#2007f0
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Apr 22, 2020 19:54:15 GMT
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Dymion
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Aug 13, 2015 23:35:49 GMT
August 2015
dymion
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Post by Dymion on Oct 18, 2015 6:12:00 GMT
The Inner Workings of Chaos By Thaneous Gilfrend
The Preface Since a time long forgotten, the kingdom of Nuria has held a strong association with the plane of Maelstrom, its military might enhanced by the presence of creatures summoned from this abyssal place. However, beyond the many soldiers of the Nurian military, knowledge on this strain of magic is extremely scarce, bringing to the surface many basic questions, despite the relative age of this specific arcana. Among these: how does it operate, when was it discovered, where exactly do these beings come from, and, above all, how does it affect our world on both the micro and macro level? Thus, it became my quest to discover the answer to these inquiries, and many more, causing me to head west in search of such knowledge. Upon my arrival, it was difficult for me to begin my work without having access to the proper resources, and so, in my lust for knowledge, I deigned it important to visit the Evershadow, leader of the Nurian military, and request his permission to access any and all of their archives. The entire negotiation took months, once we finally met in person, and it was with great glee that the only payment required was a copy of my work, to disperse among his own scholars. With ink and parchment in hand, I would then delve into their own marvelous scrolls, divulging all I could about their rare breed of magic. And so, it is with that thought that I proudly present my completed work on the ins and outs of Chaos Magic.
The History of a Magic Upon first delving into the extensive collections of the Nurian people, I found myself confronted with a challenge far beyond what I had expected. Piles upon piles of scrolls covered events from many different angles, dating back thousands of years, with some, on many occasions, being quite contradictory to another article on the same subject. Thus, it became my first duty to sift these old tomes into at least a state of chronological order, before I could even begin to write my work on the history of chaos magic. The ending result was months of work spent solely on organizing the entire collection of Nurian literary artifacts. Even as this task was completed though, I knew weeks more would be spent filtering through the multiple accounts of history provided, in order to find the most probable form of the truth. However, before going into this historical catalogue, I must first provide an unfortunate disclaimer: the facts presented in these pages can and likely do vary somewhat from true historical events, due to the fact that, as magic is well known for, what is most probable is not always true. Thus, I as the writer stongly encourage the reader to take all information presented here with a grain of salt, and not accept what seems most likely as most factual.
The Discovery
The Process of Chaos Magic With proper knowledge of the origins and development this magic has undergone through millennia, it now becomes my task, as the scholar writing on this arcana, to delve into the many rituals, incants, and gestures that make up the field of Chaos magic, bringing us to the meat of the text. However, to truly uncover these arts and provide the most comprehensive explanation of such art, I found that the library was lacking in any resources to pull such explanations from. It was after speaking again with the Evershadow that I discovered much of this information was instead passed down through the generations, with each descendant cultivating the art to a greater degree, and making new endeavors into the subject. Thus, with his permission, I was allowed to experience and observe first hand the many soldiers of the Nurian military, allowing me to perform the honor of first recording these processes. I can also ecstatically say that, near the end of this phase of this work, I will also be able to embellish the reader with my own contributions to the art, which could only be formed due to me collecting all available variants on the art of chaos magic. With this in mind, I feel it important that most credit for these discoveries should not be bestowed upon the writer, being me, as I simple formed connections and links between already existing studies and arts.
The Necessities and Foundation For one to become a true master of the art of chaos magic, they would often begin their training very young, typically around the age of seven, by performing what became a strenuous and tedious routine of calligraphy, learning to accurately draw or write the necessary symbols and letters required to perform the arcana seamlessly. Totaling at approximately three hundred and sixty-seven vastly different characters, the average soldier in training, with both physical conditioning and military studying occupying their time as well, would spend around two years learning to write and understand these individual components, each drastically important in their own different way. Alongside this, however, even more was piled onto the young acolytes, as they learned to make the specific ash composite required in their runes and sigils, the ink they would eventually begin marking the body with, and how to speak the necessary syllables required for the incants. Alas, I find myself unable to include any of these different works into my writing, as to do so would mean subverting myself to the same stringent doctrine as these youths, and, while my thirst for knowledge would incline me to do so willingly, I knew that I would be unable to truly complete this work. Thus, the specifics as to these different base components of chaos magic are not recorded in this text, due simply to my tragic inability to do so. For those readers truly interested in studying the art, I would then encourage each of you to do so at Nuria itself, as there are no better teachers to learn it from.
Back to the subject at hand, though, once the students had achieved a mastery of these basic components to the magic, the next step for them was to practice accurately creating specific runes on the hides of animals, to prepare for the usage of the ink on their own skin, and often had to do so at odd angles, the leathers strapped to their back, forcing them to practice creating such symbols accurately while at a distinctly difficult trajectory. At the same time, literal hours would also be spent practicing forming perfect circles on the floor and earth, the slightest mistake reprimanded before the mark was removed and the student required to try again. It was only after ten consecutive circles that met the most basic requirements that they were allowed to rest, before being sent back into their other daily training sessions.
Maelstrom and its Denizens
Aeons
Ifrits
Djinn
Imps
The Effects of Maelstrom
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#2007f0
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Apr 22, 2020 19:54:15 GMT
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Dymion
129
Aug 13, 2015 23:35:49 GMT
August 2015
dymion
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Post by Dymion on Apr 20, 2016 2:53:16 GMT
Ashes
Have you ever felt the soft caress of the flame, or watched as it spread across flesh and bone? It is a sight more enticing than any other, to watch as the tongues of flame twist into being new creation. I often revel in watching its wonderful workings, listening as nature protests to being made truly beautiful. I contemplate what it must be like to wield such strength that nothing before you can escape. Such power—the flames pull at me like a moth, but I will not succumb as I embrace the untamable, as it sculpts me too into my truest self… I will know the power it holds.
The wind sounded mournful as it blew across the flat landscape, its solemn howls echoing through the fields of long, dry grass. Rustling and twisting, the flora was like carpets of yellows and greens shifting across the earth, their colors suppressed by the night as all other sounds were muffled by the living strands. These were the lands between mountains and sea, the last stretch of territory before the foothills of Etirath. Those who sought autonomy and freedom had settled these plains. Now, they were no more.
The remnants of the town were a blight upon the great, green grasses, ashen clouds drifting from the earth and across the land. Scattered throughout fields of dust, black pillars rose like charred monoliths, a testament to the buildings that were now gone. These were the cadavers of houses, lined up like tombstones on both sides of the town's sole street. Each of them held a different story; all of them knew the same end: ash, pain, blades of black glass—and burning, ominous eyes, glowing in the night. This was the corpse of Ornstead. Days ago, it had been the home of many and the bane of few. Now, it was a gray spot on the earth, flecks of ash spread across the dead dirt. There were no corpses to tell their tale, just ominous, black monuments. Statues, crafted of flawless obsidian, carried expressions of dread and terror. Children, mothers, the aged, they all appeared in this artist's cruel tapestry; nothing had escaped its blackened soul.
One heart pulsed in the center of town, its host sweeping through the darkened posts of a doorway. Cloaked in black, even his silhouette was nothing more than a continuation of his masterpiece. Tall and hooded, he walked with a slow, steady purpose, turning to continue down the dirt and ash road. Only his face could be seen, the dark sky and blackened world nothing compared to the power that bathed him. Veins of bright, glowing fire crossed his features, shadows constant as the burning marks cast them across his façade. No smile marked his face, lips locked in a straight line, and his skin seemed to blend into the folds of night. The color of life did not exist in his cheeks, only the cold tones of an ashy gray, and his hair was hidden by the hood that covered him. And, last of all, his eyes—they glowed with the same intensity as the marks marring his features, burning a bright red as they stared ahead.
The man's steps halted as he approached a lone black statue: a young woman, her face permanently marred by a look of despair. She had had long, flowing hair once, but now those strands were simply a livid detail. The figure’s cloak parted, and allowed a single, gray hand to rise to the woman's cheek, cupping it as his palm glowed, bathing her in a dim red light. The bored expression on the man's face shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. Lips parted, revealing the slightest of white teeth, before a voice, raspy, cold, and quiet, escaped his throat. As he spoke, a plume of white ash slipped from between his lips.
"The dead bore me, so you’d best entertain."
The words had hardly left his mouth before the glow of his skin began to die, color replacing gray while amber eyes lost their glow. Moments later, a different man stood where darkness had. Skin now a deeply tanned olive, scars where the glowing fire had been, and eyes a vibrant green, his features remained somewhat the same, having remained unmoving as the man felt the smooth black glass under his hand. Without a word, he turned away, hands rising to pull back the hood as he stepped towards the remains of a desolate building. No longer hidden, black locks of hair were revealed as the cloth fell away, the silky strands reaching his ears before they ended with no signs of curling. For a swift moment, long fingers ran through his dark hair, as if some attempt to groom his look. Then, he reached for the clasp at his neck, and as the coal colored locks fell into place, the slightest of bangs appeared on the right side.
Two hands unfastened his cloak as he slipped between the only stone posts in the entire town, the cloth slipping off his shoulders while his right hand extended and placed it on the gray, lifeless rock. Four more steps, and he stood in the middle of what had once been someone's living room. Armor now revealed, every piece of the blackened leather could be seen: the cuirass shaped to fit his figure, pauldrons made compact and rounded about his shoulders, a black gambeson beneath it all, and his loose trousers, fitted with leather at the thighs for protection. Black boots stopped on the cold floor, and slowly, the man took a deep breath. He could taste the ash, and with bored eyes scanned the remnants of the room, grazing over stone after stone while the winds sent chills across his bare arms. He shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders while lean muscles rippled beneath his skin. Then, his emerald eyes lighted on an old, cold fireplace.
One, solitary child sat in the floor of an old stone building. A roof was over his head, furnishing decorated the walls, and soft voices murmured in the background. But he didn't care, his two, emerald eyes staring into the fireplace, watching as tongues of flame licked across the timber. Something in it was alluring, an attraction to it pulling at the young boy. It called his attention, but he was only four; he couldn't understand why. Slowly, curious eyes looked down at his small, soft hands, which sat comfortably in his lap. He threw another glance at the fire, then over his shoulder and across the room. He could see his father standing in the door, talking in low tones to someone outside. The old man wasn't watching. Maybe it was something important; he wouldn't interrupt. The child's eyes turned back to the fire, and continued to stare intently into the infernal dance before him.
He knew it was alive, knew that it hungered and that, without food, it would die. It was warm, and so was his mother. So maybe... Another glance was thrown over his shoulder before he looked at the back of his hand and raised it to eye level. Tan, young fingers twitched—a cascade of motion. With fire in his eyes and a calming breath, the child slowly extended an arm towards the fiery beauty. Steadily, the warmth of the blaze grew hotter and hotter, and for a moment it looked as if the flames bent toward his hand. As skin met fire, a searing pain surged through the boy’s fingers. Instinct pulled them back, his brow furrowed in frustration as he stuck the pulsing flesh in his mouth. It felt better then… He couldn't hear the voices anymore. A sound was heard as he shifted, craning to see behind him.
Two pairs of eyes stared at him. Every muscle in his small body was frozen, unsure of what to do. There were no signs of anger in his father's coal black eyes. The stranger though, looked surprised, as if the boy had done something wrong. But, the child couldn't figure out what. He hadn't made a sound despite the burning sensation in his hand, not a whimper or a cry—just as his father had told him.
The man in the ruined home blinked slowly, his head turning away from the fireplace as he walked towards where the back door had been. The memory of his father still burned in his mind, sentiments fueling the dark entity inside. The man who’d raised him had been a soldier, a war hero in the eyes of the other Shadeir; the reputation had haunted the child for all his life. Everyone watched the son of Azrael, waiting for him to make a mistake, to show he was unworthy. The man's lips curled at the memory, anger fueling the more violent soul as he emerged from the husk of the home. His father had forced him to become what he was. Everything was his fault.
He had stepped into the remains of a yard, the skeleton of a fence surrounding the ash covered dirt. In one corner, the memory of a garden was evident, the grayed dirt marred by the dead stems of formerly budding flowers. By the doorway, a large pile of ash denoted what had once been a table, likely where the man of the house had been to watch over his small domain. What most interested the armored figure, though, was in the corner opposite the dead weeds: a small straw dummy on a post. Their son, it seemed, had been practicing. The man's head tilted as he began to walk towards the construct, eyes never leaving it.
"Adar! Nahir! Siron!"
One by one, the names of the children gathered on the streets were barked by the large man that walked down the road, drops of rain striking him and scattering as the downpour assailed those present. This was the day of conscription. Every child there had known it would come, and they had all dreaded it. Each year, they had sat inside, listening to the rough voice bark outside at their older siblings. Now, it was their turn.
"Atair! Sira! Lael!”
Despite the downpour, each of the six-year-olds heard the quartermaster's voice clearly, flinching as they bent their heads to avoid his scathing gaze. This was roll call, a way to assure no one tried to escape their purpose. The Shadeir were meant to be soldiers, and that was exactly what they would become: servants of the Evershadow, each trained to fight while wielding the forces of chaos. Their only choice was to accept it with pride or despair. There was no escape; running was pointless. The quartermaster made sure of that. They'd all seen what would happen. None of them wanted that.
"Tara! Amal! Sirael!"
A pause hung in the air as a smile curled the quartermaster's thick lips. He recognized the surname of the last child on the roll. Two, thick legs halted, and his bald head turned to look at the boy in the doorway. He'd heard so much talking about the son of Azrael, about the four-year-old who had touched fire without sign of pain. It meant the boy had promise, just like his father. The quartermaster sized Sirael up. Green eyes returned the man's gaze, undaunted as their owner stood with confident poise. His black hair was clumped to his face, the rain chilled him to the bone, and his clothes were soaked. But, the child knew better than to show his weakness; it had drilled it into his head. They would be watching him, waiting for him to fail. He wouldn't. The quartermaster chuckled before turning to face the entire troop of sodden children. His next words were bellowed, flecks of water spraying from his features as the street echoed with his voice.
"Line up!"
In an instant, every boy and girl on the street flocked to front and center, each taking their place in three columns.
"Shadeir, march!”
Step by step, in perfect time the newest wave of soldiers began to move in unison, an art they had practiced in game after game, their parents watching from afar. These were the next soldiers to bring agony to the enemies of Nuria. These were the spawn of a dynasty.
Plumes of ash swirled around the man's feet as he paused within arm's reach of the dummy. The construct looked so frail despite the thick padding, its small frame bending under the weight. This was nothing compared to the training targets used by the Shadeir, made to take strikes from the strong for years upon years. Slowly, the man reached out, his fingers brushing over the stray straws until he felt the rough cloth of the head. He pressed his hand forward, flattening his palm against what he suspected was burlap. Then he felt it begin to give, the organic material seeming to lose its life as it shifted to gray. Like some plague, the darkness seemed to spread from the man's touch, seeping through hay and deep into the straw effigy. Every second that passed the material crumbled and burned, an unseen flame passing all the way to the stake in the ground. His hand left the cloth, and it all began to crumble, until nothing was left but a pile of ash. In complete silence, the man turned away, his green eyes blank as he walked to the remnants of the garden.
There were no signs of green in the remaining stalks that scarred the dirt, their color lost to the storm of ash that had likely assailed them. Not much else remained, the leaves and buds gone. Sirael could still vividly recall the violence his body had committed here. Slowly, he knelt down, one knee pressed firmly in the earth while a hand reached out and picked up a fistful of ash and dust. What he held could very well have been the remains of a woman who, in her final breath, had been lifted and slammed to the earth. He could recall when such a thing had happened to him. But unlike her, he had not crumbled under the pain.
“Get up!”
The look in Sirael’s eyes was one of murder. Bent double in the frigid, unforgiving air of the hard stone room, he could feel the constant threat of unconsciousness working to take him and force him to fail. His muscles ached, and his nerves screamed, succumbing to the agony that threatened the young boy’s mind. This was Conditioning, a weeklong gauntlet of violence and abuse that weeded away the week and tempered the strong. To push through on the first attempt was a feat of legends; for the son of Azrael, it was a requirement.
Looking up from where his gaze had bored into the hard stone floor, Sirael set his eyes on the man chosen to make the final three days a living hell. A mountainous figure, thick corded muscles seemed to pull and strain under every bit of the goliath’s skin. Brutish and cruel, there was a certain sick glee in his oppressor’s eyes, and as the man again bellowed at the pre-teen to get up, Sirael could feel his hatred for the man grow. Pushing up from the floor, the youth staggered slightly as he tried to remain upright, his jaw moving a bit before he spat a clot of blood only two feet shy of the giant. A slight sneer on his lips, and the large man stepped in and swung, his meaty fist slamming the boy across the mouth and sending him back to the cold floor. One quick kick to the ribs and he walked away, circling back slowly like a wolf stalking prey.
Grabbing his side as he rolled on the ground, the young boy suppressed the groan that tried to slip from his mouth, and found consolation in one thing as the goliath bellowed again. His abuser was holding back. In the end, every strike he’d taken was meant to serve a single purpose: Conditioning acted as a way to force strength; it was not meant to break him. Nuria needed strong, healthy soldiers to form their army, and a broken rib or cracked skull only served to weaken them. Sirael did not need to fear death, but pain. That was why he was here. The Shadeir could not fear pain.
Looking across the floor, Sirael widened his eyes as he saw the thick legs closer than he thought, and with an unrestrained yelp, felt himself lifted in the strong arms and sent through the air. Moments later he collided with the wall, and with a loud slam fell to the ground. The floor was a familiar sight.
A low chuckle resounded within the mind of the man as he allowed the ash and dust to slip slowly from between his fingers, the small particles resting again in the stubble of the garden. During each memory he had recalled since being granted control, the entity that shared his thoughts had observed, savoring the details as it feasted on his suffering. For all this time, it had done so in silence, but now it had broken Sirael’s reverie, reminding him of its presence as he stood up straight. Then it spoke, heard only in his mind as the rasping voice grated at his thoughts.
“Time to go.”
Without a word, Sirael turned and walked again through the building, his steady steps muffled by the curtain of ash that covered the dirt. On the outside his face was placid, expressionless as he moved through the ruins. Inside though, he was seething at his current state: a slave to a more powerful entity. Once, he had been the master, and had bent the wills of such spawn to his wishes. Now, however, that was not the case.
“Are you ready?”
Eyes closed, Sirael allowed himself a simple nod, a chill running through his spine as his instructor again repeated the procedure. The last few years had been devoted to today. Failure was not an option; if he did, he would die.
“Step forward, please.”
With a deep breath, emerald eyes opened to survey the pattern made before him, each line, circle, and mark carefully crafted by his steady hands. His muscles still ached from the painstaking process, and the skin that covered them tingled from the fresh runes that were now tattooed on his flesh. But, even with every little step he had taken to ensure success, he still knew there was a great risk. He could not turn back, though.
Two steps forward, and he now stood in a strange, small circle situated along the edge of an even larger one. Turning his head, he waited patiently as his teacher took her own place within yet another, then she began to shift through the many pages of names, looking for one in particular. Summoning a denizen of Maelstrom was not a process to take lightly. Crafted from the turmoil of the chaotic plane, each of these abominations sought nothing more than to obtain power over those who called upon them. In the past, there had been no shortages of successes, and each time the results had been catastrophic. Yet by walking this risky path, the Shadeir obtained one of their greatest edges over potential enemies: servants of extensive power.
“Ahvizal.”
As the woman found the name needed from the book, the boy, one of few people in history to summon anything at the age of fifteen, turned to the summoner’s circle, already running through the meticulous wording of the magic he was about to perform. When he next spoke, it was in a language not his own, the strange words rolling off his tongue with a strange sensation—and the longer he spoke, the worse the feeling became. Near three minutes went past, every moment spent speaking the many words of power, the Ahvizal’s name occasionally appearing as Sirael rambled in the chaotic tongue. When the effects of his ritual began to appear, the magic was only two thirds done. What came first was the smell, rancid and foul as it urged Sirael to gag. Keeping his composure, though, he continued to ramble, determination growing in his chest as his resolve hardened. The game of chess had now begun.
When the screams began to pierce his ears, they were sudden and violent, a black pool forming in the circle’s center as it gurgled and boiled, the sounds of fear and agony reaching a crescendo while trying to drown out and distract the summoner. Then, the pool began to grow, spreading as clouds of black, greasy gas bubbled from the ooze, roiling and boiling up until it too began to expand. In mere seconds, the entirety of the circle was filled, the eyes of Sirael unable to pierce the strange cloud despite being mere inches from it. The screams vanished, the smell disappeared, and for a moment only the inky air inside the circular ward existed.
When the hideous abomination slammed itself against the ward mere inches from Sirael’s face, a piercing screech aimed directly at him, he could do nothing to prevent the chill that filled his bones, and instead closed his eyes from the indescribable monstrosity as he worked to focus and finish his ritual. He was near the end, and inside the ward the creature was now searching for a way out, prodding the defenses as it consciously slammed the ground, trying desperately to regain his attention. It stopped again, silence filling the air for a few seconds before a low chuckle began.
“You have made a mistake, you simple fool. Now, you are mine.”
All Sirael could do was squeeze his eyes shut and hope, keeping a steady pace until, with a near sigh of relief, he completed the long spell. Afterwards, no sounds were made, and with a growing sense of confidence, the youth opened his eyes.
He had succeeded. Before him, the abomination had taken a completely different form, the inky smoke and black pool replaced by a small child, its eyes glaring at him with clear hatred. Now confined by the limits of the magic, the chaotic entity was forced to cooperate, or else suffer at the hands of its master. As a simple imp, the lowest of the Maelstrom’s creations, it knew too well what that meant. For once, Sirael was at the reins; he was in control.
Stepping from the hollowed shell of the former home, Sirael reached out to pull his cloak from the post it had been hung on, sweeping it around himself in one quick motion as he walked out into the road. These next few moments were to be savored; soon, he would be back to his former state, a prisoner to the powerful entity that now resided within him. Closing his eyes briefly, the young man took just a moment to savor the air, and despite the smell of ash, felt a relaxing sensation overtake him as he fastened the clasp at his neck.
His eyes again opened, Sirael found himself face to face with the obsidian statue of the woman, and his mood immediately soured. Eyes narrowed as he scanned the woman’s features. They looked so much alike… it was unsettling for him. A shudder went up his spine, and without looking away from the statue, he reached back and pulled the hood over his head. Any minute now, the denizen of Maelstrom would again take control, and they would be on their way. But for now, the spawn seemed to be savoring the newest wave of emotions the memory of her had created.
The sun was unforgiving, and as the near endless rounds of sparring came to a close, every muscle in Sirael’s figure seemed to protest at the thought of use. Now, it was time to rest. In fifteen hours, he would be meeting with the Evershadow himself; he could show no weakness to the leader of his people. Wiping his brow free of the heavy perspiration coating his face, the young adult shouldered his weaponry and began to make his way to his quarters, weaving this way and that through the center of the Shadeir in the steadily cooling night air.
Once he finally came within view of his quarters, he froze. He could have sworn… His ears strained to hear anything in the still, silent night. Just moments ago, he felt he’d heard the faintest sound of another’s steps, yet he had seen no one—as a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders from behind, he felt every muscle in his figure stiffen, until he heard the softest trickle of a whisper in his ear.
“Relax. It’s just me.”
The tension in him seemed to dissipate as the playful, feminine voice finally revealed who was with him, and slowly turning his head, his emerald eyes meeting her deep, rich brown ones. Tall and slender, she had the same telltale runes and build as many of the other Shadeir, with long black hair that fell in flowing streams down her shoulders.
“Lael, I almost—” Before he could finish the statement, the woman had stretched her arms up and over, both hands clasping over his mouth as she leaned against him, chin resting on his shoulder. In his chest he felt a pang of something, and he worked to repress a smile. He could not stop the softening of his heart, though.
“Shhhh. I know, you’re jumpy. Don’t worry about it.” She paused for a moment, staring ahead of them as if contemplating something. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” His head gave a slight nod, arms moving to readjust his weapons while he continued to watch her, eyes scanning her elegant features. The gesture was returned almost absentmindedly, and for a few seconds they remained that way, neither willing to break the reverie Lael seemed to be in. It was her that finally reacted, sliding her arms away as she then took his hand and began to lead him to his quarters.
“Come on. You should get some sleep.”
A few more minutes passed in the silence of the ghost town as Sirael stood waiting before the statue. But nothing happened, and as the seconds of uncomfortable peace continued, the man began to wonder about a possible ploy. Whatever it was, he wanted it done so the spawn could take over, dragging him away from this place and his memories; if it was in control, he could divert his mind from the statue. As of now though, the longer he stood near the chilling obsidian form, the more frustrated he became. The girl was too much like Lael, her long hair so similar to the locks of his former love. He grew more agitated, pacing slightly as he awaited the sensation of losing conscious control.
After another six minutes of occasional glances and growing anger, he finally snapped. It had taken place so suddenly, his body pivoting as his arm shot forward, a bellow of frustration echoing out as he clenched his hand into a fist. Before his very eyes, the obsidian, so strong before, became a million broken pieces, erupting into shards as pieces flew everywhere, a few cutting him and making him bleed. That was when the denizen within, filled with a sense of satisfaction, began to force his way into power, and Sirael, now knowing what had occurred, succumbed to its strength.
He’d served his purpose: entertainment. Slowly, as dominance over Sirael’s form shifted, so too did his features. Gray overtook the color of live tissue, and red veins of glowing amber scars began to ignite, spreading across him until he was again a monster: The Bane of Ornstead. Now stored in the back of the subconscious, Sirael had nothing left to do but contemplate the mistakes that had led to his state, while ash poured from the small cuts inflicted mere seconds before, the gashes closing as the gray matter molded into flesh.
She’d betrayed him. As he had laid in his bed, relaxed and fast asleep, Lael had abused his only form of trust, setting up the downfall of Sirael, son of Azrael. Evidence of a coup on the Evershadow had been “found” in his quarters, and as a loyal Nurian, she’d wasted no time turning him in. Now, his trial five days past, the former pride of the Shadeir stood in line to Nuria’s cruelest form of execution.
The screams from the other side of the iron door were unbearable: worse than the imp’s attempts to trick him all those years ago, and worse than the ones he’d heard in battle. Yet Sirael felt no fear of his fate to come, eyes instead searing the souls of those around him, the man brooding about his failure. Everything he had done in life, his work to meet expectations, his attempts to build reputation, his emergence from the shadow of his father—it was all now torn apart due to his err. He had trusted her, and she had sold away his life.
“Your turn, Sirael.” Sirael’s livid gaze fell upon the thick man now holding the metal door open, a sadistic sneer decorating the soldier's face. The screaming had stopped, replaced by a calm, eerie silence, the room ahead devoid of light. Gritting his teeth, Sirael could feel the watching eyes of those gathered around him. He knew what they were expecting. Even as an outcast of their own society, the Shadeir died with respect and dignity. To the many, that meant walking through a door to hell without batting an eye. But for Sirael, it was something far more.
Taking a deep breath, the convicted man began his slow walk toward the pitch black abyss that awaited him, and around him the many tensed muscles found themselves relaxing, the minds that exerted influence over them calming at the complacency Sirael was showing. To the bitter end, the man before them had proclaimed his innocence, had shown every form of resistance a Shadeir could without crossing the line. They had expected him to revolt in the end. And, as he now stood only one meter from the door, he showed that he would not disappoint.
Side by side with the man holding the heavy metal away from the entrance, Sirael’s muscles coiled and bunched as he prepped his figure, the signs read by the guards too late as he began to move. Pushing off his right leg as he lowered his left side, all of the convicted man’s weight was thrown into his shoulder, a sickening crack echoing in the stone hallway as Sirael met his victim right between the clavicles. The others, eyes wide as their comrade slumped to the ground, began to draw their weapons, moving forward as their charge’s escape unfolded.
Turning to face them, the look in Sirael’s eyes was one of malevolent intent, and as he eyed their sharp, steel blades, his core and legs bent and sprung, legs coiling to his chest in the air while his body bent forward, arms swinging under while he leapt the bindings that had held his arms. Now, his roped arms were before him, rather than behind, and he could begin to fight his captors properly.
“If you step aside, we can—”
He’d barely spoken before the center of the three men that divided him and freedom decided to act, the glaive in his hands thrusted towards Sirael’s legs, then brought sweeping up towards the target's chest. He’d hoped to catch the prisoner off-guard; instead, it was the other way around, Sirael’s sentence stopping short as his rope bound wrists lowered down, catching the weapon on the center strands while powerful hands wrapped around the shaft and pulled. His binding had not been cut, only severed, but now he had a weapon, a strong pull dislodging the weapon from the guard’s hands as the other two stepped in to cover the man from toppling forward. Disarmed, the youngest of the three had two options: pull a knife and fight, or run for help. He chose the latter.
Two enemies were now left for Sirael, and neither planned to let him use the glaive, both stepping forward in the ten-foot-wide space with swords and shields at the ready. Sirael just dropped the glaive; he wasn’t holding the right end, and it would take too long to fix that. Instead, he was content to lose a potential foe—and lose his bonds. The glaive had done its work; with a straining of his arms, Sirael tore the remaining fibers of the thick but damaged cord, and his stance shifted to prepare for the incoming fighters.
The man on Sirael's right moved in first. Stepping in with his blade at the ready, the cold point of the sharp steel was thrust towards Sirael’s right hip, the shield raised to cover the arm while prepping to slam into the prisoner. Sirael, however, recognized the simple bait, and stepped slightly forward while off to the left, avoiding the piercing tip as his right hand flew down and slapped the flat of the weapon to push it aside. Before Sirael could move forward, though, the second guard swung in an arc from his shoulder, forcing Sirael into a backwards hop before moving into the gap created. Now, one guard was between Sirael and the other, and with quick instincts, he reached out and grabbed his meat shield’s wrist, stepping forward, stepping forward twice to love completely behind the man as he twisted and pulled the arm, unbalancing his enemy while reducing his ability to swing.
Now he stuck between a rock and a hard place: weaponless, Sirael had a rock wall to his back and a man trying to maim him in front, with only an unwilling buffer between them. Sirael had an advantage, though. As his left arm came under and hooked his victim’s shield arm up, the other man remained still, unwilling to hurt his comrade, and allowing just a moment of hesitation for the prisoner to react. Still, his captive was struggling, and as the man he now held pulled hard against Sirael’s grip, the attempting escapee allowed his right arm to slip away and back, his hand pulling a quick sleight as it subtly removed the dagger from his meat shield’s sheath.
His act with the dagger was one, quick, continuous motion, and in the same moment he removed the dagger, his forearm pivoted around his elbow to snap the blade straight down into the neck of his victim, the sharp metal piercing to the hilt before Sirael pulled it back, his other hand releasing the wrist so he could brace against the dying man’s back, shoving the soon-to-be cadaver at the other guard while Sirael made a run for it. He would soon be free.
Before he even made it ten steps, he stopped. Smiling at him was the deceiver herself, her shining brown eyes filled with sense of cruel victory as Sirael surveyed the four guards behind her. It seemed the runaway guard had found reinforcements. His timing had been… unfortunate. Taking a deep breath, Sirael eyes began to scan over the group, and he immediately began to form a plan. They’d probable expected him to surrender, their numbers allowing arrogance. He could double back, take the dead guard’s equipment, and—
“Repel.”
The thought didn’t finish in his mind before the massive blast of energy cascaded down the hall, Lael’s voice sharp and crisp as her command resonated with the air. Caught completely off-guard, Sirael could do nothing as he flew back from the concussive force, unable to stop as he passed through the metallic door that had seemed so far back, the other guards, both living and dead, already hitting the floor inside.
“Close.”
In an instant, darkness dominated the execution room. Sirael, a cadaver, and a guard were doomed.
His muscles ached, but he made no sound, laying on his back in the still air. There was no doubt; Lael had been accompanied by a djinn, too afraid to fight Sirael on equal ground, and now he had paid for his errs. His only chance to escape had passed; now, he had to face whatever misery was locked within the execution room. Freezing, Sirael strained his ears to catch the slightest sound, but beyond the steps of the living guard and his panicked breathing, there was nothing—just an underlying silence, threatening to shatter at any second.
“Where are you!”
Sirael turned his head to face the direction of the voice, eyes straining to pierce the dark. There was the sound of metal on stone, and every muscle froze, the prisoner working harder to keep his presence hidden. The guard was looking for him; and he had a sword. For the next minute, the only sounds were the shouts of the guard and steel on rock, and as the seconds trickled by, he began to understand. The man wasn’t looking for him; he wanted an exit. Or, maybe…
Sirael’s line of thought was interrupted by a sudden realization: the temperature was dropping, and beneath the bellowing and striking of the guard, a slight rustling echoed lightly, drawing the prisoner’s attention as he tried to listen more closely. The noise was growing in volume ever so slightly, just enough that it still remained unnoticed by the frantic guard. Meanwhile, Sirael remained as still as stone, knowing that whatever it was couldn’t be good.
Then it stopped. A sense of foreboding grew in Sirael’s chest, and his breath stopped in his chest, his focus reaching out as he tried vainly to hear or see something—a slight whistle, then a scream elicited itself from the throat of the living guard, his routine broken as chaos shattered the darkness. All around him, Sirael could hear the steady rushing of an unknown force, and the air seemed to grow thick as it pressed down on his being. In a split second of quick, inspired thinking, Sirael allowed himself to roll over so his head faced the floor, and with barely a second to spare, he pressed himself as close to the stone as possible.
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