Tyr's Fall

[Vindicant 642]

 

Spoiler

 

“Do you think this’ll actually stop him?”

“I’m not sure. We have to hope.”

 

 

---

“...a final demonstration of your loyalty. Swear. Swear you will not report what you have been told.”

 

A chorus, a resounding ‘yes’. Five Knights set their hand upon a stone, swearing themselves. They swear, condemning themselves to a fate that none other particularly understand save for a keen few. So they must, so they did. The harrowed words spoken after the swearing-- things they’ll never forget.

 

“...it was all a lie.”

“What do you think it is?” speaks a small figure. One of the Five that swore with him-- smaller, lithe. Not as fit for combat. Not as fit for service. Welcome nonetheless, for there must always be a heart in a team.

 

“...I am not quite sure.” comes the metallic and raspy response. Strangely enough in contrast, the tone was almost musical.

 

“Well that’s no good. You’re the Scholar. That’s your job-- you’re supposed to know!” come the pouting words of the smaller Knight. The Saint, as he had been titled. Dwelling within the Archives, the Knights think on what task they had been given. The Wall, standing firm and overlooking the entrance for those who would intrude. The Knight, standing vigil next to him. The Singer, fitfully snoozing and getting the last bout of sleep that he would surely get in quite some time.

 

For a while, there was silence. “...I do not know all. That’s simply my goal. This...thing. It’s not from here. There is no way to describe it, no way to really conceive it even. How was it made? How does it sustain itself? It’s a thing of pure and utter taint-- so what was it originally before that?” the ponderings of a man who thought he knew much more than he did.

 

“...It is a weapon like no other. There can be no other.”

 

A hand is set on the Scholar’s shoulder. A grunt, a shudder. He didn’t like it when people touched him. With clanking armor, his helm turns to the smaller-yet figure-- the Wolf.

 

“You’re going to do it? Carry that element of destruction to Tyr? You know what it’ll cost.” comes the matronly tone of her. A faint solace was found there-- she cared.

 

“...Yes.” uttered the Scholar.. Ever-faintly, one could detect an emotion on the Scholar’s voice-- fear. One of the few things he felt these days.

 

“Then you won’t bear it alone, my son. We’ll bear it together. As one.” A faint squeeze to his shoulder. A smile comes then, though she could not see it.

 

 

---

 

The City of Caras Eldar. Changing hands many times, with many people coming and going for reasons unbeknownst to those Five who gathered. Sleepless nights, endless preparations. And the crux of it all-- a single black box, within laying the decider of Tyr’s fate. Offering the vaguest of greetings to the gathered Descendants, the Five travel forth through the city, stepping up into a tower that was long scouted beforehand.

 

Tyr soon arrived, hordes aplenty with a thousand-thousand minions at his back. Titans of gargantuan stature, with power befitting the size they bore. But in all of it, the Descendants stood firm. The Scholar watched in amusements as the Druii utilize the flat of a blade to launch one of their own at the titan, destroying it utterly.

 

“Maybe they’re not entirely helpless.” he mutters under his breath to the gathered Vaeyl.

 

“Maybe. But they let him get this far, now didn’t they? Can’t be all that great.” mutters the solemn Wall, brooding over the task that was presented before them.

 

“Calm your mood. We all bear the sin of what is about to occur-- not just you. You may hear nature, but we can feel the effects all the same.” the Scholar states harshly. The sounds of a struggle nearby; the chuckling of the Knight. “Tyr is struggling…”

 

It all fell silent then. The Prince was enraptured. Stuck-still, unable to move. The opportunity was before them: They would not let it escape their grasp once more.

 

 

 

The ballista commandeered from the elves, they set to loading. The Scholar could even be heard muttering a prayer beneath his breath, the Wolf-- a new addition-- setting the bolt within the war machine.

 

“Forgive us.” they speak to the nature around them, as the Scholar sets the Darkseed within a chamber of the bolt.

 

“Do you think he’s watching right now? The Lord-General?”

“...likely not. But of course, his men have eyes. And they are upon us.”

 

Black-armored hands seize the sides, cranking the strings taut and readying the ballista. The Scholar nods to his compatriots,  before barking a command to the Knight. Those gathered mutter their peace, and nod. At once, they raise their voices…

 

“For the Third Banner! FIRE!”

 

And then all was black.

 

 

---

 

A thousand voices cried out in unison, and just as quickly, they were silenced. The Prince decays, tendrils of his soul tree desperately clamoring at him to reclaim him to the soil before falling still themselves. A desiccated and blackened corpse, infecting the nature around them. The once-beautiful city of Caras Eldar was infested-- masses of undead writhing from the abyssal energies, devouring the errant citizens unfortunate enough to be outside the walls. Their wails were racked with grief. Some were saved, but the hordes of undead roving and the intense chill left by the corrupted monsoon left little to be desired.

 

“...Did we finally do it?” speaks the Wolf. Their breaths were held, trepidation upon their every quivering inhale.

 

“Yes.” comes the croaking voice of the Scholar. Each of them were wracked with pain and guilt at what they had done. One moreso than others had felt the pain of what had occurred-- the Wall was shuddering, struck quiet aside from vague mutterings under his breath. He was begging for forgiveness, the normally stoic and heroic figure struck with such wracking pains left them all in realization of just how deep the damage went, both to the land and to the people.

 

Ash settles around them, falling and coating their black armor in gray. Breath came out as mist upon the inky air, and the very land shuddered in agony at what now ran through the veins beneath it’s surface.

 

“...And all of this was worth it.”

Spoiler

Big thanks to Aesopian and Xarkly for running their amazing eventlines. They aren’t done yet, but we’ve all gotten such amazing roleplay from them that I wanted to make sure they know they are appreciated.

 

[Farryn 860]

The Wolf slips off their helmet after the fight, within the secluded location they call home. A deep breath came from their lips as their single glowing eye fell shut, recalling the destruction felled upon the city. No joy came from knowing they were victorious, only guilt and unease flooded through the Wolf’s heart.

“...May the Archaengul and Aspects forgive us...”

 

((Really happy with this event, and that my efforts on creating the Ruibrium bolts rply did not go to waste! Aesopian and Xarkly did a big good!))

[PosidonX7 269]

The Knight smirked from beneath their helm as they witnessed the result of their actions, longing to find something that would entertain them. Finally, it would seem that pulling the trigger that would bring an end to Tyr, The September Prince, was almost enough; but even so... The Knight wanted more...

[Archipelego 2188]

Kasfer sneezes particularly loudly.

[osumanduas 1442]

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

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.