Floating through space, a massive form unrivaled by the many meteorites that were attracted by it's gravitational force. It floated through a dimensional flux, this form, a space station of incredible size. And yet, those transcendental beings that observed knew it was not, by the definition of the typical fool, a ship at all. For it breathed, a living organism the size of a small planet, every cell within it biological in nature. It's mind, while not sentient in the same sense as a human being, was far more intelligent than any organism found in this universe, capable of complex calculations in the blink of an eye, a biological computer. It's 'skin' was a black carapace, filled with opening and closing 'pores' into which the meteors entered. Stellar dust spiraled into them, devoured in this creatures interstellar journey.
Deep within the heart of the being, past an infinite twisting labyrinth of veins and organs and passageways, at the brain that controlled it all, was a room. And in it sat a girl, smiling, as her hands moved through the translucent pool that contained the thought processes of the being. Hundreds of enzymes reacted, signals moving throughout the massive body at the speed of light. Senses far more developed than the eye moved into full alert, a loud groaning filling the body. Muscles twitched, reminding themselves of their original purpose, as heat filled it's dormant form. Ther very cells that made up the creature increased in activity, a reaction akin in power and efficiency to nuclear fusion powering the monster's core, an organism more complex than any other in the universe. It's race had no name, for it was not of a species. Unique, it had drifted for many years, growing, expanding. And now it was ready.
Below the creature was a world covered in life, easily excited and small. Their life spans measured in years, incomprehensibly small compared to how long this creature could potentially exist. Such tiny creatures, ants squabbling over a clump of mud and stone, in some ways they could be considered pathetic. However, it was not the creature that was calling the shots, as it's organs moved into action, billions of symbiotic beings moving about within it's body, taking care of it's biological functions. Pheromones and gasses were pumped through a variety of specially prepared chambers, as it prepared to comply with the orders of it's mistress, given to it within it's very brain. Obedience was engraved into every cell of it's massive body, disobedience was not an option.
The girl was master of the creature, and it was by her thoughts that it moved. It was her hand that guided it through the darkness of space, which had allowed it to grow. She had named it, the Genesis Devourer. And now it would act once more.
Like a meteorite, it flew through the atmosphere, it's carapace heavily resistant the friction that would otherwise have wiped it out.Black in form, wreathed in flames, it was quite a sight for those who occupied the planet. Hundreds of it's kinds, pods, descended from the beast that moved through space far above, too far for it's gravitational pull to have any significant effect. Already gasses leaked from it's inner compartments, as it crashed down into it's chosen area. With a minimum of thought, it released a massive cloud of yellow gas, filling the forest as the wildlife attempted to flee from the unknown predator. large claws extended and latched onto the surface, as tiny microscopic beings were launched into the Earth, exploring the soil of this world. It had no senses to detect it's environment, for it had no need of them. It needed not to see, or hear, or even to think, for that was not it's purpose. It's purpose was only to feed it's 'father', the Genesis Devourer.
The 'gas', a flood of uncountable microscopic creatures, spread out through the air. Originating from pods spread across this globe, they rapidly infected and filled every living and dead organism on the surface of the planet. Wherever the air reached, they reached, as they spread signals. Chemicals moved between them, echoed across the globe, a hive mind the size of which could only be fathomed by lesser lifeforms. Creatures were analyzed and judged, All information was sent to a single room, in the heart of the Genesis Devourer, the microbes replacing the fine senses of smaller creatures, able to completely and utterly analyze every being at once, from it's biological functions to it's thought patterns.
"Nothing but food."
As the order was made, the creatures were already broken down. Screaming, humanoids clawed at the ground, as their organs and limbs seemed to melt to nothing. Cells were broken apart into their base elements, reduced to nothing but that which would be the most healthy for the Genesis Devourer's growth. Experimental tissue to be used and thrown away, a test, and nothing more. An entire civilisation writhed in agony, as within the span of a few hours, it was wiped out. Minerals were extracted from the earth, water was funneled from the oceans, and all life was exterminated.
In the end, all that was left was glass towers, reaching up to the sky. An empty planet, remnants of a civilisation that could never have lived. For on this planet, where water did not exist, and only wasteful or harmful chemicals were present, no life could ever have existed. There was no trace, after all, that any creature had ever walked this planet's surface, that they had developed advanced technology and morals, that they had explored the very stars. All those things, after all, were reduced to nothing but food to feed a being that devoured not planets. It devoured the origin of life itself.
The dimensional gates shook, as the were breached. Space became meaningless, a gate opened by a being hosting a black hole within it's body. Impossible, and yet applied through the Genesis Devourer. Massive tentacles extended through these gates, pods launching themselves from the opening pores in the black carapace skin. Hundreds of planets were covered in the gas, as all life was judged within it. Judgement came from that girl, who dwelled at the heart of the beast, who had nurtured it to fruition. And with every world that was devoured, the beast grew, developed, and evolved, guided by the hands of that girl. Life ended, both divine and mortal, magical essenses absorbed into the mass, personal 'heavenly dimensions' breached, only to be absorbed. The anti-genesis, as all life was absorbed into one being. Even those worlds that held the souls of the dead were invaded, as the Genesis Devourer spread it's reach.
thewizardguy
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- thewizardguy 12 yrs ago
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Bio
Just a random guy, doing random things.
Main RP: Hell's Coffee Lounge
Current RPs change often enough that it's too much effort keeping a list of them updated.
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Broding held up Dragonclaw, as a red blade ricocheted off the dragonbone pole. He pushed forward, and the Seeker was flung back, but only for a second. With a speed and fury his opponent attacked, and for the first time during the fight, Broding was pushed to the defensive. Unlike when he had the advantage, those blows had enough force behind them to deal some serious damage, even to the warrior who was believed to be Immortal. However, besides the sheer power of the attacks, Broding was driven into the defensive by an almost instinctive fear. The inner knowledge, somewhere inside him, that he was facing something that wanted nothing more than to kill him. A killing will stronger than any hate or fear known by man, a murderous intent so powerful it was almost physically manifested, a frenzy instilled by the spirits of slaughter. And at that moment Broding quite literally growled, his mind rejecting the notion that any opponent, even for a moment, had panicked him.
Sweeping aside another attack, Broding moved forward. The hound, like a shark engaging it's prey, shot forward instantly to take advantage of the new situation, both blades flashing forward. However, Broding instead grabbed Bloodseeker's head, holding him just outside the blade's reach. The incredible length of the giant's arms allowed for him to hold the smaller Strygwyrr at sufficient distance, that the blade's didn't reach his chest. However, it would be but moments until the Hound realized this, and instead struck out at the arm holding him. As such, Broding, who had also taken into account how the battle around him had evolved, realized an opportunity to destroy two opponents with a single stone. Or, rather, projectile. Laughing, Broding threw Bloodseeker straight at the mysterious woman, a streaking red comet of whirling blades hurled with enormous force, like the world's most deadly close-range catapult.
Sweeping aside another attack, Broding moved forward. The hound, like a shark engaging it's prey, shot forward instantly to take advantage of the new situation, both blades flashing forward. However, Broding instead grabbed Bloodseeker's head, holding him just outside the blade's reach. The incredible length of the giant's arms allowed for him to hold the smaller Strygwyrr at sufficient distance, that the blade's didn't reach his chest. However, it would be but moments until the Hound realized this, and instead struck out at the arm holding him. As such, Broding, who had also taken into account how the battle around him had evolved, realized an opportunity to destroy two opponents with a single stone. Or, rather, projectile. Laughing, Broding threw Bloodseeker straight at the mysterious woman, a streaking red comet of whirling blades hurled with enormous force, like the world's most deadly close-range catapult.
Thank you. Glad this didn't turn out to be a point of contention.
Tearing a bloody route through the battlefield, Broding followed his beastly opponent step for step. He launched blow after calculated blow, however, having lost the advantage of surprise, none hit. Dodging and weaving, the Seeker evaded the blade, fully knowing that blocking the blow would be folly. The strength of a blow was irrelevant if it did not hit, but Broding followed his opponent backwards. No Gung would interrupt the battle, instead avoiding the showdown and cheering. The Iron Men occasionally got in the way, but Broding simply swept them aside, their shields and swords shattering before the power of his Dragonclaw. Despite it's appearance, it was not a brittle weapon. Having been forged from the bones of a dragon, it was almost as hard as steel. With Broding's immense physical power behind each swipe, it was like the blade of Amun himself, tearing through flesh, bone and iron alike as if they were but parchment.
Eventually, after dodging swipe after swipe, the Seeker dashed forward. A clawed foot landed on the flat end of the Dragonclaw. Jumping forward, the beast sliced along the side of his arm, evading the strike from the side. It was not a deep cut, thick layers of knotted muscle and fiber were almost impossible to slice through, but enough to draw blood. Invigorated by this, the Seeker once more sliced in, too close to swing Dragonclaw properly, but instead of knocking him away, Broding simply watched the red blade slice for his neck.
Red blood dripped along the blade, onto the floor.
Muscles tensed, Broding held the bladed tonfa in his left, free hand. The sharpened iron bit deep into the flesh, but the giant didn't even wince, as if pain didn't apply. He was hardened to such thing, his pain threshold inhuman. Even as his blood hit the floor, Broding's own grin grew. Teeth caked in dried blood from the hearts he had devoured, eyes burning. In those eyes, the death of demons could be seen, the will and strength of mind to kill even the very Gods. A true Warrior, who would fight till the dying breath, regardless of pain. Regardless of loss. Regardless of mercy. In those eyes, Strygwyr could read his own death written out for him, as he realized that nothing but the killing blow would kill the Gutra.
Dropping Dragonclaw, which had occupied his right hand, Broding ignored the small cuts the beast made to his torso and left arm. No serious damage was dealt, as the Seeker was unable to put any force behind the blow without his feet on the ground. A mangy dog haging in the air, Strygwyrr would witness the massive obsidian fist draw back, muscles tensed and coiled. The entire massive, muscled body shifted as, blurring through the air, the fist smashed into the Seeker, who was left incapable of dodging to the side of this blow. Any normal human's neck and spine would have been shattered by the force of the blow, as the Seeker crashed into the castle wall with a loud crack. However, even for one augmented by service to the Spirits of Slaughter, it was like getting hit by the charge of a Plains Drake. Ribs were cracked and bruised, as the now bloody giant slowly walked towards Strygwyrr.
Eventually, after dodging swipe after swipe, the Seeker dashed forward. A clawed foot landed on the flat end of the Dragonclaw. Jumping forward, the beast sliced along the side of his arm, evading the strike from the side. It was not a deep cut, thick layers of knotted muscle and fiber were almost impossible to slice through, but enough to draw blood. Invigorated by this, the Seeker once more sliced in, too close to swing Dragonclaw properly, but instead of knocking him away, Broding simply watched the red blade slice for his neck.
Red blood dripped along the blade, onto the floor.
Muscles tensed, Broding held the bladed tonfa in his left, free hand. The sharpened iron bit deep into the flesh, but the giant didn't even wince, as if pain didn't apply. He was hardened to such thing, his pain threshold inhuman. Even as his blood hit the floor, Broding's own grin grew. Teeth caked in dried blood from the hearts he had devoured, eyes burning. In those eyes, the death of demons could be seen, the will and strength of mind to kill even the very Gods. A true Warrior, who would fight till the dying breath, regardless of pain. Regardless of loss. Regardless of mercy. In those eyes, Strygwyr could read his own death written out for him, as he realized that nothing but the killing blow would kill the Gutra.
Dropping Dragonclaw, which had occupied his right hand, Broding ignored the small cuts the beast made to his torso and left arm. No serious damage was dealt, as the Seeker was unable to put any force behind the blow without his feet on the ground. A mangy dog haging in the air, Strygwyrr would witness the massive obsidian fist draw back, muscles tensed and coiled. The entire massive, muscled body shifted as, blurring through the air, the fist smashed into the Seeker, who was left incapable of dodging to the side of this blow. Any normal human's neck and spine would have been shattered by the force of the blow, as the Seeker crashed into the castle wall with a loud crack. However, even for one augmented by service to the Spirits of Slaughter, it was like getting hit by the charge of a Plains Drake. Ribs were cracked and bruised, as the now bloody giant slowly walked towards Strygwyrr.
Yeah, I'm glad you approve of the death. I was tempted to wait until someone showed up to save Trinton's ass, but nobody really did, so I killed him off. I really didn't see any realistic way that Trinton could have survived that encounter.
Broding was Gutra, a warrior above all other warriors. And as well as physical strength, he could respect the soul and will of a warrior. Even to the very last moments of his life, with full knowledge of Broding's capabilities and his own weakness, the Iron Man crawled towards him. It took a strength of spirit for a man to even face him, but to continue through such pain was quite an achievement, a show of courage not often seen. It was only right in Broding's mind that a warrior who walked willingly towards death to fight for his cause deserved respect, if not mercy.
"Gan Bor Du Amun" Roughly translated, it meant 'You are brave', or 'you are blessed by Amun.' For the Gung, the two were one and the same.
Coiled muscles like those of some great beast rippled beneath skin black as obsidian as the massive warrior reached down with his left hand. The man sliced at it, but Broding merely broke his arm with a swift grab. Even as the crack resounded, he suddenly moved as if to punch Trinton in the chest. Cracking through flesh and bone, his hand seemed to break through the mail, impossibly, blood spurting out as if from a miniature fountain. With a grunt, Guntra pulled back his hand, and in it he held the still-fresh heart of the old veteran. With another motion, even as Trinton's vision began to fade from the sudden blood loss, Broding held the heart up to his face, and devoured it in a single bite.
Broding could feel, even as the warm flesh slid down his throat. A childhood scuffle in the sand with the local rough boys. A patriotic youth, filled with wild ambition and great dreams for the future. A dispiriting and disillusioning battle in the marshes of Nidaa, the memory haunted by the screams of those who had not survived. All of those memories, the life that he devoured. To some small degree, they became a part of him, forged his soul stronger. It was both the greatest horror, and the highest compliment that was within the Guntra's right to grant, as he absorbed the strength from those who fell before him, forging his heart, mind and body to beyond human limits. Gaining the strength of each great warrior he defeated, he was an unstoppable immortal, who carried with him the souls of countless master swordsman and brave knights, daring or foolish enough to make the Guntra their opponent. Such was the Way of Amun.
As he continued, the Dragonclaw slicing through the Iron Men around him, he felt the green fire fly through the air. It burned not naturally, with the eternal passion of Gura, as all normal flames do. Rather, it burnt like the foul deeds of cowards, hidden from sight by a veil of lies and deceit. They burned with envy, hatred, and greed, those things that make up the weak and rotten minds of fools. He knew that those who were devoured by it stood no chence of arriving in Amun's Plains when this was all over, their souls pulled down into the depths of the Netherlands. Had he had any will for mercy or pity, he would have granted them a warrior's prayer. However, he was a warrior who knew no such weakness in his heart, and the only mervy he would grant them was death by his blade. He would grant all who came near him an honorable death by his hands, that they might fight for what they believed in before falling.
The mage was not of the Gung, and never could have been. He was not of the Ak, nor of the Tan. No Clan under the heaven's could call the mage kin, and yet, he had shown up so many days ago speaking the Old Tongue. That divine language entrusted to only the shamans who spoke with the Gods. He had known ancient secrets that should have been lost to all still living many years ago. He had shown great power, and he had come demanding they follow him. He saw the Gung went to battle, and had assumed that they would follow him, as if he were a High Shaman. Had the High Shaman not granted him the Protection of the Gods, Broding would have crushed his skull and left his heart to rot, along with his traitorous, blasphemous soul. He feared no Gods, and such a man, Guntra knew all too well, was nothing more than a rotten soul. Driven by greed and foolishness.
However, Broding was not a thinking, and he had not come here to ponder upon the stranger. He was a warrior, he was Guntra, greatest among warriors. And he had come here to be bathed in the blood of his enemies, and devour the hearts of their greatest.warriors.
A red flash streaked through the battlefield. moving with inhuman grace, it's arms were soaked in the blood of those that had already fallen. Moving through Gung and Iron Man alike, it's very skin seemed to be turning red from being eternally drenched in blood. Well schooled by the High Shaman, Broding recognized the Blood Hound, hunter of Ayk and Buk, the Spirits of Slaughter. Omen of bloodshed, and ally to none, the blood hound had already marked many deaths upon the battlefield as it came within Broding's reach. He could fully observe it, twisted by it's servitude to those Spirits. Broding paused a moment to wonder if it had been the admittance of the mage into the Gung that had caused Ayk and Buk to send their hounds, or whether it was simply one of their bloody whims. However, Amun was embodied in him, and his hand was that of Amun, Lord of Dragons and God of Warriors. If the Spirits of Slaughter had forgotten their place, then Broding would show them that the Chosen of Amun would rip the heart of their hound from it's flesh. He would take the fury of the Seeker and make it his own.
The polearm extended the already massive reach of Broding's long, muscled arms even further, allowing him to attack his opponents well before they could close in on him. The Dragonclaw came in fast from the side, but the Bloodhound had already gracefully moved aside, the serrated edge whistlign through the air above it as it smiled, preparing for another bloodbath. However, quickly reversing the direction of the blow, Broding brought the second blade of the Dragonclaw from below. With no time or room to dodge, the Bloodhound blocked, but Broding's strength was more than that of any human. The Hound was launched into the air, pciked up by the swing, and landed with a soft thump several feet away. While fast, Broding had the advantage of great reach, and as chosen of Amon, he was unstoppable in physical strength. He had also drawn into himself the combat knowledge and skill of every great warrior he had encountered, making him a formidable opponent.
Walking forward, Guntra called forth in the native tongue to his people, the Dragon Clans. "Seeker of Blood, Hound of the Twins. I am Chosen of Amon, Lord of Dragons. If your gods have forgotten my place, let me show you why you are nothing but a hound for the Spirits, and I am Chosen. Come forth, and show me your power and fighting spirit, that you may die with dignity and honor!"
"Gan Bor Du Amun" Roughly translated, it meant 'You are brave', or 'you are blessed by Amun.' For the Gung, the two were one and the same.
Coiled muscles like those of some great beast rippled beneath skin black as obsidian as the massive warrior reached down with his left hand. The man sliced at it, but Broding merely broke his arm with a swift grab. Even as the crack resounded, he suddenly moved as if to punch Trinton in the chest. Cracking through flesh and bone, his hand seemed to break through the mail, impossibly, blood spurting out as if from a miniature fountain. With a grunt, Guntra pulled back his hand, and in it he held the still-fresh heart of the old veteran. With another motion, even as Trinton's vision began to fade from the sudden blood loss, Broding held the heart up to his face, and devoured it in a single bite.
Broding could feel, even as the warm flesh slid down his throat. A childhood scuffle in the sand with the local rough boys. A patriotic youth, filled with wild ambition and great dreams for the future. A dispiriting and disillusioning battle in the marshes of Nidaa, the memory haunted by the screams of those who had not survived. All of those memories, the life that he devoured. To some small degree, they became a part of him, forged his soul stronger. It was both the greatest horror, and the highest compliment that was within the Guntra's right to grant, as he absorbed the strength from those who fell before him, forging his heart, mind and body to beyond human limits. Gaining the strength of each great warrior he defeated, he was an unstoppable immortal, who carried with him the souls of countless master swordsman and brave knights, daring or foolish enough to make the Guntra their opponent. Such was the Way of Amun.
As he continued, the Dragonclaw slicing through the Iron Men around him, he felt the green fire fly through the air. It burned not naturally, with the eternal passion of Gura, as all normal flames do. Rather, it burnt like the foul deeds of cowards, hidden from sight by a veil of lies and deceit. They burned with envy, hatred, and greed, those things that make up the weak and rotten minds of fools. He knew that those who were devoured by it stood no chence of arriving in Amun's Plains when this was all over, their souls pulled down into the depths of the Netherlands. Had he had any will for mercy or pity, he would have granted them a warrior's prayer. However, he was a warrior who knew no such weakness in his heart, and the only mervy he would grant them was death by his blade. He would grant all who came near him an honorable death by his hands, that they might fight for what they believed in before falling.
The mage was not of the Gung, and never could have been. He was not of the Ak, nor of the Tan. No Clan under the heaven's could call the mage kin, and yet, he had shown up so many days ago speaking the Old Tongue. That divine language entrusted to only the shamans who spoke with the Gods. He had known ancient secrets that should have been lost to all still living many years ago. He had shown great power, and he had come demanding they follow him. He saw the Gung went to battle, and had assumed that they would follow him, as if he were a High Shaman. Had the High Shaman not granted him the Protection of the Gods, Broding would have crushed his skull and left his heart to rot, along with his traitorous, blasphemous soul. He feared no Gods, and such a man, Guntra knew all too well, was nothing more than a rotten soul. Driven by greed and foolishness.
However, Broding was not a thinking, and he had not come here to ponder upon the stranger. He was a warrior, he was Guntra, greatest among warriors. And he had come here to be bathed in the blood of his enemies, and devour the hearts of their greatest.warriors.
A red flash streaked through the battlefield. moving with inhuman grace, it's arms were soaked in the blood of those that had already fallen. Moving through Gung and Iron Man alike, it's very skin seemed to be turning red from being eternally drenched in blood. Well schooled by the High Shaman, Broding recognized the Blood Hound, hunter of Ayk and Buk, the Spirits of Slaughter. Omen of bloodshed, and ally to none, the blood hound had already marked many deaths upon the battlefield as it came within Broding's reach. He could fully observe it, twisted by it's servitude to those Spirits. Broding paused a moment to wonder if it had been the admittance of the mage into the Gung that had caused Ayk and Buk to send their hounds, or whether it was simply one of their bloody whims. However, Amun was embodied in him, and his hand was that of Amun, Lord of Dragons and God of Warriors. If the Spirits of Slaughter had forgotten their place, then Broding would show them that the Chosen of Amun would rip the heart of their hound from it's flesh. He would take the fury of the Seeker and make it his own.
The polearm extended the already massive reach of Broding's long, muscled arms even further, allowing him to attack his opponents well before they could close in on him. The Dragonclaw came in fast from the side, but the Bloodhound had already gracefully moved aside, the serrated edge whistlign through the air above it as it smiled, preparing for another bloodbath. However, quickly reversing the direction of the blow, Broding brought the second blade of the Dragonclaw from below. With no time or room to dodge, the Bloodhound blocked, but Broding's strength was more than that of any human. The Hound was launched into the air, pciked up by the swing, and landed with a soft thump several feet away. While fast, Broding had the advantage of great reach, and as chosen of Amon, he was unstoppable in physical strength. He had also drawn into himself the combat knowledge and skill of every great warrior he had encountered, making him a formidable opponent.
Walking forward, Guntra called forth in the native tongue to his people, the Dragon Clans. "Seeker of Blood, Hound of the Twins. I am Chosen of Amon, Lord of Dragons. If your gods have forgotten my place, let me show you why you are nothing but a hound for the Spirits, and I am Chosen. Come forth, and show me your power and fighting spirit, that you may die with dignity and honor!"
An arrow extended from his chest, his head still ringing from the mysterious stone, Sular lay slumped against the wall of the suddenly brightened room. Most likely the man that entered had dismissed him as a corpse, like the poor soldier that lay beside him, if he'd even seen him. Slowly standing, Sular made sure not to be seen, in case this person turned out to be an enemy. And also because he hurt enough that he doubted his ability to defeat a mildly peeved puppy in combat right now. However, as the figure went around, creating an improvised lever to replace the one that had been broken, he came to the conclusion that this man was most likely not a spy. Unfortunately for the fellow in question, a figure who had also been skulking the shadows came to the same conclusion at more less the same time, and this other man's response was a lot more hostile than Sular's would have been.
Reaching for his Greatbow, Sular remembered that he was in a tight, enclosed space. Even if he could get a good line of fire on his opponent, it would take all of two strides for a Barbarian to walk up and slap the overgrown projectile weapon aside. And then Sular would be left with no defense against the ensuing attacks, which would most likely end in death. Instead, he once more picked up the Broadsword he had quietly come to despise. He wasn't meant for fighting in such small quarters, and these broadswords were far slower than the sabers he was used to wielding. However, unlike last time, he had an ally by his side, assuming he managed to prevent that ally from dying right about now, which would hopefully turn the scales against this barbarian.
In his first attack, Sular abandoned defense for a bit, knowing full well that he had the advantage of surprise. His blade hissed out as he stepped from the shadows, slicing through the flesh of the arm that had gripped his ally. He hadn't hit the bone, but he'd cut the tendons for sure, and with a scream the barbarian was forced to drop his temporary captive. He didn't know the man's name, but he'd happily get to know it later, assuming they lived through this. He'd have a good drink, too, even the disgusting swill these westerners called alcohol. Ducking under the heavy swing of an iron mace, Sular moved forward with a rather ineffectual slash, not so easy now that the element of surprise had been lost, hopefully giving the man beside him the time to get his bearings, and start pulling his weight. In fact, Sular grimly reflected, as he deflected a blow from the side, his life very much depended on that.
The giant Broding was Gutra, born of the Dragon Stars. His birth had occurred on the sacred moon, and as a child he had drunk the Blood of the Dragon, ritually prepared by the High Shaman in the Shukken forests. He was chosen by the Spirits, elite among all Gung Warriors, to be a pillar of strength and destruction. Throughout his youth, his various exploits, such as murdering and eating a Blade Raptor with his bare hands, had spread his fame throughout the other clans. He had fought, and bested, the Chosen of each other clan, and earned the position of Guntra through a passage of blood. The spirit of Amun, the Dragon Knight, burned immortal within his heart, and with it came both the fury and the strength of the Immortals. No man had ever faced him and lived, no beast had he found that he could not kill. Unequaled, he was Guntra, and nothing would stop him.
At slightly over 3 meters, Broding truly deserved the title of giant. Even the tall and strong Gung around him came barely up to his chest, and he was almost twice as tall as the Metal Men before him. Those who clad themselves in iron, fearing the judgement of Kuln, He who Devoured. His body was built like a wall of flesh, heaps of muscle giving him an almost inhuman appearance. His head was comparatively slow, and yet no man would miss it for the bloodthirsty grin that seemed to be a permanent addition the Broding's face, as well as the seeming fire that burned in his eyes, almost as if he had lit his brain on fire. In his massive clenched fist, he held a long staff, a blade attached to each end of it. It was pure white, seemingly forged from bone, the blades resembling talons more than anything forged by man, as if they had been taken from some massive beast. Which, quite possibly, they had been.
As he walked through the gate, opened as the High Shaman had stated it would be, he saw his Gung already fighting the Iron Men. Letting out a roar that resembled more the tales of mythological beasts and demons than anything uttered by a man, Broding launched himself forward. Gung, knowing what was about to happen, stepped aside rapidly, a path forming to allow Guntra to battle. A spearman who had moments before been fighting for his life was momentarily left with no enemies, and just enough time to glance up and see the massive hulk of a man bearing down on him. To his credit, the spearman, despite seeing his death closing in, set his spear against the ground, and held up his large shield, as if defending against a cavalry charge. Unfortunately for him, Broding used the dual-bladed battle lance to swipe the spear aside. Instead of striking again, however, Broding held up a foot, and brought his full weight to bear on the shield. Even as the man tried to frantically scramble away, he was crushed under his own shield, Broding using him as a stepping stone to walk into the enemy ranks behind him.
Guntra stood strong, burnign with the flame of Amun, the Dragon's Claw in hand. The Gung knew this, and surged with revitalized morale as the legendary warrior took to the battlefield, already ripping through the enemy. If this line fell, they knew, the bottleneck would be broken and they could bring their full numbers to bear. Then, any hope of victory would soon fade away.
Reaching for his Greatbow, Sular remembered that he was in a tight, enclosed space. Even if he could get a good line of fire on his opponent, it would take all of two strides for a Barbarian to walk up and slap the overgrown projectile weapon aside. And then Sular would be left with no defense against the ensuing attacks, which would most likely end in death. Instead, he once more picked up the Broadsword he had quietly come to despise. He wasn't meant for fighting in such small quarters, and these broadswords were far slower than the sabers he was used to wielding. However, unlike last time, he had an ally by his side, assuming he managed to prevent that ally from dying right about now, which would hopefully turn the scales against this barbarian.
In his first attack, Sular abandoned defense for a bit, knowing full well that he had the advantage of surprise. His blade hissed out as he stepped from the shadows, slicing through the flesh of the arm that had gripped his ally. He hadn't hit the bone, but he'd cut the tendons for sure, and with a scream the barbarian was forced to drop his temporary captive. He didn't know the man's name, but he'd happily get to know it later, assuming they lived through this. He'd have a good drink, too, even the disgusting swill these westerners called alcohol. Ducking under the heavy swing of an iron mace, Sular moved forward with a rather ineffectual slash, not so easy now that the element of surprise had been lost, hopefully giving the man beside him the time to get his bearings, and start pulling his weight. In fact, Sular grimly reflected, as he deflected a blow from the side, his life very much depended on that.
The giant Broding was Gutra, born of the Dragon Stars. His birth had occurred on the sacred moon, and as a child he had drunk the Blood of the Dragon, ritually prepared by the High Shaman in the Shukken forests. He was chosen by the Spirits, elite among all Gung Warriors, to be a pillar of strength and destruction. Throughout his youth, his various exploits, such as murdering and eating a Blade Raptor with his bare hands, had spread his fame throughout the other clans. He had fought, and bested, the Chosen of each other clan, and earned the position of Guntra through a passage of blood. The spirit of Amun, the Dragon Knight, burned immortal within his heart, and with it came both the fury and the strength of the Immortals. No man had ever faced him and lived, no beast had he found that he could not kill. Unequaled, he was Guntra, and nothing would stop him.
At slightly over 3 meters, Broding truly deserved the title of giant. Even the tall and strong Gung around him came barely up to his chest, and he was almost twice as tall as the Metal Men before him. Those who clad themselves in iron, fearing the judgement of Kuln, He who Devoured. His body was built like a wall of flesh, heaps of muscle giving him an almost inhuman appearance. His head was comparatively slow, and yet no man would miss it for the bloodthirsty grin that seemed to be a permanent addition the Broding's face, as well as the seeming fire that burned in his eyes, almost as if he had lit his brain on fire. In his massive clenched fist, he held a long staff, a blade attached to each end of it. It was pure white, seemingly forged from bone, the blades resembling talons more than anything forged by man, as if they had been taken from some massive beast. Which, quite possibly, they had been.
As he walked through the gate, opened as the High Shaman had stated it would be, he saw his Gung already fighting the Iron Men. Letting out a roar that resembled more the tales of mythological beasts and demons than anything uttered by a man, Broding launched himself forward. Gung, knowing what was about to happen, stepped aside rapidly, a path forming to allow Guntra to battle. A spearman who had moments before been fighting for his life was momentarily left with no enemies, and just enough time to glance up and see the massive hulk of a man bearing down on him. To his credit, the spearman, despite seeing his death closing in, set his spear against the ground, and held up his large shield, as if defending against a cavalry charge. Unfortunately for him, Broding used the dual-bladed battle lance to swipe the spear aside. Instead of striking again, however, Broding held up a foot, and brought his full weight to bear on the shield. Even as the man tried to frantically scramble away, he was crushed under his own shield, Broding using him as a stepping stone to walk into the enemy ranks behind him.
Guntra stood strong, burnign with the flame of Amun, the Dragon's Claw in hand. The Gung knew this, and surged with revitalized morale as the legendary warrior took to the battlefield, already ripping through the enemy. If this line fell, they knew, the bottleneck would be broken and they could bring their full numbers to bear. Then, any hope of victory would soon fade away.
Oh crap I'm so sorry. At tge time of joining this I was on a camping in France, and the wifi basically crashed, which is why I stopped posting. I'm really sorry, please tell me this didn't die because of me?
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It seemed no help was coming his way, unfortunately. Sular could make no assumptions as to what was going on on the East Wall, but it was quite clearly distracting his comrades to such an extent that they had either not heard his shout, or been unable to come to his aid. This put him a rather problematic situation, as he did not relish revisiting his swordfighting skills at this particular juncture, and from the stance his opponent had taken, it seemed that this person was trained to at least some degree.
The short figure did not move forward, one knife held high, the second held low. No clear openings presented themselves other than Sular's reach advantage. He held the broadsword he had acquired from the nearby soldier in one hand, in a simple guard stance. His opponent couldn't afford to continue unlocking the mechanisms, for he'd have to turn his back on Shular. The advantage-
Before Shular could finish the thought, a heavy Thunk sounded. In the short figure's hand was a small crossbow, having seemingly materialised from thin air. The impact of the bolt knocked Sular back three steps, as he stared down at the shaft. It was firmly planted into his chest, still quivering from the impact it had made. It was hard to comprehend, as the mind tried to catch up to what his subconscious had already realized. That before he'd even been able to react, he'd already been killed.
Or at least he would have, if it wasn't for the boiled leather plate he was wearing. Noticing the man already reassessing the odds, having assumed Sular to be dead, Sular took a moment to reassess his opponent, and say a silent prayer to the Earth Mother. Whomever this was, they weren't a barbarian, and they were FAST. He saw the figure take out some form of stone from a pocket artfully hidden in the robe, which he threw at the stairs. There was a flash, as if he'd been staring into the sun, and Sular had to cringe away from the sudden light produced by the stone. No doubt this was all the time the stranger would need.
Moving forward, still half-blind, Sular tried to strike out at this mysterious opponent. It was quite probably not the most intelligent of moves, but Sular burned with wounded pride. He was a master warrior, trained from the moment he'd been brought into this world, and he would not be bested by some fool with no name or honor. However, his sword was caught in between two expertly maneauvered daggers, and ripped from his fingers. Pain blossomed from his hand, and Sular drew back hastily, his slowly returning vision allowing him to watch as well as feel the blood running down froma nasty cut on his hand.
With a loud clanging, the mechanisms moved into action, the powerful reinforced gate lifting off of the ground. The stunned soldiers watched, blinded by the stone the strange figure had thrown. With graceful, unhurried steps, the cloaked figure walked along the now lowered wooden bridge, seemingly disappearing halfwayover it, just as he'd dropped out of everyone's sight. Sular had seen magic worked by his father's Grand Priest, a gift from the Earth Mother to her greatest of children, but he hesitated when watching this display. If it was magic, it was unlike anything he had ever seen. And yet, what else could explain such an appearance?
And even as the Shas-La prince puzzled, a roar thundered over the plains. The very forests and sands shook, and those that moments before had fired into the barbarians' faces stared, wide-eyed with fear. Thousands in number, the barbarians streamed out of the trees, roaring a berserker's cry. Sprinting full out, weapons flailing and with no regard for their own lives. They saw an opening in the massive walls that had proved the deaths of previous waves, and they swarmed to it as sharks to a man over the rail. And Sular, starin into the face of the oncoming horde, felt rather like that man staring into the eyes of death.
The short figure did not move forward, one knife held high, the second held low. No clear openings presented themselves other than Sular's reach advantage. He held the broadsword he had acquired from the nearby soldier in one hand, in a simple guard stance. His opponent couldn't afford to continue unlocking the mechanisms, for he'd have to turn his back on Shular. The advantage-
Before Shular could finish the thought, a heavy Thunk sounded. In the short figure's hand was a small crossbow, having seemingly materialised from thin air. The impact of the bolt knocked Sular back three steps, as he stared down at the shaft. It was firmly planted into his chest, still quivering from the impact it had made. It was hard to comprehend, as the mind tried to catch up to what his subconscious had already realized. That before he'd even been able to react, he'd already been killed.
Or at least he would have, if it wasn't for the boiled leather plate he was wearing. Noticing the man already reassessing the odds, having assumed Sular to be dead, Sular took a moment to reassess his opponent, and say a silent prayer to the Earth Mother. Whomever this was, they weren't a barbarian, and they were FAST. He saw the figure take out some form of stone from a pocket artfully hidden in the robe, which he threw at the stairs. There was a flash, as if he'd been staring into the sun, and Sular had to cringe away from the sudden light produced by the stone. No doubt this was all the time the stranger would need.
Moving forward, still half-blind, Sular tried to strike out at this mysterious opponent. It was quite probably not the most intelligent of moves, but Sular burned with wounded pride. He was a master warrior, trained from the moment he'd been brought into this world, and he would not be bested by some fool with no name or honor. However, his sword was caught in between two expertly maneauvered daggers, and ripped from his fingers. Pain blossomed from his hand, and Sular drew back hastily, his slowly returning vision allowing him to watch as well as feel the blood running down froma nasty cut on his hand.
With a loud clanging, the mechanisms moved into action, the powerful reinforced gate lifting off of the ground. The stunned soldiers watched, blinded by the stone the strange figure had thrown. With graceful, unhurried steps, the cloaked figure walked along the now lowered wooden bridge, seemingly disappearing halfwayover it, just as he'd dropped out of everyone's sight. Sular had seen magic worked by his father's Grand Priest, a gift from the Earth Mother to her greatest of children, but he hesitated when watching this display. If it was magic, it was unlike anything he had ever seen. And yet, what else could explain such an appearance?
And even as the Shas-La prince puzzled, a roar thundered over the plains. The very forests and sands shook, and those that moments before had fired into the barbarians' faces stared, wide-eyed with fear. Thousands in number, the barbarians streamed out of the trees, roaring a berserker's cry. Sprinting full out, weapons flailing and with no regard for their own lives. They saw an opening in the massive walls that had proved the deaths of previous waves, and they swarmed to it as sharks to a man over the rail. And Sular, starin into the face of the oncoming horde, felt rather like that man staring into the eyes of death.
An infiltrator. Sular had been one of the many new and inexperienced fools who had been sent to this outpost to die, and he had personally witnessed the disorganised and pathetic state of this reinforcement. A sutry group of peasants and farmers given old and untrustworthy weaponry, hastily sent on their way by the word of some official in the palace at the city of Aegis. It would have been relatively easy to slip an infiltrator into this group, in fact, were they facing any other opponent, Sular would have been surprised not to have faced an infiltrator. However, these barbarians did not have access to any of the weaponry the Empire used for it's troops, nor did they seem to have any grasp of the same language. This meant that, quite worryingly, either the barbarians were far more intelligent than they seemed, or they had some hidden ally who was directing their attacks. The Empire had many enemies, after all, and many would be happy to see the barbarians raging through Empyrean lands.
However,even with this worrying prospect looming over the horizon, at this point in time there were far more pressing matters at hand. The spy on the East wall could deal no serious damage, not when he was being attacked by the sergeant as well as the Batlle-Born. Furthermore, even by killing the sentries, it had given the barbarians no real advantage. An attacking force from the East, while dividing the defenders' attention, would still be pointless without any way to pass the fortifications. While in an open battle Sular would have been one of the first to pronouce the group doomed, here, with a castle to defend, he had no such intentions. If the barbarians were intelligent enough to place a spy, they would know that attacking from the East would be just as foolish. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that the spy that they had believed to be the true threat, was merely a diversion, and the true threat still came from the army at their doorstep.
Ignoring the infiltrator, Sular headed down the craggy stone steps that led to the ground floor. As he had thought, the mechanism for opening the North Gate had been the target all along. Only a single boy had been left to guard it, no older than 16, and here he lay, dead from a swift stab to the neck. A rather short figure clad in only cloak, and potentially leather armor, was unlocking the mechanisms that held up the gate with frightening speed. With attention divided between the oncoming army and the spy on the East Wall, this second infiltrator had been able to get to this point without raising any alarms.
There was no time to shoot this man. The greatbow was a magnificent weapon for it's unparrallelled range, accuracy and sheer stopping power, a lord among ranged weaponry. However, it had never been built for mobility, nor was it a fast weapon, and in this situation speed was of the essence. Instead, Sular uttered a battlecry, intended both to draw the attention of his allies and startle the infiltrator, who no doubt had expected to remain unseen. Sular rapidly drew a dagger from the folds of his cloak, having carefully propped the massive bow against a wall before. Sular had had a cursory training with a variety of weaponry in his youth, for as Firstborn of the House he needed to be an exemplary warrior for his soldiers to follow. As he held this dagger in his hand, and eyed the shortsword his opponent wielded, however, he severely started missing the saber, or the range of his bow.
However,even with this worrying prospect looming over the horizon, at this point in time there were far more pressing matters at hand. The spy on the East wall could deal no serious damage, not when he was being attacked by the sergeant as well as the Batlle-Born. Furthermore, even by killing the sentries, it had given the barbarians no real advantage. An attacking force from the East, while dividing the defenders' attention, would still be pointless without any way to pass the fortifications. While in an open battle Sular would have been one of the first to pronouce the group doomed, here, with a castle to defend, he had no such intentions. If the barbarians were intelligent enough to place a spy, they would know that attacking from the East would be just as foolish. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that the spy that they had believed to be the true threat, was merely a diversion, and the true threat still came from the army at their doorstep.
Ignoring the infiltrator, Sular headed down the craggy stone steps that led to the ground floor. As he had thought, the mechanism for opening the North Gate had been the target all along. Only a single boy had been left to guard it, no older than 16, and here he lay, dead from a swift stab to the neck. A rather short figure clad in only cloak, and potentially leather armor, was unlocking the mechanisms that held up the gate with frightening speed. With attention divided between the oncoming army and the spy on the East Wall, this second infiltrator had been able to get to this point without raising any alarms.
There was no time to shoot this man. The greatbow was a magnificent weapon for it's unparrallelled range, accuracy and sheer stopping power, a lord among ranged weaponry. However, it had never been built for mobility, nor was it a fast weapon, and in this situation speed was of the essence. Instead, Sular uttered a battlecry, intended both to draw the attention of his allies and startle the infiltrator, who no doubt had expected to remain unseen. Sular rapidly drew a dagger from the folds of his cloak, having carefully propped the massive bow against a wall before. Sular had had a cursory training with a variety of weaponry in his youth, for as Firstborn of the House he needed to be an exemplary warrior for his soldiers to follow. As he held this dagger in his hand, and eyed the shortsword his opponent wielded, however, he severely started missing the saber, or the range of his bow.
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