Atharen, A Fantasy Roleplay Forum

Posted: **Fri Oct 30, 2020 11:11 am**

81st of Ash, Year 120
Previous

Sigilflame spewed forth, raining like molten rocks from the mouth of a great crag. Large sections of the dockyard were incinerated, and the entire stony entrance of the warehouse was defaced by the fiery siege, annihilating it and forcing the wall itself to crumble. Even the cove was beginning to tremble, stones descending from above, and he could see that effect running a domino through the interior. Aldrin appeared satisfied by this display, though he quickly directed Taelian to his next task: "Hold up your fist," he commanded. "Glare anyone that comes out. Man or Dranoch -- we can't waste time discerning who is who. Kill them all," he said.

And Taelian would -- without hesitation. One desperate man did run through, but quickly. Far too quickly to be a regular man. His face was singed, seared. Shrivenflame was burning him, attached to his shirt, which he wouldn't be able to remove without further immolating his face. Quickly, a beam of Sigilfire railed forward from the knuckles of Taelian's fist, destroying his head, searing through his brain. He died instantly, collapsing onto the floor as his mangled flesh desperately tried to mend itself, but could not.

"This is taking too long," Aldrin said. "She could be trying to set up a Window between herself and the Court of Dusk. We need to get in there."

The Jailor quickly leaped forward, before disappearing into the fire, as if melding into it. What looked like a shadow bled across the flames, and Taelian desperately tried to follow, though he quickly lost sight of him in the flaming rubble. The vortex continued to spew fire forth; it would do that for minutes longer, until the cove and everything within it was completely incinerated.

Taelian made his way into the warehouse, unhindered by the fire. His clothes, though, were burning. In a moment, they would burn off completely, with only his fireproof satchel remaining, attached to his waist. He didn't have the flameproof Ebon Knight armor of an Ashwraith, and Aldrin hadn't thought to bring him a pair. He had to make do with what he had.

The mage moved through the fiery wreck, his eyes rapidly scanning all around him. He saw men -- likely mundane ones -- fleeing in the fire, frantically trying to escape as they burned, withered, died. The fire was hot, and completely unyielding. Even after hours, even days, it wouldn't relent. Once it got onto their skin, their lives were over. The desperation that came from that was sometimes horrific, and humbling, but also... strangely fulfilling. To think that these hundreds of men -- servants of evil -- were all dying because of him, a fate they couldn't escape... too panicked to even recognize him as their foe, as their killer?

He continued to move. At the end of a corridor, a burning man wept, before turning to face him. He frowned, his teeth baring as he mourned what was his now-inevitable fate: death.

The man then faced Taelian, and revealed the sharpness of his fangs. He unhinged his grotesque maw, and screamed. "You!" he cried out. "You fuckin' Pyre'mancer!"

Posted: **Fri Oct 30, 2020 11:26 am**

It didn't take long for Taelian to kill him. He could alter the carbon of his blades, control them remotely, have them follow after the undying -- such as the Cardinal before him -- relentlessly, and shred them apart. It only required a few seconds of concentration, in fact, and he was rended from head to toe with thick, seared gashes running across his fleshy form. The Ebon Knight held a narrowed gaze as he stared down his prey, running forward to lunge Ard Fuil through his hideous maw, before twisting the blade and pulling off the meatbag that was his flesh.

Then, another Cardinal came. Taelian turned, before stepping forward and batting away its claws with parry after parry. He swiped through it, rending it nearly in-half, before dicing off its claws at the joint of their attached knuckles. Another Cardinal appeared, lunging from the fiery hallway, attempting to bite through his shoulder and then probably more. This one managed to land a blow: he did in fact sink his fangs into Taelian, only for his floating, Enkindled daggers to cycle around and chop through the tender shape of his neck. He cut and sawed until he beheaded him, though now he had a Dranoch maw stuck within his shoulder, unhinged and unwilling to let go.

The Ebon Knight screamed out in pain. He performed Flash around himself, searing through all of the Dranoch that had surrounded him, pushing away their corpses and washing them in flame to ensure they were all dead. The Cardinal's maw that was stuck in his shoulder mostly burned through, and eventually it fell limp to the ground. Still, he had a massive, aching gash within his shoulder -- it was bleeding intensely.

His eyes widened as a thick, red fog began to billow through the burning warehouse. It was a Huntsman ability -- Helena was forming her hunting ground. The Ebon Knight desperately lit his palm, forming Searing within it so as to see through the red haze. Still, he could only see what was near him, all of the space lit by that ghostly flame.

The mage began to wander through the fiery corridors, trying to follow his ears rather than his eyes. He heard the sound of a clash -- an intense, vicious one. There was screaming, groaning, sounds of desperation. He heard chunks of flesh being sundered apart and desperate screams following, but he couldn't see that far out.

Suddenly, a man ran past him, bumping into him through the obscuring red fog. Taelian grimaced as he flung his blade forward, attempting to cut through him. The beast seemed to dodge, though, and scaled the wall before descending upon him, using his hearing as a guide. Taelian held his blade forward to block his claws, only for the man to begin snapping at him with his fangs. Several daggers came forward to impale him through his eyes and slice through his jugular, but with a desperate sleight of hands, he punched a hole through Taelian's chest.

The Ebon Knight screamed. "N-no," he muttered. Ard Fuil was filled with blood, so it would perhaps be able to heal him, but--

No... he whispered again. He felt his Beacon flare, grazing the edge of his soul. It was the one mutation he never wanted to experience again, not in the heat of battle. Not now. It would only come when one of his internal organs had been damaged severely enough -- and he'd lost enough blood -- to where he could no longer stabilize the Beacon within.

It was Affliction of Ash, a death knell. The mage collapsed onto his knees, the fire surrounding him. As his last act before he could no longer maintain any form of concentration, or awareness, he opened the Lychgate and collapsed through it, falling onto a field of frigid grass. Lethiril stood before him, beneath the wind, and the falling leaves.

Posted: **Fri Oct 30, 2020 11:47 am**

Lethiril looked to the man, as he laid upon the grass, with horror. Blood pooled beneath him and he coughed violently, before scampering over to the foot of a tree to rest his head upon the bark. His skin began to flake into what looked like cold ash; a chalk-like soot, dead, already beginning to peel from his flesh. His bones began to brittle, and he breathed in hoarsely and desperately. Fire surged from his chest, only to spout and go... nowhere, just desperately flailing. The Orkhai began to cry: he was trying to become a Necromancer, but he wasn't any good -- not good enough to heal this. He had not the faintest clue of what was occurring, only that he appeared before him with a giant series of bite-wounds in his shoulder, and a clawed hole through his chest, some of his organs shredded. Blood was everywhere, and he was beginning to fade into what looked like white powder and ash.

He was so frail looking. So weak. Taelian began to gargle blood and cough, lowering his face into the grass. "Wy...len," he voiced. "O-only hope. Wy...len."

Black wings soared from above, not long after. Lethiril ran towards Melitene to try and contact Wylen from afar, despite the fact that he was staying in Essen. As he did so, the mage quietly stared forward with a muddled view, breathing hoarsely.

Aldrin landed. There was blood all over him -- his armor, his face, his hair. It wasn't his own.

In his grip was the head of a black-haired woman, elegant looking, each lock finely curled. Her still-open eyes stared red, but the severed head lied detached from her form, which had surely been left in the flames. Along the edges of her scarred, burnt face appeared to be almost animal features; she had shifted into a monster as Huntsmen could, and only changed back as a result of her death. Despite the exchange, despite her power, Aldrin had won in a matter of minutes.

The man stepped before Taelian, sighing. "I am sorry, my friend," he said. "I couldn't have done it so easily without you -- your Sigilfall was essential in isolating her, weakening her, limiting her field of movement. With control of the battlefield... I was able to cull her with far greater ease."

Aldrin dropped her head, extending his throw somewhat so that it fell away and rolled. He knelt before the dying Ebon Knight, and frowned. "Your sacrifice will not be forgotten. The revolution will prosper, and succeed -- at least in part thanks to you. And..." he continued, looking almost... sullen. "I am sad to see you go, Taelian. I've known you since you were a boy -- I always saw you as like my own. Even after the dark things in which we delved; the cruelty, the experimentation. It... it is strange to see you wielding another face, in these final hours. It's like I can see you, but only faintly. Somewhere, in there, is that boy that Vendrael and I found on the streets of the Pyred Bedlam. Somewhere is that silly, sorrowful kid that I knew."

The Jailor stood. "Carry this truth to your grave," he began: "I am not a mortal man. I am Malek's son. Were I one... I would have died long ago, like you, now. But -- before you go, Taelian..." he paused. "...Can you open another portal for me, one last time? So that I can return to the Gallows. I cannot let the revolution be inconvenienced by your fate."

The dying man's eyes widened. He began to cry, the tears running down his ashen, peeling cheeks. As if conditioned to -- as if he had no other choice -- he held his hand forward, and a portal formed. Aldrin smiled, thanking him quietly, and the Jailor stepped through, disappearing through the door. It closed behind him, its collapse annunciated by the outward burst of falling leaves that had been caught around its edges. Taelian continued to mourn. Lethiril was still gone, seeking out Wylen. He shouldn't have asked him to leave; he could never make it in time.

He was going to die, here, alone.

"Riven," he sobbed. The winged man would never forget him; he would never be able to. If there was one thing he would've wanted to change, it was that.

Taelian closed his eyes. As the blackening effect of his closed lids became darker and darker, he felt himself beginning to fade. He was dying... he was dying, and then, he was dead.

Posted: **Mon Nov 09, 2020 3:18 am**

Oh Dear, you seem to have contracted a REVIEW!

XP:

5 - {No Magic}

Pieces of knowledge:

Lores

Blades: Running Lunge
Blades: Diagonal Swipe
Blades: Parrying Multiple Weapons
Blades: Dagger Offhand
Tactics: Cleaning up foes amidst chaos
Sigilic Pyromancy: Affliction of Ash: Killed me

Aldrin: Son of Malek

Loot: N/A

Injuries: N/A

Comments:

If you have any questions, comments or concerns, let me know. Enjoy your rewards!

Atharen, A Fantasy Roleplay Forum

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