Of Myths, Gods & Anarchisms (Closed)

[Dalasi]

Of Myths, Gods & Anarchisms (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bzx3nc_WGTI&feature=related)

2490


Closed to Lorenor, Champion of N'Jal.


Places possessed a power unseen by the lesser man. Hours contained seconds unlived by the oblivious many. The shadows contained light within them, even to the keenest of eyes.

Nihjar knew all of this, yet still he could not see.

Life threw everything at those people who wished to live, longed to survive, felt the need to be passionate about existence. With the gentle breeze dropping over the tall palisades of the Dansdel, and the soft spring scent of lilacs and daffodils sickeningly clogging the air, Nihjar wondered why he bothered fighting at all.

Times were hard in the Under Dark. An outcast from his own kin, he had been cast adrift in the snows of Salvar, left to wonder the deserts of Fallien, kindled to sorrow in the wilderness of Raiaera. Wherever he went, the shadow of doubt that his brother’s dreams had seeded in his mind followed him like a blood hound.

So too did the whispers in the dark, the mantle of the spider silk crown resting down heavily on his shoulder.

“Not here,” he said devoutly, driving the heavy weight of Gallblaster into the light smattering of dirt that covered the arena floor. The dried autumnal leaves that formed little mounds of memory to the past encounters that had occurred here shuddered beneath the bastard sword’s weight, trembled beneath the scowl of the Lost Son of the Salthias.

He remembered all his endeavours as a true welcomed brother of the World Eater Cult, but those were days cast into myth. Cydnar Yrene was High Salthias now, from the sounds echoing through the catacombs of the rumour mill. He, unlike Nihjar, had done well from the troubles of the war. In recent months, Nihjar had pierced the deception woven into his mind by the Dark Brother of the World Snake Yrene, and deciphered all the many skeins of illusion which had leaded the Ymgarl tribes to their seclusion.

Nidhogg, the Corruptor.

N’Jal, the Deceiver.

Both of the dark Thayne had laid waste to all hope in the Hummel’s heart, torn the life from the last Dratzz Clan citadel in the depths of the arid earth beneath Salvar’s eternal tundra. If he had been a weaker man, a weaker soul, a weaker leader for his broken people, he would have laid down his weapon and taken off his armour and set his bare chest to the thrust of a blade.

Today marked the first day of many where Nihjar would defy the gods of Althanas and wield the tools he had been given to buy his servitude against them. He would weave his own web of deceit, squander his own gifts in the dark of the under croft of the continents and shatter hearts with his talismanic roar and the providence gifted to him by his new brotherhood.

He was alone now, yes.

He was confused, even more so.

But he had an idea.

Ideas, unlike flesh, bodies, souls, were eternal as long as one man believed in them.

He keened his gaze onto the rickety form of the distant door and pulled the Gallblaster from the floor. With a grate, it scattered dust in its ascent, and swung about the musculature form of the veteran warrior. He levelled it flat against his right shoulder, carrying it in his right hand as was his custom. It was a summer morning, not long past dawn by his reckoning, which in the time honoured tradition of warriors, sensei and masters of the bladed arts, was a perfect time to clash wits and stances with another like-minded individual.

The Dansdel did not stand as tall or as proud as the Citadel in Radasanth did. It had been many years since he had frequented the sandy domed spheres of war, and it would be many more until he felt safe in going as his brother had developed quite a name for himself on the island of Corone. He cursed his wretched existence, and chanted a brief line from a text few except a Hummel would remember.

“In darkness bound, in shadows tight, in light ensconced in freedom’s fight.”

With a twist of his hip, and a return to the far extension of his spine, he removed the last of his unrest from his muscled torso and ran his free hand over his chest, tracing the patterns of his tattoos as a form of concentration. He shed the last skeins of deception from his mind, refusing to let the constant babbling of the dark Thayne N’Jal distract from what he hoped would be the first of his many victories and ascensions from the limelight into the glorious Basque of victory.

He had to grow strong.

“Strong I will be when I am done crushing the skulls of all who oppose the Dratzz…” he said in silent prayer, clenching his free fist as if he were tearing down the Dansdel with all his strength, passion and conviction.

Whoever was about to walk through the opposing door would be in for a world of hurt, pain, aggression and malice. The very earth trembled beneath the excessive weight of Nihjar’s armour. The very soul of Althanas quaked beneath the pious devotion the Hummel outcast wielded like a shield to cast aside all disapproving stares. He looked up into the dancing lights of the tree canopy and let the echo of the far doors resound and proliferate in his chest. Birds scattered into the sky far above the tree top plateau of Concordia, the crowd filtered in through the stands and took their seats in the palisades.

Nihjar’s tattoos glowed with a malefic light.

N’Jal whispered dark thoughts into his mind.

The stone on his shoulders and bound to his hips like a behemoth’s skin shook beneath the footsteps and pressure. Today, Nihjar smiled and thought with the shuddering hatred of a thousand years of persecution, the people of Corone would be reminded.

“For the Under Dark,” he said softly, his long white beard wavering as he shifted his weight to drop the Gallblaster forwards, it’s tip striking the head of a daisy and cutting it with indignant impunity.

“For the Thayne…”

“For the web of war,” the voice in his head screamed, and without thinking, the freedom he had enjoyed in choosing to come to the Dansdel ended.

Irony would have it that the one man on Althanas that longed to walk free from the bonds set by the dark sister of the Thayne, would encounter her greatest champion – reborn, recanted, revived – when the gates opened, Nihjar knew who was going to enter.

He snarled, lifted his blade and levelled it at the shadow in between the open doors.

“Incy wincy spider,” he roared. “Come out!”

[Mutant_Lorenor]

There was one on Althanas who had the strength to cheat death itself.

A mutant, Lorenor was The Grand Primus of his people. In the dark of the dansdel, his glowing purple eyes vibrated brilliantly. A soul of terrible darkness, Lorenor was a high priest of his people. N'Jal spoke the name of the mutant to her followers, after all, he was her greatest champion. When one of the dansdel servants approached The Grand Primus, Lorenor stopped his studies of the fell-engine. The fell engine was The Necronomicon in his possession, three terrible books that spake the word of N'Jal. When the representative approached, Lorenor placed the books into his travel pack and placed the pack into his rented locker. Then, he stood up from the meditative stance, walked towards the representative and looked at the man's person for a few moments.

Beating from the man's chest was a powerful heart. Lorenor could see that heart through the dark and it cast a brilliantly shining tree of blood upon the shadows. The mutant smiled, without realizing why. Summoned to the dansdel, Lorenor was meant to do N'Jal's bidding somehow. He had no idea the tail of tragedy and deception that would await within the sister organization to The Citadel League. Lorenor had never used the dansdel before, but it seemed a fitting environs for such a new test to occur. The mutant waited a full minute or two before he addressed the servant before him. The followers of The All-Thayne's children were a dangerous lot. Lorenor knew. That's why N'Jal had made his kind as living weapons against The Thayne.

Lorenor was a Spider Magi.

As The Grand Primus, he had given his people a purpose.

Lorenor finally spoke to the servant.

"I am ready." He said.

"Do all your meditations take so long, Priest?" The servant asked.

Lorenor responded.

"Some do." Lorenor continued. "The will of N'Jal must be obeyed." Lorenor shook his head, and tapped his chin for a moment. "From her teachings my people go strong, it is as simple as that." Lorenor's face became serious at that moment. "You have an opponent for me?"

***

The hallway that lead to the battle-arena was lit by merely torchlight. Walking confidently through the dark, Lorenor could hear the pulse of the gathered crowd watching the dansdel event. Smiling, he could taste the blood in the air. So much blood. It would be so easy just to kill them all... But demon society was a contract society. And so, he had to respect the laws of the dansdel, at least on the surface. Lorenor prided himself an agent of the empire of Corone, and from time to time he had to do this dirty work. When the gates opened on their own, Lorenor heard the call of his opponent and his smile became a maddening grin. Prepare yourself. He said as he stopped about a few feet from his opponent's position. He was still in the hallway, but by then, Lorenor's glowing eyes were visible.

The crowd began to jeer at the apparent hesitation of The Grand Primus.

But it was all a sham. There was not hesitation, it was a plan. As Lorenor concentrated on the form of the vulgar old brute before him, he channeled the power of the dark. It came to him quickly now, years of practice in the servitude of N'Jal. As the glow surrounded his hand, purple just like his eyes, the mutant release the shadow-bolt a few moments later and aimed it at the general direction of his opponent's body. When the deed was done, Lorenor drew his own mighty weapon. The Blade of N'Jal. Glowing energy cascaded around the surface of the blade directly from the power core of the weapon. He ran towards his opponent, keeping just behind the shadow-bolt he had just launched. The flare of darkness was part of his strategy, he was going to go out with a bang if need be and leave a world of hurt of his own.

The crowd suddenly continued to jeer louder when they saw the hideous creature emerge from the dark. Some of the younger folk in the audience vomited in terror. Guards knew the servant of N'Jal well. But he was no criminal in the eyes of the empire. He was an asset. When it seemed that the bolt was closer to his opponent, Lorenor suddenly broke his forward sprint. Changing the angle of his run, he dashed off towards his opponent's side running at an almost clean forty five degree angle to his opponent's right. When Lorenor was directly adjacent to his opponent, he struck. It didn't matter if the shadow-bolt actually connected or not, Lorenor was a strategist. He prepared carefully constructed plans for his opponents and schemed to unleash the darkest of hells upon them.

Lorenor leaped towards his opponent in a skillful jump. He wasn't an acrobat, but he used his great speed capacity as leverage in the forward maneuver. When Lorenor was about half-way towards his opponent, he let out a clean swipe. It was an arching slice towards his opponent's mid-section meant to simply cut flesh. There was elegance in the technique, the sign of a practiced veteran. Lorenor pushed his body weight forward in the attack, hoping to at least clip an arm or something. If he could just get it right... he would be victorious. Lorenor found the gentleman to be quite handsome looking. He studied his foe as he attacked, and prepared the strategy for a riposte if he countered or block. Judging by the looks of his foe, he realized one thing...

In the name of N'Jal, I shall eat thy heart.

[Dalasi]

The raucous proclamation of adoration from the crowd ratified the belief in Nihjar’s heart and mind that he was going to fight for his very soul. As the leaves continued to fall over the menagerie of onlookers, into piles and drifts of autumnal regret on the arena floor, he observed the ghoul Lorenor as he entered and wanted to cry.

He had come to the surface to test his mettle against the world in order to better prepare himself for the coming tyranny of the Spider Thayne, to walk into her Primus so soon?

Disastrous was the only world to describe such a turn of events.

Born, reborn and reborn again, Lorenor refused to die.

Even below the surface, he was a legend and a myth. His name was whispered by the Dratzz. Fate, perhaps, had brought them together now, but if there was some unknown purpose to their engagement, the creature did not reveal it in any introductory words.

Nihjar turned the Gallblaster in his grip and brought it upwards with a mighty swing.

It’s flat blade knocked the shadow bolt eschew, sending its energy dissipating away from his exposed torso with a flourish of light and a sparkle of malice.

"Foul mage!" He gritted his teeth under the strain of lifting his monstrous weapon so suddenly.

He settled his dark eyes onto the darker pupils of his assailant and with a growl, analysed his every lethal and narcotic movement. The creature lured him in with sycophantic glee, and the whispering, scrabbling voices in his mind grew louder merely for being near such a dark vessel.

He broke into a run, and Nihjar followed Lorenor as he cut through the foliage drift with heavy but agile footsteps. He refused to move, turning only his eyes in pursuit of his attacker and steeling his nerves and abject horror with heavy, turgid breaths. He did not truly understand what N’Jal wanted with the Drow of the Under Dark, but he guessed that if he played his metaphorical cards right, and proved himself to her very divine conduit, he might get answers.

He might find freedom from the taint in his skull, the web of deceit she wove in his memories.

He might be able to go home.

Lorenor leapt, and with a turn Nihjar brought the Gallblaster skywards again, swinging it upwards into the neat and potentially decapitating strike as it was directed at the Hummel with grace, speed and the ferocity of god-bound men.

“Ayah!” Roared Nihjar, the sound of blade clashing versus stone rang out across the arena.

He delivered a counter fist, a heavy, blunt deliverance of anger to Lorenor’s general facial area. With the Gallblaster dug into the dirt and held in his left hand, it was the only weapon to hand; such a heavy blade required momentum and indeed, room to freely move and time to respond. If Nihjar could gain momentum with it, it would be a foe worthy even of the most humble and devout servants of the gods – without that opportunity, however, he had only the earth to scrabble into a feeble defence.

“Away foul daemon, be gone and scuttle from my presence!” He roared, contrary to his earlier invitation.

With the scent of dry earth in his nostrils and the will of his people behind him, Nihjar stepped back and unstuck his blade from the ground. He continued with his retreat with bounds of his own, his heavy armour plates scraping over one another like the rocky skin of a volcano dragon, or the spectral and electrifying plates of an Umber Hulk. When he could draw a dividing line fifty or so feet away at the edge of the Dansdel’s fighting pit, he took up Gallblaster with both hands and a show of strength, and waited for Lorenor to approach.

Stepping into the Dansdel was a brave enough act.

Stepping into the stone bludgeon of the Scattered Prophet of Ymgarl was another thing entirely.

He cackled with a deep thud of air and prayed the ghoul would be foolish enough to think his gods would save his skull from being added to the bandoleer of trophies around Nihjar's waist.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Lorenor half expected a counter judging by the man's apparent skill level. This act made the mutant grin even as the riposte of the fist came in. Already on the move, Lorenor took full advantage of his considerable reflexes and speed. When the fist connected with his face, Lorenor was reacting. His hands instinctively moved from the other individual's parry. A loud reverberating sound filled the air, metallic clashing of weapons.

An audience member realized what he was looking at. The followers of N'Jal had gathered as a duality, each warrior representing a different aspect of N'Jal. The man's eyes went wide as he felt the panic aura that either man fighting gave off. He turned towards his neighbor. Looking at the fellow and declaring,

"Fool! These be followers of N'Jal!" The man panicked, and ran towards the nearest of guards. The fellow, a follower of the Thayne, Draconus, knew that the men before them were inherently evil. Looking towards the guard, a conversation ensued. The man spoke to the guard. "Liege. These men be criminals. They are the followers of The Spider-Goddess. N'Jal." The man looked at the guard with a pleading look. Reacting, the guard looked to the fellow with a stern, yet stoic expression on his face. When a full minute passed, the guard finally addressed the strange Thayne-follower. By then, the rest of the gathered audience was worked into a frenzy by what they were witnessing. Both the princes of different faces of N'Jal.

"Look at the bastions of this arena." He told the Thayne-follower. "Look upon them with the eyes of one who follows The Thaynehood." And the follower looked upon the towers of The Dansdel. There were guards, fierce warriors, posted upon each tower. Their weapons were aimed at the two followers of N'Jal. "We have missile weapons aimed at their hearts should they attempt wicked atrocities in the name of The Fallen One. Come then my friend, let us simply observe the unfolding events as The Thayne wouldst have us observe. We must learn all we can about the powers of N'Jal."

"But, liege, why not simply slay them now?" The Thayne-Follower asked.

"When The All-Thayne spake, we must obey the words of neutrality that was bestowed upon us. When these hallowed grounds were engineered, they were built for the purpose, of war. Warfare of either side. We must learn all we can about the tactics of the enemy. Silence your protests young Follower, for we have foreseen this moment. All answers shall be revealed in due course."

"Prophecy?! You speak prophecy?" The man looked at the guard in disgust. "I am afraid I must not allow this to move forward!" He turned towards the combatants...

***

Whilst Lorenor reacted, he moved with great skill level. Learned by the voice and teachings of N'Jal, the mutant reacted. He drew his sword up towards the man's wrist. It was a cutting motion, though Lorenor was struck in the face. A powerful bruise did develop upon his flesh, that caused the mutant to cringe with pleasurable pain. He swung his weapon towards the man's wrist. His eyes locked upon the eyes of his opponents. His cut was a purposeful slash, the man's hand the target. He aimed for the fellow's wrist with the attempt to lob the man's hand cleanly off. His sword was masterwork steel that glowed with a umbral force.

As Lorenor sliced, the world slowed down. His eyes perceived the sweat dribbling off his own flesh. His eyes perceived the beating heart of every audience member, their souls burning with hate towards the followers of N'Jal. Lorenor knew he had more in common with his opponent than with any other man he had ever known. He smiled as he slashed in that general direction. For a moment, he could detect the beating heart of Althanas herself with his heightened sense of things. Wind seemed to slow down as well, and the folds of his robes began to flap the weight of the fabric, it seemed heavier than normal, like a lead weight. A weight of servitude upon his heart.

Lorenor also sensed vicious intent coming from the crowd. The crowd began to grow restless as the two warriors seemed equal in the name of their goddess. Lorenor felt the tension in the air. It was a glowing green energy that burned with envy. Knowing full well that he could cause tremendous chaos if he began to speak, the mutant started to prepare the words of N'Jal. With his Leadership abilities, he could turn brother against brother, and friend against friend. Lorenor was an avatar of evil. The mutant knew what he was capable of, the crowds did not. He smiled at that thought, but would only speak to his opponent. If his slash was successful, he intended to keep the man's hand as a lofty souvenir. He looked on as the man retreated to a safer distance.

"You would retreat from your opponent expecting me daft enough to follow? You are but a puppet." Lorenor walked slowly towards his opponent, each step was deliberate. Practices. As if this dance had been danced before... "You bear the markings of the spider goddess. Do you not know then, who I am sir?" Lorenor continued. "I hope that you can keep up with me boy. For I am The Grand Primus, as prophesied by The Spider Magi of old." If his previous counter strike were successful, he would have been holding the man's hand the entire time. "Look boy. Are we not allies you and I? Do we not both follow the whim of the dark lady? My Goddess, she whispers to me your name, of the house of Yrene." Lorenor grinned. "You are running, would you defy fate that we might avoid union to better plan and scheme against these buffoons in our audience?" Lorenor was within striking distance, but hesitated. "We should be brothers, not fighting battles manipulated by our very enemies. Come with me, of the house of Yrene." Lorenor said. "Together, we shall fulfill the will of N'Jal."

"Join with me, and you shall have a seat at the right side of N'Jal. This I promise you. What do you opine?" Lorenor asked.

[Dalasi]

"I know what you are, which is all the worse to bear witness to."

Lorenor’s barbed words stung Nihjar, but the pain of his deception paled in comparison to the agony that shot up his arm. With turgid breaths, he held up his severed stub and cried in dismay. His nerves, severed and tendons along with them ceased to work, adrenaline healing over the rush of blood to his head to keep him sane. He wavered back from his opponent and even as he listened, the words shattered into meaningless aphorisms.

Well versed in the art not of warfare, but of butchery, the prophet of the Ymgarl did not know how to respond. He looked at the bloody wrist, then at the ghoul, then back to the blood as it oozed from his injury.

“Join with you?” He snapped out of his haze, and set his red eyes firmly onto his opponent. He had escaped the very clutches of madness to fight the spider Thayne, not to shed his allegiance, though clouded, and side with the enemy herself. “No, Lorenor, I come to learn of a way to rid of you – of her,” he plucked the Gallblaster up with his remaining hand, the surge of violence in his muscles overriding the prehensile weight and swing needed wield his absurd stone blade and flipped it up onto his left shoulder.

He let his stub drop to his side, ignoring the trickle of blood down his thigh which set his teeth on edge and cast the boiled skulls around his waist, which had been so eager to add Lorenor to their number into a red and pallid resemblance of trophies. There was, in the prophet’s mind, only one end to this confrontation. Death was too subtle an end for either of them, mighty stones set to the horizon of the future. Dishonour, however, was a fitting tribute to the meddling of the gods.

“The crowd may swelter beneath the heat of your terror, Lorenor, but I will not bow to such malefic.” He snarled, and raised his injury to his forehead to smear his own blood across his brow. He ran it up, so that it smeared up over the crest of his head and covered his blackened skin with crimson tribute to his fearless nature.

In his head, the spider Thayne cackled, and the Ymgarl gods thinned, scattering to the corners of his mind in fear.

“Test me all you like, pray for fealty from me, but never expect loyalty,” he stepped forwards and leapt, bringing his blade into a forward flip.

As he dropped, he drove the tip of his blade into the dusty floor of the Dansdel, which was wet with perspiration and blood, and raved a sycophantic cry as his tattoos, spiralling emblems of the two snake gods Yrene and Nidhogg burst into an umbra glow, red, like his blood, but thrice as fiery.

The very ground rose to reject Lorenor’s proposal, and his energy scattered vicious shards of rock out and up from the point of contact, shaking the very foundations of Concordia, the very essence of his own soul. They scattered towards Lorenor along the fault line that zipped towards him, mirrored only in desperation by Nihjar’s dying, pointless efforts.

A Quake Geyser to the throne of shadow, a crippling blow for a crippling blow.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

The hand was indeed his prize. It would be analyzed, and the secrets of the house of Yrene would become The Forsaken. Lorenor placed Nihjar's hand into his personal packs, after carefully wrapping it in a silk of sorts. When he had done this careful act of preservation, he returned back to a loose combat position, always ready to sprint in any direction of the dansdel arena. By then, the crowd was getting restless. Lorenor knew that his presence was a foul one and it upset the weak minded peons of Althanas. Guards were plentiful in the dansdel, and they were not as forgiving as The Citadel's Monks. Lorenor would make full notice of that and use it to his advantage in future endeavors. The mutant savored the injury he had inflicted to his opponent. He savored the suffering of all folks, even of himself for his suffering was done out of the love of N'Jal.

For Lorenor was the son of undeath itself. He walked slowly towards the position his opponent had taken upon, in his mind, a show of hiding and cowardice. The man did speak heresy in the name of his dark lady. Lorenor frowned upon that, and he made certain he would pull Nihjar's tongue right out of his living skull. Rebuking the mutant was a dangerous affair, one that could cost more than your life. Lorenor could bring thousands of sufferings upon an individual, and that was the fate that he had planned for Nihjar. His people knew the way of men, knew their anatomy through and through. They could do things to men-folk that was written in the texts of ancient nightmare stories. Rotating his sword, the mutant carefully studied the form of his opponent. So when the fellow released a power, an act of desperation?, that Lorenor had not prepared for, Lorenor grinned.

Yes, grow desperate.

Be careful my son. Of the house of Yrene possess many great and wondrous power. Do-not grow placid in the face of your ultimate victory.

It was the words of N'Jal. Lorenor constantly heard the voice of his goddess for he was one of her greatest High Priests. When the stone pillars breached the fault line that manifested, the mutant tensed his muscles. He would have to sacrifice everything for his killing stroke. Lorenor saw the stones heading his way, they were not terribly far apart from one another's person. The grin on the mutant's face was a sadistic one. As he stood there he channeled the power of the living darkness. It would take all of his concentration for him to pull this off just right, for his foe was heavily armoured. His weapon glowed with a terrible power as he held his blade before his person. He pointed the tip directly at Nihjar's person. Nobody in their right mind turn's down a seat at the head of N'Jal's table! Lorenor wanted to break down his opponent before the battle was through.

Scheming, the hour had come. Pain penetrated the mutant's undead body. He could feel shards of stone penetrate his feeble silk robes. Of course, his opponent's attack was well time and the mutant had gambled on the next part of the battle. He released a powerfully charged shadow-bolt that would cover ground quickly and head towards his opponent. The shadow-bolt's head was a massive sphere that contained the symbols of fell magicks. They rotated within the surface of the attack as it traveled quickly. Lorenor was knocked down on his ass, and landed upon the ground, gasping for air. For it was knocked out of his lungs. He looked up at the sky for a long moment as he attempted to regain his composure. The shadow-bolt was aimed for the chest of his opponent. Lorenor had no idea the extent of his injuries, but he found himself laughing at the comedy of it all.

He would hate to admit it, but despite his injuries, he was having fun.

[Dalasi]

Shadow and myth collided with stone, and the shock of the impact shot up Nihjar’s uninjured arm like a thunderbolt, shattering bone and splitting muscle until there was no strength or tension left. Though he had managed to bring Gallblaster’s flat blade into the path of the projectile, he dropped his beloved weapon with a cry and stumbled back amidst a swirl of dissipating energy.

There was no humour or mirth in his shout, nor was there joy in the confrontation for the elf. For him, and the cacophonous laughter that rang in his ears in a choral melange of madness, there was only sorrow, confusion, and idiocy. Though Nihjar, brother of the hero Cydnar was no coward himself, this, he thought, would have been a fine time to have run. Not just run, but run a thousand leagues below the ground, to hide in a cocoon of quartz beneath the primordial soils of the world.

“Even there I will never be free of you…” he mumbled, biting his lip and drawing blood to stay the focus of his injuries into one small and infinitesimal point of distraction. “I cannot be rid of her meddling in my life or the lives of my kin until you, and all the fell prophets of her woven web are lain down, with this blade, put to rest beneath a gavel of stone and a hedonistic prayer.” With no limb to reclaim his weapon, Nihjar simply nodded at Gallblaster, and stepped back.

The heavy plates of his armour, speckled with blood and still menacing with their spikes prongs and heavy stone inlays against the fragile nature of their natural surroundings scraped together. With a sluggish fall he dropped to the Dansdel’s dusty floor and crossed his legs. Feverishly he shook, the blood still pouring from his wrist, the pain still flaring in his arm, which he held cupped into his torso as if it were strapped tightly in a sling.

“Though it would appear that the time for me, for the Ymgarl to rid them of N’Jal and her legacy is not now. Not today, not here.” His speech began to slur as the life in his bones drained away. The once fiery, almost magma tattoos on his dark skin were long faded, nothing more than red lines forming battle scars on his musculature now. The glimmer in his eyes, that roaring, inferno of hatred he had brandished with charisma when Lorenor had first entered – extinguished.

“Tell me,” he rasped, stroking the tendrils of his white beard together with his shaking fingers. He felt the bone fragments come undone in his upper arm as he winced, and set it back onto his lap with a soft flop. “Tell me what you feel, stood before me, watching me die, refusing your so called god’s promises?” He glared at the space beneath the ghoul’s robes where his hand had been stowed, and promised to add one of Lorenor’s to the many mummified husks and appendages that hung ominously between his bands of skulls.

Like a monk at dawn, he stared up through the canopy, between the flailing branches of sycamore and pine trees, star shaped dryad leaves and pine coned conifers, and smiled weakly. There was no use fighting now, he could not rebuild bone after all, nor flesh. If his blade had shattered or his armour had cracked beneath the torrent of anger Lorenor threw over him, then he could rise again with the providence of Yrene. He had no gods with him today, only the wily fire of anarchism, the many tenets of rebellion he would need to break free of the chains that bound him. As he dropped his gaze, he took a deep breath, and vowed to solidify the scent of blood, iron and sacrifice into his memories for the moment that would soon enough come.

If Lorenor would not end his life with the cruel streak in his veins, then the slow decay of life through his injuries surely would.

Then the real battle between the gods and their monsters could begin.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

(Sorry for the long delay in this post, I had a situation happen)

Walking slowly towards the sitting person of his opponent, Lorenor wore a grin on his gnarled face. "That. Was fun, but unfortunately it is clear to me that you will not submit to the will of my Master. For that blasphemy, despite my generous offer, you will perish." As he walked, he was focusing on the power of his Shadowbolt spell, and had it channeled by the time he was within striking distance. He did not underestimate his foe, just in case the man still had an ace up his sleep and the act of submission was merely a ruse. Keeping some distance from his foe. Lorenor looked at the man for a moment with an expression akin to sympathy on his face.

"The proud have no place in the grand scheme of things. You are merely tools for war. Never forget that. Only fools do not pay credence The Thayne and their power. You are an enemy of N'Jal, of The House of Yrene. Never forget that. From this day forward my people will hunt your people down."

With that, he released the stored shadowbolt. At that range, he had focused enough energy for it to be a killing stroke. If his opponent should evade or counter, Lorenor was prepared. His eyes were focused on his foe, despite the injuries that he too, had sustained in the battle. The shadowbolt traveled quickly to the form of his opponent. It was fully focused and at the injured state of his opponent would cause full damage. To finish off his foe, Lorenor prepared the next sequence of his attack. Running at an angle, circular, towards his opponent, Lorenor readied his fabled sword. The attack was two-pronged. On one hand, the shadowbolt could easily be avoided, but on the other hand, Lorenor himself was a separate obstacle all together.

When he was close enough in range, Lorenor swung his weapon at about a middle-center of gravity. The slash was aimed directly for the neck of his foe. Should it connect, the sword's attack would decapitate his opponent in a moment of eternal glory. Lorenor smiled, for the suffering of others is what brought him the greatest pleasure. Even, the suffering of his own person. The blade glowed with a terrifying darkness that seemed to absorb light. It was a skillful attack, one from a killer determined to end his opponent. By then the audience had been worked to a fever frenzy. Lorenor waited for either attack to connect. If his foe had truly given up, Lorenor would end the man's prolonged suffered. At the same note, he was ready for a counter should one come...

As Lorenor attacked, with what he hoped would be the killing blow, he could feel things with his enhanced senses. The gathered crowd of hundreds of beating hearts were present, and blood was begging to be spilled. However, Lorenor knew that the time for tactical warfare against the more skilled guardians of The Dansdel was not right then. Lorenor was hurting, and would require time to heal his own injuries. He knew what was the one thing he would do to further disrespect The Dansdel. He needed to feed due to his injuries, and should his opponent, be injured he would cannibalize the corpse and make himself stronger. Needing the flesh and blood of his foes, Lorenor still acknowledged his hunger. He loomed like a beast over his fallen prey. Should he win the hour, it would be another victory for N'Jal, his Master, and the matron goddess of The Forsaken.