The Advent of Oblivion

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Kaome Sky Deathand
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The Advent of Oblivion

Post by Kaome Sky Deathand » Thu Sep 09, 2010 1:11 am

Silence.

How long it stretched was irrelevant, for time had no meaning in such a place. Two pairs of eyes simply watched a world pass them by and yet everything within it stood still. They crossed the landscape of the world in the blink of an eye, yet neither of them took a single step. From the burning deserts and the honeycomb of catacombs beneath them to the frozen fringes of the north. It was there the world stopped moving, there that the board would be set for one last great game, before it would all come crashing down.

When he spoke, it was like listening to the universe give voice. Everywhere...and nowhere.


"So they've run to the edge of the world, hounded by an Order that masks itself in the garb of righteousness." He turned his masked face to the other 'occupant' in his domain. "What fires in their hearts force them to contend with the perils that await them at their tragic journeys end? * " His 'guest' did not reply. Not bothered with the lack of scintillating repertoire from the form of man beside him he turned his gaze back upon the world. From a long gold chain he pulled a small hourglass up to his hand and brought it to his face. He looked upon it as if it had only just existed.
"It is after all..." Had he the parts, he would have smiled. "...only a matter of time."

"..no..."

He paused, turning his gaze to the husk that floated just ever so slightly off a ground that technically did not exist. Even in the confines of his own dimension, the Dahaka found it a curious affair that the creature bled its own form of rules into any given place. For he himself stood on nothingness, a blank white slate, with a picturesque window into the living world before them. Yet he stood as if on solid ground, feet braced, shoulders set. His robes and armor hung about him. His face a blank mask with naught but eyes...ah but life burned within those eyes. Eyes that had seen the rise and fall of worlds, of peoples, kingdoms, nations, armies...eyes that had seen the hidden world of time and the thing they called fate. Yet maddeningly the creature before him defied his very rule. It floated a few centimeters, feet pointed down. Strips of cloth hung about lazily in air that wasn't there. As if it had its own personal aura that danced about it.

"Not a matter of time?" the Dahaka asked, searching for what upon the blank face, he did not know.
When the creature turned its head, all he saw were the eyes.
Great, vast, empty things that swam with the stuff that hung between the stars themselves. As if the whole universe had suddenly gotten so much smaller. The Dahaka tasted bitters in a mouth he did not have. He smelled the ozone of the Void and felt the darkness that lurks behind the abyss.

"..no..." the creature spoke again.
"Then of what?" the Timestreamer asked.
Hollow, the Anthem, turned back to face the picture of the world. He held up a hand, palm down, and twisted it so pointed up. As he did so, the time device in the Dahaka's hand turned and the world resumed its normal pace.

"...faith."


* Para-Quoting Vizand (Shane Lee Wehrle) ~Kao
Cruor Vult

Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion,
simultaneously the source of our greatest strength, and our greatest weakness.

Soon we shall be One...joined in the Word.

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Kaome Sky Deathand
Assessor of the Black Tontine
Posts: 1175
Joined: Tue Jan 15, 2008 12:14 am
Location: Lingering at Life

AO: Aftermath of the Zenith

Post by Kaome Sky Deathand » Thu Sep 09, 2010 7:08 pm

It had taken days for the Bane of Eternity to reach Hel's Precipice.
Each and every step they took, hounded by the outriders of the Order. The once great army reduced to just a scant few hundred soldiers. The bitter defeat on the Advent of the Zenith had broken the back of the great war machine and the tide was turned against them. Now the leaders of the Bane fled to Hel's Precipice and the battered remains of the Bastion that once stood there. Night had fallen during the travel and dawn had broken when they finally reached the great field and frozen river that marked the killing field of the Bastion. The forests reach had grown long and the trees were thick, springing up in small copses around the field. The great gates hung ajar, broken, sagging, ancient. The Baneites passed on in silence, mourning their defeat and the coming light of day. Five days forced march with little food and hardly any rest had broken their spirits as the lash and tongue of their masters had surely broken their backs.
Still, there was so much to be done before they could grasp at rest.

The Bastion still retained its outer and inner walls, though the former had begun to give in to the weather. The Inner gate still functioned reasonably well and the keep and parapet were mostly whole. The silver lining in the rout from the Advent had been the amount of supplies they managed to retain. By luck or fate the main store houses were located as far away as possible from the field of war and as such were the last things the Bane had a hold of before they fled the Order. They had enough to keep the war machine oiled for a half year based on the pathetic number of troops they had. As such the first order from Lord Exuro was to ensure that the supplies were stocked and ordered. They may have gotten away with much but the forced march left little time to sort them all. He left the grunts to do that, seeking out the interior of the keep and no doubt taking hold of some seance room for his own.
That left his generals and warriors to their own devices, meaning that a grunt would deal with the grunts.

In the center of the Outer Ward, a baroque leviathan of a warrior stood in burnished armor the color of old blood. A great bastard of a weapon rested in the earth beside him, an immense haft and a head a full five spans* across with an edge as sharp as sin and a blade that stank of blood. His voice carried across the field and the Baneites hurried to their tasks, spat out from within the depths of that hellish helm.
"Move the waggons** to the base of the Parapet and unload! Move it you curs! Before the day sets upon us!"
As if to emphasize that point the mountain of a man, if man he ever was, gazed at the rising sun and snarled.
"I'll rip the bones from your bodies and fashion of them chains for the door if you do not have this stowed by a candlemark!" In earlier times, the monster would have done just that, grabbing some frail Baneite and snapping him like a twig to put speed into the others feet. Today Khazarch simply clenched his great hammer fists and shook with a visible rage. He was under strict instructions not to harm any of the feeble fleshlings due to the limited amount they retained. He spat a goblet upon the earth and cursed the gods of the air and stars under his breath that if he didn't kill something soon, he'd walk to the gates of Paradise and tear them down alone.

Another lone figure took stock of the rabble before him upon the Inner Ward walls.
The Baneites, the supplies, the repairs needed upon the keep, the warriors fit, those unfit, the amount of time he had before Khazarch broke and slaughtered them all... He sighed heavily and cast his eyes out over the Bastion, taking in the scenes unfolding all around him and dismissing the trivial aspects from his mind. His robes caught in the wind, subtle shades of gray overlapping, depicting a story of the Nether realm and the Halls of the Dead. His piercing eyes were the silent screams of a thousand tortured souls, red hot and anguished. He spoke to the wind in a dead language, and though he spoke with many throats, he gave one voice. What or who he spoke to one could not say, for he was alone. Yet sure enough he spoke as if to another, citing a list of things that needed to be done, numbers and troop strength, and viable supplies. Each report marked with a tap of the gnarled smoke colored staff he held in his right hand. A staff that marked him as Legion, the Host of Many.
Legion dipped his free hand into the confines of his robe and procured a bit of black root, chewing the fleshy stem in thought. The herb helped to ease his mind into walking the Shadesrealm and summoning forth a vast amount of legions. For indeed, he would need many to spread word from wall to wall.

* A span is typically the length from the wrist to the finger tip of the center digit.
In this case it is roughly nine-and-a-half inches. ~Kao
** An archaic spelling of wagon, not a typo. Get used to it. ~Kao
Cruor Vult

Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion,
simultaneously the source of our greatest strength, and our greatest weakness.

Soon we shall be One...joined in the Word.

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Kaome Sky Deathand
Assessor of the Black Tontine
Posts: 1175
Joined: Tue Jan 15, 2008 12:14 am
Location: Lingering at Life

AO: Outriders

Post by Kaome Sky Deathand » Tue Sep 14, 2010 3:21 pm

Commander Tizane* of the Hallowed Order gazed out across the icy fields.
His Outriders had hounded the remnants of the Bane across the desolate wastelands of the north with scarce concern for their own well-being. Every soldier under his command wanted nothing more than to finish what had been started at the Zenith and consign the rest of those damned souls to the Abyss. From the cover of the treeline, Tizane had his forces rest while his scouts learned what they could from the stone walls and milling soldiers of the Bane. From here even the commander could spot several sentries and he knew they had relatively no archers to call upon. Tizane allowed the ghost of a smile to play about his lips. No archers meant he could storm the Bastion with his entire cavalry force and ride his enemy down. Even when the battle withdrew to the Parapet, all Tizane had to do was hold his enemy prisoner until the Order arrived to smash the building to the ground. The plan was set.

Scarcely had his scouts been out that they returned.
"Report." the commander said with a tone of rushed enthusiasm. His adrenaline was running with the very thought of crushing the Bane with his own command. Three scouts knelt and the first in line gave his report.
"There are several sentries about the Bastion walls. No doubt they are wary of another attack, but the fatigue has set in. We might manage a few seconds before they take notice of our forces charging."
"Very well." Tizane then nodded to the second.
The man cleared his throat.
"Perhaps the commander would care to wait till nightfall. The cloak of darkness combined with the enemies fatigue will allow us to be upon them before they can even register that we are there."
Tizane said nothing but turned to the last in line.
"The Outer Ward looks broken and weathered, the great doors are roughly hanging upon their hinges. Time will only allow our enemy to gather strength. My commander would be assured no victory if he waited and greater chance at crushing the Bane if he assaulted now."
Tizane laughed.
"Are you three to be my advisers as well as my scouts?"
He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and gazed once more upon the Bastion. His mind was set and he would accept no further argument or encouragement to it. The Bastion and the Bane were before him and soon they would be broken before him. Commander Tizane of the Order turned his head to shout over his right shoulder.
"Outriders! Mount up! The Bane falls today!"

The cheers of men and the sounds of arms and armor rang out through the forest.
Mere moments passed as the Outriders mounted and prepared themselves for a glorious charge into the jaws of their most hated enemy, that they might tear out the throat. Tizane lowered his golden face plate upon his helmet and gave the signal. Without voice the cavalry moved out of the treeline. Hundreds came, in verbal silence, the noise of stamping hooves and rattling armor all that was heard.
A horn came from the Bastion and Tizane drew his sword, metal rasped from the sheath and then as one, near three hundred blades sang out together. With a cry calling for war and blood, Tizane stormed across the battlefield.

* Tizane {Tie - Zain as in Rain} ~Kao
Cruor Vult

Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion,
simultaneously the source of our greatest strength, and our greatest weakness.

Soon we shall be One...joined in the Word.

User avatar
Kaome Sky Deathand
Assessor of the Black Tontine
Posts: 1175
Joined: Tue Jan 15, 2008 12:14 am
Location: Lingering at Life

AO: Outriders

Post by Kaome Sky Deathand » Tue Sep 21, 2010 7:37 pm

The horn echoed across the Bastion with alarming clarity.
Baneites gathered on the wall, abandoning whatever duty they were tasked with in lieu of gathering arms and armor. Upon the icy plain they saw their foe approach, a gathering of men some hundred strong on horseback. The Baneites shouted for weapons, some cried out in despair, yet there was a figure among them that did not speak. The air about him was still, for he had no true breath. He gazed out upon the icy plain and saw nothing more than men on horses, drawing ever closer into his killing one. Jhita Bonz, cascaded in frost, wearing a look that was just as cold as the frigid air around him took in the rushing men and simply counted them as doomed. Slowly he took an arrow and brought it to his bow, as he drew it back, his frigid breath escaped the confines of the skeletal grin he wore, coating the barbed arrow in a coat of icy death. He raised the weapon up high, for the arc would be great indeed at this range...then another stepped beside him. He did not need to see the figure to know who it was, for she too had a bow, and she too drew it back with arrow. Aurora Lunera took to the wall, the last remaining Drifters taking up position around her. She too found her mark and ever so slowly readied her arrow for flight. A few more meters and...

The horn blasted across the courtyard.
Khazarch snapped his head around so quick there was sure to be a rush of air filling the void it left. The baroque red leviathan stalked across the courtyard to the massive framework of the broken doors, snatching up his great axe as he went. As the head was ripped from the ground, thick ropey strands of almost coagulated blood trailed behind. The blade hungered, it looked dull and lifeless in its masters hands. The Blood Champion looked out across the field and saw the forces of the Order approach, the same force that had hounded them since the Zenith. He snarled, he raged. His hands clenched and unclenched in great meaty sledge-like fists. He turned his head and roared for the Baneites milling about.
"Spears! Pikes! Bring these and as many able bodies as can fit in this frail archway! NOW!"
Fear kept the Baneites suspended, then fear struck them into movement, for greater fear of not obeying the warrior in red. Khazarch burned with a terrible vigor, his vision swam with heady interpretations of how he would rend and tear their frail human bodies apart, how blood would flow upon the earth, staining it crimson for all eternity.
So caught up in these twisted visions, that Khazarch did not realize he was being spoken to until several spears and pikes were brought up to his face. He turned his visage upon the Baneite before him and it shook to meet his crimson gaze.
"M-my lord, what should we do?"
Khazarch snatched up the weapons before him and thrust the blunt end of the weapons into the ground.
"Put your foot upon it..." he clamped down upon them with a rough-shod boot and faced the approaching enemy. "...and stand."
The Baneites did as instructed, two lines overlapping, making the broken archway a veritable spiked barricade.

"Khazarch..." drifted a voice from behind them.
The red leviathan turned his head to see Grayl moving among the Baneites. None dared meet his gaze, none could try. Grayl did not so much as hover, as the earth refused to embrace him. He seemed to hang just a few centimeters off the ground, his robes of muted black and dark-hued grays were in stark contrast to the white Orarium* that fluttered over them, inked and etched with deep red and shining gold runes. His face was garbed in several strips of black silk as were his forearms, but his hands were free, and already they did seem to corrupt the air around them. Khazarch met the Black Apocrypha's gaze, his crimson orbs reflecting back the glittering gems of eternal twilight that were pin-pricked by the dying whispers of fallen stars. Grayl's eyes met the warriors and he ushered past him.
"Grayl?"
Grayl turned to face them.
"Allow me the opening strike..." he stated before turning away.
The air rippled before him, vile magics already building, waiting, begging to be released.

Khazarch watched as the riders approached, distinguishing different faces now.
Without preamble a rider fell, trampled beneath his allies hooves. Then another, a third, two more, several. They began to fall with seemingly at random. Screams and warnings mixed in with the sounds of armor shaking, hooves stamping and a keen whistling...Khazarch recognized the sound of arrows and began to laugh.
"Come! Break upon this shore of death..."

The Outriders were nearly upon the Bastion when Grayl made his move.

* Orarium - A long strip of cloth worn about the neck that falls over the left and right breast.
In this case it hangs from the back of Grayls neck, across his collar bones and flows to the hem of his robes.
Cruor Vult

Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion,
simultaneously the source of our greatest strength, and our greatest weakness.

Soon we shall be One...joined in the Word.

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