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[PK] Slumbering Inquisitor


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Donald the Damned took off his green fedora and placed it over his heart. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered the good times he had shared with this noble man during the Sutica war, and he had to lift his stylistic eye patch to stop it from getting wet. "Another good man falls today lads..." Silence followed as the Hangman looked around at the tombstones and cremated remains that served as his audience. "Goodness me..."

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MARCHOSIAS sat upon an ivory throne, wings shrouding and stretching around the room -- banners and colours, hanging and draping down the room. A haft of smoke trailed from his lips, eyes dour as he leaned back. It felt lonelier, and the fireplace more dim. One day, he'd fall under the same fate. It was joyous to imagine.

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Farewell Kinsman, Until His Flame Engulfs.

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~A depiction of the Nephilim Balthazar, Scorched of Azdromoth with his son and soon to be herald Kassian Nullivari encountering a kinsman out in the desert badlands. Circa. Unknown.~

[!]

Perhaps it was the note in which the Inquisitor Eternal had left for him, brief yet comforting in its welcome to the fold as the new nephilim trudged onwards with his son clad in armour behind him. Perhaps it was an understanding of the corruption which one Eluitholnear, the Inquisitor Eternal battled daily that the newborn understood all too well. Through distracted mind raced thoughts of how he could have acted as potential sanctuary and salvation to his zeymah. For it was the duty of his old self, that accursed self, that tortured self, that corrupted self... That damned self of Thalon Nullivari whom was no more and replaced by the Nephilim Balthazar's duty to act as guide for these matters as he once was corrupted far more than mortal man now could imagine, save but two of his past brothers-in-arms that still rotted away on the realm hiding from he who once corrupted his Father. 

     Perhaps it was him having his family of which he had always dreamed of now, which caught him in a momentary pause as feet ceased to move underway and his son slammed into the back of his armor with a grunt, looking towards his father with inquisitive eyes. Balthazar reared head where ash fell from the crown of Maerec, The Scorched that rested idly upon blonde hair and where ash and cinder fell, only but bone white horns remained where hair once was and the Nephilim released a roar of flame into the canyon in rage. He was once necromancer in ages past, he was once undead before then, now redeemed by his old general and Father, his hatred for his old kinsmen swelled within him and he knew what he had to do. He had to embrace the thing he ran from, the past thing he was, yet this time wield his experience and knowledge to avenge his zeymah, his brother in the Inquisitor Eternal, his brother Eluitholnear. 

 

"I will come for them. I will hunt them. I will used damned artifacts to torture them and their families. I will slaughter them in the name of my fallen Inquisitor."

 

Spat forth the words of Balthazar, only to be followed by:

 

"Farewell, Inquisitor. Farewell kinsman, until his flame engulfs. I shall avenge you until that day occurs and educate our brothers and sisters on the forces they face as I was once one of them who brought you to stone. We will use all their knowledge against them. Rest well. I envy you, but my work, your work, is not yet done."

Edited by _Sug
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Mirwuldsetiid stared out to sea, hands gripping the railing as he heard of the news. Before, sadness may have overtaken him as he heard of the man who had set him on this path's death, but now, there was naught but a feeling of grim determination to see things through.

 

Meanwhile, Flemius wondered what became of his knight, intent on seeing the Knight trials through!

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Avius Csarathaire, most fervent servant of the wild gods, abhorrer of all their foes and slayer of the corrupt, always carried a paladin's blade these days. Its anathaemic presence grated on the Wood Elven warrior, he would much rather carry a weapon whose superlative might originated in his deities of the forest and of the Mali, rather than relying on the prideful god of the Xannites. Nevertheless, he needed it. He needed the purging weapon not for mere ghouls and ghosts. He needed it not to cull the ranks of demon or monster. He needed it in case the Titan's slave-kin came again to slay those about whom he cared, with their fire and their ferocious Drakaar-wrought magicks and their brute strength.

 

Still, despite the enflamed paranoia and the hidden seed of fear Avius had of these draconic creatures, beings whose assault had almost ripped his beloved away at Taynei's beacon, he couldn't help but come to a silent stop when whispers of the Azdrazi-monarch's fate seeped throughout the land. He gazed across the nearby landscape, contemplating. There was no camraderie between them, they had not even met. Avius did not like this draconic abomination, nor did he truly trust any of them. But a flame of respect rose in the 'ame's mind, and he offered up a martial prayer to the hunter-god.

 

"Better to meet the end than fall to corruption."

 

The Cinder Druid remarked, sword held firmly in hand, a typically dissatisfied grimace on his tattooed face.

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Two flames dangled from the eyes of Gamling. Trudging amongst swamp and wetlands, brandishing a sword of fire, he was not privy to the final message his brother-in-flames had left him, though he could feel a shudder in his heart - an unnerving flicker in his inner flame. He paused for a moment, but cast off the feeling with a shake of his head, and carried on in his hunt. Though he did not let it betray his features amongst murky waters and groves, he felt as a shadow had crossed his path, and left him with a cold feeling in his frame. 

 

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Ser Alric Ruthern dragged his boots through the Rimeveld Wasteland, showing lack of comfort in the knee-high snow. It had been weeks since the death of Ser Oliver, one of the first men in which he squired into his Knightly Order, yet at his own recluse he had not heard the news. Minutes away from his sanctum, the old Haeseni Knight caught sight of a crow, swooping in and emerging through the thickset clouds, clawing onto a letter; the news of death.

 

The volatile eyes of the Ser drooped at the final words of the letters, immediately bringing a blazing rich-red of flames to his throat and unleashing waves upon waves of dragonsflame. It brought him to his knees, into a decrepit state, and within that enervated plight Alric found the resolve to seek life away from his reclusive sanctum. "To hell with it," called the Knight at the top of his lungs, headed back to the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska, promising a vow to fulfil the wishes that Ser Oliver would have wanted for him. H

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Majestic Willow' Posters | AllPosters.com

 

Upon arrival to meet the demise of her beloved there were no words to be shared, the silence only broken by panicked breaths and slow footsteps. As she approached the base of his statue her hands smoothed outward, taking his own for but a moment. Unlike the usual roughness and history to his hands, they were soft-polished.. and so cold. Watery eyes flicked to view his expected glare or strict expression, only to find a certain peace about him. She had never seen him so peaceful before, not even when relaxing in the hot sun, or when they would go on walks through the Haense countryside, or when he taught her to use such gift he gave her. 

It was this peace what haunted his Widow so, the nail in the coffin that really struck that he had passed and he would not be coming back to her. She had waited nearly two decades for him before in his return - and that alone felt like forever. Nothing would prepare her for this. 


"You were supposed to be Immortal!" The woman screeched as she stepped away from the statue, her pain spilling from her cheeks as she stood before him, fists clenching as she continued her ire against him. "You were supposed to be the strongest, the one no one could end.. I was supposed to not have to worry about you!" Whimpering the woman paced as she smoothed her curled locks back to try and get some sort of comfort in the heavy air, her ire then turning to begging- pleading, as if there was some way he could return to her.

"We were supposed to get married, Oliver. You promised you would ask me properly, you promised. You have to I waited so long for you to do so. Please just come back and say it I don't care if you don't have a ring-.." His Widow couldn't stop her words before she eventually approached him once more, arms curling around his ankles. Her cheek pressed to the cold stone below, clinging onto him as she began to properly cry.

 

It was full of agony, this cry. It sounded inhumane, torturous.. then again this was torture. The man that had freed her from her metaphorical chains now remained chained to this plane as but a cold spectacle from the vigorous flame he was before. The markings he put upon her burned in the pit of her stomach, one of the only permanent things he had left her in this world. 

 

Amalya Helane eventually wandered to  her shared tower with the Inquisitor Eternal, her steps slow and her expression empty. No one could really say they saw her much after that. It was mentioned they could hear the sobbing from the widow, perhaps even sounding like she spoke to herself. Perhaps she was imprisoning herself as well, the only way she knew how.

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He had not known despair until this very moment. He had shed tears for his mother, his sister - but he had not experienced so wrought of sorrow until that very night.

 

"The path of ASIOTH is abstract." He remembered the words of Haskir upon the Great Northern mountaintop, icy words canvassing in his mind. "It is everything, but nothing. It is the most arduous journey of your life, but for reasons unkown."

"You will experience despair and adversity, but you will revel in His joyous wake once you have found it."

He knew all of this, but it did not matter. A grappling pain pierced his heart as he fell to the marble floor of Aaz Hahdrim, tears pooling beneath him. It was this despair that plagued him, hope fading within his own gaze.

"Stop crying, you f****** vermin." The all-too familiar rasp of Eluitholnear rung within his mind, yet, the chasm was empty except for his presence. If he was alive in this very moment, he would reprimand Simon for losing hope - after all, this Dragonkin despised weaklings.

 

As a former Drazimann soldier of the Fourth Brigade, he had read about the many pursuits of Sir Olivier and Sir Adrian, unbecoming of his surprise in meeting the Inquisitor-Eternal in flesh. He had looked up to him, almost more than his liege Antonius. Simon rose from the cold pews, a single campaign in his mind, as he knew what awaited him, penning a letter to his daughter in haste. In the chaos that ensued, his role of the Ordained became even more heavily apparent. He was no longer a mere priest of that night, he was an Inquisitor, mentor to others on their own path of the Auric. One singular verse echoed upon his prayer.

 

"This too, shall pass."
 

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"Another one rising." Thought a thoughtless figure in a seated position upon a random mountain hidden away from the population of the world.

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From the comforts of her furnished abode sat a particular elf who thought back to her past through rose-colored spectacles, lips brimmed into a simple smile. Wordlessly she rose her clear chalice of dry red, beckoning to life a simple cheers to life and its end. She recalled the fallen Azdrazi fondly in all his graced impurities dedicating her thoughts to him that evening. 

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