[9.0 Antag] - The Final Fight

[squakhawk 14038]

 

 

 

"If you are to make me choose between a breath of freedom or an eternity in chains, you ask if I would live or remain as nothing, unborn. I choose as you would. Are we so different?"

 

Across the continent, numerous parchments appear — they are tucked under floor mats, beneath your carpet, under your flower pot, or pinned in the town square. Wherever it is found, the parchment is lined by a hem of gray and golden silk, and it exudes a faint shimmer. 

 

 

To the denizens of Aevos,

 

Your forebears bled so that you might inherit a world unbroken by the heavens above or hells below. They stood when gods strode across Arcas, and by mortal courage alone were they struck down. Yet even then, complacency rotted the heart of the descendants as they struck eachother down once more. Peace lulled them to forget the world that came before them. Two hundred-some years ago during The Inferi Crisis, when gods danced upon Arcas recklessly, you and your ancestors survived. Even against all odds did gods battle and toil, and at mortal hands did they fall. By the progeny of the four brothers, did your forefathers persevere and uphold the world for the next generation to take. The men and women of this world have always remained tenacious in adversity, and now, this giant—it threatens us, and we must fight back as our ancestors had. The time is now, the final stand awaits us. 

 

Smoke rises from the craggy mountains of Ailmere, The Storm coalesces around The Mountain's peak. Even now the stones of the north split, fissures erupting across Aevos in The Mountain's wake, and it feels as though the continent itself is at the whims of destruction. As Orsathiael prepares to make his final move, we must all come together, from north, south, east and west, to be ready to mobilize when he finally acts. And it will not be a battle with our pact forgotten — we will personally be by your side in the battle to come. Know it well that death awaits some of you in this battle between the mortal and immortal. Their sacrifices will be heard, they will be remembered and written through the persistent history and memories of your people. It is their names that are burned within our minds when we are reminded of Horen's pact. It is through their bravery and yours that our courage will best raw power in this last dance.

 

We knew it when Orsathiael first came to prominence that the world would be at a sinking point. They marched through the land; first, their chains ensnared and ruined Valdev, and it took the forces of imperial soldiers and vikingr warriors to push it out. They then took to the bastion of the oyashi homestead, and it was by blood, honor, and venerable courage that the samurai and their comrades were able to fend off the city from utter destruction, even through our mutual aid. The song of nature broke in its chorus as the mountain loomed over the west of Aevos, entangling the trees, puppeting old spirits who once ventured in the continent. Continuously, we have fought, driving this menace and its forces back towards Ailmere—all the way to the base of The Daemon's prison where he now prepares his final push. 

 

To those of the twinflame brotherhood, answer this call first. To the rest, prepare to fight by their side. And to the young and ailed, pack your bags, and find a place safe and far away from all of this — even though, soon enough, nowhere will be safe. We all survive this Daemon, or none of us do.

 

This is the final hour. One chance, one stand. All of us to create another era of peace for the next generation, or none of us shall live to see them.

 

Knowledge begets wisdom,

Aruzond and Sordran.

 

 

Spoiler

 

Saturday, September 6th, 6pm EST

 

 

https://discord.gg/erTMMkwp55

 

[PolarLoLs 984]

[Morigung-oog 5697]

Aboard the Empress Vengeance, Valindra rallied her crew, who remained ready to sail, to evacuate her kin, as instructed by the Sohaer at a moment's notice. While she hadn't agreed with recent Haelun'orian decisions, and spat in the face of recent policies adapted, she was not so evil that she'd leave them to die, or worse, be forced to bend the knee to yet another tyrannical deity. 

 

So too did she check her weapons, preparing to join the battlefield alongside her knife-eared brethren. "Redemption looms upon the horizon." Called forth the captain to her crew, both the living and the dead. This was it. "Prepare to set sail."

 

[xo31 3979]

A much traumatized wizard worked up the courage to even connect to the Void again.

He'd prove he was not the man he once was anymore - even if only to himself.

[Yeetboy0206 1574]

Maddock Tam read this and made his decision. He began to train like never before and prepared to help decide the future of Descendant kind. His wife and son would have a world worth living in.

[ProcaPro 557]

A machine finds the paper tucked under her door and reads it once. Then twice. Her frame rattles, bit out of fear, but anticipation. She was still descendant enough to have a fighting spirit, and she was more than ready to fight or die trying. She had much to protect, after all.

[Rhettthecoldone 252]

Perched atop a large, spindly root was the gangly, frail figure. He sat within that dank cave, a cavern home to giant root systems like spiderwebs. Long, hoarish hair wove through the fuzz of old roots, as the blind sage that bore it clutched to ashen bark with wry and gnarly digits. He saw something in that ancient system of wooden webs, through vestigial eyes. He awoke from a strange sleep with three words,

 

”Defend The Tree.”

 

Orders were taken swiftly by the blind man’s sacred sentinels, forged by bark of old and ashen.

[Spellblades 749]

Ser Leif Whitewood read the missive with a sense of heaviness bearing down on him, recalling all of the past battles he had participated in against Orsathiel's forces. Friends lost, areas taken, and retaken. He found himself wandering the streets of Silasia, trying to collect his ever-racing thoughts before taking a deep breath. "We can win this, right?" Leif wasn't so sure, but what choice did he have? The Knight sat by the fire, sharpening his spear, checking his alchemical supply, and making sure his armor was in decent enough shape for the upcoming battle. "GOD protect us."

[Kardika 1057]

John Oren sat with his council, debating the Salvon response for some time... The president raised his hand, drawing the council to silence before he made to speak. Long had he considered the mountain a sole detriment to the empire and the northern realms, but this time it seemed different in a way he couldn't quite place. He quelled his inner thoughts before rising, then clearing his voice and bringing it to a presidential volume...
"Salvo will Answer"
 

Edited September 3, 2025 by Kardika

[Wulfric 472]

Obok Metaldrinks was in the middle of cleaning his carpet when he found the curious note, beating the dust out of it so that it would fall on those below his spires who might be allergic. The note being read afterwards as he sat down on the couch with an irish coffee.


''Wait, if t'e continent be sinking t'en wot am i doing spring cleaning for?''

[Digit___ 1225]

Ser Aviel Helfgott would find this missive tucked under a book on his desk that he had forgotten to put away for safekeepings. He pulled the shimmering parchment out from under the tome to read.

 

“One last fight, aye?” The Stirlandic Knight murmured to himself as he continued to read before setting the missive down and opening his bedside trunk. He would pull out a sheathed sword that had been forged by his great-grandfather and took the daemonsteel cutlass that has seen him through the last decade of fighting out of the sword frog on his belt. The familiar weapon was then placed into the trunk before it was closed. “Let us show this Daemon the burnin’ Light of GOD.” The Helfgott spoke to the sword with a smirk and a courageous glint in his eye. Withdrawing only an inch of the blade from its sheathe, the room basked in a dim, radiant white glow.

[KidKrinkles 2043]

───⟦⛓⟧───⟦⚔⟧───⟦⟦⟦⟦⟦✧⟧⟧⟧⟧⟧───⟦⚔⟧───⟦⛓⟧───

 

The kilted-man sat in the shadow of his encampment, in the woods of Norland. Even with the Storm broken over the ruined, hollow city, the snow continued to drive, and flutter past swiftly: though the tarotmancer paid no mind. His eye was glued to the parchment, and pages.

 

One last push.

 

The bowie would quietly slip into his gambeson, and over it, affix his plate. He’d work in silence, lit by the fire smoldering in his tent, the fog about him swirling in anticipation. Straps tightened, and laced, and he’d pat them in place.

Piece by piece, the harness came together—cuirass buckled snug against the gambeson, faulds rattling softly as he adjusted them to sit square upon his hips. Pauldrons were drawn up and pinned in with practiced familiarity, the leather ties biting taut against his shoulders. Vambraces slid into place down his arms, the steel whispering as it scraped against the padding beneath. Greaves and sabatons clinked low at his feet, their weight familiar as old companions.

His head adjusted, shrugging a bit as he fit the gorget close to his throat, and a hollow snap announced that clasp shutting. A long inhale through his nose, face basking in the ember glow and smoke, drowned in the smell of iron and acrid tobacco.

With a rattle, and clank, the man would bring himself to a knee, and, his hand moving over an oak chest, unclasp the lock in a smooth flick of his hand, the metal ringing as he’d press forward: the hinges groaning as the container yawned upon, containing some keepsakes within: a rock from his daughter, an old necklace from a hunt with a friend, and some notes and notebooks. But, most importantly, a plain sheath, and a perfect blade within it.

His gauntleted fingers curled around the hilt. The sword was drawn free in silence, its length singing as it left the chest. He held it before him for a breath, the red gleam staining his eye, immediately feeling the rush of disrupted mana in the air, and sinking through his body, before clicking it back to its resting place.

 

───⟦⛓⟧───⟦⚔⟧───⟦⟦⟦⟦⟦✧⟧⟧⟧⟧⟧───⟦⚔⟧───⟦⛓⟧───

 

The knight exhaled. All was in place.

The Storm felt smaller that night.