ToddTheArchitect

KAIROS, the injured forever-Herald, limps to his room and slams the door, collapsing unto his bed, his right arm missing and hair lightly burned. Passing out once again, he'd remember the death of Thelia within his mind; watching the woman who he spoke to before, the wise Elf, be impaled by that of a Demi-God. The Herald he spoke to only hours prior, dead. The Fire within him is fueled once more.

The Sunderer trudges away from the now vacant keep, walking through river and lake as to return to his belligerent Creator.

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TRITON, who had not caught the ride back to Aaun, would trudge along the seabed for one day. Eventually, he'd climb the continental shelf of Aevos, and emerge on the most Southeast shore of the land, near Balian. The venerable Machine would walk for another day, Northward, back to his creator.

A KHARAJYR ENTERS the stonen room, gazing forlorn to the statue before him. The calcified Bokakur. His gaze flicks to the loose note on the ground, and with a furrow of brow and deepening of lip, the Kharajyr's expression changes to indifference. "With IRE do I bid you farewell, Bodakur. A voice..." He says ambiguously, gazing up from the note to the statue. "But... bad timing." The Herald of Heralds swiftly turns a cheek to glance over his shoulder, but looks back to the statue. "Your Student has sense." He'd go on, talking to it. "There is War. And I wonder if you'll come back out when the day comes." The Kharajyr takes one knee to speak closer to the statue. "...And that day is near." The Herald of Heralds then rises back to his full height, turning his back to the statue; and leaving the Stonen room. The rattling of his equipment grows fainter as he departs.

"When will I get War?" Asks an exalted Herald aloud, to no one in particular. "Where are the blade-carrying Soldiers? What's with these... Totems?"

The Great Automaton: Triton the Sunderer, delves down into the ruins of the Lower City, searching for the Blade of Ame Renshin!

"You will die, Pharoah of the Rah'muns." Says a voice, deep and gravelly, their gaze raising from off the missive in a hot place, shrouded in shadow and unknowing. "You will die, and your conquest will be forgotten. You lead men to their deaths." The voice would pause for but a moment. "You should have taken our mercy with purpose."

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KAIROS reads the missive, he'd nod to its words, stroking his chin as he did so. He is frowning, though such a guise was his natural expression. He truly felt indifference. He would wait.

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Kairos prepares the Fire Cannon

it has come back

fire aspect I

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KAIROS PULLS HIMSELF FROM THE RUINS OF THE MOUNTAIN, his fur charred and skin burned. Upon his form his Labrys nought, but in the belt of another. Then with Fire, it was recalled. From his injured state did he watch the fight, dipping in and out of consciousness, carried to and fro from places of safety. When he watched that Drake fall, did he speak with an archaic tongue; a prayer of solemn.

THE GAZE OF KAIROS tightens upon the missive. A grunt of ambiguous recognition escapes him.

HE OF THE FARTHEST NORTHS LINGERS LOUNGED UPON A SEAT OF ICE; ONE OF THE FIRST TO RECIEVE THIS MISSIVE. HIS NEW VERDANT EYES GAZE UNTO THE EMBLAZONED LETTERING. "Hark! It is true - it must be. So when I sit upon snow weary, it is for my blade hadn't met the Steely Armor of those devout votaries for mere decades. That is it! They stay hiding - Is it cowardice? Is it mercy? Do they not hate us? I shall never know. Or will I? I will; when they stand stolid on the offensive." His foreign drawl would muse, perhaps as a challenge, the digit of its source rubbing the crescent-blade of some archaic weapon.

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Kairos looks over the missive, gazing away from it as quick as he saw it.

"This one seems... familiar." A Kharajyr drawls, his gaze set upon the silly depiction of the Thill's face, on the missive carried to him by the winds of fate. He'd read on, and with a change of tone, he'd speak again. "An admirable act."

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