HEAR ME, DEMONKIND

[Xarkly 17299]

Spoiler

 

 

A boom of thunder rolled across the sky.

 

Heralded by the rain, that rumble swept across western Aevos: it swept through the towering pines of the western taiga, and it swept along the rivers and waterfalls of western Reinmar. Over the slated roofs of Kretzen did the thunder echo, and westward it rang, until it reached an isolated hilltop occupied only by burning trees, a monastery draped in smoke, and a victorious army. 

 

As the thunder reached that place - as it reached Belvedere - it was met with the burst of a clarion warhorn from that army, one that proclaimed their triumph over the cackle of the flames, the hammering of the rain, and even that peel of thunder. For, from Belvedere, news of a victory spread.

 

And, as that news spread, so too did a message delivered from the ruins.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋────

 

Hear me, all Demonkind.

 

I am called Villorik. I stand as Patriarch Jorenus of the northern flock; as Pontifical Commandant of the Canon; as enduring blade of Caius Primus. Some of you know my name, and some of you will not. Irrespective of which, know that this message is for all your kind - all whose hands are scarred with the sigils of the Hells, and all whose souls are blemished by its touch. 

 

Listen closely. 

 

────⇌•✟•⇋────

 

After blow by blow of the battering ram, Belvedere’s gate splintered.

 

Through that puncture in the monastery’s defence, the Reinmaren vanguard poured into the courtyard. Their roars mingled into one indistinguishable tide as they carried the battering ram forward, their mails dusted in soot and the bitter memory of the touch of Malflame burned into their memory. Spurts of more Hellfire, flung from the walls, filled the gloomy courtyard with flashes of black, teal, amber, and white. 

 

But they charged on.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

For many years, I have hunted the Shadow.

 

I have stood within the halls of Murkwater after its denizens were driven from it, and marked our victory with a Hussariyan Cross erected within its very halls. I have stood upon the ash-haze fields of the Hexicanum, clutching the bloodstained cloak of my fallen liege, whose life was given for the Light’s victory. I have stood amongst the atriums of Lumbridge, my weapon dusted with the pearlescent remains of shattered Menhirs. 

 

I have stood upon the fens of Nevaehlen as a Canonist cavalcade trampled you underfoot, as you sought to beckon your Lord Kholidav into this world.

 

Today, I stand within the ruins of Belvedere, and I watch the Demonbane Banner fly above it.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

The glow of a portal broke through the gloom.

 

Driven by their warhorn, the Reinmaren pressed on, reinforced in the rear now by the detachment of the Canonist Church. On the rooftops, the Demons and Diabolists flung themselves into that portal to escape the battle as their besiegers charged in. As a warpriest to the rear of the Reinmaren raised his gauntleted hands to the heavens, a snaking blaze of holy white-gold flames bloomed across the roof, hastening the Demons in their flight.

 

Most of them fled, but not all. 

 

As the battering ram slammed against the courtyard’s second gate, a lone figure stood on the other side of the portcullis, watching the crusader’s inevitable advance. The Demon Ren breathed deeply as his brethren fled, the myriad of tiny mouths that marred his flesh chittering eagerly at the thought of biting into one of the crusaders that stood only feet away from him, barred by a single, crumbling gate. 

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

I have killed countless of you.

 

Yet, by your nature, you eschew death. For the pacts you have made - whether with the Lords of the Hells, or the Shadow itself - you have tainted your souls and hearts in exchange for power. The power to stand supreme over your mortal counterparts; the power to be the master of your own fates. The power to be undying. 

 

Yet, for all that power, the end is always the same.

 

As it was when Siegmund, Prince of Carrion, was slain by the Blade of Jophiael some hundred years ago outside the walls of Karosgrad, so is it now. Murkwater is fallen, and the Gravelord Kryndomere slain. Those who dared sully their hands with the blood of Queen Amaya are vanquished. 

 

Even now, the reincarnation of your Prince of Carrion is undone. I have taken the fell blade Vutcimuz from him, and made tribute of it to the Holy Light. 

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

The second gate split open.

 

Pale dregs of Malflame smouldered in Ren’s hands as the Zarakal watched the Reinmaren, gripped by fervour, rush towards him. In the vestibule courtyard, there was but one of the Zarakal’s allies who did not flee; as he dropped from the roof to cut off the Canonist reinforcements, the thing called Lanre emit a burst of air that sent the Ordermen skittering back across the rain-slicked stones. 

 

As the dour-faced Lanre straightened up after his impact, the dim light caught the stream of blood seeping from his chest where a crossbow quarrel protruded. Across the courtyard, a warpriest clad in white straightened to his feet, and glared through his winged visor at the Undead mage - the same mage that had fought at the Hexicanum.

 

The same mage who had slain a Pontiff named Caius. 

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

You have traded something you should not have.

 

In exchange for your power, you have given away that which you needed to make use of that power. By mastering death, you have lost sight of life - you are estranged from what it means to live. To love. To dream. To aspire. To struggle. To overcome. Without these things, you are nothing - I have but one life to give, and yet when you see my glaive and banner, you flee and seek shelter. 

 

For all your self-decadence, you live in caves. You live in ruins. You live in villages. 

 

So it is that I am satisfied. The will of Caius Primus is done.

 

You are culled. 

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

The final two defenders of Belvedere fought.

 

With eyes brimming with incomprehensible hate, Lanre’s blade streaked towards the winged-helmed Villorik. Yet, for all the spells he had plied in the course of the battle and for the crossbow bolt jammed in his chest, the warpriest’s blade stopped the mage’s blow dead in its tracks. Through his visor, the warpriest only regarded Lanre somberly, before Sigmar’s sword speared through Lanre’s hand, and Barend’s blade rammed through the undead’s neck.

 

Beyond the gate, a tide of swinging steel descended on Ren. Though the Zarakal’s mouths clamped down on Erwin - Prince of the Reinmaren - only a being stronger than even a Zarakal could have withstood the warband’s onslaught. They sliced. They cut. They stabbed. They shattered. 

 

They slew. 

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Soon, I will be dead.

 

It shall not be by your hands that I fall. For all the battles we have fought, you have had ample opportunity. The truth, however, is evident - you are unworthy of my head. Unworthy to shed my blood.

 

When I am gone, another will rise to take my place, as I have risen to take Caius’. This is the nature of Humankind; this is true power, that which is lost to you. As I know Caius did, I die easy; I die knowing that my part in the War Eternal is done, and that I have kept the flame alive for another to take the torch. 

 

This is a peace you will never know. For that, I mourn for you. 

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Ren’s corpse sagged to its knees.

 

Stood over him, Prince Erwin - his mail bloodied and broken - bared a viscous grin. His tribesmen raised their bloodied blades skywards, and exclaimed one deafening cry of victory as the rain beat down. The Zarakal’s Rakir spread out across the flagstones, forming a pool of sickly red. 

 

In the courtyard, as blood oozed from Lanre’s throat, Villorik’s shield dropped to the ground with a thunk. His left hand reached up with a creak of metal, and merely placed it upon Lanre’s shoulder in a gesture of vain comfort. That hate, brewing in the undead’s eyes, spoke a saga unto itself. 

 

Then, with a twist of his sword, Barend severed its head.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

My death will not bring you peace.

 

Know, ye of the Shadow, that I will remain watching from the Skies. You are all known to me; you will all persist beneath my vigil.

 

Solomon. The Black ‘Pontiff’.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

The battle had been long-fought.

 

The clarion cry of victory continued to ring out as Erwin buried his blade into Ren’s neck, severing the Zarakal’s head from its neck. In the courtyard behind him and the Reinmaren, a final swift blow to the brain silenced Lanre’s suffering - for just a while longer, at least.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Krodha.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

Malphas.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

Kasuga. Jao.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

As the cries went up, Villorik leaned against his glaive.

 

With the battle won, his rigour abandoned him. Pommel of the glaive clanking against the tiles, he navigated through the splintered gate, to where the Reinmare were parading Ren’s severed head atop a spear.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Cordelia.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

Alistar. ‘Jade Prince’.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

Sarryn.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Villorik beheld that twisted face.

 

He remembered when he had first seen it, atop a hilltop near Aaun, when he yet stood at Caius’ side. He remembered the Demon’s scent; his lust not just for battle and prey, but to be known. To be infamous. As the warpriest looked into his eyes, filmed with death, only one thought occurred to him.

 

Ren had been the only Demon that had never run from him.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Stjarna.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

Aratakrast.

I know your name. I know your face.

Never show it within the Light again.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

With a soft sigh, Villorik averted his gaze.

 

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he followed it to Sigmar. His mail bore no traces of the torrents of Malflame that had assailed them both that day, but his face bore the memory of it. Villorik exchanged a single, silent nod with him as the Reinmaren cheered.

 

Their work was done.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Siegmund.

King of the Village.

 

You have lost your daughter. Your crown. Your sword.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

Their last campaign, won.

Their last enemy, slain.

 

────⇌•✟•⇋──── 

 

All that remains to you is her.

 

If ever you hurt her  -

There is nothing in the Heavens or Hells that will save you from me.

 

Art by @UnBaed

[lemonke 6014]

Smilebone, the necromantic jester, goes through the list of evildoers and dissing made by the holy warrior. A sweat of fear crossed her masked forehead, and seeing naught her name on it. She released a loud sigh of relief. "SAFE AT LAST!" Then some of her undead began to question her fear. "I'M NOT AFRAID! SHUT UP, YOU INSOLENT UNDERLING! I'M NOT AS STUPID AS KRYNDOMERE. SIMPLE AS THAT." Said the evildoer before she vanished into the depths of her cave. She had nightmares of Villorik leading numerous rallies against her. Not yet. She is not yet ready to fight the mighty soldier of God.

 

"BLESSED BE IBLEES I AM NOT ON THAT LIST THOUGH! I AM NOT ON HIS SAME POWER LEVEL YET!!!"

[Demonica 678]

By then, Cordelia the Witch had long retreated into the forest, scrubbing defeat from her skin with moss and soil. She cast her gaze up to the pale moon, her ever-silent companion; "To compare me to those pitiful, rodent warlocks. What a shame."

She muttered, turning her attention to a lone fox that lingered nearby, as if it could understand her. "For all their flaws, at least the humans stand united. They’re not blinded by their own hubris. Let Villorik burn them all, I say. I'll deal with what's left of him afterwards."

[Nectorist 12869]

Abandoned by the All-Father in his time of greatest need, Albatross falls captive to overwhelming forces of the crusaders and the woman of flames that proved their strongest warrior, at least through his eyes, for elsewhere he did not bear witness to Villorik's triumphs. Brought to her temple and stripped of his power, he is left without purpose, guidance, or meaning. 

 

An old dog's never learned new tricks.

 

He walks out into the wastes, reborn a new man, a weak man, the man he had sought to leave behind many years before. There was a time, long ago, when he had helped tears down the banner of the Johannians, smash the Legions of Renatus, dine with the King of Haense, and save the people of Aegrothond from doom. Yet, for all the color in his life, it could not paint a picture of the unparalleled power he needed. No reputation, no skill at arms, could prevent the demise of the ones he cared for the most. 

 

As the day turns to evening, the desert winds heighten their speed. The way forward, the path to the unknown end, is obscured. Albatross Volaren, half a millennia old, plunges into its depths yet again, uncertain of the death, life, or life after that awaits him. Memories of his daughter, his dear Heron, give him comfort as he trudges on. 

[Rig 17581]

Vriza watched on with mischief twinkling in his four eyes beneath the mask, the pupils widening as the light exudes from his stony and statue-like countenance. All that was yet visible of the abomination to the naked eye of his devoted servants was his immense shape cloaked in darkness sat astride a throne of glittering gold. Like a hulking silhouette, a golem from hell cloaked in red skin littered with scars. The hall was greatly embellished and closely resembled a Canonist church, but it possessed Elven scripture of the elden days, and was gilded by pearlescent hewn marble and gorgeous silver. From the silver chair, the Twisted King proclaimed:

 

"The only loss is Ren. The rest can be easily replaced." He said to one of his cultists within the halls of his court. "Let the Canonists fight the flock of the Deceiver. Resume our business in Haense."

 

[LithiumSedai 5750]

"Villorik? Yes, I know him," the Waldenian tersely told the herald bringing news of the battle to Alba. "The man who sold the East so he might swing a wooden sword at fairytales." Conrad of Corwinsburg snorted, and resumed his back-breaking toil in the Pontifical States. The privilege to fight these so-called demons, he bitterly thought, was the privilege of the West who had dared not fight men.

 

[MadOne 4945]

It hung there, that bloodstained cloak, sodden with rain, frayed by years of war, and yet it seemed to possess a gravity of its own. It had been there in Caius’s final hours, when he stood against the wickedness of the world. It had been there as he fell, and it had been there when the fires consumed him, outlasting even his mortal frame.

 

Now, it was theirs to carry. And so his name was theirs to bear.

 

One of the soldiers there, perhaps one of his tribesmen, or perhaps one that fought aside with him, beheld that frayed cloak. He paused, and his fingers brushing the ragged edge of the cloth. It was rough to the touch, stiff with ash and old blood, yet it felt alive, as though it held the heat of that long-ago fire. He drew his hand away quickly, almost afraid. Caius was not a man anymore. He was an idea, and ideas could not be touched—they could only be carried.

 

And so they carried him.

 

Dead men do not march, but somehow, Caius led them still.

 

 

[Acostrob 321]

A white-clad weaver sighs in disappointment at not being mentioned. Clearly, he needs to step his game up.

[Xarkly 17299]

6 hours ago, LithiumSedai said:

"Villorik? Yes, I know him," the Waldenian tersely told the herald bringing news of the battle to Alba. "The man who sold the East so he might swing a wooden sword at fairytales." Conrad of Corwinsburg snorted, and resumed his back-breaking toil in the Pontifical States. The privilege to fight these so-called demons, he bitterly thought, was the privilege of the West who had dared not fight men.

 

 

The bitterness of the Aaunishmen was not something that crossed Villorik's mind often.

 

Even so, he prayed for them. He remembered well the Aaunishman who sold their land folly by folly, and he remembered which Patriarch had not. 

 

If only their idiocy had been the fairytale. 

[sam33497 7356]

A weak figure shambled down a quiet road, garbed in robes that left no consideration to appearance. It sat in alleyways, it lay at the bottom of wells and rivers, and spoke words of soothsaying to those passing by. Sometimes, its exterior was shed lightly, to exact raging consequence upon the world, or to impart some knowledge of his art. But mostly it roamed the earth, sleepless, a shell, masterless, for he had earned his freedom long ago. But for what purpose? This was undeath.

 

Rain slammed down onto loose tiles, and Lanre stood in the middle of the barren road. He spoke to no one, as often.

 

"Envy... This is often the source of my hatred."

 

His voice was detached.

 

"Perhaps I wish not to have been forsaken by the world to this state."

 

"But it is I who set this arrangement, who does not consider suicide."

 

There was silence for a while, but for the sound of cascading rain.

 

"Villorik, Caius, your styles infuriate me. Perhaps it is simply a difference in strength, that you are able to weather the pure misery of guardianship, then stoically pass on your duties and an uncertain future to another, while remaining uncorrupted by the trials and losses of life."

 

"I have always hated the idea of chance. Or more accurately, the idea of fate. As it was Caius, after you are gone, many those you would wish protected will suffer and die, some by my hand, but it will matter not. You have no control or ability towards those events, who rises, falls, suffers, and dies. Largely, this is the case even while you live."

 

"If not my hand, then another. Perhaps a great being that we could not fight against at all. This is the reality of a Descendant; we walk a razor-thin wire until fate easily snuffs us out. Greater creatures hold their own fates in the palm of their hands, but we do not."

 

"Wretched Villorik, wretched Caius, I will continue to weather this world. I will kill as many as it takes, exacting the toll of fate, and accrue whatever I must, go through whatever misery I must, bow to whomever I must, usurp whomever I must, until the collective might of Descendants is sufficient to govern their own fate. And then, on that day, it will be I called a savior, not you who fought for mere moments, dying and forfeiting the future, allowing yourselves to be subject to greater machinations even as you lived. This is my perseverance, the perseverance of the wretched creature Lanre Cerusil."

 

The undead wrung hands of bone as words of delusion were spoken to itself, as if a necessary reminder of the shambling undead's purpose. It continued walking on, a pathetic picture, but an enigmatic one, whose future and impact would remain uncertain as time continued.

[frvma 1014]

Malbeth, began to hide and wait. Wait, and wait, and wait. She would begin to plan. Revenge would come to Villorik--as time oft repays acts in kind. But it would not be today, or tomorrow, or the next day, or the next year. 

 

She wanted him to suffer, lose everything, wanted him to feel the jaws closing in, what it would feel like to see the light and "God" slowly abandon him. She wanted to be there to see his face when that day came. She wanted that man to feel safe, and secure for many moons before he began to feel the spear piercing his spine.

 

The Goat doesn't forget so easily the transgresses upon His flock. Likewise, neither did the woman. 

 

"I will make you remember Ren." 

 

Her voice rang out into a cold air.

[Laeonathan 5889]

Raziel's gaze fell upon the missive. A wave of both relief and disappointment came above him, as he read it.

 

The self-styled canonist monastery lay destroyed. For 21 years he tried to be the one to burn it. Talked to to Cardinals who mistrusted his claim. Sooner, it would have happened, if Caius were still alive, he thought. He would have believed him, and struck what lurked inside. And when he was finally believed, he lacked the forces, and his government was preoccupied with things they - likely rightfully - saw as more pressing.

 

He was denied the revenge for his fallen kin. But instead of lamenting further, he popped open a bottle of wine and celebrated the defeat of his foes.

 

"Villorik," He said. "I should write this man a letter."

 

 

 

 

[Frostdrop1 1843]

Reinhard heard the whispers of Villorik's words in passing; minute, tempting snippets from the warpriest. A man he knew so little of, and yet the devil so despised. How people fell at his feet and sang his praises when he was but a snivelling, selfish creature at heart. He couldn't fathom it. But, then again, he could fathom few things of his human kin.

 

Eternally, did he feel like an outcast. Words were soft things, pleasing things. People spoke of their protections, they spoke of aid. And yet, it was not he they were ultimately moved for but his cousin. A Weiss, all the same. But not him.

 

Villorik was top-full of pride, not compassion. It is this distinction, then, that made the devil revile him so: that same demonkind he hunted were but creatures of pride, too. He was simply one of them, in human skin: a perfected guise.

 

The devil came to stifle a small laugh as he considered the reality he lived in. Every day was a struggle. Perhaps at one time, it had been easier - but not anymore. A hellish existence of running and running until he found meaning, and purpose, and a sense of safety. It was a failed deal that he paid the price for; and so too had he been the price for Villorik. Never, never would he forget the boy on that snowy mountain who had desperately sought an escape. And never, never would be forget how the priest gave him no mind except:

 

Your time will come.

[KillerMaid 636]

Malna Loa'chil looked at the paper. For all her blissful ignorance she knew no one was perfect... neither her nor Villorik. She wondered how she was.

 

"I should write... He better not have gotten himself hurt."

 

She murmured, not knowing of much, but knowing that she and him were kind, at least to Malna.

 

[Jensen02 337]

During is surveys of the region, before the land had been settled by Reinmaren, Sir Stanton Stroheim felt an unease lingering from the monastery of Belvedere. What would have been fear stirred into hatred within the Templar, hatred that continued to fester with every year that monastery remained standing. As his people left the monastery victorious Stanton felt an overwhelming catharsis wash over him, a thorn prodding at the edges of his mind had finally been removed. 

"It took decades to see that placed purged of evil, Thank God I lived long enough to play my part and see it done."