To hunt an Enemy...(Closed)

[Mutant_Lorenor]

(Feel free to bunny Lorenor arriving, feel free to set the arena to any you wish)

My son. Lorenor. You have grown powerful, but with such power, there will be those who will hunt you. Those who have sworn allegiance to the light. Remember my son, no matter who your opponent might be, there is always a way to win. Evil shall prevail over good, this second age of darkness...it has become my time. Our time. You are my Herald, Lord Lorenor. Always remember that you are not alone. Never alone...

Opening his eyes, Lorenor, the grand primus, herald of N'Jal, felt the weight of The CItadel all around him. Forged long ago by the ancients of ai'bron, The Citadel stood as a modern day cathedral of blood and warfare. It's spires reached the sky, touched the clouds, and in some ways, seemed to touch the stars. It's building's structure was an obsidian material that reflected the dark soul of Corone. The evil that now festered within the heart of Radasanth itself; The Corone Empire. Hail the Viceroys of The Empire. Hail the dark chiefs. Hail the corrupt politicians and nobles that now rule with an iron fist whilst the people suffer. And darkness surrounds Radasanth from every angle. Lorenor pondered as his eyes opened.

The dark process of communion with N'Jal never ended. As the herald, Lorenor was able to directly communicate with the dark lady. As the grand primus, Lorenor could raise armies of the undead to his command if he so desired. But that was not his end-goal. Lorenor was attempting to unite the undead under a single banner for a considerably darker purpose. Lorenor knew that because N'Jal knew that. And what N'Jal knew was what Lorenor knew. So, as a servant, he knew a great deal many things about the mechanics of Althanas. Secret gears that turned endlessly behind the veil of The Firmanent. The veil was what shielded the eyes of most men to the secrets beyond the grave.

Gifted, the grand primus, had a skewed view of reality herself. Able to peer into the gray world of The Anti-Firmanent, the land of gates, Phantaria, and even beyond those doors as well, Lorenor was a dangerous man. Looked upon as a dangerous foe of men by the old government of Radasanth, Lorenor was hunted. He could not set foot in Radasanth without bounty hunters, or worse chasing after him. But now, Radasanth was a bleak, colourless land.

The very sword of Radasanth itself had become corrupt with the darkness that had become it's government. Lorenor had grown powerful. Son of N'Jal. Avatar of N'Jal.

He was those things and many more. Lorenor's eye sockets were filled with a glowing purple vortex that erupted from the depths of his black soul. It filled the room with a darkness to the point where even nearby candle-lights protested against the embodiment of evil. Lorenor looked at the letter in his hands with a sneer. It was a challenge. A direct challenge to Lorenor's supremacy over the undead. The warriors of light were still attempting to snuff out the reign of the darkness. Lorenor folded the letter neatly and handed it to the monk of the order that had given him the letter in the first place.

After his battles with the leaders of the Ixian Knights, Sei Orlouge, and that other fellow, Zerith, Lorenor had become weary of The Citadel's claim of neutrality. As he stared at the monk for a moment, he noticed that the usually stoic face of the neophytes was cringing with fear. This made the high priest grin to himself, a hideous gesture.

Currently, Lorenor sat in a waiting chamber within the halls of The Citadel. These chambers were constructed throughout the expanse of the structure. The one that Lorenor sat in was located on the first floor of The Citadel's grand edifice. The particular waiting chamber was old. It depicted scenes of the ancient Demon's War that took place several ages ago. The scenes showed ancient heroes that rose up to defeat the agents of Haidia. The scenes made Loernor extremely uncomfortable, and he wanted to desecrate them.

Making the monk wait, Lorenor stood up at last. The vortexes in his eye sockets filled the room with a terrible negativity. One that gave the high priest some level of comfort.

"Lord Lorenor, the challenge was issued roughly a day ago. I am glad that you have recovered quickly enough to accept it." The monk said, clearly uncomfortable in his own clothes when standing before the grand primus. "Your recent battles were dangerous, and this challenge will be even more dangerous."

"More dangerous than the leader of the Ixian Knights?!" Lorenor spat. Acid in his voice. Lorenor was weary these days, he was old and he felt it in his bones. But no rest would come for the wicked. "Sir Monk. I think you overstep your boundaries here. There are lines and paths that must be respected at all times. You are but a mere neophyte with false orders of neutrality." Lorenor accused. Though short in height, shorter than the monk, Lorenor's presence was that of a titan. "If I were someone else I would get you removed from the cloth for your insolence." Lorenor said, he had grown irate of late. His anger stemmed from lack of inaction and too much down-time. "However, I do understand that you are not my enemy." Lorenor said carefully. "Regardless these are dangerous days." Lorenor liked to talk, that was for sure. "My enemies are everywhere. Understand that my ire is not towards you, per se, but in general." Lorenor looked down at the contents of the neatly written challenge.

"Whoever this man is. Will suffer greatly for calling out The Grand Primus!" Lorenor took the letter, and placed it in his packs. "I am heading over to the chamber. When I defeat him, I shall have a word with your superiors about this matter." Lorenor glared at the monk, who finally became terrified at the dark man's presence. Inexperienced with dealing with elementals, the monk broke and ran in fear.

Lorenor grinned and ventured towards the chamber in question.

[Amen]

“When do we leave?” Marcus said. He sat with his feet wide-spaced, leaned forward so that his forearms rested across his knees, on a bench along the wall opposite a set of grand double-doors. Inside was the Grand Council of The Brotherhood, who had just issued orders to Anya Shea. Anya was Marcus’ mentor.

“I’m leaving in a week,” said she. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Book sighed and straightened his back, leaning back against the wall and crossing thick-thewed arms over his chest. “I thought we were past this. I’m ready for duty again, and you can’t leave without me. How am I supposed to learn anything without my teacher?”

“You were gone for almost eight months and you haven’t been able to fully describe what happened to you in that time. The council needs to know they can trust you before you return to active duty, Marcus. You know that.”

“I’ve said it a thousand times, there’s nothing to describe! I survived, I hid in a cave, I scrounged for food, and I waited for what passes for spring up there. I’m ready to get back to work.”

“And in time, you will,” she said. Her tone suggested that the conversation was over.

Her squire, however, did not agree. “Alright,” he said. “They want proof; I’ll give it to them.”

With that the young paladin slid to his feet and walked briskly to his right, and with a concerned sigh Anya followed him. He led her to the estate’s library, where he immediately gathered a sheet of paper, a quill, and a vial of ink. Without sitting down he began to write a simple missive, addressed to no one.

“What are you doing?” Anya asked, exasperated.

“Writing,” Marcus replied. “Does feeble have an ‘A’ in it?”

“What? No. Who or what are you accusing of…does that say N’Jal?”

Book glanced up at his mentor and grinned, then continued writing. Anya began to piece together his intent, and she shook her head slowly. “No, Marcus. Lorenor? I’m not even sure I could stand toe-to-toe with him without help.”

Marcus ignored her and continued writing.

“This won’t prove anything except that you’re suicidal, which isn’t helping your assignment,” she said.

“It will prove I still have command over the Light. It’ll be a high-profile fight, which will serve The Brotherhood’s interests, and it shows I’m not in league with anyone untoward. This’ll work,” he muttered.

“Marcus, people do die in The Citadel. You’ve been lucky thus far but this could be the last stupid thing you do. It’s not worth it.”

The young paladin scoffed, flipped over the challenging missive, and wrote out instructions for its delivery before rolling it up and handing it to a passing scribe. “Take this to The Citadel and tell the monks there it’s for Lorenor,” he said to the scribe, and then to Anya he said, “I’ll see you in a week.”

***

Marcus walked in lockstep with a familiar monk the next day, traversing the halls of The Citadel confidently. He was nervous about the looming confrontation and, distantly, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into – The Citadel held no mystery or danger in his mind anymore, but beings like Lorenor certainly did.

“I thought you said he hasn’t accepted yet,” Marcus said.

“He hasn’t,” the monk replied. “But I believe he will at any moment. I am…familiar with Lorenor. Your letter was bold. He will not overlook such audacity. We’re here.”

The monk abruptly stopped walking and Book nearly passed him. He raised an eyebrow at the monk and then glanced about the hallway dubiously: it was nondescript and the walls were solid stone. There were no doors through which to enter an arena.

“We’re where?” he said.

The monk smiled barely, and pointed up.

Marcus raised his chin and considered the ceiling, and nearly laughed. There was a hatch there, with a pair of horizontal bars installed to either side. With a single nod at the monk, Marcus sprang straight up and grabbed both the bars, then released one to reach up and push the hatch up and open. With a grunt of effort he hoisted himself up through the hatch and crawled into the arena, and the hatch slammed shut behind him.

Book slid to his feet and considered this new area, expecting the impossible. He was not disappointed. The ground around the hatch was smooth, almost slimy green stone, which soon gave way to the loose, dry white sand that covered the rest of the arena space. The paladin found himself amidst strange, crumbling ruins of chipped grey stone draped in dry green seaweed and moss, and colorful reef formations filled the dark corners. These ruins formed a vast maze of failing, perforated walls. The true impossibility of the place, however, was evidenced above.

Marcus lifted his chin and his jaw dropped. Rather than the wide sky, the arena was covered in water, which seemed to be magically held at bay in a dome shape surrounding the crumbling ruins. Far above the dome and through the intense blue water, which was teeming with small fish, sharks, and distant silhouettes, which may have been whales of some description, Book could discern the water’s ice-covered surface. In most places the ice-ceiling was thick and deep blue, but here and there it was thin and anemic shafts of sunlight pierced the water and cast wavering spotlights across the dry underwater battleground.

“Amazing,” the young paladin sighed, and then he shook his head and refocused on the task at hand.

He turned his eyes back to the hatch, and his mouth turned to a grim frown. He stepped slightly behind the unique entrance to the arena, and then to the left, taking a position that would be difficult to see for anyone seeking to enter. He then reached to his waist and pulled the hellfire torch from its place in his belt, and gripped it in both hands. With a sigh he allowed the Source-light to flow through him and into the mace, which immediately began to glow with greater intensity until, at last, the end ignited in a blaze of rolling hellfire.

Marcus readied himself, holding the mace aloft, and he watched the hatch intently. When Lorenor emerged, the paladin intended to strike fast and brutal from a blind-spot. Victory was a distant possibility, he knew, but it was not in his nature to fight defensively.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Climbing the ladder into the arena, Lorenor took a few moments to inspect his new surroundings. Immediately, the cold touched the high priest to the depths of his black soul. Lorenor could see frost-clouds forming before his mouth as he breathed in the cold, crisp air. He looked up and saw that he was underneath a tremendously expansive ocean that he had never experienced before. Yet, a strange familiarity was there as well. He recalled the face of an old opponent/rival in the citadel leagues. The creature's name was simply The Reef Walker. Lorenor's memories cleared to make way for the image of that warrior. He thought about him with a great fondness in his heart. The creature was a strange being that followed gods that were neither Thayne, nor, the pagan deities native to Althanas.

Lorenor considered the rest of his environment. He was walking along a series of coral reefs that were powerfully formed beneath his person. Spotting various ruins along the floor of the air pocket, Lorenor wondered what civilization of old these ruins belonged to, and what secrets lay within. Lorenor carefully observed his surroundings, there was a breeze that seemed to be contained within the air pocket. It was cold, and bit with the ferocity of icicles. Shivering once more, Lorenor decided that he liked the world he now found himself in. He wondered if he could get on top of the ocean above him, it seemed to expand above him for several miles.

Lorenor could not sense the upper reaches of the ocean. It did not matter. If he could still access Phantaria, he could teleport anywhere in the arena. Lorenor looked at his opponent, and another set of memories came back to the high priest. He recalled a small event that was run out of his own coffers. The event was supposed to be training for the last tournament known as The Cell. Lorenor had participated in that event ultimately to be done in by the mad-chef pyromancer, Elijah.

But that was another story. The hour's story was this man; Marcus Book who now stood before him. Lorenor recalled that original memory, his mind was similar to the vast ocean above him. In a lot of ways it was almost a mirror-image. Lorenor recalled that Marcus Book had been one of the participants of that small The Cell-like event. He recalled that the Paladin-in-training had attacked him from the beginning. Lorenor decided
that he had better be prepared for similar tactics to the ones that he faced at that time.

However, he took care of one matter first. Knowing that at his current state he could destroy Marcus Book and it wouldn't have been much fun, the grand primus willed his power level to that of slightly above Marcus himself. Lorenor recalled that Marcus could wield the glorious light to grand effect. That was a concern. Marcus was not. As Lorenor stood there he pondered taking the initiative attack against the young light-wielder. However, an all together more devious plan struck the mutant's mind. The scheme formed quickly and the high priest mentally stored the plan for completion later on as the match progressed. He would savor the destruction of the soul of Marcus.

"You!? You are the one who sent the challenge to me? Marcus Book!?!?" Lorenor called out incredulously. Then he started to laugh at Marcus. "You barely have any control over the light. I shall crush you like a bug!" Lorenor called out to his opponent, then he prepared a simplistic, arrogant fighting stance. "Let's see if you have gotten any better since last time we met, welp." Lorenor recalled the time when he held that event, and he remembered the initiative attack. It had hurt. It was time to repay the favour now.

[Amen]

Lorenor emerged and, at first, did not seem aware of Marcus’ presence. Book willed himself to strike, but found that his limbs would not obey – Lorenor was a creature of such foul nature that the Light coiled and writhed in the paladin’s breast like a speared snake, and the sensation was indescribably unpleasant. His ability to sense the iniquity in those around him was thus overwhelmed and, for the moment, he could only watch as his opponent considered their surroundings.

They had met once before, briefly and unsatisfactorily, and Book had never quite been able to put the champion of N’Jal out of mind. No other member of The Brotherhood had come face to face with an evil of such vast power and lived to speak of it. Indeed, Marcus was garnering a reputation already as a man who survived such encounters against all odds. It was for that reason he had thought to challenge Lorenor – to expand upon this reputation and to impress his masters. Now, facing the reality of his decision, he felt as though he was only testing his luck.

Lorenor was shorter than Marcus remembered him. The last arena had been dark – torch lit if he remembered right – and the monster had a tendency toward grandiosity that made his memory bigger than the man. He was foul, with skin like that of no living man, and the sheer loathsomeness of his nature rolled off him like wicked mist. And now he turned his skull-face, made so by the emptiness of his eye sockets, and regarded the paladin. Somehow the eldritch purple light that served as his eyes conveyed mild surprise, which he then expressed vocally, and then he laughed.

At first Book felt like shrinking away. No part of him wanted that powerful malevolence aware of him, much less focused entirely upon him. The fact that the mutant recognized him only expounded upon this crushing anxiety, and then adrenaline screamed run away as it flowed across the inside of his skull and made his breathing shallow.

Lorenor spoke his challenge and assumed some sort of fighting stance, but Marcus did not hear him. He was aware of his heartbeat – he was hyperaware of everything, as cognizant of one’s life and presence as a human being may be in the company of Death. And then, chasing the adrenaline, the Light flowed through him with all the soothing heat of a warm summer breeze on the brightest morning, the sigh of a lover on the nape of the neck, and then the heat of a bonfire on the harshest winter night. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the torch, and the holy light blazed through the mace, and his eyes shimmered golden.

The comfort of the heat filled him with determination and intense calm, and then the rage of the Source bade him to crush and maim and destroy.

“Say and do as you will, Beast,” Marcus said, his voice subtly transformed by the Light. “We fear not death.”

And with that the paladin lifted his mace with both hands and lunged forward, swinging the weapon in a wide arc in an attempt to bash in Lorenor’s skull at the temple.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Observing his opponent's attack for a long moment felt as an eternity. He was only at about one times more powerful than his opponent, the mutant liked to even odds during a battle. Especially with a clearly weaker opponent. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the form of the attack, there was an elegance and a skill present there. The mutant did not have to evade the attack, there was no satisfaction in that. What was satisfying was the ability to completely prevent the attack from ever reaching it's intended target. Lorenor reacted when the mace was almost within reach of his skull. He shifted his body weight with such tremendous, refined skill that it was almost beautiful to look at. Raising his arm, he took up the aegis bracer, one of his forearms was thus, and raised it above his head and towards the incoming mace.

By that time, the aegis bracers' basic material components were quite interesting. Lorenor knew the material make-up of the aegis bracer, he knew it quite well and what it's special properties were. However, he did not call upon the special power of the bracer. No. Instead, he used the superior build of the aegis bracer in an attempt to intercept the incoming attack. Lorenor felt pain when the powerful mace struck against his metallic forearm. Even though it was inorganic largely, he could still feel out of the bracer. It was a semi-sentient artifact. A powerfully loud clang sound flowed through the air. A brilliant flash of light sparked from the impact where Lorenor intercepted the attack. He cringed for a moment, relishing in the pain of the attack.

He was angry, rarely was the mutant angry during a Citadel bout. His anger wasn't even directed at Marcus Book, he just happened to be one sole catalyst for the rage he felt. It was a maddened rage, the rage of psychopaths and lunatics. He felt it in his blood. His black heart was beating rapidly as he felt the euphoria of combat. Yes, plan the soul's destruction. Lorenor thought to himself as he stared at his opponent. Already, the high priest felt heat and power of shadow flowing through him. The time is not yet. Too early. Wait the appropriate hour, and then strike. A follower of N'Jal must strike with character and decisiveness. All the love in the world. Lorenor grinned as he thought that. He never even drew a weapon, he felt his claws grow sharp.

At that point, he decided to make the battle brutal and visceral. A close-up affair. Yes. That would be best. Lorenor spoke as he prepared his own maneuver. Powerfully, he sent his opposing hand towards Marcus Book's chest. Time. There was never time to savor the delicacies of battle. Always in a rush, why do these children always rush the euphoric pleasure of agony? As Lorenor spread his digits apart, they were like a fork. It would hurt Marcus and Lorenor knew it.. Yet, the mutant held back. He did not want to kill Marcus, he only wanted to corrupt the boy. As Lorenor's thoughts started to visualize various strategy and tactics, he prepared himself for the pain that was coming.

Marcus' pain.

Lorenors' pain.

None of it mattered, pain was pain and he would relish it all.

"Do-not be so quick with your tongue and speak ill of death. Death is a constant, it is the only truth in this world or any other. You say you are ready boy, but I have a fate planned for you that will be worse than death. What do you opine about that?" Lorenor continued. "Let us see how sharp your wit is!"

[Amen]

Marcus let out a harsh grunt as his mace collided metallically with Lorenor’s forearm, and the sheer force of his swing sent shockwaves up his arms and put a dull, wing-shaped ache in his upper back and shoulders. The impact’s sound likewise reverberated, ringing in the ears but otherwise seeming dull – the echo thickened in the dark corners of the ruins, but was also muffled by the surrounding water. The arena seemed vaguely cave-like, and so such noise-consuming properties were jarring in a distant, imprecisely troubling way.

Lorenor’s counterstrike may have seemed, to him, carefully plotted and deliberate, but in the paladin’s conception the attack came as if it were the direct, physical reaction to his own strike. Just as a puddle ripples when touched, Lorenor lashed out with his claws. Book reacted with expert timing, and yet still he felt bloody lines drawn across his chest. He stumbled back with a hiss and hazarded a glance down to inspect the damage.

His shirt was torn in three thin, neat lines; the middle one was the thickest and had produced the deepest cut. Still, they were superficial wounds – scratches. Marcus’ mind reeled, however. Lorenor closely resembled a ghoul, despite his obvious capacity for higher thought, and ghouls are notoriously disease-ridden creatures. In the space of a heartbeat Marcus could summon up a laundry list of ailments one could catch from simply touching a ghoul with an open wound, from grave rot to marrow worms.

Nothing to be done about it now, he told himself.

The squire focused on Lorenor’s words, taking a calming breath and hoisting his mace up again in preparation. He counted himself lucky that his opponent was inclined to toy with his enemies, and considered how to best use that tendency to his advantage. Could he talk his way out of grievous injury and brutal death? Or perhaps distract the monster long enough to land a surprise, and hopefully mortal, blow?

Instead, his hot blood demanded an immediate response, and before he could censor himself he said, “Your kind always say the same things, I’m amazed you don’t bore yourselves. I'm certainly tired of it.”

Inwardly, he winced. Out of all his tactical options, he chose to try and piss off the eminently powerful abomination. He tightened his grip on the mace and braced himself, preparing to fend off his punishment.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Blood streaked through the air just then, as Lorenor's claws indeed harmed Marcus. It was a simple, however, effective tactic that served a direct purpose. The purpose was merely to confuse, and keep an ace-in-the-hole. Lorenor always thought at least a few actions ahead of the battle, his tactical knowledge was borderline precognitive. However, he was not quite yet that evolved. Taking a step back when he saw Marcus hesitate, Lorenor found himself in an uncomfortable zone. Rarely did he fight an opponent like Marcus, one who took action more importantly than words. So when Marcus spoke, Lorenor frowned and felt disappointed that he had, in the end, such little to say.

"Alas my dear squire. You throw words around without the proper education a warrior of your caliber should have. You speak of boredom, yet you show no eloquency in your words. Your words have no love in them, they are barren and empty. Radasanth's promise of Heroes has become as pretentious as it's empire." Lorenor shook his head. "Boy, when you face a superior opponent, take heart of the matter. This is a clash between dark and light, the eternal foes." Lorenor said, preparing his plans. Lorenor always planned, and he always schemed. To him, all the world was a stage. "Show me your power, Paladin!" Lorenor hissed, his patience for his new plaything wearing thin.

As he hissed that last portion, Lorenor lunged forward. He had been planning for that moment, and was preparing his mental grip on one of his many relics. The particular relic he was powering up would be potentially devastating to the paladin-squire. Lorenor wanted to laugh at the undisciplined boy before him. He reminded him of another such boy: Joshua Cronen. Heroes were all the same, all bark and no play. Where was the man destined to defeat the high priest? How Lorenor longed for that day. For the high priest knew death intimately, he also knew that like a certain other person, Jensen Ambrose, the high priest was beyond the clutches of death.

Stepping forwards towards the paladin, even the power of the glorious light had become weakened in this time. Or have I become stronger? The mutant was able to withstand a great deal of pain as he came in close to the paladin. To the point where his body ached, but the pain brought focus and allowed him to concentrate on the battle at hand. Seeing the face of his enemy, Lorenor wanted that face. He wanted the face for himself. Lorenor could see the boy's heart beating like a blossoming flower with many tendrils of energy pouring out of it's core. Lorenor wanted that heart, but he was going to turn Marcus into a shadow of his former self.

Releasing his grip on his mental barriers, Lorenor released the power he held at bay. The demons from the ring-of-all-shadows, an elven artifact won long ago from the elves of Ruild. Lorenor suddenly raised the ring-bearing hand towards Marcus' general direction and released the power of the ring. In an instant, the air suddenly burned alive with the sound of thousands of screaming demons moving as a blur, all at once. The ring fired off the demonic hoard in a single motion, fluid, skilled. Lorenor's face became placid as he was drunk with the power of the dark. However, always, did he scheme. He was prepared for absolute failure of his strategy, even at the cost of his own life. Always, did he have a final plan. And Marcus, would learn that quite well.

[Amen]

The paladins of The Brotherhood were not chosen or blessed for their devotion or because they were righteous, holy people. The nature of their duty often forged them into such people, but it was not a prerequisite for channeling the Light – Marcus was evidence of that. He did not yet know what his peers all had in common, that thing which allowed them to channel Sourcelight through their bodies and souls without being themselves consumed.

One of the first things an aspiring squire learns is that the Source burns with pure, virtuous hate, and it is the duty of a paladin to contain and direct that fury with the utmost control. Despite the overwhelming ire entwined with the Light, knights were expected to be benevolent and at peace so the Source could be a tool, and not a force which drove and controlled. For as long as Marcus could remember he knew he would never be a good paladin, for his own wrath rivaled that alien hate.

The Source wanted to crush and maim and destroy all that was its antithesis in a vicious wave of fire and ruthless torture, and its desire sought to overwhelm the paladin that channeled its power. Marcus, however, was a violent, brutal man. He should have been consumed by the Source, burnt up as surely as a demon, but instead he was one of the youngest and most successful paladins The Brotherhood had ever seen. It was difficult to see who the tool of whom was: channeler or Source.

Marcus wondered at this, distantly, as Lorenor unleashed a hurricane of demonic force in his direction. He had experienced this slowing of time before, during The Cell when death seemed inevitable. This was different, however, for Book did not feel fear or even apprehension. What he felt was blinding, unrestrained anger. He didn’t know if it came from himself or from Beyond, but he found that it did not matter. The emotion was so intense that it didn’t just block out rational thought: it separated it from his body entirely.

He was aware, and he was thoughtful. He considered the nature of the Source – what could this thing be? – and his own character. He wondered about Lorenor: where did he come from? Was he mortal once, or was he a construct of the shadow? What drove him to do the things he did? Insanity? Or was it a conscious choice to cling to chaos, and if so what could drive a man to such desires? More troubling were the implications of this: what would drive a man to stand against such madness with only a fickle, unknown force behind him, constantly striving to overwhelm him with its unreasoning odium?

All these things and more he considered while he heard himself roaring against the tide of screaming demons, and lunging forward. Mentally he was a philosopher sat upon a rock beside a gurgling stream in a green, empty field. Physically he raised his mace and exploded into holy light and fire, his tattoos blazing golden, his eyes like spotlights, his mace ignited like a torch doused in kerosene, his very skin shimmering with rays of sunlight that came from within.

Lorenor was right, the philosopher mused. This is a clash between light and dark. I have nothing to do with it; I am merely a vessel for it.

The released burst of darkness collided with Book as he charged, and for an instant in time he was utterly consumed by the howling demonic horde-shadows. They came screaming, but when they struck the paladin their cries warbled, and then transformed into cries of outrage and unequaled anguish. The shadows convulsed around the ensconced squire, and then something began to show through the darkness – like pitch wrapped around glowing lava without actually catching fire.

And then it did burn. It burned more intensely than anything man is equipped to witness. Where once there was a man wrapped in living, writhing shadows, there was now a walking inferno, buffeting the mutant with its scalding illumination. The purging flames licked along the path of the demonic horde, hissing against his hands and the ring he wielded and, by extension, the very black fabric of his being.

And yet, the philosopher Marcus said as he began to feel himself slip away and even his internal voice was tinged with a growl, it feels so good to kill.

His mind rejoined his body and soul and the Source, the latest of which welcomed him as a lion does its cub to a fresh kill. Book swung his mace up and down again in one swift, fluid motion. The strike seemed to be aimed at the mutant’s face or head again, but it was an expert feint: instead, the mace came short of Lorenor’s head and continued downward.

Marcus was taking a swing at his foe’s right foot with the intent to crush it and, hopefully, limit Lorenor’s mobility, if not ignite him with holy fire from the feet up.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Very few things shocked Lorenor. This was one of those times. His eyes opened up with the shock of the moment as he saw the expert skill level with which his opponent wielded the light. Then, the shock turned into pleasure, the pleasure of pain, agony, suffering. Lorenor was a sadomasochist and relished in pain, it did not matter whose. Other people, even, himself. When the cloud of demonic entities was burned by the paladin's might, Lorenor was shocked, but never afraid. He had seen and done too much in his life to be afraid in the face of death. When the glorious light burned the very air around it, the high priest found himself smiling at what he saw.

Pain burned through the mutant's body even as steam rose off his skin. Lorenor looked at his arm for a moment and could see the steam rising from underneath his fancy robes. What was he then? I am a beast playing at a man. A bastard child of a deity long forgotten. This made Lorenor smile even wider, for he did not fear death. He was the harbinger of it. As an Ascended, he had become N'Jal's right-hand lieutenant. So when the young paladin made the full mistake of engaging Lorenor in close-combat range, the mutant could not help the feeling of elation. His loins were erect from the pleasure he felt, even as the magic ring which instigated this whole affair closed for the moment being. It would take a cool-down period for Lorenor to summon that power again in the battle.

The next few moments became a blur in the mutant's mind. His smile was wide, as was the girth in his pants was strong. He felt tremendous pleasure from the suffering that had been caused. Reveal your trump-card. Lorenor thought. He saw the power of the glorious light, and he wanted to extinguish it. Yes. It would be a glorious moment indeed. Preparing for the next few moments, Lorenor tensed, moving only slightly faster than Book could manage. He made certain always to give his opponent a fair shot. Preparing his claws anew, Lorenor did not bother to move. He simply shifted his body weight ever so slightly.

A big man, Lorenor could take damage as well as dish it out. At the last possible second, Lorenor willed his power in the face of certain death. The Endless. A hideous, symbiotic organism. Sheets of living darkness surrounded the outside layer of Lorenor's skin in a matter of moments and then hardened to form the insect-like appearance of the mutant. He appeared like a bipedal spider at that point without the extra limbs. His claws were sharp, he lunged them in a fluid movement, beneath his foe's attack. The target? Marcus's mid-section. But that's not all that Lorenor did, using his best speed with his current capacities, he lunged with his upper body and hissed.

His jaw opened wide, muscles and tendons ripping and tearing. It was a hideous sound meat ripping to shreds, Lorenor's true target was the man's neck...

...If Lorenor's powerful jaws connected, it would spell doom for Marcus Book. This was all part of the plan.

He would accept the whole hit as an invitation to madness...

[Amen]

The new, light-fueled rage that added to Marcus’ speed and fervent determination did not limit his ability to quickly perceive what was happening around him and, by extension, to react to it. It was a cold fire, the pressing need to steadily, relentlessly crush. In a more cautious mindset, Book might have recoiled when Lorenor adopted his symbiotic armor. As it was, he did not allow the unexpected to break his perceived momentum.

But then Lorenor suddenly wasn’t where he was supposed to be. The paladin’s mace nearly struck the ground before he stopped its descent, and he simultaneously became aware of the mutant’s own attack. Marcus’ feint had been flawless, but he could not match Lorenor’s ability to react with superhuman speed.

Still, there was no reliable defense against such unholy celerity except an equal and tireless offense. With that in mind, Book threw himself upright and backward. He was slower than the ghoul, evidenced by the new bloody slash that drew itself through his shirt and upward across his torso, but he wasn’t dead yet.

At the same time, Lorenor came with the intent to savage the paladin’s throat: an endgame blow, if not for the Brotherhood’s rigorous training. Monsters don’t tend toward sharp teeth for show: they use them. It was pure muscle memory that drove Book to hoist his mace up again, placing its shaft between himself and his lunging foe so that his jaws would close around damascus and steel instead of human flesh.

The offensive was, however, too much for Marcus to stand defiant of. Between leaning himself back to avoid the slash of claws, and recoiling to avoid having his throat torn out, the paladin was completely off-balance and fell backward. Clinging to the concept of an equal offensive, Marcus kicked out with his legs as he fell backward. If Lorenor clamped his jaws around the torch, Book’s feet would probably catch his midsection, which would subsequently allow Marcus to shove his attacker back or use his momentum to toss him overhead with his legs. If the prophet of N’Jal retreated, however, Marcus could only hope that his kick would find Lorenor’s calves or kneecaps.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

(Good move bro, that counter right there shows a lot of promise in your skill level, keep up the good work. By the by sorry for my delay I was sick for a few days, 100 fever and food poisoning)

Lorenor was not one who would back down from a challenge; ever.

There was far too much at stake for what he had worked so hard to accomplish in his long life. The mutant prepared to finish the paladin when something else had happened. He is no amateur, I will give him that. I have underestimated him... Lorenor thought to himself as his very sharp teeth, bit at the steel mace. It was empowered by the glorious light, and as such, it would hurt. A lot. Lorenor wanted to be certain to repay the favor. There was no scream, never a scream, only rage. A dark rage that matched the fury of the glorious light. Lorenor's jaws clamped shut around the weapon that Marcus brought up to defend himself with. It was no good. Teeth shattered and broke, his gums bled, and the mutant did snarl with rage. The more pain he felt, the more pleasure he felt. There is love in his attacks. He has great love in him. Perhaps he will be the one...

When the paladin pulled back, Lorenor instinctively lunged backwards to evade the kick. He jumped several paces backwards in order to clutch at his broken and shattered jaw. His mouth dripped disgusting, black blood. He willed himself to regenerate the significant wounds, and knew that it would take some time. Lorenor's shark-like teeth were on the ground, already burning to ash. He hissed at that. Frontal attacks are out of the question. Lorenor schemed, and moved more cautiously towards Marcus. Lorenor's eyes narrowed beneath the mask of the endless. He kept it up this time to withstand the heat of battle as it was starting to take much longer than necessary. Now that he'd been denied Marcus's blood once, the monster wanted his heart! Lorenor moved with tremendous skill towards his opponent. He had many tricks up his sleeve, but he wanted to push Marcus to his breaking point and beyond.

"That was a good move kid." Lorenor said, talking with a soft voice, he was obviously in a great deal of pain. "I see the love in your attack now. You have great love, great potential to become someone great in this world. Do-not be blinded by ideals and false crusades." Lorenor stopped standing at a few paces from Marcus's front side. "Child. You have earned my respect. Remember that now and always." Lorenor said.

He planned his next move. Frontal attacks would be suicide, but then again, Lorenor was not a normal opponent. Lorenor was a sadomasochist, and he did enjoy the feeling of pain. Lorenor's glowing eyes were locked upon Marcus Book as he carefully studied the handsome man. I want him for myself. Lorenor recalled thinking that. Then, despite the failure of his last assault, a part of him knew that Marcus was growing desperate. And desperate men did unspeakable acts. Lorenor wanted to see how far Marcus would go for his win. He ran at the best speed his current settings allowed him to run, which was only one and a half times faster than Marcus, and he prepared his strategy as he ran. But for his next plan to work, the schemer would see what his victim would do. He had become an interesting play-thing after all.

[Amen]

Marcus was alive.

He suppressed the urge to touch his throat, to verify that the flesh hadn’t been mangled and shredded by the ghoul’s teeth. Instead he swallowed, and took a shaky breath. Then he realized he was on the ground and panicked, scrambling to his feet and locking eyes on Lorenor.

The prophet was bleeding from the mouth. No, it seemed more accurate to say that he was oozing from the mouth. Marcus glanced from the post of his mace to the ground, where a number of wicked, curved teeth bubbled and hissed in pools of bilious black liquid. A fraction of a second slower and those would have been sawing into his jugular.

Book took a steadying breath and focused. The Sourcelight flowed through him with renewed verve and the golden glow of his eyes and tattoos brightened. He cautiously took a step back as Lorenor began to approach him again, and the monster began to speak again.

It took what seemed a long moment for the paladin to comprehend what Lorenor was saying, and in the end it worried him more when the ghoul was pleased than it did when he was disappointed. The fear, the caution, the focus – it all melted away again when the demon charged.

Once more, Marcus reacted before he knew what he was doing. The sand gave beneath his feet, and he felt the motion stretch into infinity: the twist of his ankle that displaced a mound of white sand, raising it behind his heel before his foot raised and kicked a cloud into the air behind him. He felt his mouth twist into a grim frown. The air was both cold and humid, unforgiving and yet comforting, it stung his arms and dried the sweat from his shoulders.

The paladin roared words in a language he didn’t know, words both meaningless and powerful, and his voice echoed through the drowned ruins. His consciousness caught up with what the animal part of him already knew: this was the last bid, the final strike. It had nothing to do with light or dark, Ai’Brone monks or black prophets, death or survival: the unstoppable force was inexorably drawn to the immovable object. The force between them was murderously magnetic, and the pretense they used to resist that force had been stripped away.

Later, Marcus would remember thinking, This is going to hurt.

The paladin leapt at the ghoul encased in the spider-out-of-hell. In midair he raised his mace overhead with both hands, fully aware of what awaited him. He was not faster than Lorenor, nor was he stronger. There would be no way to pierce the monster’s defenses, no way to overwhelm him, no way to deceive or feint or outpace. And Marcus would tire first. No, the Prophet of N’Jal was untouchable but for one fatal truth: he desperately wanted pain, for himself and for his opponent.

As Marcus Book sailed through the air, mace overhead, roaring his challenge, he knew his stomach, ribs, and chest were a wide-open target and there would be no stopping the unholy speed of Lorenor’s claws now. In the darkest part of his heart, the sinister place where the paladin could empathize with the monsters he hunted, Marcus knew he would not have been able to resist plunging his rending claws into an unprotected stomach and chest – even if, or perhaps especially because, he would then be vulnerable to the mace now coming down on Lorenor’s head.

Book didn’t care. In fact, part of him relished the thought of the claws finally biting into him, the wash of pain he’d struggled so hard to avoid, followed by the satisfaction of finally landing a blow on his enemy. Only now, too late, did it occur to him that perhaps this is what the ghoul wanted all along: for Marcus to sacrifice health and sanity to…what? Win? No, there was no chance of that, not when he opened his arms to death.

Not to win, but to inflict destruction at any cost to himself.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

As the world wound into a twisting blur, Lorenor had a thought.

It was rare that the mutant was able to discern dark fancy from black reality, but those times that he could, the universe oft became a sick epiphany to the dark one's mind.

Lorenor did not fight for honour or glory, or other such petty concerns of the mortal world.

Lorenor fought to inflict as much pain and devastation as possible.

He was the ruiner of lives, the corrupter of men, and the hunter of men's living souls.

So when the epiphany came, Lorenor's mind flashed for the slightest of seconds. My son. Listen to me, heed my words well. The boy, wields The Glorious Light. His power, will make you strong, you must learn to endure the polar opposing element to our strength. Remember, contrary to what the pious think, The Dark is forever. Use your dark power to profound effect. Ours is the path of destruction and corruption, remember that my childe. Those were the words of N'Jal. His master, the matroness of the night. Lorenor was able to see it when his opponent raised his mace, the intent was there. Lorenor had done his job well. Murder was on the mind of Marcus Book with profound effect.

Seeing Marcus unleash the primal killer from within brought Lorenor great joy. He hoped somewhere, Marcus had learned a very important lesson. The lesson was a life-lesson. Lorenor could have easily chosen to tear Marcus apart with overwhelming strength. But the mutant had not done that, instead, he had brought himself down to the mortal's power level to make it fun. Lorenor was not an idealist, he was not a Letho, he was not a Godhand Striker. He did not abide by the same laws or principles that those "Heroes" oft worked for. In fact, in his life, Lorenor had met both of those men in combat. The former, he had met in The Cell and had made sure that Letho would remember his name. The latter, Godhand, was met briefly during a nameless war that never made the pages of history.

During those events, Lorenor had branded Godhand nothing but a loud coward.

A drunk, not fitting of the mantle of Hero.

But, seeing Marcus Book in battle, the young Paladin, filled Lorenor with a sense of pride. One day very soon, someone powerful enough to beat him was coming. Lorenor unleashed his plan, but something strange happened. He did not strike at the open belly, even though, by all rights he should have. Naye, he did something else entirely. There is no more need to hold back. He activated his power of flight from one of the many artifacts he constantly kept on his person. There were many ways he could have handled the next few moments, but the best possible path was already chosen for him. Marcus Book represented the order of Paladins, he was an enemy. That didn't mean that Lorenor did not like his enemy.

Feeling a surge of strength as he went airbourne, Lorenor leaped through the air in an attempt to intercept Marcus Book. No, Marcus was not going to have his way, neither was Lorenor. Lorenor was a schemer, he always opted for the most audacious plan possible. The next part of the scheme seemed so logical it hurt, he wondered why Marcus had never even thought that Lorenor might do that. Suddenly, Lorenor raised both arms in mid-flight with his considerable strength. Lorenor rarely had to use his super-strength or endurance, but he had them both. Marcus's attack came flying down for the mutant's head, would have been a death-blow, but the sadomasochist had other ideas. He reached with both hands in an attempt to intercept the incoming mace. If successful, despite the harm it would cause the mutant to do so, Lorenor would have grabbed the mace about mid-swing. With his might, Lorenor would have attempted, if successful, to rip the mace from Marcus's hands. Then, further adding to the insult, Lorenor did not have use for such a crude weapon. If he was successful in the intercept attempt the plan was to completely disarm Marcus Book, and throw the mace harmlessly some distance away. Lorenor knew he was gambling, but if it worked, his plan would be glorious indeed and dubious in nature.

True to his name.

[Amen]

Like every other attempt on Lorenor’s health, the retaliation was blindly fast and brutal. Marcus wasn’t sure what was happening until it was over: one minute he was poised to crush the mutant’s skull, the next there was a flurry of movement and something black darting at the edges of his vision. The wind rushed in his ears. He felt his arms wrenched in their sockets, and even his prodigious strength was as a child’s. Still, if not for his brawn holding him together his shoulders might have been dislocated.

Book landed in the sand hard and rolled, growling out his pain and frustration. He went to his feet in an instant, ignoring the way his shoulders and biceps protested. A snap of his head brought Lorenor back in sight. Marcus clenched his teeth when he realized the monster was holding his mace, which he then casually tossed aside and out of sight.

The paladin was not, however, helpless. He reached high and retrieved his sword from its sheath, which was strapped as always to his back. With that done, he undid the leather clasp which crossed his chest and secured the sheath to him, and let it fall from his back to the sandy “floor” of the arena. He needed every possible advantage, and being rid of even that small weight was a boon.

Now came the hard question: fight or flight. The mace had been advantageous in that he could channel Light through it – the one true weapon in his arsenal that could hurt the ghoul. His sword, however, was as common as weapons came. It seemed unlikely that it would be capable of piercing that monstrous armor to do any real harm.

Marcus needed the proverbial high ground if he was going to last. It was difficult to tell where the mace had landed specifically – beyond one of the ruin walls in that direction, yes, but how far? There was no time to contemplate it. With a grunt, the paladin shot like a bolt away from Lorenor and into the mossy ruins.

He loathed having his enemy out of sight. He had little doubt that Lorenor had many methods of tracking Marcus’ position precisely; the crumbling walls were a superficial defense at best. And in contrast, Book’s own abilities to track the unholy were overwhelmed by Lorenor’s presence: he could only tell that the beast was near, but not the direction from which he would come.

Marcus set his jaw and pressed his back against a cool stone wall, and struggled to control his breathing. His heart pounded in his ears, and he mentally commanded it to be silent – and immediately regretted the thought. He strained his hearing to go beyond, to detect where Lorenor was. Meanwhile, his eyes darted desperately over the ruins, seeking his lost weapon.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

For a moment, without the heat of his latest plaything, Lorenor became terrified that he was now alone. Expanding his senses, he could sense that his opponent had not gone very far into the ruins of the battlefield they were currently on. Sighing, he knew the desperation of men. Men were helpless without their toys, they lacked ingenuity, creativity. His blows were suddenly beginning to be saturated with love, too. Lorenor thought to himself as he stood there contemplating his next move. For a moment, he pondered summoning the monks to end the battle, but what would be the fun in that? Lorenor moved in extravagant gestures, standing in place and keeping an eye in the general direction that his opponent ran in. Further into the ruins of discord. Seeing the many symbols that were carved into the broken columns by an ancient civilization, Lorenor grinned to himself. Tormenting his opponent had become top priority. He knew that to be true. Lorenor, the epitome of evil, walked slowly in the general direction where Marcus Book had run to knowing full well that he could access his infrared vision. A trick that Marcus had no way of knowing was in Lorenor's arsenal.

Lorenor spotted Marcus as well as the still glowing mace on the ground.

'Lo. Wouldst thou flee from me now? After showing me thy love? Lorenor thought to himself as he began to stalk his new plaything. He began to speak. "Take flight in thy fear and oppression. 'O young soul, with heart brave, and courage astride, wouldst thou leave thy lover in arms empty and feeling abandoned like a bar-trotting wench?" Lorenor was feeling creative. The pain that he felt brought out the deadly artist from within. And Lorenor was an artist. A serial killer at that. He continued to walk and speak loudly enough for his opponent to hear. "Thou becomes a mark, in this web of deception, doth thou ring thy fear true? Thou doth not needeth thy toy. Thou only needs the love in thy heart to fell the hunter that now stalks thee. With death coming at thy door, why wouldst thou flee into the ruins of the ancient? Young lover, with promise so, why wouldst thou abandon thy partner to fear? Thou needeth the dark to know thy purpose in life. Thou must nurture the love that thou feels." Soon, Lorenor had covered considerable ground as he walked ever forward, each movement like the ticking of some perverse clock.

And soon, Lorenor had in fact, caught up with Marcus Book.

"'O young lover. Whose love is like the setting of a midsummer's sun. Thou hast left a hole in my heart, severe, severe, o young lover. Wouldst thou denieth me the embrace of thy arms, when thou hast touched it so? Please, o lover, grant me the heart that the hunter doth desireth." Lorenor said, he felt moved by the event that had transpired before his very eyes. Touched by the love that only a madman could know, the love of a sadomasochist. One who cherished, nay, worshiped pain. Lorenor looked at Marcus Book. "Thy mark has found thee, o lover. Now prithee, what wouldst thou doeth with the precious moments this lover's quarrel has left? How wouldst thou touch an old man's heart? Tell me, I implore thee, I must know thy love!" By then, Lorenor was becoming hysterical. He had come in too much contact with the elemental light, and had sustained heavy damage of his own without revealing it. He was loosing what minute grip on sanity he had remaining and was becoming something truly dark and hideous. The Grand Primus. Lorenor looked at Marcus and approached with his stance, arrogant, relaxed. He truly enjoyed both the suffering he was receiving, as well as the pain that his potential lover felt. Marcus Book. "O now Marcus Book. I tell thee, the end has come. How wouldst thou face it? Or wouldst thou deny the hunter of thy heart once more?"

For none could love more than a madman could.

[Amen]

Lorenor was speaking, and it seemed to come from everywhere. Marcus clenched his teeth, sneering at the ruined walls that surrounded him. The ghoul’s voice echoed from them until the sound was hollow and directionless, louder in one ear and then the other. Was it getting closer? The paladin couldn’t tell.

He sought his mace out desperately. Small reefs occupied nearly every corner like multicolored bushes, and climbed the walls like vines. There were dry, rotting, stinking piles of seaweed everywhere, and once Marcus startled a crab from its sandy hiding place. It pinched ineffectually at his boot, and he knew how it felt.

Still, he could not find the mace. Surely it fell here.

At the moment of despair he caught sight of it, wedged between a crumbled bit of wall and a weed-draped reef. He charged it, and then promptly slid to a stop as Lorenor abruptly appeared, stepping between him and the mace from a gap in a wall. He walked with the ease of the powerful undead, unhampered by the shifting sand beneath him.

Marcus lowered his shoulders and tensed, eyeing the monster warily. He had never fully understood what Lorenor meant when he spoke – there was always something unspoken there, like a dark prophecy. Now, though, Book was concerned the ghoul was truly entering a hysterical madness. Certainly there had been control before now, or the paladin would be long-since dead, but it seemed that control was slipping away. What had triggered it? Frustration? The effort of containing his dark urges for so long? His agonizing brushes with the Light? Perhaps everything together.

Whatever the answer, the young warrior knew his time was running out. Whatever amusement Lorenor had been gleaning from this encounter was waning. The ghoul had denied himself gore and anguish for a time, but his voice promised an end to that – it hinted at satisfaction.

“How wouldst thou touch an old man’s heart?” the monster was saying.

“I would rip it out!” Marcus raged, eyes blazing and veins standing out on his forehead.

Lorenor seemed oblivious to the paladin’s words, which surprised him not at all. The ghoul’s voice was chilling, overpowering, not loud but spiritually heavy, and a man could tear his throat to shreds with his voice and it would still pale against the mutant’s whisper.

“…the end has come,” the monster said. “How wouldst thou face it? Or wouldst thou deny the hunter of thy heart once more?”

Marcus knew it already. He looked at his sword, and his shoulders fell. This had been a stupid exercise, an act of childish futility. Against the deepest night, a man alone could not stand in defiance. It was better to build towers, to light fires, and to await the dawn. And when caught alone?

Marcus nodded to himself.

Fine.

He plunged his sword blade-down in the sand and beat his fist against his bloodied chest once, roared like a red-faced bear, and charged. Oblivious to the night, to death, and to Lorenor’s claws and pleasure, Marcus did the unthinkable.

He reached out with his bare hands to grab Lorenor by the head, as if to strangle him or crush his skull, and his eyes burned with the Light and temporary insanity, and there was no sense of self-preservation left in him.

He’d gone berserk for the first time.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Speaking, Lorenor was caught almost entirely off guard.

He had expected a lot of events, but not an embrace of such a nature. Lorenor smiled and he started to laugh as he saw the final moments of the battle begin to set in. He had seconds for a final set of words. "You've made beautiful art of this moment." Lorenor began as the hands began the quick, deft movements of ending the battle. "The hunter of my heart, you have smitten me, young Paladin. I foresee..." He laughed as the end came. He found his heart racing, blood dripping from the various injuries he had sustained. He didn't even bother to regenerate his wounds, he simply accepted them for his pride would not allow him to insult the handsome man he had found. So when the attack came, it was so sudden that Lorenor felt a single tear flow down his face.

It's over. Lorenor thought to himself. At long last it's over...even I will know peace.

A sickening snap filled the chamber's air as the story came to an end. Lorenor did not feel pain, he felt nothing for a few moments. And with the snap of his neck that signaled his death, Marcus Book had accomplished what no other warrior, not even Letho could accomplish. He had slain The Grand Primus of Althanas. But at what price? The moment was so complete, and so elegant, that Lorenor's body began to burn up into purple ash as he fell down to the ground, lifeless and very much dead. But was that truly the end? Something happened just then that would forever stain the timeline of Althanas. Lorenor stepped out of his body to reveal a terribly truth. The true form of The Grand Primus was that of darkness eternal. Lorenor was a necessary part of Althanas.

Without Lorenor there would be no evil. He was in soul form, staring at Marcus Book through The Antifirmanent as the wraiths of Valhalla began to circle around The Grand Primus. However, Lorenor was a paradox. Since he had become Ascended, nay, since he had become The Herald of N'Jal, there was a prophetic place for Lorenor. He had a job to do, a purpose left on Althanas. He looked at the hunters of Valhalla and he smiled, they realized who, what he was, and turned away from the soul-form of The Grand Primus. For a long moment, as Lorenor's physical body burned to ash, he stared at Marcus Book. No amount of power that the monks could wield were capable of saving Lorenor at that point, the death at the hands of the young paladin was a complete one.

Lorenor stared for a few moments, pondering killing Marcus Book. Yet, he did not. He admired the work that Marcus Book had managed, a work that no other had been to accomplish. Lorenor felt the hot wind of The Antifirmanent, his body relaxed as he realized an awful truth. It's over. He thought, and he prepared to bid the world fare well. Althanas was long over due for a great typhoon to wash it's surface world clean of sin, but Lorenor was not meant to be that typhoon. Instead, Lorenor walked towards the gates of judgment, when something unexpected happened. There was a bright flash of light, and a door from Phantaria manifested. Phantaria. The land of doors. Lorenor looked at the door as it opened and a familiar figure walked through it, The Prophet, Nenkulor Shima.

"It is not your time. It will never be your time." Nenkulor began. "We must hurry, for you are The Paradox."

"What is The Paradox?" Lorenor asked.

"There is no time, come with me." Nenkulor grabbed The Grand Primus with supernatural strength. Then, there was a flash of light as they entered The Phantaria door.

****

FIN.

[Amen]

It happened in such a dream-like, inconceivably simple way that Marcus Book could not comprehend what he’d done. The moment crawled along, wreathed in a foggy haze born of his fading rage and disbelief. He saw his hands reach out before him, watched through his eyes like a passenger in another person’s body, and the muffled crunch-crack of an internal fracture played over and over in his ears so that the sound seemed to echo.

And then the mutant’s body fell away, disintegrating in a cloud of ash. Despite being almost violet in hue, the flakes of what had been the Prophet of N’Jal seemed saturated with blood. And yet they drifted on the still, silent air of the arena, a cloud that spread and closed in on itself and twirled around Marcus Book like a mass of locusts.

He did not turn to watch it. In fact he stood still, tensely aware that he’d broken an inviolable law and the danger was greater now than it had ever been. Lorenor was supposed to flay his body, crush him, maim him, and something cosmically unexpected happened. And now Marcus Book felt the cold eye of fate on him, judging not his physical well-being but that of his soul.

He was aware of a presence watching him now, a powerful and ethereal malevolence that had the aura of Lorenor, unrestrained, and his doom rested in its immaterial hands. But ire wasn’t in it, and the sense of it faded like a passing storm cloud. His arms and shoulders and hands smeared with ash, Marcus released the breath he’d been holding and swayed.

He went down to one knee to steady himself and breathe, and did not try to make sense of what had just happened. Book felt something akin to guilt. He did not regret what he’d done, but he had the sense that something unpropitious had happened and he was marked for it.

Changed by it.

He did not jump when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, even though he hadn’t heard the monk enter. His nerves were too dead. “Come,” the monk said. “Your wounds are more serious than you think. Let us treat them, lest they scar over.”

“No,” Marcus said.

“No?”

Marcus shook his head wearily. “I’ve earned them.”

[Breaker]

Mood: Slow and steady
Music: Sublime's Greatest Hits

Nice to see a classic good vs evil set up, and one wherein the combatants actually had a desire to fight each other rather than just looking for an ambiguous opponent. Anyway, on with the scores. I'll put Lorenor's in bold and Amen's in italics. Also I'm not going overboard with commentary here like I often do, but if you want more help feel free to contact me.

Plot Construction

Story ~ 7/10 ~ 6/10 - You both put a decent effort into intros and conclusions, but the bulk of this story didn't chain together well. Lorenor really went the extra mile in keeping his backstory not only present but using it to push the action.

Strategy ~ 4/10 ~ 4/10 - Each of you had different reasons for receiving lowered scores here. Lorenor, while you used a vast array of skills and abilities to great effect, I rarely understood how they worked, or indeed exactly what was happening. Amen, with a much lower level character you were forced to use what you had more, but there wasn't a single attack or action in this battle that really surprised me, or stuck in my mind for being well written. For a battle, there was in fact remarkably little action. Keep in mind that when I say "action" I don't just mean fighting, I mean all physical actions your character performs. See clarity for more info on this.

Setting ~ 6/10 ~ 5/10 - Again little stood out, and while I generally knew what the place looked like, I didn't feel connected to it at any point. Lorenor took this category for his consistent effort to represent Althanas lore.

Characterisation

Continuity ~ 6/10 ~ 6/10 - Both of you handled character and setting evolution well without making it spectacular, and while this definitely seemed like the Citadel, accomplishing that isn't especially difficult. I gave you both an extra point here for playing up the good vs evil / evil tainting good aspect, and think that this thread would have been much more interesting as a slightly longer quest.

Interaction ~ 5/10 ~ 6/10 - Lorenor, while I actually liked some of your lines, the majority of your dialogue seemed out of place and/or out of character. I also constantly lost track of where Lor was/what he was doing. Your best best writing of the entire thread IMHO came in the first half of post 11. Actually, except for the dialogue, that was a great post. Amen, I liked your dialogue much more, which is why you got the advantage here... however other than that, Lor's commentary applies to you as well. You often wrote entire paragraphs without mentioning anything about Book, his opponent, or the setting. Considering this is a battle (a story about fighting) you really need to keep the word picture fresh and fluid.

Character ~ 7.5/10 ~ 7/10 - There was way more internal character stuff going on in this battle than actual battling, and it hurt you in some other areas but helped here. I got a decent feel for both of your characters, and gave Lorenor a slight advantage for showing so much of a well developed character.

Writing Style

Creativity ~ 6.5/10 ~ 6.5/10 - I encourage both of you to keep working on your use of literary devices. I considered giving you each five in this category but since you each found a unique way to approach an otherwise standard battle scenario, I gave y'all a boost.

Mechanics ~ 6.5/10 ~ 8.5/10 - Neither of you exercised perfect editing habits, but based on previous writing I've seen from both, you're working on it, and I applaud that.

Clarity ~ 4/10 ~ 5/10 - The main problem with this thread was the pacing, and that reflects in clarity most of all. I felt this thread was about 80% telling and 20% showing. In general, and certainly in a battle situation, you want that the other way around. As a reader it's difficult to maintain your suspended disbelief when you're reading about two guys fighting, but for every move they make there's 3-6 paragraphs of internal dialogue, justifications, and unneeded explanations.

Wildcard: ~ 7/10 ~ 6/10 - There is no doubt in my mind that Lorenor outworked Amen, so he takes an extra point here. Generally I like what you guys are bringing but you need to kick it up a notch, specifically in the departments of planning and editing (not just for mechanics, but re-writing and actively improving as much as possible). Every writer hits a point where they can't get much better without consciously working on their technique, and I think you guys both hit that plateau awhile ago.

Lorenor's Total ~ 59.5/100
Amen's Total ~ 60/100 Close bloody Match.

Lorenor apparently requested he receive no exp/gp, so instead I decree that Book's mentor sends him a forearm bracer made of Root Walker Husk, by way of apology for her pupil's rash deeds. It is made of deep green yew and engraved with the word Fortitude.

Amen receives 681 EXP and 100 GP

[Breaker]

EXP / GP updated... Amen reaches level 2!

Thread archived.