The End and the Death [PK]

[AdmiralLB 209]

Spoiler

 

The Blacksmith

 

On a moonlit night, some five hundred years ago, an elven child was born. Unloved by his parents, the boy was left to die in the cold, where he was found by a kindly blacksmith and his wife. Beneath a black mountain, in a great city of fire and iron, that boy was raised with love and kindness. He was taught in his father's ways, aiding him in the forge by the time he was but five winters old. He grew tall and strong there, and he learned a good, valuable skill, one which he would refine over the course of the many years to come. 

 

But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world. 

 

The greedy lords of the city grew jealous of the father's skill, they despised his kindness and that he was loved by all who met him. Hatching a sinister plan, the vile wretches had the boy's family slain, with him as the only unlucky survivor. A boy of twelve winters was enslaved and made to do work for the lords, his skin darkened with coal and ash, blistering from the heat and burned by the fire. His hands and feet bleeding from the roughness of his environs, the boy was chained and beaten into submission, for there was naught he could do.

 

Until the day came, and the boy had become a man. Despite their best efforts to break him, the lords had unwittingly tempered the boy like the metals they had him work. Tall as an oak and strong as an ox, the man had ever despised the wretched things that took his family. And when the day came that an earthquake shook the mountain, he saw his chance. Not just to escape, but to enact vengeance. For you see, the man was no fool, he knew that open rebellion would surely see him slain. So he'd waited, and he'd prepared. Over the years of his imprisonment, he had saved every scrap that another would have tossed aside, and fashioned it into a blade. It was not blade one would call beautiful, it was an ugly, terrible thing, and certainly not a blade one would consider good. With his gaolers distracted, the man broke from his cell. Amidst the collapsing city, overflowing with the magmatic currents that sat beneath the mountain, the man hunted down those who had wronged him.

 

He killed them all.

 

Like a raging whirlwind, he tore through the lords, who had grown fat and old. As he stood over the last of them, his sword bent and broken, the city finally breathed its last. Barely, he made it out, fleeing the site of his sorrow. He crossed the frigid wastes of his homeland, until he reached the sealine. There, he bought passage to another land with the little wealth he'd managed to take from the slain lords, and he left his homeland, nevermore to return.

 

For many moons they sailed, until the ship was faced with a terrible storm that saw them shipwrecked. When the boy came to, he found himself in a strange, cold land. He hid and scavenged to survive, until he was caught by some local soldiers. He was held prisoner until they could think of what to do with him. It was decided that he should be put to work. Unlike his prior captors however, the soldiers treated the man fairly, at times even with kindness. He befriended them, and he learned from them their language and their customs. When his service was fulfilled, he stayed with them for some years. Confined as he had always been, the man yearned to wander, to explore, and he did. He left his friends behind, and walked the many roads of the realms, until he arrived in the city of New Reza. He like the city, and its people, so he stayed. Enlisting in the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, the man served the kingdom for many years as a soldier and blacksmith. He made many friends, and lost them again, as is the curse of the long-lived. He found love, he married, and he had a son. The man even became a knight, earning the privilege of squireship as reward for his deeds during the Siege of Aegrothond, where he slew one of the Inferi commanders in single combat. As knight, the man served ever loyally, though at times his temper got the better of him. He took a squire, a young commoner named Markus, and the boy was as a son to him.

 

But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world.

 

Markus was taken from him, slain and buried whilst the man was absent on a quest. The man wept at his son's grave for days, raging at the world that had taken Markus well before his time, whilst the man was allowed to grow old. With this final indignity, the man came to a choice. He petitioned the king, coming close to begging, and was honourably released from his oath. He wandered the realms, lost and broken. His good wife came with him, whilst their son struck out on his own, though never heard from again.

 

They came to Norland, and it did not last.

 

They came to Sutica, and it did not last.

 

They came to Haelun'or, and it did not last.

 

Finally, they came to the city of the Mali'Fenn, underneath which the Mali'Ker had also made their home. In this cold realm, which the man almost likened to his home, he served, almost taking faith, though he did not in the end. Then, all changed.

 

It changed when the man met him. The Son of Azdromoth. The ancient Nephilim Balthazar.

 

The two formed an unlikely friendship, and Balthazar took the man to the Academy of his brother Morur'ei. There, the man met many beings, mortal and not. He met seekers, heralds, ordained ones and the mighty Nephilim. Morur'ei, Vothdrem, and even the three-eyed Prince, the Prophet, the An-Gho. In awe at them all, the man however held Balthazar in the greatest regard, and in turn the Justiciar taught the man. He branded the man's chest, which now bore the flaming eye of Azdromoth, and the man became a Herald. 

 

 

The Herald

 

 

The Herald served loyally, and he was taught the ways of Azdromoth in turn. Never an esoteric being, the Herald focused his service on the practical things. He fought, he forged, and he learned. When Vothdrem rebelled against the An-Gho, the Herald slew him, though the Nephilim would ultimately receive final judgement at the hands of his Father. His Father, the Titan, the King who never was, Azdromoth. The Herald knew that Azdromoth was a lord he could serve, a worthy King. And so he did for many years, until he received further glory, being ordained by the brothers Morur'ei and Balthazar. It was during this time that the Herald's wife, untrusting of his choices, would leave his side. Afterwards, the Herald felt hollow, and he spent his days in the forge, hammering away at iron and steel to vent his frustrations.

 

And then came the Cloudbreaker, the mighty dragon. The servants and children of Azdromoth would attempt to bring the Cloudbreaker to their side, granting the dragon wealth and a magnificent gift from Azdromoth.

 

But it did not last, for the Cloudbreaker was slain by an infernal terror. A terrible worm, that wrestled with the Cloudbreaker and ultimately emerged the victor. And as if this was not a bitter enough thing, the Cloudbreaker was reborn through foul necromantic magicks. So the realms united, and a team was formed. The Herald was part of that team, having earned the honour in virtuous combat with other heralds. For his victory, he was granted a nail, one of the An-Gho's cruel tears, and his brow was marked with a golden point by the Inquisitor Aulkhorian. 

 

The team of the united realms would seek out the heart of the abomination that the Cloudbreaker had become, and destroy it. And the Herald continued to serve, as he always had, as he always would. For the Herald was many things. He was headstrong and stoic, violent and bellicose, but he was always loyal.

 

He even found love once more, in a woman named Siria.

 

But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world.

 

In the end, it was this loyalty that saw him make a request of Balthazar. A duel. For the Herald had never been bested in single combat, and he wished to test himself against his master. In truth, both knew the Herald would lose. How could a man defeat a dragon, after all? The request was made, and so granted.

 

It was a terrible sight to behold.

 

Balthazar, very much loving his apprentice, would not befoul the Herald's request by holding back, and destroyed the Herald in combat. Balthazar first disarmed the Herald, then battered his armour to scrap. He took hold of the Herald's helmeted head and opened his maw. The last thing the Herald saw that day was fire. The last thing he felt that day was pain. The flames ravaged the Herald, hungrily burning away at the armour until it was melting, fusing itself to the Herald's face. Then Balthazar tore away the helmet, and the Herald's skin with it. In his cruel mercy, Balthazar healed the Herald, saving his life, but scarring him for the rest of his days.

He granted a crown to the Herald, a relic from the scorched herald Maerec.

 

And still, the Herald served. He fought, he killed, and he bled. His reward was an orb of sacred metal, filled with vibrant flames, and three sacred tasks from Ut'torvioth, that which had been Morur'ei. Over the course of years, the man fulfilled these trials. He slew a Dreadknight, and forged from its remnants a mighty axe. He uncovered the secret at the heart of Asioth. And he ventured out into the Ashlands with nothing but the cloth on his back, discovering a thing of his father, lost to him so many years ago.

 

He reported his success, and he was rewarded.

 

His reward was the Death. The Death that was the Birth of the Forgelord. 

 

 

 

The Forgelord

 

 

 

As the Herald burned, he gave his body over to something greater. From the flames of his pyre, the creature Vedyolthur emerged, clad in scales of ebon and maroon, bearing a crown of horns in the same hues. The creature was at once familiar and unfamiliar with the world around it, and the people in its presence. It wandered the realms once more, as had the Herald so long ago, a habit it would never lose. Once it had found itself, it returned, taking up the mantle of Forgelord. For what the Herald could do, the Nephilim could only do better. 

 

And it did. Blades that were as kings amongst their kind were created, armour that could weather any assault. The Forgelord learned and improved, coming to know the secrets of forging any metal in the realms, barring those that required the hand of mages. Lunarite, Azhl, Boomsteel, Dracanium, Bluesteel and even Carbarum, it could forge them all, and its flames burned bright.

 

Then came Apotheosis.

 

At its brothers sides, and with the support of the heralds and seekers, did the Forgelord make war against the False Sun and its blind followers. Many fought, many died. The Forgelord and its kin ventured to their Father's citadel, where they killed invaders and cleansed corruption from their ancient siblings. They liberated the foundries of Tor'Galend and it was the Forgelord who discovered a most magnificent sight. 

 

Dracanium, the sacred metal formed from the remains of Dragons.

 

It was from this metal that the Forgelord would fashion for itself a great hammer.

 

The Burning Hand, Urdrakule. A singular piece, crafted from the remains of Vulkan, the Lord of Drakes. The hammer whispered to the Forgelord, offering wisdom and knowledge, and the two fought well under the banners of Azdromoth. Countless servants of the False Sun were reduced to bits of metal and bloody chunks under their assault.

 

And then came Azdromoth. The Titan, The King-Father.

 

The False Sun and He did battle, and with the help of an unforeseen ally, did He win. He devoured the False Sun, ascending in its place. The Forgelord wept with joy as his Father, his King-of-Ages succeeded.

 

But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world.

 

 

The End

 

 

 

Hollow. The Forgelord felt hollow in the absence of its Father, its Lord. Vedyolthur yearned to be at His side once again. There was only one thing that kept the Forgelord from joining the Titan in his new realm. The promise of another piece of knowledge. A new metal, Argentum. A new milestone to add to its masterdom of the forge. 

 

And so it did. It worked for the Darkqueen, over the course of years, and finally it learned. The last bit of lore was finally learned. By this time, the Forgelord had no equals in the realms of men, for surely only the divine and their counterparts could ever hope to outdo one such as Vedyolthur, the leal Blacksmith of the King Who Is. 

 

As the others, greedy piglets suckling at the teat of victory, left with their spoils, the Forgelord took aside one of its brothers. The Serpent of the Seas, mighty Elathion. It was to Elathion that Vedyolthur would bequeath its will. 

 

With its will in good hands, the creature Vedyolthur spoke, for one last time. Its words rung out through the vaunted halls of Tor'Praeth like the clear sound of a bell.

 

"I go now to the Hall of my Father, in whose might company I shall not be ashamed."

 

Its last words still sounding throughout the might spire, Vedyolthur encased itself in a maelstrom of fire, red as blood and bright as the sun. When the flames subsided, there stood a wondrous sight.

 

A Dragon, bedecked in a coat of scales the black of midnight, its crown a nest of horns of metallic darkness, slowly morphing into a deep maroon toward their points. Above each of these eight horns floated a small red flame, bearing the same hue as the maelstrom that the Dragon had emerged from. Its claws were like dark red steel, its wings were made from black scales streaked with deep red, and the base of its tail was a dreadful macehead bedecked with spikes. Its eyes were like the sun, blazing with red fire, and that same fire also burned at the centre of its chest, where the flaming eye of Khârn rested. 

 

The Dragon let out a fierce roar, one that shook the structure it stood inside of to its foundations. And then, slowly, softly, the Dragon became something else. Or rather, it returned to that which it had once been. Over a short while, one that would seem an eternity, but would be laughably short compared to the eternal slumber to come, the Dragon turned to stone. By the time it was over, there stood the Dragon, rendered in black marble, as detailed as it had been in life, but resting peacefully in the eternal embrace of stone. 

 

 

The First

 

 

 

Vedyolthur found itself in an unfamiliar place, clad in the simple trappings of a blacksmith. A lush garden, where trees the colour of warm gold sprawled, whilst rivers and mountains dotted the land. It was a warm place, a kind and gentle place. Though the Nephilim had never been here before, it felt like home. It wandered for a while, as it always had. It came across a small stream and tasted the water. It was fresh and clear, and for the first time in its life, Vedyolthur had consumed something that did not taste like ash. Vedyolthur spent some more time wandering across the land, feeling the grass on its bare feet. It came across a wonderous thing. Other Nephilim, its kin of old. They welcomed their younger brother, and lead him to a clearing, bidding him to wait as they left. The Nephilim waited, though it could not clearly tell for how long. This place seemed and eternal one, the passage of time unimportant. 

 

It was then that a figure stepped into the light of the clearing. It was the Titan.

 

Azdromoth smiled as His child came to kneel before Him. He placed a gentle hand on the top of Vedyolthur's head, and bade him welcome to His realm, the first to enter since His ascension.

 

Vedyolthur smiled. It had come home.

 

Spoiler

So, there you have it. Just over five years, and I'm finally going to pk this character. I'm glad to have had the opportunity to give this thing a peaceful end, since its life was mostly miserable.

Now, I'm not going to waste words on a grand and elaborate farewell, because **** that. There are people on this server I considered good friends, like my boy @_Sug, love you broski. Or @Sarven, my favourite Communist. 

On the other hand, there's at least one person I will be glad to be rid of. @Smmer, I wish that your pillow will have two warm sides from now on, and may you forever step on every piece of Lego you come across. Be assured that I am doing us all a favour by NOT going into detail about how much I hate you, because it'd get ugly and violent VERY quickly.

 

That said, this is everyone's least favourite German, signing out. 

Ta ta,

 

Admiral

 

Edited September 14, 2024 by AdmiralLB
forgot to add an s somewhere. dm me if you can see where

[FlemishSupremacy 6115]

The halls of Tor'Praeth were filled with the sound of solemn, yet off cord guitar riffs for months to come. The gifts the Forgelord had left behind in life and in death would be remember and cherished.

 

The Nephilim did set up the niche within which Vedyolthur's encased form would be kept, quietly cursing the fact that this behemoth of a Nephilim had chosen to pass whilst in his most primordial form, for it proved difficult to lift.

 

"You will be remembered, venerable Forgelord."

[Ryanark 2738]

"Verily, you shall live forever, great Vedyolthur." Ahnakriel bid his farewell amidst a burning ritual of mourning, knelt before the embers of his memory.

[Crevel 7557]

Vylandris Vuln'ibar would pay tribute to his former mentor, visiting the encasement in memoriam. The figure who opened him to the intrigues of a once-unfamiliar world now laid immortalised in stone. Bearing the Nephilim's stylized mark, Vylandris swore to himself to give respect to his mark as more than a connection to the Titan, but also as a legacy to a great Nephilim.

[Java17 2216]

Beneath a mountain of fire lay a sword, gleaming with two colors: one of flame, the other of the sea.

 

Cinderbirth rested beneath his statue.

 

"A payment for lessons learned," was engraved upon the blade—a relic from days long past, of two who had now perished.

[DahStalker 3692]

Deep in Aevos an elfess by the name of Lhoris puts her fingertips together in a serious wager poise. "Kaedrin elf -1. Haense elf -o." She breathed out, taking the victory after all these years....

[Apotolofo 2204]

 

A pang of heartache gripped at Hera's chest each time she passed Zodd's candle.

 

She had known Numeon, but she knew him to be a shell. Only containing the memories of the figure she had almost seen as a father.

 

Hera did not hear of the dragon's passing. And yet, her mourning continued as it had for decades.

[MickMeist 175]

warhammer imagery is the only imagery that matters

[Morigung-oog 5697]

For a moment, the mighty First Judge Fornotos felt a pang of vulnerability, a wave of emotion that cut through her nigh impenetrable bastion of stoicism. Her list of friends and adored family grew shorter, and her still-beating heart grew heavier with the burden of loss. In that moment, her decoration, her titles were stripped from her ego, and left behind was a mournful Valindra, who hoped Nummy as only she was allowed to call him, had found solace in death and a home in a realm newly born from his kind’s tireless work. 
 

As she sorted through her collection of mementos from departed friends and family, she came across a grappling hook and an array of weapons sporting the eye of Kharn, treasured especially now.
 

Spoiler

Holy shit, feels unreal to be saying goodbye to both you and Numeon/Zodd. You’ve both made my experience on the server that much less torturous. Wherever you end up, I wish you the best. Thank you for everything chief. 

 

[sapphic_spidy 1089]

A dark elf continues to send the occasional letter to the man they had met once, never knowing that he would not receive them.

 

They did not know him, not really. It was sentiment more than anything else. Sentiment for one of the first people they had ever met.

 

It did not matter that they did not know each other, that the man never responded to the letters.

 

The fact that he doesn't now is nothing new.

So Kiva continues to write the letters, until eventually they give up.

[Conqueror 424]

KHÂZVALIKAR stood in the Ash-Knight meeting, simply listening to the topics of discussion.

 

"-must speak of Vedyolthur." Stood out from the discussive voices.

 

He grins. The mere topic of his friend making him smile! "What of him? Perhaps he made a new grandeur weapon."

Voices spoke at once:

 

"

He is the first in the New Garden.

He is Stone. Enlightenment.

 

He came to me lost.

"

 

The Khazdrazi frowned then, nervousness in his belly.

 

"Speak plain!"

 

A demand he made with a spit, with a snarl too of fear, of confusion to such answers.

Voices spoke again, in clarification:

 

 

"

He is no longer on this Plane, Brother.

His soul, with Father.

"

 

 

Silence.
 

Spoiler

you're presence will be missed icly and oocly

gone, another tor-azdroth OG, the smartest one of all!

godspeed!