As the Sun Falls

[Jentos 6930]

 

 

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

The sun rose.

 

They rode. 

 

The Children of the Titan fairly cried out in exultation. They cast up their fists, sang in their tongue to the sky. They were a band of serpentine men, with serpentine tongues and serpentine eyes. Joined were they by the band of Ut'turvioth, his herald; and his many accomplices. 

 

And together, 

 

They rode. 

 

They rode for the city of the Pharaoh, Atemu-Ta. For he had declared war. And their honour demanded it be satiated. 

 

In their fortress, they had known the many traps that laid before them through a spy in the ranks of Atemu. All manner of potions, a trapped bridge, and columns of the temple meant to explode and collapse on them. And they were outmanned. That they were. 

 

The city of Pharaoh was in storm. Rain fell, thunder cried. 

 

Ut'torvioth, the leal brother of the An-Gho, was directed to take the wall while the An-Gho, and his other brave compatriots went to the temple wall. They had snuck there -- where the pharaoh and his bronze elves awaited. The battle was fierce, an exchange of arrows and spells. Sorcery was sung from deep voices by the Nephilim, they had cast up their hands, called out, weaved spears and orbs of brilliant flames. Lightning was called down. Psalms were sung. 

 

But an odious pact had been formed. Indirectly or not, the Pharaoh had made an unorthodox deal he would meant to exploit. 

 

The Gates had fallen. The Nephilim rushed down the aqueducts of the city to reach the temple. The soldiers of Atemu all lain slain or defeated. Prisoners were drawn in chains to Tor-Praeth by their lieutenant, Kairos. Those who were not taken met more miserable ends, though never so miserable as those left in the black cells. 

 

When the city itself had been taken, only the temple remained. Fire swept the streets. Blood drained down marble steps. Incantations swept the air with mad intensity. Line between Seen and Unseen were blurred. 

 

Only the temple. The blasted temple. With its cow-headed goddess. Hesthor. 

 

But a foul pact had been cast. He could barely remember. When he threw himself down into the temple with his burning sword, the An-Gho had been blasted, shrapnel and pieces of steel discharged from a cannon had sent him reeling. Then all was blur. He saw Urneilor brandishing his great flaming halberd against the bronze-elves like some hero of old. At the forefront, Vahlok, with mouth ablaze, struck blow after blow despite so many wounds.

 

Then something big slithered, something large took him. Something that wasn't alive. He thought he would lose consciousness - bask into death, lose his corporeal form. But then he heard it. And he woke. 

 

The laughter. 

 

Unmistakable. 

 

Gashadokuro. 

 

Gashadokuro!

 

Foul, wretched, red lisped lich!

 

Without knowing, the Pharaoh had made deals with an old orc that was only stolen skin. Beneath it lay a new king. One of red bones, and forbidden fire. Gashadokuro. The one who'd steal the throne from Iblees given the chance. 

 

When Gashadokuro laughed, all sense was lost. All was a blur. Screams. The smell of black sorcery. The feel of it. One could taste it in the air. The ring of steel. Cries. Pillars brought down by undead monstrosities. Raven's black sword shattered by a writhing tentacle. Urneilor wrestling and kicking a bronze-clad foe. 

 

Then he was being carried. No. Pushed. Vahlok before him was torn to shreds by a cannon driven before him. His frame was broken -- ash leaking from wounds, and was rendered into a pile of empty armour. He had been destroyed so he might persist. Strange, how he himself too was immortal -- but he supposed, it was a matter of honour. Of pride. No, his kin died that day from love. Not the empty one of romance, but one of friendship, kinship, and brotherhood. 

 

There was something warming in that fact, but the An-Gho never got to enjoy it. 

 

They ran. 

 

And they fled. 

 

They had reduced the city to chaos and disparity. They'd taken the streets, slaughtered where it was they went. But Gashadokuro had come, and stolen victory from their hands. 

 

And now not even the Pharaoh owned his streets. And neither did we. 

 

A herald was pulled down into the black depths. Another lost, another sacrifice. 

 

They gave the day to Gashadokuro. And so, unto the next. 

 

They rode. 

 

The sun fell. 

 

"I did not make silence that day. No. 

I made a storm.

Despite my broken body, 

I cannot wait for the next."

 

 

~The An-Gho

 

Spoiler

The contents of this post are reserved to Nephilim, Heralds and Allies. Only the poem at the very end should ever be public. 

 

Thank you, to all who attended. It was a difficult night. It started at 3 pm, it is now almost midnight. And thank you to Boknice, and to all those others who attended and whom we fought. It was rife with misunderstandings and disagreements at time, but, we made it work. Such is the nature of LOTC.

 

In the end, patience wins. 

 

Wings shroud you all. 

 

[Pallodium 528]

A lone eyeball, plucked from a herald's face, lay floating in the deep.

 

A sacrifice. A casualty.

 

Bloody remnants of what once was a being lay strewn in the water, slowly dissolving into the blue.

 

A sacrifice. A death.

 

Such it ended.

[femurlord 2528]

Gashadokuro, the red marrowed Betrayer, attended a throne of depleted coral beneath the crashing waves of the ocean. In the frays, a tentacled shadow struggled against other sea-beasts as its master supped on total victory, a revived fish even interpreting the laughter that welled within the undead; "Kyeh-hahahaha!"

[wooz 411]

Caedes sat in the library of Tor'Praeth. Reading over the contents he would sigh in annoyance. "It seems I left right when it became fun, what a shame." 

[Greehn 1900]

A less-than-desirable position they had seemed to be put in. Potions, curses, X*nnic spells, they did not falter. Wounded and tired, the troops of AZDROMOTH continued. The original fight, interrupted by the dark forces of GASHADOKURO. Eventually, it was too much.
 

The An-Gho's form crumbling after taking cannon fire, swung around like a child's toy in the tentacles of GASHADOKURO's minion. The Heralds, tired and hurt. How long has it been? He was more wounded than he would like to admit. It was time to go.

The Heralds made their retreat with the prophet in tow. But the octopi saw through this. The cannon was grasped between its tentacles, the weight of the cannon seeming non-existent to the octopi. It wanted the An-Gho.

His revival may take a bit longer than usual, he thought. Blotches of black painted his normally red scales. He wondered if the Heralds could get out in time. He wondered if his brothers could get out in time. He looked back at their original goal, seeking to work with the dark forces to rid him and his fellow dragonkin. And finally, back to the octopi.

 

Vahlok rested between the cannon and wall behind him, his arms outstretched. He watched as the Heralds carried the crumbling An-Gho away to safety, leaving the rest to them. Beginning to feel the pain of his torso or lack of it, his lids began to close. Finally, he could rest, until he was called upon once more.