End Anthosia

[Neri 3590]

The tidings came at first fleetingly, as word of mouth traveling across the land. Worry-darkened faces gathered closely under dim torchlight in taverns and homes, all of their idle banter and discussions dispelled with the grim spectre of the recent news looming over them.  

 

"Anthos is dying."

 

The phrase clung in the air like a bitter broken promise, a slight on the memory of all whom had died beating back the Scourge over the past half-century, the hundreds of lives given to secure the next dawn for the free peoples of Anthos now feeling as if in vain.

 

Then, the earthquakes came. Great, rolling booms like sea-ice cracking in summer echo across the land as the earth was torn asunder by powers malignant, the shattered land weeping bubbling magma between the cracks of its shattered visage. People flee before the storm, each crying of doom and death. Apocalypse, they say. The End.

 

Great droves of refugees left the capitals, weeping their goodbyes to home and hearth, long caravans passing through the land towards the west, towards the Temple and the portal to the Fringe beyond. To some relief, none in those great caravans find themselves beset upon by beast or bandit, both of such fleeing for their own lives, caring naught for any desire but to live.

 

As the final refugees entered the temple, the architects of this devastation reveal themselves. The Scourge, in all its perverse glory storm the temple, the lands behind them wilting as life itself was corrupted and twisted to the Black One’s will. Bolts of ice and slithering, cloying darkness rained down upon the refugees as they cry for aid.

 

Their cries do not go unanswered. Scores upon scores of soldiers, of all races, callings and creeds charge forth from the Lucienist’s Gate, cutting down rank after rank of blackened skeletons, battlecries merging into a chaotic, hope-surging roar. The mortals formed up around the gate, Orcs, Elves, Humans and Dwarves rubbing shoulders as they braced against the oncoming storm of bone and black.

 

Behind them appear a retinue of Golden Lances, clad in resplendant shining gold, whom without falter leap into the fray, raining down spears of holy light upon the corrupted invaders, scouring the corrupted earth clean of taint wherever they struck. Great cheers went up, the army’s morale infused, all grudges and differences set aside in this one brief moment.

 

The army surges forth across the broken plains, ruthlessly crushing Setherien’s minions below axe, sword and shield. Arriving at the Temple’s gate, they form up into a defensive line, archers and spellcasters taking up positions on the sandstone gate, no pause given before slinging a hail of death onto the minions and Harbingers beyond.

 

Setherien’s lieutenants buckle under the relentless onslaught, retreating back across the corrupted magma plains to their conjured fortifications, raining their own despicable twisted spells upon the mortal ranks. The soldiers fight valiantly forwards, halting momentarily as they take the brunt of a second conjured army comprised of plague-carrying minions, whom sweep in from the flank and crash against them like a fetid wave.

 

The mortal lines buckle under the surprise attack, and the army is torn into two, those caught ahead courageously diving headlong into the magic-torn lands, hacking down score upon score of tainted beast until they reach the scorched base of the Harbinger’s tower. Without a moment to waste, the haggard and injured soldiers climbed the pinnacle, shrugging off blasts of tainted energy and the blades of Minions, until they became locked in close combat with a desperate band of Harbingers, whose magic served only hinder them in such confined space. Black barbed swords slide from scabbards as the Harbingers screamed their curses and engaged the battered band of soldiers in a frenzied melee.

 

After what seemed like an eternity of bitter combat, a great roar of victory echoed out across the plains, the tenacious mortal band striking down the Harbingers one by one, before many of their fellows collapse from exhaustion of the battle. However, the battle was not yet won. One man peers to the east, his eyes filling with horror at what he sees.

 

“T-TIDAL WAVE!” he cries as he scrambles amongst the confused band of soldiers to try and escape. The ranks of mortals collapse in upon themselves as they flee from the wave as it consumes foes living and unliving alike, felling the centuries-old forests around like matchsticks underfoot. The battle turns into a rout as the mortal army scatters, hurriedly retreating back to the Temple grounds, where they form up once more in a panic. No man was without an injury at this point, many barely managing to stand. In the midst of a line, one might see a necromancer fighting back-to-back with a cleric in a moment of hopeful alliance, all kin of Anthos brought together against the Black threat.

 

When all thought that the battle could go no worse, a soul-wrenching scream echoed across the sky, blasting away clouds and billowing clouds of choking ash. The hope of the mortals quells like a candle in a hurricane as a dark spectre falls from the sky unto the land, the winged abomination Malghourn tearing apart the ranks of the Anthosian army without mercy with vicious tooth and ragged claw. Arrows rain upon the scaly hide of the creature, clattering and glancing away without causing an inkling of harm. The fiend wrenches open its great maw, a gout of black scorching fire blasting away a swathe of the army, leaving only charred bones in its wake.

 

However, hope was not yet lost, as the gaps in the line were closed by a band of Lucienists led by one Grandmaster Rovin, who shouted praises to the Creator as he charges forth and buries his blade into the beast’s neck, joined on one side by a Strelt wielding axes with the grace of a crazed butcher and on the other side by a Snow Elf whom yelled his oaths to his deity Wyvrun whilst cleaving away with an ice-rimed longsword. Under the combined might of the trio, the creature howls in pain and tenses its legs, launching itself into the sky, the blast of air knocking down many a rank of mortals. Those soldiers remaining standing harry the Drakaar with arrow and spell as it retreats to a safe distance in the ashen sky. The field battle resumes, the Scourge’s ranks replenished thanks to the distraction granted by the Drakaar.

 

The wave draws near as the forces face off in brutal close combat, before a shout by the men manning the gate draws the ragged army to its senses “The wave comes! Within, within, before we close the gate!”. The ranks fall back, many paying dearly with their lives for every foot they retreat. Before long, all the forces fight within the gate, the bottle-neck granting them some respite against the flood of darkened skeletons that fall upon them in droves.

 

At the front of the ranks stand a group composed of a few of each race and Lance alike, fighting savagely as the others flee to safety. “Go!” they shout “We shall hold them off! You must get to the doors and close them!”. Fortunately, it would seem that the mortals were not so eager to abandon their heroes, so they hold the Doors of Eternity as the front line is beaten back down the mineshaft, even as floodwaters pour within. Spellcasters try to halt the flow with evoked ice and conjured shield, but the sheer might of the surging tide halts any such attempt.

 

At last, the forces draw back to the quartz doors laced with gold. They enter the sanctum, and with the great heaving of a dozen strong men, the doors to that sacred place grind shut, the sound of booming waves shaking the hall as the wave crashes to a halt.

 

And thus Anthos ended, with the eyes of a hundred mortals peering through the gloom at the vaunted doorway, mourning all they had lost, as others still looked behind at the portal to the fringe, contemplating their futures in this new and strange land. It was the end one of era, and the beginning of another.

 

----

 

 

 

Meanwhile, one may see amongst the battered gathering forms garbed in black robes and hoods, whom carry packs that faintly glow with blue and leak tendrils of freezing air. The battle was over, but the war was only beginning.

 

----

 

That event yesterday was great, although some slight trolling with the squids and other spawns was a little dampening. I hadn't written for ages, so I decided to write an account of the battle. It is not one hundred percent correct though, so forgive any slight discrepencies with your own experience of it! PS. Don't blame me if my writing is a little rusty.

[Jistuma 1996]

((It's a tunnel not a portal... why do people still think it's a portal? Otherwise nice read))

[Neri 3590]

((It's a tunnel not a portal... why do people still think it's a portal? Otherwise nice read))

((

portal¹

ˈpɔːt(ə)l/

noun

 

1.

a doorway, gate, or other entrance, especially a large and imposing one.

))

[Jistuma 1996]

((

portal¹

ˈpɔːt(ə)l/

noun

 

1.

a doorway, gate, or other entrance, especially a large and imposing one.

))

((I stand corrected =P. The read is actually quite accurate then, and very well written, glad you enjoyed it.))

[Elfen_ 232]

((Yeah, you sure showed him Freya.))

[dude 230]

((

portal¹

ˈpɔːt(ə)l/

noun

 

1.

a doorway, gate, or other entrance, especially a large and imposing one.

))

 

((the burn is real))

[Samson Option 9652]

((

portal¹

ˈpɔːt(ə)l/

noun

 

1.

a doorway, gate, or other entrance, especially a large and imposing one.

))

[[

Iceland: 1

Portugal: 0

 

Headstrong Female Gamer: 1

Argumentative Lore Master : 0

]]

[Jistuma 1996]

[[

Iceland: 1

Portugal: 0

 

Headstrong Female Gamer: 1

Argumentative Lore Master : 0

]]

((I let portugal down... For shame... for shame... Forgive me immortal land...))

[John Ivory 4546]

Fyodor, along with others, finish delivering the last of their items to their new home in the Fringe. He stops, looking out over the land.

"Mayhap Godan will prove this land worthy of us, but I fear not. I miss Anthosia already."

[Shadeleaf 1021]

((

Excellent post, sums up everything perfectly actually.
And the squids may have actually been foreshadowing to a future event

Just saying
Don't judge x.x

))

[3andD 1722]

 

 

 

"Privej, my Lord Crow." says the winding earthmother, "Rise now, Crow. The Era of the Dragon comes to an end." hums the Renatian Orphan.

 

"Your sword, my Crown-Prince." bows the blacksmith.

 

 

"Anthos, da. My homeland, home of good-Kralta. Do you Remember Joferiek?" he asks, "Da." The child replies, "Baker of good bread." The father smiles, looking out onto setting sun of the Fringe. "Now sleep, young-Crow. Dream of old-Anthos, dream of good-Kralta and big-'bresi." echoes as the child passes into sleep.

 

 

 

OOC:

[ Cheers to everyone I roleplayed with on Anthos, had some great times 8) ]

[firespirit44 1323]

A single weathered man stands upon the hill, as the Doors of Eternity slowly but surely closes by the denizens of Anthos, or rather now the Fringe. 

 

"They did it." 

 

He says with a slightly awed voice, seeing Ser Rosencrantz and the last of the Lucienist, dwarves, humans, and elves waddle out of the tunnel, soaking wet, but at least it did not spill into these lands. 

 

"There will be more to come. For the Black Wyrm certainly does not reside in Anthos......"

 

And with two snaps of his fingers, he leaves the without a trace.

 

((Beautiful read. Thank you.))

[bickando 3967]

Synaria sits on the road, watching the soaking wet warriors retreat into the Fringe.

 

((So we were flushed down a toilet by a tidal wave? Good read, though.))

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.