sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs Pᴀʀᴛ I..

Tʜɪs ɪs ᴀ sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ Eʟʀᴜᴍ/ Aʏᴇɴᴇᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛs.

ＢＹ．ＴＨＩＳ．ＳＷＯＲＤ．Ｉ．ＲＵＬＥ！[/size]

The war between the dual imperium's and the allied Ayenian kingdoms had raged for years. Beginning as trivial disagreement over border territories. Conflict swiftly escalated into full-scale wars, and a vast series of grand campaigns, led by the Rhydin Crimson Emperor and the Overlord of Ayenee; both eager to smite their customary ancestral foes, and to succeed great glory and the adulation of their nations by seizing victory in battle.

Aʏᴇɴᴇᴇ’s  ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ʜᴀs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ sᴘᴇᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅ— to these darkened days when the borders have been breached by the renegade hordes of  Rhydin and the rebellious usurpers of Ayenee against their present overlord, Varsinax of the Imperium Darkfire. Black legions of western and southern Ayenee have risen in defiance, ravening for blood.


                            

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And thus the oracle spoke through ebon-veiled of pungent smoke, "Stare deep into the raven-spurred fogs with your spirit-eyes. Look far, and tell me what you see. Do you see a land far to the north; an immense empire of dark endless fens and snow-crowned mountains. A realm of brooding kingdoms, monsters, beasts and warrior-kings who hail to no grim god but themselves? No? Then seek deeper child, for enlightenment hides within the mist-swathed vales of Ayenee...    

               


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Tʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ɪs ᴄʜᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ sᴏᴏᴛʜsᴀʏ ᴀᴜɢᴜʀɪᴇs ᴏғ ᴅᴇᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ﹐ ʟᴏᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴϙᴜᴇsᴛ ᴛʜᴜs ᴘʀᴏᴘʜᴇsɪᴢᴇᴅ﹗

Tales told as if they were in dream had forever mentioned their legendary kingdom. Many lifetimes sung of the guardians and their chivalrous deeds in keeping the wolves of war from the gates of castle Ayenee. Upon shadowed lyre strings their bold songs within the sweet whispering's of hearts asunder, and some unrequited love. They also spoke of the grim and glorious battles of the warrior king of  kings, Belgorion Iamarsa, his mighty wolves and Valkyrie-like women forging the battle-fields with undying strength and the shining realm of Elrum. In accompany, could it be that the overlord himself was in attendance to the legions of Elrum, marching with their wolven banners high, the Archdevil Zerothsumgar, the very likeness of  Varsinax's inlecherous grandeur.

[align=center]Tʜᴇ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴡ sᴛɪʀʀᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʀɪsᴇɴ. [/align]

Black winds sending forth the ashes of battle and the impending brunt of civil war; soon the land ran red with the blood of the slain, crushed beneath the bootfall of the returning legions that had been at war within the lands of Rhydin. Ensorcelled blades gleaming in sunset’s fire—and darkness concaved inwards in dreadful greeting towards the uprising traitors. Flanked by the splendour of the Darkbane black-flamed edged banners of the vast army stretching from field to the horizon in intricate shaped formations, and at the forefront of the mighty legions, astride an ebon war-stallion, rides Atra’Lamia.

Magicks woven to utterly asphyxiate sunlight, planar bindings slowly enforced to shut the dimensional doorways preventing travel through supernatural or metaphysical means— buffered for a brief moment in time for the remaining shadow legions to come forth, and those who too sought fire, bloodshed and the flayed skins of trophy and viscera. the monolithic shadow of the Darkbane warlord, Malice eclipsed those who fell to Fiendwraith; shattered craniums to the benediction of gauntlet manifested the horror yet to reveal its true secrets and purpose.

Mists of blood and earth-shattering dimensional yawning sought to grasp the shades by its dusky throat, the servant of Ulyssiask perhaps heralded some baneful arrival. Battle-warg and fiendish cohorts howling at the flag of parley held by the Blackheilm general, Baalthus Vane, in attempt to quell the brewing conflict between the war-queen and king of kings, and even then the warlord of Nightbane, Cyan made his presence known, surrounded by legions of clashing swords and the dying. Bolstered by heavy cavalry, and squadrons of deadly scythed chariots, scimitar and halberd yielding calvary further reinforced by the imperial western frontier army of one hundred thousand highly trained Edeniac and Tenaria spearmen and archers. Never has this force met its match in battle or siege... and yet is it true that another great army stirs?

   
                           

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With baited breath the young seer edged forward, storm-crested eyes squinting to scathe the black mirror, looking up to the aged faced remaining hidden in the memory of its own shadows. "The outcome, master. Who left the field victorious? Who prevailed?" The mists dispersed... for now, the images fade as did the solemn form of the oracle. "That tale my boy, shall have to wait 'til another day..."    

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 Note: Names in bold represent [active] characters in the present scene or vicinity thereof.[/align]

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Deep within the halls of Elrum, he waited. A beast long since forgotten by the world--or perhaps never fully acknowledged. Such time was best used for slumber, but what need had he of sleep? No, slumber proved a malignant sickness visited upon him for time eternal. Poisoned against it, the beast found no enjoyment in rest, for it remained a constant reminder of his imprisonment, his nightmare. In truth, unlike so many of his brood, this devil cared nothing for the realm of Ayenee, no more so than he cared about any ant bed. It mattered not what soil turned asunder beneath his heel, or what craven jelly filled meat bags offered up their light; a deal was a deal and a soul was a soul.

 Shameful, though it was, he did not consider himself a gourmand. His nature did not allow it, not in a game of numbers. The echoing clacking of heels upon stone heralded his journey to the conflict proper.

 He remained, for all intents and purposes, a servant; rather, he bore the trappings of one. To assume, however, that a creature of such grace-- and in possession of a gait so determined and haughty possessed a servile bone in his body, proved an exercise in foolishness. The circumstances of his arrival were as trivial as his name; it held no bearing on the matter at hand. It was reasonable to suspect that he accompanied someone of great import and style, given his own aspect and design, but who that was had yet to be seen. After all, eyes tended to focus upon the burning stars and not the specks of cosmic dust that surround them.


 The livery he wore appeared pressed, sharp, clean and easily worth the price of a lesser noble’s entire wardrobe. Yes, pride proved ever the limp in the stride of his plans, but such was his nature. If forced to appear the servant, then let him seem the grandest of them. Ebony silk clung to his frame, fitted and embroidered with sigils both ancient and decadent. Pristine, bone white gloves clutched a small silver serving tray and a long stemmed polished glass, filled to the brim with amber liquor, sat immobile atop its reflective surface.


 Crimson eyes stared back at him from within that surface, framed by stray obsidian tresses. He was pale, but neither sickly, nor unhealthy—merely fair of skin. This too, like his servility, was a facade, but measures were necessary to maintain the ruse. This creature, who moved like a lynx, came to a decided halt, as black heels meet in a small click against the flooring. Setting the tray down, he raised the glass and drained it before dashing it against the floor. This was the call to battle, for the Guardians, at least. Strange how he found himself among their number. A tale for another time, to be sure.

 At last, the time had come for another game.

 Moving to join the throng of Belgorion's supporters, Zerothsumgar released his aura and allowed it to mingle with the atmosphere, a sensual poison tainting the air. Upon a mere hint of his aura, onlookers might find a familiar twinge--such was the nature of identical beings, their scent was nigh indiscernible from the other. For all intents and purposes the presence of Varsinax Darkfire would, no doubt, raise eyebrows and spark questions--a theatric Zerothsumgar couldn't bare to deny himself. Dusa and his Darkfire clan had never truly believed his ruse, but they were never certain, that thought always nagging that the being who claimed to be their erstwhile father, was in fact the selfsame devil. Now that Belgorion held the blade of Ayenee, he seemed the best chess piece to rally behind, for the time being, at least--and thus privy to Zerothsumgar's true origin.

 Zero did not disturb Belgorion's thunderous call to arms, preferring to move forward and stand a few meters to the Guardian's side.  The Archdevil peered out at the horde stretching forth and smiled...

 "Guardian, I am at your service."

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…


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 He had waited longer than usual, and still there had been no response, nor even a sign that one might be forthcoming. He knew she must be busy then. If not altogether bored of their encounters. He could not disagree. They had become all but monotonous. Oh well., he thought, as he squeezed his left fist closed very tightly, and then relaxed it and opened it, spreading the cut wide as he did.

 All of the blood he had sprinkled about and cast all around him, began to move, and slither back to him, meeting, over the course of a few minutes, at the puddle that had formed near his left foot. When every drop had returned, and joined with their crimson kin, the puddle at his feet began to reach upward as it extended itself, rather snakelike, or perhaps more tentacalian, as it continued to rise nearer to the gaping source from whence it had all sprang. Then, after a few moments of reaching, the slightest of contact between spilled quintessence carrying his intent and the wound in his palm, the rest of the blood all but shot upward in a nigh blink of an eye, and once every drop was returned to within, the wound closed itself with deliberate precision.

 "Atra'Lamia..." he whispered to the winds, a smile now on his face for the first time this day. Clearly, if she were not dead, and if she were not in torpor... then surely, he reasoned, she was in the middle of something more 'fun' than this. And anyways, this stage was not a worthy one for their meeting, he realized a little late just then. "Then I shall come and find you, as I must..." he added, whispering unto the winds still. At the end of this last statement, he was pushed about lightly, as the wind took up a fervor filled and forceful presence, before blowing on it's path unto her ears and mind, wherever she might be.

 He closed him mind from thinking, and eyes from seeing, as he thought of her, and visualized her before him. Not long after creating an almost tangible image of her within his minds eye, he faded from where he stood, carried onward toward his desire, as it waited to be fulfilled. He would find her. He would perhaps even face her. If not join her. Who could say. The potential paths to walk, in their number, were always endless, when one at least wished for them to be so, while maintaining a mindset that was meant to promote the generation of infinite possibility.

 He was moving through the realm he called his home, the realm he called himself... on his way to her. He would arrive near to her, because he desired to do so.
 â€œâ€¦ you dare! O’ great King!” her words rippled around him, and through him, as Cyan traveled. His consciousness had already arrived, at least partially, near her, but still he was transferring his physical incarnation through the fabrics of dimensions and tangible space. However, there seemed to be something disrupting his transference of his total quintessence. Something being formed by someone strong willed and powerful enough...

 Cyan began to focus his mind, his resolve, and his vision of Atra’Lamia. He was also forced into acquainting himself with the metaphysical makeup of the barrier as well as its source, Whatever was preventing him from manifesting, he would overcome, especially since it seemed to be an incomplete barrier as yet forming in his way. But who was its source…? He wondered…

 â€¦

 â€¦.

 â€¦ He did not know who it was…

 But he thought he felt a familiar presence... in... Malice...? How peculiar. Something big was seemingly afoot, Cyan reckoned then, if even he had taken efforts to be present.

 Nearly finished with his manifestation, Cyan now recognized then that his inter- and multi-planar travel and movements would from this moment be hindered impossible, as he had become aware of the growing depth of the barrier’s intricacy as well as its power. As if perhaps it would very soon not need whoever had formed it to consciously maintain it, if it even did at all…

 Cyan at last began to take shape, after he had finally become aware of all these things. He was not far from Atra at all, in fact… certainly within her striking range, and standing off to her right, and behind… sword already drawn, having never been sheathed since the gray winter wasteland where he’d just come from. Rather bold his arrival as always, he could not contain a tone of annoyance, or perhaps anger, that he had not been sent the invitation, and of thus he spoke edgily “…And I received no invitation… Yet here I am…” he would state. Making no move to attack her, no any of those around him. As yet, Cyan was still in the process of ascertaining what was going on around him, as he looked around. As yet, even he was unaware of what his part would be to play here, if any. But excitement rose within him. Perhaps he could enjoy himself...And just kill. Atra's men, and her enemies men, and any who came before him, in fact? With no bias or betrayal intended. He was undecided.

 He was rather comfortable with surprising her, or at least trying. After all, it was quite a bit more probable that she had been aware of his coming, since he had first began to arrive. That is… with Cyan now assuming that she had not invited him for a reason, and thus perhaps had not cared to let his words of summons reach her, either.

 Time would tell. Certainly sooner, not later…

Cyan decides that it is much much more fun in the land of Narnia cleaning fridges and vanishes in a puff of fairy-floss smoke "Clean yo fridges. Peace!!!" echoing as the band plays.....'Never Gonna Give You Up-- Rick Astley'.....
 -Cyan has officially "left the building".

Tʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs sᴘɪʀɪᴛ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴜʀsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛ ᴏʀ ᴅᴜsᴛ; ɪᴛ ɪs ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴡᴇʟʟ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ﹗ Bᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍs ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ﹐ ғᴏʀ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴀ ʟᴀᴡ﹐ ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜᴍᴇɴᴛ﹐ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ... ʙᴜᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀsᴛᴇ.

Miscreants, the very word echoed through Atra'Lamia's heart-strings as eyes of ebony watched a legion clash with other. She determined it as scuttling around like vermin and cattle. Oblivious to their bloody destiny; and hoped they would welcome death well...and if not they would learn their place by her blades, at the hands of domination and tyranny. Perhaps these warrior gazed upon her shadowy form, so fluid and eloquently poignant in mellifluous motion while cutting through the lines like brutal winds to ash. Unearthly in beauty while nightmarish in realization, that while the war-worthy gazed transfixed upon such magnificence; none would stake their affirmation of such desires before the Shadow Lords of Ayenee, or the Obsidian Lords of Rhydin, let alone her.

The helmet of a stranger turned in the direction of Atra'Lamia making way through the mass of gleaming crimson splashed against the lustre of silver, blade in adept glove. Though her juggernauts pace did not slow as gauntlet right hand ascended the cruel Longsword, 'Intorqueo Flamma'. Calculating the position in which the warrior moved in conjunction with the fast paced movement of beast. Nor did Atra'Lamia slow when burying the blade in the legionnaires  gut, its impressive length erupting out the other side, impaling the man as if he were nothing but air. A soundless vibration slipped from betwixt lips as gasping esophagus gurgled helplessly, blood pouring from his mouth, barely acknowledging in appreciation for as a savage, delivered twist of sword sent waves of pain washing over the soldiers consciousness… making an expression of exquisite pain break upon the canvas of horrified face.

Halting immediately the impressively adorned beast, only to turn adroitly astride, leathers constricting in defiance against the stature of diminutive feminine curves… with statuesque features resting against the landscape of shoulder. It was then, with emotionless glare, onyx-hues watched… savouring every single moment of this the 'Warlordess' stood there towering above, as he bled to death, refusing to move until every last shred of heat had left the dying man before retrieving the blade and letting the male crumple to the blood drenched moist earth at the hooves of the Shadowmare. Turning attentions back to the battle surrounding from all quarters, then with a practiced ease Atra urged the stead onward back into the fray.

The asphyxiation of the sun from the conjurations of darkness brought with it the final sight of the mighty Capital of Ayenee, though it did not impede vision in the slightest. In truth the presence of her engraved oblivion in the souls of fallen men was more at home in the velvety folds of shadows, for although any light struggled to illuminate its ghostly luminosity seemed to simply part around the Imperatrix, the gloaming illuminating silhouette birthed a greater shadow amid the tenebrous, miasmic whorl of battle and death prestidigitation.  Slowing the horses gait when entering into the true thickness of battle, movement greatly mired due to the depth numbers engaged in the melee of glory and defeat. Ordered to dismount by one who appeared to believe himself to be a commander of some chapter, of some unworthy status of authority. Offering a shrug in response before being receiving with such command with the swing of sword and striking against thigh only to have it break upon mesh and sable leathers.

In the blink of an eye the woman’s gauntlet hand had shot forth and slid about the perpetrators throat, exacting a fraction of strength able to be possessed to crush the fools larynx, collapsing the airways and then snapping the neck before moving on to the other three soldiers. Sliding seductively from the stallion's saddle in one swift and solitary action, using the first soldier's body as a shield to block the javelin of the second, spinning about quickly and raking  armoured claws across the peltast mid-section, spilling intestines onto the ground before all who witnessed. The two remaining that faced the quandary of whether to fight or run gave nothing short of a  look of terror before another of revulsion swept across features beneath their helms. Not only struggling against the trepidation that welled up inside of them but also an intense feeling of biliousness. Deciding to not dirty hands on another filthy traitor Atra's apertures parted for but a moment unleashing a stream of Stygian shadow-like fire that engulfed them, completely incinerating them to ash, such was the intensity of the inferno.

Barely granting them a second of ardent interest other than the one previously used as a shield, gauntlet digits perforating hungrily into the softest chasms of  flesh, through to the chest cavity with a forceful directed greeting through the lower intestine with cold steel. With an ample flick of the wrist in another violent incision made to lavishly scorch cold flesh producing crimson streams. Ribs sliced to the loins, revealing the exposed cavity towards the heavens, then, rendering the inner costal cartilage and manubriums sluiced for the extraction of prized heart. Lifting the pulsating effigy into the air, like some grotesque offering to a god of destruction before consuming it. Dripping claret fell in suspended animation in Goetic tribute over Mithril, mesh then alabaster flesh, "A man must accept his fate, or be destroyed by it... from shore to crumbling shore."

Painted vermillion splattered features with tribal markings of war beheld the carnage widespread over fields, then casting downwards at the macabre display of what had been a man, now nothing but a crude vision, with last of its warmth hissing on the frigid winds. A beleaguered butchery, viscera tapering across the earth in arcane patterns like Haruspicy. Pitilessly a smirk slid across rubicund apertures, a conquering libation though he was hardly worth the celebration of glory. The teeming horde of soldiers that so many challengers usually fought to pass through, seemed to strangely part before the sanguine painted female, and not surprisingly so for she donned the dreadful representation of Darkbane in all its legendary glory. There was no greater evil than they. Impenetrable starless eyes, devoid of the faintest hint of pupils, extended their gaze across the expanse of land that stretched out until it was unseen behind the mantle of obfuscate fog. Intorqueo Flamma nestled tightly in right hand and ready to parry any schlemiel foolish enough to come forth and test their metal.

Glancing back upwards, following the course of a bolt of golden lightning that tore across the skies asunder noticing Mephi'sax, comfortably seated upon his armoured warhorse, a faint chuckle arose within the depths of Atra's chest only to break upon the surface of embouchements like a tidal wave of conviviality,  "Your punctuality renders me amused, Cinderbane, you missed the first kill…would you like some?" Her voice was like that of ambrosia and darkness, yet it possessed a timbre of mockery hidden beneath its velvet. Laughing as the Cinder-Mithril clad behemoth  writhed in abject disgust but voiced nothing of a reply.  "No? You don’t know what you are missing..." Absolute delight taken at the same time as unimpassioned flambeaus beheld the carnage of warrior alike falling to the steel pangs of their might and ravenous maws of the 'Hunters' (Shadow-hounds).

Parting like nocturnal tide, at the shift of alliances and the oncoming of other banners that roused the beastly helm of the Chaos Lord. Not to mention the whispers that drifted in ballads of ghost's past, among those whom had even ceased in mid-fight on each periphery of the 'Killing Fields' in clear sight of their unfaltering marching legions, making no course to divide or flank in order to pass.  Banners of Wolf on fields of valiant white, and the Black Dragon fiercely stark against fire and blood- despite the Battle Mages did not withdraw their potent incantations of damnation. Battlefield thick with unfamiliar death magick, cantraps and countercharms echoed through impenetrable mists, solidifying to a profuse consistency of darkness. Decay, aphotic entropy and the conflagrant stench of flesh and bloodshed. Ekuxus, the younger of the Cinderbane scions. Rich with the opulence of flayed trophies and drenched with the fallen’s ichors of those he had slaughtered this day.

Their lives taken… unfortunate obstacles in the way; in reality  their relevance to the kill-count mattered naught to the one, whose senses still soared with the sweet succour of their suffering, even after they were deceased, for such was the 'Path of Cinders'. Such was the fate of traitors. With a fiendish expression writhing its way across the Cinderbane knight's facade; a sadistic sneer that communicated his acceptance, even as the obsidian shell that snugly smothered his skin started to shift, almost as if it were alive with the souls of all that had perished to present and yesteryear wars. Appetite had barely been sated, but he retorted in a tenor that resembled thunder to both the monarch of Darkbane and his brother. "Seems the howl of victory may come swifter." Gesturing with blade in gauntlet fist, spanning outwards across the littered grounds of broken bodies and the dead, then towards the banners in advance.

"Not for your dogs of war, Ekuxus!" Sneering at the man's words, senses reeling from the presence of a something, a very particular weapon. Typically held by the Overlord Varsinax himself, but last time Atra'Lamia had seen it, was in the possession of his son, Dusa Utvara Darkfire.  It was not possible for the Cinderbane's or those of her men, to know the true intensity that burned within Atra's blackened heart at the sheer burden of its existence, despite the fact she had faced a thousand such battles before and won every single one of them it had always been in the name of Darkbane, Ayenee and its Emperor. Expecting to see the Imperial Prince himself amongst the Darkfire regiments, except their banners were absent. Chilled globes gazed upwards at the crest that rose higher than the flags and bannerols of several emblems and coats of arms that eyes had not seen since the last wars of Tenaria and Eden.

Warfare raged in the insurgent nucleus;  a tempest of clashing might, the dance of blades. Interjecting by a nonchalant gesture of hand when Mehi'sax went to speak… the name itself had carried far, "Belgorion… Ikorit… Iamarsa. King of Kings...", majestically riding the night winds.  "Ayenee breathes with the lungs of chaos, fires burn at the hands of darkness and light. What name can comb the night with such destruction yet stay the blades of its armies?" Rage appeared to carry him when it was her name, Atra’Lamia that broke above the songs of steel and coalesced amid the howling mistrals.  A challenge? Thus silent as death, in purposeful stride leaving nothing but corpses in the tale of her majestic wake. Gaze blacker that the deepest hollows of the Abyss, words sharper than spear-points, the searing glow of trenchant  steel in grasp, and bootfall brought the wither of ever-consuming shadows.

"Shall I notch another widow to my haft, and wreak red vengeance 'cross these lands? Is it not enough that men dream of being Kings without aspiring to the supremacy of Gods." Last words ushered towards the Cinderbane commanders before either of them had an opportunity to intercept. Voices heard throughout the ranks, both reputable and unknown. Murmurs of unrest which caused confused throughout the regiments at her prompt gait and the rise of Imperial forces. "Hearken, sons of the glorious Empire... for here we stand upon the Field of Blood..."  A call of arms aggressively vocalized towards Captain and Commander alike, to even the lowest of the wasteland tribes. "Imperial Cavalry... advance! Ride them down! In to the fray! Spearmen, form into Omega Phalanx. Archers, notch arrows, prepare to loose. Sound the clarion! Our destiny beckons…"

With 'Intorqueo Flamma' in trenchant mercurial grasp, and sanity had been questioned… only the most loyal to her regiment would follow, those beneath the banners of Darkbane, leaving the rest to unleash their vehemence upon the army of Ayenee's traitors- the combined forces of Rhydin that had taken rebellion. Already   armies had met upon the 'Field of Blood', the 'Killing Fields' of times long passed but never forgotten. It stretched lifeless before the aeon-veiled citadel peaks of Central Ayenee and Western Ayenee  that were soon completely snuffed by the profuse shrouds of hex and gloom. A darkness unable to be shifted by enchantments of light or the holy. From behind her, the Cinderbane Cavalry tore gloriously into the foremost rank of the seditious -warriors, battle-magick rendering the squamous pseudo-flesh of the their armours completely vulnerable to the steel of the royal legions. The momentum of the second charge reducing numbers dramatically, the Rhydin vanguard falling back before the thundering resolve of the Imperial attack.

Atra'Lamia and those whom followed to fully engage on the forefront of the onslaught towards this Belgorion's forces. He had called her name in challenge and by all the Darkened Gods, she would hate to disappoint . Ensorcelled ebon blade hewing ten to the left and cleaving ten to the right, grim eyes gleaming beneath the ebony mantle of wraith-blown cascades and sanguine adorned features. Like a slithering tide, the shadows lapped at leather tourniquet thighs, as if neither spell nor curse could touch this ravening beauty in spite of adept conjuring and Cimmerian-charms. On closer observations, and not hindered or halted by the intervention of his men… let alone any without feeling the Blade of Executions sting. Chin ascending defiantly, features shifting behind the midnight veils of billowing tresses exposing ensanguined visage, though not meeting eye to eye, more of an oblique apathy to incite affront.

Flicking downwards then the apex of weapon, resting upon its elaborate hilt, while gore-gauntlet gestured forth with a manicured arch of brow, "Come then! Test that cursed blade of black steel against me if you dare! O' great king!" An evil grin would be prompted by chosen discourse...dark-liquored eyes glistening in heinous effluence, narrowing into daggered slithers as Atra's head ascended to greet Belgorion's gaze with her own. Gauntlet shimmered, the elongated talons extended in cruel inches from the middle knuckles of clenched digits, stepping to the left, studying him in scrutiny… mapping his features against the emptiness of recollection... and the ire only growing in the fleeting seconds of union.  

It was not that is presence was insulting, but it certainly provoked an aggression of sentiment. Beneath black chain-mail and leathered bodice the hidden pendant burned against the coldness of skin- an item worn that evaded nostalgia and memory, nevertheless never removed. Never before had it reacted to sing throughout vein, soul or heartstrings… mayhaps it was merely tempered with the thirst of bloodshed and battle? Flanked on both sides with some of Darkbane's most fierce war-beasts and beserkers ready for the contest of whose blades were the thirstiest and most skilled in all of Ayenee (afterall it was what Darkbane was most infamous for).

A growl issued from twixt rubicund apertures, death-ravening in frost-tendril plumes in wraith-like exhalation… entwined in unexplained vehemence and passion. Ruby lips plaguing a barbarous symmetrical indifference, as eyes akin to curses in gleam of winter moonlight over black water, glanced over the King of King's form deliberately.


   

Machaera Vomica Vulcanus- Intorqueo Flamma|Cry of Agony/ Blade of Executions.

 Also known as the sword of Balefire, except this weapon poses a significant difference to most already in circa. The difference being, this weapon is empowered with balefire in its most unholy and natural state, that of a sickly blue-green flame when summoned. The blade is fashioned solidified Umbra Ignis also more commonly known as Shadow Fire to those who are not of Chaos/Shadow Lord origins.

 The sword blade is approximately the same size as a longsword except serrated and embossed with Oblivion runes and tormented figures seemingly reaching out from the blade matter. The  runes are the indications that it is a runic activated weapon that requires a brief incantation. The apex of the sword glistens with a slight balefire hue signifying its potential. The hilt was created from forged Mithril though smoldered black and etched with battle glyphs and death runes. The hilt and pommel crafted into the shape of the Obsidian Cross, the arms outstretched like bat wings. It is a truly magnificent weapon to behold and to wield.

 It is a rather heavy sword in weight, and only suitable for one who has the stamina and strength to handle without taking a penalty. However, the sword is highly intelligent and can not only communicate to who wields it but also the intended target. When the Balefire is summoned it mostly communicates by shrieks and howl. When a hit occurs the sword only causes minimal when not summoned, however, when summoned the aggravated damage increases,capable to pierce even the most resilient of armors and cause severe wounds to infernal beings, celestial beings or other immortal creatures. The sword literally feeds of the wounded target as each hit occurs and has been known to 'blood frenzy' which causes the sword to increase to another level of power altogether and to frightening abilities which include Daemonic Reaper & Shadow Reaver ....{Soul/Essence Eater}... {BaleFire}... {Blood Frenzy}... {Pestilence}... |only one in existence|    

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Battle Magicks|Enchantments.

 Veils of Blackhelm: Shroud of Darkness. Cancels Luminary or Holy magicks and casts a dome of darkness over a specific area. [LvL 2] [active conjuration]
 Shadow Shield:  Conceals within the shrouds. Offers resistance to Holy, Darkness|Ether, Frost or Fire spells. Passive. Soaks damage. [LvL 2] [active conjuration]
 Shadow Blight: Smite of Chaos. Drains sentient|living magicks and sentient infused armours rendering them vulnerable to steel. [LvL 2] [activated spell]
 RavenStorm: Plague Wind. Death spell. Breath Augment. May also be considered a hex spell. Multi-wound, infesting 'living' armour/weapon/flesh with rapid viral decay. Typically augmented by eupnea or exsufflation spells, combined with the Veils of Blackhelm or other contagion/cloaking magicks. [LvL 2] [activated spell]

LvL 2 signifies the second post with additional preparation extending from the first post as per turn and increasing.[/b][/font][/size]