A New Mission

This is an old-ish log, I was recovering from surgery when Bamathis yoinked me with a surprise summons.

Background: Mjoll was granted a favor from Bamathis for dominating a Great Hunt, she wavered and waffled between a few ideas, but then a friend of hers was granted Chiav form and so...

(To Bamathis): "Warlord, while I was thinking about what I might ask You for, I was struck by a bolt of inspiration in seeing one of Iosyne's next to Her. Truth out loud, I'm a little envious of Her devout's ability to emulate Her form so closely, and so I would ask You to forge me a form in Your visage."

She is an undead muscular Troll. Her massive frame towers head and shoulders above most mortals, and cuts a bodybuilder's silhouette. Elongated limbs are host to massive and well-toned muscles that were certainly crafted by uncompromising physical labor and a healthy appetite. Tough, black gray skin stretches over her statuesque features, marred by two noticeable charcoal grey scars; one of these scars is approximately dirk-width, a visible gouge in her elbow. A matching pair can be found on her chest and back, these particular scars are a mess of disfigured flesh hinting that she was run through by a twisting blade. A broad, flat nose rests below her narrow, brown-red eyes framed by thick, black, angular brows. She keeps her crimson coloured hair short on the sides, with a tangled mess of longer hair in a thick mohawk over the top of her head, braids and dreadlocks interspersed throughout. Her ears are long, wide, and flat pointing back, with forked tips. Two obsidian tusks, half the length of a man's forearm, and as thick as a shovel handle, jut forward from the sides of her mouth with a slight upward curve, lending a menacing feature to her wide, thin-lipped mouth. Wrapped around the shoulder and secured with a copper band is a paired shoulder cord showing off colors of red and crimson. She is suffused with the fervor of the Warlord, carrying His blessing.


You are transported by the power of the Divine.
The heart of Yggdrasil.
There are 4 Argent recruits here. The air around Him filled with uncomfortable tension, Bamathis, the Warlord stands here. A small, softly glowing root grows in a corner of this large chamber.
You see exits leading north, east, south, and west.

You turn to rigidly face Bamathis before forming a spear-hand, swinging it across your chest and striking your shoulder in a crisp Legionnaire's salute.

Bamathis turns to rigidly face you before forming a spear-hand, swinging it across His chest and striking His shoulder in a crisp Legionnaire's salute.

"At ease," Bamathis utters deeply, fixing you with His hardened, silver gaze. He remains quiet after that, assessing you quietly. You get distinct impression that you are being weighed, measured and judged by the dominating Immortal.

Mjoll's posture relaxes slightly, saluting hand folding behind her to meet with the other at the small of her back, meeting the God's gaze with her own, curiosity prominent across her face.

A distant keening howl seizes your attention, and you stop to listen. It is the sound of some creature, somewhere, experiencing inutterable sorrow. A chill ripples down your spine as the sound trails off, but you remember...

"You asked something of Me that I have spent long contemplating," Bamathis finally speaks out, each word coming forth slow and calculated, thoughtful. "I have never created anything that does not provide a purpose, or imparted upon Mine a gift that does not have a specific, absolute function." He steps forward, both hands moving to interlace at the small of His back. "You asked Me to envision you in My image - and in that request, you are a fool." He speaks the final words, staring deep into your own eyes, His gaze unrelenting, hard, merciless.

Deep waves of tension radiate off of the Immortal before you, filling the air around you, pushing and pressing from all angles.

Silver threads of essence radiate from you, cloaking your form in a hostile and menacing aura before fading as quickly as they appeared.

"Do you know why?" Bamathis queries, His voice dropping to a low, dangerous decibel.

A shallow rumble echoes through the air around you and a small piece of soil falls from above to the ground.

Mjoll's reaction slides across her face, wiping her usual easy grin, replacing it with a contemplative frown twisted as she bites at her lower lip. "No, Warlord, I don't." She finally responds, slowly.

Bamathis finally reaches the position directly before you, the intensity of His presence so close serving to multiply the tension that radiates from Him tenfold. It pushes at you, presses ruthlessly from all angles, both physically and mentally alike. With one hand coming free from behind Him, He gently hooks your chin with a single digit and pulls your gaze up higher to meet His own eyes fully. "Because you have already proven, time and time again, that you are already of My image, Afviti - and I could not improve upon you if I tried."

The tension that surrounds you shifts, a near-imperceptible change in the way it sworls around your body and mind. It embraces you, seeks to press itself into you, still in that ruthless, insistent way, yet it is drawn to /you/ now, to join, not to overwhelm.

Softly, Bamathis says, "You are as pure a being of Strife as I could have ever expected to find upon My creation. You have no need of parlour tricks, of Me forcing you to become something that you already embody - and I will not do so."

Mjoll provides no resistance, lifting her chin proudly, eyes locked on Bamathis'. At the Immortal's words a toothy, lopsided grin slides across her jaw and she finally blinks, an acquiescing gesture. "Thank You, Warlord." she rumbles, full of pride as the palpable tension envelops her form - tension she relishes as if the first blow of a long battle to come had just been struck.

It is now noon on Falsday, the 25th of Haernos, year 484 of the Midnight Age.

Bamathis gives no visible reaction to the acceptance of His words as He holds your chin with that lone finger, His gaze still locked fully onto you own. The severity of His features bores into your own prideful one. "I will give you something else, something more than simple tricks - something with purpose." His voice hardens impossibly further, resolution settling in as if in preparation. "It will not be pleasant," He whispers, voice dropping low. "But I can think of no mortal better to carry the charge alongside Me." Without warning He retracts the finger, turning and stepping back towards the center of the room to the sprawling layout of roots that crawl across the area. "You know the purpose of this tree? Of Yggdrasil?"

The ancient, silver runes that run along the roots within the chamber give off a sudden pulse of bright, argent essence.

Mjoll's jaw sets at the whispered promise, her eyes dart around the roots as they light up and she follows a few paces behind Bamathis as she responds, "Someone told me it's what holds Sapience together" the reply thick with doubt, "I'm not sure about all that, but I know it is important. You placed Your fortress here on purpose, after all."


"Of a sort," Bamathis allows slowly, hesitantly, as if at war with how much He should divulge. Still running His gaze along the expanse of roots, He continues, "Yggdrasil not only serves to hold Sapience together, but provides the structural integrity to all of the planes, and serves to prevent them collapsing upon one another." He looks back to you, His voice growing calm, of a deadly sort. "Of all mortals, only the Ireti, and now yourself, are aware of its importance. It should remain that way." He turns back to the roots of the tree, pointing out the sprawling, silver runes etched into the surface. "I placed those Myself." His hands move back to interlace at the small of His back. "They provide the barest of protection - as much as I or any of My Siblings could provide - but also serve as warning should they be tampered with."

Bamathis's voice rings loudly, filling the cavern with a single, pointed question. "Will you join Me in protecting Yggdrasil, Afviti? With your life, if need be?"

"Yes, Warlord!" Mjoll cries enthusiastically, "I'll kill any threat, or destroy myself trying!"

Bamathis looks over one shoulder, finding you in His gaze. In His eyes you find sympathy, of a sort, yet also a resolve - a resolution to do what must be done, no matter the cost. "Touch them," He says quietly. "Touch the runes."

Without a second thought Mjoll reaches out to grasp at the rune nearest her with one of her massive mitts.

Bamathis steps further back from the center of the room as you lay your fingers across the silver-etched runes. "Embrace Strife, Afviti," He whispers softly, yet the words seem to reverberate across the room, within yourself, within your mind. A bright flash of silver essence suddenly flares up around the Immortal, devouring His form until it gutters out, revealing Bamathis now gone.

Beneath your fingers, the runes offer a surprisingly cool feeling, a gentle thrum of power felt like an enormous heartbeat within the roots of the tree. Nothing happens... at first.

A heat begins to build beneath your fingertips, gentle at first, a stone left out beneath a warm, spring sun.

Mjoll lets out a slow breath, feeling the heartbeat in the roots. 'Strife builds Strength' the thought occurs as the gentle heat begins to build.

Then, the temperature begins to build. It quickly rises well beyond enjoyable, even tolerable, and a single trail of smoke eddies up from your fingertips as the a searing pain ignites onto the flesh there. Mjoll's jaw sets into a grimace, forcing herself to press passed her instinct for self preservation, pressing the whole of her hand hard against the unbearably hot surface.

A tiny spark of silver flame catches along your fingers, and you suddenly feel yourself unable to pull away. The flame climbs your fingers onto your hand, blistering, scorching, then blackening the flesh beneath in turn as it moves greedily, hungrily along your flesh. It moves higher, beneath clothing and armour alike, leaving them surprisingly untouched to the heat and fire that now crackles along the surface of your skin.

As the fire moves further up your hand, beginning to traverse your arm, the blackened, charcoaled flesh occasionally flakes away, yet remains utterly ruined in the wake of the devouring, argent flame.

It is now dusk on Falsday, the 25th of Haernos, year 484 of the Midnight Age.

A tinge of panic flashes through Mjoll as she watches, helpless against the flame consuming her arm. A throaty, pain-filled grunt escapes the Troll, an elongated, strangled sound.

A sudden realization hits as the flame continues its slow, purposeful movement along your bicep. You are being immolated. Each nerve that the fire assaults lives just long enough to send its excruciating, unending message to your brain before subsequently being scorched away, the pain magnifying impossibly further as the fire spreads out to devour more and more of your flesh at once.

It moves past your arm, engulfing your shoulder now in its unending search for fuel - fuel it seems to find within your very flesh. A wave of it splits off to traverse downwards along your body, while a slower trail continues a slower, excruciating path up towards your head.

Pain. No, something beyond pain. Something impossibly more - something that simply can not exist. Your entire body shakes now, quivering uncontrollably as wave after wave of nerves die within you, and your skin burnt away into a disfigured, blackened mess.

Kanivara arrives from the east.

Kanivara rushes in, looking concerned. She doublechecks her surroundings before securing her halberd. "Commander?" she inquires.

Mjoll's ragged breath is consumed by a pained scream, that is extinguished with the will to draw unnecessary breath. She locks her knees, defying the screaming instinct to fall over, to give up, to die. Her entire form burnt and blackened, quivering and shuddering under the argent flame immolating her hulking frame.

A flash of silver, and Kanivara is no longer there.

(Argent Legion): Bamathis says, "The Fortress is closed for the time being, Legionnaire."

Panic, her will to survive, anger, 'Was someone there?' Oaths not yet fulfilled. Yggdrasil. Protect. PAIN.

The fire ravages further up and further down your form alike, burning, blackening, crisping away your tough, leathery hide without mercy. Your legs give out - whether due to exhaustion, pain, or the utter destruction of your flesh - it is unclear. The flames move with an excruciating slowness towards your feet now, ensuring no flesh goes unburnt. Likewise, the flames that span up your torso and across your neck move ever onwards, blackening, destroying.

A stream of crackling blue fire sizzles across the sky.
Kanivara has been slain by the divine might of Bamathis.
Your ally has fallen at Entering a crackling hollow..

The bright, argent flame climbs its way to your lips, parting them without your knowledge or awareness. It hovers there around your mouth for a few moments as the flames finish the inevitable scourging of the rest of your body, head to toe now blackened, before it allows you one last breath to scream.

Mjoll voice rises out as her mouth is opened, a defiant, pain-soaked scream painting the walls with it's bloodcurdling reverberations.

It must stop. It has to stop eventually, right? Surely no body can withstand such torment, such torture. That final scream echoes thunderingly throughout the fortress, and even beyond, before the flames dancing at the edges of your mouth shoot hungrily down your throat, into your body. Then, only blackness.

The pain blissfully abates, and darkness overtakes you completely.
Everything goes dark.
Traversing the Void.

Your consciousness slips away into slumber, as the Earth begins to reconstruct your body.

You awaken, covered by a layer of soil. You thrash, briefly panicked, and claw your way up out of the ground.

The heart of Yggdrasil.
There are 4 Argent recruits here. The burnt remains of Mjoll lie here. A small, softly glowing root grows in a corner of this large chamber.
You see exits leading north, east, south, and west.

Mjoll thrashes and jumps to her feet.

(Tells): Bulrok tells you, "You good, Commander?"

(Tells): Your authoritative, commanding voice reaches the consciousness of Bulrok, "..I think so."

<<Officers>>: Fezzix says, "You alright?"

(Tells): Bulrok tells you, "That's reassuring."

<<Officers>>: You say, "Am.. Alive."

Curiously, the crusted, blackened mass of ruined flesh still encompasses your form, even after regeneration. A single piece flakes away, revealing what appears to be new flesh beneath.

Mjoll holds her arm up to inspect it closely, picking at the blackened, charred flesh with a wince.

You reach up and pick away one more fleck of the blackened, ruined mess, before it begins to flake away from you all at once, falling to the ground at your feet in a black pile of dust. What is left beneath the old flesh is vastly different than what was.

Your new skin gives off a metallic sheen not unlike that of hardened, gray-black steel - as if the entirety of your frame had been dunked into an enormous vat of metal. Across the surface of your flesh, wherever visible, a myriad of silver runes, seemingly etched into the almost-metal of your new body, run, similar - exactly so - to those that interlace the roots of Yggdrasil.

No imperfection remains across your flesh, revealing a smooth surface without mar or blemish. You might even be downright handsome, now, by some accounts.

Something more stands out to you, however, something you have not felt in a very long time, something that resonates within the entirety of your mind. A heartbeat.

You investigate the feeling. Surely it can not be of your own, and not the sound of a normal heartbeat either, for this one rings just as loud within your mind as it does within your body, and with each and every pulse of that massive heartbeat, the runes across your flesh, and those across the roots of Yggdrasil, give off a subtle brightening of silver essence.

(Tells): With harsh fervor, the words of Bamathis, the Warlord reach you: "You are tied to it now, Afviti."

Mjoll's eyes trace along her exposed arms, up to the collar of her armor and jacket which she deftly unfastens and pulls down to investigate, feeling at her chest, eyes closed. Realization dawns as the voice rings in her head, "I feel it. I \am\ it."

(Tells): With harsh fervor, the words of Bamathis, the Warlord reach you: "You will ever feel the heartbeat of Yggdrasil as it chimes across all planes, Mjoll Seirath. You will know when it is in danger, when others make any attempt to destroy it. You are its guardian now, as much as I am."

The air crackles around you as the mighty roar of a Dragon reverberates across Sapience, announcing that Tanixalthas has awoken.

Mjoll's chest swells with pride, silver runes pulsing across her metallic skin as her voice rises into a defiant roar.

You shout, "FOR SAPIENCE!"

Kanivara: *Gentle probing along the soulbond can be felt*

(Tells): With harsh fervor, the words of Bamathis, the Warlord reach you: "A heady task, Afviti. We will speak soon, I am tired now. For Sapience."

(Tells): Your authoritative, commanding voice reaches the consciousness of Bamathis, "For Sapience, Warlord. Thank You for entrusting me with this. I will give it my everything."

She is an undead athletic Troll. Her hulking frame towers head and shoulders above most mortals, cutting a bodybuilder's silhouette. Elongated limbs are host to massive and well-toned muscles that were certainly crafted by uncompromising physical labor. Her skin is metallic, the gray-black hue visibly reflective, the steel-like sheen making her appear as if she had been dunked into an enormous vat of molten metal and allowed to dry. The result is a perfect, unmarred canvas of flesh marked only by silver runes swirling across the entirety of her form, from fingertips to toes, stretching in ordered patterns across her massive chest and even her tusks; each rune pulses with a faint, nearly imperceptible flash of silver essence, the rhythm strangely reminiscent of a heartbeat. A broad, flat nose -obviously broken and healed countless times - is further emphasized by the heavy, angular eyebrows which frame her narrow eyes, her irises a cold and striking rust colour. She wears her hair, a vibrant crimson, shorn at the sides, a tangled, chaotic mess styled in a thick mohawk atop her head with braids and dreadlocks haphazardly interspersed throughout. A lone shock of silver has been tamed in an intricate box braid in it's wild run through the crimson tresses, contrasting starkly with both the colour of her hair and her dark, metallic skin. Long, almost Tsol'aa-like ears extend back along her head, terminating in odd, forked tips, and a pair of obsidian tusks jut forward from the sides of her wide, thin-lipped mouth, each half the length of a man's forearm, thick as a shovel handle, and etched with the same silver runes as her body, spiralling from base to sharpened, curved tip. These final features lend an air of menace to the woman's overall figure. A pervading aura of tension surrounds her, creating a nearly imperceptible haze around her mighty form. Wrapped around the shoulder and secured with a copper band is a paired shoulder cord showing off colors of red and crimson.