Milenkhov

Blessed be our Godhunt
 

“We know that Xan bleeds. That with this death… Everything changes.”

The chamber within the Redmont rumbled, as the earth shifted all across Aevos. The Earthblood flowing freely once more, turbulent in its wake. The air within the halls became thick, wafted by a scent of sulfur and salt; infernal, malign in its essence. All of the draconic beings within equidistant proximity of one another felt that discomfort as an unbeknownst feeling gripped their souls, their chests heaved and burnt alike. Forcefully was the conclusion that brought them all to speak their query in tandem, aligned like a choir of vexatious canticle issued to no less than Xan’s most brave keeper; Albéric.
 

“DO YOU FEAR, SPAWN OF XAN?”

“DO YOU FEAR, SPAWN OF XAN?”

“DO YOU FEAR, SPAWN OF XAN?”

The air shifted, weaved by the Dragur’s Firstborne creation. Nephilim and herald alike felt the presence linger within their throat; but their voices became their own once more. Burning eyes stared with intent unto the subdued Albéric and Ailure. The keeper was offered a choice; an accord which could benefit not only his own person but the Archdrakaar all the same.

Yet Albéric did not succumb,

The words of the Archdrakaar rumbled like nails upon chalkboard, grated flesh and the greatest of discomforts ever imaginable upon descendants.

Yet Albéric did not relent,

Even in the wake of Ren-Oth-Uz in the hand of the Emperor Above, the Titan, Father is that the keeper did not abandon his station, his beliefs, his virtue, for he was Brave.

Albéric did not yield.

Azdromoth had now finally appeared before the eyes of his dragonflight and his sworn foes. Skidding Albéric’s companion across the room and issuing word for the hordes that revered him is that the room bore witness, and too Ailure would become the witness to the greatness that was to occur within the Redmont.

And as the Titan prepared to strike, the brave Albéric spake:

“Lord of Sunlight. Patron of Order…”

“I beseech thee, grace me with your light and bring us victory in this fight.”

A glorious sun manifested itself in radiant light, sending swathes of gold across the horizon, embracing the continent in brimming daylight; sapphire-streaks cleaving the very heavens.

That same sapphire mist leaking from the visor of Albéric, whom no longer was himself but the vessel ordained by the Sunlit Lord, whom now acted through the plated keeper - the avatar of Xan.

The Archdrakaar welcomed the apparition of his eternal foe, the Aengul whom hath denied him his birthright. Yet the anger he carried within, that never-ending-feud that burned deeply within the Titan was evident for even in the death of Albéric would Xan live on. Even in the passing of the keeper did this very manifestation of the Aengul invoke mockery upon Azdromoth whom without hesitation swung his terrific blade, roaring in an incomparable draconic fury.

Forged of heresy and ruin, the harbinger of the end sought to clash against foe, fueled by the obsessive whispers of meat-sweet hunger, warping the earth in which the Redmont existed, as channeled ruinous power imbibed itself to strike true at the vessel of the Aengul whom sent forth a terrible shockwave of sapphire-mist, which toppled even the mightiest of dragons within the anointed and devoted of the Titan. Taunting and contesting even the most powerful of weapons in the posession of Azdromoth. Xan mocked and willed a spear out of sapphire smog to parry Ren-Oth-Uz’s mortal cleave.

“You are an imperfect variant of your cursed father.”

“Deny me no further that which makes me imperfect.”

The ruthful blade sought the heart of the fallen keeper, engulfed in scorching dragonsflame, yet it was not enough; with much grace and otherworldly finesse is that Xan shifted his waist sidewars, forcing Azdromoth’s weapon to miss its mark all the same while impaling Mirwuldsetiid’s stomach, dubbing he an ignoble warrior.

The Redmont exploded with fury as the Archdrakaar ripped his blade free, the Titan’s rage only in ascension, an ascent never seen before - bloodust - as the hearts of the nephilim beated like a wardrum that echoed and rang within their minds. He sought to be denied no longer- the Emperor Above. He sought to ensure his Aengul-foe knew his cause was lost.

“Your imprudence is shown.”

“Look at your father, he rages, screams and roars.”

Taunted the Aengul, whom continued to mock in that duel of the ages the two entities of superior power found themselves in, piercing the Archdrakaar’s stomach with precision.

“Even in freedom you are shackled. Our sister has left you in madness.”

As that spear continued to pierce forward, burning with the sapphire light invoked by the Aengul is that Azdromoth calmly looked upon Albéric’s form, chin lifted in elegance to be betrayed only by his crazed wide visage, leaving naught but sweet whispers unto his enemy.

“Feel my flame upon the other side, Order. It will engulf you soon.”

Xan’s spear remained deep within the stomach of the Archdrakaar, yet that vessel could not ever hope to withhold the strength of the mountain-made behemoth, and before much could be said did the head of brave Albéric find itself spliced clean. And that fading sapphire mist began to diminish, bringing the now lifeless body into the ground, yet not without granting a last saving grace to the companion of Albéric - Ailure - whom was no longer seen within their temple. Warped into safety, safeguarded by either Xan’s powers or Albérics unparalelled will.

The chamber fell silent then. Their Father granting them parting words as the spear was now ripped away from his innards, bleeding godsblood upon the dark labyrinth of Tor’praeth.

“RUIN UNTO ORDER, BLESS OUR GODHUNT!”

Another light had extinguished this day. The Age of Darkness nearing evermore, a comet soared over the continent twofold, burnt up in the atmosphere as once sapphire dust now turned crimson ichor, igniting unto naught.

The Abyss
 

“Not often it is that one seeks to surmount the insurmountable, not often is it that success is achieved in the first trek, nor the second ascension to a terribly steep summit.”

There, in the land of dark and looming shadows of the Abyss did the joint broods of the Archdrakaar march in tandem, united for a common cause; a common goal. Their charge spearheaded by not mundane objective but instead carefully concocted and coveted instruction from their source of boons and ichor, Azdromoth.

“Sol Invicta.”

“Lion of the Abyss.”
 

Within the sunken labyrinth did the nephilim find a most uncanny shrine, a cusp of yore, forgotten, discarded and poorly cared for. Yet in the dark encroach a being most powerful lay dormant, dubbed Sol Invicta, a tarnished Demi-Aengul who had accomplished many-a-feat including the near extinction of Azdromoth’s successors. With a pause was their plan devices, and two horned behemoths, siblings anointed under the guise of the Archdrakaar sailed forth, in company and heralded by one who’s flame did not waver even in the face of adversity and the presence of X*n’s very own spawn.

“Brother.”

“Sister.”

“Herald.”

The fallen titan, shrouded in that immortal essence did not tarry to find the alienated spawn of Azdromoth a possible threat, yet were they truly threat? or were they naught but comparable to a sparring partner against the might of the Aengul’s firstborn, the berserker of the Abyss? They would soon find out, for when that baleful rotting claw of the lion was brought forth, that horrendous amalgamation of a weapon is that the hordes of the titan quivered and knew fear like they did in the wake of their tyrant King of Kings. If not by the proportions of said weapon, its mere impossibly terrific nature grasped the very hearts of the heralds and nephilim alike. One tool to devour, one tool to condemn, one tool to exterminate. It did not seem like the triumvirate of diplomats would achieve great distances with the champion of Order and when she sought an apparent strike upon the otherwise restless ranks of the Archdrakaar did the siblings seek her ear, they sought to parley with an arbitrator in its own realm of existence, discarded, yet never bested nor forgotten.

Yet the herald in their company saw another opportunity, their bravery manifested in full, and an attempt to deliver a fell-swoop unto X*n’s favoured turned to be what terrific display needed the Chosen of Azdromoth to understand what truly stood beside them. Even when grappled did Sol Invicta relinquish of her binders, displaying nor elegance and grace but an assortment and array of such traits in company of incomparable brutality and precision; strength and finesse that would gore and cleave through the herald in mere seconds, painting the otherwise still grounds with the ichor of one of Azdromoth’s ilk. The first was felled, and while his brood knew this would be the cost of their advances, the mere sight, the mere fact induced terror in the many now kneeling and otherwise stunned excursionists.

Mercy had been granted, but not without a price. Sol Invicta afforded the righteous spawn of Dragur’s Firstborn an avenue to depart at once. Yet the reports about their brethren, assailed in the nearing of a massive spire that overlooked the plains of the Abyss alarmed the whelplings, whom sought to fend off an attack on their broods, whom sought to unite as one once more.

Was mercy not enough?

Perhaps not.

For they arrived with the promise of departure, only to assess the assault on their brothers and sisters, commandeered by Sol Invicta’s lieutenant; Forsworn Diante a dashing blinding comet of the likes of Nithrakor. And once they managed to repel his attempts and were reinforced, they sought to storm and besiege the tower which lay bare in the wastes, a formidable element of defiance which harbored many Wyrmstalkers and Vindicators in the service of X*n’s daughter.

Their reports had spoken of something within, something that may otherwise grant them an edge, advantage against those who were in perpetual warfare with their kin. Ambition was greater and the draconic forces were spearheaded by mortal man, whom sought to lead with ambition, an ambition that proved reckless once the terror was once more brought before them.

A thunderous roar billowed within the horizon, as one brought down a storm from the very unseen heavens, the might of the Aengul of Order personified in that terrible ear-deafening tremor that parted not just the darkened skies but armorials, armaments, flesh, limbs and the very architecture that guarded something unbeknownst to the Titan’s marchers.

Was this not enough?

Had there not been enough loss in this day?

Whilst some laid toppled, dismembered or completely ravaged by the berserker’s powerful innate divine might is that others managed to slip free of harm, unmarred and unbroken did they push forth, felling the ranks of the legions that shielded the ascent.

Perhaps there was chance?

Perhaps if only a little longer?

Alas, the reinforcements continued to descend and meet the surviving line of attackers, and whilst Sol Invicta laid exhausted and entertained by an agile blessed creature, whom utilized its cunning instead of might it would not be enough. Within the ranks of the dragonkin did many usher whispers of a retreat, and others felt the need to continue forth till they were made of stone or simply lost forever in Mordring’s plane of existence. A mortal man made realization, the day was truly lost.

Or perhaps not?

As the flight managed to secure foothold in the lowest ascent, and Sol Invicta granted them moments to catch their breath is that this man saw eye-to-eye with the discarded terror, entrapped within the realm of another, forever bound to cleave and cast asunder whatever malignant or opposing entity would dare step into her now reclaimed domain.

“Fight or be forgotten.”

One thought to himself, yet quickly as the berserker removed the armorial that veiled their features, was that words quickly engulfed his mind.

“Live to fight another day.”

And thus, the hordes of the Archdrakaar managed to slip away in time, only to return from whence they came, through that rift that brought them and now nurtured their retreat. Many-a lesson was found this day, many-a soon to be rectified and improved tactic. Yet one thing was for certain. The real trials had just commenced, and the war they thought they held domain over was naught compared to the faced horrors they fought in this god-forsaken wasteland.

thanks.

Player(s) Involved

rukio13, Tabby64, Milenkhov, clonky, Laeonathan, Foogthe2stdn, _Sug, Amyy_, FlemishSupremacy, MissToni, Roller_TS, CheshireGayming

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