[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/y471w7L.jpg[/img]
[sub][sub][sub][h3]Y  T  O  N  E[/h3][/sub][/sub][/sub][img]http://i.imgur.com/NESiC7M.png[/img]
[sup][color=d7d7d7]"The divinity that knows no name, the righteous mutated by despairs; all this leads to the glorious dead and depraved, bound by The Law of Subjugation."[/color][/sup][/center]
[sub][sub][sub][h2][color=d7d7d7][indent][indent]Unknown Location — [i]Test of the Faceless[/i] — 250 — [i]8 / 8[/i][/indent][/indent][/color][/h2][/sub][/sub][/sub][color=#0d0c0c][img]http://i.imgur.com/RPEg47T.png[/img][/color][color=958c88][indent][indent][i][sup]And so my dearest. . .[/sup][/i][/indent][/indent]
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Deep down it begins to stir,
a fissure of ooze that bleeds black and red; 
scarlet edges pool around numbs fingers each struggling 
against their rot. Pain is glory; pain is eternal and she 
feels the darkness [i]inside[/i] her, like
a w o r m. . .[/center][/color]

[i]R[/i]eality returned in sworls of darkness, each vagrant shade billowing smog and myraid of hues dulling into ebonies feathering against one another, coupling to depress and swelter into terrible wraiths of malcontent. From the wreaths of gloom and fabrications of despair, figures would descend, wrought in leathers that bore the imitation of tempered skin; mortal membranes swathed over spindly arms and broad shoulders, poured into colours of soiling muck and dried blood. When pools of silver lift, hesitation is found in the vast, crushing desire of penance and to pay right to these apparitions, and suddenly the whorls of obsidian combust, fusing and conglomerating into one being. Ytone's gaze shifts, peers, endlessly intertwined with flames that do not reap red, but instead pulse with silvers and greys, smudges of black and soot coat her stare until she meets the eclipsed visage of her own self. 

[i]And then. . .[/i]

She rapidly banishes the illusion of herself, darkened and wreathed in flame with sudden plumes of red decorating both lips and cheeks. Arachnid fingers spear and pull on her countenance, raking back into the thick, wispy lines of her hair to pull on the reins of her existence [i]here[/i], rather than the false visual of what had initially greeted her. The air was thick with the tangible pulse of mana, she could feel that much crawling against her skin, slick and probing at her own veins and innards tangled within the infestation of magic. It bade a peculiar expression of her lips twisting, brow folding over the depths of her silver appraisal until her attention was severed prematurely by the voices that droned across the fabricated environment. Their capes and cloaks of scarlet, adorned in pauldrons and ebonette armour befitting legendary Templars that she had heard whisper and rumour of from long, long forgotten stories. The slurring insult of [i]heathens[/i] feathered across her thoughts, pouring from her lips with ease as Ytone fluidly, and slowly rose up from her prone position against the trembling and scorched soil. These were ill-favouring individuals that paled in comparison the effect of the dark—robed Gaki, and any sort of intimidation and wonder that spurned the others of the traveling party immediately waned and dissipated from metal festooned shoulders rising and falling with her rapid inhales.

Ytone felt oppressed here, this [i]realm[/i] that sired the trio of red cloaked shades that mocked true fear and reverence, and she did not like. Almost on reflex, bidden by instinct and implanted subjugation, her fingers twined and pulled, flexing against the hilt of the Raksha blade and freeing it from the ebony sheath straining in her opposite grasp. Integrated hours of pain, torture, and blinding fury wove a tapestry of skill and finery into her swordsmanship, she recalled hours of practice beneath a pulsating moon of yellow, of burning fingers that sang with her ache and blood, and the grueling reception of sparring — slicing — the double-edged blade into flesh, fur, and bone. Swiftly, she attached the chain of the Tessen to Raksha's hilt, the bladed fan landing softly at her feet before she ran the length of the connected links gleaming within the provided sun of false origins. Her brow furrowed, deeply, at the utterance of this being a [i]test[/i], and her lips blossomed wide and bore teeth of shimmering bone and bite.

[i]A test![/i]

As if they had the right and rule to put [i]her[/i] through another trial, another method of proving her worth, to gauge the capability of her sword and mana poisoning that was boiling in her veins like tar. She had endured so many tests. . . [i]So many[/i]. . .

	[color=c3b7b2]"I've proved myself hundred and hundred of times over. . . Who are you to [i]test[/i] me."[/color] Ytone rallied, intent on striking down the remaining recipient of her sudden offense before they too vanished into swirls of smog and shadow, leaving deformities of magic and mana in their wake. Ytone's expression stilled and narrowed, eclipsing into her concentration as her fingers poised over the chain of the Tessen then cinched tighter and her arm began to whirl. Muscles flexed and burned as she spun the ligament, flexing her grasp to increase the rate of which the weapon spun, slicing air and crafting a humming tune that sang of her intentions the moment the faceless, groaning shambles of man began to arise.

She had seen similar manifestations before, not in the shape of the mortal constitution, but the bestial rage of beasts that bore faces riddled in rot and skin, piles of flesh warping over into layers of oozing sores and pain. Her grip abroad Raksha burned thrice as her — she cringed — companions began the leagues of striking the opponent, thus spurring their wrath. Some were intelligent to try and forsake the initial blow, but Ytone scoffed at their attempts at lame pacifism. The enemy was provided, and it was in the form of man that was unworthy, powerless, and overall beneath her. If these were great beasts and creatures of the realm, then she would've bowed and offered herself.

But, this was not that. This was a mere jest at pegging them to attack. And Ytone would [i]answer.[/i]

The first wave provided vital information as she continued the spin of her bladed fan and chain, The Raksha almost singing in the desire for penance and blood. One fell to the blade of one, a girl whose name she knew naught and cared none for, and she eyed the festering swell of ebony pus and good that boiled over the broken earth. So, decapitation was the ill intent, the sacrifice to these... abominations. Ytone took that into stock, allowed the second wave to commence until shrieks and moans wailed behind layers of flesh, muffled cries of fury and helplessness that spurred the others to answer in flashing blows of sword and righteousness. Silver eyes narrowed, dangerously so, mere slivers in the planes of ebony and pale skin until her grasp on her chain grew lax, fingers flaying open to unleash the projected force of the Tessen at it flew, singing iron that rivaled the torrential capers of the Faceless. 

The bladed fan acted as a weight tethered to the end of a rope, mimicking the engineering of a grappling hook or tread and slung around the pale, veining neck of one brutish vagrant adorned in rusted armour and wielding a mace of equal deterioration. The chain looped once, twice, three times and she followed suit, her fingers cinching about the connected links once more to pull taut on the lead and force the chain tighter, summoning a gurgling roar for her efforts. Her lips merely flattened at that, deadened simpers gracing naught her features as she charged, the Raksha angled in her one-handed vice and pulled on the chain more so, as if herding the creature to the fury of her weapon as it came down; a swoop of grace and elegance bathed in precision and death aimed to impale the whorls of flesh containing the cries of the woeful being.


[right][sup][i]. . . will you then ask for my name when the world has gone.[/i][/sup][/right][/indent][/color]