Let death take you… Experience it when possible, and perhaps be born anew. Lest we fall into shameful degradation of skill and instinct… Take the opportunity to die, seriously, for what it is… A chance to be caught in the moment, free of the burden to think… Let death take you, when and where you can…

They had fought, that night in the rain. He had summoned her to him, so that he could test his hand at doing her a favor… And slaying her flesh. They had seemed to be rather well matched at the time, and for a fleeting moment (in the grand scheme of things) there had been nothing else but the two of them. And then, it had grown into something less than what it had at first been. Something… Boring. And they had gone their separate ways, no winner. No lust given into. No blood spilled by either. But perhaps… Just perhaps… They had both been only going through the motions?

 Perhaps he had not truly wanted to kill her as much as he had tried to make it seem, oozing with malevolent and tangible murderous intent as he had been. But he was eager to die as well, if such were his blessing and curse. Was there not a point in trying? He thought there was.

 Cyan sighed, walking alone, kept introspective and bound within his thoughts by the events he replayed in his mind, not long ago of that night. He knew he could provoke her. A priestess. How they always tend to be sacred in their purity. He could do so again. But why? Why summon her, if they were not going to kill each other? “Atra’Lamia… Atra’Lamia…” he said rather absent mindedly and to himself.

 Walking amongst the woods, one of his favorite ways to think, atleast outside of the plane of Darkness Incarnate which he called home… Which he called himself, just as much. No, sometimes it was better to think, when walking without care or awareness of the passing things around one. Sometimes, meditation in the void that spawned him as his dimension of darkness had was more burdensome and difficult to achieve.

 What was there left? No turmoil in the world. No bloodletting. No war. All he had now was to wander alone, perhaps… “Atra’Lamia…” he mumbled again. Would it be worth the efforts to try again? Would she even respond? Perhaps, if nothing else, she might bring with her someone else for him to play and enjoy himself with? To share in a mutual spilling of blood? To engage one as elusive as she, he would pay any fee. Even die himself. The only way to grow, was to continually be reborn. Even if only metaphorically. But when possible, literal rebirth was a rare thing to achieve and reach. And thus it should be pursued doggedly.

 It was what he sought. To grow again. Stagnation and emptiness of stimulus were not good for any entity. Certainly not something the likes of which Cyan Nightbane was. To be able to grow… he had to be challenged. There was nothing else to it.

 His foot splashed water and he suddenly pulled his attentions from inward, and noticed he had stepped into a stream. He had not even noticed, as he had moved from the edge of the woods, into a brief opening where the stream ran through. The leafless trees of a desolate wintery wasteland of grays and browns surrounded him on all sides. He would issue a challenge. This was as good a place as any. “Atra’Lamia… If thou hearest, then let thee answer. And come to my call again. Your hidden mind and quintessence are often so hard to find… And I am bored of looking. I have a proposition for you.” He would say to the aethers riding the winds.

 He drew the sword from its scabbard, and gripping the blade at its base with his left hand, then slid his hand along the length of the blade while squeezing tight. The fang he carried cut deep into his flesh, and blood whetted his blade, as it ran from the wound. This was blood to use as a weapon, more then something that could be collected and learned from by any alchemist. His true vitae was kept elsewhere.

 Dozens of drops had fallen from his hand to land by his left foot and begin to make a small puddle. He began sweeping the area around and in front of him with droplets of blood as he swung his arm to and fro, casting crimson luminance about as each drop shone and sparkled in the partially overcast winter sky.

 He started thinking, as he stood there waiting for a psionic response, or an actual appearance, of the events in Tia. They had all been on the same side. They had all been in the midst of politics of a world beneath them. Of entity’s beneath them.

 Though, while certainly entertaining in ways that were different… All that had occurred upon that world had seemed to be nothing more than pissing contests.

 The inhabitants and beings of power from that world had indulged Cyan, Atra, and Malice and company with statements of superiority and displays of power they thought may be impressive, but none had engaged them. If memory served, Malice had summoned Cyan to fight alongside him, as Malice fought…someone insignificant, albeit presumably of might as measured by that world’s standards…And Cyan had not been engaged. Malice had been the only one, truly lucky that day. To fight. And even then, it had ended in nothing worth the time or effort.

 Another sigh escaped him, and he continued to wait. Hopefully this day would turn out better than that entire journey had been…

[align=center][align=center]The omen
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  What a waste of a day dealing with this blasphemous hoard of needy and otherwise mundane citizen’s, one that never seemed to end their tireless assault upon his nerves.  One after another without cease they came with their problems and questions. One after another he turned them away with a answer they might easily have found for themselves.  Trodain for his part had remained as stuffy and proper as ever. While Belgorion’s eyes grew duller and more distracted with each onslaught.  Until it seemed the king might literally fall from his throne and begin to snore upon the stones of his throne room.



  Belgorion found himself watching with such "enthusiasm" as the next lovely citizen of his kingdom was announced and immediately resolved that this would be the last one. He was in bad need of a shower and in worse need of a pint of ale.  He was just about to state his resolve when an odd feeling came about him as if he had become lighter than the air itself.  The very air which now held the chill of the cold hand of the other world,  eyes darted forth around the room and it was as if for this moment time stood still.  




  There silhouetted in the door a great blackened blue eyed wolf.  Their eyes met in a moment of deep concentration, two old battle scared warriors measuring each other in a moment.  The king almost reached for his blade but the Cheshire grin upon the face of his vision stalled his hand. The creature turned with deadly fluid grace its eyes gazing out into the horizon and gave a long forlorn howl.



  Such sadness filled his ears, something so familiar and identifiable. The sound of something missing its other half, searching without cease for that which brought it peace and balance. In that sorrow the king found understanding.   Those eyes stared deep into the north with longing and poise they beckoned his presence there and then with such quickness the visage of primal spirit would be gone.


  His eyes opened to the world and for a moment there was confusion as his heart gave a thunder in his chest. A feeling which had long been dead to his nerves it tasted of the past of something that had never left him but had never truly been found.  


  Eyes turned to cold steel as they found Trodain a note of command in his voice which had not been there for many days.  â€œMy horse and my armor have them readied immediately.  â€œ   Trodain stared at him for a moment as if dumbfounded.  The king had not worn his armor in longer ages than most of his people could remember now he requested it?  This surely was a sign for it had been the mantel not of a great ruler but of something long forgotten a name which Belgorion had cast aside and never ridden under again.  The king left none living none able to tell the king took their heads and he sent them to hell.  Words written only in the books he had read came unbidden into his mind and he moved quickly to carry out the kings wishes.  

  A deep and purposeful breath was drawn into Belgorion’s chest as he stared blankly off into the distance.  He had slumbered for so long allowing the wounds he had dealt himself to heal, building this kingdom but the time was upon him. He must venture once again out into the deeper kingdoms for he was certain what he desired lay in the north.

  Deep in his chambers his hands would fall upon ancient runic armor as he traced its contours in a pattern of remembrance.   So many battles and wars his armor had seen in times long before the recollection of any whom lived today.  Blood had covered its every crevice so many times and beneath his fingers it stirred something that brought a wicked smirk to his ageless features the time had arrived.  

  The people turned out from every corner of the kingdom to see their lord ride forth but what they witnessed that day bore little resemblance to the king they had come to know and more to some legend written in a long forgotten book.  

  He would break from the castle stables his grand armor basking in the light of the day for the first time in more than fifty years. Platinum hair defying the wind itself with its grace as he galloped down from the heights of the city. His great darkened steed fierce and full of fire, muscles rippling in powerful stride as he carried the king forth  from his kingdom.  Those brilliant blue orbs taking them all in with a measuring hand as he stopped near the gates but for a moment before turning into to the fast falling sun and vanishing into the distance.


  “ Ishadir Maiu “ Belgorion’s words would call forth to his steed blessing it with incredible speed.  He could only have faith in his vision as he made his way across the land.  He could feel it the time was here and soon that which tormented his soul would come to rest one way or another.

  He would journey not through the many low laying villages of his kingdom but immediately west to skirt his own boarders before turning north up through the uncharted lands which forever pressed against his own battlements.  He did not desire to be tracked and moving through such inhospitable lands would mask his presence.


[align=center][align=center]Into the world again.[/align]
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    Many days had passed since last Belgorion had journeyed through conventional means but he soon remembered the enjoyment of it.  He broke free pushing hard up the outer laying lands and beyond the boarder of his kingdom. Soon his armor was hidden by dark robes so as not to attract attention as he traveled. He avoided any major settlements instead meeting his eyes and ears in secret along the road. They spoke of great conflict in the north, messages of victory which had only just begun to filter into the ears of the general public.  

  With each passing day he could feel something drawing him onward, an inescapable pull that drove him forward without cease.  His mind could know no peace or solace not until he knew for sure if this was the one he sought.  The weather much to his general disdain would turn cold as he moved farther north but he simply ignored it even as the frost ticked at his flesh. His eyes forever focused on his destination.


  Soon a great black wolf would join his journey trotting ahead ever so often only to return as they conversed at great length about their journey.  Airit the wolf called itself and he communed with the spirits of the pack. He said that they had drawn them together called Belgorion wolf brother. True it was that his people had once been created with the spirit of the wolf and that their ties to nature ran deep. He could only assume this was what his companion referred to.  


  Perhaps it was the depths of his own focus but it would take him a  day to realize that an entire pack trailed them at a distance, he had it seemed amassed an entourage of sorts. They would whisper in the night, sometimes he heard them when awake sometimes when asleep. They talked of ancient things of voices that guided within the pack the spirits of the elders. They talked of him for the spirits whispered his name to them and now they followed.


  His movements would halt far into the northern territory as pain suddenly gripped him stealing his strength and nearly driving him from his saddle.  He could feel her now even in his weakened state at this distance he could feel her presence. He would stop short now staring off into the distance as if he could smell the blood upon the air.  The time had come for him to make an appearance it would seem and he was not the type to wait.  


  Leaping from his mount he would stroke its nose thoughtfully before removing its tack and hiding it. Drawing wards around it to obscure it from view.  This was no ordinary horse and he would fend for himself nicely for the moment. Belgorion for his part turned to his guide who simply gave a nod of the head before returning to its pack.  Then he would draw a dirk from his side kneeling as the blade sliced the pale flesh of his palm. The warm blood would trickle out dripping upon the ground as he drew of it a small ornate symbol.   The guardian rune of shadow, of course he knew she would detect his presence but given the circumstance he did not wish to risk having to harm her soldiers simply for the opportunity to speak.   “ Hashis” He would speak as shadows began to pool at his feet creeping upward about his form. He gave her but one warning a strong one sent through the ancient bond they once shared.  I come..

    The shadows would seem to undo themselves in the air about her as Belgorion appeared blood still dripping from his palm. He was on guard but had not drawn forth his blade as he could not be sure were she stood as he appeared and it would hardly do if someone decided to attack him and  entire thing descended into chaos.  


[FONT=&] His eyes would fix upon here with a silent stare and when he spoke it was nearly a whisper.  â€œ Atra?”  No grace no title simply a question a name so dear to him that it filled his eyes with but a moment of doubt for he had sought her year upon year and now here she was before him. [/FONT]

Years by the hundreds passed in darkness,  alone in unending regret as he tangled with the monster his mind had become. Oh how her face had brought him such misery and yet such hope. How did something so jaded and broken love? How could a heart made not even of flesh feel anything? The idea was preposterous and yet he did.


  Age upon age of conflict he had seen. Written by his hand the destruction of entire civilization. In all of that time his only companion had been the sweet chaos of war. Never had there been a single thing which had ever understood his lust for battle.. The fire that drove him deep inside.  He had been the supreme being upon the road of conquest and at his hand all others had fallen.



  Then as he weaved his web this time playing the roll of hero in the lands of Ayenee she had come into his world. Beautiful and deadly, a creature without equal at times not even he could match her grace. In battle she had intoxicated him, entangled his every sense for the first time in all of his ages the king of kings had felt as if he were not alone as if perhaps the road of conquest could be a road reserved for two.


  In his minds eye he could still see the fire that burned in her as she fought, it brought his inner inferno to a blaze. She had never been a conquest or something for him to own. No Atra was something he had never thought would exist. A sweet exquisite darkness which embraced his own, drew from him a level of strength even he never knew he possessed. With her at his side there was no sorrow, there was no conflict about who he was .. There was just them and the world that would kneel at their feet.


  How he had lost her he would never know, for it never made sense to him.. One minute she had been there and then he had been cast aside. He had been a fool of course, his rage had taken him.. Never had he made an attempt to understand.. Realizing he would lose himself .. and destroy everything including her he too drastic measures.


  He had severed his own being into three pieces and isolated his consciousness.. knowing that only for her would he ever return to the mortal realm. By his own hand he had removed himself from her memory.  Never had he known darkness like a world without her .. A world in which there was no sound .. no thrill of battle nothing .. Just the thought of the piece of him which was forever missing without her by his side.  Even without a body all of this time he had bled out with longing for her.

  Now all of the pieces had come together and he was returned to this world. His only thoughts of her of that which he needed even more than he needed batttle, even more than conquest. There was nothing equal in his mind to the woman he had just confronted and what he saw in her face had shattered him.  

  This was his fault if only he had been stronger , controlled the rage inside him maybe he would not have seen her this way.. so much of her damaged he had been a fool.

  Now as the the once destroyer of worlds stared off into the distance he was lost and more than anything he was angry. He had come here to play a role .. The great fucking hero but what was the point if he didn’t have her? He could only hope she would come to him.. He could not tell her she loved him.. you could never do that and Atra’Lamia was a beautiful dark flame which even the thought of trying to tame would only spoil.. She was so beautiful when the world knelled at her feet.


  “ Ay lord Belgorion … are we to camp do we have orders?”   His eyes would shoot upward narrowing on the man before him.  Kail Tmarka   once one of his best Cavalry generals in the era of Elrum .. and he was about to return to the world of the dead … before he could move.  No blade would sound, nothing but the subtle flick of a wrist as the entity lashed outward and the fools eyes widened in horror.  Blackness nearly engulfed him but as fast as the strike was Belgorion was not prepared for the resounding clap of thunder that struck driving the darkness away. When he rose he would be face to face with the massive form of the Guardian of war  the crimson thunder Calchulain.  


  He was a mountain of a man seven feet tall,  over five hundred pounds of solid and deceptive muscle. One who assumed this man slow would end up with a blade across their throat he was a master with the great spear that hung at his side.  Belgorion would laugh the sort of insidious thing that turned a human soul to ice but the big man just stared back at him.


  “ Guardians we be needin  to gatha  .. hes losing it …. The madness has him… “  The madness .. something all Guardians feared.  The bond a guardian felt with his mate was sacred and deep beyond any comprehension of what a mortal would call love. Without their other half Guardians went insane and usually died in battle swinging their blade until nothing was left.  The king was spiraling into that abyss.  Without her the world was shit .. without her touch at his side.. without the fire in her eyes this world might as well be ash.


  They all gathered now the Guardian’s of his race.  His mother stepping forward of all people first her raven hair blowing in the wind. His father tried to stop her but would soon find himself spun and crashing into the ground looking up at the purple hued katana that rested in her hand. “ This is for me to do …  â€œ  She said as she leaped off of her left foot charging him her blade lashing out as if she mean to cleave his very arm from his body.


  They would meet in a flurry of blade as Belgorion struck hers aside and she pressed him hard strike after strike bringing flames to the air as they danced across the ground.  â€œ Do you want death boy … DO YOU WANT IT AS I FOUND IT? !!   She roared at him  as she lashed out landing a solid kick to his face that sent him flying backwards.  

  Belgorion would laugh as his nose crunched the entity swarming around his face repairing it even before he stopped his backward momentum… “ Death mother ….do you not understand .. there is no death for me? You cant kill me .. no one can … “ He roared as if his mental state had shattered.  Then he became death incarnate. She lept at him but there was such coldness in the way he turned her blade running it up the seem of her armor sending her toppling to the ground a great spray of crimson behind him.  



  Then they were on him Calchulain and his father like rage born into flesh.  His blackened blade clashed upon ethereal green stone… Thunder rained down upon him but even as it burned the collective healed his wounds. He stepped through it  grasping Calchulain by his throat flinging him into the air.  His father was next his blade piercing Belgorions armor.  



  The sweet embrace of pain radiating through him the blade marred his form he just stared at it. Thousands swarming around it in black disease. He walked up it driving it deeper through his body his palm striking his father hard enough to shatter his armor then pivoting to drive him directly into the ground.  


  When would they learn the tainted one would scoff at their pathetic attempts at halting him… He was the king of kings .. The greatest warrior in all of existence and were once perhaps they had been his match in another life.. Now their puny arms were just too short to reach the pale flesh of the god of destruction and war.  


  Such simplicity he grasped the atoms of a single blade of grass, so  vibrant and full of life. He caressed it with his mind feeling the energy surge through it and seizing control of the Zen he let the force of creation radiate through the Exodium drawing its particles to him. Tracing a great pattern through the thread of this blade of grass splitting its particles and as the atoms found themselves separate what would come was akin to the power of those of the first age .. The wrath of the gods in the form of an atom .. only it would be countless numbers of them simultaneously split .. Energized by the force of creation.  



  His fingers played across the cords disrupting both time and space and for a moment perhaps the great destroyer lived again. He longed for the screams, the dust of the fallen floating aimlessly through the universe.  Then as if to defy his will her visage appeared in his mind.  The scent of her, the very energy about her the intoxication that was her .. if he obliterated this place it might harm her … he … could not.


  His hands would fall as he simply dropped right there pulling from beneath his armor a flask and started to drink.   His eyes cast outward as he beheld the battle far in the distance. The threads danced entwined in an endless struggle  and to him hers was beyond easy to pick out the most beautiful to him in all of creation.


  He was merely an observer … but he knew all in her path would die .. No action from his blade would be needed. He simply watched now even as dark seduction incarnate was mounted again her fury set upon the battle field . Perhaps there was a time for this but he would have to wait for now he would not cast his dye in this war not until the two of them had spoken.  All around him the guardians mended their wounds but none held malice for they had all seen the madness in their time and it was a hard and cold thing to overcome ..one few ever did.

··Is ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛɪᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs﹐ ᴛᴏ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ·s ɪɴᴇϙᴜɪᴛʏ﹐ ᴏʀ ʙᴇɴᴇғɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴜᴛᴡᴇɪɢʜ ɪᴛs ʟᴏss﹖ I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʀᴇᴛʀɪᴇᴠᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇss ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʟᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ﹐ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴇʟᴅ ɴᴏᴡ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs﹐ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ɪs ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ... ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ.··

As if Belgorion was the very air itself, and moved ethereally with a distinguished grace. Bellipotent draught scathing Atra's opaline impeccable, regal and imposing features. Storm and war gathering spools of moon-shadow black hair, gaze lost in the opalesque furls of her own hair. Rippling fluctuations of flame and quintessence crashing against the elements that dared challenge the energies in conflict, spanning outwards and tapering on the threshold of tridimensions. Energies that conflicted with that of her own, vorticose and equally authoritative—sounds whirling in disaccord, their cantillating shrill overtones too sung on the winds that assailed all in the carnivorous tide.  Phantasmal emanations streamed from her form, in reverie to the storms of ashes that fall upon fair meadows, the beckoning avenues that lead to the horror of hellish dimensions.

 Aesthetically primed, stance again shifting, placing agility to sinuous hip in the recoil when apex of weapon had missed its target. Atra'Lamia didn't pivot to face Belgorion directly, and cast the side of demurred cheek to rest against left shoulder. Fingernails resembling furian claws sharply tapped against the hilt of the sword, fist staining to the whiteness of bone beneath translucent flesh clenching it firmer in grasp, gleaming in a cold affection. Momentum force flicking the sword upwards, adroitly rising it just past the adjacent shoulder then swinging it around at an 'orderly' and 'close' 180 degree arch. Bringing the right flank of blade around with a flamboyant rotation at the wrist, in unison, lithe body nimbly following from hip and torso.

 Responsive and flexible, balletic in elegant twist into a refined, poised step. Saving the theatrics of some moronic spin for the thespian. Never leaving back exposed, again Atra faced Belgorion, maintaining a strong defense and him 'on point'— potency to dismember reason, quicker than a wasp could sting. Atra'Lamia wasn't prancing around, or performing eccentric feats of aeronautics though pondering chosen defences an interesting tactic. Thoughtful reflection danced conservatively over his striking features with deadly starless daggers. Words designed to stir drifted on a seraphic-consonant melody, "A blade should never be swung, and it not bless its purpose in the sacred wine's of battle. Why cease the dance just because the music has changed?" Murderous orchids contorting into a cynical leer chasing the last lingering, rolling pronunciation intended to reach out... caress the provocation of the fight… instead it was thrown against the howling winds that shrieked already of hex and baneful tidings.

"Pity he did not obey the thirst of his own steel."  Ushered through the dark labyrinths of psyche, the air heavy and oppressive... steadily congealing and curdling. Shadows trembling where they extended out from their coffers of flesh and bone. Their stillness more terrible than the Wraiths, whose rent claws tore somnolent warriors limb from limb. Strange melodies existed in the wind; reality itself collapsed within a thin veil of black breath; oblivion itself gaping like a ruptured orifice in its ravenous vitriol. Streams of zibeline ebony flowed to conceal flawless monochromatic beauty, except those lustrous asphodel lanterns glaring out from behind cascading aphotic mantles of darkness. "... try not to be bumptious; I grant a lesser credence to the intrigue, let alone than that of nostalgia." A sound of bile hissed nefariously on venomous lung... dissatisfaction when movement came forth, 'on point' of blade not abating aim signifying intent to pluck the Adam's Apple from its hearth. "Did you come here to fight, or woo with cavalier flowery words, of piety…the departed and flames of remembrance?"

 Salacious timbre oozed with acidic cadence, rippling through the coerced tempered atmosphere as the firmament opened above them. Beads of rain luminous, black jewels darker than the blackest of Acheron's rivers. Rolling thunder shaking the world's axis in ear-splitting crescendos, reverberating down hump-backed Alps, across valley and vale. Erzulie-painted was Atra's features in the pallid light between sporadic flashes of lightening; saturated hair clinging tight against bodice and over one clad shoulder,  trailing down, over tourniquet of pelt and chain. In a disembodied, other-worldly soft emphasis she spoke, "I believe the King to be a poet!". The only of ineffable thing about visible demeanour was the cinder-like smoldering glyphs and translucent sigils forming intricate patterns across flesh, entwining beneath the tautness of attire. Elaborate cuneiform inscriptions projecting an elusive phosphorescent flame of the overshadowed moon, entombed by eventide’s phantasmal death-shroud.

 Faintly igniting, flickering tween flocculent ebonized fires [AterIgnis— Sanctus Incendia], dancing along tapered limbs, hues of frost and fen-light with dim spectral blues. Insidious but indistinct waves of frost-fire rippling outwards from Atra's form. Albeit, dead-pan expression gave nothing away in regards to how his quintessence stirred something within, nor his poignant speech and chosen path not to give himself or his sword's conviction… irritated her. Any reaction, kept perfectly hidden—and the only true manifest of interaction would be what dialogue subsequently followed in calm riposte. "Apologies?"  Lips of sculpted rubies that soon bore the smile of jest, before additional speech flowed as wine and the sanguine raptures of her last victim's recesses. "You speak as if you are my Creator, gravely thwarted by all the death and carnage, cleaved in the name of the forgotten. You dare shame me, with what… an apology?"

 Already knowing the answer, choral  recollections of legend and epic boisterous orchestras of some monumental affection, 'sung' through the 'revered' lachrymiform amulet worn. Dark philosophy lost in the haze. Nevertheless since memory had granted Atra'Lamia tribute, of the talisman forever been suspended around her exquisite swan-like nape. Oracular visions tugged on gilded pearlescent strands of cognizance and recall— where reminiscence purified itself of an adiamorphic Lethe's poisoned waters. He posed a magnetism she regarded quite problematical. An acclaimed and passionate love, the King of King's vaguely spoke of, utterly divergent in comparison to the grotesquery countless had attributed her. Atra'Lamia, the Battle-Raven, whose blades that had clashed with some of the mightiest lord, and whose gauntlet had harvested a myriad of souls and skulls used to construct the spires of Blackheilm charred black from its uncounted aeons... had known the entity accosted as 'love'?

 Canting features to the side when the Sword of Ayenee and some fragment of himself was thrown to the wet earth, causing multiple questions to boil to the surface. Those question would wait for a more opportune time, and not during the heat of warfare. Observing all who gathered around Belgorion bearing either a sense of fealty or family, Atra gave a decline of features; a respectful nod and left the rest to the shadows. Left armoured hand outstretched palm in command of the swarming hordes of shadows to retrieve the weapon. Penumbra adumbration coiling around the consecrated blade like gossamer serpents. So subtle in influence that may have been considered 'affectionate' to any who lay to witness it. "Long Live Atra’Lamia!" No sooner it was wrapped in that embrace of darkness, disappearing when the shades dispersed only to manifest in ardent left hand's grip. "Indeed", was the reply in sultry verse. Posture not lowering itself, remaining tall and arrogant… and for the entirety of the encounter. Intense focus never moving from Belgorion, but at the same time perceptions soared, unhampered across the 'Killing Fields', invisible were the spectral blades of pure intent, slicing against throats like a violinist would, with deft bow in strike against strings.

 Matter and energy, wholly diverse from every subterranean, celestial and terrestrial states and forms gathered. Animate planar influences, amplified by countless metaphysical layered folds (creating a paradox of precarious intensity) and the dynamics of those too who were proximate, unleashed their theurgies with a great proficiency. As did the formidable Warlord, 'The Great Devourer' whose sword and prowess had never met its equal in dexterity or ferocity. Smiting bodies left and right, a head falling with each swing of Fiendwraith. Having cleaved a tremendous swath through many Kingdoms and armies, and now the Northern Dogs of Rhydin. Donning the flayed skin and skulls of the fallen, and in many infamous legend, as a fearsome God of War. A storm of shafts screaming form yew-bows, through armoured ranks, hitting true their marks in scores hundreds.

 Towers of flesh toppled, drowning in a staggering sea of crimson mixed with the tears of the Gods, the crown of the heavens bent low in genuflect of weeping. Atra'Lamia watched Belgorion leave, thoughts were not given even a voice within the chaotic disquiet… giving a nod to the one that bore the likeness of Varsinax, knowing it was not. There was one item noted during the brevity of ebonized glance. An artifact given as a 'gift' did not adorn this ArchDevil with the prestige and esteem treasured by the Overlord. Regard given its due, and of course interest perked in curiosity to the nature's of reason or agenda.  

 Dual-armed with ensorcelled swords of dark-fable. Returning back into the tempest of conflict with the searing kiss of deadly steel, supping deep of the grim chalice of battle. Swifter than the arrows, and more bloodthirsty than the unfettered dread war-wolves with reddened jaws, silver grinned through the killing chill. Turning aside a vicious swordthrust, the Sword of Ayen snaked immediately out in deadly arc to hew the neck of the attacker. Iron head rending armour and biting deep into flesh in a deluge of dark claret. With another brutal impetus, applying strength into the pressure, sundering skull with a deathly blow, he fell to the ground in death-kneel, spilling steaming contents to the wilted-heather earth. Storm and hail extol their ancient laurels as did the fallen. Blood dripping from frost-encased sword, forming a crimson blossom upon the ice from the elements in entropic seizure.

 Removing the leathered amulet, wrapping around slender wrist still yielding the Ayen blade (discoloured with the blood of a thousand foes) there was not many a sword with its repute, holding it bore a significant responsibility. Even its weight was heavier than her customary melee accoutrements. Standing there midst the massacre, senses awash in the intoxication of the fleeting souls still struggle to hold onto their shattered, earthly bodies. Predilection shattering like glass against granite... for each pellucid crystalline shard, a phantom memory glimmered of a former time. In that instant of awakening, an undeniable notion arose to disentangle beloved lavaliere, and cast unto the mire, lost for an eternity. Even though the urge had appeal, it had an prophetic embittered truth sewn intricately within her own epitome that was difficult to discard let alone disregard.


 Finding saddle for a second time, the shadowmare warhorse drenched in the glamour of sorcery, materializing on this 'Fleshplane' like any other Calvary mount on the field, except for its impressive bulk and celerity. Manoeuvring unhindered through the enmities throng, spiked barding piercing a few strandard men, burnished black mithril metal croupier slick with vermillion; with lifeblood and the lifeless yet twitching marionettes of horror. Riding out to seize one of the Ayenee emblazoned silken banner's held in the clutched hand of its dead herald. Soldiers had lost their way in the disorientation of battlemagic and the condensing fogs, moving steadily unaware into the awaiting waylay of the Crimson Emperor's jaws. With the golden and red draconic banner of Ayenee attached to spear, and the Sword of Ayen held high to the bedimmed skies ensphered by sorcery and funereal effluvium. “Men of Ayenee, reap the slaughterous harvest sown...may your blades drink deep.”  Passing the banner to a wounded warrior, then leading the thousand besotted warriors forth into where the fogs and fight was at its thickest.

 Copperish aroma of vitae hung heavy on talons of storm-song, charred flesh; cadaveric incensed tendrils interwove betwixt Thanatonian clandestine rites. Sibilant shadows danced behind vesper-veils before fading again into the white nothingness. Cloying darkness closed in, flanking all inside its tenebrous embrace, bringing with it an uneasy sense of tenseness alongside the heartbeats of men echoing in thunderous din. Dark chants breathed throughout the cauldron's nebulous brume. What humanity this amorphous form perchance once possessed, was no longer remotely human, giving libation in a language never meant for mortal ears. Ensuingly, the discarnated tongues were stilled by the clangourous shutting of some massive portal, ringing across the fields from the fields, like the black gates of a cyclopean pit slammed against the dimming light shredding sanity into tattered wisps. “I am… only a man…”.

 Leather audibly constricting, hips squeezed back into the mount, left hand gripping the black rawhide reins wrapping the whipped lengths around bare knuckles before leaning forwards on elbows attentively listening. Long lithesome limbs pinned against the ornamental display of her stallions armour in shameless lean. Right hand gripping the hilt of sword firmer, adamant that it was about to strike mercilessly with all the fire assumed to have been extinguished or phlebotomized akin to desires and aspirations, of violent longings checked and frozen in their course.  "No man is ever, just a man."  Altercation privileged to no vocal mantra, aside from the change in the miasma's behaviour...  descending to cloak their numbers at the subtlety of a fingers gesture; the heady scent of battle beckoning.

They had gone too far these Northron invaders, with their imperial Chimera emblem which they dared display in the manner of acclaimed superiority. Pompously laying claim Ayenee soil as their own. Marching across kingdoms and villages,  expanding their empire all for the greater glory. Succession in the name of a vain and debauched emperor, reclining upon his ivory throne in the heart of sweltering Rhydin, not even accompanying his loyal men into  battle.

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Power is an illusion that few enjoy, yet many seek to profess.

Battle bled from one horizon to the next, as blades became a veritable whirlwind of steel, and suffering soiled the earth that many once had called their own, but the Warlord was not lost amidst this storm, not adrift within its eddies, nay he was the shore which such waves broke upon. Beyond bone and border, brick and battlement then, the demesne of the Great Devourer had been the Astral Plane for millennia now, its secrets laid bare before his lidless eyes, and sapped like succour from a still ripe vein. When Belgorion's will traversed the transient realm though, and sought to smother the prime with planar force, Malice merely inclined his head inquisitively, as his own mammoth might isolated his presence from the equation.

 Despite this development, however, the Warlord did not meddle in the entity's efforts, maintaining a planar conduit to his resources within the Astral Sea, whilst other creatures were cowed by the majesty of the Guardian's machinations, a feat that, whilst impressive, would prove futile in the end. Men often courted Atra'lamia, caught like moths within the flame of her features, and yet the bond that the Warlord and Queen of Darkbane shared, was unlike the fleeting fallacies that such suitors clung to. Whilst Cyan, and even Belgorion themselves may have entertained such fantasies then, Malice's purpose was something far more sinister, a pact whose runes had been wrought long before Ayenee fell, and Elrum mustered such a military to oppose it. Instead of interfering in Atra's affairs, like so many others were want to do of late, the Great Devourer indulged his martial prowess, employing a sword now to cleave flesh, much as he did to destroy deities as well, for Malice had always favoured a good melee. Wielding his weapon with inhuman ease then, the Warlord tarried outside the vortex itself, witnessing the Queen's skill manifest, whilst he busied himself with lesser foes, at least for now.

 First came a trio of challengers, bravado bolstered by Belgorion's rousing speech, warriors who sought to overwhelm the Warlord, but found ruin upon his blade none the less, as the juggernaut deftly side-stepped a spear that sought his chest. Utilising the assailant's momentum against them, Malice employed a swift riposte, allowing his foe's gait to veritably compel their frame toward FiendWrath's ravenous tip. Position remained key in this endeavour though, and so when the remaining duo's diligence led them to ensue, blades bared and ready, they found their compatriot's corpse drinking deep of their blows, interceding as it was between the bulk of Malice and their roving wrath. Next came the Ankharu's response, as humble flick led their wrist to twist, exploiting their harrowing reach to slice their opponent's hand from their arm, as casually as a farmer might reap stalks of corn with their scythe, for war was this monster's metier, and they began to hew a bitter harvest that day. Disarmed and discarded then, Malice dispatched this foe with a formidable backhanded slash, inverting rather than impeding the previous trajectory of FiendWrath's path, and thereby delivering a fatal flourish to the creature's femoral artery, before advancing upon their ally anew. The last note of this scuffle's song came in the moments that ensued, as the final quarry in the quartet unleashed a flurry of desperate strikes, meeting Malice's shield with each and every stroke until, after toying with the swordsman for several seconds, the fiend felled them with a single thrust. It had all been a matter of imposing his shield against the weapon of his foe, Malice supposed, as he reflected upon the incident afterwards, a decisive instant, when the warrior's blade became obsolete and the Warlord calmly penetrated his adversary's guard, piercing the tender skin beyond and gutting the guardian like a butcher might a pig.

 Before he could relish this encounter further, however, a peculiar aroma wafted its way into his bestial nostrils, a scent that stunk of Baator and conjured a memory from within the depths of Malice's mind. So keen were the Warlord's senses though, that whilst the smell was certainly familiar, a distinction was discerned from that of Varsinax's own, after all Malice had banished the Overlord himself, those long years ago in Castle Ayenee, and so well knew that Zero was but a doppelganger in disguise. Curiosity clawed at his consciousness, as he wondered why only now this imposter emerged, when many years had passed since Varsinax last cursed the realm with their presence, and so he approached the fray with interest, absently shattering a soldier's sternum with his shield as he went and inferring that there lay far more power behind his bulk than his skill belied. Rather than dwindling though, like a star scorched from heaven by its splendour, the energy that encompassed the Warlord seemed to actually multiply now, as his proximity to the ballad of Belgorion and Atra was threatened once again.

 Elrum's envoy sought to strip their surroundings of their strength, yet Malice had remained undaunted, and now as their fervour failed, they sought to separate tides of flesh like some proverbial red sea, a task that again the Warlord would defy, though not through effort or even necessity. Harnessing anti-matter was a dangerous feat, a thing that proved folly for those who dabbled without care, but Belgorion was not the first to delve such depths that day, for Malice had shrouded himself in sentience long before battle came to these fields, had bent beings to his will whose life now endured, through sacrilegious symbiosis. When energy encroached upon his position then, a smile curled at the corners of Malice's mouth, as his Abyssal Aura crept from the edges of reality and made itself manifest. Hewn from the Negative Energy Plane itself, this beast simply sapped the solidity of the wall from his vicinity, actively intercepting its attempt to materialize upon the prime and converting its caress into one that bolstered, rather than battered Malice's body.

 Much like Belgorion's previous conjurations though, the Warlord again made no move to prevent it from affecting others, silhouetted as he was against the backdrop of bodies, but instead remained a stone that split the stream asunder, letting any in his wake endure the full brunt of Belgorion's blight, whilst his gaze remained fixed upon the proceedings, malevolent, merciless, and ever hungry.


                     

In the interests of clarity, Malice's aura is constantly active, as per his character sheet, and therefore not only intercepts the particular portion of Belgorion's wall that would inevitably meet Malice, but actively impedes that section of energy from solidifying, thereby preventing a small alcove from forming. Since his aura is, in essence, composed of sentient anti-matter itself though, it also utilises the sudden influx of energy to bolster its own presence, and thereby that of its master as well.