AmongHeroes

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Fenris shook his flesh, much like a dog shaking itself free of moisture. His eyes churned with the rainbow inkiness of crude oil, and his massive jaws clacked together with a resounding crash of bone.

The vermin that defied him were proving more irksome than he had thought possible, as not one of them had yet to have the good sense to perish. Things had perhaps changed more in the thousands of years of his captivity than the god-wolf had fathomed. Those creatures who naturally tapped into the rivers of the beyond were more potent apparently; stronger and less fragile than their forebears. Or so the god-wolf surmised.

This notion angered Fenris.

He was going about his dawn of destruction too personally, too single-mindedly. His body, his power, his divinity was like an axe, and here he was striking at these insignificant creatures as if he were a penknife. The whole of the world was to suffer his wrath, and these vermin were no exception.

With his mind resolved, Fenris lifted his mighty head to the clouds. His mouth was opened, and the long rows of his fangs curled towards one another like baleful tree-branches silhouetted against the dark sky.

Between these teeth a bright red ball of energy began to take shape. At first it was nothing more than a glimmer to those upon the ground. Then, slowly, it began to grow in size and intensity. Tendrils of crimson lightning coursed from between the monster’s teeth, and bolts flashed out from the clouds to add to the growing ball. The flashes came faster and faster as time passed, and the crackling ball of energy expanded with every bright strike of the ethereal lightning.



What met the vampire that had punctured the flesh of the god-wolf was nothing short of a typhoon of power. Like a tank of compressed air pierced by a needle, it rushed outward from the god’s body, enveloping her with a force of eons and the sting of eternity.

Fenris’ essence teetered on the brink of overwhelming the vampire, tearing at her soul until the very link with her physical body was almost severed. If not for the ancient blood* that had already steeled her veins, it most certainly would have.

Through the agony that she would come to endure as a result of the intoxicating blood of the god-wolf, the vampiress had managed a feat only the other Æsir gods had ever achieved…

Fenris’ mighty armor had its first chink; a single hairline crack in the bulwark that was the mighty god of destruction. All that was left now was to exploit it...

*-In the first episode of Pieces of 8, Siya discovered that she was the descendant of a powerful vampire named Lord Morpier. To make a long story short, she was used to ingest and protect one of the pillars of vampire blood-power before it could fall into hands of Decima, the antagonist of the first episode. This was known as a Piece of 8, and it is where the RP got its name. This is the 'ancient blood,' and the subsequent strength inherent with it, that I refer to.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Atticus was in the grimmest battle of his existence, but it was not against the titanic god of destruction. The white wolf spun about on the balls of his feet, wielding the long silver blade of a sword above his head. Amber eyes burned into Atticus, following his movements as the incubus shifted his weight painfully following the strike of the werewolf’s weapon.

Bleeding from more wounds than he could count, one of his wings bent unnaturally at his shoulder, Atticus snarled and whipped his tail behind him. Resilient though he was, Atticus was no warrior, at least not of the same caliber as the white wolf. If their bout lasted much longer, Atticus knew he would fall.

Behind the poised werewolf and some distance off, the massive figure of Fenris twisted and writhed, locked in combat with the doomed heroes of Bain & Hoyle. Atticus cursed himself for allowing the traitorous werewolf to catch him off guard, and steal him away from aiding his comrades.

In that brief moment of respite, as he stood bleeding, Atticus’ mind drifted to thoughts of his friends, and he hoped against hope that they were all still alive. A twinge of fear came to his heart as Siya’s angelic face blossomed into his mind. He thought he could feel her, like the sensation of a butterfly resting upon his skin, and he gained solace from that distant sense. It was enough to at least reassure him that the tiny vampire was still among the living. As if in cruel answer to his buoyant musings, a horrific hiss echoed from the direction of the god-wolf, shaking the earth and buffeting the clouds above. Atticus’ heart sank.

We are not meant to survive this, he thought, how could we expect otherwise?

The werewolf chose that moment to charge. In an instant he was before Atticus, the sword swinging in a deadly arc for a strike across the demon’s chest. With a deft flick of his tail, Atticus barely managed to swat the blade aside, taking a unbalanced step back as he did so.

Atticus' maneuver was rewarded with a slash of claws that opened his flesh at his left shoulder. A sharp cry of pain barked from Atticus' lungs, and he dove away from the werewolf as best he could.

As he moved away, Atticus could swear he hear the werewolf laughing.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Such wonderful stuff to read over a long stint away at work.

I think I've caught up on all the PM's that have been sent my way, and I plan to post tomorrow. Hope you all are having a great weekend.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Such a wonderful flood of amazing prose. I love it so! Who knew death and destruction could be so fun, amiright?

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Commander Murray fumed. The set of his jaw accentuated the fiery light that shone in his eyes, eyes that were affixed upon Captain Thomas Lightfoot. As Antonia played out her masterful charade, the Commander kept his mouth tightly closed. When she turned and disappeared into the crowd, he did not give chase. With a tug at his red sleeves, a lift of his chin, and an incredulous wave of his hand, the Commander dismissed the Frenchmen, Poutreau.

The French officer had been standing rigidly by, utter dismay and embarrassment etched upon his face as he witnessed the Commander’s humiliation. It was much to the man’s relief when the Commander shooed him off, and Poutreau left on swift feet, heading intently towards the nearest supply of wine.

Unlike the other men, Thomas had bowed with an embellished air of apology to the offended Antoinette as she verbally assailed the Commander, and then hurried away in a flourish of skirts. The pirate watched her go, taking keen interest in the direction of her departure. Though he had no doubt that Antonia wished him to eventually follow and meet her, even when she wanted to be found the rogue could be inadvertently too good at her craft. Through the crowd, Thomas thought he caught a glimpse of Antonia’s silhouette vanishing into the gloom of the nearby forest, and he marked the spot in his mind.

“You will regret this, Thomas,” said the Commander. His voice was low, but as steely and hard as cannon bronze.

Thomas stood fully from his bow, and turned back to face his ‘old friend.’

“You have made an enemy of me when I needn’t have been. I only ever wanted her to myself, she deserves as much. But now…” the Commander stepped forward, and Thomas could plainly see the enraged quiver of the man’s flesh. “…Now this is a matter of honor and of pride. Words that mean nothing to a dog such as yourself. Trust me when I say that there will be hell to pay, Thomas. And you will bear the burden of it all.”

For a long moment Thomas regarded the Commander in silence. He wanted to retort, to spit his own threats into the face of the British gentleman, but he refrained. The thought of chess came once again into his mind, and he reminded himself that he was not playing only for his own life. He had the distinct feeling that the match was only just developing, and that the culmination was still frustratingly distant.

In the end, Thomas only nodded. It was a move of simple acknowledgement, one man stating his acquiescence to the reality of things, and his intent to play along. Thomas turned to leave, but not before looking over his shoulder one last time.

“I shall look for you on the field.”

With that, Thomas shuffled away into the press of party-goers. For a time he could feel the Commander’s gaze boring into his back, until he became truly lost amongst the crowd.

Though it took him much longer than Antonia, Thomas wove his way through the party, intent on avoiding detection as he moved ever closer towards the tree line where he had last glimpse his rogue. After almost a quarter-hour of meandering, Thomas at last found himself amidst the cover of mangrove and lemon trees.

Into the darkness he peered. If Antonia was there, he could not see her.

“Antonia?” He whispered.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Vánagandr.

Hróðvitnir.

Fenrisúlfr.

Fenrir.

Fenris.

Many names to call one being, and all synonymous with devastation. Though he had spent millennia bound by the tortured cord known as Gleipnir, the Æsir in all their mighty arrogance had failed. He was of the Rökkr gods; primordial and ethereal. His time in captivity had left him no more depleted than if it had been only the blink of an eye. Freedom was Fenris’, and his wrath would be the instrument of his revenge against all the world.

As he appeared upon the realm of Midgard, surrounded by the fury of unholy green lightning, Fenris let out a mighty roar. The stone circle of Ardgroom was destroyed beneath his massive paws, and the emerald tendrils of magical energy that were woven there shattered like pane-glass.

With eyes shining like obsidian pearls, Fenris swung his head about to gaze down at those blest to first meet his fury. The creatures were small and insignificant against his deific prowess, yet even as he looked to them, Fenris was stunned to see them hold their ground, and even turn against him. It had taken all the will and combined might of the Æsir to restrain and bind him before, what did this band of scurrilous vermin hope to gain from their display of misplaced bravery?

It mattered not.

Even as Fenris was met by the combined onslaught of his newfound enemies, he let out a guttural and primal laugh. It echoed not through the air, but reverberated instead into the minds of all around him. It was a sound, a thought, of total spite, and utter hatred.

The god-wolf felt the vermin strike at his limbs, impaling him with weapons no more harmful than the prick of a needle. He felt great winds tug at his black fur, and unnatural fire ripple across his body. Amidst the maelstrom that rose up to meet him, Fenris heard and felt magic of the North rise up like a tide of snakes to envelope his head and muzzle. In front of his inky-black gaze a pair of the vermin danced, each striking at the broad orbs of his eyes with small weapons that spout fire and hot iron. Distantly, he also perceived that his legs were being assailed by something moving at preternatural speed, shaking at his joints and trying to force him off balance.

For several long minutes Fenris merely stood there. With his mighty back brushing the bottoms of the low clouds, he allowed the vermin their shining moment of hope. Even as he was enveloped with ancient magic and demonic fire, he simply stood.

Though his eyes were wholly black, and no pupils could be seen to denote the direction of his scrutiny, in an instantaneous moment all those that surrounded Fenris would perceive that the god-wolf’s obsidian stare had found them, and somehow only them.

The earth shook violently then, as if the ground itself was quaking with fear. Ripples coursed outward from Fenris’ paws like earthen waves, and for miles around god-wolf, the world shattered and crumbled, and the seas churned. Then, with a crack like thunder, the ripples flashed upward across Fenris’ body. His very flesh shuddered in a grotesque movement of fur and muscle.

Instantly the magical tendrils that encased his head and jaws shattered and recoiled. The spear that had lodged itself into his mouth dissolved into hopeless splinters as he swallowed them. The tongues of flame that coursed across his fur were snuffed out, and Fenris once again stood in all his glory, resplendent in horrific wholeness and terrible, uninjured splendor.

Now it was the god-wolf’s turn.

With speed that defied his size, Fenris’ long tail lashed out, striking the swift creature that had been attacking his legs, and flinging it away like chaff from wheat. At the same time his head bucked the pair of vermin from his eyes, launching them high into the roiling night sky.

With his body now clear of vermin, Fenris’ full attention fell to the spirit of the North, the one that had attempted to entwine and pierce him with the embryonic magic of the elements. The river eel, so confidently braying his perceived power like some harpy coupled with an unearthly donkey, would feel all the brunt of the god-wolf’s retribution.

Fenris opened his maw, and from it spewed a hiss that split the air with palpable force. Though only pain would meet the ears of most, when the hiss found the Siren, it amplified into a great deal more. With every pulse of the sound, the Siren was subjected to his own force of magic, his very nature turned against him in a terrible, singular moment.

Every deadly call, every dreadful iteration of the Siren’s violin, every note of discord, coercion, dismay, fear, and dread that the Nack had ever forced upon the ears of others now pulled with wrenching force against the creature’s mind.

The Siren may have called down his own classification of hell upon the god-wolf’s head, but in answer Fenris was returning unto him all the versions of hell, of every being that had ever felt the twisting magic of the Nack’s influence, and all of it funneled through the thin plane of the river spirit’s soul.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Great posts to read and enjoy, unfortunately I will be the one holding us up another half-day or so. RL reared its ugly head today, and I had to dutifully meet it. I'll get a post up as soon as I can. Sorry for the delay.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Hello everyone.

I hope your weekends have been relaxing and fun. I just got back from a little trip myself, so it's been great to read all the posts that have been put up in the last few days. I'm not sure if I will be able to write up my next post today, but definitely by tomorrow evening we'll have one. Have a great rest of the day!

P.S.-Good luck today for Team USA as they play Portugal! #IBelieve

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

I got a PM fired off your way, LT!

Good morning, and how is everyone? Glad to see some wonderful posts are surely on the way .

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas watched the retreating figures of the First Mate and Jax with a look upon his face of grim befuddlement. He caught Antonia’s slight look of defeat in the matter, and Thomas’ reply came without so much as a rise of his brow. If Antonia didn’t have a clue as to the cause of Nicolette’s flight, than Thomas certainly hadn’t the slightest idea.

The Commander’s introduction of the Frenchman called Thomas’ attention from his vanished crewmates, and back to his figurative chess match. With a smile lifted with wires of disdain, Thomas shook Captain Poutreau’s hand as the Commander presented him. He found the Frenchman’s grasp to be clammy and paltry—a decidedly French grip that reminded Thomas of a newt or gecko clutching at his hand.

As the Commander continued on, edifying the small group of their recent exchange, Thomas found himself chuckling in return.

“You are indeed correct, my friend. I was speaking of my crew’s loyalty and fortitude just scant moments ago, and I adhere to the notion still. But, let us be frank,” Thomas said opening his hands to the Frenchman and the Commander alike, “French, er, shall we say…puanteur, can overwhelm even the most hardened of noses, don’t you agree?”

Thomas aimed the sweet smile that now crossed his cheeks fully to Captain Poutreau. The mention of his having women amongst his crew, and all the insinuations that accompanied it, did not sting Thomas’ ego in the least. Though, the fact that this French toad of a man would deign himself worthy of comment upon Thomas’ crew, conjured up the urge to choke the man with the ebony ends of his own wig.

“Ah, my dear Captain,” Thomas replied, “it is indeed an odd thing for the master of a ship to be seconded by a woman, that much I wholly understand. Why, it has brought me to a level of gossip in the town that I simply never fathomed!”

Thomas began fanning himself theatrically with his hand, acting as if the very notion of his ship being the brunt of Port Royal’s social commentary as utterly exhausting. After several short puffs of breath, Thomas took a languid step closer to the Frenchman.

“In my case, however, I must confess that the arrangement is quite liberating. You see, it is so very tedious coveting the loins of the officer beneath you…” Thomas paused to giggle tremulously, “…I mean my last Second was such a strapping young lad, I could not but stare and dream all the hours of the day. Almost ran my poor ship aground I did! Oh it was so very unprofessional, and horrid for business.”

Another step brought Thomas decidedly too close for societal acceptance with the Frenchman. He looked into the man’s eyes for a long moment before slowly shifting the strange and starry gaze to the Commander.

“Old friends, Robert? You would describe us that way, wouldn’t you?” Thomas took a step back, much to the conspicuous relief of the completely unnerved Captain Poutreau. He ‘tsked tsked’ towards the Commander, shifting his expression to one of longing and remembrance.

“I suppose it was foolish to expect more from such a high born man. I am not but a common sea cur, a social pariah when compared to such an illustrious gentleman.” Thomas emphasized his words with a light wave of his hand, indicating the entirety of the Commander’s rigid body.

Thomas dropped his voice to a whisper, though one loud enough for all in the group to plainly hear. He lifted his eyes to the Commander, pursing his lips with an effeminate snort of his nose.

“Well, no matter now, we’ll always have that night in Saint Kitts, won’t we Robert?”