Bryante sprinted across the room at full pace, breathless with aching limbs, pushing past the guards in his way. The bloodless 'virgins' immediately moved out of his way, but the more experienced, those with more marks on their environment suits, they stayed put, forced him to go round. His visor was steamed up, his oxygen tubes strained and stretched out of shape, by the time he got to the entrance into the newly-christened Throne Room. He didn’t have time to marvel upon the bloody trophies mounted either side of the wall of this once-grand hall, once filled with Cendran elites and dignitaries, now a dusty shadow exposed to the elements – the ceiling above sported a large hole, an explosive reminder of the trouble they went through to claim this territory.
The Bandit King looked around the room as if bored of the proceedings. Although he’d never use the title himself – he was far too proud to refer to himself as a Bandit, and far too humble to refer to himself as a King – he was seated on a throne that caught the attention of everybody in the room. It was a mess of melded steel and cracked plastic, forged into a throne by sheer force. The blacksmiths of their crew spent weeks working on this single item, foregoing all other jobs. The Bandit King had had them whipped and marked for their time-wasting, and ordered them back to more important work immediately. Of the dozen spikes and shafts of steel that jutted out from the back of the throne, almost every one had the environmentally-sealed helmet of a single Cendran Archivist, their races highest ranking citizens, mounted for all to see. A savage display of power. Only two remained free of such gore – a middle-set spike, which would leer over the Kings right hand, and the top-most spoke, sitting above all others, mounted high over the chair. They were reserved.
The Bandit King seemed immune to the noise and commotion before his throne, as Bryante fell prostrate before him. He rested his chin idly on his clenched fist, glancing up at the dusty sky visible through what once was only ceiling. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones. He glanced from person to person in the room, seeing nothing but Cendran environment suits and blank-faced visors staring back. Each customised just enough to be different, just enough without compromising the security of their poor immune systems, their weak bodies.
Bryante was silent all this time, catching his breath, forming his story, patient and penitent before his King. His suit was scuffed, soiled. The pitched combat in the town of Boundary was rough, and to outside eyes, he looks like he’d seen the worst of it. What they wouldn’t know, however, is that Bryante fled as soon as the first shots were fired, and kept fleeing as soon as the combat looked to be a loss. A crazy sword-maiden challenging him to a duel, and a Sorcerer summoning ghostly masses to drag the unsuspecting into the void? He didn’t sign up for that! He sighed deeply and raised his head, to see if his King had even noticed him. The voices around the room were getting louder, looking for answers or results from his latest raid, but he remained silent.
His silence was soon rewarded. The Bandit King lifted himself up from his slouched position, glanced over the room. They were criminals, thugs, bandits, almost every one. Used to taking what they want, not waiting. And the less information Bryante offered, the more worked up they got. They formed their own obscene arguments and scenarios in their heads, and had the audacity to simply shout them out into his court, as if making them real simply by uttering them. The arguments ranged from Cendran military action, to Ghoul infestation, to the arrival of an entire TOWER Colonisation fleet. All of them ridiculous, all of them haunting the dreams of every bandit living on Cendra, a haven for people like them.
As two bandits looked to come to blows over their opposing scenarios – one sure an Apaex patrol had killed every last citizen of a Ghoul city not far from here, as his friends friends brother had seen an Apaex warship not two days ago; the other, positive a Ghoul legion had been found not 20 miles from their very position, loaded with Apaex gear after a victory over an Apaex unit, as confirmed by an Uncles cousins friend a few days back – the Bandit King raised his hand, demanded silence in the most regal way he knew how. He may not have believed he was anything equating to a King, but he knew that’s what they responded to.
“How about we let Bryante talk...” commanded the Bandit King, who then slouched back into his chair. Bryante stood, cleared his throat.
“Well boss, three days ago, we caught sight of a ship landing hard not far from here, near that dusty vlieg-town, Boundary. Turns out a guy had escaped that prison,Dante-01, and had fled here to get away from his pursuers – in a Dante marked ship, of all things! He fled into the town, bunkered down with that Doc Meyers and his family. Pretty big reward, we thought. Clean money. Single guy, how hard can it be? Turns out, the Doc was a real do-gooder, had to rough up his family, still he wouldn’t give the guy up. By the time we got the info, he was long gone, Inhert knows where. So we’re patrolling the area the last few days, a guy by himself in this heat couldn’ta gone far, right? Well, what’s our luck, we gets a report of another ship in the area, one of our scouts shoot it down. No way there could ‘a been survivors in that mess, so two look around, while the other two come fetch the rest of us to take a look. Well...” Bryante shuffles nervously, aware of how bad the next part’s going to sound, especially with so many higher-ranks around him.
“Well... we get there and our guys are gone. Totally gone. Takes us a short while to find ‘em, but find ‘em we do. Dead. Whatever survived, survived well enough to take down two of my guys and high-tail it out of there. We rush Boundary to see what we find, but the storm slows us. Me and 20 men get there as the Sun sets and the storm kicks in, and what do you know, the guys are holed up in the bar there, The Trigger Finger with that straight-and-narrow Seb. We call them out, and fuck it, if they ain’t got a whole army there. Snipers and sorcerers and all sorts coming out of the woodwork, Seb’s finally done it and fucked us over like he’s been saying for so long. Well you know me boss, I stayed till the last man was down – “a few laughs from the men around him causes Bryante’s voice to falter, but he continues, “– and fled when things were looking rough. I don’t know who they were, but they were packing heat. Musta been travelling with the first guy, they had to be, no two ships fly that close together this time a’year, especially in this dead-end hole. I think...”
With a raise of his hand, the Bandit King silences Bryante. He crosses his arms tight over his chest.
“You’re not here to *think* Bryante.” More laughs. Bryante slinks back, fully aware of his position in the crew. “Forget this... this... *bullshit* with theDante-01 escapee. If you want to be a snitch to make a quick credit, be my guest, but don’t you dare return here with your ‘clean’ money. You said there was a Sorcerer? What did he look like?”
Bryante is now visibly panicked. The Bandit King is not a large man, nor is he especially strong or agile, but he was well known for his incredible brutality. Bryante tries his hardest to speak loud and clear, but ends up merely whispering “I don’t know...”
“What was that Bryante?!” The Bandit King now stands from his throne, and makes his way down the three steps of his raised dais. His voice was a roar, echoing down the corridors of this dusty old building.
“I don’t know!” Bryante squeals, terrified. The Bandit King now stands next to Bryante, who has once again fallen to his knees and leans so their faces are next to each others, the faceplates on their environment suits practically touching. “Cimmaronis, please don’t hurt me...” whispers Bryante, a coward in the face of his King. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I didn’t see them. They attacked from the bar; they were attacking out of every window. A few even ambushed us from behind, they were everywhere. Please don’t Cimmaronis, I’ll do better next time, I’ll do better...”
The room was silent, and Bryante’s whispers may have well been screams. Few dared mock or laugh, for fear of inciting their Kings rage. They all knew that, in the same situation, they would be equally as scared.
“Make sure that you do...” And Cimmaronis, the Bandit King, stands straight. He walks past Bryante, as if the weeping bandit wasn’t even there, as if the whole scenario hadn’t even taken place. He turns to one of his men near the door, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Take Bryante, and a team of scouts. You go to that village and you search, quietly. Observe from afar if you have to. Find their ship, what remains of it, and get their tracking number, their serial number, anything we can use to trace it. A dozen men escaped from Dante-01, and if there’s a chance, even a tiny chance that he is back here...”
Cimmaronis sighs deeply. “I can’t take that risk.” He leaves the room, and looks down to the arm panel on his suit; sat there, mostly scratched away sit three numbers –191 – he scratches at them once more, away from prying eyes, away from expectations and demands. For a moment he is nothing but a lost Cendran on an old ship with a formidable master and mentor by his side. His reverie is soon broken. Soon after, the other bandits in the room begin to leave, one by one, until only Bryante remains, quivering on the floor until the shakes stop wracking his body and the tears stop flowing from his eyes.
He releases the clasps on his helmet, and removes it, setting it down beside him. He brings his Human hands to his Human eyes and wipes the tears from his Human face.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
The Clear-Caged Beast
Zacharael roars. He smashes his fists hard against the plasteel cage he’s locked in, but to no available – the walls don’t even shake, let alone crack. He paces side to side along the front four-foot wall, trying not to look at the Humans on the other side, the scientists just waiting to have a crack at discovering his secrets. The other three walls, as transparent as the first, provide sights of nothing but machinery, tools, and cameras. So many cameras.
Another inhuman roar, and Zacharael collapses onto the floor, falling into a tight sitting position as if trying to contain his rage. He’s short, shorter than most the Humans in the room, but wide. His body is all muscle, bulging out of the loose fitting white surgical robe he woke up in. He has no genitals, no marks on his skin, no impurities or imperfections – his whole body is smooth, tempered. The only noticable marks are self-inflicted, five valves, two on his chest, one on each arm, and one on his back.
As the unseen gas slowly pumps its way into his cell, he yawns, revealing his pure white teeth, all fused together to create not a row of smaller teeth, but a single tooth across his whole jaw. His eyes begin to droop, then close completely, opening in shock only a few more times until he is out cold.
The single doctor in the room approaches the cell. He stops for a moment, stoops to look at the unusual backpack that the creature came in with – akin to a huge vial of liquid, now empty, with five tubes trailing off, severred from the brutal struggle to bring the creature here. With a dozen men working on the remains of the liquid, people are hopeful for a cure, or at least a defence against, the dreaded Jackal virus. The dozen or so men in this room are more interested in its creator, Zacharael, the creature confined within this cage.
“What genetic analysis we’ve managed to get done reveals a simularity between the virus and the creator.” The doctor now stands. “It seems he modified his own genetic material to create the virus. Weaponised his own genes, although the analysis shows he was already pretty weaponised himself. The creature has gone entirely into a violent, animalistic state, as if an imbed defence mechanism to protect whatever secrets it holds…” The doctor shakes his head, frowns at the implications of his words.
“You’re saying..” interrupts one of the scientists, nervous. “..that this creature is artificial? Himself, created?”
“I’m saying..” frowns the doctor, “..that whatever unleashed this beast on the world, did so with the express purpose that he would assist in destroying it.” He taps the plasteel of the cell. A few of the fresher scientists jump, but the gas’ effects have already long taken course, and the creature is fast asleep. “He is a violent creature, that’s already established. From our discussion with the ‘fugitives’ who brought him in, his focus was solely on the virus, and how he could release it into Drex. It wasn’t something he discovered, it was simply something that he knew, something he was created capable of creating. He is a creature they called an ‘Arch-Angel’, something they’re apparantly hunting. And when a group like that hunts for something, you know its going to be trouble!”
“So its body is artificial then? What materials were used to create it? How did they bond together, how did they create the mind, the soul, the intelligence? And best of all – who created it?”
“Our analysis was only surface structure and rough genetic outlines. We need samples. Thus, the gas. So far it appears almost mechanical in its composition, but still living. We suspect Hyperalloy, or an extremely reformed version of such.” The doctor removes his glasses, cleans them with a deep breath, masking his worried sigh in the process.
“Hyperalloy? Please. Even the Exohumans have forgotten its use! No, it must be something else. Besides, no scientist in Drex has been able to create artificial life since NOAH, and even those tales are highly suspect! An already living creature who has undergone extensive nano-augmented genetic shifts. Altered DNA. That has to be the cause.”
Already, guards had begun to approach the cell, preparing to remove the creature and begin the required operations. They seemed almost fearless, confident in the doctor’s hypotheses about the gas, and began the sequence to unlock the cell.
“Please!” The doctor smashes his hand against the desk, refocussing everyones attention on him. “A living creature couldn’t survive such a procedure. The genetic structure is artificial, I tell you, and weaponised at that. It is so focussed on destruction, even to the point of self-destruction, that no living creature would willingly do that to themselves, assuming they could even survive!”
The door of the cell slides open, and the guards step back to allow room to get the grav-stretcher in. Too late, they release their mistake.
Zacharael was fast, far faster than his size should have allowed. One of the guards was ripped in half before anybody even realized what was happening. As guns were being drawn, already a second and a third had fallen. His fingers were like talons, razor sharp, and his raw strength allowed him to lift a guard up and tear him in half with a gentle ease. His jaw had split in the middle, dividing that perfect single fused-tooth in half, and opened wide enough to engulf a Human head whole; it snapped back shut, hard, and the scientists saw that the now-dual fused teeth acted much like a axeblade, cleaving through flesh and muscle with ease.
The doctor was already away. Smart, and experienced, enough to realize when to leave a dangerous situation, he had fled for the door, and engaged a manual lockdown on the room. Alarms were blaring, distractingly loud, and the rooms light were a mix of red and white flashes. The scientist he was arguing with slammed hard against the security-locked door, and was begging mindlessly for help.
The creature exited its cell and entered the room. A few of the guards were opening fire with both stun-guns and real weapons, but it seemed to have no effect. Zacharael batted them aside, carving through anything in his way. Huge gas-release systems on the roof were already releasing plumes of smoke into the air, highly potent paralyzing gas, enough to kill a human ten times over. The creature was already showing the effects. It slammed against the nearest wall, as if trying to break through, but the reinforced room was far too secure to allow the specimen to escape.
The doctor watched in rapturous awe as Zacharael lifted the scientist over its head, and began feasting voraciously, before collapsing in a bloody heap on the floor. The room was a mess. The doctor was equal parts horrified and proud – proud that he had the chance to see this engineered weapon unleashed against both unsuspecting and suspecting prey. Horrified in the joy he was taking in this experience..
Meanwhile, unseen, silent, Masquerade watches everything unfold. Every camera is an eye, every microphone, an ear. He is nowhere and everywhere at once, unconcerned with the lives of the Humans down there. Concerned only with the Ark-Angel. Concerned only with Zacharael.
Another inhuman roar, and Zacharael collapses onto the floor, falling into a tight sitting position as if trying to contain his rage. He’s short, shorter than most the Humans in the room, but wide. His body is all muscle, bulging out of the loose fitting white surgical robe he woke up in. He has no genitals, no marks on his skin, no impurities or imperfections – his whole body is smooth, tempered. The only noticable marks are self-inflicted, five valves, two on his chest, one on each arm, and one on his back.
As the unseen gas slowly pumps its way into his cell, he yawns, revealing his pure white teeth, all fused together to create not a row of smaller teeth, but a single tooth across his whole jaw. His eyes begin to droop, then close completely, opening in shock only a few more times until he is out cold.
The single doctor in the room approaches the cell. He stops for a moment, stoops to look at the unusual backpack that the creature came in with – akin to a huge vial of liquid, now empty, with five tubes trailing off, severred from the brutal struggle to bring the creature here. With a dozen men working on the remains of the liquid, people are hopeful for a cure, or at least a defence against, the dreaded Jackal virus. The dozen or so men in this room are more interested in its creator, Zacharael, the creature confined within this cage.
“What genetic analysis we’ve managed to get done reveals a simularity between the virus and the creator.” The doctor now stands. “It seems he modified his own genetic material to create the virus. Weaponised his own genes, although the analysis shows he was already pretty weaponised himself. The creature has gone entirely into a violent, animalistic state, as if an imbed defence mechanism to protect whatever secrets it holds…” The doctor shakes his head, frowns at the implications of his words.
“You’re saying..” interrupts one of the scientists, nervous. “..that this creature is artificial? Himself, created?”
“I’m saying..” frowns the doctor, “..that whatever unleashed this beast on the world, did so with the express purpose that he would assist in destroying it.” He taps the plasteel of the cell. A few of the fresher scientists jump, but the gas’ effects have already long taken course, and the creature is fast asleep. “He is a violent creature, that’s already established. From our discussion with the ‘fugitives’ who brought him in, his focus was solely on the virus, and how he could release it into Drex. It wasn’t something he discovered, it was simply something that he knew, something he was created capable of creating. He is a creature they called an ‘Arch-Angel’, something they’re apparantly hunting. And when a group like that hunts for something, you know its going to be trouble!”
“So its body is artificial then? What materials were used to create it? How did they bond together, how did they create the mind, the soul, the intelligence? And best of all – who created it?”
“Our analysis was only surface structure and rough genetic outlines. We need samples. Thus, the gas. So far it appears almost mechanical in its composition, but still living. We suspect Hyperalloy, or an extremely reformed version of such.” The doctor removes his glasses, cleans them with a deep breath, masking his worried sigh in the process.
“Hyperalloy? Please. Even the Exohumans have forgotten its use! No, it must be something else. Besides, no scientist in Drex has been able to create artificial life since NOAH, and even those tales are highly suspect! An already living creature who has undergone extensive nano-augmented genetic shifts. Altered DNA. That has to be the cause.”
Already, guards had begun to approach the cell, preparing to remove the creature and begin the required operations. They seemed almost fearless, confident in the doctor’s hypotheses about the gas, and began the sequence to unlock the cell.
“Please!” The doctor smashes his hand against the desk, refocussing everyones attention on him. “A living creature couldn’t survive such a procedure. The genetic structure is artificial, I tell you, and weaponised at that. It is so focussed on destruction, even to the point of self-destruction, that no living creature would willingly do that to themselves, assuming they could even survive!”
The door of the cell slides open, and the guards step back to allow room to get the grav-stretcher in. Too late, they release their mistake.
Zacharael was fast, far faster than his size should have allowed. One of the guards was ripped in half before anybody even realized what was happening. As guns were being drawn, already a second and a third had fallen. His fingers were like talons, razor sharp, and his raw strength allowed him to lift a guard up and tear him in half with a gentle ease. His jaw had split in the middle, dividing that perfect single fused-tooth in half, and opened wide enough to engulf a Human head whole; it snapped back shut, hard, and the scientists saw that the now-dual fused teeth acted much like a axeblade, cleaving through flesh and muscle with ease.
The doctor was already away. Smart, and experienced, enough to realize when to leave a dangerous situation, he had fled for the door, and engaged a manual lockdown on the room. Alarms were blaring, distractingly loud, and the rooms light were a mix of red and white flashes. The scientist he was arguing with slammed hard against the security-locked door, and was begging mindlessly for help.
The creature exited its cell and entered the room. A few of the guards were opening fire with both stun-guns and real weapons, but it seemed to have no effect. Zacharael batted them aside, carving through anything in his way. Huge gas-release systems on the roof were already releasing plumes of smoke into the air, highly potent paralyzing gas, enough to kill a human ten times over. The creature was already showing the effects. It slammed against the nearest wall, as if trying to break through, but the reinforced room was far too secure to allow the specimen to escape.
The doctor watched in rapturous awe as Zacharael lifted the scientist over its head, and began feasting voraciously, before collapsing in a bloody heap on the floor. The room was a mess. The doctor was equal parts horrified and proud – proud that he had the chance to see this engineered weapon unleashed against both unsuspecting and suspecting prey. Horrified in the joy he was taking in this experience..
Meanwhile, unseen, silent, Masquerade watches everything unfold. Every camera is an eye, every microphone, an ear. He is nowhere and everywhere at once, unconcerned with the lives of the Humans down there. Concerned only with the Ark-Angel. Concerned only with Zacharael.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
The Rise and Fall of the Apogee Four - a C9/HNN Report
Breaking News;
Today, the verdict was out.
Guilty.
Four months after the devastation of the atrocious Apogee terrorist attacks, the four perpetrators of this tremendous crime were sentenced. Although many thousands had spoken out asking for the death penalty, including a number of high-profile entertainers, business-men, and politicians, the courts had decided otherwise. Opting out of the usual process by jury, the crimes the Apogee Four were accused of were so vast, so unfathomable, that the only fair jury that could be considered was a conclave of Exohumans, the progenitors of Drex. This has been the first conclave assembled in over 500 years, according to the few remaining records of that time, and their authority superseded that of any CORE or political entity, aside from the Isolus. Their deliberation took only 30 minutes.
Guilty.
Life imprisonment within the facility of Dante-01, the high-profile high-security prison at the farthest outreaches of the system. As the guilty were carried off by a team of Ghosts, we now look to the results of this most heinous crime, and how the people of Drex have managed to pull themselves back onto their feet.
No one doubts that Apaex, once the largest Private Military Corporation in Drex, were struck the hardest. Apogee, their headquarters within the Human Ward of the Cradle, was devastated, as was the skyline of Prima Drex, the so-called Silver City, and once the largest city in all of Drex. Moving their HQ to a secret location, TOWER provided a massive donation to Apaex, supporting them in the relief effort. The only surviving member of the board, Jacob Edwards, took the reins of the PMC and forged forward in a new direction. Re-outfitted and stronger than ever, the new Apaex are an unceasing force, constantly adapting and developing their unique position within Cradle society.
Jacob forged ahead with a new policy; zero tolerance. Reported crime in TOWER-controlled cities, patrolled by Apaex, has dropped almost 80% in these four months. Their weapon development budgets have tripled, and their warships can now be seen from any portion of the Cradle, eclipsing even the Aetherin vessels, to ensure this tragedy never happens again.
Jacob himself has become an overnight hero. From an Exohuman board member hiding in the shadows of a large corporation, he has risen exponentially to become the driving force behind Apaex, and a political figure the likes of which have never been seen. His rumoured invite to the CORE, and possibly to the Isolus himself, Drex’s highest political body, is said to be formally announced - and accepted - over the coming days.
Meanwhile, the vessel which carried out this attack, the Scales of Judgement, has been impounded by TOWER scientists, who pour over it day and night to attempt to unlock the secrets of this mysterious Hypertech vessel, and understand how it got into the hands of the terrorists. So far, progress is slow; only one individual has been known to be able to access its controls, and that is Ran-Samot, the head of the terrorist group, who remains uncooperative despite numerous attempts to bargain for information. Still, the terrorist leader shows no remorse.
Already the Prima Drex skyline grows. Relief organisations from a dozen races and hundreds of corporations based around Drex have funded this phenomenal growth. The largest construction rises above the skyline and the ruins like a symbol against the tyranny of Humanities oppressors; Zenith, the new Apaex HQ, expected to be completed in only 6 months time, twice the size of the Apogee tower, and 100 times more secure. It is truly a glorious time for the Silver City.
But it is not all good news. The Jackal Plague spreads daily amongst the darkest reaches of Drex. Transforming the deceased into abominations equal to that of an erratic, the Jackal Plague was said to have been constructed by LORE, the Construct servant of Ran-Samot, and distributed by the terrorist named Boris, a Human tricked into following these terrorists, both of whom were captured by brave Apaex soldiers. A sample found in Ran-Samots possessions was confirmed as an early-prototype of the virus, but a cure for the mutated virus is still a long way from home.
Recent news has also seen the burial of a war-hero, the Commander who stood against his former soldiers as he was betrayed and stabbed in the back. Joseph Barton, posthumously promoted to Admiral, was betrayed by the soldiers who he trusted the most, shot down in cold blood by the terrorist Dryad, Marjec, as he attempted to assist his men as they fled from the perilous danger of a Jackal Plague outbreak. This backstab was seen as the catalyst of the terrorist attack, the beginning of the Apogee event. His death saved the life of over three dozen Apaex soldiers, and Admiral Barton was today praised with a plaque at the building site of the new Zenith tower. His burial site is unknown, and kept private for the sake of his family: his wife and two young children.
Meanwhile, while on show at the Museum of Hypertechnology on the Cradle, an ancient hypertech eye known as the Eye of Judgement was recently stolen in a daring midnight raid by unknown fugitives. The eye, found discarded in the command centre of the Scales of Judgement, is a hypertech artifact appearing to be over 350 years old. Although scientists were eager to study the item, it was decided to allow the public to view this rare artifact, one that many consider involved in the terrorist attacks, before study would begin later this year. Apaex security are investigating this theft, but there are currently no leads.
Outside of the Cradle, Human tensions have been tight. Sensing a power vacuum, Deimos, Grand Emperor of the Imperial Order, has been pushing hard for greater Human security across the Cradle, and has spoken out time and again against the Aetherin, whose insistence on attacking Apaex vessels only contributed to the destruction. The Aetherin defence fleet struck out against Apaex warships, and then deployed teams within the Scales of Judgement to apprehend the terrorists. After being mercilessly slaughtered by the vile terrorists, brave Apaex soldiers boarded the ship and took down the terrorists in only 15 minutes. Aetherin spokespeople have remained quiet, but Peabodysan, current Archangel and Protector of Aethersun, has announced a full investigation into the events of the day.
Many multi-race cities are experiencing increased trouble due to racial difficulties. Human groups have began rising against oppressive anti-Human regimes, finally standing up to the tyranny they have experienced for years. These terrorist activities have engaged a fire within Human hearts that will not be easily quenched.
Regardless, life continues in Drex. The spirit of our noble enclaves stands unshakeable, only united against the aggression of these hated enemies.
This was a report for Channel 9, the Human News Network, a subsidiary of TOWER.
Today, the verdict was out.
Guilty.
Four months after the devastation of the atrocious Apogee terrorist attacks, the four perpetrators of this tremendous crime were sentenced. Although many thousands had spoken out asking for the death penalty, including a number of high-profile entertainers, business-men, and politicians, the courts had decided otherwise. Opting out of the usual process by jury, the crimes the Apogee Four were accused of were so vast, so unfathomable, that the only fair jury that could be considered was a conclave of Exohumans, the progenitors of Drex. This has been the first conclave assembled in over 500 years, according to the few remaining records of that time, and their authority superseded that of any CORE or political entity, aside from the Isolus. Their deliberation took only 30 minutes.
Guilty.
Life imprisonment within the facility of Dante-01, the high-profile high-security prison at the farthest outreaches of the system. As the guilty were carried off by a team of Ghosts, we now look to the results of this most heinous crime, and how the people of Drex have managed to pull themselves back onto their feet.
No one doubts that Apaex, once the largest Private Military Corporation in Drex, were struck the hardest. Apogee, their headquarters within the Human Ward of the Cradle, was devastated, as was the skyline of Prima Drex, the so-called Silver City, and once the largest city in all of Drex. Moving their HQ to a secret location, TOWER provided a massive donation to Apaex, supporting them in the relief effort. The only surviving member of the board, Jacob Edwards, took the reins of the PMC and forged forward in a new direction. Re-outfitted and stronger than ever, the new Apaex are an unceasing force, constantly adapting and developing their unique position within Cradle society.
Jacob forged ahead with a new policy; zero tolerance. Reported crime in TOWER-controlled cities, patrolled by Apaex, has dropped almost 80% in these four months. Their weapon development budgets have tripled, and their warships can now be seen from any portion of the Cradle, eclipsing even the Aetherin vessels, to ensure this tragedy never happens again.
Jacob himself has become an overnight hero. From an Exohuman board member hiding in the shadows of a large corporation, he has risen exponentially to become the driving force behind Apaex, and a political figure the likes of which have never been seen. His rumoured invite to the CORE, and possibly to the Isolus himself, Drex’s highest political body, is said to be formally announced - and accepted - over the coming days.
Meanwhile, the vessel which carried out this attack, the Scales of Judgement, has been impounded by TOWER scientists, who pour over it day and night to attempt to unlock the secrets of this mysterious Hypertech vessel, and understand how it got into the hands of the terrorists. So far, progress is slow; only one individual has been known to be able to access its controls, and that is Ran-Samot, the head of the terrorist group, who remains uncooperative despite numerous attempts to bargain for information. Still, the terrorist leader shows no remorse.
Already the Prima Drex skyline grows. Relief organisations from a dozen races and hundreds of corporations based around Drex have funded this phenomenal growth. The largest construction rises above the skyline and the ruins like a symbol against the tyranny of Humanities oppressors; Zenith, the new Apaex HQ, expected to be completed in only 6 months time, twice the size of the Apogee tower, and 100 times more secure. It is truly a glorious time for the Silver City.
But it is not all good news. The Jackal Plague spreads daily amongst the darkest reaches of Drex. Transforming the deceased into abominations equal to that of an erratic, the Jackal Plague was said to have been constructed by LORE, the Construct servant of Ran-Samot, and distributed by the terrorist named Boris, a Human tricked into following these terrorists, both of whom were captured by brave Apaex soldiers. A sample found in Ran-Samots possessions was confirmed as an early-prototype of the virus, but a cure for the mutated virus is still a long way from home.
Recent news has also seen the burial of a war-hero, the Commander who stood against his former soldiers as he was betrayed and stabbed in the back. Joseph Barton, posthumously promoted to Admiral, was betrayed by the soldiers who he trusted the most, shot down in cold blood by the terrorist Dryad, Marjec, as he attempted to assist his men as they fled from the perilous danger of a Jackal Plague outbreak. This backstab was seen as the catalyst of the terrorist attack, the beginning of the Apogee event. His death saved the life of over three dozen Apaex soldiers, and Admiral Barton was today praised with a plaque at the building site of the new Zenith tower. His burial site is unknown, and kept private for the sake of his family: his wife and two young children.
Meanwhile, while on show at the Museum of Hypertechnology on the Cradle, an ancient hypertech eye known as the Eye of Judgement was recently stolen in a daring midnight raid by unknown fugitives. The eye, found discarded in the command centre of the Scales of Judgement, is a hypertech artifact appearing to be over 350 years old. Although scientists were eager to study the item, it was decided to allow the public to view this rare artifact, one that many consider involved in the terrorist attacks, before study would begin later this year. Apaex security are investigating this theft, but there are currently no leads.
Outside of the Cradle, Human tensions have been tight. Sensing a power vacuum, Deimos, Grand Emperor of the Imperial Order, has been pushing hard for greater Human security across the Cradle, and has spoken out time and again against the Aetherin, whose insistence on attacking Apaex vessels only contributed to the destruction. The Aetherin defence fleet struck out against Apaex warships, and then deployed teams within the Scales of Judgement to apprehend the terrorists. After being mercilessly slaughtered by the vile terrorists, brave Apaex soldiers boarded the ship and took down the terrorists in only 15 minutes. Aetherin spokespeople have remained quiet, but Peabodysan, current Archangel and Protector of Aethersun, has announced a full investigation into the events of the day.
Many multi-race cities are experiencing increased trouble due to racial difficulties. Human groups have began rising against oppressive anti-Human regimes, finally standing up to the tyranny they have experienced for years. These terrorist activities have engaged a fire within Human hearts that will not be easily quenched.
Regardless, life continues in Drex. The spirit of our noble enclaves stands unshakeable, only united against the aggression of these hated enemies.
This was a report for Channel 9, the Human News Network, a subsidiary of TOWER.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Orasi and Difha
The love between Orasi and Difha, two Eridarians, garnered no special attention. They met, were married, and were soon planning on children; until that heart-wrenching day when Difha, a city guard, was killed during a Dravn attack. Orasi was devastated; her love was gone, and with him, her heart felt empty. All she had was her husbands soul-stone, with Difha's soul stored safely inside, away from the evil of the Unreal.
But rumours of Sigurn science ressurecting the dead reached through her desperation, and took her on a fantastic voyage to Viatga. She petitioned Sigurn and Eradrean alike, hoping that they would let her into Napra-Sigurn, hoping she could be the first Eradrean - the first non-Sigurn - to learn the art of golem construction, the delicate construction of a creature capable of supporting the soul of another.
She studied for years, in a small stone building outside the gates of Napra-Sigurn. She fought the cold-summers and the freezing-winters, battled with Helos invaders and the planets vicious natural predators, only to be turned away, time and again, from the only dream she had left. For twenty years she struggled on..
..until she met Berlar Gurud. The Gurud family had practically invented soul-stones centuries ago, and as The Grand Hammer of Anvil looked upon poor Orasi, he saw a longing he had never seen in all his 200 years of life. He took her in, brought her under his wing, and taught her everything he knew. Bit by bit, piece by piece, she constructed a golem out of Siofra Soul-Wood, imported from Eradrea, and shaped it like her husband.
It took years.
But when she implanted the soul-stone into her golem, and heard Difha's sweet voice echo from its lips, she felt complete again.
Even today, they live happily together. Lost in the forests of Eradrea, away from prying eyes who may disagree with their love, and more importantly, away from anybody who may tell Difha that he had already died once.....
But rumours of Sigurn science ressurecting the dead reached through her desperation, and took her on a fantastic voyage to Viatga. She petitioned Sigurn and Eradrean alike, hoping that they would let her into Napra-Sigurn, hoping she could be the first Eradrean - the first non-Sigurn - to learn the art of golem construction, the delicate construction of a creature capable of supporting the soul of another.
She studied for years, in a small stone building outside the gates of Napra-Sigurn. She fought the cold-summers and the freezing-winters, battled with Helos invaders and the planets vicious natural predators, only to be turned away, time and again, from the only dream she had left. For twenty years she struggled on..
..until she met Berlar Gurud. The Gurud family had practically invented soul-stones centuries ago, and as The Grand Hammer of Anvil looked upon poor Orasi, he saw a longing he had never seen in all his 200 years of life. He took her in, brought her under his wing, and taught her everything he knew. Bit by bit, piece by piece, she constructed a golem out of Siofra Soul-Wood, imported from Eradrea, and shaped it like her husband.
It took years.
But when she implanted the soul-stone into her golem, and heard Difha's sweet voice echo from its lips, she felt complete again.
Even today, they live happily together. Lost in the forests of Eradrea, away from prying eyes who may disagree with their love, and more importantly, away from anybody who may tell Difha that he had already died once.....
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Godless, Forgotten
"An arena! A battlefield, with the roaring tides swelling in anticipation of the bloodshed that is to follow. I hear them scratching at my soul, desperate for a release only I can provide. I am eternal salvation in the form of unholy demise. I am worship to the godless, faith to the forgotten. They look upon my form and tremble. I’ve watched stars wither and die, planets shrug off the parasite that is life and tear themselves asunder. I have watched death tread across the battlefield, watched him weep for the souls of the damned, condemned to the Unreal. He could not provide a relief, so I took them upon my back, carried them through darkness, fed them until they found strength. I looked upon the world and said; No. This is not enough. And with that, I created life..”
Sentient, the Dead-God of the North, the Manipulator of Far Antiquity, and the progenitor of the Cult of Silver.
Sentient, the Dead-God of the North, the Manipulator of Far Antiquity, and the progenitor of the Cult of Silver.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
The Fountain of Perdition
The Ciphrang strode through the walls as if they were made of paper, melting brick and steel mere inches away from its form. It stood eight foot tall, but hunched over to fit beneath the low ceiling it stood barely taller than the average man.
Of course, the average man in this room was a suit, a businessman or sales-woman, here for one of TOWERs many seminars and courses. They were regular nobodies, some having scraped enough money to come here, others just looking to try something new with their life. The centre of Newarth wasn’t the land of opportunity many felt it was, and TOWER seemed the only way to escape the muck and filth down in the city.
The Ciphrang reared its head back, glowered at the 18 other people in the room. Five thick horns rose from a plate of bone which covered the top of its head, each of them starting with an ivory white but tipped with a pitch-black almost as dark as the creatures eyes, which slowly evaluated everybody in the room.
Only one was of interest here.
Only one.
Dalath rose from his chair as soon as the Ciphrang entered. He knew the creatures eyes would bear down upon him, and he knew he was the one the Ciphrang sought. He spoke a silent prayed to the Dreamweaver, throwing off his suit jacket to free his arms for the battle to come. He spoke words nobody in the room could grasp, none except for the Ciphrang, and he felt his mind rush into the Unreal.
The Ciphrang had raised a single arm, pointing now at Dalath, and roared in a language incomprehensible to everybody in the room; many simply fell to their knees, deafened by the creatures voice, their minds ripping apart at the edge with the blasphemy he sang.
It was a sensation akin to being pulled out of water, after almost drowning; clarity, the gasp of true air, that important breath that granted glorious life. This was what the Unreal meant to a Sorcerer. This was what would allow him to defeat the Ciphrang.
This was what didn’t come to him, that day.
His mind collapsed in on itself. He felt a weight press down hard onto his left shoulder, then a second pressing down on his right, until he fell backwards, hitting the floor with a crash. He was drowning in the Real, and that ever important breath hadn’t come. His eyes saw stars and his thoughts swam without purpose. A third weight pressed now on his chest, and the head of an ugly little creature appeared before him; a Goblin. It was grinning, its rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth running from ear to ear, its lizard-like eyes staring at the bauble in its hand.
No, more than a bauble. His senses returning to him, he opened his mouth, preparing to scream impurities and fire in his native tongue.
Until a tiny hand stuff a bandage into his opened mouth. The first goblin shook his head, and laughed the way they always did, high pitched and wicked.
The bauble was in view now, a mess of bright blues and purples flowing over and under each other within a hard globe case. Attached either side of the case were wrist restraints.
Dalath punched hard into the face of the front goblin, sending it reeling onto the floor out of view.
He lifted his fist again, aiming to fight back, but there were more goblins now, half-a-dozen at least, who began piling onto his limbs, holding him down.
The front goblin stood back up, rubbing his jaw, the smile wiped from his face.
With the utmost malice he strapped the restraints onto Dalath’s wrists. The globe between them now changed colour, draining from bright colours into a variety of dull greys and greens.
Dalath was a young man from Anur-Jandria. His skin was a sultry brown, his eyes, like all Sepsyon sorcerers, a glorious blue. But as soon as the dust shackles were strapped from his wrists, all colour seemed to drain from him. Shadows seemed to reach extremes over his pale, grey features, and his blue eyes now seemed closer to a swamp green than anything else. Even his black hair seemed to lighten and wither, as if from age.
By this time the others in the room had been herded into the corner by other goblins. They were all crying, some of them hugging others, some of them pushing others away. The terror in the room was tangible, and you could hear further panic outside; people screaming, calling for help.
Where were TOWER Security? Where were Apaex, the PMC that did all of TOWERs contract defence?
The questions seemed to come from a mile away. Dalath couldn’t even think straight. He realised he was wearing Dust Shackles. He remembered his tutor, back in Oneiros, warning him that they nullified the Unreal through the use of concentrated Hyperreal; the two, when mixed, would neutralise each other. A Sorcerer couldn’t make use of any sorcery while under the influence of the Hyperreal.
Lesson number 2, back in training; the difference between A void and THE void. Stay away from the Hyperreal.
The goblins hauled him to his feet, then onto a chair. His blurred vision raced across the room, unable to focus on anything; panic, terror, fear, all from the others, herded like cattle; meaningless. Indifference, greed, thoughtlessness, all from the goblins; meaningless.
But his eyes fell upon the Ciphrang. It rose before him like a mountain of fire and hate. Its skin, like all Ciphrang, seemed more like molten earth, held together by sheer hatred alone; and this wasn’t far from the truth. When an area underwent enough sustained violence and death, a battle-field or cult-totem, a Ciphrang would be born from the melding together of those dying spirits, a hundred or more souls all trying to enter the Unreal, getting confused and lost, forced together into a single being capable only of their extreme emotions.
Emotions like hate. Like anger. Like pain.
This is what made a Ciphrang. And in turn, this was what they were made of. Sorcerous creatures of the worst type.
“Enth..” he coughed. The dust shackles burnt his voice when he tried to speak, the Hyperreal reacting badly with his Unreal-tinged vocals, made it impossible to speak any sorcerous incantations, or ‘sing the wrath of God’, as many poetically put it. “Enthill-..Asdynn’ryl” The creatures true name.
The Ciphrang rose, its face now mere inches away from Dalath’s. It was warm, but he could not concentrate on the heat, only on the look in the creatures eye. Always such suffering. They were smart, but little more than animals, bound to a dozen whims they couldn’t even grasp, always thinking a hundred thoughts at once, always feeling a hundred hates at once. To kill them was a mercy. Few ever had the capacity for such mercy.
“DALATH!” it roared, unable to calm its own voice, if you could call it that; it spoke with a chorus of a dozen voices screaming in unison, the voices of the most prominent spirits incorporated into the whole, all seeking equal attention. Its spittle was ash, and its voice carried with it a cloud of dust and cooling embers. “THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE HERE?!”
It turned, and paced back and forth around the room for a few moments, as if trying to gather its thoughts. The goblins sat quietly and eager behind Dalath, giggling and jumping around, excited by the prospect of violence to come. The Ciphrang couldn’t touch the dust shackles without experiencing incredible pain; a creature of the Real could never come into contact with the Hyperreal.
Summoning classes, lesson 3; confluence of two impossible functions.
No doubt it would kill these goblins when their purpose was done. A Ciphrang’s mind couldn’t grasp payment or exchange, it could only take. Wealth was meaningless, as the creature was temporary in this world anyway. All that mattered was fulfilling... whatever goal it sought to fulfil.
Dalath shook his head at the Ciphrang. He wasn’t trying to hide. Their previous meeting, he had thought, should have been their last. But here it was. At this motion, the goblins burst into uproarious laughter.
“I AM ETERNAL!” it roared, this time at the goblins, as if replying to Dalath’s very thoughts. Their laughter ended, and they were cowering before it, terrified, hiding behind their ‘elected’ leader (usually the one with the biggest pockets or the nicest hat.) Dalath thought it would consume them, there and then, but the Ciphrang instead reared back.
“I AM HATE! SUFFERING IS MY BLOOD!” It roared now at the others, the unfortunates who were only here to take a class. It was certain they would not survive the hour. “YOU THINK YOU COULD TRAP ME?! YOU THINK THAT HOLE WOULD HOLD ME?!” It unleashed a deafening roar, and unfurled its wings; at least, the stems that once were wings, with the tattered remains of the patagium lying limp and broken.
Even Dalath had to admit he was scared.
Ciphrang lived violent lives. Enthill-Asdynn’ryl was the extreme example of this. Most Ciphrang lived a few weeks, maybe months within the Real, before being dragged back into the Unreal or, more often than not, destroyed by a capable Sorcerer. This one had been hunting Sorcerers for over 12 months. It had found Dalath two months ago, but the ‘easy feast’ Asdynn had assumed turned out to be a miscalculation. The Ciphrang was overconfident, and it cost him so much.
Now Dalath had been overconfident.
“HOW DO YOU WANT TO DIE, MORSEL?!” Enthill-Asdynn’ryl took a few steps back. It opened its maw, ready to unleash a torrent of the vilest Sorcery the Unreal seemed capable of. The goblins turned away, now aware of the fear they should hold towards their master. The other innocents were screaming and crying once more.
Dalath whispered a silent prayer to the Dreamweaver. He had met his God once, back when he was training to be a Sepsyon Sorcerer, one of Indara’s Chosen. He thought of this moment, clenched onto it, focussed his mind through the distraction of the shackles. If you ever cared about me, right now would be the time to show it..
The sound of the door being kicked in was distinct enough to grab his attention. There was a moment of panic. Even the Ciphrang was distracted enough to release its drawn breath, letting go of the Sorcerous heresies it was about to speak. Three of the goblins rushed towards the door, although from Dalath’s point of view, he could only see them from his peripheral vision.
He saw the silhouette of a figure standing just out of sight. It wasn’t the Dreamweaver but it certainly brought a smile to his face. He could just make out her armour, the distinct plate stylings of the Imperial Order, the three purple-red-black feathers atop her helm.
The flicker of light from a drawn sword flashed across the room. Asdynn stepped back twice more. He was nearing the edge of the room, right by the windows. “DESTROY HER!” her roared, stepping back again. As soon as she entered the room, Dallath could feel the weight of her chorae pressing into his soul, the tool of a Sorcerer-hunter, anathema to the Unreal and its denizens and abusers.
The light flashed three more times, before the sword was heard being sheathed. The figure stepped into the room, turned towards the other goblins. They didn’t know what to do; lost and confused, their victory had gone south, and the loyalty of goblins was unsurprisingly lacking. They thought better than to fight the Knight, and knew the power of the Ciphrang, so they did what all goblins would do; they fled, through the hole originally made by Asdynn.
She came into view now, her silver-coated armour as bright and glorious as it had ever been. The face-guard on her helmet was lifted, and her brown fringe fell loosely across her face. She smiled, in that innocent way she always did when facing insurmountable odds. Of course, with the chorae held tightly in her hand, the Ciphrang couldn’t come near her.
“NO!” the Ciphrang roared, incapable of stopping what was about to happen. As powerful as Sorcery was, it seemed almost unbelievable that an intricately carved globe that could fit into the palm of your hand could bring it all to a stop. Of course, now even Dalath was feeling the pain; he could feel the surface of his skin physically dissolving due to his proximity with the chorae, turning to salt and falling, flake by flake, from his body.
And he was part Human. A Ciphrang was pure sorcery. The agony the creature was feeling must have been beyond calculation.
“Los..” Dalath managed to mutter despite the shackles. He could see her smile.
Los advanced towards the Ciphrang, holding the chorae in her outstretched hand. Asdynn was backing off, further and further; as long as Los remained in contact with the chorae, she was completely immune to sorcery, and the Ciphrang had no way to fight back.
The Ciphrang turned, looked towards the windows, smashed from his bellows earlier. The drop below was miles, 60+ stories. Without its wings, the fall would be fatal.
Los unleashed her battle-cry, roared at the beast who only whimpered back. She drew her sword in her free hand, clutched tightly the chorae in the other, and charged Asdynn. Her armour and sword were extensions of her being, she was trained as a warrior and her training was absolute; she slammed the blade into the creatures flesh, smashing through its rock-like skin, splashing molten blood onto the floor around them both.
Her sword steamed more with each blow, and Asdynn’s bellows grew loader. It tried to defend itself, raising its arm in fury, but its proximity to the chorae became all too evident, as the flesh on its forearm swiftly dissolved into a layer of ash. Los’ sword cut through the ash with ease.
Its roars went silent. The limp arm fell to the floor with a crash, with the severed stump now running profusely with the creatures burning blood. It gushed onto the floor, burning through the carpet and brick around them both. It was everywhere. The heat grew so intense that Los had to back away, discarding her sword which had already begun to wilt from the sustained blows.
Asdynn raised its remaining hand, trying to staunch the bleeding from its stump. Its whole body swayed, back then forward; it had been internally exposed to the Real. Its arm had been severed. It fell, unable to respond, and watched as the severed arm began to fall apart in a soft flicker of flame, leaving only ash in its place.
It was fading.
Los quickly returned to Dalath, knelt beside him, and loosened the restraints of the dust shackles, while being sure to keep the chorae away from him. It took only a few moments for the colour to return to his skin, for the tightening in his throat to loosen and relax, for his mind to begin thinking clearly again. His thoughts came back like a tide being released, and he finally breathed that most important breath, felt the Unreal flood into his veins.
“I’ve been tracking it for a while now. Thought it’d come for you first.” She smiled, and that smile seemed to wash away Dalath’s pain.
“Nice..” he coughed, “of you to let me know.” Although he was steady on his feet, Los still helped him up.
“I CANNOT DIE..” the Ciphrang roared helplessly. It struggled back onto its feet, raising up, this time to his maximum of eight-foot. As soon as the horns touched the ceiling, it sparked and lit on fire. It was a slow burn at first, obviously sorcerous in nature. Asdynn whispered in one of his dozen voices, sang the necessary words to bring the building down with his final breathes. The flames began spreading across the ceiling.
“I HAVE SEEN THE RIVERS OF FIRE. NATIONS FALL PROSTRATE TO MY KIND. YOU THINK ONE MAN AND HIS WAIF CAN STOP ME?!” The fires began spreading faster now. The wall either side of Asdynn found themselves aflame, and it was reaching the floor at an astonishing place. Ash and cinders rained down upon them. A few of the panicked innocents saw the blaze, and thought otherwise; they leapt through the broken windows, the jump impossible to survive. Smoke poured out into the sky.
“I CALL THE UNREAL HOME. DEATH..” Asdynn took a deep breath, raised its remaining arm. “..IS NO MORE PERMANENT THAN LIFE!” It roared, a bout of flame pouring from its mouth, engulfing Dalath and Los.
When it cleared, Dalath stood infront of Los, his arm outstretched, his palm open. He muttered impossible words. The fires had split around them. More words, more heresies, spread forth from his lips.
His eyes brightened, his irises changing from grey to green, then green to blue. Like a burst dam, the iris then split open, and the blue flooded into the white sclera until his whole eyes were blue, apart from the black pupil in the centre, an island in an ocean. This was it. He could see Asdynn had fallen back to one knee, too distracted by the spreading fire to adequately fight back. Dalath felt revitalised, turned to see Los in his peripheral vision.
“I’ll finish it. It’s weak from the trek, it’s getting old, struggling to live in this realm. It used so much of what it had left just to get here, to fight its way through to me. It hoped this would be the end.”
“THERE IS NO END!” it spoke, supporting itself with its one remaining arm. The flames had engulfed almost the entire room. The screams of the innocents were impossible to hear through the sound of the blaze. Some died in the fire, many fell burning to the floor below, others stayed huddled and afraid in the corner of the room, desperate for some salvation that would never come. The first jumper, they would say, was the luckiest. Dalath would later argue that, on that day, none were lucky.
Already the Ciphrangs body had begun turning to ash. It’s once-armoured shell was now flaking away, drifting through the open air and down to the innocents below. Its insides were revealed, almost white-hot, flaring up before the inevitable end. A Ciphrang would never die alone, would always endeavour to drag as many others down to the Unreal as possible, enough to create a new Ciphrang, enough to make its life worthwhile.
“Get away Los!” he shouted over the roaring flames, now spreading rapidly up the building. “Save as many as you can, but for gods sakes, get out!” Dalath stepped forward. Another gout of fire pulsated from Asdynn, the heat from the flames was visibly pushed away from him, his Vaparsi Wards holding strong. Los nodded, turned, and ran from the room, aware she was now out of her depth. Dalath turned to look at Asdynn, who sat broken on the ground. “You are ruined, Ciphrang! I will take the fetid remains of your soul and lock them away for all eternity. You will find only peace there.”
“NO!” Asdynn roared, and attempted to stand. Its power all but focused on the spreading flames, the wound that was once an arm rapidly draining its essence, and the scars from Los’ chorae attack still leaking burning blood, its attempts to stand were in vain, and it simply fell back down, a muted roar leaving its cracked and broken lips.
Dalath dropped his Wards, just long enough to speak the war-cants of the Sepsyon, Indara’s Waterfall and Fanes Lost Eyes. It was only an instant, a mere moment in time, a change of focus that switched from defence to offence. The Ciphrang stood, fast as lightning, and wrapped its single arm tight around Dalath’s form, frail compared to the Unreal beast. The breath was squeezed from his longs, and unable to speak, his cants merely held in the air, half-formed and half-ready.
“SO CONFIDENT! SO FAITHFUL IN YOUR GOD! LET THE DREAMWEAVER KNOW THAT YOUR FAITH IN HIM WAS THE REASON FOR YOUR DEATH!” He squeezed tighter, tighter, until the edges of Dalath’s vision turned dark. He tried to punch the creature, but felt only the heat of its blood, tried to kick, but merely deflected off its semi-armoured form. It began teetering backwards towards the edge, its tattered wings now opening in excitement. Dalath tried to look for Los, but she had gone. “I SHALL DRAG YOU INTO THE UNREAL, MY PLAYTHING, NOTHING MORE THAN A CHAINED BEAST TO MY THRONE! THEY SHALL LOOK UPON YOU AND DESPAIR, FOR HE WAS THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE COULD BEST THE FOUNTAIN OF PERDITION!”
“No!” shouted a voice from the far corner of the room. Dalath managed to focus his eyes just enough to see one of the civilians, one of the nameless suits, stand from his huddled position in the corner of the room. The fire was everywhere, and the heat was oppressive, but this man stood. The look in his eyes was obvious; a man, already dead, trying to save a life. Another stood, and another, and soon all of them were standing, men and women alike. There were only thirteen of them.
They ran through the fire with complete faith in their actions, almost as if they themselves were a part of the blaze. Asdynn’s grip loosened, just slightly; he had no spare hand to fight them off, and his attention was entirely focussed on keeping Dalath silent and maintaining the fires now burning through the top half of the building. Those 13 people descended on Asdynn with an incredible fury; just touching the flesh of Asdynn set their clothes and hair alight, sent them reeling backwards. Some fell from the window, others into larger gouts of fire, but they continued, raining blow after blow on Asdynns arm and shoulder. Two had grabbed onto its wings, and clung their until their bodies were little more than bone and ash.
His arm slipped again, this time further than before.
Fanes Lost Eyes were two beautiful geometries of light, which flashed from Dalath’s eyes and smashed into Asdynn’s face; he was blinded, his eyes now no more than bloody sockets. His arm now completely released, and he began flailing. Those few suits still standing, through endurance no less than superhuman, leapt again at the creature; they charged into its body sending it further backwards, towards the window ledge.
It stopped short, screaming into the air, and knocked them aside.
Before Dalath’s forehead appeared a blue orb, small and divine. Just as its name suggested, Indara’s Waterfall shot a raging torrent of blue light from the orb, as if an ocean had burst free from Dalath’s mind. The Waterfall consisted of hundreds of small blasts, beams of light drawn from the Unreal, purified through Dalath’s training, which smashed into the Ciphrangs form. Again and again the creature was struck, until it balanced on the very edge of the window. The waterfall had ceased, just for a moment.
“Know this, Asdynn, blind and helpless. You do not deserve the pleasure of sitting at the throne of my master. The Dreamweaver suffers not the faithless. And by his example, I suffer not the Godless.” Dalath raised him arms, and it was as if a void had opened behind the Ciphrang. It was akin to looking into the Unreal, the rivers of fire and the shifting ground. From this void came an arm, which stretched out and grasped onto the remaining arm of the Ciphrang. Then came another arm, and another, each of them stretching out, each of them holding tightly onto the Ciphrang. Each touch seemed like agony, as was the case with Siandere’s Return, a powerful war-cant calling upon the spirits of the deceased to punish the sorcerers foe.
Asdynn struggled against the spirits, but was too weak to truly fight back. Its entire shell was like ash and crumbled upon touch, and its blood seemed to almost seize up and solidfy even as it fell from the creatures wounds. The fires around him began to flicker and fall back, weakening with his lack of attention, his rage faltering.
“Goodbye, Asdynn.” He brought his arms down suddenly, and with that the arms of Siandere pulled back. Asdynn roared in agony, and the crack of flesh and bone was audible to even those watching from below. Its arm tore from the socket, its legs ripped apart, first the plated armour, then the flesh and bone itself. Its head was tore free, and its body ripped into three distinct pieces. Even its wings, already tattered, were ripped asunder.
The sorcerous fires almost immediately stopped burning. Although many natural fires had been started, the majority of the blaze was started and controlled through Asdynn’s will alone, and instantly faded without his influence to keep it going. Still, the damage was done, and many had died. Dalath kneeled by one of the twisted forms that was once a man, one who had helped release him from Asdynn’s grasp. “Dreamweaver forgive you your sins..” he spoke softly, and quietly left the room.
Below, the creatures body had already fallen apart, and what was once the torn limbs of a Ciphrang fell instead as black ash and dust, a perverted snow upon the gathered crowd. Apaex had done a good job of clearing much of the building, but the death toll was all too great. Dalath couldn’t help but despair; not only had so many died, but worse, the public’s perception of sorcery, already reviled, would only grow worse.
Still, his fears were calmed when he reached the ground, to see Los standing impatiently at the entrance to the building. He only had to smile, and she came running towards him, throwing her arms around him and burying her head into his chest. She had removed the chorae from around her neck, but he could still feel its soulless influence in her back pocket; still, he had suffered enough today, what was a little more? He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring its influence. Moments passed, until he lifted her head, looked into her eyes, and wiped away a tear.
“Next time I fight a Ciphrang alone..” he smiled, “..don’t leave me.”
Of course, the average man in this room was a suit, a businessman or sales-woman, here for one of TOWERs many seminars and courses. They were regular nobodies, some having scraped enough money to come here, others just looking to try something new with their life. The centre of Newarth wasn’t the land of opportunity many felt it was, and TOWER seemed the only way to escape the muck and filth down in the city.
The Ciphrang reared its head back, glowered at the 18 other people in the room. Five thick horns rose from a plate of bone which covered the top of its head, each of them starting with an ivory white but tipped with a pitch-black almost as dark as the creatures eyes, which slowly evaluated everybody in the room.
Only one was of interest here.
Only one.
Dalath rose from his chair as soon as the Ciphrang entered. He knew the creatures eyes would bear down upon him, and he knew he was the one the Ciphrang sought. He spoke a silent prayed to the Dreamweaver, throwing off his suit jacket to free his arms for the battle to come. He spoke words nobody in the room could grasp, none except for the Ciphrang, and he felt his mind rush into the Unreal.
The Ciphrang had raised a single arm, pointing now at Dalath, and roared in a language incomprehensible to everybody in the room; many simply fell to their knees, deafened by the creatures voice, their minds ripping apart at the edge with the blasphemy he sang.
It was a sensation akin to being pulled out of water, after almost drowning; clarity, the gasp of true air, that important breath that granted glorious life. This was what the Unreal meant to a Sorcerer. This was what would allow him to defeat the Ciphrang.
This was what didn’t come to him, that day.
His mind collapsed in on itself. He felt a weight press down hard onto his left shoulder, then a second pressing down on his right, until he fell backwards, hitting the floor with a crash. He was drowning in the Real, and that ever important breath hadn’t come. His eyes saw stars and his thoughts swam without purpose. A third weight pressed now on his chest, and the head of an ugly little creature appeared before him; a Goblin. It was grinning, its rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth running from ear to ear, its lizard-like eyes staring at the bauble in its hand.
No, more than a bauble. His senses returning to him, he opened his mouth, preparing to scream impurities and fire in his native tongue.
Until a tiny hand stuff a bandage into his opened mouth. The first goblin shook his head, and laughed the way they always did, high pitched and wicked.
The bauble was in view now, a mess of bright blues and purples flowing over and under each other within a hard globe case. Attached either side of the case were wrist restraints.
Dalath punched hard into the face of the front goblin, sending it reeling onto the floor out of view.
He lifted his fist again, aiming to fight back, but there were more goblins now, half-a-dozen at least, who began piling onto his limbs, holding him down.
The front goblin stood back up, rubbing his jaw, the smile wiped from his face.
With the utmost malice he strapped the restraints onto Dalath’s wrists. The globe between them now changed colour, draining from bright colours into a variety of dull greys and greens.
Dalath was a young man from Anur-Jandria. His skin was a sultry brown, his eyes, like all Sepsyon sorcerers, a glorious blue. But as soon as the dust shackles were strapped from his wrists, all colour seemed to drain from him. Shadows seemed to reach extremes over his pale, grey features, and his blue eyes now seemed closer to a swamp green than anything else. Even his black hair seemed to lighten and wither, as if from age.
By this time the others in the room had been herded into the corner by other goblins. They were all crying, some of them hugging others, some of them pushing others away. The terror in the room was tangible, and you could hear further panic outside; people screaming, calling for help.
Where were TOWER Security? Where were Apaex, the PMC that did all of TOWERs contract defence?
The questions seemed to come from a mile away. Dalath couldn’t even think straight. He realised he was wearing Dust Shackles. He remembered his tutor, back in Oneiros, warning him that they nullified the Unreal through the use of concentrated Hyperreal; the two, when mixed, would neutralise each other. A Sorcerer couldn’t make use of any sorcery while under the influence of the Hyperreal.
Lesson number 2, back in training; the difference between A void and THE void. Stay away from the Hyperreal.
The goblins hauled him to his feet, then onto a chair. His blurred vision raced across the room, unable to focus on anything; panic, terror, fear, all from the others, herded like cattle; meaningless. Indifference, greed, thoughtlessness, all from the goblins; meaningless.
But his eyes fell upon the Ciphrang. It rose before him like a mountain of fire and hate. Its skin, like all Ciphrang, seemed more like molten earth, held together by sheer hatred alone; and this wasn’t far from the truth. When an area underwent enough sustained violence and death, a battle-field or cult-totem, a Ciphrang would be born from the melding together of those dying spirits, a hundred or more souls all trying to enter the Unreal, getting confused and lost, forced together into a single being capable only of their extreme emotions.
Emotions like hate. Like anger. Like pain.
This is what made a Ciphrang. And in turn, this was what they were made of. Sorcerous creatures of the worst type.
“Enth..” he coughed. The dust shackles burnt his voice when he tried to speak, the Hyperreal reacting badly with his Unreal-tinged vocals, made it impossible to speak any sorcerous incantations, or ‘sing the wrath of God’, as many poetically put it. “Enthill-..Asdynn’ryl” The creatures true name.
The Ciphrang rose, its face now mere inches away from Dalath’s. It was warm, but he could not concentrate on the heat, only on the look in the creatures eye. Always such suffering. They were smart, but little more than animals, bound to a dozen whims they couldn’t even grasp, always thinking a hundred thoughts at once, always feeling a hundred hates at once. To kill them was a mercy. Few ever had the capacity for such mercy.
“DALATH!” it roared, unable to calm its own voice, if you could call it that; it spoke with a chorus of a dozen voices screaming in unison, the voices of the most prominent spirits incorporated into the whole, all seeking equal attention. Its spittle was ash, and its voice carried with it a cloud of dust and cooling embers. “THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE HERE?!”
It turned, and paced back and forth around the room for a few moments, as if trying to gather its thoughts. The goblins sat quietly and eager behind Dalath, giggling and jumping around, excited by the prospect of violence to come. The Ciphrang couldn’t touch the dust shackles without experiencing incredible pain; a creature of the Real could never come into contact with the Hyperreal.
Summoning classes, lesson 3; confluence of two impossible functions.
No doubt it would kill these goblins when their purpose was done. A Ciphrang’s mind couldn’t grasp payment or exchange, it could only take. Wealth was meaningless, as the creature was temporary in this world anyway. All that mattered was fulfilling... whatever goal it sought to fulfil.
Dalath shook his head at the Ciphrang. He wasn’t trying to hide. Their previous meeting, he had thought, should have been their last. But here it was. At this motion, the goblins burst into uproarious laughter.
“I AM ETERNAL!” it roared, this time at the goblins, as if replying to Dalath’s very thoughts. Their laughter ended, and they were cowering before it, terrified, hiding behind their ‘elected’ leader (usually the one with the biggest pockets or the nicest hat.) Dalath thought it would consume them, there and then, but the Ciphrang instead reared back.
“I AM HATE! SUFFERING IS MY BLOOD!” It roared now at the others, the unfortunates who were only here to take a class. It was certain they would not survive the hour. “YOU THINK YOU COULD TRAP ME?! YOU THINK THAT HOLE WOULD HOLD ME?!” It unleashed a deafening roar, and unfurled its wings; at least, the stems that once were wings, with the tattered remains of the patagium lying limp and broken.
Even Dalath had to admit he was scared.
Ciphrang lived violent lives. Enthill-Asdynn’ryl was the extreme example of this. Most Ciphrang lived a few weeks, maybe months within the Real, before being dragged back into the Unreal or, more often than not, destroyed by a capable Sorcerer. This one had been hunting Sorcerers for over 12 months. It had found Dalath two months ago, but the ‘easy feast’ Asdynn had assumed turned out to be a miscalculation. The Ciphrang was overconfident, and it cost him so much.
Now Dalath had been overconfident.
“HOW DO YOU WANT TO DIE, MORSEL?!” Enthill-Asdynn’ryl took a few steps back. It opened its maw, ready to unleash a torrent of the vilest Sorcery the Unreal seemed capable of. The goblins turned away, now aware of the fear they should hold towards their master. The other innocents were screaming and crying once more.
Dalath whispered a silent prayer to the Dreamweaver. He had met his God once, back when he was training to be a Sepsyon Sorcerer, one of Indara’s Chosen. He thought of this moment, clenched onto it, focussed his mind through the distraction of the shackles. If you ever cared about me, right now would be the time to show it..
The sound of the door being kicked in was distinct enough to grab his attention. There was a moment of panic. Even the Ciphrang was distracted enough to release its drawn breath, letting go of the Sorcerous heresies it was about to speak. Three of the goblins rushed towards the door, although from Dalath’s point of view, he could only see them from his peripheral vision.
He saw the silhouette of a figure standing just out of sight. It wasn’t the Dreamweaver but it certainly brought a smile to his face. He could just make out her armour, the distinct plate stylings of the Imperial Order, the three purple-red-black feathers atop her helm.
The flicker of light from a drawn sword flashed across the room. Asdynn stepped back twice more. He was nearing the edge of the room, right by the windows. “DESTROY HER!” her roared, stepping back again. As soon as she entered the room, Dallath could feel the weight of her chorae pressing into his soul, the tool of a Sorcerer-hunter, anathema to the Unreal and its denizens and abusers.
The light flashed three more times, before the sword was heard being sheathed. The figure stepped into the room, turned towards the other goblins. They didn’t know what to do; lost and confused, their victory had gone south, and the loyalty of goblins was unsurprisingly lacking. They thought better than to fight the Knight, and knew the power of the Ciphrang, so they did what all goblins would do; they fled, through the hole originally made by Asdynn.
She came into view now, her silver-coated armour as bright and glorious as it had ever been. The face-guard on her helmet was lifted, and her brown fringe fell loosely across her face. She smiled, in that innocent way she always did when facing insurmountable odds. Of course, with the chorae held tightly in her hand, the Ciphrang couldn’t come near her.
“NO!” the Ciphrang roared, incapable of stopping what was about to happen. As powerful as Sorcery was, it seemed almost unbelievable that an intricately carved globe that could fit into the palm of your hand could bring it all to a stop. Of course, now even Dalath was feeling the pain; he could feel the surface of his skin physically dissolving due to his proximity with the chorae, turning to salt and falling, flake by flake, from his body.
And he was part Human. A Ciphrang was pure sorcery. The agony the creature was feeling must have been beyond calculation.
“Los..” Dalath managed to mutter despite the shackles. He could see her smile.
Los advanced towards the Ciphrang, holding the chorae in her outstretched hand. Asdynn was backing off, further and further; as long as Los remained in contact with the chorae, she was completely immune to sorcery, and the Ciphrang had no way to fight back.
The Ciphrang turned, looked towards the windows, smashed from his bellows earlier. The drop below was miles, 60+ stories. Without its wings, the fall would be fatal.
Los unleashed her battle-cry, roared at the beast who only whimpered back. She drew her sword in her free hand, clutched tightly the chorae in the other, and charged Asdynn. Her armour and sword were extensions of her being, she was trained as a warrior and her training was absolute; she slammed the blade into the creatures flesh, smashing through its rock-like skin, splashing molten blood onto the floor around them both.
Her sword steamed more with each blow, and Asdynn’s bellows grew loader. It tried to defend itself, raising its arm in fury, but its proximity to the chorae became all too evident, as the flesh on its forearm swiftly dissolved into a layer of ash. Los’ sword cut through the ash with ease.
Its roars went silent. The limp arm fell to the floor with a crash, with the severed stump now running profusely with the creatures burning blood. It gushed onto the floor, burning through the carpet and brick around them both. It was everywhere. The heat grew so intense that Los had to back away, discarding her sword which had already begun to wilt from the sustained blows.
Asdynn raised its remaining hand, trying to staunch the bleeding from its stump. Its whole body swayed, back then forward; it had been internally exposed to the Real. Its arm had been severed. It fell, unable to respond, and watched as the severed arm began to fall apart in a soft flicker of flame, leaving only ash in its place.
It was fading.
Los quickly returned to Dalath, knelt beside him, and loosened the restraints of the dust shackles, while being sure to keep the chorae away from him. It took only a few moments for the colour to return to his skin, for the tightening in his throat to loosen and relax, for his mind to begin thinking clearly again. His thoughts came back like a tide being released, and he finally breathed that most important breath, felt the Unreal flood into his veins.
“I’ve been tracking it for a while now. Thought it’d come for you first.” She smiled, and that smile seemed to wash away Dalath’s pain.
“Nice..” he coughed, “of you to let me know.” Although he was steady on his feet, Los still helped him up.
“I CANNOT DIE..” the Ciphrang roared helplessly. It struggled back onto its feet, raising up, this time to his maximum of eight-foot. As soon as the horns touched the ceiling, it sparked and lit on fire. It was a slow burn at first, obviously sorcerous in nature. Asdynn whispered in one of his dozen voices, sang the necessary words to bring the building down with his final breathes. The flames began spreading across the ceiling.
“I HAVE SEEN THE RIVERS OF FIRE. NATIONS FALL PROSTRATE TO MY KIND. YOU THINK ONE MAN AND HIS WAIF CAN STOP ME?!” The fires began spreading faster now. The wall either side of Asdynn found themselves aflame, and it was reaching the floor at an astonishing place. Ash and cinders rained down upon them. A few of the panicked innocents saw the blaze, and thought otherwise; they leapt through the broken windows, the jump impossible to survive. Smoke poured out into the sky.
“I CALL THE UNREAL HOME. DEATH..” Asdynn took a deep breath, raised its remaining arm. “..IS NO MORE PERMANENT THAN LIFE!” It roared, a bout of flame pouring from its mouth, engulfing Dalath and Los.
When it cleared, Dalath stood infront of Los, his arm outstretched, his palm open. He muttered impossible words. The fires had split around them. More words, more heresies, spread forth from his lips.
His eyes brightened, his irises changing from grey to green, then green to blue. Like a burst dam, the iris then split open, and the blue flooded into the white sclera until his whole eyes were blue, apart from the black pupil in the centre, an island in an ocean. This was it. He could see Asdynn had fallen back to one knee, too distracted by the spreading fire to adequately fight back. Dalath felt revitalised, turned to see Los in his peripheral vision.
“I’ll finish it. It’s weak from the trek, it’s getting old, struggling to live in this realm. It used so much of what it had left just to get here, to fight its way through to me. It hoped this would be the end.”
“THERE IS NO END!” it spoke, supporting itself with its one remaining arm. The flames had engulfed almost the entire room. The screams of the innocents were impossible to hear through the sound of the blaze. Some died in the fire, many fell burning to the floor below, others stayed huddled and afraid in the corner of the room, desperate for some salvation that would never come. The first jumper, they would say, was the luckiest. Dalath would later argue that, on that day, none were lucky.
Already the Ciphrangs body had begun turning to ash. It’s once-armoured shell was now flaking away, drifting through the open air and down to the innocents below. Its insides were revealed, almost white-hot, flaring up before the inevitable end. A Ciphrang would never die alone, would always endeavour to drag as many others down to the Unreal as possible, enough to create a new Ciphrang, enough to make its life worthwhile.
“Get away Los!” he shouted over the roaring flames, now spreading rapidly up the building. “Save as many as you can, but for gods sakes, get out!” Dalath stepped forward. Another gout of fire pulsated from Asdynn, the heat from the flames was visibly pushed away from him, his Vaparsi Wards holding strong. Los nodded, turned, and ran from the room, aware she was now out of her depth. Dalath turned to look at Asdynn, who sat broken on the ground. “You are ruined, Ciphrang! I will take the fetid remains of your soul and lock them away for all eternity. You will find only peace there.”
“NO!” Asdynn roared, and attempted to stand. Its power all but focused on the spreading flames, the wound that was once an arm rapidly draining its essence, and the scars from Los’ chorae attack still leaking burning blood, its attempts to stand were in vain, and it simply fell back down, a muted roar leaving its cracked and broken lips.
Dalath dropped his Wards, just long enough to speak the war-cants of the Sepsyon, Indara’s Waterfall and Fanes Lost Eyes. It was only an instant, a mere moment in time, a change of focus that switched from defence to offence. The Ciphrang stood, fast as lightning, and wrapped its single arm tight around Dalath’s form, frail compared to the Unreal beast. The breath was squeezed from his longs, and unable to speak, his cants merely held in the air, half-formed and half-ready.
“SO CONFIDENT! SO FAITHFUL IN YOUR GOD! LET THE DREAMWEAVER KNOW THAT YOUR FAITH IN HIM WAS THE REASON FOR YOUR DEATH!” He squeezed tighter, tighter, until the edges of Dalath’s vision turned dark. He tried to punch the creature, but felt only the heat of its blood, tried to kick, but merely deflected off its semi-armoured form. It began teetering backwards towards the edge, its tattered wings now opening in excitement. Dalath tried to look for Los, but she had gone. “I SHALL DRAG YOU INTO THE UNREAL, MY PLAYTHING, NOTHING MORE THAN A CHAINED BEAST TO MY THRONE! THEY SHALL LOOK UPON YOU AND DESPAIR, FOR HE WAS THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE COULD BEST THE FOUNTAIN OF PERDITION!”
“No!” shouted a voice from the far corner of the room. Dalath managed to focus his eyes just enough to see one of the civilians, one of the nameless suits, stand from his huddled position in the corner of the room. The fire was everywhere, and the heat was oppressive, but this man stood. The look in his eyes was obvious; a man, already dead, trying to save a life. Another stood, and another, and soon all of them were standing, men and women alike. There were only thirteen of them.
They ran through the fire with complete faith in their actions, almost as if they themselves were a part of the blaze. Asdynn’s grip loosened, just slightly; he had no spare hand to fight them off, and his attention was entirely focussed on keeping Dalath silent and maintaining the fires now burning through the top half of the building. Those 13 people descended on Asdynn with an incredible fury; just touching the flesh of Asdynn set their clothes and hair alight, sent them reeling backwards. Some fell from the window, others into larger gouts of fire, but they continued, raining blow after blow on Asdynns arm and shoulder. Two had grabbed onto its wings, and clung their until their bodies were little more than bone and ash.
His arm slipped again, this time further than before.
Fanes Lost Eyes were two beautiful geometries of light, which flashed from Dalath’s eyes and smashed into Asdynn’s face; he was blinded, his eyes now no more than bloody sockets. His arm now completely released, and he began flailing. Those few suits still standing, through endurance no less than superhuman, leapt again at the creature; they charged into its body sending it further backwards, towards the window ledge.
It stopped short, screaming into the air, and knocked them aside.
Before Dalath’s forehead appeared a blue orb, small and divine. Just as its name suggested, Indara’s Waterfall shot a raging torrent of blue light from the orb, as if an ocean had burst free from Dalath’s mind. The Waterfall consisted of hundreds of small blasts, beams of light drawn from the Unreal, purified through Dalath’s training, which smashed into the Ciphrangs form. Again and again the creature was struck, until it balanced on the very edge of the window. The waterfall had ceased, just for a moment.
“Know this, Asdynn, blind and helpless. You do not deserve the pleasure of sitting at the throne of my master. The Dreamweaver suffers not the faithless. And by his example, I suffer not the Godless.” Dalath raised him arms, and it was as if a void had opened behind the Ciphrang. It was akin to looking into the Unreal, the rivers of fire and the shifting ground. From this void came an arm, which stretched out and grasped onto the remaining arm of the Ciphrang. Then came another arm, and another, each of them stretching out, each of them holding tightly onto the Ciphrang. Each touch seemed like agony, as was the case with Siandere’s Return, a powerful war-cant calling upon the spirits of the deceased to punish the sorcerers foe.
Asdynn struggled against the spirits, but was too weak to truly fight back. Its entire shell was like ash and crumbled upon touch, and its blood seemed to almost seize up and solidfy even as it fell from the creatures wounds. The fires around him began to flicker and fall back, weakening with his lack of attention, his rage faltering.
“Goodbye, Asdynn.” He brought his arms down suddenly, and with that the arms of Siandere pulled back. Asdynn roared in agony, and the crack of flesh and bone was audible to even those watching from below. Its arm tore from the socket, its legs ripped apart, first the plated armour, then the flesh and bone itself. Its head was tore free, and its body ripped into three distinct pieces. Even its wings, already tattered, were ripped asunder.
The sorcerous fires almost immediately stopped burning. Although many natural fires had been started, the majority of the blaze was started and controlled through Asdynn’s will alone, and instantly faded without his influence to keep it going. Still, the damage was done, and many had died. Dalath kneeled by one of the twisted forms that was once a man, one who had helped release him from Asdynn’s grasp. “Dreamweaver forgive you your sins..” he spoke softly, and quietly left the room.
Below, the creatures body had already fallen apart, and what was once the torn limbs of a Ciphrang fell instead as black ash and dust, a perverted snow upon the gathered crowd. Apaex had done a good job of clearing much of the building, but the death toll was all too great. Dalath couldn’t help but despair; not only had so many died, but worse, the public’s perception of sorcery, already reviled, would only grow worse.
Still, his fears were calmed when he reached the ground, to see Los standing impatiently at the entrance to the building. He only had to smile, and she came running towards him, throwing her arms around him and burying her head into his chest. She had removed the chorae from around her neck, but he could still feel its soulless influence in her back pocket; still, he had suffered enough today, what was a little more? He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring its influence. Moments passed, until he lifted her head, looked into her eyes, and wiped away a tear.
“Next time I fight a Ciphrang alone..” he smiled, “..don’t leave me.”
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Strength in Letters
Every demon from the Unreal has a name, and they all follow the same structure. Ald'dra-saarden, a most-famous daemonic entity, is a good example; Ald' refers to an item of importance in the creatures Real life, before its Unreal rebirth, in this case, a Dagger. Dra- refers to the emotion most often connected with the creature, here it's Rage. Finally, Saarden is the name it takes upon its birth into the Unreal to distinguish itself. Ald'dra-saarden takes the given name (in the Real) of Saarden, the Dagger of Rage.
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