V I L L O R I K

[Andustar 4143]

". . ."

 

At first, the news of Villorik's passing was received in silence, for the King of Balian was too bewildered to muster an appropriate response. Invincible was a word that often came to John's mind when he thought of the Cardinal. Not in the sense that he was impervious to damage; everyone knew he could bleed. Instead, it was his resounding presence that was invincible, for he possessed an uncanny ability to rally all, regardless of their faith or race, against the shadow that threatened them mutually. Whereas those who claimed to possess greater piety and holiness incited a combination of fear and hatred to garner followers, Villorik reminded his comrades of what was precious and worth fighting for.

The world would be a darker place now, John thought, for it had lost a champion who truly appeared to be an instrument of divine providence. He should have led the flock, yet it was a burden he would never accept. "All the more reason," the King remarked.

 

The remnant voice of Cloudbreaker trembled; it were as if the black sword knew there would be more fights to come, made all the more difficult by the passing of a great champion. And yet, even in death, perhaps Villorik had proven himself invincible, for the example he had provided would inspire more to take up arms in defence against the darkness. Nothing is ever truly gone, so long as memory endures.
 

At last, John had found the right words for this occasion.

"Vale, Villorik Cardinal Jorenus. You have earned your rest, and we will carry on where you once tread."
 

[Frostdrop1 1843]

It was alone that the devil stood in that moment beneath the lofty dome of the basilica - at least, alone in humanity. While his visage was one marred by the hells, for all the hurt the devil had suffered he was oh-so-human. Hate had boiled in his heart, and so had love, and so had anguish, and so had hope. For all that he felt he had no place, and never would have one, each day was a fruitless effort in being his best self: to heal, to aid others, and to be else. It was the patriarch, in some twisted way, that taught him how little he meant. Even as a child, he understood that it made sense for demons not to care, didn't it? Surely, this man that was so respected would help him. This man would save him.

He did not.

No, there was a price to pay that was not the young devil's own. All of a sudden, he understood why his father had been so afraid. He clasped his father's hand - to pull an tug him back - to leave. To meet had been a mistake: he was the chip, his father the player and the patriarch the dealer. He was being used, again. All had ignored his voice then on that windy, snow-covered peak. How little that devil's voice had meant to anyone. Even so, he clung to some hope of a future. At first, it was a grand dream; a childish notion of devilish kinghood. As hardened reality settled, that dwindled to the want of such simple things: a family of his own. A place to belong.

"You made me feel normal. You gave me hope."

The patriarch had been the first to leave the wedding, followed by the other attendees to joyous celebration after. It was the last time the devil would see that man, and maybe that meant something. All that time, the devil had stood in some nervous paranoia. They had barely shared more than a short conversation in passing since the day on the mountain-peak. And, yet, he feared the patriarch until the moment he left the hall. Ever-caught, he was, in fear. He feared the light, he feared the dark. Some deep recess of his mind had considered understanding Villorik. He wanted closure, he supposed, much as he had sought with Aden. Two sides of a coin - the very same coin - they were. Yet, it was not the patriarch who was the threat.

We are avenged.

Shaken, did those words leave the devil. Questions plagued his mind at what that meant. What vengeance? Was his family in danger? He had been caught alone with a creature - a predator - that could not distinguish between prey and accomplice. And it was there, in the god-rays of the bascilia that they stood across from one another in a tense, weight silence. For something which could appear as a hulking creature, the devil seemed to shrink. His fear had the better of him, as it always had. For a while, there was a scuffle as riddled words boiled over into frustration. Answers. He needed answers. There was no satisfaction in hearing them.

Hope was a strong thing and yet so too was hopelessness. Cold talons pierced into him at the loss - a crack laid upon crack, upon crack. There was only so much one man could take - and when everything good was a treasure, it hurt all the more to lose it. Everything was the same - the light, the dark. Brutal and merciless, all of it. And in the end,  it was so clear he wished to run, as he always had. Except, on command, this time he did not. He was a shattered heart, desperate to cling to something good; he needed to find security.

Never mine by blood. Defect. You were never my family.

I wished that you were.

We could be family.

Prussic blue flames cracked in the basilica from the palm of a prince, extended so invitingly with decades of broken promises. Above, they were watched by some distant, quiet, uncaring god. After a slow, faltering moment  that hand was grasped - then, venom seared into Reinhard's soul. A disgusted sneer  sounded, gleaming eyes set down as if expecting reverence. The devil had fell to his knees in agony, and he cried out in a tortured anguish. For so long, he had fought. For so long, he had run. This was not what he wanted, and he begged, prayed and screamed his throat raw for it to be taken back. Not a soul heard.

Be joyful. If there was anything watching - it didn't seem to mind.

[MysticalWeasel 916]

Spoiler

 

"I curse you oh hero of Reinmar, slayer of Gluttony for it was not time."

The jade devil writhed, in anger, in spite. Digging his dark talons into the side of his own head. No longer able to avenge the Lord of Belvedere. A million thoughts rush through his head, none of them finding happiness in this hero's demise. As the dark tar like blood drooled down his face onto the floor he'd cease his ramblings. His face turned to a chest, approaching it as his blood dribbled onto the floor. Opening it, he began to spoke. 

"It should of been by our hands."

 

Almost sounding depressed, as the devil gazed upon a severed hand. Its origins not human, and it began to show the beginning signs of decay. The devil bites his lower lip till blood is drawn. Slamming the chest shut, as in a fit of rage he destroys the entire study room he was in. His vengeance stolen, his chance to honor his once lord no more. Stewing in the center of his own destruction, his head sunk low. Like a pot he boils in his own anger. 

 

 

[FlemishSupremacy 6115]

A Nephilim looks south solemnly. "We will stand by his successors, as promised." He spoke, to no one in particular. Soon, he'd ride out into the realms of the descendants once more, seeking worthy foes and worthier allies. 

[Hom 1988]

An elderly mage mourns as news of the Cardinal's death reaches his ears in Vallagne. Certainly, he did know the man well- Not as well as the many others whose lives he had touched. But he recalled the steadfast determination of Villorik, the guiding hand and steady eye he kept upon Hohkmat during Caius' reign. He remembered how the mages he spoke to would praise the man, the gratitude and respect he earned within even such an often-fickle group. They were always good at that, Caius and Villorik both. The perfect balance of the hammer and the open hand, punishment and mercy.

Atticus grows older, and another good man leaves this world. He prays that his successors, whoever they may be, will continue his work.

 

Spoiler

we never got the chance to rp much but i always admired how well-written this character was, stunning post!!

 

[Rig 17591]

Once there had been a devout elven boy who had sought to do much the same as Villorik. To carry the word of Acaelan, God, across a lonesome and tainted world. However, instead of professing his undying loyalty to Light and all of its creatures, he was consumed by the greed for more.

 

Gnashing, horrible gnashing followed. The endless gluttony of consumption that could never be placated. An implacable hunger that would never fade away.

 

The cacophony of screams, demons dying beneath the weight of the monster's magnanimous teeth chomping down and rending the flesh from the bodies of all Inferi. This was his holy sacrament. The boy had given his soul to the Hells after the Covenant War, he had forsaken love for duty, but that duty was yet unclear. He believed that perhaps he might unify all souls and end the need for war, he need only join them altogether with the lawlessness and freedom of the hells, Moz'Strimoza.

 

The hatred for demons burned deep inside of him even as he forsook his mortality to be transformed into one. Hatching from a stone carcass in much the same fashion as the fabled Demon Lord of the Pentacle Velkuzat, Vriza had emerged from the hell fire to wage a war of unity against all living things. Demon, human, elf, it no longer mattered to him.

 

The Zar'akal had never met Villorik more than once, nor was Villorik aware of his presence. However, beside the statue of REN decorating his halls, there now stood the bust of a winged helmet. Strength begets strength.

 

Besides, there is nothing Vriza respects more than a slayer of demons.

[ivery 591]

She had known him before, of course. Hovering at Queen Amaya’s side, Deia had witnessed their many stilted interactions, her warm greetings and his stiff, strangled responses. He was cold. He was quiet. She was not fooled; only hours before, he had swept through the castle on the White Comet’s first mission, pulling apart the king’s conspiracy at the seams.

 

She would not be fooled, she had told herself firmly. Men like him were only patient until they smelled blood, and so she never gave it to him.

 

But her sister was not nearly as predictable. Laelia was a hurricane that rivaled Villorik’s determination, and their clash had casualties. A wound in her gut, spilling a fountain of warm blood onto the floor. The room was so cold, and that should have made her afraid. She was going to die there, alone, with no one in the world that loved her.

 

The floor creaked with approaching armor. Amaya was missing, Laelia had vanished, and the room was more blood than stone. He stood there, his helmet unreadable, as she took her last shallow breaths. A hunter staring at a dying animal. And then he knelt, hands shaking, and prayed.

 

“Please, God. Let her live.”

 

Within the wound, the Divine stirred.

 

✦•··················•✦•··················•✦

 

She is still Deia, underneath it all. Still skittish, still terribly weak. It took no effort for them to knock her out cold while they slaughtered Amaya, after all, and curse her to a century of mourning.

 

There is just.. something else, too. Something that holds her face, afterwards, and turns her hollow eyes towards the Light. Look, it whispers as they mourn together over bloodstained flowers. Look, again, as he stares dead-eyed at Aden from the mountaintop. Look, until she cannot anymore, because he has put his helmet over her head, big enough to block her view of the bloodshed, and led her away from it beneath his cloak.

 

Oh, she remembers thinking, days or decades after, because she had not realized he was looking back.

 

✦•··················•✦•··················•✦

 

“You’ll need to be stronger,” she says, instead of, “What good is a world that you are not a part of?”

 

“They are eternal, and you are so fragile,” she warns, instead of, “What if you are hurt, the moment I turn away?”

 

“They’ll be watching, from the Skies,” she promises, instead of, “I can’t let you go there too, beyond my reach.”

 

She tears a piece of Divinity from her heart, cups it in her hands. It is the most honest gift she can give him. The most selfish she has ever been.

 

He takes it.

 

✦•··················•✦•··················•✦

 

The world pulls them in different directions, as it often does. Villorik uses his Divinity to fight, as she bid him, and Deia retreats to hearth and home. They are both symbols of war, only different parts of it. He who tears the world apart for its injustice and she who weaves it back together.

 

They are not pieces that fit beside each other. They meet on the battlefield amidst hundreds of bodies and through negotiations that will decide if there will be thousands more to follow. That whisper of Look, look never fades, and she wonders if with the blessing she’s given him, he hears it too.

 

“You must know,” she mumbles, her head set against his shoulder, eyes on the rising sun as it peeks out over the tree line. Silently, he takes her hand.

 

✦•··················•✦•··················•✦

 

The first time she holds him is while he fades away. The Divine thing beneath her skin thrums. The world is still, beyond his heartbeat.

 

Bloodstained flowers have not wilted after decades of peace. Perhaps by his miracle, or by hers. Perhaps by the Queen herself, watching over those she left behind.

 

“It is a shame I won’t get to see them,” he rasps against her shoulder. Sermi. Caius. Amaya. They haunt them both, phantoms on the treeline. She holds his head, shields him, and watches them. “..But I couldn’t leave you alone, not for eternity.”

 

He would be happy there, with them. She knows that. He of all people deserves the most peaceful eternity. By his sisters, by his friends.

 

But-

 

“Return to me. Over and over again.”

 

She cannot let him go.

 

“..You know I will.”

 

One day, she will find him again. Perhaps she will even know, when she does. For now, though, she cradles his body, and feels him take her mended soul with him.

 

[Wavey 2568]

 

Ivan had first met Villorik amongst the green vineyards by the former Apostilic See. The Southern Cardinal was nothing more than a green priest at that time. He felt miniscule in his station, compared to the mighty figure of the Patriarch. Yet, the Patriarch glanced his way, offering him a nod of acknowledgement. 

 

As the southern Ruthern rose in station, he joined Caius’s curia as a cardinal. Villorik, who was once an imposing figure before him, now stood beside him as his brethren. And as a brother and distant kin, the Patriarch welcomed him openly within the gardens of his Basilica. 

 

“What troubles you, Ivan?” Said Villorik as he tended to the newly grown floral crops in his garden.
 

Ivan was at first hesitant to respond. Nevertheless, he did so; For the Patriarch before him required an answer. “It is the state of our world, brethren. The brutality and bloodshed. I fear the wheels of progress have been halted by the pitfalls of paranoia.”
 

“Fear…Ivan…fear is a good thing to have. Yet, do not let such freeze your dreams, your ambitions, or your calling. Let it rather shape your courage, let it guide you to the light.”
 

“But how am I to stop the bloodshed, Villorik? I am merely a green cardinal. I am the youngest within our college.” 

 

“Such is the cycle of mankind, Ivan. From the ashes of war comes progress, that progress is then halted by war. Our life is short compared to the natural cycle of this world, our true purpose is beyond this world. It is through the seven skies.” 

 

“Yet it aches my heart that I cannot do more for our flock here within this world. To guide them away from the bloodshed.” 

 

“Are you sure? Ivan? The true enemies of our world are the shadow that creeps within the crevices where the light cannot reach.” 

 

“Then…I shall be a carrier of this light, to ensure it reaches all corners of this world.” 

 

“And how shall you do that?” 

 

And it was at that moment, Ivan stood tall. His once anxious gaze was replaced by resolute determination to brave the unknown. “By leading. I may be the youngest but I have a vision for our flock. I will put forth that vision through our institutions and through our blades.” 

 

Villorik smiled underneath his visage at the Green Cardinal’s words as he let out an approving grunt. “You have ambition. Ivan. A good soul you are. Perhaps your dreams shall come into fruition. For you shall outlive me.”

 

 

Outlive him. Villorik had told him those words many times. Once at the gardens, once at the Holy See, once at the battle for Belvedere, and once at Nau Valdev. Perhaps it was a suggestion, request, or an order;

 

To outlive him. 

 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

The aged Cardinal’s gaze went towards the candle light as he stood beside the young Lothar. They had ignited the candle together, within his own Cathedral. 

 

“What ails you my son?”

 

That same voice which he had heard long ago at Caius’s deathbed still resonated within his mind. That voice was now ever clearer. It was a voice from Caius. 

 

“You were right…weren’t you? I prayed that you were wrong, yet the LORD answered your call before mine.” 

 

His grumbling voice was directed towards the candlelight. His once stoic demeanor now washed away as a small smile formed upon his lips. 

 

“Fine. You win.” 

 

A face now passed within his mind for a moment, one of Bishop Alaric and that young acolyte of his named Stefan. The Southern Cardinal turned the gaze of his singular left eye towards Lothar. As he did so, his smile grew again. He faced the candlelight once more.

 

“Dreams are just dreams. My time nears as well now, Brother. I shall join you and Caius there. For I am confident that the ones who come after us shall carry on the light. Firmly, and with resolve.” 

 

He arose from the altar as he then turned towards the empty pews before him. 

 

“They will have the strength to fulfill our vision.”

 

[wowj 9766]

Spoiler

no metagaming!!
Give it an OOC read though, its a gem.

oh yeah. no one knows my RP happened on this LoTC forum asides ME. Yeah thats right, I hate roleplay.

The Office of Lord Chest, The Time-Pig
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The Manifestation of Time
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في البداية لم يكن هناك سوى النار. كان هذا نور الخالق نفسه. كانت قوية.

ألقى شاكرته في أعماق العالم. أعطيت جميع حيواناته الغرض ، لتحقيقه بدلا منه.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

Lord Chest would be standing tall reading a large grimoire filled with esoteric letterings and words, though amidst his studying of Book, he were stopped, a golden grain of sand cascading from the top of the the towering hourglass, to the lower vessel of the hourglass.

Lord Chest would slam the book closed, his eyes closing for a moment as his mind were filled with all the memories of the one which were lost.

"You shall not be forgotten."

The book would be opened again, and the Pig returned to reading.

[Pancho 4197]

"A man that I once thought of as an enemy for his letting my master fall, but a man that did not compromise on his ideals. May the Seven Skies embrace him as he was here." Cerrick prayed from afar.

[Tav 4339]

Spoiler

https://youtu.be/Coxt0Yw_N98?si=Jb-2wpCxlLqD2nka

 

                                                                                                  ♫ - "Magic Mountain"  

I recall you. How vigilantly you fought by my sickly sister's side - How desperate you were, to keep her alive 'till last breath, no matter how few she had. And unfortunately you failed. 
Yet still, I admired your valor.  A protection I myself couldn't promise her.
 

That Old Goat was satisfied, he had to be. Satisfied by how those who hunted him down, now met their ends; how he'd never be caught, and never be banished to the hells for as long as their children, and their children's children roamed this land. 

How long would it be, 'till this amusement turned stale?

[Chimeraof1999 1194]

✷ 𝕬𝖒𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕳𝖔𝖒𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖚𝖘 ✷

 

A piece of the homunculus was torn out of him. 
An important part of Amou's existence was ripped away.

The creature felt something deep in his stomach, a feeling that he wish he could understand. To those who are unbeknownst, sadness.

The creature heard the news and delve into a state of separation, diving away at every angle and depressed in every form.

His mentor, a figure he supported and enjoyed being around, has departed from the realm he swore to protect.

 

Amou could not do much, but weep, as his friend - The one who spared him all those years ago, has left him.

 

He wept, and wept. .

And wept. .

And wept. .

And wept. .

And wept. .

[sprtn 3341]

Today felt different.

The bed he woke up in was the same. The breakfast he had was the same. The trip down, around, and back was the same. The people he watched from afar, lurking enemies watching from the shadows, and even the animals who greeted him on his walk were all the same. But something was different.

Volk could feel a tug on his heart as he passed under the Haeseni bridge. Today felt different.

Volk came out from under the bridge, looking towards the cloudy skies. His hand gently brushed over his left cheekbone, an injury he would never forget. An unfortunate encounter in the dark cells of Hanese, though one that shined brightly with hope. Hope that he could one day be understood by those who wanted his head. That man carried his hope.

 

Spoiler

i wish i roleplayed with you more as Villorik. thank you for making such an interesting character for all of us to enjoy.

 

[DancingZebra267 1626]

Blessed Gerard stood at the gates of the Seven Skies. His gaze softened as he beheld Villorik’s approach. With open arms and a proud smile, he spoke, "Welcome, brother. Long have I waited, and long have I been proud to call you my battle-brother."

 

---

 

Holy Ser Vincenzo would hear the news of Villorik's end, his expression solemn. "I am sorry we never truly spent much time together, but I take solace in knowing you now rest in a far better place- for there is no greater home than paradise." He then traced the Rhodesian cross over his chest.

 

[Turbo_Dog 3583]

Spuds sat in the ruins he had called home for so long. The news bouncing around in his skull for minutes, hours, days on end. He didn’t act in bouts of rage or bursting of tears for the man. He knew what he truly had to pour out in his honor. It was not blood or water it was something more special. He move to his alchemical lab where he look over a bottle of Smokey liquid and a bottle of static yellow liquid both items he had told the patriarch about.  “The banana blaze, the smoke curtains. They never could measure up to your needs to kill demons could they? I think you would have been more fond of the auric oil and the frost of the tundra. Wouldn’t you have liked them, Villorik?” No one was there to answer him as he went to burn a pile of sugar in honor of the man. A flame that couldn’t hold a candle to the fighting fire that man of legends held in life