his left hand on the hilt of his blade at side, and slowly his glare toward Contessa fell downward as did his right hand and arm, until it came to rest by his side. For a moment, he contemplated some unknown thoughts that could not be read by the sudden empty expression written on his face. To the side like a sweeping and darkly intended glare, his eyes came to rest upon the tortured soul yet to be released from this miserable world. And immediately following his intent glare, his right hand ascended to gentle rake fingers and nails across the front of the mans body â chest and abdomen, as if taunting him of a fate now being realized. And just as quick as the man felt his mortal fate approaching, he began to faintly cry and beg for a difference of judgment only to find Ulyssiask tilting his head, and as such the yells and pleading increased more and more until it ascended to screaming. At last, Ulyssiask spoke and with an ending statement that tore the man apart and left him in immediate tears, âSo be it.â
As cold and spiteful as he could possibly be, this was the way Ulyssiask preferred to be. And heâd lived this life learning that no matter how horrible your actions, if you fought hard and strong and stayed true to yourself, no other man could force you to suffer the consequences. With one step back and an effortlessly acquired balance, he raised his left foot â closest to the man he stood behind. A sudden thrusting kick, and the Saqqaran displayed an act of cruelty rarely rivaled by the actions of other mortal men â and as the final scream emitted into the atmosphere, the cartilage and bone of both abdomen and ankles shifted and cracked aloud as the man was heaved from his hoisted position. Downward into the open pit he fell to meet a sudden stop after a short drop, only to be quickly silenced and most gruesomely impaled by the jagged teeth-like rocks thatâd been awaiting him. In the silence that followed the moment thereafter, Ulyssiask stepped forward and looked over the edge underneath his feet to find in his sights the bloodied corpse. To break the silence, his wisdom followed, âI do not think heâll need your kind and gentle touch anymore. I did give him what he wanted, though. He begged for it, and I granted it. One must be careful what one asks for... relief, ha.â He chuckled at the mere thought of such a concept â one intended for the faint of heart.
A slight shrug of the shoulders and careless sway of thoughts to other more relevant matters, he turned and walked to the backside of the large boulder he stood atop to work his way down the sloped side. After climbing partially down, he simply released his grip and jumped to the ground âred plumes gracefully bent downward and brushed softly against the steel of his helmet. His sword and sheathe clattered just barely within a frequency that could be heard, and his shield touched the ground, outweighing the strength of his arm and pulling him downward before catching himself and standing into a straightened posture. Upon resuming pose and capturing view of the land before them, Ulyssiask walked casually back to the side of Contessa and her juggernaut, and continued on their shared path. Along the way, he carelessly stepped on the back of two men, one of which grabbed at his ankle as nails drug against the leather straps tied against Ulyssiaskâs ankle to hold in place his sandals. In response, Ulyssiask only stepped hard and ripped his leg free from grip, no regard for the fallen would be granted from him. His emotion toward her actions too remained without expression, as his eyes continually stared into the open fields before them and his lips curled in neither direction. He simply did not care either way, and was only interested in her singly â her actions and words against others didnât have an effect upon his judgment, and therefore did not arouse conviction just yet. As they arrived near the camp grounds shortly ahead, Ulyssiask seemed to suddenly deem it an appropriate time to begin speaking again.
âThe will is a powerful thing, especially for survival; but all too often, it is far too late to begin believing and making an effort when one lacked the will to survive from the beginning.â In this instance, he glanced upward toward the eyes of Contessa with a dignified and concise sense to his statement ringing in his voice, a deeper tone raring outward as he no longer felt a need to talk above any foreign cries or pleas, and no longer stood far from her but instead at her side. Casting his left hand just barely outward from his side, Ulyssiask signaled for his men to depart paths with them once more. They needed no instruction but already knew the will of their king, to explore and gather knowledge to be relayed to him if of relevance or benefit. And so Cyrussia and Llumeth began to head slightly to the south-east, to the side of the ranks of legionnaires and warriors, whereas Ulyssiask and Contessa seemed to approach the heart and bulk section of the campsites. âMy men will be fine with your blessing, no need to extend your warmth further than necessary. I will only trouble you with tolerating me, if you will have me. You've left me with an interesting question of course - what is it I crave? And even further, can I be accommodated by you?â Glancing down for the last time that he intended to cast his glance down rather than up or around, he displayed a kind smile and slight laughter from deep within his throat, heaving a strong breath from his lungs as a chuckle forced its way up and through his lips. Around them now was warriors and corrupted men of the sorts and in variety like no legion of war Ulyssiask had ever seen, and he took the opportunity to observe this interesting place for the first time that it actually affected him and made him realize the depth of his surroundings. It was no rude awakening, but certainly he had a jealously of such a large and apparently powerful military system. Though, he finally looked back onto her to pursue further conversation, in the interest of learning her. âThis too is strange and interesting... I seem to recall previously asking you what it is you truly wanted. I suppose now it is my turn? Well, perhaps I too want to be cherished, for my word to not be questioned, and for the world to crumble at my feet if I so desire. You speak of every other world, I only knew of one until now. Then again, perhaps I crave something much simpler.â
Here, Ulyssiask came to a halt. He and Contessa were now surrounded by men on all sides, some observant, others practically careless. What a man of such strange appearance Ulyssiask must be to them, such light clothing and armor, and only one weapon on his person to fight with. Uly was more than aware that he probably appears laughable to them, and of a different world, perhaps even an insult to them or their culture. No matter, he was in the company of a woman who truly interested him â heâd tolerate no interferences. And here, Uly removed his shield and helmet, placing his shield on the ground with its outer side against the soils and the helmet on top of it. Again, he glanced toward Contessa and began to speak, and this time he sounded very sure of himself. It was anything but foolishness, though. âFor now, I only crave your company and presence. And while trust is never something fully granted, I trust you plenty - rather it is wise or unwise. You wouldn't try anything against me; we've already come too far for you to have intentions.â He glanced to the shores off in a short walk of distance, and before allowing anything more than a brief interlude between his words he made a proposal. âWould you care to take a walk with me, alone?â
[align=center]Sorry it's not better hun, this is just what came to mind and so it's what I managed to put together. Will be better the next round. <3
[/align]
-
[align=justify:e533af2852]The words of Ulyssiask intrigued her, but of course no such thing or thought would be given away, if anything would be seen it would be exhibited to the contrary. Noticing the smirk, but not accustomed to his body language and any other visible signs of his meaning and definition for every word retorted in return to her mental probing; still, for now she remained silent, just observing movement and the way his eyes scathed over every inch of surface to their surroundings until something else caught his attention⦠some fallen fool decorating the effigy of all her abhorrence and loathing- in the effigy of symbolism that drew curses from the blackness of her own abysmal eyes. Ceasing on their path only to study the scene about to unfold, pain inflicted, torture with a promise for release⦠though noting how twisted some liberations can be; how perverted and misinterpreted such mistaken words can usher hope only to be horrifically disappointed⦠yet delicious to one such as Atra. Tongue flicking over the lower arch of rustic-red lip, leisurely⦠slowly in anticipation⦠slender yet curved body forming to an arch at the back whilst shoulders were drawn backwards to accentuate bodice and the enticing contours beneath. With every painful infliction, that tongue swept again over lip before vanishing back behind the symmetrical folds of lustful sneer- madness fluttering like incandescent flames to the center of those crepuscular orbs; of charred black flames and the radiance of chthonian vehemence.
Head cocking to the side as if to attempt to imbibe the essences of pain and fear which fumed from his victims body like the most sweet of perfumes; well⦠at least to the palate of the Countess. Watching the nails being forcefully pried from the restricted limbs⦠which pinned him there like a crude idol⦠cries and whimpers nothing but a lullaby to her ears, wooing her into a state of intoxicated bliss. Even closing her eyes for a moment to relish in the pain filling her senses with a newfound rush⦠senses soaring only for the briefest of moments before snapping open with a solid and unwavering stare upon the man who clutched at Ulyssiask with that same hope she had seen in many before; that desperation for their pitiful lives to be spared or healed. A pity and mercy she didnât know nor had the desire to learn. Atra did not respond to the rhetorical question or example of craving shown in the evisceration of the man, abandoned to a cross, with devil sewn to tongue all the while screaming for the angels to bring emancipation from the clutches of demons and fiends. Instead she simply watched and found amusement in the morale to this display of parody and conundrum- of screams, pleas, curses and final penance before bones audibly snapped, before being thrown to an awaiting tomb of rock and ash; death immediate upon impact.
Observation cherishing the vision of recollection, the manâs face just before he vanished over the edge⦠the decadent horror displayed in his eyes while gnarled fingers grasped at the air only to find nothing⦠not even a guiding angel to soothe the anguish. Cranium returning to grandeur, as Ulyssiask gloated over the shattered remnants of the man while again speaking- Atra listened attentively, though not understanding fully about the touch of her healing hands when no request would ever be granted, and it was certain she too would have liberated the fool but not because he craved it, but because one pitiful creature lurking was one less to contend with, and she so despised those who complained. Then again he was correct about quite a few things, and certainly one must be careful what they wish for⦠for there is much room for elucidation on the lips of a dying man, not when they truly crave to survive. Most creature were afraid to die, it is what lays beyond, the unknown which scares them into radical situations which ironically bring them into the cold clutches of death⦠and the thing they fear most, emptiness and blackness.
Again they continued their path, Atra remaining silent for the majority of the time, left to her own thoughts while every now and again her eyes cast askance to Ulyssiask then back to the frontal direction before his eyes would drift to notice. His men would no less be graced with the tolerance of âguestsâ, or if Ulyssiask desired no more than those of the hordes gathered around bomb fires throwing the living into the hankering flames as if they were nothing but fuel for the cause; and indeed⦠that is all they were. Celebrating the victories with sacrifice, blood and other unspeakable acts of rape and blasphemy heightening the frenzy by war drums and incoherent chants- the closer they approached the louder such festivities began, mocking the Imperial Infernal Walls with debauched display of subordination⦠tempting the hordes of hell to unleash its bitter spite, and spew forth its bastardized legions. The stench of burning flesh emanated in thick piquant fragrances, teasing the senses with its pungent intrusions- sickly sweet. Words danced on the tip of her tongue⦠sanguine lustrous apertures holding them back on purpose, instead displaying an arrogant, ruthlessness to the front of those uncouth, untamed beasts that gathered in awe or question as to the reason why she had returned with strangers⦠those whom could easily be imposters. Trust was non-existent to these vagabonds as with loyalty.
Pacing her obsidian mount almost right against Ulyssiask, with the slightest of distances apart while those whom gathered in a massive flock began to step back, crude weapons held up at arms- misshapen, chaotically formed barbs, rusted blades from years of blood adding interesting concepts over metal dramatically fashioned to resemble jagged maws and elongated limbs. The arrangement of beasts forming a double row leading towards the main artillery, commanding camps and leaving no room for any other path to be taken, there was only one way in, and one way out. Indeed the numbers were impressive, stretching as far as the naked eye could see- many beaten and injured but still capable of the fight. Those captive hanging by wrought iron cages like birds of war only to be speared by the honed spikes jutting from the interior of the cages as men tugging at ropes violently swung to and fro. It was only then, when they had ceased motion from outside the main camp, that Atra tugged on the reins of her proud stallion and finally dismounted⦠and handing the massive beast over to a sniveling ghoul whose limbs were twisted and malformed, hideous to behold. Black beady eyes staring Ulyssiask and his men over, giving the third degree before ushering submission with a series of quickened nervous bows⦠haggard midget legs scuttling away rather swiftly before vanishing out of view.
Pivoting on the heel of boot to bring her body back around to face Ulyssiask, her height far less impressive than his let alone her actual build, so miniscule and finely sculptured as if she had been created by an artists fantasy than naturally produced by nature herself; beauty so unreal yet fully tangible. Taking a few steps forwards, breaking the distance between though first addressing him in regards to his men â Your men may find nourishment in the company of my own quarters until more suitable arrangement as made, I shall have food, wine⦠womenâ¦.whichever appeals to their hunger and thirst brought to them. If they desire to rest, replenish energy- I will see to it personally that they go undisturbed- however I do not recommend they wander, those here lack the decorum you and your men have so graciously exhibited.â Allowing the words to drift from her cerise apertures, lulling with opiate tones before continuing directly to Ulyssiask, again moving though this time around from his right to behind, then emerging to the left, circling somewhat as eyes examined at a closer advantage. âAh... but I tolerate all in your company⦠at least⦠for now.â A cold smile flowed over apertures as she once again stepped elegantly around him, posture fully erect with shoulders back, bearing the grace of a swan or simply that of a skilled predator.
âOnly you know what it is you crave⦠see if you can taste in on the tip of your tongue, or feel that knotting uncomfortable sensation to the pit of your stomach that twists and turns like a knife. As for accommodation⦠and if it is in my capability to do so? That is for me to know; and you to find outâ Smirking, the mischievousness blatantly obvious with no means of concealment: cheek bones lifting only to illume as if an evanescent light glowed for a moment within; a spark igniting with the piceous flambeaus of her eyes with an eerie opalescence before extinguishing back to the darkness. Conversation continuing as she took another carefully placed step, left foot before right as leathered limbs danced beneath the tourniquet, captivated or appearing to be in his very presence where everything else on the outside ceased to exist. Listening to the last of his words before allowing those lustrous lips to slowly part before salacious timbre escaped in riposted prose âThis is all I have ever knownâ¦but it is just as empty as it is rewarding- and none of my cravings are simple, they all come with a priceâ Shrugging, the smirk widening over her features as they began to walk at his gesture to do so, Atra not even noticing or returning any sign of obeisance paid unto her in veneration of those around them, instead rising her chin higher.
Not needing words to provide an answer to his question of taking a walk alone, âPerhaps I may try something against you, then again perhaps I shall not⦠and maybe we havenât gone far enough for me to determine any form of intention other than this moment⦠of taking a walk?â Atra smiled just subtly as a chuckle escaped while not in the view of those menacingly standing, watching in wonder, jealousy or envy while steps were taken closer to the shores of the Blood Sea of Ishtar, where the crimson luminance of the water reflected onto the pure porcelain complexion of her flesh. Coming to an abrupt halt, and again turning to face Ulyssiask âA simple craving granted⦠now tell dear King Ulyssiask are you sated, or do you crave more?â Snickering in muted jest, turning slowly in angular position to look out over the ocean with an expression of malign contentment, the corners of her sanguine lips curving upwards, faintly noticeable from behind raven strands as incorporeal digits caressed the long cascades away from her face and over sculptured shoulders. Basking in the silence until his words again soothed the muse to sing.[/align:e533af2852]
-
The âdear King Ulyssiaskâ, the first supreme ruler and Ithae to all of Saqqara to be so human and real â emotions and rational thoughts, all things a mere man would have without plaguing himself with all of the pointless drama and hesitations â strides by the side of a Countess unlike any woman he has ever met before. His silence is daunting to the regularity of his usual responses, and even to his own mind. Everything he sees, hears, and perceives⦠they are things of a world far beyond and unlike his own world. He listens to the words of a fellow Warlord, this Countess â âan angel among foolsâ, so she is suddenly deemed by the thoughts crossing his mind, perhaps a quote or thought from another lifetime or place unknown to the temporarily finite reaches of his mind. And despite the words, the images and scarred warriors, the horror and blood-soaked earth, and everything else that surrounds him, his mind obsesses over the name; Contessa. As she concludes, her final question strikes him deep and hard, sending him back more than a decade in time as his thoughts venture inward. Indeed, he has always held the bravery to look in himself, to search his own heart and mind, and what some may even call soul.
Her exact words sound heavily like the thunders of a storm, just like the deep roar that clashes and shakes both the heavens and the earth, making the heart skip a beat and the breaths taken shorten, âor do you crave more?â And as he recalls a moment in his past, he lets out a light chuckle that claims only one exhaling breath â he finds both humor and humility in the thought. He reflects back on one of those fateful days in his past, one of many, a day his father gazed into his eyes and made a bold statement, almost a question of faith. âTake my hand, and you shall never fall.â More than anything else, it was a promise being made â and he took that hand, that day. The King also feels an eerie chill, as though he has made that same proposal to another before, in some other place; but for once, he cannot recall who, where, or when. All in the blink of an eye, though. Ulyssiask does not spend much time dwelling and in only two seconds of contemplation, what to the two of them is enough for the fate of worlds to change or end, returns her gaze with one of equal strength. Deliberately, he steps to her frontal view, ending their stroll across what was now soft sand sifting beneath their feet. The crimson glows allow his colors of war in clothing to blend into the background, but only intensify the brilliance of deep and dazzling green eyes, and the barely noticeable ring of yellow hue just around the edge of those now dilated pupils. He draws a heavy breath, almost as if his statement yet to be made is weighed down with burden, but reveals no emotion. Such a stern posture, and a direct gaze commanding her equal attention, to demand a gaze into those gateways to one anotherâs worlds, âsoulsâ â it is intentional, for he is more than an island to himself. He does more than just pause before speaking, after that breath. He waits, patiently.
âI am never sated, Countess. Insatiable, just as you are ambitious. Careful though, do not so quickly forget our lesson from earlier. âNot all is as it appears. It could be that I crave more than just a walk, but as you said⦠that is for me to know, and you to find out.â Ulyssiask draws his words out, aggrandizing the accentuations of each syllable and especially the consonants in this instance, almost to the point of being grueling. It was no mind game, no test or trial. This was simply the King forsaking his place in life, acting not as a King or the so-called Ithae, but as a man; an equal, no titles or evaluations based on status â just a man and a woman on a beach. This was Ulyssiask being himself. For him, the moment that captured the essence of a dead-on glare was over, whatever feeling, thought, or emotion he may have instilled in her was irrelevant. She would perceive it however she pleased, and like him or dislike him more or less. He wouldnât pretend to know, but calculate that she would grow to like him more with every moment they accompanied one another. Casting his gaze to the ground, and then to her right, something catches Ulyssiaskâs attention. With back turned to crimson tides pushing in, Ulyssiask forms a more bold posture once more, narrowing eyelids and focusing intently. He mumbles just below the sound level of smaller waves rolling over one another and crashing against the sand, âWhat is this place?â A reference not to the world around him, but to what he looks uponâ¦
In his sight, a fallen temple reflects crimson colors and the glare of the heavens from above torn asunder. Dark and shaded figures move into its confines, out of sight as they fade into the darkness. Broken and torn pillars that were once mighty and beautiful, now reduced to bloodied headstones for long dead priests or worshippers of the temple, mark the entrance. For an unnamed and peculiar reason, Ulyssiask finds himself being drawn to it. He has no choice but to pursue his curiosity, to sate his insatiable appetite for more and more. The King felt a spontaneous impulse. He takes the first step towards it only asking, âCome with me?â
-
[align=justify:9912b680ea]Caught in the moment, perhaps slightly off guard to response or thought entwined and placing more of her eyes on the actual scenery and away from his striking façade; psilomelaine eyes bedazzled by the umbration of the swarming darkness that ebbed at her sinuous thighs while the garnet resplendence shimmered from the surface of sanguine waters lapping the charred shore⦠blood over brimstone. Ulyssiaskâs stature moving forth, coveting the view and yet bringing into perspective something unsuspected, bewildered in those hues of gilded verdant greens inspiring Atra to look down towards the terrain and focus there without staring back into those emerald chasms in case she cared not to ever return⦠those depths an ambrosia, or Lethe to be cursed. However, her graces werenât so rude, or condescendingly dismissing, attention clearly displayed as Atraâs ears perked to his words. Only then did her eyes finally lift to grace her acumen once more⦠his timbre almost soothing in comparison to the usual jumbled dialect of graveled discourse and cacophony- briefly concealing those diabolic flambeaus behind dew-eyed divine lids, lustrous lashes fluttering to the stimulus of visual silence, or to conceal other revelations brewing through the mirrors of her âsoulâ, or rather essence. Basking in the ambiance of those âinnerâ instances were the darkness seemed at its most welcoming, embraces her lithesome limbs with a sinister tenebrous affection- for his voice calmed even the roughest of seas, at least within Atraâs spirit.
Unsure of what his words were intended to mean, and not assuming enough to define them in her own elucidations or knowledge, therefore taking the words just as they were uttered, for whatever they were worth she would not instill her own âdesiresâ on that of his dialect- instead arching an eyebrow in question of what could he possibly want, other than a walk and exchange of knowledge, after all that was all she had other than death and conflict. Again, yet another intrigue to be explored and exploited, that was far safer, more predictable than the other âsensationsâ stirring from the interior vault. Destructive habits and something else foreign amalgamating from the threads of frozen prisons, oozing out in portended poisons to pacify the beast- in all its ophidian glory, altogether beautiful cruel and deadly. Scalpel adornments clicking against the hip of constrictive swathed leather which surmounted limbs with toile and iridescent pelage; argentation of polished silver over black only adding more contrast to that of Atraâs monochromatic splendor. Not noticing that his eye had wandered to another place, one of significance, though most whom dwelled in the pits of fire never dared to venture- perhaps they feared in glimpsing at themselves through the eyes of God let alone Lucifer?
It didnât take amazing perception to hear his question, whether of not he actually asked seeking answer or placing it upon his own awareness for examination under the looking glass, rhetorical in his own wonderment or bewilderment, whichever it may be, Atra made an obvious gesture to overlook it, unless of course Ulyssiask inquired directly without mistake. Atra knew nothing of his world let alone the reason why he was here, it did cause some suspicion, perhaps the seraph were becoming more cunning in their ways and methods of delusion and tactic. Then again, he was mortal or at least under the normal code of such governs whether of the world above or other dimensional diversities, his heart still rhythmically drummed against the cavity of his chest, lungs expanded to draw in breath then plume it through those captivating lips. In all complex barriers and acceptance, him and his men shouldnât be here nor had any place to be here and yet, perhaps she wouldnât permit them to leave either- there was a reason for this âcrossingâ and come hell or high water, Atra was going to find the key to unlock that reason.
Making a pivot on purpose, back slightly turned to Ulyssiask, aphotic eyes glancing back over towards the location of the camp before chin ascended towards the blackened firmament swirling and gyrating with crimson tempest and the abyss- forming a portal affect just over brimstone mountains; causing her eyes of narrow in heinous contempt. Were her fatherâs precious dabblers in those vile dark arts⦠summoning ill-wishing over the renegade hordes? Some pitiful sorcery worthy for mockery unleashed in the form of miasmic murderous winged specters- fallen Angels of Death? Slaughter the fiends whilst in drunken celebration⦠seemed the most regal way for the Princes to distinguish enemies, their hands were dirty with the filth of cowardly deeds and her father wasnât resolved of these if anything⦠branded with the mark of cinders, his light would be extinguished. Not noticing Ulyssiaskâs advance to the direction of the decrepit temple only roused to the incentive and his request of accompaniment. Riposting in rapid elegance only to reach out and grab towards his right upper arm while Atraâs head shook to state negative refusal âYou wish to go where the first of us fell?â A seconds pause before continuing, eyes intense and beguiled with an illumination, twin crescents, or burning galaxies.â To some it would be an insult⦠and to others⦠a reminder of the shame⦠to have their wings severed by the swords of Michael, Raphael and Sachiel- some of us only have pride ...for that is all we have left.â
Releasing the grip from his arm, hand falling back at her side only as attention returned back to the scintillating sky above, maybe there would be no other choice to venture where his heart wished to go, there would be no way theyâd make it back to the sanctuary of the camp protected by the wards and numbers- out here they were alone and that wasnât exactly an ideal situation to be in. Glancing towards the âtempleâ then back to Ulyssiask, apertures parting only to allow a bridged sigh to escape twixt claret apertures, âAs insatiable as you may be Ulyssiask, some things are not for the eyes of mortals, not permitted to be their knowledge. However, I am not in the position to debate for better judgment it seems we have an underlining influence impending⦠neither of us are in a very good predicament, it seems you win this simply by default, and I, being the gracious hostess must comply to your⦠requests. After all I did ask now didnât I, if you craved more.â A sly smirk graced those devilish features, taking a few steps only to saunter in front before him then cheekily turning her chin to rest over shoulder whilst gazing back at him âYou coming? Or shall I send you an invitation upon a silver platter my dearest King?â Placing the emphasis on the âdearestâ in her enchanting dulcet cadence when addressing him either in sarcasm or embryonic⦠affection. [/align:9912b680ea]
-
Ulyssiask stepped forth, taking no hesitations and grasping the moment for what it was worth. He felt free here, despite his mind being chained down and enslaved to his past and all of the memories that constantly deluged him. This Countess intrigued him, attracted him, and appealed to senses and curiosities heâd rarely and most probably never felt before. From moment one sheâd proven, she was no ordinary woman. He felt as though it was time to awake, the fact that heâd been awake for days and hadnât stopped for rest at all had little baring on his intentions. Charismatically, he stepped up and kept pace to stay close enough to her, catching scent of something he hadnât smelled in longer than he could remember⦠something he called âbeautifulâ. She was quick to take off without him, step past him; this Contessa was witty and charming in a most unique way. He wouldnât be outdone, though.
âA silver platter would be nice!â â A sudden remark with an extremely sarcastic tone and curve in his lips that couldnât be removed with even the greatest imaginable pain or displeasure. Their pace was suddenly heightened, the frisk of playing games with one another in initial conversations, getting familiar with a new person; Ulyssiask felt an unusual liking toward Contessa already. âAnd yes, itâs entirely your fault. You did ask, after all. And beside that, who said I have mortal eyes? I may be an ordinary man and an ordinary King, but I assure you⦠thereâs nothing ordinary about me on the inside. Or maybe I had my eyes removed and magical ones put in, you never know!â Ulyssiask couldnât help himself, he had always been a strange individual â itâs only natural that after talking with him for a while, one would hear something awkward or strange sounding. At least his humor was genuine though, despite often used as a façade.
The sands of the beach quickly ended at their pace, and rigid rocks began. It would only slow them slightly, and allow time for the humor to die down as they approached the structure. The place where the first of them fell, Ulyssiask felt deep curiosity and a desire to find something â it was luring him in. The skies darkened overhead, they were approaching peaks that soared toward the heavens from the earth, ragged and tarnished by weather only a hell could furnish in such fashions. Ulyssiask stopped just shy of entering the temple, a shadow was emerging; a guardian or protector perhaps, but appearing to be more of a disgrace to even the lowest on the scale here â humanity. Bathed by the darkness and shrouded in dark cloth, a shrill and grainy voice demanded their halt in coordination with a raised hand signaling them to stop. âYour place is not here, leave.â
This world is not what Ulyssiask knows as home, he could easily fix the problem in a manner he felt fit, but it wouldnât feel right just yet. The Countess seemed to have memories less than fond of this place, so he would leave it in her hands to reply. His gaze came to meet hers should she look his way, and he waited.
-
[align=center] âYour place is not here, leave.â[/align]
[align=justify:b3c2c393de]Tall, gangly and unsightly beneath hooded vista concealing features and those gleaming eyes that appeared more like pinholes through the darkness beyond yet somewhere behind the midnight veil a shred of light, life or knowing remained; even if it was an illumination of shame, upheaval and mockery of all that it remained or stood to protect⦠a structure that none here, even in all their insanities would ever contemplate exploring let alone breaking the hymens of secrets which rested hidden in the dusty vaults like some abomination wanting, wishing to be birthed. It was never in a lady or her ethics to divulge all those questionable secrets, and sure enough Ankhnesmira had enough to behold to dazzle even the most virulent of historians and scribes, but ah⦠it would be so sweet to prove them all wrong and upstart the basis of all faithful religions. It was there lies they were left to worship, just like this poor unfortunate creature whose purpose was to safeguard those very lies, and hide them from the light- she was not here to question these charlatan beliefs or superstitions imbibed by her own mother and father or those foolish enough to have fallen because one strove to dominate man while the other wished to be just like him, equal to the heavens.
There was no possibility the jaded old monk, or whatever he professed to be would recognize her unless of course he knew Lucifer, personally or fell to the charms and spells of Lilith, though Ankhnesmira took more after her father by appearance- so perchance in that alone, if these tired old eyes bothered to see beyond the guise of hidden masks and masquerades, he would have seen before those barriers were dropped and placed to the ground like a dying infant for the maggots to devour. She knew Ulyssiask wouldnât place himself before her in this circumstance, and despite his eagerness to learn of this ânewâ place to his memory, maybe his eyes had laid focus upon this place before⦠from wherever his eyes had emerged from, a sorcerer, a diviner or some old lost soul long bereft to Deathâs cruel scythe? Regardless of originality, his soul wasnât of the mortal initially derived; then again she hadnât taken the time to see beyond the newer vigor that was his essence. For a moment Ankhnesmira remained silent to consider her own words, while allowing the false façade to melt away like the benediction of Babylonian waterâs⦠only to reveal the very mystery all the hellish prophets had failed to detect⦠until this very moment.
An outstretched hand, commanding them to halt, to return to the waste where hence they had come; it was not an option to consider for the oscillating tempests above bore down with much abhorrence and loathing to the very renegades below, even Ankhnesmira knew then that the majority of the rogues would have taken to the underground to sit it out, while listening to the massacre above of those foolish enough to think their blades were to the match of the very angels who had thrown them to the dogs originally, discarded them from their precious City of Hades to live as nothing but scavengersâ¦if they had been lucky enough to escape the dissection of spirit and body. Within the winds talons and upon bitter tongues she heard the whisper of their names, taunting⦠jeering⦠speaking their intentions on those who dare defy their emperor, Lucifer. Just what happens to traitors and lechers⦠which in all context, was what they were, murderers of the fallen, the bastard children of Lilith to some other exiled demon, devil or god. Being an outcast was Lilithâs penance for her unfaithfulness, cast out to the wastelands where her great city was borne, built as a permanent reminder to Lucifer or her ultimate betrayal far below the watchful eye of the empire, the spires and lofts towering above from the jagged peaks taunting the ebony firmament and the fiery Hyperion of the furnaces where sinners screamed repentance to deaf ears.
Beauteous features fell to ice, frozen with unsympathetic consideration to the Guardian who stood to halt their entrance? Ravenesque slender brow arched in defiance to the ever so rude gesture against her person, pointed fingers accusingly assuming that SHE had no place here, when in actual fact she had just about as much right as Lucifer himself to consider this as a shrine to failure. Extending just an inkling of her mental influence to entwine around his fingers, unseen force bandaging around fingers to force them backwards in harsh and brutal snaps, one by one in accordance to where her eyes moved, from thumb to smaller and more slender finger; each and every âCRACK!â audibly heard along with the forced dullness of agony singing twixt clenched and spiteful teeth hidden deep in the shadows of cloak. A mellifluous step forward, another âCRACKâ breaking the silence along with a sudden âBOOMâ of thunder above? Or was it the very gates of heaven opening, bringing forth another surge of angelic attack? Another step, this time the left leg of the guardian/protector viciously giving away from the invisible force slamming against knee to upper thigh causing it also to fracture, though this time precutting a more louder, satisfying holler of pain. Then the right⦠weight giving fully away to the onslaught of limbs, bringing the phantom-like figure to its knees.
Another step forward⦠then another⦠Ankhnesmiraâs head dropping slightly to permit those now glowing eyes of pearlescent fire to burn down upon the broken form- sanguine apertures curving into a coquettish and malign smirk while sardonic, acidic words oozed like poison from betwixt the gates of heaven âMy place is not here? And yet⦠my heart is locked inside this sick shrine like a trophy of all YOUR failures?â Stepping in front of the agonized effigy, right hand lifting down to ensnare the guardians face hidden in the shroud only to force it upwards, forcing him to stare into those eyes⦠the eyes he would know if he had been one who guarded the fall or had been there to see the magnificent display of angels crashing upon the very stars, only to fall and pierce the womb of earth. âBe rest assured⦠this is my MY place, just what a shame you wonât live to see what I intend to do with it!â He would have no chance to speak her fatherâs name, or utter any information that would lead to what exactly who she was in the pantheon of hell⦠not that it would matter to Ulyssiask, possibly but certainly to those whom stood in defiance of Hell and its legions. A brutal twist, compelling force from the chin to neck that would result in the instant fractures traveling along the vertebrae of the triangular bone connecting to neck and spine- severing it completely.
However she didnât cease in just a simple 180 degree turn, instead continuing with the follow of motion to completely twist the head from its socket, slicing tendon, muscle, and bone to render the truck headless. Not even turning back to see the reaction of Ulyssiask, for no doubt he had seen it all, if not worse⦠still it was amusing enough to see one of her stature and size best a man three times her size in only a matter of minutes without even a flint of emotion. Feet shifting, stepping askance to the side with head in hand, walking towards a broken pylon before the entrance⦠impaling the head⦠twisting to ensure it would not simply fall off and in fact it would remain there for all time⦠the wet, squelching sound while bone crushed and snapped to the intrusion of foreign matter⦠yellowish fluid seeping down the surface of brimstone only to drip to the crimson soaked ground below âThere now you can watch all you like⦠be the silent guardian you should have been and learn⦠if you had remained silent, you probably would have lived to see what the prophets ignore to seeâ¦oh well⦠liberation isnât for those who are prisoners to habit.â It was after these words that Ankhnesmira finally turned around, to look upon Ulyssiask⦠eyes gracing along his form from the feet to his face. Left hand gesturing before her to enter into the place which he found intrigue ⦠far be it from her to intrude on anotherâs fate⦠regardless of what those whispers revealed.
âLeave? How rude⦠we just got here!â Rolling her eyes in mild amusement to the cretin who suggested it â You would have thought it could have at least invited us in for a cup of tea before dumping the doom and gloom on the moment. Tisk! Just when I was enjoying our little stroll across the sand, what a shame we werenât hand in hand, it could have then at least been slightly⦠romantic.â Chuckling a little before making her way inside the threatening arches of the temple displaying silent sentinels looking down mournfully with downcast swords⦠inscriptions of burdened threats and gullible prophecies chiseled into the walls⦠entering darkness. It would only be dark for mere moments before torches caught ablaze at the very presence of HER though Ulyssiask would probably think of as nothing more than magick⦠though it was far beyond the fickle wish of elemental manipulation, it was more that coerced because she was there⦠that she was home. [/align:b3c2c393de]
-
In patience, Ulyssiask remained still and contemplated the possibilities, methods of cruelty his mind could thrive on in order to occupy the time it would take to proceed to the next point. Contessa spoke in response to the weak and pathetic self-professed guardian, and with nothing but her stare in contact with him, the breaking of bones began. Ulyssiask suddenly felt misled, a missing piece was now being noticed. Each step she took forward, the sounds of agony consumed the atmosphere around them and Ulyssiask felt himself being consumed by strange feelings and thoughts. On one side, he felt the temptation to draw his blade and hold it to her in question of her standing â heâd never seen such strange magicks in his day, at least not in his world. Many things had come close, and it took a great deal to impress or shock him, but this was far from anything heâd witnessed. Without laying a single hand on him, sheâd managed to completely destroy his mortal temple. On the other side, he felt even more compelled to learn about her, and he felt his heart filling with intrigue â among other new feelings. Regardless of his thoughts, he portrayed no fatal flaws and made no error in his expression or stature; and if nothing else, the removal of a head and spilling of blood lit up his hopes. An interesting, cruel, and devastating death was one of many things among his philosophy.
At her gesture, Ulyssiask ventured forth and entered the beginnings of darkness and shadow that shrouded the entrance. And for every moment her eyes felt his body, he felt a warmth that he liked. Only a single foot would fall where the puddle of blood was forming as he walked by the skull now mounted on the pylon. Ulyssiask lowered his glance to the head, resting one hand atop the skull and roughing up the hair with a cruel and humorous smile curling his lips high. âNext time, youâll know to be more polite.â Her sentiments toward him inspired even more humor, and suddenly he was compelled to act upon a feeling he couldnât describe. As distance closed between them, a glint crossed each of his eyes and an uncertain yellow ring encompassed the pupil of his eyes, expanding into the green of his irises just slightly. Ulyssiask made no attempt to hide his actions, his right arm rose; and unless she moved or stopped him out of spite or a feeling of her space being invaded, heâd rest it around her upper back like a loose, comforting one-armed embrace. âRomantic? If you enjoyed it so much, then surely youâll enjoy a much longer walk later,â his words ended there as torches lit up around the inside of the temple. They stood in complete darkness one moment, and as his last words reverberated off of the stone walls, they stood in dim and flickering light. The only constant light was the few shafts bearing in through the entrances.
âContessa... who are you, truly?â His curiosity was lit up with the torches, fire seemed to spread in more than one direction at times; though, it does not always burn. Ulyssiask asked her a question he felt held more importance now than before, but his eyes werenât focused on her. Once the light filled the room his sight became instantaneously fixated on a single area within the temple. Ulyssiask began to wonder if this was a holy place, or truly a hell â the realization of his actual location was dawning on him. Could it be that hell did exist, and by the cruel hands of fate he was somehow sentenced to damnation in wastelands of hell for all of his sins and burdens? If such were the case, heâd be more angered with the fact that the war he was in the middle of would be lost without him there to lead his men that he would be at the idea of actually being dead or in eternal damnation. Still, this seemed far too much like limbo to be his punishment or end-time; he was here for some twisted reason, or by chaotic magicks that went horribly wrong and sucked him in by extreme misfortune. Either way, it was turning out to be quite a delectable adventure, especially considering the new acquaintance heâd made â a rather attractive woman that could probably kill him before he could even think about defending himself, despite his advanced degree of experience.
His sight was fixated on what appeared to be a sword. The feeling, the intrigue he experienced earlier, he felt it again; but far stronger this time. He was lured here for a reason, and in paranoia he felt an urge to leave quickly. Ulyssiask was far too curious to leave now, and if nothing else... he was being himself, which prevented him from ever walking away from something he was drawn to. Dull cloth wrapped the underlying steel, and a slab of steel stood boldly below it, constructed solid through and through â it seemed to be furnished to stand against the test of time, and to be the mantle for an object of obvious importance; but a simple sword? At the edge of the slab, just in front of the wrapped blade, a faded inscription was etched into the steel with smooth curvature â perfect in form. A human hand could have never created such an inscription into the steel without many proper tools, and Ulyssiask saw neither the tools, the workplace, the possibility of such being done while the steel was still hot, or even the remote possibility of this being human. Too many things were revealing to him that nothing about the place was mortal, and he was feeling a very deep insecurity travel through the curvature of his spine. Yet, he held such a deep certainty in his skill and such a strong lack of fear of death that it didnât bother him by the slightest.
The inscription held his attention for moments that spanned long enough to make his unexplainable obsession noticeable to Contessa. He couldnât even read it though, half way faded and in a language that he couldnât even begin to make sense of if he tried. Then, Ulyssiask turned his attention to stare her in the eye shortly. Letting out a silent exhale of deep breath, he gathered his posture back up â it had lowered in his time glaring at the inscription â and his thoughts to speak to her. With a softer and more melodic voice than what sheâd heard from him before, Ulyssiask spoke purely in question. He seemed more like a confused man now than he did a certain man as before. Something was affecting him strongly, some greater persuasion or influence that was grasping him from within. âAnd I mean truly...?â
-
[align=justify:ad4b6c0611]Snickering at the retort uttered by Ulyssiask as his hand coveted the cranium of the fallen âguardianâ, lips charred with cynical sardonic charm, while words produced deliberate mockery. No words followed that confirmed amusement for other things were swirling in the vortex of her impish psyche- pondering the wonder that was Ulyssiask⦠how or why his âworldâ had crossed with those long bereft⦠abandoned to earth and heaven? Questions of her own began to fill her mind, of course they were none Ulyssiask could possibly answer, or would answer⦠perhaps she didnât trust him, just as much as maybe he didnât trust her? Perhaps Ulyssiask had cause not to trust her, after all it was him caught in a strange world, amongst strange beings and even stranger situations that had him now entering some temple with her for no logical reason other than curiosity. Then again, who was fooling who here? It was in Ankhnesmiraâs nature to be suspicious, never having the leisure of being an âunknownâ, every creature and fiend in these desolate spheres knew who she was, however they were forbidden to utter it for fear of their own {painful} {agonizing} {sufferable} demise. Driven back to those hidden thoughts only to be poignantly stirred at the attention placed to the sudden alteration of his eye color⦠like asphodel floating in the nadirs of absinthe; eerily beautiful⦠compelling enough to arouse the returned glance, diabolical black⦠darkness concentrated.
Stare not wavering, not even slightly until his right muscular arm rose, force of habit that Ankhnesmiraâs right hand swept across her naval towards the elaborate pommel of her blade, a languid motion only to have it halt against the pelage of piceous tourniquet; caressing the fabric with a cruel stroke in suspended steadiness. No other creature or man had ever even graced her form let alone actually physically âtouchingâ her, regardless of how loosely⦠spine arching from that sensation of âtouchâ ever so slightly but enough that he would experience that rebellious reaction that it wasnât something well accustomed to; then again the softest smiles reflected the same, foreign ambiance. For that moment they were in darkness, only the chalcedony joie de vivre to the hearts of her eyes was the only existing light- muted by her will. Hidden in deliberate pretense, obscured, surreptitious⦠just enough to cause further curiosity should his eyes have caught those fading crescents, soon eclipsed at the compulsion of torchlight⦠no words had graced her lips during the briefest moment of dark, the embrace of Ulyssiask against her upper back. Dialogue echoing in the chambers of an already conjuring mind, of questions and now the statements ushered by Ulyssiaskâs own silvered tongue. Inside maelstroms clashed and collided, but no sooner had they developed, suppressed and forced deeper beneath the visible surface.
The last flicker of flame, darkness and shadows snuffed to illume the quests of his curiosity, would he now have those curiosities sated? Or would he hunger for some more? Finally Ankhnesmiraâs voice broke the silence between the two, while he possibly mused whether she hadnât heard them or calculatingly ignoring them; either were a potential conclusion, then again during that contemplative silence; he would be left with the mysteries of this place- the structure of it purely occultic by shape and architecture. Hieroglyphics, archaic inscriptions inflicting the black, speckled walls to the vaulted ceilings where stone angels cast down their judgments on those guilty and thus charged. Swords exalted to the firmament, in scorn and derision⦠it was here that the temple took an inclination, subterranean, chthonic⦠where even the darkness seemed to conglomerate and solidify- amorphous, fluid forms shifting, augmenting only to disperse. To this direction her diabolic lanterns illumed⦠sanguineous apertures dividing to articulate, a bridged sigh escaping first⦠the timbre lingering, was it merely his touch or the dispassionate will to respond, despite how deserved his response was.
âA walk⦠in the darkness, how slightly ironic my dearest King! But in your arm⦠how safe I must truly beâ Ankhnesmiraâs voice had a deliberate twist, intentionally misleading between passion and that of warning- but he had inspired an unknown âfeelingâ within the chamber of heart, just at the moment she cared not or didnât wish to explore it⦠in spite of how fascinating Ulyssiask was to her. The last question was the more difficult to dodge, ignore and overlook as a trivial matter; not so easily dismissed, the fact of its burden displaying in the effulgence of those shimmering orbs of spinel. Would she reveal herself? Could she reveal herself in the very chamber of her kindâs bane? Finally stepping out from his unrestricting hold; only to pivot adroitly upon heel with an ambiguous artistry to face him; using her coercing charm to delude. âAh, but I have already told you⦠but if you truly wish to perceive the mystery of me, I am no one.â Left hand rising to point towards the direction from whence they came âI am on of them, an outcast who doesnât belong in heaven, hell nor earth, the vagabonds of our forefathers dressed in the shame that is theirs to burden, their crosses to abide yet lawless we are. Does that satisfy you my dearest King to know you are amongst the black gems of torment?â Much emphasis placed on âtrulyâ and âdearestâ, for the design of preliminary attraction.
Of course her answer was not truth, then neither was it lies⦠after all her father had been the master of all deceit and clandestine truths, however sparingly indulged his truths had been; Ankhnesmira no longer cared to hear his worthless, pitiful excuses, she crafted her own path through the rubble of his failures, no longer even pondered the whyâs and wherefore; now it was the can and will be done⦠so be it. Overture flickered at the passing of smoky plethoric fingers caressing through the illusionary heat of fire, for if Ulyssiask cared to touch, even pass his hand through the flames, the sensation would be the coldness of ice- the frozen wreathes of breath would be enough to signify this place was not for the living, and not even the dead⦠it was a lost place, forgotten by even those torn from the experience of its prison chambers. Hell did exist, here it was⦠dawning on his vision like the nightmare it truly is, and further words escaped those desiring apertures âFlames to dust⦠how do you even know I truly exist? How do you know this even exists and it isnât simply a figment of your imagination⦠of all the things you crave? How do you even know you are not caught in the tenebrous grasp of a nightmare where soon you shall awaken and all of this will fade before your eyes⦠lost to your touch?âTormenting words, asphyxiating on his very nerves, seeded doubts of the mysteries unknown by most men.
Taking a step closer, sashaying around from his left side only to bring her form directly behind him, eyes staring down into the blackness waiting to engulf them; like the womb of some abysmal mother. Right hand extending elegantly from his side, finger lengthening to point towards the very horror that had made many angels before him cringe from lesser convictions and lack thereof⦠only to suffer their own deaths for failure of their quests; was Ulyssiask one of them sent to drive that sword into the belly of the beast? If he was, he was surely the most creative and deceiving of them all, to have even got this far without falter⦠was he even who he said he was? Was he holding back the truth just as she? What an interesting altercation this was proving to be, where neither could completely trust the other. Cerise embouchements rising to his right ear, where lips graced his flesh ever so slightly to whisper âPerhaps the answer is down there, like all things waiting to be torn from the bosom of darkness, brought to the light where all lies are eventually deciphered and discovered⦠even yours, and most certainly⦠even mineâ Piquant breath teasing the lobe before retreating⦠form moving from the right side back around to his front, awaiting his next move. [/align:ad4b6c0611]
-
Ulyssiask had a triumphant, dominant and piercing glare, one that upon being cast to his enemy would wreak havoc and reek of death and decay â a burning sensation thatâd dive through any others pools of white or even miasmatic black, straight into the pits of the soul and carve from it fear wrought from the mysteries of Ulyssiaskâs own soul. With Contessa his stare, though unwavering, was instead softer and gentle. It would seem that in the midst of the moment, he had a finer appreciation for her strength in returning the gaze and meeting him in a lock of eyes; it often took courage to look another directly into those gateways to either heaven or hell, or perhaps something far greater or worse. Just as his head began to turn and his gaze shifted, he caught a glimpse of a burning light within those diabolical black orbs, just before it faded. Nothing could stop the transition though, not even his desire to track down that light and bring it back to view; to seek out whatever was there and discover every definition possible. As his eyes rested upon the sword, he considers the possibilities and what heâd witnessed less than a full moment before. He deeply concentrated for just that single moment in time, and heâd do anything but show an interest in it â though his interest was undeniably strong. So strong in fact that she could easily choose to look beyond the surface and see at least this thought. And as light returned and smothered out gathering darkness, something they both seemed to like, his gaze shifted back to her. Only now, he lowered his chin and gazed at her with an angle.
To her first statement, his eyes narrowed immediately, but his lips showed a different emotion entirely. His arm was dropped back to his side, and his gaze followed her, locked on her eyes rather she would look directly into his or not â all the while, she was stepping in front of him. For a moment, it would almost seem as though Ulyssiask was going to drop to his knees and laugh uncontrollably. The smile on his face was too much to contain, he was humored greatly as she told him âwho she isâ. It was nothing, to him⦠neither the truth nor a lie, just more useless words that described something entirely enigmatic. He knew good and well, there was something far more there than what she was saying. As the lights flicker throughout their surroundings, his pupils instantly dilate; and as they retract, the yellow would retreat and the normal green would be all that encompassed those beautiful irises. As the fire danced, so would his eyes. He wanted to tell her that he was far from satisfied â but the moment and will passed, and she moved further around him, venturing to behind him.
As Contessa stood behind him, eyes closed and head lowered; his posture was straight, but at ease. His muscles were loose, his head hung with a light tilt. Within his own mind, he dwelled. He ventured, further and further, deep into the corridors of the labyrinth â the massive realm â all within his timeless memory like a world to itself, separated from all things in existence and isolated as though each memory was existence itself. No moment like this had occurred before, heâd never allowed any woman to come so close to touch, and never trusted any other individual to walk around him without being more alert. That sword, though, for it he had a memory. He could feel his own outrage and endless fury as he grabbed his murdered fatherâs sword all those years ago, how he fought Aytsei⦠how he took his enemies sword, and made a martyr out of a false god. Each weapon was a tool, a passage to his next place in life, and heâd used them to create his legacy, his legend even. No memories for one being so close and trusted to his person, though. And here she was, behind him. He could feel her, he could feel everything around him so strongly â everything had an aura, an energy or history behind it, and he could sense it. Even with eyelids shut and held tightly closed, Ulyssiask could literally see his surroundings in his mind. And as she talks, he listens so intently, paying no mind even to his own slight tremble that runs throughout his entire body in response to that soft and delicate caress by her lips and the light breath brushing against his ear.
The King now felt a humbled man, he felt normal. That in itself was empowering beyond kingly duties or rites. And as she lifted her arm to point, his eyes opened to witness her directing and followed down the path of flesh to witness what she pointed toward. Finally, she shifts back around to his side, and then to his front, awaiting his response. All lies to be deciphered there, and there it was â something he could not resist with even the smallest inkling or greatest extent of his will power. Ulyssiask wanted it, felt a desire for this new exploration, but it was nothing more than a sword in his sight. Hell surely had tests, perhaps this was one; but if Ulyssiask was in Hell, he surely felt no fear of being damned â this wasnât so bad, so far. Once more, Ulyssiask would close his eyes, but his head would lower even more. Inhaling a deep breath, he considered all things; even the sigh she relieved before speaking just a moment before. His heart beat is strong, each thump pounding against the inner walls of his chest in near effort to escape its confines â to leap out from the mortal flesh to which it was restricted and enslaved. And as the intensity of his heart grew in his mind, his sight filled with blended flushes of black and red. Opening them was harder now, almost as though Ulyssiask had slept for a day, his eyes didnât feel right being exposed to the light and air outside of those fleshy lids. For just a second, the yellow reappeared around the black of his eye and the white glowed brighter, but it was an ephemeral and short-lived resonance. Ulyssiask lifted his right hand, fully opened palm and out-stretched fingers, and dangled his hand in midair just in front of Contessaâs face. In pure silence, he traced the outline of her face without ever touching her. Slowly, calmly, and occupying not one but three or four moments in time with silence. When the tip of his index became even with her chin, he stopped and his hand clenched tightly into a fist, but a calm voice pursues his actions.
âI am⦠only a man,â assuring and warm in tone, his voice trails off as an exhalation of sudden breath rushes from between lips in a light chuckle â amused almost by his own statement, perhaps in disregard to his own mixture of thoughts and emotions. Raising his head back up and looking once more to her eyes, Ulyssiask smiled proudly. And in that same instance, he leaned in closer to her and with the same hand that was so close to her, reaches right past her to grab hold of the sword. Extended fingers grace the edge of the sheathe, following the contours up along its length toward the hilt; and upon arriving near the final destination, he grabs the sheathe firmly just below the guard, lifting the weapon thatâd drawn him closer and closer all along and bringing it around her to between the two of him. An exchange of grip signified his intent to remove the blade from its sheathe, though his actions were subtle enough to show no intent of harm toward her â still, if she were suspicious of him, now was the least of times to let down her guard. If heâd acted and pretended all of this time, thereâd be no reason why he couldnât continue to act calmer than ever. Left hand encompassed the sheathe with a tight grip, and right had slid up towards the hilt. At last, this was his moment to experience the drawing of what could be a new weapon, another gateway to his potential future â for even a mere tool constructed of steel by the hands of mortal men could possess enough within itself to carve the destiny of men. How else would fate have it, that men be slaughtered by the edge of ordinary blades every day in war and combat?
This weapon wasnât the same, however. The hilt was very intricate, a sophisticated and ancient crest marking it with the head of devil or demon that seemed to scream without ever making a sound â still enough to harm the ears with a ringing from the barriers of inexistence. As his grip became solid on the hilt and he drew the blade, it seemed to have a diaphanous glow that the shadows wanted to cling to and wreathe around; a very suggestive negative light. The steel, or whatever material that it was constructed from unknown to Ulyssiask, was pure black. Before he could completely remove the weapon from its sheathe and without notice, Ulyssiask fell to his knees with an agonizing halt to his thoughts and jolting of his nerves. Every muscle in his body froze and his legs became weak, sharp pains stabbed into his back, and emptiness filled both his stomach and chest. It became such an instant strain that his eyes seemed to fill with blood, but it was over just as quickly as it had begun, and he leaned over in misery. His hand had never left the hilt until he leaned over after the fact of it, using his right hand to catch him before the ground would. Ulyssiask was not hurt, but he was far more than shocked and dazed. Still, enough conscience remained for him to breathe heavily until he could soothe his lungs into a calm and control himself. He no longer felt any pain, only confusion; yet it was clear as daylight, and he somehow knew whatâd occurred. And within the grasp of his strength to control his breathing and look up, Ulyssiask would extend his humor to Contessa. âDo you still think I have any lies to be discovered?â
-
[align=justify:c11c356d4a]Entwined in the gaze of dancing serpents, his eyes burning profoundly with an intensity that only encouraged deeper enthusiasm; a curiosity where her mind conjured all the scenarios which possibly wrought the truth to the reasons of his presence, whether by accident or some other intervention. To the stares and moments of silence, intertwined spectrums of black and gold, ebony gilded nightmares that could only coerce profundity and intricacy. However caught in trappestine divination, her eyes began to dim and fade from nigrescent midnight to asphodel fields of absinthe, frankincense or royal myrrh- a light at the end of the darkness, and from within the darkness a new light borne; another interesting remedy to a more perplexing enigma. This Contessa would not deny him just the faintest glimpse to see those gardens of Eden before they caught ablaze and burnt to blackened cinders leaving nothing in their wake, or the fires of a damnation not even the Devils knew existed for there was a larger torment that those of the fallen to those whom had not yet borne the taint from their own deeds but the deeds of those before them; to suffer in the womb of creation, creating monsters not even the bowels of the abyss could even possibly spit out from seismic birth. Even as the gaze of Ulyssiask diverted to the prize at his reach, the sword that none here ever had the capability of yielding for it was not a sword for this world.
There was nothing, no desire to remain motionless, not when the sights were so appealing to not indulge in its revelation, even if Ulyssiask appeared rather openly with his amusement- at least he was entertained, one never admired a host whom was a complete bore. It was more of her study of his kind, mortal but yet from some other place hidden to the likes of her and those who she commanded: it was a world untainted by these infernal beasts and the heavenly divine. No doubt his world had its share of demons and angels, perhaps it didnât⦠this was a question just dying to be discovered⦠but not quite yet, not here in this place and time. Eloquent motion, flowing, weightless, ephemeral, like she bore no substance but even this great King knew differently for he had already graced her form with his touch, brief enough to make her crave it just a little more. Perhaps he knew of this, even at her attempts to conceal exactly that. Standing behind him once again, how her breath easily caressed the back of his nape⦠taking a step closer, and another still; breaking that distance; another movement bringing her elegant form standing before him in all the glory that was hers.
She knew he was more than aware of her presence, after all how could he not be⦠observing every reaction or stature of muscle having knowing how to read an adversary or even ally before they made it verbally known. Such a close scrutiny, wishing to study the remnants or promise of a touch as his hand had traced only moments beforeâ¦then his words spoken, as if to convince himself or her of its proclamation; âI am⦠only a manâ How those words sung in the Contessaâs mind, somewhat true and yet somewhat not; a mixture of deception and humbleness not ever seen before⦠the more Ulyssiask appeared to be enigmatic himself. Now, he moved closer⦠there was no urge on her behalf to step back and keep that distance although the intuitive part of her psyche advised it so, to observe a little more but keep that distance between until full assessment had been logically crafted; from knowledge not curiosity. A powerful arm moving past her, reaching to claim the object of his curiosity; the prize for his effort or curse- now was the time of judgment. Lifting it around from behind her to in-between, though not even for a second did her eyes divert from his in query to the sword⦠she already knew what it was, and what it had the capability of achieving.
No indication granted with muscle or facial expression tensing, there was no sudden flux of motion from Ulyssiask to warrant rapid reaction or retaliation, however, the shift of her right hand towards the scabbard of her blade then suspended perfectly still just before it was enough to show he was not fully trusted, and indeed she was suspicious of his intent here, after all, Ulyssiask had not been the first to take arm with it against the one it was purely intended for. He had not been the first she had brought down here and leave to own devices, regrets, failures and fears; nothing ever came without a price, nothing without a scream. This beauty of darkness could only admire his courage, but she also knew men could be very brave but that could also be considered as very foolish in the eyes of others⦠in her hindsight she knew it would not be long after the blade drawn that things would take another turn and twist of fate, there was only two options: to embrace it or fight it⦠which one would he chose? Of course his eyes would see this intricate weapon, beautiful in all its deathly glory, oddly possessive of images of death and war, destruction and devastation but also a possible resolution to that destruction; the only means of ending it, or creating it.
It would be only moments before the first effects would be noticed, but it had been his choice, his will to reach out and take the blade, to draw it and shows its plagued fate to the swarming shadows like a new God being lifted to be revered, feared and adorned. No Devil, Demon, Angel or God could raise this blade without death- that truth had been exerted over millennia⦠and why was this so? An easy epiphany to behold for even in the darkest grimoire or the holy book itself depicts that Armageddon would not be fought in the infernal, the abyss or the heavens but upon the very ground of mortal man so it only made sense that this one weapon would be created by the Holiest of Essence to prevent that from occurring at any cost, or so the placeboâs and legends speak. Perhaps it is simply a weapon to rid all worlds from the taint of evil, in even its most perfect form? All she knew was that all before him had failed, perhaps he would as well? Either way it was her eyes alone that had to witness it.
And thus, here it was; the dawning of its burden⦠just as the first reactions took effect and Ulyssiask fell to his knees, again she made no motion to step back or even offer a hand to stable or soothe; to a warrior it was enough of an insult to be offered assistance when stricken than to that of a King⦠surely? Her own blade had been run through many when her essence had been scathed with that desirous sensation of metal piercing alabaster flesh to create rivers of crimson to flow like the fountain of life itself, or those offering hand merely to appear gentlemanly or dominantly condescending⦠no⦠she would allow him the moment to âfeelâ what his heart had desired to possess. The first stages always ended abruptly and swiftly, it was permitted the weapon to âtestâ the nature of its yielder to align itself with preparation. Interestingly enough however, he had been the first to even survive it; another thorn in the apple. If he had perished like the rest, she knew for certain he could have been trusted⦠alas this was quite the effective result.
Again there was no change at all in her posture, reserve or face that gave the game away; if anything the Contessa was frozen to reaction, displaying the nonchalant assertive nature Ulyssiask should now be accustomed to. Luminosity had retracted from those orbs pinned hard to his form, only the blackness remaining in dead silence- watching Ulyssiask gain his composure almost statue like in her beauty and alignment to the event as for the first time her gaze drifted upwards to the pinnacle of the temple ceiling listening to the elements above howl in cacophonous protestation; listening to the archaic incantations of wards already being uttered by those deep in the Infernal Empire⦠dark mages preparing for the coming of their own superstitions and fables, no doubt Lucifer himself knew of this advancement- news travels fast, especially when it was rather quite dire to their pitiful existences. Finally her hand suspended in front of her elaborate blade moved away and upright, folding in front of swathed leathered bodice with her other arm beneath streams of ravenesque rivulets, finding no jest in the situation but enlightened as Ulyssiaskâs gaze finally graced hers once more, and words finally managed to surface only causing the faintest of crimson smirks to tantalize lustful arches.
In retort, her words were honeyed, smoother and mellifluous⦠purposefully dulcet to the senses after a bridged sigh of inconvenience to the storm and the possibility of what it was bringing towards the legions under her command; then again, what was a few losses, even if they were loyal more could be found in the wastelands who loathed the Infernal Emperor and the Divine with nearly as much passion as she. Maybe the wrathful ones would pay a visit to these old haunts and summon up some old memories worthy of remembrance; she doubted their bravery would be as resolute as that. SHE did not speak at first, rather preferring to allow the storm ravaging above to portray its pestilential stories to any with enough care to decipher its wicked tongues⦠moving again only to saunter towards a temple pillar and rest her back against it, while left boot heel slid up against to rest upon cold obsidian surface, her head ascending slightly as chin tilted in angular position while the atramentous flambeaus displayed within those profound orbs were finally snuffed by lids and lashes; pondering her own words before actually speaking them softly⦠âWe all have lies to be discovered, we all have lies to be unearthed from the coffer that is called soul. We all have lies our hearts hide and we all have lies that we sup⦠for even those bitter deeds bring sweetness to our mouths like wine.â [/align:c11c356d4a]
-
The relentless agony and strain of muscles from before weakened Ulyssiask. Even as he regained composure, perspiration took control and sweat lightly covered his body, allowing him to cool and breathe deeper. The cool air inside the temple felt like an autumn breeze or the touch of a loverâs whispered breath dancing along the contour of his sculptured bodice, tickling his nerves and relaxing him almost to the point of being chilled. And as he gained the newfound comfort and relaxation for the moment, even as the pain was entirely removed and almost impossible to remember or imagine reliving, his veins felt as though theyâd collapsed from the extremeness of his tense reaction moments ago. Still, he didnât make it this far feeling pity or resting or giving in to his weaknesses.
As they calmed more and more, eyes followed the Contessa until she found a pillar to rest herself against. Without momentâs notice, his facial expressions depicted absolute disregard, as if her final words plagued him to the point of horror. He pushed against the ground and sat up, still on his knees and sheathed sword still in left hand. Ulyssiask ran his right through his hair, glancing around him in all directions, regarding the temple as an imaginary battlefield. Paranoia seemed to have set in, or perhaps just plain madness â he looked as though he were encompassed with enemies at all flanks. A rabid animal backed into a corner would best describe his mannerisms. Contessa was now the second person to ever witness this weakness, this side of Uly. The last to see him behave like so was his father when he was only a small child suffering, tortured by the feeling of complete fear â total and complete fear. Ulyssiask brought himself to a stand, gathering himself and his composure as best he could. He felt slightly out of place, but within reason; it had been a long time since he was last humbled so deeply, and since any other had witnessed him fall to his knees.
âI can feel eyes all around me,â he calmly spoke to Contessa. By stating that, he placed more trust in her, believing perhaps that she might possess an explanation or some form of comfort. Glancing down to the weapon in his grasp, Ulyssiask gripped tighter and grabbed the hilt once more. This time he felt more confident. If he could suffer and survive whatever it was the first time, he could bare the burden a second time. However, the steel slid against its sheath and he drew the blade without suffering any strange occurrence. Gritting teeth firmly, a glance became a glare and shifted to Contessa. He didnât meet her eye to eye, but instead rested his eyes just below her lips. âTell me what you know. And please, I maybe a king, but it is not my name. Call me Uly⦠I havenât been called that since I was a child, but call me Uly.â
He didnât seem so kingly now. He appeared more like a warrior whoâd just been struck down, seeking vengeance with a cold-blooded desire. Still he retained a relaxed form, lowering the point of the blade toward the ground under their feet. He wasnât smiling anymore; he wasnât playing coy games or bothering with formalities. He just wanted to know, plain and simple, what was occurring. Perhaps she would know as much as he believes her to, and perhaps she doesnât. Either way, Ulyssiask felt the need to know â and the temple was becoming a very uncomfortable place for him. He didnât feel welcome anymore; a battlefield full of men who despise him would seem more welcoming at the moment. Ulyssiask was looking to Contessa for answers for this very reason â if this is her home, she must know something that would be of assistance.
-
[align=justify:e1217b7c32]Tiny crystalline jewels sparkled over the mortalsâ brow and muscular form, glistening as if he were one of those winged Adonisâs from high. The exalted ones basked in the gilded kiss of holiness and virtue; the keepers and protectors of innocence, yet tainted with no lesser blood than she; just their cause had been blessed and hers the darkest of curses. Piceous flambeaus of darkness taking no shame in scathing his form in a âcloseâ examining scrutiny, drinking in the leisure of taking such libertyâs as her own without means of ignominy or reticence. Each bead pooling then bursting in shards of nebulous luminescence, the Contessaâs glaze following every flow of shimmering rivulet as it streamed over the hard rock of muscle and tendon. Why not enjoy the scenery, Ulyssiask was something new to revel in, everything else here had long lost its luster to the years she had to play sufferance to it. The pain would eventually subside, bring new and graver ills⦠it would be his curse to abide; but it would be his ultimate choice which path he would take- once on it, there was no turning back and no real salvation save for the weapon he would yield until his dying days. Should he be so lucky to know that final resolving peace?
Contessa had seen many a man before him attempt to take this jeweled archaic item of weaponry, much to her surprise he thus far had lived much longer than they. Most of them didnât by first touch for the horror it brought to their souls and hearts of the terrors this weapon had already granted on the deaths of Gods, Demons and Devils bestowed and infused with the callousness of darkness. There was no doubt in her calculating mind, that this man was destined for great things, even if it meant the extinction of her kind or the extinction of essence of holy from ever plaguing the world with its interference and faith. In this weapon there was only one of two paths that could be taken: one of darkness or one of light; no possibility of neutrality, it was one or the other and destruction to the lesser. Did she fear this possibility? No, there was nothing in death that the Contessa feared, it was all inevitable in the end, the way of all things and she welcomed the fact of a possible opponent that was grand enough to hold himself well enough against her mastery and grandeur. Whether she witnessed a side of weakness to Ulyssiask that none had ever had the pleasure of witnessing before, it wasnât seen as such.
In this circumstance, it wasnât a weakness to her at all. Many times she had crossed battle fields, saw the faces of the brave hiding the essence of weakness and failure; for them not to see it or admit themselves to it- was the fatal sign of weakness. He had crumbled before her writhing in agony, screaming with the suffering of all those before him. It showed her that he had nothing to lose in his downfall and that made him a very dangerous man. Those who have nothing to lose, fight the hardest. In her years of war, slaughter and murder only a couple of men stood out from the rest, those who had nothing to lose but many promises to grant just to remain in her favor. It had been one of the few factors that made her one if not the most powerful woman reigning in the world of man. A woman who had nothing to lose has no weakness because sheâll remain alive due to her trickery, manipulation and cruelty; most men would slaughter just to have affection⦠even if it is pretense. And just as she had suspected her began to rise to his feet, just like a phoenix rises from the ashes, reborn of retribution and revenge.
Ulyssiask spoke calmly, and Contessa had to give him admiration for being able to pull himself together so quickly when the others before him were nothing more than a bloody pulp splattered across the room in Goetic banners of crimson and dripping flesh; torn apart by their own nightmares and the touch of âNgâarnthâzakthurâ the ancient one whose name should never be spoken whilst one held the sword. Of course the inscriptions inscribed on the stone walls of the temple coerced it to be ushered on plagued breath, tempting the words to be spoken that would waken the great serpent, then ultimately the other six who were imprisoned in various scattered paths. The evil ones of reckoning, the bringers of the seven plagues, the seven keys to bring about Armageddon on the sinful worlds above and below the celestial crown; they would relish nothing more than to drag the host of darkness back to his chains. What were plans in the scheme of all things? Contessa cared naught of heaven, hell or the pitiful insects toiling above to the drone of materialistic values⦠she would delight in nothing more than the extinction of all that was or was yet to be, the ultimate nemesis in plot against all heavens and all hells.
Again the magnificent King drew the blade again, this time managing to hold his composition- a brave, assertive one indeed; but just how long would he hold this? It amused her slightly that his eyes rested just below those rubicund apertures of her, lustful, sinful arches that could promise the universe and brought nothing but total damnation. Remaining deadly silent, permitting his cool timbre to grace the acumen of her undivided attention while her mind conspired ways how to get him to speak the fateful words that would bring the wheels in full motion; the wars to begin, the death of worlds. In retort her voice would be more salacious. Seductive plumes rising to tease and entice every single essence that a man possibly maintained when a woman of her caliber was in his presence. âUlyâ¦â a coy smirk plaguing those coquettish embouchements as her tongue licked at her upper lips before continuing âEyes⦠perhaps they are just mine?â a slight laugh of bemusement followed those words, perhaps a little unnerving, perhaps not- that would be for him to determine.
â The old ones are setting measure against your stature, gambling on what your chances are of survival or what their chances of survival are. Opportunistic creatures, but we can hardly place that crown of thorns upon their brows now can we? We ourselves are guilty of it.â Pushing her svelte frame from the place was momentarily she had found it comfortable to remain, moving to the stone wall while running her palm across the etched surface. Slender tapered digits taking the pleasure in caressing the gulfs where its name decayed the depiction of pledged oblivion. Eyelids becoming dew-lidded, closing as she reveled in the legend of this prophesy; would he be the one to bring it all about and allow the final threads to fray? Limbs purring as they moved with the wispy shadows that flickered from the overture of torchlight every time them dimmed and darkened- as if some dark hand moved to distinguish them. â I know many thingsâ¦some even I am not permitted to tell. Donât you just hate being bound by chains? Not given the freedom of expression, or⦠sentiment? We are all prisoners here, even you⦠my dear King!â
There was no threat in her voice to express it was her who intended to keep him here against his will, instead her eyes when they opened directed the stare upon the name written on the wall. Clear and precise enough to be spoken by his lips, the one who held that weapon of justice or damnation; it would be then that his infliction would worsen for he would be forced to make a decision on what path to take. Damn all else. Indeed, Contessa could speak its name but without the sword, their would be no provocation for it to awaken. The sword was its treat and while it remained in the halls of this temple, the beast wouldnât stir. Everything else after this would be a second guess, and Contessa never liked to make assumptions, only fools assumed and had known enough of those to last her many lifetimes. Sure she would love nothing more than to share a few stories with this⦠Uly. Perhaps that would be for another time, unless he asked specific questions; no doubt if he was intelligent man he would see things in her that would arouse more and deeper questions⦠Contessa made no attempt to hide she wasnât one of trustworthy virtues. [/align:e1217b7c32]
-
[align=center]Nocturnal slitherings...
Ancient whisperings...
Fragrances of Attar...
Then[/align]
The penultimate silence of complete and utter emptiness, a silence so hollow that it would be painful to any if they could only hear it, excepting one and only one creature.
Finally, millennia of disturbed sombulance broken by one action, one grasp of something that to mortal eyes held legends grasp or to those of ignorance, a simple piece of decorated steel. A single eye opening, obscure flame engulfing the torments of visions awareness. The roar of those same flames engulfing the bonds that until the sword was drawn, had chained this being in the darkest depths of despair. A place that made hell seem a paradise for virgins, a hollowed shell of crushed bone, forged into his prison, locked in the heart of the dankest shadows.
[align=center]BUT... No More...[/align]
It seemed perhaps that time for once had worked in favour of this creature, for man had all but forgotten his existence and links to the weapon. He knew there would be some out in the worlds that would remember his name, his mythology. But the fact that a mortal hand had touched the weapon indicated that man no longer remembered. A shuddering chuckle, similar in sound to the grinding of ice upon rock, cold, subterranean hinting at things that crawled in dark places. The chuckle would echo through space and time, for it seemed that the drawing of the sword had not disturbed those whom had imprisoned him.
A deep ominous rumble would strike the world on which the sword was drawn, starting many miles below the ground, volcanic forces having built over aeons, released by the cracking of his prison, a warning that would echo through out the universe, yet... Nothing came... No sudden gathering of vast forces of supposed light to again draw battle with him and bind him back to solitude.
"It is over" a voice like no other, echoing, spoken without breath, filled with the anguish of every victim, every life he had taken.
[align=center]"I... Am... Free..."[/align]
The flame pouring from his vision, filling the prison of bone in which he had resided since before man existed, pressure building in rapid dementia, rushing flame inspired to greater heights by his will then, the pressure reaching zenith inspiration and with mindless force, the world in which he was imprisoned, exploded. The fact that this release was of spiritual insanity dark as it was, causing the sky upon the world of the sword to suddenly brighten, for time held no meaning to this release of energy. The dark light touching worlds without number.
A new star would be born once the flare died down, a star of pain and anger, a star cursed with agonies touch. In the moments immediately after this accursed caress on mortal worlds, birds would fall in flames from the skies, babies skin would blister in horrendous boils, as they screamed their way to oblivion, but the most delicate effects would travel into the sword, up the living steel and into the hands of he whom now held the sheathed weapon. Heat, massive heat enough to scorch flesh from bone, and a binding, a binding that would lock the weapon in this mans grasp. It was now this mans to wield for good or ill, for glory or murderous depravity, for heaven or hell.
Just as it would burn the mans flesh, as smoke would rise from the mans fingers and flesh would char and burst into ambiguous flame, pain shooting out from the swords touch, the sword would cool, healing those hands, making it seem like the man holding it had suffered a hallucination, from weariness. The spirit moving, drawn like a moth to the flame, travailing the immense distances to enter something that when his kind held sway was barely a dream, minds eye perceiving the man holding the sword and just as suddenly finding pause, for within the temple, was a woman, of beauty but more importantly of dark atavistic potency. The darkness outside having no meaning for the creatures released to haunt the night, mere trifles, snacks for an ancient and hungered being, let them dare approach. Two statues, a touch, and before the eyes of the man it would seem as if suddenly they had taken on life, yet they did not move, only a wisp of shadow about them giving the most delicate hint that something had altered.
Now he wanted time to study his adversary, for take it as it may, whomever held this weapon was his adversary, for this weapon was the only thing capable of entombing himself and his kindred. Somewhere behind him a tugging, insistent and annoying beginning to build and the realisation that a part of himself remained bound, a fragment of his prison remaining in existence and with that cold fury beginning to build in necramentous obscurity. Straining against the effect, rage consuming focus, he would continue to struggle against this and study on the weapon-bearer, all other passions and plans cast aside for this moment...
[align=center]But soon, so soon he would be everything he once was...
and perhaps...
More...[/align]
-
Insofar, cupidity allowed Ulyssiask to sate his nearly primal desires and find the means to an end of curiosity, to acquire something he unknowingly and unexplainably lusted after, and to persevere and stand strong. The provenance of his strength exalted him, continually flooding back in deluges like perennial memories fulfilling the prophetic, sapient omen that history would repeat itself. If such were true, he was all too familiar with the peregrinatorâs trustworthy pathway. Most men before him would surely exhibit a plaintive expression by now; but Ulyssiask felt an evanescing need to persist, a tumultuous emotion stirring within his aspirations and clouding his thoughts. Heâd not felt such obscurity in so long, but this feeling was different. It regaled him with whispers and palaver and soothing comity. Nothing seemed to turn him away. Neither the cool and calm admonitions of the countess, nor the pillaged outstretching miles of death and decay, nor the asperity and raspy resonance of guardians demanding they turn back, not even the resolute darkness and odious omens muttering their doom-filled divinations with cryptic winds like the condemned breath of angels and demons alike â none could fend him from discerning what it was that was pulling and even possibly fating him to this place. His mind was set, even to the point of immolating himself as a vain martyr if necessary, as heâd already proven by covetously grasping the damnable sword a second time.
With every moment, his recovering strength grew more firm and concrete. Already harsh eyes grew more insensate, now miasmatic prisms confirming the nefarious intent and prisoner within known only as the soul. Her words waltzed through and reverberated against the walls and barriers of his psyche, triggering the very answers or responses that perhaps she craved and was intentionally beckoning to hear without ever speaking of it. Each of them had arsenals within their tongues, and a panoply of responses readied at momentâs notice; but this was far beyond planned or intended by either. The arrival of Ulyssiask alone was unintentional, at least to his potentially limited foresight. Contessa spoke of a truth he could not arrive at, âI know many thingsâ¦some even I am not permitted to tell. Donât you just hate being bound by chains? Not given the freedom of expression, or⦠sentiment? We are all prisoners here, even you⦠my dear King!â That statement wreathed his thoughts with a heinous and punishing chokehold. He passionately adorned chaos and war with all of his affection, heâd learned to live and respect it; but the idea of confinement, that which heâd broken free from, the very idea of imprisonment from his liberties was his personal hell. Just as his head bowed to glare at the sword and take in what she had to say, he lifted his head once more to speak, at first more to himself than her. âNo one,â naught but a whisper barely escaping as a hum through his lips in accord to what sheâd said in their prior exchange of words. At that moment, those insensate eyes would rise to meet hers and his voice would sound more noticeably, yet still only a light and almost muffled tone. He followed up his first whisper and seemed to almost ask as he stated, âAnd black gems of torment.â
Ulyssiask began to step forward, twisting in his step and approaching her in a roundabout, offset course. The rumbles from beneath filled the lands, chthonic voices quaking the very ground upon which they stood. Plagues perhaps reigned outwardly and through lands, but far beyond the senses of the mortal king. Something changed, though; it could be sensed in the very air, the smell of horror and nightmares carried on the wind. Such inaudible but obvious terror was easily recognizable, enough to cause any man or warrior alike to feel unsteady. And in all the cursed and death spreading throughout lands far and abroad, neither the knell nor the angelic requiems could fill the heavens or this hell with their hypnotic sounds. The most dangerous sound is silence, and it dawned upon this land leaving even Ulyssiask unaware of its deadly curses. All he felt was the thoughts of the moment those cerise embouchements blew her whispers into his thoughts. Sheâd either played him as laudably and flawlessly as the trumpet to sound at the end of days, or told him a simple fact. Obsessively, his thoughts lingered there and adapted a response that united every piece of their conversation seamlessly. With more of a demand he spoke, âFlames to dust... perhaps you're right - all in time and in the horrifying hold of a nightmare. And that is why I know, of all the things I crave - neither you, nor this, nor will any of it... fade before my eyes, or be lost to my touch. As you say, even I am a prisoner, my dearââ
Cringing in pain and halting his words, mephitic fumes and smoke filled his nostrils and brought water forth in his eyes. Punishment â heâd asked for it when he lifted the sword once more. Ulyssiask was too obstinate, refusing to bow down, be broken, or do anything but hold his ground. This had become the only path he knew or understood. Hissing and crisp cracking, flesh charred and ignited a fiery sensation in his nerves that racked his mind with unreserved perplexity. Still he stands his ground, gripping his wrist with the other hand. Within the instant, it cooled and he felt no more pain. In all of his forming doubts and inner rage, the one emotion that overcome all others was that this weapon truly was mystifying, something of incredible or even infinite qualities that he simply could not walk away from. This sealed his fate if nothing else would; and sliding his free hand down his wrist and over his hand and the hilt, he acted with intention to unsheathe the weapon. Instead, he glanced past Contessa, and to where her hands and fingers gently followed traces in the stone. With a deep breath and a lowered tone, Ulyssiask calmly speaks the inscription, âNgâarnthâzakthur.â
Such paranoiaâs that reassurances could not comfort or silence in the wake of all thatâs occurred and would come to be were the fashioned and accustomed behavioral tendencies he expressed ever so meekly, but one would have to look into the gateways of his being and past so many trivialities to realize what he did not compensate for but welcomed with open arms. The cautious and anxious feelings were what gave the last secondâs notice and enabled a warrior to often survive so very much. Sensing eyes that rested upon him could only be the entrancing spell Contessaâs eyes offered, rather or not she willed it was something he could not decipher with absolute certainty. Then again, it could be so much more. A shift in the shadows, wisps of light and darkness clashing as the flames of each torch danced and mesmerized the room, rendering it with a setting that revealed both the light and darkness not only natural to the setting but in every culture embedded in markings across stone walls and pillars. He also could not decipher if heâd witnessed a presence or movement within shadows, or if it were just that â the shadows and shifting light. This was undoubtably before dreams, between nightmares, and far, far beyond reality; and that made it all... too... real.
-
[align=justify:3198b0ca43]The archaic whispers foreboding in cacophonies bitter blasphemies, sensuous to the senses and elucidations now grinding and gyrating from within and without. Contessa felt it stir from beneath the bowels of hell, rising, uncoiling like a tremendous serpent seeking temperate souls to regurgitate and spill forth in squamous mass to all in its wake. Just the sensation itself boiling and toiling alone were opiate to her disposition, entrancing even one as resolve as she into a state of piquant trance. Coquettish in vernacular divulges and behavior. Like a poison slowly seeping into the wound, causing it to bleed in cancerous abysses, a new disease brining new promises of putrefying obliteration. It would be the perfect nemesis of life itself, a bane of existence to torture, emasculate and eradicate. To disembowel all that was faith, hope, deliverance - any ideal of salvation thrown to the wolves snapping at their weak, broken bodies while the world was purified with blood and fire. Debility purged.
Contessa knew no fear of this creature, perhaps fearing it would give her trepidation in manipulating the situation to best benefit her, her goals and hand in this masterpiece of trickery and blatant disregard for the final outcome. You cannot resolve one who fights a holy war, well, hers was neither holy nor unholy- it was revolutionary. Whether or not Ulyssiask would sway to her vision of things or do what that sword was destined to do, either way the outcome would be the same. The Ancient Ones would awake and complete the full chain reaction of events, the circle of evolution itself; unchangeable⦠irreversible. The elements spat curses upon them, vituperation vile, bitter to the tongue- the camphorous presence burning unseen crosses on the perpetual essence of her being. Abominable, foul, dreadful and loathsome but also bravura all in the one emotion; a concoction of archetypical diablerie with that of prophecy⦠the wheels were in motion. Her plan could not have worked out any better.
Harangues of chaos, slaughter occurring on the exterior of the temple with the dark angels Lucifer had sent to afflict those left to stray across the wasteland. Any way to destroy the renegade hordes from reaching the Imperial Gates or take the cities already left to decay, crumbling to dust. Sonorous poundings hitting against the sacred structure, not like something was attempting to get in but rather something attempting with all its hellish strength to get out; not mentioning the creatures of the Plains of Sorrow slamming against the foundations, gossamer wings torn from spinal attachments, viscera engorged banners being splattered against the obsidian stone. As if marking it for the future horrors yet to transpire⦠not yet, but soon for this was only a small sample of what was yet to come. Winds shrieking, forceful tempest shifting across the deserted plains, necrologies of hecatomb disinterred.
The creatureâs displeasure of being denied freedom was nothing but disharmony melodious seduction to her attentive ears; nefarious spirit relishing every passing moment of this rhapsodic consequence of the Contessaâs debauchery. The more angry it was, the more havoc it would reek when liberated; would the beast be calmed by this magnificent King or would it be unleashed to bring everything to a death kneel, ultimately damnation? Answers soon were to be revealed, a moment longer, not even a breathâs moment and all would be exposed. If the plot had been set by the All-Knowing Omnipotent One, then he sure had sent a crafty one- a mortal with the wit to trick one who had never known the taint of mortal? If it indeed were so, then the Contessa was not as confidently superior as she had believed. But, if he had not been sent with the intention to be rid solely of her kind, and this had all been an accident of fate- then fate had played into the tangle of cunning morass.
His eyes meeting that of her opprobrious glance; piceous to any reflection blacker than the darkest of nights, even the eternal darkness of the universe itself paled in comparison to the depth of her eyes. Words unleashed in response to what she had said concerning the lack of liberty they all really had, to think otherwise would be a delusion on both their parts. She almost hung onto every word this King uttered, as if his words were like a narcotic that she simply had to have more of. Then again it wasnât like she stumbled across a mortal who managed to defy the laws of existence itself by being able to sustain himself here without turning into a drooling puddle of insanity. It was a quandary how he managed to breath in the poisonous sulphur- copious atmosphere. Contessa mused with these unspoken questions as alizarine apertures pursed to speak through the constant gloating of a polite smirk. âI wear black gems of hatred as a crown my dear, much the same as I hold my own heart for it too is nothing but a black gem. But this is no treasure hunt⦠now is it?â
Did she refer to herself as a black gem, her heart or that of the treasure it possibly held? Who knew the definition of their words when both knew how to expertly twist them? Cruel forked tongues were what they spoke with, even as he stepped closer, with the sword the Contessa showed no means of stepping back, retreating against the wall. She was too busy savoring the inscribed names etched into the wall, maybe even her own somewhere amongst the masses of the fallen, the afflicted ones. âA touch is a touch, but flames sure are something more profound to feel. Some as we are prisoners because we known no better, some are resolved to a curse of abandonment⦠while others simply enjoy the cold⦠hard⦠reality of chains. There is no greater torment than those we inflict upon ourselves for whatever perverse pleasure we have.â Offering a slow seductive wink while Contessa took a step closer to him. More directly to his adjacent side though never leaving the pinpoint of her focus and that which she wanted him to notice more than any word she would speak. It was all irrelevant in comparison to this one significant thing.
An ancient forgotten name had been spoken⦠the sound of his voice merging with the power of the name itself caused her eyes to become mitigated between that of absolute pleasure, as if a lover had kissed her and lips pursed to savor that taste of sweetness for all eternity and that of triumph. Come what may, all that mattered now was that the fragments managing to hold the beast at bay had been shattered. Only Ulyssiask had the power to control it, send it back, do its bidding or become possessed with its thirst for power and destruction. Which would it be? Which one would he be strong enough to fight against and what one would he embrace as his own crown of thorns? âIt is done. Now this is the moment where we decide if the fight is lost. And you decide who lives⦠and who dies. It is a heavy burden to hold when one has the universe in the palm of his hand. Question is, my dear King⦠what do you intend on doing with it?â
Her voice almost sounded innocent, a feigned vagueness echoing behind chenille beauty⦠{lilit} {licentious} {luring} him to make that final decision. There was no concept if she had lost the war, she had more than twenty legions to rise up in her name. The war would never be lost so long as there was a fool willing to stand up, take arms and fight for this idealism of a perfect existence without mankind, angel or devil. How the world was meant to be without the taints of mortal and renegade angels who rose to fight for their beliefs only to be cast down into the aphotic pit. What had it been for? Whatâ¦because they would not bow down to a shameful creator who had made them equal? Equality soon turned to narcissism. Lucifer had been no better of a leader for power consumed him that he would destroy the Children of Lilith and Ereshingkal? All created in his magnificent image of beauty⦠even that soon turned into foulness and warped effigy of deformity. Corrupted by the wastes of ego; this is why it would have to be torn down, stone by stone, soul by soul. [/align:3198b0ca43]
-
[align=center]Indomitable hungers
Irrefutable desolations
Death before death existed...[/align]
In the beginning, before time existed, before the so called gods had emerged and forged creation in the pathetic semblance of their supposed image. His image was the truth, nothing, pain, hopelessness, defeat. All the light and joy they claimed was merely an illusion to effectively sucker punch their paltry creations into giving their egos a masturbatory stroking. Had he been human at this concept he would have spat his disdain, instead his will would reach out and caress a world of innocent play grounds, and with a blinding crushing of psychosomatic force cause the first of these innocent creatures to commit rapine upon a child in their care. That world now would never again be the same. This was before his imprisonment by the accursed creatures who believed light and love of gods, was their lot, in fact it possibly had led the forces of newly formed darkness and light in coalition to join with the sword forged of the mind of divinity and disgust, wielded by those of supposed purity, yet any who touched it, were eventually drawn unto their own delusions and destroyed, for the sword was beyond mortals... Unless of course, they altered in their deformity and depravations.
[align=center]That was the PAST...
This was the NOW...
****************
Curiosity
Twisted sycophantic perversions
Entrapment[/align]
It was free but it wasn't. One tiny aspect of the prison he had been bound within over ages past held, he remained locked to a burden of physical manifestation, its bearing a creation of insatiable agony upon his bid for unassailable freedom. A mind filled with the flames of darkest despair, as he tried shaking himself free. Wanting to seek out his brethren, to wreak unparalleled havoc. to annihilate creation for it offended his impure senses, a remnant of those whom imprisoned his existence. At the same time the vastness of mind attempting to study whom had drawn the sword, whom of superb bravery or severe foolishness had claimed the sword for his own. Did the being even know what now he wielded, or was he bravado thinking to extend his manhood by holding a big sword to impress the ladies. Questions creating more questions.
[align=center]Then...
The Unexpected...[/align]
No one... Excepting his brethren had ever spoken that name aloud. Those whom had hunted him, had bonds of magic and power placed upon their minds so never would they utter or even think that sequence of words. Those whom did have such knowledge living their lives in impregnable precincts of sacredness, surrounded by mages and clerics, never to see the light of day in case it should invoke a prescience to which their was no defense... At least not until that sword was forged. Then of course once himself and his brethren were safely locked away for all time, the sword would be hidden, the mythology created and the sand of time would devour all memory of the existence of that name. Until now.
The name, a binding and an orgasmic release, for as it drew him forth, it shattered the remaining bonds holding him to the pathos of physical manifestation, now in aspect he was truly free, yet because such invocation had never previously been spoken, he was bound more tightly then ever before without realisation. His mind knew something was wrong, yet his aspect could not translate the issues involved, for such was the nature of the ancients, if they had not experienced it it could not exist. In his new found, supposed freedom he tested the limits of consciousness and found none, so immediately set out to find the mettle of he whom had drawn the sword. The weapons he would use, being what man had later known as the seven deadly sins.
[align=center]Lust...[/align]
The man wanted power... The man was a king that in the deepest of his heart lusted for power. He fought for revenge, he drove his armies ruthlessly to conquer those before him. He could casually walk up to a general that defied him and slice his throat ear to ear then with a chilling smile turn to his other generals and ask them if they had a problem with what he wanted. He took women yet it was obvious no woman had ever tweaked his lust, not in the way power and the death of his enemies had. So it seemed to this dark indeterminable mind that something completely out of the ordinary, something so out of character that the king would not know if or what had triggered this episode.
Also, he wanted to shift the effect of the sword, it was obvious the man coveted it, he wanted it and had sought it, yet the ancient chose to exemplify on that, to make the sword almost a sickness, a possession beyond all possession a disease that would erode any restraints that may exist in the mans psyche and lead him to corruptive redefinition. Only the most pure of heart had wielded it previously, supported by the prayers of the holiest, the strength of thousands offering love to protect the wielder from temptation. This man, this king did not have this. That alone could be his undoing and the opening of the way for the destruction of all.
The woman speaking, diverting its attention in a flavorsome and twisted direction, the smell of dark cacophony draping her slender form in revilement of purities definition. She bore the stamp of complete destruction and death on her like a cloak of pristine elegance. Her demeanor, she truly cared for nothing, life or death, light or darkness, oblivion or survival, it truly was a game and nothing more. Had he not known better, he would have pondered that one of his brethren had taken mortal form, for in her he sensed that same dark abyss that existed in his own kind. Was she the servant or was she the mistress, did she weave a web of deceit, or was she under the allure of the king. Time and ponderance could only tell... A manipulation of thought, the tiniest touch of his vast mind reaching out to wisp across the eyes of the king.
The man's vision would shimmer as if suffering some after affect of taking the word, then a momentary flash, firstly of seeing the woman in all her magnificence, naked and wanton, then the shimmer would vanish and she would appear as clothed as she had before. A doubtful illusion which the King would be left wondering whether he lusted for her or if simply the sword had some affect of diminishing ones grasp of reality, for this was not something the king would normally attune. Then a deeper more subtle manipulation, a seed being planted, a seed containing the fear that those around would seek to take the sword from his grasp, that those he trusted would consider plotting against him and rip from his grasp both position and providence of the sword.
That seed would take time to grow, and the ancient would have to tweak the minds of the kings most trusted to set him on the path to complete tyranny. For now, the dark embodiment would do no more, except to excite the hounds marauding the wastelands to howl in obscenity and pain as his will crushed down upon their spirits, ripping the life from the twisted creatures. When the two left the temple, they would find the rended forms of madness strewn in depravities hungers. Call it a gift, call it a feast for he would devour the darkened demise of these creatures. Satan himself would shudder, for it was announcing that something had joined he game, something that for now would reveal no more.
-
Since their King and this Contessa parted paths with the two men, Cyrussia and Llumeth walked amongst a myriad of men, legions claiming land as far as their eyes would reach. Amid all that they feasted their eyes on, each of them were left wondering if this was an apogee or only the beginning â some kind of awakening or upsurge. Llumeth endured many travels and battles with Ulyssiask and the things heâd seen along the way turned his mind and heart both as cold as the steel his sword was born from. Heâd also grown wise and calm, disciplined in his ways; he didnât question the reality of things around him. Cyrussia, however, was younger than either. And the more he witnessed, the heavier his conscience weighed with thoughts. Surely, he thought, this could not be incipient. To him, this had to be the preparations for what would prove to be the greatest war heâd ever witnessed. Unfortunately, or perhaps vice versa, heâd not witnessed nearly enough to fully understand the caliber of everything surrounding him; but because of what he had actually experienced under the command and in the days of his Ithae â Ulyssiask â heâd grown very sure of himself, firmly believing that thereâs nothing he could not accomplish. Llumeth knew better and he knew his limits. That made him far more fatal. One thing was established, though. Neither of the two are the diffident type.
Unlike Llumeth, who would assuage his understandable doubts and questions with assurance of reasoning and with patience, Cyrussia felt as though his mind was coming unraveled with each passing fear and question. His thoughts were obscured by his lack of insight, and eventually he would have to succumb to his weakness, turning to Llumeth for answers and guidance. Lightly exhaling, he caved and eased his facial expression into that of a victim to naivety. At that moment his gaze shifted to what he would never admit as his superior for the sake of his own pride and spoke up as anticipated by said superior, âWhat do you think has happened?â
Halfway through the statement and despite having anticipated that questions would soon eradicate the preferred silence among the two, Llumeth let out a very plaintive and somewhat melodramatic sigh. If he didnât feel that it would harm the poor inferiorâs self-conscious feelings and plague his thoughts, heâd shake his head and say nothing. Llumeth kept his eyes forward and his shoulders upright, resisting the temptation to slump over in grievance of his now deceased lover, silence. Heâd miss her company greatly. In the end, he had to force himself to engage in this overly typical conversation. In an obviously uninterested tone of voice he replied to one question with another question, âMust we actually do this?â
âFor all we know, we could actually be dead. I mean⦠I am right, arenât I?â Cyrussia persisted, barely even allowing Llumeth time to finish asking his question. His uncertainty only agitated Llumeth, though.
âWeâre still breathing, Cy.â
âWhat about when we were in Mesphili?â
âWhat about it?â
âTheyâre religious belief. Donât you remember what jhe Feral spoke of to Uly; about that place they call âHellâ? We could be there, couldnât we?â
âDoes it bother you that bad, Cy?â Llumeth sighed again and looked over to Cyrussia. His young apprentice wasnât going to let this conversation end so easily, and helping him through these doubts and contemplations had become insipid and trialing duration over the last few months.
âHa,â he boisterously let out an egotistical laugh, as though being accused of something false. The truth, however, was that it did bother him. He looked away from Llumeth as they walked and returned the accusing question with another, âThen what do you believe, Llu?â
âCareful, kid.â Llumeth knew Cyrussia by the back of his hand, every characteristic and flaw and detail drawn and mapped out in his mind. Llumeth was talented in sizing up men great and meek alike, Cyrussia or even his own Ithae were no exceptions. He knew that referencing to his younger counterpart would knock him down a couple of steps and have a humbling, if not upsetting, effect. Continuing his retort, âAs for what I do believe⦠I believe we live and we die. We are born of flesh, and from that day we are dying and diminishing until the day we find our final resting place. Ashes to ashes, Cy. After that, I donât know what comes. I do know that I do not believe in any place called âHellâ. And if there is such a thing, this is naught but an interlude between our world and whatever âHellâ awaits you and me â especially Uly and I. There are too many bloodstains on our hands to not believe that if there is a place like that, this is all there is to be found. Weâre not even suffering. The place he spoke of was filled with horrible things that you find in nightmares.â
Long before their conversation began, theyâd turned around and began to circle back to where they first dawned into the ranks. Theyâd both made mild observations of the warriors around them, the armor and weapons used and any other equipment or tools that roused the attention to the point of being appealing. After turning back, their walking pace was hasted slightly, whereas before they were relaxed. It wouldnât be of their oath or commitment or ways to not be in place, awaiting the return of their King Ulyssiask when he returned. Cyrussia stopped near the point theyâd entered through the ranks at, in front of a small fire thatâd likely been rousted by some of the legionnaires. There, he crouched and poked at the flames and embers with the scraggly remainder of a broken spear. Llumeth stood to his side and looked down upon him as he finished answering his questioned belief. Picking and stirring through the ashes, Cyrussia glared into the flames and glowing embers as ash drifted skyward in flakes, some still glowing red at the edges. In his growing conscience, it felt like some kind of twisted metaphor was being created by his mind, contorted and used against him â to haunt him â as though there were two halves to his thoughts, a second person within himself. The metaphor of course being that he was staring into those flames, symbolic of the idea of the Hell theyâd conversed about, and that those flames burned and devoured everything fed to them. Finally he shoved the spear into the heart of the small fire, releasing it from his grip and turning on the axis of his heels, looking upward at Llumeth.
âI just donât get it,â he said as he turned to look to Llumeth, but quickly felt interrupted and changed the direction of their conversation. Llumeth had an expression carved into his face from the abyssal unknown, an expression Cyrussia couldnât fathom and didnât recognize. If anything, it seemed to resemble horror, especially the way Llumethâs mouth just hung there, slightly open and emptied of its breath. He had to ask, âWhat?â
âLook,â Llumeth managed to say in an exhaling but winded breath. Both of their stomachs sunk in that moment, as Llumeth pointed and Cyrussia turned his head to stare at whatever had stolen the attentive of his appointed mentor. Llumethâs arm and pointed index finger lingered there as they glared intensely.
A short distance from them, legionnaires were dragging and hoisting along dead bodies; the corpses of both their allied men now deceased and the perhaps some of the fallen from their enemies. Every body, without exception, was then carelessly and without a second thought thrown into a large pile that was ablaze. It seemed unorthodox to say the very least â corpse after corpse flung into the large fire to burn with the others, no favoritism or exceptions playing part in the flavorless ceremonial cremation. The flames howled, bellowing out and roaring, cracking and popping like a demonic voice summoned from the depths of some heinous creatureâs stomach. It was a large enough fire to appear as a small mountain in its own stead, flames whipping and thinning near their twisted and spiraling tips were they faded into the tenebrae cast by rising smoke. What was to be witnessed beyond the smoke, though clouded and indistinct, was what seemed of even greater interest. Beyond many, many dead and burning bodies, each devoured and lost to the flames, were two figures standing â apparently halted from their approach â within a miniature synclinal valley amid the jagged peaks at the base of a rise of rocks and slopes. It was them, and what both of the Kingâs men saw next seemed horrific.
[align=center]â â â â â [/align]
Every muscle in Ulyssiaskâs body, the same as every thought in his mind, felt like a melee. Confusion, doubt, and pain that felt as though it should have lasted days faded in mere moments. What vixen had he consorted with, or was it even her that had been vexed or upset? Coincidence and happenstance was a vapid likelihood, and very unrealistic. At last, all that had happened and was still occurring was quickly approaching too much. Curiosities werenât sated, but set aside to be replaced with questions and disbelief. His eyes would soon fill with uncertainty, not in himself, but in the world around him. As she spoke, the weapon was sheathed. And what happened next was the unexpected.
The dear king was the type of man who craved and longed for battle, the shedding of blood and the sound of steel sliding across and through armor plating and flesh. His desire was strong, a nearly insatiable thirst for absolute power and reign. However, he had an overall goal that he did not allow his personal interests to so easily interfere in. He wanted a different balance. Perhaps once his vision of life was more pure and the pathway was lighted, but that was in childhood; and now the path was darkened and tainted with the scars and dues heâd paid, obscurities and betrayals drove him into a clear but cold state of mind. Ulyssiask did not foolishly place his trust in saviors to come, promises or prophecies to be fulfilled or any such weak and lacking tale. He demanded proof and solidity. Ulyssiask placed his faith only in that which he witnessed with his own eyes, and that which he could conclude as reasonable and realistic to him, but not to any other. He craved the very real but hard to grasp and indefinite reign of darkness. However, his ultimate goal was left bleak and unexplained, somehow tying into what he personally craved but also differing from it. Ulyssiask did not regularly make habit of envisioning women, though. He did not crave the touch of most women, or lust after their flesh. The king did not require pleasuring companies or bosoms, exposed or unadulterated beauty. He could see the beauty in war; he could feel pleasuring company in the reverberating shivers and vibrations of a man cringing in death through the steel of his blade. Occasionally Ulyssiask had looked upon women with a flimsy yearning, but nothing worth concern.
And despite all that heâd built his inner empire from, Contessa stood before him exposed. Every supple and prestigious curve displayed for his minds will to either pervert, ignore, or shy away from. She held no weapon, wore no cover, and stood just as blatantly as before in front of him, just as she had when clothed. Every inch of her naked flesh shown in glorious display, she was a woman to behold without any doubt or able shame to speak of. Ulyssiask simply could not fathom what he was witnessing, but he would not shy. And before he even had a chance to change his expression, to develop perverse thought or react Contessa was covered and clothed once more. What is happening to me, Ulyssiask thought, I willed no such thought. This was beyond perversion; he had to be experiencing something in the air or some adverse effect from this obviously unknown and disturbingly uncanny weapon.
In sheathing the weapon, Ulyssiask had placed and tied in the sheath and weapon on his back, the hilt even with the shoulders and neck. The vision came in timing with his arms lowering, and was over before his hands even managed to dangle in their relaxed position. At this point, Ulyssiask was left in more of a stressed disposition, tensed and uneasy. Finally, he was experiencing emotional effects that most would have experienced long before this point, however faint those effects may be. While the slightest curl formed at the edges of his lips in suspicion and question of whatâd just occurred, her question remained unanswered. Ulyssiask would set aside his thoughts and the questions arising from within to regain his focus, displaying little but more than enough momentary change in his overall presentation for her to catch glimpse of and wonder. Still, he was a warrior and used to adapting to the unusual and unexpected. Heâd be left questioning and adapting to the unfamiliar territory for a long while. Heâd question that moment in which he witnessed her exposed, if no answer was found, for days; but in all of his strength and resilience, heâd show no falter in his determination and main focuses.
The sign of momentary change sheâd undoubtedly noticed would be mostly by her question lingering unanswered for a moment longer than it would have under normal conditions, as displayed throughout their on-going conversation. Finally, he glanced into her eyes and the curl in his lips faded quickly. Her first question was obvious rhetoric, but the second statement and following question was appealing to his interest beyond nearly any other word sheâd spoken previously. âIt is done. Now this is the moment where we decide if the fight is lost. And you decide who lives⦠and who dies. It is a heavy burden to hold when one has the universe in the palm of his hand. Question is, my dear King⦠what do you intend on doing with it?â The palm of âhisâ hand, she said. And what did he intend on doing with it? Ulyssiask glared with a glaze in his eyes, symbolic of a sudden apathy he felt toward that universe she mentioned. And to that he replied, âChange it⦠forever.â
However vague or uncertain his answer sounded, his intent was obvious and much disciplined. It also became very obvious, surely, that he was not here to battle Contessa. He turned from her and walked toward the front of the temple where theyâd entered. Heâd not await her; sheâd be expected to do as she pleased, but hopefully follow. Ulyssiask felt that heâd answered her as best he could and their purpose in the temple was completed. With a consistent stride, the king would find himself passing the heads of those shrewd guardians to the temple and a changed weather. The skies were boiling with temperamental colors, brewing cauldrons stirring in the heavens and even worse⦠death and decay plaguing the sand of the shores. Winds wisped and gusts forcefully pounded and stirred sand and small debris around him the moment he was outside of the shelter the temple provided. He couldnât recall hearing such howling or even noticing any change from inside of the temple; this was like nothing heâd witnessed, it was too immediate and unexplainable. Ulyssiask turned back to the temple and approached itâs side, where heâd dawn the rocks and climb through jagged rises and drops and work his way through the slight slopes. It would require effort, but it would be better than strolling along the beach and dodging dead bodies while compensating and enduring the stinging of fast-moving sand, and whatever lurking diseases may be plaguing that area.
Their climbing wouldnât be too tedious or draining, these were merely rough rocks and the base of much higher rising structures in the earth â mountainous peaks and distant valleys and hollowed caverns. Here they could pass through without wasting time, and even cutting the time it would take to return to her legions by way of the shores in half. When Ulyssiask arrived at a small flattened area among the jagged rocks all around him, he was near the top of the falling slope, and ahead of him the rocks dropped back down to the fields below where theyâd have a short walk to return to the point theyâd departed from among her legions. As he stood to his full height and looked out over the open fields beyond them, his eyes widened. A legion approached hers and the appearance of a battle quickly approaching without either of their presence â her for her men, and him for his two men. It was all so far beyond the rising smoke of a bodies amass, one large pile of corpses burning. Sweeping the landscape beyond that large fire, he could make out what appeared to be his men at a smaller campfire, and finally just beyond his own two feet a pathway he could tread and jump from one surface of rocks to another to make it to ground-level.
Apparently it wouldnât be so easy, though. To the side of him that was more downhill, his left, small rocks and pebbles sifted and the sound of them falling and trickling down the forever-changing face of rock and earth unnerved Ulyssiask. It wasnât Contessa, though she was surely standing immediately behind or around him. They had visitors. And his eyes then witnessed a marvel heâd never seen before, creatures of such darkness no other heâd ever known could compare to them â these were dark angels, demonic beings with great stature, rising over the rocks that shrouded them. The King wasnât sure how to react just yet. They were already surrounded, and this was what his men must be seeing if they're looking. Were they aligned with Contessa, or were they enemies from whatever opposing forces she battled? He was ready to fight, but his hesitations kept him from acting so quickly. Ulyssiask was now a king without answers. His mind could only fixate on one thought â Are they here to take the sword?