[PK] The Faint Stench of Tobacco Wanes

[Bhased 3588]

Spoiler

 

The Renatian Dragon

---

 

House Talraen's Coat-of-Arms

---

 

~ In Life, Purpose~

 

An alter-boy turned militant; the Talraen was conscripted at fifteen to the Renatian Legion during the War of Two Emperors after traversing the continent as a scion of GOD. He fought with blinding faith, ultimately dragged into a schism of Church and State. It was then he was indoctrinated to the Titan. Even forsaken, his faith remained steadfast, as persistent as the air of tobacco smoke that constantly followed him.

 

---

 

~ In Death, Salvation ~

 

The room was a blur, his head pounding. The air felt as if it were compressing him in his platemail, amidst the unbearable screams of combat and agony encompassing his compatriots. A moment of rest afforded as he saved Ruvaak from the expanse within the centre of the room, only to be interrupted as the Saffron Herald attempted to crush the duo. 

 

In the single moment that followed, the chamber rumbled, threatening to come down atop all the combatants within. His mind did not race through his life’s events; instead spitting out his last tobacco cigar, the man was flung through the air, soon thereafter instantly vaporized amongst his compatriots and foes alike.

 

The Renatian Dragon had been erased from this plane of existence, soul wrought from his form in the blink of an eye.

 

To the lands of Almaris, the once Holy Ser left behind two red coats, an expansive collection of cigars, and a set of Savoyard platemail worn in the Siege of Helena. The items were left within Midnetora’s room ‘pon the The Drake’s Enlightenment.

 

---

 

Holy Ser Pierre Luc Edmund Talraen de Rennes, the Renatian Dragon.

1714 - 1834

 

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

Edited August 25, 2021 by Bhased

[Werew0lf 12099]

The Inquisitor Eternal sat in some decrepit cave after the events of the fall, right arm left marked by blood; his serpentine-eyes shifted to the side, crestfallen at the death of his comrades — he remembered a certain old renatian knight who enjoyed puffing cigarettes out of nowhere.

 

“A small price to pay for salvation. You are closer to Him than even I.” 

 

 

[LithiumSedai 4845]

Within the confines of his office, Armand de Rennes perused the family records. A certain depiction of a wartime execution caught his attention, pinned beside it a portrait of his grandparents and... He blinked, immediately afterwards grasping at his temples in shock!

 

"We forgot about Pierre and Sebastian!"

[ronin_champloo 5951]

 

HE closed his eyes once more, his mind fading as he was crushed and battered, murdered before the Knight and crumbling onto ash. The Nephilim expected to awaken once more, yet he was not granted that boon. Marchosias, for his deeds, would not be granted that blessing.

 

AMIDST an inferno did was he conjured in. He heard it before he could even gaze upon his surroundings -- the countless beating of drums, quaking and tearing at his tears like sharpened daggers. Plumes of smoke and ash cradled the distant land as it stood ruptured and broken. The golden eyes peered across in the far-away spines left in this turmoil; to his right laid countless corpses and bodies, tangled bones left and decaying, no response of life within them; the sanity forgone from their ruinous cadavers, unanchored from life and death only to come husks of what once was. Sigils and ruined flags laid broken and tarnished at the volatile battlefield. Alas, in this infinite expanse of wroth was little seen -- the thick smoke and fog limiting his eyes, the only illumination being that of brazen flames in their beauty flickering within the skies.

 

A haggard breath was taken from his voice, a scream that held no sound. Idly, his broken and writhing hands met a broken piece of oak alongside the tatters of a flag; that of his sigil, the Three-Headed Drake. He'd lift it upon the sky, the ruined mark of his kin arisen with vest and intrepidity as he lumbered forth, almost limping and crawling in this painful state. His feet met the faces of the corpses, all containing the same guise that he did; that of the Nephilim, Marchosias. His gaze met the sky, countless inscriptions and scriptures adrift in this orange sea of interpretation, gnawed on by wrath and hate. The same fumes of smoke trailed from his lips as he crawled onward without direction or purpose, merely the need to suffer and await for be freed onto the material world once more.

 

THE pain was unlike what he had felt, the heat burned and seared his flesh. The burning and broken bodies rendered his limbs onto charcoal and stone. And yet, he would not be granted the bliss of death nor the freedom of mind. The same flames that he conjured gnawing at his flesh like eels. In this hell, Marchosias was trapped until the drakeshrine allowed him freedom once more. The same thoughts resurfaced; would he remember, what of his comrades and what of his Heralds? -- what would become of them as he was slain, awaiting to reform once more. No answer was granted, merely the embers and the crackling flames.

 

ALL the while, a crimson eye peered from above. Unblinking, unwavering as it was forced to relive this moment of pain and punishment for eternity, awaiting for the next time that the Nephilim perished; for what felt like weeks was merely just a day.