Forged In Fate

[Balthasar 2497]

Spoiler

 

FORGED IN FATE

 

The blackened halls of Tor’Praeth were thick with smoke and incense, the scent mingling with something old, something primordial. Shadows danced against the ancient stone, flickering with life as if stirred by the dead. There was more life this night, more than usual, there was an undercurrent of anticipation humming throughout the Redmont.

 

Osar, the elf-sorcerer whose eyes were like embers in the darkness, stood waiting expectantly. His voice cut through the noise “Brother Arpad,” he called. “Are you ready?” The Raev hesitated only a breath, the weight of his undertaking pressing down upon him like the stone beneath his feet. Meeting Osar’s gaze, he was filled with dread and yet with him was a conviction of fire. “Yes,” he answered quietly, “I am ready.”

 

“I regret,” the Elf began, his voice softer now “that we could not spend more time together before you are to be burned.” the words hung heavy in the thickly incensed air. For Arpad, this was not the beginning of a journey; it was the end of one and the violent birth of another. The elder Raev Herald returned the gesture with a deep bow of his head “Whatever I shall become, I think I shall always remember you fondly, as a friend.”

 

Luthia Acal’Turrii, an Elfess, approached silently, her presence sharp and steady amidst the somber air. Osar turned to her and asked “Do you plan to watch Arpad…” the words were caught in his throat.

 

“Die..” finished Arpad, the word fell like ash. 

 

Luthia’s voice was clear and unwavering “Aye, I do.” she said. Osar spoke once more in regards to the death “Suppose that’s one way to put it,” He sighed “But I’d call it burning.”

 

“To be consumed so completely,” Luthia murmured “is indeed a manner of death.” Arpad remained silent, his thoughts racing, grappling with what was to come. He had spent a lifetime preparing for this and now he was a few steps away from completing his life’s work.

“Is it truly death, though?” Osar wondered aloud. “The Lord Sumbakar once described it as ‘kindling.’ We are coals yet to be set aflame. So, is it death… or transformation?” 

Arpad’s voice seemed steady despite the tremor beneath it. “It is clear this physical being will burn.” Luthia then turned to Arpad and asked “And how do you feel?” 

An eternity seemed to pass before Arpad opened his mouth and spoke “Nervous” he admitted

“Rare are the men who walk into those pits of fire without admitting as much,” Osar replied with a faint smile. “For that, I commend you.”

 

The time had come. Time for the kindling as Osar had so aptly put it. They ascended further into the hearth of the temple. The incense was oppressive now, the air was thick! The carved faces of the exalted dead lined the walls, they were silent witnesses to the ceremony about to unfold. At the center, by the altar stood the An-Gho; the third eye. His staff struck the stone, it noised like thunder, the ceremony now began “Who comes before the tabernacle of our Father?” Then Arpad stepped forth, cradling his Wardren, nurturing it like a fragile flame “Arpad Corvinus Ivanovich!” he declared, his voice unwavering. “And why do you step before the idols of our people?” the An-Gho roared, his staff sending sparks into the smoky air.

 

“To ascend,” Arpad replied without hesitation.

 

The An-Gho’s gaze pierced him, sharp as a blade. “Are you worthy of this fire? Are you worthy to be saved?” Arpad lifted the Wardren high for all to see “I have spilled my blood and completed the trials laid before me. I am worthy!” he declared once more. 

 

The An-Gho surged forth, seizing Arpad by the hair, dragging him before the dead Nephilim, each demanding his oath “SWEAR!” thundered the Prophet, it was a word woven from threads of fire, love, war and eternity.

 

And swear Arpad did. He swore before all the statues of the once living Nephilim, before the Forge-Lord Vedyolthur, whose stone maw gaped like an abyss. Before the Inquisitor Eternal, a word like murder echoing through the halls. Before Helianthe, softer this time - like love. Before Nithrakor, before Azdromoth, Horen and Eresar. His vows grew from solemn to guttural growls, his voice raw, his spirit laid bare.

 

At last, he stood before the final altar—a seething pit of sacred fire. The An-Gho’s voice lowered to a murmur, “Come, Arpad. Come and seek fire.”

 

Arpad now stood at the edge of the fire, his Wardren clenched tightly. There was no backwards glance, no final words - There was only surrender. He stepped forwards into the flames.

 

There was only pain. Pain beyond the flesh, beyond thought. It was not a sensation but an entity. It devoured him whole. Arpad’s screams rang out. It mingled with the bells above until even the voice was consumed. His body transforming and his soul rendered, reshaped like molten metal.

 

The fire roared even higher, tendrils of flame twisted skywards and from the pit, something emerged - A being both familiar and alien. Arpad Ivanovich was no more. In his place stood a son of Azdromoth, a creature of fire and fate. His eyes burned with eternal flame, his breath exhaled cinders, and his heart pulsed with the relentless beat of draconic conviction.

 

“Oh, brother below,” the An-Gho whispered, “Rise, rise…” The Nephilim’s voice was a rumble. “Where… am I?” the Prophet answered “In the temple of Azdromoth, in Tor-Praeth. You are the man risen into the form of a dragon.”

 

And with each faltering step into his new existence, the Nephilim began the endless journey not just through the world, but through the remnants of a self he would never truly reclaim.

 

Spoiler

just a little post about arpad becoming an azdrazi. thanks for the rp that day everyone involved :)