Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"Oh how the youth get so easily flustered," Morialus commented plainly. Some part of him was a little relieved that Desrium was the target of the woman's scorn, however.

"They were sparring," Grama added from her position a few feet behind them. The girl had very little presence. "It got...heated."

[C S]

"I bet it did. I bet they damn near burned the forests down, how heated their fighting got," Evisa scoffed. She crossed her arms again, which had the added effect of her flexing her muscles, which bulged under her leviathan hide. "And don't get me even more riled up, talking about getting flustered."

Desrium figured he understood why the viking was so up in arms. "Ah, that's right." As one who took after fickle elementals, she was more easily swayed than most by negativity. Negativity was the least Morialus carried with him as a result of his enormous curved sword.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"We live in a world filled to the brim with magic, monsters, and special techniques," Morialus retorted, "Not all of us are satisfied with some light swordplay when it comes to sparring."

[C S]

A pulse began at Evisa's feet and crept along her height, golden vapors rolling in on themselves as they rose over her head. They were the remnants of a fleeting manifestation of the viking's underlying energies, which had created a blinding overglow. For the briefest of instances, Evisa had become like lightning without thunder.

"I don't need no damn sword, and hearing that from your mouth," Evisa cocked her head towards Morialus, "is quite something. If he's mister shadow-wings, you're mister compensating-for-something. You'd think being as tall as you are would be enough, but no, apparently."

Desrium held back on enlightening Evisa who it was she was speaking to. Morialus struck him as one who would rather go without special treatment, much as he himself did within Brodudika's walls. This was why he did not speak up at all. Evisa did not hesitate to take the chance to speak her mind with anyone, ancient Justicar or no.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

Morialus laughed. "I know right? This thing is insane. I would say the person who designed it was a *******, but...well..." he trailed off, throwing his hands up to complete the statement. "It's a complicated issue."

Despite the clear display of aggression coming from the woman in front of him, the man's lighthearted demeanor did not falter for a second.

[C S]

"Why is that?" Evisa inquired with a biting, sarcastic edge to her tone.

That was when Desrium chose to say, "Because it was created by the Dawnmother."

Evisa tensed. Her spine went as rigid as a board, and her legs and arms trembled. Every fiber in her being was suddenly, and insatiably compelled to drive a fist into Desrium's head, and continue going until the armored being was thoroughly inverted and planted into the ground. No way in the metaphorical and literal hell did the Grace create something so awful. While the pantheon of eight did not heavily impact viking spiritualism, the sheer respect for honor and integrity meant a great deal of offense for Evisa, to think that the one who would strike down another god would leave... that to roam the world.

Reason won a hard fought battle in her mind, realizing that Desrium would not speak falsehoods, on the subject of the divine or otherwise. When this dawned on her, Evisa visibly deflated. "Damn. So he and his buddies aren't evil, then?"

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"Afraid not," Morialus replied. "I might be an *******, but I'm not as evil as you'd be inclined to believe."

"Great," Hex chimed in, his voice low, but not low enough to keep his comments private. "Now we're evil too, by association."

Grama's face, usually static and devoid of emotion, had a very slight frown playing across her features at this.

[C S]

Evisa waved a hand a few times and grumbled. "Don't take it personally," she assured in a not-so-reassuring way that made it clear that this was an afterthought. "'Not as evil as I am inclined to believe' implies that I'll still need to keep an eye on you, though. If you go stealing sweeties from the children, so help me..." Evisa brought herself to shake a fist at Morialus, albeit halfheartedly, still raw from the abrupt revelation. Eventually she'd be curious as to why the Grace did what she did. Not any time soon, though.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"That's not really my forte," Morialus responded, taking her jest quite seriously. "I have been known to wrestle local village deities at times, though. Or participate in tournaments with nothing but my index finger. Or help a local cult summon an all-powerful evil, only to wrestle that into submission as well..."

"So, you are a menace, just in a different way," Hex concluded.

Morialus shrugged.

[C S]

"No tournaments, no deities. You'll scare off a particular string of cowards, I bet, so we don't need to worry about you summoning anything..." Evisa tapped a finger against her metal chin, then shrugged as well. "Fine. I suppose you check out, then."

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"I'm glad we cleared that up, then," the man replied, as cheery as ever.

[C S]

Desrium said, "There wasn't any ambiguity to start with."

"I meant, he checks out with me," Evisa clarified. "If no one calls you out on your decisions, there won't be anyone to stop you from making bad decisions." Evisa took a few seconds of consideration before adding, "Yes, believe it or not, even you can make bad decisions."

Desrium did not need that reminder. "Fair enough," he replied.

"Case in point: leaving me out of that brawl, earlier."

Desrium decided it was best that he did not tell Evisa that she would have been the latest example of something reduced to dust by Morialus if she had accompanied him. A fate even worse would have befell her if Morialus had been an archdemon from the beyond.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"Are all the people here so gung-ho about fighting?" Morialus asked. "If so, I think I'm going to have a lot of fun."

[C S]

Evisa tensed again. "Hey-hey-hey now, anything you're planning will have to go through me first. I am Evisa Canton, of Vanguard. Novarah to anyone, or anything with a reason to fear me!" she proclaimed. The viking was a product of her nature, and her very specific case and quirks rendered being civil a trying task towards Morialus' predicament. She could ignore Desrium feeding off of mana -- he wasn't leeching off of her, or anything -- but Morialus needed some getting used to.

Desrium, on the other hand, glanced over a shoulder. Apparently his rung in this ladder of sorts was null and void, but again, he was silent on the matter. When she was set in the mind of a hero, Evisa could not be convinced outside of battle. Desrium admired that about her, just about as much as he was aware it was a troublesome trait.

Satisfied with her own introduction, Evisa thought it was high time she got acquainted with the city's newest batch of outlandish visitors. "With that out of the way, let's say you tell me about yourselves? I've got to admit, I'm more than a little fascinated by the whelp who speaks with the voice of a drake well along in age!"

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar sat, in the company of Syria, Ceridwen and Beshayir, in the pool he had crafted them. It had taken some doing, and even now, he had to forego his true form here, for there was neither enough room or water to accommodate him. But it was enough. Steam wafted thickly over them, and the warmth seemed to embrace them in ways even a bath in an expensive inn did not. It was just deep enough for him to stand in it up to his neck. Ceridwen had to furl her wings and keep them hanging at her flanks in order to submerge herself entirely. Beshayir was able to submerge entirely, though preferred to keep her nose above water. Even after spending quite some time travelling with the dragon and the mage, she still hadn't quite mastered the art of keeping water from going up her nose. Something punctuated by the fact she somehow always managed to cough and splutter when they bathed in this way. She did, however, enjoy it, nitpicking and nose-related watery shenanigans aside, and took special pleasure in the way Septimus had managed to make it so they had a miniature waterfall on one end of the pool, pouring and splashing soothingly against smooth rocks, before cascading around them and into the improvised bath proper.

Ceridwen twittered with satisfaction as she kept herself mostly submerged, only her eyes, horns and nostrils really floating above the surface. It was a sound that earned a giggle from Beshayir, and a cough and splutter shortly afterwards, but for once, the dragoness did not care. She was warm, she was wet, and she was at ease.

The ease wasn't entirely her own, not that she could tell. In an effort to buy himself time to come up with a good way to resolve her unrest, Septimus kept her in a bubble of peaceful thoughts. He brought forth everything he knew to calm her, all in an effort to stall for time and figure out how best to help her through her fears.

The Kraken had dealt a harsh blow to the young Maelgwyn dragoness.

On the surface, none of this showed on the Scholar, looking every bit at ease as the dragoness herself as he ran his fingers through his hair and floated over to the 'waterfall' in an effort to lose himself in the warmth. This was a good spot. It was not his and Syria's spot near Brackenvald, but to Septimus, it was good enough that it would suffice.




"I have missed so much," rumbled the Onokruun dragoness as she looked down at her talons. It had taken some time to pull together the materials quietly to recraft her tools. She had had to rely on her family and Arashi to find the old ones, while she assembled her forge. The long silvery talons were a bit rougher than she would have liked, lacking the beautiful embossed patterns of each knuckle plate leading to the talons themselves.

Now, swirling and spiralling in a blur of motion, a white hot haze of liquid metal made the very air glow as it was brought together and pulled apart once more, sparks and ash kicking up from the floor as impurities were forced out of her crafting orb. With each new wave of magical heat, the glow grew brighter, and the colour shifted slightly closer to blue, though that in itself was as much due to the inherent magic involved as the heat.

Arashi stood across from Elwen silently, observing. It was a peculiar experience, witnessing what accounted for an old master at work. He and Buruq both were riveted to the spot, eyes firmly transfixed on the Artificer-to-be and her exotic magic. Tanwen sat beside Arashi, a short distance from the work, but close to her mother regardless. They watched as strands of white hot dragon steel swirled in from a separate branch of the magical forge, coiling around the molten mist as strands of white hot metal stretched from them, fusing in the centre.

More sparks. More heat. More impurities purged from her creation.

"It is in the nature of the Onokruun to seek their benefit in their craft. Many are they who would do what Dyrineyr did, had they the power and the gall to risk my wrath should they be caught. Something for something, a favour for a favour. Benefit for...benefit. Dyrineyr sought his own benefit in this, but he would not have thrown his own soul and life on the line without incentive. No...The one responsible for this is a much stronger and braver dragon than that worm of a wyrm. The question is...Who? Who was the instigator? Do any of you know?"

Into the forge's core the haze went, suddenly pulled together to form a glowing white mass. The forge, the kiln, the cage within which the metal was stored, closed shut around it, sealing it off save for the spiralling slits in the walls of the thing, and moments later, flames spilled forth from every opening, until the forge itself shone golden.

It then cooled, and split once more. From within came an orange disk, her fingers stretching forward, shimmering talons touching it briefly before pulling back, blue strands following in their wake.

From there, the mask began to bend and stretch, taking on a shape more fitting its role. From circular, the disk began to grow into an oval, thicker and wider on one end than the other, with extensions that evened and flattened out to form what looked like horns. The snout was a smooth, curved thing, arced gently and terminating in two drooping sides that lined up with and extended below the edges of the upper jaw; parts that would overhang the lower jaw too, delicately curved into a pair of large, elegant, decorative fangs.

Moments later, the heat seemed to centralise, the middle of the 'visible' portions of the mask, the fangs, the snout, the horns, as Elwen began to trace her clawtips against the metal. At first, it was a rough groove carved directly into the supple metal as though it were mud. But with each new rune, the excess seemed to pool together, the area around it hollowing out into an indentation so that the runes themselves were the focal point of the excess material. It was as though she had gouged out the area around the runes rather than the runes themselves, and slowly, the runic patterns took shape. They were a language neither of the veterans of Tyrbenetus understood; the tongue of the Onokruun.

"Dyrineyr invested in this drake's plan. His investment must be shone to have been a poor one. Those he sided with must know that they have made a grave mistake. But I have missed so much. Too much. I do not know the strengths of those with whom I may engage. So I too, must invest in someone. And this investment must not be as foolish as Dyrineyr's."

A stream of translucent liquid rose from a stone trough a short distance away. It circled and spiralled around the mask, feeding a bubble of liquid that was soon as large as the dragoness's entire torso. Then, in one motion, it imploded on itself, closing in on the mask within in an instant. A harsh hiss and a rancid stench joined the myriad of scents that had risen from this forged creation, and small pockets of fire and gas spilled through the bubble's walls to create puffs of light and sound that, for the faintest moment, had the mask and its coating looking no different from a star, if not so bright.

It was over in a moment, after that. The oil returned to the trough, its purpose concluded, and the mask floated, all but complete, before the trio. Elwen reached forward, her silver-clad talons touching the metal as a metallic resonance filled the air, like a tuning fork that had struck a hard surface, yet didn't die out. Dark patches on the dark red mask began to fall off, the last of a cluster of impurities that were stuck to it falling off, revealing the completed mask beneath.

It was an eerily beautiful thing. When cooled it would shimmer silver, smooth, polished and shining in the light. Grooves told of where her eyes would be beneath the mask, and a third one ran across the middle of the snout, culminating between her brows and terminating in a Y shape, with the point overshaddowing a gap where a ruby would sit, filling the indentation so that instead of a sharp overhang, it was a smooth transition to the back of the mask. Around the third eye, a pair of serpentine symbols served as brackets, frames that emphasised the eventual gem and amplify its impact.

On the two fangs, crescent shaped indentations served as a background to sharp, angular runes, similar, yet to the runes of the ancient Hueilin, yet alien to it as much as that of the other clans' rune-crafting. More indentations adorned each of the six extending plates that would eventually cover the roots of the dragoness's horns.

In all, it was many times the mask she had last worn.

But she had missed so much.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

"Let's just say I'm not as young as I appear," Hex responded gruffly as per the norm.

"And I am his friend," Grama added. She did not elaborate - it seemed the girl thought that to be an adequate introduction.

[C S]

"Oh," Evisa replied. The viking was one of a select few on Aster who indeed felt that was an adequate introduction, a stark inversion of her own theatrics. To her, the whelp who wasn't a whelp was a breed of dragon from another land. He didn't match the descriptions she'd gleaned from books, so it was the logical conclusion. A breed of dragon with the tendency to be diminutive in size throughout their lifespans. Evisa even toyed with the notion that wherever the dragon hailed from, tales of ferocious winged terrors were not common. As for the girl upon whom he was perched... she seemed the simple type.

Probably from deeper in the country, born on some out of the way farm.

"How about I show you all around?" Evisa offered, thinking this a good way to learn more of Brodudika's visitors, as well as a way to make sure the big one didn't go off messing with people. She'd learn their names and listen to what stories they were willing to share as they poked around the city's highs and lows.

Desrium hummed to himself. "Older than he appears." And exuding an aura unique all to himself, to boot.

Peculiar...




And hours later, the Shaman still slumbered.

In the grips of a fever not of this world, his lips curled, and the dragon snarled. He was not looking for a fight in his walk amongst dreams. He wanted to keep them back. Things creeping towards him in a painting of twilight, too obscured by the dreaming haze for Jahkid to make any sense of. His inner being was all the sense he could rely on, and that sense told him to keep them at bay. Keep them at bay, or lose himself on this long quest. Hours to all others. Months in the Shaman's mind. Arid to frozen. Frozen to arid. And yet the landscape did not change at all. Blindness and doubt, impurities of the soul. They plagued him still.

But he wanted it. He wanted to come back.

The journey onwards was still long, and the shapes continued to evade his logical mind, refused to be interpreted and confronted. They had power in the dark, and that was fine with the Shaman. They could keep that power, as long as it was not brought against his scarred hide. He did not want to understand that plutonian will slithering about in the unknown.

That was what brought him against her. Jahkid used his waking lessons to navigate this sleeping maze without confines. Jahkid ventured into the mist, a shade carving his way through night.

Like the ripples of a boat on a midnight river, there were things that flickered in and out of his consciousness, separate from the dream. Things he could understand, made so to taunt him, it seemed. An awareness of the ground she had covered since they last met, a marathon of regard all its own. What a fearsome creature. She was surrounded by a blaze of mana's circulation but she was blind to it entirely. Her eyes were invisible arms prying at what she sought, and her body was a maw that waited to clamp down on what the arms brought it.

The web was disturbed, and along the strands the vibrations went. The spider followed, and then felt that creeping ambience indicative of rites not meant to be carried out by denizens of Leyuna.

The arms fed the mouth.

"At long last. Nothing can hide from me."

[The Kingpin]

The man sat, kneeling before a small shrine in a bedroom, in a cottage shared by none. It was one of dozens in this village, but few of them were occupied by only one person.

They would have stayed in their tents, travelling the land, had the weather not grown too harsh for this. It was a convenient happenstance that they were able to claim a village as their own. It wasn't difficult to earn their way in. Scary creatures and conjuring rituals were all well and good when they worked, but in times like these, they were forced to keep a low profile.

So they found a village in the woods. A disease had ravaged their population some months prior, and now, despite the fact the survivors had recovered and the dead had been buried, none had any intention of coming to them. The village was slowly dying. Homes lay abandoned, and leaders were losing their ability to keep the faith of their village folk. For them, the arrival of this wandering community and their exotic customs and beliefs were a godsend. Virtually overnight, the village was once more bustling and vibrant. In time, even the people of the village joined their ranks in their worship, and the leaders submitted their rank to the leaders of the congregation. Their 'god of change' and his glorious wisdom, his will and his influence, was taken as fact. He was the reason for the village's dying, as much as he was the reason for its resurrection. He was the reason that they, after nearly starving from the loss of trade with others, now had food on their tables. For he was a merciful god, and his realm was that of eternal change.

Fitting that now, they were on the precipice of a change no one, not even his most loyal disciples, could have foreseen.

This particular acolyte was a man who seemed, at least in his face and body, to be in his late twenties. His hair told a different tale. Straight fiery red locks hung around his face, fading in vibrancy closer to the roots and disappearing entirely further back to ashen grey. It was not, as many thought, the trickery of some dye. It was instead the effect of his craft, that had done this.

He sat before the shrine, devoid of clothing, as he always was in the worship of his master. Scars adorned his back, jagged gashes that looked as though he had been savaged by some animal, and yet uniform enough that they bore more than a passing resemblance to symbols. The stood out almost as much as the symbols branded on either side of every one of the pronounced spinal bones running down his back, and collectively gave him a look which was almost inhuman while laying prostrate as he did in quiet worship.

The shrine was a suspiciously inconspicuous thing, a finely crafted table atop which sat a silver chalice. The contents were not so inconspicuous, the liquid dark and viscous, swirling slowly as if it was being stirred, even though no spoon existed to do so.

The contents of the chalice would have easily been mistaken for blood. But it was nothing so simple as that. Blood was a powerful substance in the realm of magic. But even that did not give one the ability to talk to beings such as this. No. This was more than just blood.

"Your guidance, your guidance, o' Watcher of Worlds, that I may follow your will. Your wisdom, your wisdom, o' Lord of Change, that I may use it in your service. Your might, your might, o' Instigator of Strife, that I may spread your dominion."

The dark fluid started to hiss, blotches of red and gold visible beneath the surface as though it contained burning coals and white hot lumps of iron. The hissing ceased soon after, but the glow within remained. "You've done well, Kristov. Your diligence has earned you a gift. Your 'grandmaster' has grown complacent in his power. Foolish, spoiled, content. He has drifted from his duty. He must be reminded of his place; that he is neither a master, nor grand. You are to slake the earth with his blood. Show the others the error of his ways, and show them the path. None is a master. Your duty forbids it. Your congregation is one of unity. A leader among you is a guide for the others." The voice was gravelly, wet, like the voice of one who was sick, though the sheer power that seemed to drip from every syllable made it abundantly clear that nothing could be further from the truth.

"Of course, o' lord. I will guide them true in your will. We will prepare this world for your coming. Your reign will be absolute. Blissful irresistible disorder will bring low your foes, and they will find their way anew in your light. You, the true master of this world," said Kristov.

"Drink, Kristov. Drink your gift, and embrace that which I have bestowed you. And then, show that gluttonous pretender what it is to be a disciple of Necros."

Kristov did not hesitate, so strong was his faith in the Instigator. In one smooth motion, he lifted the chalice to his lips, and tilted it back. It flowed smoothly, the dark red fluid spilling into his mouth even as it hissed and burned. In moments, he was drinking liquid fire, embers and flames spilling around the edges of his mouth as a sharp hiss rose from his flesh. Diligently, he continued to drink, swallowing until the chalice was empty, before letting it drop with a clatter onto the wooden floor. He blinked, his hands touching the corners of his mouth, his lips, his chest. Unscathed.

A sudden sharp, hair raising gasp tore from his throat, long and deep, as though his lungs were starved of air he desperately tried to provide. His eyes were wide, his back arched, and a gout of smoke spilled forth from his lips, before he finally slumped onto the floor.

For several moments, he lay there, curled on the floor and unable, or perhaps, unwilling to move. Then he rolled back onto his knees, brought a foot forward, and rose to his feet. He could not feel the cold. The chill that bit at his flesh despite the walls of the house mere minutes ago was gone. He felt warm. He turned towards a mirror on the wall, examining himself. His face was gaunt, his high cheek bones pressing against the skin, his cheeks themselves sunken by comparison, as though he had been starved. Brilliant orange eyes stared back at him, reptilian slits in their centres observing with a predatory inquisitiveness. He walked towards the mirror, examining himself closer. The ashen grey hair that extended beyond the fiery forefront had become streaked with white, as if it had been bleached. Running his fingers through it, he saw that indeed, it had not been any trick of the light. It had been bleached.

He brought his fingers to his face, rubbing across his skin briefly, before looking at his fingertips. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing physical, at least. The same could not be said for what he felt within. Like a raging inferno had been lit inside him, he felt no cold. He felt as though the strength of the gods themselves had been bestowed upon him, like everything within his reach was a mere triviality in the face of his newfound might. This was the Instigator's gift.

He would use it well...


"Atrox!" called the man in his worn grey cloak. He stood in a square outside what served as a town hall, in truth little more than an inn with the grandmaster as a permanent resident.

The village grew still almost the moment he spoke. To this point, none within the Brotherhood had called the grandmaster by name. Even the grandmaster himself had introduced himself by title first, and name after. It was by that, Grandmaster Atrox, that everyone knew it. For those new to the fold, it was a curious occurrence that gave them pause. To those more deeply ingrained, it was something that chilled the blood in their veins, for none in the years since their formation, had spoken with such irreverence to their leader, their worldly avatar of Necros, and lived. It was a crime that often led to the disappearance of the one who had encroached on that sacred position's sanctity. None knew for certain but the grandmaster himself, but whispers floated behind walls and in shadows of terrible torturous deaths, a just penitence by Necros's infernal acolytes, by imps and banshees and wraiths.

It was little surprise then that, as the door of the balcony overhanging the entrance swung open, those who milled about the streets began to disappear, slipping into alleys and doorways, to their homes and shops, wherever shelter existed.

Grandmaster Atrox was a tall and imposing man. Thin in his form, but no less frightening than the most muscular guard captain or general. His trimmed beard was grey and streaked with white. His hair was long and tied back into a ponytail. In his hand, a staff as black as tar, adorned with a head of crystalline stone, formed in the shape of tendrils that spiralled around a central green orb. Or at least, that was the colour it glowed now. Normally, it was colourless and translucent.

"Something the matter, Kristov?" questioned the tall mage as a surprisingly brawny hand closed around the banister.

"Yes, Atrox. You. You have strayed," said Kristov, head lowered, his face cast in shadow by his hood. He could feel them. Atrox's hounds. His typical means of dragging away the unruly to the shadows where they wouldn't be heard nor seen. He used to be terrified of them.

But that was before he became the Instigator's Chosen.

Screeches came up on either side of him, stopping dead almost as quickly as the started. Kristov's arms had swung outwards, revealing hands that seemed to drip with blood. Two horribly deformed creatures stood just behind him, as though poised to tear his arms off. They were huge and horrific, far too monstrous to be anything natural, looking like massive, bipedal hounds, if not for the fact they also looked burned and blistered, covered in jagged spikes and fangs that grew in ways that defied the natural order.

Their sudden silence was unexpected enough that even Atrox was given pause. Crumpling to the floor, it was revealed that their heads had split down the middle, a sudden, spontaneous growth of barbs having split their skulls and torn all the way down their throats and spines. The ribs had been forcefully broken outwards from the spine, spreading out like wings that left their corrupted innards on display from behind.

"I was hoping you would do this. He had...very specific words regarding your punishment," said Kristov as his head lifted, orange eyes staring up from under the shadow of his hood. His hands dropped, still dripping with blood that could not be his own, nor that of his first victims. The 'hounds', however, remained frozen in place, like morbid monuments to the Disciple's power.

It was a sight that disturbed the grandmaster. Not that he could let that be seen. "Who is this 'he' you speak of?" he asked, trying to shrug off his embarrassing failure to intercept the younger necromancer.

"See? That is your problem, Atrox. The power's gone to your head. You don't even realise it. Who do you think 'he' is? It should be abundantly clear. Do you not worship him as I do?" asked Kristov as he held his hands out expressively.

Atrox vaulted over the banister and hit the ground in front of the inn with a thump, rising from a kneel to tower over the Disciple with his slender frame. "You speak of things you don't know, boy. You've dabbled in matters that were not yours to dabble in. You corrupt the sanctity of our faith. For that, you must be punished."

"If I am to be punished, it will be our Lord's hand that does so, for I have communed with him. And he has chosen me to strike you down," said Kristov, stepping back behind the two standing corpses, before thrusting his fists into their gaping backs.

Almost immediately, the sickening squelching snaps of rearranging bone and flesh filled the air. A moment later, he pulled his hands back, the warped spines of the hounds in his hands as he twisted them in his grip like a pair of combat staves. The ends of the spines warped into razor sharp spikes, serrated edges beginning to form along their length as the blood that soaked them set ablaze.

"Bring it, old man. The Lord of Strife thirsts for your reckoning."

Atrox gritted his teeth as he thrust a hand forward, the orb of his staff glimmering brightly as he imposed his will on the Disciple. Or tried.

“It won’t work, Atrox. I am not your puppet anymore. The Watcher of Worlds saw fit to strip me of that blasphemous affront to his will.” Kristov was smiling as he spoke, his orange eyes shining menacingly as he spun the polearms in his grasp in preparation. “Try again.”

Swinging his staff at the Disciple, the Grandmaster sent a pulse of pale green energy at the elf, viridian flames caressing the Disciple’s clothing and causing them to flutter on a non-existent breeze. “Heathen…I will destroy you outright!”

Horrible snarls rang out around the two as bushes and doorways alike were blown aside by monstrous beasts, each one more revolting and horrific than the previous.

Kristov leapt into action with shocking speed, his left hand swinging out as the polearm bent and stretched like a whip, the bladed tip cleaving the head of a bloodfiend clean off its shoulders before a second swing plunged the blade into its torso, splitting its ribcage halfway down the middle as it was frozen in place. He swung his weapon around, the creature’s corpse crumpling a second later, though not before surrendering some of its corrupted flesh to the bony, segmented flail. The weapon swung around and slashed out the leg of one other before it hit the ground, Kristov dropping to the floor on his side to evade an incoming beast, the terror’s jaws slamming shut where his head was a moment prior. In the next instant, his leg had kicked up into its flank, knocking it upwards and off to the side, winding it in the same motion. His right hand’s weapon plunged through its back while it was staggered, tearing out of its chest and ripping violently upwards until its upper body was split down the middle. Leaping back into a roll, he avoided another incoming bloodfiend and rose to his feet, a crack of the whip sending it whizzing back and pulling together as the short polearm it once was.

A fireball shot forth into the fray at the Disciple, the Grandmaster exploiting the distraction to gain an advantage, but Kristov was not quite as distracted as he appeared. In the last instant, he impaled one of the slain bloodfiends, tugging the corpse up and into the path of the fire, before hurling it at the Grandmaster, who had to sidestep to avoid it. In an instant, Kristov was upon him, his weapons coming down together, failing by a hair in their task of cleaving the older necromancer apart, the Grandmaster’s staff held dangerously close to his face.

Kristov smiled. “Goodbye, old man. Thank you for your training.”

“What?”

It was the last thing Atrox ever said. In that instant, the straight edge of the blade that made up the end of the spinal polearm split and recurved, forming several serrations each as far apart as the width of the staff. In the next moment, Kristov’s arms moved in opposing directions, one sliding a polearm inwards and downwards, as the other arm moved upwards and sideways, slashing the serrated blade of the free polearm across the Grandmaster’s mouth one way, and then throat the next. His jaw hung open, flesh rent in an instant all the way to the hinge of his lower jaw, and his tongue wriggled helplessly in a mouth that could no longer be closed.

He barely even had a chance to scream. It cut off to gurgling a split second later.

From there, Kristov kicked the older mage backwards into the dirt, the bloodfiends freezing now that their master was no longer guiding them. Kristov drove both his blades into Atrox’s chest, plunging through his lungs and out of his back before hefting him up. Walking towards the inn wall, he shouted, “This! This is what happens to the prideful! The arrogant! The greedy! This is the fate of those who believe themselves to be gods! This is the duty asked of the loyal, the worthy, by the Lord of Change!”

The thud of splintering wood was, for a split second, loud enough to drown out the gurgling cries of the dying Grandmaster, Atrox looking down in terror at his former pupil as he was pinned by his lungs to the wall of the inn. The polearms shifted inside him, serrations turning into massive spikes, firmly rooting him in place. The Disciple stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

“O' Instigator of Strife…I have done as you wished. The heretic is dead, and your people freed once more…We are yours, in your service, at your command. Your guidance, your guidance, o’ Watcher of Worlds, that we may follow your will,” he murmured lowly, head held low, hands cupped before him, surprisingly clean of the apparent blood of moments past.

"You have done well, Kristov. This traitor has been misleading my people for too long. Now he sees the error of his ways, at the end of his life. Claim me his soul, that I may see him in the nether. His reckoning has only just begun."

The voice was deep, gravelly, wet. It rumbled not only from Kristov's throat, but from Atrox, the 'hounds' and indeed, every corpse that littered the road before the inn. It was as if the flesh of the dead had warped and changed until each body was another mouth, each contributing a voice to the Instigator's command.

"Of course, my Lord. It shall be done," responded Kristov as he began to murmur lowly, a hand held forward. The barely conscious Atrox blinked as his head lolled from side to side, tongue hanging out of the slashed open mouth as he looked around at the incendiary runes that began burning first into the wall of the inn, then into his flesh, flowing ever inwards towards his chest at the centre. When the final rune carved itself into his skin and robes, a violent crunch sounded out, a fleshy spike tearing out of his chest on the rune before splitting at the tip, the sound of snapping bones filling the air as what was once a barb became taloned fingers, reaching out over his shoulders and groin. In one fluid motion, the barb-limb retracted, tearing into the flesh of the man's crotch and shoulders and pulling back inwards, the screaming, drowning Grandmaster pulled into what appeared to be a portal, a deluge of blood spilling out around it as he disappeared within, the portal sealing itself once more. Kristov, sighing, fell to his knees.

[C S]

At some point the widow of a bygone nation did not need to follow the charge of malevolence that hung over her quarry. She walked onwards, confidently, underneath the crisscrossing shadows of winter branches, assured of her confrontation with the morbid and disturbing. At some point, not too long ago in all honesty, Morrelie directed her attention away from her procedures of demon-combat and resorted to a more grounded, physical means of tracking her prey. At some point, she closed her channels of spirit and opened her ears to the carnage. A lexicon of sound that was a sort that would not be out of place from those who harken to another realm, but one that unique unto itself.

"And no longer shall the hills be silent," thought the woman of a thousand years when that carnage reached its crescendo before coming to a sudden, punctuated end. The echo carried on throughout the trees. The significance of a soul being wrenched from the world at large missed her entirely while nature reeled. Small creatures scurried with a fright, snapping twigs and rustling long-dead leaves. Morrelie paid them no mind as she marched to the edge of the trees.

The Interceptor was able to see the outlines of buildings contrasting with the organic contours of bark and branches from a distance. No walls or other fortifications, such as the case with Amplefield. She thought this was an even younger settlement than that place. It was either recent, or it was a village with a long, troubled past that was about to become even more troubled.

Morrelie stepped out of the underbrush, black eyes peering though the visor of her tightly bound uniform. Tempting though it was to make her arrival as pronounced as possible with her aura, she refrained. An exercise in moderation. Gloating had cost her a dragon thrall, and that behavior was best directed towards Desunka more than anything. Indeed, she reckoned it would reflect quite badly on her to showboat to what were essentially rats. That was not becoming at all! She held her hand over the loop of cloth that held her bone wand, ruminating on whether or not she should start torching homes and tents now or wait until she was finished eradicating the Brotherhood...

[The Kingpin]

The Millenial Mage's approach was a silent one, and thus, earned her no attention. Not initially, at least.

In the aftermath of the clash between the Disciple and the Grandmaster, silence reigned in the square. Slowly, others stepped out into the open, emerging from shelter to look at the unexpected victor of the clash. "What now, Kristov?" asked one, a young man who looked greatly undernourished, his gaunt features making his expression look even more alarmed than he actually was.

"Now, brother, we carry on our day. The Lord of Change has asked that I take charge, and has granted me the power to do so. But I will not be a grandmaster. None here rules over any other. I am his prophet. His avatar. I am the one who will pass his guidance on to you... And in so doing, perhaps we will bring his message to the rest of Aster." Kristov was surprisingly still in all this, moving very little until he concluded his statement. With that, he rose to his feet, turning around. "Go on, Carlisle. To your duties. I will speak to you again when our path is clearer, and I know of what must be done. For now, I must commune with the Watcher of Worlds."