Perfection Is But A Cruel Myth.

[Geo 1415]

 

 

As Naruntah sat upon the spire of Embermoor, he quietly contemplated the goings on in the world.  The good, the bad.  The evil.  Iblees... banished once only to return, could we really stop him?  Naruntah began to doubt himself and his efforts.  Had everything he had done been for nothing, would we never truly defeat the world breaker?  This truth began to sound more and more comforting to him each time he said it. Perhaps this was not what he was truly destined for, perhaps it was all self glorified nonsense that he himself had built up to give himself purpose and to give those around him purpose.  Was he truly a herald of the creator?  All those teachings of necromancy in the holy creators name, was he simply kidding himself on?  No.  No he believed it truly, to the ends of all things.  The creator was the final divinity, the end of all things.

 

Yet Naruntah was simply a pawn, a useless pawn.  He had no true power of fate.  He was not perfect like the had supposed.  Perfection is but a cruel myth...  He was once an innocent human boy, a face of white paint and a quill in hand.  Nothing could harm him, and he could harm nothing.  Things were simple... things were content.  At what point did he really go downhill?  At what point did he believe himself to the the chosen of He, who creates all.  All that really ever happens in these stories of chosen ones are blind misleading, and he knew it, truly.  Facing this reality was becoming a harder task than he thought.  He was too deep in it now to turn back.  He had revived the sacred art of necromancy and spread it accross the world, he had locked his soul into the Yir'Sari stone for immortality and donated his own body to the Wraith god in trade for the grandest power.

 

But did he really want this?

 

Naruntah suddenly stood from his chair, taking the sacred blade Urthandl from under it and holding it in his hand.  He would not remain in this mortal plane any longer, yet he could not trust the other wraiths after he had departed.  Angry, confused, and fearing for all that he ever knew, the wraith set out from Embermoor alone, without disguise and with the most holy of blades in his grasp.  After hours of searching the southern hinterlands of Athera Naruntah came accross what appeared as nothing more than a few empty tents, however he knew truly that this was the place he was looking for.  A group of armoured men, clerics no less, sat at their camp as they gathered their strength from a previous encounter.  "ROSENCRANTZ." Naruntah spoke to them with a loud, alert voice, and the afforementioned cleric turned to face him.  It would be hard for Naruntah to explain to these men of devotion and righeousness, as they thought very linearly, to them Naruntah was an enemy...

 

Naruntah explained that he would break his shackles which bound him to this plane and ascend to the seven skies with the rest of the descendants.  At first the clerics assumed the encounter to be some sort of trap, as Naruntah had come wielding the blade Urthandl, which clerics and necromancers had warred over for decades.  Naruntah placed the blade into Rosencrantz hand, and its swirling energies turned from dark into light.  With his men still cautious, the cleric approached Naruntah, now knowing of the origins of the wraiths, and his own connection to the creator's faith.  They would go through with an excorcism, using the holy blade, to force Naruntah's wraith Chrodraeos to rise to the surface.

 

After making a final request, that his death be reported to Blundermore Windraker, the creature was parted from his former and current self, and the embodiement of Chrodraeos finally came to the surface.  The clerics readied as best they could, but stalwart and ready to face the might of the eldest necromancer to date.  Chrodraeos began spouting lies and heresy at their faces about the end of the world, that fear and death would crush all things.  They were not swayed at all, however before their very feet the soils turned black, into horrible slush and goo as the land itself began to die around them.  Alert, Rosencrantz thrust Urthandl into the ground, as the holy light within it split the taint from the soil, beginning to drive it back.  Skulls began to be seen amongst the sludge, slowly revealing themself inch by inch, and each cleric in tow drew their weapons ready for the threat of risen undead.  Blows were struck to and fro, however the skeletons were strangely unarmed and weak.

 

Then, all at once, the corpses began to rise into the air by the work of a powerful force before slamming together, red sparks flew from the mess as they began to fuse together to create some sort of giant bone titan.  At once the clerics repositioned themselves, ready to cut down the machination.  As it slowly lugged around, throwing armoured men left and right, it got weaker and weaker with each blow, as weapons of gold carved into its structure.  With a large bout of holy fire, thrown like a javellin through the air, the wraith was struck out of the sky.  Chrodraeos fell before Rosencrantz, in a moment of weakness, on its knees.  It looked up to the mortals before it and as this happened the cleric thrusted Urthandl into its dark maw.  Pure light began to tear the creature apart, and it began to erupt with deaphening screaches of pain and disbelief.  The black wraith began to deteriorate in front of the party, leaving nothing but the Carbarum Scythe of Naruntah in its place. 

 

Across the grass, a frail human body lay, face to the sky.  White face paint covered him from chin to forehead, with large purple eyes in the shape of crosses.   The body was devoid of life, simply laying there to fester, as the shackles binding Naruntah'Jynx were finally lifted.  He had returned to the seven skies to be with his maker.

 

Today marks the end of Naruntah'Jynx, first necromancer of the second generation, Yir'Sari of judgement, harbinger of Gravelord Chrodraeos, and The Perfectionist.  May he rise again, anew.

 

Edited:31/01/2015 

[Nug 2011]

Nug weeps ethereal tears as the news of the notorious mime's demise spreads through Athera.

 

ooc : stop killing off all ur characters >:I

[VampsWillDie 76]

Gwendolyn takes a day or two to just...stare at a wall, really. She can barely believe it.

 

At some point she sighs, looking down.

 

"there goes another great person..."

[Tom_Whiteman 949]

((Does this nullify Necromancer contracts?  ))

 

Zogrocka/Kraal/Alrian all weep for Jynx's death. +_+ R.I.P

[Areon 947]

 

Malice feels dread, but doesn't know why.

 

(( And thus falls the last friend of Malice ))

[Drak3 442]

A lone Frost Witch weeps tears of slush after hearing of her Lord's demise.

[Zarsies 6795]

 

"̠̜̥̙̎͗̔͗̋͡H̘̙͍͓̋̾ͪͨ͐̕m̭̦͇̱͇̗̳̜̍ͦ́m͐ͧ̍̄҉̷͈̥̮͖̥̝̹̘̺̕.̳͙ͭͬ̕͠.̗̼͕̘̗̖̣̜̪͆ͧͭ̃̏̂ͩ̇͡.͚̻̜̠͉̗͔͐ͧ̀"̙̪̺̟́̃̆ͭ͒̄ͮ͞͝

 

The World Breaker spoke in a false collaboration of cognitive activity, disguised among stray thoughts in the manifestation of an abyssal, fiery articulation. A bona fide contradiction of existence imposed by the Arch-Daemon, the voice gave its words nonetheless in the brittle boy's mind. Ascension to the clutch of a Daemon or Aengul imposes numerous effects upon a soul, chattels to a great state, and none are used as little as vocalization. Surely great meaning must lie under the occurrence.

 

"̸̴̪̥̣̘͉̔͗̀͠ͅY̯̳̖̘͕͒̓͑͞o̧̝͕͚̿̃ͬ̉ͪ͂uͬ̔͛̍̃̏̚҉͏̻͠r͙̩̱̣̦͙̬͓̩̎̈͑́ ̻̗̘͙̹͒͂̾̂̿b̻̝̹͌̒͑̃̄̅ͫl̲̜͚̖̱̺͊̅̎̑́̚͟o̸̭͚̪̳̠͉ͨ̾ǫ̰͓͕͓́̿̄ͧ̑͂̊̋́d̬̪̲̑̆ͣ͘l̶̩̫̻̙̱̞ͩ̇ͨ̋̇ͩ̄̈́ḛ͕̬͙̔ͭ̓̾ͬ̐͘͢s̴̝̟̤̋͝͝ś̡̨̥̺͓̍̊̀̚ ͍͔̺̳̿̃ͫͮ̑ͭ̈e̯̝̱̊ͦ͐̓̕͞i͉̼̖̤͓͔͖ͮͣͤ͊͗̿ͣ͞d͖̙̖̗̼͂̅̽͆ͥͫ̓̚o̰͙̺̘͉͎͆ͩ͌ͭͪ̉͋l̜̗ͬ͊ͤ̈́̐͂ͤ͝ö̢̩̳́̓͗̈͐̚ņ̤͉͍͐͑ͥͨͨ ̴͔͊̒́h͗͏̭̠̞̬̟a̵̸̤̅̏s̲̹̳̭͉ͧ͟ ̻̣̾̂f̸̧̖̩͙̣̬̼̠̼̊ͫ̂͛ͨå̫͙͔͒̔̿l̵͕͎̺͖͙̺͕͇ͥ͒ͣ͘l̃ͫ͗͏̞̜͉̝͈͔̯ḙ͉̲̗̭̔ͬ̒ͤͤ̒ͥ̿̕nͬ̉ͣ͛͌̔͏͖̬͈̯͕̮̠̞.̆҉̩̹̜̺̯͎ͅ"̭̣̬̭̹͒ͬ͐͐̃ͮͭ̏

 

As a coil under Iblees, a soul risen twice over under the tainted hand of the deity and a lich of His magic, the child had not the body for much reaction. A deceitful silhouette was imposed upon the youngling, keeping his previous form in an artificial and dishonest manner. But, regardless of his crippled and entropy-imbued state, a very primal physical reaction shook that same frail and spindly body that once clung to the sides of an equally violet and violent mime; the boy shivered. Even to a being, lost in the woes and agony of life, trapped to forever serve Pain, of a mind like broken mirrors, and a body just as starved of the love and perquisites life gave, a primitive and raw emotion struck at the fibrous element he was composed of. It was no irrational spur such as anger or rage, neither a childish mental delusion like teenage love, but it was true and strong and just as conscientious and fair as the ideals that drove the one who brought this feeling upon the weak child. It was the pinnacle of what the Demon stood for. The soul of his soul, the purpose to his purpose. The five lone words brought a degeneration of an already unfathomably low life. It was the construct of Pain that was stabbed into the boy. Anguish, Woe, Agony, and Misery reared their eldritch heads and gave a long, toxic lick of shearing metal and razors against the mind of the Demon. Pain trickled within him.

 

Silence brewed in the mind of the youth, the same silence that embodied his anemic framework. Omnipotence was not his savior, and ignorance his sanctuary. A budding of blackened, charcoal-toned liquid blossomed like a gruesome flower at the false tear duct of the boy, and twin streams of inky fluid drained down his pale, powdery, and skeletal features. Onyx stained the pure white of his face, and the rivers kept their soundless, traumatizing leakage. Neither the flames of the Nether nor the magma lakes of Drauchriem held back the capacity for the energy and flurry of activity that stunned and exploded within the child.

 

"̺̪̦̝͔͉̤̓̍ͣ͑͞Y̩͚̙̲̹ͭ̾ͣ͆͂̓̃e̶̢̙̠ͣ̑͌̉͒ͧͤs̶̃̆ͮ̾҉͔̥̗̝̰̪̯̳̗.̦̩̪̠̘̼̻̰̓͑̿"ͦͪ̔̿ͫ̍̐͏̛̮̯̗̬̣

 

The voice indicated, rumbling down at the core of the adolescent. A time after, the mauve and magenta body of the Overlord swept through the mire of Embermoor, weaving into the muck and brine that inhabited the marshland at the dead of night. In a small den of overhanging foliage draped in veils, curtaining the salty mud below, the feeble body of Sprat knelt down to a patch of thorns and snaking vines. With a careless motion, the Demon plunged his hand into the bush, bearing wounds that did not bleed, and retrieved a pair of bloomed, just past ripeness, and just slightly withered Aterflos; two black flowers. He broke off the lengths of their stems and brought them to his lips. With use of his protracted talons, the youth weaved the blossoms and the smallest cuttings of their stems between the black wires that lie stitched between his lips, one opposite the other in placement of symmetry. With a claw he rose a digit and ran the prick of his nail alone the bottom line of his chin, running it horizontally from either side. He dropped his hands and gloomily cast his gaze over to the bleak tower that stood over the swamp, in the Adherency’s center and the ever looming shimmer of the moon caught his face for one to see the Demon; a pair of blossomed swampflowers, underlined by a line of black blood, marked his face.

 

 

 

+ _ +

[GDPR 014 48]

The dark robed being stares at the ground as news spread. A hand clenching at its side, finger tips of metal and leather digging into a leather clad palm. Its mask raises its head after some time, though the visage underneath it is struck with a bewildered look. its lord, Jynx, has fallen by those who the figure assumed thought with their blades rather than reason. And once its gaze fixated on the warped trees of the Embermoor, the frame exhaled a short sigh. It then turned on its heels and walked off. 

 

"...Damn them. The mindless fools." The frame utters in its ambling.

[Parkins 550]

Ger'Veran walks within the quiet spire, glancing at things he's spent a good portion of his life with now, before reaching where he first signed the contract, binding him to the life he chose. He picks up a skull, which lies idly on the ground, watching with it's hollow eyes. He bends down, taking it within an ungloved hand, as he looks it over from behind his mask. A blackened substance begins to flow within the veins of his hand as he holds it, taint soon corrupting the skull. He suddenly turns, throwing it with all the might he can muster as it's brittle frame cracks into pieces against the stone wall. He glances around once more, before silently walking back toward the exit, his mask hiding any emotion he might have.

[rukio 8924]

Upon hearing the news, Wither sighs. "Ye weren't so bad." She thinks to herself, burying a white mask in remembrance for him. She then continues playing her violin, retreating from the world and once more into her isolation, this time however, her song is slower and sadder.

[Lita 677]

A stone-hearted mali'aheral of no relation to Jynx finds herself weeping inexplicably.

 

[Mephistophelian 977]

"Time does not linger for anything." Haskal muses, a single finger drawing two, cross shaped eyes into the ground. "Ironic, poetic...sad.."

A hollow chuckle scrapes out from the darkened hood. "And so falls the first."

[Blundermore 2741]

*Receives The staff of Judgement*

 

"And then there were two"

 

*He mumbles to himself as he walks back to his tower with the Scythe in hand. 

[Tom_Whiteman 949]

 

​           Alrian gives a soft weep. He never know Jynx that well, he just knew him as the ghost which he sold his soul to. He mutters a few words in a small anger, he forgot the creature's name. Disappointed how he abandoned the Coven and the wraith. He never saw him after those few months he spent living in the spire, and he felt he was truly a good... man... Man or not, he felt as if Jynx could bring change back to the world. Lorien and Alrian's parents died whilst they were fairly young, it'd be safe to consider this wraith to be Alrian's true godfather. 

[Huh 91]

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