The new story began...

[Mutant_Lorenor]

(Seeking ONE level 0-2 opponent.)

(New Level 0 (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22978-Lorenor-The-Grand-Primus.-%28Reincarnation-to-level-0%29) )

For a moment, Lorenor thought he had another life.

Memories burned this his brain, memories that were super imposed upon his own memories that seemed like they were his own. However, he figured out soon that they were not. He dreamed of a mighty warrior that ascended through the ranks of The Citadel Leagues and became a force of nature, a force of darkness. Memories burned through his head and he found himself thinking: when had I done all those things!? Shaking his head, The Grand Primus tried to ward off a headache.

Matters were not helping his situation out. As the leader of the "free people" of the undead ranks, Lorenor was hated by the mortal races. He was a representative of N'Jal, the resurrected Goddess. Lorenor had to do her bidding with a life of endless servitude.
Lorenor was content with serving the dark Goddess, she gave him a purpose. She gave his people a purpose, and a banner to follow. Purpose meant everything across eternity, Lorenor knew that to be true. As a member of The Empire in Corone, Lorenor found early in his career that darkness oft followed darkness.

Lorenor respected power.

That's where he was coming from and as a High Priest of N'Jal, he could recite The Word of N'Jal. It was a dangerous time for Althanas, one where the age of darkness had returned to rule with an iron grip. It would stay this time for it was the darkness's time to rule. The age of Heroes had long since past, and now was The age of Villains. Lorenor found himself liking the change of times, political strife, and corrupt agendas. It had become a time of profit for The Grand Primus and his people.

Lorenor sat in The Citadel, quietly reading the pages of The Necronomicon when his handler within the edifice arrived. He was an elderly prophet, a man named Nenkulor Shima. Lorenor waited a full minute before Nenkulor addressed him. The High Priest smiled at his old ally, his connection within The Empire. Lorenor knew that Nenkulor oft gave readings of prophecy to the elite in The Empire, and with his silver tongue, could manipulate most people to do his bidding. Lorenor admired that quality, and had learned early on that the future was a branching off point that resembled a tree from The Liviol Sanctum.

When Nenkulor spoke, he had the capacity to decide fate itself.

This was one of those moments.

"Ah, Lorenor."

"Sir Nenkulor." Lorenor responded. "What is your bidding this time?"

"Always straight to the point?" Nenkulor smiled. He was an elderly man that appeared human, and yet... "I need you to test some tactical strategies for me." Nenkulor handed Lorenor a training document. It contained various military tactics, and combat styles needed for The Citadel. Lorenor had ventured into The Citadel before on various errands for his people, but had never fought in The Citadel Leagues. "I will need you to bleed for me."

"What do I get." Lorenor said, it was not a question.

"Hmn, hmn hmn hmmmn." Nenkulor chuckled. "Your people are so easy to please, Lord Grand Primus." The Prophet continued. "Very well. I might know of a job for someone of your skill level. The higher up's in our precious Empire need a warrior of tremendous skill it seems. Someone of your caliber who has served on various occasions before." Nenkulor nodded. "But I know that your people are in a contract society." Nenkulor paused.

"Nothing is free, Prophet, you of all people should know that." Lorenor said, adding to the situation that Nenkulor suddenly found himself in. "However, I am itching for another job, things have been too quiet and I have been itching for more training."

"Very well. It is settled. Defeat your next Citadel Leagues opponent, and I shall give you the information for your next job." Nenkulor got up, and thought about what he was about to say next. Dealing with Devils was a dangerous affair. "Do we have a deal then Lorenor?"

"Nenkulor." Lorenor began. He placed his books in a safe place in his room in The Citadel. "You should know that nothing in life is free." Then he continued. "However, the terms are acceptable for this bargain. Fetch me a foe. I shall tear them to pieces." Lorenor added. Then continued. "I will see you on the other side Nenkulor. Be ready with my documents and contract." Lorenor stretched out of habit, and readied his cold-steel weapon. He began to walk towards the door of his chamber.

"Lorenor." Nenkulor suddenly said, Lorenor paused. "Honour your end of the deal. The monks are watching."

Lorenor waved his hand in an arrogant gesture, and left to go to the combat halls of The Citadel. He knew the hall's of The Citadel quite well. He kept his hand on the hilt of his weapon as he walked, ready to draw the weapon as soon as his opponent arrived. The Arena for the bout would be decided a few moments later, when another monk approached Lorenor. Lorenor and the monk shared some words, and the arena was decided upon. He smiled at that and entered Combat Chamber Number Four.

The fun would begin.

[Winterhair]

As he stared up at the ebony monument of death that called itself the Citadel, the newly-resurrected Violator grinned.

Eight years. Eight long, suffering years had the beast of a man been enslaved to Death's wishes, his life ended by the quick-armed blade of that man, Yari Rafanas. For eight years Vincent had uttered that name between his fangs like a dark prayer even as his soul's flesh had been flayed away by Hell's cruel minions, his blood mixing in with the other rapists' and cannibals' and murderers' whom were doing their time, and he had grinned up into the face of demons whom had grinned right back at him even as they tore his limbs off like a child would with an insect. At first the pain had been overwhelming, even for the Violator's malicious and hardened soul, but he had soon come to look forward to his hourly penance down in those fiery depths. The demons had urged Vincent on to feed his need for violence, his snarling cries for vengeance, and he indulged them well, screaming the King of Thieves' name in a macabre sonata of laughter and pain.

And then, she came. The demons did naught to stop her, their whips in hand as they grinned in promise at the bleeding and torn Vincent. Into the very depths of Hell she came, with an unearthly power filling the space around her being and causing her to glow with necromantic energies that he'd not seen before. In a few short, terse words she explained both to Vincent and his captors her presence; she was there to take his soul back to the world of the living and bind it to his flesh once again. There was no further explanation needed, no devil's contract to sign or violent match to take part of; the Violator was released from the chains of Death that held him and was forced back to the material plane, laughing maniacally all the way.

After all, he was free.

She'd given him a blade, armor and clothing, as all of those had been divested of his being upon his death; another strike against the King of Thieves. Vincent took them without question; it was the least he could do for his mysterious benefactor, Before disappearing, she told him that he had three months in which to become reacquainted with the world of Althanas and to what he wished; after that, he was hers.

Three months. He could live with that. Plenty of time to do what he had spent years planning down in the depths of Hell. After all, although Vincent was certifiably insane, even in his own evaluation, he was no stranger to the the concepts of gratitude or servitude. And, he reasoned with that bloodlust-fueled smile of his, he could always kill and consume her once she became a liability to him.

Ah, yes. There was nothing like being alive again. Well...He had laughed within the confines of his damaged mind, staring at himself in a mirror one day. "Alive" ain't completely true, is it?

And so it was not. It wasn't just the physical evidence; the pallid, lifeless cast to his skin, the scent of long-buried earth and rotted flesh, the supernatural glowing of his once silver-tainted eyes. All of these things would have bespoken a sense of inhumanity, but it was more than just the physical sense; even within him he could feel foreign changes within his huge body, changes that coiled and slithered and twisted all through his gut and muscles as the necromantic energy he'd been endowed with settled comfortably within its new home.

And it made him feel strong. A strength that had been long missed for eight years.

So as his footsteps eventually led him to the giant entryway of his long-awaited battleground, Vincent couldn't help but feel a sense of coming home; a feeling that caused his already sharklike smile to spread further into a monstrous maw, revealing the sharpened fangs beneath. The crimson, tattered cloak he wore about his body fluttered impatiently in the afternoon breeze, as his eyes glowed with unearthly energies in excitement and vulgarian adrenaline. The iron blade at his back, huge even for Vincent's standards, seem to weigh more heavily and importantly upon his back, as if the metal was subconsciously demanding to be drawn and letting blood be shed by its sharp edge. As he grew more and more excited by the thought of what lay behind those Citadel doors, the Violator began to emit a subconscious aura of danger; one that others began to take note of as they parted the giant of a man like a river of flesh against his unmoving presence. He paid them no mind, merely faceless victims in the larger scheme of things to his eyes; no, his attention was on the gates beyond.

This was his home. Here, he could shed as much blood as he wished, whether it be his own or his foe's, without so much as a single consequence. Here he could feed off the flesh of his victims without having the spears of the Guard at his back constantly or dealing with his victims' so-called 'avengers'. Here, he could be himself, and give in to the dog-eat-dog instinct that constantly consumed his being, turning him into the vicious, unstoppable animal that he was. And so he had he returned from the grave to visit his home once more, letting the familiar preternatural feeling that he always got before a fight flood his body, savoring the sweet taste of expectation. Before he went hunting the thief whom took his life and his sword, he would first feed, and feed well he would.

Vincent's teeth starved for the taste of blood once again. He licked his lips unconsciously, a thin line of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth as he salivated from the combination of hunger in his stomach and the heat bearing down upon his being, fists clenched beneath the battered gauntlets he wore. He couldn't wait any longer; a single step forward gave way to another, and then another, and soon the Violator had made his way to the very top, where the nearly-faceless forms of the familiar Ai'Bron greeted him (and others whom had dared to follow in the murderer's wake) with traditional bows of their heads.

"The Citadel welcomes your return, Champion Winterscar." One, a smaller man, stepped forward with a dead smile plastered upon the exposed part of his face, even as he bowed his head to the larger man. "It has been quite some time since your presence has been seen in these halls."

"Aye, it has..." Came the Violator's grinning reply, his voice tainted with the natural inflection drawn from his Hunger and a supernatural thrum that he reasoned could only be some side-effect of the necromancy that had revived him. It mattered not; the air, as he spoke, seemed to thrum with the powers at work behind his vocals. Something that suited him just fine. The half-dead swordsman cocked his head with an inhaled breath of happiness, almost seeming to smell the bloody works within the spire, before he turned back to the monk whom had greeted him. "...and 'ah don't wanna waste any more time o' mine with yer pleasantries, monk. 'Ah know how this works; just gimme someone strong, y'hear?"

The monk's dead smile seemed to stretch further. Oh yes, Vincent thought to himself happily. I'm home.


~+~


Vincent didn't have a specific arena in mind, but when he came to once again he found himself pleasantly surprised at the one the monks had picked out for him. Must've been some kind of 'welcome back' present. He reasoned with both a physical and mental grin.

When his sight returned, he found himself standing the middle of a graveyard. Not in the traditional sense, but rather in that he was surrounded by bones; bones belonging to creatures of all shapes and sizes. As he looked to his left excitedly, he saw with some surprise the ribcage of what could only be described as a dragon, the tips piercing up like veritable spears towards the sky. His smile widened, his teeth gleaming in the faint moonlight above him; he was surrounded by death.

As he continued to glance around, it seemed as if he were in some kind of miniature valley, a thick hazy fog obscuring most of his vision beyond a hundred feet. The cool mist hung about his skin like prickling needles, causing his hackles to rise with tension, even as he continued to grin like the maniac he was. He was being watched; somewhere out there, in the darkness, he was being watched. "...Fuckin' coward..." He muttered under his supernatural breath, reaching backwards and unsheathing the giant zweihander off his back with liquid ease. He spun the huge, heavy blade in one hand for a couple moments, adjusting to the weight of it before he looked way from its black iron edge with disgust. It was good quality, but far too light for his taste. Whatevah', he thought to himself disdainfully. A blade's just a blade.

"Come ON!" The monster of a man roared suddenly, spreading both his arms out in invitation, grinning with skull-like efficiency into the outer dark. "Come and fight me already! Time's a wastin'!" Cackling madly, the huge swordsman spun his blade around his head like a helicopter, creating a huge wind-like sound as he awaited his foe's approach.

For only then would the fun truly begin.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

When the world shifted into the altered reality states that the monks were infamous for, Lorenor grinned. It's time to cut loose. This is my first time in here. I've heard the stories of the monk's magicks...but to see it in person...incredible. Lorenor rose from the dead earth beneath him and looked around the scorched battlefield. The stench of death was everywhere, and he saw the various shaped corpses all about him. He did not recognize the skeletons at all, however, he opined that they could be used for Necromancy when his skill level allowed. Lorenor walked over to the nearest corpse, and fetched a reasonably sharp corpse-bone. The bone was a rib-cage bone and it was razor-fine at one end. He pulled the bone out of the corpse and fashioned himself a melee weapon. Crude. But effective.

Then, he drew the steel weapon, the blade of N'Jal, out of it's scabbard. The glow surrounded the arcane device, and Lorenor was prepared for battle. He took to the thieve's highway a moment later. Climbing up the side of the larger skeletons gave Lorenor an immediate vantage point over the newly discovered world. His eyes narrowed as he observed the battlefield, a good ten feet away from him. His vision was sharp, he could see within his sensory array. Lorenor clenched his hands tightly around both of the weapons he wielded. The bone, would become useful and it made him feel powerful when he held it.

Lorenor could strangely feel a vibration coming from the foreign bone. Making a mental note of that, he walked in the general direction of a laughter that he he heard in the wind. It was faint for a few moments, but as he walked towards the sound, the sound became louder. As he walked, he guessed he was hearing the words of his opponent. What Lorenor would never have guessed is that he would find an opponent that shared his type of connection with the undead. Smiling, the mutant studied the distant position of his foe. Still catching up, Lorenor hated the fact that the monks had chosen to place them so far apart on the battlefield. It was going to be a work out.

As he walked, he decided on moving at a light sprint, and soon caught the physical form of his opponent. What stood before him was a wall of flesh, laughing the entire time it stood waiting for Lorenor, and rotating a massive weapon with tremendous skill. The moonlight's shine glowed off the mad-man's blade and Lorenor could not help but smile at the fact that he had potentially found an equal. Realizing that the man's muscles were probably not for show, Lorenor decided on a more stealthy approach. He ducked down atop the skeletons he crawled on, and reached a safe distance to begin casting the first shadow-bolt of the hour.

Mist settled upon the ground, everywhere making it difficult for those lacking skill to see. The mist did not obscure Lorenor's vision in the slightest. He was well within his sensory grid when he finally caught up to the nameless man. Lorenor felt a strange familiarity coming off the man before him, but shrugged it off. He was in The Citadel, and he had to behave a certain way. Quickly charging up one of his shadow-bolt techniques, energy manifested around his hands. He moved his hands together, holding both weapons so the tips faced skyward. A few moments passed, he deliberately made the mad-man wait, and then he launched a potent shadow-bolt in the general direction of his foe. As soon as the crackling energy was released, Lorenor was on the move.

He doubled back with his best speed, keeping his opponent well within sensory range. Lorenor leaped off his perch atop the giant horned beast that he stood upon. He landed gracefully and broke into a sprint around the form of his opponent. With both weapons at the ready, he saw that the shadowbolt was making it's way towards the mad-man. Lorenor ran once he saw the man's back exposed in that general direction. His face was cool and collected, and he prepared to attempt to rip out the spine of the oaf before him. However, that would take careful planning. Instead, he just ran silently towards Vincent and kept his eyes locked on the massive blade that was wielded. He hoped that his sneak-attack would work. If it had, he was prepared with another plan. He would show the world that the most powerful muscle of all, was the brain.