Round lasts for 2 weeks! Good Luck!
Round lasts for 2 weeks! Good Luck!
2011 Althy winner for Best Comeback, Most Helpful Moderator, and Best IC Odd Couple (With Enigmatic Immortal). 2012 Althie Winner for Mr. Althanas, and best Bromance (also, with Enigmatic Immortal). 2014 Althy Winner Best Battler for Forrals Fortress.
Gisela Open Winner (First Year), Lornius Cooperate Championship 3rd Place Winner (1/2 of 'Don't Blinke!', 2nd year).
(21:41:22) Sulla: If you kill god, Nihilism fills the void, you need the ubermensch to take the place of god. Sei is the ubermensch.
It seemed like all of Raiaera had shown up to cleanse the Red Forest, lines of wagons filled with young hopefuls looking to make a name for themselves had been streaming down the makeshift dirt road for days. People who had fled the hordes of the dreaded Xem’Zund ten years ago were pouring back into the land in a horde of their own filled with hopes. A purified forest could be just victory enough for a purified land, a restored kingdom, and perhaps a home once more. Every high elf had heard the call, and every able body had found their way to the makeshift tent city dubbed new Eluriand.
The Tarot Hierarchy, as enigmatic as it claimed to be, was not beyond the scope of this project. Leona Stevvains, their leader, claimed her lineage through Raiaeran nobility via adoption. The call arrived in the form of a letter from a scouting party that was on their last legs from the surrounding fauna’s attacks. The demands had been simple, Leona did not have to send men but her doors were required to be open for those who needed a sanctuary from the wilds or be disowned.
That being said several of her “Cards” had opted to join in in the purge efforts, others simply opted to leave the base to avoid the headache. Vincent Cain had found himself part of the former group escorting the scouting party back to the main base. With his guidance along the path the group had managed the feat in one day, arriving at nightfall to a camp mid revel. Tomorrow would mark the start of the “attack” and everyone was celebrating as if they had already won. Kegs of ale had been tapped and distributed freely, not a single coin seemed to be changing hands. Whores had men lined up outside their tents for once last chance at a quick bedding before possibly dying, and bards were wailing some of their best songs to get everyone pumped up.
The scholar had found himself stepping over passed out drunks as he made his way through the camp looking for a friendly face. He had been the last of the Hierarchy members to make way for the camp, and he was hoping he could stand alongside them when the time came to delve into the forest. However all he managed to find was perhaps too much ale for his own good. Somehow someone had managed to find out he knew how to get to the House of Cards, and suddenly he was everyone’s best friend. His glass kept finding itself refilled, and before he could blink he was fumbling around in the dark piss drunk. He found the ground rising up to meet him, the cold earth greeting him.
He grunted as he landed and rolled over onto his side. Somehow he had found himself on the edge of the camp, his drunken mind had long since given up keeping track of his position. He watched the edge of the forest as he contemplated rising from the dirt, but he was comfortable now, and the dirt would probably make a better bed than anything else he could find at this point in time. Just as he was beginning to doze off he watched a slow moving fog creep from the forest.
While the rest of the makeshift town prematurely celebrated a victory that would possibly never come to pass, Ciato Orlouge spent his time within his quarters. Lloyd, his son, volunteered to join the alabaster bastard on his quest to purify the taint of the Red Forest from the map of Althanas. It was an invitation the father welcomed with open arms. His son was a valuable asset in battle, and the fact that he could be used as a distraction should the ivory assassin require more time to do what needed to be done. For now, his progeny was off to find a thrall of some sort to use as a puppet. It would give Ciato enough time alone to take inventory.
His blade was a rapier of solid stone, sharp as the steel it once was before a chance encounter with a cockatrice changed the texture of the weapon. He raised the weapon up to the torchlight of the camp in an examination of sorts. The stone was flawless, as though a craftsman with a skilled hand smoothed the rock down to a perfect form. There were no evident chips or breaks in the rocky sword, though Ciato felled many an opponent on the weapon. Truly, it was a weapon suited to one who bore the name Orlouge.
He brought the weapon, his Asterodeia, to his cheek and ran it against his soft skin. Small flakes of hair flew into the breeze and were carried into the night air as the Mystic gave himself an impromptu shave. He brought the blade to his other cheek and repeated the process while he allowed the hollers and howls of his ‘comrades’ in this pathetic ‘army’ to continue in their premature saturnalian festivities. .
“Interesting,” the Mystic said as he sheathed the sword and walked out of his tent. The night air welcomed him with a foreboding chill that would send shivers up a normal man’s spine. His eyes shifted around at those already passed out from their party lifestyle, and the pale rider anticipated many others would be too hungover to actually accomplish the task at hand by the morn.
He spat on the ground at the whole farce. Pode would surely end most of these men with a mere thought, and she did not even have a physical body. He turned to enter back into his tent when a certain tinge of green flesh caught his eye. His form paused for a moment as his eyes looked over two dozen feet to see a familiar orc woman gallivanting in the activities of her peers (and Ciato’s lowers). The beast known as Erirag had returned.
The Mystic’s eyes grew wide, and he saw the beautiful image of himself as he bathed in the blood of the poet. Ciato proved to be Erirags better during the Lornius Cooperate Championship, but his sword still thirsted for her life. To be marked for a kill and survive was a blemish upon the alabaster bastard’s record that needed to be remedied. A smile formed across his face as he ducked back into his tent. He would rest now, at least for a few hours.
~~~
He woke up with a smile upon his features. Slowly, he began to drag himself out of his cot and used a single hand to slick back his messed hair. There was no need to look disheveled when in the act of murder, after all. He stepped outside the tent to the sounds of snores. Most of the soldiers were passed out now, either a woman or a drink around their arms. His eyes shifted to the Forest that would be his target on the morrow, and noticed a crimson fog at the edges of the woods. The Mystic assumed the color of the mist to be a result of Lindequalme, and focused his attention back to where he saw his prey hours earlier. Erirag was gone now, but the smashed barrels and bloody guardsmen that littered the way to a particular tent gave her location away fairly easily.
Soft footsteps made their way towards the tent, careful not to alert the soon-to-be victim with paces upon her tarnished bounties of the night. As he crept towards the fold of the tent, he unsheathed his weapon and prepared to resheath it with Erirag’s heart. Cautiously, he opened the tent flap with his free hand...
The merrymaking and revelry lasted hours as Lloyd wandered around the crowd of rutty mercenaries. It was amazing really how quickly this hill had turned into slums of tents. Lloyd noted the utter filth that had already blanketed the narrow alleys between the close quarters. Within each tent were strong men who had come here to free these lands of the taint but they themselves litter and pollute. The sun slowly began to set while the young mystic surveyed the men of the crowd.
He was on the prowl, surveying his possible subjects. There were so many to choose from, some looked rougher than others. Some looked more skilled than others and some even came with shinny armor. The young psychotic Orlouge felt like a kid at the candy store trying to claim his next thrall. Yes… I found you. Lloyd licked his lips as he gaze stilled on a young man sitting still at a makeshift table. Lloyd pulled down his top hat to cover his devilish eyes as he made his way to the table. The man sat with stoic beauty, at his side rested two twin katana and he wore slim fitting leather armor.
Lloyd waited for hours until the fun had started to die and until his perspective target had finished his preparations and found his tent. He seemed more focused than the other mercenaries. It was clear that he was here for a reason, determined to the cause and not here for the glory. Like his shadow the child of the Alabaster Bastered stalked his prey all across the encampment until finally there was only a thin sheet separating hi from his trophy. It had been a while since the soldier retired to his bedroll; Lloyd was sure as he stepped into his tent. He could hear his heavy breathing as he crept ever closer to his sleeping from.
“Sleepy, sleep, sleepy…” he started to talk to himself as he looked over the man closely. “Triceps, biceps, you have it all.” His shivering palm reached into his satchel and drew one of his razor shard scalpels. Watching his chest slowly raise and lower over and over again as he slowly took in air. The anticipation was overwhelming. “Hey mister sleepy head wake up.” Lloyd said softly crouching over the man. Gingerly tapping face with the tips of his long fingernails. Tickling his face until his eyes flashed open in shock. That very moment Lloyd plunged his scalpel deep into his neck severing his jugular. He closed his eyes as a perpetual wave of warm crimson blood splashed up in his face.
Terror was the only expression on his face as he lived the last few seconds of his life staring up at his killer. Lloyd loved the trill of ending someone’s life and even more so the thrill of returning them to life. As the flow of blood stopped Lloyd reached once again into his satchel and began to stitch the man throat wound. It was a clean cut so it was a clean stitch, Lloyd was always careful to make his job as easy as possible.
It didn't take long for Lloyd to finish up and take control of his newest thrall. After suiting his thrall up with the man former gear both made leave for the tent. There was little to no noise at all, and the ground was covered not only by filth but a cloud of crimson colored mist had rolled in.
Interesting.
Last edited by Lloyd; 02-16-15 at 09:50 PM.
It had been years since Erirag had existed, at least in her mind. The Lornius had taken the proud orc and broken her down, piece by piece. Her nights were consumed by nightmares of a blade, her flesh, and sand. Her days had been spent doing odd jobs away from the metropolis. The deep depression that had taken hold of her was best masked by work, so she worked. It had taken her across Corone, and then Raiaera. She'd hate to help the elves reclaim their homeland, but she couldn't help but feel as if she would witness something epic. As a bard, she couldn't let that go. Maybe, a small voice within had suggested, she might find herself in Raiaera – somewhere she had never entertained going. Now she stay encamped, feeling like a tower as she pitched her tent, gambled and brawled. She’d gone to bed when the fog rolled in. It was strange, but she thought that she heard men passing out where they stood just outside of the burlap of her kadar just as the first tendrils of crimson mist began licking under the canvas.
Immediately, she backed away, but stopped in her tracks when it began to infiltrate under another wall as well. Her first thought was that it was a poison vapor, sent to kill. However, within moments it had filled the floor of the tent, innocuously whirling and writhing like some worm washed aground from a summer rain. Erirag took a moment to gauge how she felt. Nothing hurt or burned, and the skin of her ankles didn’t feel particularly strange as the mist caressed it. It didn’t feel strange to breath, and while she was tired she could blame the day’s work and the late hour for that. She felt completely fine. Gathering her skirts so that they would not catch on her knees, she sank to a sitting position, her legs crossed and went back to the work she’d been engaged in when the fog had caught her attention. As she washed the blood from her hands laid there by brawling, trying to decide if she should undress for bed or stay more at the ready for action, she felt the smallest of breezes caress her shoulder. In the edge of her vision, the fabric of her tent was flicked to the side and she turned her head inquisitively to see all too familiar a face.
Her acquaintance with this man had only lasted mere minutes, but she would never forget his face. His smile made her sick, and instantly her stomach cramped. The skin where he had inscribed something she’d never learned to read ached, and her hand reflexively went to shield it, her soapy fingertips wetting the fabric she liked to wrap her torso in now. She swore as she sprung to her feet, “Nar thos…nar udautus!” Spit flew from her lips, her words almost indecipherable as she roared. Erirag cared nothing for the humans around her. However, her roar had reverberated in her tent, and echoed out the open flap. She had woken something. Behind Ciato, the men who had laid strangely in the walkway began to stir, shifting in the muck, and on the other side of the tent a soft scraping of mortals rising to their feet sounded just a little bit off. The red mist still pulsed on the floor, oddly enough to the same beat as the shambling footsteps from outside.
Vincent woke in a pool of his own vomit, chunks of half-digested bread and meat glaring back at him as he stumbled to his feet wiping a trail of vomit from his lips. His mouth was dry and tasted foul, his sandy blonde mane disheveled. His blue eyes were slightly glazed over as he licked his lips. “Why...the fuck...am I awake?” he seethed. The sun was hours before rising by his guess and as far as he could tell nothing was really happening, however it did seem a lot of people were up and about. They all seemed to be shambling around aimlessly.
“Looks like everyone here needs a cup of coffee.” Vincent muttered as he ran his hand through his hair. His head felt like someone was driving a spike through his skull. With a grunt, he began to shamble back towards where he had been drinking in some hopes of finding some breakfast. The entire camp seemed to be hungover as they shambled around in some zombie like trance. The silence in the camp was deafening as nobody seemed to be making as much as a sound. The only sound Vincent could hear was the mindless shuffle of feet on the dirt.
The scholar walked in the eerie silence, disturbed by the sharp contrast in last night’s festivities. Almost all of the energy in the camp had been drained by their raucous celebrations. A quick movement caught his eyes, and Vincent found himself staring at a porcelain skinned man facing off with a jade colored orc. The youth could feel the tension in the air, practically seeing the sparks flying between their gazes.
“Hey now…” he began raising his hands in a disarming gesture. “Let’s not start a fight before we’ve had our morning meal? It’s bad for your metabolism you know…” he stated smirking slightly. He felt a tugging at his vomit soaked sleeve and he turned to find a gruff man standing too close for comfort, fetid odor assailed his nostrils as hot air washed across Vincent’s face from the man’s breath.
“Hey buddy fuck off.” Vincent grunted through gritted teeth as he shoved the man back. “Your breath smells worse than an otters asshole.” he continued growling. The man staggered back, his green eyes glazed over as he tumbled into the dirt. He seemed to sit there for a moment confused, as if he was still drunk, and then rose to his feet sloppily. Not a sound escaped the man’s lips as he stared blankly at the scholar. Several other figures shambled forth and gathered with the man and joined in his blank stare. One opened his mouth, and a simple moan escaped his lips only to be joined in a hellish discord with every other gaping mouth in the camp. Something was clearly wrong.
The fact that the beast woman before him turned out to be awake caught the alabaster bastard off guard. The scream of his quarry did nothing but cause Ciato to dive deeper into the tent, his sword prepared to lunged into the heart before she could alert more people of his presence. He could already hear several bodies rouse from her initial declaration, a fact that made the Mystic regret not waiting later still.
His sword was inches from the chest of the orc when a certain smell danced through his nostrils. He stilled his blade and stepped back at the scent, his head turned towards the soldiers that woke up and the man who attempted to ease the tensions.
"Death," Ciato said as he looked down at the red mist now below their feet, "they are no longer of this world."
His first thoughts went to his son Lloyd. The progeny was gifted in the arcane arts of sinister resurrection. The number of people who carried this potent smell seemed to grow as the seconds pass which told the Mystic that it was beyond his sons abilities at the moment. A small chick peeked out of the head of the pale warrior's inner breast pocket as if to look to verify his words, and quickly chirped at the sight of the trance like men.
"No... not dead. She does not react to corpses. These men are still alive.." His gaze went back to Erirag, a thought in his mind that still involved the green skinned gargantuan ran through by his Asterodeia, "We will put this on hold, wretched thing. Until then, perhaps you should give me a reason not to kill you before they do."
The red mist cloaking the ground parted with each of the young mystic’s footsteps. Lloyd was making his way back to his father’s tent, he was done after all. He had only one thing on his to-do list, make a monster, and he had. Trailing close behind the boy was his tall, dark and handsome new pet. “Hector!” Lloyd spouted out. He had been milling around ideas on just what to name the hulk of a man. Normally with all his little monsters he has a lot more fun with them before he operates. Thus results in him leaving behind scars and other obvious signs of surgery in obvious places. There was nothing that frustrated the Sinister Surgeon more than having to cut up the faces of his victims. Those were the worst scars, they drew too much attention his being.
“Hector… HectooOOoor,” Lloyd liked the sound of the name. “Yes, so it’s settled buddy. Your names Hector.” His newest plaything didn’t respond. It couldn’t even if wanted to. He was only a weapon for the young mystic. The two traversed the tent sea by the cloak of night, stepping over collapsed men who had obviously had too much to drink. There was an eerie stillness in the air, not a sound other than snores and heavy breaths to be heard. “You know what Hector, hah, there is no one around.” Lloyd found that talking to himself made him look like he was screwy. Or rather his lovely sister teased him about it endlessly. So he has taken to speaking to his puppets instead, finding it makes him seem less like a psychopath.
Lloyd was no stranger to the darker sides of magic. Being that he was born in the sign of the shadow he was actually rather proficient in this topic. So much so that he offered up his knowledge on the topic as a tool for this occasion. As he neared his father’s tent everything seemed to hit Lloyd all at once. It was quiet, too quiet. Lloyd stopped dead in his tracks, to focus on any noise he could hear. There was nothing but the sound of sleep. No conversations or laughter at all, though just earlier there was a celebration of celebrations going on. The strange mist that rolled in under the shroud of night emanated from the forest. Clearly black magic was afoot. On impulse Hector gripped the hilt of his primary katana, a direct reaction to Lloyd’s realization. He was alone here; he hadn’t seen anyone since earlier.
“Let’s go.” Lloyd hissed as he quickly made his way for his father’s tent. If anyone would know what was going on it would be him. Hector followed his master with his sword drawn and ready.
A blade, a bird, and too many flowery words – the Mystic hadn’t changed much to the orc’s mind. Erirag's muscles never relaxed from where she had been poised for their epic clash, her mind barely able to plow through what he was saying. She caught bits enough to figure out the puzzle, and if he wanted to shelf their spat for a time when she was better prepared, she wasn’t going to stop him. Despite the way his words made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, she snorted and reached back, grabbing one of the yew poles that held up her tent.
“Erirag owe nothing.” She grunted angrily, jerking the pole to her. A sharp twang signaled the snapping of the twine that had held it with the other two poles and around them the canvas fell in waves. It toppled the makeshift sink she’d been washing at, the basin of water careening across her blankets. In the same motion she’d saved her lute, swinging it to hang on her back as she moved. The great orc emerged from the ruins of the tent quickly, gracefully, and weaponized. Somewhere nearby, a human was trying to soothe the fighters, no doubt having seen the scene from behind Ciato and the open tent flaps. Behind him, Erirag could finally see what Ciato had been talking about.
Dozens of people from the camp were on their feet, moving as if they were guided by marionette strings. Their eyes were unseeing, their muscles twitching as if trying to fight every movement. She had seen sleepwalking once, and this felt almost like that. This was sleepwalking’s nonconsensual cousin. Around their legs the red mist rolled harder, growing more opaque as it spread and condensed over the camp. Now this was what she would write songs about! As Erirag leapt towards Vincent, she threw the yew staff. It didn’t sail as much as jetted with painful accuracy past his face and hit with a sickening crackle in the chest of one of the possessed men behind him. From all around, the thralls of Podё jumped on her. She threw one, and punched another and as her hands began to tear away at flesh in earnest, her deep voice rose, reverberating through the camp.
“Pralul zo gaj’ lakog mab kok!
Na Porandaum Alerar – Rrausan, Votar!”
Her mirth was barely contained as she began to craft her epic ballad, unseeing eyes bursting beneath her fists as she left a wake of split skulls and bodies behind her in the writhing mists.
Vincent watched as the orc sailed past him in a jet of jade screaming something in her native tongue as she went. The thralls chased after her with great zeal as the scholar turned back to see Ciato ready his blade. Vince gritted his teeth and drew his own blade in his left arm and clenched his right hand to release a foldable steel shield from his gauntlet. The strange words seemed to reverberate in his bones, forcing adrenaline into his veins as he dashed after her and ran in the wake of the bard’s destruction.
Three more thralls dashed out from the shadowy alleys of the camp, faster than the others by far. The scholar gritted his teeth and blocked the first attack with his shield as he spun around to cut another down as it sprinted at him. Vincent took about three steps back to set him apart from his first attacker when the third barreled into him. Instinctively the scholar thrust his sword before him and watched as his assailant ran blindly onto his blade, fountains of crimson blood gushing as it blindly groped for Vincent. The scholar spat and kicked the fiend off of his blade and parted his first foes head from his body.
The tall pale man who slightly reminded Vincent of Emma Orlouge in some way had already run ahead and was expertly dealing with thralls as they assaulted him. The man was a whirling dance of death as he ripped through each of them with his stone blade. Vincent began to run past him as he dealt with one expertly. The pale man simply glanced at Vincent and matched his running speed as they ran down the tent city once more. They had come to some wordless agreement, Vincent had any of the thralls from the left, and Ciato would take any from the right. They fought wordlessly for almost an hour before the found Erirag in one of the mess halls at that end of the “road.”
The area seemed to be strangely empty of shambling thralls as they stopped to catch their breath. “Perhaps we should try to hole up here…” Vincent suggested to his otherwise silent partners. “There are plenty of tables we could use to form a barricade, hopefully meet some none thralls and figure this all out…” the others seemed to ignore the scholar as he spoke before Ciato spoke.
“Perhaps you are right, but there is no telling how many more of those mongrels running about. We could easily get swarmed if we stay still, but we could also easily get swarmed if we continued to run around like children with their heads cut off.” He paused for a moment and turned to the scholar scowling slightly before pausing. “What in the blazes…”
Vincent turned to follow his gaze to find him staring at a very large crimson full moon filling the deep green night sky. “That’s…weird…” Vincent managed between gritted teeth as he rubbed his temples slightly. His head was throbbing and he was starting to regret all of the alcohol he had consumed.
Posting Permissions
Submit Thread for Judgment