The Raven of Dispersion

Atra'Lamia Darkbane
The Rise of Winter, The Fall of Fiends

Mɪɴᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀʀɪᴏʀ·s ʜᴇᴇᴅ. Aᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛғᴀʟʟ; ᴍɪɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴘᴇʟʟs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ﹐ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀs· ᴍᴏᴏʀ. I ᴀᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇssᴇɴɢᴇʀ﹐ ᴡʜᴏsᴇ sᴜᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇɴᴇs ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴡᴀʀʟᴏᴄᴋ﹐ ʙᴀɴɪsʜᴇᴅ ʟᴏʀᴅ﹐ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜɪᴘ﹣ғʟᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴀʟʟ﹣ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴsᴘɪʀᴇ﹐ ᴀᴍɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss ᴘᴏᴜʀᴇᴅ.

2.png


The vast armies of Blackheilm, marshalled by Atra'Lamia, had cut a massive curtailment through the 'Renegade Kingdoms' that had risen up against the Imperial prominence's. Along with its connecting Northern realms during the high winter, several decades ago. Vesting mortal Ayenee troops, lead by the Sword of Ayen in conjunction with suasive thaumaturgy. Through every succession, all opposition succumbed and fell to the ravening swords of Blackheilm and Darkbane since the first bloody campaign; the imminent invasion of the ancient and ignoble tribes of Lower Rhydin.

The causatum of the final clash had seen the methodical slaughter of the Gabranth Imperial ilk, the torturous persecution and execution of every loyal devotee to their banners. Throughout each season and the following laborious months, additional empires and satrapies were gradually overthrown by the might of the combined Chaos and Shadow legions, commanded by Atra and the fearsome and unswerving loyal battle-lord's Mephi'sax Cinderbane and Eladron Plaguewrithe. Mephi’sax, the Cinderbane Imperial son to the 'Throne of Ash' and a Chaos Lord of ill-repute. Plaguewrithe, a Fiend-Lord of sublime brutality whom many believed to be possessed by a demon-spirit from the bowels of the bottomless Abyss.

Bolstered by their conquests, and the expansion of their dark dominion, the hordes of Blackheilm began the incursion into the lands of the Northern Tribes, beginning with the grim and brooding territories south of the glacial Kingdoms. The rugged fatherland of the warlike clans which had been recently united into a resilient territory dominated by the influential Overlord Cormath-Vuzathal, a Rhydin fiend renowned to allies and rival’s alike as the Devil of the North. Outnumbering the Ayenee forces five to one. Presumptuous that Ayenee and her supporting banners, now given the appellation- (in the Northern Lands, and common tribe tongue) the dreaded Salmuh'Ekallim hordes, as nothing of no immediate threat, permitting their march unopposed through their lands, while preparing a barbaric strike beyond the Mountain Kingdoms to the West.

Cormath-Vuzathal swore that a searing flood of blood and iron shall befall all who deign to pass ill-favoured. Goading their typical threats of war upon his territories. Another grim autumn’s end slowly yielded to winter, the Chaos Hordes began their debouch Northwards. News of the advance of Western Ayenee forces into frost-bitten Ciocladin Vale's, the basin known for centuries as the Ice-Gate to the Northlands, gripping the highland strongholds of Vuzathal. Grimly, Cormath taking up sword and rune-carved yew-spear, donning the blue woad of war. Vowing that this foreign woman with the all the seductions of Hyblaean beauty. This Hellish War-Witch shall forfeit in blood, every distance dared ventured across these snow-covered hallowed lands. Soon information was delivered by a heavily cloaked faceless sleuth in fur, that the invader's bivouac was situated at the base of the valley, preparing to march with the shadows of dusk.

Court soothsayers foreseeing ravines overflowing with blood and unspeakable carnage. Despite the foreboding warnings of doom and atrophy. To the thunderous clang of battle horns, great runes were cast and eldritch spells woven as Cormath-Vuzathal lead the Ciocladin Beserker's and Northlander's into the foggy, lunar-swathed, quagmires. Fading sunlight chases the horizons with behemoth shadows and flames of crimson; twilight perspires and the darkness arrived like infernal steam entrapped by the spectral aurora- draped from zenith to earth, like an arras in the lofty chamber of Gods.

Folklore oft mentioned the blood of many Gods, Devils and unearthly beasts had blessed the dark earth of the valley over the generations, Cormath promised their War Gods that the snows will again know the blood of their foes. With unnatural borrowed stealth… silently the masses brooded within the teeth of shadows and below the langorous moon. Knowing that whatever the conclusion, these hours of darkness shall see another legend of war written in blood, and the bitter end of men. A legend none shall disregard...pity it was just another battle preceding the scores of many others that lay waste to the phantoms of the past.

Death Blooms Over Fields Of Snow

Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪʀsᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀsᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴅʀᴇᴘᴇʀʟ ғɪᴇʟᴅs ᴏғ ᴄᴀʀɴᴀɢᴇ...​

3.png

"O' Northen Gods of War, grant us, this night... smear us with red rain, feed our steel with slaughter. Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us victory, or a mighty death. I'll carve the runes of Death in their flesh in your honour, as destruction churns the storms!"

Weapons dusted with gem-frost glistened under the light of the night made colder by the vast moon veiled in a ghostly gossamer. Swirling mists concealed them well enough to the naked eyes of a mortal man, but not those so gifted beyond the threads that wove life and death as jewels upon a necklace of oblivion- "Sword fodder", mellifluously Atra whispered referring to the creeping warriors gathering along the edges of the valley. She spoke into the entwined darkness and frosts, where in opposition they remained concealed on the vale embankments flanking the low hill pass: antithesis… wolves in wait.

For the briefest of moments, as if the fogs parted upon the biding of Cormath. Gleaming black eyes peering through the wolf-like helm of burnished Mirthril, down the valley scathingly towards the gathering of the 'Salmuh’Ekallim' army. Gauntlet curling into a massive fist that cradled the apex of armoured chin, he studied the structure of the encampment. Great black waterskin tents arranged strategically upon the ice-whelmed wastes, shimmering like the oceans from the light of countless burning golden cauldrons in fantastical shapes of all manner of unspoken beast. Powerful steeds tethered, many warriors standing, weapons in hand... "Aye, all sword fodder", echoed a graven tenor. A voice that was unmistakably male, but one that barely could be considered, human but Cormath only spoke aloud the words which infiltrated through the vespers of his mind.

Then, like a black wave surging over the highland precipice, the ashen plane lay thick to the peytral of black warhorse barding, reminiscent of a beleaguering sinister sea, in violent hoarfrost churn. Stallions carving a path in avalanche-like proportions. Armour refulgent with an ermine pall in the capture of the argent-fire on rune-infused mithril; casting death-moon reflections. Spectral-tendrils of their breath, harsh-spiced and spine-tingling, billowing through metallic cryomantic jaws like the fiend's of the barrens. Stygian-black mesh, obscured beneath the cloaked darkness of their ancestral furs, either adorned with hex-envenomed axe, hammer, spear and blade. In thunderous loom, the first rank collided in a piercing, jarring oeuvre.

"You all shall reap the harvest of spilled entrails, we'll claim many heads this night!" Blizzard, silver-sheathed lowlands and winds had shielded Atra'Lamia and her men well, they had no use for meagre spells and arcane conjurations when nature itself belligerently provided all… {wrath}…{ reckoning}…{subterfuge}. With one gauntlet-hand holding chains, and the other, a clenched gloved-fist risen to signal a silent standstill, having halved the Blackheilm and Darkbane legions long before the others had entered the Northern Glades. Electing a harsh terrain of passage in order to waylay the Vuzathal and Ciocladin Highlanders from behind. Even the Battle-Warg's strained at warded harnesses. Taut were the leathers, threatening to snap them at any given moment.

Glossy-obsidian black fur besprinkled by wan-tempest, ruffled sadistically from the talon-caress of the howling wind, revealing heinous soulless twin-lanterns, burning-mercurial furnaces (tapetum lucidum) reflecting every foul horror bequest to mankind. Avidly eager for the kill, just as the querulous war-clash ricocheted throughout the mountains… and the first drop of vitae was spilled. No sooner had the copperish-sweet scent permeated nostrils, impatiently they flared. Snorting back with a hankered inhalation which caused maws to spread wide in hellish contempt revealing multitudes of elongated whet-plated canines sodden with humid saliva.

The halo of black around Atra's head, features concealed behind the macabre grin of plumed helm. Ravenesque cascades flowed over bodice touched by shadowy fen-fires, before writhing around ordained scalemesh armoured bodice, ebony brocaded leather limbs bejewelled with black gold cuffs and opulent pleochroic jewels in anathemic hues. Exposing the armed feminine stature of an impossible sylphlike figure; the very embodiment of deathly beauty girded for battle astride the Dreadstead juggernaut. Ebony mane streaming in the violent affections of the blizzard, charred flames licking along the edge of muzzles as it abruptly grunted. Inhaling back the acerbic winds that carried its interest.

A high-pitch nickering escaped from the decayed wreathes of inhalation, heat hitting the coldness loitering on every claws of boiling storm causing a hissing resonance when fetters were liberated from their mistresses grasp. Battle-Warg's to lead the charge just as the carnyx, 'The Horn of Battle' rang across the valley, accompanied by the full voice of war chants and obscenities, in tactical demoralization, to overawe the lesser noble Northen heathens. Both the Cinderbane and the Plaguewrithe positioned one at either side equipped themselves with their chosen tools of death, enriched by the potency of age-old spells woven into the gruelling forging process, consecrated by the effluvia of diabolical philtres then blessed by fire and tempest.

They were the first amongst the charge, as the skies from behind the circling forces were lit with an uncanny verdant sickly flame. Every muscle and tendon of Battle-Warg, flexing into the strain that tightened the leathers- found their liberation at the release of chain to collar, compelling them to attack. To gorge on the festering carcasses of war, that offered a wide banquet to creatures of nightmares' tide… those that flew, scuttled, slithered and crept, all the visible and corporeal nightmares of these arctic and barren wildernesses rife with the exiled Lord's and King's that were once banished, yet now granted amnesty.

Pouring out from the fen’s in a staggering horizontal Phalanx formation in swift pace, both Warg and Warhorse thundering across the stark plains. Harbinger battle-cries screaming through the condensing mists… withdrawing elaborate shaft of ensorcelled battle-axe from its saddled sheath, Atra's gloved hand flexed firmly around it lifting it so the cruel moonlight grinned against the esoteric steel. By Dreadstead's celerity it powered in front of the other vessels of war, grunts of exertion pluming vines of frost and glowing effulgence into the oncoming elements. Whirlwinds of dark spittle fired out from nostrils and another whinny escaped, this one different, it was enough to shatter iron and ice in an explosion of crystal and fiendish reflection, cacophonous in deafening chaos.

Rising high upon hooves, shanks straining from the weight shifting to hinds, full weight sustained to the back of the barded mounts form, then lunging into a powerful stride into the trembling gloom. Knee joints bent in the surge of its pace, hooves digging at the clashing elements though they rode upon the mists in ghostlike appearance, hoof slashing fiercely just before the power in his hocks leaping forward. "To the ruin of all the wars of time, to plunge with clangor of timeless cataracts adown the gulfs eternal, to seek those familiar shades of Death!!" Front-rankers in stampede hammered into the attacking forces with deadly precision and in continuous strike.

Juggernaut lowered its shaffron festooned head, so that the hook of its neck was pinned hard towards the instep of black crest and tarnished silver plates rusted with blood. Swiftness aimed against the wind and even though the lashes of sword and polearm were naught but dull bites, the mount welcomed the pain of it. Impaling the careless soldiers on the pinnacles of spike and hooked fang. A rampant monster roaring for its glut. Fiery crests of saffron-streaming behind the abysmal stallion with an animated fury, the ever-twisting, flame licking the flurry of snow-storm.

Surrounded at all sides by mountains crowned with glacial luminosity, great rings of stones, black beneath the stars, leaving no means for realistic retreat. Those seemed to loom over the broken scapes of the encampment now a slaughter ground of clashing steel and the screams of those fallen to limbless decline. Manoeuvring aside sword-thrust and the cleave of roaring hammer, having dismounted beast and watching with a darkened glee as it devoured warrior and giant alike with necromantic maw. Atra smited herds of men, stumbling forward then compelled back, only able to take small mincing steps in order to avoid a certain death. Most trying just to keep their feet due to the crushing pressure of the frontlines.

War songs in varied deep breathless, glutteral pitch, the old tongue greeted their weapons, "Raise thine steel to the ravened skies, the bloodying is at hand. Rejoice in your wounds." Sung in the ambiance , a curse of humiliation to the bleeding and the weak screaming in the darkness. Still, Cormath and the more adept of his men moved with unearthly swiftness and fierce grace through the crashing throng- forces around them increasing and decreasing in parallel formation, some regiments gaining ground, while others from the same horde lost ground, moving backwards and forwards, undulating… resembling ocean waves against the jaggered peaks of midnight crags.

An enemy blade opening the shoulder of Cormath-Vuzathal to the bone, in vehement rejoinder, the Overlord swept his 'Dark Reaver' enamored sword out in a deadly arc, its iron head rending armour and biting deep into abdominal flesh. Eladron Plaguewrithe's abdomen yawning open, staggering back as blackish intestines spewed forth from the gaping orifice in a throbbing, slithering pile. Virgin snow stained crimson. Lastly, sundering head from trunk with another devastating blow, a writhing, shadowy amorphous smoke-like form rose from the smitten corpse, fleeing shrieking into the embittered elements.

Blood dripping from frost-encased axe blade, forming a crimson blossom upon the ice... attention thus promptly set on the one towering over the fragments of her Warlord. Cimmerian eyes narrowing, glowing with a fiendish, eldritch malevolence giving a high-pitched whistle to gain Cormath's attention, then gestured with gauntlet to come-hither. No honourable warrior ever attacked a man from behind, unless they were a Northern-dog, that is. In calm calculated swiftness, directly engaged into the melee of blade against axe. Skeggox, axe-head competently trailing lower blade edge, cleaving power catching the edge of the Ciocladin steel every time it was frivolously thrust or swung to seek accolade of flesh and blood. Entwined blade by axe, forcing blade to pass only to proficiently and accurately sweep in flashing silver towards the man's neck, forcing him to step backwards while already in momentum circling above head to come down towards shoulder in reckoning strength.

Sword returning to parry blade, only to be met with the twixt of rune-enforced handle taking the full brunt of the swing. A frustrated rumble echoed from behind the helm, every attempt averted by a skill similar to his own yet more refined and callous. Blunt end of axe coming around to thrust against torso, might into the compel enough to knock a mortal man off his feet. Eldritch empowered plenilunal-mithril steel impacting hellacious damage on the sword blade itself in brilliant sparks of luminescent vitality. Deciding to execute a manoeuvre that, whilst primarily easy, held far more meaning than Cormath could know. Keeping a wary eye upon the blade yielded, having tested the warrior's strength and alertness, Atra advanced in a calculated guile.

Circumnavigating smoothly and skilfully to the left flank of impending perforation only passing her waist, exploiting the warrior’s bulk against, utilizing an pivoted nimbleness that, potentially caught Atra's opponent by astonishment. Descending in a victorious diagonal arc driving the undeviating edge of 'bit' between the shoulder blades of Cormath. Sinking its blade deep, possessing an appetite similar to the wraith suffocating the hapless soul. Capable of 'sucking out the shadow', energy or essence- transmogrify in necrotic blight … a slit into a fatal infliction, and minor gashes into ravines that had felled yesteryear Gods, Devils and Fiends. Sword was spun backwards and thrust shallow between the joints of mesh and leather.

Right boot rising to mid-back, kicking him forwards into the powered frost, dislodging weapon and his own sword from her now wounded side. Gauntlet hand covering the wound as near black ichors spilled over the polished silver. Wanting to witness the ember's of eyes dim with the cessation of existence, gauntlet hand unhinged visor to reveal flawless statuesque features and in turn the horrified eyes behind helm, and black blood-splattered lips that attempted to utter some word… perhaps even a name. Nevertheless its insignificance warranted an cold and emotionless silence. Canting head to the side, while leaning on the blunt of handle, indulging in the revelation of just how quickly that life-shadow was waning… wilting before her very eyes.

Despite the wound that seeped in torrents, and the feverish realization that his blade too bore its venom's. Pushing weight from leaning position to then move, kicking the sword away from grasp so that it was lost forever- buried in the snow. Astride where Cormath then lay, one boot harshly resting against chestplate, pinning him down. Another cough of oil-like ichors trickled through burnt iron followed by a gurgled chuckle, "You are to be congratulated… on your ability." Bemused and disorientated as other words bled through the blossoming streams of Phlegethon wines. Choking out in brews of inky-red... "Dattirvarh…."

Discourse that inspired the wane of gloating smirk, and even the pallor of moonstone flesh to a deathly sallow… "Your words of deceit shall not be heard here! My steel is whet and thirsting for your life-ichors... aye, and with my dying breath … I'll spit defiance in your face!" Aphotic veins snaked twixt metal-clawed digits like night-sky come to snow. On polar days when even the halls of Hellisdalr were illuminated by the brash sun blazing white and pure with a dreadful coldness from a pearly azure-tinted heaven. Wintered blood welling over wrist, kissing the aurumate design of Cormath’s armour with soft wet drips.

Before given another chance to speak such despicable lies through iron and blood, ascended in upright strike, discreetly curved inwards before vigorously bringing it slamming downwards, shattering helm in two separate halves, and the skull within noticeably parting to spill its spongy carnal matter sluiced forming a macabre halo around its remnants. The shocked expressions of Northern warrior having seen the face of their leader's nemesis- Atra'Lamia stood poised there, staring upon the collage of who was celebrated as the Great Fiend of the North. Drawing back the ichor that flavoured palate and spitting on the remains, returning back to the fray of war, unappeased.

The use of the spear no longer viable except for those of Atra's forces on the outskirts relentlessly pushing inwards. Opponent and adversary no more than a nose away. Having no other choice than to reach for a weapon that can be easily accessed to great effect, a large or even a medium sword would now put a man at a disadvantage, with the opponent pushing up applying pressure, making it exceptionally difficult to unsheathe anything but a dirk, bayonet dagger or short sword. Resilient men perished to the dance, while the rest having lost their leader, pararrhexis embraced the enemy lines faltering at the back due to those attempting to escape back into the foothills, leading to a clear route to eradicate, the rest of the army seeing their countrymen flee also took after them, breaking down their own structured formations.

To the wandering curr who fled the field and their banners diminishing to the knives of the glass-splintered storms, immediately were hunted down, dragged and forced to their knees before Atra'Lamia. Tugging ebony-wolven furs' around svelte physique, relishing in the gnawing terror of wolf devouring whatever morsels remained of their Vuzathal brethren. Summoning a surviving warrior with sanguine gauntlet deteriorating to rust due caustic libations. Ushering unto him, two gifts with which to return to his people; one, the fallen, sundered banner of the Ciocladin tribes, the other… the cloven head of their Overlord.

Her words rung out over the blood-drenched wasteland in insidious, sneering lilt: "Take this message back to your fatherland, to your Crimson Emperor. If ever again he deigns to strike against us again, the slaughter this night will seem as naught compared to the havoc I shall visit upon him then." Turning to signal another, a young lad wearing the colours of the Lord sworn fealty to. Dispatching message by carrion wing, to the Ayenee kingdoms of their temporary success, and the pending return of its able men. Already the wounded were being gathered, and the unfortunate too mortally wounded sent to the glorious bedimmed halls of Hellisdalr where they would drink once more with their brother's and father's.

Tallying for moments longer only to watch the Death-pyre flames sunder the starless night with their serpentine, hungry tongues. No prisoners had been taken, or spared- given the most honourable end deserving of a coward defecting their own positions and banners. Skinless their disemboweled and headless bodies had been strewn across the valley, unworthy of even the ghoul to pick at the remains or suckle on their worthless bones. Cormath, was not even granted the respect of resting place, festooning in grotesque visceral exhibition; like a crucified coat of arms in blood-raven design. Burning flesh travelling far aloft carnivorous shivering zephyrs.

Mesmerized in a moment of inner reflection, or the fever that doused porcelain brow, gently stirred by the soft reproach of concern, causing perceptions to shift from the trinket around wrist, to the heather-haired weary facade of a mature and aged sentry whim had been close during names spoken and secrets shed. "Mi'Lady?" Two of her closest had perished this eve, perhaps the realization of it had for a moment trickled through the typically shown dead-pan, emotionless expression. Vikor, forever had this irritating knack to appear from out of nowhere, fluttering about concerns and gestures that appeared almost motherly in nature. Disturbingly so. Usually there would be some exchange of few sarcastic words, but this night. Concerns quietened with a boreal glance, and dead-expression as she took a single step, passing by fluidly leaving nothing but the wake of heavy cloak in cortege within the snowfall.

1.png

Characters noted and mentioned have granted myself permission to use the names and references. Some of this post, namely twixt Atra/myself and Cormath/aka Corum was done live over skype and included here purely in edited storyform to accompany the plot prelude. Thank you to both Jake/Cinderbane and Eric/Plaguewrithe, it is always a pleasure gentlemen... always.

As per the mention of the Sword of Ayen, it was given to Atra by Dusa Darkfire, the son of Varsinax in previous roleplay upon another media platform. By all means, either are welcome to "claim" it, should they see Atra as unfit to yield it. Sweetly.

If you are going to respond or wish to join this thread. Please read the roleplay first, and post in a "respectful" manner without the use of snide remarks, or the means to ruin someone else's writing. Remember, roleplay is a consensual activity and etiquette in consideration is only given when it is shown.

Medieval/Dark Age themes. No tech or futuristic themes. All else is open to discussion.
 
Last edited:
··Sᴡɪғᴛ﹐ sᴡɪғᴛ﹐ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ﹐ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴀᴡɴɪɴɢ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴ·s ᴇʏᴇ··

At last... the Northern campaigns were close an end. With the blessings of victory and conquest, the vast armies of warriors beginning their expedition back through the immense veils of shadowed glaciers. Many men had perished this inhospitable winter, to the harsh elements and relentless cold that cut through the strongest of prolific enchanted armours, and the thickest of wolf and bear fur alike. Blades, long tarnished in the bloods of their enemies still gleamed in the rays of a dying luminary… its phosphorescent radiance dimming, eerily void for a time, lucent like the orient sky patent with the insipid nuances of the dawn. Gradually the sphere became distended, ever-changing amid crepuscular vortical, swirling gloom as if pregnant with a type of primal darkness. Smouldering metamorphose swirled with a form of sentient life, contorting into a tenebrous and profound abysm, through which a teeming myriad of shadows burst through its inner sanctum rupturing the glacial firmament.

Eidolons of enthralling prophecies imageless before, rippled for a flicker of a instant in that phantasmic wave. All the darkest diversities opened only to self-consume. Revealing hidden occultisms and dimensions, only to ebb and dimmer irrevocably back into the shadow-shown eclipse of infinite blackness. It was as if the outer darkness and planar worlds fragmented, then recoiled backwards, solidifying, imparting an 'imprisoned' essence rapt within the disembodied other. Dimensional upsurge heralded by an opus of abysmal pandemonium in strident choir, causing several of the most resplendent stars to plummet into the gaping nothingness, howling into the nether-winds of the maelstrom. Ruptures in planar continuum initiated its own natural defences that severed temporal connections twixt several dimensions and astral portals that for millennia had been employed by various dimensional entities.

fantasy_wallpapers_6.jpg

Ayenee had been in a chrysalis phase for the past five decades- in an attempt to mend itself through the innate sequence of nature, time and man’s reconciliation. Still she was not permitted the solace or respect of rejuvenation, raped and thus beaten to the arid, infertile womb that was supposed to cradle life, prosperously now barren. They felt it first to the Northen glades, tremors rumbling down the efface of the snow-capped alps, earth-shattering catastrophic quakes having already swept quarter of their numbers away by tsunami's of ice and rock. Winds so blistering cold, the needles of fanged-blizzard could easily flay a man of flesh to bone. Ignoring the advise and aeon-wisdom constantly bantered from the peppery bearded warrior, Vikor, sheltered under the waxen pelts of arctic bear. Beloved brother of Holter Krepstoiay… and during their return the silence began to eat away at better judgements; he could not forget the battle at Ciocladin's Pass. "Pardon. Mi’Lady? The men... they need rest.." Arriving at Atra's side much the same as a faithful hound would, turning in saddle to directly address the woman still concealed behind war-helm.

"They'll take respite, only when we get there." Delicate hands gripping tighter at the leathered reins of the Dreadstead, hidden by subtle magicks making it appear like any other Warhorse amongst ranks. Clenched knuckles tightening beneath leather from the grasp of tension furled around strapping edging quicker pace to leave the elderly man to his mothering. Breath harsh and pluming in wintry frosts, sylph-like in smoky-tufts rising from the cooling of maws. Both of fire and venom- oozing from the parapets of aberration... bordering on the thresholds of madness and the thrill of the bloodlust? Ruthless knifed-wings of ice and the breath of ice-demons; from the heaviness of its ire marching warrior and beast burrowed deeper beneath pelt and fleece. Tenacious hands griping reins, tethers of leather dangling through tightly clenched hands used to compel juggernaut to gallop when required. Phylactery of rotting cadaver, Cormath… headless and bloodless with hyacinth- sinister frozen veins streaking across stark skin- whispers had begun to pass through the lines, and even disturbed the impassive though it was an effigy of grandiose humour amongst the remaining Shadow Lords imbued with chaos and oblivion.

No one dared approach, nor inquired as to why this particular victim had been chosen, out of all the slain. A few speculated that it had been because of Plaguewrithe's downfall, but those assumptions faded into forgetfulness or when the heat of battle enraged adrenalin and claimed more souls and limbs as their exultant trophies. Shackled were the apostate, whether warrior, soothsayer or pledged warden or knight. The worst of those stigmatized with the 'craven symbol' suffered a number of excruciating tortures and prolonged deaths. Incarcerated alive within slime-daubed pitch-dark vestibule where they would evermore be entombed. Lynched from the haggard crags of stone-steeples by the neck, entrails dangling out of slit cavity in mimicry of wind-chimes. Impaled, the blunt of greased poles forcefully inserted up the rear passage, care taken that it followed along the spine, ensuring several days before death would claim them. Or, lastly the favoured, pitched to the voracious pyres burning like beacons athwart the lower tor's.

Nevertheless measures of demoralization , punishment and execution sated the more reasonable tribes and villages by fear, it was the higher alp-clans who showed stronger resistance. Having demonstrated previous resilience in former campaigns, if they could not comply with gentle persuasion or pledge fealty and duty to their beloved land then they would crumble beneath the weight of its inexorable might. Theurgic powers of their mystical and ancient Gods may have chosen to favour their kin, and bless them with gifts of deific gallantry. Those much like herself, bestowed and imbued with the omnipotence of apotheosis, be it celestial, shadow, void, darkness… this world would never be completely free of its nightmares or egregious ambitious villains. Albeit, foreign energies had waned tremendously when the immutable flux of augmented archaic bindings which had been implemented long ago by the Guardians, still possessed lawful dominion over the mainland of Ayenee, ensuring its balance was maintained. As it was, and forever would be.

This was however a savage place, no earthly laws abided- marked by the bane-fires of the Hellion Gates; branded by eldritch fire, sanctified by blood that ran slick over granite rock, and enforced by baneful runes antithetical in divine deflection. Powerful spells vibrated in dark oscillation, humming in low resonation, even the Battle-Warg's snarled in sepulchral admonition. Warning of something looming in the animated shadows of cromlech and eon-veiled silhouette. Strange formations they were, positioned at either side of the descended pass that trailed blindly into strewn woodlands. Moonlight gleaming through crooked boughs, wreathed in icy caresses of night entwining skeletal limbs in reverie of dryad lure to lead the foolish to their telluric damnation. War-song gradually withered into ill-omened hush… and blades were drawn at the disquiet of abrupt wind-drop no sooner had the last of the their legions left the sanctuary of forest, positioned in the middle of the highland hollows.

Visions and prescience withstood the brunt of its staging, portraying brooding and sombre apparitions, enthralling cries of pillage, rape and plunder escorted by slithering forces incensed with hatred, malevolence and abominable lusts. Incoherent sonance emitted from above, beyond the blackness of nocturnal shroud, grisly murmurs of nameless fiends, with their blackened jaws drooling blasphemy descended from the storm-wrought skies. Secreted by the livid basaltic labyrinths of Fiend-plagued calignosity. Shimmers of black in the massing dark, emerging from the outer darkness soaring on vast sable-wings blacker than darkling heavens. Ensnaring man and Warhorse by claws and dragging them up into the fathomless empyrean vault above. Shrieks dissolving amid Hesperus stars. August banners, snapping in the frenzied deviling minstrel, signalling the stride of invincible silver-clad legions fearlessly ready to embrace the blood-swathed arms of combat.

"By your command, my Imperatrix!" Zev'Thuk looking out from the vanguard with a grimace, studying the silent chill army of phantoms gathering up in ranks in the cloaking twilight. Appearance rigid whilst observing the accumulation, but hidden beneath the exterior heart-din shuddered. One minute the silhouettes solidified into ravaged bloodless flesh, the next splitting into slivers of white mist, fusing to congeal again into human shape and revealing the past injuries of their destined deaths. "Do not scowl, Grimend. It's unattractive in a man." Formal timbre responded, austere in husky sternness. Noticing from out of the corner of her eyes, the male gawking unabashed, even though Atra was concealed behind helm and the darkness within it, only inspired azureous eyes to focus harder. Envisioning in mind’s eye the beauty beyond lethal demeanour. "The enemy is that way, warrior." Gauntlet hand reaching across to grapple chin firmly, directing it back to frontal position. Scalpel-tapered blades biting into jawline as if threatening to tear mandible from its cradle, and would have had it not been for Vikor's well-timed intercession. Pitilessly etching mimic of features with crimson suppurated, till the satirical apexes glided away from Zev'Thuk's countenance… unenthusiastically.

When creature's whose essences are intrinsically depraved, opting to embrace this darksome energy source, the consequential evil symbiosis can be sublimely diabolical, as evidenced by the black scourge that was the iniquitous pseudo-human sorcerer Lord Aerian Cidrathmak. These fiends were from the darkling bottomless subterrene dominions, astir with malformed and horrible beings, sired by entities and spawn whose genesis was far beyond the all-consuming void of outer-worlds. Caring not even for the skin of their human lives. No human weapon could even sever these dread avatars from this plane of existence. A terrible acquaintance shadowed in Atra's icy-ebon eyes, unsheathing weapon so the metal edge grinding raucously against the lip. Bearing gauntlet-armoured fist a magnificent ebon blade, no human blacksmith ever forged. Fearsome demoniac supremacy crackled with a black flame over the luminous yard of black steel, dancing upon its blistering honed glyph-scored blade... and its bejewelled, wyvern-carved hilt. Majestically holding it high, "Into battle!" Once more powerful Warhorses and Warg leaped forth into the blackness of pestilences jaws. Shimmering swords raised in bravado, choral with the glorious percussions of steel on steel. Blood spilling to the floe, turning to fouled gelid rubies upon the deeply crystallized earth.... like protoplasmic slime.

The Darkbane/Blackheilm/Ayenee Cavalry tore gloriously into the foremost rank of the fiend-warriors, the squamous pseudo-flesh of the wraiths fully vulnerable to the empowered steel of the merciless legions. Atra'Lamia herself rode at the forefront of the onslaught, ensorcelled ebon blade hewing ten to the left and cleaving ten to the right, nefarious eyes gleaming beneath shimmering horned and plumed helm. The impetus of that first charge threw the dark skinless ones into shrieking chaos, collapsing back before the thundering sway of the Imperial attack. But the baleful, poisoned blades of the fiend took their toll upon those who were mortal amongst the ranks. Wrought by plague and vexed swords and spears, men and mounts falling screaming to the ashen soft earth, mercilessly rent and devoured by slavering nameless spawn. For every Imperial Dark-Knight felled by the dark ones, five fiends met their deaths beneath the slaughterfall of chaos steel. It howbeit was not enough. Like a slithering tide, the shadows engulfed the cavalry and legionnaire alike in asphyxiating grasp.

Volleys of shafts as their herald, embolden by the chanted sciomantic-arts of their matriarch; all forces marched into the ravening clinch of melee, and never in the sanguineous history of battle was there a clash to rival the enormity. Static resonation and vibrant effervescence of chaos blade against fiend blade, bloodcurdling howls permeating the ambiance that the sharp-tongues of squall travelled throughout the lower lands. At Atra's command, the clarion was sounded to move the battle-hardened veterans into a flanking position to unite with the remnants of the Calvary lost to the sickening fogs. Congeneric to a purifying furor, the allied forces clove into the demons to deal pattern-welded death unto their foe. Synchronously, hellborne terror descended screaming from the sky trapped in a sense of paroxysm. Wailing flocks of winged fiends, hurled forth from the malignant bosom of Cidrathmak, soared razor-taloned into the conflict. Besieged warrior-to-fiend upon the field, harried from above by the shrieking horrors of the Fiend-Liege, watching as his servitors began to falter.

Savouring the bloodbath, ascending high in right hand the ancient sword, and in left gauntlet brandished the 'Bane of Chaos', the dread Shadow-Sword once wielded by an Emperor, Cidrathmak had known and perished to in the past. Speaking aloud the terror-fraught and aeon-banishing lexis of incantation, where she alone had been audience to keep within the shadow-haunted labyrinths of the Shadowlands. At the salacious breathed words of power, skies ruptured wide in fury, scorching tendrils of ruinous fire lanced inexorably forth from the heavens, to cremate and reave the warring hordes. Both sides were dealt a staggering blow by the sorceresses incantations, the power of the spells inexplicably magnified by the immense incendiary volley that rained all hell upon them. Fiends utterly engulfed, those who managed to flee were routed soundly by the enraptured steel. Hurled across the fens fleeing, howling their anathemas and maledictions against the defending legions and Liege's, whilst winged horrors fell searing... burning from the enraged welkin.

Blades were crossed, their blade-songs blaring, and yet with a otherworldly grace indistinct from one point to another, carving a massive fissure across the field of bloodied snows and slime- aerated corrosive ichor's, staining black the earth. Unknown legions poured across the battlefield after volleys of draconic flame agitating the gyrating heavens of storm and frenzied fiend. Malady had long gripped the sinuous physique of the woman that skilfully fought with both blade and gauntlet- scale-mesh gleaming with claret and creeping voidic residues, perhaps it was the infliction urging the fires of battle… or fanatical addiction of all-life extinguished by her hands? Deathlike warriors in full pitch armour engulfed the throng of war, surging towards Atra'Lamia who donned both weapons in aggressive stance, only to have them pass to the clarion of a bestial roar, eviscerating those immediately within their path.

Leviathan had found claws to soil, rider dismounting, a giant of a man, clad in dark armour from head to toe. His full-face visored helmet was set with ornate metal fittings aureated in frosted-cryomancy; adorned in conflagrations of a spectral flame. "Feast!! Conquer in the name of Odinname!!" Deafening bellow of those words rolled across the wintry flats, it was not a phrase unfamiliar to Atra’Lamia but it was not bolstered by the one whom oft sung it during war, from long ago. Sword hilt balanced within the palm of gloved hand, digits splaying in stretch before furling securely, snaking around hilt ably. Chin ascending in haughty grandeur at the pronunciation of "You.. I came for you.." Mirroring his motions in astute attentiveness, Atra commenced to advance with deliberate and calculated footsteps; annihilating the distance between him and her. Gaze assiduously rapt upon his form- thirty feet swiftly fell to fifteen.

Scrutinizing this Lord’s deportment with an expression that veritably emanated intrepid poise, "Oh.. You’ve come for me then? In the name of Odinname!? How quaint, your bastard Earth-doomed God has no place here, heretic." Emphasis enforced to the 'quaint' and 'heretic', not the question posed, libidinously detached rhythmus flowed adrift the accent strong, idiosyncratic and unmistakable. Features hidden behind the mithril visor of some grinning monstrosity, gore-draped stature flecked with viscera and fragments of flayed flesh consecrated by blood. Starless sloe-eyes burning ominously within the dark depths of demoniac helm with a newfound purpose.


O·sᴏғᴛ ᴇᴍʙᴀʟᴍᴇʀ ᴏғ ɴɪɢʜᴛ﹣ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴠɪʀᴛᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ sϙᴜᴀɴᴅᴇʀ﹐ ʙᴇϙᴜᴇᴀᴛʜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ғɪᴇʀʏ ᴠᴇʀsᴇ... ғʀᴏᴍ ᴏɴᴇ Wᴀʀʟᴏʀᴅ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.​
 
Last edited:
It had only been a few days since the Dreadknight's arrival in the lands of Ayenee, his Legion had grown to vast numbers, as if the gates of hell themselves had broken, spilling forth the millions of tortured souls and beings whom had lost the chance of salvation. A tangible evil tainted the land upon which he'd deemed his own, which he'd given the name of "Dreadkeep Valley". He resided in the watchtower, standing over a pensive, glaring down into the thick silver liquid which rippled with movements. He watched as a female pushed back beings which were more fiend than man, he sensed something about her, something.. interesting.

The Seven Wraith Riders which guarded their DreadLord at all times resided in the darker corners of the watchtower, standing in sworn silence. Creature's almost disembodied voice thundered as he spoke, his right hand shooting upwards with fist clenched, as if he'd found his target, but his intentions were more than that. "Ready the Forsaken!! We Ride to the North!" The seven Wraith's hissed in crying unison, and moved off down the spiral staircase in quick cadence with one another. Creature returned the gaze of his cold, yellow eyes back to the female, a growl emitted from his throat, low and benevolent. "I knew you.." Were his only words before he sloshed the liquid in the pensive and turned to follow his Wraith's down the staircase.

Outside the Courtyard, The Legion had been gathered, and a sacrifice had been placed upon knees before the Dead Tree. Creature entered the courtyard down the steps of the Dreadfort, his voice thundering out along the vast numbers of the Forsaken, which ran as far as the eye could see. "Ready your blades men, for tomorrow we conquer! Tonight, we dine in cold hell!!" The Legion roared, a thunder amongst the battered, scorched lands of the Dreadfort, just before Creature picked the sacrifice up by the neck. It was a man, old in age, weak, feeble.

"Please My Lord! Spare me!! My sons are well and young enough to serve you.. please, my family needs me!!" Creature tightened his grip upon the man's neck, cutting off his wind. "Silence heretic! I do not recruit the living.." He began the entirety of his most favorite Spell, "Soul Steal." The old man's face went pale as the deep purple aura veiled Creature, pulling the very soul out of the human, as if sticking a vaccum down one's throat, the blue hazed life force slipped from the man's lips, and Creature dropped him to the ground. He was already dead, but the ting of steel unsheathed and the ignition of flames filled the air, followed by the stench of scorched flesh and a glorious uproar of the Forsaken. He began the motions of his second favorite ability, "Shadow Walk" In which he activated with the soul, to transport himself, and his Legion into the Northern lands unknown. A blackish purple blanket covered the vast valley, and the light flashed. Moments later the blanket lifted, and the entirety of the Legion stood in a vast, snow encumbered plane.

Cold breath like smoke tainted the air before mouths like the smoke from the end of a cigar, thick. "Rise.." Creature's voice whispered, and the Warhorse which had taken him to his stead formed just before him, and his Wraith's did the same. They mounted their Horses in unison, and began the long journey towards the goal. The Legions footsteps thundered in unison behind the eight riders, which now all eight looked the same. The only difference between creature and the rest, were the horns of his Helment sticking up under his hood. Onward they trod, through the massive dunes of snow and the vast plains of cold, snow fell downward in sideways blankets, making the path seen less easy to find. A few hours had passed before night had began to fall, and the massive company came to a halt. "Rest cold! For tomorrow we ride!!" Creature dismounted and released his steed, before he and the seven Wraith's set up camp, a massive black tent, with mammoth pelts for the flooring.

Creature resided in a portable throne, made from ivory of mammoth tusks for the basic build, accompanied by a lush abundance of bones for the base. Cushions adorned with silk of black made up the seat and back rest. The throne rested before a long oak table, which was piled with maps Creature had found in the ancient Library. Aparrently this world had been given the name of Ayenee, he had positioned the Forsaken just five miles south of the woman he'd sought out. "We are here.. tomorrow, we arrive here." One of the Wraith's stepped forward, a whispering, almost agonizingly shrill voice passed through the darkness behind the hood. "My Lord, why is it you seek out this female?.. what is her importance to us?"

Creature sat back in his throne, his helment rested upon the side of the table, leaving his strong face to shine in the dim lighting. The scar which adorned the left side of his face glimmered in the lighting as he spoke. "I can smell my brother's essence on her.. I sense her power.. I've known her once before, though I cannot recall how we'd met.." At the mention of Balthazar's presence, the Wraith's gasped, the history between the brothers was quite chaotic, and Balthazar had been lost for a very long time. "She would make a good asset.. should she be wise and not ride into battle against us. Should she do so we will crush them all.." Creature's words stung the air like the harsh venom of a Cobra would sear through the veins of a victim.

The night was cold, quiet all but save the howling of the blizzard which blanketed the numerous thousands of tents in white. The dream plagued him like it had only happened yesterday. The last war, the Dawn of the Ageless.. Creature saw himself standing atop a hill, locked in battle against his brother.. oh how they fought, steel kissed steel, blood kissed earth.. power kissed the air. They had gotten separated, Creature watched himself tear through the forces of the Dawnguard with his blade, leaving bodies to litter the earth like decorations.. Oh the glorious bloodshed..

He watched as he locked in combat with a female warrior, steel kissing flesh, then steel.. it was his daughter, Aria.. The final moments.. "Your days are done, heretic.." He heard himself say as he balanced the blade against the side of Aria's throat, which she extended with pride.. "To die for the cause to end the monster you've become.. I will walk the halls of Valhalla with pride.." Aria's words hit him like a wall to the face, just before he relived the moment of watching her head roll down the bloodstained hill.. Creature awoke in a cold sweat, a growl deep within his chest thundered forth in a roar, echoing through the bland space of snow..

Morning came, sunrise, and all of the Legion was awake, breaking down tents and putting them in small packs. Creature stood between his Wraith's, all of whom chanted incantations untangible by ears. Through the veil of snow one would witness the birth of the Nidhogg, a Dragon of dark proportions, fifteen feet in height from ground to back, thirty feet in length from snout to tail. Tangible shrouds of smoke depicted the form of the Dragon from it's nostrils, black smoke, thick and rich with brimstone. The Wraith's summoned their own mounts, their Warhorses, each of same proportions, black pelts, runic brands glowing dark crimson, decaying skin and flaming white hooves, with billowing smoking mane, and dark crimson eyes aglow.

Creature stood atop the back of the Dragon, who gave a magnificent roar, to signal the beginning of the end. "Onward!! Taste the glory at hand!! For today, we conquer the Unknown!!" The Legion raised their voices in a glorious thunder of unison chanting "Conquer!! Conquer!! Conquer!!" Creature took the chained reins in hand of the Dragon's Maw, and massive black wings beat the air. The thunderous Legion marched forth as Creature disappeared into the snow encumbered skies.

It wasn't long before Creature came upon the battleground ahead. There she was, driving the fiendish warriors back, with her own numbers at her side. The Dragon began it's descent, letting loose a glorious roar of war. Upon it's swoop of destiny, blackened flames kissed the snow between the two forces, leaving riders upon horses on both sides to be thrown, and the steeds to turn and run. The thundering unison of the Legion's cadence grew closer as the sun rose higher into the skies, and finally they topped the hill.

Numerous battle cries roared as they poured off of the hillside like a sea rolling into waves. The ground thundered beneath them, they headed not for the side of the female, but those of the fiendish ones. A great roar battered the skies as Creature dropped from his mount, directly into the epicenter of the battle, the small gap between sides. Blade drawn, ablaze in magnificent cold glory of blue flame. His black armor shined behind the flame, his helm cast the imposing glare of death in the corporeal form, his aura would be suffocating, littered with tangible evil, and a darkness so surreal it prickled the skin with goosepimples. "Feast!! Conquer in the name of Odinname!!" His near disembodied, war laden voice thundered as his forces clashed with the fiendish ones. His gaze alone fell upon her, the one. His blade raised as if in signaling.. "You.. I came for you.."

The Wraith's had clashed first, deathly shrill cheers of glorious death arose, as if in delightful chorus of the voices from the depth's of Hell itself, his Legion took to their calling, clashing with those whom opposed the one whom he had sought out. The Wraith's acted in his stead as he confronted the Imperatrix, combining five dead of any side, to complete one whole, furthermore extending the numbers of the Forsaken. In his lands, it had been said that the Forsaken were, unkillable, but that would be proven wholly proposterous. Creature stood in full glory, the epitome of Death itself, sephucrial flames dancing from the black plate which was his armor. The orbs which rested aglow in deep yellow tinge burned with a deep desire, a wanting so inferior it fueled his burning desire to conquer, to begin his second coming.

"Abaddon..." His darkness engrossed voice called out, a name so long ago forgotten, he hadn't spoken his true name in ages.. so it felt. Fifteen feet closed in to ten, then five.. then one, his blade twirled in it's magick enraptured glory, coming overhead then lashing out to the side, as if to catch her shoulder. He must prove his worth, to gain audience. His first swing would be easily parried, but the second had been perfectly poised with powerful dexterity, should blades connect in beautiful combat sparks would ignite the final patches of snow which remained blackened and melting at their feet.

His Dragon fed his fill, fires of blackened hell poured from terrifying maw as claws sank toe deep into body, leaving a literal skinless pile to arise, oh the stench of sauteed, melted skin and bone. Most would turn and vomit at the smell, but it drove Creature harder. Sweet, immortal chaos befell the inferior fiendish warriors, terribly outmatched by those the numbers of the Forsaken, a vast sea of Undead creatures, inhuman in a glance. Wraith's screams of immortal hell arose as the battle unfolded before them, blades imbueled with Death's touch itself burning the souls from what they touched, on either side which got in their way. Impecible timing poised slashes, thrusts, and swings of his blade, the cyromancical flame dancing with every movement, seeming to live from the edged Death's Lament. Would one come to close, they could hear the tortured souls within the blade held captive, the whispering voices of enemies, and long dead friends.

The steel of the blade seemed to live with the many it had slain, a radiant darkness vibrating from the very heart of the blade itself, enough to send chills down the entirety of body. "You knew who I was... once.. but it is likely you have forgotten who led the crusade against the Shadows.." The Shadow Empire.. oh the glorious disaster what had happened on that fateful day, in harmonious battle they'd danced with Sorle and his forces, which were but futile against their own. "You will remember me..." His dark, almost daemonic voice whispered, barely audible above death's sting which plagued the wintry plain. The skies above seemed to blacken with each passing moment, almost as if the shadowy phantomic aura which radiated from Creature had birthed, the skies blackened so dark it seemed as if shadows danced on the battlefield, not bodies.

This was not Creature's doing, but that of his Wraith's, which could be heard in a circle, abysmal voices droning in catastrophic harmony. The darkness began to vibrate, as if growing a heartbeat, but only before the single thundering thud of a heart could be detected, the darkness shifted, to give way to something more... sinister. The skies opened, and had began to spit out chunks of rock engulfed in flame. The boulders of fire pelted the earth on all sides, unwary to favoring, after all, they were just flaming rocks.

The reign of fire belched a disastrous stench of smelting body and earth, and it did not last for long, even so, for the duration of time the sky vomited, it brought a great toll upon the forces at battle. The Seven Wraith's remained in circle, chanting in glorious deathsong, bringing numbers to fill the holes in the Legion. More steeds had thrown riders, and ran, but even as the forces of the fiendish ones, and the Forsaken clashed, glory was but a single drop of blood away. Creature knew the agility of his opponent at hand, and knew that she could easily match his most simple of attacks, and even perhaps his best.

He stood with back turned, only a few feet away, blade poised downward in it's flaming glory, his head tilted downward slightly, looking o'er shoulder. His daemonic voice bludgeoned the winds which howled aloud like wolves, giving way to ominous disaster. "Perhaps you've forgotten my dear brother.. Balthazar.. he was lost long ago.." The mention of his brother angered him greatly, even if it had come from his own lips. The relationship they had bore was deep, and as long as life's river itself, but it had been filled full of hatred and despite after the great Cataclysm, when his brother had taken the side of the Dawnguard.

Creature twirled Death's Lament skillfully with gentle flicks of muscled wrist, having the blade to cross his backside, and poise itself upwards, before he turned upon left heel, unleashing the strength within his figure. Blade came upward in a deathly arc, intended to meet steel of Atra'Lamia's own, not to block or parry a swing, but to knock it from her hand. He knew of her reputation, they had crossed paths once long ago. The swing, if connected, would send Atra's own flying from grasp, only to leave his burning steel to poise itself inches from her chest.

"As I said.. I have come for you..." The phrase would be stated either way the swing was taken, whether parried or connected. Creature's wall-like form cast an imposing shadow around his prey as his cape billowed with the wind, the torn, tattered length of fabric fluttered loudly as the frozen wind blasted across the plain. The Battle had all but stopped, what was left of the Fiendish army had been torn to great few, the Legion had ceased howling. The Seven Wraith's had moved to form a circle around Creature and Atra, evenly spaced out at teen feet per Wraith. Between them, a line of dark crimson infused with runic veiling closed the space of which they parted, and rose in a wall twenty feet. The crimson runes rose from earth to sky, glowing in pulsated timing. This was only a shield, to keep others from interfering, hardly able to be broken by ease of magick, it would take a full fledged sorcerer to destroy the Wall of Pariah, seeing as Seven Nercromancic Sorcerers held the wall in perfect synchronization.

Creature and Atra would be at the center of the Wall, in glorious dance of one on one combat. Had his final swing of upward power been connected, and knocked her blade back like he'd intended, his own would be inches from chest, ablaze in cyromantic glory. "I came to conquer, Imperatrix.. but I came first to seek audience, to conquer with you as my friend, not my enemy." Given his murderous, insane nature, Creature was a lot smarter than some gave him credit for. Despite the readiness to jump into battle without knowing or caring about the reputation and prowess of enemies, his cunning was reputed as much, or more as his blade. The Seven stood in perfect mirroring of one another, death infused blade placed point down, hands upon end of pommel. The black robed figures stood as silent as statues, and even as unmoving, as silent as the grave, save for the occasional whisper of incantation. The actions of the two inside the wall of Magick would be contorted, and twisted, making those outside see what they did, in reverse, or in complete opposite.

Creature's free hand raised itself to grasp horns of helm between thick steel fingers, and lift it free. Silken black locks pelted his armored chest, they had once been white, but he knew she would remember his face. His tanned skin had been turned pale white, after his rebirth, and the gruesome scar which adorned his face, neck, and chest set deep in his skin, from the crown of his foreskull to the top of his belly button, the ridges seeming as if they had been sautered. His goatee donned his face freshly trimmed, to add a slight royal tinge to the scarred flesh of his face, and lips.

A magnificent dark regality lay about the Dreadknight. The helm fell into the snow, landing with face mask upwards, but cocked to the left ever so slightly. His black tendrils flew with the breeze slightly, two long strips of white donned each side, at the beginning of the sides of his scalp, where a widow's peak would crown. His voice wasn't so imposing, but still deep, heavily war-laden, with a slight resounding echo.. "Perhaps.. you remember faces." Removing his helmet was something he rarely did, lest the occasion be of heavy importance, and this, was as important as a day at court. The true face of the Dark Messiah reflected the years of pain and suffering he'd endured, but it also reflected what had made him, what had bred him. A steed of steel he was, a Horse of War bred for sweet, tangible chaos.. with a hand of iron, fit to rule wherever it took up in grip. Complete in full glory, hair ablow in breeze, blade poised perfectly at imposing length, sephurical flames of ice dancing along lengths, tortured souls crying in whispers within.

"My request for audience has been made.. accept or decline.. either choice made, will carry the same actions.."

Powers activated: Soul Steal.
Shadow Walk.
Creature Generation.

Weapons active: Death's Lament.

Powers used:
Wall of Pariah: A spell used by the Wraiths, to contort the images depicted of battle or discussion between their master and person/s/.
Reign of Fire: Activated by the Wraiths.
 
Last edited:
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. Gauntlet right hand ascended the Sword of Ayen, 'Intorqueo Flamma'. Calculating the position in which the man moved in conjunction with that of her own. A man no less, 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 the swing of sword striking against thigh only to have it break upon mesh and sable leathers. In a blink of an eye, burying her blade in his 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.

The two remaining closest 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 mere fodder, and the boisterous one just beyond them, 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."

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, necromancy and death prestidigitation.

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. Impenetrable starless eyes, devoid of the faintest hint of pupils, fixated on him and his 'unveiling' glory. Nestled tightly in right hand, was the legendary sword of Ayenee ready to parry any schlemiel foolish enough to come forth and test its metal.

"I care not of whom you were, or whom you are!" Her voice was like that of ambrosia and darkness, yet it possessed a timbre of mockery hidden beneath its velvet. Flicking downwards then the apex of weapon, resting upon its elaborate hilt, while gore-gauntlet gestured forth with a manicured arch of brow, "You have come for me, then.. well come then! Test your blade and wraiths against me if you dare!" 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 the Dreadknight. 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 Dark Messiah's form deliberately... bootfall brought the wither of ever-consuming shadows.

"Shall I notch another widow to my haft?" , 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. Aesthetically primed when Atra stood before him, blade sung through the air to strike only to miss. Placing agility to sinuous hip in the recoil when apex of weapon had missed its target but nor was her blade knocked from grasp. Atra didn't pivot to face Abaddon 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. Maintaining a strong defense and him 'on point' potency to dismember reason, quicker than a wasp could sting. 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 red wines' 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 from the Order of Wraiths encircling.

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. In a disembodied, other-worldly soft emphasis she spoke, "Audience....denied." Shadows trembling where they extended out from their coffers of flesh and bone. Their stillness more terrible than the Wraiths, whose chants rendered the fields in crimson and tempest {unleashing their theurgies with a great proficiency}.

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 all around them. 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. Digits tightening around hilt- she would relish this encounter further.
 
Fʀᴏᴍ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛʏ﹐ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs· ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀs﹐ ᴛɪᴍᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪs ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴘʜᴏʀs.


Dark spells weaved throughout the building energies. The vaults of eon-veiled horrors spawned forth the shadow-gates swelling, yawning wide, parting the vestments of dusk shackled to the parturition of hermetic darkness. Malodor billowing forth as if it were the baleful breath of 'Oblivion' himself-- pungent odours of engorged flesh, atrophy and decay that had been sealed from this world for several lifetimes. Indecipherable long-dead tongues spoke in delirious skeletal choirs, grisly murmurs of nameless fiends with black jaws drooling blasphemy and howling in flesh-lust through the entwining frosts 'living' gloom granting litany to their presence.

With such gathering forces rose the names of those who had adorned the battlefield; some names of legends that even the bards themselves had sung of in the terrors of the darkest nights. No man nor beast would be held steadfast by the command, and instead what flag had been held waving in the carnivorous winds in flutter of white that even the shadows cast bruised hues over the stark of its refute. Regardless of the reputation of he who held it, the Shadow Warlord of Blackheilm himself, no surrender nor truce would be seen this day.

Thus... through the dark tide her laughter echoed, crackling in the whispering mane of the basaltic winds shattering blessed cromlech and custodial wards. Amidst these, the nine stones that had been placed at the quarters of the realm by Nesentra (one of the oldest of Ayenee's Guardians), to charge the lands with their protective thaumaturgy, long before even the cities or kingdoms had risen from the infant soil. Cimmerian shades, danced and waltzed astride the mystic torans before crushing them to powder and dust, as if they were nothing but the ruinous totems of a lore that no longer held prestige or effect.

Old magick's waned and with them the defences that had stood the test of time and the most powerful influences of sorcery and fulcrums. Infused by the potent conjurations of apt diablerie; cosmic infinity nor affinity was nothing compared to one such as herself, on a whim alone she could reshape the surface of worlds. And had without lifting so much as a finger of indictment or retribution. The long dead, were certainly in no place to judge when besieged with the legions that had stood the test of time, and ensorcelled blade. Not even a memory to those who had forgotten the ballads of the fallen guardians.

Invocations unleashed the veils of Blackheilm that in turn devoured, darkness constricting its dominance like a buffer. To counteract the Wraith's sanguine raptures which would either disengaged, or consume the 'binding/magickal' anchors that constituted no sway over the shadows, compelling ancient paths of natural leylines to rupture-- spilling forth deeper and more archaic primal doorways from their oily locks to unfetter a new havoc where order sought to establish itself when chaos had yet to sample its sour meat let alone its weak and weathered steel.

It was then at the precise moment, that the colliding and clashing elements were within a war of their own, the feminine seduction of Atra'lamia's lilt rose above all, encompassed all, and obliterated all in its cacophonous, insidious resonance, "Prevail with me... beyond the shadows... rule with me... a thousand worlds...!" Black flames erupted on the talons of raven-storm, saturating once proud citadels of the great antediluvian empires and the temples where once they had been worshipped. Even the spells and conjurations of necromancy waned at her dominance.

Scorching, rendering, smouldering those caught within the holocaust leaving nothing but emaciated cindered-crests; throwing every ensnared ion straight into the malignant bosom of oblivion itself. "Fall only when your hearts cease beating, and your flames extinguished. Devils and Outlaws of Western Ayenee... my proud warriors of Blackheilm." 'My' beheld a great emphasis and formidable significance, the war-cry itself held a weight and poignancy only another Darkbane possibly admired let alone recognized, but so would those of distant familiarity.

A dark honour of their own, that did not require audible declarations of supremacy. Harried from above as the shrouds fully tegumented and closed within it what energies and magick's had previously been coerced, and would not be snuffed like a candle flame in the soft libidinous night, no matter how hard the pinch sought to captured its incalescence. At Atra's command, the clarion was sounded to move the battle-hardened veterans of the Western Ayenee Army forward into a flanking position to unite with the remnants of the Darkbane/Blackheilm Imperial Cavalry and Ayenee's unyielding foot-soldiers. Then, like a purifying storm the allied Imperial forces clove into the swarm to deal pattern-welded death unto their virtuous foe.

Naught registered of call or sultry uttered names through the ethereal tapestries, it would not be a means of pact or amicable reverie. A black rune was cast and pushed towards their aura's, and only it would portend the probability of their fates by the actions and deeds done. Written in the blood their blades would spill, or would they demonstrate spinelessness and submission, to an deity bejewelled in spurn and scorn from the endeavours of their own indiscretion? Ebonized fires leapt, engulfing the fields in cataclysmic phoenix-born barbs erupting across the skies from the catapults that snapped back in release. Warriors and mounts seared and burned from the enraged sky which fell like the rapture heralding the end of times. Twisted machinations of chaos had not even unleashed the last of the dread confrontation that rumbled throughout the melee-- a tactical scheme utilizing the potential energies to the fullest extent of the darkest of arts alongside their vile emissions.

Augmented plague storms scathed the terrain and the Undead regiments, not even some of her own were spared the gluttonous appetite of necrotic pestilence. Mithril turned to rust, and bone to dust. Putrescine and cadaverine drifted pungently thick sickly-verdant nebulous mass, combining with the darkness and shadows previously resurrected. Unless controlled instantaneously like the string of a puppet-master they bore no real sentience or relevance, until the battle-mages and weavers gathered them up into a surging wave of psionic egregore. Ever-widening, comparable to a Kraken's embrace.

"None exists. The tide has flowed, it ebbs forever, for all die." Disembodied susurration rippled in static, primordial, inhaled sharply with metallic fatigue. Imitation to mimic human intonations sunk beneath the abysmal tides of demonic salience. From behind the glorious clash of Black Mithril Blackheilm sword against whatever tempered their ire, be it foe, or those caught twixt the tempest. Who fell, who faltered and who died never bothered one who held the Darkbane name with the darkest of superiority and honour... all that mattered was the blood smeared and what death lay behind from the harvest. Still the battle-mages continued their chants except one stepped forth taking prestige; bedraped in a stygian cloak and fuliginous cowl, exuding an aura of implacable malevolence, which unnerved even the bravest of the Ayenee Imperial troops.

Agitated statuesque facade flinched to the accent and expression of foreign intruder, bearing desires and wants not impervious to Atra's agenda. This was a battlefield, one that stunk from the eons of death and wane, carnage ebbed and flowed around them all in both vision and ambiance. Not some cavalier stroll in a garden of fragrant flowers, nor was he a refined gentleman seeking the silken hand of some painted courtesan. And had her blade not chosen its quarry, it surely would have sought the innermost sanctum of the soulless coffer noted as "HIS" flesh and embodiment.

Dismissing Abaddon with a nonchalant gesture of hand, "Get off my battlefield!" Before further dialogue could slip between sanguine apertures save for a growl of dissatisfaction, attention returned to the war-tide. Not looking back over shoulder as the Dreadknight returned to his origins alongside his men. Darkness descended like the behemoth obsidian wave of dark energies and maelstrom of chaotic residues that washed across the fields like the eldritch Dead Sea of Grimsdalr. "Never quarter, never mercy, never retreat!" The final chorus to the duet... the martial preparations commenced in earnest. A brief and perfunctory exchange between generals and commanders, as the Imperial banner of Western Ayenee was duly driven into the seared earth with a chilling finality. And again the vast siege engines and powerful ballistae were hauled inexorably but into a different position, as to the front alongside, appeared a succession of katapelte and petrobolos. Dreaded Battle-Warg (Fen-Dwellers) and War- Leopards, straining noisily against their iron-link restraints to the rear of the myrmidon, conscripts and auxiliaries in escort.

Battle Magicks|Enchantments.

Veils of Blackhelm: Shroud of Darkness. Cancels Shadow/Wraith magicks and casts a complete dome of darkness over a specific area. [LvL 1] [active conjuration]
Shadow Shield: Conceals within the shrouds. Offers resistance to Holy, Darkness|Death, Frost or Fire spells. Passive. Soaks damage. [LvL 1] [active conjuration]
Shadow Blight: Smite of Chaos. Drains sentient|living magicks and sentient infused armours rendering them vulnerable to steel. [LvL 1] [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 1] [activated spell]

TheEnder could not respond to my post due to personal issues. I wrote his character making a safe, but swift exit.
 
Behind the advancing positions of the Imperial armies of Ayenee, the waning howls of death fell upon the deaf atmosphere of a barren land like shadows of a fading world littered with war and plague - an eternity, the unstoppable force, succumbing to an inevitable finale, an immovable object. Mists of blood travelled in the gusts like tangible aether at last revealing a physical presence, wafting endlessly. And through those diaphanous trails persisted life even with the spectre of necrotic rot lingering distastefully from the firmament down, threatening mortal existence, advocate to the pending apocalypse posing for the final swing of the juggernauts pendulum. These lands had witnessed battle unrivaled, crimson skies and bloodstained days stretching beyond the farthest recesses of memory, spiraling down toward the shores of everlasting oblivion.

Gusts fused blood and sand, sediment of the land drifting wayward to and from the battleground. And there, behind their scene of grandeur, iridescent gleams penetrated the spectrum, crawling along the vertexes of a spiral - gravitational force electively vacuuming select debris. Through resistance and friction come discharge, electrical static emitting from the ground and throaty, resonant popping. Dark shrouds stirred at the epicenter, and from within, light brightly boasted simultaneously. With the shrill whistle of voracious wind and the explosive burst of a failing gravitational pull, a thunder issued into the trembling ground to announce the presence of one who traversed betwixt the matter of worlds.

From a kneel he rose, sand pouring off of his clothing and minimally armored body. In his hands rested curved bone carved to edges and point - weaponized objects of afterlife. Along his arms, recessed markings - runes and foreign alphabet nearly indecipherable - filled with fleshy chameleon inks shifting between concentrated black and various hues perceptible by any eye. He carried no banner, represented no color and bared no imperialistic markings or symbolism - a being without home, without place. Soft eyes opened and gazed out through the eye sockets of a bone mask, carved skull of another man sun bleached white and stripe painted with crimson reds. The forehead and face covered all but the eyes and furtherest back part of cheek toward the ears, leaving visible only lips and chin, lower jawline and eyes that, despite a gentle nature, pierced from beneath akin to a gaze from father death. Beyond the measure of the skull-masks’ cover, shaven head muted color with ashen white paint, contrasting harshly with maroon knitted scarf and headless cloak.

As he stood, his right foot raked outward and hands extended to his sides, fingers calculatedly releasing and gripping the bone weapons until knuckles turned white. The gusts settled, a miniature series of dunes, sediment and debris surrounding him on the ground. Mists of blood once airborne clung to his flesh, sinking in and absorbing - breathing essence into him. Despite whatever power he might’ve possessed, necessary to appear in such a manner, it’d seem clear he did not belong upon such a battleground. At full height, he stood barely over one hundred, sixty five centimeters - hardly a man of stature, albeit deadly in other fashions, not comparable to the legions of war abound.

Three men, seemingly more creature than anything, began to approach him undoubtably with ill-intent. While their association was noticeable and perceptibly obvious, his become less and less discernible with every footstep of approach - holy, voidic, darkness, no stigma could be applied from afar.

“Dignu ist mortii,” a calm voice declared with certainty. He’d stand his ground, relaxed and unassuming, unchanging. “DIGNU IST MORTII,” he shouted as if to warn as their approach continued.

Unheeded, his warning fell upon deaf ears, stubborn mules marching to their death, feeling unparalleled by the might of their leagues. One last time he issued his warning, and the recesses along his arms - runes, lettering telling of magic - began to crawl, living immortal essence encapsulated by mortal flesh. The red stripe painting along the skull mask liquefied, streaming like blood and dripping, never-ending and sourceless. Within mere seconds, three consecutive waves of blast would strip the soldiers of flesh and blood - charring and disintegrating flesh in the first, opening deep wounds and searing others in the second, and revealing bone and organ in the third. As quickly as he seemed possessed, he walked forward again as a man unassuming and without semblance, although a single entity on the field would perhaps feel something all too familiar.

Dissonant Ceremony: Initial steps to incurring mass particle disturbance, relating to physics and interstitial and planar travel. Conjuration.



+... A long time ago, receding to the beginning of an era.
When there was no one but you and me- again and again we have been separated.
I still believe in your unyielding splendour, even though you no longer believe in mine...
+
From Hell is Within You - Atra​



* .w. .o. .r. .l. .d. .s. . . .c. .o. .l. .l. .i. .d. .e. *



__x__x. finale.

Impetuous, the deluging and rampant waters of time cascade through all of existence, quietly singing the omnipotent and hallowed hymns of an undying eternity’s footsteps none could follow. The sorrows of man and immortal alike echoed through the fabrics of mere millennia, deafening to their own masterminded plots and pantheons but unheard by the vast coerced emptiness of father time. Life without death could not be beautiful, a concept lost unto many souls seeking their bleak and meager shot at the labyrinths of an ever-changing river of godhood. From the man aspiring to be as a god to the mere children laboriously worshipping their inexistent deity, gleamingly hopeful to sit beside a throne that could never be - all would succumb to the end of each and every falsehood. Time is naught but a fearful idea bred and brooded by the hordes of mortals, washing upon the shores of a far greater thing they could never hope to aspire toward or comprehend when they washed only upon the shores of their own subconscious and never farther, never lesser - the vicious cycle, so beautiful - so endlessly dying.

In this world or another, there certainly would be no exceptions, despite the esteems so many would hold their reflection in. While a storm approaches and the cauldron burns lively once more, an odious being would breathe the fiery taste of this world again; and even he would be no exception.

Alek, the dainty man - more thing than man, but man nonetheless - among valorous titans of war and legions quaking the earthen soils to its tectonic bones, stood fast and quieted. A plethora of images swept before his eyes, the undertaking of greatness preceding a warfront and a colossal letdown that would suddenly aspire to deflate egos and deny triumphant war cries of their chance to ride the winds. He’d hardly gone unnoticed, but he was certainly unidentified and unrelated. Far be it from his will or capability to deny prying eyes of truth - he stood as but a cadaver, a puppet whose strings pulled and taunted his every decision. Behind pools of calm rested a vestige of more ancient evil, primordial, chthonic in spirit - a raging anger forever insatiable. And as the daunting allure of tidal-war sweeping in and ebbing away in a single fleeting moment, grandiose though it may be, more awaited this day. Pale, dried and nearly blistered flesh parted as breath ushered a strained voice through thoughtless apertures.

Are you sated, or do you crave more?” As monotonous and unbearable emotionless as it could be asked, Alek spoke those words without intention to be audible to more than those intended. He stood nowhere near even the intended audience, and to most it would be meaningless; but to one, it would signify importance to a memory likely all but forgotten. Such a simple thing with such relevance, spoken when it should not be known by any - they were alone that day. Alek could not possibly know that conversation on his own, but he was hardly on his own.



- WITCHKING OF THE COLD MOUNTAINS -
Awoken without significance to the day, brought forth from slumber by the tenebrous darkness, lithesome and caressing. He’d ached a mortal pain once, but shed those miseries and awoke a God among mere boys - fewer men than eclipses witnessed in his lifetime, aphotic oceans of swirling death gazing upon the world and casting little more than judgement and bitter distaste - nightmarish eyes safeguarding the window to the inner temple of uncompromising apocalypse waiting to unfurl upon the tapestries of every unremitting world deserving of such a fitting fate. Ulyssiask had walked as a man among men, strolling the stone streets of a kingdom that couldn’t recall him in a world that’d made sure to forsake him. He’d witnessed things just as they were prophesied, the footsteps of man in the sandy shores of time washed away by the tide. He’d hardly left an imprint on the world and lost all that he coveted above everything.

He tired of toiling with mankind, ever weary of the ceaseless indignity they represented. And while he rested himself against cold stone, defiantly proclaiming and acting as something he was not and never could be, troubles stirred and the cauldron stirred. He’d graced the gardens and tomb of Illias, but not gone uninterrupted; but his short time there, among the ruins, caught to cure the illness plaguing her sacred resting place. Ruins and decrepit gardens were not suitable for her to lie peacefully for the long sleep, and his presence commenced a change. Plant life flourished, flowers and roses of all manner and colour graced the ruins with magnificent beauty that would not go unnoticed. They’d soon realize the only possible connection and question him. And when one such guard did approach and question him, sooner than expected nonetheless, every inkling of the fullest extent of his thaumaturgical reach would pry loose from cold restraints. With an outstretched hand, a summons issued and from deep with locked chambers, ‘Sentiza’ would stir and answer that call - psionic will allowing it to rip asunder walls and all in its way until in his grip.

In time, he’d become known as the Witchking, retreating from mankind and settling upon a stone throne deep within cavernous maws of Northern mountains. Man come to his doorstep, toe of the mountainous rocks heaving heavenward their infinite mass of unforgiving edges and alcoves, time and time again to wage war against that which they did not understand. And again and again, he would pound a staff against stone floors of the cavern and watch as men turned to ash, entire fields and armies reduced. He offered no explanation, and they held no sway - none of this world would ever offer what he desired or aspired toward.

Over time, it changed him, and he grew only darker, afflicted by so many things - the dark arts, ‘sentiza’, solitude. His left had grew demonically and draconically misshaped, disfigured albeit subtle in darkness. Fingers curled more, nails turned to claw, his left hand casted the most venomous and dangerous spells, arcane and ritualistic musings inflicted upon the winds of ether by its touch, dually tangible and incorporeal. Eventually, as fallen souls culminated the barren fields beyond the base of the mountains, he’d tug at their essence to raise from the dead a single man each from dozens - undead shells to do his biddings. Alek, one of seven servants through the eyes of which Uly would stare upon worlds near and afar. He’d sent them to search for his answers, and wait for far longer than he should. And in time they’d return to him gifts, otherworldly items he held interest in.

Alek become perhaps his favorite when returning from such a foreign world dauntless with a cursed Gauntlet of Morg, a peerless assembly of demonic metallics possessed with spirits and power wildly beyond the understanding of mortal men who oft-times tried to tame its devilish taints. Uly would augment the gauntlet with his own powers and a shard of his own ‘soul’, quintessence of ungodly decadence. He’d become far less a man, more a monster - ancient evil in the eyes of man, a devil cast out, set aside and all but forgotten - a whisper in the night, a horror story to tell children before bed, a rumor preying on the ears of eager men willing to disprove its merits. And he’d feast upon every soul that wandered in those dark caverns, not thirsty to drink blood, but always hungering for another soul to feast upon - just as the Gauntlet of Morg hungered, just as Sentiza ab Badon hungered, just as the wickedness that dwelt within him always would.

He’d slumped against stone for so long, staring into a black pool through which he watched the worlds while surrounded by rot, lingering miasma and mephitic fumes of decay - bones piled and flesh wilting like a flower in a winter storm, overwhelmed by the petulance of spilled blood. He’d waited for so long. And then Alek spoke, breaking a silence that made Uly cringe in due time; but Alek spoke those words, and he saw what Alek saw so distantly, so obscured and blurry.

No barrier could stop what was coming, no resistance would prove more than futile. Ulyssiask was coming, as sure as the night is dark. And with a single blink, the cavern would collapse to rubble. And he’d bring with him every soul he’d devoured, every soul laid to waste upon the battlefields of old, every lost soul at the foot of the mountains, every power and every hunger he possessed. He’d bring with him plague and darkness.



- UPSURGE, THE SECOND COMING -

Respectively, continued from the following: AtGoH (At the Gates of Hell) | Upsurge; Hell’s Gates |
Hell is Within You; Ceko & Ayenee | Whence Evil Awaits.​

+ Hell in Heaven +

In the very instant that Alek spoke those seemingly harmless words, Uly stretched abroad his might. The planes were for walking, rifts for destroying, gates for permission. Through the infinite expanse of the worlds within this existence or another, best summarized by some as a multiverse of sorts, Uly extended his reach and will in duality, exerting his power against the walls of every known dimension and making known his ominous presence. A ruse of omnipotence reminiscent of gods long dead would lead many astray, shedding his mortal image and portraying him as the immortal he’d become, but far from indestructible.

Near to where Alek stood, mephitic wafts arose and ash poured from the sky, fragments of elements unknown to this world raining down with dulcet whispers lingering on the air and cursed auras of every imaginable perversion adrift, ripe and alive as atmospheric energies surged to incandescent life. Akin to a fallen meteorite or the prodigal son, fallen angel and morning star cast from the heavens unto the unforgiving maws and deserts of earth - a deafening clash against the ground trembled the earth and ruptured the sky without familiarity or fire to light the path. He’d tear no rift, walk no plane or transcend no dimensional gateway known to most, but bend the very ebbing boundaries of every known dimension and realm to transpose himself without the impending dooms and cataclysms associated with ripping dimensions apart for minuscule purposes.

Ulyssiask came to form without hesitation, no need to declare his arrival or grandeur. He’d rise, plumes of cosmic darkness dancing around his body with every breath, back arching and knees bent as he leaned backward deeply, chest outstretched and arms reaching with elbows bent and fingers curling inward to clench with all of his strength. With neck bent and head dipping toward toward his own spine, he’d roar with pain and anger. He’d grown dark hair nearly shoulder length. His skin had paled from prior darker tan of the battlefields, long since changed from the glory days of war and mortality, though still darker than most. His left hand appeared utterly demonic, tips pointed sharply and scars ascending the length of his wrist and forearm, while his right remained intact and heavily clad by the Gauntlet of Morg, a ghoulish beast of metallic wonders engraved with scratches and scars all its own. Upon the gauntlet rested three black gems - plague, sous, and the demons of Morg,respectively. And around the wrist a wreathing swirl of dark matter never still, always circling and seemingly disruptive to immediately surrounding particulate and gravitational field - a familiar power imbued with darkness and mystery, hiding somewhere beneath an unfathomable cloak a most ancient weapon perhaps even she feared or respected; one impossibly claimed from a long forgotten temple where the first fell - a place she’d remember all too easily, a place they once dwelt in a moment of intimacy.

He’d rise to full stature, asserting a leisurely gait to climb from the pit around him and stand upon hill, glancing down and across to the direction of all that occurred while old pits of blackness full of hatred and anger stared, stark and cold but reminiscent of something far more intangible.

I am… only a man,” coy and tempting, mellifluously spoken while quoting himself, another part of the same conversation Alek referenced. If she remembered him, and every moment they’d spent together for better or worse, she would surely find those words compelling, a mock of a falsehood spoken though true it may have once been or at least felt. Our realities and truths differ accordingly. She’d once asserted that she knew which of the evils she chose, “but my beloved King, do you know of yours?” He never straightly answered her - but this day, she’d surely know by it’s close.
 
Fluency in motion, of alchemic formulas, equation manipulations and arcane invocation-- long had they become a fabled metaphor. Dreadful realism inspired and may still motivate such concepts of fear and dread, seemingly forgotten to these thralls of war... comfortable in the purpose of their beliefs and art?

If they truly had the faith their fading honoured believed, surely in the face of adversary, their faith would bring them, home? Purely metaphoric, in order to instil a sense of emotion or reaction within these battle-torn toy soldiers... {honour}... {glory}... {pride}... {faith}. The nigromantia-tongue of expression was far more than just reminiscence or an allegory of old ghosts and hapless wraiths over the toast of destiny and intent: there had always been a higher design behind the reason.

Even religion here had become just as mechanical as life, where the sheep were led by the bellwether to the slaughterhouse. So listlessly they fell to death-kneel before dead deities and feeble Overlords deeming themselves as formidable and mighty due to narcissism, self-delusion or they possessed the ability to tug at the strings of fools. That did not make them gods, only the shepherd to a sanctified massacre- how intricately both were dishevelled. And in those dead-adorned moments that surrounded her, Satrinah saw the implications of faith; the equal tensions of brow and soiled cheek, the same world-weary heaviness within the eyes, burdened with years of bereavement. She noticed the same lips bereft of prayer whipped of moisture from the careless winds, only to be moistened only by the poisons of their chosen poisons and the sins they dared not confess.

The only difference which separated her from the later, was the passionate devotion held secretly within; one never ignorant to the inevitable fatality of her own being and choices. Never the puppet for another's wants of apocryphatic hedonism and emissary disguise; definitely not one trapped in false modesty—would they be so enlightened, and would they in turn be prepared to suffer? No creature here had ever been a true believer, doubt sat shamelessly upon their crown, even when they declared it through beloved boons, pacts and oaths... uttered during promised victory. Her answer was there, unearthed in the coppery-incense of illumination; spicy as frankincense and sweeter then myrrh. Glory here had been transformed into something vain, and that any genuine power within this world had long been smothered by the untutored clouds of egocentric ceremony.

Ultimately, it all lead towards the downward spirals—it had been all too easy to play the primitive apprentice, and the Devil’s accomplice... and how easily ‘all’ had fallen to the rose, to her beauty and charisma. The rise of the victor in all her sublimity, ascended like the bleeding dawn of a birthed star illuminating ‘many’ lifetimes of darkness. Necrotic words of an unknown tongue were whispered with eerie intonation, devoid of all breath, grating against blizzard and the 'Obsidian Realms'. Accompanying lachrymose breath, a single brow to arch high, and a smirk lusted with wine as the masses swarmed and collided against the other in mighty storm— only to see the opposition get dragged helpless beneath the tide.

"One should have a great faith in fools for at least they are consistent. Never sweet the kiss of cold steel!"


Offering one of the Blackheilm commanders a slow and seductive wink where lashes brushed against snow-kissed flesh like the embrace of gentle wings.

How splendid the Imperial Army looked as it engulfed its foe-- ever opening its crimson maws devouring vanguard and armies alike. Glorious was the courage of the royal warriors, admirable was their mettle, marching fearless into the ravening embrace of the melee, and never in the grim and sanguineous history of battle would there be a clash to rival the slaughterous magnitude of this awesome engagement. The final charge resounding above battle magicks and the battle cries; "Champions of Chaos, rend their flesh, crush their bones, devour their souls!"

At the Atra's command, the clarion was sounded to move the battle-hardened veterans of the Seventh Ayen-lander army into a flanking position to unite with the remnants of the Royal Cavalry. Like a purifying tempest the allied Imperial forces clove into the wraiths to deal righteous pattern-welded death unto their nighted foe. But at that moment, black terror descended screaming across the lands with such magnitude it scattered warriors like autumnal foliage. The sky split wide in fury, and searing tendrils of ruinous lightning lanced inexorably forth from the heavens to rake and reave-- a cacophony of destruction (a powerful cosmic witch-storm). Had the mystic shackles been broken?

Evident once more was the fearsome extra-dimensional intelligence linking her, Sentiza ab Badon and the gem encrusted within its elaborate pommel, the same crystalline sentience which had guided him to seize its venomous embrace as one would a lover in the throes of treachery. For a time it had shielded his presence from the dark one until it had been brought into play upon the field of battle... or was soon about to be.

Aye it all began a very long time ago. Memories of Life and Death. For countless thousands of centuries of slaughter. Eternally bonded he was to that infernal blade. That sword, drowned in the icy lake of tragedies, forged in the fires of revenge, driven by the winds of hell which compel a man to 'true' destiny... haunted by the whispers of the dead within their worm-ridden tombs.

"Ulyssiask!", the sobriquet drifting o'er the sorcery-conjured storms like the slither of scales on silk. Darkness ever deepening (the darkness writhing in her own soul is so much deeper)...at Atra's words and the mention of that name-- casting malign spirits screaming into the black ravening tides of oblivion. Across fields, witnessing the vast dark sea rise forth like a great ravenous beast, slithering across the land, a devouring maelstrom of cataclysmic fury at his coming.

To many she is as pure as the newly fallen snow, kissed by the breeze at dusk and yet she has supped deep of the ichors of many men and fiends alike. To him, it had been something entirely different.
 
A lone spectre surveyed the field of battle. Scanning eyes over those left in the wake of cold, relentless steel. The dead and the dying. Blood drenched ice formations as it froze in motionless crystalline pools beneath the bodies. Carnage and chaos had drew his attention away from such hedonistic endeavors upon from far-flung realms; turning now his attention, calling out to a bloodlust nature hidden behind a veil of celestial fire.

He moved unseen and swept soundlessly amidst the bodies, stopping here and there to observe with a keen and cunning intellect. " There..." was spoken more of a thought than it had been actually said, and hovered closer, drawn toward a small smoldering flicker of life. This soldier, this being, would make a suitable host. A passing and temporary meat-sack in which he would eventually burn through, but not before, not before he found the instrument in which had grasped a hold of his fleeting an if not short span of attention.

The spectral form reached out and touched upon those embers of failing life. Allowed his essence to merge, intertwine, and pulled himself across from the other side and into what was left of a poor excuse of a soul. What little remained. Instantly he was assaulted by a rush of sensations, emotions, feelings that were not his own. The price of possession.. a tidal flood of memories that were alien and out of place. Pain where the flesh had been sheared, appeared, and sliced open.

Oh the effort it would take.. The power he would burn through in order to put this body right and back upon its feet. A necessity, but one that would shorten the span in which he could occupy this form until it would ease to function. The body was stiff. Frozen fingers cracked as he peeled himself from the ice covered field; stretched and felt each and every wound ooze with agony as his essence burnt through his vessel, mending the flesh with a rush of breath form from between cracked lips.

" This will have to do," he spoke to himself as he began to pick his way over the trail of corpses, intent on following the trail towards its source. He stopped now again to salvage a weapon or two, a shield, and a bit of cloth, which he draped around his shoulders and over his head in a make-shift cowl, and continued on this path over blood soaked destruction. He fed upon the remains of those still clinging to life. Their blood. The tattered shreds of their souls. It wasn't much, but each morsel would prolong his vessel for a little more, a little longer. Long enough to sedate his curiosity...
 
...Yes, there are numerous stories about the chaos caused by the tyranny of Kings and Devils. Those who have bellowed or whispered their names from the depths of sea, mountain, sand and air have known countless years of mayhem. Very little had been ushered from the names of Queens and Goddesses. Within her mind, so many dreams of old came flooding back in shapes reflecting the tumult of banners and spears accompanied by the clamour of bugles brave. She could remember bold ballads sung from triumphant lips seeking the horizons of landscapes that rose from the sun- had such days returned?

Suffering, far more palpable than death, the unappeased maws of change ever ravenous for glory. Blood spilled from the shadows, bodies tumbling like cleaved wheat amidst the great harvest, as the tempest whispered a song so hauntingly hallowed that the few who still drew breath could hear its carillon. The battle was brief, vicious, swift and decisive. It was everything a battle should be- however the mind rape of its victims and prisoners would be much longer, unfortunately. Fate for many would be a very cruel and harsh mistress.

For those who had miraculously managed to survive the battle, by whatever Gods or Devil's had protected them; they were dragged before the titans clapped in irons and forced downwards upon death-kneel. Chin angulated to haughty stature before convening to another direction where the agonies surrounded the terrain in cloying disharmony of death and the dying passionately relishing- the sighing of oblivion. Spine-tingling, delightful and exhilarating music fluttered within her heart. A ghastly euphoria; the trumpets of damnation, becoming one with the trumpets of infinity.

Atra advanced and set gauntlet palm on one of the soldiers' mantle, consolingly, a broken babbling thing upon the blood-drenched earth beneath his trembling knees. Trembling whether by pain from gaping wound or fear, it didn't matter much... but he muttered something of mercy, the want for a swift death while he bled out like the stigmata itself. "In due time, little brother," Atra crooned, towering above him clad in her elaborate raiment of war rich with gore and scars of war. The soldier sobbed, burying his face into the black leather of the 'Battle Raven's' slender limb.

"P-p-please end me," the man begged, snuffling. To her it was a rather pathetic sound, a bit like a wounded dove... pitiful of a man to sell his soul in such an undignified manner. "Shh," smoothing the soldier's hair and patting the back of his head. "Why?" The soldier finally gurgled, closing his eyes, resting cheek against the leather. It was cool against his burning skin, and though his stomach lurched with revulsion for the woman, his soul nonetheless yearned for her comfort. "Because it pleases me," The words rolled over those sanguineous arches in a voice so honeyed, decadent- possessed even more soothing despite those horrible and heartless words.

"The soul that is spirit is not cursed to become dirt or dust; it is carried to dwell in the blood! But it is death who claims everything, for it is a law, not punishment, to die... but one that all men will taste...why hurry it's desires, why beg for it's seduction without so much as a kiss? Besides..." pausing for a brief moment "My hounds are yet to have their pound of flesh." A macabre, spectral leer diabolically glancing over the man before waving him and the other captives away with a bored sweep of gloved hand- mercy is a failing; harboured by the weak and spurned by the strong.

None had been granted the choice to submit, or perish. Atra did not lament these losses. Those 'blessed' to fall by sword and sorcery were fortuitous in that they did not live long enough to be put to methodical torture, for the army brought with them crude instruments of woe and honed their mastery on dissenters. No quarter was shown, and many a soldier and general alike were subjected. Braziers crackled and burned; witch-flames dancing on the snow... crude stone alters anointed by the crimson wine of battle were then erected from all quarters on the horizon. Where warriors and traitors screamed as priests bent them backwards and carved out their thunderous beating hearts, incantations pouring in torrents from their blackened lips...
 
The utterance of his name beckoned heinousness, wretched sins that could tremble the nerves of even a ‘God’. Though it was perhaps inevitable, he’d at last returned to his dearest Contessa. It was neither fate nor accident, and he did not haphazardly stumble forward into the maws of that which could not be comprehended. This time, he knowingly came for her.

A king no more, he came as an unknown, something undefined.

The prolific hordes of bloodied corpses and dreadful war-hardened legions under her reign laid before him, a sight all too familiar. Wherever he found her, death and decay surely followed. He’d seen her sheer might and ravenous intensity before, even her cruelty. Just the same, Ulyssiask more closely observed her intuitiveness and curiosity in times past - and it captivated his spirit for a lifetime. Upon their first meeting, he demonstrated his own wanton, murderous cruelty with such severity, only to assert and unnecessary understanding.

There’d been such unease between their every meeting. Ulyssiask felt a luring, compelling him evermore toward her; and he was subdued in absolute certainty that she was equally drawn. Something haunted their shaky acquaintance of a relationship beyond what words could describe, though. He’d survived the penalties of an immortal death, overcame an incomprehensible evil, before her very eyes - one that would always haunt him. In those early days, he’d proven himself a dangerous potential adversary who would swear himself an ally, despite the everlasting risk of betrayal haunting their every word - tempestuously and skillfully rolling off silvered tongues in the midst of collapsing dreams and failing worlds - coerced to the eternal waltz.

They’d tangled, danced, and traded the blundering words of serpents dwelling the devils den. She had her chance to end him. And yet she kept him, treated him, preserved his mortality. And now, he returned to her. This on going dance was far from over… they’d only been acquainted.

“Contessa,” he all but hissed in the deepest guttural tone. A raspy voice that couldn’t reach far in these fields of death and despair, but could be felt and sensed beyond the farthest reaches of this world and the next; an omnipotent and haunting foreboding of darkness married in likeness to her own.

The sneering of so many, she must’ve never warned of his existence, as they peered onto him as wolves would prey. And Ulyssiask must surely seem foolish to such warriors, perhaps once long ago he would’ve even thought the same, as he slowly walked amongst lesser souls unarmored, seemingly vulnerable and weak. His left hand would unfortunately warn of his departure from the simplicities of mankind. The gauntlet and fiery-black wreath of unending black magicks would surely further disprove mere weak mortality, but they’d be fully within rights to assume that immortality still rested beyond reach - nothing is forever, yet…

“how far you’ve come, from where the first of you fell, to where these poor men perish. Yet… this seems not so different from where we first stood together.” His voice was far from the beholden King she first graciously hosted in those forsaken wastelands; he’d become something far more, and far less. A devilish fiend would surmise he’d joined the ranks, but she should surely know better of him. Albeit plain in tone, he candidly referenced the temple she must’ve spited with such unapologetic, dry humor without the slightest hint. But oh, how she had blossomed - though he was the one who’d changed so immeasurably.

Whether warned or not, her hordes would not continue to view him as victim as he walked toward her; and while her own attentions were affectionate to suffering and torture, he’d give her reason enough to turn her full, undivided mind toward him.

Pointed tip of clad index raked against the blunt of the adjoined thumbs underside, rupturing the calm of magicks. As if the heavens poured open at the sounding of trumpets and an unholy rain of thunder issued forth, a shockwave emitted loud enough to crack the sky open, reverberations trickling downward in the aftermath with rhythmic imperfection, an eruption of blunt force calling it’s name. A wave of unnatural force sprang narrowly down a path before his hand, earthbound and instant - in the wake of lamented flame, Sentiza unveiled in it’s ungodly perfections. The tip of the sword just barely touched soil, and darkness creeped forth like a disease rampant and hell-bound for the souls of all that it could touch.

The most wicked of evils… the darkness he weaved was beyond the darkness of mankind’s soul and salvation, beyond even the demons and devils or dark lords of old. Pure, unadulterated - not dark, but black - magick; willpower, cognition, spirituality, necrotic whisperings, innate psionic force. A thousand names all meant to describe the one very thing most would never truly possess - power.

The darkness at his feet spread out from the tip of the blade as we walked, daunting, dragging it along teasingly - like blood spreading through veins, boiling the ground and grasping at their feet, threatening to consume their very existence with mere contact. Sentiza hungered, imprisoned for so long and never sated.

And as he rose his left hand, the Arm of Edis formed and branched out in length - an elemental staff augmented with spells unimaginable. A long wooden staff of elder Onsari tree, dark black with a carved skull at its top and a blunt tip at its opposing end - the skull screaming with mouth agape and an elongated jaw. The moment it formed in it’s full glory, Ulyssiask forced it down with a clash against the ground. The darkness amplified and curdled as more poured outward, a necrotic scent burning nostrils as it filled the air, rife with sensational presence.

“But my… dear, I’ve come just as far,” he spoke again as she dismissed their prisoners of war to their dispatching fates. The blood on those alters would bless these battlefields - it felt all too eerily familiar to their first meeting, when he listened to that disgusting plea for mercy before answering with a scrupulous tug at arteries, finding sanctuary in the gargling descent of life from its promises of childhood to the realities of death after painful death - no such existence of afterlife; just the meaningless toils of life unfulfilled and plucked in the same manner as fruit not yet baring its ripeness.

He’d found his way near her, only a short few yards away and now within hearing distance - no longer would his words be felt, but heard in their intended voice.

“for you.”

Now within plain sight, she could once again feast eyes upon the foreign Devil of her past. She could see his scarred hand and forearm… his hair that’d grown so much, his age, the changed complexion, the hatred and life that’d always burned within him, the man of his past shining brightly and standing tall through his eyes that hadn’t changed in the slightest… the ceremonial dagger of Sudji tethered to his waist, his dark gray garments - resemblant of an ancient formal wardrobe for occasions and ceremonies, though a bit macabre and dark. And she’d surely more notice the telling signs of his expressive face. While his words sounded nearly threatening, his eyes spoke of something less primal and carnal.

And before her, he bowed his head only enough to keep his eyes steady on her. With a stiff tap of the staff, the raging growth of darkness would cease and crumble into dust, resting on the ground at her feet like charred sands on a warfront beach.
 
Last edited:
The sound of battle-cries, the sweet screaming of steel against steel carried upon the sweeping frigid winds. Following alongside the aftermath upon the heels of those trodden the ice with blood and death, the dying feeding his every burdened step. Slow but surely he stepped over countless freezing and frozen corpses. Now and again this figure stopped, knelt, partaking of life not yet abandoned. Offering to ease the pain with silvered tongue and hollowed words...

So weak and fragile these bodies, these poor souls. So willing to follow blind leaders and false prophets to their ultimately and untimely demise. Death was absolute. He breathed in the destruction, the bloodshed, carnage and power in the distance. The lone figure pulled tighter the hood about his visage.. the skin growing chilled. Frost forming upon the scruff of a beard, upon his brow. He would have to increase his pace or else this temporary vessel may freeze and perish before he had a chance to sate his curiosity upon whatever it had been that reached out and piqued his attention.

He looked within and judged the rate in which his celestial fire would burn through this weak and pathetic vessel. Could he attempt to use his reserves of Power without destroying the flesh? It was a possibility. A risk. Pondering as he trudged over the ice and snow. A small jaunt perhaps? A short step in the right direction? Just enough without overdoing it. Reaching deep inside and bidding the ' Dragon ' to come forward. Spreading shadowy wings that seemed to stretch infinitely into the coming darkness.

A sudden rush of wind; the sound of rustled feathers and a mere moment later standing in the shadows of a treeline, sitting upon a lonely knoll, to observe the armies.. A tremor swept through his vessel. Too much. A tab bit of over doing it. Not enough to completely destroy his form, but enough to speed the process up. Dark eyes looked upon the field. Vision unfettered by mortal restraints, like scarlet fire in the depths of the sheltering branches. The woman and another.. But whom was whom? Which of these had drawn his gaze away from such splendid wonders?

" Interesting more and more by the moment..."
 
Back
Top Bottom