NightCast
06-21-07, 11:29 AM
Been a while, hope I got and did everything correctly though.
Name: Morgoth Shi'Nito NightCast
Age: Millennia +
Race: Legendary Shadow Beast
Hair Color: Night Black
Eye Color: Glowing Red
Height: 7'
Weight: 235 lbs
*Occupation: n/a
*Personality: Cynical, sarcastic, and wily are all accurate depictions of Morgoth's personality. He tends to be humorous, but easily aggravated and aggressive. He is not easy to talk to or approach as his appearance makes him quite intimidating.
Appearance: Night black and humanoid in shape, Morgoth boasts most of the usual characteristics of a human. Eyes, nose, mouth, long hair-like substance that is silky to the touch and the same color as the rest of his body. He boasts claw like hands that can elongate and harden into odd appearing claws. He wears no clothing, but has nothing to cover up. All over his body, usually unseen, are odd tribal markings that glow an eerie incandescent red when agitated.
History:
Creation
DarkStrike sat upon his throne, which hovered some fifty feet above the ground. The straight-backed rock throne, laced with what appeared to be crushed Onyx, had never been what one would call comfortable. That being said, how many thrones would be considered comfortable? They were meant to be tall and imposing adding a layer of impressiveness to those that sat upon them. Despite this, all DarkStrike had thought about since creating it was how much tradition and impressiveness needed something shoved up a hole and if neither had such an orifice, he’d make one.
All ten of his great, raven’s black wings shifted lightly as he, with his angular face, deep, milk chocolate eyes, orderly, but thick, mess of hair, and an ever so slightly imperfect smile, contemplated the future. With each passing day, he grew stronger, but his body had reached its limit, unable to grow more powerful without repercussions. His power was nearly godly anyway so why would he need more power? His brothers were also growing stronger, and in order to keep them in balance, he also needed to be strong. But Lucifer and Seraphiel had the gifts of two great beings, Satan the Despicable and Tontar the Bold. Tontar was the angelic name for the God in the Christian religion and what a long convoluted story that was. But none of this was for now.
What was for ‘now,’ in all of its split second’s glory yet, everlasting eternity, was how to allow his power to boost without suffering the consequences in a physical sense. Oh, he had the idea and the plan, but careful deliberation was necessary. His plan was to create an entity with the ability to absorb power and harness it as its own but share a link with him so that he could harness the power that this being absorbed as well. The issues were few, but dire should they occur. First was, all magic is reversible, what happened if the creature gained enough power to reverse his effects and cause all of the power stored in his body and drain it into itself. That brought up another issue, DarkStrike didn’t want some dumb vessel that couldn’t tell a sword from a spoon, but did he want something that could match him in intelligence and boast such power? And yet another issue, every book, every movie (The flickering realities that he had seen when visiting Earth), something always goes wrong with the creation.
So many unanswered questions, too many that couldn’t be known until it was too late. He wasn’t sure if he was all that willing to find out either.
DarkStrike drew a breath and gasped as a blinding and piercing pain overtook him. Doubling over on the chair, he pitched forward off his perch falling the forty-five feet before his wings instinctively kicked in, slowing the fall, but not halting it. He hit the ground hard on his knees, his mail of orihalcon, shining mithril silver, clinked lightly. Still doubled over, the momentum threw the sword that hung in an ornate sheath upon his back out to skitter across the floor, shining a creamy metallic color. He realized, rather dryly, that he couldn’t afford to keep falling from high places and that this new wave of pain would be the one to force his hand.
The Temple of the Elements, which he called his home, having built it by hand and magic alike, was enormous. In the center there was a place of neutrality, of no element, just plain stone. Some fifty yards in diameter it was beyond this that paths of stone crossed over magical wonders. Representing each of the elements, the driving force of nature, there was a section dedicated to each. Directly in front of him lay the warm glow of lava that was several hundred feet below the surface of the floor. Proceeding clockwise, divided only by some mystical force, was a lake-like body of water complete with fish, a small grove of various trees and a meadow, an area of inky blackness with blue sparks and gigantic bolts of electricity shooting around, a barren, wind swept plain sat next to that, followed by a large area of rock, rubble, and odd formations of stone, an undulating area of purple shadows, and a glowing plane of multicolored rays of light.
None of these usual pleasures of the eye caught his gaze presently as he lifted himself from the ground and let his wings pump, lifting him easily off the ground to avoid paining his knees anymore than necessary. Through this method he hovered to the door that lay directly in front of him pausing momentarily to bask in the warmth that the lava gave off so far below. Smiling serenely, he pushed open the door into the Library. Stacked with thousands of books, the Library was an impressive sight and generally he would sit and take in the initial sight, proud of the tedious collecting of such a collection. But again, time was of the necessity and he had no time to sit around and waste time. DarkStrike took a quick look around and then moved to the great oaken table that sat in the center of the circular room. If the dimensions of this room are still unclear, the table was over two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide and one could still host a jousting tournament on either side of the table. If you had stood it vertically and then placed an identical table on top, the two combined would have been only slightly too big for the room. There were almost a hundred book cases spread out with ample space in between, and each was nearly as tall as the ceiling with normal shelve spacing, every single one of them brimming with books of all shapes and sizes, from all manners of time periods, knowledge in its most collective form.
But it was what lay upon the table that was important to DarkStrike at this moment in time. It was this small novel that held the information to serve his purpose. And as he stared down at it, small droplets of blood dripping down his legs, he saw with a satisfied smile, a creature from legends, a creature that haunted the Dark Realm as the most feared mythological being. A creature…named Morgoth.
Forged in Shadow
Morgoth cast a cautious glance at his master, DarkStrike wondering if this was a good idea. There were so many reasons to not be here, yet here they stood, following behind DarkStrike’s apprentice Nenal, brother to Michael Sandor, who was hailed as a hero and a Saint on some world that he, in the millennia since he had been forged from shadow, cast in the appearance and wit of a fairy tale, and given his master’s extra raw power and intellect. Night black so that he looked like a shadow of some fierce warrior, at some points he glowed with tribal designs and patterns in an eerie incandescent red. His eyes appeared the same, and the only other distinct feature that he boasted was his ability to make his claws lengthen and become oddly angular in a fashion that DarkStrike referred to as “like Wolverine,” whatever that meant.
Morgoth rolled his eyes at this thought, tucking it away for contemplation later, and returned his mind to the task at hand. DarkStrike sniggered slightly, betraying the mental connection that the two shared among other things. Straight-backed and always serious Nenal looked over his shoulder slightly and Morgoth scowled. Not so long ago he had been the puppet of some scourge of Hell, possessed, and frankly, Morgoth felt that he had been under its influence for far too long in order to have completely regained sanity. DarkStrike, of course, as it is with all masters and apprentices, was not so easy to give up on trust that had been forged over the eons when Nenal came under his wing. It had nearly been too late that DarkStrike had come to his senses and recognized the danger when he was possessed, almost destroying the beings that fought to maintain balance during DarkStrike’s prolonged absence. Striker, Artilitha, Arutha Sandor (nephew to Nenal) Nakeega, and several others, including a surprise appearance by the Seraph Choir and the fall of Azrael, the Angel of Death, had fought hard, and were nearly destroyed by DarkStrike and Nenal alone. Where had he been? He wasn’t even sure where, but great damage in the order of things had happened because of this catastrophic event. Lucifer had been freed once more; newcomer Nakeega, who hadn’t even been an angel at the time, replaced Azrael, and Uriel and Raphael both died. Michael hadn’t shown up and Tontar was as unresponsive as ever to the troubles of his angels, let alone the people he had created one some planet. How was that for starters?
Since then, Morgoth had been placed against a being known as Blade (who funnily enough was the apprentice to Striker), a nasty individual with power over both Time and Death, which meant the damn asshole just wouldn’t die. From what Morgoth had learned, the stupid mother bleeper had come back no less than three times. What a pisshead. Morgoth had finally killed him (he hoped), draining all of the energy he had in the process so that there wasn’t anything lingering to bring him back, another gift from DarkStrike. Sooooo…
That among other things had made his life, however short compared to some of these snot nosed, booger pickers, chaotic at best. But he had never been bothered by it. It kept him busy and besides, he’d probably be bored if it wasn’t like that.
“I thought you were trying to get your head out of the clouds?” DarkStrike’s deep, melodic baritone filtered in a light whisper into his head, amusement present.
“Yeah, well get the fuck out.” Immature sniggering followed from both parties. The relationship between Master and Servant had not been the usual cliché story. They were more like brothers or friends, so while when leadership became a necessity, there was no question who was in charge, outside of that, the boundaries were not so black and white.
“Is there something wrong, Master?” Nenal’s articulated and slightly stuffy drawl cut across Morgoth’s moment of hilarity like a cold wind against the face.
DarkStrike’s smile remained planted on his face while he composed himself. Morgoth, though concealed, had reverted to his dark brooding temperament in an instant. “There is no problem my friend.” DarkStrike glanced at Morgoth before continuing. “Morgoth was just sharing a most amusing, but slightly inappropriate joke in regards to myself.”
The smile that remained on his face as he viewed Nenal was sincere, or Morgoth was a dumb ass. In which case this made him feel that DarkStrike was a dumb ass too.
“Am I?” He asked.
“Oops,” Morgoth rolled his eyes melodramatically.
Nenal, oblivious to this exchange shrugged and began leading them again. Leading them to where? Well all Morgoth had was a long hallway leading somewhere. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how they had gotten there. All he knew was Nenal had shown up ranting and raving about how they needed to hurry and stop Seraphiel and then when DarkStrike had agreed, here they were. Walking quite slowly as a matter of fact. Suspicion crept into Morgoth’s mind, and his claws began to lengthen silently; stretching straight out and then angling in a slope upwards and then straight out and down at a ninety degree angle, getting longer…Then he stopped, deciding to put his trust in his master.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
Morgoth looked at him and DarkStrike met his gaze coolly. There was a moment’s pause and then he said, “Keep them out, if I happen to be walking into a trap like a calm an unsuspecting fool, it feels good to have someone who’s not being as stupid as I.”
This was a startling proclamation from one who was always so sure of himself. But was DarkStrike really so sure? Again Morgoth attempted to lock gazes with him and saw a small, miniscule flicker of doubt. This merely hardened his determination and strengthened his resolve. He began to glow an eerie red, the tribal markings on his body lighting up dangerously. It felt good to be allowed to have his suspicion out in the open.
Nenal noticed the glow and looked back. His eyes glinted slightly, but it was gone as soon as it came, perhaps a trick of the light.
“Lighten up, we’re all friends here,” Nenal said with something that seemed like contempt.
“Isn’t that what those Roman dudes said to whatshisface?” Morgoth asked the dryness in his voice was like sandpaper.
“Jesus?” DarkStrike supplied hopefully.
“Whatever.”
Nenal stared for a moment and then laughed softly. “Yes Morgoth, enlighten us with your humor.”
“If you’re expecting Jesus jokes and quips about The Last Lunch-”
“Supper.”
Morgoth rolled his eyes at DarkStrike who had again corrected him. “Whatever.”
Nenal shrugged unconcernedly and continued moving. As they began moving again DarkStrike reached out again with his mind and asked an utterly absurd question. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know; you’re in my head, why don’t you tell me.”
Just then they entered a large area, and a dead end.
“Shit!” was all DarkStrike managed to say. Morgoth was already all over it. He dove forward at Nenal as Seraphiel and Lucifer strode forth, side by side. Then there was a loud bang and a shockwave threw Morgoth forward. Jumping to his feet, Morgoth looked behind him and nearly died from shock.
DarkStrike was gone.
Fight and Flight
Morgoth looked around frantically wondering where in God’s name DarkStrike had disappeared too. Lucifer laughed, a booming laugh that caused his long dirty blonde hair to bounce malevolently around his visage.
“He’s gone Morgoth,” Seraphiel said. “Cast into the Void, but not quite gone yet.” The last was said with a speculative tone. The mammoth sized Seraphim towered over Morgoth’s seven feet by another two. Lucifer was lean, but his body rippled with unseen muscles whereas Seraphiel was gigantic, barrel chested, black haired, and had the body of a super strong hero.
“Do you think he’s weakened enough yet?” Seraphiel asked Lucifer.
“Do you really think I know?” Lucifer snapped at Seraphiel. “We were supposed to get both of them in a shot. Obviously it didn’t work and we need to get rid of him or DarkStrike will be able to get back.”
“What are you talking about?” Morgoth growled. He flexed his right claw…and didn’t feel the normal tension in it. He was getting weaker, he knew he would, but not this fast. Normally it took hours for him to feel the effects of being separated. If he was losing energy, he might as well put it towards an escape plan.
“You mean DarkStrike never told you?” Seraphiel was the first to answer.
“Would I be asking if I knew Serasshole?” The name came out as Sir Asshole and the only response Morgoth got was a growl. Lucifer merely laughed again before answering in a cryptic way.
“He’s got my humor, your pride, and dear brother’s power.” This statement confused Morgoth to no end and as a result, nearly let the energy he was building up go. Elaboration was short in coming though, leaving him no time to give his witty response.
“How else do you think DarkStrike managed to create a creature that would allow his power to amplify?” Lucifer didn’t wait for an answer. “Simple, by giving you a personality that took on the best of both of us and giving you part of his soul. By doing this he solved a great many problems. First and foremost, he solved how he would link you two, allowing him to draw on the power that he gained but could not store within his body.
“Two,” he continued, “He was able to give you enough semblance so that you would literally be peas in a pod, maybe slightly different, but with enough similarities that he could prevent a falling out and a rogue creation. Oh sure, you two may have nearly come to blows at points, but the loyalty to each other would be so profound that betrayal, unlike Nenal here, was a mere concept and nothing to even be considered by either.”
Morgoth had never been quite so astonished; he knew that Lucifer was right on all accounts as far as considering betrayal and personality, but a piece of his master’s soul? There had to be another purpose to it than just preventing betrayal. And there was.
“Also, by giving you a piece of his soul, if one is destroyed or removed from existence, it always returns, no matter how long it might take, as long as the other survives. So no hard feelings that we have to kill you.”
“Oh yeah,” Morgoth retorted, “No hard feelings at all you prick.”
Lucifer appeared unarmed, but Seraphiel was loosening a deadly looking rapier from a sheath at his side. Morgoth bent his knees and pounced at the advancing Lucifer. He raised a hand and a magical glittering barrier erected itself between the lightning fast Morgoth. Smiling grimly, Morgoth passed through the barrier with no hinderance at all. Lucifer was quick to react though, his other hand lifted and the flesh on the palm of his hand seemed to open like a trap door and out shot a spike, obsidian in color. Expecting as much, Morgoth grabbed it with the clawed fingers on one hand, using both his and the spike’s momentum to carry him over it. Releasing at the apex of his turn, Morgoth twisted and landed behind Lucifer, facing in the direction of Lucifer’s left shoulder, and thrust both hands to either side.
Just as he knew they would, both found their targets. One buried itself in Lucifer’s back and the other found itself in Seraphiel’s stomach, who had teleported himself to be directly behind Morgoth when he go Lucifer. Nenal showed up at what should have been Nenal’s left side, but was instead his front now, bone blades flashing. Morgoth was ready for him. Morgoth threw his weight behind him and pulled his arms forward and out in front of him and the two screaming and groaning Seraph (making them easy to move) were tossed into Nenal’s line of fire. Both blades found a different target, one of them Lucifer and the other Seraphiel and collapsed on top of Nenal.
And Morgoth disappeared in a cloud of shadow, as his energy building finally was enough to get him out of there.
Arrival
Rain beat down upon the ground and Morgoth lightly. Huddled and trembling, a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced before crept upon him: loneliness. Here he was, lost on some God Forsaken world, battered and beaten, tired and filled with a weakness that he knew would not alleviate anytime soon. He needed, wanted, DarkStrike to be here. His brother in arms. His master. His friend…
And the rain continued to fall.
Skills:
Acrobat: In his weakest state, Morgoth can only perform the most basic of gymnist moves.
Agility & Speed: Morgoth wears no armour, instead relying on speed and agility. In his weakened state he can only move at about 1.5x's the speed of a normal human.
NightCast: Though he has lost his power to move through the Dark Realm, Morgoth can still hide in shadows fairly well, submerging himself completely in a shadow, that remains stationary. Can only maintain this for about a minute, which is a very long time in battle, though it takes about thirty seconds for him to submerge himself.
Fighter: Though he is still able to fight as he always had, better than most, in his weakened state, he can still perform complicated maneouvers, but they are not executed and do not deal nearly as much damage as they used too. Can deal damage equal to that of the average man.
Equipment:
Claws: Morgoth's claws extend to become oddly angular and used to become as hard as orihalcon. In his weakened state, they harden only to an amount that matches steel in strength. They are extremely sharp.
Name: Morgoth Shi'Nito NightCast
Age: Millennia +
Race: Legendary Shadow Beast
Hair Color: Night Black
Eye Color: Glowing Red
Height: 7'
Weight: 235 lbs
*Occupation: n/a
*Personality: Cynical, sarcastic, and wily are all accurate depictions of Morgoth's personality. He tends to be humorous, but easily aggravated and aggressive. He is not easy to talk to or approach as his appearance makes him quite intimidating.
Appearance: Night black and humanoid in shape, Morgoth boasts most of the usual characteristics of a human. Eyes, nose, mouth, long hair-like substance that is silky to the touch and the same color as the rest of his body. He boasts claw like hands that can elongate and harden into odd appearing claws. He wears no clothing, but has nothing to cover up. All over his body, usually unseen, are odd tribal markings that glow an eerie incandescent red when agitated.
History:
Creation
DarkStrike sat upon his throne, which hovered some fifty feet above the ground. The straight-backed rock throne, laced with what appeared to be crushed Onyx, had never been what one would call comfortable. That being said, how many thrones would be considered comfortable? They were meant to be tall and imposing adding a layer of impressiveness to those that sat upon them. Despite this, all DarkStrike had thought about since creating it was how much tradition and impressiveness needed something shoved up a hole and if neither had such an orifice, he’d make one.
All ten of his great, raven’s black wings shifted lightly as he, with his angular face, deep, milk chocolate eyes, orderly, but thick, mess of hair, and an ever so slightly imperfect smile, contemplated the future. With each passing day, he grew stronger, but his body had reached its limit, unable to grow more powerful without repercussions. His power was nearly godly anyway so why would he need more power? His brothers were also growing stronger, and in order to keep them in balance, he also needed to be strong. But Lucifer and Seraphiel had the gifts of two great beings, Satan the Despicable and Tontar the Bold. Tontar was the angelic name for the God in the Christian religion and what a long convoluted story that was. But none of this was for now.
What was for ‘now,’ in all of its split second’s glory yet, everlasting eternity, was how to allow his power to boost without suffering the consequences in a physical sense. Oh, he had the idea and the plan, but careful deliberation was necessary. His plan was to create an entity with the ability to absorb power and harness it as its own but share a link with him so that he could harness the power that this being absorbed as well. The issues were few, but dire should they occur. First was, all magic is reversible, what happened if the creature gained enough power to reverse his effects and cause all of the power stored in his body and drain it into itself. That brought up another issue, DarkStrike didn’t want some dumb vessel that couldn’t tell a sword from a spoon, but did he want something that could match him in intelligence and boast such power? And yet another issue, every book, every movie (The flickering realities that he had seen when visiting Earth), something always goes wrong with the creation.
So many unanswered questions, too many that couldn’t be known until it was too late. He wasn’t sure if he was all that willing to find out either.
DarkStrike drew a breath and gasped as a blinding and piercing pain overtook him. Doubling over on the chair, he pitched forward off his perch falling the forty-five feet before his wings instinctively kicked in, slowing the fall, but not halting it. He hit the ground hard on his knees, his mail of orihalcon, shining mithril silver, clinked lightly. Still doubled over, the momentum threw the sword that hung in an ornate sheath upon his back out to skitter across the floor, shining a creamy metallic color. He realized, rather dryly, that he couldn’t afford to keep falling from high places and that this new wave of pain would be the one to force his hand.
The Temple of the Elements, which he called his home, having built it by hand and magic alike, was enormous. In the center there was a place of neutrality, of no element, just plain stone. Some fifty yards in diameter it was beyond this that paths of stone crossed over magical wonders. Representing each of the elements, the driving force of nature, there was a section dedicated to each. Directly in front of him lay the warm glow of lava that was several hundred feet below the surface of the floor. Proceeding clockwise, divided only by some mystical force, was a lake-like body of water complete with fish, a small grove of various trees and a meadow, an area of inky blackness with blue sparks and gigantic bolts of electricity shooting around, a barren, wind swept plain sat next to that, followed by a large area of rock, rubble, and odd formations of stone, an undulating area of purple shadows, and a glowing plane of multicolored rays of light.
None of these usual pleasures of the eye caught his gaze presently as he lifted himself from the ground and let his wings pump, lifting him easily off the ground to avoid paining his knees anymore than necessary. Through this method he hovered to the door that lay directly in front of him pausing momentarily to bask in the warmth that the lava gave off so far below. Smiling serenely, he pushed open the door into the Library. Stacked with thousands of books, the Library was an impressive sight and generally he would sit and take in the initial sight, proud of the tedious collecting of such a collection. But again, time was of the necessity and he had no time to sit around and waste time. DarkStrike took a quick look around and then moved to the great oaken table that sat in the center of the circular room. If the dimensions of this room are still unclear, the table was over two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide and one could still host a jousting tournament on either side of the table. If you had stood it vertically and then placed an identical table on top, the two combined would have been only slightly too big for the room. There were almost a hundred book cases spread out with ample space in between, and each was nearly as tall as the ceiling with normal shelve spacing, every single one of them brimming with books of all shapes and sizes, from all manners of time periods, knowledge in its most collective form.
But it was what lay upon the table that was important to DarkStrike at this moment in time. It was this small novel that held the information to serve his purpose. And as he stared down at it, small droplets of blood dripping down his legs, he saw with a satisfied smile, a creature from legends, a creature that haunted the Dark Realm as the most feared mythological being. A creature…named Morgoth.
Forged in Shadow
Morgoth cast a cautious glance at his master, DarkStrike wondering if this was a good idea. There were so many reasons to not be here, yet here they stood, following behind DarkStrike’s apprentice Nenal, brother to Michael Sandor, who was hailed as a hero and a Saint on some world that he, in the millennia since he had been forged from shadow, cast in the appearance and wit of a fairy tale, and given his master’s extra raw power and intellect. Night black so that he looked like a shadow of some fierce warrior, at some points he glowed with tribal designs and patterns in an eerie incandescent red. His eyes appeared the same, and the only other distinct feature that he boasted was his ability to make his claws lengthen and become oddly angular in a fashion that DarkStrike referred to as “like Wolverine,” whatever that meant.
Morgoth rolled his eyes at this thought, tucking it away for contemplation later, and returned his mind to the task at hand. DarkStrike sniggered slightly, betraying the mental connection that the two shared among other things. Straight-backed and always serious Nenal looked over his shoulder slightly and Morgoth scowled. Not so long ago he had been the puppet of some scourge of Hell, possessed, and frankly, Morgoth felt that he had been under its influence for far too long in order to have completely regained sanity. DarkStrike, of course, as it is with all masters and apprentices, was not so easy to give up on trust that had been forged over the eons when Nenal came under his wing. It had nearly been too late that DarkStrike had come to his senses and recognized the danger when he was possessed, almost destroying the beings that fought to maintain balance during DarkStrike’s prolonged absence. Striker, Artilitha, Arutha Sandor (nephew to Nenal) Nakeega, and several others, including a surprise appearance by the Seraph Choir and the fall of Azrael, the Angel of Death, had fought hard, and were nearly destroyed by DarkStrike and Nenal alone. Where had he been? He wasn’t even sure where, but great damage in the order of things had happened because of this catastrophic event. Lucifer had been freed once more; newcomer Nakeega, who hadn’t even been an angel at the time, replaced Azrael, and Uriel and Raphael both died. Michael hadn’t shown up and Tontar was as unresponsive as ever to the troubles of his angels, let alone the people he had created one some planet. How was that for starters?
Since then, Morgoth had been placed against a being known as Blade (who funnily enough was the apprentice to Striker), a nasty individual with power over both Time and Death, which meant the damn asshole just wouldn’t die. From what Morgoth had learned, the stupid mother bleeper had come back no less than three times. What a pisshead. Morgoth had finally killed him (he hoped), draining all of the energy he had in the process so that there wasn’t anything lingering to bring him back, another gift from DarkStrike. Sooooo…
That among other things had made his life, however short compared to some of these snot nosed, booger pickers, chaotic at best. But he had never been bothered by it. It kept him busy and besides, he’d probably be bored if it wasn’t like that.
“I thought you were trying to get your head out of the clouds?” DarkStrike’s deep, melodic baritone filtered in a light whisper into his head, amusement present.
“Yeah, well get the fuck out.” Immature sniggering followed from both parties. The relationship between Master and Servant had not been the usual cliché story. They were more like brothers or friends, so while when leadership became a necessity, there was no question who was in charge, outside of that, the boundaries were not so black and white.
“Is there something wrong, Master?” Nenal’s articulated and slightly stuffy drawl cut across Morgoth’s moment of hilarity like a cold wind against the face.
DarkStrike’s smile remained planted on his face while he composed himself. Morgoth, though concealed, had reverted to his dark brooding temperament in an instant. “There is no problem my friend.” DarkStrike glanced at Morgoth before continuing. “Morgoth was just sharing a most amusing, but slightly inappropriate joke in regards to myself.”
The smile that remained on his face as he viewed Nenal was sincere, or Morgoth was a dumb ass. In which case this made him feel that DarkStrike was a dumb ass too.
“Am I?” He asked.
“Oops,” Morgoth rolled his eyes melodramatically.
Nenal, oblivious to this exchange shrugged and began leading them again. Leading them to where? Well all Morgoth had was a long hallway leading somewhere. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how they had gotten there. All he knew was Nenal had shown up ranting and raving about how they needed to hurry and stop Seraphiel and then when DarkStrike had agreed, here they were. Walking quite slowly as a matter of fact. Suspicion crept into Morgoth’s mind, and his claws began to lengthen silently; stretching straight out and then angling in a slope upwards and then straight out and down at a ninety degree angle, getting longer…Then he stopped, deciding to put his trust in his master.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
Morgoth looked at him and DarkStrike met his gaze coolly. There was a moment’s pause and then he said, “Keep them out, if I happen to be walking into a trap like a calm an unsuspecting fool, it feels good to have someone who’s not being as stupid as I.”
This was a startling proclamation from one who was always so sure of himself. But was DarkStrike really so sure? Again Morgoth attempted to lock gazes with him and saw a small, miniscule flicker of doubt. This merely hardened his determination and strengthened his resolve. He began to glow an eerie red, the tribal markings on his body lighting up dangerously. It felt good to be allowed to have his suspicion out in the open.
Nenal noticed the glow and looked back. His eyes glinted slightly, but it was gone as soon as it came, perhaps a trick of the light.
“Lighten up, we’re all friends here,” Nenal said with something that seemed like contempt.
“Isn’t that what those Roman dudes said to whatshisface?” Morgoth asked the dryness in his voice was like sandpaper.
“Jesus?” DarkStrike supplied hopefully.
“Whatever.”
Nenal stared for a moment and then laughed softly. “Yes Morgoth, enlighten us with your humor.”
“If you’re expecting Jesus jokes and quips about The Last Lunch-”
“Supper.”
Morgoth rolled his eyes at DarkStrike who had again corrected him. “Whatever.”
Nenal shrugged unconcernedly and continued moving. As they began moving again DarkStrike reached out again with his mind and asked an utterly absurd question. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know; you’re in my head, why don’t you tell me.”
Just then they entered a large area, and a dead end.
“Shit!” was all DarkStrike managed to say. Morgoth was already all over it. He dove forward at Nenal as Seraphiel and Lucifer strode forth, side by side. Then there was a loud bang and a shockwave threw Morgoth forward. Jumping to his feet, Morgoth looked behind him and nearly died from shock.
DarkStrike was gone.
Fight and Flight
Morgoth looked around frantically wondering where in God’s name DarkStrike had disappeared too. Lucifer laughed, a booming laugh that caused his long dirty blonde hair to bounce malevolently around his visage.
“He’s gone Morgoth,” Seraphiel said. “Cast into the Void, but not quite gone yet.” The last was said with a speculative tone. The mammoth sized Seraphim towered over Morgoth’s seven feet by another two. Lucifer was lean, but his body rippled with unseen muscles whereas Seraphiel was gigantic, barrel chested, black haired, and had the body of a super strong hero.
“Do you think he’s weakened enough yet?” Seraphiel asked Lucifer.
“Do you really think I know?” Lucifer snapped at Seraphiel. “We were supposed to get both of them in a shot. Obviously it didn’t work and we need to get rid of him or DarkStrike will be able to get back.”
“What are you talking about?” Morgoth growled. He flexed his right claw…and didn’t feel the normal tension in it. He was getting weaker, he knew he would, but not this fast. Normally it took hours for him to feel the effects of being separated. If he was losing energy, he might as well put it towards an escape plan.
“You mean DarkStrike never told you?” Seraphiel was the first to answer.
“Would I be asking if I knew Serasshole?” The name came out as Sir Asshole and the only response Morgoth got was a growl. Lucifer merely laughed again before answering in a cryptic way.
“He’s got my humor, your pride, and dear brother’s power.” This statement confused Morgoth to no end and as a result, nearly let the energy he was building up go. Elaboration was short in coming though, leaving him no time to give his witty response.
“How else do you think DarkStrike managed to create a creature that would allow his power to amplify?” Lucifer didn’t wait for an answer. “Simple, by giving you a personality that took on the best of both of us and giving you part of his soul. By doing this he solved a great many problems. First and foremost, he solved how he would link you two, allowing him to draw on the power that he gained but could not store within his body.
“Two,” he continued, “He was able to give you enough semblance so that you would literally be peas in a pod, maybe slightly different, but with enough similarities that he could prevent a falling out and a rogue creation. Oh sure, you two may have nearly come to blows at points, but the loyalty to each other would be so profound that betrayal, unlike Nenal here, was a mere concept and nothing to even be considered by either.”
Morgoth had never been quite so astonished; he knew that Lucifer was right on all accounts as far as considering betrayal and personality, but a piece of his master’s soul? There had to be another purpose to it than just preventing betrayal. And there was.
“Also, by giving you a piece of his soul, if one is destroyed or removed from existence, it always returns, no matter how long it might take, as long as the other survives. So no hard feelings that we have to kill you.”
“Oh yeah,” Morgoth retorted, “No hard feelings at all you prick.”
Lucifer appeared unarmed, but Seraphiel was loosening a deadly looking rapier from a sheath at his side. Morgoth bent his knees and pounced at the advancing Lucifer. He raised a hand and a magical glittering barrier erected itself between the lightning fast Morgoth. Smiling grimly, Morgoth passed through the barrier with no hinderance at all. Lucifer was quick to react though, his other hand lifted and the flesh on the palm of his hand seemed to open like a trap door and out shot a spike, obsidian in color. Expecting as much, Morgoth grabbed it with the clawed fingers on one hand, using both his and the spike’s momentum to carry him over it. Releasing at the apex of his turn, Morgoth twisted and landed behind Lucifer, facing in the direction of Lucifer’s left shoulder, and thrust both hands to either side.
Just as he knew they would, both found their targets. One buried itself in Lucifer’s back and the other found itself in Seraphiel’s stomach, who had teleported himself to be directly behind Morgoth when he go Lucifer. Nenal showed up at what should have been Nenal’s left side, but was instead his front now, bone blades flashing. Morgoth was ready for him. Morgoth threw his weight behind him and pulled his arms forward and out in front of him and the two screaming and groaning Seraph (making them easy to move) were tossed into Nenal’s line of fire. Both blades found a different target, one of them Lucifer and the other Seraphiel and collapsed on top of Nenal.
And Morgoth disappeared in a cloud of shadow, as his energy building finally was enough to get him out of there.
Arrival
Rain beat down upon the ground and Morgoth lightly. Huddled and trembling, a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced before crept upon him: loneliness. Here he was, lost on some God Forsaken world, battered and beaten, tired and filled with a weakness that he knew would not alleviate anytime soon. He needed, wanted, DarkStrike to be here. His brother in arms. His master. His friend…
And the rain continued to fall.
Skills:
Acrobat: In his weakest state, Morgoth can only perform the most basic of gymnist moves.
Agility & Speed: Morgoth wears no armour, instead relying on speed and agility. In his weakened state he can only move at about 1.5x's the speed of a normal human.
NightCast: Though he has lost his power to move through the Dark Realm, Morgoth can still hide in shadows fairly well, submerging himself completely in a shadow, that remains stationary. Can only maintain this for about a minute, which is a very long time in battle, though it takes about thirty seconds for him to submerge himself.
Fighter: Though he is still able to fight as he always had, better than most, in his weakened state, he can still perform complicated maneouvers, but they are not executed and do not deal nearly as much damage as they used too. Can deal damage equal to that of the average man.
Equipment:
Claws: Morgoth's claws extend to become oddly angular and used to become as hard as orihalcon. In his weakened state, they harden only to an amount that matches steel in strength. They are extremely sharp.