WOE

[Rig 17580]

There among the trees a battle had ensued amidst the forces of evil. Huge marks had been left behind by the cliff face which suggested the fury of tremendous beasts. Smoldering blood stained the ground, huge hoofmarks littering the ground, as huge amounts of grass had been killed beneath animalistic hooves and feet in the scuffle.

 

One thing was certain...

 

Unprepared, overwhelmed, and overcome, one of the fiercest Zar'akal on the continent had been laid low in an embarrassing fashion. What remained unclear, however, was the fate of the beast. In the absence of it's usual preparations and adequate war equipment, it had undertaken a fierce battle for its own survival, and narrowly survived by the clemency of Fate herself. This embarrassment might fade within his mind, but there are days where even tyrants must be humbled.

 

The first victory against him. Perhaps the last?

 

As Vriza reminisced in pain, the Zar'akal could not help but feign respect for the two Zar'ei it had fought. It knew inwardly that had it been anybody else, the fight would not have gone to plan, and they would have been consumed. This embarrassment, he thought to himself, Will pass.

 

But would it really? The Twisted King languished in agony within his cave. Would the arm regrow? He could not tell and he dreaded the answer. His Striith, that vengeful skull which hovered close to his ear, whispered softly. 

 

"Such a monumental failure. You are better off dead. Even the girl Sylvara could not best you in such a manner, and she is ten times the fighter they are."

 

The Zar'akal could not argue. However, he coped inwardly about the situation, blaming the rocks, blaming the trees, blaming the grass. Rest assured, a creature so narcissistic and vain could not bother to blame himself for his own momentous failure. 

[DizzyGrey 1229]

The Monster of Kalldur could not quite believe what had happened.

 

This was an opinion it kept to itself, chained deep within the depths of its own mind and buried beneath vainglory and hatred. Of course it had won. A pureborn of blood and pain like Draz-Vorzuth could not be bested in any battle bar one it picked poorly.

 

And yet its mind flashed to the memories of battle with an entity similar to that of the being whose mask it now held. A defeat, humiliating and spitefully chewed upon. 

 

This one had been kin, in its own twisted manner. If it could defeat a being of such supreme power- admittedly with help...

 

Perhaps the Pontiff's skull was not so far out of reach.

[lordjason4 33]

The newly made Zar'ei preferred to plan things out well in advance, the certainty of schemes and knowledge being his most trusted bulwark. Yet tonight was different, tonight he discarded that shield and in doing so, found glory rarely told. 
 

He knew of the target once it had shown itself, a twisted king. He knew its name, he knew its power, and yet he fought anyway. From the moment of his transformation he thought it strange how he came to view the world. He would have considered running were he still mortal yet the rakir coursing through his veins demanded a challenge, demanded he climb. And so he did, though he could scarcely believe it even after the fact.
 

"What to do..." He pondered aloud while looking at the carnage he and the Bat contended with. This was only the second month of being a demon, he could not fathom what the future of his new existence would bring. Relen, as he used to be known, would have considered the future and the repercussions of this clash, but all his mind could focus on was the thirst for more. Victory, it seemed was intoxicating.

[Herrudivah 85]

THE SAINTED LAMB CLAIMS ANEW.

Six years of age, and yet within her chest beats the heart of a Warlord.
 

The age of innocence is long profaned; her thirst is not for the sweetness of sweets found within Azuras, but for the blood that sings of conquest. Upon her throne - a great bat-beast, Draz-Vorzuth - she sits, cheek upon her palm, her grin split with the grace of ruin. Her head sways in time to a low, unholy melody, a lullaby for the damned, the slain.
 

“Until we meet next time, best friend. . .” she whispers, and her words fall heavy as a curse upon the air.

Her aurum-bladed tail flicks - a sharp strike of gold against the armored plating of her skirt, sending forth a spark igniting brightly within the dark catacombs of the Black Church. The child who reigns upon flesh, beloved of none, anointed in sin.
 

Within the command of such a small fiend, barely old enough to be considered a child - VRIZA'S TALON is claimed by the might of those sworn to her command.

In time she awaits the proud embrace of The Black Bishop. And the Recognition of The Pontiff.

[Venomous_Pup 2978]

If the Witch were aware and present, she knew..

Something wicked would come from it.

[Luto 439]

A large steppeswoman answered to make good on her word. She sat over a collection of bones. It took her a while to pick out just the one.

Her chisel wrung, and pushed to carve up something new that might cushion this setback - something that could soothe the bruised ego of a king.

A poor, tarred replacement, but it'd clothe defeat well enough.

Edited October 28, 2025 by Luto

[Navigator 4260]

The Archprince of Dread loomed over a pit of gore, where through nefast means, another zar'ei had emerged to his service. With a grin, the news were received from the mouth of an imp, and the Augur could not help but allow a cackle to resonate through the caves - not of Vriza's defeat, but of the foolishness of rogue zar'eika.

 

"Silly little Bishop... you should keep a tighter leash on your inferi. . . You may have just jeopardized the entire church!"