Zyamasiel

A Young Upstart's Brush With Death! Lysander vs Rakatah!

"Hm, that's it, eh? A half-insult and you turn and leave? That was the easiest win I've ever been handed...though not sure why you had to kill those random dudes to give that assessment, but hey - whatever man. I love a good murder myself. Maybe when I'm done here, I'll track down your people and give them a taste of my blade. Or not...depends on the mood I'm in, I suppose. A lot of it depends on mood, you know. Killing, I mean. It's not willy-nilly, well not for most people. Sometimes it's just because I can, I won't lie about it. But, people in general. Well, not just people. Since you're not really a person, aye? Or do you consider aliens people? That's be a weird dichotomy to deal with, I'd think. What is and isn't a person...I wonder...does it have anything to do with souls? I have twelve of those, you know.

"Then again, I'm not sure that does it. Because I'm certainly not a person, at least not in the way most people think of someone as a person. I'm more of a...a monster, really. At least that's what the last few races I slaughtered called me. A monster. Some herald me as their God, too, though. So, I'm really not sure. You know these guys thought of me as a God once, when I first came here. Long time ago, been around these parts from time to time to check in on things. I really liked them, I taught them some things. They gave me their shinies and their women. A lot of that, women I mean. Not so much the shinies, not much use for them when you can just slit the throat of someone and take what you want. But, the women...mmm...I love women. Speaking of, your mom still alive? Aunt? Sister? Do you guys even have family like humans, or is it kind of the same thing with different made up names?"

He spoke nearly nonstop, ensuring that the other heard his words - even as he walked away carrying the door he'd just used to commit that most atrocious sin of murder. His words simply grew louder, more pompous. It was like he was trying to entice the guy into turning around and chunking the door at him, and the pale glow of light illuminating the area where he held the door only furthered that innate knowledge of what he intended to do. After all, why make a glow outside of a rave without a reason, right? Well, it didn't really matter. Lysander simply sat at his table, one knee propped up on the booth and his eyes watching the others back. While he spoke, his mouth moved - but no other part of his body made any perceptible movement. For all intents and purposes, he wasn't moving and he had no intention of moving.

All the while, though, as the words hung in the air and the other continued walking toward the door...which was taking an insanely long time for someone as brutish as he - the room continued to quiet down. It was like something was happening to each person, like some part of themselves was going missing. What was happening? Well, that wasn't really something that could be missed - if one were to look in the right place. The question was, would he? Would his eyes take in the room, or would he trip over his own feet. Probably the latter, they always did the latter. Honestly, Lysander could have killed him when he snapped on his nifty little lightbox thing. Just a slight movement of his fingers, and his skull would have been crushed under the weight of a star. But, he hadn't. He actually hoped this guy would give him something of a bit of fun before he died.

And they always died. Either slowly and painfully, or quickly and painless. That choice, ultimately, was one for them to make though. It all depended on what the guy did next. Would he turn and fight, like a man, or would he continue to cower and run? It didn't actually matter, his first attack would find itself useless either way you looked at it. With his eyes on the other person, his body made a faint shimmer - like darkness closing over it for only a slight second - and with the other looking away from him, unable to see him - it would go completely unnoticed.

Once more, his voice hung in the open air - the only sound other than the faint, heart-rate elevated breathing of a few members in the bar. "So, do you guys have families or not? I need to know who I'm going to be raping and murdering when I'm done flaying you open from stem to sternum."

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

"Yak-brew, you say? I've had that a time or two. Never the best, never the worst - but it'll sure fuck a man up. I guess it'll have to suffice, at least for now." Lysander spoke calmly, basically wondering if the man was yet worth the effort. Meanwahile, as the man looked him over, Lysander took in the room. A little too ornate for his taste, but far different than the last time he'd been here. Back then, it was nothing more than brick and mortar. The foundations of something great. Barren and desolate, over the years it seemed people decided to spruce the place up a bit. Well, they'd done one hell of a job. It looked like Midas puked right over it.

As he turned back to Gonad, who was still looking him over - he shifted uncomfortably. "If you're gonna ask me out to dinner, do it. Stop just looking at me," meanwhile, he shifted and let the string of souls snap off his shoulder - the sword slamming into the ground and burying itself in the stone. It would remain there until the end of the fight, after all a great warrior once said "swords aren't for fighting, but for looking cool". If Gonad tried to lift the sword, he'd be in for a world of surprise and hurt. He simply wouldn't have the strength. In fact, Lysander didn't actually have the strength. It was simply a feat of his magic that allowed him to carry the gargantuan thing around, and wield it like a normal man would a knife.

As he shrugged the blade off his back, he took a step forward. His head canted to the side, and he finally took in the appearance of the man before him - his own experience(s) compiling a rough idea of what he could do - and then the stories from the others flooded into his mind. Here, in this place, it was unclear which dimension he was from - but several others fed him information through their connection. Gonad was, apparently, a formidable warrior. Though, not one Lysander really considered his equal. After all, he could clearly see a battle with a man named Jason being replayed in his mind right now.

That one was beneath Lysander, and that one had essentially destroyed Gonad in battle. How the man thought to even show his face in an arena after that, he wasn't sure. A loss so humiliating, so outright resounding - was not one most men would easily recover from. It seemed Gonad had, though. To have come back and called out one even more formidable than the last to destroy him.

Well, if that would be the case - then so be it. His magic flooded his veins, empowering his body. Enhancing him beyond even his already enhanced conditions. It was time to fight, shifting his weight he stood, feet shoulder width apart and within easy striking range for Gonad. Hands down to his side, he presented the other with an open target. At least it seemed that way, he also appeared to be an easy target - but the other would soon find the folly in those decisions, should he choose to make them.

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

Across multiple realities, he existed in one form or another. Often by other names, and sometimes by the same name. It was the same for everyone, everyone existed in multiple instances - multiple dimensions. A thousand recurring versions of themselves, spreading out from the first and evolving, growing to become near infinite in their capacity. He was the same, though different from most. Where most knew nothing of their other selves, he was deeply in touch with them. He learned from them, and they from him. They held some semblance of solid cohesion with one another. Yet, they rarely met - instead sharing information mind to mind, across the cosmic Multiverse that spanned between them.

It was, in fact, how this one knew he was being challenged. A thousand versions of himself heard the call to arms, and they passed the word until they found the one who wanted it. The one being called for, the one being summoned. It wasn't a hard ritual to do so, all one had to do was call out for him - and many times they only needed to do so in their mind. He could hear it all, feel it all. This version of him held many capabilities that others didn't, and he could sense the presence of the warrior. The Court of the Fair One wasn't an unknown place to him. He'd been there more than once. Of course, the last time he'd been there was to lay the groundwork for the magic that allowed it to work.

He and his brother, Vincent Fiorelli, spent many nights in the room etching the magic into the very foundations of it - and their intricate drawings were the reason its power worked the way it did. The Red Magister and the Lord of Flesh. They worked together in harmony, when they could stop punching one another in the face long enough to cooperate. The room pulsed with power, and yet that pulsation was the very reason none who entered had power. Aside from the basic melee capabilities, and some minor enhancements to their melee strengths, magic faltered as soon as it lost connection with the flesh that spawned it. So, he was weary of going there.

Yet, he couldn't just turn back from a challenge. He had to travel, and so he mustered his strength and shifted his right hand. The miniscule movements of his fingers contracted, shifting one across the other. Awkward, odd drawings in the air just below his waist. The power flowed white hot thorugh his veins, pulsing through his body. It exerted itself from his fingertips, and the drawing of etched runes emblazeoned on the very fabric of reality, opening a doorway.

Through the door he stepped, dropping a hundred feet and through the cosmic outline, into the pocket dimension that held the Court. His knees bent on impact, and he straightened himself back up. His hand reaching for the door handle, preparing to pull it open. And then his eyes caught the note left for him, and his hand instead shifted to rip it off the wall. His eyes scanned it, and he smiled. It seemed he was here to fight a child, something he wasn't accustomed to doing - but not adverse to either.

Once again, he reached out with both hands - his sword held in place by the string of damned souls, hilt rising just over his right shoulder - and massive blade nearly dragging the ground. His hands grasped the ornate handles, and even as he touched them he felt something change. The power was dying inside of him, shadows stopped seeming unreal - and once more rooted themselves in reality.

He smiled, knowing that the time was come to fight one who could not match him - and so had to bring him down to his level. It happened more often than he liked, but he would deal with it. He had a near infinite well of experience, of combat to draw upon. If the man thought removing his ability to use his ranged powers, to use the full scope of his might, was going to give him an advantage...he was mistaken.

The massive doors swung open violently, nearly ripping themselves from the hinges. His footfalls on the floor resonated, loud and vehement in their intensity. The metal-tipped boots, the tightened jean-like material. His unprotected chest, sweat already glistening though he ignored the heat. Long, white hair flowed down past his shoulders and his grey eyes angled themselves to search every nook and cranny, seeking out the pests that often plagued men fighting in this place.

And then he heard the braying call of what he could only assume to be his opponent, the one who demanded he fight him. To his surprise, it was not a child - though it still appeared quite like a petulent youngling seeking the favor of a beloved master. A pet, if you would, who yet remained untamed. Allowing the call to carry on, he finally responded after the man finished.

"Knock off your screaming, child. I'm here. You got any beer?" It was already evident, Lysander had no intention of taking this one seriously.

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

Basic version of Lysander, as used in the fight with LeeRoy - without any of his non-melee capabilities.

A Young Upstart's Brush With Death! Lysander vs Rakatah!

"Today, in World News. United States President Donald Glover said that the bombings in New Israel would not be tolerated. He has enacted plans to counter the Christians assaults with peace keeping missions.

North Korean Queen Fook Yu's second son was married, giving him a fourth wife in what has become the central location of Mormonism on the planet.

And finally, tech conglomerate Facebook has decided to shut down their social media presence, after it was discovered to be a den of pedophiles and black marketeers."

The television snapped off with the click of the remote, and the barman turned from it. His grunt showed his disapproval, considering he was probably one of the pedophiles using Facebook most often. The denizens of the bar didn't care, many of them were too drunk to have told you their own names. The raucous laughter of the crowd drowned out any individual conversation. Hard men, these were. Gangbangers and thugs, men who came back from their personal and governmental wars changed. They were here because this place was dark, drab, and the bartender didn't cut you off when you were too drunk to walk.

The drinks just kept coming, and they kept drinking. They all seemed to fit in pretty well, though in the far corner, nestled into a booth with a couple girls and a fella holding a pair of dice, sat one who stuck out like a sore thumb. His flowing grey hair, long enough to rest in the mid of his back. The way his eyes sparkled, despite the iris holding no semblance of color. The way his lips upturned to smile a smile that never touched his eyes. He was cold, and he was hard - but he didn't fit in. The other members of the bar paid him no mind, though sideways glances in his direction were frequent.

Probably to get a glance at his sword, the behemoth weapon rested on the wall behind him - leant there with its tip buried a full inch into the hardwood floor. The man's cold eyes checked each person in turn, catching their gaze before they even decided to look it seemed. A perfect mirror of their actions. It unsettled them, and their eyes averted almost immediately. It was a loud night at the bar, but it was interrupted pretty quick. And in a pretty horrible way.

The door thundered off its hinges, breaking a table and breaking the neck of the poor old fool who sat there. The man was a member of the bar's regular crowd. Well liked, well regarded. He was a friend to everyone, even newcomers felt some sense of comfort around him. A great tragedy his death was, and it riled the anger in many of them when the door tumbled on him. The surprise of it notwithstanding, everyone immediately became on edge. Hands clenched into fists, conversation stopped. Everyone turned their eyes to the door, except the white-haired man with the giant sword. He watched the rolling die on the table, They tumbled, end over end, for a few seconds before coming to a rest.

"Snake eyes, you lose" he whispered, lifting his glass and taking the amber liquid in - draining it all before swallowing. Finally, he turned his attention to the man at the door - his long-winded pause meant for effect having no affect. He met the others gaze, as the words left his lips. His hand canted to the side, trying to remember if he'd ever met anyone who bore any faint resemblance to someone as ugly as this guy was, before something clicked.

"Uh...you're not from around these parts, eh, Pundambayan? You know these people don't even know what faster than light travel is? Much less would they have had any dealings with a race as isolated as your own. Now...I don't think I'm the one who killed him....but honestly, I've killed a lot of people. I mean... a lot and all the ugly ones kind of bleed together."

His body turned as he spoke, shifting so that he could let one knee pull up on the cushion of the booth - his back against the wall and one arm draped over the back. The hilt of Caldecise sat within easy reach, but for a man such as him he could have reached it easily even if it were on the other side of the country. As he spoke, his words seethed with venom. Not at the man for wanting vengeance, but for interrupting his good time. The cock-blocking son of a bitch was definitely going to end up paying for that, if he didn't turn right around and leave.

He could have said as much, but he preferred the diplomatic approach these days. "Now, considering you're clearly not on my level, and these people couldn't have possibly left the surface of this planet to have been anywhere near your reclusive bunch of pathetic, ignorant people. I'm going to give you this one chance. Get out. While you can still move under your own power."

As he spoke those final words, the room seemed to darken. Shadows shimmered, shifting and moving in ways that weren't possible - and yet seemed to be just that. The sword forged in the blood of stars sat at the ready, though he doubted he'd need to rely on the particular strength it would offer - bolstering his own magic and might to Godlike levels was, often, overkill. Not that he didn't like a bit of overkill from time to time, but why bother wasting his energy if it wasn't required.

A Young Upstart's Brush With Death! Lysander vs Rakatah!

Lysander

Name: Lysander Telos Korvein
Alias: The Archetype, The Soul Sage, Shadowlord.
Apparent Age: 27
Actual Age: Unknown
Gender: Male
Race: Humanoid, Soul Hivan
Classification: Mercenary
Height: 6’3”
Weight: 210lbs
Hair Color: Varies
Eye Color: Varies

Character Tier: High
Character Affiliation: The Dominion
Character-type: Critical

Appearance

A man of rather modest size and weight, Lysander is often underestimated based on how he looks. Unassuming because of his average build, his true strength is far belied by the nature of his body. Not the muscle-bound brute most people seem to become, Lysander is a lithe creature. Long, flowing hair falls down his back - though it is often well-kept in a ponytail to avoid disastrous sight-coverage. Born of the Soul Hive, he has inherited several genetic features that - while not individually specific to his kind - most creatures do not have.

The pointed ears of the elves and the sharply down-turned nose are just two of these identifying traits. They’re also the most visibly apparent. Dark eyes seem to shift colors constantly, depending on his mood and the powers flowing through him at the time.

His normal attire consists of a pair of loose pantaloons and a dark colored, loose-fitting shirt without sleeves - revealing the definition of the muscles in his arms. Covering his shirt is usually a piece of metal armor, which comes to a rest just beneath his waist, ending at a bluntly curved edge. A dark, long-sleeved coat sets over both of these. Over the arms of the coat is a pair of very durable, nearly indestructible vambraces covered in the ancient Runes of the Soul Hive.

Personality

Lysander is a true warrior, who has spent the millions of years of his existence in training against the strongest combatants the Multiverse has ever had to offer. Rarely defeated, he has become obsessed with finding that one, true fight that would truly pull from within him the true force of his own power. Yet to find this, he has long since given up hope at finding such a warrior. That’s the burning passion that drives him to continue existing, when he should have faded from the world of the living so long ago.

At the same time, he is a generous, kind person who has no qualms about admitting it. He has been known to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves, even when there was nothing for him to gain from the act. Many of the wounds that have been inflicted upon him came from those moments of selflessness, when he was trying to protect others and found himself impaled upon a sword from behind.
A man who hates cowardice, and any sign of cowardly behavior, he takes anything remotely seen as cowardly as a sign of weakness and will immediately rip the person to shreds. At the same time, he understands tactics and battle strategy very, very well. Tactical retreats for regrouping, therefore, are not seen as cowardly behaviors.

Abilities, Traits, Capabilities, Powers

The Soul Hive: The Soul Hive exists in a dimension parallel to our own, yet outside of space and time itself. Inside the Hive, there exists only the Hive. A member of the Soul Hive is someone who was born within the confines of its walls, and who - because of their upbringing within it - have gained indomitable control over its nature. With only four such people to exist, Lysander is the last remaining alive - the other three fell to his own blade. As such, the full power of the Hivan world exists solely within his body. Travel to and from The Soul Hive is impossible without the blood of a Hivan as a catalyst.

Inside the Soul Hive exists an axis of power relatively untapped, at least in a general sense. Lysander, himself, has tapped into the energy source and used it to fuel his own innate capabilities. The magic-like energy of the Hive can be used for a plethora of things, though Lysander uses it mostly only to fuel his innate capabilities.

Sage Modes: Those who were born within the Soul Hive have access to powers far greater than those simply invited within its walls. Specifically, the Sage-forms. Hivan Sages are extremely powerful beings capable of manipulating and utilizing magic of nearly any kind, depending on the alignment their Sage-form seems to take. Lysander, unlike most Hivans, has access to both sides of the coin - so to speak.

Transcending Light; Sage form I: The Transcending Light is a powerful force of good, capable of eradicating evil-doers with the majesty of its beauty alone. What defines someone as evil is completely dependent upon the wielder, and with this form of Sage-hood comes the infinite knowledge of all good magic. This means, of course, that the wielder is capable of utilizing various forms of good magic. To achieve this level one must train for centuries and understand better than most the correlation between man and soul.


Descending Darkness; Sage form II: As a user of the Descending Darkness the user understands the torment of the soul and its correlation with the pain of the physical body. The wielder is capable of delivering a nearly impenetrable darkness upon their enemies, and understands and utilizes the darkest of magic almost naturally. The amount of training and pain the user must endure for this to be effective is beyond the capability of most; human and Hivan alike.

Godhand; Sage form III: A Godhand is a Hivan who, after centuries of life, has understand the correlation of all things in the Multiverse, and can see the very convergence of life and pain at every turn. Godhands, when utilizing their full potential, are nearly indomitable warriors whose very existence hinges on the bloodlust running through their veins. While Sage form I and II make their specific sets of magic available while the user is within that singular form, a Godhand can utilize both its predecessors traits simultaneously, while achieving significant boosts to their own physical capabilities.

Additionally, Godhands empower their other traits beyond a natural level - a point beyond even their normal peak. For Lysander, this means that he transcends all bounds of mortality and becomes a creature nearly unstoppable in every regard. Furthermore, a Godhand is capable of seeing - and understanding - the energies being utilized by those around him and, in most cases, can mimic them with perfection. This allows for quick learning of new forms, though the wielder often chooses to forget that which he learns.

Shadow Lord: Once the wielder of the legendary sword Gekimetsu, Lysander has infused within himself the power of the Shadow Lord, allowing him to manipulate the very shadows around him. Once a power only usable through physical contact with the sword itself, Lysander has destroyed the soul contained within the sword and taken its power for himself.

Through this he is capable of manipulating the shadows in various ways. He can utilize them for quick traveling through the realm of Jigoku, as well as harming a person he’s fighting simply by causing damage to the shadows they emit. A thousand things can be done with these shadows, and he has used them for such a length of time that complete mastery is a thing of the past - he has become the master of Shadows and his power over them is indomitable.

Jigoku: Jigoku, in Lysander’s canon, is the Shadow Hell. It is the place from which shadows materialize, and where they converge into one single entity. The Shadow Hell is, because of this natural order, a place where only the most powerful of shadow manipulators can enter and exit safely. Lysander utilizes its living, tormenting nature to the effect of a personal hell dimension. Those he deems unworthy of a warrior’s death are entombed here, tormented for eternity.

The price one must pay to escape Jigoku without the aide of a powerful shadow manipulator, and in the case of Lysander the savior would have to have considerable might, is to leave their physical body behind and exist merely as a soul within the physical world; with no body to call its own. Most would rather suffer the physical torment of Jigoku, than to exist without a form capable of interacting with the true world.

Cosmic Magic: Lysander spent several centuries studying the lore behind cosmic magic, and unearthing its secrets. As such, he is capable of weaving complex spells that utilize the very fabric of the cosmos themselves as a power source; providing him with a nearly limitless source of energy for powerful magical creations that - on a normal basis - could affect a grand scale with the smallest of effects. The full force of this school of magic has yet to be tested, though Lysander has often sought the opportunity to put it to the test.

The Twelve Souls of Vengeance

Lysander, over a great length of time, assembled together the twelve strongest members of the Korvein family, and using his own dark magic wiped them from the face of existence. One by one they fell to his blade, and in doing so he entrapped their souls within his own body. Through this, he gained immense power and additional capabilities that were unlocked dependent upon the soul stolen. Lysander, himself, barely understands the full extent of the powers attained from the Twelve Souls, but he knows his own might hinges entirely upon them - and so he keeps them locked tightly within the very core of his being - their burning souls intertwining and interweaving with his own until it is impossible to see where one begins and the other ends.

Specific traits gained from the souls are, relatively, unknown. Though a healing factor along with advanced regeneration and reactive adaptation have been noted to exist within him since the melding of the souls, other powers may or may not exist hidden deep within the core of his being. Perhaps someone, someday, will push him to his limits and find out exactly what he may or may not be capable of because of these spiritual threads woven together.

Magiweaves: A form of magic utilizing woven threads of energy visible only to another user of the power, the wielder creates effects of magical origin based entirely on the combination of weaves they use. These function much like the True Power does for Rand al’Thor - who gave Lysander the idea to create this form of magic after a chance meeting in Tel’aran’rhiod - but differ in fundamental ways. Whereas Saidin and Saidar utilize only five basic elements within their weaves (Fire, Water, Earth, Air, and Spirit) Lysander has broken it down further to include such elemental forces as light, gravitational forces, and darkness.

Through this, the actual effects of the power have become nearly limitless in their application upon celestial bodies and denizens of the Multiverse who are unfortunate enough to make him pull this level of power out of himself.

Weapons and Equipment

Shadow Queen Armor


A suit of armor developed and created by the magister Vincent Fiorelli, The Shadow Queen Set is a powerful asset to any lucky enough to have been granted one. Lysander, however, has made a few key modifications. While Vincent’s original set could be worn by anyone, Lysander’s has been personally encoded to his genetic string; making it useless to anyone else who might pick it up. In fact, the encoding is so strong that - should the suit recognize and unauthorized DNA sequence, it will constrict until it crushes the trespasser into a bloody, gory ball.

The suit has several key components, they are:

Skinsuit: While this looks like nothing more than an average, polished opal its true nature is revealed when the wearer of the suit embeds the stone in their skin. While most, not all but most, seem to prefer embedding the stone in their spine - one of the only two places it can be embedded and work effectively - Lysander chooses to embed his in the center of his chest.

Despite the metallic, rigid way the suit fits on Lysander when it builds itself from the polished gem and forms itself into whatever shape and composition the wearer wants, it is crafted from a material the creator; Vincent Fiorelli, crafted on his own. Called Fiorellite, the composite material is extremely durable and utilizes magic Lysander didn’t really care to pay attention to or read about to be tremendously durable.

Energy used against the suit is absorbed and dissipated as harmless nothingness at an extreme rate, while physical weapons are usually destroyed on contact.

Spines: Utilizing its vast stores of energy, the Suit forms for itself weapons dependent upon the wearer’s preferences. In Lysander’s case, this usually means a larger-than-average buster sword much like the one he trapped Gekimetsu’s soul in, as it was his main weapon for more than sixteen centuries and one of his personal favorites. However, the possibilities of weapons available to the wielder seem to be - from the extensive testing Lysander has put this capability through - limitless.

Stealth Capabilites: The main use of the suit, aside from being pretty damn effective armor, is stealth. The suit hides any energy signature the user might have from being seen or felt by enemies. As such, when wearing the suit the user is hidden from the metaphysical eyes of would-be combatants and attackers.

Energy Absorption: The Shadow Queen Set contains the potential for endless magic, which allows it to absorb energy of nearly any kind and repurpose it for various methods. In most cases, the energy is used to extend the capabilities of the suits inherent defenses or the attacking Spines. In Lysander’s case, however, the suit’s capacity for Endless Magic is instead used to fuel his own innate traits beyond their normal limitations - as well as keeping his physical body fully functional long past its natural usefulness would be exhausted.

Destroyed Energy and Cloning Systems: The opal uses the energy of stopped assaults or broken attempts at magic to fuel itself, which creates a seemingly endless cycle of power. However, when the opal takes on too much power it splits off and forms a perfect clone of the wielder - albeit a slight bit weaker than the original. The number of clones is untested, and their proper name is “Soul Jars”. The created “Soul Jars” are flesh and blood creatures, and think nearly the same as the original copy. They are not NPCs, and instead are simply exact copies of the user themselves.

History

WIP

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

Bharata stood at the forefront of the table, his palms resting flat on the mahogany surface. His eyes looked up over the rims of his glasses, searching the faces of each and every person at the table. He stood silently, questioningly. His fingers rapped softly, and as he stood there - scanning their faces for any sign of treachery, he began to question their motives entirely. Why were they here? Had they any intention of taking this seriously, or did they simply show up to appease the boss man? The members of the board weren't quite the smartest of the lot, chosen instead for their inability to disobey the boss, than their ability to actually run Xanathan. That was up to him, he'd taken it from a single country to a worldwide supplier of goods. They grew more and more as the years passed, and their foothold over Africa was only the beginning. So, he looked at them and wondered if they even cared about that - or if they simply wanted to ride on his coattails. They'd certainly done that, no one in the room was worth near what he was - but considerly more than the average person in a company such as this one.

"All in," he said suddenly, pushing a fair amount of chips to the center of the table before settling back into his chair. He knew he had them beaten, his hand was a good one. Two pairs. He just knew they couldn't beat that. None of them were that lucky, surely. So, as he sat back down he watched the table. Each man, in turn, laid down their cards into the discard pile. Folding their hands, and conceding defeat to their boss. His laughter rang out, and he pulled back twice the amount of chips he'd pushed into it. "I knew I had you guys beat, you're all so easy to read."

They chuckled nervously, and the deck passed on to the next man, to be doled out in kind again. As the man began dealing, the double-doors leading out of the conference room busted open. There stood the bald-headed man with an eye tattooed in the center of his forehead. Markus walked across the room, and shifted to sit on the table next to Bharata's growing chip pile. He didn't speak, in fact he couldn't speak. His tongue was cut out long ago by people who didn't enjoy hearing their own thoughts spoken aloud, or their futures told in the voice of a child.

"We have a problem, boss," the other transmitted into his brain, his psychic power overruling Bharata's intense focus and defenses. It became something of a game to them, to see whose mind was the strongest - though Markus always won," our convoy heading out of Lamda-5 was hit. We're not entirely sure by what, or who, but they took him."

The him Markus referred to was well known to Bharata, they'd sought him out for years now. Out in the Glasslands, where nothing could survive for long on its own - especially not without the proper defenses against the environment. Finally, they found him and now Markus was here telling him that the man was gone? They needed him. He was essential to their plans, to their studies. Bharata slapped the table with enough force to knock over everyones pile of chips.

"Goddammit, Markus." He spoke back into the other's head. Even his mental voice seethed with anger, with frustration. But, not at the loss of the man. "You interrupted the game, I was winning - there was no way they could have beaten me. I bluffed them out easy the last hand, and now you're here interrupting when I could take them for everything they have."

"Sir," Markus began, a slight chuckle to his mind-voice, "the man to your right folded a Royal Flush. Of course you were going to win, they knew you would win before they ever showed up here. They always let you win, because a happy boss means a happy workplace."

Bharata slammed his hand down on the table again, this time with his anger seething out in his real voice. "Johnson, are you letting me win? Are all of you letting me win?" He bellowed, his eyes dark and cold. No sign of human emotion, of empathy, within them. The people gathered around the table nodded their heads, each slightly but enough to notice. Nerves filled the room, and their hands shook.

They knew what was coming.

Bharata whipped out his personal firearm, a Beretta .45. Firing one shot a piece, he put a bullet between the eyes of every single person sitting at the table. 'Was that really necessary, sir? Now I have to find and vett you another board of directors, and you know how time-consuming that can be.'

'Shut up, Markus. Meet me in my office in ten minutes, and we'll discuss what we're going to be doing about this situation.'

Five minutes later

Standing in the middle of his office, an array of televisions lined up on the far wall and his eyes focused on them entirely. He watched the footage of XSF Delta, taken from their security feeds and stored wirelessly in their satellites. Then, he watched the footage from Mt. Cameron, and on another screen the footage of his convoy violently exploding upwards, into the sky. He watched silently, as Markus prepared to speak. They'd made haste here, especially after learning of two other attacks on their people in the field.

"What could be causing this, Markus? Who could be doing this? Have we not done right by the people of Africa, who would seek to turn against us?"

"Probably the people living in the wildlands, sir. They tend to not like the oversight, or the good lives we've offered. Their families eat because of us, survive because of us. The diamond mines are a great source of work, and they are paid fairly for their tasks."

Of course, in a civilized world their pay would be considered very subpar, almost insulting. But, for the jobs they had available, they made a wage that could at least allow a person in their household to survive. Probably not the whole household though, and definitely not in anything considered a house.

Bharata nodded, and walked over to his phone. Pressing the one button, and the intercom button he immediately rang up his secretary's office. "Martha, connect me with Operations."

"Immediately, sir," her soft british accent always got him. That's why he hired the woman, not for her ability to do the job - but for her ability to suck a dick.

A bit later, one of the screens on the wall shifted - and the face of a hard, violent woman stared back at him from somewhere near the Glasslands. "Colonel, you wanna tell me what the hell is going on out there?" Bharata demanded, his voice laced with the hint that if she didn't, there would be hell to pay. "You've been attacked three times in one night, and I'm not sure by who or what. Care to explain?"

"Sir, from what we've gathered from...information obtaining techniques....it's a group of militant radicals. We're unsure of their motives, their means, or what they hope to accomplish. In fact, we don't even know the names of their leaders, or how many of them there are. It's like, before last night, none of them even existed."

"Well you better damn well find out something we can use to stop them, Colonel, or I might be looking into replacing you along with the rest of the board."

In the background, a man stopped moving. On her screen, he turned and looked - but didn't truly see. Without thinking, he spoke; "HOW DARE YOU TALK TO MY WIFE LIKE THAT, WHO IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU A-"

Before he could even finish his insulting words, Bharata's hand snapped to his left. It shifted as if through a pool of nothing, and came out on the other side. His hand grabbed the others jaw and pulled him through, all the way from the Glasslands to Johannesburg HQ. His nose touched the others, and his eyes were cold and dead inside.

"I think I am Bharata Rendenvauld, your boss. The boss of your wife, and the man who will happily spit-roast you and watch as your skin melts away and your meat cooks, before I enjoy you with my evening tea. Now, I think it best if you hush your insolent mouth and return to your post, do your job, and I might find it in my heart to let you live long enough to see me fuck your wife, are we clear?"

The other man nodded, fear prevalent above all else. Bharata releasted him with a shove, sending him back through the opening in space/time and letting him fall on his ass behind his wife. He immediately stood up, steadied himself, and then rushed off-screen. Presumably to return to his assigned tasks.

'You shouldn't be so rude with them, sir. What if they turn on you, because of the way you treat them?'

'Ah, Markus. They don't have the balls to turn on me, they know what would happen. They can't run, they can't hide. They can only cower in fear of my strength, before I remove them from this life. They are unimportant anyway, mercenaries hired and trained to act as Xanathan Security Forces. There's a million more where they come from. No, the important ones are gone - they had custody of our charge and they failed in their task. Hopefully a survivor comes forward to tell us what happened, but even he will be put down for his failures.'

Bharata turned back to the colonel, and he gave her a look of pure hatred before shutting off the screens. He immediately returned to his desk, and began sifting through the days paperwork and preparing things in case he had to get out in the field himself and handle the situation. Something he was not fond of doing, but knew might become necessary soon.

Cataclysmic Ending ( Closed, Val'gara RP )

That's fine, Alucroas. As long as you're within two months, I don't mind how long you take - and I figured Odium's post would reset the timer. Though, to be fair, it's probably going to be the only post he makes because...let's face it...it's Odium.

Cataclysmic Ending ( Closed, Val'gara RP )

Since Odium decided to butt in, I would like to remind everyone of the time limitation between posts - there's no exceptions to that. Anyone, and everyone, who joins this thread will abide by it.

Cataclysmic Ending ( Closed, Val'gara RP )

They stood with the resolve of true soldiers, battled hardened combatants whose years - even prior to their service with the Cataclysm - were spent on the battlefield. The rain-soaked sky above lingered, yet didn't seem to touch them. They broadcasted their position mentally and physically. The imposing nature of themselves, the gestation of their life once more given. Rescued from turmoils and trepiditions. Some had even forsaked their morals, their very nature. Wantom murder for hire, or even murder for the pure sake of murder. They became something less than they'd been meant to be, and for that they expected nothing but punishment.

Instead, they were redeemed. Brought back into the fold, made Val'garan once more. Their lives restored to them. It was a miraculous thing, the way The Will looked upon them. His eyes showed nothing but admiration for them. If they'd known it, they would have called it love. Yet, in their long lives they never experienced that particuar emotion. They called it nothing but the connection between them. The bond that spread amongst the few standing on that hilltop was strong. Strong enough to be sensed by an outsider with the touch for it. And yet, should he choose to try and usurp that bond, to force himself into it - to even touch it with the slightest hint of a breath of wind, it would sear his mind from his body. The burn of it would reduce his body to ashes, his soul to embers, and his very existence nothing more than a memory - and a foul one at that.

So, they broadcast it. They cared little for what the petulant child of a weak God wanted, nor what he thought he could do to them - what power he thought he held over them. He was nothing, a speck of dust that was better off a brown stain on his parent's sheets. They allowed him to sense them, to find them - they did nothing to hide themselves. In fact, even as rain poured down on the surface of everything else - the clouds above them broke. A perfect cylinder, allowing the light of Soran's sun to shine down upon them, a beam that revealed them all the more clearly. They stood shoulder to shoulder, so to speak. Nasty snarls and vicious, nigh-venemous smirks on their faces.

A few steps ahead, The Hellion stood next to The Will. His eyes followed the movements of Singar, and his senses followed the progress of Disciple. That one simply would not die, would he? Why would Singar allow that, though? His precious lapdogs, his precious toys. The man was a pure manifestation of greed, but Hellion doubted the other even knew the folly of his plans. His machninations meant nothing to the true Horde, they cared only for their tenants. Tenants Disiple betrayed. Ideals Thane put to the side, in order to further his personal goals. And these few, these pathetic, ignorant children sought to have a soverign above him? Above those who remained true to their cause? They never deserved the titles they held.

"Prepare yourselves, Collective. They come. They bring battle." Will spoke to them through their bond, the words flowed mind-to-mind. Singar might think to hear their thoughts, but the bond was everlasting and protected. So, Will wished him luck if he honestly thought he could try something so pathetic.

"Not all of them, Father. I sense Thane the Disgraced and some other creature departing the planet, should I stop them?" Hellion's words flowed with venom, and even as he spoke his muscles - both mental, physical, and otherwise, flexed. It was like a vast pressure put to bear on the planet, nearly breaking through the upper layer of the crust. The pressure would be felt by nearly anything on the planet with enough nerves to register it. Though, only a few would understand or even know the cause.

"I think not, Hellion. Let them leave, they're of little consequence."

"As you wish, father."

The pressure alleviated, though it only remained for a scant moment it was a welcome relief to those unable to withstand it. As Thane and Metal Mayhem broke through the atmosphere and into space, they passed through the grayness of a now seemingly benign section of the Mist, which encapsulated the planet. For them, it would seem nothing more than just another layer of clouds on top of the last. Almost as immediately as they passed through, it reformed - and a pressure of smaller force took the place of the first. The planet was quarantined. Locked down. Nothing could make it back in or out. Not until this battle was resolved, one way or another.

Lightning broke across the surface of that layer of clouds, and tore down through the ordinary clouds below. The storm above them became enigmatic, and again only a few would truly understand the cause of that - what it meant, or what it could be. Time would tell, and Singar would soon find out how utterly unprepared he truly was - as the poisoned rain began to fall. Hellion licked some from his lips, and smiled as it fizzled out useless.

"Let the dance begin, Singar."

Hellion dispersed, his body blowing into millions of particles and reforming below - directly in the path of Singar. Awaiting his arrival. The others remained, their eyes focused onto Disciple - preparing to finally end this pathetic cretin's banal existence.