IC: Tombs of the forgotten

[Atrox_Cruentus]

Though pounding through time, Uncaring be he

Slumber. A state of peace, An extended blackness that comforts each fibre of ones being. A veil of the darkest imagery in the dream land that somehow forces it's way into the mind of sleeping beast. So many thoughts that converge into a singular vision, Almost planned and perfectly timed as faces of old laugh and smirk, Cry and wail. So convincing is this theatre of dreams that one may indeed be there, Be holding such vile conversations, Acting himself to pretend he can stand such people. The hatred that burns felt as if this emotion could be real in this place, At this time. The buildings, The landscape, The flames from the fires that burn around all so realistic as the heat warms this imaginary flesh.... Slumber......Not always that peaceful

The strike of freedom that resounds across the omni stirs the weaver, His focus at once drawn to the ever crossing fabrics that entwine this glorious plane. Links to past, Present and future woven into an intricate web of life and death. Pulsating unto each other in hypnotic rhythem, Almost sexual as the flex and seeming tighten around the strand closest to them, The strand being choked in turn choking the next. A circle of life in many respects, However few would see it as such. This place is more like a graveyard to those who have heard it's stories, It's myth and it's legacy. And most who have visited his home simply gawp in disgust

Pacing forward the weaver grins at the marks that freckle his torso, Smeared and dried rivers of crimson adorn the scars of brutal fun. Muscles still taught in a combat expectant way. Ahh such fun was had on his last visit to that place, That ungodly place. However this is not why he has taken intrest in yet another freedom bouncing around the planes from omni to astral and unto the void. His appearence matters not to himself and as such would he not care what may happen to the mind of a simple cretin when he arrives, His main focus is that of collection. Behind the tombs of those long gone lie in wait his new weapons

Upon the edge of a crated bank it begins. From distant winds the cry of terror resounds across the omni in a vicious blast of anger, The blackened night rolling in reverse across it's very self in waves of caution. The splitting of fabrics heard across time as the portal begins to seep unto the realm below, Far below. Taught strings snap and flail in the listless night, The echoing screams of the weavers life force cutting into the space before him. The elements retch, Gagging upon the suffocation occuring all around them, Time itself cascading into this abyss. Far below the weavers energy is bared for all to see but for but a few seconds. His main intention is not to alert many, For his mission must be completed first. With an explosion of atoms and a combustion on ions the portal implodes sending the weaver unto his destination... The tombs of the forgotten

[Atrox_Cruentus]

Onwards......Never upwards

The eipitome of life. Desolate waste ground surround by the monolith of Darkbane. Parched earth kicking skyward a dust of forgotten life. This almost un-recognisble desert a stain upon the vision of he who seeks only to venture through this vast waste land to that which calls with bated breath. Signs of life are few and far between on the outside walls, There is no audious sound from the winged creatures that once circled this feeding ground, No twisted bodies that amused the mind with every passing glance. It itself had become barren, Un-liveable and un-manageable....His idea of perfection

With hollow steps the weaver ventures forth, This towering temple simply put to to the far reaches of the mind, It would be insignificant until the tomb has been opened. The harsh winds coil and rasp across his naked blood stained midriff, Licking at the bare flesh with an icy tongue. His mind had been made upon awakening, His journey shall carry on until that weapon was in his possesion. He may have left him alone but he made sure the gift was prepared, Prepared for his safety, for his judgement and for the explosion that will soon follow

Upon reaching the undergrowth unto the next part of his quest his mind reels at the fluctuation coming from within the stone walls not 50 metres behind him. A summon from a voice of long gone. The tone of speech carries across the cortex in a rapture of welcome and cautiousness. Each word almost flails at the frontal lobes as it disects into familiarity. The weaver is wanted, Though asked to wait. Placing such an individual in a queue will not be tolerated. He shall return, At some point to make this point known....The weaver waits for no-one and nothing

With minds eye once more focused on the Tomb Of The Forgotten he slides steathily into the thorns of lands only defence, Mother natures twists and turns of ungodly vines and darkness. His journey shall be swift. He wont keep all waiting. After all he is back for a reason, And once the item of calling is aquired that reason shall erupt for all to see.

[Atrox_Cruentus]

Forever seeking that which cannot be named

Bramble and unformed vegitation lace the ground in a chotic emblem, No structure to the growth of mother natures parched plant life writhing in the shadows that cast scorn downward from the militant tree's swaying up high. The air almost putrid with the decaying corpses of animal life that simply starved in this fluid parched wasteland. A maze of devatation before him, Juttering in all directions, Hanging by the last of it's strength as if waiting for but a few more seconds will allow the heavens to open, To allow the rain to cascade downward and bring new life.

Final remarks fall upon the ears of the weaver, The voice of the warlord, His one time brother in arms. His words filtering through his mind as he edges onward. His tone as always un-guessable. Whenever he has spoken with that they call Malice he could never tell if the ungodly creature was patronising or sincere. It of course mattered not as it always ended with raised voices and the blood of someone staining the floor between them. From betwixt his lips his words flutter across the breeze, Soaking into the omni's channels for Malice to interpret as he wished "You too are back i see, Without having towitness the  scene that must surely be the cause of the commotion within the walls of the temple i have just passed i would have to say your getting laid..... Not alot changes my friend. I shall not be too long, I have something to collect"

Bounding off the sole of his right foot he lurches forward, Allowing his scarred skin to brush heavily against the uncaring undergrowth. Pin points of blackened vines lapping at the skin, Drawing the crimson flow from within into the evening sky. Such a feeling of pain bringing nothing but the simplistic smirk of a creature with more to gain should his journy be quick and efficient. It is close, Beneath the moon and lodged within the shadows of death's subtle caress. Already two have felt his presence, They are sure to mention it to others and that could complicate things before they have even begun. Bursting into the valley below he sets himself to work before the distractions really begin to kick in

[Atrox_Cruentus]

Never ending, Just beginning

The valley. A picturesque pattern of fresh dew stained grass, Jigsaw like colours dotted at seeminginly perfect points atop the wild flowers that sprout from the soft clay like earth. A far cry from the wildnerness he has just swept his way through. Even in dullest shadow of healthy bush the tone of the roses and orchids blossoms against the eye. Such a place would bring joy to the soft hearted, The romantic and to those seeking refuge. Vibrant life and total peace away from the humdrum existence that most people put up with daily. A place to relax and begin those carefree thoughts, Those hopes and dreams that would flitter across the conscious mind as you imagined a life that will never be. A smile would indeed form across your very lips, Were you one of those soft hearted creatures

The choking, gutteral cough that rings across the silence almost barks as the thick phlem of the weaver is forced from his cracked lips in a spit of vile hatred "What a shit hole". The greenish yellow ooze from deep within his lungs staining a small area of greenery to his right, A mark of his disgust laid bare for those who follow his steps into this place. He could never understand why that he seeks would take this path, So much of it simply an eyesore, Too many visions that almost claw at the senses making it hard not to vomit. Surely a darker path would have been more it's thing, Through the deep underground caverns and into a void far far away. Not a place on which any moron entity could be seated

With clenched teeth he once more surges forward, Eager to escape this bountiful beauty. Feet pounding in a rythm that drums into the air up high, The top soil that retained it's moisture from the last downfall kicking off his heels in small clumps, Not his greatest idea at leaving no trace of his path but one he will deal with should he need to, At the minute he simply wishes to be away. Crossing the open land at a comfortable speed the small mountain range ahead begins to edge skyward as he draws to it's base. Climbing is not exactly a task he enjoys but anything will be better than the valley he will shortly leave behind. The tomb is not far, He is not happy

[Atrox_Cruentus]

Upwards, On high he lies

Crushed rock, The bottle brown of the landscape rising upward in jagged pose, The monument of mother earth attacking the skyline with a juttered edge. Pressue seeping from up high unto the base of this collective landslide from ages past. The collection of dried soil, Solid rock and flaking clay towering above him. It's height cloaking all light at the base, the shadows almost mirror like to it's structure crawling forth across the soil and debris below, The few broken rocks to have fallen almost comforted as they lie at it's foundation, Once apart of such a landscape, Now cast to the floor via years of landslides

With fingers poised in a crescent moon his digits elongate at the tips into the first of the the breaks within this wall of sold rock, His overgrown nails forcing into the solid structure before the knees give thrust. Tearing ever upward his body contorts and twists with each needed turn, A turn to grab the next level. Spider like he rushes upward, Palms a flurry of the dust created from the slapping of his hands into each crevice, higher and higher he climbs. Muscles tearing unto each outreached grip, Almost springing himself forth at a speed that would blur the vision, Heels cracking at the top, Rasping forth an echo of breakage within the summit

On it's high crest he breathes inward, The air of human land filling the blackened lungs of the weaver. His outhale cursing each living thing be it human or otherwise. This is the place, the burial ground, The final resting place. The sense of madness rippling from the ground below his feet, The very compacted rock atop this great view point, Almost calling, Tempting, Betting him to break this enclosed prison, To smash the earth that buries such a soul, That buries he, He who came and was long forgotten

On a scream of redemption tearing from his gut, Coursing through his throat with an edge of bladed weapon the weaver drops to his knees, His right hand becoming fisted as he drives into the dirt on which he stands. Ground trembles, Rocks breaks, Blood from his knuckles flows. The crimson life force within bringing the tomb into view, It's apparent stasis somewhat detatched from the movement of life around him. The coffin of he stands for all to witness, His lifeforce encased in such a tiny space unworthy of the other weaver, the weaver of his generation. His lifeless corpse still buzzing with the infinite, The omniversal soul. Beating it emits it's chaos, It's unwilling deafeat.

From parched lips the words ring across realms, Tear across realities and burst into existence "Draekarrynn my brother....soon we shall be one.....Vengance will be ours and those who betrayed us shall die with no remorse. I am here, And it shall end with this deed". With a outstretched hand he tears the coffin lid of he long gone from it's locks. Now is the time. His words one more pierce the realms that surround this mortal play ground "MALICE.... Come help me with this deed, I need my brother in arms for such a special occasion"

[Malice]

Reposted from the Temple of Evil thread, see there for the full post, this is merely the relevant portion that applies to Atrox

Inconveniently, however, whatever plans he might have made during the short journey were disrupted by the raucous voice of Atrox, born aloft telepathic wings and transmitted into an ‘audience chamber’, of sorts, within the monster’s consciousness. This heavily warded portion of Malice’s brain mulled the request over for a moment, considering the inflections of the man’s words before responding with a sneer “Brother is it? You forsook any claims to that title when you ran off to rifle through dirt, rather than return to your home. No when next we meet Atrox, know that your head shall be hanging from Darkbane’s battlements before the day is done. “ With his piece said, the merciless Warlord severed the ‘link’ that he had been maintaining with the Weaver, resigning his old sword-brother to the same fate that all traitors would suffer at his hands, an agonizing and brutal death for their lapse in loyalty.

[Atrox_Cruentus]

Welcome to Damnation

The words of malice climb across his cerebral cortex, The defiant tone settling into the alert cells of his already occupied thoughts, Almost spitting through a general hatred as the speech forms within his conscious. Such a puppet, A puppet to a clan that has never been itself for many years. A clan "Re-born" under the goddess, Or so she likes to be called. The words or malice are expected, After all he never was an individual, A creature of his own will, Nay his strings are pulled by that of the clans "Leader". His threat that of a man with a thumb print embedded upon his forehead. Unable to think for himself this creature simply bows to the will of the little girl that believes she has resurrected something of stature, A clan that should be feared. As is known this shall never be. The smirk upon his lips states the almost obvious truth, Darkbane is simply a petty gang, A gang that shall feel the wrath of the weaver, The chaos of the family soon to be re-born. Such a waste of a name, A name so feared in ancient past, Now simply mocked

His digits gently reach into the coffin of the in-animate one, The palm of his hand resting upon the left thigh of the true brother, Fingers curling under the muscle. His left hand sliding below the neck of him sleeping to mortal life. Knee's buckling as the muscles contract, His forearms bearing the weight of Draekarrynn, Lifting the other weaver from that enclosed box of the forgotten. The limping body of his kin bearing down upon his stance, Holding him at chest height he grins with the posture of a man possesed, A chaotic grin that would send the sane into madness.

Atoms curl into a storm of whipping wind, Colliding upon each other, Merging and seperating in a chorus of insanity. The soft dawning sunshine casting shadows upon the form of the weaver carrying the next army unto it's rightful place. The strings contort, The mesh of existence twitching in anticipation, The calling of the dead from within seeping into the mind of the weaver. The tear in the fabric of time whips across his vision, The darkness within filled only with the erupting crimson of the landscape in the distance. His gentle steps from high rock almost tumble him into this gateway. Depression and angst fill the body and soul as he arrives unto the one place that all shall be revealed

"Welcome home brother, The omni shall ensure that before this day is done we shall be one. One that shall enforce the statements we have made through our entire lives, One that shall destroy the children whom seem to believe they stand above us. My dear brother prepare for war"

With able steps the weaver heads for the strands of existence, There quivering pulse almost knowing of the actions about to be taken. From deep within the lungs the gutteral cry of re-incarnation begins