Osiris Open 2020: Round One (Storm Veritas vs Aure Drakshal)

Deep at the heart of Corone, surrounded by once lush fields and rolling hills, lies Whitevale. To the uninitiated, the sprawling settlement is one of Corone's simple places harking back from a more simple time. Rows of whitewashed stone houses, surrounded by a six foot spiked perimeter wall with wrought iron gates, make up the bulk of the sprawling town. At its centre is a disused church; a dilapidated, holy building built to worship the Thayne of Althanas, a now crumbling landmark succumbing to the elements.

To those who know better, this place is the spiritual and physical home of The Brotherhood. Their presence is felt on every street, in every tavern and store and in every home.

Today, though, everything is eerily quiet. The town has been accosted to host a tournament, and so powerful are the combatants that the populous has been temporarily evacuated...

The morning of a fight was always nerve-wracking, but today the experienced fellow felt fairly at easy, leaning into as much routine as possible. Storm Veritas woke up feeling fresh and healthy; he had abstained from drinking the night before and had actually eaten well for a few days in a row. The old creaks and pangs still greeted him with every sunrise, but the aging wizard felt sufficiently limber to compete. Besides, whatever mechanical limitations he found himself faced with could easily be offset with the awesome power of his electromancy. He sat quietly in a small oaky restaurant, the only patron at the bar awaiting his breakfast. The sun was pouring in through the large east-facing windows, lighting the normal darkness with comfort and warmth. Conversely, the nervous shop owner was eagerly bustling about, hoping to appease the famously testy Lord of the city.

“Add a zip to the coffee, chief.” Storm clinked the small porcelain cup to its saucer, smiling the dimpled grin of a natural politician. “And relax! So long as I don’t smell any arsenic in my eggs, it’s going to be an easy and profitable morning for you.”

Dutifully the proprietor produced a bottle of whiskey, his hands shaking as the glass bottle clinked a nervous pour into the coffee. Mercifully, the young cook behind a partially blind wall had produced a warm, steaming plate that gleamed white beneath a well-seasoned and aromatic plate of eggs, toast, and fried potato pieces. As if shot from a cannon, the owner bolted to the plate, meticulously wiping the edges for any stray beads of condensation or dust that he could glance as he walked the straight path back to his guest.

“Made fresh, and I pray to your liking, m’Lord.”

Relishing the opportunity, Veritas lowered his nose to the plate, gently and deliberately inhaling the steam, a delicious blend of savory flavors. Suddenly, his eyebrow arched, the long, aquiline nose popping up and away from the plate to lock a suspicious squint upon the server. His steely gray eyes were locked upon the terrified man like a falcon diving upon a mouse. Reflexively, the waiter took a large step back, his hefty hips banging awkwardly into a row of ceramic mugs suspended on hooks beneath the elevated bar. The chatter of mugs rattling brought an eruption of laughter from the wizard.

“Relax! I’m fucking with you, friend. It smells great. Gods, the rumors about me must be ridiculous. Sit down, exhale, and stop panicking. Grab yourself a plate, join me if you’d like. Hell of a lot better than watching me eat, no?”

This did a great deal to ease the tension, and within a few minutes the pudgy, timid man joined the infamous Brotherhood Co-Leader. The magician was dressed in a taut, perfectly tailored white dress shirt with a striped charcoal sleeveless vest that matched his pants perfectly. Tall and thin, he attacked his plate with an avarice, favoring the knife in a way that kept the waiter uneasy. The daggers tucked neatly into the back of Storm’s belt had been readily noticed immediately upon his arrival.

Not too much, old man. Regardless of your draw, too much oil in the belly might slow you down. Another cup of coffee to grease the pipes and clear the system and you’re good to go.

Storm was generous and congenial with his host, insisting on refilling his own coffee – this time unencumbered by whiskey as the edge was already off – and learned about the married fifty-something father of four that confessed his fears of upsetting such an unwanted enemy. Storm finished, tipped the man embarrassingly well, and used the washroom before leaving the bar. As his leather shoes tapped the floor on his way out – his metal lined soles a trademark clacking noise the entire way - the small establishment began to close and evacuate.

Outside, Whitevale was a ghost town. It was a pleasant respite to not feel the eyes avert from him, nervous citizens blending curiosity with abject terror at the site of him. Veritas ran his fingers through his hair to pull it taut to his head – appreciative for the density of hair he was given, albeit quickly becoming more consistently streaked with whites and grays. The church bell in the town center sounded for the morning – ten booming rings that echoed through an eerily deserted area.

Fucking Shinsou, ever the showman. Can’t believe he paid these fools to relocate to Tylermande and Radasanth for the tournament.

The sun was already warm on his skin, even as it remained far from full height, but he wasn’t sweating and didn’t expect to. The path to the center of little stone homes opened in a clearing around the church, a verdant meadow of grass strewn with patches of crabgrass and dandelions. The air was clean down here; a beautiful day was coming.

The morning had started entirely too easily.

It was the tolling bell that finally drew him in from the wilds.

Though, he reflected bitterly, calling them ‘wild’ was a bit of a generous misnomer. The rolling fields and simple farmsteads that made up the surrounding area had blended into one disgustingly bland smudge of banality that had almost driven the tiefling to the point of irritation over the past few days. He could feel his teeth squirm softly in his jaw as he chewed, making him tense against the alien sensation with a contemptuous snort. He tried to push the discomfort to the back of his mind and waited for the feeling to recede.

Takin’ longer before it does now though, eh cutter? smirked the little voice in his head; That too was violently repressed as his boots continued to assault the hardpacked earth of the road.

It had become easier over the past few days to ignore things, as most of his attention was taken up by the various insects crawling over the exposed flesh around his wounds and newest piercings. They darted over his worn and bladed leather, probing the sticky, hot flesh around his cheeks and neck. More still frolicked in the braided strips of skin intricately stitched around his arm. Drawn by the hot air and the abundance of crops in all bloody directions. The older incisions were barely recognisable anymore. His ragged fingernails had tried to tear away the prickly heat and the bastard flies, but he’d had more luck tearing away his own scabs as they tried to form. Over the smell of blood and opium that clung to him like a lover no matter how far his wanderings took him from home, his keen senses had started to pick out the sweet hint of rot.

More than once he had been forced to stop and scrape the grit of the road and the wheat chaff from the fields around him from his eyes. With his own lids pinned back to the meat of his face, the tattooed deviant was picking up on how the minor inconveniences weighed heavier than the actual pain. At one point the fleshcrafter had even attempted staring at the sun to make his eyes water. It had been well over an hour before he stopped grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes; it wasn’t so simple to get over the sensation of his newly grown eyelids sliding in horizontally across the parched orbs. It had been two before he had finally managed to will them away.

Something nagged the tiefling, more than the buzzing swarm, more than the sonorous peals from the quaint little church he had spied from the foothills. The sun was beating down above the meagre cover offered by the scattered copses of trees, already potent before it hit its apex. Not one cloud marred the dome across the world. But the thought was lodged in his mind like a shard of glass in an intestinal tract.

You’re wanderin’ into a storm.

It had been following him for the days he’d been circling the town, looking for some of the locals to keep himself entertained. Instead of his playthings though he’d found nothing but empty homes, barns with the animals stolen away somewhere. Pantries cleared quickly, valuables left behind. The smell of horse shit, and rich loamy earth. Scythe blades left un-oiled and unused. It had been curious at first. Slowly, a lack of sleep and the pain from his various wounds dulling his wits more than he’d care to admit, he had tumbled to the answer with his usual smile.

Collateral.

The bastard running this so-called tournament Aurelianus had signed up for was clearly determined to limit his artistic vision.. as well as raw materials. It was a canny move, he admitted, but as he had closed in on Whitevale, it had not improved his temper any. He needed distraction more than anything else. He reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a gnarled, fleshy root. With his serrated teeth he snatched a mouthful and started grinding it into a fine red paste, ignoring the rivulets of burgundy saliva dribbling over the new rings in his chin. The steel hoops held his ashen skin together around a vicious looking gash that went from his lip to his high collar. He wasn’t entirely sure when they had been done, rapidly becoming lost in the catalogue of work he’d been doing on himself for the past year or so in his cave. With a shake of his horned head and a click of his forked tongue against the roof of his mouth, Aurelianus cast the idle musings aside as irrelevant – it had become another mere necessary evil. The fourth of the ringing chimes sang out over the silent stretch of open ground around the wooden wall.

A sneer curled the tiefling’s lips as he let his eyes roam momentarily over the settlement’s outer façade. The defenses didn’t look like much, and if there was a more sickeningly charming little township gracing Corone’s arse than the one visible through the open entrances ahead, the half-breed guttersnipe had yet to clap eyes on it. Deep ruts were worn in the dirt roads leading to the township, the mark of many moons of labour and agriculture. As he came closer, his slit-pupils flickered across the rooftops. A frown tore at his features, wondering what had drawn his attention, before finally they alighted on a small weathervane mounted above a squat, slate-roofed building.

It sat unmoving in the still, cloying air, but still it seemed to taunt the addle-minded devil. Trying in vain to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes the image of a storm once again flashed through his mind. What the little flashes of intuition were, the warlock didn’t know. Whether it was a lingering effect of the divination magicks he’d been dabbling in or whether the root he was chewing had more entertaining properties than first thought, it added up the same way.

The shambling figure, bedecked in his usual asymmetrical attire and carrying more knives than an abattoir worker on a busy day, finally left the last patch of shade cast by any tree between here and the pitiful walls ahead. A few startled birds took to the air screeching, circling above and keeping a hungry eye on the tiefling. Whatever breed they were, all Aurelianus could see were buzzards circling a dying animal. The mental image soured his mood and as he dragged himself down a small grassy verge to walk alongside the main road, he weighed the pros and cons of using the feathery little bastards as target practice before his bout began. At least a few of the names he vaguely recalled seeing on the roster for this little shindig had been familiar, so he soothed himself with the knowledge he would either hear the latest chant from round the burgs, or he would have a chance to wear some familiar faces. With a thick, tarry chuckle, the half-breed admitted to himself he didn’t much mind which. It was just nice to get some time out of the House.

But with how out of touch he’d been in the past.. well, Aurelianus wasn’t entirely sure quite how long he’d been away from the world at large, but he needed to get his feelers back into the water. So to speak, he added to himself, ignoring the squirming sensation behind his temples with a grimace. Whatever was coursing through his veins was slowly trying to reshape the fleshcrafter, always struggling to slip through when his mind was distracted. And as his ruined flesh and self-inflicted tapestry of mutilation could attest to, there was only so much he could do to his own body to keep it at bay. His own proclivities for delving into the sorry sods who came across his path were well-documented back at the House of Sin, but when it was happening to his own body? That sat decidedly less sanguine with Aurelianus.

So here he was, staggering through the shorter stubble of one of the fields imprisoning the small town, keeping himself alert for any sign of movement. Dipping his toes back in to see what had become of things in his absence, that’s all today was. Aurelianus splayed his fingers and dragged them over the plants, savouring the feel of the jagged stalks and the wire biting deeper between his fingers. Even as he wandered under the quickly approaching peak sun, sweat beading along his exposed skin, his ambling course started stalking closer and closer to the yawning iron gates. It was too tempting a prospect for his fever-addled mind to resist, potential trap or not. As he finally passed into the opening in the simple wooden palisade, the teeth-itching hum of flies around him surged in volume, before the final dull metallic note from the church belfry boomed out over streets stripped of their usual life.

The only sign of habitation beside the odd wisps of smoke were the slowly fading echoes of the ten rings. They echoed around the inside of his head for much longer, keeping the warlock chewing his already raw and bloodied nails, his brow throbbing in time with the knells.

His spare hand rose almost distractedly to a mouth that was lined with cracked and ragged lips, as he tore away another mouthful of the bitter red root. It occurred to the half-devil that he couldn’t remember where he had come across the stuff, but eating it seemed to dull the all-consuming burning itch that coated the tiefling’s ravaged frame and so into his mouth it continued to go; he swore to himself it had nothing to do with not knowing where his coat or tobacco were at the moment. His gaze wandered in jumps and starts up and down the thoroughfares before him, but no sight nor sound nor scent betrayed the presence of the crowds he had been hoping to have around for the spectacle today.

With his hobnailed boots crunching across the cobblestoned streets, Aurelianus made his way toward the source of the summons. It didn’t take long to find his way. Not enough of a pikin’ town to get lost in he began to smirk, before feeling the lacerations along the corners of his mouth peel open fractionally more. Fingers probed at the edges of the incisions, coming away with less blood than the white-skinned devil would have expected. His face jerked and twitched as he reflexively tried to blink.

Soon enough he emerged in the small opening before the church, eyes alight with an unhealthy gleam stabbed across the ground, marking the flowers spread out like tumours in a lung. Something shifted deep within his own chest, wetly, and for a slow second the tiefling was seized by the unshakable knowledge that it was a tongue; but not how he knew. The sensation robbed the simile of his usual delight. Instead, he let his focus coil around the only other person he could see in this anthill of a town. No attempts at stealth were made; with his hooked and barbed attire and the plethora of weapons, piercings and chains hanging from his frame, he caught every stray flicker of sunlight. Not to mention his occasional fits of flailing and swatting at the insects determined to make him a walking nursery.

With a friendly nod of his sweat-laden and horned brow, Aurelianus stopped a short distance away and ran a hand through the red quills emerging from his scalp in a patchy crest. He didn’t seem to notice the small spikes that fell out to litter the ground like pine needles, or the soft furrows he had started to work through the flesh across his head with every pass of his too-long fingers; it almost made the tattoos there appear to squirm with a life of their own. A few larger blutflies buzzed angrily into the quiet meadow air, dislodged by the movement.

“’ello cutter,” he grinned, ignoring the rings lining his chin pulling taut, his cheeks splitting slowly. He forced down the soft writhing he could feel worming through his body. Now he had something to keep his attention, even if only briefly.

“There was me, wanderin’ down and ‘opin’ for a handful of the ‘faithful’ come for the old bent-knee beseechin’ bollocks,” he nodded towards the dilapidated church looming above them both. “A nice little foreplay before things got underway, jig? But instead this burg’s about as lively as a deader’s stem and all I can find is you.”

It came out as an accusation, delivered with a fevered smile.

“But since you’re not one of the yous I’m parkin’ my eyes for, can’t ‘elp but feel like some sod’s pissin’ on my sunshine.”

He noticed the man’s eyes regarding him and offered a conciliatory shrug. “Not blamin’ you, y’understand. Not your fault you’re you, eh? But I’m an amiable bloke, don’t mind getting my ‘ands dirty in you. Sure we’ll ‘ave ourselves a right giggle over it after.”

Turning on his heel amid another burst of enraged flies, Aurelianus’ let his worn boots carve a path through the crabgrass and the dandelions towards the crumbling edifice of worship. There was a vague shiver up his spine as he felt minute touches of pollen landing on his bared eyes. Throwing his head back and swallowing the last vestiges of the vile tubers, Aurelianus smirked over his shoulder.

“May as well ‘ead in and make a mess of their kip,” he gestured vaguely heavenward. “Not as if any of those celestial wanks are usin’ it. Shame, really, lettin’ that big 'ouse go to waste.”

For a heartbeat, he was tempted to find out if the place was for sale. His imagination ran away with him as he finished closing the distance between himself and stairs leading within the cool, dim interior. The things he could do with a little place like this, the expansion opportunities for his House of Sin… no, now was not the time to be adding yet more distractions.

As he set his heavy boot on the weather-worn stone of the bottom step, he let his attention wander over the field again with a soft smirk. So far it was shaping up to be a good day.

Well, shit.

Storm had had a great number of successes over his long career as one of Althanas’s featured villains. He’d been crowned champion of Serenti, won the Lornius Corporate Challenge, seized the Adventurer’s Cup, and just missed winning the Cell. He’d also been fortunate enough to win Gisela, or at least he told himself in these days of confusion. One of his proudest memories was winning the original Vaan Osiris invitational – a title that eluded him since – and one he wished to reclaim. Of course, his favorite path to victory had just evaporated; as “default” was no longer an option. His opponent had bothered to show up.

The bizarre figure at the mouth of the church was clearly different form anyone or anything the traveled wizard had encountered in his decades upon this bizarre plane. He (?) was dark, and shadowy, with a spring of red hair, or feathers, or something that sprung from the center of his head. Wrappings about him appeared to be leathery, and he was covered with spikes like some sort of lump of field-prey. Despite his dark garments, his skin was a ghastly pallid; he almost looked green-complected, a sort of undead vibe that reminded Storm in parts of various old friends.

The lifelike tan of the Vampire Lorenor, with all the masochistic kinky gear of Seth Dahlios. Lovely.

Storm walked a bit closer towards the church, taking mental note of the looming bell above the clocktower. Its metallic nature could prove useful. Similarly, in this open space, a quick glance at the porcupinic fellow apart from him intimated a strong suggestion to stay at arm’s length. Perhaps, the wizard surmised, a simple blast of lightning could bring the house down upon today’s opponent. It would cost the electromancer the luxury of surprise, but given his slight build and handsome attire, none would suspect anything but magic or bribery from an entrant such as him to this tournament. Besides, he wasn’t getting any younger, and he had no desire to find himself on the business end of those barbs, chains, or whateverthefuck weaponry this terrible entity was bringing to the table.

When the opponent spoke, he had a bizarre drawl to him, but also a surprising charm. He wasn’t the boring, bloodthirsty, apocalypse-bringer that looked so out of place here in the sunshine. Standing in the frame of the church, his welcome-to-dance was almost poetic. Conversely, one could posit that there wasn’t so much as a hint of humanity in the whole charade.

“A giggle, huh? Maybe for one of us.” His smile was positively pristine; the sparkling ivory of his teeth even and surrounded by symmetric dimples.

Maybe the element of surprise is overrated. I don’t think I want to learn much more about this… thing.

Storm’s nostrils flared as his right hand opened at his hip. The all-too-familiar and unmistakable whiff of the cleanest airs, of ozone leapt into his lungs as his fingertips glowed white-hot and buzzed a sort of whitish blue. The crackle-hiss of electricity had emerged; he had no need to look down to know the presence of his fearsome friend. Stepping forward with his right, he pulsed the hand forward, his body square behind a mighty blast.

BOOOM!!!

The roar of thunder was undeniable, even here in mid-day with skies clear and sea-blue. A rocket of torrent white lightning rocked the center-beam of the church’s roof, the spine collapsing as a cloud of splinters of wood and tar-stained thatch billowed out in a ferocious circle.

Standing at the base of the stairs, Aurelianus gauged his opponent with a cursory inspection. Lean, but well-fed. He smelled of money, and the various corruptions that invariably brought with it. Salt and pepper and silver pikin’ spoons from the looks of him he sneered mentally. He marked the metal soles on the man’s shoes – maybe he was trying to make himself look taller? - but among the rest of the finery and prim dress he saw, the guttersnipe could only tumble to one conclusion.

Nonce, he thought, smirking to himself and feeling the flies crawling around everywhere sweat was gathering on his skin. Everything about the man’s appearance tempted him with softer meat, but he reined in his darker humours for the moment. His fingers curled and uncurled, wire biting into worn incisions.

Substance was not show; the warlock knew to look a bit deeper and with a shift in perceptions, he opened his witch-sight as he waited on the smarmy looking basher joining him. Instantly the colour of the world drained away, bleached a kaleidoscope of greys. Tiny motes of flickering other-colours dotted here and there in his peripheral, smaller animals and birds in the surrounding plant-life. None of that registered to the tiefling though; instead, his hungry eyes drank in the swirling, bleeding, shifting swirl of colour that made up the human’s soul.

Oh, there was power hidden away there. That much was plain to see. His forked tongue probed at his gum to try and dislodge a remnant of the root, unable to blink. Even as he watched, vague smears of blue-white flickered through the aura.

Uh, cutter, remember the stor— his mind chimed in, the voice like a rusty nail in the meat of his brain.

“Bar it,” he muttered to himself, idly scratching his gums with ragged nails. “Clear skies, see?”

Was that another tooth growing in? He tried to ignore the nagging thought, entranced by the play of colour funneling down towards his opponent’s right hand. It was almost like--

Really think you should move it, the thought came unbidden again, derailing his train of thought.

He just had to lure the rube into the darkened interior, and let the proximity tip the scales in the half-breed's favour. Shifting another few steps up the staircase, moving backwards and keeping the unassuming looking man in his sights, the half-devil cocked his head, feeling sticky runnels of congealed sweat slide across his brow. His pupils flickered almost imperceptibly in their beds of gold as he returned to his more mundane senses. He realised his mistake almost instantly as he clocked the blue-white flashes were still visible, dancing in a corona around the blue-blood’s fingertips.

Even as the patrician figure across the small space threw his hand forward, the blade-clad planewalker was on the move. The roar of thunder pounded against his eardrums, giving lie to the undisturbed canvas of blue above them, blanketing out every other noise as he vaulted the short bannister lining the stairs. He rolled with the impact; his attire gouging patches from the flower bed flanking the entrance walkway. Before he could even get back to his feet properly though, his shadow was thrown out in stark relief in front of him, as jagged and misshapen as his current form. A fist of force smashed him across the ground in skidding bounces, away from the epicentre of whatever had kicked him inside the head. His vision sparked into static for a few juddering seconds as he rolled to a stop.

Should’ve listened to me earlier, you pikin’ tit, the voice chided him. Aurelianus could feel its gloating smirk and it pushed him back to his feet, serrated teeth bared in response. He refused to think about the fact he could still feel them moving.

A quick scan for damage showed a few new trickles of blood leaking across his frame. Either from small splinters of the church lodged in his skin, or from some of the chains and hooks that wound around and, in some places, through his form. The wounds were ignored though, a drop in the bucket, and instead a smirk tore across the fleshcrafter’s mouth as he surveyed his surroundings. The church itself was gone, the tortured edifice now only visible as a grim silhouette through the cloud as spears of sunshine perforated the gloom. The centre obliterated with colossal elemental force and, the rest groaning its way into an inexorable collapse into itself.

“Heh. Storm. I get it,” he chuckled wetly, as the bell that had led him to this unexpectedly promising scrap finally toppled free from its precarious moorings, hitting the debris and broken structure of the church with a final, mournful death knell. He could still taste the ozone in the air, like sucking a penny. Fortunately it was dulled by the thick coating of filth filling his mouth, clinging to the wet recesses of the split down his chin.

Did that make him the weathervane? Metal on his armour, metal on his weapons, metal in his.. every other part. Just your soddin’ luck. A sneer tugged at the corner of his lip as he started edging back away from the thickest of the covering debris field.

The cloud of particulate in the air from the devastation had cut down visibility, but with a wolf’s grin, the tiefling reasoned he didn’t need to see to pen this sod in the dead-book. The still air kept it from shifting, and it hung like a curtain of molasses. Summoning his will, he raised a swathe of void-black Hellfire into the enshrouding dust, wood and thatch. The temperature soared rapidly and curling tendrils of smoke choked the air within a handful of heartbeats. Wary eyes on the sky as it vanished behind the coal-black eddies, fingers running grooves into his already abused scalp, Aurelianus let his wits do the legwork. Instinctive response had been the difference between life and death for him more than a few times. Low-animal cunning was his preferred approach to a fight.

Well, the idea of getting him in an enclosed space went out the pikin’ window, he mused as the billowing smoke continued to pour into the sky. He willed his invocation hotter. At the back of his mind he realised with relish that the fire and lightning in the air had at least killed off the bastard flies. His wounds still itched like the clap, and now without the covering furry bodies, he could see the sickly sheen to the exposed meat under his skin. They burned like a cast-iron bitch, and he was sure he could still feel writhing under his skin. For once, he found himself praying for maggots.

Thinkin’ might be an idea to focus on the wanker tossin’ thunderbolts. He’s likely to ‘ave you in the dead-book ‘fore the infections do. A fair point, he reasoned.

Deeming the smoke to be thick enough for his needs, the canny half-breed let his eyes shiver back to his preternatural perceptions again, and took off running. He sprinted low, still feeling the grime coating his coverless eyes but using his eldritch sight soothed the discomfort somehow. The smog and soot smothering the small arena fell away to once again reveal the roiling oil-slick of the other man’s soul, cutting through the need for mundane human sight. He circled out wider towards the opponent’s flank. It was doubtful the bastard could penetrate the concealing mess still blowing out from the results of his cocky display, but with a vicious snigger, the snake-eyed sadist decided to err on the side of caution.

Just as his blade-bound form emerged at full-sprint off to the man’s left, Aurelianus thumbed one of the rings on his right hand. Three interlocking rings of silver seemed to blur and blend through each other and with a mental command, the canny warlock summoned his help.

Around his form, four more shimmering shapes gained solidity until the tiefling was surrounded by perfect quadruplet versions of himself. They all looked exactly like him, but even as they sprinted, they weaved and ducked among themselves while closing the distance. All acted independently, splitting at an unspoken command and veering in from all sides. The actual, corporeal tiefling on the other hand, triggered the ring’s secondary charge and felt his own visibility searing away like fat in a pan. It was done so quickly, among the mirror versions of himself, that it was likely to – hopefully - go unnoticed.

As the pack of razor-laden, fevered planetouched cleared the gap, Aurelianus drew one of the serrated Baatorian knives from his lower back, the rough hide of the grip more familiar than the curve of a lover’s cheek. With the rest of his ‘friends’ swinging weapons or throwing coils of Hellfire towards the sorry sod that had crossed his path, the tiefling brought up his Pain Mirror. It took little mental effort for him now to form the sympathetic bond between his body and that of the older human. With an unseen smile, he savagely hammered the vicious, toothed knife into the meat of his own thigh. It tore through the armour and everything beneath it. Giving it a vindictive twist with cruel satisfaction, he looked down to see the weapon withdraw from his leg without leaving a mark on him or his attire. He was pristine. Well, as pristine as he had been beforehand. He lashed out again, almost in the same instant he removed it, the knife punctured the back of his calf with the same result. Red glyphs pulsed along the length of his shiv, the enchantment woven into the green-steel robbing the blood of its ability to clot.

No, deciding to tip the odds more firmly in his favour from the outset, the cruel invocation of the Pain Mirror manifested the ugly wounds on the walking storm before him instead. Overwhelming force was all well and good, but fighting dirty had always been the more fun prospect.

No such thing as a fair fight, cutter.

Now the question remained; just how thoroughly could he prove that point today?

The concussive blast of his mighty bolt was impressive, but Storm quickly saw that the devastating effect on the church didn’t do terribly much to his opponent. The pale little shit had created a literal smoke screen, and quickly began charging at the wizard under the guise of what equated to little more than a dust cloud.

Peasant. What’s next, an arrow?

Using the metal soles on his shoes, the lithe aristocrat quickly burst an electromagnetic pulse below him, sending him gliding safely some ten feet in the air as the stranger’s cloud of smoke began to dissipate. Gazing intently, there was a handful of them now, all the same size but foisting a litany of macabre looking weapons. It was quite a feat, although Storm couldn’t help but reason that they were playing right into his hand.

So it’s a blunderbuss instead of a cannonball, then? I’ll use one of your minions like a wrecking ball. Child’s play.

The charging gathering of little awfuls all appeared to be uniformly clad in metal; a terrible misfortune the practiced politician was simply delighted to exploit. He focused on the invader in the front, a grisly, fly-soaked festering mass of stink that ran forward with a bloodthirsty malice. An automaton of death. Storm remained suspended in the air, holding his right hand open and then closing it, forcing the armor of the little monster closed around whatever atrocity lie within the torso.

Crickets. Well, of course he’s not fully real.

The one in front at least was either an image, a shadow, or some sort of unearthly incantation. Their weapons looked real enough, he conjectured, as the magician continued to hover effortlessly.

“Whore!”

As if shot by a bullet, Storm’s concentration was unanimously folded, sending him tumbling to the earth in a heap of dust and agony. He managed a tiny last pulse of force before landing to soften the fall, but only managed one hand of faint energy, as his left hand rifled to attend to the injury. His left calf was torn wide and bleeding fast, a burgundy stream pouring through his dress pants and over the heels of his fine shoes. He tore the fabric back and witnessed the perfectly clean wound, unsure of where or how or what sorcery this little bastard had imbued unto him.

Scrambling, the toxic smell of cuprous air filled his lungs as he hovered his hand over the wound, tiny filaments of white lightning darting back and forth with searing pain. His body burned from this, an exhausting, terrible maneuver, but his wound was quickly cauterized and the bleeding had ceased.

“The fuck was that? Got Alerar elf magic in you, you little shit?” Storm’s eyes were pulsing white, a rage festering in him as his nostrils flared. He had responded quickly, but was significantly injured and blended confusion with raw ire. Sweat had gone from light formation to a steady bead on his forehead, and his shirt had become tacky to his chest in mere moments. This enemy was no pushover; whatever ill-gotten gypsy horseshit the fly-covered monstrosities wielded, it was considerable. If these nefarious powers could be harnessed, they’d be very useful to the Brotherhood…

If I leave enough of you for us to use.

Rage continued to grow in the felled wizard, whose body now hummed with a crackling, sizzling energy. The handful of mystical cretins was close; perhaps their armor wasn’t real, but if they were to be feared, their weapons would be. Raising to one knee, a sneer crawled across the magician’s face. With a deep inhalation, his lungs buzzed with electromagnetic power, his hands firing behind his hips to retrieve his daggers. Not a moment later, his fists pounded the ground before him, a thick bead of energy arcing across the raised dagger tips as a massive pulse of energy burst about him. This electromagnetic pulse would repel metal violently, and hopefully buy the furious Storm Veritas a moment to catch his breath and retake his feet.

“Alerar? Ah, cutter, you need to get out more. This ‘verse is bigger than just your quaint little rock ‘ere, jig?”

The tiefling smirked as he watched. He could mark the pain and the rage sliding across his opponent’s aura like oil on water, as the older man dragged himself to a knee in the dirt and dust and flowers. The man's shock when his flesh had parted around an unseen blade had been almost as priceless as the vitriol that followed.

Doesn’t matter ‘ow far up someone’s arse you ram that silver spoon, ‘urt ‘em enough and the gutter always comes out.

His tongue slithered across his teeth, leaving wet trails of blood coating his gums as he allowed himself a half-second to weigh his options. Aurelianus had seen how easily and messily the bastard had destroyed one of his illusory doppelgangers with a gesture.

’ard to miss, cutter, even without keepin’ your eyes peeled.

The summoned phantasm had shattered, quickly returning to the ephemera he had been raised from with no flash, no fanfare. Just gone. The rest had spread out like a pack of hyenas, all white teeth and mocking laughter.

The three remaining reflections circled back through the flowers and grass to the real Aurelianus, as his cloak of obfuscation dropped away. The sun caught every point of every hook and jag-sharp blade adorning his baroque armour, mirrored by his coterie. They moved around and between each other, always moving, but never taking their eyes off the downed man. More than a few hands went to blades as they saw the electricity crackling and sparking around his fingertips again, but the real warlock was a touch cannier than that. He could smell the searing skin and meat, his mouth watering. He used his own abilities to cauterise his wounds in the same way. But if the human genuflecting before him thought it was going to make a difference, well… the predator’s smile finally split his face halfway to his ring-laden ears, loosing trickles of Infernal blood to carve through the dust and grime on his features.

"Must admit, that's a good look on you," he smirked, "kneelin' before your betters."

Sweat and blood gathering around the top of his high leather collar, the half-devil cocked his head curiously, watching the white pulse of power dancing through the other man’s eyes and it set his blood aflame with new and horrendous ideas. It was looking into the eye of a living storm. So much for not finding new raw materials, he mused with a dark chuckle that devolved into a wet, hacking cough.

“’ope you don’t mind, cutter, but I’ll be takin’ one of your eyes after this is all said and done,” one of the illusions smiled, idly scratching the braided strips of skin peeled and stitched back around his arm.

“Maybe both,” Aurelianus added, running his fingers over the coiling hydras inked along his scalp. Like the rest of his tattoos, these were also obscured and damaged by the plethora of wounds he had self-inflicted over the months.

“Speakin’ of which…” chimed in another with undisguised relish, the knives in his hands always twirling.

As one, in the same moment as the storm-caster went for his own weapons, the pack attacked.

The three in front were the illusions, Aurelianus himself warier now after seeing the other version of himself being crushed as if by an invisible fist. It was a cute trick, but not one he planned to be on the receiving end of. He watched the fractured bolts of electrical energy dancing over his opponent, feeling the few actual hairs he had on his body reacting to it. He could taste pennies again. Even as his trio of false-flags drew level with the human, ghost-blades drawn back to whistle down from all angles, Aurelianus’ unblinking eyes flicked to the sky and back. Still clear, he thought.

And that made bugger all difference last time, his internal dialogue countered.

That was why he had sent in his distractions first, and true to their purpose, they drew the target’s fire.

The pulse of energy was not a surprise, but it still spread out in a heartbeat. It engulfed the copies first, all of them shattering into non-existence amid the spreading bubble. It hit the tiefling a moment later, as he threw his armoured left arm in front of his face instinctively. He waited to feel the spasming, white-hot kiss of lightning searing through his veins and flashing his blood to stinking black steam… but it never came. Instead, it snatched his Baatorian blade out of his fist before he too was picked up and cast aside like a stone being skimmed by a particularly spiteful child. The speed with which he left his feet almost whip-lashed the half-devil, the sheer amount of metal adorning him virtually giving him wings. Whatever his opponent’s latest power, he could feel it singing through every blade and barb across his asymmetrical armour, plucking every chain and hook embedded in his tissue. The strobing sun stabbed his sight as he spun through the air, eyelids still pinned wide. It almost felt like—

The thought was driven from his mind at the same time his breath was driven from his lungs.

Hitting the ground harder than he might have liked, his natural agility hampered somewhat by the speed he had been repelled, the warlock smashed into a small patch of daffodils like he had been fired from a cannon, carving a furrow through the rich earth in an explosion of yellow petals. He rolled with the impact as much as he could, but even so he could feel the tell-tale groaning protest of cracked ribs inside his chest as he finally slowed enough to roll to his feet. Spitting, he tried to clear his mouth of grass and flowers. Stray sparks and whipping discharges of energy danced across the tiefling, his muscles twitching wherever they touched. They arced between hook and barb, flashed across talismans, charms and piercings before they died away. With a violent shake of his head to clear the ringing white-noise from his senses, the half-breed wiped gritty dirt from his right eye and blinked—

It took a second, the warlock’s thin fingers probing around his other eye. Sure enough, the steel pins that had held his lids in place were gone, leaving only one to glare wide and malevolent at the human now further across the field. There were other injuries calling out for attention – bruises, scrapes and a few new nicks and cuts from his own attire – but they were an irrelevance for now. Taking a breath to gauge how bad the hurt to his ribs was, Aurelianus decided this little blow-for-blow had gone on long enough. The only thing he had on his mind at the moment was just how he was going to mutilate this wanker after he was done.

It was a pleasant thought.

Seeing the human with a pair of daggers in hand, Aurelianus’ bloody smile spread again. If the man wanted to go toe-to-toe with chivs, that was his mistake to make. Stalking back toward him across the open ground, he reached for his own twin knives before remembering the one that had been snatched from his hand. A cold, seething hatred coiled around the tiefling’s heart; those were his favourite blades. Not that he was short of them, but it still poked his pride. And if he had a hard time finding it after the bout, the warlock would console himself by seeing how much of Whitevale he could spread his opponent's body across before he penned him in the dead-book.

A hand flashed to the holster under his left arm, three spitefully serrated shurikens dancing between his fingers. His other hand went to his belt, closing around the rough leather of the kpinga knife there. The three-bladed weapon bore an enchantment that made it a less likely prospect to be disarmed of.

Working up to a charge now, every loping stride sending a beat of pain through his ribs, the horned malcontent closed the distance again. He still had more than a few nasty surprises up his own imaginary sleeves, demonstrated perfectly as he brought up his fistful of shurikens. With one between each finger, Aurelianus kicked off the ground in a short jump, pirouetting nimbly in the air to add some momentum before they were whipped towards the patrician figure ahead. A malign light gleamed in the half-devil’s eyes as he sent a pulse of his own magicks behind them. The whip-crack of displaced air was like a gun shot in the otherwise still air, the eldritch blast sending the projectiles hurtling forward as he landed, far faster than his own arm could have managed.

A bit like ‘e just did to yo—

Aurelianus clamped down on the thought even as it formed.

His attack wasn’t done yet and he wanted to time this next bit perfectly. Even as he fired off his callous volley, the warlock’s willpower was working away on something else. Behind his opponent, the air roiled and wavered more than it already was from the still-climbing sun beating down on both combatants. He shaped Shahab’s Lash as he ran, the ability now second-nature to him, and from the ground at the human's back burst a swirling pillar of clinging, corrosive Hellfire – hopefully just as the man was dealing with Aurelianus’ opener. After seeing the effects that the soft-looking cutter could have on metal, he wasn’t hanging his hopes on it being lethal but it would keep his opponent’s attention squared on him. In the time it took him to think it, the column soared five-men high, casting lunatic shadows convulsing over the ground. The Hellfire itself threw off its own illumination but also devoured light, straining the eye with retina-scarring streaks of black the longer one looked. It was an added artistic flourish that saw it take on the visage of some serpentine nightmare; the mirror image of the hydras flanking his crest of quills. Three heads made of void-black flame uncoiled on sinuous necks, spattering the grass with liquid droplets of the same.

With a whooshing roar, the magickal construct attacked, the relentless inevitability of a wave crashing down from above.

The pulse had worked famously, buying time for Storm as the strange monster before him was rocked back, the blood and barb-riddled atrocity clashing starkly in a field of green and yellow. This creature was out of place just about anywhere, but certainly seemed the fish out of water here in Corone. To his credit, he was also relentless, standing and moving forward quickly, now with only one eye open. The wizard calmly assessed the situation as he stood, not entirely certain of what he was witnessing.

Did I knock one out? Did he have a metal eye that I missed? Any chance they both are?

The sadistic being moved ahead sharply, any injuries suffered not seeming to slow him much. With the shadow creatures having popped like bubbles of air in thick swamp water, he looked no less onerous. Storm inhaled deeply, soaking himself in the ozone and fresh grass scents about him as he tried to rapidly recuperate. His magic was largely drained; another massive blast of lightning would not be possible at this time. The aristocratic looking Veritas was much more skilled the bladesman than his greying visage would suggest; if he could parry an attack, last a few more moments, a point-blank shock of lightning would certainly send this annoyance halfway to Ettermire.

As the visitor charged, a terrible thing grew behind Storm, who was focused on recovery and attack. It was silent, and the heat took time to accumulate. Focused on the foreground, the primary attack was insignificant. The beast leapt at him, spinning before firing a handful of little metal projectiles.

Why do these kids always waste so much time SPINNING?

Perhaps the pirouette disguised the release point of the little metal spikes for a half second longer, but it didn’t help them from being any less ineffective. Attacking Storm Veritas with metal from range was no more threatening than a single angry hornet. Casting a weak wave of electromagnetic impulse with a swipe of his knife-holding right hand, the little spikes spun harmlessly away, dutifully taking purchase in the grass to his left. The magician held taut to his daggers, knowing no applause would follow the spectacular parlor trick.

“Shit!”

The wave of heat behind him came upon him quickly, and he peaked over his shoulder to notice only a moving, twisting fire that looked more of molten metal than the formless flicks of burning ash. He thought he saw a face in the fire, but knew that notion too absurd to qualify. His second step was weakened by his injured calf, and he only limped with his second stride.

It was something of a rock and a hard place; being perilously lodged between the blade-wielding maniac and the wall of fire closing in on him from behind. Neither was welcome, but Storm reasoned he could at least do something to harm the metal-clad abomination. Unable to push off his wounded right leg, the experienced adventure leapt from his left, taking a heading of about “two o’clock”; bounding forward and to his right, to avoid the two menaces, prioritizing whatever the hell had emerged before him. It was instinctive more than strategic.

A searing pain captured his lower half as fire encapsulated the entirety of his legs. Searing heat tore through both of his legs, like cauterizing knives that bit down. Defensively, the wizard responded by pulsing electric energy once more, this a weak pulse that sent whatever had ensnared him snapping backwards.

Fuck! The hell was that!?

Storm rolled through the grass in a violent tumble as he fell free, his legs badly injured but not bleeding. Whatever had bitten down had retreated just as quickly, and those teeth of fire sealed his flesh with no more effort than they had seared it. A dozen erratic knives felt stuck about his thighs and knees; his long, powerful legs sapped of their energy and spring. The pain was fire, as was his rage. The terrible odor of burned human flesh filled his nostrils, an unmistakable horror he remembered too well from his siege upon Radasanth.

He’s coming. Get up, can’t wait. He won’t. Fight him off and send him back to hell.

The wizard stumbled and struggled to his feet, grateful to find that his leg bones weren’t broken. The mere act of rising to his feet felt heroic, but the ghoul before him was bearing down. Hell was coming for him.

((non-fatal bunnies permitted))

It wouldn’t be long now.

The tiefling grinned viperously as the jaws of the trap sprang shut, seizing his opponent in a rush of void-black flame and searing, intolerable heat. The scars adorning the half-devil’s own palms could attest to the kiss of that Infernal fire, and he knew from experience that it could turn steel to butter in mere minutes. Give the cutter his credit, the blue-blood reacted quickly and tried to retaliate with more of his cheap tricks, but he couldn’t hurt Hellfire. With little more than a thought, the warlock sent the towering inferno back, coiling through the grass around his opponent; the hydra devouring its own tail, form dissipating to become one unbroken ring of flame. Higher into the clear, azure sky it clawed, choking the small circle of blue visible above with streamers of smoke and the violent shimmer of heat haze.

Fell for it ‘ook, line and bloody sinker, he chuckled inwardly, running his forked tongue across his teeth again as he felt the grinding of ribs in his chest. He could smell the end was near though, and the prospect of a new plaything had his hungers stirring enough to shrug off his wounds. After all, his body was a catalogue of worse.

Aurelianus stalked forward, the curtain of roaring, unholy flames parting before him with a wave of a wire-bound hand. The fire dropped back into place as soon as he entered the open area, sealing both combatants off from the world at large within the slowly turning maelstrom. Teeth bared in something between hatred and elation, the charnel house stink of burned meat sang through his senses. Rivulets of saliva wormed their way over his ragged lips, clinging to the steel rings binding his chin together. A soft, liquid growl burbled in the back of his throat, like boiling honey, as he inhaled the familiar scent. The temperature soared more by the moment within the circle, only the tiefling’s inhuman will and mastery of his invocations keeping the worst of it from affecting him. The grass was smouldering around them, flower petals curling as they burned.

The beaten and scorched human before him wasn’t faring much better, he noted with dark amusement. The burns up and down his leg had been cauterised by the ungodly heat of Aurelianus’ magicks, but even without bleeding him, the wounds were taking their toll. Even as the tiefling closed in, the “noble” planted his fists and started to drag himself to standing. A sneer tugged the corner of the half-breed’s already lacerated mouth, showing a flash of slick, wet muscle beneath.

“Lookin’ a little shaky there, cutter,” he purred sibilantly, his eyes – both the one still pinned open and the one half-hidden behind torn eyelids - taking in the tremors and tics of agony dancing across the human’s body.

As the greying figure finally regained his feet, Aurelianus could see the pride in him. He could mark the tenacity, and the will to keep on fighting. It would be admirable to some men, the tiefling knew. But he wasn’t one of them. He could taste bile as he regarded the politician, a feral snarl hiding in his smirk. His fist tightened around the knife handle, skin squirming and peeling as his knuckles started to feel more like teeth. With a shiver up his spine that set his attire rattling and jingling, he fought off the protean energies reshaping his form. It was getting harder to keep them at bay, and as Aurelianus’ boots pounded the now-baking earth towards his plaything, he decided to cut short the foreplay. He had other things to be doing, and while this little scrap had been good for giving him a laugh, the tiefling’s attention was already starting to roam.

“There’s times I feel like I’m rattlin’ my bone-box to m’self,” he smiled, shaking his quill crested head sadly and hanging his blade back by his side. With a careless gesture, the warlock threw an eldritch blast of raw, arcane energy at the man. Like a blade of sheer force, it smashed into his already injured leg, with enough strength to fold a kneecap the wrong way and turn bone to gravel.

“I told you to kneel,” the sadistic planetouched barked, blood-stained spit stringing between his teeth, the Hellfire still swirling languidly around them flaring angrily in response.

As soon as his enemy’s legs buckled, Aurelianus was on him. His infernal heritage granting him speed far in excess of the merely human, he blinked across the open space between them. Another eldritch blast took one of the blades from his opponent’s hand, like a forge-hammer to his fist. There was the satisfying hollow snap of bone. It barely registered to the ashen-skinned devil though, as he threw himself into a tackle at the dazed spellcaster and bore them both to the ground.

Whether it was skill or reflex, the wizard hammered his remaining knife up at the blade-clad deviant on top of him. The tiefling’s preternatural reactions, and a life-time of close quarters knife fights saw him turn his shoulder into the blow, the dagger sinking into the meat of his right arm before he locked the man’s wrist in his iron-grip. His serpentine eyes flared lambently as the struggle twisted the double-edged blade inside him, and he swore freely as the tip grated against bone. Blood flowed down his unarmoured right arm, splashing both of them with inky black. But he had the weapon trapped now, and with his other pale hand he grabbed the front of the stormcaller’s tunic. His armour tore into the soft meat and cloth beneath him, and with a howl of savage satisfaction, Aurelianus dragged the human up into a vicious headbutt. His sweat-streaked brow smashed against the man’s skull with a sickeningly wet crunch, bouncing it off the dirt beneath, blood running from the gashes his crown of horns opened there.

Again.

His head thundered into the bridge of the man's once-aquiline nose, smearing it across his cheek in a wash of crimson.

Again.

Finally, the rain of blows leaving his opponent’s face a bloody mess, Aurelianus let go of the now scarlet-speckled collar and let the other man’s head drop to ground that held a desert’s heat. His own was ringing mildly, and he could feel a length of fine chain dangling from where it had been torn loose in his scalp. That paled in comparison to the sensation of biting, cold pain as he slid the dagger out of his arm and tossed it aside. He would feel that for a few days. The wound continued to weep a stream of black tears, trickling down from shoulder to wrist.

An eye flickered open amid the blood and bruising and broken teeth beneath him, rolling blindly for a moment before locking with his own cold, ophidian gaze. The wizard’s mouth opened, bleeding, but Aurelianus put a stained finger to his lips.

“Shhhhh, now cutter,” he whispered, leaning in closer to the man’s ears with his serrated teeth almost brushing the skin. “Just got one last bit of business to finish up, then we can go on our merry ways, eh?”

With no further warning, Aurelianus rested his fingertips against the swollen, bloody eyelids and started to exert his will. The lightning-mage would feel the pressure build until finally, terribly, the fleshcrafter’s fingers burrowed through his skin and bone. It moved aside like burrowing through tallow, the agony indescribable as the tiefling delved and dug. It took a few awkward moments, and he would put money on the human bearing a grudge if he survived this, but finally with a triumphant flourish he pulled free his prize.

Forcing himself back to his feet with a grunt of discomfort, Aurelianus finally banished the ring of Hellfire from around them. The sunlight poured back in, shining down upon the scorched circle in the grass and the ruin he had made of the poor bastard at his boots. But while it glimmered cruelly from his outlandish armour and piercings, it reflected almost mournfully in the shiny, wet object clutched in the tiefling’s hand.

The eye of Storm, the clouded grey of a tempestuous sky, looked back at him.

The lethality of the barb-wrapped invader had looked pretentious to Storm, who had seen similar tricks and garb and knife-wielding imposters try and fail to take him on before. Perhaps the previous iterations of this particular monstrosities were inferior, or perhaps he was just getting old. The same trick that this abomination had begun their fight with – stabbing himself to transfer the wound - had been unveiled again, a blade to the lower thigh that folded the wizard like a collapsible wicker chair.

The creature was upon the magician in a flash, a wave of steel and force. Storm was certainly no novice in the craft of knives. There was a time when the traveler flourished exclusively on his speed and skills with the sharps, however it appeared those tactics had rusted like iron in the rain. A few errant jabs found limited purchase, whereas the metal-clad animal was faster, more powerful, and rained headbutts down upon the diplomat’s face.

It was then that things got truly ugly, as the fingers pressed through his face. Paralyzed by the pain, Storm could feel the entirety of his magical ability surge as his arms and legs were effectively limp. His hair stood on end as agony coursed through him, the feeling of facial bones yielding and collapsing in upon his sinuses, as fingers scratched their clumsy way to the forefront of his brain. He was dying, suffering through what felt a live mummification.

And then he wasn’t.

Gods. Fuck. MY FUCKING EYE!

The ghoulish figure had leapt back nearly as quickly as he had arrived, seemingly unscathed despite the series of devastating wounds that Veritas had thought he had instilled. This stranger, this demon had come from nowhere and left the wizard filled with nothing but feelings of terror and rage, as he felt blood pour from his open face and the burn of air upon his open wound sting like thousands of bees.

While Storm could barely see through his clouded remaining eye the monster admire his trophy from a few steps away, the wizard considered the two paths available. Succumb to the terror, wallowing in what appeared to be the bastard’s trophy taken, and glare up at the blue skies and clouds until pain and shock took him. He would either perish in peace or be treated by Whitevale’s loyal last few. The alternative was to lean into the rage, making one last pump forward to expel what ethereal rage pulsed within him, now magnified in power as his physical endurance waned. He wrenched himself up slowly, trying to form words that couldn’t be mouthed. The very notion of moving his mouth was agony, and his open sinuses were flooded with blood and mucus that filled his throat.

You motherfucker. I’ll hunt you to the ends of the world. I’ll have your bones charred and organs ground into wet paste.

Rage won.

His stomach muscled clenched to allow him to sit, one hand hiding the horrors on his face and the other collecting the entirety of his magical might into a single, ultimate blast. There were no words left or needed for this enemy. From a seated position, Storm Veritas was knocked back by his own explosive spell, a torrential bolt of lightning that felt to snap all of Corone in half, a thundercrack accompanying it that would certainly never be forgotten.

And then the world became gray and white, and the fates would leave him as they saw fit.

Round 1 has now been closed for judging

Storm Veritas receives:
1170 experience
70 gold

Aurelianus Drak'Shal receives:
555 experience
70 gold

All rewards added