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Events post #328: The Second War of Night, Part XX: A Dragon's Promise
8/29/2022 at 3:41
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XX: A Dragon's Promise
Ohlsana's Generals continued testing the defences of Sapience's cities, save for Bloodloch who still, after prolonged weeks of military sojourns and violent skirmishes with the other three on the part of the Shadow, remained unharmed, its resistance not yet challenged. Dragonlings now lurked among the hosts sent forth from their respective commandposts, the brunt of the damage suffered by Spinesreach, for which Generals Telorach and Mazgal seemed to harbour particular desire to do harm. Nevertheless, each incursion provided valuable experience to those under siege, their reactions faster, their forces more disciplined.
While Enorian turned their focus to angelic communion, Spinesreach hastily developed ballista technology to battle the corrupt dragon brood, Duiran awaited Haern's return from Dia'ruis, and Bloodloch made promising overtures to the Empress Xa'azamit (this writer notes that he is not terribly invested in the Empress's continued survival, perpetually or otherwise) and her Corrupt Court, insidious divisions of Shadowbound soldiers continued attempting claims in the world. Encouraged by some scant success in Mostyn, the emboldened troops attempted a similar claim at North of Trees, and another brazenly marched into and through the City of Spinesreach itself to lay a claim to part of the Tundra. Both were stymied.
Assaults on Arbothia met a similar fate; absent the shadowworm that so riotously tainted the already-ailing Bloodwood, the eastern village survived a large incursion, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Sapience, ably supported by the mace of Exarch Berrad. A quiet confidence prevailed, despite the dark star growing in size and antiluminosity amidst the stratosphere, the ugly, light-purloining phenomenon seeming to become larger with each passing day.
In early Lanosian, members of the Sentaari and Sciomancers overheard clandestine conversations, the former through enhanced telepathy and the latter via the latent connection to Shadow. Though fragmented and hard to decipher, battle plans were soon unravelled, the target of the Shadow's next strike becoming clear: Saluria. Word quickly spread thanks to Pentas, Ayanala, Aisling, and Wjoltyr, and Sapience took up arms in preparation, wheeling bells and ballistae into the rainforest-surrounded village and urging the inhabitants to evacuate. Most resisted, stating that Shadow was no stranger to them, and declared their intention to fight. They would soon get their wish.
Around a day and a half after the warning, while preparations for Saluria's defence continued, divisions of Shadowbound soldiers marched into the Square of Sonn, fanning outwards around the village and fortifying themselves in readiness to spread the shadowrot. The call to arms went out, and it was Duiran under Iesid and Sibatti who responded first, rapidly followed by Bulrok and Sheryni of Bloodloch. Durdalis and horrors marched forth to meet the Shadowbound, taking grave losses but triumphing. Victory was short lived. More divisions marched in with similar intentions, and, as Duiran and Bloodloch scrambled to field more of their own troops, pleas to the Dragon of the North were rebuffed, the Spirean military left idle due to lack of designated command. Enorian answered the plea in the form of Kalena and Benedicto, bringing knights from the Beacon to assist.
Still the Shadowbound kept coming, and still the three armies resisted. When all but two sets of Ohlsana's soldiers had fallen, Senator Legyn at last brought the Spirean hoplites onto the field and, between those and the remaining knights, the Shadow's troops fell.
Immense pressure built all across the Primal Eye then, the breach between planes screaming in protest as the forces of Ohlsana wrenched it open ever further. Under the imperious eye of Shadow General Murgraxis, corrupted dragonlings spilled through the rift in droves, swiftly ascending to the darkling skies. Swarm by swarm they took their leave, sallying forth with shrieking resolve and fell purpose, black banners painting the air in a morass of unfurled pinions and gnashing fangs. At the smae time, orders rose from a clandestine outpost in the far south, the commands of General Saglozol a sussurant whisper of divergent voices conjoined as one authoritative demand.
Within mere minutes, streaks of black daubed the skies over Saluria with the arrival of Murgraxis' corrupted dragonflight, hovering in anticipation from their winged dominion over the town. Deploying more shadowspawn from their entrenched positions near the city states of Sapience, the Shadow Generals sent forth armies of their own, the disparate legions converging as one monstrous horde striding out towards Saluria. Amid bellicose war cries of bloodlust and confidence, the horde traipsed into the Western Itzatl and pressed on resolute, the rainforest's myriad inhabitants scurrying out of the way. Even the rojalli fled, seeking sanctuary from the otherworldly roar of Ohlsana's monstrous beasts and gruesome ghasts.
Pavement and cobbles sundered beneath the incoming black tide, shadowbound innumerable converging with murderous intent upon the village. The makings of rot bubbled up from a crack in the stone, the air shuddering queasily at the disgusting incursion. The invasion began in earnest, and carnage dominated Saluria both below and above, dragonlings scorching the sky and rampaging beasts trampling the ground. The adventurers fell again and again, rising each time with renewed resolve to destroy the interlopers as they had at Kald, as they had at Arbothia, as they had on the Tarea battlefield.
Fighting on through blood and injury, the shadowspawn proved that they were not, in fact, endless, the Alchemical conduit of Molotok proving deadly against the dragonlings in particular. The routing of both their infantry and their spawn left those that remained broken of courage and frayed of will. Yet as they turned to retreat, their escape was stymied, curtailed by forces invisible as a sudden sibilant wind rose at Saluria's heart to drown the village in blistering, bone-chilling cold. It began as little more than a hazy silhouette, a streak of darkness rippling through the air. The eldritch being, for that was surely what it was, sloshed itself into existence, pinpricks of inky black congealing and contorting to shape a vaguely humanoid apparition. Then, the errant shadowspawn fled with greater zeal, the tempestuous winds a sinister harbinger, herald to the arrival of Shadow Lieutenant Sphere, once a guardian of the Shadow gate now twisted to Ohlsana's corrupt purpose. As she entered the fray, her amorphous presence undulated wildly, like the night sky incarnate forced into distinguishable form.
Death and murder reigned for an entire quarter day, the Shadow Lieutenant proving herself a formidable opponent. Each adventurer she felled found their heart torn loose and tainted to Sphere's fell purpose, radiating agony with each blow she took from the some fifty three adventurers arrayed against her. Unstable singularities exploded violently at her behest as she preyed on the minds of the weak, claiming life after life after life without pause. Sapience rallied and brought spell and sword against her despite the theatre of death on which she played. Even as she faltered, swarms of grotesque, crawling darkborne came forth at the crooning call of their mother macabre, but they too were vanquished. After girding themselves and enduring protracted battle, the harrowing, shrill scream of defeat at last came from the Shadow Lieutenant, whose spectral form discorporated to specks of blacklist dust. The howling winds died to little more than a muted zephyr, scattering the Lieutenant's remains.
Far in the north, the ire of Murgraxis split the skies with a draconic roar of absolute rancour, defeat fomenting indignation in Ohlsana's Dragon-made-General. Agile and swift, he soon took flight above conquered Sterion and soared southward, leathery wings stirring miniature squalls with each repetitive beat. His voice grated with frustration, coldly dismissing Kolgrik and Sphere as failures while naming Agrimarha the worst of them all as he vowed to see to Saluria's destruction himself. Swarms of dragonlings joined their profane progenitor in flight, their mass swelling to fill the heavens. Plumes of grey-black smoke spilled from their nostrils, alighting the air with dervishes of cyclonic filth. In short order, the long shadow of Murgraxis and his brood fell like a heavy blanket across the Itzatl, the twisted, foetid, tainted dragonflight nearing its destination. Shades of black and violet painted the skies, the very air scorched, infected by the rot of Shadow's befouling touch.
Pride stirred from Her roost and Spinesreach trembled, the Dragon of the North quaking in upheaval beneath the manifest wrath of its ancient, elder namesake. Four eyes of silver opened as one, and Midwinter's Star spiralled upwards into the firmament, Her monstrous bulk cresting heavensward at terrifying speeds. In a voice brooking no denial, She reminded Murgraxis of the warning She had issued to not trespass in Her domain, making Her own vow to keep Her promise.
Flanked on all sides by uncountable dragonling spawn, Murgraxis held fast, the beating of his wings a steady, confident rhythm. The shadowbound dragonlings fanned out, surrounding their father in a protective formation, and the air itself seemed to shiver in anticipation, an arc of coruscating lightning presaging the Sun Drinker's imminent descent. Clouds fled from the path of Tanixalthas, the power of Sky Dreaming wreathing the winged Goddess in a captivating aura of azurine light, and like a comet She streaked across the heavens, the skies convulsing in exaltation to mark Her ineffable passage.
The First Dragon wheeled above Saluria, peering down with inconsolable anger at the General hovering below. Her muscled form tensed before She dove at Murgraxis, a thunderous sonic boom exploding outwards as She collided. Incandescent lightning illuminated all of Sapience in a sheen of lucent blue, roiling storms gathering about and above Saluria in vaporous clouds pregnant with soon-to-be-unleashed rage. Brilliant flame poured from the jaws of Tanixalthas, tooth and talon and fire working as one to harry the Shadow's General. Inky blackness shrouded Murgraxis in a sinister penumbra, each flap of his wings unleashing cascading waves of oily filth toward the First Dragon, turning aside Her indignant lightning and redirecting it elsewhere. Enraged, Sky Dreaming pressed forward without mercy or compassion, the two Dragons fencing in a frenzied exchange of raking claws against armoured scale, of monstrous jaws closing about draconic limbs, both fighting with intent to kill.
Despite the strength and confidence of Murgraxis, Midwinter's Star fought like a blur, a draconic spectre of impossible speed and orgiastic violence, Her powerful limbs and rapacious jaws working independently of each other to ravage Her opponent again and again. Seething as they came to his defence, the brood of Murgraxis moved to surround Tanixalthas, sheer numbers shrouding Her from sight behind the aerial black wave. A great bellowing roar tore free from Her maw and the turbid stormclouds detonated, spraying arcs of scintillating lightning and shards of frozen hail in all directions.
Dozens of broodlings fell from the air, vanquished by the lambent fury of Sky Dreaming's relentless storm, and the dance of Dragons went on. Fire and filth clashed still in the firmament, Air Goddess and Shadow General trading sweeping blows of titanic might. The swarm of Murgraxis pressed in further around the Sun Drinker, the vast swarm tearing at Her scales as blackened fire seared angrily at Her craggy body. Waves of putrescent smog erupted from the maw of Murgraxis, ash and smoke and ruin raining down on all who dwelt below. The Shadowbound Dragon banked in mid flight and surged at the now-struggling Tanixalthas, fangs and talons bared and hungry.
The firmament shuddered, yielding to the thunderous voice of Tanixalthas as She boomed a single word in the tongue of the Dragon: ZFELAUKAL. Almost immediately, ominous clouds rolled in on a swift-rising wind, a vigorous mistral keening with every gust bringing the eddying storm nearer. The air creased, convulsing as if alive, frenetic incandescence flashing in and out of focus with the sky as its stage. In moments, cacophonous shrieking shattered the illusory conjuration, cloud cover dissipating in strands of gelid cirrocumulus to reveal Pride's brood, roused to vicious anger by the threat facing the Sun Drinker.
The chorus of young Dragons boomed in horrifying unison across the skyscape, draconic voices lifted in outrage, paean for their beloved Mother and harbinger to their soon-to-be retribution. Effortless flight ensued, the winged motions of a true and untainted dragonflight fanning out as one mind bent to singular purpose. Cerulean fire blazed bright, synchronous conflagrations set loose against the darkling spawn. Each determined to triumph, the two opposing broods clashed in the clouds, talon and claw lashing out alongside azure flame and black-grey haze. Making known Her ire in the form of an explosive tempest, She Who Hungers rolled in mid flight, a sinuous motion inciting turbulent gusts to toss myriad shadowbound aside into the waiting jaws of Her issue.
Emerging from the swarm surrounding Her, Tanixalthas levelled out, Her rippling scales dappled with spots of Her own blood. She paid Her injuries no heed, the silver quartet that is Her gaze trained, nay, fixated on one thought, and one alone. Murgraxis jeered at the Dragon Goddess and lunged, yawning wide his maw to unleash another torrent of shadowflame
even as claws came up to rend Her in twine.
But the Shadowbound Dragon was found lacking against the might of the First Dragon. The fathomless pique of an ancient, elder being flared to an impossibly vivid radiance, a storm of bedazzling incandescence shrouding She to Whom the world is young in its terrible embrace. Awash in Her crown of storms, the Dragon Goddess turned aside the flood of dark dragons, felling them from the heavens - Her heavens - with nary a thought nor effort. A snarling rictus contorted on Her face and She roared a challenge - to Murgraxis, to the world entire - aloud. Forward She glided through Her domain, the ultimate predator launching towards the ultimate prey. Heavy sleet rained down from above to batter at Murgraxis, empowered hail lancing viciously at scale and armoured hide alike.
Again the firmament shuddered as Sky Dreaming raised Her voice. "YOU ARE NOTHING, FALSE DRAGON." She roared. "YOUR TIME IS ENDED." Claps of deafening thunder heralded the Sun Drinker's second mighty collision with the Shadow General, the force of Her impact driving the storms to yet greater intensity. Stunned, Murgraxis lifted his wings to shield himself, violet tendrils coalescing about him in a final act of defiant survival.
With a squall of callous, predatory delight, the Sun Drinker's claws at last struck true, cutting ruthlessly at Her enemy in a furore of unrestrained violence. Black blood spattered across the ground below as She withdrew Her questing talons, the General's heart clutched in Her grip. Bellowing Her triumph for all to hear, the Dragon Goddess shredded the organ into umbral ribbons, the defeated corpse of Her prey left to feed Her brood before it could even hit the ground. Injured but victorious, Sky Dreaming took a long, appraising look of the smoking battlefield beneath Her and turned north, Her awkward flight carrying Her into Spinesreach where She alighted atop the Dragon Spire to nurse Her remaining wounds. Promising Spinesreach the Dragon's skull as a trophy once Her brood had finished feasting, She slipped into rest.
As the dust settled over Saluria, a faint ray of light drew the eye to nearby fields, where something long lost flickered in the grass. The shard of Truth's Sword was quickly acquired by one deft, resourceful adventurer, its current location unknown, but nonetheless spared from the Shadow's hands. In the east, outrage marked the camp of General Isalemei at Murgraxis' fall, the slender, armoured figure of Shadow General Azgon marching forth from his post in the Pash Valley to take up reluctant sentinel at the heart of Czjetija's Primal Eye, where he now patrols...
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 15th of Lanosian, in the year 504 MA.
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XX: A Dragon's Promise
Ohlsana's Generals continued testing the defences of Sapience's cities, save for Bloodloch who still, after prolonged weeks of military sojourns and violent skirmishes with the other three on the part of the Shadow, remained unharmed, its resistance not yet challenged. Dragonlings now lurked among the hosts sent forth from their respective commandposts, the brunt of the damage suffered by Spinesreach, for which Generals Telorach and Mazgal seemed to harbour particular desire to do harm. Nevertheless, each incursion provided valuable experience to those under siege, their reactions faster, their forces more disciplined.
While Enorian turned their focus to angelic communion, Spinesreach hastily developed ballista technology to battle the corrupt dragon brood, Duiran awaited Haern's return from Dia'ruis, and Bloodloch made promising overtures to the Empress Xa'azamit (this writer notes that he is not terribly invested in the Empress's continued survival, perpetually or otherwise) and her Corrupt Court, insidious divisions of Shadowbound soldiers continued attempting claims in the world. Encouraged by some scant success in Mostyn, the emboldened troops attempted a similar claim at North of Trees, and another brazenly marched into and through the City of Spinesreach itself to lay a claim to part of the Tundra. Both were stymied.
Assaults on Arbothia met a similar fate; absent the shadowworm that so riotously tainted the already-ailing Bloodwood, the eastern village survived a large incursion, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Sapience, ably supported by the mace of Exarch Berrad. A quiet confidence prevailed, despite the dark star growing in size and antiluminosity amidst the stratosphere, the ugly, light-purloining phenomenon seeming to become larger with each passing day.
In early Lanosian, members of the Sentaari and Sciomancers overheard clandestine conversations, the former through enhanced telepathy and the latter via the latent connection to Shadow. Though fragmented and hard to decipher, battle plans were soon unravelled, the target of the Shadow's next strike becoming clear: Saluria. Word quickly spread thanks to Pentas, Ayanala, Aisling, and Wjoltyr, and Sapience took up arms in preparation, wheeling bells and ballistae into the rainforest-surrounded village and urging the inhabitants to evacuate. Most resisted, stating that Shadow was no stranger to them, and declared their intention to fight. They would soon get their wish.
Around a day and a half after the warning, while preparations for Saluria's defence continued, divisions of Shadowbound soldiers marched into the Square of Sonn, fanning outwards around the village and fortifying themselves in readiness to spread the shadowrot. The call to arms went out, and it was Duiran under Iesid and Sibatti who responded first, rapidly followed by Bulrok and Sheryni of Bloodloch. Durdalis and horrors marched forth to meet the Shadowbound, taking grave losses but triumphing. Victory was short lived. More divisions marched in with similar intentions, and, as Duiran and Bloodloch scrambled to field more of their own troops, pleas to the Dragon of the North were rebuffed, the Spirean military left idle due to lack of designated command. Enorian answered the plea in the form of Kalena and Benedicto, bringing knights from the Beacon to assist.
Still the Shadowbound kept coming, and still the three armies resisted. When all but two sets of Ohlsana's soldiers had fallen, Senator Legyn at last brought the Spirean hoplites onto the field and, between those and the remaining knights, the Shadow's troops fell.
Immense pressure built all across the Primal Eye then, the breach between planes screaming in protest as the forces of Ohlsana wrenched it open ever further. Under the imperious eye of Shadow General Murgraxis, corrupted dragonlings spilled through the rift in droves, swiftly ascending to the darkling skies. Swarm by swarm they took their leave, sallying forth with shrieking resolve and fell purpose, black banners painting the air in a morass of unfurled pinions and gnashing fangs. At the smae time, orders rose from a clandestine outpost in the far south, the commands of General Saglozol a sussurant whisper of divergent voices conjoined as one authoritative demand.
Within mere minutes, streaks of black daubed the skies over Saluria with the arrival of Murgraxis' corrupted dragonflight, hovering in anticipation from their winged dominion over the town. Deploying more shadowspawn from their entrenched positions near the city states of Sapience, the Shadow Generals sent forth armies of their own, the disparate legions converging as one monstrous horde striding out towards Saluria. Amid bellicose war cries of bloodlust and confidence, the horde traipsed into the Western Itzatl and pressed on resolute, the rainforest's myriad inhabitants scurrying out of the way. Even the rojalli fled, seeking sanctuary from the otherworldly roar of Ohlsana's monstrous beasts and gruesome ghasts.
Pavement and cobbles sundered beneath the incoming black tide, shadowbound innumerable converging with murderous intent upon the village. The makings of rot bubbled up from a crack in the stone, the air shuddering queasily at the disgusting incursion. The invasion began in earnest, and carnage dominated Saluria both below and above, dragonlings scorching the sky and rampaging beasts trampling the ground. The adventurers fell again and again, rising each time with renewed resolve to destroy the interlopers as they had at Kald, as they had at Arbothia, as they had on the Tarea battlefield.
Fighting on through blood and injury, the shadowspawn proved that they were not, in fact, endless, the Alchemical conduit of Molotok proving deadly against the dragonlings in particular. The routing of both their infantry and their spawn left those that remained broken of courage and frayed of will. Yet as they turned to retreat, their escape was stymied, curtailed by forces invisible as a sudden sibilant wind rose at Saluria's heart to drown the village in blistering, bone-chilling cold. It began as little more than a hazy silhouette, a streak of darkness rippling through the air. The eldritch being, for that was surely what it was, sloshed itself into existence, pinpricks of inky black congealing and contorting to shape a vaguely humanoid apparition. Then, the errant shadowspawn fled with greater zeal, the tempestuous winds a sinister harbinger, herald to the arrival of Shadow Lieutenant Sphere, once a guardian of the Shadow gate now twisted to Ohlsana's corrupt purpose. As she entered the fray, her amorphous presence undulated wildly, like the night sky incarnate forced into distinguishable form.
Death and murder reigned for an entire quarter day, the Shadow Lieutenant proving herself a formidable opponent. Each adventurer she felled found their heart torn loose and tainted to Sphere's fell purpose, radiating agony with each blow she took from the some fifty three adventurers arrayed against her. Unstable singularities exploded violently at her behest as she preyed on the minds of the weak, claiming life after life after life without pause. Sapience rallied and brought spell and sword against her despite the theatre of death on which she played. Even as she faltered, swarms of grotesque, crawling darkborne came forth at the crooning call of their mother macabre, but they too were vanquished. After girding themselves and enduring protracted battle, the harrowing, shrill scream of defeat at last came from the Shadow Lieutenant, whose spectral form discorporated to specks of blacklist dust. The howling winds died to little more than a muted zephyr, scattering the Lieutenant's remains.
Far in the north, the ire of Murgraxis split the skies with a draconic roar of absolute rancour, defeat fomenting indignation in Ohlsana's Dragon-made-General. Agile and swift, he soon took flight above conquered Sterion and soared southward, leathery wings stirring miniature squalls with each repetitive beat. His voice grated with frustration, coldly dismissing Kolgrik and Sphere as failures while naming Agrimarha the worst of them all as he vowed to see to Saluria's destruction himself. Swarms of dragonlings joined their profane progenitor in flight, their mass swelling to fill the heavens. Plumes of grey-black smoke spilled from their nostrils, alighting the air with dervishes of cyclonic filth. In short order, the long shadow of Murgraxis and his brood fell like a heavy blanket across the Itzatl, the twisted, foetid, tainted dragonflight nearing its destination. Shades of black and violet painted the skies, the very air scorched, infected by the rot of Shadow's befouling touch.
Pride stirred from Her roost and Spinesreach trembled, the Dragon of the North quaking in upheaval beneath the manifest wrath of its ancient, elder namesake. Four eyes of silver opened as one, and Midwinter's Star spiralled upwards into the firmament, Her monstrous bulk cresting heavensward at terrifying speeds. In a voice brooking no denial, She reminded Murgraxis of the warning She had issued to not trespass in Her domain, making Her own vow to keep Her promise.
Flanked on all sides by uncountable dragonling spawn, Murgraxis held fast, the beating of his wings a steady, confident rhythm. The shadowbound dragonlings fanned out, surrounding their father in a protective formation, and the air itself seemed to shiver in anticipation, an arc of coruscating lightning presaging the Sun Drinker's imminent descent. Clouds fled from the path of Tanixalthas, the power of Sky Dreaming wreathing the winged Goddess in a captivating aura of azurine light, and like a comet She streaked across the heavens, the skies convulsing in exaltation to mark Her ineffable passage.
The First Dragon wheeled above Saluria, peering down with inconsolable anger at the General hovering below. Her muscled form tensed before She dove at Murgraxis, a thunderous sonic boom exploding outwards as She collided. Incandescent lightning illuminated all of Sapience in a sheen of lucent blue, roiling storms gathering about and above Saluria in vaporous clouds pregnant with soon-to-be-unleashed rage. Brilliant flame poured from the jaws of Tanixalthas, tooth and talon and fire working as one to harry the Shadow's General. Inky blackness shrouded Murgraxis in a sinister penumbra, each flap of his wings unleashing cascading waves of oily filth toward the First Dragon, turning aside Her indignant lightning and redirecting it elsewhere. Enraged, Sky Dreaming pressed forward without mercy or compassion, the two Dragons fencing in a frenzied exchange of raking claws against armoured scale, of monstrous jaws closing about draconic limbs, both fighting with intent to kill.
Despite the strength and confidence of Murgraxis, Midwinter's Star fought like a blur, a draconic spectre of impossible speed and orgiastic violence, Her powerful limbs and rapacious jaws working independently of each other to ravage Her opponent again and again. Seething as they came to his defence, the brood of Murgraxis moved to surround Tanixalthas, sheer numbers shrouding Her from sight behind the aerial black wave. A great bellowing roar tore free from Her maw and the turbid stormclouds detonated, spraying arcs of scintillating lightning and shards of frozen hail in all directions.
Dozens of broodlings fell from the air, vanquished by the lambent fury of Sky Dreaming's relentless storm, and the dance of Dragons went on. Fire and filth clashed still in the firmament, Air Goddess and Shadow General trading sweeping blows of titanic might. The swarm of Murgraxis pressed in further around the Sun Drinker, the vast swarm tearing at Her scales as blackened fire seared angrily at Her craggy body. Waves of putrescent smog erupted from the maw of Murgraxis, ash and smoke and ruin raining down on all who dwelt below. The Shadowbound Dragon banked in mid flight and surged at the now-struggling Tanixalthas, fangs and talons bared and hungry.
The firmament shuddered, yielding to the thunderous voice of Tanixalthas as She boomed a single word in the tongue of the Dragon: ZFELAUKAL. Almost immediately, ominous clouds rolled in on a swift-rising wind, a vigorous mistral keening with every gust bringing the eddying storm nearer. The air creased, convulsing as if alive, frenetic incandescence flashing in and out of focus with the sky as its stage. In moments, cacophonous shrieking shattered the illusory conjuration, cloud cover dissipating in strands of gelid cirrocumulus to reveal Pride's brood, roused to vicious anger by the threat facing the Sun Drinker.
The chorus of young Dragons boomed in horrifying unison across the skyscape, draconic voices lifted in outrage, paean for their beloved Mother and harbinger to their soon-to-be retribution. Effortless flight ensued, the winged motions of a true and untainted dragonflight fanning out as one mind bent to singular purpose. Cerulean fire blazed bright, synchronous conflagrations set loose against the darkling spawn. Each determined to triumph, the two opposing broods clashed in the clouds, talon and claw lashing out alongside azure flame and black-grey haze. Making known Her ire in the form of an explosive tempest, She Who Hungers rolled in mid flight, a sinuous motion inciting turbulent gusts to toss myriad shadowbound aside into the waiting jaws of Her issue.
Emerging from the swarm surrounding Her, Tanixalthas levelled out, Her rippling scales dappled with spots of Her own blood. She paid Her injuries no heed, the silver quartet that is Her gaze trained, nay, fixated on one thought, and one alone. Murgraxis jeered at the Dragon Goddess and lunged, yawning wide his maw to unleash another torrent of shadowflame
even as claws came up to rend Her in twine.
But the Shadowbound Dragon was found lacking against the might of the First Dragon. The fathomless pique of an ancient, elder being flared to an impossibly vivid radiance, a storm of bedazzling incandescence shrouding She to Whom the world is young in its terrible embrace. Awash in Her crown of storms, the Dragon Goddess turned aside the flood of dark dragons, felling them from the heavens - Her heavens - with nary a thought nor effort. A snarling rictus contorted on Her face and She roared a challenge - to Murgraxis, to the world entire - aloud. Forward She glided through Her domain, the ultimate predator launching towards the ultimate prey. Heavy sleet rained down from above to batter at Murgraxis, empowered hail lancing viciously at scale and armoured hide alike.
Again the firmament shuddered as Sky Dreaming raised Her voice. "YOU ARE NOTHING, FALSE DRAGON." She roared. "YOUR TIME IS ENDED." Claps of deafening thunder heralded the Sun Drinker's second mighty collision with the Shadow General, the force of Her impact driving the storms to yet greater intensity. Stunned, Murgraxis lifted his wings to shield himself, violet tendrils coalescing about him in a final act of defiant survival.
With a squall of callous, predatory delight, the Sun Drinker's claws at last struck true, cutting ruthlessly at Her enemy in a furore of unrestrained violence. Black blood spattered across the ground below as She withdrew Her questing talons, the General's heart clutched in Her grip. Bellowing Her triumph for all to hear, the Dragon Goddess shredded the organ into umbral ribbons, the defeated corpse of Her prey left to feed Her brood before it could even hit the ground. Injured but victorious, Sky Dreaming took a long, appraising look of the smoking battlefield beneath Her and turned north, Her awkward flight carrying Her into Spinesreach where She alighted atop the Dragon Spire to nurse Her remaining wounds. Promising Spinesreach the Dragon's skull as a trophy once Her brood had finished feasting, She slipped into rest.
As the dust settled over Saluria, a faint ray of light drew the eye to nearby fields, where something long lost flickered in the grass. The shard of Truth's Sword was quickly acquired by one deft, resourceful adventurer, its current location unknown, but nonetheless spared from the Shadow's hands. In the east, outrage marked the camp of General Isalemei at Murgraxis' fall, the slender, armoured figure of Shadow General Azgon marching forth from his post in the Pash Valley to take up reluctant sentinel at the heart of Czjetija's Primal Eye, where he now patrols...
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 15th of Lanosian, in the year 504 MA.
The Girls of Enorian
A bit of fun with one of the new Templar Pages where I tried to do something a bit different. Added to The Chronicles of Benedicto.
Benedicto
Nimiphi
The Landward Gate.
A small pile of garbage has been left here carelessly. Suspended from a venantium hoop, a windchime of nacreous black crystal hangs here. Positioned with solemn purpose, a large silver bell hangs here. Stalking around in an oval nearby is the form of a sprightly adolescent emu. Positioned above the Landward Gate, a large iron bell hangs here. Viciously fixed with iron spikes, this heavy barrel sits as an obstacle. A large golden bell hangs opposite the gate where the road splits. Lip curled in a permanent, disgruntled snarl, a golden statue of Rhulin Glintspear, the Engineer is on display here. A fire-blackened anvil lies here, surface emblazoned with the symbol of a dual flame. Rising stark towards the sky, the spindly frame of the Wheel of Fates is here. Glancing around with a vicious air, a medium-sized, dark green taerilan is nearby. Humming with energy, a crystal aegis has been attuned to this location. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. An unoccupied processing booth has been set up by the roadside, hastily painted in Enorian's colors. A dormant shrine of Slyphe stands here. The shattered bodies of many mounted knights lie here, their gleaming armor now sullied by the grit and blood of their final battle. Carried on four wheels, a Spirean ballista is here. A company of thirteen mounted armored knights stands here, bearing the banners of Enorian. They wear the blessing of Slyphe. A company of one hundred mounted armored knights stands here, bearing the banners of Enorian. They wear the blessing of Slyphe. Snowflakes falling from its form, a miniature ice elemental rests here. There are 5 steadfast Templars here. There are 5 imposing Luminaries here. There are 5 Zealot firebrands here. There are 5 gold-marked temple warriors here. There are 5 Ascendrils battlemage here. Two stockings have been hung up here.
You see exits leading north, south, and up.
Your pose is now set as:
Idly strumming a lute, Benedicto sits watching the northern road.
<<<<< A short time later >>>>>
Saltz enters from the north, followed by Nimiphi.
Saltz inclines his head politely to those around him.
Nimiphi beams broadly at Saltz.
Saltz leaves to the north, riding a flaming stallion.
Quickly snapping to a rigid stance, Nimiphi brings her weapon to a vertical position infront of her chest in an act of respect towards you.
You have emoted: Hearing the clatter of movement beside him, Benedicto turns to find Nimiphi saluting him. He issues a faint huff of laughter and lifts his hand to return the greeting. "Well met Page. At ease." He instructs her.
Nimiphi releases herself from her tensed posture, lowering her shoulders to a more relaxed position.
Nimiphi glances pointedly up at you for a time before looking out along the approach. "Keeping a watch out, Sir?"
You have emoted: Benedicto nods his head by way of confirmation. "Correct." He answers, his pearlescent eyes swinging back towards the Raphaelan and the Pash beyond. "It is my honor to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our guards who are sacrificing their lives to defend our homes." He returns his gaze to Nimiphi. "And try to provide some light entertainment as I am able." He glances sheepishly down at a simple wooden lute.
Nimiphi glances around at the many guards before returning her attention to you, and more noticeably the lute. "That looks complicated," she notes of the instrument, her forehead furrow in some fashion of analysis of the thing.
You have emoted: "It's relatively straightforward to be average at the thing." Benedicto replies as he hefts the instrument. "However, fiendishly tricky to be considered 'good'." He lowers it again. "Therefore, I fall well and truly into the category of 'average'." He gives the strings an idle strum, each note rich and warm as it cascades into the space between you. "I spend most of my time writing ditties to amuse myself."
Finding some need to share what occupies her time also, Nimiphi offers a little smile, and says, "I spend most of my time hunting to get taller!"
You have emoted: Benedicto raises his slender brows at that. "As a Page, I would have thought you'd be working towards becoming a Squire?" His tone is serious, but a quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests otherwise.
Not one to catch easily onto humor or otherwise, Nimiphi gasps with a horrified look. "OF COURSE THAT TOO!" She says very loudly, shifting on her small feet a few paces around you. "But that takes time! And lots of effort! And speaking to people!"
You have emoted: "You're speaking to someone right now." Benedicto observes meaningfully.
Nimiphi retrieves a small notebook, sifting rapidly through pages of roughly-scribbled words. "You're not on my list, Sir!"
<<<<< Ayastia walks in and hands Benedicto a bunch of dead herrings >>>>>
You have emoted: Benedicto quickly hands the fish to a nearby guard. "Do something with those will you? There's a good fellow." His lips curl in distaste as he quickly wipes his hands and turns his attention back to Nimiphi. "I am not? How rude."
Nimiphi stares at you with what seem perpetually-wide blue eyes, some manner of nervousness growing on her features. "I am waiting for Lady Ayastia who is helping me get a shirt design to the Templar guild shop," she begins to explain in an apparent attempt to excuse said 'rudeness'. "When that is done, I am to hand that design to Lady Ranae-" She flips to another page of her notes. "Then Sir Xavin said he'd talk to me about Ylem so I can get that task done... but you're not on my list, Sir!" She insists, stubborn little Gnome she is. "Unless you wish to... voluntarily teach me something interesting!"
You have emoted: Benedicto weighs Nimiphi's response heavily, his brow furrowing deeply as he contemplates her in silence. Finally, he breaks the tension with a nod. "Then I shall teach you something interesting." His voice is laden with import.
Clutching an edge of her cloak with both small hands, Nimiphi glances up to you hopefully. "Really?" She asks. "What?" She wonders further, excitedly. "About the Templars? Or Enorian?" She shuffles on her feet with contained energy. "Or that... thing?" She points sharply at your lute.
You have emoted: Benedicto grins suddenly. "All of it." So saying, he flourishes a simple wooden lute and begins to pluck an uplifting melody, the tune simple but exceedingly catchy. "This is a song about the beauty of Enorian."
Nimiphi gasps with surprise. "I was right!" She bursts excitedly, clapping her hands merrily to the tune of your lute.
You sing, "The women of Loch are bitey, they'll drain a fella dry, And the Syssin girls of Spinesreach always spin you in a lie."
You sing, "The forest folk, they like to choke and I don't want to die, So I'll travel south or east and, you know the reason why."
You have emoted: Benedicto launches into what is clearly the chorus as he ceases his picking and begins to strum in earnest. His baritone voice - though rough - holds the notes well and his enjoyment lends his efforts an air of authenticity. So much so, that the nearby guards and troops begin to grin amongst themselves, tapping feet, weapons and hands against the nearest available surface.
You sing, "I'll take the Raphaelan to the girls back home, Where the beds are soft and the weathers warm and you never sleep alone."
You sing, "The bells they are a-ringing from the Temple up on high, Oh Enorian, I'm home at last. I'll never say goodbye!"
You have emoted: Benedicto resolves the chorus to a series of whistles and enthusiastic shouts from the assembled citizenry as his fingers go back to plucking out the tune as he dives back into the second verse.
You sing, "I've been to Arget Massai and in a vipers nest, everywhere I've been to, I still know where is the best."
You sing, "I've tried the dusky women, in the dark of old Djeir, But the only girls worth coming home to are the ones that live right here."
Nimiphi continues to clap along, a foot tapping cheerfully without much tune but with plenty of enthusiasm.
You have emoted: "Everybody!" Benedicto shouts, nodding encouragingly to his engaged audience of Nimiphi, troops and guards.
You sing, "I'll take the Raphaelan to the girls back home, Where the beds are soft and the weathers warm and you never sleep alone."
You sing, "The bells they are a-ringing from the Temple up on high, Oh Enorian, I'm home at last. I'll never say goodbye!"
Clearly not one to memorize anything too quickly, Nimiphi manages to hum somewhat along, the only discernible words coming from her being, "Oh Enorian!"
You have emoted: Benedicto smiles happily as the troops and guards surrounding Nimiphi all bellow out - in a wide varying range of vocal capability - "I'LL NEVER SAY GOODBYE!"
Plucking the strings, you exclaim, "Now for the next verse!"
You sing, "Esterport girls will give you love, in exchange they want your gold, and the Dryads of the Vintal are thousands of years old."
You sing, "The whores of Huanzedha, don't even know their own name, Yes I'll go home towards the Beacon where the ladies earned their fame."
You have emoted: As Benedicto reaches the chorus once more, he is not required to rouse the assembled guardsmen and troops of the Beacon as they eagerly engage in singing it, "I'LL TAKE THE RAPHAELAN TO THE GIRLS BACK HOME, WHERE THE BEDS ARE SOFT, THE WEATHERS WARM AND YOU'LL NEVER SLEEP ALONE! THE BELLS THEY ARE A-RINGING FROM THE TEMPLE UP ON HIGH! OH ENORIAN I'M HOME AT LAST, I'LL NEVER SAY GOODBYE!"
Nimiphi's head bobs along to the rhythm, an entertained expression bearing a broad, ear-to-ear smile as she claps and stamps her small foot, making scarcely any noise amidst the loud assembly. Carefully she avoids the feet of many a too enthusiastic guard. "I'll never say goodbye!" She echoes.
You have emoted: Benedicto chuckles softly before he hushes his audience, lowering the volume of his plucking so that the din must quiet for him to be heard. There is a rapid shushing and hissing for silence from amongst those gathered here as he heads into the final verse.
You sing, "I've slummed it in Albedos, I hit the Helbans hard, but they got fed up of all my guff and kicked me out their yard!"
You sing, "I've been to El'Jazira but I got turned away, so on the road I guess I'll go and return from whence I came!"
You have emoted: Benedicto delays his transition into the chorus, instead he remains plucking the final notes of the verse in a repeating cycle as he sweeps his pearlescent gaze amongst his audience. An air of expectation begins to mount, the guards, troops and even the refugees waiting in line by the booth begin to bob up and down in counter-rhythm to the melody.
You have emoted: "Are you ready?!" Benedicto asks of his audience. "YES!" comes the response, though it is hesitant - scattered between those watching.
Balance Used: 0.93 seconds
Nimiphi throws up her hands and cheers wildly for you!
You have emoted: Benedicto shakes his head, his fingers still working the same notes over and over. "I said - ARE YOU READY?!" This time, he is greeted with a veritable roar of affirmation, all and sundry bellowing their confirmation. "YEESSSSSS!"
With a wild grin, you exclaim, "Heeeeeeere weeeee goooooo!"
You have emoted: Benedicto dives into the final chorus, the troops, citizens, guards and anyone in-between hollering out the chorus along with him. Some link arms and begin dancing with the nearest available partner, whilst others wrap their arms about their fellows in simple enjoyment of the music.
You sing, "I'LL TAKE THE RAPHAELAN TO THE GIRLS BACK HOME, WHERE THE BEDS ARE SOFT, THE WEATHER'S HOT AND YOU'LL NEVER BE ALONE! THE BELLS THEY ARE A-RINGING FROM THE TEMPLE UP ON HIGHHHHHHHH!!"
Unable to find a dancing partner her size in the immediate vicinity, Nimiphi resorts to merrily bobbing and clapping along, her voice lost in that of the loud chorus but her lips most definitely moving in song.
You have emoted: Benedicto's hand is a blur as he rapidly strums the final chord, drawing out the last syllable of the line. With a flourish, he reaches out to his audience, conducting them in the final refrain - mouthing the words along with them so they might know what he means. "OH ENORIAN, I'M HOME AT LAST! I'LL NEVEEEEER! SAAAAAAAAY! GOOOOOOOOOD! BYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEE!" As the crowd finishes the song, he plucks out a jaunty little melody and then ends the song with one last rousing chord. Finished, he sweeps a simple wooden lute from his shoulder and holds it by the neck as he bows towards the whooping and clapping citizenry.
Nimiphi applauds your performance enthusiastically, practically bouncing in place with sheer excitement. "Woo!" She practically hoots. "That was amazing!"
You have emoted: Benedicto places a webbed hand over his heart, bowing hither and thither to the applause. Finally, he straightens and says, "Thank you! Thank you!" The performance finished, the various members of the crowd begin to disperse, returning to their previous business. However, there is a palpable change in the atmosphere. What was once tense and silent has become vibrant, energetic and lively. He shoulders a simple wooden lute once more and moves to approach Nimiphi. "So Page, did you learn something valuable?" He asks as he nears her.
Nimiphi stares up at you for a time of silence, her blue eyes wide, her eyebrows high and her mouth partly-open. She hesitates not a second, when she says, "That you've had a lot of girlfriends, Sir!"
You have emoted: Benedicto's brows furrow at the response, seemingly caught off-guard. "What?!"
Nimiphi tilts her head to one side, and then the other, still watching you. "In Esterport, Djeir, Huanazheda, El'Jazira," as she enumerates, she holds her hands up, a finger rising with each mention. "Bloodloch, Spinesreach, Duiran... I'm going to run out of fingers, Sir!"
You have emoted: It takes Benedicto a moment to fully process the explanation, but soon realization dawns across his features and his laugh is a loud bark of mirth. "Ah, I see!" He flaps a hand dismissively at Nimiphi. "The song is just a bit of fun. Not an actual recollection of my exploits." He explains.
"Oh," Nimiphi utters simply as understanding dawns on her, and she stares for a time at nothing with a rather dumbfounded look. "I SEE!" She bursts, laughing a bit awkwardly, and raising a hand to scratch at her forehead.
You have emoted: Benedicto merely shakes his head, though his lips remain curled into a grin. "The lesson--" He begins, "--, is that it is our duty as Templar to lift the spirits of those around us. The citizens of the Beacon look to us as examples. If we despair, how do you think those poor bastards feel?" He jerks his head over his shoulder in the direction of the various fortified troops and meandering guards. "Being a Templar Knight is more than defending the innocent or running some Leech through with a sword. Do you understand?" He asks with a firm expression, his grin now dissipated.
Nimiphi slowly nods her head along your words, intently listening to the man. Her eyes follow where a gesture is made, but they return swiftly to you. "I understand, Sir!"
Benedicto
He is a muscular Yeleni duamvi of Kelki heritage and is clearly a creature born of the Maelstrom. His face is smooth and hairless with water-like veins barely visible beneath pale, blue skin. His broad features are characterized by sharp cheekbones, a square chin and piercing pearl-white eye. His left eye is split by a neat scar that runs from his brow to the hollow of his cheek. Thick tentacles of an off-white color form his 'hair' and are left free to dangle and rest upon his broad shoulders, the coils undulating lazily. His body is covered in midnight-blue scales that shift to an electric blue under direct light, silvery lines cut through the plating, tracing out a massive network of scars across his entire body. Most prominent of these is a large sunburst scar that dominates the center of his chest, stretching from shoulder to shoulder, throat to sternum. Translucent skin can be glimpsed between his fingers should he have cause to splay his hands. His body is well-muscled and toned, his movements smooth and fluid. He wears the gold and purple trimmed scabbard of a Justiciar. The clean scent of a refreshing sea breeze lingers around him - the aroma marking the blessing of the Maelstrom. Suffused with a pale glow, he walks with the blessing of the Unbound.
(hanging from a klaio bronze pendant chain) : a tempestuous globe of the Maelstrom
(hanging loose from his right shoulder) : a Knight's draping white cloak
(ringing his left shoulder) : decorative shoulder cords
(form fitting and belted at the waist) : a sleeveless, gold and midnight blue uniform
(strapped to the belt at his hip) : a Royal Enorian Army soldier's quiver
(fitted to each bicep) : a set of oceanic aureate armbands
(secured upon his right forearm) : an engraved metallic arm piece
(impressed into the top of his right hand) : a flickering elemental brand
(decorating the top of his left hand) : an orange tiger tattoo
(worn upon his right index finger) : an intricate wedding band of mithril links
(worn upon his left index finger) : a robust wedding band of tarnished obsidian
(affixed to his armpiece) : a Slyphian astrolabe
(pinned prominently upon his lapel) : a gold and coral brooch of the Silverain
(hanging from his weaponbelt as a trophy) : the shrunken head of Nisavi
(hanging from a klaio bronze pendant chain) : a tempestuous globe of the Maelstrom
(hanging loose from his right shoulder) : a Knight's draping white cloak
(ringing his left shoulder) : decorative shoulder cords
(form fitting and belted at the waist) : a sleeveless, gold and midnight blue uniform
(strapped to the belt at his hip) : a Royal Enorian Army soldier's quiver
(fitted to each bicep) : a set of oceanic aureate armbands
(secured upon his right forearm) : an engraved metallic arm piece
(impressed into the top of his right hand) : a flickering elemental brand
(decorating the top of his left hand) : an orange tiger tattoo
(worn upon his right index finger) : an intricate wedding band of mithril links
(worn upon his left index finger) : a robust wedding band of tarnished obsidian
(affixed to his armpiece) : a Slyphian astrolabe
(pinned prominently upon his lapel) : a gold and coral brooch of the Silverain
(hanging from his weaponbelt as a trophy) : the shrunken head of Nisavi
Nimiphi
She is a typical Gnome and stands a whole two and a half feet, usually with a bearing of one tall and proud despite her height. Hair of a fiery orange falls in well-tended waves past the shoulders, with a neat fringe over the forehead, and contrasting with skin that is a pale hue as if rarely touched by direct sunlight. Sky blue eyes and small, pointed ears are other defining features, along a small button nose and rosy lips, of a hue just a few shades darker than the natural blush of her cheeks. Rather a compact creature, she bears a well-proportioned frame, with distinctly feminine curves. The clean scent of a refreshing sea breeze lingers around her - the aroma marking the boon of the Maelstrom.
(roughly hemmed short) : a white cloak trimmed in gold
(tucked neatly into her trousers) : a shirt of fine, white silk
(worn on a finger) : a silver ring
(worn on a finger) : a ring of the flood
(worn on a finger) : a silver leaf patterned ring
(cuffs folded several times) : some regulation slate-blue wool trousers
(worn on the feet) : a pair of tanned hide boots
(roughly hemmed short) : a white cloak trimmed in gold
(tucked neatly into her trousers) : a shirt of fine, white silk
(worn on a finger) : a silver ring
(worn on a finger) : a ring of the flood
(worn on a finger) : a silver leaf patterned ring
(cuffs folded several times) : some regulation slate-blue wool trousers
(worn on the feet) : a pair of tanned hide boots
The Landward Gate.
A small pile of garbage has been left here carelessly. Suspended from a venantium hoop, a windchime of nacreous black crystal hangs here. Positioned with solemn purpose, a large silver bell hangs here. Stalking around in an oval nearby is the form of a sprightly adolescent emu. Positioned above the Landward Gate, a large iron bell hangs here. Viciously fixed with iron spikes, this heavy barrel sits as an obstacle. A large golden bell hangs opposite the gate where the road splits. Lip curled in a permanent, disgruntled snarl, a golden statue of Rhulin Glintspear, the Engineer is on display here. A fire-blackened anvil lies here, surface emblazoned with the symbol of a dual flame. Rising stark towards the sky, the spindly frame of the Wheel of Fates is here. Glancing around with a vicious air, a medium-sized, dark green taerilan is nearby. Humming with energy, a crystal aegis has been attuned to this location. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. An unoccupied processing booth has been set up by the roadside, hastily painted in Enorian's colors. A dormant shrine of Slyphe stands here. The shattered bodies of many mounted knights lie here, their gleaming armor now sullied by the grit and blood of their final battle. Carried on four wheels, a Spirean ballista is here. A company of thirteen mounted armored knights stands here, bearing the banners of Enorian. They wear the blessing of Slyphe. A company of one hundred mounted armored knights stands here, bearing the banners of Enorian. They wear the blessing of Slyphe. Snowflakes falling from its form, a miniature ice elemental rests here. There are 5 steadfast Templars here. There are 5 imposing Luminaries here. There are 5 Zealot firebrands here. There are 5 gold-marked temple warriors here. There are 5 Ascendrils battlemage here. Two stockings have been hung up here.
You see exits leading north, south, and up.
Your pose is now set as:
Idly strumming a lute, Benedicto sits watching the northern road.
<<<<< A short time later >>>>>
Saltz enters from the north, followed by Nimiphi.
Saltz inclines his head politely to those around him.
Nimiphi beams broadly at Saltz.
Saltz leaves to the north, riding a flaming stallion.
Quickly snapping to a rigid stance, Nimiphi brings her weapon to a vertical position infront of her chest in an act of respect towards you.
You have emoted: Hearing the clatter of movement beside him, Benedicto turns to find Nimiphi saluting him. He issues a faint huff of laughter and lifts his hand to return the greeting. "Well met Page. At ease." He instructs her.
Nimiphi releases herself from her tensed posture, lowering her shoulders to a more relaxed position.
Nimiphi glances pointedly up at you for a time before looking out along the approach. "Keeping a watch out, Sir?"
You have emoted: Benedicto nods his head by way of confirmation. "Correct." He answers, his pearlescent eyes swinging back towards the Raphaelan and the Pash beyond. "It is my honor to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our guards who are sacrificing their lives to defend our homes." He returns his gaze to Nimiphi. "And try to provide some light entertainment as I am able." He glances sheepishly down at a simple wooden lute.
Nimiphi glances around at the many guards before returning her attention to you, and more noticeably the lute. "That looks complicated," she notes of the instrument, her forehead furrow in some fashion of analysis of the thing.
You have emoted: "It's relatively straightforward to be average at the thing." Benedicto replies as he hefts the instrument. "However, fiendishly tricky to be considered 'good'." He lowers it again. "Therefore, I fall well and truly into the category of 'average'." He gives the strings an idle strum, each note rich and warm as it cascades into the space between you. "I spend most of my time writing ditties to amuse myself."
Finding some need to share what occupies her time also, Nimiphi offers a little smile, and says, "I spend most of my time hunting to get taller!"
You have emoted: Benedicto raises his slender brows at that. "As a Page, I would have thought you'd be working towards becoming a Squire?" His tone is serious, but a quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests otherwise.
Not one to catch easily onto humor or otherwise, Nimiphi gasps with a horrified look. "OF COURSE THAT TOO!" She says very loudly, shifting on her small feet a few paces around you. "But that takes time! And lots of effort! And speaking to people!"
You have emoted: "You're speaking to someone right now." Benedicto observes meaningfully.
Nimiphi retrieves a small notebook, sifting rapidly through pages of roughly-scribbled words. "You're not on my list, Sir!"
<<<<< Ayastia walks in and hands Benedicto a bunch of dead herrings >>>>>
You have emoted: Benedicto quickly hands the fish to a nearby guard. "Do something with those will you? There's a good fellow." His lips curl in distaste as he quickly wipes his hands and turns his attention back to Nimiphi. "I am not? How rude."
Nimiphi stares at you with what seem perpetually-wide blue eyes, some manner of nervousness growing on her features. "I am waiting for Lady Ayastia who is helping me get a shirt design to the Templar guild shop," she begins to explain in an apparent attempt to excuse said 'rudeness'. "When that is done, I am to hand that design to Lady Ranae-" She flips to another page of her notes. "Then Sir Xavin said he'd talk to me about Ylem so I can get that task done... but you're not on my list, Sir!" She insists, stubborn little Gnome she is. "Unless you wish to... voluntarily teach me something interesting!"
You have emoted: Benedicto weighs Nimiphi's response heavily, his brow furrowing deeply as he contemplates her in silence. Finally, he breaks the tension with a nod. "Then I shall teach you something interesting." His voice is laden with import.
Clutching an edge of her cloak with both small hands, Nimiphi glances up to you hopefully. "Really?" She asks. "What?" She wonders further, excitedly. "About the Templars? Or Enorian?" She shuffles on her feet with contained energy. "Or that... thing?" She points sharply at your lute.
You have emoted: Benedicto grins suddenly. "All of it." So saying, he flourishes a simple wooden lute and begins to pluck an uplifting melody, the tune simple but exceedingly catchy. "This is a song about the beauty of Enorian."
Nimiphi gasps with surprise. "I was right!" She bursts excitedly, clapping her hands merrily to the tune of your lute.
You sing, "The women of Loch are bitey, they'll drain a fella dry, And the Syssin girls of Spinesreach always spin you in a lie."
You sing, "The forest folk, they like to choke and I don't want to die, So I'll travel south or east and, you know the reason why."
You have emoted: Benedicto launches into what is clearly the chorus as he ceases his picking and begins to strum in earnest. His baritone voice - though rough - holds the notes well and his enjoyment lends his efforts an air of authenticity. So much so, that the nearby guards and troops begin to grin amongst themselves, tapping feet, weapons and hands against the nearest available surface.
You sing, "I'll take the Raphaelan to the girls back home, Where the beds are soft and the weathers warm and you never sleep alone."
You sing, "The bells they are a-ringing from the Temple up on high, Oh Enorian, I'm home at last. I'll never say goodbye!"
You have emoted: Benedicto resolves the chorus to a series of whistles and enthusiastic shouts from the assembled citizenry as his fingers go back to plucking out the tune as he dives back into the second verse.
You sing, "I've been to Arget Massai and in a vipers nest, everywhere I've been to, I still know where is the best."
You sing, "I've tried the dusky women, in the dark of old Djeir, But the only girls worth coming home to are the ones that live right here."
Nimiphi continues to clap along, a foot tapping cheerfully without much tune but with plenty of enthusiasm.
You have emoted: "Everybody!" Benedicto shouts, nodding encouragingly to his engaged audience of Nimiphi, troops and guards.
You sing, "I'll take the Raphaelan to the girls back home, Where the beds are soft and the weathers warm and you never sleep alone."
You sing, "The bells they are a-ringing from the Temple up on high, Oh Enorian, I'm home at last. I'll never say goodbye!"
Clearly not one to memorize anything too quickly, Nimiphi manages to hum somewhat along, the only discernible words coming from her being, "Oh Enorian!"
You have emoted: Benedicto smiles happily as the troops and guards surrounding Nimiphi all bellow out - in a wide varying range of vocal capability - "I'LL NEVER SAY GOODBYE!"
Plucking the strings, you exclaim, "Now for the next verse!"
You sing, "Esterport girls will give you love, in exchange they want your gold, and the Dryads of the Vintal are thousands of years old."
You sing, "The whores of Huanzedha, don't even know their own name, Yes I'll go home towards the Beacon where the ladies earned their fame."
You have emoted: As Benedicto reaches the chorus once more, he is not required to rouse the assembled guardsmen and troops of the Beacon as they eagerly engage in singing it, "I'LL TAKE THE RAPHAELAN TO THE GIRLS BACK HOME, WHERE THE BEDS ARE SOFT, THE WEATHERS WARM AND YOU'LL NEVER SLEEP ALONE! THE BELLS THEY ARE A-RINGING FROM THE TEMPLE UP ON HIGH! OH ENORIAN I'M HOME AT LAST, I'LL NEVER SAY GOODBYE!"
Nimiphi's head bobs along to the rhythm, an entertained expression bearing a broad, ear-to-ear smile as she claps and stamps her small foot, making scarcely any noise amidst the loud assembly. Carefully she avoids the feet of many a too enthusiastic guard. "I'll never say goodbye!" She echoes.
You have emoted: Benedicto chuckles softly before he hushes his audience, lowering the volume of his plucking so that the din must quiet for him to be heard. There is a rapid shushing and hissing for silence from amongst those gathered here as he heads into the final verse.
You sing, "I've slummed it in Albedos, I hit the Helbans hard, but they got fed up of all my guff and kicked me out their yard!"
You sing, "I've been to El'Jazira but I got turned away, so on the road I guess I'll go and return from whence I came!"
You have emoted: Benedicto delays his transition into the chorus, instead he remains plucking the final notes of the verse in a repeating cycle as he sweeps his pearlescent gaze amongst his audience. An air of expectation begins to mount, the guards, troops and even the refugees waiting in line by the booth begin to bob up and down in counter-rhythm to the melody.
You have emoted: "Are you ready?!" Benedicto asks of his audience. "YES!" comes the response, though it is hesitant - scattered between those watching.
Balance Used: 0.93 seconds
Nimiphi throws up her hands and cheers wildly for you!
You have emoted: Benedicto shakes his head, his fingers still working the same notes over and over. "I said - ARE YOU READY?!" This time, he is greeted with a veritable roar of affirmation, all and sundry bellowing their confirmation. "YEESSSSSS!"
With a wild grin, you exclaim, "Heeeeeeere weeeee goooooo!"
You have emoted: Benedicto dives into the final chorus, the troops, citizens, guards and anyone in-between hollering out the chorus along with him. Some link arms and begin dancing with the nearest available partner, whilst others wrap their arms about their fellows in simple enjoyment of the music.
You sing, "I'LL TAKE THE RAPHAELAN TO THE GIRLS BACK HOME, WHERE THE BEDS ARE SOFT, THE WEATHER'S HOT AND YOU'LL NEVER BE ALONE! THE BELLS THEY ARE A-RINGING FROM THE TEMPLE UP ON HIGHHHHHHHH!!"
Unable to find a dancing partner her size in the immediate vicinity, Nimiphi resorts to merrily bobbing and clapping along, her voice lost in that of the loud chorus but her lips most definitely moving in song.
You have emoted: Benedicto's hand is a blur as he rapidly strums the final chord, drawing out the last syllable of the line. With a flourish, he reaches out to his audience, conducting them in the final refrain - mouthing the words along with them so they might know what he means. "OH ENORIAN, I'M HOME AT LAST! I'LL NEVEEEEER! SAAAAAAAAY! GOOOOOOOOOD! BYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEE!" As the crowd finishes the song, he plucks out a jaunty little melody and then ends the song with one last rousing chord. Finished, he sweeps a simple wooden lute from his shoulder and holds it by the neck as he bows towards the whooping and clapping citizenry.
Nimiphi applauds your performance enthusiastically, practically bouncing in place with sheer excitement. "Woo!" She practically hoots. "That was amazing!"
You have emoted: Benedicto places a webbed hand over his heart, bowing hither and thither to the applause. Finally, he straightens and says, "Thank you! Thank you!" The performance finished, the various members of the crowd begin to disperse, returning to their previous business. However, there is a palpable change in the atmosphere. What was once tense and silent has become vibrant, energetic and lively. He shoulders a simple wooden lute once more and moves to approach Nimiphi. "So Page, did you learn something valuable?" He asks as he nears her.
Nimiphi stares up at you for a time of silence, her blue eyes wide, her eyebrows high and her mouth partly-open. She hesitates not a second, when she says, "That you've had a lot of girlfriends, Sir!"
You have emoted: Benedicto's brows furrow at the response, seemingly caught off-guard. "What?!"
Nimiphi tilts her head to one side, and then the other, still watching you. "In Esterport, Djeir, Huanazheda, El'Jazira," as she enumerates, she holds her hands up, a finger rising with each mention. "Bloodloch, Spinesreach, Duiran... I'm going to run out of fingers, Sir!"
You have emoted: It takes Benedicto a moment to fully process the explanation, but soon realization dawns across his features and his laugh is a loud bark of mirth. "Ah, I see!" He flaps a hand dismissively at Nimiphi. "The song is just a bit of fun. Not an actual recollection of my exploits." He explains.
"Oh," Nimiphi utters simply as understanding dawns on her, and she stares for a time at nothing with a rather dumbfounded look. "I SEE!" She bursts, laughing a bit awkwardly, and raising a hand to scratch at her forehead.
You have emoted: Benedicto merely shakes his head, though his lips remain curled into a grin. "The lesson--" He begins, "--, is that it is our duty as Templar to lift the spirits of those around us. The citizens of the Beacon look to us as examples. If we despair, how do you think those poor bastards feel?" He jerks his head over his shoulder in the direction of the various fortified troops and meandering guards. "Being a Templar Knight is more than defending the innocent or running some Leech through with a sword. Do you understand?" He asks with a firm expression, his grin now dissipated.
Nimiphi slowly nods her head along your words, intently listening to the man. Her eyes follow where a gesture is made, but they return swiftly to you. "I understand, Sir!"
Benedicto
10
Events post #327: CHAOS COMETH... ETH
8/25/2022 at 4:58
Anonymous
Everyone
CHAOS COMETH... ETH
SO IT WAS THAT IN THE YEAR 23 AEGQG (AFTER THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER)'S GLORIOUS CONQUEST OF GOLGOTHA), THAT THE PRIMUS OF THE BLOOD, CHAMPION OF EMPRESS XA'ZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), DID MAKE A REQUEST OF THE RULER MOST DIVINE, SHE WHO VANQUISHED GOLGOTHA, SHE WHOSE MAGNIFICENT MAGNIFICENCE CAUSES HEARTS TO STILL AND KNEES TO TREMBLE. A REQUEST FOR COURT IT WAS, A PLEA, THAT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), MAY VISIT HER BENEVOLENT BENEVOLENCE UPON SAPIENCE AND EXERT HER MOST MIGHTY MIGHT UPON THE SHADOWBOUND INTERLOPERS IN WARFARE.
THUS WAS I BLESSED, ONCE, TWICE, THRICE, AND THRICE AGAIN FOR GOOD MEASURE, TO BE SENT FORTH FROM THE COURT OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) TO SAPIENCE, TO SPEAK AND REJOICE OF XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER)'S PRODIGIOUS PULCHRITUDE, HER FLOCCULENT FLOCCULENCE, HER PEERLESS PROWESS, AND OF COURSE HER PARTICULARLY, INCOMPARABLY MOIST EYEBROWS. AFTER DEFEATING A LESSER HERALD IN THE TIME-HONOURED TRADITION THAT IS PLATITUDINOUS PROCLAMATION AND CHARISMATIC CIRCUMLOCUTION (A TRIVIAL TASK, FOR ONE SO BLESSED AS I, YES!), MANY OF THE SAPIENT LAMBS, THEY WHO ARE OFTEN INCOMPETENT FOES, FECKLESS ALLIES, AND EXPERT INFIGHTERS, LIFTED THEIR OWN VOICES, SCREAMING ADULATION AND PRAISE FOR SHE WHOSE CRUELTY AND TERROR-INDUCING MANDIBLES SHAPE PLANES, THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), XA'AZAMIT.
THE HOUR DREW NEARER AND THE WORLD WAS ALERTED TO THE APPOINTED MOMENT, THAT WHICH MANY HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES IN DESPERATION TO ATTAIN BUT HAVE FAILED! THE INVITATION TO COURT! THUS SPAKE I ALOUD IN A VOICE OF VOCIFEROUS VERBIAGE AND VAINGLORIOUS VERNACULAR, THAT THOSE WHO BRINGETH TIDINGS GLAD AND NOT DARK MAY STEP FORTH AND BRINGETH TRIBUTE AND LARGESSE FOR THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) MOST DIVINE TO RECEIVE. AND TO THE CHAMPION OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), I DID EXTEND A PERSONAL INVITATION ON HER MOST MALICIOUSLY MALICIOUS AND DECADENTLY DECADENT BEHALF!
FEAR GRIPPED THE LAMBS OF SAPIENCE THEN, THEIR THUNDERING HEARTS CLOVEN IN TWAIN FOR THEY KNEW IN THIS MOMENT THEY WOULD NOT BE BLESSED, WOULD NOT BE RAISED UP AMONG ALL OTHER MORTALS, WOULD NOT EXPERIENCE THE JOY AND ECSTASY OF THEIR EYES BURNING OUT SIMPLY BY LOOKING UPON THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) AND HER OSTROBOGULOUS OVERTURES! AND SO IT WAS THAT IN HER BOUNDLESS GENEROSITY, HER MAGNANIMOUS MAGNANIMITY, HER GRAND DIVINITY, THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) DID GRANT UNTO ME PERMISSION TO REGALE THE SAPIENT FLOCK WITH A RECOUNTING OF EVENTS.
THE CHAMPION AND HIS RETINUE MADE HASTE TO OBEY THE CALL TO COURT. OH HOW HE WEPT IN SHEER ADORATION FOR HER ALMIGHTY GIRTH! OH HOW THE PRIMUS OF THE BLOOD FELL TO HIS KNEES UPON ARRIVAL, RAINING KISSES UPON THE COUNTLESS FEET OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) ABOVE ALL! HOW HIS VOICE POURED FORTH IN SONG, IN UNWAVERING FALSETTO, AS HE SANG HER PRAISES INNUMERABLE! O' HOW HIGH THE PITCHES REACHED, AS TEARS STREAMED DOWN HIS FACE IN GRATITUDE AT BASKING IN HER INCOMPARABLE PRESENCE!
BUT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), SAT UNMOVED, YES! O HOW THE PRIMUS TRIPPED OVER HIMSELF TO BOW TO HER PLEASURE! HOW RIVERS OF TEARS FLOWED DOWN HIS VISAGE, DESPERATE FOR THE FAINTEST SLIVER OF HER INVALUABLE ATTENTION! HEAR YE NOW TOO, OF HOW THE CARNIFEX COMMANDER FAINTED AT THE SHEER LENGTH OF XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) THE RESPLENDENT, HOW SHE ADMIRED HER GIRTHY BULK, HER UNQUENCHABLE SIZE, AND THE SHEER RIPENESS OF HER MASSIVE MASS! ALL BORE WITNESS AS THE PRIMUS CRIED AND CRIED, THE OCEAN FORMING ABOUT HIS FEET. SO DEEP ARE THE SALTY DEPTHS THAT THEY THREATENED TO DROWN THE AWESTRUCK COMMANDER. YET EACH TEAR CARRIED WITH IT PURE ECSTASY, UNDYING ELATION AT THE BRIEFEST GLANCE FROM SHE, THE RULER OF ALL CHAOS, EMPRESS XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER)!
THERE WAS THEN A BRIEF INTERMISSION, ALLOWING ALL WHO GAZED ADORINGLY TO GASP FOR BREATH IN SHOCK AND AWE, AS THE GATHERED PLOTTED TO UNDO THE PRETENDER OF CHAOS, THE SIMPLETON OF GOLGOTHA FOREVER CAST DOWN! OH HOW THE MASSES TWIRLED IN JOY AT THE BOUNDLESS WISDOM OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) AGAINST THE PRETENDER RHYOT! BUT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) DID DEMAND MORE, YES! EVEN AS HER DEMANDS RANG FORTH, THE PRIMUS FELL FLAT UPON HIS FACE IN ABSOLUTE WORSHIP! FIRST HE OFFERED HER AN ARM, THEN A LEG, THEN HIS WIFE, AND EVEN THE ETERNAL SUFFERING OF RHYOT IN HIS HASTE TO GARNER HER FANTASTICAL FAVOUR!
DESPAIR CAME THEN, THE VOICE OF ESITYI CURLING UP IN A FOETID BALL, A QUIVERING MESS, RAPT WITHAL AS THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) STARED INTO HER VERY SOUL AND LAID ALL HER SECRETS BARE! PRAISE BE MOST WISE OF THE WISE, I DID EXALT, AND THOUSANDS, NAY, MILLIONS DID ANSWER MY CALL WITH JOY AND REJOICING OF THEIR OWN! BUT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) WAS STIRRED TO RAGE BY THE AUDACIOUS AUDIENCE, AND DID WREAK RUIN AND WOE, SLAYING THOUSANDS WITH A SINGLE SWEEP OF HER GLORIOUS PINKY! OH HOW THE BLOOD THREATENED TO DROWN HER AUDIENCE, A MILLION DISPATCHED WITH CARELESS EASE! THE BARDS DID TAKE UP INSTRUMENTS TO SING OF THE BILLIONS SHE DEVOURED THAT DAY!
AND THEN DID ESITYI'S VOICE RIP OUT HER OWN HEART AS OFFERING TO THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) OF ALL CHAOS, SHE MOST GRACEFUL, RULER OF ALL THINGS THAT WERE, THAT ARE, AND THAT WILL EVER BE! WITH HER DYING BREATH DID RIJETTA PRESENT HER OWN VITALITY, HER LAST WORDS A POEM IN PRAISE OF THE ALMIGHTY XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). OH HOW BLESSED WAS RIJETTA UPON THIS SACRED DAY, FOR HER LAST SIGHT BEFORE DEATH WAS THE MOST HONOURABLE VISAGE OF CHAOS UNYIELDING!
BUT THE DRAMA, THE HISTRIONICS, AND THE THESPIANISM WERE NOT YET DONE, OH NO! THE PRIMUS PUSHED, NAY, KICKED, NAY /HEAVED/ HIS WIFE TO THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). FOR HOW COULD SHE EVER COMPARE WITH THE RADIANT RADIANCE, THE BEAUTIFUL BEAUTY, THE EVERYTHING, THE ALL, THE REASON FOR EXISTENCE THAT IS XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). SURELY HE WOULD NEVER LOVE AGAIN SAVE FOR THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). HE WEPT TEARS OF BLOOD, HIS EYES CONFOUNDED BY THE MAJESTIC MAJESTY BEFORE HIM. AND IN THEIR ENVY, ALL PRESENT FELL INTO A FRENZY, A WHIRLWIND OF FISTS AND CLAWS AND WEAPONS, EACH VYING DESPERATELY FOR HER ATTENTION. OH HOW THEY BIT AND SCREAMED AND KICKED!
HOW QUICKLY THE MASSES FELL OVER THEMSELVES TO ACQUIESCE TO HER EVERY DEMAND. THE LEG OF DAMARIEL! THE ARM OF SEVERN! THE FORGE OF ETHNE! THE ETERNAL DEMISE OF RHYOT! THE EYES OF OMEI! THE SOULS OF DHAR! THE INFERIOR TRUMPETPLAYER OF BAMATHIS! THE BELLY OF HAERN! O' HOW MASSIVE WERE THE GIFTS PROMISED AS THE DAM BURST, THE ONLOOKERS SCARCELY ABLE TO CHOKE OUT THE WORDS AS OFFER UPON OFFER RAINED FORTH AND THEY PROMISED EVERYTHING!
THE WORLD HELD ITS BREATH, WONDERING IF IT WOULD BE ENOUGH FOR SHE MOST EXALTED, WHOSE MERE BREATH WOULD WIPE SHADOWLORDS REAL AND PRETEND CLEAR FROM SAPIENCE.
AND IT WAS NOT! THE TRIDENT OF SLYPHE CAME NEXT. THEN THE SAPIENT ONLOOKER MELANTHA OFFERED HER OWN SELF UP TO THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). ALL SO DESPERATE TO PLEASE THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) GIFTED TO EXISTENCE! THE SCRIBE OF BLOODLOCH PENNED NOVELS UPON NOVELS EXALTING SHE MOST WORTHY! HOW ITS HANDS BLED AND BLISTERED AND FELL OFF AS IT SCRIBED AND SCRIBED AND SCRIBED ONLY FOR A HINT OF HER PLEASURE AND AMUSEMENT! HOW IT OFFERED ITSELF TO ETERNAL SERVITUDE, HOW IT BEGGED TO STAY, WRITHING IN SUPPLICATION, THE HANDLESS SCRIBE!
AND THEN THE DEAL WAS DONE AND THE BARGAIN STRUCK. THE WINGS OF TANIXALTHAS, CHAKRASUL'S BUTTERFLIES, IOSYNE'S HEART, LEXADHRA'S MEMORY, RHYOT'S LIFE, IVOLN'S SINGING VOICE (YES, THE ONE HE SAVES FOR SINGING SAD BALLADS ABOUT DHAR), BUT AN INFINITESIMALLY SMALL SAMPLE OF THE GOODS PROMISED FOR THE GRACE OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) XA'AZAMIT'S BENEVOLENT BENEVOLENCE AND CHARITABLE CHARITY!
THUS WERE THE MOST BLESSED PARTY, THOSE GRACED TO GAZE UPON CHAOS ETERNAL, WERE DISMISSED! THE SCRIBE WITHOUT ITS HANDS, ESITYI'S VOICE, WITHOUT HER HEART! THE PRIMUS, WITHOUT HIS WIFE! THEY HAD THROWN IT ALL AT THE FEET OF SHE MOST SUPREME, THE RULER AMONG RULERS, THE QUEEN AMONG QUEENS, SHE WHOSE DIVINITY ECLIPSES THE DIVINE, SHE WHOSE ROYAL ROYALTY AND LUXURIOUS LUXURY REIGN SUPREME OVER THE HEAVENS, EMPRESS XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER).
Summary: Bloodloch, led by Dourif, met with the Empress of Chaos, Xa'azamit (may she live forever) to discuss terms for military aid against the shadowbound.
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 16th of Lleian, in the year 504 MA.
Anonymous
Everyone
CHAOS COMETH... ETH
SO IT WAS THAT IN THE YEAR 23 AEGQG (AFTER THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER)'S GLORIOUS CONQUEST OF GOLGOTHA), THAT THE PRIMUS OF THE BLOOD, CHAMPION OF EMPRESS XA'ZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), DID MAKE A REQUEST OF THE RULER MOST DIVINE, SHE WHO VANQUISHED GOLGOTHA, SHE WHOSE MAGNIFICENT MAGNIFICENCE CAUSES HEARTS TO STILL AND KNEES TO TREMBLE. A REQUEST FOR COURT IT WAS, A PLEA, THAT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), MAY VISIT HER BENEVOLENT BENEVOLENCE UPON SAPIENCE AND EXERT HER MOST MIGHTY MIGHT UPON THE SHADOWBOUND INTERLOPERS IN WARFARE.
THUS WAS I BLESSED, ONCE, TWICE, THRICE, AND THRICE AGAIN FOR GOOD MEASURE, TO BE SENT FORTH FROM THE COURT OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) TO SAPIENCE, TO SPEAK AND REJOICE OF XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER)'S PRODIGIOUS PULCHRITUDE, HER FLOCCULENT FLOCCULENCE, HER PEERLESS PROWESS, AND OF COURSE HER PARTICULARLY, INCOMPARABLY MOIST EYEBROWS. AFTER DEFEATING A LESSER HERALD IN THE TIME-HONOURED TRADITION THAT IS PLATITUDINOUS PROCLAMATION AND CHARISMATIC CIRCUMLOCUTION (A TRIVIAL TASK, FOR ONE SO BLESSED AS I, YES!), MANY OF THE SAPIENT LAMBS, THEY WHO ARE OFTEN INCOMPETENT FOES, FECKLESS ALLIES, AND EXPERT INFIGHTERS, LIFTED THEIR OWN VOICES, SCREAMING ADULATION AND PRAISE FOR SHE WHOSE CRUELTY AND TERROR-INDUCING MANDIBLES SHAPE PLANES, THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), XA'AZAMIT.
THE HOUR DREW NEARER AND THE WORLD WAS ALERTED TO THE APPOINTED MOMENT, THAT WHICH MANY HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES IN DESPERATION TO ATTAIN BUT HAVE FAILED! THE INVITATION TO COURT! THUS SPAKE I ALOUD IN A VOICE OF VOCIFEROUS VERBIAGE AND VAINGLORIOUS VERNACULAR, THAT THOSE WHO BRINGETH TIDINGS GLAD AND NOT DARK MAY STEP FORTH AND BRINGETH TRIBUTE AND LARGESSE FOR THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) MOST DIVINE TO RECEIVE. AND TO THE CHAMPION OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), I DID EXTEND A PERSONAL INVITATION ON HER MOST MALICIOUSLY MALICIOUS AND DECADENTLY DECADENT BEHALF!
FEAR GRIPPED THE LAMBS OF SAPIENCE THEN, THEIR THUNDERING HEARTS CLOVEN IN TWAIN FOR THEY KNEW IN THIS MOMENT THEY WOULD NOT BE BLESSED, WOULD NOT BE RAISED UP AMONG ALL OTHER MORTALS, WOULD NOT EXPERIENCE THE JOY AND ECSTASY OF THEIR EYES BURNING OUT SIMPLY BY LOOKING UPON THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) AND HER OSTROBOGULOUS OVERTURES! AND SO IT WAS THAT IN HER BOUNDLESS GENEROSITY, HER MAGNANIMOUS MAGNANIMITY, HER GRAND DIVINITY, THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) DID GRANT UNTO ME PERMISSION TO REGALE THE SAPIENT FLOCK WITH A RECOUNTING OF EVENTS.
THE CHAMPION AND HIS RETINUE MADE HASTE TO OBEY THE CALL TO COURT. OH HOW HE WEPT IN SHEER ADORATION FOR HER ALMIGHTY GIRTH! OH HOW THE PRIMUS OF THE BLOOD FELL TO HIS KNEES UPON ARRIVAL, RAINING KISSES UPON THE COUNTLESS FEET OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) ABOVE ALL! HOW HIS VOICE POURED FORTH IN SONG, IN UNWAVERING FALSETTO, AS HE SANG HER PRAISES INNUMERABLE! O' HOW HIGH THE PITCHES REACHED, AS TEARS STREAMED DOWN HIS FACE IN GRATITUDE AT BASKING IN HER INCOMPARABLE PRESENCE!
BUT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER), SAT UNMOVED, YES! O HOW THE PRIMUS TRIPPED OVER HIMSELF TO BOW TO HER PLEASURE! HOW RIVERS OF TEARS FLOWED DOWN HIS VISAGE, DESPERATE FOR THE FAINTEST SLIVER OF HER INVALUABLE ATTENTION! HEAR YE NOW TOO, OF HOW THE CARNIFEX COMMANDER FAINTED AT THE SHEER LENGTH OF XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) THE RESPLENDENT, HOW SHE ADMIRED HER GIRTHY BULK, HER UNQUENCHABLE SIZE, AND THE SHEER RIPENESS OF HER MASSIVE MASS! ALL BORE WITNESS AS THE PRIMUS CRIED AND CRIED, THE OCEAN FORMING ABOUT HIS FEET. SO DEEP ARE THE SALTY DEPTHS THAT THEY THREATENED TO DROWN THE AWESTRUCK COMMANDER. YET EACH TEAR CARRIED WITH IT PURE ECSTASY, UNDYING ELATION AT THE BRIEFEST GLANCE FROM SHE, THE RULER OF ALL CHAOS, EMPRESS XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER)!
THERE WAS THEN A BRIEF INTERMISSION, ALLOWING ALL WHO GAZED ADORINGLY TO GASP FOR BREATH IN SHOCK AND AWE, AS THE GATHERED PLOTTED TO UNDO THE PRETENDER OF CHAOS, THE SIMPLETON OF GOLGOTHA FOREVER CAST DOWN! OH HOW THE MASSES TWIRLED IN JOY AT THE BOUNDLESS WISDOM OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) AGAINST THE PRETENDER RHYOT! BUT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) DID DEMAND MORE, YES! EVEN AS HER DEMANDS RANG FORTH, THE PRIMUS FELL FLAT UPON HIS FACE IN ABSOLUTE WORSHIP! FIRST HE OFFERED HER AN ARM, THEN A LEG, THEN HIS WIFE, AND EVEN THE ETERNAL SUFFERING OF RHYOT IN HIS HASTE TO GARNER HER FANTASTICAL FAVOUR!
DESPAIR CAME THEN, THE VOICE OF ESITYI CURLING UP IN A FOETID BALL, A QUIVERING MESS, RAPT WITHAL AS THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) STARED INTO HER VERY SOUL AND LAID ALL HER SECRETS BARE! PRAISE BE MOST WISE OF THE WISE, I DID EXALT, AND THOUSANDS, NAY, MILLIONS DID ANSWER MY CALL WITH JOY AND REJOICING OF THEIR OWN! BUT THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) WAS STIRRED TO RAGE BY THE AUDACIOUS AUDIENCE, AND DID WREAK RUIN AND WOE, SLAYING THOUSANDS WITH A SINGLE SWEEP OF HER GLORIOUS PINKY! OH HOW THE BLOOD THREATENED TO DROWN HER AUDIENCE, A MILLION DISPATCHED WITH CARELESS EASE! THE BARDS DID TAKE UP INSTRUMENTS TO SING OF THE BILLIONS SHE DEVOURED THAT DAY!
AND THEN DID ESITYI'S VOICE RIP OUT HER OWN HEART AS OFFERING TO THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) OF ALL CHAOS, SHE MOST GRACEFUL, RULER OF ALL THINGS THAT WERE, THAT ARE, AND THAT WILL EVER BE! WITH HER DYING BREATH DID RIJETTA PRESENT HER OWN VITALITY, HER LAST WORDS A POEM IN PRAISE OF THE ALMIGHTY XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). OH HOW BLESSED WAS RIJETTA UPON THIS SACRED DAY, FOR HER LAST SIGHT BEFORE DEATH WAS THE MOST HONOURABLE VISAGE OF CHAOS UNYIELDING!
BUT THE DRAMA, THE HISTRIONICS, AND THE THESPIANISM WERE NOT YET DONE, OH NO! THE PRIMUS PUSHED, NAY, KICKED, NAY /HEAVED/ HIS WIFE TO THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). FOR HOW COULD SHE EVER COMPARE WITH THE RADIANT RADIANCE, THE BEAUTIFUL BEAUTY, THE EVERYTHING, THE ALL, THE REASON FOR EXISTENCE THAT IS XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). SURELY HE WOULD NEVER LOVE AGAIN SAVE FOR THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). HE WEPT TEARS OF BLOOD, HIS EYES CONFOUNDED BY THE MAJESTIC MAJESTY BEFORE HIM. AND IN THEIR ENVY, ALL PRESENT FELL INTO A FRENZY, A WHIRLWIND OF FISTS AND CLAWS AND WEAPONS, EACH VYING DESPERATELY FOR HER ATTENTION. OH HOW THEY BIT AND SCREAMED AND KICKED!
HOW QUICKLY THE MASSES FELL OVER THEMSELVES TO ACQUIESCE TO HER EVERY DEMAND. THE LEG OF DAMARIEL! THE ARM OF SEVERN! THE FORGE OF ETHNE! THE ETERNAL DEMISE OF RHYOT! THE EYES OF OMEI! THE SOULS OF DHAR! THE INFERIOR TRUMPETPLAYER OF BAMATHIS! THE BELLY OF HAERN! O' HOW MASSIVE WERE THE GIFTS PROMISED AS THE DAM BURST, THE ONLOOKERS SCARCELY ABLE TO CHOKE OUT THE WORDS AS OFFER UPON OFFER RAINED FORTH AND THEY PROMISED EVERYTHING!
THE WORLD HELD ITS BREATH, WONDERING IF IT WOULD BE ENOUGH FOR SHE MOST EXALTED, WHOSE MERE BREATH WOULD WIPE SHADOWLORDS REAL AND PRETEND CLEAR FROM SAPIENCE.
AND IT WAS NOT! THE TRIDENT OF SLYPHE CAME NEXT. THEN THE SAPIENT ONLOOKER MELANTHA OFFERED HER OWN SELF UP TO THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER). ALL SO DESPERATE TO PLEASE THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) GIFTED TO EXISTENCE! THE SCRIBE OF BLOODLOCH PENNED NOVELS UPON NOVELS EXALTING SHE MOST WORTHY! HOW ITS HANDS BLED AND BLISTERED AND FELL OFF AS IT SCRIBED AND SCRIBED AND SCRIBED ONLY FOR A HINT OF HER PLEASURE AND AMUSEMENT! HOW IT OFFERED ITSELF TO ETERNAL SERVITUDE, HOW IT BEGGED TO STAY, WRITHING IN SUPPLICATION, THE HANDLESS SCRIBE!
AND THEN THE DEAL WAS DONE AND THE BARGAIN STRUCK. THE WINGS OF TANIXALTHAS, CHAKRASUL'S BUTTERFLIES, IOSYNE'S HEART, LEXADHRA'S MEMORY, RHYOT'S LIFE, IVOLN'S SINGING VOICE (YES, THE ONE HE SAVES FOR SINGING SAD BALLADS ABOUT DHAR), BUT AN INFINITESIMALLY SMALL SAMPLE OF THE GOODS PROMISED FOR THE GRACE OF THE EMPRESS (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER) XA'AZAMIT'S BENEVOLENT BENEVOLENCE AND CHARITABLE CHARITY!
THUS WERE THE MOST BLESSED PARTY, THOSE GRACED TO GAZE UPON CHAOS ETERNAL, WERE DISMISSED! THE SCRIBE WITHOUT ITS HANDS, ESITYI'S VOICE, WITHOUT HER HEART! THE PRIMUS, WITHOUT HIS WIFE! THEY HAD THROWN IT ALL AT THE FEET OF SHE MOST SUPREME, THE RULER AMONG RULERS, THE QUEEN AMONG QUEENS, SHE WHOSE DIVINITY ECLIPSES THE DIVINE, SHE WHOSE ROYAL ROYALTY AND LUXURIOUS LUXURY REIGN SUPREME OVER THE HEAVENS, EMPRESS XA'AZAMIT (MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER).
Summary: Bloodloch, led by Dourif, met with the Empress of Chaos, Xa'azamit (may she live forever) to discuss terms for military aid against the shadowbound.
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 16th of Lleian, in the year 504 MA.
Re: Aloli
Eaku and Aloli have known each other for... a long time. And despite long periods of not talking, or just simply being at a distance from one another, they've always (it seems to me) been able to settle back into a comfortable friendship. Eaku's definitely leaned on her to vent about things, and genuinely trusts her advice and thought process even when they disagree; something of a rarity lately for him. And I'm sure both he and I have missed some development or another, so hopefully they can catch up sometime. Maybe when the world isn't in extreme danger, maybe when it is. I'm not picky.
Always lookin forward to the next sit down and chat, whether it's in her house or the old temple or wherever else they can both relax.
Always lookin forward to the next sit down and chat, whether it's in her house or the old temple or wherever else they can both relax.
Eaku
1
Re: Aloli
Benedicto I'm stealing your woman. Just have to catch her first๐
Aloli is very sweet, Maeve thinks she probably is secretly a dryad and has something akin to maple syrup in those veins. ๐
Aloli is very sweet, Maeve thinks she probably is secretly a dryad and has something akin to maple syrup in those veins. ๐
Maeve
1
Re: RL Struggles, Strife, and Sadnesses
This past weekend was supposed to be different. We made plans, my girlfriend, me, my two best friends. It was my birthday so we wanted to have Buffalo Wild Wings together. I finished my half day Saturday at the DMV around noon and came home and sat around at the computer for awhile. Mulled over with my friends what time to go. Anyways. Around 3:30 about a few hours before we intended to go I got the same intense shivering and fever as the last time I was hospitalized. Truth be told it had happened earlier in the week and it went away. This time too I was thinking I'd just handle it and still go. A couple hours later it was still happening and my girlfriend convinced me to go to the ER.
I've been in the hospital since then which is why no one has seen me on Aetolia since Friday. I have some sort of infection in my blood and it's not the same spot as last time. Both of my legs are fine. They don't know the source of it yet but I've been hooked up to saline and antibiotics all week so far. They're going for a hail Mary here shortly and doing a scan of my abdomen to check there. I have to drink 30 ounces of this Barium Sulfate stuff in preparation in the next two hours and I'm staring at the bottles as I write this just thinking how I hate this so much and I wish I could just fix it permanently. I know fixing it permanently would mean big changes in my life, which likely means leaving things I enjoy like Aetolia in order to fix them.
I hate that it's come to this but I know I'll be out of here soon and I know I'll feel better again. I already do but hopefully this time this won't come back and we'll figure out the source of it.
I've been in the hospital since then which is why no one has seen me on Aetolia since Friday. I have some sort of infection in my blood and it's not the same spot as last time. Both of my legs are fine. They don't know the source of it yet but I've been hooked up to saline and antibiotics all week so far. They're going for a hail Mary here shortly and doing a scan of my abdomen to check there. I have to drink 30 ounces of this Barium Sulfate stuff in preparation in the next two hours and I'm staring at the bottles as I write this just thinking how I hate this so much and I wish I could just fix it permanently. I know fixing it permanently would mean big changes in my life, which likely means leaving things I enjoy like Aetolia in order to fix them.
I hate that it's come to this but I know I'll be out of here soon and I know I'll feel better again. I already do but hopefully this time this won't come back and we'll figure out the source of it.
Aeryx
3
Events post #326: The Second War of Night, Part XIX: The Lost Woods
8/23/2022 at 14:27
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XIX: The Lost Woods
The fall of General Agrimarha only strengthened the Shadow's resolve, and the unexpected arrival of countless shadowbound dragonlings proved a highly potent expansion to the Generals' arsenals. While Murgraxis maintained his lone vigil at the heart of the Primal Eye, the others were anything but idle. Each day that passed, the dark star blotting out the noonday sun grew, Irgech's implacable, unabated work now encompassing the early afternoon in its lightless shade.
Incursions into the city states became more frequent and more deadly with the inclusion of dragonlings among the darkspawn ranks, the winged creatures laying waste to everything in their path. Guards and troops fell by the dozen with every questing advance and, though the Spireans had rapidly engineered enormous ballistae in order to shoot down the dragonlings, mobilisation proved difficult, and Murgraxis' spawn did plenty of damage even in the short time they were allowed to roam.
Shadowbound soldiers were discovered in the Pash Valley and the Dry Plains, attempting to forcibly infect the locale with rot. Similar divisions went unseen by the adventurers for a full week, and a foothold of shadowrot began to spread from the Western Itzatl and elsewhere. The Generals, emboldened by their tests of the cities' ground defences, began testing their own personal might against the city walls, while the northern front endured yet another clash of armies.
Fell sorcery gathered in the camp of Isalemei, the corrupted Djinn, filaments and traceries of all-consuming blackfire leaping skyward at the General's behest to hang poised on high with deadly intent. As the enchanted projectiles surged toward the City of Enorian, they found their path obscured by rapidly forming clouds of cerulean vapour, the fractious power of the Maelstrom manifesting as a sky-bound whirlpool to drown the General's dark magic and wash it harmlessly away.
At the same time, the thrum of countless wings heralded the descent of a midnight swarm upon the city of Spinesreach, dragonlings beyond counting darkening the skies above the Citadel spires. With a derisive snort, Sky Dreaming stirred lazily from Her lofty perch, canting her head to cast a disdainful glare upon those who would sully Her domain. Pride's great maw gaped wide, arcs of incandescent lightning fracturing across the skies to incinerate Shadow's dragonlings by the dozen. Akin to burning leaves, the bodies of the lesser wyrms spiralled to the earth below, crackling trails of azurine sparks left in their wake.
Waves of shadowspawn broke themselves on the steadfast Tarean lines, falling to regroup at the Eye, yet any claim of victory seemed a pyrrhic one, for in the distance, far beyond the limits of the Tarean Mountains, the footfall of armies mustering under the Shadow's banner shook the earth with ominous portent, their intended target unclear. Tremors wracked the ground with the passage of myriad shadowspawn across the world, sent forth from the Generals' commandposts to march with deadly intent.
Alerted to an imminent attack by dint of enhanced telepathy and in the latter case, the shadow marks, the Sentaari and Sciomancers sounded the alarm, and dozens spread out to look for the oncoming armies, to practically no avail. Frenzied hissing and sibilant warcries resonated from the heart of the Dakhota Hills as the spawn's paths intersected, three disparate armies becoming one horrific host.
Infused with bloodlust, the host turned southwest and pressed forward into the Vashnar range, their heavy steps disrupting shale and stone in a cascade of jagged shards and crumbling rock. Within minutes, streaks of black daubed the skies over the Bloodwood in a bruise-like stain, the beginnings of shadowrot bubbling at its heart as the encroaching Shadow began to stake a claim. Into the forest poured masses of shadowspawn, determined to wrest the sickened woodland into the Shadow Mother's grasp.
Calamitous battle ensued for almost half a day, some forty adventurers throwing all they had against dozens, nay hundreds of rampaging shadowspawn. Grey-black fire scorched the skies with the dragonlings' aerial assaults. The roaring of shadow beasts left terror and insanity in their wake. Death claimed all who dared step onto the battlefield, and it seemed Ohlsana had committed overwhelming force to this particular front.
Amidst the scores of deaths, the desperate fighting, and confused debates on the optimal strategy, the adventurers at last seemed to gain some ground. But then the earth shook again, splitting open as a massive shadowworm erupted from below, thrashing violently as it entered the fray. From its maw spilled noxious vomit and filthy slime, spewing yet more darkspawn onto the field.
Though the adventurers rallied, they continued to die in droves. Meanwhile, at the very heart of the Bloodwood, the converging shadowspawn turned their wills against the sickened forest, seeking to wrench open a new foothold for Ohlsana's enveloping rot. Still Sapience's resolve did not break, and the disparate group, counting members of all four city states among its numbers, regrouped again and again. Though their foe was formidable and deadly, the shadowworm fell to the combined strength of Sapience, but its death was no causes for celebration.
Its belly split apart as it died, waves of disgusting slime and filth spraying forth from within. In the distance, the revelling of shadowspawn hordes sounded out with raucous jeers and spiteful celebrations, fresh patches of foetid rot now devouring the Bloodwood's heart. Though the Sciomancers and their numerous supporters hastened to create shadowbreaks to prevent its spread into the Vashnars, the battle's result was clear: the Bloodwood was lost.
Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 7th of Lleian, in the year 504 MA.
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XIX: The Lost Woods
The fall of General Agrimarha only strengthened the Shadow's resolve, and the unexpected arrival of countless shadowbound dragonlings proved a highly potent expansion to the Generals' arsenals. While Murgraxis maintained his lone vigil at the heart of the Primal Eye, the others were anything but idle. Each day that passed, the dark star blotting out the noonday sun grew, Irgech's implacable, unabated work now encompassing the early afternoon in its lightless shade.
Incursions into the city states became more frequent and more deadly with the inclusion of dragonlings among the darkspawn ranks, the winged creatures laying waste to everything in their path. Guards and troops fell by the dozen with every questing advance and, though the Spireans had rapidly engineered enormous ballistae in order to shoot down the dragonlings, mobilisation proved difficult, and Murgraxis' spawn did plenty of damage even in the short time they were allowed to roam.
Shadowbound soldiers were discovered in the Pash Valley and the Dry Plains, attempting to forcibly infect the locale with rot. Similar divisions went unseen by the adventurers for a full week, and a foothold of shadowrot began to spread from the Western Itzatl and elsewhere. The Generals, emboldened by their tests of the cities' ground defences, began testing their own personal might against the city walls, while the northern front endured yet another clash of armies.
Fell sorcery gathered in the camp of Isalemei, the corrupted Djinn, filaments and traceries of all-consuming blackfire leaping skyward at the General's behest to hang poised on high with deadly intent. As the enchanted projectiles surged toward the City of Enorian, they found their path obscured by rapidly forming clouds of cerulean vapour, the fractious power of the Maelstrom manifesting as a sky-bound whirlpool to drown the General's dark magic and wash it harmlessly away.
At the same time, the thrum of countless wings heralded the descent of a midnight swarm upon the city of Spinesreach, dragonlings beyond counting darkening the skies above the Citadel spires. With a derisive snort, Sky Dreaming stirred lazily from Her lofty perch, canting her head to cast a disdainful glare upon those who would sully Her domain. Pride's great maw gaped wide, arcs of incandescent lightning fracturing across the skies to incinerate Shadow's dragonlings by the dozen. Akin to burning leaves, the bodies of the lesser wyrms spiralled to the earth below, crackling trails of azurine sparks left in their wake.
Waves of shadowspawn broke themselves on the steadfast Tarean lines, falling to regroup at the Eye, yet any claim of victory seemed a pyrrhic one, for in the distance, far beyond the limits of the Tarean Mountains, the footfall of armies mustering under the Shadow's banner shook the earth with ominous portent, their intended target unclear. Tremors wracked the ground with the passage of myriad shadowspawn across the world, sent forth from the Generals' commandposts to march with deadly intent.
Alerted to an imminent attack by dint of enhanced telepathy and in the latter case, the shadow marks, the Sentaari and Sciomancers sounded the alarm, and dozens spread out to look for the oncoming armies, to practically no avail. Frenzied hissing and sibilant warcries resonated from the heart of the Dakhota Hills as the spawn's paths intersected, three disparate armies becoming one horrific host.
Infused with bloodlust, the host turned southwest and pressed forward into the Vashnar range, their heavy steps disrupting shale and stone in a cascade of jagged shards and crumbling rock. Within minutes, streaks of black daubed the skies over the Bloodwood in a bruise-like stain, the beginnings of shadowrot bubbling at its heart as the encroaching Shadow began to stake a claim. Into the forest poured masses of shadowspawn, determined to wrest the sickened woodland into the Shadow Mother's grasp.
Calamitous battle ensued for almost half a day, some forty adventurers throwing all they had against dozens, nay hundreds of rampaging shadowspawn. Grey-black fire scorched the skies with the dragonlings' aerial assaults. The roaring of shadow beasts left terror and insanity in their wake. Death claimed all who dared step onto the battlefield, and it seemed Ohlsana had committed overwhelming force to this particular front.
Amidst the scores of deaths, the desperate fighting, and confused debates on the optimal strategy, the adventurers at last seemed to gain some ground. But then the earth shook again, splitting open as a massive shadowworm erupted from below, thrashing violently as it entered the fray. From its maw spilled noxious vomit and filthy slime, spewing yet more darkspawn onto the field.
Though the adventurers rallied, they continued to die in droves. Meanwhile, at the very heart of the Bloodwood, the converging shadowspawn turned their wills against the sickened forest, seeking to wrench open a new foothold for Ohlsana's enveloping rot. Still Sapience's resolve did not break, and the disparate group, counting members of all four city states among its numbers, regrouped again and again. Though their foe was formidable and deadly, the shadowworm fell to the combined strength of Sapience, but its death was no causes for celebration.
Its belly split apart as it died, waves of disgusting slime and filth spraying forth from within. In the distance, the revelling of shadowspawn hordes sounded out with raucous jeers and spiteful celebrations, fresh patches of foetid rot now devouring the Bloodwood's heart. Though the Sciomancers and their numerous supporters hastened to create shadowbreaks to prevent its spread into the Vashnars, the battle's result was clear: the Bloodwood was lost.
Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 7th of Lleian, in the year 504 MA.
Events post #325: The Second War of Night, Part XVIII: Strife Rises, Misery Falls
8/21/2022 at 3:45
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XVIII: Strife Rises, Misery Falls
Attacks on the cities continued apace and, whether by coincidental timing or direct response to the Sciomancer's innovative method of repelling the rot, a legion of shadowbound soldiers sashayed forth from Mazgal and Telorach's commandpost, holding a position near the gates of Spinesreach while attempting to actively spread more of the rot themselves. Though they were dispatched by Spirean hoplites, Sapience remains on high alert in case of further machinations by Ohlsana's soldiers.
Halfway through Midsummer, the Primal Eye once more stirred with violet incandescence, the forces of Shadow rousing themselves for another incursion into the Tareas. As the black wave of shadowspawn poured down the mountainside, similar incursions sprung up in Duiran, Spinesreach, and Enorian, the four-pronged assault taking many by surprise. Across Sapience, the Generals bellowed commands to their armies and legions on all sides pushed forward. Massive disturbances in the earth shook the Tarean Mountains while Murgraxis boomed out boasts and jeers, demanding the surrender of Sapience in service to the Immortal Dark.
While the cities strove to repel the invaders and the Sanguine Fist sent their troops to meet the northern horde, great worms exploded from the ground, slithering across the battlefield and vomiting up countless more shadowspawn aberrations with their passage. Amidst the clamour of battle and chaos of war, Bamathis, the Warlord, commanded the Argent Legion to stay back from the front, instead mustering them to meet Him at the gates of the Carnifex's Shadow Keep. Commander Mjoll and Herald Whirran hurried to His side, and He informed them of His intent for them to push forward into the Eye. Bathed in the essence of strife, they eagerly awaited the Warlord's command while Bamathis Himself surveyed the field, waiting for the opportune moment.
Unnoticed amidst the chaos, a subtle ripple disturbed the shadows blanketing the Primal Eye. The web of caliginous darkness shielding once-Sterion's black heart flickered but held fast, an ephemeral, momentary convulsion allowing passage to One both swift and unseen. While the Shadowbound Dragon fixed his gaze on the mountain range below, a veiled silhouette silently coalesced behind him, the enveloping eventide contorting to reveal the bovine form of the Manipulator. Sensing opportunity, Severn glided forward without a sound, His hulking frame at odds with His subtle, circumspect gait. Voices rang out across Sapience, chief among them that of Lord Rijetta Alhazrad, each hurling insults and invectives at Murgraxis to distract him from the Minotaur God's gambit. Though Murgraxis' ego kept his attention drawn elsewhere, the manifold voices raised the suspicions of his companion.
In a single motion, Severn drew a sidereal, split-blade sword of spirit and lunged in a blur of divinely-enhanced speed, black tendrils writhing about the length and breadth of the blade as He struck, aiming for the distracted Dragon's neck. A scream of sundered metal broke the clandestine incursion, the split-blade sword seeming to shatter in the Artificer's hands as He found His blow turned aside, stymied by the weapon of General Agrimarha. Misery's Adherent spared no time to gloat, already bringing her palms together to form a globe of raw magic which careened toward Severn. The Artificer turned on His heel and vanished, only to reappear behind Murgraxis with a longsword of warring essences in His hand. The sphere of magic detonated in a blinding flash and Murgraxis wheeled around to sneer at the Shadowed God, black fire kindling between his jaws. Strands of sickly grey essence formed in the Adherent's upthrust palms, and the two Generals pressed forward, resolved to claim victory over the intruder.
Bamathis, choosing the moment carefully, commanded the Legion to push forward into the Eye, instructing them to hold the line as He went on ahead. The strident notes of a herald's trumpet sounded out as a signal of the Argent Legion's advanced, and Mjoll and Whirran bravely marched in, rampaging hordes of shadowspawn seeking to stymie their advance. Empowered by the Warlord's might, Whirran's trumpet wreaked ruin upon the shadowspawn while Mjoll, indefatigable and stalwart as ever, cut a path through toward the heart of the Primal Eye.
Torrents of noisome filth spewed from the grotesque maw of Murgraxis toward the Manipulator, roiling plumes of viscous rot soon joined by twin arcs of black fire and blacklit puissance from Adherent Agrimarha who directed her synchronous weaves with the skill and speed of a veteran soldier. Severn feinted, His longsword shattering in myriad fragments as it strained to deflect the assault. In a flurry of footwork and fading translucence, He dodged and wove between the combined attacks, fingers twitching in His now empty hands as He whispered to the surroundings. In moments, dozens of inky black threads streaked forth from Him to ensnare the Adherent in a tenebrous trap, yet it barely slowed her advance.
Tooth and claw worked as one for Murgraxis, each shift of his massive bulk sundering the ground as his spiked tail swung in a broad arc, cleaving the air as he aimed it toward the Minotaur God. Showing no hint of either strain or struggle, Agrimarha calmly shrugged off her bindings and gathered grey-black balefire to her fingertips. As the Dragon's tail neared its quarry, the Adherent turned loose the blinding bar of shadowflame, reality screaming in protest with its traversal in Severn's direction. Umbrael flared to life around the Artificer then, the instrument of His greatest work striving to shield Him from the deadly attack. The Cloak of Midnight, revered and feared alike, hungrily devoured the Adherent's balefire, absorbing it in full before expelling it outwards in a cataclysm of unleashed energy, lashing viciously at Murgraxis in a furore of potent strikes.
When the smoke parted, the unmistakeable silhouette of Severn emerged: alone, unharmed, and wielding a sensuous sword of ophidian predilection. Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, He hurled the weapon at Murgraxis, the blade transforming into the elongated body of a giant serpent, ruby eyes alight with hunger as it struck home, eliciting a howl of rage from the Dragon.
As Mjoll and Whirran cut through hordes of shadowspawn, more and more swarmed about them. Each time they fell in battle, Strife saw to their revival, restoring them to life with renewed vigour and strength to press forward. Trumpet blasts piped out from Whirran and Mjoll became an unconquerable wall, wave after wave of aberrations breaking themselves on her strength. Bamathis pushed further into once-Sterion, His armoured form lit from without by a brilliantine aura of palpable strife. Still reeling from Severn's counterattack, Agrimarha slashed a single hand through the air and formed an angular gateway. Barely bothering to spare a glance for Murgraxis's safety, she stepped through the portal to confront the Warlord, the two Ankyreans - one corrupted, the other deified - regarding each other with similar looks of resolved disdain.
Bamathis struck first, driving Caelestis forward in sparks of brightly burning silver, His expert footwork and military training giving Him the opening advantage. Adherent's mortalfire surrounded Agrimarha, but the Warlord clove through its protection with ease, shearing away the shield like a scythe through chaff. As their battle began in earnest, shadowbound hordes swarmed in defence of the Generals, but before they could assemble in the correct formation, the Herald's trumpet cut through their caterwauling, drawing the armies to the Argent Legion's side.
The Warlord pressed His advantage, the essence of discord and war entwining with Caelestis for a decisive blow. Agrimarha braced herself for the impact, weaving an oily barrier of black taint that slithered into place to meet Strife's blade. Though wounded, the Ankyrean General survived, and Bamathis, taken by surprise, found Himself thrown off balance. Wasting no time, Agrimarha transformed, becoming the Avatar of Misery. Searing power flowed through her, her eyes but a pair of black spheres utterly void of any light. Ephemeral blades formed in her grasp and she sprung forward at Bamathis, attempting to sever His arm and bring the conflict to a swift end.
Enraged, Murgraxis redoubled the assault on Severn, who now held a silver-mithril broadsword of Artifice. A knowing smirk decorated His mouth in response to the Dragon's ire, and He gathered all His strength, all His power, and all His spite, turning it on Murgraxis in an effort to bend his will to the God's own. Grating laughter and mocking jeers followed from Murgraxis, diving for the Artificer again and sundering His latest weapon in a tumultuous mania of rending talons and slashing claws. Shouting his outrage for all to hear, the Dragon declared his loyalty to the Immortal Dark, promising that Severn's will would soon break.
Strife turned aside Misery's ethereal blades, retaliating against the barrage with an onslaught of His own. A bevy of silver-limned arrows hovered in the air about Him, and as He stepped forward to resume His attack, each flew ahead with deadly intent. The General slashed open another dull gateway, bringing forth a horde of shadow beasts to shield her from Bamathis' murderous volley. Harrowing squalls tinged the air as the projectiles pierced umbral flesh and sable bone, the beasts turning on the Warlord with unconstrained violence in their eyes.
Argent fire surrounded Bamathis in a searing penumbra of discordant flames, incinerating the oncoming horde until naught remained of them but smouldering ashes. Caelestis swung again and again, landing a slew of empowered blows and cutting into the Adherent without mercy. In the distance, the repeated deaths of His Herald and Rereti turned the eyes of shadowbound soldiers in the Warlord's direction, and His voice boomed out in warning, urging them to hold the line. His voice falling silent, fronds of iridescent silver banished the umbral shade clouding the Primal Eye, the Warlord spending yet more of His strength to engender Whirran's rebirth: the Azudim Ogre rising again as an Adherent of Strife. Renewed, the Argent Legionnaires steeled themselves and held their position, refusing to give any ground.
Ignoring all else but His battle with Murgraxis, Severn abandoned His efforts to dominate the Dragon and disappeared, reforming on the opposite side of the Eye. With a look of displeasure He held aloft a spirit-misted flyssa, living gloam propelling Him forward and upward into a daring strike against the General's heart. Blade met Dragonscale and scarcely grazed Murgraxis, whose deafening bellow left the Manipulator stunned. Repositioning his massive draconic body, he split wide his jaws for a second time, belching a storm of plagued breath, cascading waves of grey filth flaying Severn's flesh where He stood.
Black fire mended General Agrimarha's wounds and she recovered, desperately attempting to both weather the Warlord's assault and erode His defensive position. The corrupted Adherent turned everything she had on Bamathis, drawing in the essence of misery to shape withering magic and calamitous spell, weave after weave hurled like spectral daggers toward the Ankyrean-made-God. But no matter her effort, Agrimarha failed to break the Warlord's guard and the hilt of Caelestis, swift and unseen in its search for ruin, struck her soundly in the chin. A gasp of fear and shock escaped her lips and Bamathis, sensing victory, kicked her to the ground. Looming over her, the Warlord called for His Herald to join Him and help bring the duel to an end.
Flickering in and out of focus with the impossible speed and veteran skill of ancient divinity, the Manipulator navigated the battlefield like a deadly spectre, His form dissipating with each powerful swing before He reappeared elsewhere, every blow landing with calculated precision as He drove Murgraxis towards an invisible goal. Each apparition brought with it a new weapon, the last, an acicular kagamine rapier fitted with a daedal guard, cast aside as He dispersed to naught but void-like smoke time after time, masterful control evinced even by His feints and parries.
Laying prone before the Warlord, Agrimarha panted in exhaustion, black blood seeping from her countless open wounds. While Mjoll battled the hordes alone, Herald Whirran's trumpet blasted out another tremulous note. The General flinched, stunned and weak, and the Ogre stepped forward to restrain her. Bamathis drew back Caelestis and, with neither reluctance nor hesitation, ran both the General and His own Herald through the heart, calling out a callous "Welcome to Sapience" as He struck the final blow.
Fallen Sterion trembled under the indignant roar of Murgraxis, the Adherent's fall inciting him to even greater, more terrible fury. Artifice fell away like a silken drape as the Manipulator's calculated attacks reached their final denouement, revealing the self-same sidereal, split-blade sword of spirit thought shattered in the first exchange. Suspended in the air before the distracted General's chest, the weapon illuminated a sneer of smug certainty across Severn's face as He raised His hand and clenched His fist. Instantly the blade came alive with raw spirit, a beam of lucent light searing open wounds in the General's otherwise impenetrable armour. Howling with untold agony, the Blade of Artifice fell from the Dragon's grasp as Murgraxis wrenched himself free of the spirit-infused weapon, leathery wing and monstrously powerful pinion splayed as he circles in low flight above the Primal Eye.
Flush with the thrill of recent triumph, Bamathis manifested at Severn's side, the Warlord and His Spymaster readying Themselves to meet the vengeance of Murgraxis wheeling overhead. The Manipulator heaved a qufar inlaid spear of tungsten and silver at the Dragon but it went wide as the great wyrm banked, his booming rage rolling like thunder in the low-lying clouds. Dictating words in the Shadow tongue, Murgraxis named Severn thief and liar, vowing that Czjetija's attacks would continue as he called for the aid of his brood. The thunderous roar of the Shadow Lord resounded across the firmament again, but it was not alone. At the core of the Primal Eye, the breach trembled, wrenching open a great gaping wound in Creation. Black wings unfurled in the cold, first one, then dozens, then hundreds of shadowbound dragonlings pouring forth to lend darkened breath and lightless flame to their embattled sire.
Bamathis ordered the Legion to fall back, Mjoll and Whirran departing the Primal Eye exhausted but alive, having held the line long enough for Strife to prevail over Misery. The Warlord and Spymaster shared a look of momentary trepidation, the sky above blotted out by the flapping wings of the Shadow's corrupt dragonflight. Before the swarm could muster an attack, Severn retrieved the fallen Blade of Artifice and the two Gods took Their leave from the battlefield, satisfied with their triumph and resolved to fight another day.
Enraged at the demise of the Adherent of Misery, the forces of Shadow seethed forward in a last push, determined to avenge the fallen General and break through Bloodloch's line, the invasions into Enorian, Duiran, Spinesreach turned back by bell, pylon, totem, and sheer strength and valour. Rockslides poured throughout the mountains as several abominations roared through the earth, intertwining paths bringing each erupting onto the battlefield with fury. They too fell before the enhanced soldiers and combined will of the Empire. Then, as the battlefield quieted and the dust settled, the earth stilled, the clamour of war drawing to a close.
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 17th of Midsummer, in the year 504 MA.
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XVIII: Strife Rises, Misery Falls
Attacks on the cities continued apace and, whether by coincidental timing or direct response to the Sciomancer's innovative method of repelling the rot, a legion of shadowbound soldiers sashayed forth from Mazgal and Telorach's commandpost, holding a position near the gates of Spinesreach while attempting to actively spread more of the rot themselves. Though they were dispatched by Spirean hoplites, Sapience remains on high alert in case of further machinations by Ohlsana's soldiers.
Halfway through Midsummer, the Primal Eye once more stirred with violet incandescence, the forces of Shadow rousing themselves for another incursion into the Tareas. As the black wave of shadowspawn poured down the mountainside, similar incursions sprung up in Duiran, Spinesreach, and Enorian, the four-pronged assault taking many by surprise. Across Sapience, the Generals bellowed commands to their armies and legions on all sides pushed forward. Massive disturbances in the earth shook the Tarean Mountains while Murgraxis boomed out boasts and jeers, demanding the surrender of Sapience in service to the Immortal Dark.
While the cities strove to repel the invaders and the Sanguine Fist sent their troops to meet the northern horde, great worms exploded from the ground, slithering across the battlefield and vomiting up countless more shadowspawn aberrations with their passage. Amidst the clamour of battle and chaos of war, Bamathis, the Warlord, commanded the Argent Legion to stay back from the front, instead mustering them to meet Him at the gates of the Carnifex's Shadow Keep. Commander Mjoll and Herald Whirran hurried to His side, and He informed them of His intent for them to push forward into the Eye. Bathed in the essence of strife, they eagerly awaited the Warlord's command while Bamathis Himself surveyed the field, waiting for the opportune moment.
Unnoticed amidst the chaos, a subtle ripple disturbed the shadows blanketing the Primal Eye. The web of caliginous darkness shielding once-Sterion's black heart flickered but held fast, an ephemeral, momentary convulsion allowing passage to One both swift and unseen. While the Shadowbound Dragon fixed his gaze on the mountain range below, a veiled silhouette silently coalesced behind him, the enveloping eventide contorting to reveal the bovine form of the Manipulator. Sensing opportunity, Severn glided forward without a sound, His hulking frame at odds with His subtle, circumspect gait. Voices rang out across Sapience, chief among them that of Lord Rijetta Alhazrad, each hurling insults and invectives at Murgraxis to distract him from the Minotaur God's gambit. Though Murgraxis' ego kept his attention drawn elsewhere, the manifold voices raised the suspicions of his companion.
In a single motion, Severn drew a sidereal, split-blade sword of spirit and lunged in a blur of divinely-enhanced speed, black tendrils writhing about the length and breadth of the blade as He struck, aiming for the distracted Dragon's neck. A scream of sundered metal broke the clandestine incursion, the split-blade sword seeming to shatter in the Artificer's hands as He found His blow turned aside, stymied by the weapon of General Agrimarha. Misery's Adherent spared no time to gloat, already bringing her palms together to form a globe of raw magic which careened toward Severn. The Artificer turned on His heel and vanished, only to reappear behind Murgraxis with a longsword of warring essences in His hand. The sphere of magic detonated in a blinding flash and Murgraxis wheeled around to sneer at the Shadowed God, black fire kindling between his jaws. Strands of sickly grey essence formed in the Adherent's upthrust palms, and the two Generals pressed forward, resolved to claim victory over the intruder.
Bamathis, choosing the moment carefully, commanded the Legion to push forward into the Eye, instructing them to hold the line as He went on ahead. The strident notes of a herald's trumpet sounded out as a signal of the Argent Legion's advanced, and Mjoll and Whirran bravely marched in, rampaging hordes of shadowspawn seeking to stymie their advance. Empowered by the Warlord's might, Whirran's trumpet wreaked ruin upon the shadowspawn while Mjoll, indefatigable and stalwart as ever, cut a path through toward the heart of the Primal Eye.
Torrents of noisome filth spewed from the grotesque maw of Murgraxis toward the Manipulator, roiling plumes of viscous rot soon joined by twin arcs of black fire and blacklit puissance from Adherent Agrimarha who directed her synchronous weaves with the skill and speed of a veteran soldier. Severn feinted, His longsword shattering in myriad fragments as it strained to deflect the assault. In a flurry of footwork and fading translucence, He dodged and wove between the combined attacks, fingers twitching in His now empty hands as He whispered to the surroundings. In moments, dozens of inky black threads streaked forth from Him to ensnare the Adherent in a tenebrous trap, yet it barely slowed her advance.
Tooth and claw worked as one for Murgraxis, each shift of his massive bulk sundering the ground as his spiked tail swung in a broad arc, cleaving the air as he aimed it toward the Minotaur God. Showing no hint of either strain or struggle, Agrimarha calmly shrugged off her bindings and gathered grey-black balefire to her fingertips. As the Dragon's tail neared its quarry, the Adherent turned loose the blinding bar of shadowflame, reality screaming in protest with its traversal in Severn's direction. Umbrael flared to life around the Artificer then, the instrument of His greatest work striving to shield Him from the deadly attack. The Cloak of Midnight, revered and feared alike, hungrily devoured the Adherent's balefire, absorbing it in full before expelling it outwards in a cataclysm of unleashed energy, lashing viciously at Murgraxis in a furore of potent strikes.
When the smoke parted, the unmistakeable silhouette of Severn emerged: alone, unharmed, and wielding a sensuous sword of ophidian predilection. Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, He hurled the weapon at Murgraxis, the blade transforming into the elongated body of a giant serpent, ruby eyes alight with hunger as it struck home, eliciting a howl of rage from the Dragon.
As Mjoll and Whirran cut through hordes of shadowspawn, more and more swarmed about them. Each time they fell in battle, Strife saw to their revival, restoring them to life with renewed vigour and strength to press forward. Trumpet blasts piped out from Whirran and Mjoll became an unconquerable wall, wave after wave of aberrations breaking themselves on her strength. Bamathis pushed further into once-Sterion, His armoured form lit from without by a brilliantine aura of palpable strife. Still reeling from Severn's counterattack, Agrimarha slashed a single hand through the air and formed an angular gateway. Barely bothering to spare a glance for Murgraxis's safety, she stepped through the portal to confront the Warlord, the two Ankyreans - one corrupted, the other deified - regarding each other with similar looks of resolved disdain.
Bamathis struck first, driving Caelestis forward in sparks of brightly burning silver, His expert footwork and military training giving Him the opening advantage. Adherent's mortalfire surrounded Agrimarha, but the Warlord clove through its protection with ease, shearing away the shield like a scythe through chaff. As their battle began in earnest, shadowbound hordes swarmed in defence of the Generals, but before they could assemble in the correct formation, the Herald's trumpet cut through their caterwauling, drawing the armies to the Argent Legion's side.
The Warlord pressed His advantage, the essence of discord and war entwining with Caelestis for a decisive blow. Agrimarha braced herself for the impact, weaving an oily barrier of black taint that slithered into place to meet Strife's blade. Though wounded, the Ankyrean General survived, and Bamathis, taken by surprise, found Himself thrown off balance. Wasting no time, Agrimarha transformed, becoming the Avatar of Misery. Searing power flowed through her, her eyes but a pair of black spheres utterly void of any light. Ephemeral blades formed in her grasp and she sprung forward at Bamathis, attempting to sever His arm and bring the conflict to a swift end.
Enraged, Murgraxis redoubled the assault on Severn, who now held a silver-mithril broadsword of Artifice. A knowing smirk decorated His mouth in response to the Dragon's ire, and He gathered all His strength, all His power, and all His spite, turning it on Murgraxis in an effort to bend his will to the God's own. Grating laughter and mocking jeers followed from Murgraxis, diving for the Artificer again and sundering His latest weapon in a tumultuous mania of rending talons and slashing claws. Shouting his outrage for all to hear, the Dragon declared his loyalty to the Immortal Dark, promising that Severn's will would soon break.
Strife turned aside Misery's ethereal blades, retaliating against the barrage with an onslaught of His own. A bevy of silver-limned arrows hovered in the air about Him, and as He stepped forward to resume His attack, each flew ahead with deadly intent. The General slashed open another dull gateway, bringing forth a horde of shadow beasts to shield her from Bamathis' murderous volley. Harrowing squalls tinged the air as the projectiles pierced umbral flesh and sable bone, the beasts turning on the Warlord with unconstrained violence in their eyes.
Argent fire surrounded Bamathis in a searing penumbra of discordant flames, incinerating the oncoming horde until naught remained of them but smouldering ashes. Caelestis swung again and again, landing a slew of empowered blows and cutting into the Adherent without mercy. In the distance, the repeated deaths of His Herald and Rereti turned the eyes of shadowbound soldiers in the Warlord's direction, and His voice boomed out in warning, urging them to hold the line. His voice falling silent, fronds of iridescent silver banished the umbral shade clouding the Primal Eye, the Warlord spending yet more of His strength to engender Whirran's rebirth: the Azudim Ogre rising again as an Adherent of Strife. Renewed, the Argent Legionnaires steeled themselves and held their position, refusing to give any ground.
Ignoring all else but His battle with Murgraxis, Severn abandoned His efforts to dominate the Dragon and disappeared, reforming on the opposite side of the Eye. With a look of displeasure He held aloft a spirit-misted flyssa, living gloam propelling Him forward and upward into a daring strike against the General's heart. Blade met Dragonscale and scarcely grazed Murgraxis, whose deafening bellow left the Manipulator stunned. Repositioning his massive draconic body, he split wide his jaws for a second time, belching a storm of plagued breath, cascading waves of grey filth flaying Severn's flesh where He stood.
Black fire mended General Agrimarha's wounds and she recovered, desperately attempting to both weather the Warlord's assault and erode His defensive position. The corrupted Adherent turned everything she had on Bamathis, drawing in the essence of misery to shape withering magic and calamitous spell, weave after weave hurled like spectral daggers toward the Ankyrean-made-God. But no matter her effort, Agrimarha failed to break the Warlord's guard and the hilt of Caelestis, swift and unseen in its search for ruin, struck her soundly in the chin. A gasp of fear and shock escaped her lips and Bamathis, sensing victory, kicked her to the ground. Looming over her, the Warlord called for His Herald to join Him and help bring the duel to an end.
Flickering in and out of focus with the impossible speed and veteran skill of ancient divinity, the Manipulator navigated the battlefield like a deadly spectre, His form dissipating with each powerful swing before He reappeared elsewhere, every blow landing with calculated precision as He drove Murgraxis towards an invisible goal. Each apparition brought with it a new weapon, the last, an acicular kagamine rapier fitted with a daedal guard, cast aside as He dispersed to naught but void-like smoke time after time, masterful control evinced even by His feints and parries.
Laying prone before the Warlord, Agrimarha panted in exhaustion, black blood seeping from her countless open wounds. While Mjoll battled the hordes alone, Herald Whirran's trumpet blasted out another tremulous note. The General flinched, stunned and weak, and the Ogre stepped forward to restrain her. Bamathis drew back Caelestis and, with neither reluctance nor hesitation, ran both the General and His own Herald through the heart, calling out a callous "Welcome to Sapience" as He struck the final blow.
Fallen Sterion trembled under the indignant roar of Murgraxis, the Adherent's fall inciting him to even greater, more terrible fury. Artifice fell away like a silken drape as the Manipulator's calculated attacks reached their final denouement, revealing the self-same sidereal, split-blade sword of spirit thought shattered in the first exchange. Suspended in the air before the distracted General's chest, the weapon illuminated a sneer of smug certainty across Severn's face as He raised His hand and clenched His fist. Instantly the blade came alive with raw spirit, a beam of lucent light searing open wounds in the General's otherwise impenetrable armour. Howling with untold agony, the Blade of Artifice fell from the Dragon's grasp as Murgraxis wrenched himself free of the spirit-infused weapon, leathery wing and monstrously powerful pinion splayed as he circles in low flight above the Primal Eye.
Flush with the thrill of recent triumph, Bamathis manifested at Severn's side, the Warlord and His Spymaster readying Themselves to meet the vengeance of Murgraxis wheeling overhead. The Manipulator heaved a qufar inlaid spear of tungsten and silver at the Dragon but it went wide as the great wyrm banked, his booming rage rolling like thunder in the low-lying clouds. Dictating words in the Shadow tongue, Murgraxis named Severn thief and liar, vowing that Czjetija's attacks would continue as he called for the aid of his brood. The thunderous roar of the Shadow Lord resounded across the firmament again, but it was not alone. At the core of the Primal Eye, the breach trembled, wrenching open a great gaping wound in Creation. Black wings unfurled in the cold, first one, then dozens, then hundreds of shadowbound dragonlings pouring forth to lend darkened breath and lightless flame to their embattled sire.
Bamathis ordered the Legion to fall back, Mjoll and Whirran departing the Primal Eye exhausted but alive, having held the line long enough for Strife to prevail over Misery. The Warlord and Spymaster shared a look of momentary trepidation, the sky above blotted out by the flapping wings of the Shadow's corrupt dragonflight. Before the swarm could muster an attack, Severn retrieved the fallen Blade of Artifice and the two Gods took Their leave from the battlefield, satisfied with their triumph and resolved to fight another day.
Enraged at the demise of the Adherent of Misery, the forces of Shadow seethed forward in a last push, determined to avenge the fallen General and break through Bloodloch's line, the invasions into Enorian, Duiran, Spinesreach turned back by bell, pylon, totem, and sheer strength and valour. Rockslides poured throughout the mountains as several abominations roared through the earth, intertwining paths bringing each erupting onto the battlefield with fury. They too fell before the enhanced soldiers and combined will of the Empire. Then, as the battlefield quieted and the dust settled, the earth stilled, the clamour of war drawing to a close.
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 17th of Midsummer, in the year 504 MA.
Events post #324: The Second War of Night, Part XVII: Progress
8/20/2022 at 14:42
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XVII: Progress
Irgech's dark star continued to grow as time wound on, the once-familiar Howling now perpetually drowned out by the Shadow General's work far above in the heavens. Incursions into the cities of Sapience became more frequent and more deadly, but still the people persisted, growing more efficient and organised with every sortie launched against their walls. Despite the looming threat of invasion, the waning sun, and the lack of news or useful information on the lost Sword of Truth, Sapience pressed on in their efforts, their ingenuity and resolve yielding several fresh developments.
In Enorian, Roux Aquila worked with Commander Verok on an idea originally put forward by Ardent Riahl that Roux had run with and developed further. Diligently they experimented with the ouabain venom and an infusion of spirit, hoping to synthesise a new poison to defeat the shadowspawn. With the aid of the Maelstrom lending some of Their essence, the research was successful, and the city soon began fabricating what they now dubbed 'shadowbane darts', highly effective at slowing Ohlsana's minions in their tracks and leaving them vulnerable to deadly strikes.
Studies in Bloodloch centred around the shadowrot and its relation to the lesser disease of shaderot practised by the Sciomancers. Overseen by Bulrok and supported by Paxe, Tetchta, Taj, Asaraii, Qelres, and Almol, the Empire painstakingly conducted experiments into the affliction, combining their abilities to keep the subjects alive in order to learn as much as they could. After numerous failed attempts that inched them closer to a successful result, their research finally bore fruit, and, by combining a concentrated panacea recipe developed by Paxe with ambient spirit in a secret technique involving fermentation in the earth, they produced a spirit-infused panacea paste, able to prevent them suffering harm when standing in the shadowrot.
The Ascendril, meanwhile, had similar ideas, but vastly different methods. While Docent Eliadon worked himself to the bone syphoning raw spirit into bulbs to power the Spirean anti-shadowspawn technology, he still found time to work with Archmage Kaiara and Jhura Gallant on their own research into surviving the rot. Kaiara conceived of something she termed 'spirit shrouds' - specially woven cloaks imbued with raw spirit. For weeks the Ascendril performed experiments and conducted studies on how to make their vision a reality. Though their initial techniques failed, suggestions from Aeraisentesh combined with Iernos' resourceful procurement of a tailor - a refugee from Attica - yielded success from an unlikely source: Tidesage Ramneze. Working with Iernos, the Mages combined the elemental spirit with freezing fog and found the shrouds able to provide resistance - for a time.
In Spinesreach, Wjoltyr Arcan and Raynia Riahl devoted themselves to research of a different kind, hoping to discover a method of actually turning back Ohlsana's rot and ridding locations of its taint. The Sciomancers put various theories to the test, some involving foci from their master crystal, some requiring judicious use of gravitation, others combining Gnomish enchantments with Magi crystals of old, and yet more still. Many setbacks befell them, but the theory of syphoning the rot into crystals persisted. Wjoltyr diligently recorded all of his findings and presented them to Litrix for review, hoping to find a way forward.
The Xorali scientist then performed several of his own experiments, attempting to replicate Wjoltyr's results and, with any luck, take the research a step further. After yet more setbacks and failures, they at last stumbled on a plausible method, one requiring four Sciomancers, a Revenant, and an Archivist to carry out. Presenting to them a newly devised enchanting technique to create what Litrix called shadowbinding crystals, a group composed of Feirenz, Rhyot, Raynia, Legyn, Lenoriel, and Wjoltyr made haste to the tundra to put the theory into practice. In a highly meticulous and difficult process that required the Revenant to singlehandedly shield the Mages from the rot using a new riving style originated by Meyondu, the Sciomancers channeled shadow and joined their wills as one, passing control of the link between them as they assiduously syphoned the rot from the location into the binding crystal they had gravitated to hover in the air.
After immense effort and significant time, their work garnered success, and the crystal, filled with the rot, found itself unmade by Numerological collapse. The toil left them exhausted but elated - a single patch of rot had been cleared. Left behind however was little to truly celebrate - where once tundral snow had fallen, now only an empty vacuum remained, a bleak swath of nothingness deprived of the ambient elemental presence required to shape tangible existence. Shadow had simply devoured it, explained Litrix, and the task of reconstruction would not be an easy one, nor an immediate undertaking. This was a positive, Litrix assured them, since the absence of anything to consume would almost certainly prevent the rot spreading back into the vacuum. Thus, with fatigue rendering them unable to repeat the process immediately, the Spireans swiftly began to organise plans for 'shadowbreaks', strategic purging of the rot from key locations to minimise its further expansion.
Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 14th of Midsummer, in the year 504 MA.
Anonymous
Everyone
The Second War of Night, Part XVII: Progress
Irgech's dark star continued to grow as time wound on, the once-familiar Howling now perpetually drowned out by the Shadow General's work far above in the heavens. Incursions into the cities of Sapience became more frequent and more deadly, but still the people persisted, growing more efficient and organised with every sortie launched against their walls. Despite the looming threat of invasion, the waning sun, and the lack of news or useful information on the lost Sword of Truth, Sapience pressed on in their efforts, their ingenuity and resolve yielding several fresh developments.
In Enorian, Roux Aquila worked with Commander Verok on an idea originally put forward by Ardent Riahl that Roux had run with and developed further. Diligently they experimented with the ouabain venom and an infusion of spirit, hoping to synthesise a new poison to defeat the shadowspawn. With the aid of the Maelstrom lending some of Their essence, the research was successful, and the city soon began fabricating what they now dubbed 'shadowbane darts', highly effective at slowing Ohlsana's minions in their tracks and leaving them vulnerable to deadly strikes.
Studies in Bloodloch centred around the shadowrot and its relation to the lesser disease of shaderot practised by the Sciomancers. Overseen by Bulrok and supported by Paxe, Tetchta, Taj, Asaraii, Qelres, and Almol, the Empire painstakingly conducted experiments into the affliction, combining their abilities to keep the subjects alive in order to learn as much as they could. After numerous failed attempts that inched them closer to a successful result, their research finally bore fruit, and, by combining a concentrated panacea recipe developed by Paxe with ambient spirit in a secret technique involving fermentation in the earth, they produced a spirit-infused panacea paste, able to prevent them suffering harm when standing in the shadowrot.
The Ascendril, meanwhile, had similar ideas, but vastly different methods. While Docent Eliadon worked himself to the bone syphoning raw spirit into bulbs to power the Spirean anti-shadowspawn technology, he still found time to work with Archmage Kaiara and Jhura Gallant on their own research into surviving the rot. Kaiara conceived of something she termed 'spirit shrouds' - specially woven cloaks imbued with raw spirit. For weeks the Ascendril performed experiments and conducted studies on how to make their vision a reality. Though their initial techniques failed, suggestions from Aeraisentesh combined with Iernos' resourceful procurement of a tailor - a refugee from Attica - yielded success from an unlikely source: Tidesage Ramneze. Working with Iernos, the Mages combined the elemental spirit with freezing fog and found the shrouds able to provide resistance - for a time.
In Spinesreach, Wjoltyr Arcan and Raynia Riahl devoted themselves to research of a different kind, hoping to discover a method of actually turning back Ohlsana's rot and ridding locations of its taint. The Sciomancers put various theories to the test, some involving foci from their master crystal, some requiring judicious use of gravitation, others combining Gnomish enchantments with Magi crystals of old, and yet more still. Many setbacks befell them, but the theory of syphoning the rot into crystals persisted. Wjoltyr diligently recorded all of his findings and presented them to Litrix for review, hoping to find a way forward.
The Xorali scientist then performed several of his own experiments, attempting to replicate Wjoltyr's results and, with any luck, take the research a step further. After yet more setbacks and failures, they at last stumbled on a plausible method, one requiring four Sciomancers, a Revenant, and an Archivist to carry out. Presenting to them a newly devised enchanting technique to create what Litrix called shadowbinding crystals, a group composed of Feirenz, Rhyot, Raynia, Legyn, Lenoriel, and Wjoltyr made haste to the tundra to put the theory into practice. In a highly meticulous and difficult process that required the Revenant to singlehandedly shield the Mages from the rot using a new riving style originated by Meyondu, the Sciomancers channeled shadow and joined their wills as one, passing control of the link between them as they assiduously syphoned the rot from the location into the binding crystal they had gravitated to hover in the air.
After immense effort and significant time, their work garnered success, and the crystal, filled with the rot, found itself unmade by Numerological collapse. The toil left them exhausted but elated - a single patch of rot had been cleared. Left behind however was little to truly celebrate - where once tundral snow had fallen, now only an empty vacuum remained, a bleak swath of nothingness deprived of the ambient elemental presence required to shape tangible existence. Shadow had simply devoured it, explained Litrix, and the task of reconstruction would not be an easy one, nor an immediate undertaking. This was a positive, Litrix assured them, since the absence of anything to consume would almost certainly prevent the rot spreading back into the vacuum. Thus, with fatigue rendering them unable to repeat the process immediately, the Spireans swiftly began to organise plans for 'shadowbreaks', strategic purging of the rot from key locations to minimise its further expansion.
Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 14th of Midsummer, in the year 504 MA.
Seeking: A lad. A son, even.
I am seeking someone who is interested in all the headaches that come from being a son of a Templar. Or, rather, I am looking for someone to make comical headaches for me, by playing a big silly Troll son.
Information:
Name: Ashlin Morrog
Race: Troll
Info: You were raised in Enorian under the watchful eye of Stonebridge. It takes a village after all. Your parents were doting, though your dad (that'd be me) is very duty driven, often trying to instill that into you. Whether this took or not is up to you, really, but Enorian is where you grew up and likely where you live now.
You are older than eighteen, just by a few years. You have a good heart, but not a lot of thoughts in that big head of yours and you're in that time of your life where you're more focused on pretty looking people than doing hard work. You have been dragged into the Templar by your Templar Dad to LEARN DISCIPLINE. Whether or not you stay there is up to you, but the importance of Spirit and Justice have been stressed to you all your life.
If you're interested, hit me up Sugar Butch#7655 on discord and we can talk specifics and stuff. I'm a very active player, so you won't just like, become someone's kid and then get hung out to dry. I will also do you a Free Drawing of your new Big Beefy Idiot.
In the interest of inclusiveness I will also say this: Son is the starting point, if you play this character and wanna play around with gender, that's fine too.
Information:
Name: Ashlin Morrog
Race: Troll
Info: You were raised in Enorian under the watchful eye of Stonebridge. It takes a village after all. Your parents were doting, though your dad (that'd be me) is very duty driven, often trying to instill that into you. Whether this took or not is up to you, really, but Enorian is where you grew up and likely where you live now.
You are older than eighteen, just by a few years. You have a good heart, but not a lot of thoughts in that big head of yours and you're in that time of your life where you're more focused on pretty looking people than doing hard work. You have been dragged into the Templar by your Templar Dad to LEARN DISCIPLINE. Whether or not you stay there is up to you, but the importance of Spirit and Justice have been stressed to you all your life.
If you're interested, hit me up Sugar Butch#7655 on discord and we can talk specifics and stuff. I'm a very active player, so you won't just like, become someone's kid and then get hung out to dry. I will also do you a Free Drawing of your new Big Beefy Idiot.
In the interest of inclusiveness I will also say this: Son is the starting point, if you play this character and wanna play around with gender, that's fine too.
Rasani
3