Breaking His Darkness IC

[Guest]

“His Darkness, The Overlord, Ruler of All,
The Twins, first children of chaos
Moraldor, The Naetherin, All knowing
Rallick Graal, Scrirl Lord, summoned one
The Traitor, yielder of victories
Lothar, Chained one, bound to death
Luriel, born of the North
Ulricht Resal, The One of Many names”

Chronicles of the Dark Times

The cavern was large and at one point it had even been wholey natural. Such times though were long since past. For several millennia it had been the bunker of one of the Great Marikan. The final sanctum, a place to flee should the unimaginable occur and his empire be threatened. That particular Marikan would be furious at what his sanctum was now being used for, if he was still alive that was. One of the first great ones to fall in combat against the being who now ruled, His Darkness.

The sanctum's massive innermost chamber was not crowded, in fact there were barely a few dozen individuals there, both male and female combined. No it was the nature of those few people that would have driven the owner into a state of rage. For few of the Marikan could stand others of their kind in large numbers, and the reason that they had gathered was even worse than the gathering itself. For they planned to unleash forbidden magics upon the world. Desperate times called for still more desperate measures it was true and half the world had been ruined beyond repair by the great measures taken during the last days of open combat. There was nothing left but the magic that had caused the situation in the first place.

Even for the Marikan whom no one would call kind and considerate souls the rituals involved in invoking the forbidden magics were pushing the boundaries. Aldranes had opened a rift with the sacrifice of every soldier left in his army and he had groped blindly for anything to pull through. This was to be purposeful, beings who could aid would be pulled through specifically. Such added to the cost. Before each of the figures dressed gaudily in raiments of spun gold and silver were large urns that were filled to the brim with red fluid.

The blood of hundreds gathered for this final magic, the Marikan began to weave the spell that would open a gate, not to a single world but to many, to find those who could aid them. The voices that filled the chamber were varied, some of them sounding sweet as those of angels and others sounding harsh and guttural, just as the forms beneath the clothing differed greatly depending on the will of the Marikan in particular so too did their voices.

A feeling of great weight began to settle on the chamber as if the magical incantation was building up to a head and the blood within the urns began to seethe and roll as if it was boiling. Then it erupted out in streams that connected in the center of the circle of Marikan. The towers of blood began to pulse with an otherworldly light before suddenly turning black. Magic fire crackled along the now black liquid and within the area enclosed by the towers of blood a swirling vortex or magical energy began to grow.

The bloody towers grew faded and thin as the vortex increased in size and after a minute they were gone and all that remained was the swirling mass that surrounded the rift that had been opened and the massed voices chanting. Then all at once the voices ceased and the swirling mass of multicolored energy fell away. It would leave behind those who the Marikan's power had reached across dimensions and universes to summon.

[wakeangel]

The lore-chains embedded deep in her skin to clamp around her very bones clanked with none of the musicality of the strands of bells that had once adorned Devoir as she shifted listlessly within her prison. The bone-deep lethargy that slowed her movements had little to do with fatigue over a long day's work. Once, she had danced with the Lasariae across those same fields and forests, blessing the fertility of plant and animal alike in long days and nights of festivity and joyful celebration. Then, she'd felt no tiredness, her steps quick and sure as she joined in their dances to praise the heavens for the bounty to come.

Gazing up at those same unfeeling stars, her memories stirred longing for a time long past and so far removed from the heartache of a day spent dragged in lore-chains and treated like a dangerous animal. She hadn't fought them on the day they came to imprison her, and she wouldn't fight them now. There was simply no point. Everything she knew and loved was gone now. All that was left was her promise to her adopted people- a people who hated her.

After nearly seventy years, few were left who remembered her voice or how easily she could free herself if she chose. At first, many who revered the old ways came to visit her in the night, but as time passed, their numbers dwindled down to a mere handful and then stopped altogether. A beast was what her people wanted, and so she gave it to them.

She shifted, the lore-chains rustling again as the wind picked up, bringing with it stench from the factories and overcrowded villages they called cities. The cool breeze sliding along the ridges of her head bones produced a light, wailing moan that suited her mood perfectly. One day, if she let them, the Lasariae would kill her. A small part of her roared in denial at the thought, but most of her welcomed it.

Her breath hitched as a low burning sensation started in the pit of her second stomach. It flowed through her, expanding, the burning sensation pulling at her from within. Faintly at first, the odor of death reached her nose. The wind whipped at her as if possessed. The ground shifted, losing its solidity beneath her, and she fell into the thick, choking scent of blood.

+ + + + +

Devoir stirred, her senses reaching towards awareness. The impression of great time or distance, or both, lay imprinted in her mind as she struggled to open her eyes. Blood and magic. This place, wherever it was, reeked of it, the scent so thick she could taste it on her tongue. She felt entombed and closed off. No longer did the wind caress her or the stars light her skin. Sounds and voices assailed her ears, telling her she wasn't alone. Again she struggled to open her eyes and was finally rewarded with flickering blares of light interspersed with much smaller, darker shapes moving among them.

The whole mess resolved moments later into a cave, the flames of torches illuminating strange beings, most of them much smaller than even the Lasariae. Wherever she was, it was not her home. She knew it instinctively. The sights, smells and even the very air itself was all wrong. Ignoring the protest of bone and muscle, she struggled to her feet to prepare to face whatever lay ahead. 'Apparently,' she mused, her heart racing with an anticipation she hadn't felt in a very long time, 'I am not quite so ready to die as I thought.'

[DawnofLight]

Hilda Lea grinned as she caught another fish in her jaws. It had been a few days since she had taken her seal form, and the waters off her island had been calling to her for quite some time now. As she nibbled away on her lunch, she allowed the currents to drag her about for a moment, simply reveling in the feeling of water flowing across her body. It really had been a while since she’d done this…. Being scared of hunters made it quite difficult for her to want to leave the relative safety of her island home, and she hadn’t swum in the ocean beyond the small confines of the bay for weeks. All too soon though, she finished her snack and headed back for the shore.

Her little island was home to many species of animal, and she was used to finding the little beach where she pulled up covered in tracks and birds, along with the occasional jungle beast looking for easy prey. But today it was empty. Strange really… coming up to the sand, she shed her skin, stretching her muscles and shaking out her long brown hair. Folding up her skin and placing it in the pack she had left lying on the beach, she smiled. The selkie was in no rush to go back to the forest that dotted the island, instead choosing to sit on the sand and gaze out over the water.

This place… it was both her paradise and her prison. She was safe here from those who would attempt to steal her sealskin, but at the same time she was trapped, unable to leave to see the rest of the world. A lone selkie with no tribe was practically a death sentence waiting to be carried out by predators and other tribes. She had fought against more than one member of a rival tribe, as well as other sea predators in the time she’d dared to venture beyond her islands. Sighing, she drew her knees up to her chest and watched the sun sparkle on the water. Her home was the sea… but lately it had felt foreign to her.

After a moment, she got to her feet, picking up her bag and her weapons, sliding them into place in their holsters on her body. Time to go back to her shelter for the day and see about finding some more supplies for her to use. Right now, she may not be strong enough to fight the humans, but she was capable of defending herself from the other selkies and sea creatures out for a bite. The sea was just as much hers as it was theirs, and she wasn’t going to let it be denied to her any longer. With that thought firmly in mind, she began to stride over to the edges of the forest, only to stop short as something… twisted… in her gut.

Gasping, she stumbled slightly. It felt awful, like she was being ripped into two separate pieces. Groaning, she fell to her knees, hands clasped over her ears. The scent of blood filled her nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Suddenly, she heard a sharp CRACK, and everything went dark.

-***-

She woke slowly, eyes adjusting to flickering light. Where was she? This was not the beach where she had fallen, the torches and rock walls proved that. The feeling of magic prickled at her skin. She had been around it enough when she was younger to know what it felt like. But this magic was different… darker somehow. She slowly got to her feet, looking around suspiciously. This place felt… wrong somehow, but she couldn’t tell why.

There were others here, she could hear their heartbeats and feel their presence, but her eyes hadn’t adjusted long enough for her to see properly. Blinking, she rubbed at them and looked up again. Her gasp echoed across the cavern walls. People… quite a few of them… and some sort of being, but she had no clue what sort. What? Had she been brought here for sport to fight or something? She glared and removed a dagger from her right wrist gauntlet. She was not going to die here, no way no how. If she had to fight her way out of here, then so be it.

[Kalon Ordona II]

Ferougrimhod paced along the pinnacle of the Summer Temple. A wide, green panorama gratified his emerald eyes, the enormous home of the Dargons spread out before him. Basking in the perpetual warmth of the summer sun, the Summer Guardian communed with Guafodolwa, the great spirit that was their world. Gwafodolwa filled the Dargon with pleasant feelings of growth, seemingly as pleased as he was with this fine day, though to Ferougrimhod the day was and had been unending. Perpetually aligned with the sun, it was always high noon on the floating Summer Temple.

A swooping bird darted by, pulling up to land on one of the canopy branches crowning one of the many trees of the Summer Temple. Ferougrimhod hulked over, the branch level with his corded chest, and reached out with a thick, gray-skinned forearm. The large bird hopped onto his outstretched finger. Ferougrimhod's pleasantly deep laugh was childlike in its simple delight. The bird was not frightened of the sound but rather sang along. "It is a good hour, isn't it, little sky-farer," he told it, his long, slender, beard-like chin moving up and down with his mouth. The bird squhrriiiiaqed its distinctve, whistling call. The big Dargon let it go, watching it return to its acrobatic revels.

Warm air found its way into his expanding skin as Ferougrimhod's body took a deep breath, exhaling oxygen through the dark green, needled mass of hair falling all the way down to his upper back. The Summer Temple wasn't going to guard itself. Ferougrimhod hefted the enormous, crystal-edged sword in his other hand, returning his deep eyes to the horizon, this time searching for possible threats. Most times, like now, he saw little that might be cause for worry. A distant trio of wyrms beat the sky in magnificent flight, but they were not fire-breathers. Other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Land and sea and sky and sun, all were as they should be. The Summer Temple was a constant, an unchanging paradise of life and growth. And he was its guardian, as he had been for seventy turns of Guafodolwa. Ferougrimhod had never lost sight of that privilege.

All of a sudden, a shadow darkened the sky. Ferougrimhod looked up, startled. What looked like a black whirlpool had created a swirling hole in the sky! Air began to rush upward all around him. "What is this!" He brought up his great sword, ready to strike at something, anything. But this enemy could not be slain; this unnatural force could not be withstood. The Guardian of the Summer Temple was bested at last. Clerics and priests further down along the temple grounds wailed in horror as the great rift grew and descended, rending branches from trees and smaller fauna from gardens. And all at once, Ferougrimhod himself was plucked from the ground and lifted up into the blackness, and his world went dark.

* * * * *

Ferougrimhod woke to cold darkness, to agony, and to terror. The light was gone. The sun's warmth was gone. The vortex had cast him out onto some sort of hard ground. His sinews ached from the impact, but that was nothing next to the horror of sudden shadow, plucked from his age-long home and thrust into this cold hard hell. An anguished, wailing cry bellowed from deep in Ferougrimhod's chest. Frightened despair and grief choked his crystal heart. He had curled up on his elbows and knees, too horrified even to acknowledge his surroundings.

The huge Dargon's bulk shuddered and cried for several long moments. Would the pain and loss never end? He had lost everything, his whole world, everything he knew, everything he had felt. He couldn't even feel Guafodolwa. Would he forget them? Would he forget his home? Would he forget the Summer Temple? Ferougrimhod cried out again in panicked, piercing dread. The deep moans of the gray-green giant filled the cavern.

All at once, Ferougrimhod felt a being touch his shoulder. He gasped in his sobs and did not recoil, for the presence was gentle and felt as broken-hearted as he. Still unable to bear the thought of opening his eyes, Ferougrimhod slowly brought out a thick forearm to rest a hand on the thing that touched him. It felt like the nose of some large creature, breathing gentle warmth and life into his hand. His palm breathed in what the creature exhaled, renewing some of his spirit even as it afforded him a sense of the being's nature. Its compassion voided his despair; its sorrow called forth his own empathy. Ferougrimhod dared to turn his head and slowly open his eyes. A taloned paw greeted his vision, but above that, as he raised his shoulders, he looked into the creature's eyes and saw the spirit he had felt. "All will be well," he heard himself say in an undefinable tone--every bit as much a question as it was a promise.

And, somehow, he grew the courage to look around.
A cavern lit by tiny flames. Little people stood around golden jars whose insides were stained dark red. The Dargon felt the creature next to him--for all he knew the only friend he would ever have in this place--move closer and nudge his muscled arm. Ferougrimhod tightened his opposite hand to keep his balance on all fours... and he felt a familiar shape beneath that other palm. He looked down. There was his sword. Ferougrimhod closed his fingers around its hilt, pulled his massive legs under him, and stood. His head came just above his animal friend's shoulder. Placing his free hand on the hide of his only ally, he faced the scene before him, dreading where next this nightmare may turn.

[Guest]

The festival of the Wolf was held every year without fail. Count Radis would never allow his city to forget why the Ostern family ruled the city, and every year the city celebrated, against the raging elements, the biting wind, the bitter cold, and the fierce beasts hungering for the blood of men. Unfortunately, some fierce beasts that hungered for blood were men. Some still wandered the streets, culling the weak. There weren't any guards near the lower docks, and battered but popular tavern, Rabbit's Foot, was open and business was booming for them.

Still, this wasn't the start of a brilliant story. A man dressed melodramatically in a black magician's robe and cape sat across a rug and a fire from a man in pale white. It was full of low lifes, thugs, and slumming nobles, but even the haughtiest noble or the toughest thug wasn't going to brave the company of the resident necromancer and his current menacing guest. Even if no one knew if the rumors were true, it was best not to test them. Especially not with the scowl on the face of the man in white. It was one thing to chance dying in a bar brawl, but it was quite another to be someone's helpless puppet for all eternity. Aran'el scowled and made a sign of his god of death, Iris. He got up and shoved some cowards out of his way. He slammed the tavern door open, letting a frigid gust bite into the assembled patrons. A few curses spluttered out as the big tattooed barbarian exited. A smaller man, gaudily dressed stumbled against him. Aran'el looked into the smaller man's glazed green eyes. The bigger man tried to snatch the fool who bumped into him, but slightly pudgy man drunkenly stumbled under the swing, and did a drunken jig into the bar. Aran'el longed to beat the careless idiot senseless, but he could do that after he emptied his bladder.

The bar focused on the pudgy, short, and flashy patron who entered. The man looked the part of the fool, from the rumpled clothes and stains, to the glazed green eyes, and the slightly stupid grin on his overly wide mouth. The collective assumption was that this man would be an easier target for wrath than the terror the barbarian had been. The only bouncer who could beat the man, if narrowly, was off tonight, and the dwarves drinking in the corner would only care if some poor sinner spilled their Imperial Stout. There were shudders of anticipation as the fool waved at the dwarves, and started singing an off-key but popular drinking song to their applause. The gravelly and hoarse voices started chanting along annoying everyone else.

The drunk sidled up to bar around Aran'el's vacant seat, and sat down while it was still warm. He started whistling in an annoying high pitched shrill, and drew idly on the bar top with his finger. The bartender, Eric rushed over, if for nothing else than to shut this maniac up. Eric wanted this idiot's money before Aran'el ripped his arms off and beat him to death with them.

“What da' ya want. Make it fast, you reek.”

The man shrugged and giggled slightly as he muttered something to himself. “Hexelian Brandy. Three fingers.” The man waved three callused fingers to emphasize the amount. The bartender's mouth dropped a bit. They only kept the really good stuff for the nobles hanging around.

“Money first, four silver talots.” Half a month's pay for someone like him.

Lorn scratched his chin idly while rummaging around under the tight vest. It was a fairly effective move against pick pockets. The game was up if you were being felt up by a stranger. His fingers found the distinctive shape of a few silver crowns, and pulled out one fat silver coin. He slapped it down, while Eric polished a semi-clean glass with a dirtier rag. The bartender ducked behind the bar, and grabbed a bottle of the good stuff from an innocuous place. While many hated Ezrah the Black taking over the country, money was money for the Guild, and his mint produced high quality standardized coin. The bartender made it disappear with the alacrity of a professional at sleight of hand; it wouldn't be unsurprising if the man had a history with light fingers after all. Some of the brandy gurgled into a dirty glass. The normally light amber liquid looked cloudy, but Lorn swallowed half a finger, and made a noise of appreciation. The man in black casually leaned back, and glanced with hooded eyes at the overly loud, jovial and chubby man. The man in white simply continued to scowl, now in the direction of the fire.

He shivered, as another draft blasted through the open door. Aran'el had returned, scowling blackly. The urge to kill was on him strong tonight, like a blessing from Cretus, the god of war. Those who complained stifled at the sight of murder in the man's eyes. The barbarian smiled with gleeful hate at the sight of the fop who bumped into him, and stalked over. He grabbed for the drink, just missing it as the oblivious drunken fool ignored him. He snarled, and growled, “Your in my seat.” Lorn looked at him with glazed green eyes, and smiled at him slowly, stupidly. “Eh?” Aran'el missed the sight of bright white teeth, and heavily callused fingers as he swung a fast haymaker at the shorter man. Again, he just missed as the drunk fell backwards with a start of surprise. He snarled in growing, when molten fire erupted in his left knee. It gave out and his eyes widened in surprise as he started falling. More pain flashed in his right armpit, and his fall accelerated. He began letting out a grunt of surprise when a heavy blow to his sternum silenced him entirely. He saw deep black, and then varied color lights. Aran'el heard a delighted giggle beside him, and saw a dark red blade with a wicked edge in front of his fast swelling eyes. He tried helplessly to move his arms, his legs, but they wouldn't move. He couldn't even feel them.

The man in black noted the mad gleeful smile in the foppish man's face, and noted with distaste the blood red blade began carving runes into brutish barbarians mewling face, drawing in the blood flowing from his nose like a river. “Blood magic,” the man in white scowled in distaste. The bar was silent at the sight of Aran'el so utterly vanquished, at his continuing torture, consumed with shock and fear. The only sound was a mad giggling, a mewling from the soon to be desecrated corpse. Even the dwarves were silent, and no ears heard the silent boot falls of the man in black, and no eyes beheld him until he spoke.

“That is more than enough Lorn.” The snap of his fingers was audible, as was the smell of burnt meat. The chubby man launched a blinding attack only to be handled as if a child. A ball of fire as bright as new born sun blossomed in the dark clothed man's hand, and neared the crazed man's face.
“Do not besmirch my blades with that puny, revolting soul.” The sun inched closer, causing sweat to roll down Lorn's face.
“Waymaster...”
“I have a job for you Lorn.”

His voice lowered his voice to a whisper, “find the elect Vhaan, and aid him in his purported quest. It should be easy for a man of your skills... with my help. Be honored that I came to tell you in person, you have grown more skilled child. Do not disappoint me, Lorn.” The man's teeth gleamed in dim light. Lorn swallowed hard.

Elric strode deep beneath the Spire, jangling softly in full military garb. The differences were slight at sight, but not in effect. The desire to fully secure their lower borders, and roads to beneath the cursed Wastes was a quest now ill-recieved. The elders were timidly whining or arrogantly forgetful, winding long tales where their great-grandfathers did not have the odious duty of their fallen kin. That the Great Crusade had made a desolate waste of the core, nothing could live in that desert. Elric laughed mockingly at the concept. Life existed everywhere, and he smelt fear in their presence when talking about the demons. The demons may now have evolved to be able to crush the average Tairen, but they were too heavy in soul and temper to be compared to their blood feud, the racial enemy, the Devils. These things who stared from the Abyss, were perverted and evil; the few who emerged from the cold Void hungered, not raged.

He laughed coldly at the thought that it was even the lesser demons of the Core that made the elders fear so, but the bloated, bulging human empire below the Range. Petty fools who could be bought, swindled, and slain as easy as cracking an egg, and those elders trembled at the precedent that it would set to demand the right to protect them. It made his blood boil. His fingers ached from clenching the hilt of his sword. The blind fools. The leader, Ezrah the Black, had cursed blood mixed with degenerate blood. The fallen kin, Val'yr, whose ambition burned as hot as the core, and the arrogance of the Eis, who forgot the All-Father in return for glorifying themselves, had produced and evil and twisted man. He had even experimented with dimensional magics before the Tairen Master of Ways had shown him such folly. A cursed but noble soul, the master of Ways was, doomed to bear forbidden knowledge and magic from his unflinching confrontation of it. The blood of Tyr was both a blessing and curse.

As Elric felt an unfamiliar and surprising itch grow between his shoulder blades, his blood tingled. The itch grew more severe, instantly across his body. It burned, so strong that Elric knew that not even tearing his flesh would satisfy it. His blood boiled in reaction, and he chanted ancient magic, blood magic, the Guardian's magic. He channeled it to himself, sure in his duty. The pressure of strange magics, similar to the natural warping of space used by the Devils. Elric snarled in hated and concentrated more, ignoring the blinding pain to continue to bear the burden. The will of Tyr would endure it. Nausea wracked his body, and he fell unbalanced. He continued to fall, as he felt space rip and tear around him, but just around him.

Elric remained conscious as he surveyed the cosmos for an eternity. It was horrifying, this eternity, this instant. He fell to a cold cavern floor, and held off madness from two sides. No mortal was meant to have his perception encompass the cosmos, and his mind screamed from it. The second, the perversion of its glory warred with it, driving him insane with rage. He didn't know who cast this, but he would kill them. Slaughter them all, and bathe my sword in their foul blood. Unconsciousness provided a blessed relief.

Lorn knelt, holding his target. He was afraid, but enraged as well. Lorn knew Tairen lore, and this felt wrong. The world felt lighter, and stranger. He surveyed the strange beings around him, and instinctively assessed the situation for threats. It was untenable to kill them all and paint their beautiful fluids across the walls; Lorn still had his duty to protect the Elect in a world gone mad. He ground his teeth, and felt the fury bubbling beneath the surface. They profaned the sacred, and desecrated the Elect. He would abide, for duty, for now.

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