The Enmity of Scolrys, Part V: High Endorone
Writhing streamers of utmost shadow swarmed towards coastal Mournhold and began to align together as a curtain at its borders. After a long moment of work guided by unseen hands and Divine will, the curtain then fell, cutting Mournhold off from the world after a flurry of brutality to control its streets. A wicked slash then carved through Mournhold’s Primal fabric, allowing egress from the outer realms of Chaos for an honoured guest: Akna, the Malformed Maiden. Brought to Mournhold through base trickery, the Umbral Lady called out for her husband even as she settled upon a makeshift pyre of sorcerous bone.
Borne upon a foul wind, Varach Scolrys reconstituted into corporeality beside his wartime compatriots and summoned the presence of his reanimated honour guard. The shambling warriors bent and contorted at his profane command, their bodies conjoining into shackles to hold this unknowing sacrifice helpless to his power. Without further fanfare, the Court Mage offered a nod to the gathered Theocrats and set to work.
A filigreed triskaidecagon, wrought from the blood of Dia’ruian fae and placed by the hands of the Archivium, then flared to life across the streets of dreary Mournhold. Murky light emanated from the eldritch symbol, casting wavering shadows across buildings and cobbles. Swelling like tides ‘neath a raging moon, the ritual linework sizzled and boiled at the necromancer’s foul command. The acrid stench of burning blood wafted throughout the coastal town upon noxious fumes lit by ethereal light, clouding the settlement with the thick smog of eldritch potentiality. Starting first from the outer edges and working in, the lurid flames engulfed the town’s streets in an unending conflagration nurtured by the dark machinations of a fell arcanist.
Screams of terror rang out from the burning hamlet as its natives evacuated as best they could. Those unfortunate enough to stumble into the sorcerous fires found their flesh stripped from bone and their bones broken down into myriad modicums that soon enjoined themselves to the greater whole of catastrophic arcana, catalysing the ritual’s immense power to greater heights. As the flames closed in upon the triskaidecagon’s center, the Umbral Lady held captive at its heart began to panic in earnest. Akna cried out for salvation in a twisted mockery of a sinner’s burning, each plaintive cry entreating her Minotaur husband to rescue her from her predicament – a plea he stood by and bluntly ignored.
It was then that Varach Scolrys, high Hlugnic incantations still upon his lips, plunged one hand into the Malformed Maiden’s chest and tore free the power within her. Ancient sorcery eased the passage of his brutal movement, allowing the Deepest City’s Court Mage to extract a shining collection of motes from the now lifeless Umbral Lady. In an act of utmost depravity, the Hlugnic necromancer lifted these existential embers to his lips and consumed them as surely as a commoner of his craft might devour the extracted heart of a victim. Jade essence rolled down his chin as he feasted upon the heart of a vassal sworn to a hated Goddess, exultant glee kindling a cold fire in his gaze.
A column of fire soon erupted from the top of the Hammer of Dawn’s beloved temple, signalling the awakened wrath of Accordant Righteousness.
“This profanity cannot be allowed to continue. I shall dispense with this horror Myself,” declared burning Celezor.
Racing across the sky like a livid comet forged from order and outrage, Lightsworn Fire descended upon Mournhold amidst sanctified calescence and blessed ash. The ritual’s roiling heat and acrid smoke did naught to impede incensed Celezor, His aureate aura forcing foul magic to yield before Him as He marched toward the triskaidecagon’s heart.
Before He reached the profanity at the symbol’s center, however, the Unwavering Fist of Righteous Justice found Himself waylaid. Mournhold’s wavering shadows lengthened as if to act as a carpet rolled out for cherished royalty, their atramentous murk yielding to the emergence of Immortal Ambition.
Mantled in gelid shade and armed with a kagamine gladius and icemetal dagger, Arvelis whirled into action against an Opposite both new and timeless. Susurrous chanting echoed from the lightless impossibility that seeped from Incarnate Darkness, His very will shaping it into a tide of insidious usurpation that stole ground from Celezor’s effulgence. Light and dark met as hated foes and equal partners of a primordial dance, the unveiled essence of two newly wrought gods clashing in an echo of fundamental violence. Time and space balanced upon the razor’s edge of warring domains as unstoppable hunger raged against implacable order, a calamitous convergence that threatened to once more set the loom of all eternity to a creative thrum.
Looking on with an air of dispassion, Lord Bamathis offered but one comment as He exulted in the brilliant violence: “Two sides of the same tarnished coin tumbling towards a singular, inevitable end… I once saw as You did. Unable to see anything beyond the line set before Me.”
Varach Scolrys turned away from the fundamental violence of dueling deities and, still flush with the power of slaughtered Akna, raised his arms and spoke a fell incantation lost to the roaring fires of Endorone ritual. A shiver rippled throughout the realm, its profundity reminiscent of a sevenfold gambit undertaken during the tumultuous Monomachy. The boundaries of colour and shape broke apart before the yawning possibility of a distant realm, warping the foundations of Sapience’s natural order.
The Emerald Ocean churned into a frothing rage as Immortal Water emerged from Her domain, intent upon quelling the threat of the profane alongside Lord Celezor.
Borne upon a raging tidal spout, Slyphe thundered across Mournhold’s shores and crashed into place beside Lightsworn Fire, Her trusty cutlass clutched in one hand. With a wild flourish, She closed the distance and swung low against Arvelis where Celezor aimed high. Beset now by two Opponents, Incarnate Shadow extended His shivering shade all across the streets of Mournhold to obscure His movements. He shifted stances and enacted His will with a killer’s cutthroat efficiency, His calculating gaze on the lookout for any opening in this losing battle.
A Dragon’s roar boomed out across the realm then as Sky Dreaming awakened to the sounds of Immortal violence and ritual sorcery.
Tanixalthas extended Her wings to their fullest span, sheltering Her besieged Theocracy in the shade born of such a motion. With a sudden lunge, She took to the skies and set off for Mournhold like an errant thunderbolt, every thunderous clap of flight setting trees and mountains to a tremble. Wheeling in a circle around the smoking town, the mighty Dragon set Her sights upon Slyphe and unleashed a cascade of azurine devastation from Her gaping maw. It burnt the air as it travelled, leaving curls of smoke in its wake as it crashed down upon the Dauntless in a column of electrical wrath. Unwilling to suffer such direct force, the Dauntless metamorphed Her spry form into a rolling tide that flooded through the streets of Mournhold, leading the Dragon on a merry chase even as She abandoned Celezor to His stalemate with an apologetic wave of Her cutlass.
Another vile incantation erupted from Varach’s mouth as he beckoned the outer realms to gaze upon the mundanity of Prime, his hands burning with chaotic energy so recently pilfered. The High Endorone of Qor Qogol looked toward the skies with unveiled expectation, his eyes widening as he beheld something with his sorcerous senses. As the influence of far realms and the least predictable of planes fixated upon him, Varach’s incantation gave way to a cry of bliss and triumph. A shimmering column of energy consumed him as he worked in earnest, its arcane gravity transforming him into something altogether beyond the glory of his Hlugnic frame. Those who stood beside him at this moment felt their corporeal forms unwind, becoming yet more fuel for the ancient ritual at the necromancer’s masterful command. The Deepest City’s Court Mage wove the tides of energy born from this profane Chaos ritual with newfound familiarity as he came to grips with the might of his nascent Nobility. Spectral light raced across the sky, its manifestation both beacon and scalpel for the coming convergence.
It was then that triumphant exultations and phlegm-laden ululations rang forth from broken Huanezedha, for the Nazetu sensed the coming of their savior and god. As one, their trembling chants rolled across the realm, their drums echoing the thunderous anticipation in their hearts.
“LANU! DU! LANU! DU! LANU! DU!”
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 24th of Haernos, in the year 2 AC.
