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[PK] Slumbering Inquisitor


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Riding hard after the letter from his friend, he made way for the site of the Inquisitor Eternal's demise. So hard that his warhorse weighted with barding and equipment fell to the bitter cold as he entered the Northern tundra. He'd rushed from Aaz Hahdrim from the island of Karinah'siol to the Northern countryside of Haenseti-Ruska, but no matter his speed nor his steed, Oliver Helane had already died. Eluitholnear was gone. Nothing more, and nothing less. Dismounting the exhausted and fallen stallion, he abandoned his belongings and ran the rest of the way. He knew it was too late.

 

So it was. He followed the nearly snowed-over footprints of a staggering form, black substance trailing behind until suddenly, he met a statue. Bizarre, the sight. Surrounded in the belongings of the by-gone Oliver Helane, Haskir froze in place. Petrified all the same, disbelief surmounted all else. He sat nearby against a tree, watching, waiting. He heard the mocking calls of the Sword of the Drakaar stuck blade-end to the soil. He almost wanted to destroy that vitriolic weapon where it stood. Ignoring it, he observed.

 

Would the statue begin to move? Was it all a figment of the imagination? Surely, it was just a mysterious circumstance.

 

It was not. The Inquisitor Eternal was not so eternal after all.

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For it was only recently that he met the man so called Elu, his appearance alone was one of the few that actually struck fear within his heart, however even then did a slight sense of admirability exist within the man’s mind. Perhaps in a perfect world he would get to know him more or perhaps even become friends with such an honorable person; but nevertheless who had the ability to experience such a fortune. 

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The newly wrought Daughter of Pruvia etched a single word into the snow beneath her feet as she traveled through the icy spikes of the frozen north. "Ssifisv." To the being she had met hours prior, yet already deeply respected. For one's journey had been completed, and yet another's had just begun.

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Upon hearing the dire news, a Nephilim, rather acquainted with the Inquisitor far beyond companionship and creed had been found weeping. For this culminated the tale of two cousins turned brothers, two swords aligned with purpose, two champions that wrought demise to their opposing foes. Zahkriikyzer had been contemplating the future for days prior, yearning an escapade from the stagnant lifestyle that these humanoids lived, and once he had found solace in his thoughts the crumbling reality came knocking on his door. Such was the way of things, and no matter what he tried, no matter how many paid for what had been done to Eluitholnear; Ser Oliver Helane, there was nothing that Antonius could do to bring him back, a point of no return, a breaking point amidst their journey, his watch had ended, his flame had turned naught. After receiving the boons and words of courage assorted by this brother of his is that the neophyte Azdrazi ventured elsewhere, away from the amalgam of otherworldly beings and bureocracy, away from the duties and lashing of steel. He went alone like he had always had been, to be engulfed in this desolation of his. He sailed for the upcoming days, weeks and months even, retiring himself into the abyss of solitude that could only be fulfilled by his partner. What a terrible fate this was, for there was not a word or thought that could calm the raging frenzy within his mind, though a decision had been made; he would abandon his previous identity, for he was no more, if a pillar on their tale had crumbled then the story was long gone, thus Antonius and Zahkriikyzer was no more, a reminder of the cruel ending that stripped him of a portion of his desire to fight on, to live onward, to be free.

 

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A depiction remained tucked neatly within his garb; a reminder of their adventures and stories, such was the only remaining aspect that the once princeling would take upon his departure, his journey in loneliness. 

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Helinathe felt an emptiness in her heart as a brother was taken from her. Perhaps, in a way, her brother would do more of God's work in the heavens than he did below.

 

"Blessed Aldric del Riviere, pray for us. I shall miss you.."

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Someplace distant and hushed, a magi mourns and revels ambivalently at the death of an old friend.

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A lone Doomforge rested himself against the Sage's Seat amidst the hallowing winds of the frozen tundra.  His weeping did not end until he had arrived, tears froze to his cheeks and tore the skin when he wiped them from his visage.  Pain.  Pain was what he felt now as he searched for answers within his ocean of thoughts.  Though, none would be found.  For he was lost.  

 

"This world has taken from me for the last time."

 

 

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A far flung echo resounds to a silent crowd, a sorcerer inventor's soul missing among infinity ... body turned to naught.

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A sudden chill emerged over the Dark Lord's spine; and he truly knew - the Crimson King had fallen. "This.. was not in my 'premonitions'.." With a widened gaze, he fell back upon his throne, a palm concealing his left eye while those crooked teeth of his clenched. "You've no parting words for me, then? No.. your message is loud and clear, Oliver! I know what I must do now." The Lord soon stood, hobbling outside in that heavy limp of his.. leaving where he had remained this whole time - a frozen land burdened by its own machinations, freakishly huge spikes of ice concealing his figure as silver wisps followed his wake.

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Clandestine within hallowed grounds, putrid crypts sealed with stone were disturbed by craven acts. Dragging in its wake an ashen corpse, that which was clad in burnt rags and charred ferrum did the robed fiend curse and sputter. A still room, rank in cavern air and sweltering decay was disrupted, the crooked figure slamming what remained of the skeletal frame upon a pile of fetid, torn cadavers. IDIOT,” it screamed, resonating within the ivory skull from which curled horns sprouted atop its head. “How these cultists of the winged titan THROW  themselves my way!” Expelling out of the horned monstrosity came tumultuous rolls of blackened smog, molting from his make.

 

No matter, perhaps all of them suffer from such.. alterations,” his creaking voice resonated in the tomb, the faint memories of corrupted dragon’s flame flashed within empty sockets. The sight had intrigued him- something which could warp the very essence of the fervent. Tenebrous haze funneled into a skeletal corpse, picked of meat save for bits and pieces left in arrogance. Slowly it began to shudder to life, a dull ember blossoming in its glassy eye. “Perhaps, more shall be made to See.”  Just as the necrotic puppet stood, its skull was smashed by taloned digits, fragmenting to pieces as its tether was split from the plane. The mad cackles never reached the surface, falling on deaf ears far beyond a field which held a lone stone statue in its wake.

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The elf looked unto a fading sun the very same day, the hills of the frigid north shrouding the setting star. The elf shifted uncomfortably as his inner flame coldened bitterly, viewing outward. His self-imposed flagellance of hoping his dim heat would give out, and he would crumble to nothing in that horrid snow. He looked through the contents of his bag idly, as trouble stirred within his very spirit. The bag was foreign to him, as he still had yet to explore Sand's belongings, for the memory was too sour. He withdrew a letter, entitled; "To Elu". The elf had these- a series of last wills his previous form had written to those his new would see after death. He'd handed out a few already; Allant, Midnetora, while withholding Elu and Cierra's - another simply entitled to an old lover still yet unopened. 

It's better I move on. I have killed someone to give myself life. I am to become that someone. Perhaps they'd like me better in such a way.

 

The Nephilim opened the letter, reading its contents idly- his face bittering as his expression would knit tightly.

 

Elu,

 

I am damned. Your doubt in "Azdromoth" and the nephilim has caused me such fear. You are supposed to be indomitable and strong. Yet, you have been lain low to doubts and anxieties. What upon Aeldin had caused you to feel so?

And why myself? Had you not accursed my family enough with this plague? Junar, Alayris, Avaeramos -- as my brothers yet they are gone. I have none left and yet you take more. This is your cycle, your eternal purpose of war. 

It is your ideal I suppose, as I have my own. My Asioth and yours. I know you feel no pity in what will meet death soon. I will not try to pry such from you. This letter is a waste. Discard this.

 

 

The Nephilim viewed the letter, his expression souring- Had Sand truly wrote this before his death? Despite what the words may have said- the feeling was not there. The vitriol and venom Sand had imbued unto his words were nothing to reality. The dark truth of Sand's lies drained the Nephilim- and this had aided. What if he had gone tomorrow? Would he even hand this to Elu?

 

The Nephilim crumpled the letter, putting it back in his bag. Like a father, like a hero- did he knew he viewed Elu. Perhaps Sand had surrendered himself to death not in fear- but to one day be akin to that Dragonkin he had admired. He was the only one who had spoken to the Herald - the only one who had told him truly how he felt.

 

That was the companionship he so desired. The truth he simply craved. That Elu would not lie, for he had everything to lose- and yet he did not lie to that woeful Herald Sand.

 

 

Furcalor, Ruvaak, Sand, Caradryel - many names had the dragonkin chosen and not chosen. Each to their varying degrees of truth to who the elf actually was. Yet he did not fit with any of them - the Nephilim was not Furcalor, it was what Marchosias had chosen for him. It was not Ruvaak, for it was what he chose to spite Marchosias. It was not Sand, for it is what Junar had given him. It was not Caradryel, for it was Sand's true name. 

 

He was not Elu, nor would he ever be. The Nephilim did not understand Sand's desire to be like him, yet to kick and thrash so violently when he was to get what he desired. The Nephilim did not understand why he would hate the one who would give him all. Nor would he decide to give Elu that letter which condemned him so. He took in a breath of the frosty winter air, the cold painfully wracking his form as he continued his penance. He considered what Elu would think of him now- while off fighting in some glorious battle amidst smoke and salt, the elf was sitting in the far north, hoping to die of exposure as a craven than to at least bear dignity to take his own life. 

 

He hated himself, then. Yet he always did. The Nephilim was a troubled thing. A fickle representation to the power and pride that he was supposed to be. 

 

 

 

Elu wished unto the elf in life, death, and life again, that he would one day become like him- Inquisitor Eternal, to explore the endless seas and skies and to soar as deity among men. Yet here he was, atop a lonesome hill with the bleeding daylight, freezing in winter winds. He grunted to a stand, The Nephilim hefting a heavy hammer over his shoulder- Whispers of The Archdrakaar, the greatblade of his mentor- steadily held unto his back within sheath.

 

 

Today is the day I become myself. I'm going to speak to you, Elu, and we will achieve our Asioth together. Brother by brother. Your blood and mine.

 

The elf exclaimed proudly unto that sun which had set, the darkened sky being the only to hear his voice. He felt stupid, speaking alone. To where nobody would hear. Even Elu, as he passed in those moments. 

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Ser Reinhardt Barclay lamented at the loss of his brother in arms, and would miss Ser Oliver and his renowned combat prowess. The Meyster knight signed the lloraine and said a prayer for the Knight’s soul

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