ANGER BEGETS VIOLENCE.

[Navigator 4260]

Spoiler

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ɪꜱ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄɪᴘᴀɴᴛꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ. ɴᴇᴡ ᴢᴀʀ'ᴀᴋᴀʟ ɪɴ ᴛᴏᴡɴ, ᴍʏ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴇᴛᴀɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏʀ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴇᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.

 

“ANGER CLOUDS REASONING,

THAT CLOUDING BUTCHERS MEMORY.

WHEN MEMORY IS BUTCHERED,

INTELLIGENCE WITHERS, 

AND WHEN INTELLIGENCE WITHERS,

THE SELF DISAPPEARS.”

 

It had been a painstakingly long time coming. Each time - each attempt, each moment he reached the cusp of greatness, something happened. Something out of his control tore it asunder from him, ripping from his grasp the delight of immortality, of ascension. He could feel the cogs of his mind grind, the oil of memory fading from his brain, replaced only by hate, by madness, by the desire for power. It had made him violent - for of course, Anger begets Violence. To him - nothing else mattered. Dominion is devotion, and Might is right - two universal truths he had lived the better part of his life abiding by. He bid his time. He bent his knee where the knee had to be bent. He swung his fists where his fists had to be swung. He ravaged. He killed. He ate. He consumed. And yet, that hunger remained unquenched. He starved. He yearned for more.

 

And he was done waiting. Sat within the depths of that village, in a nook of the world, he awaited. By his side, his daughter. Ever faithful in his pursuit for this apex of power. Affront him, the Jade Devil, whose help would turn paramount. Talons rapped apart reality to reveal the demonic cadre that stepped through it, and from it, emerged a pair of Kings; the Tyrant of Hell, and Anger-made-Manifest. Words exchanged; of twisted mirth and realisation of goals. The burned Bishop was no more - and surely her flock was to follow. Through the chatter of Demons, the words of Anger broke through the barrier of madness; A crusade was to happen, and Violence was to ravage in its wake. A pledge was made, to Tyrant and Anger, witnessed by Daughter and Jade.

 

Deeper within those wicked bowels of the earth, the gore-pits revealed themselves, glistening with the sheen of blood and rakir, festering with the incessant smell of oxidation. It bubbled, awaiting what next was to be submerged within it, to be created anew. Xandraza and Velketzar watched, as the Champion of the Goat imbued animus upon the Voice of the Bat. Guided by the Incantations of Anger, assisted by the energy of the Jade, Violence was held aloft; a broken and battered vessel of something far greater, molded anew by maleus and hatred. Ryad’s body, turned and twisted, vicious sounds emanating from that hellish process.

 

Cackles of a broken madman erupted within that cave, echoing off the walls. A hundred lives lived in one, as shown by the Eye. He had flown alongside the Broodmother of Dragons. He had heralded the return of Iblees. He had shepherded the misguided. So many lives… so many beautiful fallacies before his eyes, seducing him so thoroughly. As rakir replaced blood, and maleus took hold of his soul wholly, his dedication to corrupted draconic overlords was cemented with this act of defilement of the mortal, sacrosanct elevation and crowning of a new King.

 

It took moments. Anger let that broken vessel plummet to the depths of those insidious gore pits. The sounds that came from the depths were horrific; bones grinded against each other, elongating and twisting. Flesh ripped itself and remade, gnawing at his insides with horrid sonority. A soul was torn asunder, utterly corrupted, twisted, forever changed. Mortality held his shackles no more; the Hells claimed him so, and elevated him to General. Blackened talons gripped at the borders of that flesh pit, and from where broken vessel plummeted to the depths, Violence emerged anew. Coated in a slick sheen of hatred, draped in a crown of revolt, armed with talons of dread, the crowned King gazed to those present. Anger, Tyrant - Kin. It’s maw - curved into some wicked smile of twisted mirth - opened, and with the potency of thousand-unto-one, it spoke;

 

“ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴋ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴇᴀᴛ.

ʟᴇᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ.

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴜꜱᴀᴅᴇ ʀɪᴅ ᴜꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴀꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

Ʀᴏᴢᴀ-ᴠʜᴏʀᴀᴢʜᴜ.”

 

[Rig 17591]

The Demon King reclined on his throne as bloodstains scorched his flesh-armor; the dense plates resembling a ferrum carapace, covering him from head-to-toe. It was uncertain to many what his motivations might be, but he did enjoy his experiments. Inferi were plentiful and manifested differently every time. Though, in his mind, none could hope to match the pride he had in Vorrul and the Angel, Vriza was satisfied with all of his creations. He said then to Skulltaker, the centurion of his legion.

 

"I do not like to intervene in the affairs of the other leaders. However, it was about nigh time that somebody imposed hierarchy once again. This shall be the first step in stabilizing the Black Pontiff's domain so that his problems stop bleeding into mine."