Sanguineous. Only one word to describe the incessant yet fastidious images which burgeoned in Xujian's mind with such intensity, they instantly shattered the enfettering grasp of the seemingly indissoluble slumber of death. Scenes of massacre, barbarity, ignominous acts, then black. Silence. A veil of midnight velvet complete with a sense of tranquility. Veritable they were, these images, recollections of previous onslaught delivered by his own hands. Pain equally dispersed upon quite resourceful and innocuous victims alike. Such a delicacy this was, like a macabre ostentation acted out as a tribute to this perditious preternatural being.
The aesthetic aspect of the images only he could truly appreciate., bringing Xujian to an ephemeral state of lachrymose,as he admired his own sadistic talents. A single tear escaped beneath a lowered lid, and made its journey down the contours of his left temple, only to cut its adventure short and drip, impacting the edge of his ear. An exasperating sensation that triggered the following events. The disturbance reeled him into reality, and placed him within his body once more. He became physically conscious.
In an ephemeral shockwave of agony, the pain he had sustained made its presence adamant by permeating his entire form, coercing him to cringe and curl his torso. His lungs expanded viciously, aching to inhale the life-sustaining oxygen. His heart resumed its unfaltering yet tenacious pumps, forcing the opulent blood to circulate and deliver warmth to his limbs. The pain was unbearable at first, like the most acute of blades attempting to carve apertures within his flesh. Suddenly, lissome lids shot open to absorb the surroundings once he acknowledged he was conscious. The incandescent jade orbs, which emitted a transparent jade haze, darted left to right to swallow the surrounding scenery. A foggy dawn sky, complete with the heavens mourning upon the earth, supplied enough illumination to seemingly halt the flow of time with the scenery it revealed.
In all his experiences, battle after battle served as the prime tactician, never had he seen so many... corpses. Corpses to the extent of his vision in any given direction. The earth was dilapidated by bodies victim to every imaginable stage of dismemberment and disembowelment. The earth was canvas to a sepulchral masterpiece. They remained in the early stages of decay, thus the brisk breezes of dawn sufficed to dissapate the stench. Looking down to see the remains of his body, in a trepidated reflex he swatted aside a stray forearm with a broadsword still clutched within the fisted hand. A sigh of relief was made as it became apparent that his body was still intact.
Laying on his backside among a mound of corpses, his focus remained downward, taking notice of the crenellations he was uniformed in. A polished obsidian adamantium suit of nonpareil craftsmanship, made specifically for royalty. Such a variegation of design and defense. Royalty amongst the barbarians and ruthless fiends of his tribal culture. The exquisite shoulders, smithed to provide superior durability, along with the broadened, intricately designed breastplate, and complete set of matching guards. His limbs were crenellated in their obsidian adamantium guards, protecting all flesh and ending in the spiked gauntlets and spurred greaves. Even the eccentric cape attached by the twin buckles on either shoulder was of divine fabrication, crafted from the furs of midnight-cloaked wolves. Yet, here it remained as a filthy opprobrium to all, a tattered and torn captured flag, stained with ash and blood and singed by flame.
Acknowledging everything at once, his instinct prevailed against his will, and he found himself attempting to stand. The weight of his armour against his wounds caused severe discomfort, however, he was adamant about testing his strength. Tilting on his side, he propped himself on his left forearm and shifted his legs to slide beneath him. He rose on his left foot, but staggered to maintain his balance. A gasp of pain escaped between dehydrated lips, followed by a serious of pernicious bloody coughs. Hoisting himself fully erect, he wiped at his mouth with his right hand. Xujian winced as it became apparent to him that his right shoulder had sustained the worse of the damage inflicted.
With such austerity present in his nature, he was at once inclined to rearm himself. Patting the vacuious scabbard to reassure himself he was stripped of his prized falchion, he began to scan the ground with such an analytical gaze. About a meter to his right he caught glimpse of his vizard, as it laid facedown in a puddle of mud and blood. Even under these conditions, it maintained its polished obsidian surface. The extravagant mane fabricated from the same furs as the cape, fluttered with liberty against the morning winds. The blood and ash upon it another hint of his ignominous conduct. Cringing as he retrieved his helmet, he decided to tuck it beneath his left arm rather than wipe and equip it. Any helmet limits the vision.
So this was the epilogue of the Battle of Auxis? A semblance of defeat was portrayed here. Naethyrn's Emperor was victorious here, succeeding in annihilating his people, his land, and any means to replenish what was lost. But, He made a vital mistake. He should have made certain Xujian was deceased. His survival only meant vengeance and future war. Brutal, unmerciful vengeance. A simple victory over Naethryn would not suffice. Xujian needed more. As his thoughts raced within his head, his pain became inconsequential, no longer worthy of his attention now.
As he limped about, over and around mutilated corpses, his heavy greaves left imprints in the saturated earth, a trail trackable only by those with a clairvoyant eye. Iridescent rays of sunlight streaked over the mountaintops across the horizon. The rays suffucing the verdant mountains, than burgeoning over the battlefield. The instant heat released the latent sepulchral effluviums of decaying flesh. The stench became unbearable now. Xujian had to reach Auxis, witness what had become of his village. Tumultuous thoughts of his people suffering evisceration tormented him, though, you can't feel remorse for the loss of the wicked. Only in this particular battle, they turned out to be the lesser of two evils.
Eager with anticipation and anxious to behold what became of Auxis, haste became a factor not taken lightly. It was actually of the essence, for his wounds needed treatment as well, less he bleed to death. Suddenly, as he continued his hastened pace towards the mountain range, he caught glimpse of his best friend through his peripheral. There it stood impaled into the earth, Xeno, his falchion. The unmistakeable glacier blue hue of the blade, with transparency comparable to that of ice, and the intricately crafted onyx hilt. A magnificent weapon, forged and passed down by his Father. Fresh droplets of blood still decorated the blade as they gradually trickled downward. Retrieved without hesitation, rather than sheath it, Xujian had the need to use it as a cane for additional support. His weary and injured legs could barely muster enough strength to carry his weight along with the armour's.
Usually such a self kept, reticent soul, he could not withhold the sudden roar which exploded forth in a diabolical tone, a tone saturated with sardonic odium. The reverberations of the echoes could be heard for miles away. Such pure hatred it portrayed. The adrenaline produced by this was enough to diminish his crestfallen mentality. His duty as a Warlord, as a soldier, as a civilian of his village, called. Actions must be taken against this abomination of Naethryn. So as he contrived, he made his way into the shadows of the mountains adjacent Naethryn, remaining a staggering silhouette. Xujian would make his presence known once more, and the world of Naethryn would feel the full force of his wrath.
[mod:fdb8c39cef]Edited due to the fact that in the format presented the post was nearly unreadable... Please use proper paragraghing techniques...[/mod:fdb8c39cef]
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