«12. . .6,8706,8716,8726,8736,8746,875»
Ezekiel had a point. With that Immortal weirdo chasing them, it won’t matter where they run if they can’t find out how he found them in the first place… Maybe it was just bad luck? It would be really bad if he had some kind of scrying ability that let him track them.
Clara looks to Hayes and nods, looking slightly more hopeful at his words. The sooner they can start looking the better.
At Ezekial’s suggestion, Brandon manifests his Guardian ‘Stardust’ and sends it downstairs to watch the door. A long range Guardian with a teleport ability and ranged attacks would be best to keep watch. “On it. Stardust will watch the streets from the lobby, he’ll teleport right to me if he sees any of Cassian’s goons or the freak himself rock up.”
Clara takes the laptop that Hayes hands her, and she agrees that it might come in useful. They could certainly use any intel the Foundation had on Cassian and his lieutenants, maybe there were even still files that they haven’t found because they were hidden and meant for her father to look at. “Okay, but move where?”
“Literally anywhere else at this point. We have to keep a step ahead of that freak. Our options to fight him are limited.” Brandon says as he keeps sifting through the office space while he watches Hayes leave the room.
As Hayes focuses on the building, stretching his awareness to his surroundings, he finds plenty of empty rooms filled with scattered dead. Foundation agents and cultists both. As he kept looking, Hayes would find something in the lobby behind a wall in a maintenance closet… An elevator, leading down under the Tower and under the streets of London. It looks like it was completely overlooked. At least from what Hayes could tell.
Staring back at the tall Armoured figure is a man in a tattered black suit, looking roughed up and scarred from interrogation and torture but looking no worse for ware considering what he has likely gone through under the ‘care’ of the cultists.
[Marcus - https://imgur.com/0ukk3Dn ]
Watching the armoured figure easily bend the bars and shatter the sole manacle around his neck, the prisoner rubs his neck as a flash of blue shines in his eyes for a moment. The shackle that D.E just crushed was one of those power inhibitors that The Stranger was telling him about before, though the one he just destroyed looked archaic, more magical and mystical in nature than one purely technological.
The Prison took in a deep breath before sighing and standing up, taking an extra second to stretch and loosen up. “Thanks. I couldn’t really focus on that thing on me… Who are you guys? A team with the Foundation? I didn’t know they sent in a heavy hitter.” He says, clearly talking about D.E.
“This man is a third party, a hero, who was kind enough to step in once things grew too out of hand for our field teams and your own society to handle. I am with the Foundation though, Mr Torvid.” The Stranger speaks up to clarify.
“Please. Marcus is fine. Is my family alright?”
“An extraction team managed to teleport your wife and extended family out of the barrier when a breach was established by Diamond Eye here. Though I was sent in to find your daughter, but have not been successful in locating here.. But I believe she is with other survivors right now.” The Stranger answers.
Marcus stares at The Stranger for a good second before nodding, seeming to either accept what he says blindly, or already knowing WHO this mysterious fellow in the trenchcoat was. “I won't know how you know that, I know you Foundation types like your secrets. Still, I’ll want to find my daughter before Cassian finds her.”
Samantha’s face, as Heimrich starts to tell Revan about the old fashion customs of Tropica, burst to life with a rush of crimson filling her face as she snaps her head to look at him, her eyes filled with surprise and a mix of so many others, all good, all surprised, all bouncing around in her head and in her stomach at this escalation of their relationship. It’s true, they have been a thing for a decent bit now thanks to the mirror realm.
But to Revan it wasn’t even a full day since Samantha left his company to go to the Citadel in hopes of retrieving Duncan from the Templars. And now she comes back with a human suitor in tow. And here that young man was, so confidently proclaiming that he would fight him, and even fight HIS father if he was amongst the living. Such unwavering certainty, he really meant everything he said.
Revan looked to Samantha, who said nothing against this declaration, before he looked back to Heimrich. “A fight against my father would be hard to arrange, he returned to his home sector long ago during the beginning of The Cataclysm. We would have to reopen the Spirit Well that has been polluted by Salem’s foul curses…” Revan says as he brings his hand to his chin, seeming to be plotting something now that this information has come to light. “Buut… Since we are dealing with the Mad God anyways, perhaps this would be a good chance to reclaim it.” He says as he looks to Heimrich. “Very well. Once this ancient feud is finally resolved, you will have your fight with me, if my descendant is fine with that.” He says, grinning as he brings attention to Samantha.
She whose Aura and face is lit up like a christmas tree just seemed to shrink slightly at being directly called on in this embarrassing matter. Though she does answer. “I-I. Yes. I am fine with that… I’ve known Heimrich for a long time. I’ve never thought much of marriage, but if it’s Heimrich… Then yes…” She says, her voice getting smaller as she tries to hide her face with her hair. All this emotional talk was making her more and more conscious despite how powerful a woman she was.
Revan relished in poking fun at his descendant before looking back at Heimrich. “Then I have no reason to deny your request, young man. You shall prove to me that you are more than your anger and hate. And capable of protecting my descendants. If you beat me, you will have my blessing.” He says, unaware of the true power Heimrich wielded thanks to the seal. But so too did Heimrich not know of the full power of the royal line.
He resisted the urge to say 'only a few' when Atticus commented about needing afew screws loose to end up here. Otherwise he agreed, hiding out in a secret werewolf village was certainly crazy. "Say's the one who let us stay. I guess crazy also loves company."
Seeing fully transformed wolves out and about in a village that suited the race of man was abit out of the ordinary, though Vance didn't know enough about werewolves to really know that. He often assumed that they made burrows underground or something like actual wolves... Was that a problematic thing to think? Maybe he'll keep that to himself. Though seeing Gregor so confidently stride off into the village and making casual conversation with the werewolves either speaks to the natural dispositional to multicultural habitation that Aetheran's have or to how much BS Dwarves can tolerate. He didn't know which was more impressive honestly.
Once Alice and Heimrich come back, after some back and forth small talk between Vance and Atticus, mostly Vance wanting to clear up why Atticus was letting them all stay here, he looks to Heimrich and takes the quilt that he was obviously referring to. "Oh, sure."
But that was before it washed over them.
The second sun, and the immense rage and loss that came with it.
As it radiated from the site of the Rematch all the way to the village, Vance stopped in his tracks as he was helping to move the quilt he was given and looked out towards it. This incredible feeling of rage and hate that radiated out from Scotti...
As Alice and Heimrich both look to Vance, all they could see in his expression was this indescribable look of sadness. A profound pain of wanting to go, to prove she hadn't lost anything when Heimrich, of wanting a chance to prove that her Duncan actually existed, even if it was more complicated than Scotti originally thought, but knowing that with her little echo chamber of morons she calls friends who all hated his existence will only murder him the first chance they lay eyes on him before he has a chance to explain anything.
But that's fine. He'd much rather make the lot of them eat dirt anyways.
He couldn't hear either of them, any of them, he was transfixed by his sun... Even if his senses were not as attuned as Atticus and Heimrich's, he could still feel the loos under all that hate. And he knew he couldn't do a single thing about it right now.
'What good is all this damn strength if I can only use it when I'm f*cking mad...' His expression hardened with internal self ridicule. As Alice and Heimrich do their best to coerce him into moving again, he finally notices them trying to do so... Grudgingly he accepts their attempts to move him, and follows the pair of them back to their house. Never losing that pained look, even though it retreated from his face it still shined in his eyes.
"Look upon the modern man. What little they have become. Seeking baubles from a golden age in the darkest depths, to blind yourself of your own decay. Your arrogance is last layer of gold upon the rust of your degraded cities, held stagnant by the very creature you worship. Worry not little worm, your chain will soon break."
"Speak not in riddles, monster!" The adventurer bellows at the heart of the labyrinth, at golden eyes that long had lost their color, tainted by blasphemous curses.
"Meagre flesh, have your senses failed you? This world belongs to unordinary men. It is a world of gods and heroes, demons and sorcerors- Once again at the end of the world. So soon you forget. And so soon reminded. Your kingdoms reside on corpses of those whom came before, just as yours shall be the bedrock for those which follow. Make peace now with thyself and thy Spirits... For what we shall become shall garner none."
-Adventurers stumbling upon the Labyrinth Master, the Black Wing Chimera.
In a Distant Burning Land
Deep in the bowels of a pit bored into the earth, foul sorceries claim the souls of the damned from within Perdition and the wanderers within the Veil, pulling them upward through this planar conduit. They do not experience a reprieve from hell, bound to cursed warmachines or destined to be consumed by demons lurking within the many tunnels dotting the pit's walls. Some still living souls serve as extra spice, hurled into the pit by their fellow men, those whom have turned their backs on the world and seek its eternal ruin. The weak die swiftly, either from falling the great distance or snatched in midair by demons and flying fiends. The strong ones upon landing have no hope, finding themselves facing the merciless master of the pit. It is this cacophany that stirs life once more into an ancient soul.
A semblance of consciousness thought pulls the soul through the conduit into the material plane. Weakened by centuries of chains, it is barely more than a wisp, with appendages that only hint at the human form. After death, the act of sight is a suggestion; the dead are aware of everything that happens around them. It is aware of the bodies falling from the sky, from outside this pit of orange stone it has found itself in. It is aware of more souls, crying out or already accepting their fate. It is aware of things much stronger in presence than the souls around it. Their sounds also pepper the soul, scrambling and cackling in dark alcoves above, catching still living bodies and converting them into showers of blood and gore. And even moreso, the presence that is the strongest of all, standing in the center of the pit. A tall, hairless fiend with the head of a ram, with not an ounce of fat beneath its stretched pale skin. Muscle twitches as it spears a crippled warrior that was attempting to crawl away on its pitchfork, dueting with the dying man's gurgling final cries with its gurgling laugh. It lifts the warrior upwards, past its horned head and directs his dying soul to the pit's west wall, where it flies into it with planar warping instead of a stone collision. The Soulslaver shakes the corpse off of its pitchfork, it landing near the soul with a wet splatter of blood. The Soulslaver gives the weak soul a dismissive glance before it turns its attention to the more active souls, a few still flit around seeking a way out. Far more exciting fish in this barrel than the one already half dead.
The soul is left undisturbed for now, but with its reasoning steadily returning it knows not for long. A second, nay, a third death would be inevitable if the swiftly refining soul does not take bold action. A nub pulls the soul forward, then a jointed growth. The idea of functioning legs helps stabilize it as a reforming hand grabs the stone and grips with rediscovered vigor. The soul feels a sense of weight as its identity begins to return. It knows what it is. He remembers the sensation of stone beneath his fingertips. He remembers what he had felt when he gripped the ledge at the top of the mountain, the same as he feels now as he grabs the side of the corpse in front of him, as the fiend whirls around. He remembers when he planted his foot for the first time on that mountaintop, the Spine of the World, the same sensation felt through the corpse's twitching boot. The Soulslaver howls as it stabs at the soul with its pitchfork with the subtle speed of enochians, aiming to slay this reconstituting soul now. The sensation was familiar. Hate from above, a mass of magical might that storms across the sky. He remembers it well, standing atop that mountain, defiant in the face of the oncoming storm.
When he first declared war on the gods.
Uniform holes burst to life in the Soulslaver's chest, causing it to stumble out of its attack in surprise. It stares first at the corpse now standing in front of it, its left arm disintegrating under the strain of what transpired. Then it notices the brackish blood dripping off of its own pitchfork. Its own blood. This realization and recovering from its own confusion would have been an unnoticeable event for even a majority of enochians. But as it goes to stab again it shudders to a stop. It knows it was struck, before the corpse's leg raises and slams into the handle of its pitchfork and its arms. The impact of a dead man's leg would do nothing to it. The intensity of the soul it comes in contact with is what shatters its arms and its grip on its weapon. The leg, likewise, shatters from the strain. It breaks apart like ice, the fluids within the skin and muscle have already boiled away. The fiend lets out one final shriek before it it is slammed backwards, pinned to the earth by an unseen force lodged in its skull. The piloted corpse cannot maintain balance and collapses after the kick, but it does not stay down. It crawls towards the pitchfork, leaving scrapings of armor and soon dried flesh in its trail.
The fiends and demons in the levels of the pit above have stopped their play and are now watching the strange show unfolding below, doing nothing to help a fellow fiend incapable of slaying a corpse. Some of the humans above the pit have likewise noticed the commotion and stop throwing bodies in, watching with a hushed anticipation falling over the camp above. The soul gives no heed to the changes around him, his attention is fully on reaching the weapon in front of him, and the next body to inhabit. A different corpse thrown from the lip of the pit, that show signs of life still within it as the hand of the soul-piloted corpse touches the fiend's pitchfork. Where the Soulslaver was pinned down, the pitchfork appears with a burst of the fiend's blood, the monster slain by its own magical weapon. Pieces of its face fly across the pit, as do the remains of the disintegrating arm of the corpse. The soon to be dead man twitches awake again, paralyzed from the landing, his final thoughts consumed by the sight of a man with long black hair and searing blue eyes tearing his way out the torso of the corpse. His fear had little time to mature, as the dying man's soul is obliterated by the invading inferno.
The paralyzed man stands. The chattering of the watching fiends begins to devolve into raucous laughter and screeching howls as the new vessel slowly walks to the dead Soulslaver and the pitchfork lodged in its skull. Deadened nerves and severed spinal cord do little to stop his movements driven by the soul alone. He grips the pitchfork and looks up to the sky, seeing the burning red clouds for the first time. He does not know where he ended up, but it doesn't matter. The pitchfork is dislodged with a wet squelch as he turns fully to look at the distant figures on the lip of the pit. He does not recognize them, but they recognize him, and the slow transformation that the corpse he pilots is undergoing. He hears one of them call out something that he will soon hear again and again.
"Thriceborn!"
While the soul is distracted, a revenant rises from his shadow with claws mid swipe at his achilles. Uniform holes burst in its small head, killing the creature immediately from the overflow of spiritual pressure. The hand gripping the pitchfork cracks, but does not shatter. The previous occupant must be dampening the damage in some way with the tattered remains of what used to be a functioning soul, or he was stronger than the first corpse. Either way, it isnt strong enough to last more than a few minutes even standing here. He was not being given the chance, as the fiends lurking overhead now swarm the base of the pit to have a taste of the golden egg. The soul is forced to attempt to move as slowly as they do, to keep this body intact as long as possible. The combined masses of fiends, demons, and revenants still cannot approach. Around the soul's vessel is a realm of death and demon blood, slicing them apart with raking slashes of the tips of the forks, or pierced over and over until an unidentifiable mess is left. Cracks begin to spread up the arms of the soul's vessel, as even movement after reining in his speed to this degree still are beyond the cadaver's limits. He would not slaughter the entirety of Perdition's denizens flooding into the pit before his stolen body gives out. Dust and stone shards form a cloud as he reappears on the pit wall, one hand latched onto a jutted stone as the other hand is ramming the pitchfork through a demon's chest. Only for a moment, as the soul flickers again appearing farther up, rapidly moving up the pit until the pitchfork claims its first human life in his hands, impaled as he pulls himself up over the pit's edge.
"Thri-ce... Boooorn..." The dying man gurgles through his own blood, finding privilege in death at his hand. The soul shakes his body off of the pitchfork as he straightens, standing resolute at the sight before him. The world is burning. The land is infested with barbarian hordes, encampments as far as the eye can trace, with a singular mountain rising above the camp to the north east, on a nest of short stone legs that serve to pull it forward like a crab. Any signs of the civilization that was here before exists only as destroyed husks of buildings and ruins, now filled with demonic warmachines and warriors of a demonic army. The barbarians are well beyond the capabilities of the knights they were sacrificing to the Soulslaver, one of many pits he sees dotting his vicinity. He can sense the dark boons they have earned through their bloody service, the taint on their souls visible in their red burning eyes. Just as he can see the corruption earned from slaughter, the barbarians slowly moving back from the soul can see the effect he is having upon his corpse vessel. The body continues to weaken and fragment, yet its appearance is changing. It is taller than the knight, and the knight's hair is growing darker and longer. The soul's image of himself is warping his vessel to match. The soul of a warrior powerful enough to change flesh would be well beyond any of the rank and file warrior throng surrounding him. Yet they still charge. And they charge with their spirits bound to a single word.
"THRICEBOOOOOOOORN!" The horde falls upon the soul with sword and axe. The soul is unable to grant them a proper battle. The barbarians do not see the blows that render their bodies and armor chunks, and perforate them full of holes. Their minds do not register their own deaths that come to them as they reach the border of blood surrounding him. As the soul advances further into the camp and away from the pit, demons begin to rejoin the fray from the pits dotting the endless war camp. Even with the extra support, none can approach, yet the decay of the body is accelerating. Drastic measures have to be taken. With a circular sweep the soul clears a wider buffer around it with a spray of human blood and the black blood of demons. He changes his grip of the pitchfork to his left hand alone and rests the butt of the handle on the scorched earth. The vessel's new long black hair flows with the the hot wind filled with the embers and ashes of an erased civilization. He raises the pitchfork off the ground as the barbarian hordes charge again. The pitchfork is brought down once more, making a dull ring as it strikes the earth. And it signals the end of hundreds of lives. Every barbarous warrior and creature of Perdition within eighty meters of the ancient soul experience their own unique death in the same moment as the vessel's arm holding the pitchfork disintegrates. Blood falls as a short lived rain within this ring of death, drenching the vessel as it turns and keeps the pitchfork from falling by grasping it with its other hand. The display of carnage grants him a slight reprieve as the barbarians pause in their attack. The soul turns and faces them again with his back to the pit, planting the pitchfork firmly once more. The damage applied to the corpse he pilots has reached critical levels, and there is little fighting he can do with the other arm before it gives way. Yet the devastation he has caused looks to be nothing compared to the sheer size of this warhost. The soul looks towards the mountain that seems the center of the army. It is filled with something of great power, fitting that of a god. To be expected of something with a walking mountain for a command center. But if it is a godlike being he senses, surely he would have stronger warriors than these humans and low ranking pitkind.
As soon as the thought reaches him, his question is answered. "THRICEBORN! YOU COME AT LAST!" The soul turns, and sees new challengers pass through the ranks of the horde. A bold fighter with pale eyes and garish garb, dragging a battered man by the wrist. And accompanying him is a knight in red and black armor, embers glowing within his chest and sword. These two possess souls of a different breed than the warriors that seem to serve them. They pass into the ring of gore created around the soul with no concern, and trod upon the bodies of their men with zero care. They do not trespass far, before the bold one grants the soul a gift. "THEIR COMMANDER WOULD SERVE A FINER HOST!" He shouts with a laugh as he swings and tosses his prisoner the many meters separating him from the ancient soul. He lands roughly, rolling the short distance before being stopped by the vessel's raised foot. The soul examines the purported commander of the knights and sees he indeed possesses a body well beyond the one he currently resides in. He looks at the gift givers first, deciphering the meaning of this. From how they have reacted to his escape from the pit, and refer to him by a title, his coming was foretold in some way. And with the attacks upon him, the barbarians seem less to be seeking his death, but finding fulfillment in their own.
"ACCEPT IT THRICEBORN! IF YOU WISH TO LIVE LONGER THAN THE PARTING SECONDS!" The bold one laughs again as his companion stirs. The knight takes in a deep breath as his armor comes to life as well, burning fire surrounds him as smoke is exhaled from the helmets visor. The empty gauntlet not clutching his greatsword twitches in the desire to throttle life. He seeks battle. He desires bloodshed. And the challenge in facing the prophesied warrior in front of him.
Whether it is a challenge or a trick, it does not matter to the soul. He will crush all opposition in his path. The vessel takes a knee as the knight commander looks up to see the soul rend the ribcage of its vessel open, to take for itself a new, hardier home.
Blue lightning strikes the earth next to the new vessel. It takes hold of the pitchfork as the discarded body collapses and shatters upon hitting the ground. The soul stands and faces his new opponent, finding the burning knight's greatsword clashing against the air in front of his new face. The knight is a giant at a staggering near eight feet tall, dwarfing the soul's new vessel as he brings the greatsword down again and again against the invisible defense of the motionless soul. Each attack is rapid and heavy, but unsuccessful in finding an opening. They seem ineffective, but the Soul notes that none of these strikes contain the knight's power, yet would still cause his previous vessels to crumble from the inquisitive barrage. Each blow made to test his defense still carries more might than any of the demons and fiends he has slain here this day. And of the two testing blows the soul makes himself, sparks fly from the Profaned Knight's chestplate and the prongs of the pitchfork, and the second is deflected by a backhand, like swatting a fly. That short exchange tells both warriors all they needed to know about their opponent. The result of this contest will appear in one final exchange, as they both accept that the man standing before them are well within the realm of the Gods.
The fiery greatsword makes the burning world seem as dark as night as it takes the appearance of a burning star, raised overhead one final time. Lightning falls as the soul's vessel sinks low, taking hold of the pitchfork in both hands for a final thrust. The lightning coils throughout the fiendish weapon, attempting to reinforce its frail form to survive long enough to make its mark. Blinding fire faces burning lightning as the sword comes down with the power to end life in this beleaguered sector, deliverance at a speed that not even the angels could see. And still it is all too slow. The flesh of the vessel is giving way as the knight imperceptibly freezes for all but the Soul. This strike will be true, as it has already happened. The form of both his arms and his weapon clad in lightning fracture and crack as they draw closer to their destination. The absolute will of the ancient soul and the lightning that heeds his call barely keep the pieces together. They maintain rough form long enough to reach their target, the stomach of the knight. And with a brilliant burst of light, they shatter against his armor.
Both arms have been destroyed, unable to withstand the power attempting to use them. The pitchfork could not survive the purpose given to it, and it's shards fade to nothing. This body failed to survive the demands put upon it, and failed to damage the knight. The final attack the vessel could conjure failed to harm the knight, but it still has had an effect on the fiery warrior. The incredible power stored within the greatsword held aloft fades away, and the knight takes a step back from the ancient soul. The sword now rests on his shoulder as he silently reappraises the armless warrior before him. "Oh ho, able to outpace Garl, even with a body too weak for you?" The man in colorful dress winks across the distance and reappears next to the knight once more, granting the soul a playful smirk. "You certainly are mighty, Thriceborn." The soul's answer is silence. This one certainly lacks the raw power of the knight, but to remain unaffected by what had transpired, he must be on a similar level.
The vessel looks out towards the lone mountain as the soul digests what it has heard. A prophesy spoke of a warrior having been born three times? In a way he could rationalize each of the forms he has taken, including this on as a independent soul as new lives. Still, this place is alien to him, nothing like the sector he was borne in and conquered. The land was ravaged to a degree that he could not even sense any native magic. How zealous this army has been in their devastation is certainly impressive.
"The Master of the Firestorm will be waiting for you, in the bowels of the mountain. We have faith that you will return to us, and lead us to glory." The man bows, though he does notice the soul looking about for a new host. "Ah, worry not about your vessel Thriceborn. None of this sector's warriors would be able to survive the presence of Jaggomoth. Any body you take would be undone." The soul views him in silence, before he disappears.
Across this sort of distance , the damaged vessel still holds together. Each foot cracks, but still carry the soul from the pits to the foot of the mountain. He looks up, dwarfed by the thick crustacean-like legs that will carry the mountain across the land. Each limb is countless stories tall, necessary to transport this behemoth Fortress. For a moment, the soul scans the mountainside for an entrance, but he begins to feel the phantasmal grip of a foul demon upon him, beyond any that he had seen in the war against the gods. He does not resist.
The burning world changes to the guts of a furious volcano, lava geyers spitting up magma around him as he takes in the new surroundings, before the demon that summoned him. The chamber is vast in this hollow mountain, extending from a lake of lava hundreds of meters in every direction, and we'll over a kilometer up to its peak. Lava flows from holes up along the angled ceiling, providing illumination for the entire area as it falls into and around the lake.
The soul notices after this that the body he inhabits is disintegrating. He looks down at his body as he sees pieces of it break apart and blow away, until only the soul remains. The cause is unmistakable. A being of immense spiritual power resides within this lake, enough to destroy lesser beings without needing to waste its time. It is undeniably what he has sensed after leaving the pit. He feels the danger to himself, but the time in the pit and in the camp has given him the chance to fully awaken. The presence seeks to destroy, but he endures. And once he is certain that the beings presence would not end this third chance at life, the soul can turn his attention to the giant figure that forms from the shadows that contrast the light of the magma.
The dark power that fills it near obscures the creature's physical form, pale limbs that are endlessly produced within the black robes that clothe it. The robes themselves are not cloth, a union between roots and the darkness itself, that consumes the magma's light. The ancient soul is notably taller than the bodies it has taken this day, near seven feet in height, from a time where power granted the body increased size to contain it. He remains an ant in the shadow of this creature, barely the length of a finger. Now he is faced with the threat of two unholy powers, this one seeking to destroy what makes his soul human, to fill it with foul secrets of the universe. The soul has heard little about these creatures, their existence considered dogma and church teachings as to the cosmology of Perdition. But their existence is undeniable now. But the fact that a Fell Lord, one of the Princes and dark gods of the deepest reaches of Perdition, and guardians of Perdition's heart is here grants context to the gravity of the situation. The ancient soul can sense that the Fell Lord is not the master, but the attendant.
"Thriceborn soul, slain by deceit and pride. Faced with one final choice." The Fell Lord leans forward, a thin hand of bone reaching into the void of its hood and extracting from the liquid corruption a solid metal cube of stygian steel. Metal refined in the bowels of Perdition upon fires fueled by souls, a potent conduit for magic and souls alike. Even strong souls can find themselves consumed by the black metal by the slightest touch. The cube is placed in front of the soul, viewing the strange gift with natural suspicion. "Should a death in honor be thy desire, after a life of bloody conquest, take this gift and forge a new form, and covenant. Longer a cadaver lasts in service of war, clad in steel.
The decision is swiftly made. Memories of his deaths drive him now. His first, a painful and slow death born of poisoned wine and the bites of traitor's knives. His second, the workings of one man and his own folly. These slights cannot go unpunished. A heart long gone burns with the desire of bloodshed and vengeance against a long gone world, and the one that still exists. Service to another, however temporary, will this time be of his own volition. The soul strides forward and plunges his ethereal hands into the metal, which burns with black fire from his touch. Soul and steel consume each other, until one remains.
From within the mountain's fire and flames, a storm of lightning erupts, blue light coalescing into the black form of its master. An ancient lord of a world long forgotten, hated enemy of Paradise. Demon metal makes his form, his soul drives the fiendish armor. Black hair flows behind new horns as his hands fashion the rebirth of a weapon lost to all but memory. The last shards of stygian steel bind together to recreate a cursed fabled weapon that plunged into the hearts of Gods and Men alike. With one final trace of lightning across its form, the Thronebreaker is complete. As is the revival of the Thriceborn.
All eyes turn to the mountain Makulob as all can sense the power that burns within. And from within the mountain, that power is enough to disturb the rest of death Incarnate. The Fell Lord moves to the left of the armored soul, out of the path of the Titan of bloodshed that rises from the lake of lava. Vast red wings rise first, hurling magma every which way. Beneath them rises a fire that consumes the molten rock, surrounding black warped horns attached to a roaring skull that bursts forth flame. With its body and arms of scorched molten armor come two weapons that howl with corrupted life of their own. Grand Spirits, their essence twisted and half consumed by the fiend that wields them. Children of War; Butcher, remade in the form of a battle axe who's core remains molten. Murder, a sword that still screams with unholy fire. Both swollen from gorging on the souls of trillions. The axe is lodged in the stone bank of the lava lake as the monstrous fiend rises, the stone around it melting from its intense heat. And as the giant fiend lands one hoof on the embankment, the sword is raised overhead, aflame with unholy fury for a single task. It is an undeniable truth, that this is the master of this desecrating army, and master of this mountain.
The ancient soul stares up at the burning blade, it's length more than four times his own impressive height. When the burning knight unleashed his true power, it burned like the sun. In the face of this ruby flame, he faces the full might of a falling star. For the first time in his life, the soul fears for his life. And that fear is what drives him to plant his feet and raise his spear on high in rage as both body and spear blast forth lightning. He dares make him feel the tinge of fear?!
Grand Spirit meets stygian steel, and the eruption of power consumes both in a torrent of red fire and blue lightning. The soul feels demonic power reverberate through his hollow form, he senses his soul's cohesion drawing near his breaking point from the solitary blow. But he will not be the one to relent. Thronebreaker resists the edge of the goliath's sword, and his soul still roars. Lightning spreads from the empty eyes of the empty helmet, as it does from the rest of his form and his spear itself. This ant will not fear the lion. His light burns bright, dwarfed by the sword and the flame it exerts as the fiend continues to press down, seeking to crush all life out of the ancient soul. But the black spear holds. And the armor stands strong.
After an eternity the sword finally rises. It pours forth flame, but no longer finds the soul as its target. It remains at its dark master's side as the Devil King looks down at the insect capable of repelling a blow from its sword. Both the Fell Lord and the soul remain silent. It will be Jaggomoth that speaks.
"YOUR NAME."
The voice of the Devil King reverberates within the soul's new armored shell, reminding him of his hollow existence. He lets his spear rest by his side as he chooses his answer carefully. If his coming was foretold, this Jaggomoth may be the reason. He may see value in his ability to kill and to lead hordes of bloodletting masses. But what value is there in a name long dead, lost to a disgraceful end? "Names mean little to me. What matters are my deeds. I am a slayer of gods, and men. I have brought civilizations to ruin, and dominated my world with an iron fist. I gave a pantheon the experience of total annihilation, and brought Armageddon to their world.”
A stray thought invades his mind, a memory of the last name given to him. How accurate a name it was, produced on a whim.
The soul raises his spear, pointing it at the Devil King. “If thee seek it, I will become your Ragnarok.”
The titanic form of the fiend rises up, finding satisfaction in his resolve. “THEN YOU SHALL LEAD, AND DROWN IN SEAS OF BLOOD. FOR DEATH. FOR JAGGOMOTH. FOR WAR.”
And so it came to be, in a rising storm of lightning that darkens the burning sky above Makulob. The armored form of the soul has appeared atop the living mountain, within the storm of his own making. The barbarians below bear witness to the power now housed in a new form. “Well I’ll be damned,” The bold one remarks as the warriors begin to chant the soul’s title once more. “Not only catching Jaggomoth’s interest, but surviving a blow from our mighty Devil King? This new Warlord may last some time. Only time will tell what glories we will see following his banner.”
The soul looks out over the endless hordes below, calling out the name of Thriceborn, his Thronebreaker at his side. Truly, the soldier of the Devil King are endless, and likely can call upon countless more. In this endless war that he has found himself a part of, the soul looks out into the distance, at a land far beyond untouched by war. And the memory of one man who defeated him, even in a savage weakened form. Such a slight against him cannot be forgiven. He thinks back, delving through foggy memories to apply a shouted name to the face.
“Crash…” Ragnarok, Thriceborn Warlord of the Firestorm, gazes across the burning horizon, lightning growing in anticipation and consuming the sky. “Enjoy your peace, while you can.”
The trip back to the lobby had become a tense affair. They can all feel the seconds passing by on the elevator ride down, fearing the sight of Cassian on the other side of the doors. They were in luck, he wasn't there in the lobby to meet them. Hayes notices the odd flow of air coming from the janitor's closet, and tracks it further yet to a secret elevator within it. "Leads only down," He remarks as he sees the buttons. It was an unspoken agreement between the four to go. Cassian may be coming towards this tower, the last thing they want to do is meet him outside. Besides, this may lead to a way out of the barrier, or to Clara's dad. So the four enter the elevator without a word, hearing the maintenance room reset above them as they descend into the unknown.
"It will be best to continue this conversation then on the surface, where my senses will be less impeded. I will take us back, just a moment gentlemen. Diamond Prison!" The hero's mask flashes and a pink box forms around the Stranger and Marcus. Though both have barely closed before they notice the outside world blur for just a fraction of a second, like a minute error in a TV screen. Then the boxes dissolve away again, all three now standing outside the damaged church. Diamond Eye is already turning about, likely putting in his senses to the test. "There are few souls that are not already being escorted to safety. I sensed for a moment a small group in the center of London, then most of them disappeared. It feels as if they went down, deep in the earth."
Heimrich waits with bated breath for Revan's response, as the ancient man buys himself more time to decide as he mentions how his father is well and truly gone from this land, and summoning him would require quite the difficult journey. But eventually he acquiesces, and turns it to Samantha.
Heimrich's focus was on Revan when he made his declaration of love and desire to marry Samantha, and now when he sees her face, seeing the redness of her cheeks, her struggle to hide her smile, and the joy in her eyes... He doesn't try to hide his own at her acceptance. But he does keep a lid on it for now. This desire helped drive him, along with his desire to kill Salem and end his plots for Duncan's family; Now with Samantha also wanting the same as him, it has evolved into a major driving force. The change it has made on his soul and aura is a drastic one, burning hotter and even more vibrantly even when locked away. Revan accepting his offer helps refocus Heimrich, though his Aura does not change. "Thank you." It is all he can say at first, before he clears his throat in another attempt to keep things focused. Admittedly he had taken himself off track with his open declaration of seeking Samantha's hand. They were still here for a reason. "Ahem. So, this Spirit Well. Should that be our first target? Ah, we should go to Crossvale first, if we are going to the Well, " Heimrich adds as he remembers the town.
It is hard to miss the pain Vance was going through as they walk back across the village. Heimrich had some unorthodox advice to give him to break the silence. "Everything you're feeling right now? Own it, and don't try and hide it. It's your proof you're human." Heimrich lets that sit for a few seconds before continuing. "The more intense that pain is, the more likely everything will work out in the end."
"Heimrich already has a plan for you to see her again," Alice trails back to walk next to Vance, to give him some hope.
"And it might be sooner than I thought. Scotti's real pissed. May only be another day or two before she's ready to come for my head. That'll be our chance." Heimrich looks back at Vance who's been trailing behind, with a determined grim grin. "That's when we put everything on the line."
Heimrich's strange advice was met with a kneejerk look of confusion, though a second was all it really took for Vance to consider it again and see reason in what he said. This pain, this heartbreak, it was necessary. It proved that he was alive, it proved that he was human. And looking at just how intense Scotti's pain was shining right now, along with his own, he really hoped that what Heimrich said was true about it working out in the end... Oh he really hoped that...
Alice's words having Vance quickly looking to her and then back to Heimrich. That small glimmer of hope growing. Though that encounter not ending in bloodshed would be a miracle... Right now Scotti believes that he is then same as that beast that Salem butchered him into at the Rematch. Heimrich was right, Scotti is really pissed. He's gotten to know Scotti... Really well... And he was right. A confrontation was soon to follow. And that was going to be difficult, Scotti wasn't going to hold anything back against him and Heimrich.
"Immediate problem, she and her echo chamber of buddies think I'm still the Godling beast. And most of them won't care to correct that way of thinking. Not that I blame them, I was a bastard before I started to become human." Vance says as Heimrich tells him that their chance will come in only a matter of days. It felt so sudden... But he needed to be ready.
He didn't shy away from the kind of beast he was before he started to wish for more, to be shaped by the feelings of another, to want to protect those feelings and wishes. He embraced them, they are who he was but he won't let that change who he is now.
Akina watched the whole rollercoaster of emotions that Aiden was currently suffering under, it was adorable and somewhat worrying seeing him shift between mental states so rapidly. She was surprised he didn't get whiplash. Kidding. Though what he said last really got a smile out of her. He was so awkward. "You sound like a goblin trader, speaking so clinical and stiff. Relax." She says as she reaches out, patting his arm hard. Though he was pretty durable, he likely hardly felt it.
Chloe however just kept looking up at the both of them, watching as Aiden kept floundering like a fish out of water. She tilted her head to one side, ear flopping with it, wondering what kind of courting ritual lasted this long.
Akina looked down at the little pink rabbit, wondering what was going on in that little head of hers, before looking back at Aiden again as she steps away and walk back to the sink to deal with her dishes after dinner. "Just be yourself, you doofus. The only person you need to prove anything to is yourself, seeing as you're dealing with a whole new life here."
"They don't know who you are," Heimrich says as they walk under the trees. "And they don't want to know. They don't want to think that there's anything good in you. They see Vengeance as a monster that took Duncan from them. If you want to prove that there's more to you, and how much you want to prove you're desire to change, we have to use the few days we have wisely." He notably does not disagree with Vance's inward look at his past self, even before he had met Scotti, and is brutally honest with how Scotti's friends and Duncan's family saw Vengeance because it had to be plainly said for Vance to move forward. He knows full well that Vance already feels the same, which is why it must be not just accepted, but moved past. Vance isn't Vengeance. This is a fresh start, one that Vance is fully focused on and must not dwell in the past, as easy as it might be.
Templar Citadel, Vedran 10:14AM
It hasn't been all of 45 minutes since Duncan reappeared suddenly with the mysterious undead back at the Citadel, and maybe half an hour since he was snoring loudly in his quarters. There wasn't much of a chance to talk with him, but Tobbi was able to get enough details out of the wobbly legged guy. He fought the woman that had made that rather eccentric challenge to him, and they had both been taken in as Wabani's students. Duncan seemed troubled by how things had turned out, something that seemed unrelated to the results, though he either didn't want to talk about it right now, or more likely didn't have the energy. Especially with Felix's excitement draining Duncan's batteries even faster.
The last nugget of information they were able to get is that he's to be back in three days to begin his training, and wouldn't be back for a long time. None of them were sure if that was months or years, but keeping Duncan from resting wouldn't be much help. So Tobbi was out in the courtyard, watching Crash training the Templars. The new Chaptermaster Kirk is also watching on, in between conversing with his daughter and some scouts returning from Aetheran. Tobbi isn't honing his senses right now, but he can tell the man isn't very pleased with the news. Kirk's energy is an uncomfortable one to read, more like a whirlpool descending down into nothing instead of Aetheran douls, but he's been around him enough times now to be able to get some simple readings on his emotions.
Tobbi continues to watch the soldiers train as his senses move west, towards his sister. She had released a massive amount of Aura 40 minutes ago, and while it has long since dissipated, she hasn't returned. He knows she's still there, motionless once again, that outburst just a sign of the turmoil in her heart. He'll have to go and see her soon, when he's certain she won't lash out at him. At least too badly. Her anger has always been fiery and vicious, but this is different. She had never been close to anyone before, not before she told him of this third identity that was hiding in Duncan. To lose him forever has been... Well, devastating in a way she has never experienced. And he fears she will never know love again, closing herself off once more, lashing out now in fear of that loss, and the idea of replacing him.
And Tobbi fears what she might do if she ever senses Heimrich.
From what he was able to get out of those that were there for the Rematch, he is an enigma, possessing abilities and power they had never thought possible. He uses an Aura-adjacent art that he thought was only a fairy tale, from before the Golden Age and the founding of structured aura, like the battles between the Mentat and Ravenhead to decide the future of the world. Instantaneous movement, manipulating magic, removing Vengeance- The creation of a god- from Duncan and then rapidly aging him back to the present through his sword? Heimrich has powers that he didn't think were even possible through aura. Sam seems to think the same.
What worries Tobbi the most is what Duncan had mentioned one day when they were sitting around in the hospital. Heimrich didn't have aura unlocked, the same as him, and when he talked to Kirk a couple days ago, Heimrich had nowhere near that kind of power. Meaning, he grew to that level in less than a couple weeks. Not only is he incredibly dangerous... Someone had trained him to that level in that little time. That's what really scared him.
Crash knocks one of the soldiers out accidentally with his staff with a bonk on the head when he messes up a stance for the fifth time. Being called over, Tobbi jogs up to the downed man and begins to heal him. Keeping thse guys in one piece is the main reason he's down here. With the threat of the Pureborn growing in Aetheran, and with two of their heaviest hitters Kutter and Rhys occupied the Forgotten are becoming a swiftly growing menace. Training has rapidly picked up the pace to prepare them for when they too must join in the fight against the Forgotten.
As Tobbi helps the revitalized man back to his feet, his thoughts are still preoccupied with who had taught Heimrich. A secret Mantra user, who has remain hidden from the world all this time. To turn someone like Heimrich from a zero into a man strong enough to fight Vengeance at his peak, reaching into the realm of the Gods, he must be incredibly strong and wise himself. It would be one thing if it was over a longer period, but to do so in such speed disqualifies him being a frail old master. What he fears most isn't as much fighting the man himself, though he definitely doesn't want to. It's Scotti running into him if she finds Heimrich. Heimrich himself seems to want to be left alone, with how much he's helped despite his rough way of doing it. His master though may not be so kind, and may find his sister a threat to his student, no matter how feasible that actually is.
Fears of what the Spider would do if that happened also has a hold on his heart.
"Tobbi? Tobbi you alright?"
"What? Oh, sorry," He lets go of the soldier's arm, realising now he hadn't let go despite the man being up for a while now.
"You sure you weren't the one hit on the head?" The soldier asks, which does get a smile out of Tobbi.
"It's my job to make the jokes," He gives the man a light shove back to his training with a shake of his head. "Now get back in line before Crash decides to knock you a second time."
Templar Citadel - Lullian Forest, Vedran 09:45am
Duncan had returned to his room in the Citadel, something he'll have to talk to Kirk about considering these quarters were given to him because he became this Chapter's Inquisitor, quickly after he was brought back from Wabani's estate thanks to the timely arrival of his previous superior Ghyll. Someone who he thought was dead until his reappearance... Speaking of his room, given his new situation his employ in Kirk's new Order is very much up in the air if not entirely null.
Duncan was basically unemployed... But he was a student of Master Wabani, so that shouldn't matter too much until after a bulk of his training is done. Oh, and he was a noble of House Cross. Of which his uncle Albus has taken the position of Family head from his sister... A move he didn't see coming, but one that made sense since she had thought to give him the position as Patriarch of the House and control over the Duchy. Something he wasn't looking forward to but would have dutifully done. Honestly? He was glad that Albus stepped up to take the position... The guy had been in a bad position, resigned to an early death for years but now he could live an actual life. Though he didn't envy the attention that Albus is no doubt experiencing... Though he is used to it by now.
Before Duncan could slip into a blissful rest he was pestered, bothered and talked at while his body screamed for sweet sweet rest. But he didn't complain. Only Felix, Samantha, Ghyll and Tobbi were there.
He needed to see Felix, despite how much his little brother wanted to fight him after hearing about the fight between him and this 'Kiysa' person that got the little guy fired up, to see how he was doing after that whole 'Revenant' nightmare that he and Scotti got into. Hearing Duncan weave the tale of the fight, even in his exhausted state, was absolutely hype for the young Fire user.
Felix wanted it immediately fight Duncan to see what he can do now. But thankfully Samantha calmed him down. The caveat was that they had three days for Felix to fight Duncan before he needed to go again...
Three days... It wasn't enough. But Samantha couldn't argue for more time... She had to accept that Duncan was going to be near unreachable for who knows how long.
The little debriefing session came to an end quickly, Duncan couldn't keep his eyes open much longer.
-Duncan's Mental Scape-
As exhaustion overtook his body, Duncan woke up somewhere else... A familiar place he has come to dislike. A familiar tower, once scorched black and landscape warped with death. Now merely a tower in ruin, abandoned by the look of it, a landscape overgrown with wild flora.
Duncan was stood in the overgrown courtyard of the Citadel. His surrounds different from what he had seen for the last 15 days and that disturbed him somewhat... What brought about this extreme change?
"You did." A familiar voice calls from atop the crumbling perimeter walls that surround the ruined tower.
Duncan turns to the source. His Future Self, draped in a dark and tattered cloak with scorched and mangled armour underneath it, sat with his legs dangling over the wall, staring down at him with sunken eyes with dark bags under them. "What the heck are you talking about? I did this?"
His Future self nodded, not moving from his seat atop the walls as he looked up at the broken spire. "You did. You're actions have changed our future, even if it was by only this much..."
"Everything is still ruined. No one is here. What exactly did I change?" Duncan asks as he scowls up at his future self, gesturing to the ruin that surrounded them.
His future self didn't look back, but he pointed to the familiar yet different wild flowers at his feet. "Life persists where none had done previously. In becoming Wabani's student, unlike I, and creating this new power of yours, you have changed this places fate. While this place still lies in ruin, life in the Lullian Forest persists. A haven to some, just not for you or the Aetheran's."
Duncan looked down at the wild flowers and the rest of the overgrown courtyard. It was certainly a step up from the abysmally scorched environment he trained in previously. But he really did this? Just creating 'Rebellion' and becoming Wabani's student did all this? "... How?"
His future self groaned softly. He dreaded how slow his past self was... But that will change. "You now have a master who can help you prepare much better than Sam ever could to combat fighters on the Red haired Sorcerers level. And Rebellion will not lead you down the slippery slope you dread so much... But it does come with its own dangers."
"Rebellion is dangerous too huh..." Duncan says as he looks back up to his future self. "I'm guessing redirecting attacks isn't all I can do with it...?"
"The fact that you have to phrase that as a question just shows how little you understand the power you've awoken with..." His Future Self chastised. But he did answer. "Yes. It can do more than redirect attacks... So much more. Like Real it can do more than just 'erase' things. It can mess with concepts, people, things beyond just attacks. You can cause people to rebel against their own ideals, cause organs inside their bodies to rebel and cause total failure, decide gravity should rebel and crush a single person or an entire area, cause a power to rebel against its owner. You can even sway even your worst enemy to your banner. You get the point."
"That..." Duncan didn't even consider doing any of that... Could he really do all that? No. He definitely could if his Future self was calling him out on it. "... I can control people? Jeez..."
"Don't be so quick to dismiss it.." His Future Self pipes up. Much to Duncan's surprise.
"... What..?" Given his obvious bias to being controlled, having his freedoms taken from him and forces to suffer in a sightless, uncaring void between bouts of torture. Why would he take control from another?
His Future Self looks back to him now, his gaze no longer fixed on the strange rainbow sky above their heads. "We must grow past our prior trauma if we are ever to survive the coming apocalypse. If that means using Rebellion to make your enemies waste their efforts under your banner, to further our future and create one where [b]everyone[/i] lives, then it will be worth it."
A dark look spreads across Duncan's face, one that spoke of his dislike of this dawning realisation of his power.
"I know." His Future Self said with a soft and understanding sigh. "But it's necessary. If you want them to live... You'll have to get comfortable with the idea. But not be consumed by it."
Duncan doesn't like it, but he has to at least acknowledge that he can do it... This alien landscape was far better than the scorched wasteland that this place once was. If he wanted it to be better then he needed to overcome his aversion to these aspects of his power. "Fine... Anything else?"
His future self narrowed his eyes, not liking that he was just brushing this off so quickly. But this was a process. It can't be rushed... And it will likely be something that will be covered in Duncan's training. So he moves on. "Yes. Your master was right. You lost your control and nearly killed Kiysa. Damn near cleaved her in two... But that's already been covered. What I want to cover is what led up to that... Explain it from your perspective, before you secured the win."
It was Duncan's turn to narrow his gaze, furrowing his brow in confusion but still thinking back to the fight once again. "I... I was going to parry her next attack but I sensed a new attack from her to the left of me. So I grabbed Kiysa and threw her into her own attack-"
"No."
Duncan's brow wrinkled more. "No?"
"Not Kiysa. You grabbed an extension of her, an illusion that you made Real and threw into her. The attack you sensed off to the side, was her. That attack you sensed, your destined loss. But you changed it... Forcing fate to Rebel on itself for your win." Future Duncan explained, watching as Duncan's face twisted with confusion yet comprehension.
"I... I grabbed an illusion and hit her with it?"
"You did. That illusion is the technique that your master mentioned she copied... A technique you will learn and make your own in the future. [Black Star]. An ideal Copy of you in that moment. But that's enough spoilers." Future Duncan says as he comes to his feet atop the broken wall, stepping down in a flash of lightning that only disturbs the flowers, harming none of them.
"But isn't Black Star a technique that the Sword Haelgrym held in legend?"
"... Maybe? But I said enough."
"So you're guessing..."
"... Yes. I don't have the ability to accurately look into the future yet. Just interfere with the past in this way." Future Duncan says as he starts to walk around the verdant space.
Duncan gives his future self a look. "Yet?"
"Yes. Yet. You'll attain the power of Foresight too in time. You'll need it. Or at least 'I' need it. You might not... That's up to you... Now. How about we train with your new power until you wake up." Future Duncan says as he stands with his hands hidden under his cloak.
"Ugh, I just got done with one of the most exhausting fights of my life. Can't I just sleep?"
"No. If you want to have a leg up on your new rival. She'll be training over these next three days. And you only narrowly won against her... So...?"
"Haaa... Fine. Lets get on with it, you gloomy slave driver." Duncan shifts into a fighting stance, his hands erupting with lightning.
"Cheeky brat." His future self says with a small smirk, black lightning erupting from the sky above them.
Moving past the trauma and accepting what he once was, leaving it behind in this fresh start. But it won't mean much if he gets killed now... So these next few days will have to do. He needed to be ready. Though he had an advantage, he has carefully watched and noted the abilities of everyone that hated him while he was at the Citadel, they have had no idea what he is capable of now.
Though in fairness, neither did he. Not fully.
Future Vance focussed on teaching his past self how to use Remove and Rule Maker, while Vance mostly taught himself how to use his new powers to create and recreate things he used in the past or needs now. But getting some more training in the real world would be best, he isn't used to using his power out here yet.
"So this is gonna be alot of me reacting to the Mentat again but in the Real World, right? Since the world pushes back against my powers we need to train it to lessen the fatigue... Or to train me to just survive long enough to talk to Scotti." Vance says as he grimaces. He didn't know if he could use his hate to fight Scotti... It was easy with Samantha, hell it would be easy with Felix and Tobbi. But her? He didn't know how he was going to handle it.
A curveball comes his way. "We can worry about that later. Right now we got a bigger issue; What we're making for breakfast."
Heimrich notices Vamce having some reservations about not getting right to training, though Alice says something first. "It does no good to worry on an empty stomach. Let's eat first, then we can plan from there."
Synnadine
Later That Night
No matter what time of day or night, East Vedran is always at max volume. The din of never ending parties and celebrations of inane things numbs the mind's receptors, making everyone crave bigger, brighter, and louder sensations to fill the bottomless hole in their souls. Lee fills his with another suicide dangling from his lips as he nears his apartment building, along with the chilling knowledge he and Eva pulled from the foreigner's brain. What they found gave them little that was useful in tracking down the source of the barbarian. In fact, the information they gathered painted too broad and dangerous a picture. He was born to an isolated village, a disposition for violence already instilled in him from his youth. When he had grown older, his village was attacked by raiders under the same banner that they captured him with. He had slain four with the sword and two by hand before being gravely wounded. Instead of being made an example, they celebrated him and the men he had slain, and as his village burned around him he was offered a place under the banner of Death. He fought as one of them for over 400 years, his strength and energy renewed by those he slew and the covenant he had made to a monster cloaked in fire. His run-in with a Vedrani scout group outside the sector proved to be the end of a long and blood-filled life.
And what did they learn? Their numbers were limitless, hordes that stretched across the horizons, hordes with champions that battled angels and gods. Other dark gods fought for the fiery monster, the one they called Jaggomoth, and they burnt everything in their sector-wide path to the ground. Based on what they could glean from the memories and the raiding party they had wiped out, they may pass across their sector's north going west-southwest in 15-17 years. Give or take a few sector's and years. "As if things couldn't get any worse around here." Lee's grumblings to himself as he tosses his spent suicide in the trash outside his apartment building is completely lost in the oblivious noise of the city. He enters right after, and heads up to his apartment.
With the knowledge of annihilation marching steadily towards them, Lee forgets the details in the big picture as he enters his home and heads right for the kitchen, forgetting for a moment that a dangerous G-Class individual is somewhere in his apartment right now. Right now he needs a drink.
Tuesday December 2nd, 4998 1:13AM
Duskvale Tavern, Duskvale, Aetheran
Times have certainly gotten tougher. Order has begun to crumble under the strain of attempting to maintain the semblance of civilization, even as the nation's valiantly struggle to keep it alive. Not only have the Forgotten bounced back in a more dangerous form, monster attacks have become more vicious, with new beasts being thrown on quest boards all across the kingdom for more and more heinous deeds. So much so that even taverns like this carry bounty papers for beasts both creature and man, as mortal man cannot help himself but give in to his more sinister desires. In this day and age it is every man for himself- a good reason one such bounty can take shelter from the cold night air in the same place he is wanted.
Not all crimes are equal in bloodshed. Wanted for many accounts of swindling, petty theft, burglary, and larceny, "Silver" Smythe is a rather well known thief in Zocom for his pilfering from both upper and lower classes, anyone who has the displeasure of meeting him and souring his mood. His calling card? A single silver piece, left in the place of whatever treasures, coin, or valuables that have mysteriously disappeared. If you're lucky, whatever was stolen wouldn't be worth that silver piece, creating a confusing set of rumors as to the reason for his stealing. Unfortunately for the romantics that follow his exploits, there is no romance behind it. He does not seek to aid the poor, or punish the upper class and nobility. He takes what he needs, and he takes what he wants. He has no other reason to do what he does. It has earned him a 10,000 gold bounty for his efforts, not that it is doing the law any good, as Perrin takes another swig of his ale within sight of his own bounty.
Times have become too wild for the common adventurer to worry about a crook like him. Murderers, monsters, and Pureborn alike hunt the lands, emboldened by the Avenger Elf Rhys and the Crossed King Kutter both locked in battle with impassable foes, and unable to deal with them. All of Aetheran and its allies have rallied against the threat against its very existence- No time to spend the time on a thief. And they wouldn't have to worry about him right now. And potentially not for much longer. With the arrival of the Wabachans and their near-alien technology of the Mainland, centuries beyond what they knew, the age of his brand of thief is coming to an end. There is not a building in this land he could not make his way in and out of, but when more and more things are protected by scans, ai-recognition, or whatever "Threat Assessment Scores" are, that is not something he can use a lockpick on. He has roamed farther and farther away from Castelia and the Wabachan technology, but it continues to spread. Soon the only places that haven't caught up to the mainland will be the monster-infested wilds. Perrin rubs his stubble-covered jaw as he puts the mug down, his glance at his own bounty poster hidden by the brim of his black hat. His future is uncertain.
That curveball certainly did come out of nowhere. Vance didn't know how to react to that immediately. Annoyed? Maybe a little. Stressed? Yeah. Anxious? Absolutely. He wanted to start preparing for the problem that's infront of him, he wanted to tackle it and handle it now and here were the two of them trying to distract him with food of all things.
Stood under those trees, he couldn't help but feel a little spark of anger at this attempted diversion. But he knew he was letting himself get angry for nothing... They were doing everything they could to distract him. To help him. To keep him from letting Scotti's anger crush him and stop him from doing something stupid.
Because he totally would have by now if Alice didn't tell him that Heimrich had a plan.
They were helping him. They didn't have to. They really didn't. But they were. The least he could do is humour them and eat something to keep himself distracted.
Vance composed himself, tucking that growing spark of anger away deep inside him for later. A deep breath in, and out. Not exactly zen, but stable. "Yeah sure, I'd rather worry on a full stomach.." He says with an amused exhale of breathe through his nose. "... I hope you don't expect me to cook, I'm pretty much the more handsome twin of a spoilt noble. The only thing he could make was drawings, and I was good at gaslighting."
"Could you gaslight yourself into knowing how to cook?" Alice asks so innocently, covering her mischevious curling lip with her hand.
"We'll have to give it a try," Heimrich concurs. "Who knows? Maybe you were a master chef and just forgot."
With a mix of sass and light conversation the trio arrive at Heimrich and Alice's new home. It's a bit larger, expected for formerly belonging to an Alpha of the pack, though still a rustic and simplistic cabin home. They don't spend much time exploring, and drop their belongings in the living room along with the quilt before moving to the pristine and spotless kitchen. Spotless due to there being not a single crumb in it.
"Nothing... Don't know what I expected really. Whoever got the place ready probably ate everything in here during clean up." Heimrich closes the fridge door before looking at Alice and Vance, the former hopping up to sit on the counter. "We're not cooking anything until we find a store. We can get the basics in the village, like meat and veggies, but everything else would be a shopping trip."
"Well, what all is nearby?" Alice questions, lightly kicking her feet.
"Geographically not much, besides the Warrens." Heimrich leans against the fridge with his shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest. "Though I'd rather not head west. These forests extend for hundreds of miles in every direction. There's nothing besides other villages of werewolves and forest folk, like around Arcius." Heimrich refers to the outpost and its magic-adjacent neighbors moreso to Vance, as he would have experience with them from his and Duncan's shared memories of their days patrolling the Crimson Range. "Past the forest east are some more normal settlements, then East Vedran's endless cities. South is about the same, though both would have us closer to the law, which might be a problem given our strength levels. North of here's not as bad since it's approaching the mountains. Not as urbanized."
"Oh, Darly's up that way! I always wanted to visit their museum. Oh! And their breweries. Darly is rather famous for how many award-winning liquors and beers were created there." Having worked in her family's tavern back in Tropica Village her entire life, the interest in drink and how it is produced has certainly ingrained itself into her.
"They probably have some decent breakfast places to entrap tourists." Heimrich looks to Vance now, gauging his reaction. "What do you day? Want to go get caught in a tourist trap and have your first meal as a free man?"
Alice's question, and Heimrich's follow up, had Vance looking to the both of them individually as they kept walking. Both times with a look of derision. "F u n n y ~" He says as he gets to their new house, still hauling the blankets for them. He does take a second to compare his own house to theirs. It was bigger. Makes sense since it's for the two of them... Wait a minute. This has to be Diego's house. How come they get his place when they're making him Diego's replacement?
Well. Actually he doesn't really care. They did beat him so it was theirs by that logic.
'I guess the 'keep what you kill' mentality is playing out. Even if they didn't kill Diego...' A fact that Vance was still very against.
Once inside Alice and Heimrich's new place, he puts down the blanket beside the stuff that they brought in.
The sight of the very empty kitchen insights such immense snark within him, it overshadows his disproval of Heimrich's mercy of the Null Mutt. "Maybe I can gaslight your empty kitchen instead." He says as he becomes nosy and starts opening up random cupboards full of nothing. "They didn't even leave you crumbs. Tragic." He says wiping a fake tear from his cheek before he stands near the entrance to the kitchen to listen to Alice and Heimrich and their ideas of how to get some provisions since their new pantry wasn't just going to fill itself by magic. As Alice and Heimrich talk about the area around the village, Vance get's a better idea of just where they were on the map. He thought back to some places they could get food from, though they were either too close to the Lullian Forest and the Citadel at it's near centre to be worth it, or too close to the Warrens and Salem's own investigations in trying to retrace Heimrich's steps so they could find him after the rematch.
Darley was a new name to him. Which was good. Just means they aren't likely to run into anyone affiliated to Salem or Duncan out that way...
Though... With Salem seemingly switching to using only Pureborn Forgotten, and knowing that some of the original generations survived, he had to wonder what happened to the very few original Forgotten that were either made up of Salem's own Angels or the multitude of creatures and peoples that were 'uplifted'. He wouldn't be surprised that most of them will likely be pledging themselves to Chaos. That witch. For hope of some sort of cure or a way to loosen the absolute bonds that bind them to Salem's cause.
"Hmm?" Vance initially says as Heimrich asks him about going to a tourist trap. Though he mentally catches up before Heimrich or Alice have to repeat what was said. "Only if you're paying, this free man is flat broke. I'll get you back though... Y'know. Once I can make money." Darley didn't sound half bad. "I'm not going to drink any booze though." His reasons for that would be painfully obvious to Heimrich. His first drink was being reserved for someone else.
"Yeah that's no problem," Heimrich responded regarding Vance's lack of funds before a second passed for him to realize what he said after and why. That brings with it a sly grin. "Aren't you a romantic."
"Hmmm?" Alice doesn't want to be left out, though it doesn't take long for her to make the connection to Scotti. Heimrich still makes it painfully clear.
"He's already promised his first drink to a fiery young lady."
"Oooh, what a romantic you are!" Alice teases Vance with a big smile. "Don't worry, we'll taste test everything so you don't have to."
"Well, it's probably time we got moving. At least both our houses have dishes, the main thing is spices and odd ends like that that we both need. That and drinks. Like I said, meat and veg we can get from the were-villages around us."
"Right. Hm, is there a village nearby that has a shuttle pass through?"
"... I don't know, but I don't think so. Atticus would likely see it as a potential security issue."
"Oh, makes sense."
"Which means we're gonna have to go on foot this time. Once I'm there I can commit it to memory for a Memory Dive. So, ready for your first training session?" Heimrich asks Vance as he pushes himself off of the fridge with his shoulder to stand on his own.
Tag:Lore
Tag:Aetheran
Aetheran Adventurer Guilds and their ranking system
Even since the initial creation of the Guild and their own archaic ranking system during their thousands of years of isolation before being reintroduced to the more widely accepted TAS system that is used in TGC today, the Aetheran people have ranked mortals, immortals, reincarnators and monsters by a set of levels that loosely speak vaguely to the actual rankings that exist today.
These rankings still exist but still fall short of the actual TAS system. It is a practice that is slowly being phased out, but will likely be reworked to better reflect the TAS system.
So below will be the rankings and the vague description of where they should acquaint the to the TAS system:
Bronze - A Bronze rank Adventurer is someone with the bare minimum of combat/survival skills. Not really your average person, but someone trained to be able to protect themselves with basic weapons and some survival training and first aid skills. So on the TAS system, they would still be in the M-class Grade C2.
Copper - A Copper rank Adventurer is someone with various skills, knowledge and survival techniques along with better equipment. Not exactly a soldier but more akin to your weathered mercenary. They can comfortable handle most normal monsters and aggressive animals in small teams of 4. In terms of individual rank in TAS they would still rank in Grade C but be at Grade C3.
Iron - A Iron rank Adventurer is someone who is comparable to a novice soldier from many of the Kingdoms. They are marginally more well equipped than a Bronze rank, more knowledgeable, more skilled and capable of handling most normal monsters and wild animals that get in their way. In terms of TAS, these individuals would sit in Grade B1/100 points into B2.
Steel - A Steel rank Adventurer is someone on the level of a Veteran Soldier. They are someone who is capable of keeping calm, collected and focussed under duress and able to handle themselves in a life or death fight. They are better equipped than your average soldier of the Kingdoms, either totting custom gear or magical items to bolster their own abilities or have magic of their own to help turn the tide of a fight. For that reason, in the TAS ranking, they are capable of hitting into Grade B3.
Silver - A silver rank Adventurer is someone who begins to step beyond normal human bounds, being able to easily slay large numbers of men and monsters both with ease. Either their natural abilities outshine human limits, or their gear is a cut above the rest. These Adventurers are among some of the most grizzled or the most talented of their generations. In terms of TAS, they hit squarely in the B4 to B6 range.
Gold - A Gold rank Adventurer is someone who has stepped firmly into the realm of the Supernatural, their strengths and experience, their weapons and armour, their abilities and magics, all step into a realm of their own. Thus allowing them to step into the realm of Z-Class in terms of TAS. Gold Rank Adventurers can range anywhere in the Grade D range, being able to wipe out large groups of people/monsters and easily start to damage structures with their power. Though most sit commonly at Grade D2.
Platinum - A Platinum rank Adventurer is someone who steps beyond the prowess of all who rank below, either with astonishing personal might, unprecedented talent, or monstrous skill. These individuals can easily take on whole small villages or people or monsters, damaging many buildings in the process. In terms of TAS, Platinum ranks sit across the whole Grade C range, though most commonly sit at Grade C2 with exceptional individuals hitting C4.
Mithril - A Mithril rank Adventurer is commonly referred to as a force of nature, often called upon as a trump card for Dungeon raids or as personal guards for Nobles or people of import of the various Kingdoms. And there is a good reason why, a single Mithril rank Adventurer can turn a town into a graveyard or utterly ruined in several short hours depending on the Adventurer in question. That speaks volumes to their own power and how they use it. In terms of TAS, they occupy the entire Grade B range of Z-class and peaking into A grade, with most commonly staying in rank B2 with exceptional cases in A1.
Orichalcum - An Orichalcum Adventurer is often referred to as a Natural disaster, just one being able to term a large town to rubble by themselves in a matter of hours. Their skills, armaments, abilities and power are all exceptional. Damn near superhuman really. If a Mithril Rank is called in as a trump card, then Orichalcum are the desperate measures. Few are they in number, but each could wage war on an average small nation and come out losing relatively little besides their life while the country would be in ruins/ In terms of TAS, Orichalcum Adventurers dominate the entirety of the A Grade range of Z-Class.
Notice: Due to the Archaic nature of the old Guild Ranking system the Rank of Adamantine is reserved for ALL G-Class entities since they possessed no way to accurately estimate power down to the digit like with the TAS system. Though all Adamantine Adventurers and Monsters have their own ranking system, since this is rare they have their TOP 1000 style list based on how much damage they are either theorised to cause or known to cause.
Adamantine - A Calamity in humanoid form. A single Adamantine Adventurer is worth more than a nations army, more deadly than any weapon, and more destructive than any disaster. Save for Armageddon itself. The achievement of becoming an Adamantine Rank Adventurer is often a death sentence for any Adventurer's career, because either you're too crazy strong or just too damn crazy to be held down by mortal limits. Your job prospects are few, save being made a bodyguard to some Kingdoms ruler, or asked to help kill the extremely rare Adamantine rank monster that appears. The rank comes with prestige, but also notable infamy. Who would want to stand in the same room as a nuclear weapons without some way to control it first?
The Kobold staff member did her best to stand her ground... But he was a good few feet taller than her and he was just eating monster meat from a beast that would turn her into paste with a single swipe. So she eagerly hugs the wall to let him past into the staff room, since Herlick didn't want to die. Without any evidence that statement sounds dramatic... But Kobolds have a keen sense for danger, it's why most Kobolds end up as trackers/scouts in either the Adventurer's Guild or as past of the Onxy Court Armed Forces.
Farnus was now free to start scarfing down the food in the staffroom, and the ruckus he was starting to make as he no doubt scarfed down that bit of steak and then started to smash into cupboards for the packed food that the other Guild staff brought in for themselves, would go uncontested for the moment.
Though some of the guild staff were starting to give Lox-aan varying looks from helpless or angry.
"I-I'm sorry Lox-aan, I-I couldn't stand my ground." Cried Herlick as she scurried out from behind the the reception area.
Lox-aan was now chewing worriedly on the nail on her thumb, scowling at how this has played out. She knew humans were boorish creatures but this guy was being a d1ck for seemingly no reason. He was closer to a beast than an actual person. "It's no fault of yours... We just approached this from the wrong angle. We're clearly not dealing with anything civilised, wherever this man has been he is far closer to a beast than a person. So we'll need to deal with him like a beast."
Better said than done. A Gurgoth is no easy beast, but still easy enough for even veteran Bronze level Adventurers to handle if they can utilise terrain and outplay the beats with skill and equipment. This man ripped it to shreds with ease... So Farnus must be around a Silver or even Gold level to so handily beat one. None of the Guild staff, even herself, rank higher than Steel with some like Herlick Ranking lower. The only one amongst them who would stand a chance was the Guild Master, the person with connections who told her to look into the Dragneel situation in the first place.
“Herlick, go upstairs and get Guildmaster Thrak, hopefully he isn’t too neck deep in Newt Liquor to come help…” Lox-aan says while the diminutive Kobold nods and scurries off to the side of the room to head upstairs to find the Guildmaster. Guildmaster Threll of the Thrak Tribe, A lizardman of some renown in the Dominion. A Gold Rank Adventurer who took on the position of Guildmaster because of a previous injury where a Chimera managed to gore him in the stomach. Surviving only because of a Gold Rank healer that was in his party at the time.
A loud clatter could be heard from upstairs, along with the sound of shattering glass. Soon enough, Herlick was scampering down the stairs and sluggishly followed after by a humanoid Lizard with the likeness of a gecko. Standing at 6'3ft with broad shoulders, a strong upper body and a well built physique under the robe that only covered half his torso, showing the large horizontal scar across his midriff. A spear clutched in his left hand as his left hand for support, the spear's shaft was made of a black metal while the spear tip glowed an ethereal light blue, chilling the air around it.
The Lizardman stunk of cheap booze, but his eyes focussed on the ungodly sound of clattering and mayhem coming from the staff room in the back of the Guildhall. "Umph... Shouldn't have had that fifth bottle... Is the Dragneel in the back?" He asks aloud.
Most of the guild staff immediately look to Lox-aan since this was her mess to deal with. Looking to them and challenging their gazes, Lox-aan answers. "Yes. He is. He was brought in a short while ago by two of our local Bronze Ranks. He tore a Gurgoth apart with his own hands, sir."
A slight smile curled across the wide mouth of the Lizardman as he lulled his head from side to side, pressing the tip of his spear against the top of his head to sober himself up. "Huh, truly? I might need to give this welp a try then before we turn him over to Overseer Brunt." Threll says as the cold spearhead eases his headache enough for him to take this seriously. "Wait for me outside. And send someone to fetch the Overseer." On his word the guildhall begins to clear out, Lox-aan leaving last as she watches one of her colleagues disappear to carry out the order to find Overseer Brunt.
Now that everyone was gone, the Guildmaster hops over the counter to head to the back, to behold the mess this human was making for himself.
A soft scowl, that became a much bigger and grumpier scowl, formed as soon as both Heimrich and Alice jump on him for what he said. Their reactions being met with an immediate grumbled 'hmph' as he looks away, doing little to hide the fact his face was turning red at being rumbled for his promise. "I forgot you knew all about that promise. I hate that you've been inside my head." He was just being grouchy. He knew Heimrich wouldn't needlessly use that knowledge against him. But annoyingly he will 100% use it to torment him like this.
Though he got the feeling that they'll be hiking it to Darley. Fun.
The only movement techniques he has is if he copies Accel, or create wings with his black flames. Copying Instantaneous Movement from memory won't work, he's never been to Darley and he lacked the Godling's warped omniscience to solve that issue. Copying Samantha's teleport technique could work, since she could blind jump in theory. But he doesn't know how it works to just will it.
So. It's either Accel or flying.
The mention of a 'training session' has Vance thinking he was wondering the same thing. "Let me guess. Try and use my power for travel skills? I was just thinking about it. I can either fly or use Accel. I'd need to have been to Darley to use my fake Godling movement."
«12. . .6,8706,8716,8726,8736,8746,875»
Advertisement
