50th Ash, 4612
The Darklands was the monumental place of what was a race ravaged by plague, infertility and darkness, it has become a place where vulnerable men and women had fallen prey to the vampiric creatures of these lands. The tyrants of a once great race, now lead to them preying on their own flesh and blood, mangling their corpses for one vital essence. Their souls. It was the essence of vitality that they craved to enhance and evolve their kind into the greatest of their existence; it was the darkest of their souls that proved to be the essential figure of their presence.
In a way, Oliver should’ve been spitting on these kinds of people, the Sil’Norai was the downfall of his many centuries, as were mages, as were the Vandikar who preyed on slaves. As educated as he was, he started to disbelieve in his own educational background as indoctrination. Actions had to have consequences, but what was the action that brought the entirety of the Unbroken Empire down? What was it that truly caused the fall of the world?
Oliver could only wonder, as spending a mere two years on Icheron proved to be the foundation of his curiosity; the fact he ended up here was a reason in itself. He could only feel compassion for the Sil’Norai who wished to annul their sorrow with the Black Sigil itself as well as a flicker of honor and bravery for those who chose to sacrifice their souls to free them from the Dranoch Oligarchy. What was honorable seemed the righteous thing to do, no matter what the cause was.
The time came when Oliver and two other Ebon Knights were forced onto patrol to scavenge the desolate swampland for any potential escapees; the night approached and the red layers of crimson vapor could be seen in the distance, a sign that there was a Huntsman in the distance, since they weren’t qualified to deal with that, the other Ebon Knights would wonder on further into the woods. Oliver heard a branch snap behind him as he stopped for a moment, the two Ebon Knights, Randil and Sylvan.
“Keep an eye out…” Oliver spoke brashly as he pulled his rifle out from his back, beginning to remember the first lesson of Sigilic Pyromancy. Enkindling. He channeled his ether as his rifle began to blacken a darker shade, flecks of runic fire spread along the stock of the weapon all the way to the barrel of the gun. He loaded his gun as the two looked at him funnily.
“Ranged weaponry is your specialty?” Randil asked.
“If you ask me, it’s best to be skilled in both, you never know what could come flying at you.”
“Trust me, I’m prepared for the worst…” Oliver spoke confidently, perhaps with a bit of arrogance to his tone, it seemed that resilience and confidence appeared to be a foreign concept of the Sil’Norai as they both stared at him with envy, contempt and resentment. Maybe they resented the fact that they were oppressed amongst the Dranoch, the darkest secret appeared to be kept from the truth.
Oliver could hear an ear-splitting shriek from the distance as the two would shudder in fear; the Griscian adventurer remained calm, knowing that fear was a sign of defeat. The sound of rustling in the bushes, like someone was running at lightning speed, so much that only Oliver saw the claw marks amongst the birch of the trees. He furrowed his eyebrows, preparing himself as his rifle was held in an attack position.
The shivers went down his spine as the adrenaline made him sweat; the monstrosities of this land appear to be hungry, so hungry for that sweet sensation of flesh, ready to satiate their everlasting hunger. The saddest part was that satisfaction was a complete false hope for these avaricious beasts for their hunger would continue to torture them; feeding until they grow into stronger monsters over the years.
Food sources with magic tend to be more potent as Ether appeared to be a common cause for hunting. The more ether within their soul, the more satisfying the meal. Oliver began to wander slowly through swampland with the other two ebon knights, before he nodded to the other Sil’Norai
“Can you see any signs of Dranoch nearby?”
“Well, I don’t know… I’m just an initiate.” Randall spoke
“Same here, sir…”
Blast, they left me with two initiates? Reminds me of the days when I played the role of uncle for Fallon… Oh well, not their fault, not that I know much about being a mage myself…
“Alright then… I guess I’ll be the first to test this…” He said as he began to channel his ether, feeling the fire burn within the back of his mark, closing his eyes for a while before opening up once again. The eyes glewed a luminescent burning magma as his vision was enhanced by the casting of Searing. He was able to see the call of souls around him, as well as the luminescence of any warm-blooded creature that could be seen. The thermal visualisation appeared to be useful as he looked around, noticing a large veil of crimson vapor in the distance.
The vapor began to surround them as if it was heading towards them. The fastness of their running appeared to be alarming as Oliver and the two others. They would eventually come dart towards them like a pack of wolves, one of the Sil’Norai sliced his weapon through his heart, the Dranoch still held on for dear life, feeling the burning cauterising the flesh, preventing him from regenerating. The Sil’Norai appeared to have sliced the Dranoch into half, eventually creating a scent of charred blood for them to follow.
Oliver glared at the younger initiate as he shook his head “You just realised you may have created a problem for us?”
“What did I do?”
“Well, if you would’ve used your brain, perhaps you would understand the reason why…” He said scoldingly.
“Ops…” The younger initiate had spoken, not thinking of his actions as a horde of Dranoch botchlings would come at them. Oliver, Randall and the younger initiate would fight them off, with Oliver’s bullets having enough range to cover through the casting of Flash, forcing a spray of fire towards a horde, watching them feel the blinding pain of their own bane. Fire.
“There's too many of them!” Oliver screamed as he turned around, witnessing horror right in front of him. The Black Sigil began to have a devastating effect on the Dranoch, as they devoured the younger Ebon Knight who had been subdued by the hoard.
“Randall! Get back to the Citadel!” He said before turning around, noticing no sign of Randall nearby.
“Randall?” He called out once again, his eyes widened out in fear as he felt a searing pain in his left side, followed by the sounds of rending flesh. He looked downwards, realising that he had been inflicted with a very serious deep open wound. He turned around and to his horror, he found that Randall had become one of them.
Oliver’s eyes widened in fear, pain and shock before he took the gun to the man’s mouth and simply shot him. His eyes stared in shock as the spray of the fiery bullets penetrated through the brainstem, shutting down all neurological functions he had. His wound was deep, so deep that he had to make it back to camp. But most of all, he had to find safety from the Dranoch. He looked around the place, before running as fast as he could towards the direction of the Citadel, until he bumped into two more Ebon Knights.
Oliver was breathing heavily from fear, exasperation and most of all the wound appeared to be filtering blood.
“He’s injured, take him in…”
A couple of hours later, Oliver found himself within the Citadel’s chambers, lying there shirtless with a bandage around his abdomen. He exhaled deeply through his nose as he appeared to be still in pain. Not as much physically, but emotionally. How he had to kill a once innocent man because of their condition, of what they became. He knew it wasn’t their fault.
Shit happens, sometimes the best way of dealing with something is ending every aspect of it. Of course, the pain and suffering he would had gone through, declares that there was an ethical reason to do so.
A nurse came into the room, seeing Oliver awake “Oh, I’m sorry…”
“Could you leave, please…” Oliver spoke solemnly.
The nurse seemed reluctant, but she nodded, respecting his wishes.
He unravelled the bandage, seeing the wound was very deep and bleeding. Oliver didn’t want to be here for much longer, so he thought of a way of quickening the process of his recovery. He conjured a flare of fire in front of him, before directing it towards his wound.
“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGHH!” Oliver screamed in agony as he cauterised the wound, sealing it with flame, but leaving a mark that will surely scar.
The nurse came in again as she looked at him “What did you do? Cauterising it with your magic is only gonna make things worse, the wound will scar!”
“I would rather survive with 10 million scars, than sit around here feeling sorry for myself!” He spoke hissing at the radiant pain.
The wound will scar, but it will be a memory to Oliver.
The Darklands was the monumental place of what was a race ravaged by plague, infertility and darkness, it has become a place where vulnerable men and women had fallen prey to the vampiric creatures of these lands. The tyrants of a once great race, now lead to them preying on their own flesh and blood, mangling their corpses for one vital essence. Their souls. It was the essence of vitality that they craved to enhance and evolve their kind into the greatest of their existence; it was the darkest of their souls that proved to be the essential figure of their presence.
In a way, Oliver should’ve been spitting on these kinds of people, the Sil’Norai was the downfall of his many centuries, as were mages, as were the Vandikar who preyed on slaves. As educated as he was, he started to disbelieve in his own educational background as indoctrination. Actions had to have consequences, but what was the action that brought the entirety of the Unbroken Empire down? What was it that truly caused the fall of the world?
Oliver could only wonder, as spending a mere two years on Icheron proved to be the foundation of his curiosity; the fact he ended up here was a reason in itself. He could only feel compassion for the Sil’Norai who wished to annul their sorrow with the Black Sigil itself as well as a flicker of honor and bravery for those who chose to sacrifice their souls to free them from the Dranoch Oligarchy. What was honorable seemed the righteous thing to do, no matter what the cause was.
The time came when Oliver and two other Ebon Knights were forced onto patrol to scavenge the desolate swampland for any potential escapees; the night approached and the red layers of crimson vapor could be seen in the distance, a sign that there was a Huntsman in the distance, since they weren’t qualified to deal with that, the other Ebon Knights would wonder on further into the woods. Oliver heard a branch snap behind him as he stopped for a moment, the two Ebon Knights, Randil and Sylvan.
“Keep an eye out…” Oliver spoke brashly as he pulled his rifle out from his back, beginning to remember the first lesson of Sigilic Pyromancy. Enkindling. He channeled his ether as his rifle began to blacken a darker shade, flecks of runic fire spread along the stock of the weapon all the way to the barrel of the gun. He loaded his gun as the two looked at him funnily.
“Ranged weaponry is your specialty?” Randil asked.
“If you ask me, it’s best to be skilled in both, you never know what could come flying at you.”
“Trust me, I’m prepared for the worst…” Oliver spoke confidently, perhaps with a bit of arrogance to his tone, it seemed that resilience and confidence appeared to be a foreign concept of the Sil’Norai as they both stared at him with envy, contempt and resentment. Maybe they resented the fact that they were oppressed amongst the Dranoch, the darkest secret appeared to be kept from the truth.
Oliver could hear an ear-splitting shriek from the distance as the two would shudder in fear; the Griscian adventurer remained calm, knowing that fear was a sign of defeat. The sound of rustling in the bushes, like someone was running at lightning speed, so much that only Oliver saw the claw marks amongst the birch of the trees. He furrowed his eyebrows, preparing himself as his rifle was held in an attack position.
The shivers went down his spine as the adrenaline made him sweat; the monstrosities of this land appear to be hungry, so hungry for that sweet sensation of flesh, ready to satiate their everlasting hunger. The saddest part was that satisfaction was a complete false hope for these avaricious beasts for their hunger would continue to torture them; feeding until they grow into stronger monsters over the years.
Food sources with magic tend to be more potent as Ether appeared to be a common cause for hunting. The more ether within their soul, the more satisfying the meal. Oliver began to wander slowly through swampland with the other two ebon knights, before he nodded to the other Sil’Norai
“Can you see any signs of Dranoch nearby?”
“Well, I don’t know… I’m just an initiate.” Randall spoke
“Same here, sir…”
Blast, they left me with two initiates? Reminds me of the days when I played the role of uncle for Fallon… Oh well, not their fault, not that I know much about being a mage myself…
“Alright then… I guess I’ll be the first to test this…” He said as he began to channel his ether, feeling the fire burn within the back of his mark, closing his eyes for a while before opening up once again. The eyes glewed a luminescent burning magma as his vision was enhanced by the casting of Searing. He was able to see the call of souls around him, as well as the luminescence of any warm-blooded creature that could be seen. The thermal visualisation appeared to be useful as he looked around, noticing a large veil of crimson vapor in the distance.
The vapor began to surround them as if it was heading towards them. The fastness of their running appeared to be alarming as Oliver and the two others. They would eventually come dart towards them like a pack of wolves, one of the Sil’Norai sliced his weapon through his heart, the Dranoch still held on for dear life, feeling the burning cauterising the flesh, preventing him from regenerating. The Sil’Norai appeared to have sliced the Dranoch into half, eventually creating a scent of charred blood for them to follow.
Oliver glared at the younger initiate as he shook his head “You just realised you may have created a problem for us?”
“What did I do?”
“Well, if you would’ve used your brain, perhaps you would understand the reason why…” He said scoldingly.
“Ops…” The younger initiate had spoken, not thinking of his actions as a horde of Dranoch botchlings would come at them. Oliver, Randall and the younger initiate would fight them off, with Oliver’s bullets having enough range to cover through the casting of Flash, forcing a spray of fire towards a horde, watching them feel the blinding pain of their own bane. Fire.
“There's too many of them!” Oliver screamed as he turned around, witnessing horror right in front of him. The Black Sigil began to have a devastating effect on the Dranoch, as they devoured the younger Ebon Knight who had been subdued by the hoard.
“Randall! Get back to the Citadel!” He said before turning around, noticing no sign of Randall nearby.
“Randall?” He called out once again, his eyes widened out in fear as he felt a searing pain in his left side, followed by the sounds of rending flesh. He looked downwards, realising that he had been inflicted with a very serious deep open wound. He turned around and to his horror, he found that Randall had become one of them.
Oliver’s eyes widened in fear, pain and shock before he took the gun to the man’s mouth and simply shot him. His eyes stared in shock as the spray of the fiery bullets penetrated through the brainstem, shutting down all neurological functions he had. His wound was deep, so deep that he had to make it back to camp. But most of all, he had to find safety from the Dranoch. He looked around the place, before running as fast as he could towards the direction of the Citadel, until he bumped into two more Ebon Knights.
Oliver was breathing heavily from fear, exasperation and most of all the wound appeared to be filtering blood.
“He’s injured, take him in…”
A couple of hours later, Oliver found himself within the Citadel’s chambers, lying there shirtless with a bandage around his abdomen. He exhaled deeply through his nose as he appeared to be still in pain. Not as much physically, but emotionally. How he had to kill a once innocent man because of their condition, of what they became. He knew it wasn’t their fault.
Shit happens, sometimes the best way of dealing with something is ending every aspect of it. Of course, the pain and suffering he would had gone through, declares that there was an ethical reason to do so.
A nurse came into the room, seeing Oliver awake “Oh, I’m sorry…”
“Could you leave, please…” Oliver spoke solemnly.
The nurse seemed reluctant, but she nodded, respecting his wishes.
He unravelled the bandage, seeing the wound was very deep and bleeding. Oliver didn’t want to be here for much longer, so he thought of a way of quickening the process of his recovery. He conjured a flare of fire in front of him, before directing it towards his wound.
“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGHH!” Oliver screamed in agony as he cauterised the wound, sealing it with flame, but leaving a mark that will surely scar.
The nurse came in again as she looked at him “What did you do? Cauterising it with your magic is only gonna make things worse, the wound will scar!”
“I would rather survive with 10 million scars, than sit around here feeling sorry for myself!” He spoke hissing at the radiant pain.
The wound will scar, but it will be a memory to Oliver.
