It was like the pulse of some unseen leviathan that energized the air through which grey clouds roiled amidst eddies of biting hoarfrost, a heart belying the fervent undulation of life beneath the clouds parting Celestia from it's barbarous fist. Holy radiance was left shrouded amidst a land caught in perpetual twilight and the furtive rays of life found their own beauty casting themselves along frozen peaks of stone sundering lands laden with arctic splendor.
Such crags of stubborn fortitude defied the elements with veins of molten vigor, the incandescent crimson of molten material funneled from peak to base along aqueducts of uniform stone. The life blood of industry which thrived amidst the inhospitable, and and brought about the plumes of smoke which wavered upwards to whirl shades of gradation into the sky.
Though such tumultuous air did Angels descend to Valhalla, and past such barriers and beyond the sights of spires would they be struck by sound. A pulse once faint, now surged into the cheers of jubilation torn from throats roaring from the tallest peaks with the sweet ring of victory on their lips. Pride, strength, and the unbridled joy of heart's pounding in ear as every ragged breath fills their lungs with a cold that could never hope to douse the fire burning in their guts. Celebration of life ruled on high and challenged all who heard to try and change that.
Drifting down the spires brought a chorus of instruments; The staccato rhythm of hammers upon hot metal, twisting, bludgeoning, and lengthening of the arms for warriors devoted to an all consuming passion. Every hiss of steel quenched in water was a prayer, every turn of the grindstone a bellowed plea that this blade above all who came before would be the one to carry the next warrior to the summit. And as the weapons of wars sang their litany upwards, they were inevitable passed down to a refrain.
Near the base of the spires was a low beat. The thunder and the hammer gave way to the shuddering of feet unified in purpose and anticipation. It was with an unspoken excitement the masses marched from home and hearth into flatland of rolling snow. Legions garbed without sign of rank or affiliation, only a mottled assortment of furs and plate to shield them from the expanse of white stretching before them. Some were armed with unblooded steal, their edges without warp or wear and bearing not a flicker of enchanted light, yet there scores more that had drank deep the spoils of combat and glowed with a radiance that pierced the driving winds which consumed the marching.
Even as they were swallowed by the merciless storms these pinpricks of light could be seen from their homes, just as they could see the exceptionally brave take to wing and brave the sky amidst bouts of punishing hail. It was though these luminaries the warriors glimpsed their adversaries as pinpricks in the storm, and the anticipation was shattered amidst a rain of far flung javelins and battle was joined with an earth shaking applause for the conflict to ensue.
Battle without hatred, prejudice, or animosity. Meeting one another head to head, bodies fell as though flies upon the ground and trampled, buried in but a breath as walls of warriors surged against one another and ultimately lost beneath a fresh layer of soft powder.
A bounty of corpses offered unto Death, the one whose beloved visage was carved into effigy upon monuments across the Valhallan settlements. Life and Death in an ever fluctuating cycle as though the Nexus itself were idealized in this snowy landscape, beckoning the true of heart to descend from their lofty thrones and join in the revelry of feasting halls and the wild clamor of combat. Where barbarians and angels held each other as close as kin. Where the chorus of existence ran wild, and the piano keys creaked eternal from the winding spires.
Chevaleresse
Fetzen
Neziul
Villamvihar
mickilennial
shylarah
