The Age of The Dragon

[squakhawk 14038]

 

 

Wings beat above the seas of Verdantia Isle, a rancorous beat of draconic cries along with the sounds of great plumes of flame. The lone islanders stepped from their home to see something beyond what they had ever seen before. A great orange dragon, it’s black wings broken, tattered, burnt, as blood wept from it’s wounds like a crimson rain. Upon what would be a dusky night of the full moon, there was nothing above; but a great black shadow that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was as if the dragon fled from it, fearful of the darkness which encroached from above.

 

The eye of darkness then cast downwards, so too did his great maw open and breathe scorching flame upon the smaller dragonkin. Those of Verdantia watched onward as the great wings that occupied the night sky beat downward like the wind of a hurricane, it’s destruction knowing no bounds as claws sunk into the fleeing orange dragon. The two soared over the island as the maw nearly cut it’s prey in two, the spray of blood tainting the island and sea as they crashed into the sea. The Archdrakaar’s hunt of sport complete, and yet, he was still unsatisfied.

 

Countless leagues away upon the stormy sea, the dragonknights of Tor’Galend began their mission at their father’s behest. Shoring off with a small ship, Nithrakor, Champion of Tor’Galend, set out with Grandmaster Velstryn and three others to find the Drakaar Seraphire - a corrupted  sister most alike and perhaps most useful to the coming wars of Azdromoth’s aide.

 

But years later, did the rim of The Abyss stir; Elden and Satar sat upon it as faithful watchers to their lord Mordring, The Titan came forth and proposed them an offer. Of service, or death; the eldest son of The King Beneath spoke begrudgingly, and quiet as he accepted this offer; but to the youngest daughter, she saw only opportunity. Ambition which burnt at her for what that little drake could become in time.

 

 

Thrust into the second age, the age without New Beginnings, few but anxious eyes could imagine what would become of the coming decades, centuries. Weary souls embattled after the death of Gazardiel had seen a mortal plane much more rife with the squabbling heavenly lords. The dregs of the heavens fell from above as the mortal plane became a land of schemes, a dark corner of the home in which things disappeared. It was with the new Triumvir of Xan, Tahariae, and Malchediael that any semblance of order could be established above.

 

While the wars raged on with the empowered and berserk inferi and their unnumbered legions, while Eshtael hid after her mortal wounding from Perpetiael during The Inferi Crisis, Aeriel banished to guard the soulstream without intervention, The New Triumvir had embattled in countless, nonstop war in effort to curb the chaos that reigned above. It was a losing war, one in which the backfoot was always upon the three until their presence became more overt.

 

It was with the schemes of Azdromoth that their alliance would truly be tested.

 

Upon Almaris at Sunbreak did his first play become reality; twisting and corrupting the land, a blight and scar upon Urguan seen for miles as it's infernal light glew even under the new moon. The bell of Helios twisted and corrupted as it rung in haunting toll across the mountainous valleys - an assault force by the wardens Tarathiel and Aer'dir of The Order of The Golden Lion, along with Alicjo and Anduin of The Brotherhood of Virtue accompanied by their dwarven allies who sieged the forces of Azdromoth. Nephilim and Flamewraith defended tooth and claw, the great siege machines built by The Order pushed on despite the punishment delivered unto them by drakeflame and siege weapon alike. Eventually was the fort cracked, its castellan slain as Helios was purified and Azdromoth was defeated. A well lived victory, but one that would be short lived.

 

It was within the decade that The Archdrakaar began his move again; scheming plays whispered beneath the winds as heaven's emissary was sent downward. A pale, odd elf who called himself Silverblade. Decreeing "Unity or Blood" during an internal paladin conflict with the rogue Elysium chapter, the chapters had acquiesced and come to an agreement known as The Codex Solares which decreed rules and terms for fraternity between the squabbling chapters. After the events of The Dark Harbour, two paladins ascended to keepership; the first Keepers of The Second Age, Nikolai Wick and Tarathiel Asul'onn, blessed by Xan and given one mission. A mission from the centurion Hilan Athna, a simple decree that was yet worth a thousand words that signified their struggle.

 

Do not let the sun set.

 

With Azdromoth returning to hiding, so too did The Silverblade and his heavenly commanders disappear until nearly a century later.

 

“Sons of heaven,”

“Sons of the earth.”

“Azdromoth stirs oncemore.”

“Our great war has just begun.”

“Bring your steel,”

“Bring your blood,”

 

“And destroy the greatest enemy; the enemy.”

 

It was after convent with their righteous father that the chosen of Azdromoth ventured north beneath a mountain known as Stormswatch - uncovering remnants of an ancient expedition from beyond a maw of corruption. The stench was thick of undeath, corruption, madness; and yet they ventured within despite a tenuous brotherhood of the factions within Tor’Praeth, Shirohebi, and Mul’naar. 

 

Deep beneath the stone of the mountain, the cavern was untouched; for centuries had the stale air blown around the gargantuan cavern, looking deeper as the shadows betrayed the true depth of the cavern. An entrapped, stone titan was bound with blackened chains that burnt of lavender sorcery, the ruined fortress under the earth still, and quiet. The nephilim ventured further, seeing statues of moon-faced guardians with silver swords; depictions of a Drakaar throughout her lifecycle. From once a proud and noble spawn of Dragur, to a gradually mad-descended Drakaar who had fought in grief and rage until her last breaths. 

 

The rallied nephilim had happened finally in their trek upon the ancient city beneath the earth; Seraphire’s pride of what was was a luxury, now lay in ruin and forgotten to all but a few. After entering her main chamber did they become surprised by wraiths; spirits of the longing dead which apparated from the shadows and assaulted the group, as too did a corrupted Nephilim from times long past. As the fog of the dead had begun to clear did they restrain the corrupted Nephilim who fought brutally, yet in a maddened rage. He struck at The An-Gho and Ahnkariel twice, and yet was met only with an embrace as Azlihessan and others purified him in dragonsflame; burning away at that which twisted his inner flame, and leaving him unconscious; taking him back to Tor’Praeth whilst he recovered before he, Nithrakor, spoke next.

 

Issued quest by the wraithdrake Satar, the nephilim and heralds of Shirohebi ventured forth; days in observation and infiltration of the halls of Sunbreak, the nephilim awaited. Once their time had come to strike, they unlocked the door to the keep; defacing it's entrance as they pierced through and took Helios, the bell of Order. Presenting such to Satar, the drake laughed in rancor as he flew throughout Aevos, it's toll ringing as the golden bell twisted further and further with infernal corruption. A taunt, and a symbol of victory.

 

 

A quest, set out by Sordran, swayed the tides of their sails towards the island, once claimed by holy-clerics in the Order of the Vehement Eye, now desecrated as a bastion of now-fallen warriors of Tahariae, converted into wispy ash-wraiths. The sailing war-vessel, brought by the brotherhood of virtue, landed against the coasts of the islands’ expanse.

 

There was a set order of tasks: to purge the taint left behind by the Archdaemon Iblees, to purify three crystals tainted in virtue by the wraiths, and to summon the emissary of the Sunlit Lord unto the realm.

 

Silence.

 

All felt this intensity at the profound size and wealth of the stone fortress, its winding staircases, and its once-empty homes left in a sprawling litter of bricks and mounds of stone. The eerie call of the winding shifted against their spines, but even so, the paladins and their allies relented, making towards their objectives.

 

From the distance, cluttering plates of steel, and ghastly miasma spew out from gaps in one of the fortress’s decrepit walls. The hanging towers, and those proliferate crystals, stood at the epoch and far from their grasps. So, the brave groups split into two, and made to clear the tower of all their wrought enemies. With the battle cleared, the paladins, and their allies, soon came to realise that these once-men were ancient clerics who had been damned by Iblees.

 

 

On the bridge, the Lord-Commander of the Vehement Eye, an ancient friend of the holy-dragaar Sordran, appeared in order to battle against a party of dwarven-warriors. This included Sigrun and Angr Ireheart, both noticeable combatants in the fray. This silence, that once existed, was perturbed by clashing blades, screaming cries of men and women, and the blood of innocents and evil. In the summit of this battle, Angr Ireheart, a martyr to most, yanked Titus by his breastplate, and both fell from the bridge's ledge, succumbing to death. To this end, Sigrun came to abhor Sordran, and the dragaar was filled by an ill-trust from his allies. In those few hours of battle, the towers were both cleared. One of the towers, claimed by Oyashiman-samurais including a musin by the name of Nezukai Kikurage, yanked the helm of an elusive wraith, as it whispered into the ear of the musin, who prevailed against its wicked temptation. 

 

They all entered the main keep of the fortress, filled by a dissonance and silence unfelt in years; it was reminiscent of a place they had yet to discover, but to some, it would become clear in the future that their own halls may succumb to this same echo of silence. 

 

At the centre of the fortress, a large anvil sat sturdy, an icon focal-piece of the centurion-in-question. Sordran manifested at the side of the pillars, and then, the skies turned bright. The hammer of the Sunforger sat unanswered; a druid, a templar, and a paladin both took up the weight of the hammer, and struck the anvil, after a bout of selfish bickering.

 

 

Instantly, a pool of sapphire-mist erupted into the fortress. In a mysterious glow of light, and rolling waves of smog, the stout-form of the Sunforger, with its hearty dwarven accent, manifested in the centre. The first of its words were addressed towards those paladins and allies in joy, whilst the other-half insulted Sordran, to the point that the centurion even struck the dragaar into one of the pillars behind after a short-lived trial screamed by Sigrun on the betrayal and lack-of-support provided by the Silverblade.

 

Days were set in the encampment, before a plan was hatched to devise their escape. A rally of paladins, and their allies, asserted themselves towards the Iblees-taint infestation, this pertinent operation completed by accomplishing Oyashiman-warriors. 

 

A fleet of volunteers commanded by the keep Nikolai headed towards the ship, in order to ensure the holy-vessel remained in working condition. They were met by a swathe of festering undead, who had yet to be weeded out from the island. 

 

The final group ventured towards the ledge in which Titus fell, for his heart, commanded by Sordran, was important in order to complete the Silverblade, and to grant immunity and warding corruption that could stave most dragonkin. 

 

All three individual groups accomplished their goals in near-unison: the heart was retrieved, and the Ibleesian taint was removed by destroying one wayward cluster of ebon-black rock and crystal. Yet, in the far distance, all could hear the yirking screech of a horrific creature.

 

 

It stood at the size of a large hill, and bore six arms in total, its body festering with gape maws and sharp canines. The sunforger, who repaired the ship to its full working state, raised a large shield made of sapphire. One paladin, who may have lost their sense of bearings, ran out towards the beast in order to distract it - this paladin would be known as Elena of Joma, but sadly, she was crushed in an instance of her stepping out of the shield's protection. “A fruitless death,” spat the centurion in her final passing words.

 

 

Nikolai saw the issue at hand, and that the ship, just-repaired, would now be at risk of destruction. In his last bid of action, he crushed his gauntlet around a gifted feather. Golden light erupted in the heavens, and the skies were swarmed by the shadows of white-feathered wings, as the blinding form of Sordan swept down, scathing the beast with a gout of holy dragonsfire. 

 

Isabel clasped both hands together in prayer towards the Sunlit Lord; he answered this call, and the skies, once bleak by scraggly ashen clouds, erupted into streaks of bulbous sapphire-lights. The ibleesian-beast was rightfully struck and eviscerated.

 

All allies boarded the ship, and the waves of the ocean tullied them out of the island's coast, now turning back towards the continent. 

 

 

The Nephilim began their next venture shortly thereafter; through a portal from Seraphire’s Lair unto Tor’Galend, they besieged the island for what would become The First Siege of Tor’Galend - Breaking upon their walls, The Nephilim assaulted the main gate in a brutal and sluggish battle that left many of their own kin broken and bloodied; smaller groups ventured along the walls to take out a hail of arrows that began to decimate the forces of Tor’Praeth, Shirohebi, and Mul’naar as they had worked together in what would become a delicate bond between them. 

 

Balthazar, Ysivryn, Nashor, and Akoza of Tor’Praeth and Mul’naar alike mounted the walls through a crack within as they rose high above, some choosing the path of mercy as they knocked foes unconscious or disabled them. Balthazar more radical, as he crushed three Nephilim in burning righteous fury - a litany of holy prayer upon his tongue as he dispatched of the unholy nephilim which had fallen to darkness.

 

In the heat of battle did a star appear within the sky; a blazing comet of crimson and red that descended from the heavens as it crashed and broke through the gate, as Nithrakor returned to the keep which he once called home. As the slaughter at the main gate continued, few of the corrupted within Tor’Galend were spared- fewer purified as the attacking Azdrazi forces had mostly failed in their goal to spare those forces of Tor’Galend in it’s defense. Bloodied and bruised, the force coursed through the castle as they came upon it’s main courtyard; a burning and bloodied mess from Nithrakor left behind as they reunited once again, the attacking Azdrazi searching Tor’Galend further for information; uncovering secrets of it’s past, and an artifact known as The Speaker which demanded one thing.

 

BRING ME DII’FAHDON. BRING ME THE DRAGON.

 

 

The darkness lurks, the nephilim stirred; The Speaker had brought them upon a path none should have tread, and yet they walked it with open arms. Upon the other side the true glory, the true horror, of the Titanic Father was revealed; they considered two plans of Azdromoth. To succeed, and yet let the enemy live, or to risk it all and either be immortalized in death or life. Tor’Praeth, Shirohebi, and Mul’naar convened and split across a line in the snow; ultimately choosing to live free or die trying. This division initially has sewn a discord between the three factions, before the more cautious two- Shirohebi and Mul’naar- ultimately realised it was more than ideology at stake, but their lives. It was nothing to squabble over, and would seal their bond in blood and iron, willing or not, forever. 

 

 

My spawn have chosen. But do I listen? Do they know what is at stake?

 

More than I believe you understand.

 

They do not understand the game that is played above our heads. The game gods play.

 

You claim to understand it, and yet here you are.

 

Here I am.

 

They are your heart, friend. They themselves cannot decide easily; nor should a mind. If it is easily made up, had it a choice to begin with?

 

Their lives hang too in the balance.

 

They do; and yet they do not. Listen close; do you hear me, friend?

 

Indeed Eresar. Speak.

 

You have sought all your life to make this decision. Perhaps instead; to make a decision. 

That which was robbed of you, and yet, you may thieve it back.

 

I may, or I may not.

 

Indeed. But, think of this; you had not asked to be born, yet you were made. You had not asked to fight in The First War, and yet you were made to. And what did you do?

 

I made my choice.

 

You hear me well. You are given this choice again; and indeed are there fruits upon both trees, of apples and lemons.You may pick the apple which hang lows, when you truly covet the lemon that flies high. Ripe, untouched, perhaps greater than you could aspire to be.

 

Do you claim me lesser?

 

You have lost me again. It is not you; it is the tree. The lemon has grown higher, it’s shade enshrouding the apple. Indeed is it easy to pluck; but is it what you truly covet? Do you wish to be the apple in the shade? Do you wish to live at the heel still of he who has robbed you of it?

 

You offer me a choice of black and white. I see you have a favorite.

 

It is not revenge I seek, nor a lust for choice I feel. It is retribution for that which you have had taken from you, friend. Just that; a choice of black and white. One which you do not take and still have choices made for you; but the ability to wield that yourself. To be the one who decides what choices others have. Fate. It is what you have always desired, had you not?

Bless this godhunt.

 

It is like that you make your own fate, friend.

 

One of many relics held by the paladins, known formally as the dragon-compass, located their next target: Tor’Galend, a sprawling island filled by decrepit ruins, left primarily untouched by the hands of descendants, left scoured by the spawn of Azdromoth and his wretched dragonsflame. Before launching their initiative in sieging this island, scarce-put by the nephilim who manned it, the Sunforger called a grand meeting in order to speak on the subjects of the island. A firm network of ally-scouts had yielded intelligence pertinent to the battle-plans necessary to siege the island: one large, occurring, and big issue that would pave their path would rise at the mention of Satar, known as the gatekeeper of the Abyss, and a drake-lord who is under service to the Archdrakaar, be it by force, or willingly. A battle that would come to be The Second Siege of Tor’Galend.

 

With preparations made, the paladins and their allies sailed the large holy vessel, by the name of Lux Aeterna, towards the outskirts in the far-southern coasts of the island. Their boat struck into the bay, and planks were reeled out to allow ease of access. Their canons were cleaned, ready, prepared, and manned. A battlement of Oyashiman samurais were left in charge of the vessel, ensuring that it was safeguarded from any nephilim-defenders who sought to cut their exit. 

 

The rest of their forces were splintered into two; one group ventured towards the ruins of the nephilim-hold, primarily the large citadel, whereas another went up towards the cascading steps leading into the walls of the Tor’Galend castle-walls. 

 

They came across a large bulwark of nephilim forces, clad in plates of dracanium, prepared to fight under their tyrant king. A bloodied and gruesome biathlon of skirmishes ensued during this battle, and with each passing second that the paladins had failed to account for, or prepared their battlement siege-weapons for the prospect of the drake-lord who may appear at any moment. 

 

In the far etches of the island, the sound of harsh, beating, and thunderous wings resonated in the skies. All could see in the distance, the great snout of the drake-lord Satar, and his smouldering trail of ash that billowed out from his rugged-jaw. Although the paladins, and their allies, could see this drake from afar, they made the unnecessary decision to continue in their fight, instead of making a retreat.

 

The Oyashiman-forces battled oncoming nephilim-grapplers who climbed onto the vessel, and swiftly, their skills and experience rose in favour of their carnage, slaughtering the lesser-dragonkin. At the cry of the drakelord, whose grizzly drawls were heard from afar, the samurai-warriors ventured towards the citadel in order to meet their allies in their defence. This was cut short, as a portion of the samurai-warriors were embossed by the sweltering heat of dragonsflame that showered on top of them. 

 

Panic had set afoot in their ranks, and so the group upon the citadel disembarked towards the ship, dragging away their samurai-comrades and paladins, and abandoning their other-allies on the island. These allies, most important of them all, as they held the finite relics presented by the triumvirate deities who they fought in name for. With Lux Aeterna, the vessel-ship in question, seen departing in the horizon, one paladin, known by name as Amelia, made the ideal decision to use a profound and most-powerful dragon-searing spear, lunging it towards the oncoming greater dragonkin, whose body was promptly scarred.

 

Satar fled the scene, and the nephilim-forces routed out and fled the island in full-force, keeping and maintaining their strength. The vessel-ship returned for their abandoned comrades, and the siege had concluded on their departure. It was an irrecoverable casualty, and a pyrrhic victory in safeguarding their relics. Yet, nonetheless, the battle was lost. 

 

 

Their next battle would be one of better result however. Descended unto Seraphire’s Lair, the woeful paladins were better equipped, better prepared now. Venturing down into the heart of darkness, The Sunlit Covenant, The Order of The Golden Lion, The Brotherhood of Virtue, and The Rising Sun Templars among others ventured into the fallen Drakaar’s lair. Though some had thought to bring siege weapons to the underground cavern, these proved unfruitful as the first of many Mori’quessir traps was sprung.

 

A blade of pure fading light pierced forward, wounding nearly the entire rally as they pressed down a thin hall, wounding them as they sprung forward in the assault. Arrows hailed down from above, but they were better prepared for it with the advance-knowledge at the thanks of Jack, Richard Othaman, Gael, Shugo Kato, Alberic du Lac, Nikolai, and Hirano Masao. 

 

The party pressed forward and upward at the leadership of Nikolai, Shugo Kato, Sigrun, and Jack Vivyaen, triggering trap after trap of the Mori’s design.Though sustaining heavy wounds, they eventually made it to the heart of Seraphire’s Lair, finding upon a portal within the centre of the main antechamber. Dozens of Mori’quessir stood in guard, from the clans Torath and Mierillis’lysaen, the latter’s only magi attempted to wrack and twist magics from whatever lay beyond the portal for their own purposes.

 

Without the paladins or azdrazi truly knowing, the Mori’quessir had interfered by exploring the underground city between their visits, happening upon the portal being utilized by Azdromoth and his forces. What lay beyond, the great nephilim stronghold of Gra’kul, was being used as a powersource as the Mori’Quessir magi twisted it’s magics for their own purposes as crude marks of draan, dragonsflame, and heraldry burned them and invigorated them with draconic power. 

 

It was with this power they burned at many of the paladins, before The Sunlit Covenant, and Rising Sun Templars lead a fearless banzai charge deep into the heart of the chamber, slaying and utterly decimating the Mori’quessir knights and dreadknights as stray druids and members of the other chapters defended at their backs. Nezukai Kikurage, the musin, had slain many in this battle as the samurai-mouse was truly tested to be a true brother in battle to the templars, paladins, and druids which shed copious blood in glorious battle.

 

After the numbers were defeated, few paladins talked of what to make of the portal which sat in the centre of the room. Confusion was in the air as The Banner of The New Triumvir began to glow in power, a silvery mist coating it as a great arrow shot forth. Whilst some spoke in protest, the portal to Gra’kul was shattered, destroyed, rendered unusable forever as they denied the nephilim their route to their allies. Some argued they were better spent going through the portal to destroy what lay upon the other side, others argued against that it was suicidal to delve into an Azdrazi stronghold. Regardless of answer, the choice had been done, and the crusaders looked to what may have come next.

 

Though the skittering beneath the earth never stopped as Mori’quessir ebbed near the lair, after repeated slaughter both in and out of it, the clans beneath the earth had avowed to never go near the forbidden, corrupted dragonlair ever again.

 

 

With Xan’s quest in this great war, his most valuable asset was in short supply. With the flight of Alatariel Asulonn and the disappearance of Juliette Horen, only Nikolai Wick was left behind to become Xan’s vessel for the war ahead. Decreeing that the circle of four, the order of Keepers three and their prophet one, must be broken, Sordran prepared three young initiates as they began their trial- Alberic du Lac, Isabel Wick, and Aer’dir of Joma. Distrustful of his decision making, The Sunforger prepared two more in addition which would become supplemental, and inadvertently heal and begin sealing the rift between the paladin chapters. Amelia of Ahad and Bolvar of Joma set out upon their trials, an ordeal which would take years but bear the greatest result.

 

It was after nearly half a decade within this broiling war that the five found themselves within the heavens, stood before Xan. The decree of Order was lengthy, but one phrase again sat succinct, and clear.

 

Do not let the sun set. You must step forward from the shadows and lead, lead where others have failed both you and I so. 

 

Though the five never returned from heaven, five returned in their place as sapphire comets descended from the heavens back unto Aevos. These comets bore Caliburn of The Blazing Sun, Peregrine the Martyr Undying, Redwulf of The Growing Oak, Quelana of The Golden Heart, and Ardaric The Untarnished Moon.

 

 

Although marked by the humiliation of defeat, the paladins, and their allies, made the concise and gallant decision to re-attempt this brave siege in a newly-devised war-path. Once again, Lux Aeterna made to the oceans, with waves crashing against its hull, and that same, familiar, island came into the horizon, with those dilapidated ruins, and enfeebled architecture unable to be supported by the breadth of nephilims left on the island. A battle which would become known as The Third Siege of Tor”Galend. Due to their prior mishap, it seems that Tor’Galend became a concave of neglected scraps, with only a scarce dribble of soldiers still remaining to stand and defend the island.

 

The paladin-and-ally forces returned onto the island, and set out towards the citadel. As they cleared at the small hordes of nephilim that scouted outside the temple, a horn rallied and bellowed into the air, calling all nephilim to retreat into the citadel as a large, conjoined effort. In retaliation, the paladin-forces, and their allies, which consisted of the Oyashiman samurai lead by Shugo Kato, made towards the nephilim-forces.

 

Aer’dir looked upon the swallowing trench of swaddling dragonkin-forces as an apropos thorn to their side, and something that could force, or even neglect, another loss. In his own decision, the keeper brought his hand up into the air, and conjured the might of the Sunlit Lord, becoming a vessel to the aengul, who descended into the body of the paladin-keeper. It was a display unseen by most, and to some, it was the pure finesse drawn by the martial-aptitude of Xan that helped them in their battle. With nephilim-forces being crushed by the vessel, and their allies, the citadel was cleared of all wrong-doings.

 

And of those wrong-doings, this included the Oyashiman who went by the name of Tanaka, so foolish in his drunken splendour, that he would insult the Aengul of Order, and in those seconds, met eradication. The island was cleared of whatever was left behind, and Aer’dir, whose body lay crippled in the earth, rested. It was the cataclysm that came of Tanakas’ death that shifted the dynamic relations, and list of allies, that would come to grow in their future battles. 

 

 

Tor’Azdraeth, once-home to the nephilim forces and the Archdrakaar, were now habituated by sprawling druidic assailants that stood as servants of the enemy-dragaar Taynei’hiylu, who had vested in them the command to take over the dragonkin-fortress. 

 

It was due to the prevalent nephilim allies, consisting of those same azdrazi and heralds that had, in all recurring battles, fought in the name of their lord and took to the fortress. A system of underlying gaps in the walls allowed for the fae-pillagers to keep spry away from the burning eyes of Azdromoth. However, this game of hide-and-seek was ended rightly, when the nephilim-invaders fought with the druids.

 

To the rest, they were met by a sweltering force of dragonsflame that erupted from the maw of the tyrant king, whose burning and powerful fire had charred the druid legions to ash, leaving nothing but a cloud of burning foliage that melted with the landscape as burns marr his blackstone walls. With this, Tor’Azdraeth was left without any outliers scurrying in their walls, and it was reclaimed once again as the final destination to all that would come to be: Apotheosis. 

 

Upon their return did a fervently emboldened nephilim raid and hunt; roving the south of Aevos until their reaving brought fruit. Indeed, the sweetest and greatest of it all; a Keeper of Xan, once so fervently coveted by Azdromoth. 

 

 

Alberic du Lac, now reborn as Redwulf of The Growing Oak, had then found himself before his greatest foe, the creature which he and his lord had loathed the least of all things. The Archdrakaar Azdromoth, King of Kings, The Titan, offered him a simple question; one which roared from each and every nephilim and herald involuntarily as he invoked their inner flame to be his voice.

 

 

DO YOU FEAR, SPAWN OF XAN?

 

Alberic, alongside his entrapped companion Ailure, looked boldly unto Azdromoth as indeed- he did feel fear. And he decided to act against it. Denying The Titan’s bond of exchanging Sordran for his freedom, Alberic found himself envesseled as he duelled Azdromoth in a display of courage and bravery before all of Azdromoth’s chosen. A battle that bloodied them both, Azdromoth was pierced by xannic fury within his stomach; a scar which would never truly heal even until his last mortal breaths. It was however in fury that Azdromoth caught the blade, swiping thereafter as he split Alberic’s head from his body as Xan’s vessel was severed; slaughtered, Ailure freed in his last breaths as she spread news of his heroism to the xanfolk.

 

 

Fly. I must fly.

 

The Blinding Flame thought to himself as not far behind upon the wind was a shadow that swallowed cities, two burning eyes set upon him in a maddened, ecstatic craze.

 

Was this the death I foresaw? I saw a great sacrifice, a death with meaning and worth life. Would this be how I met my fate? Is this what was destined of me, when my father had made me? Dragur, is this what you had intended? 

 

He asked, as Sordran flew fervently; soaring over Nevaehlen and further south over The Shogunate as he entered the bitter depths of the storm. The lightning cracked at his golden-white scales, the great shadow behind him burned with determination. Is this how Taynei’hiylu felt too when she was pursued? Is this fear? How could he be courageous when all that was before him was certain, brutal, painful, forgettable death?

 

He bat his wings as the Storm of Aevos lingered like a thick fog, clutching at his scales as it pulled him slower. It was as if it wanted to control him; hands almost like that of something which grabbed at him, but could not fully grasp him. Like a fish upon a hook.

 

The Archdrakaar roared, as his gaping maw opened, a thousand and one jagged teeth snapping as they bit into … nothing. A brief white mist of stinking Tahariaean energy lingered where once he sat, Azdromoth screeching in utter fury. Once again thwarted by the heavens above, robbed of that which he coveted so greatly. 

 

Sordran did not find himself in Tahariaes court; he did not find himself where he expected reprimand. Instead he found himself among clouds, upon a formless ocean that expanded farther than his eyes could see. He wished to weep, of fear, of regret, of the death which would have certainly got him. But it was something deeper instead that ate at him. That which bothered him far more.

 

Something he had thought before that burned within his heart deeper than Azdromoth ever could.

 

Was this truly his fight?

 

It was in his best fortune that mortals aligned with the ideal of Companionship and the Horenic Pact had thought the same.

 

 

 

The woeful alliance of The King Beneath and The Emperor Above, Mordring and Azdromoth, spelled darkness upon the realm as their black pact was signed. In a show of loyalty, of force, the nephilim were demanded to venture unto The Abyss to find Sol Invicta - the banished daughter of Xan. To corrupt or kill her, as proof that Azdromoth did not intend to betray Mordring upon his offer.

 

With full devotion and willpower, the nephilim followed the order; though viewed traitorous by the greater nephilim, Uztrahmel and Azlihessan lead their kin into the place without light; the heart of darkness beneath where Aegis once sat, a plane that had torn itself from the material of undeath and darkness. 

 

 

Accompanying with mystic and necromancer alike, Sol Invicta seemed tenuous in her speech; a delicate ceasefire held between the demigod, Ysivryn, and Ardromiath, their words potent but their corruption infalliable. The demigod had considered it - briefly - but ultimately decided against the alliance of dark and light. Though their kin had overstayed their welcome, and after a fallback to the tower, slaughter ensued as the nephilim had been cut to ribbons by Sol Invicta’s greatblade. The first of them was the leal herald Thelia, who had been killed before she even realised she was dead; foolishly lashing out and attempting to strike the demigod preemptively. Yet, it was shown with brutal blood and horror that mortal was no match for deific might. 

 

After an intense melee, the group retreated from the abyss; battered and broken, yet sealed with an undoubted fraternity in the realm of death as Mordring and Azdromoth sealed their pact in blood.

 

 

 

It was shortly thereafter where the paladins had planned to venture beneath, where their lord apparated in warning after being alerted of the Dragaar Sordran’s plots- the foremost of which was a desperate alliance to take the forsaken daughter Sol Invicta in alliance to stand against Azdromoth, a last-ditch effort plan, but one that may have worked. If indeed, the secret of it was kept unbroken. It was mere minutes afterward where Xan then knew, and descended to belittle the dragonkin and order his spawn to leave the forsaken Sol Invicta to her fate; untempted. 

 

 

Few followed in the journey thereafter, met only with misery as an immediate insult to her countenance lead to slaughter among the paladins present. Though a desperate fight continued- some even submitting to her might to hope of joining her legion - all hope had been abandoned quickly for the woefully unprepared. In their darkest hour, the few survivors were pulled away by a golden light; The Blinding Flame Sordran’s last gift before he would disappear from the xannic forces. 

 

 

 

To go off of a rumor is a foolish assumption. To base a cause off of it, is desperation. And indeed, they were in desperate times. Though Sordran had all but vanished from the Paladin’s plight and war, his rumour of Cassia Rakidor did not. An ancient and powerful dragonslayer of the first age, her assistance would be critical- though rumour of her living was dubious at best. Supposedly kept within Tor’Azdraeth’s prison, Xan offered port into it’s heart. A near suicidal mission, yet one taken upon by a near suicidal few. Nikolai, Sofiele, Nimue, Richard, Farah, Sergei, Elarhil, Zaelyn, and Sulcelia descended into the heart of Azdromoth’s lair knowing full well they may never return for what was a foolish cause.

 

They hid quickly amongst shadows as they made way across the crumbling fortress to the cells, which they looked within- finding guards which had seemingly been awaiting them. They attempted to call for Azdromoth, yet their connection seemed blocked.. As if The Sunlit Lord anticipated such an action, stealth indeed was not his true strength, but might and guardianship certainly were. It was no matter to the cruel stone-armed jailor, flicking then a release lever. With the swift movement, dozens of twisted, mind-broken and corrupted druids of Taynei’hiylu released from their cells, sprawling forth in combat with the oncomers, one another, and even the shielded jail-guard which had steadily forced the druids closer into desperate and bloody combat with the paladins. Of the original twenty-some, only three had lived by the end of the completely chaotic carnage. The paladins heavily wounded amongst the bloodshed as they were coated in that of elf and nephilim alike, even one another and their companions brought alongside. Their time was limited, and they needed to find Cassia.

 

Within Azdromoth’s menagerie they found his collected curiosities. One a maddened Mori’Quessir matriarch who demanded freedom, even offering so in exchange for allowing them escape. Thanhic cuffs around her wrists melded steel to flesh from her persistence to flee. Another curiosity did not desire to be released; instead returning in bespoke and careful advice that perhaps it is best for his safety and theirs he remained jailed. Amongst dead kings, paladins, and others, it seemed they were running out of time and options until the last cell was found. The bars were opened and the enchantment dispelled as a wave of incredible xannic force blasted outward, further heavily wounding those unfortunate enough to be within it’s way as they finally came upon Cassia Rakidor’s body. Yet, despite her great struggle, it seemed not all for naught…

 

With the blastwave, a twinge seemed different upon Xannic connection; something seemed out of place, offputting. A memory, a part of paladins inserted subconsciously that was not there before. Before they escaped, two spells seemed to be added to their teachings without true recollection of learning them, or even practicing them. Rakidor’s Execution and Aegwynn’s Benediction became staple in the battles to come, for what few there were ahead… Though Cassia had been slain long ago, what remained of her would be an incredible boon to the sons and daughters of Xan in the battles to come.

 

 

The nephilim forces stood upon the patterned burning scales of the drakelords, their wings gilded by clouds of smoke, as they ventured out towards the ocean-coast when news brought to their ears regarding a trifling fleet of holy vessel-ships making a journey towards their fortress-hold. 

 

As the dragonkin grew closer towards the battlements of the ships, and the drakes lowered their snout to offer but a mere moment to strike, the nephilim all leapt onto their respective boats. In the ensuing battle, as the ships were taken aboard, much akin to pirates, the nephilim battled against the cleric-and-paladin forces, who stood in preparation to rid of the invading forces. 

 

On one specific vessel, the dragonkin burned their vessel in whole, leading to the demise of a loyal and faithful musin-herald by the name of Zahkriikyzer, whose furs were bristled by flames that consumed the wooden-boards of the ship.

 

With each hour passing, the smaller sail-boats were led towards the greater marine-vessel in charge by the sailing-forces of the Order of the Vehement Eye. Plumes of smoke ripped through the air, an exchange of cannon-fire shredding both impeding forces, as the larger marine-vessel was drilled by holes that allow ease-of-access. Of the many nephilim who boarded the larger vessel, one of those familiar names would be a herald, once-azdrazi, by the name of Punished Zahkriikyzer. 

 

Their blades were marred by the wetness of cleric and paladin blood, whilst some nephilim were left injured from the oncoming fray. In the heavens above, the skies were left open, as the commander of the ensuing forces, a cleric of great renown and height in the ranks of Tahariaes’ legion, manifested into the world. Saint Beboon, and his glistening white wings furled by pearls and pure-light, took to fight the nephilim by himself in a gruelling and overpowering battle.

 

In the end, the nephilim forces came out as victors, their flaming blades, and spears of dragonsfire, impaling through the torso of the redeemed cleric-lord, whose body cracked into shards of light. Daahd’lur his final slaughterer, the battle finished as their eyes looked upon the temple in the distance.

 

It was upon the waves they pressed onward to the temple itself; The Order of The Vehement Eye; that mournful rock which had been corrupted for millenia, now only recently seeing the light of the sun once more. As the nephilim ships encroached, so too did the defenses of the temple as they prepared for battle to come. 

 

Beneath the thunder of cannonfire did the nephilim advance upon the temple, ascending the island’s village and beneath the grand stairway before The An-Gho invoked his incantation;

Satar si relgr dout ominak.

Satar - I call your name.

 

The wounded drake flew over the island from it’s cliffside, a roaring scream heralding it’s entrance as the nephilim below chanted his name. Along the bridge were tens of paladins, clerics, and monks alike burnt as the nephilim stepped through the ashes. Unfettered, unhalted, they proceeded forth as they made their way to the heart of the hall; encountering The Sunforger himself.

 

Though the battle was brutal, The Sunforger was able to escape; not before being greatly wounded by the nephilim and his own hammer in duel with Wyn, Zaahkriiyzer, Uztrahmel, and The An-Gho as they battled fervently; wounding The Centurion as heaven’s agent returned to Xan’s realm bloodied, and beaten; bitter for vengeance, woefully inept to fulfill it thereafter. 

 

 

The hills of Urguan rolled with winds of a quiet day. The sun was low was adherents of The Sunlit Covenant, The Order of The Golden Lion, and The Brotherhood of Virtue stood in wait within Sunbreak’s halls. The Sunforger had called for a warplan with the recently vanished Sordran, and yet his appearance was late.

 

Perhaps it was not unremarkable of a frequently drunken dwarf to be tardy to his own calling, but it seemed off. A portal opened within the hall of Sunbreak, and yet, nothing appeared from so. The energies of Xan dissipated, bitten with the stench of draconic corruption as the spell was broken. A call from the outside watchers, Gael and Hirano, lured within the presence of the paladins as they ventured outward.

 

Dragonfire. Smoke. Flame. Ash.

 

A bell tolled that hung from her neck, the great drake Elden scorching the dwarven countryside with her rancorous ibleesian breath; the burning of sulfur stung in the air and hung like a stench as the paladins mounted a desperate defense. It was all too quick when a comet, crimson and gold, descended from the sky and struck into the heart of Sunbreak Hall - From the smoke and ash, a bounty of Azdromoth’s heralds and their champion, Nithrakor, of Tor’Galend. He marched outward from the now destroyed Sunbreak, entering melee with Nikolai, Nimue, Sofiele, and Tilruir’tir as they attempted to control the attackers now from behind them. 

 

As Elden razed above, Quelana, Caliburn, and Farah held the wall among others as they attempted attacks at the sweeping drake which scorched and burned at their allies relentlessly. Richard, Gael, Serana, Hirano, and Jack among others held the outside of the wall as forces of Gra’kul and Tor’Galend, Azdrazi strongholds, besieged Sunbreak itself. A cocky and prideful play, one which would spell the end for many, and yet at a heavy blood-price for the sons of Xan. 

 

Elden burnt at many of the paladins below, even some such as Sofiele burnt a multitude of times directly and indirectly by The Drake’s terrible flame. The battle became a slog as the numbers of Nithrakor and beyond the wall fell, and Elden retreated; wounded greatly from the sunlit spears that had burnt at her hind, she returned to lick her wounds as the endless tolling of the now corrupted Helios, an artifact of Xan stolen by the nephilim of Tor’Praeth, droned offward and the countryside was filled only with wind once more. The Keep lay in ruins as it’s exterior was sacked and torched, blood spilled as the bones of many would plague that once quaint hillside forever. 

 

 

 

The large blackstone high-walls of Tor Azdraeth dwelt atop the horizon, masking the skies in a kiln of ash and gauzy clouds. In the centre of the throne-room, swept by a gossamer of tattered red carpets, and cleared of open-interior by the nephilim, the sons’ of Azdromoth stood together in preparation for the great ritual to commence. Of those many nephilim, the notable of them were: the An-Gho, Ahnkariel, and Ardomiath, who blew flames into a cobweb of clouds, ushering the name of their father, and beckoning the call of ruin.

 

In the clouds above, the great and tyrannical scales of the Archdrakaar bowled into the air, his claws gilded in a tensile coat of dragonsflame. There was an utter lack of sound that resonated from the gnarly, hanging jaws of the tyrant king, fumes rolling out from his enormous nostrils, like crashing waves that dared to consume kingdoms in full breadth of their size. 

 

To all who observed, they understood that fear had embodied and manifested in the shape of Azdromoth, whose wings engulfed them in a pith of darkness that had been unseen since the dawn and rise of Iblees, and the curse that he bespoke upon the descendants. 

 

A triptych of vessels landed around the island's coast, disembarking upon ingrained sand and ruined moss. One of the groups, consisting of Xans’ chosen, were pulled in the direction of the coast-islands epicentre, where their maws were strewn into the air, and sapphire-mist engulfed their forms in full, beaming upright into the heavens. These chosen, known as Keepers, consisted of: Nikolai, Peregrine, Ardaric, and Quelana. 

 

Though darkness came from the great furling wingspans beating harsh like etching drums, the commencing habitude of keepers’ prowess summoned the full brunt and might of the heavens, emboldening the skies in pure sunlight. A great trawl of heavenly-centurions descended onto the mortal-plane, their feathered-wings spread across from their backs, and their body shifting with heavens very steel. Elena of Joma, Alberic, Vanessa, and Elias were noticeable allies who came back from death, to fight for their lord once again. 

 

Sarah Athna, Herun Athna, Hilan Athna, those Apostles were the last to descend, and in this, it marked the start of Apotheosis. All of the heavens lamented at the godly sight of the Sunlit Lord, whose gauntlet stretched apart the world's concave space, and ripped himself into the confines of the mortal realm. Evinced in the shape of a large titan that took up the size of great mountain summits, and bearing a set of brightsteel, Xans’ revolving sun gleamed in the eyes of the darkspawn, who abhorred it, and detested it. 

 

With the Spear of Order in one hand, and the aenguls’ sights set upon Azdromoth, the battle convoked with a thrust of the deities weapon. 

 

Mordrings influence seeped into the battle, ruminating as undead, ghouls, and abysswalkers that were damned by a fiery portal birthed in the heart of Tor Azdraeth, and they would act as the first line of defence. The chosen keepers, and their allies, were met by this swarm of invading undead-lepers, who attempted to stop the advancing holy-foes from entering the gate. Cerrick, Ryvel and Alicjo of Veritas set out a firing-line, and of the trio, Alicjos’ bolts pierced in one-go three ghoul-craniums, plunging directly into the wraith's shoulderplate. Sigrun and Feanor were the first who entered the frontline alongside Aer’dir, hacking, and slashing away at the enemy horde. 

 

The Gatekeepers of the Abyss, two drake-lords known for their ferocious tone and ancient wisdom, swept onto the battlefield like crows gawping at prey. Elden made towards the far-eastern walls, a noticeable landing-site of the Sunlit Covenant and dwarven-allies, blasting a gout of scorching dragonsflame in the direction of the earth, marring all who came across its path in burns. 

 

Gael, once-paladin of the lion, raised a sunlit spear high into the epoch of the clouds, and heaved it in the direction of Elden. The drake swivelled in the air, and turned to flee, consuming a lonesome darkstalker in her traces. Yet, this abscission was ill-founded, with the spears of Richard Othaman, Serana, and Tilruir'tir impaling the beast's wingspan, tattering holes and crevices, causing the drake-lord to fall towards the earth - grounded. 

 

The frontline battalion, consisting of dwarves and paladins, marched towards the felled-drake to strike before it could gather any strength. Crumena led the frontlines preceded by Obok Metaldrinks - leader of the dwarven rally - in order to kill the felled-drake, who had no hopes of escape. 

 

This cry for slaughter was adopted by the brethren-drake, who was felled in the opposite-corner of the island, by the rally of paladins. In a painstaking battle, their spears and lances flurry through the sky, and the last to meet its mark was by one called Farah, whose bolt scoured the drake-lords viscera into the earth, and best the greater dragonkin. 

 

Throughout this brook for warfare, the nephilim-rally stood as stalwart shields in the defence of Tor Azdraeth, battling against the centurions of the Sunlit Lord, and ensuring that the high-walls of their mighty fortress could naught be intreated by their foes. 

 

Yet the battle started to wane.

 

 

A mizzly storm of sapphire-mist erupts from the spear-edge, glistening marble and coiling brightsteel. With a protruded elbow, the Sunlit Lord aims out towards the vast behemoth of the Archdrakaars’ slithering form. “You will perish this day,” bid the pitiless words of Xan, lunging the spear outwards in order to strike at Azdromoth’s tuft and torso. 

 

The Archdrakaar flew above, serpentine eyes focused of his greatest enemy; his nemesis which he sought to challenge. The final battle, the greatest godhunt. The fruits of schemes old and ancient now wrought to be harvested in full. “Do you recall what became of Zyanna? She who you failed to protect?” He taunted, as Order’s Spear thrust by him; narrowly avoiding the dragonkin as he breathed foul drakaarsflame upon him that warmed the air for miles.

 

The ground quakes in trepidation as the Sunlit Lord, who stood at titanic proportions, stepped onwards. “Do not prattle in your nonsense,” spoke the aengul, swiveling Astraeus, the Spear of Order, within his mighty gauntleted-hand. In the coming seconds, lightning unfettered from the brightsteel spearhead, and plunged directly into the stomach of Azdromoth, festering deep into the pit of his organs. Flames spew across his plates, shifting across its surface. 

 

 

“I speak only a truth. A truth you disdain to hear. What of your daughter and pride? Do you forsake her?” He spoke, The Archdraakar thundering above as he breathed drakaarsflame across Xan’s form; burning deeply before The Titan had flown too closely unto Order; the spearhead tearing into his weakened stomach, plates shattering and cracking as crimson dragonsblood rained below like a monsoon.  “DO YOUR KIN NOT LOVE AS MINE DO? DO WE HAVE THE HUMANITY YOU NEVER HAD?” He roared, as the spear tore from his belly, he lunged forward his thousand-toothed jaw in a relentless assault.

 

At the unexpected lunge, the Sunlit Lord raises his spear upright, and aims to impale it forth. However, this seems to be his folly, as the sharp, vivid canines of Azdromoth plunge directly into immortal plates suspending its material body, ripping away the leftmost-arm of Xan. There is no sound of pain that escapes the aengul, and where the arm lay missing, golden-light undulates, hopeless sputums of divine power and wreathes of burning light. “This will be your only victory,”

 

“TRY AS YOU MAY THIEVING GOD, IT IS YOUR MORTALITY THAT YOU HIDE, THAT WHICH MAKES YOU SO WEAK. IN THE PLANE OF THE LIVING, IT IS OUR ARMOUR, OUR FLAME.” The Archdrakaar roared, Aengulsblood drenching his maw as it dripped from his lips. He tasted more than the burning of Xan’s fury; he tasted freedom. And he wished to drink deeply unto the sweet ichor. The Titan ascended upwards, wings buffeting against The Lion as he attempted to take to the skies.

 

Using his only arm, the Sunlit Lord abandons the spear momentarily, instantly drawn back against its side. Xan stretches his gauntleted-hand, and clenches at the neck of Azdromoth, heaving him towards the ground. Claws from the Anathema curl into the material divine-plates of the Sunlit Lord, leaving crevices and holes, but in turn, the aengul strikes and batters at the Archdrakaar.  “Give up this senseless throe,”

 

As Azdromth was entangled within The Lion’s grasp, indeed did those claws rivaling keeps bury into his armour, ripping apart the forge-lord’s steel and burning at The Sun with his crimson breath; the blood of Xan dripping back upon him as the two wrestled for control in a show of brute force, Titan, against Titan. They twisted in deadlock, plates of both armour and bone cracking as blows were exchanged between them. “YOU HAVE DENIED ME ALL BUT MY CHANCE AT FREEDOM, AND NOW WHERE HAS IT BROUGHT YOU?”

 

In their bout of wrestling, Xan’s gauntlet clenched at the rightmost-wing of Azdromoth, and with titan-esque strength, rips it untimely from the joint of the Archdrakaars’ torso, grounding him permanently so that he may not take flight once again. “Your father, Dragur, struggled much like this,” mocked the Sunlit Lord, whose knee rose up, slamming into the jaw of the Anathema. His words, pallid, uninterested, lacking the same ferocity and mortal conviction of Azdromoth - clear evidence to their distinction, as one was god, and the other, only wished for it. 

 

It was not but the wound that stung, but the words that bit deeper. The Titan’s creator mocked in subtlety as The Archdraakar wept a torrent of dragonsblood from his torn wing, the gift of flight and freedom ripped away from him- From the one who always takes, from the one who has always taken. The rival of his kind, the rival of all. “IS THIS WHAT IT TAKES? THE LION’S DESCENT TO ACCOMPLISH WHAT HIS FOLLOWING COULD NOT? YOU ABANDON ALL THOSE WHO HAVE TAKEN SIDE WITH YOU, DAUGHTERS AND SONS. MY SPAWN LIVE AND DIE IN ASIOTH, IN SPIRITUAL IMMORTALITY. WILL THE WHEEL OF FATE ALWAYS BOON YOU, LION?” Azdromoth roared, as a fountain of Dragonsflame wept from his maw; the burning crimson so voluminous his form was nearly lost within his own breath; the blackened soot that burnt the very air burnt your skin as you felt the air heat to a desert, the winds blowing fervently as if a tornado had caught the island within it’s grasp. From the smog, the cloud and darkness, even the light of radiance was lost within it’s blightful black. ”THERE IS A TERRIBLE TRUTH TO FATE, LION.”

 

“YOU DECIDE YOUR OWN.” The Archdraakar and Titan roared, as he appeared from the blackened fog; a plume of flame surrounding his form as he flew unto Xan directly. A leap which decided the fate of eras, a decision made which risked millenia of scheme, effort, work. The blood of angels had tasted so sweetly. Azdromoth ripped unto Xan’s throat with his misshapen jaw, clamping down deeply as he thrashed violently with the blood of dragons and gods intertwining. His claws ripped repeatedly unto Xan’s form, tearing apart the broken chestplate of The Lion-God as he repaid the debts owed from his creation. A glimmering light began to shimmer from the wound, a light beyond colour or imagination that had grown evermore luminous between the two.

 

The world itself slowly morphs and twists as the titanic beasts battle. To those that could see, a simple tear in reality emerges from the air, where its own existence bends between that of reality and others. A sudden, violent red haze drifts towards the leg of Xan, with a sudden force that lurched to knock the Lion off his equal footing. A surefire ‘honk’ of a Goose is heard in the chaos, a symbol familiar to some. The rift in reality disappeared as quickly as it came, offering a moment of aggression for the Titan to strike.

 

 

It was not the strength of Azdromoth that brought victory to this conquest, but the unlikely prudence of a divine alliance, beset by an unwilling, daemonic force. Xans’ leg crashed against the fortress walls, causing the earth to shake and crumble. With his gauntlet clenched, a strike was sent upright into the gullet of Azdromoth, squelching his flames. Yet, it did not seem to matter. With claws striking into the form of the Sunlit Lord, and shedding blood from into the immaterium, the aengul could do naught but accept this breadth of loss, birthed from the foundation of its warpath, with his neck wrangled by the canines of his foe.

 

“A pitiful existence,” is all that came from the callous words of orders’ manifest, as the claws of Azdromoth twined at the threads of divinity in the abstract existence of the Sunlit Lord. The heavens shuddered, the world weeped, and the cosmos felt an undeniable consequence to this destruction. All those who watched could only be stunned by the scene unfolding; it was both nephilim, and holy-allies that found their peripherals overtaken by the flickering lights, a gale of wind perturbing their battles. To the most mindless of ghouls, or to the vast sapience of the greatest warriors, all could only watch in wonder at the ending of Apotheosis.

 

“You have disturbed the tranquility of this realm,” bid the etching voice, hollow and ruminating, of Xan. It was all in truth, for this victory was the start of the greater consequences, and this world was now a floodgate to all that would be shielded by the Aengul of Order, who stood in the path of mortal-retching: death. The world felt the first of these consequences, where in the darkest corners of the world, most evil riled and came outwards in preparation for doomsday.

 

“The descendants’ are doomed, and it will be your greed, divinity, that damns them all,” The Sunlit Lords’ voice echoed across the realm, in every corner of the mortal world, and even sung into the heavens, the cosmos, and those vast plethora of shaking stars which integrated numerous home-realms. Azdromoth claimed the aenguls’ divine spark, and its body withered, flecks of bulbous light miraging the night-sky in sapphire-stars, birthing a new constellation. All paladins’ felt their connection growing weaker, and weaker, until their powers were no more.

 

Unto the stars, the aengul was immortalised, but nevertheless, he was another to fall. The centurion armies burst into a mirage of sapphire-mist, their souls damned to destruction, incapable of passing to anywhere. For the coming months, the sun remained eclipsed, weak, and ushered the world into a new age of darkness. “You loathsome child,” and then, it went silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[z3m0s 1957]

[Pallodium 3775]

This eventline was brilliantly amazing. The story we got to experience and change along the way was truly an amazing eventline- to all the ST who ran it, thank you for all you've done for the eventline- for Apotheosis.

[Cepheid 4304]

From the depths of the Titan's libraries a creature stirred from her long slumber and penance. To return to the flock, to return to mortal-lands- victory in absolution. The age of dragons had come and she was ready to return for it.

[Java17 2216]

21 minutes ago, squakhawk said:

The first of them was the leal herald Thelia, who had been killed before she even realised she was dead; foolishly lashing out and attempting to strike the demigod preemptively.

 

Spoiler

CINEMA.

 

[kindEmperor 1466]

A familiar Nephilim bathed in swathes of warming flame, all in a sweer embrace as he remembered those old days. - The days whence it was all but words and fiction, the days where the current events were iterated but not swung or treaded.

It was all too beautiful, all too perfect. 

How tragic should our fall be?

It would be a great fall.

Asioth. 

[Morigung-oog 5697]

A Xionist herald, faltering in her original faith, sat upon her throne in the Synod proper, reflecting upon the events that had unfolded. Their meeting with Mordring had given her faith, for he treated her not like a slave, not as a god would to a devout, but rather an ally. He wished not to be revered as a god, and thus she of Strife respected that. As she looked back on the shattered remnants of the Dissentious Way, she sighed. A few collapsed menhirs, a fractured coven. This could not continue. No. In that moment, her admiration extended beyond that of the four lords and instead directly up to the Guardian of the Abyss. She would heed his orders, his wishes, and his alone... 

 

".. It is time."

[Traveller 2718]

Spoiler

this eventline was truly peak LoTC, and i'm scared it wont be topped. for sure it has absolutely set a new standard for big eventlines.

 

i enjoyed it thoroughly and every week i was kept on my toes

 

thank you squak and every ST member, lore event or build that was involved, even if only for 10 minutes. unforgettable! can't wait to see how this impacts the server lore going forward

 

 

 

[Jentos 9422]

Spoiler

"And then we ruined all over them." 

 

 

The very best event line I've had the chance of attending. Truly peak, makes me wish we see more of these kinds of eventlines in the future. Love u squak, love u all :3

 

[_Sug 2809]

It was Judgement. Divine Punishment. THE VERDICT. Execution.

 

The words spoken with the Unchained resonated within the mind of one of his eldest sons, a duty to be the casted vote between Asura or Xan. Glory or Annihilation. He was the one all looked towards for the final vote.

 

"XAN!" The beast roared to all his kin, divided equally into two groups of sixteen for either side, thus the cries of "GODHUNT!" Roared from the area about the front of the icy lair's entrance.

 

It was decided, his father would become divine. His duty, his purpose, his mission, realized within the Justicar.

 

In time it was obtained. That choice, that responsibility given to him by the UNCHAINED AZDROMOTH, led to the divinity of his father.

 

And it was just. For Order fell, and Ruin overcame, but there would always be a place for JUDGEMENT and no place for weakness or routes of ease. Apotheosis was realized. It was time for the other divine to feel its wrath.

 

Spoiler

An amazing conclusion to an amazing eventline! Thanks to all the ET, Squak, Werewolf, Dingo, Rigor, Bene and all others for a wild ride. Thank you to the paladins for being such good sports about it as well. Until the next godhunt.

 

[Frisket 4538]

(Curse phone formatting)

 

(ooc: Thnak you so much for the event, Even though I joined in later- it was great experience to be part of something big as this! To all the ET who took part and to those whom participated! Once thank you!)

 

edit: (Also GG drazi gamers!)

[asoart 133]

    William grew up with fantasies of slaying a dragon, ever since he gained his consciousness, he looked for stories of past dragons, he looked for strategies, he trained, he planned. He found the stories, he fantasised more; he met knights, he fantasised even more; he SAW a throne made of a dragons skull, he SAW a sword containing a dragons soul, he fantasised even more!  Up until he met someone old enough to witness many dragons, giving him the news about how dragons are really slain...in a lame way with siege weapons and NOT with a great spear.

    Still, seeing how the world was shaping up, he couldn't help but delusionally think that all his fantasies were slowly building a path for him to slay a dragon! Was GOD making his wish come true??? Could destiny lead him that way?? All this time, there hadn't been a single dragon sighting, yet now that he was becoming old enough, a dragon emerges???

[The Tough Guy 4319]

Sigrun 'Undeadslayer' Stonehammer had prepared to venture to Khaz'A'Dentrumm at the final battle.

 

Yet it seemed Kjellos and Dungrimm had purpose for him yet.