Lord Zee
Vec
JFK
Fetzen
Thayr
BingTheWing
The Carver wasted no time formulating a response to Zadok. Immediately it began analyzing the situation, something that took mere fractions of a second for the magic being's incomprehensibly quick mind. The Carver had two tremendous advantages. The first was the simple fact that the Ripper was preoccupied, attempting to simultaneously fight and pierce the Source's core. The second was that this put the Carver in a much more flexible position, free to move around and try to avoid attacks, whereas the Ripper was forced to encompass the Source's core at all times and continue breaking it down. Otherwise, what little damage had been done to the core would quickly repair itself.
However, the Ripper possessed an advantage as well. By encompassing the core where this universe's magic originated from, the being was fed an unending flow of more magic. What wasn't assimilated into the Ripper's form in order to rejuvenate it was corrupted into the crimson energy of destruction and then spewed out into the Source.
The Carver could similarly rejuvenate itself by absorbing magic from its surroundings and from the fabric of this universe itself. However, as time went on the local magic was becoming more and more corrupted. The Ripper's foul aura and energy of destruction was like smoke to the Carver, building up in his proverbial lungs, unable to leave quickly enough. This was slowly but surely crippling the normally indefatigable guardian. The Carver's nemesis was sure to be victorious if this battle continued to stretch on as it did.
So it was vital for the Carver to switch strategies. Clearly the duo's current attacks were ineffective, with the two simply hurtling small amounts of their magic into the other in an attempt to neutralize a larger portion of their foe's power. The Ripper had been stripped of all its holy duties and powers on Outremar's final day, leaving him with only the capacity to destroy. The Carver, however, could reshape and create nigh anything that existed in its domain, which happened to be this entire universe. Though to use such powers in battle was akin to sacrilege, failing to exploit this advantage would spell certain defeat.
The flying blasts of vernal magic abruptly ceased. The Carver concentrated, feeling the ebb and flow of this plane's energy, tracing the grains of its shape. The Ripper hurtled a wall of scarlet magic. The Carver remained still, letting the red light surge into and wash over him. The amount of damage one such burst could inflict was miniscule, at least to the Carver. At last, the guardian identified a soft spot, an easy place to sculpt at and break away. A brilliant light appeared as the Carver summoned its most holy magic. The brilliance coalesced into the shape of a divine, glowing, carving knife of massive proportions.
The tool flew forward at the speed of light, effortlessly pushing through the metallic, pressurized gas and plasma. The tool came into contact with the Ripper, and then it was met with resistance. It shook violently and slowed as it attempted to force its way through pure hatred and destruction, yet it succeeded. The tool had cleaved the Ripper in twain, separating a massive chunk of red magic from the main, spherical cloud of energy that was the Ripper.
The severed piece flew off in an arc, before meeting a volatile end. A thousand times as potent as the mere bursts that the Ripper was capable of emitting, this lifeblood of destruction exploded with a force that shook the Source and stirred up even more violent storms on the gas giant's surface. The ethereal Carver was unscathed, where any physical being would have been disintegrated by the sheer force.
The Ripper howled in pain. Ten thousand of the capricious voices cried out telepathically, and yet not one of them was legible. They shrieked, hissed, roared, and clawed at the mind of the Carver. The guardian tried to shield Zadok from this, but his efforts were largely in vain; the anti-keeper would be exposed as well, through the telepathic link. The guardian pulled back his knife and prepared to slice off another chunk from its adversary; that would be one step closer to silencing the Ripper and sparing this realm. The Ripper would have none of it.
Out of nowhere, thousands of them emerged. They split and replicated themselves, until there were millions. Billions. An infinite number of needles appeared, connected to the Ripper by tiny threads of vermillion. Once, when the Ripper was known as the Weaver, these needles created new things and stitched the very fabric of Outremar's universe. They had been akin to the Carver's knife. But now, the needles had threads of hate and destruction. They could weave no more; however, they could now gouge and cut.
Untold amounts of these needles wrapped themselves around the Carver, strangling the being with their threads of destruction and perforating the guardian with their infinitely sharp points. The Carver wildly swung his knife, not at the Ripper but at the threads that connected the needles to their vile master and controlled them. The implements vanished the moment that their threads were hacked away, but it was in vain. With naught more than a thought, the Ripper conjured millions more. They wrapped around the Carver's knife, wrenching it away and preventing it from being used as a weapon.
Before, the Ripper had merely been content to preoccupy the Carver. The entity had staved off the thing pestering it as if it had been a fly, by halfheartedly swatting at it every now and then. Now, the Ripper was enraged, and exercised no restraint. It would hold nothing back; breaching Elysium's core was not a priority so much as removing this insolent guardian from existence. More needles appeared. The Ripper drove them into its enemy, eviscerating and hooking the Carver. The guardian was helpless, unable to so much as move as the Ripper fired a massive beam of destructive energy. The Ripper intended to maintain the concentrated beam until the Carver exploded in a great flash and was but a memory.
Fortunately, a carving knife was not the only tool of an artisan. Weavers had only their needles and threads, but sculptors and carvers had chisels, knives, hammers, rasps, files, rubbing stones, and many other utensils in their repertoire. The Carver summoned its divine hammer and held it in place to block the beam. It works. The crimson light was met with the sheer brilliance of the divine hammer's head, and was reflected off into the gas giant's swirling clouds and whipping winds; however, the tool was not unscathed. Its white glow had been stained, and now it emanated a pallid pink. The Carver dared not bring it into contact with the adversary, for fear that the Ripper would corrupt and steal the hammer.
The Carver's other tools (the guardian shuddered at how the once-noble implements were now being degraded to mere weapons) would hardly be suitable. The Carver manipulated the hammer, swinging it wildly and too quickly for the Ripper to entangle it like the knife. There was still a small amount of uncorrupted magic in the vicinity. The Carver grasped at the playful eddy, distilling it into a more potent form. The lump of holy magic crystallized, becoming a physical object not unlike the Source's core. With a furious blow from the hammer, the asteroid sized chunk of magic was sent hurtling towards the Ripper. If such concentrated holy magic came into contact with the Ripper, the results would not be pretty.
The destructive entity no doubt knew that. The Ripper expended an inordinate amount of its own energy, visibly shrinking a small amount as it firing a beam of its own essence at the projectile. The ruinous magic and holy magic collided. The two repelled each other, and so the chunk of matter was sent flying backwards, with a small amount of the writhing, red magic stubbornly clinging to the surface. The Carver easily dodged the flying asteroid, and so the thing continued to fly unstopped. The Carver and the Ripper continued to fight with their battle with increasing intensity.
Some time elapsed. Zadok would likely be able to catch flickers of what was going on inside the Source, though the Carver's mind would simply be too quick and the scene too chaotic for the anti-keeper to discern much. At last, the fighting began to temporarily die down a bit as the two magical beings were both exhausted. They continued to battle, though they both tried to rejuvenate themselves for a short period of time before they inevitably resumed fighting with no quarter, even more vigorously than before. During this time, the Carver had an opportunity to communicate with Zadok. Since the anti-keeper had requested to stay informed and the guardian had not thought to deny that request immediately, the Carver was somewhat obligated to have a brief conversation.
"The fighting continues, though I believe the stalemate has been broken. Both I and this extra-dimensional demon have sustained injuries, though its are more grievous than mine. I will continue to press my advantage, though I can feel the enemy's fragmented mind at work. It is seeking to equalize us once more, and then gain the upper hand. However, I do not know how it might attempt to go about doing so."
As the Carver finished, Zadok might turn to see an object approaching at an alarming rate. It was the asteroid that the Carver had tried to throw at the Ripper, though by now it was hardly a crystalline ball of holy energy. The Ripper must have expended an even more enormous amount of energy deflecting it than the Carver had thought, as the thing now glowed carmine and cackled with destructive energy.
Zadok might have had a mind to intercept the object on its path and stop it, but any effort would be in vain. As it neared Zadok, the rather large asteroid suddenly and violently exploded. Dozens of shards were scattered in all directions. Most were just small pebbles or chunks of rock, yet there were several larger ones, their red surfaces covered in magical runes and the space around them illuminated with an ominous glow. These larger asteroids all flew towards Elysium at incredible speeds, propelled by sheer malevolence. They each contained a piece of the Ripper's essence and had a mind of their own.
As they made their descent towards the continent, the Destruction Catalysts adjusted their trajectories to seek out places of great magical power. One lonely one righted its path far from the others, heading towards the bleak, isolated tundra north of Altearx. A different one adjusted its angle to land in an equally remote, yet vastly different place, deep with the depths of the Oerwoud jungle. Further to the south, one was headed towards a black lake sitting amongst a sea of golden grasses. Three circled around each other as they soared over the Hindrun ranges, before all crashing down onto the shoreline. One fell into the great city of Paterdomus, and the other two in its close vicinity, near a village to the south where the dead walked, with the other crashing amidst a foreboding forest to the west. Many others fell down, scattered across the other far corners of Elysium.
Cyclone
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Bio
Back when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, I got started with writing online on the Spore forums. Man, those were the days. We're talking like 12 years ago 2010-ish!
I've been here on and off for almost as long, and have GM'd a bunch of different things to varying success.
I've been here on and off for almost as long, and have GM'd a bunch of different things to varying success.
Word of my splendor:
Most Recent Posts
Can you guys give me some feedback about my posts with the Carver and the Ripper? While I think they're pretty cool and unique as characters, they're also incredibly difficult to write as. I like to think that I've gotten adept at writing fight scenes, but I find this particular case to be a struggle. It's odd for me to imagine how a fight might go between two such unconventional characters, especially given the circumstances.
What usually ends up happening is I do part of a post before drawing a blank or just feeling bored, and so I end up doing it in a few different sections over the next day or two (I'm in the middle of this process as I write). And once I'm done, forget about proofreading, because by the end of all that my mind is fried and I'm tired of looking at those few paragraphs.
Well, that turned into more of a rant than I intended. But anyways, is the stuff going on in the Source interesting, or just plain repetitive/confusing?
What usually ends up happening is I do part of a post before drawing a blank or just feeling bored, and so I end up doing it in a few different sections over the next day or two (I'm in the middle of this process as I write). And once I'm done, forget about proofreading, because by the end of all that my mind is fried and I'm tired of looking at those few paragraphs.
Well, that turned into more of a rant than I intended. But anyways, is the stuff going on in the Source interesting, or just plain repetitive/confusing?
I'll do another Ripper/Carver post and get things moving once we figure out that thing I mentioned in the PM.
Without warning, the outermost drawbridge crashed down. A horde of armed men surged out of the castle that was Paterdomus' cathedral, out into the massive paved plaza outside. Today was not a day of worship and the cathedral was strictly closed, and so the grand, flat esplanade amongst the inner city's towering buildings had been filled to the brim with market stalls and town criers. Immediately, the Temple Knights began ordering the merchants and farmers to immediately gather up their produce and take down thei tents and stands.
Not minutes after, a great plume of thick, black smoke began to rise from the cathedral's signal fire. The fire priests were burning timber coated in tar. Visible from miles away, this signaled to the entire city that they were to amass in the town square to be addressed by the theocracy. The Prophet walked out to the top of the cathedral's outermost wall. From atop the battlements, he watched as the plaza rapidly filled with throngs of people. There was no introduction or dramatic entrance, only a lone figure atop the wall, leaning over its edge to gaze down upon the crowd. There were thousands amassed in the square now, though with well over a million inhabitants, nowhere close to the full population could crowd into the square. The peasants brushed right up against one another, filling every possible space. Hundreds of elite Temple Knights held the masses back a respectable distance from the walls, and ensured order. Children sat upon the shoulders of their parents in an effort to see the lone figure standing atop the battlements.
The people were usually informed about the topic of discussion and time of meeting long beforehand, to the point that it was only a ceremony; a crowd of red-robed priests would come out to announce news that the people already had heard from the town criers. Now, they had no idea why they were so abruptly summoned or who the lone figure atop the walls could be. With only a small red cape draped over his shoulders, from down below the people did not even know that the Prophet was an Anointed of Caldor. It had been so long since he had appeared in public that they did not recognize their ruler.
With such little notice, the priest soon realized that no preparations had been made by his incompetent subordinates. The crowd was not going to be quieted down. With exasperation, the Prophet took the matter upon himself. He raised a fist, and every small brazier spaced across the battlements suddenly erupted into a column of crimson fire. The crowd was instantly shocked into a deathly silence. They now knew who wished to address them; there was only one fire priest capable of such a feat.
"People of Paterdomus!" the Prophet's coarse voice cried out. He spoke as loud as he could, yet his words were hardly heard by most of the crowd. The priest's voice was weak from disuse, as he scarcely made contact with any other living being. It was only an enormous sense of purpose, of duty, of Caldor's might, that kept him from melting into a stammering fool as he stood before such a gathering.
"Many of you have asked about the crimson sun," he continued, gesturing towards the sky. The other fire priests, seated behind their leader and out of sight of the crowd below, began to mutter to themselves. It had hardly taken the clergy more than an hour after the Source's transformation to address the people and prevent mass rioting and panic. The citizens had already been told that it was a sign from Caldor. There was nothing more to say. Was the prophet even aware of his own redundancy?
"...while rumors abound about a rogue necromancer ravaging the countryside, and about the barbarian tribes in the west slaying an entire legion of crusaders. I know that you also question what to make of the monster that attacked our walls not a fortnight ago, killing hundreds." The fire priests were now whispering amongst themselves. These issues had been answered in much the same way, with hardly any confirmation or acknowledgement, just a cryptic mentioning that it was Caldor's will and that the people should uphold their duties to the temple and remain faithful through troubling times. What was the prophet doing? One wrong word could throw the entire crowd into a panic and leave the city in turmoil, and it looked as if the theurgist was making up his speech as he went. Why had he not asked for a script to be prepared beforehand?
"Hear my words, for Caldor's Prophet tells only truths! The darkness closes in from all sides. We have too many reports to deny the existence of this necromancer. In my auguries, I have seen a darkness sweep across the forests to the west. The crusade is stymied. Soon those legions will find themselves on the defensive, fighting against horrors unimaginable. A darkness rises in both the east and the south. The vassals have been called. The armies are being assembled. We shall fight a war the likes of which have never been seen!"
At this point the fire priests were clamoring amongst themselves, not even bothering to keep their outrage to whispers anymore. At the same time that the fire priests openly contemplated dragging away their foolish leader and silencing him before he could say anything worse, the High Prophet had half a mind to incinerate the lot of them for their disrespect and distraction. Alas, neither made a move. The lesser priests knew that it was already too late, their crazed leader's words would undoubtedly cause a mass panic that would be impossible for even the most charismatic speaker to alleviate. Riots would follow. Productivity would suffer. Chaos would reign. Both sides were afraid to silence the other in front of such a large crowd, and so the fire priests sat just as mortified as the masses below, while the Prophet continued to preach.
"That will not be enough. No mere men could stand against what comes. Our legions are the mightiest in Elysium. Our people are Caldor's chosen, hardened by his flame and under his protection. And we would still be reduced to dust. Do you not see it?"
The Prophet continued, somehow finding the strength to strain his voice to be even louder. His doomsday speech was terrifying the people, who put unwavering trust in the clergy. It was only his unshakable manner and booming voice that had the crowd pacified in its grip. "That is why our sun is stained crimson. Caldor knows of our plight. The time has come! He is ready to return once more to Elysium. I shall devote every moment of my waking breath to performing the ancient rites. The Anointed of Caldor will finally perform their ultimate duty, and summon the dead god back into this plane!
Our patron god alone will stop certain death! He will return the vile necromancer and all his abominations to the blackened husks that they once were. The wretched forest to the west and all the heathens that people it will be reduced to ash. His brilliance will boil the wretched Suri river that the water priests cannot keep enchanted. And let our ancient enemies march on our city once again! None will stand before mighty Caldor!"
Those that could hear erupted into cheer. Within seconds the entire crowd was cheering. Their cries and jumping shook the city. The word of the Prophet was already beginning to spread like wildfire. The High Prophet raised an arm and concentrated. The dying signal fire, still burning atop the fire priest's black fire, suddenly turned into a blaze once more. From the flames burst a great fireball, though it was in the shape of a bird. The Prophet guided the flaming pheonix through the air, circling it above the crowd before slackening his arms and letting the fireball's shape fall apart. The pheonix basked the crowd below in Caldor's warmth as it died.
The High Prophet stepped back and returned to the cathedral, ordering the fire priests to devote all possible hands towards combing through the reliquaries. They needed every bit of information that could be found, if they were going to find a way to perform the mythical rite that would return Caldor. The fire priests that had accompanied their leader out simply gawked in silence. The prophet had surely gone mad.
--==_==--
William stumbled through the brush and instantly emerged from the dense forest into a ruined village. Keenly aware that he was in the open, the scout found cover behind a burned house. The smell of death and burned flesh hung in the air, forcing its way into the soldier's lungs. However, being one of the Knights of the Flame meant that he had smelled a fair deal of burned men and seen plenty of death, what with pyromancers present at every battle. That was actually fortunate in this moment, as it meant the man kept his breakfast despite the disgusting reek. The scout waited for many minutes, hearing nothing. Finally, with great trepidation, the scout came out from hiding and walked toward the middle of the village.
There were corpses strewn through the clearing, all brutalized. Torn into bits, burned, and crushed. They were fresh, perhaps breathing only a day ago. One of them had an intact amulet of an owl. The thing was carved of wood, and had tiny bits of amber for eyes. That was the clan symbol of the Klug tribe, not the Mutig. These were no doubt looters come to take whatever was left in their rival clan's razed village, presumably killed by some survivors of the Mutig tribe, or the missing army of crusaders that had been sent to sack this settlement. However, the horrendous manners in which the men had died, combined with the looks of utter terror plastered on their faces led the seasoned scout to believe that this couldn't have been the work of humans. Something else did this.
The scout walked through the village. On the outskirts opposite from where he had first emerged, he saw a few mounds of bodies, next to a newly made mass grave. It seemed as if these were old corpses, and Mutig. The Knights of the Flame had obviously piled up their fallen enemies and left them to rot, as they were wont to do, but the Mutig had returned to bury some of their deceased. They clearly hadn't finished in that endeavor, though. Perhaps they were still around, waiting in ambush for more Klug warbands. William told himself that such a notion was foolish; if they were all hiding here, they would have captured or killed him by now. Still, he wrapped his hand around the handle of his trusty dagger, just for comfort.
The scout circled around the village, looking for signs of where the crusader army might have gone. The rains had washed away footprints, yet the hundreds of knights had simply tramped through the forest for miles, marching to the assault that would be their doom. William easily saw their trail, and followed it. He saw signs of a struggle in the outskirts of the forest, near a clearing that had an isolated, rocky hill. Knowing that the army had been ordered to investigate rumors of a Mutig hideout in some place that matched this description, William quickly left. It was clear that the information had been correct: the crusaders had marched up expecting to find nothing or have an easy battle against a few starved barbarians, only to find themselves massacred to the last man.
As William returned to where the rest of his squad would be waiting for his report, he found himself lost in the dense forest. Not knowing what else to do, he climbed one of the massive trees in hopes of regaining his bearing. He immediately noticed the small clearing that was the meeting spot, and saw a few men standing around, their polished armor gleaming in the sun He had made it almost all the way back without realizing it! But something was wrong. A trail of smoke was wafting from between trees in the distance. A strange, bestial roar could be heard coming from within that direction. Whatever was out there was heading straight to the clearing, and swiftly. The scout was light on his feet and agile, but he knew that he would never make it back in time to warn them. The hardened soldier was paralyzed with thoughts of the mutilated Klug tribesmen that had been in the village. The scout remained hidden in the crest of that tree, watching in terror as the smoke rapidly closed in on his brothers in arms.
Not minutes after, a great plume of thick, black smoke began to rise from the cathedral's signal fire. The fire priests were burning timber coated in tar. Visible from miles away, this signaled to the entire city that they were to amass in the town square to be addressed by the theocracy. The Prophet walked out to the top of the cathedral's outermost wall. From atop the battlements, he watched as the plaza rapidly filled with throngs of people. There was no introduction or dramatic entrance, only a lone figure atop the wall, leaning over its edge to gaze down upon the crowd. There were thousands amassed in the square now, though with well over a million inhabitants, nowhere close to the full population could crowd into the square. The peasants brushed right up against one another, filling every possible space. Hundreds of elite Temple Knights held the masses back a respectable distance from the walls, and ensured order. Children sat upon the shoulders of their parents in an effort to see the lone figure standing atop the battlements.
The people were usually informed about the topic of discussion and time of meeting long beforehand, to the point that it was only a ceremony; a crowd of red-robed priests would come out to announce news that the people already had heard from the town criers. Now, they had no idea why they were so abruptly summoned or who the lone figure atop the walls could be. With only a small red cape draped over his shoulders, from down below the people did not even know that the Prophet was an Anointed of Caldor. It had been so long since he had appeared in public that they did not recognize their ruler.
With such little notice, the priest soon realized that no preparations had been made by his incompetent subordinates. The crowd was not going to be quieted down. With exasperation, the Prophet took the matter upon himself. He raised a fist, and every small brazier spaced across the battlements suddenly erupted into a column of crimson fire. The crowd was instantly shocked into a deathly silence. They now knew who wished to address them; there was only one fire priest capable of such a feat.
"People of Paterdomus!" the Prophet's coarse voice cried out. He spoke as loud as he could, yet his words were hardly heard by most of the crowd. The priest's voice was weak from disuse, as he scarcely made contact with any other living being. It was only an enormous sense of purpose, of duty, of Caldor's might, that kept him from melting into a stammering fool as he stood before such a gathering.
"Many of you have asked about the crimson sun," he continued, gesturing towards the sky. The other fire priests, seated behind their leader and out of sight of the crowd below, began to mutter to themselves. It had hardly taken the clergy more than an hour after the Source's transformation to address the people and prevent mass rioting and panic. The citizens had already been told that it was a sign from Caldor. There was nothing more to say. Was the prophet even aware of his own redundancy?
"...while rumors abound about a rogue necromancer ravaging the countryside, and about the barbarian tribes in the west slaying an entire legion of crusaders. I know that you also question what to make of the monster that attacked our walls not a fortnight ago, killing hundreds." The fire priests were now whispering amongst themselves. These issues had been answered in much the same way, with hardly any confirmation or acknowledgement, just a cryptic mentioning that it was Caldor's will and that the people should uphold their duties to the temple and remain faithful through troubling times. What was the prophet doing? One wrong word could throw the entire crowd into a panic and leave the city in turmoil, and it looked as if the theurgist was making up his speech as he went. Why had he not asked for a script to be prepared beforehand?
"Hear my words, for Caldor's Prophet tells only truths! The darkness closes in from all sides. We have too many reports to deny the existence of this necromancer. In my auguries, I have seen a darkness sweep across the forests to the west. The crusade is stymied. Soon those legions will find themselves on the defensive, fighting against horrors unimaginable. A darkness rises in both the east and the south. The vassals have been called. The armies are being assembled. We shall fight a war the likes of which have never been seen!"
At this point the fire priests were clamoring amongst themselves, not even bothering to keep their outrage to whispers anymore. At the same time that the fire priests openly contemplated dragging away their foolish leader and silencing him before he could say anything worse, the High Prophet had half a mind to incinerate the lot of them for their disrespect and distraction. Alas, neither made a move. The lesser priests knew that it was already too late, their crazed leader's words would undoubtedly cause a mass panic that would be impossible for even the most charismatic speaker to alleviate. Riots would follow. Productivity would suffer. Chaos would reign. Both sides were afraid to silence the other in front of such a large crowd, and so the fire priests sat just as mortified as the masses below, while the Prophet continued to preach.
"That will not be enough. No mere men could stand against what comes. Our legions are the mightiest in Elysium. Our people are Caldor's chosen, hardened by his flame and under his protection. And we would still be reduced to dust. Do you not see it?"
The Prophet continued, somehow finding the strength to strain his voice to be even louder. His doomsday speech was terrifying the people, who put unwavering trust in the clergy. It was only his unshakable manner and booming voice that had the crowd pacified in its grip. "That is why our sun is stained crimson. Caldor knows of our plight. The time has come! He is ready to return once more to Elysium. I shall devote every moment of my waking breath to performing the ancient rites. The Anointed of Caldor will finally perform their ultimate duty, and summon the dead god back into this plane!
Our patron god alone will stop certain death! He will return the vile necromancer and all his abominations to the blackened husks that they once were. The wretched forest to the west and all the heathens that people it will be reduced to ash. His brilliance will boil the wretched Suri river that the water priests cannot keep enchanted. And let our ancient enemies march on our city once again! None will stand before mighty Caldor!"
Those that could hear erupted into cheer. Within seconds the entire crowd was cheering. Their cries and jumping shook the city. The word of the Prophet was already beginning to spread like wildfire. The High Prophet raised an arm and concentrated. The dying signal fire, still burning atop the fire priest's black fire, suddenly turned into a blaze once more. From the flames burst a great fireball, though it was in the shape of a bird. The Prophet guided the flaming pheonix through the air, circling it above the crowd before slackening his arms and letting the fireball's shape fall apart. The pheonix basked the crowd below in Caldor's warmth as it died.
The High Prophet stepped back and returned to the cathedral, ordering the fire priests to devote all possible hands towards combing through the reliquaries. They needed every bit of information that could be found, if they were going to find a way to perform the mythical rite that would return Caldor. The fire priests that had accompanied their leader out simply gawked in silence. The prophet had surely gone mad.
--==_==--
William stumbled through the brush and instantly emerged from the dense forest into a ruined village. Keenly aware that he was in the open, the scout found cover behind a burned house. The smell of death and burned flesh hung in the air, forcing its way into the soldier's lungs. However, being one of the Knights of the Flame meant that he had smelled a fair deal of burned men and seen plenty of death, what with pyromancers present at every battle. That was actually fortunate in this moment, as it meant the man kept his breakfast despite the disgusting reek. The scout waited for many minutes, hearing nothing. Finally, with great trepidation, the scout came out from hiding and walked toward the middle of the village.
There were corpses strewn through the clearing, all brutalized. Torn into bits, burned, and crushed. They were fresh, perhaps breathing only a day ago. One of them had an intact amulet of an owl. The thing was carved of wood, and had tiny bits of amber for eyes. That was the clan symbol of the Klug tribe, not the Mutig. These were no doubt looters come to take whatever was left in their rival clan's razed village, presumably killed by some survivors of the Mutig tribe, or the missing army of crusaders that had been sent to sack this settlement. However, the horrendous manners in which the men had died, combined with the looks of utter terror plastered on their faces led the seasoned scout to believe that this couldn't have been the work of humans. Something else did this.
The scout walked through the village. On the outskirts opposite from where he had first emerged, he saw a few mounds of bodies, next to a newly made mass grave. It seemed as if these were old corpses, and Mutig. The Knights of the Flame had obviously piled up their fallen enemies and left them to rot, as they were wont to do, but the Mutig had returned to bury some of their deceased. They clearly hadn't finished in that endeavor, though. Perhaps they were still around, waiting in ambush for more Klug warbands. William told himself that such a notion was foolish; if they were all hiding here, they would have captured or killed him by now. Still, he wrapped his hand around the handle of his trusty dagger, just for comfort.
The scout circled around the village, looking for signs of where the crusader army might have gone. The rains had washed away footprints, yet the hundreds of knights had simply tramped through the forest for miles, marching to the assault that would be their doom. William easily saw their trail, and followed it. He saw signs of a struggle in the outskirts of the forest, near a clearing that had an isolated, rocky hill. Knowing that the army had been ordered to investigate rumors of a Mutig hideout in some place that matched this description, William quickly left. It was clear that the information had been correct: the crusaders had marched up expecting to find nothing or have an easy battle against a few starved barbarians, only to find themselves massacred to the last man.
As William returned to where the rest of his squad would be waiting for his report, he found himself lost in the dense forest. Not knowing what else to do, he climbed one of the massive trees in hopes of regaining his bearing. He immediately noticed the small clearing that was the meeting spot, and saw a few men standing around, their polished armor gleaming in the sun He had made it almost all the way back without realizing it! But something was wrong. A trail of smoke was wafting from between trees in the distance. A strange, bestial roar could be heard coming from within that direction. Whatever was out there was heading straight to the clearing, and swiftly. The scout was light on his feet and agile, but he knew that he would never make it back in time to warn them. The hardened soldier was paralyzed with thoughts of the mutilated Klug tribesmen that had been in the village. The scout remained hidden in the crest of that tree, watching in terror as the smoke rapidly closed in on his brothers in arms.
BBeast, a similarly small response from Zadok would also be good. Speaking of which, you think it's about time to kick the main plot into action?
Thanks! :3
*whistles* Anybody else wanna post before BBeast is back?
*whistles* Anybody else wanna post before BBeast is back?
As requested by R4inator, I finished up that fight.
The Carver was confused. Zadok had responded to a simple observation with an arrogant description of his abilities, likely in some puerile attempt to boast. The implication of having to even explain such things was insulting to the guardian's intelligence in and of itself; didn't this Anti-Keeper realize that such information was already known and unnecessary to share? Pah, the Carver would never understand these physical beings and their petty mannerisms.
Those feelings would have inevitably been sensed by Zadok, such was their telepathic link. As such, so no scolding response was required. Instead, the being answered Zadok's second statement, "An acute observation, and indeed more true than one would like to admit. It has been determined that a change of tactics are in order. At present, neither of our attacks are damaging one another enough."
===--_--===
Balon at last negotiated the black tunnels to where he had first fallen in. Admittedly, the giant had found himself lost many times and the fact that some passageways were too small only made navigating the dungeon even harder. However, intimidating the various creatures that he came across proved to be a good way to get reliable directions. Exploding up from beneath the black waters, his colossal hands were barely able to find purchase on the cleft above. OF course, that grab only lasted until the entire thing collapsed in a sort of mudslide, which did not take long given Balon's weight.
After several more tries, the giant was able to clamber back onto the surface, near the beach where he had emerged earlier. The gaping hole in the ground was now noticeably larger, though that security breach was a problem for the puny imps to worry about. Balon trudged along the shorline before many hours before seeing smoke rise from the distance, a telltale sign of what he was looking for. Balon's pace quickened to a run, his great strides making him terribly swift. As he charged towards the fishing village, spear and shield in hand, Xir'ain's words echoed in the giant's mind. "Do not kill anything," the Keeper had commanded. Well, Balon had no intention of breaking orders. It would be the spear that did the killing, not the giant.
===--_--===
Lord Rain scoffed in amusement. This human's stupidity knew no bounds. The man charged wildly at his foe from across the plaza, bellowing like a fool. The keeper's approach was more ominous; slow, deliberate, and silent save for the heavy thud of the warlord's footsteps. After a few moments, when the belligerent human had closed half the gap between them, the keeper hefted the huge axe that was in his left hand, and then hurled it. The terrible weapon glowed with dancing electricity as it cut through the air, low to the ground, heading straight for the human's legs. The man narrowly avoided the spinning weapon by awkwardly leaping backwards and to the side.
So the man didn't get torn in half. That was disappointing. At least his charge had been stopped, though. The axe continued to soar across the plaza until it flew into the stone building that the human had emerged from. An entire balcony collapsed as the axe destroyed one of the pillars that supported it. Bah, the weapon's enchantments would have kept it from being damaged. The keeper would retrieve it after he killed the fool that stood before him.
Having staggered back to his feet, the man was now charging towards his adversary once again. A cruel and delightful thought entered the Keeper's mind- using magic to boil this fool alive in his own shining armor! A lightning bolt materialized in Lord Rain's empty left hand. Without warning, he hurled it like a javelin towards the man. The resulting thunder shook the town square as the lightning hit the knight's tower shield and exploded with force. The man's charge was certainly broken this time as well. He was thrown backwards and knocked onto the ground; however, he was now staggering back to his feet, apparently still alive. No doubt his shield and armor were enchanted, sparing his miserable life for another few seconds.
Lord Rain was tired of playing with this annoying little knight. He snapped his fingers and lightning came down from the sky and struck the ground right next to the man. His enchanted armor prevented a death by electrocution, but the sheer force still tossed him about like the dust that he would soon be. The Keeper simply walked up to the man and began swinging his axe. It was all the knight could do to raise his shield, but as blow after blow from the huge axe was rained down on him, the tower shield was reduced to scrap metal, and the hand, arm, and shoulder that held the shield were broken.
In defiance, the knight tried to stab at his enemy. However, the man was laying on the ground and was now exhausted, so he couldn't even put enough force behind his sword to pierce Lord Rain's heavy armor. All he did was bring out the Keeper's ire. Lord Rain kicked the human with his metal boots, denting the knight's armor and cracking several ribs. At last, the weakling was unable to continue fighting and dropped his sword.
Lord Rain pinned the human down with one foot to the chest. Shock then approached his master, informing him that the rest of the townsmen had been subdued; all the guards were dead, and all the townsmen that had formed a militia were also dead. The Stormers and Bolters had taken no prisoners. The Keeper looked down at the prior lord of this town, the man beneath his boot. It looked like his wounds were grievous enough to knock him unconscious, but he was still alive. For now, at least. Lord Rain stared down at his defeated enemy, knowing exactly what he would do.
Those feelings would have inevitably been sensed by Zadok, such was their telepathic link. As such, so no scolding response was required. Instead, the being answered Zadok's second statement, "An acute observation, and indeed more true than one would like to admit. It has been determined that a change of tactics are in order. At present, neither of our attacks are damaging one another enough."
===--_--===
Balon at last negotiated the black tunnels to where he had first fallen in. Admittedly, the giant had found himself lost many times and the fact that some passageways were too small only made navigating the dungeon even harder. However, intimidating the various creatures that he came across proved to be a good way to get reliable directions. Exploding up from beneath the black waters, his colossal hands were barely able to find purchase on the cleft above. OF course, that grab only lasted until the entire thing collapsed in a sort of mudslide, which did not take long given Balon's weight.
After several more tries, the giant was able to clamber back onto the surface, near the beach where he had emerged earlier. The gaping hole in the ground was now noticeably larger, though that security breach was a problem for the puny imps to worry about. Balon trudged along the shorline before many hours before seeing smoke rise from the distance, a telltale sign of what he was looking for. Balon's pace quickened to a run, his great strides making him terribly swift. As he charged towards the fishing village, spear and shield in hand, Xir'ain's words echoed in the giant's mind. "Do not kill anything," the Keeper had commanded. Well, Balon had no intention of breaking orders. It would be the spear that did the killing, not the giant.
===--_--===
Lord Rain scoffed in amusement. This human's stupidity knew no bounds. The man charged wildly at his foe from across the plaza, bellowing like a fool. The keeper's approach was more ominous; slow, deliberate, and silent save for the heavy thud of the warlord's footsteps. After a few moments, when the belligerent human had closed half the gap between them, the keeper hefted the huge axe that was in his left hand, and then hurled it. The terrible weapon glowed with dancing electricity as it cut through the air, low to the ground, heading straight for the human's legs. The man narrowly avoided the spinning weapon by awkwardly leaping backwards and to the side.
So the man didn't get torn in half. That was disappointing. At least his charge had been stopped, though. The axe continued to soar across the plaza until it flew into the stone building that the human had emerged from. An entire balcony collapsed as the axe destroyed one of the pillars that supported it. Bah, the weapon's enchantments would have kept it from being damaged. The keeper would retrieve it after he killed the fool that stood before him.
Having staggered back to his feet, the man was now charging towards his adversary once again. A cruel and delightful thought entered the Keeper's mind- using magic to boil this fool alive in his own shining armor! A lightning bolt materialized in Lord Rain's empty left hand. Without warning, he hurled it like a javelin towards the man. The resulting thunder shook the town square as the lightning hit the knight's tower shield and exploded with force. The man's charge was certainly broken this time as well. He was thrown backwards and knocked onto the ground; however, he was now staggering back to his feet, apparently still alive. No doubt his shield and armor were enchanted, sparing his miserable life for another few seconds.
Lord Rain was tired of playing with this annoying little knight. He snapped his fingers and lightning came down from the sky and struck the ground right next to the man. His enchanted armor prevented a death by electrocution, but the sheer force still tossed him about like the dust that he would soon be. The Keeper simply walked up to the man and began swinging his axe. It was all the knight could do to raise his shield, but as blow after blow from the huge axe was rained down on him, the tower shield was reduced to scrap metal, and the hand, arm, and shoulder that held the shield were broken.
In defiance, the knight tried to stab at his enemy. However, the man was laying on the ground and was now exhausted, so he couldn't even put enough force behind his sword to pierce Lord Rain's heavy armor. All he did was bring out the Keeper's ire. Lord Rain kicked the human with his metal boots, denting the knight's armor and cracking several ribs. At last, the weakling was unable to continue fighting and dropped his sword.
Lord Rain pinned the human down with one foot to the chest. Shock then approached his master, informing him that the rest of the townsmen had been subdued; all the guards were dead, and all the townsmen that had formed a militia were also dead. The Stormers and Bolters had taken no prisoners. The Keeper looked down at the prior lord of this town, the man beneath his boot. It looked like his wounds were grievous enough to knock him unconscious, but he was still alive. For now, at least. Lord Rain stared down at his defeated enemy, knowing exactly what he would do.
My condolences for your grandfather, Kangutso. I should be able to work in a post with Balon and Carver/Ripper tomorrow.
Smoke wafted from the being's body. His vermillion skin let off a soft glow, like that of a dying coal. His flesh smoldered, not from the conflagration he stood before, but from his blood, his inner furnace, his piety. With a burning and intent gaze he peered through the great flames as they leaped and danced, trying to discern their wisdom. The Anointed of Caldor remained transfixed for many hours. The augury had shown him much.
The cold, skeletal hand of a necromancer, slowly clawing its way closer to Paterdomus from the south. The fiery beast that had assailed the city's walls not long ago, being ferried off into the pagan forests to the west by some strange force. And then there was a great darkness. The flames had shown him some time ago the darkened caves where the infidel Mutig tribe had been hiding. With this information, the crusaders had been able to finally send an army to put down the last resistance from that one infidel tribe of savages. But now, those caves were cloaked by shadow. That shadow had been slowly spreading, and it now cloaked half the forest. Reports indicated that the army sent to those caves had simply vanished. The theurgist had attempted to illuminate the shadowy forest and catch a glimpse of the malevolent force behind all of this misfortune, but to no avail. Surely all these things were related, but how was one to make sense of them?
The fire priest waved a hand. The flames returned to their usual state, the augury finished. This was a vast subterranean chamber, hollowing out the basalt deep beneath the temple's foundations. The great pyre dominated the room, lighting every nook and cranny with its brilliant glow. The conflagration flickered upwards from the magma pool below with a deeper crimson and a a more potent light than even the stained sun in the sky. The Rhuax, as it was named, was sacred. Paterdomus' grand temple was originally a fortress built to guard it. Few knew of its existence, and nearly all of them were fools. They erroneously named it the First Fire, a gift from Caldor. In reality, it was the Last Fire, and Caldor's dying breath. They burned their ritual incense in the wretched temple above, letting the smoke waft up to the heavens, oblivious to the fact that their god right below their very feet.
It was from this ancient flame that the first Paterdomans had emerged, as gigantic magmatic creatures that burned with fire and barely resembled men. Caldor's sons had grown colder and smaller. Eventually there came humans. There was breeding between the two races. The Burning Ones began to merely smolder. And then, at last, their warmth vanished. The Children of Flame were now merely a myth, a metaphor for the devout. Some of the land's most powerful pyromancers still had a drop of fire in their blood, though they didn't know it. Hardly any pure-blooded sons of Caldor remained. There was only the fire priest that stood before the Rhuax, and the dozen or so attendants that never left this room, bound by solemn oaths to guard the Rhuax until they crumbled to ash.
With no small amount of reluctance, the smoldering man waved a hand over the conflagration once more. This time, rather than depict an image of a distant land, the flames molded into humanoid shapes. They were the Emberwights, the spirits of all the devout Burning Ones that had been cremated and returned to the Rhuax. The living priest pointed to one of the dead ones, beckoning it forward. The Emberwight had no choice but to obey the summoning, yet he was less than pleased to do so.
The priest's voice rung out, "You have seen what I saw, in the augury. What am I to make of this?"
The Emberwight replied with a spiteful tone, "It pains me to see you. Look at him, brothers! This is our offspring. How has the fire of our great ancestors been reduced to this miserable heap of cold ashes, that has the arrogance to address us without kneeling?"
The ghost's reply was not unexpected, yet the priest was still infuriated. "I am the high prophet of Caldor!" he roared. "I am fire incarnate! I am strength! I am divine. You are but only a miserable, apathetic heathen."
At the mention of the word 'heathen' the Emberwight went into a fury. The thing charged through the mighty flames, right to the fire's edge, and reached out for the prophet's throat with ghastly hands that could still sear stone. The prophet conjured some fire, and drove a flaming fist into the spirit's chest. The baleful Emberwight crumbled into a mound of ashes, though unfortunately it would be back next time.
The prophet searched the crowd. At last, he spotted one of the younger Emberwights, one that he knew would help. He spoke, "Grandfather, step forward."
The ghost stepped forward. His eyes had a faint spark of flame within, but otherwise he was alike the prophet in that he only smoldered. The other wights no doubt treated him with contempt. Having been given permission to speak, the ghost said, "You should have called on me first. The others grow bitter with loneliness. We long for our forefather's presence."
Slightly agitated at the lack of an answer, the prophet repeated, "But the augury. What am I to make of it? What can I do?"
The Emberwight responded, "The answer was already given. You cannot defeat the darkness, and so you have no hope of triumphing over what lurks within it. We long for Caldor. You need him, lest your entire city fall to the shadows."
The prophet answered, "It is said that if we attempt to bring back the god when the time is not right, he will die, and doom with befall us!"
"Look around you, boy. The signs are all here. The time is right. You have looked into the flames for a sign for so long that their light has blinded you, and now you do not heed the signs that it gives, out of doubt and habit."
The Anointed of Caldor's expression changed from one of contempt to understanding. "Not this time. I shall listen to your wisdom. I shall not be the prophet that fails in this land's time of need. Thank you, grandfather."
The prophet walked away from the Rhuax, and the Emberwights disappeared. The flame's attendants stood gawking in shock, not believing what they had just heard; though the solemn look on the priest's face alleviated any doubts of his seriousness. The high priest donned his ornamental helmet, a massive metal thing adorned with gems and engravings. There were no holes for his eyes or mouth. If the prophet's smoldering skin was seen, he would either be seen as a demon and slain, or incessantly cooed over and worshiped in the temple above, unable to ever leave and attend to the Rhuax and matters of actual importance. The priest did not know which fate he thought more gruesome.
Once he was fully armored ad draped with a red cloak that would hide the small puffs of smoke that emerged from the seams in his armor, the prophet ascended a long staircase. At last, he emerged in one of the lower levels of the fire priests' black tower in the temple above. In the small meeting room, seated around a table were several prominent leaders of the city. Lord Inquisitor Redfyre sat, glaring at some blue-robed water priest that had evidently came in lieu of Unda's High Priestess. Sir Toric, the commander of the city guard, was engaging in some light banter with Marshal Embers, the famed leader of the valorous Knights of the Flame, though it was clear that both were nervous and had their thoughts elsewhere. The temple's Head Savant, some fool that was supposed to be the prophet's foremost adviser, merely sat in respectful silence. Even without eye holes in his helmet, the prophet could see them clearly. He could sense their warmth, feel in it what they were thinking and what they wanted.
The others were already waiting for him. That was good, he hated having to summon them and waste his time waiting. The opening of the stone door startled the council. The rare few times that the high-and-mighty prophet did decide to come out of his hole and actually attend these meetings, he often at least bothered to arrive on time. The High Savant stood to face the prophet. His face turned to disgust as he spat out, "We have been asking for your presence for days! You were down there 'otherwise preoccupied' for a week, and meanwhile the sun turned red which is causing confusion and panic, our walls were attacked by some monster, the crusade in the west has been stymied because an entire host of elite soldiers vanished without a trace, and now there are reports of a necroma-"
"Silence!" the prophet shouted as he pushed the man aside with a blisteringly hot metal gauntlet, the echoing voice that emerged from within the helmet akin to the roar of a bonfire. Normally he spoke lowly and quietly to conceal that voice and took good care not to come into contact with any other person, though he now was not worried about hiding his nature. He had only decided to hide in his armor and cloak because he needed to make a public appearance.
Addressing the table now, he scolded them as if they were children, "I have seen all that the High Savant of and more, in my auguries. Your petulant attempts to waste my time with these pointless meetings and distract me from my true duties were always unwelcome, but now they are unacceptable."
The prophet paused to catch a breath. The gathering stood in shocked silence, as the prophet normally sat, lead the beginning prayer, said a few formalities, and otherwise refused to participate. This council was used to ruling the city themselves, and they were not sure how they felt about the prophet suddenly taking charge.
The prophet continued, "Send couriers to all the vassals. Order them to begin amassing their forces. Warn them that they may have to levy the peasants, if we still deem that our forces are insufficient afterwards. And prepare the plaza outside. I must address the public."
Ordering all the vassals to prepare their armies was a drastic move, and the prophet had not made a public appearance in decades. They could only wonder what it was that he had to tell the people. The councilors scurried off to do as they were asked, all wondering what could have possibly happened to the prophet to change him so much.
The cold, skeletal hand of a necromancer, slowly clawing its way closer to Paterdomus from the south. The fiery beast that had assailed the city's walls not long ago, being ferried off into the pagan forests to the west by some strange force. And then there was a great darkness. The flames had shown him some time ago the darkened caves where the infidel Mutig tribe had been hiding. With this information, the crusaders had been able to finally send an army to put down the last resistance from that one infidel tribe of savages. But now, those caves were cloaked by shadow. That shadow had been slowly spreading, and it now cloaked half the forest. Reports indicated that the army sent to those caves had simply vanished. The theurgist had attempted to illuminate the shadowy forest and catch a glimpse of the malevolent force behind all of this misfortune, but to no avail. Surely all these things were related, but how was one to make sense of them?
The fire priest waved a hand. The flames returned to their usual state, the augury finished. This was a vast subterranean chamber, hollowing out the basalt deep beneath the temple's foundations. The great pyre dominated the room, lighting every nook and cranny with its brilliant glow. The conflagration flickered upwards from the magma pool below with a deeper crimson and a a more potent light than even the stained sun in the sky. The Rhuax, as it was named, was sacred. Paterdomus' grand temple was originally a fortress built to guard it. Few knew of its existence, and nearly all of them were fools. They erroneously named it the First Fire, a gift from Caldor. In reality, it was the Last Fire, and Caldor's dying breath. They burned their ritual incense in the wretched temple above, letting the smoke waft up to the heavens, oblivious to the fact that their god right below their very feet.
It was from this ancient flame that the first Paterdomans had emerged, as gigantic magmatic creatures that burned with fire and barely resembled men. Caldor's sons had grown colder and smaller. Eventually there came humans. There was breeding between the two races. The Burning Ones began to merely smolder. And then, at last, their warmth vanished. The Children of Flame were now merely a myth, a metaphor for the devout. Some of the land's most powerful pyromancers still had a drop of fire in their blood, though they didn't know it. Hardly any pure-blooded sons of Caldor remained. There was only the fire priest that stood before the Rhuax, and the dozen or so attendants that never left this room, bound by solemn oaths to guard the Rhuax until they crumbled to ash.
With no small amount of reluctance, the smoldering man waved a hand over the conflagration once more. This time, rather than depict an image of a distant land, the flames molded into humanoid shapes. They were the Emberwights, the spirits of all the devout Burning Ones that had been cremated and returned to the Rhuax. The living priest pointed to one of the dead ones, beckoning it forward. The Emberwight had no choice but to obey the summoning, yet he was less than pleased to do so.
The priest's voice rung out, "You have seen what I saw, in the augury. What am I to make of this?"
The Emberwight replied with a spiteful tone, "It pains me to see you. Look at him, brothers! This is our offspring. How has the fire of our great ancestors been reduced to this miserable heap of cold ashes, that has the arrogance to address us without kneeling?"
The ghost's reply was not unexpected, yet the priest was still infuriated. "I am the high prophet of Caldor!" he roared. "I am fire incarnate! I am strength! I am divine. You are but only a miserable, apathetic heathen."
At the mention of the word 'heathen' the Emberwight went into a fury. The thing charged through the mighty flames, right to the fire's edge, and reached out for the prophet's throat with ghastly hands that could still sear stone. The prophet conjured some fire, and drove a flaming fist into the spirit's chest. The baleful Emberwight crumbled into a mound of ashes, though unfortunately it would be back next time.
The prophet searched the crowd. At last, he spotted one of the younger Emberwights, one that he knew would help. He spoke, "Grandfather, step forward."
The ghost stepped forward. His eyes had a faint spark of flame within, but otherwise he was alike the prophet in that he only smoldered. The other wights no doubt treated him with contempt. Having been given permission to speak, the ghost said, "You should have called on me first. The others grow bitter with loneliness. We long for our forefather's presence."
Slightly agitated at the lack of an answer, the prophet repeated, "But the augury. What am I to make of it? What can I do?"
The Emberwight responded, "The answer was already given. You cannot defeat the darkness, and so you have no hope of triumphing over what lurks within it. We long for Caldor. You need him, lest your entire city fall to the shadows."
The prophet answered, "It is said that if we attempt to bring back the god when the time is not right, he will die, and doom with befall us!"
"Look around you, boy. The signs are all here. The time is right. You have looked into the flames for a sign for so long that their light has blinded you, and now you do not heed the signs that it gives, out of doubt and habit."
The Anointed of Caldor's expression changed from one of contempt to understanding. "Not this time. I shall listen to your wisdom. I shall not be the prophet that fails in this land's time of need. Thank you, grandfather."
The prophet walked away from the Rhuax, and the Emberwights disappeared. The flame's attendants stood gawking in shock, not believing what they had just heard; though the solemn look on the priest's face alleviated any doubts of his seriousness. The high priest donned his ornamental helmet, a massive metal thing adorned with gems and engravings. There were no holes for his eyes or mouth. If the prophet's smoldering skin was seen, he would either be seen as a demon and slain, or incessantly cooed over and worshiped in the temple above, unable to ever leave and attend to the Rhuax and matters of actual importance. The priest did not know which fate he thought more gruesome.
Once he was fully armored ad draped with a red cloak that would hide the small puffs of smoke that emerged from the seams in his armor, the prophet ascended a long staircase. At last, he emerged in one of the lower levels of the fire priests' black tower in the temple above. In the small meeting room, seated around a table were several prominent leaders of the city. Lord Inquisitor Redfyre sat, glaring at some blue-robed water priest that had evidently came in lieu of Unda's High Priestess. Sir Toric, the commander of the city guard, was engaging in some light banter with Marshal Embers, the famed leader of the valorous Knights of the Flame, though it was clear that both were nervous and had their thoughts elsewhere. The temple's Head Savant, some fool that was supposed to be the prophet's foremost adviser, merely sat in respectful silence. Even without eye holes in his helmet, the prophet could see them clearly. He could sense their warmth, feel in it what they were thinking and what they wanted.
The others were already waiting for him. That was good, he hated having to summon them and waste his time waiting. The opening of the stone door startled the council. The rare few times that the high-and-mighty prophet did decide to come out of his hole and actually attend these meetings, he often at least bothered to arrive on time. The High Savant stood to face the prophet. His face turned to disgust as he spat out, "We have been asking for your presence for days! You were down there 'otherwise preoccupied' for a week, and meanwhile the sun turned red which is causing confusion and panic, our walls were attacked by some monster, the crusade in the west has been stymied because an entire host of elite soldiers vanished without a trace, and now there are reports of a necroma-"
"Silence!" the prophet shouted as he pushed the man aside with a blisteringly hot metal gauntlet, the echoing voice that emerged from within the helmet akin to the roar of a bonfire. Normally he spoke lowly and quietly to conceal that voice and took good care not to come into contact with any other person, though he now was not worried about hiding his nature. He had only decided to hide in his armor and cloak because he needed to make a public appearance.
Addressing the table now, he scolded them as if they were children, "I have seen all that the High Savant of and more, in my auguries. Your petulant attempts to waste my time with these pointless meetings and distract me from my true duties were always unwelcome, but now they are unacceptable."
The prophet paused to catch a breath. The gathering stood in shocked silence, as the prophet normally sat, lead the beginning prayer, said a few formalities, and otherwise refused to participate. This council was used to ruling the city themselves, and they were not sure how they felt about the prophet suddenly taking charge.
The prophet continued, "Send couriers to all the vassals. Order them to begin amassing their forces. Warn them that they may have to levy the peasants, if we still deem that our forces are insufficient afterwards. And prepare the plaza outside. I must address the public."
Ordering all the vassals to prepare their armies was a drastic move, and the prophet had not made a public appearance in decades. They could only wonder what it was that he had to tell the people. The councilors scurried off to do as they were asked, all wondering what could have possibly happened to the prophet to change him so much.
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